EMORY UNIVERSITY
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
BY
MA BY CECIL HAY,
Author of
"Old Myddelton's Money," "For Her Dear Sake," Etc, Etc
LONDON:
JOHN AND ROBERT MAXWELL,
MILTOH HOUSE, 4, SHOE LAHE, FLEET STREET,
[All rights reserved.]
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
CHAPTER I.
" No walls so fair as those our fancies build,
No views so bright as those our visions gild !"
" ' If a man who turnips cries, Cries not when his father dies,
Tis a proof that he would rather Have a turnip than his
father.'"
" 'Tisn't turnips, miss."
"No," said Dorothy—she stood at the window, her hands
clasped at the back of her neck, her figure drawn to its full
height, as if she were tired of sitting or leaning. " He says
' Saw-waw-waw-dies.' "
" Soles," explained the woman, without looking up from her
lace-mending.
" Soles ? I see. What a simple abbreviation ! I wonder
how many he has sold to day, and whether his wife will be
pleased—or his mother ?"
" Stuff and nonsense !"
" Of course it is," said Dorothy, turning with a laugh. " So
is most of our discourse, Poulter. We are not shining lights in
conversation. Shall I help you again, or have you nearly
finished now ?"
" My lady's kept you a good bit," observed Mrs. Poulter,
ignoring a reply, simply because she was putting in the last
stitches.
"Yes," returned Dorothy, dropping her arms and folding
them behind her back ; " and I cannot lose the stiffness. She
wanted to tell me once again that the care of me is a great tie
upon her, and that she wished my father would come for me.
Oh, so do I ! Oh, so do I !"
" Well, I suppose he'll be here soon ; he ought to," was the
phlegmatic remark of Lady Letitia Chilton's confidential
attendant, who was vaguely conscious of something new in the
girl's tone, but whose dull ear could not read the longing. " It
was rather unfair for him to ask my lady to bring you across,
6
Dorothy's venture.
saying he'd meet you here from Paris almost as soon as you
and she could cross from Booloin."
" She has not been detained here one hour for my sake,"
Dorothy said, a subdued excitement in her soft young voice.
" She told ma'm'selle that she should stay in Dover for two
weeks, and this is only our eighth day."
"You keep account then, Miss Quentin. Anyway, your pa
doesn't seem any nearer now than when we landed, and—I
don't like saying it—but it looks neglecting. And those clothes
you've had at school aren't exactly what a young lady should
wear with Lady Letitia ; and p'r'aps, I needn't say her ladyship
feels "
" No, you need not say," the girl put in, with a swift flash of
anger in her clear blue eyes, " for her ladyship has said it—and
more."
"Not, resumed the woman, with a sudden qualm, "that she
need talk of your being a tie upon her ; for you're always with
me, or by yourself. I never see you push yourself on my lady,
and she takes care not to have you without pushing. I've heard
it noticed here, your being so much alone, and I don't like the
look of it myself; but what can I do? You always seem to be
happy enough. I suppose expecting your pa is a great
ffiing ?"
"What could be greater?" asked the girl, with a smile which
made her face most beautiful.
" Oh, as for that, my lady says he hasn't seen you since you
were seven; so it might easilybe greater, I should think. You ought
to be thinking more about a lover than a father now ; and the
way to please him and everybody else would be for you to marry.
All young ladies ought to begin to plan that as soon as they're
grown up." -
" How dreadful !" said Dorothy, laughing, but with an
involuntary shudder.
" It's much more dreadful not to marry," rejoined Mrs.
Poulter, with weighty significance. " You aren't much thought
of, if you don't marry."
" Ma'm'selle was thought much of in Boulogne, and she was
happier than . Are you and Lady Letitia thought more of
than if you were not married, Mrs. Poulter ? "
" Decidedly, my dear,"—with unwonted complaisance—" for
we rank as honourable widows. I should have been ashamed
not to marryyoung."
" Were you much younger than I am when you married ?"
" Well"—with a ruminating scrutiny of the pretty form
before her, as if calculating its years—" p'r'aps not; but I was
'ard to please. I had eighteen offers."
"Eighteen?" exclaimed Dorothy, with keen amusement in
Dorothy's venture.
7
the beautiful, softly-tinted face she brought so closely to the
woman's wide, sallow features. " Oh, surely you must have
been nearly as old as I am when you accepted.the eighteenth !
That would be Mr. Poulter. Was he glad ?"
" I should think he was indeed, Miss Dorothy ! He was Mr.
Chilton's valet ; and, when Mr. Chilton took to never living
with my lady, Poulter and I didn't live together too ; till first
the master died, then Poulter."
" How bad ! Didn't you wish you hadn't been so hard to
please through the other seventeen !"
" What nonsense you talk, miss ! But you ought to know it's
your duty to get married. Doesn't my lady tell you so ? And
she's no call to care, only she sees how badly old maids are
thought of. It's a sure sign that a girl's plain and disagreeable
if she hasn't any lover."
"But I cannot have a lover unless he chooses to come."
" Oh, there are ways of managing! If you're seen about with
one gentleman, another will immediately want you."
" But I don't want one, much less two," laughed Dorothy.
"Very well,miss. Be as obstinate as you like. I've warned
you ; and when it's too late you'll remember my advice."
" I think," the girl said, unconscious of the quiet sigh which
came from her heart in its craving for other comfort—as deep
and sad a sigh as if she had known her words prophetic—"that
it must be very terrible to be in love, to be thinking ever of
one person, craving ever for one presence. Horrible!"
"Not a bit, Miss Dorothy. It's nothing like that ; and the
horrible thing would be to have no lover at all."
Then there crept back to the girl's memory what she had
been reading when Poulter brought in the lace to mend. She
knew the very words where she had ceased—
" For wise men, as for fools,
Love is one thing, an evil thing, and turns
Choice words and wisdom into fire and air."
She knelt before the table at which Poulter sat, and linked
her hands upon it.
" But I can remember a line in your own especial hymn-book,
Poulter—' Single, but undismayed I am ;' and I feel like that.
I am happy as I am," she said, so unconsciously betraying a
heart that sought happiness outside itself that the woman,
though uncomprehending, was touched to offer comfort in her
way.
" I daresay you'll find a lover," she said, with a heavy touch
upon the linked hands, and then upon the golden brown head.
" Even my lady says your 'ands are beautiful; and—I like your
fair."
8
dorothy's venture.
" Thank you," the girl returned, simply. "Now will you do
me a favour ? I don't want to remember what Lady Letitia
said, and I don't want to make up my mind angrily, so will you
go with me to see the Calais-Douvres come in ? And, if father
is not there, may we have a walk ? I won't take you further than
you like. Do come !"
With an affected reluctance the woman put aside her work.
The pleading of the girl's tone and face had not moved her ;
but the next two hours were her own, and it was as well to go
out with Miss Quentin as sit in the hotel.
" I don't mind," she said to Dorothy, not uncomplacently.
" I'm so glad !" the girl cried, rising. " And we will hear the
band. When I haven't you I never stay in the fashionable
parts ; but now we will enjoy ourselves like the others. I like
to see the people and as she spoke her eyes grew bright and
glad and quizzical. "You don't come very much against your
will; do you, Mrs. Poulter?"
The answer to this anxious query was destined never to have
birth, for at that moment the door was opened to admit Lady
Letitia Chilton's tall, limp figure, splendidly apparelled.
" I have returned, Poulter," she observed, apparently unaware
of Dorothy's presence. " It is too warm to drive, so 1 shall
lie down, and you can sit here and prevent my being dis-
turbed."
" I was just going out a little with Miss Quentin," the woman
put in, with a spasm of valour.
" Were you ? Take these things from me, and then fetch my
book. Perhaps I may fall asleep as you read."
" I will stay and read to you, if you like, Lady Letitia," said
Dorothy, when the maid had left the room ; with no conscious-
ness that it would be pleasanter to listen to her, but remembering
that Poulter was wheezy and soon tired.
" You are very gracious, indeed ; but I will not trouble you.
I pay Poulter to do all I require ; and, as you do not, I have no
compunction in taking her from you."
For a moment the girl looked defiantly straight into the small,
cold, cruel eyes ; then she covered her own with her hand and
bent her head, while her bosom heaved convulsively.
<("Get me another pillow," said Lady Letitia from her ample
couch. " If your father does not arrive to-day, Geraldine,"—
Lady Letitia always used the girl's second name, considering
Dorothy plebeian and uncouth—" you must make some plan for
yourself. I cannot continue in this uncertainty. When I
promised in Paris to take charge of you to Dover, I was
deceived by "
" You said my father told you he would join me here," the
girl interposed, with grave gentleness, "and he will. But I am
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
9
not going to encroach on you. I will think of some way. I am
only afraid of vexing him."
" He does not appear to be hypersensitive. I had no idea,
when he seemed so gentlemanly in Paris, that he was this kind
of man."
" And he," said Dorothy, a brilliant flash of excitement in her
eyes, " had no idea, when you seemed so ladylike in Paris, that
you were this kind of woman." Then the girl's short-lived
courage and defiance sank as suddenly as they had risen, and
her face was white as death as she held her hands pleadingly
towards the recumbent figure. "Oh, forgive me! If it is
hard for you that he does not come, think what it is for me !"
"Rather different," was the languid reply. " You are here
with no responsibility and at no expense. It is I who have it
all. Where are you going? It is anything but well-bred to
turn away while I speak."
" To meet the Calais boat. I meet it every day," said
Dorothy, still turned away, for she was too proud to let this
cold, hard woman see her tears.
" Rather a silly and futile errand. Your father is in Paris
still. You will find he has been there all this time chuckling
over my credulity."
"If I do," said Dorothy, turning at the door and speaking
very quickly, "I will not speak to him until I have begged your
forgiveness. If I do not, I will never speak to you until you
beg for mine."
Once more for the eighth time, she went alone to the pier,
and leaning over the rails on the raised footway—for she had
soon learned to read the signals, and knew on which side to
expect the boat—standing still and patient while her heart beat
with the pain of hope and fear, she watched the great vessel
come panting in. From the broad deck which the twin-ship
bore so steadily, the passengers stood looking landward, and
even then Dorothy tried to scan each face. She knew she
should recognise her father instantly from his photographs ; yet,
when she felt that he might be so near, the fear of not knowing
him grew into absolute anguish. The vessel stopped, and singly
the passengers trod the gangways to the pier. She was separated
from them as thoroughly as if she had remained at the " Lord
Warden," but what a comfort it was to her to be watching and
expecting, even if But ah ! to-day he would be there !
Her eyes grew hot and wide and tired in their scrutiny, but he
never came.
Friends collected in parties, busy, eager, and excited ; and
even the solitary travellers seemed occupied and engrossed.
Absorbed in their own affairs, with scarce one glance around or
up among the watching faces, the passengers hurried from the
io Dorothy's venture.
boat to the London trains; the porters, racing to and fro,
rapidly dissolved the piles of luggage on deck ; then the trains
bore their freights away, and there was no more hope for
Dorothy. Yet still she lingered, sick at heart, as she was each
day, after the tense excitement of this expectation. It did her
good to watch the sailors (laughing and talking- now among
themselves) begin to set the ship in order for her next voyage,
because so soon they would take it back to Calais to fetch her
father ! It even did her good to see the coal-carts drive up,
and the men run on board with the great sacks, as if they were
of feathers' weight, for somehow their strength seemed to help
her own weakness and helplessness.
" Only twenty-four hours," she said to herself, when she
turned away at last, " and he will come. Lady Letitia will be
patient with me for that little time."
"Look through the telescope, miss 1 Coast of France very
clear to-day. Might throw a stone at the Bullong Column."
"Of course I must see the coast of France," said Dorothy,
with the smile which this wily old seaman had learned to
connect with a sixpence. " But I like to look towards Paris,
not always Boulogne. Calais will do."
This might be an extra sixpence. The old man fixed the
telescope steadily upon his shoulder and bade Dorothy look ;
and, when she gently told him she could see nothing, he moved
it a little and set it more firmly still. When again Dorothy said
she could not see, he took it down and smiled at her.
" Yes, that's it, miss. It's as clear as if you wur there. I
like to show ladies ; they're always so quick. Thenk ye, miss.
A fine warm day."
Dorothy smiled as she went on. She had seen France with-
out the aid of a glass several times ; and perhaps she would
again from the eastern cliffs, if the haze cleared away. The
band was playing on the sea-wall, and, lonely as she was,
Dorothy sat down to watch the gay crowd around it. She was
fond of weaving romances around others' lives, just as all
through her rather lonely girlhood she had brightly built them
about her own. Just as she had peopled the silent house at
Boulogne with young blithe forms and laughing faces, fancying
herself kissed by other girls when she awoke, or holding a
loving hand until she fell asleep, so she could now picture the
homes in which other girls were happy, and the love with which
other girls were blessed. Sometimes this fancy grew into an
intense and pitiable envy, and then Dorothy was frightened,
and punished herself, though surely the torture of that longing
had been punishment enough. And this was one of those
times, for when Mrs. Poulter came ponderously up, and took the
vacant seat beside her, her thoughts were far away and unhappy-
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
II
" There's a great difference in our lives," she said, finishing
her thought in words.
" My lady went out after all," observed Poulter, following the
girl's glance, but not trying to interpret her words. " When
she was sure the boat was in and your pa hadn't come, she drove
to Folkestone to pay a call and dine. Most likely she'll be
hours away ; and I thought you'd be here, so I came."
"Isn't she beautiful?" whispered Dorothy, earnestly. "I
mean the young lady in the yachting-dress ? She knows every-
body ; and everybody is so pleased—proud, I should think—to
walk with her. She holds a sort of court. How strange it must
be ! I often watch them."
" Them ? Which ? "
" She and her friends. There are those fair girls in blue ;
and that broad, handsome, lazy-looking gentleman is always
with her, here or on the yacht—I go to see the yacht in dock
every evening—and the other gentleman nearly always, and she
generally talks to him. He is sometimes on the yacht, but
not very often, and he rides with them ; and I see him out on the
terraceat theyacht club, and in the balconies up there in the even-
ings, with ladies in dinner-dress, and—oh! I've seen him often! "
" So it seems, miss."
" And I think they are engaged,' the girl went on, not even
hearing the grim interpolation, " and they've nothing to do but
to enjoy themselves ; and I expect their homes are beautiful
and "
" What do their 'omes matter to us ?" put in Poulter, frigidly.
" Nothing," smiled Dorothy, for the task of her own life was
hidden from her yet, and she thought she spoke the truth.
" I don't know those two in blue," remarked Mrs. Poulter,
steadily staring into the group of which Dorothy spoke ; but
the handsome young lady in the yachting-suit is Lady Ermine
Courtier. I don't remember the name of the gentleman next
her ; but the fine, broad shouldered young man is her brother,
Lord Avory. My lady knows them. Haven't you met them
with her ? "
" No. She said she did not wish to have to introduce me to
her friends."
" My lady's queer," my lady's-maid remarked, almost
apologetically.
" Mrs. Poulter," said Dorothy, still watching Lady Ermine
with gentle, thoughtful eyes, "isn't she a pretty height? Not
too tall."
" I don't build much on any special height," observed Poulter,
with a cursory glance at the seated figure beside her. " My
experience is that bearing's everything. Those that 'old them-
selves well have all the style ; and it's something we don't have
12 .DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
any name for that makes or doesn't make style. It's no good
being pretty or well-grown 'less you're striking. Now you, Miss
Dorothy—you're dressed plain and cheap enough in all con-
science ; yet I declare when you walk along there 'alf the pretty
girls are nowhere. You've a way of walking and carrying your
'ead as if you were a young queen ; yet you aren't a bit stuck-up
either. I can't make it out. It can't be done 'less it's born with
you. I suppose it's just your figure, for your dresses are ugly
enough."
" Oh ! no, they aren't," said Dorothy, with a laugh. " They
are all made from French patterns; and ma'm'selle spent one
hundred francs a quarter on my dress, for my father allowed it.
There he comes ! "
" Good gracious ! Your pa ? "
" Ah ! no. But look, Poulter ! That working man hurrying
down to the beach brings his lame wife every morning and puts
her to sit there on a rug, with a basket and a family of children,
and always comes for her at this time, and carries her up to
her chair—a shabby old leather chair patched all over—and
wheels her home. He runs with it, and they all laugh and
seem quite happy, though she is paralysed."
" She'd be a poor piece," observed Mrs. Poulter, taking this
golden opportunity of pointing a moral, "if she was an old
maid."
" Unmarried she would still be only middle-aged," laughed
Dorothy. " How frightened you are of not fully impressing me
with the necessity for marrying ! If ever I do, Poulter, it will
be a consolation to feel how pleased you will be."
" You won't need that consolation, miss. It will be your own
fault if you aren't rejoicing, not lamenting," the woman answered,
sturdily, and next minute had forgotten the words which were
one day to come so strangely back to the girl's remembrance.
" Why does that fisherman always touch his cap to you ?"
inquired Poulter, taking a macaroon from her pocket and
enjoying it in a thoughtful, deliberate manner.
"Not a fisherman," corrected Dorothy, sagely, " but a long-
shoreman. I sit in his boat sometimes as it lies up on the
beach. I like it; and I think the old boat likes it too, and feels
half as if she were at sea again, and not neglected and paralysed
as they must feel on shore. Don't you love to see them going
out to sea, as if they came to life again after a long illness? "
" I suppose you pay him ?" remarked Poulter, with grim
irrelevance. " You seem very well off, Miss Dorothy, con-
sidering."
" I am very well off," the girl said, not noticing the signifi-
cance of that last word. "My father sent ma'm'selle ten pounds
for me to have when I left her, that I. might feel quite indepen-
Dorothy's venture.
J3
dent ; and she was to buy my ticket; and Lady Letitia was to
leave all my expenses here till he comes."
" So she will," returned Poulter, drily. " Now let's us come
back and have tea. I'm glad you've got that ten pounds, Miss
Dorothy," she added, presently, as they walked back along the
sea-wall. "You'll feel better than if you'd nothing, or only a
little. Still you just make your mind easy about my lady.
She'll leave your share of the hotel bill for your pa to settle—
no fear ! She's not paid a farthing for you yet, nor let me. I
hope you'll hold your own, whatever happens, but all the same
I don't expect it! for people with sky-blue eyes and your
coloured hair never have any character. How old were you
v/hen your mother died ?"
" Seven," replied the girl, with the brevity of pain.
" Only seven ! And you've never seen your pa since ?"
"No; I was sent then to ma'm'selle in Boulogne, because
another little girl my mother had known was there. She left
soon—she was five years older than I—and I stayed on till
now; for my father gave up our old home, and he means to
make a new one—he and I—though perhaps not quite yet."
" Shall .you be rich ?" inquired Poulter, looking very absent.
" Yes, when I have him."
" Maybe,"—with prudent caution—"but you don't know him,
and I don't him ; and so we can't tell. Why not cross the
ferry ? You always lead us this round."
" I like to see the yachts in the dock. You don't mind, do
you ? It isn't far, and no vessel is passing in, so the drawbridge
is fixed. Who did you say that nobleman was with the hand-
some sister ?—because this is his yacht. Isn't it lovely ?"
" I don't call boats lovely," rejoined Poulter, correctively.
"Yes ; this is Lord Avory's yacht. I knew it was called the
Geraldine, your second name, isn't it, Miss Dorothy ?"
" Yes," the girl said, absently, for her thoughts were busy
now, while her eyes brightly took in the pleasant scene on deck.
Lady Ermine sat in a low wicker-chair presiding at a little
tea-table, her girl-friends seated near her, and opposite to her
leaned the gentleman who had walked next to her on the
esplanade, listening and laughing, while another gentleman
sipping his tea jested merrily with the girls. On the cushioned
seat against the gunwale, with a paper in his hand and a cigar
in his mouth, lay Lord Avory. Dishes of fruit and cake lay on
the white, smooth deck, because the little table had not room to
hold them, while all about lay books and papers, and over the
companion-way stood a bowl of brilliant flowers.
" Aren't they happy ?" breathed Dorothy, with a sigh, the
unconscious envy of a heart unsatisfied.
" Goodness knows ! But, if they wanted their tea as much
as I do, they're 'appy because they've got it!"
*4
dorothy's venture.
CHAPTER II.
" Oh, I'm smart, I'm spry, I'm lively,—I can walk, yes that I can,
On the days I feel like walking, just as well as you, young man ! "
"We shall have beautiful time," said Dorothy. She and Lady
Letitia's maid had taken tea together, and now were strolling to
the eastward cliffs for Dorothy to see the coast of France.
" Oh, Poulter, he must be on his way now ! How I hate Paris
for keeping him ?"
" Places don't keep men against their will.
" I'm perfectly, perfectly sure that, while he is kept away
from me, it is against his will."
" Maybe. Are you going up through that stuffy old chalk
tunnel, Miss Dorothy ? "
" Yes, please. It takes only one minute. Will you have my
arm ? *
" What for ?" queried Poulter, grimly, and walked on at the
girl's side, with her hands folded in the shawl she carried.
" Isn't it pleasant ? " cried Dorothy, when they had left the
tunnel, and she turned her face to meet the fresh Channel
breeze as they walked on, until at last she stood still to take in
the full beauty of the wide view.
But Mrs. Poulter considered happiness incomplete in a stand-
ing posture, and so turned aside up the grassy slope of the cliff,
carefully spread her shawl upon the ground, and ensconced
herself upon it.
" They might make a little less noise over their shooting, I
should think," she remarked to Dorothy, who stood a few steps
below her, looking steadily across the sea, her beautiful eyes
intent and thoughtful. "I'm sure their yells are absurd. Now
just listen, Miss Dorothy."
But as Dorothy turned, and before she understood the shouts
to which Poulter had been objecting, a gentleman came running
up the slope.
"You are in danger," he said, briefly, to Dorothy, as he
passed, and then went a step further and offered his hands to
raise Mrs. Poulter, still speaking to Dorothy. " You are within
range of the rifle-bullets. Turn back towards the path."
" Thank you," she said, but quietly waited for her companion,
took up the shawl, and gave her an 3rm.
" How mad of you, Miss Dorothy !" gasped Poulter, hot with
the struggle to her feet, and starting to run so hurriedly that she
stumbled and fell. " This," she panted, when once more she
had been raised, " is all through your ridiculous craving, Miss
DOROTHY'S VENTURE. 15
Dorothy. Just as if it could do anybody good to look at that
old France ! Good gracious ! we shall never "
" You are all"'right now," the gentleman said, not seeming to
see Dorothy's mortification, though there was a suspicious
twinkle in his eyes. "You need not hasten. You wanted"
—addressing the woman—"to see the coast of France, and you
cannot this evening. But are you aware how distinctly you can
see it through the telescope on the keep ? The castle is open
every afternoon. Will you try to-morrow ?"
" Oh, I don't want to see it !" explained Poulter, still flurried
and cross.
" It is I who am so silly," said Dorothy.
The stranger had glanced at her, so she answered the glance ;
and, as she spoke, he raised his hat.
" You can see the Calais Dotivres leave France, and watch it
all the way across, if you like," he said.
"Oh, but I meet it every day on the pier, and that is
better
" You are interested in it ?"
" I arri expecting my father."
Something in the girl's tone caused a minute's pause ; and
then Mrs. Poulter inserted her adieux and most affable recog-
nition of service.
" Suppose," he said, after his grave reception of these
blessings, "that you come to the keep in the morning? The
view is just as interesting without the vessel, and you will even
see the houses of Calais."
"But my lady said the castle wasn't open to visitors in the
morning."
"Oh, it is," he answered, without his readiness arousing
their suspicion, " when visitors come! You only need just to
tell beforehand what time you will be there. Shall we say
to-morrow at twelve ?"
" Shall we ?" asked Dorothy, turning to Mrs. Poulter.
"May just as well," was that lady's compact retort.
"Twelve o'clock, then,' at the keep. I shall be—I shall
have told the sentinel, and you will walk straight in and go
where you choose."
" I suppose," put in Mrs. Poulter, with precaution, " if I can't
come myself, the young lady will be let in ?"
" It will make no difference," the gentleman answered,
gravely. " I hope you understand ?"
"Yes," said Dorothy. "If we go to the keep at twelve
we shall be allowed to go in and walk about, and nobody will
notice us. You are quite sure you know about it ?"
"Quite; I ought, for these are the headquarters of my
brigade."
i6
DOROTHY'S VENTURE,
Then Dorothy thanked him, and, with her slight grave bow
turned away, Poulter's hand now firmly encircling her farm.
They did not talk much on their way back to the " Lord
Warden," for it took Mrs. Poulter all that time thoroughly to
recover her equanimity, and Dorothy did not disturb her. She
only once spoke voluntarily—
" Mrs. Poulter, of course you know that was the gentleman
who was with Lady Ermine Courtier this afternoon—and so
often—and in her brother's yacht ?"
And just then they passed the vessel, its sail'less masts among
a crowd of others standing clear against the evening sky, and
on its deck only a group of idle sailors, with Geraldine em-
broidered across the breast of their jerseys.
" They'll all be at Cowes presently," muttered Poulter ; " and
so shall we, I suppose. I'd be sick of it if I was my lady."
" Will Lady Letitia have returned?"
"Whether or not "—gloomily—" we must have some
supper."
They took the meal uninterrupted, and then, to while away
the time for Poulter, who had to sit up, Dorothy read items
from the Dover paper of varied interest anddulness. But her face
brightened when she found two columns devoted to the stations
of the British Army.
" He said these were the head-quarters of his brigade," she
remarked, too busy to notice Poulter's unenlightenment, " so he
belongs "—running her fingers down the columns—" to the 9th
Brigade, Garrison Artillery. I see. Poulter do you know
exactly what a brigade is ? I never thought before."
But Poulter had heard signs of Lady Letitia's return, and
was bracing her mind to the inevitable ; while Dorothy, whose
experience had not been so serviceable, met her unprepared.
"Why are you still up, Geraldine? Have you had a
telegram? No? Well, then, I should think by now you feel
as thoroughly ashamed of your father as I do."
" Lady Letitia," said Dorothy, standing grave and still before
her, " you shall not say those things to me. And, if you wish
it, I will have a sitting-room of my own ; I have ten pounds ;
and, as it is, I am no companion for you, nor"—with rather
droll dignity—" you for me. Never mind any promise you may
have made my father. He will believe I tried to do my best,
and I will tell him your patience was worn out."
" When I am not present, you will be able to tell him exactly
what you choose," was the chilly response, " if he ever comes.
I am glad you have ten pounds. Good night."
Locking herself into her unhomely chamber, Dorothy opened
a large, shabby-looking trunk of Mexican leather, and took a
dictionary from among the few school-books she had brought.
dorothy's venture. 17
" Brigade," she read, " a division of troops." " Brigadier,
the general officer commanding a brigade." Perhaps he was a
brigadier, she thought, closing the book. Well, he had been
very kind to Poulter, and she had liked his face always. It was
better to understand words.
CHAPTER III.
" O, the little more, and how much it is !
And the little less, what worlds away !"
" Geraldine !"
No answer came from the girl who sat writing at the farther
window in her long bedroom.
" Geraldine !"
" Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Letitia ! I always forget you
mean me."
" I am not going to make any effort to call you by that
uncouth name of Dorothy."
" I should have thought," said the girl, with a smile, " you
would have seen its fitness to me."
" I choose to close my eyes to some things. It is an idiotic
name to give you."
" My father never calledjne Dorothy," the girl said, demurely
lifting her long lashes.
" Then in one thing your father shows a proper spirit."
" He called me—Jerry."
" I might have known what to expect," snapped Lady Letitia,
with a shrug of her wide shoulders. Don't tell me anything
more about him. Why, you don't mean to say, you little
simpleton, that you are writing to your father? Well, that is a
sensible act"—watching the girl's vivid blush as her hand was
put upon the paper which she had unwittingly left within the
range of Lady Letitia's cold inquisitive eyes—" as you don't
know where he is ! You have not heard from him, have you ?"
sharply.
" No, I—I only pretended I had. I was answering a letter I
fancied he had written to me. I am so tired of longing for him.
It seemed to remind me that I had him and belonged to
him."
How very rational!" said Lady Letitia, with an icy smile
and a characteristic gesture of her limp hands, as if she warded
off a blow. " You will no doubt receive a long and charming
letter in return,"
b
i8
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" It ought to be long," said Dorothy, good-humouredly, " as
it has been so long expected. Did you want me, Lady
Letitia ? "
'' Yes. I am going to the baths, and I take Poulter ; so will
you manage those letters I have written ? They are replies,
and you will see the letters they answer. Copy the addresses
from those, then tear them up. Mind you put each answer to
its right address, and post them for me. There are thirteen,
and I .have left a half-crown. You can bring the change in
stamps. I wish you to post them yourself."
'• I will do it for you, Lady Letitia," said Dorothy. And
Lady Letitia, through all her selfish density, detected the'note
of irrepressible disdain, and pondered it in her own mind, while
Dorothy closed her desk and went to the task that was left her
to do.
She read each of Lady Letitia's letters, and, finding the one
to which it was an answer, addressed it accordingly. They
had all been business letters and short, when presently she
came to one which held her longer. Not that it was lengthy,
but Dorothy's eyes dwelt upon the page longer than on any
other—dwelt there sadly, until the lines became indelibly fixed
upon her mind ; and they were these :
" I must insist that you do not again trouble me to answer
your importunities. Of course I decline to do as you request.
I never did consider kinship any claim, and I beg to be allowed
to forget that there is any tie "of relationship between myself
and you. You remind me that this is the first time you have
appealed to me. Let me remind yoti that it must be the last.
As for your landlady, am I to provide for all who choose to
romance about having served my late husband ? If you have
been weak enough to incur debt for this person, you can but
expect the consequences. Twenty shillings a week is a good
salary, and I wonder you have not prudence enough to keep
your expenditure within your means. It is what we all have to
do ; and I never allow myself to spend a shilling unneces-
sarily "
Dorothy dropped the letter as if it had suddenly stung her.
Lady Letitia had six thousand pounds a year to spend upon
herself!' Ah, which was the letter to which she had to post
this cruel answer ? She soon guessed which it was ; the
gentlemanly writing on two great sheets of paper, the coat-of-
arms on the large, neat, red seal, and the extra stamp—which
even Dorothy knew to be unnecessary—all told their own tale.
Surely she need not read this letter ! No, only just enough of
it to be quite sure it was the one Lady Letitia had answered so
cruelly and coldly. Dorothy began slowly.
" I have never asked you for money before, and would have
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
19
died sooner than ask it for myself, after your last reception of
me ; but the good woman in whose house I have been a lodger
since that troublous time you helped to bring upon me, and
whose father was your husband's steward until the property
was sold, has been ill so long that she has lost her own
customers—she is a dressmaker—and I have had her ex-
penses—trebled by illness—as well as my own. I have held
out as long as I could, for heaven knows nothing is so hard to
me as to ask help from my own people who have thrown me
over ; but I must do so now. I have pawned the few things of
value that I had. For five years my salary of a pound a week
has given me all which in my changed life I need, though you
can guess nothing of how little it sometimes seems to do ; but
this long sickness of the woman who was her own breadwinner
has brought debt which, though nothing in your sight, weighs
heavily upon me. I am in sore need of ten pounds. Will you
lend it me ? My poor landlady is better ; and if she can feel
that the doctor's bill is paid, as well as the rent, and can afford
a week's rest—though without change—she may be strong
enough presently to take to her work again. Will you accord
this favour to me, of grace, as you acknowledge no ties between
us? For myself, I have kept from debt, smothering all my old
patrician tastes and habits, but I could not for this poor, sick
woman, who has had all I have to give. Will you, for the sake
of her father's connection with your husband, for the sake of
your father's friendship for my father long ago, help her
through me ? You cannot understand what will be the trouble
here if you refuse me. I have never asked for myself, though
the want of money makes cowards of the bravest and strongest
of us "
Dorothy laid down the letter gently, even tenderly, and
covered her face. She was crying like a child, and yet was
ashamed of her own tears.
" I cannot do it," she sobbed. " It is like a cruelty of my
own. And yet what right have I to keep it ?"
It was quite an hour after this that Dorothy, roused by the
entrance of the waiter with a parcel, addressed and sealed this
letter with the others, tore the answered ones into shreds, took
the sealed letters in her hand, and left the room. She was
very pale, but her eyes were feverishly bright ; and a fat little
elderly lady entering the hotel as she left it, actually stood still,
as if the girl's beauty startled her. But Dorothy passed on,
seeing no one—she whose eyes and thoughts had always been
so quick to roam ! She walked to the post-office, end entered
it without once lingering. A group of soldiers stood at the
counter waiting for letters, for the second m^iil had just come
in ; but they drew aside for her.
20
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
"Thank you," she said, but with no vestige of the usual
smile. " I will wait."
But they gave place to her, and she asked for the thirty
stamps. One of the soldiers, watching her stamp the thirteen
letters, was amused a little to see a girl tremble over so trivial
a task. Then she asked for a registered envelope, nervously
put into it the single five-pound note which her own purse held,
and then laid it on the counter and copied upon it the address
of one of the letters she had already stamped. She stamped
that and gave it in, and then, with the receipt in her hand, left
the offiee and posted Lady Letitia's thirteen letters. Still her
eyes had a restless, almost angry brilliance as she walked along
the ugly street back towards the " Lord Warden," slowly and
thoughtfully, no one guessing how her heart was beating.
" I must," she said at last, for a moment pausing and pressing
her hand upon her heart, and then turning and walking swiftly
back to the post-office. " Could you oblige me," she asked the
young man, who came forward to wait upon her, " with a five-
pound note in exchange for gold ?"
It could be done, the young man thought ; and so she turned
out the contents of her purse. There were three sovereigns,
two half-sovereigns, nineteen shillings and threepence in silver,
and fivepence in bronze.
"Would you let me make it up with stamps?" she asked,
giving back seven of Lady Letitia's stamps, which she knew
she could replace from her own desk.
" This is three too much," the affable young man observed.
" No ; for I want another registered envelope, please."
This envelope she addressed as the other—she knew the
address now ; " Captain D'Eresby, 2, Northgate Villas, North-
eaton "—and, with the note in it, this was given up. Then
Dorothy left the office for the last time, with no unrest now in
her eyes, no beating at her heart. He would have what he
needed. He would never know. Lady Letitia would never
know. It was all right and comfortable now.
" Miss Quentin," said Mrs. Poulter, greeting her as she came
in, " I'm not to go out. I've sewing for my lady ; so you'd
better go off quick to the castle, or you'll be rude."
" Oh ! no ; not alone ! "
" Then you'll be rude," reiterated Poulter, glumly ; " and I
wouldn't be rude or ungrateful if I was you. You know the
sentry is to let us in at twelve, and if you don't go he'll be
letting in somebody wrong and get himself into trouble."
" If I beg Lady Letitia, won't she let you go, Poulter ? "
" Not she," was the pointed retort; "and you'd better not try
to see her now. Her new velvet's come down from town, an^
they've put the lace too narrow, You'd better go."
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
21
Dorothy had thought the pleasure of the day all gone for
her ; but, as she walked eastward by the sea, there returned to
her a little of the old sympathetic enjoyment in all she saw ;
and, as she climbed the gradual ascent to the castle, she sat on
each rustic seat, in pure enjoyment of the idleness. Up from
the town a little band of soldiers, fully equipped, marched on
the dusty, winding road below her. She watched them stop at
the drinking-fountain in the wall, taking the cup and drinking
one by one, waiting for their turns ; and when they had all
drunk, and their boy-officer had given the marching order, she
watched them on until they were out of sight; then suddenly,
through the bright silence of the morning sunshine, came the
boom of the cannon from the Drop Redoubt, and Dorothy
started up. The great voice told her it was twelve o'clock ;
and now the lesser voices were echoing it. One by one the
clocks in the town answered to the sun's time-keeper ; and
Dorothy hastened on her way, for Poulter had said the sentinel
might get into trouble if she were not punctual. As she reached
the keep, and before she had addressed the soldier on duty
there, an artillery officer in undress uniform came from the
great arched gateway and met her.
" I am afraid," she said, in her frank, gentle way, " that I
have obliged you to come for fear the sentinel should admit the
wrong person. I wondered afterwards how you could possibly
describe me."
" No man of only average intellect could have recognised you
from my description ; so 1 came to see. Now I am here, I will
just show you the way. It would seem formal to hand you my
card, and I don't want to be formal now you have so pleasantly
followed my advice, so I will introduce myself. I am Josslyn
Yorke, Captain of Artillery."
" My name is Quentin," said Dorothy sedately. "Miss
Quentin."
" Thank you. But I don't think," with a sidelong laughing
glance at the pretty, erect young figure in its cambric gown,
" that I should have addressed you as ' Mrs. Quentin,' "
" I did not mean that; I did not mean to dictate to you," she
said, with a deepening of the soft pink in her cheeks. " But
I have only two names ; and the first is called uncouth, and the
second is romantic, and very inappropriate to me."
" You consider the first one is appropriate ?"
" Yes. It is Dorothy."
"May I know the second and inappropriate name?" Captain
Yorke asked, as he walked beside her across the quadrangle,
suiting his light military step to hers.
But Dorothy had remembered Lord Avory's yacht, and so
shook her head with a smile. He would like that name, of
22
Dorothy's venture.
course, for its associations ; but she would not win his liking on
such terms."
" I hope your maid did not suffer from her fall," he said,
accepting her rebuff with that curious mixture of coolness and
deference which on the day before she had vaguely thought old-
fashioned.
" She is not my maid. Oh, no, thank you ; she was quite
well enough to come to-day," said Dorothy, hastening to put an
end to his anxiety, "but not able. I too was very sorry."
" I am not sorry, because it was you, not she, who wished to
seethe coast of France! These are the steps that wind up
to the keep. It is a long pull. Can you manage ? "
He paused as he spoke, and Dorothy understood that he had
done all he felt necessary, and wished to waste no more time.
When she emerged upon the battlements, the wide scene
that met her view so much astonished her that it was some
time before she even remembered that she had come to look
from the telescope. She had scarcely grown accustomed to it,
and was still gazing to her heart's content upon the roofs of
Calais, when Captain Yorke came from the dim staircase out
upon the sunny square of the tower. At first he leaned on the
battlements without interrupting the conversation between
Dorothy and the soldier who moved the glass and pointed out
to her the objects of interest; but when she had seen all, and
thanked him in her pretty, courteous way, Josslyn Yorke led
her to where he had stood.
" I am presuming you are quite a stranger in Dover, Miss
Ouentin," he said, after having dutifully pointed out to her the
sluggish ditch running from the valley through the town which
was the once sweet river Dour.
" I have not been here many days," she said ; "but indeed I
am not a stranger. I have had so much time to explore."
"You do not care for Dover?" he asked, musing over her
tone.
" Not yet. I have had a daily disappointment here ; but I
shall love it when my father comes."
A little silence followed the girl's words, and her companion
did not try to break it. When she spoke again, she was not
looking up the pretty valley to the great green hills that shut it
in, nor over the sunny sea towards France, but down among
the clustering roofs of the town.
I always make a landmark of the tower of that great empty
hotel," she said. "It has haunted my thoughts a good deal
since the first time I saw it rise so grey and grim in its weedy
court. I have a sort of fellow-feeling with it, for I myself have
felt just as isolated, just as useless, just as much in the way, yet
not to be got rid of, just such a—liability."
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
23
The young man's laugh was as prompt as if he had not
understood the puzzled wistfulness in her tone ; and it did her
good.
" In the way, yet not to be got rid of," he repeated. " I see
the resemblance. Of course you know that we may soon see it
the centre of attraction here. You will go through the castle
now—as you are here ?" he added ; and Dorothy tried in vain
to read in his grave face whether this politeness was a great
effort to him. " I should like to show you one or two things."
She went with an almost pathetic willingness ; but he did not
notice that, nor, while he dutifully took her from place to place,
was he aware of the constant change in her moods. Her bright
interest in the modern arrangements, her grave silence beside
Harold's Well—only broken by a sigh at last when the pebble
he had thrown touched the far ground—her lingering step in
the armouries, her marvelling over the great two-handed sword
which had given its last thrust at Hastings, and her sad, long
gaze upon the blood-stained lances of that brave brigade which
rode to death at Balaklava, were moods so thoroughly a part of
herself, all in such just harmony with the girl's gracious, grace-
ful self, that nothing which she did or said marked itself to him.
Yet every word and every look came back to him afterwards,
when the day was only a memory, and when he would have
given half his life to have its opportunities once more.
" Will you go to the fort, Miss Quentin ?"
Captain Yorke had shown her all he fancied she would care
to see in the castle, and asked her this as if it were the ordinary
sequel. But she shook her head, and offered him her hand,
feeling that she had already detained him too long.
" Oh, if you are going in that direction." he said, as she
turned towards the North Foreland meadow, " you need not
dismiss me quite yet, as I have to walk a short distance that
way !"
Of course, as he had to walk a short distance that way, it was
but natural that he should fall into step beside her ; perhaps
just as natural that for some little time they should go upon
their way silently.
A subaltern of Captain Yorke's, who met them, gravely salut-
ing his superior officer, turned afterwards and deliberately
stood to watch them.
" I've seen her before," he said to himself. " It is not a face
to forget, and even without seeing her face I scarcely could
forget the figure. He isn't sweet upon her, for that isn't Yorke's
way ; but I shall have a joke against him. By Jove, how spare
his wiry frame would look, if it were not so well proportioned
and well knit ! And what can people see so handsome in his
gaunt, brown face ? Yet women like him better than better-
H
Dorothy's venture.
looking men. It is plain to see how much Lady Ermine and
her set make of him, passing so coolly over other fellows. I lay
it all to those Irish eyes of his ; yet the Chief is right too, for he
has an awfully distinguished look and way—thoroughbred, as
our men call it."
"Is not that rather a melancholy air?" asked Dorothy, as a
military band began to play on the distant heights.
No brilliant topic seemed to have struck either of them,
and her mind was exercised as to the politeness of keeping
silence.
" Not so melancholy as our air is sometimes, when we have
two or three bands playing at the same time, and two or three
buglers learning their notes, and two or three sergeants drilling,
and two or three companies firing."
" Oh ! I like this," she said; and, though she laughed, he
saw the deep, grave happiness in her beautiful eyes. "Is not
this a delicious day ? "
" I think so."
In the first moment she thonght it a stupid answer, and
turned to look at him. Then suddenly and irrelevantly there
darted through her memory one of the sentences she had read
in the letter which had made her morning miserable. " Want
of money makes cowards of the bravest and strongest of us."
Then it would make a coward of this soldier, even if he were
the bravest and A ridiculous, childish, unnecessary
wonder, the girl thought, with an honest contempt for herself.
"There's no rifle-practice, just now," Captain Yorke said
presently, as they trod the pleasant turf of the shooting-range
under the castle ramparts, " so you cannot put yourself into
danger, as you did yesterday, even if you desire it, Miss Quentin.
What a daring thing it was of you to stand by your friend so
sturdily after I had warned you to run ! Do you always stand
by a friend in the face of danger ?"
"Behind one, if possible, in the face of danger," Dorothy
said, as merrily as if this question had not struck the key-note
of her life.
They had reached a little green enclosure at the foot of the
castle slope, and Dorothy stood against the wooden rails which
separated it from the spacious recreation-ground.
"When I first found this little burial-plot," she went on,
" coming upon it unexpectedly, I could not understand it. There
were so few gravestones altogether ; two or three of them too
old and worn to read, and the rest all looking new, yet all
really of the same date, I suppose—so long ago. All the
deaths within one year, I think, and the men so young. I
suppose it was some plague or fever T'
" Cholera, I think," said Captain Yorke.
Dorothy's venture.
25
He was leaning near her, and he read the inscription she was
reading, as if he had never seen it before.
" That was a good colonel," she said, " to restore the grave-
stones."
" How I should like to have your definition of a good
colonel !"
He turned, and leaned his back against the rails, and Dorothy
thought he was looking across the valley to the fort, ready to
leave her now and go on his way thither ; and so she turned too,
unwilling to detain him.
" Will you give me your definition of a good soldier V
" You know," she said, with rather a critical glance at the
thin, bronzed face, the drooping brown moustache, and closely-
cut hair, " because you are a soldier."
"Not your ideal, though," he said, and he saw a flash of
humour in the grave and steadfast eyes, " and it is your ideal
I want you to tell me. What should he be ? A man of iron
nerve, of course—all woman say so—and of great physical
endurance, strong as a lion. What else ?"
" Towards the poor or sick or sorrowful his heart should be
tender as a woman's."
" Are women's hearts tender ?"
"You asked me for an ideal," she said, determined not to be
provoked.
" I see. Well, the soldier is to be soft and effeminate, is
he ?"
" If you like," said Dorothy. " But I don't call it effeminate
for a man to be able not only to—to fight a lion, but to nurse a
sick child."
" Wouldn't it do to fight a Boer and nurse a sick comrade ?"
" It might—for you," said Dorothy, with grave nonchalance.
" A man's whole life is not passed among wild beasts or ailing
babies. What should he do at other times—at all times ?"
" I think," the girl said, her eyes growing grave as she looked
far along the meadow, " I must borrow a thought of Tennyson's.
He should 'follow up the worthiest till he die.' "
" Even," laughed her companion,in the teeth of clenched
antagonisms ' ? "
" Yes," she said, the colour deepening in her cheeks in the
glad, unusual surprise of finding anyone who understood the
lines she loved and remembered. "It sounds like a soldier's
work, doesn't it? Now thank you, Captain Yorke, for all you
have shown me to-day."
26
dorothy's venture.
CHAPTER IV.
" There's repose,
Or, at least, silence, when misfortune seems
All that one has to bear."
" Miss Quentin, will you go and speak to my lady just for
half a minute ?"
It was the next afternoon, Saturday, and Dorothy again had
watched the arrival of the steamer from Calais, and again, with
eager, saddened eyes, had looked in vain among the passengers
for her father. And now she had come back to her own room
at the " Lord Warden," too sick to care for change or exercise.
She had so built upon his coming to day, because to-morrow
could not bring him ! She was sitting at the table in her bed-
room, copying from an open book, and Poulter, in her shrewd,
inquisitive way recognised the book.
" Take care you put that back, Miss Dorothy. It's out of the
book case in my lady's room, and belongs to the hotel. What
are you taking out of it ?"
" Does .Lady Letitia want me ?" inquired Dorothy, closing
the book and rising.
"Yes; and don't ask me what for. How do I know my
lady's thoughts ? I'll wait here till you come back."
Dorothy went, smiling at the woman's unusual energy ;
and Poulter heaved a sigh when she was gone, and dropped
into a chair she had vacated.
" It isn't as if the child did any'arm," she muttered. "She's
always out by herself, or sitting 'ere, or 'elping me, or just
taking the books down to copy bits. My lady needn't
have done it, though I daresay she's right about the child's
bad temper. I never did say she was a saint."
And, having settled this mentally to her satisfaction, Mrs.
Poulter settled her glasses on her nose and calmly read what
Dorothy had been copying.
" Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever ;
Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make life, death, and that vast for ever
One grand sweet song." .
"Not likely," said Poulter, impatiently, taking off her
spectacles again. " Tisn't in human nature to do lovely things
all day, nor to keep on at one song for ever. This is the sort
of reading does girls like Miss Dorothy a deal of 'arm, and
prevents them thinking about the only thing they ought to
think about at her age—a 'usband. 'Tis a pity ! And my lady
Dorothy's venture.
27
might have introduced her to a marriageable—Good gracious,
miss! B^ck already ? "
" Yes. Lady Letitia has said all she has to say."
The woman, sitting at the table, looked up curiously into the
girl's pale, set face.
" Do you mind so much, Miss Quentin ?"
" It will grieve my father to find me here alone."
" Oh, never mind that! " was the quick retort. " He hasn't
minded grieving you—and us ; and, as you don't know him,
you can't care much about him. What did my lady say ?"
" She said she had waited for this afternoon's boat, but did
not mean to wait longer."
" She hasn't waited one hour for your sake," put in Poulter.
" She always meant to be here two weeks, and she has shortened
the time, not lengthened it. What else, miss ?"
"She is going to Folkestone now, not to return here—but
you know all that. She reminded me "—with a strange, slow
smile—"that I had ten pounds of my own. And she left me
her address."
"That's something," ejaculated Poulter, with an air of relief.
" And ten pounds is a good deal, Miss Dorothy. J know my
lady thinks it a good deffl when she's asked to give it, though
she spends that on 'erself six 'undred times a year, so I 'eard
somebody telling her once in a passion, when she was angry
with the master for sending it to his steward—an old man—
when the land was sold and the man lost his situation."
" Was it Captain D'Eresby who told her ?"
"About what she spent on'erself ? Yes. He said out the
truth to her when even the master wouldn't have dared ; but the
master liked him to, for I 'eard him chuckling. The master
was fond of Captain D'Eresby, and told him he'd left him
money ; but then he 'adn't any to leave. He gambled it away
and couldn't be buried, Poulter told me, till his jewellry was
sold. But he's many a time asked my lady to remember Captain
D'Eresby, though he's her cousin, not his. Bless me, the
carriage will be at the door before I'm ready ! Good-bye,
Miss Dorothy."
" Good-bye," said Dorothy, offering her hand ; but, as [the
word passed her lips, a terrible feeling of desolation swept over
her, so much the more strong and fierce from the long, brave,
struggle, day by day, for hope ; and the world seemed but a
strange and dreary place where she belonged to nobody. Shyly
as a child she put her arms around the woman's neck and
kissed her. This kiss, the first the girl—with such an affluence
of love in her heart—had given or received for so many weary
disappointing days, broke the cold ice about her heart, and on
the ungenial bosom where no young head had ever voluntarily
28
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
lain before, she wept with such passion that the woman, who
knew little about such grief, thought it must surely kill her.
CHAPTER V.
" Hers she makes me."
"No Sunday," said Dorothy to herself, "ever passed so slowly
to me before."
She was sitting at the window in her sitting-room, looking
wistfully out. There were more pleasure-boats upon the sunny
water on this day than she had ever noticed before, more people
strolling on the pier, more wanderers like specks upon the grass
of Shakspere's Cliff; and the beach far off looked crowded.
The people seemed so sociable and gay on this day that
Dorothy shrank from going out among them. She had been to
church in the morning, and had strolled back along the sea-
walk, as she had always done, but in the talkative throng she
had felt so solitary that she had been glad to hasten in, even to
another loneliness. Here, however solitary she might be, she
would not excite curiosity and compassion, as she felt she had
done out there in the sunshine. Yet the thought, having once
crept in, would not depart. She felt now that even the servants
in the hotel must pity her, because she was left behind and
belonged to nobody. It was better here, where nobody saw
her, so she would sit here all the afternoon. Though scarcely
understanding it herself, the old confidence—she had been so
sure, even yesterday, that he would come !—had given place to
a new and cruel fear. When he came, perhaps she might be a
trouble and annoyance to him, as she had been to Lady Letitia.
She might be hurtful instead of helpful, and give pain instead
of pleasure ; and to the girl whose one overmastering longing
was to give happiness to those around her, and to be helpful to
those she loved, such a fear as this was agony indeed. She
tried her best to drive these thoughts away. She rose and
moved about the room, trying to fancy that it was home, and
that all the things in it were endeared to her. She replaced the
ornaments, and handled the china crowded on brackets in every
corner ; but her childish attempt to feel they were bits of home
failed utterly. She tried to read, but could not concentrate her
thoughts. She played a little, but the sweet, sacred airs which
came so naturally to her fingers, touched her heart too sorely.
She sat and listened blankly to the opening and shutting of the
doors in the hotel, and to the different voices, sometimes raised
and distant, sometimes low as they passed her door ! to the
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
29
medley of accents, English, French, and German, and once—
with a smile that made her face most beautiful, though there
was no one to see—to a voice that took her strangely back to
her old Georgian home.
It was a real relief to her to hear at last a waiter's footstep
stopping at her door, and his familiar tap upon it ; but, when
she saw that he brought a card for her, her hand shook so that
she could scarcely take it up and read it.
Messrs. Pugh dr" Bagot,
Solicitors.
" Will you see the gentleman, madam ?" inquired the waiter,
as a respectful reminder to Dorothy that she spent rather a
long time in reading five words, and that a reply was expected.
" Oh ! yes," she said, with a naive assumption of ease.
" Only it puzzles me to tell why solicitors should come on
Sunday. Yes, I will see them."
" It is one gentleman," corrected the waiter, before he opened
the door again.
"Only one!" said Dorothy, as if it were scarcely worth a
man's while to conduct one to her presence, but not having the
least idea herself that she intimated as much.
When the door was closed upon her, she turned and shook
her head sagely at her reflection in the glass.
"What a baby you are, Dorothy ! Why, you might be two
years old instead of twenty ! What ill-news could he possibly
bring to you ? "
Then she looked restlessly around her. Should she be
reading ? Should she be looking from the window, and not
turn just at first ? Should she be playing, and not hear his
entrance ? The waiter's familiar tap dispersed all these projects
instantly, and Dorothy, subsiding into a wide arm-chair as if
she had been shot into it, uttered an unconcerned " Come in ! "
which did her credit.
The gentleman whom the waiter ceremoniously ushered in
was a man of middle age and medium height ; he had a
military bearing and Velasquez face, thin and lined, with a
plentiful sprinkling of grey in the hair and pointed beard. On
his slight, wiry form the well-worn garments hung a little
loosely, and their bygone fashion, as well as the evident care
with which they were preserved, told how impossible it was for
their wearer to keep up with the constant changes of fashion ;
but they were so well chosen and well made that they told also
of gentlemanly tastes and habits.
He stood quite still when the door was closed behind him,
then bowed very low, then made one step towards Dorothy,
30
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
and bowed again. As he did not speak, she presently spoke
for him.
" This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr."—with a glance at the
card—" Pugh."
Still her visitor did not speak, but only stood gravely, silently
deferential, regarding her with a sort of astonishment which
was too gentle to be impolite.
" Did you expect to find my father with me ?" asked Dorothy,
now just her frank, sweet self again, offering her hand. But she
laughed a little nervously when her visitor came up and took
her hand, bending over it so low that his beard touched it.
" For some important reason my father has delayed his coming,"
she went on, resuming her seat in the huge arm-chair upon the
hearth, from which, in a few minutes, she rose and took her
favourite low chair at the window. But her companion still
stood upon the rug, looking at her with that gaze of reverence
which, even without understanding, she could not resent or take
amiss. "Will you not sit down, Mr. Pugh? To-morrow my
father will be able to leave France. I am awaiting him here.
Do sit down. It is pleasant at this window."
He came forward to the seat she offered him, but only stood
beside it, still holding his hat and a pair of light kid gloves,
faded, but carefully kept and little worn. Then Dorothy saw,
in her quick way, that his hands—such hands as will not keep
the secret of good birth—were very thin ; and, with the impulse
of a young and generous nature, she gently took from him the
hat and gloves he held, and put them down. When she turned,
he had covered his face ; and, in her prompt and anxious
sympathy—was he not older than her father, and so gentle and
so worn ?—she touched his hand.
" Have you sad news for me ?" she asked.
"No, no !" he cried, while quickly and passionately, yet with
great gentleness, he took her hand in his and kissed it* " How
could I bring sad news to you ?"
With delicate womanly tact, Dorothy hid her astonishment
at this peep of old-world courtesy, and began to make conversa-
tion in a leisurely, almost idle way.
But her visitor still stood, until she asked once more, in real
surprise,
" Will you not sit down, Mr. Pugh? "
" Miss Ouentin," he began, speaking as if he threw some
weight from him, " Messrs. Pugh and Bagot are your father's
solicitors, and they have sent me as their representative to, await
him in Dover."
"Then you are not Mr. Pugh?" said Dorothy, too thoroughly
a lady for this to make any difference in her manner. " What
may I call you ?"
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Would you mind calling me Smith, if you please—just at
present ? It is not an unusual or aristocratic name,"—with a
certain easy humour when Dorothy smiled,—" but, if you
recollect, Prince Charles and the Duke of Buckingham travelled
here through Kent as John and Thomas Smith ; and Louis
Philippe fled on this very route from Paris as John Smith."
"But in those instances," the girl said, smiling, "the name
was assumed. But, Mr. Smith," sorry that she had said what
brought such a crimson flush to his lined face, "tell me about
my father's letter to you."
He did not tell her that; but he sat down now, and talked in
a certain easy, quiet, experienced, yet deferential way which
was very pleasant to her. There was no awkward silence, and
Dorothy started when five heavy strokes from the watch-tower
broke in upon their conversation. Seeing the start, her com-
panion rose.
" I have encroached upon your leniency, Miss Quentin," he
said, "yet I am going to ask you to give me one more minute.
You thought it strange that I should arrive here on this day to
await your father "—Dorothy smiled, for she had thought it so,
but had not said it,—"andyou guessed Smith to be an assumed
name. I had not meant to tell you otherwise to-day ; but I
cannot feel comfortable deceiving you in the smallest particular,
nor afford to forfeit one iota of your good opinion—so precious
is it to me ! This is my own card. I seldom use these now,"
as he took one out of a little faded leather case. "You
recognise the name "—for, as Dorothy, looked down and read
"Captain D'Eresby," she blushed against her will,—"and you
remember what you did for me. I have come to thank you —
on my knee."
"Oh, don't!" cried Dorothy. "Please don't! How," with
real disappointment in her tone, "did you know ?"
" Would I have left any means on earth untried to discover
who was my sweet benefactress, my good angel, in this time of
need ? But it was not difficult. Lady Letitia Chilton's letter
came from Dover; so did the two registered envelopes ; and my
address or my need could have been learned only through Lady
Letitia. I remembered Poulter, and determined to come and
ask her, or, if need be, question Lady Letitia. After office-work
yesterday, I told Mr. Bagot I might be late to-morrow, as I
wanted to come to Dover to-day ; and then he said I could do
a little business for the firm at the same time, and they," with
unconscious simplicity, " would pay my railway-fare, as they
had to send some one to meet Mr. Quentin."
" How strange ! " said Dorothy. " But you did not find Lady
Letitia and Poulter?"
"No; thank Heaven ! But I find you. By a little judicious
32
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
management here, I learned who had been with Lady Letitia,
who had frequently written her letters for her, and had herself
posted a handful on Friday. Miss Quentin, you cannot, of
course, reverse our positions, and imagine yourself the benefited
one, instead of the divine almoner; so you cannot know how
deeply and fervently grateful a refined and touchy nature must
feel at being so efficiently and humanely helped. Consideration
for others is not so common in this world that one can receive
so sweet a proof of it and not be stirred to the very soul."
" Oh, please forget it!" pleaded Dorothy. "It was not really
what your gratitude now makes it seem to be."
" I have lived fifty-three years," he said, his voice still very
gentle, and, though his eyes were flashing, there was a suspicious
moisture in them, " and I solemnly avow that such an act of
goodness as yours to me, tendered of grace without a claim, or
shadow of a claim—and when she on whom I had a claim re-
pudiated it—is without a parallel."
"Oh! no, it is not;" said Dorothy—and the dimples were
very shy over this.
" You had not even heard my name, yet were so considerate
for my socially fallen state—I am afraid of saying what I feel,
my heart is so full. But I will prove my gratitude, though I am
but a battered veteran, crushed and worn down by fruitless
struggles against hardships, reverses, disappointments, and the
coldness of friends. From this day, my pistol, my purse, my
love, hatred, strength, talent, and will are all placed at your
feet."
" You offer too much in return," said Dorothy, with a laugh
that was a little nervous.
" I give ail," he said, with quiet earnestness. " My life, my
labours, my hopes, my prayers—all. But it is so little ! I am
different from what I was. I have had to come down into the
arena and fight with the beasts ; but, however poor, le gentil-
homme est toujours gentilhomme. When I think how much
you did for me—— But I must not. I am staunch, though,
and my gratitude shall be proved. You smile to think how
little is in the power of a poor man, even though oldv chivalric,
courtly blood is in his veins ; but the day will come."
" I could not think," said Dorothy, gently, " how little was in
any gentleman's power, but how much, that could not be
effected by money."
" You are so young, and understand so little," he remarked,
looking thoughtfully into her face. "In the struggle to live it
is easy to diverge—no, it is even hard not to diverge—from the
straight path. But it helps a man to know that he could look
over the roll of Battle Abbey for his ancestors, and that he
belonged to the Army when its officers were not lads and book7
Dorothy's venture.
33
worms, but soldiers and warriors, among whom were found the
open hand and touchy pride, the. lofty aim and high chivalric
spirit, dignity of character as well^ as mien, self-sacrificing
honour, courtly presence, gracious affability—
' The lofty port, the distant mien
Which seems to shun the light, yet awes, if seen ;
The solemn aspect and the high-born eye
That checks low mirth, yet lacks not courtesy.' "
" But why," said Dorothy, smiling to see the gentle
melancholy eyes flash and dance, as if the words were a war
cry, " should that not suit the officers of to-day ?"
" They talk now instead of acting, these lads who win their
commissions through taking an extra number of marks. Can
that make them warriors skilled in fence ? Can that give them
strength and bravery to lead soldiers, or stamina and staunch-
ness to endure, or chivalry of feeling, which is the secret of
control and influence in the army? No; that declined with
the decline of duelling."
" I think the army still has its brave officers : I like to think
so," said Dorothy, quite unconscious of any reason for her
ready championship.
" Lads," he answered, hotly, " who waste their genuine
vitality in restlessness, and half their lives in heated, crowded
rooms ! Do you think they will ever show the co'our on their
hardened checks as their grandfathers did ? Look at their fits
of nervous depression ! vVould not a wise man, holding the
blessing of youth, have too much pride to let himself feel weak
and inferior ? "
" Still I will not think y ur condemnation just," said Dorothy,
sturdily; "though"—with iswift, faint blush—" I have no friend
in the army.
" That is well. A man may serve for thirty years, have been
in a dozen pitched battles and forty skirmishes, and yet at fifty-
two be only a white-headed, battered infantry major, with one
arm and no liver."
" And yet," said Dorothy, with her clear, pretty laugh, " I'm
sure you must have loved the army, and been sorry to leave it."
The instant she had uttered the words she regretted them,
for over his gentle face, as he stood facing the light, there had
swept a tide of passionate scarlet, and over the dewy mildness
of his eyes there had blazed a swift, fierce wrath.
" I owe it to my kinswoman, Lady Letitia Chilton, that I left
the service of arms, where is merged even now the last vestige
of chivalry. I owe her other blessings too," he went on ; and
Dorothy scarcely recognized the quiet, cultivated voice in the
burst of angry sarcasm. " She is a kinswoman to be proud of
c
34
Dorothy's venture.
and grateful for, a true, tender-hearted woman, a merciful dis-
penser of the wealth entrusted to her. It is beautiful to see her
in the gay world—where her treasure is—measuring her smooth
words ; here a little, there a little ; ' terribly perfect, awfully
justoutraged by any reminder of a tie of blood to me. I
could glory now in out-manoeuvring her cold and selfish plans.
I hated her before I heard of her leaving you; now I could
kneel and pray that ten thousand times the measure she has
meted "
" Oh, hush !" cried Dorothy. " Life is sad enough ; do not
wish to make it sadder to anyone."
" Not sad to such as she !" he answered, in fiery impatience,
then drew his hand across his forehead and looked wistfully at
Dorothy. " It is unpardonable to harass you with my own
grievances," he said. "I am not really discontented.. I have
a faith which I would not exchange for all Lady Letitia's
wealth and surroundings. I am not poor with such rich faith
in a good hereafter. 1 think of that and long for it always.
There is no real pleasure on earth, I believe, except in imagina-
tion. Life cannot have in reality the brightness we can give it
in our thoughts ; and to live in the future is as easy as to live
in the past, and easier than to live in the present. But for
you," he said, suddenly changing his tone, while his face broke
into a smile, " life will surely be all pleasure ! I will try not to
bring the shadow of my dark experience over the sunshine of
your sweet, unsuspicious nature. ' Oh, mayst thou ever be
what now thou art!' I have forgotten my hard life while with
you. It is as if I were back in the old times. How swiftly
these two precious hours have passed ! I ought to have spent
them all in uttering the thanks that fill my heart, but you shall
prove my gratitude. You have made me yours for ever." •
"You quite expect my father to-morrow?" put in Dorothy,
timidly.
" Oh, quite ! " with prompt impressiveness. " The Calais-
Douvres does not run, but he is certain to come by the other
boat—quite certain. Do you"—with an anxious change of
tone—" feel lonely here ? "
" I am rather accustomed to feel lonely," she said, gently.
" Do you know my father?"
"Well, not quite—not personally—just yet ; but by hearsay
—oh, yes, by hearsay ! A most charming man, Miss Quentin !
Like yourself, he shows in every word, and look, and gesture
his descent from belted earls."
" His father," said Dorothy, laughing, " was a potter."
" Possibly some branches of your family-tree have been over-
weighted till they touched the ground," was the ready, cheerful
answer ; " but the tree stands firm, with its root deep in the
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
35
old Norman records. And, besides belonging to it, you your-
self, young as you are, have ennobled your own name. All my
life I shall remember your graceful, unparalleled act of gene-
rosity to a weary denizen to whom your gift was a two-fold
blessing, giving him back his trust in human nature. Forgive
me if I tell you how for thirty hours I worshipped your generous
soul and tender heart, never dreaming "
He stopped suddenly, turning away with his head bent.
" You thought me an old lady," said Dorothy, smiling, and
suspecting nothing of the passionate feelings he was striving to
subdue.
" Yes ; and while I thought you an old lady, giving of her
abundance, I reverenced you and paid you homage in my soul.
But when I knew more, and when I saw you, I was enslaved.
My impassioned nature is in your hands, my queen, my ideal!
Now on my bended knee I tender you a chivalric, steady
fervent, life-long devotion."
" Captain D'Eresby," put in Dorothy, with quiet dignity,
though her heart was beating nervously, " are you staying in
this hotel ?"
"In this hotel?" he repeated, as if he had forgotten what
hotel it was. " Oh, this is the ' Lord Warden ?' No, I am not
staying here—just at present. I am at the ' Imperial.' "
"At the 'Imperial?'" queried Dorothy, with wide eyes.
" Why, the ' Imperial' is for sale—uninhabited—all going to
decay, I should think ! I never saw any living thing within its
gates—yes, once a black cat wandering in its grass-grown
court!"
" Oh, indeed ! " said her companion, placidly. " Then that
is not my hotel. I daresay it used to be, else I don't know
why I should have thought of it. My present one is just as
comfortable. Why do you smile ? I have fine lofty rooms,
and excellent furniture, and cooking—very. I forget the name;
but I am very comfortable, and the sea-air is delicious."
And then he went away with much despatch, so afraid was
he of the girl's clear, truthful eyes detecting his falsehood,
because his " fine lofty rooms" were one attic chamber in a
narrow street far up the town, away from the sea-breezes,
where rents were low and lodgings could be cheaply let.
36
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
CHAPTER VI.
" I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove."
ON that Sunday afternoon Mr. Pugh, senior partner in the
firm of Pugh and Bagot, sat propped with many pillows in the
library of his substantial residence in Northeaton. A small
japanned box, with a key in the lock, stood on his writing-table
near him, and in one of his hands, lying on the broad arm of
his invalid-chair, he held a letter, closely written on a sheet of
foreign paper.
" Mr. Bagot, sir," announced a comely, elderly woman, who
was Mr. Pugh's nurse and housekeeper in one ; and the hand
of the small, frail old man was grasped with a heartiness that
was a little rough, while the unsubdued voice of the new-comer
filled the room.
" Better, I hope, Pugh ? Yes, that's right; I can see you are.
Surrounded by documents as usual. No rest for the wicked,
eh ? I meant to have looked in last night, but my wife had set
her mind on the concert, so I had to go. I should have sent
D'E resby in to talk matters over with you, and tell you how
office work progressed in your absence, but he asked for leave
to go to Dover. So I gave him my own work to do there to—
a wise move, for I brought the expense of a journey for me
down to only a second-class return ticket for him? He said it
was a great relief to him. I did not think you would care for a
visit from one of the other clerks."
" D'Eresby is quiet and soothing," was the rather pointed
remark of the invalid, in this first opportunity which had been
given him for inserting a remark at all.
" Sometimes," was the laughing response, as Mr. Bagot sat
down opposite to his partner, his arm upon the writing-table,
and his substantial fingers performing tuneless airs upon the
blotting-paper. " I'm afraid you would not have known him if
you had seen him yesterday. I shall never again believe in his
calm and evenly-balanced mind."
" I never did," observed Mr. Pugh, meditatively ; but I believe
in his common-sense and self-respect, and his wish to hold his
situation. He never forgets he has been a gentleman."
" I believe more than that. I believe he never forgets he is
a gentleman, even when receiving his twenty shillings on a
Saturday. I used to be afraid of his asking for more, or
borrowing money, but I've grown to believe now that he would
sooner starve. One need not be afraid, after his conscientious
five years' service. Yet how he must hate the drudgery ! I
often look at him and think of his old life and surroundings—
Dorothy's venture.
37
the chosen friend, till his death, of the bravest warrior-earl in
England ; a duke's honoured guest ; one of a clique of nobles,
dashing fellows ; a man approved under two flags. And to look
at him now—a poor, worn, anxious creature, yet with the old
pluck, and daring, and enthusiasm ! You have' no idea, Pugh,
how often he gives me a quiet laugh in the office when other
things are dull enough. I owe him something for that, if he did
but know it. I always have him at the lower end of my room
when you are away."
" That's well,'' muttered the invalid. " The other men don't
understand him. They rouse his worst temper, and he stabs
sometimes—as the world has stabbed him."
" But my motive never was to spare him," rejoined Mr. Bagot
with a laugh, " but to amuse myself. I like his random, strong
outspoken opinions, as fiery as they are fresh. I read bits aloud
to him sometimes, just to see him, so quick to anger or contempt,
so touched by trifles."
" I hope he is careful what he says, Bagot. I hope he is
wholesomely afraid of you."
" Afraid ! Why, he does not know what fear means!"
returned the junior partner, laughing. " I'll tell you a profound
secret, Pugh. He knocked down a bargeman on the canal-side
the other day because he heard him insolent to a lady. Those
slight, wiry figures monopolise all the strength, I firmly believe;
and his wrist—small as a woman's—has twice the power of
mine. I daresay he owes it to his sword-exercise ; and he is
not one to let his muscles rust. I don't wonder you look in-
credulous, recalling him as he sits hour after hour at his desk ;
but you would have found it easy enough to believe if you had
seen him yesterday. His suppressed excitement and a sort of
Unsubduable fire in his eyes were positively alarming. I suppose
the post brought him some unexpected news. I expected to see
him writing some of those great letters of his, sealed as usual
with his armorial bearing ; but he touched nothing but our work
all day, and took no notice of anything I read, though I looked
out an especial case of tyranny, which in an ordinary way
would have made him frantic with rage. Well, I always did
suspect latent insanity, didn't I, Pugh ?"
" Always," assented the invalid, with a faint smile. "You
always said so. Then be grateful that the other men in
the office haven't the same spark of—call it what you
like."
" Well, you will see," said Mr. Bagot, tapping with increased
vigour. " You would have agreed with me yesterday. There
was no signs of what you have called his unruffled serenity."
" I always saw below that," was the weary answer. " What
matter though ? As a clerk, I like his faithful, fearless, honest
38
Dorothy's venture.
way—though not always safe in our profession—and, as a
manager of his own affairs, it matters little to us that he
is—
" An idiot," was Mr. Bagot's ready endorsement, " The more
that sickly landlady of his sponges upon him, the more he pities,
and will not hear a word against her."
"He quite understands the Dover business, does he?" in-
quired the elder solicitor, as a scarce-veiled hint. " When does
he return ?"
" That is to depend "
"Ah, yes! Quite true. Strange to say, I have just been
looking into the box which contains Mrs. Ouentin's letters, and
reading those written to myself. I am going gradually through
my papers that all may be left straight."
"Ah, yes, yes, of course; we all do that!" returned the
younger man, with a cheery hatred of any suggestion of death.
" Those letters are your own affair, written as friend to friend
more than client to solicitor. We have the Ouentin papers at
the office all right, and you shall not be bothered about them.
You should think of nothing but getting well." And, after a
little more chat, Mr. Bagot rose and went away.
Left alone once more, the invalid tore into fragments the
letter he had held all through his partner's visit, locked the
box on the table, putting the key into a drawer, then touched
the bell beside him, and lay back faint and weary.
" I can read nothing more to-day," he said ; " but every word
of those letters shall be obeyed, and then it rests with the girl.
The other letters will help her, I daresay, and they are her own
property. It is an awkward task for her, but I think she will
venture. Yes, I rang, nurse. Bagot has worn me out; I must
have something. I should like to sleep. Dorothy, they call
her . No, I did not speak to you, nurse. Put this box
out of sight."
CHAPTER VII.
" Leaving a long, sweet afterthought
Of tender, twilight haze."
The unexpected visit of Captain D'Eresby on that Sunday
afternoon had taken from Dorothy the utter loneliness which
had made the hours creep by so tardily. She was surprised to
find how cheerfully she sat down to her solitary tea, and how
strongly hope had grown within her heart once more. It
seemed so certain that her father would come to-morrow now
that some one else expected him, too! Dorothy went to church
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
39
with her heart full of gratitude ; and, though now and then
during the service a regretful thought crept over her of how
utterly she had failed in attempting to keep secret the gift of
her money, yet the thought soon brightened into a glad one
that he whom she had helped had come to meet her father, and
her father would like him, and be kind to him. Not even when
she was leaving the church did Dorothy become aware that
Captain D'Eresby was there also, and had sat a little way
behind her; so, when he joined her outside the churchyard
gate, she smiled in frank and pleased surprise. He had
hesitated momentarily, apprehensive of intruding; but any
fear of what the world might think, while a man's own con-
science acquitted him, never even momentarily had troubled
him, and never would. He walked beside her for nearly two
hours without an idea how time had sped.
" This," he said to Dorothy, when they paused at the ' Lord
Warden,' "has been a peaceful hour which I shall remember
all my life, the most perfect hour which has ever blessed my
life ; and it is over. But I shall meet the mail to-morrow ;
and I shall see you, Miss Ouentin ? We are both awaiting the
same traveller, and we are here alone; so you will not deny me
the boon of your companionship."
Though the quiet, courtly tones were stirred by a suppressed
excitement, and the worn gentle face was eager as a boy's
Dorothy did not notice. She was looking straight across the
waters to the far horizon, for on the line where sea met sky
there was a strange red light, as if a vessel were on fire beyond
their sight.
"What is it?" she asked, mechanically turning to see
whether the sunset light had faded in the west behind her.
"If you're going out on the pier, rniss, you'd best not." The
seaman through whose telescope Dorothy had often tried in
vain to satisfy her curiosity had stopped to tender this advice,
probably in return for various illegal sixpences. "There's the
sun-dog, and it means rain somewhere."
"Not on the Channel," said D'Eresby, smiling at Dorothy's
anxious gaze across. " The vessel will be in to-morrow at three,
Miss Quentin—not the Calais-Dotcvres: but he will not wait
for Tuesday and the Calais-Douvres. I shall meet it, and
you will see how lucky I am. June is my fortunate month ; and
I have lucky days too ; have you ? The twenty-first is mine.
Do you remember that Cromwell's auspicious day was the
seventh? His greatest victory was won on the seventh."
" Which victory was that ? "
" I mean that he died on the seventh."
" Will any steamer from Calais come in to-morrow after
three?" asked Dorothy, when she offered him her hand.
40
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
"No—none later," he said ; but, even if he had not bent over
her hand while he spoke, she could not have read in his face
that this was a falsehood, so little did he deem it any wrong to
deceive her for her happiness. Nor did she ever know how,
while she slept the next morning in the chill small hours, he
stood in the dim light scanning each passenger who landed
from the night-boat ; vainly, as she had done so often. He
breathed no word of this when, hours afterwards, he met her in
the warmth of sunny daylight, and placidly, as it seemed,
suggested that they should take a long walk to pass the time
until the boat should arrive.
' Have you been up to St. Radigund's Abbey, Miss Quentin?"
he asked. " They tell me "—a vaguely convincing argument—
" that I must not leave Dover without seeing it ; and so of
course you must not."
" I have seen it from the castle top," smiled Dorothy.
"But that is nothing; and"—anxiously—"you will come?
Think what the pleasure of this walk will be to me."
" May not I think what it will be to me ? " she asked, with
generous impulse ; and so they started in the brilliant morning
sunshine.
Now and then the girl felt a little weary on the hot, dusty
road, while the furze and heather all looked burnt and dry upon
the shadeless hill-side above, or her eyes ached with the glare
of the sun-baked chalk ; but she forgot this when she passed on
into the shadow of the wooded slopes or high hedge-banks ;
and for him the glory of this summer noon was perfect.
As they went slowly up the lane which was to lead them
eventually to the abbey ruins, a little group of equestrians
passed them, riding singly, out of consideration for these two
pedestrians in the narrow, chalky lane. Dorothy watched each
one, and then glanced into her companion's face, as if for
sympathy with her own interest in them ; but he did not even
seem aware that anyone had passed, and so she did not speak
of them, but smiled to see how dreamy and unobservant he
was ; never guessing how she so entirely engrossed his thoughts
that in her presence they could touch nothing beyond her.
With a curious wish not to look again at the riders in front,
Dorothy turned aside through an opening in the hedge.
"This is refreshing," she said, standing as if for rest in the
shadow of a haystack on the other side, and pushing back the
hat that had been tilted low to shade her eyes.
" You turned so suddenly because you saw something you
disliked," said Captain D'Eresby. " Was it that ugly lime-kiln
we had just passed ?"
" I like a lime-kiln," observed Dorothy, leaning back against
the hay. " It reminds me of The Bells—the first English
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
play I ever saw. I never can forget it, nor"—laughing—"how
I wished that Mathias had had one real sovereign, as he threw
it on the table to test its ring. It was so very false ! Do you
often go to theatres, Captain D'Eresby ?"
" It is five years since I entered one; five years ago you were
a child, and had not seen your first."
" You are very much in error," corrected Dorothy, her
generous instinct guiding her to say the kindest thing, even
though she did not fully comprehend his vague tone of regret.
" Five years is a very short time, and I had seen several before
then—indeed I might have left off then, as you did. Father
wished ma'm'selle to take me to London every spring, because
she took Truth Baring—Truth was with ma'm'selle before I went.
We all stayed with Truth's mother ; and it was so nice, though
I didn't see everything then. But I did presently ; and, when
Truth left, ma'm'selle and I still came. You would have
laughed at us sometimes, Captain D'Eresby; we had such
funny little ' seasons' of our own. But we heard and saw much.
All the music—for ma'm'selle is a wonderful musician, and she
called that her 'training'; many plays—according to the time
we had ; and pictures. Father had said that, as he and I
might not live in England afterwards, it was better for me to
see what I could while I was within reach. He has always
been so good and generous."
"But had you no other vacation?" asked D'Eresby. "No
holiday for visiting home—I mean friends ! "
" I had no home—nor friends, except ma'm'selle and Miss
Baring ; and I don't know where she went when her mother
died. I think she must be always abroad with her cousins.
She is going to be married, and would not remember. But,"
with sudden brightness, " I can want no other friend. I have
father."
" But always absent."
"Till now. Now he is on his way to me."
" Bless me, how near he must be !" ejaculated Captain
D'Eresby, with suspicious promptness. " In an hour or so the
vessel will be leaving Calais, and here are we"—with that
gentle, easy humour which belonged to him, and which, through
all the time to come, Dorothy could never dissociate from his
every mood—"letting the time slip." And, considering that his
sole aim this day was to lengthen their time together, this was
indeed a deeply inscrutable suggestion.
More toiling up the steep, dusty lane, a few dubious queries
from Dorothy as to whether they could really be upon the right
path, because it seemed to stretch indefinitely before them,
then her glad exclamation as she caught sight of the tall ivy-
covered walls among the trees high up against the sky.
42
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" What a magnificent old entrance-tower !" cried Dorothy,
as they passed into the meadow in which stood the ruined
walls. " I'm glad we came. Isn't it beautiful and romantic ?"
At the far end of the meadow a groom stood with four
saddled horses, but the riders were not visible. Dorothy
guessed, of course, that they had gone in to explore the abbey.
" Stay one moment before we go in," she said, pausing before
the grand, majestic, useless pile. " Look at the weird and dim
recesses through the deep arch. Look at the stems of the ivy,
thick as trees. Doesn't it tell a wonderful story, and "
She had been looking up at the high, ivy-grown wall, and
when she paused so suddenly an odd, feverish flush rose to her
face. She looked quickly down at her companion, and for the
first time was grateful to find his gaze fixed upon her. She had
read upon a painted board against the wall, " Admission to the
ruins, sixpence," and she had not one sixpence in her posses-
sion, while not for the world would she let this be known to the
one to whom she had given all ; and to let him pay even one
shilling unnecessarily, would have pained her while the words
of his letter haunted her still. He had not caught sight of the
board, and she determined he should not.
" I would not go beyond this spot," she said, her bright,
excited eyes holding his, to make sure of their not reaching
the tell-tale placard, "for any temptation. This arch is
splendid ; but just look through and see the reverse of the
picture ! I hear a pig, I'm sure ; and look how those plebian
chickens spoil the whole effect ! It would be very ugly there ;
and here it is so pleasant.''
" But you intended to go in !" was Captain D'Eresby won-
dering remark. " That portion beyond the courtyard appears
to be inhabited; but I have no doubt we may wander where
we choose among the ruins."
"Do you wish so much to go?" she asked, her cheeks still
feverishly pink in this new humiliation.
" I should if you went," he answered, with his gentle smile.
"To be with you is such complete joy that I do not question or
care where it is—if you are happy. But you have changed
your mind, so I must have fatigued you. Do sit here while I
go to that cottage opposite and see if they have any milk."
" Oh, yes !" she said, smiling at his homely thought, and in
her heart glad of the rest of solitude.
She tried to laugh at herself when he was gone, and she was
seated on a little rising ground between two elms, just where
she faced the great crumbling arch.
" The mean, mercenary fear made a baby of me," she said in
her thoughts. " What a humiliation it was ! I wonder"—
with an irrepressible smile—" whether I can ever tell father ?"
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
43
The horses stood still in the broad band of shade ; and
Dorothy, who had noticed the sleek bay Lady Ermine rode,
looked at it now with special interest.
" How strange it would seem to her," she thought, " to walk
all the way from Dover along the dusty, shadeless road, and
then to lose all that she came to see for want of—a sixpence !"
In her healthy love of fun Dorothy laughed over the thought,
and then shook her head, as if she shook a danger from her.
" I must be jealous, else why should I, by even the vaguest
thought, compare my lot with hers !"
At that moment Captain Yorke came from the abbey and
signed to the vigilant groom, then saw Dorothy, and in an
instant was standing before her.
"You are going to examine the ruins," he said, when they
had greeted each other and spoken of the beauty of the day,
and she had told him she was resting. " Will Mr. Ouentin
allow me to take you in now to my friends ? Where has he
gone ? I would not stop when I overtook you, because I
did not want my friends to question me about you until I
knew whether your father would allow me to claim your ac-
quaintance."
" I was not with my father," said Dorothy, smiling, " but a
friend of my father's," she added, loyally ; " and he has walked
to a cottage there for—on an errand for me," with a strange
impulse of gratitude to this absent friend. "We are not going
farther."
" I beg your pardon, Miss Quentin, for my mistake, but I
did not really look at your companion. You surely have not
taken this toilsome walk to return without entering the abbey,
though?" said Captain Yorke; and, as at her words he had
turned his head towards the cottage across the meadow,
Dorothy fancied he was looking contemptuously away from her.
" It was a very pleasant walk," she said, with gentle dignity.
" I came for the pleasure of the walk."
" Rather steep for a warm day," he suggested, quizzically.
" I like climbing," she said, almost ashamed of feeling so
little heavy-hearted in her poverty-stricken condition, " espe-
cially when it is warm. But I daresay I shall come again
presently with my father.'' ,
" Does he arrive this afternoon ?"
"Yes ; I feel sure so."
" I wonder when I shall see you again," Captain Yorke said,
gently. He had offered his hand, and she had given him hers;
she had taken off her gloves to arrange some wild-flowers, and
through all her frame she felt his warm, firm pressure as her
hand lay within his. " I am going home on leave; perhaps
to-night, perhaps to-morrow night. And you ? "
44
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" I do not know."
''Forgive my inquisitiveness, and this intrusion." He un-
clasped his fingers, looking down upon the hand he held—such
a very pretty hand ! Then he raised his hat. " I do not say
good-bye; I only say how I hope that the very first person
who lands from the Calais boat this afternoon will be your
father."
,"He did not forget," was Dorothy's thought, as she walked
towards the cottages, in order to avoid the gay little riding-
party.
She found Captain D'Eresby in one cottage awaiting the
arrival of some milk, for which he had paid beforehand, that
this financial transaction might not be witnessed by Dorothy.
After this refreshment, they started back again.
" We saw the ruins splendidly," asserted Dorothy, treading
the dusty lane, refreshed and bright; while a man who had
been in the field beyond came to the hedge and asked Captain
D'Eresby what o'clock it was. Dorothy waited in silence.
"Will you tell him, please, Miss Ouentin ?"—and it was only
she who blushed.
" I forgot that you might have left your watch at home," she
said, looking straight before her as they walked on again ;
then, speaking without a moment's pause, " I suppose that
poor fellow hoped it was later than it is."
"It is a dreadful feeling," he remarked, absently. " I know
it—I mean I have known it, but never shall again. No days
will drag while I know they may be bringing pleasure to you.
I shall begrudge no work now, because your .friendship will
bless it for me. My work, my duties, all the world is changed
for me by your gracious conferring of regard and sympathy on
one who can but prove by perfect fealty his ardent gratitude to
her who is his destiny."
"Hush, Captain D'Eresby! Remember how far from you
my life may have to be spent."
" Heaven forbid ! still, I never shall feel as before, never
quite alone in the world as I have felt. Of course my life will
still be chequered, but my heart is healed. I am still a worn
and battered veteran, but not an ill-tempered, mistrusting
fellow. You not only brought back hope and peace and trust
and life to a weary denizen, but you showed light to a hopeless
man who stood on the dark frontier of despair."
" I only did," said Dorothy, with real pain in her beautiful
eyes, "what anyone would have done."
"You did," he rejoined, with a strange fiery earnestness in
his low tones, "what no one else whom I have ever known—
and I have known the world in many phases and for many
years—would do. The act was delicate, noble, prompt, and
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
45
perfect ; but that is not all you have clone for me. I know
no words that would tell that. Stop me, Miss Ouentin, for I
might lose myself in my surprised, deep gratitude", and say too
much."
Captain D'Eresby claimed Dorothy's promise that he should
go alone to meet the Calais boat that afternoon, maintaining,
with gentle persistent drollery, that he should be lucky. But
this project to save her a few minutes of anxiety seemed to
have been useless, for he joined her, after all, in time to see the
wonderful expectant brightness with which she was watching
for—not for him, as he knew when he saw the brightness fade
so pitifully.
" I—I really never believed that Mr. Quentin would cross in
that boat," he said, apparently oblivious of the different opinion
he had held. "He is one to wait for the more agreeable vessel,
even though it detain him. To-morrow, by the Calais-Douvres
Miss Quentin."
"Yes," said Dorothy, absently responding to this very precise
and determined intimation.
" It is such a pleasure," he continued, luring Dorothy past
the hotel to the sea-walk while she seemed lost in wistful
musing, " to feel that he is coming to-morrow. He would have
felt ill to-day m that vessel. I—I always thought he was too
sensible and experienced a traveller not to wait for the twin-
ship."
Dorothy smiled a little at this very transparent change of
ideas ; and, catching eagerly at that smile, he talked on with
the same cheerful confidence, until she once more hugged to
her heart the hope that had been such a friend to her, and
answered his glad words at last by her own.
"Yes, he will be here to-morrow."
At her side, loitering delightedly when her steps slackened,
apparently overcome with the need of rest when she seemed
inclined to sit, and rejoicing to start again when he detected
the slightest evidence of her intention to do so, he enticed her
to spend with him the remainder of the afternoon ; and only
when clouds gathered slowly over the sky, and the gay groups
by the sea dispersed with the prescience of a wet evening, did
they find themselves returning to the " Lord Warden." The
Geraldine lay in dock as they passed, and, as Dorothy instinc-
tively looked down upon it, Captain D'Eresby saw the glance
and followed it.
" Lord Avory is very fond of yachting," he said—and Dorothy
started, so little had she ever thought of connecting the lives of
these two men—" as of all pleasure. I should not have known
he had his yawl here for racing but that I met him this morning."
Do you know him ? " questioned Dorothy.
46
bOROTHYS VENTURE.
" As much, Miss Ouentin," he said, simply, " as a lawyer's
clerk may know an earl's son. No one living at Northeaton
could help knowing Viscount Avory. Years ago when in town
I often met his father in society ; but now Society," he
added, turning aside from a shadow of complaint, " changes, I
think, though perhaps imperceptibly, every year. Avory some-
times remembers me, and speaks or nods, but of course I live
too near him in my low position for him to do more ; and I
quite understand that. But to-day he had to stop to talk to me,
for he had a friend with him who is always genial and pleasant
and kind to me, and would not pass me by, whoever should be
with him. He, too, lives near Northeaton—at least, his family
does. He is in the Artillery, so is not often at Lynhead, his
father's place."
"Who is he?" inquired Dorothy, with interest, for she thought
she could guess.
" Captain Yorke. I am always glad to feel he is in the army,
for, though you will not understand the sensation, I am jealous
for the army still—ah, I loved the old life so ! It is a positive
delight to me, Miss Quentin, to know any fine fellow in it now.
Yorke is indeed a fine fellow—no nerveless officerling. We
never understand other men's natures, I suppose, and I've heard
whispers of his being a flirt, as it is called, and having the
power of deceiving women, but I will not believe it until I am
obliged ; to me he seems a man who has kept ' the whiteness,
of the soul.' Anyway, he is a man with vigour in his arm and
heart and principles—in his aims too, I think ; no white-faced,
sloping-shouldered, mincing speech-maker who can be a coward,
to men and a sneak to women. He is thorough-paced and
proven. I have known him do a brave thing. I have seen it.
Of course, Miss Quentin," he added presently—he had thought
that she would question him, but she was silent,—" I, in my
fallen state, have little to do with him ; besides which, he is
seldom in our county, though he is his father's heir; but I'm
glad to speak up for a man I like, and in our scant, slight
intercourse he has always treated me as a gentleman. I fear"
—in his gentle, honest way—" you will scarcely comprehend
how much that means now."
" I think I can, after Lady Letitia's treatment of me," said
Dorothy, only wishing to give him an idea of sociable sympathy;
but the passionate rush of colour to his face frightened her a
little. She had forgotten that Lady Letitia was his relative, and
hastened now to turn his thoughts back again. " Do Lord
Avory and Captain Yorke live near each other?"
" Yes. Northeaton Chase, the earl's place, and Lynhead
adjoin in one part—or rather the river separates them. The
Yorkes belong to an older family than the earl's, but they have
DOROTHY'S VENTURE. 47
Hot risen with every generation as the Courtiers have ; and
Captain Yorke's younger brother is a spendthrift, I fear, and
will still further impoverish the estate. His mother was Irish."
" Is that a recommendation ?" smiled Dorothy.
" I think so. The English are so tame and trite and common-
place. I am aiways glad my mother was Scotch—of the clan
Gordon—and my father French."
" I am English," said Dorothy, merrily. " You fancied not,
I suppose, because my home had been in Apierica ; but, as
my father was the son of a Staffordshire potter, and my
mother the daughter of a Shropshire clergyman, you see I am
very English. My father settled in Georgia only for my
mother's sake, because she was not strong, and he had heard
much praise of that climate. They both grew fond of their
home there, and never wished to leave it—only mother died."
" I had been so glad you were not English," he said, in a
puzzled sort of a way. " Your name in French."
"Yes," she answered, simply. "One of my great-grand-
fathers was a French potter—a working man—and came over
to work here. He got on, I suppose, and his sons too for my
grandfather was a master-potter. What are you pondering ? "
" It is so awkward now. If I love the English for your sake,
how can I hate them for Lady Letitia's ?"
" Love is stronger than hate; so I don't mind, Captain
D'Eresby," laughed Dorothy.
"Indeed it is," he answered, musingly; "but that is its
danger. Its dazzling sunshine casts such heavy shadows ; hate
and jealousy—deadly shadows. And sometimes—of myself—
I am afraid."
" The air grows chill and makes one shudder," Dorothy said.
" I am ashamed in this summer weather ; but these grey days
depress one a little, don't they ? I hope it will not rain before
you reach your hotel, Captain D'Eresby. You smile as if you
did not care ; but I hope it all the same."
A few minutes afterwards they had parted, Dorothy going
slowly up to her rooms, wishing she could still have had this
quaint companion, with his contradictory gentleness and self-
confidence, through her spiritless tea and the grey hours before
dark.
" I am going so soon," he had said at parting, pleading tc be
allowed to join her the next day. " To be with you is to live
again the best of my youth and manhood—and more. You
will have your father and be happy; but for me the world holds
no other bliss."
Ah, yes, she would have her father, and this lonely man
would have no one ! For this little time surely she should do
her best to take him from a solitude she had thought she knew
48
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
so well, yet which must be so different from hers ; and so she
had told him she would be upon the shore on the morrow.
Now, while she sat alone at the unnecessarily abundant meal
which nearly all was carried away again, and then sat looking
out far off to where the dim blurred vessels seemed to be
sailing in the sky, he walked very slowly back to his comfortless
room, took a cup of tea, and wrote her a long letter—which he
did not post.
CHAPTER VIII.
"This scoundrel horde of conquerors
Have something very lovable about them."
WISHING Captain D'Eresby to have no trouble in finding her,
yet avoiding the frequented promenade, Dorothy took her seat
in the boat where she had so often sat before, and the owner,
who had just been going to mend the canvas, turned back to
leave her undisturbed. Captain D'Eresby had again met the
night-vessel, and had been early on the beach, restless and
anxious ; but now he was detained by a letter which he had
received. Dorothy did not know this ; and so, when a footstep,
crunching the stones, stopped beside the boat, she looked up
with the sweet compassionate smile which was for this friend.
But it was Captain Yorke who answered the smile, and then
stood against the boat, jesting at her seclusion. The sea was
glad and bright to-day, as if to make up for the previous night's
sullenness ; the long foaming waves broke with a mellow plash
against the beach, then fell back, low and calm and silent, white
like snow, their passion dead.
"Like human nature, is it not?" he said, smiling as he
followed Dorothy's eyes. " We should go calmly and quietly
enough through life if we met no shelving beach in opposition,
no ruffling influence or restraint, no 'clenched antagonisms.'"
"This is a beautiful day," observed Dorothy, demurely
ignoring this reference to their first conversation, though there
was a suspicious deepening of the rose-tint in her cheeks.
" Did you really see me, Captain Yorke?"
" I really saw you, and intruded. Without intruding, I have
seen you several times since we were on the castle. Why did
you walk in the cemetery on Saturday evening ? I saw you there."
" Why did you ? "
" I ? Oh, I was led by a friend who had taken a fancy to see
Claribel's grave ! She still sings Claribel's songs. Do you?"
" The easiest of them and the low ones," she answered, a
merry dimple mocking the gravity of her eyes.
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
49
" Tell me a song you do sing."
" Only what I can transpose and make easy. I once found
a book of songs that had been ma'm'selle's mother's, and I
learned the book straight through."
" I should like to hear it straight through," he said, as grave
as she was.
"You would, I am sure. I will give you a verse of one of my
favourites—
' My father's got forty good shillin'—
Ah, ah, good shillin' !
And my mother she seems very willin'—
Ah, ah, very willin' !—
That I should have all when they die'!'
Isn't it pathetic ? Now should you like a verse of a—
sentimental one ? "
" Indeed I should."
" ' While pensive I thought on my love,
The moon o'er the mountain shone bright,
And Philomel down in the grove
Sang sweet 'in the stillness of night.
I thought that my love, as he lay,
His ringlets all clotted with gore,
In the silence of death seemed to say—
' Alas, we shall never meet more!' "
Wasn't it nice of her to be pensive while he lay in that con-
dition, and with those ringlets?. Don't you wish such songs
were frequent now-a-days ? "
" Instead," he questioned, looking straight into her clear
young eyes, u of such as ' To Anthea,' say? "
" Or," she added, readily—and he could see no conscious
blush—" The Blacksmith, and The Sexton, and The Bell-ringer,
and The Diver, and other men. Did you notice one beautiful
thing in the cemetery ? "
" Yes "—promptly.
" Oh, I was afraid you would not! " said Dorothy, with a
sigh of relief. " It was the most exquisite cross of flowers I
have ever seen—and I have seen wonderful ones abroad."
" That was not what I meant."
" Can you mean, then," she asked, deeply musing, " that
artificial flower under a forcing-glass—or perhaps the beaded
ornaments ? I remember one grave had eight, four being A ma
mere, with deep bead fringes, and four being A ma femme, with
deeper fringe. Poor husband, with his grief four times as deep
as his children's ! "
" But, Miss Quentin," said Captain Yorke, " why did you not
D
50 DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
go among tlie living throng instead of the dead? You looked
so very lonely."
" It is lonelier sometimes among the living."
"Where 'ilka lassie has her laddie,'" he put in, quizzically.
" Do you care to make many friends ? "
" Yes," she answered, simply ; "but I have very few."
"Friendship is built so slowly," he said—he was leaning both
arms now upon the gunwale of the boat, and his brown face was
not very far from hers—" in that respect so unlike love."
" Sometimes, I suppose," corrected Dorothy.
" Love that is love," he answered; and she fancied there
came back an old sorrow to his eyes. " It does not take long
for the lightning to strike, however strong and firm and resolute
the tree may be."
"I often think," observed Dorothy, sedately, "it must be
delightful to sit, as that lady is doing, in the shadow of a
bathing-machine, with her back to the sea, and to crochet all
the morning long as she does." ■
" But your eyes have been taking a greater interest in that
woman lying on a rug down by the sea."
" Have they ? She is paralysed. Do you notice how happy
her children seem ? They look upon the beach as a pile of
stones ready collected for their behoof, and which they need
never cease throwing."
" Miss Quentin," said Captain Yorke, suddenly, " I wish I
could do anything for you before I go home I mean," he
added, hastily, for the steadfast eyes were quick, and he had
seen her face grow strangely white, as if her own loneliness
were brought nearer to her by his mention of home—" I mean
I selfishly wish that you were leaving Dover too, because
I know you will not be here on my return ; and I must even
hope not, for you will wish your father to take you away. You
will not forget "—he broke off abruptly and ended in a different
tone—" that the calmest, and certainly the safest, mode of
crossing to France is by telescope from the Castle Keep." .
" No, I shall not forget."
" And may I ask you to remember one thing more ? You
must not laugh. It is characteristic of this town to be visited
by our queens and kings in the times of their triumph as well as
of their exile ; and, if you ever recall your own jesting com-
parison of yourself to the unsuccessful hotel"—he could not
help the laugh in his eyes, though his voice was curiously
earnest—" you will remember this."
" I will remember," she answered, laughing; and then,
because he was silent, she turned to him with involuntary
earnestness. " How good it sounds, Captain Yorke, to hear of
going home !"
DOROfHV's VENTURE. 5i
" I shall not stay long at home," he said, as if to Convince her
that home had, as a rule, no charm whatever. " I shall go to—-
oh, everywhere! Do you know our Artillery motto ? ' Every-
where whither Right and Glory lead.' Don't you think"—
looking rather steadily into her eyes—"that that is a steep
enough road for a man to follow ' up till he die ?'"
" I think," she answered, thoughtfully, but again blushing at
his recollection of their first conversation, " that it would be
steeper if Right—without Glory—led."
" That would be bad for us soldiers," he said, smiling ; but
Dorothy remembered afterwards the quiet fearlessness of his
tone. " Still our manhood is above our profession, after all, and
it is in the power of all of us to follow the Right."
Once more the Calais-Douvres had landed her crowd of
passengers. Once more—but for the last time—Dorothy had
scanned each face with her earnest, wistful eyes, and once more
had turned away, heart-sick with hope deferred.
" Miss Quentin," said Captain D'Eresby, who, having watched
her, felt he could never bear again to see that grievous look in
the kind blue eyes, " I shall go to Paris to-morrow—no, to-
night," he said, determinately : but he looked away as he said
it. " There is a boat at ten, and I shall cross in her."
" Oh, no ! " said Dorothy, her own generous heart showing
her that he suffered in her suffering. "Oh, no, Captain
D'Eresby ! He will come to-morrow 1"—it was but a faint
assertion now.
" Of course he will," her companion answered, as cheerily as
if no shadow of doubt ev.er had crossed, or could cross, his
mind ; " and I will come with him. I would rather go—much
rather ; and I'm sure our firm would wish it, and they will only
too gladly pay"—for how could he ever now hope to disguise
his poverty from her ? " Indeed, I daresay they will reprimand
me for not having gone before. That is decided. So now,
Miss Quentin," with humble earnestness, " as I go to-night, you
will let me spend this afternoon with you ? Let us walk over
the cliffs."
" But it will tire you for your journey ?" Dorothy suggested.
His laugh, though quiet as a woman's, was good to hear after
their anxious hour ; and Dorothy often afterwards recalled with
pleasure how many times that afternoon she had heard the
unfamiliar laugh.
" What a pretty day it is!" he said, in his quiet, old-fashioned
way, when they were treading among a wealth of wild flowers on the
soft turf of the cliffs. " What a day this will be to recall! I can
scarcely believe it to be real, and not a dream. Only one week
ago I was a man who never even dreamed that happiness could
come within his reach,"
S2
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" I wonder how far you can walk/' put in Dorothy, quaintly ;
" because I should like to go out to St. Margaret's."
" And I might tire, you think ? " he queried, with a laugh of
supreme happiness. " If so ? "
" I could leave you here—in clover," she said, gathering the
blue clover-blossom to put among the pink ones that she held,
"It seems to me," she added, presently, walking to the edge of the
cliff and looking back, "that this is as high as Shakespeare's
Cliff. But I suppose that was higher in Shakespeare's time than
it is now, though it is Oh, Captain D'Eresby, what are you
doing 1"
" Nothing," he answered, flushing hotly, For he had recklessly
put himself between her and the edge of the cliff. "I —I
wanted to look were you where looking. That was all."
" Not quite," she said, gently. But I was safe. How easily
I could, if I had wished, have pushed you over here—to your
death ! You were so near ! One touch—ah, what a horrible
thought!"
"Are you—even you —sometimes haunted by horrible
thoughts?" he asked, with sad eagerness. "A man once told
me that he had read a theory that Nature formed none of us
without the first principles of murder. It is a hideous thought,
but I remember how it haunted me one day when I went with
one of the visiting justices over the gaol in Stafford. The poor
fellows there, who dared not show their faces to us, but always
had to turn their backs in that damning garb, may only have
been unprepared for that one unguarded moment But how
ridiculous I am ! They were not tbere for murder—only one !
And why speak of that on such a day, in such an hour? Is
that St. Margaret's ?"
"Yes,'' Dorothy said, and ran down the slope among the
poppies and the clover and the tremulous grasses, while he
followed her, laughing in the gladness of his heart.
" Miss Ouentin," he said, when, some time afterwards, they
walked soberly through the pretty village built among the cliffs,
having stayed to talk with the coastguardsman on his beat, and
been shown the rocket-apparatus and the new signal code, "the
sight of all those children feasting on tea and buns makes me
very hungry. How do you feel ?"
" Oh, we shall be back in time for tea," she answered, hastily,
drawing out her watch. " It is only six."
He seemed as little impressed by the rather chill reply as he
was capable of understanding its motive, for he looked about
him with deliberate intent while they walked back along the
beach. He knew that in the row of cottages belonging to the
coastguard the women were not allowed to entertain strangers ;
but he noticed one woman standing at her door, and, when he
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
53
had taken Dorothy out of hearing, he ran back and asked her
where they could have tea. She showed him, and then smiled,
because he not only asked her was it an expensive inn, but when
he thanked her he lifted his hat to her as if she were a lady.
But to persuade Dorothy to go for the refreshment for which
she could not pay—though she had real need of it—was a more
difficult task than Captain D'Eresby had imagined. Poor
Dorothy, who would have been so generous and so hospitable
herself, who would have loved much to be so now—now as never
in her life before—-if it had been possible !
Only by his wistful reminder that he was leaving so soon, and
then his wild assertion of his own hunger—telling her truthfully
that he never ate anything in the middle of the day—could she
be tempted at last to consent.
" I have no money here/' she said, "so I must owe you my
share till we go back to the ' Lord Warden.' Or may I'"—for
she had made him believe now that she had money at the
hotel, and so saved his imagining she could possibly feel the
loss of such a trifle as ten pounds ; and would she not ask her
father to repay him doubly and trebly ?—" be your guest, Captain
D'Eresby ? I should like that, if it is not expensive."
His delight over this confession was unconcealed.
" They charge only sixpence each for tea and eggs—or chops
if you prefer them," he declared mendaciously. " That woman
thought the price ridiculous. So it is."
'And Dorothy laughed, thinking how well this should be
repaid to him, and was quite ready now for the rest and
tea.
It was not by any means a luxurious or artistic room into which
they were taken, nor one provocative of rest and ease. About
twenty wooden chairs were ranged against the wall, a table with
a cold glazed covering stood in the centre ; and in one corner
a mangle was partially disguised by antimacassars. But he
never forgot the beauty of the place to him, and Dorothy was
happy and bright and at her ease, chatting merrily of the
varied specimens of art upon the walls, and looking with
fresh interest from the window.
" The school children are packing their baskets for return,"
she said. "Yet they are noisy and active enough for another
holiday to be beginning now."
" Youth is such a blessing !"
"Oh, it isn't that," was the girl's swift reply, " for the teachers
are very young, and they look more tired than the clergyman,
who is older—about fifty or sixty !" she suggested, with gen-
erous rashness. " What, has the tea come already ? How nice
and quick! Oh, you must preside, Captain D'Eresby, and
pour out the teq. I urn your guest, you know,"
54
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
It did her good then to see—and it did her good afterwards
whenever she recalled it—what happiness it was to him to
feel that this was true. The simplicity with which he stood
to say grace, yet the craft with which he secretly turned the
largest egg to be nearest her, the sagacious way in which he
shook the tea-pot gently round and round to capture all lurking
strength, yet the courtly deference with which he was so ever
alive to her wants while he neglected his own, made her feel
strangely drawn towards, and at home with, this simple,
generous, quaint, impracticable host.
" I'm afraid, Miss Quentin," he said, an hour afterwards, on
their way home, evidently throwing some weight from his
mind, " that you saw me this evening very deficient in atten-
tions to which you are accustomed. I ought not to have
forgotten the time when I dined in old baronial halls, but I
have. And, besides, I know why I am guilty of neglect in
your presence. I am ill-bred through being too happy. I
forget where I am, and what I ought to do. I forget all except
that I am near you. This shames me, and ought not to be,
if, as Chatham says, Politeness is the preference of others to
ourselves."
" There go the hundreds of school children, baskets and all!"
cried Dorothy. " Do you think every basket is empty, Captain
D'Eresby?"
" Miss Quentin, do you think you will ever look back in your
memory to this one evening ?"
"I am sure I shall," she answered, frankly. " I shall never
forget it, nor you, Captain D'Eresby."
" I scarcely dare hope for that," he said, his face brightening,
" so great will be the favour and bliss to me, and somehow in
this world joys always escape from my clutch. But that is
ungrateful. Heaven bless you, for to you I owe my altered,
cheerful, hopeful feelings, my faith renewed, my heart cheered,
my whole life changed ! How hard it is," he went on presently,
in her silence, "to have to mask and check one's feelings in
which there is no positive wrong except the presumption of
aspiring to a—a friendship with one who is formed for a better
portion than I could ever lay at the feet of my queen, my ideal,
my destiny."
"You have already my friendship, Captain D'Eresby,"
Dorothy said, grieved, and a little alarmed, to see such strong
excitement.
" But I am going away, and what is there in me worthy of
remembrance ? Tell me how to make you remember me. Tell
me how to win your friendship. It will be the aim of my life."
" You have won it."
"To—to secure it then. Tell me how—don't be afraid of
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
55
me !"—for she had glanced with troubled eyes into his worn,
agitated face. " Even the passing distress of a sympathy with
me I would spare you if I could. You are a tender, sensitive
flower ; but my harsher-barked stem has been inured to suffer-
ing, and I have long known there could be no blissful future for
me. I have had promises often, but never their fulfilment. I
was noted long ago for a consulship. If it had come, perhaps
you might It might have been in Syria, perhaps, and
the air is sweet there. There might have been troublous times,
and I might have done something worthy, and been promoted.
I used to fancy I was destined for stirring scenes. Sir Paul
D'Eresby ! It . might have been a name worth offering then.
You would never consent to bear a worthless name. But those
boons"—with a smile sadder than tears on the thin, refined
face—"never come to me. It is only a fancy now. I am
obliged to fancy sometimes. It does no one harm."
"Perhaps it will really come presently," said Dorothy, in her
deep compassion.
" No, it is too late. But it is all well now, for your friendship
is a greater blessing, and you have given me that. It is an
exquisite concession. It was given of grace, and it shall be
guarded in my inmost soul with jealous delicacy. If on my
side it is not friendship, but something stronger, deeper,
mightier, you must forgive me. I was won without your
will. I was conquered ; and I bow in adoration at the dear
feet of my idol. I am reputed a cold, collected man ; but
now I suppose love does utterly change us all, men and
women alike—and mine is love ! I ought not to say this to
you while you so kindly lend me your companionship, but it
is stronger than my will. Do other men's hearts beat as mine'
does in your presence ? Fate has given me no home, no power,
and so I dare not say Oh, forgive me—I forget myself!
I forget that we do not stand equal here under the quiet heaven.
But it is only between us two, and you are merciful."
"We do stand equal," said Dorothy, with pitiful gentleness.
"But remember, we have known each other only for three
days."
" They have held as much for me as all my life before. I
have forgotten I am a worn, jaded, hopeless man. I have
forgotten I am not young. Miss Quentin"—suddenly taking
one of her hands into the firm clasp of his—" not for long can I
weary and pain you, because I shall be so far away ; but you
cannot prevent my being your lover—just as you will not be
able to prevent other men loving you. Yet never until you
love yourself—if even then—will you be able to understand."
" Captain D'Eresby," interrupted Dorothy, quietly, while
Poulter's prophecy of this time he spoke of almost brought a
56
Dorothy's venture.
smile to her lips, "you miss all the beauty of the evening. You
turn away from where
' Miles upon miles
The quiet coloured end of evening smiles.' "
" We are to part so soon," he said, with a strange shivering
sigh that brought the tears to Dorothy's eyes ; " and I feel—
mad ! I wish I were going to lead nine hundred men against
two thousand. I wish I were going into the fiercest engagement
to-night. You are very patient with me, and I will be calm ;
but it is terrible ! I never felt like this even in battle. I feel
as if I could take life for you as easily as defend it, or—give it !
And I may do nothing! I, who would fight for you and die for
you, can only—pray for you ! "
" And that is best of all," put in Dorothy, softly, so grateful
for the sudden gentleness in the tone. " I shall be so glad to feel
you do."
" You are very good to me," he said, looking with wondering
reverence into her face. "You do not tell me—though I see
it—that my wild words make you unhappy ; you look so sorry
for me. I will try to be moderate. Yet it will be terrible for
me. While you live your sweet bright life, and think I am
calm and resigned, I could—slay any man—1 saw with you."
" It would be my father," said Dorothy, forcing a smile, and
still patient in her kindness to this man to whom—as she now
thought with aching heart—she had brought good and harm at
once. " When he comes, I shall see you again, and I shall
always remember you."
" And you will think of me kindly, pray for me, try to—to
remember how I love you—even I, oh, my ideal ?"
"Not if it makes you unhappy," she said, with gentle
firmness.
" But it does not," he cried, with swift eagerness. " It is such
happiness as I have never known before. I shall know no such
bliss ever again. But do not let it bring unhappiness to you
for me to bow in adoration before my destiny. I ask for no
other return than all that you have done. It is too much, for
you have blessed my life. But if you will remember me- "
" Indeed I will! You will soon return from France, Captain
D'Eresby, will you not ? "
"Oh, yes,"—with a violent attempt at cheeriness—"very
soon—Mr. Quentin and I. Let me see—how soon ? In how
many—I mean how few—hours? Not quite nineteen from
now. Why, it will be gone before you are—are fully aware I
have started. If I miss Mr. Quentin, and he comes alone to-
morrow, I shall follow very soon. And how you will laugh at
me for missing him ! Promise me you will not give one single
Dorothy's venture.
57
thought to your hotel bill, for our firm have orders to pay it
whenever you choose. They have ample funds for that especial
purpose."
" But my father will have come."
" Oh, yes, of course, so he will! " was the swift, nervous
reply. " What a dolt I am ! May I come in while you write
just one line for me to give Mr. Quentin ?"
She led him up to her sitting-room; and, while she wrote a
few words for her father's eye, he stood looking down upon her,
and around upon her surroundings, as if he would fix the
picture in his mind for ever. And a great patience, as well as
the old gentleness, came back to the worn patrician face, the
soft refined hands were loosened from their pained grip, and the
wiry figure stood erect.
He took the letter Dorothy gave him, kissed the hand that
gave it, and laid a paper down upon the table. In another
minute their farewell was over, and Dorothy stood alone in the
room where they had first met.
She was very restless, longing for it to be ten o'clock, that
she might know that he was on his way, yet perversely wishing
she had not, even for a time, lost this loyal fiiend. She took
up the paper he had left, and opened it. It was not a letter,
only some lines that she knew well, except one altered word
which brought a smile even then to her sad face.
" Twere a glorious gain to have bartered all
For the bonniest branch in the bower :
And a man might well be content to fall
In a leap for its queenliest flower !
To win her indeed were too priceless a meed ;
To serve her were guerdon enow ;
And the noblest rose that in England grows
Is blooming in (Dover) now ! "
With the paper still in her hand, she sat at the window,
longing to hear the night-gun fired. The little church upon the
Western Heights, stood out clear against the sunset, but
Dorothy was watching how the pearly line opposite to the
lowering sun grew greyer and darker. She could no longer see
the clouds of smoke from a passing vessel, nor the four white
chimneys of the Calais-Doiivres, as she lay at rest in the
harbour. The crimson was fading in the west. Against the
faint afterglow, she saw the light burst out in the beacon at
Dungeness. Over the eastern cliff she could just see the white
electric light in the South Foreland lighthouse, and now the
yellow light began to revolve upon the Dover pier. She saw
the lamps swung out upon the Calais-Douyres, and one by one
58
Dorothy's venture.
the lights burned in the other vessels. The sea washed noisily
under the pier, and against the stone apron below her windows,
while Dorothy remembered what Captain Yorkehad said of the
ruffling influence ; and from the long thought this memory
brought, she started when the cannon boomed across the sea.
" Still half an hour," she said ; and a minute afterwards
" only half an hour ! I wish I were quite sure that he is glad
to go. He said so, but—I fear he would not mind saying so to
me if he were not."
The red lights burned hotly on the wooden jetties, under
which she knew so well how the water splashed and tossed ;
the green and red lamps on the vessels out at sea met and
passed each other, a dingy feeble light burned in the pilot Vatch-
tower ; and now the signals below her windows were changed,
and a train, with its red lamp behind, went out upon the pier.
The points were closed, and the man went into his shelter at the
pier-head, showing his ruddy light. Then, while darkness
gathered densely upon the heights, ten heavy strokes pealed
slowly from the watch-tower. In her excitement Dorothy rose.
" The boat is leaving now," she said, drawing her hand
across her forehead, " and he is in it. Oh, will he bring my
father back to me!"
Just then a train flying northward through the tunnels and
the hopfieldSj through the gardens and the orchards and the
wealds of Kent, bore one passenger wrapt in deepest, saddest
thought—a man with patient eyes and a thin Velasquez face.
And at his breast lay the few lines Dorothy had written to
her father, wet with tears that were not Dorothy's.
CHAPTER IX.
" We see but dimly thro' the mists and vapours."
" Truth !"
"Dorothy !"
The two words were uttered almost in a breath as two girls
met on the staircase at the " Lord Warden," on the afternoon
after Captain D'Eresby's departure from Dover—one young, and
fair and slight, with gold-brown hair, and eyes of the sweetest
blue of the forget-me-not, in simple ordinary dress, to which the
figure lent its matchless grace ; the other small and beautifully
clothed, with pale set features, and dark eyes filled with a gravity
that was almost stern,
Dorothy's venture.
59
" Dorothy," this girl said, smiling at the other's glad surprise,
" this is indeed unexpected ! Come into my room. I am so
glad to see you, dear."
"Oh, Truth," sighed Dorothy, as if words were difficult to
her, " this is good."
" We came in this morning by the Ostend boat," said Miss
Baring, when the girls had entered her bed-room and kissed
each other. " We are on our way back to town—home, I should
say—uncle Charles and I. He had to go to Brussels on business,
and so he took me. He does not often leave town."
" But you do, Truth," remarked Dorothy, feasting her loving
eyes on the familiar face of her companion, and not yet under-
standing a vague indefinable chilliness in Truth's manner.
"You were in Norway last time I heard of you. I was so
jealous ! It seemed so delightful to be travelling with your
cousins, as you were. I did not wonder that you never wrote to
me, but if you had it would have given me such happiness,
Truth."
" No, it would not," Miss Baring said, a cloud falling over
her dark eyes. " My letters could give no one happiness. I
write none now. What I am obliged to send, Louisa can write
—she is my maid, little Dorothy—and I let her. They are only
on business. I shall never write a letter again—from my
heart."
" Oh, my dear," cried Dorothy, impulsively, but gently kissing
•one pale cheek. But she did not know what else to say, so said
nothing.
" Don't looked shocked," her companion said, without looking
round, for it was not shocked that Dorothy looked. " Don't
forget the long five years between our ages. It is time I had
given up what for you is all to come."
"Because I have no maid?" asked Dorothy, and this weak
jest brought the first smile to her companion's thin but pretty lips.
"Uncle Charles has gone into the town," she said, as if
anxious to talk, yet wishing it to be only as she elected: " We
stay here over to-night. He would have me take some rest,
as we arrived in the night. I got up only an hour ago, and
was just going for a stroll when I met you on the stairs. Now
you will go with me and will tell me about yourself. Are you
still ashamed of your name? You seel remember the old
times ! "
" Yes," said Dorothy, gently. She would not question this
even by a glance ; and so, while she gave her frank little account
of the life she had led since they parted,and especiallyof the two
weeks in Dover, with their daily disappointments, she looked
away, far over the slate-grey sea.
" Now," said Truth, with an involuntary kiss upon the sweet
6o
Dorothy's venture.
tremulous lips, " you will come with us. You will visit me,
dear."
"Someday, please," returned Dorothy simply. "But now.
you know, my father is coming."
" Oh, yes. Well, as soon as you can you will. It will be a
real pleasure for me to have you."
" It will be like old days," declared Dorothy, but she was
sorry she had said it when she saw the swift stern compression
of Truth Baring's lips.
" Let old days be old days," she said, with the sharpness of
pain. Then, hastily changing her tone, " They shall be better
than old days, dear—those old days you mean. Don't look at
me again so wonderingly, for it is as if you had forgotten me.
No, no, I don't feel that you have, child "—as Dorothy laid her
head for a moment on Truth's shoulder—"but I do not care to
seem changed to you, though of course as we grow old we do
change."
" Yes, we shall as we grow old," said Dorothy. " Now, tell me
something more, Truth. It is so good to hear your dear voice
after this long silence. Are you still with those cousins with
whom you were travelling a year ago,|when I heard of you last ? "
" Oh, no. Uncle Charles and 1 live alone ; but last summer
he let me go to Norway with them. Cousin Ellen's husband,
Mr. Potter, took her and her sisters and me. And there went
with us the gentleman to whom one of them is engaged. We
were only a party of six, but we made some friends. Now,"
with a lightening of the stiff tones—" Uncle Charles and I are
together again—very comfortable, very content. He allows me
to dress as expensively as I choose, he pays all my bills,
and never interferes with me. Oh, Uncle Charles is very kind !
But "
" I should think it is very nice," said Dorothy, vaguely, with
no motive, save to pretend that she had not heard that low long
sigh.
" Very nice to have what you like to wear ? Oh, yes. very !
Who could ever miss the old warm light of youth and hope and
love if they have dresses enough ?"
" And there are other things," suggested Dorothy, frightened
a little by the grave cold glance.
" Oh, yes ; I have all sorts of pleasures to. fly away with the
hours that drag with some people—people who have not my
blessings ! Lightfooted hours, don't the poets call them ? "
" You were never an idle girl, Truth," put in Dorothy, lovingly.
" Your days were always filled."
" Always filled then, were they ? Well, now they are filled
too ; and for the time between what matters ? Yes, I have all
hinds of enchanting devices and engrossing occupations for
Dorothy's venture.
61
whiling away the time. One must settle to something at five-
and-twenty. It is too late then to begin all over again. What
was I saying? So I paint, Dorothy. I have no talent ; but I
paint by the hour. 1 used to play ; but"—with an icy smile—
"my music was not soothing, even to myself; so I left that off.
What matter? Everybody plays well now. It is no novelty,
and my music is not missed. I used to sing, but my voice has
gone, as if a door in my throat were shut and bolted against it.
What matter ? There is always some one to sing—young and
willing and anxious—even vexed if not asked. Now tell me
more of yourself, I believe you are watching for the steamer.
Is it not late ? They feared a heavy sea when we landed this
morning. I think I heard them say so to Uncle Charles ; but I
was too tired to listen. What does one not tire of?"
"Truth," whispered Dorothy, laying her cheek softly against
her friend's, so that of course their eyes could not meet, " I
thought you were so happy ! I fear I have envied you some-
times. Ma'm'selle told me of somebody you loved. Did you
tire of him ? Dear, I understand," she went on, in her com-
panion's silent stillness ; " I—understand."
"No, you do not," was the swift answer. "No one who
cared for me—and you did, Dorothy—could understand, I hope.
I did not tire of him— oh, if I only had !—but he tired of me.
It was but natural"—with a brief hard laugh. "It was soon
over, and I have had a year to forget it and to laugh at myself.
Now don't ask me a question. Don't say a word. It was so
long ago you see, and in Norway ; so who need be troubled
about it here ? He met us there and left us there so far away
and so long ago that I may well let the misery of it lie at rest.
That is Louisa's rap, Dorothy. Do speak to her at the door.
Tell her we do not want her here."
"It was a chambermaid," said Dorothy, when she came back
to Miss Baring's side. " She had a message for me. I have to
go, Truth, for a little while."
" Then you cannot take a walk with me ? What a pity !
Uncle will be here to dine ; but, Dorothy, come in here after-
wards, and we will have tea together. Will you ?"
"Yes," said Dorothy ; and, with a kiss on Truth's pale face,
she went away, never wondering at no sympathising question
being asked her.
When she entered her own sitting-room, she found a corpulent
gentleman moving restlessly about the room, with every appear-
ance of being at home there, yet uneasily so.
" Fine view you have from here, Miss Quentin," he said, at
once offering her a large warm hand, and not waiting for any
reply from her; "extensive and interesting.* Do they wheel
those iron shutters before your windows every night, or are they
62
Dorothy's venture.
only in £ cage1—as Mrs. Gamp would say—of storm ? I bring a
message for you from Mr. Pugh. Do sit down. I'm his junior
partner. Bagot my name is. We are your father's solicitors.
What an interesting hotel this is! Have never stayed here
before ; but then I'm not a travelling man—never was. Still it
is encouraging to feel how many loyal and illustrious and dis-
tinguished personages have halted here. You have had a clerk
of ours down, have you not, Miss Quentin? Ah, yes, that is
more comfortable!"—for Dorothy had taken a seat as she
smiled her affirmative. "A worthy fellow. I always say so,
though I daresay you wondered over his appearance. I always
say, Never mind his clothes being decidedly the worse for wear;
they are always so neat and military in their cut and arrange-
ment. Curious fellow, isn't he ? I see you liked him. A simple
straightforward fellow. But such a fool—such a fool! You
must excuse my going round the room. I always do. I have
such a habit of studying the things about me—especially the
pictures. What is this ? Byron at the age of nineteen. Looks
nine-and-twenty, and twin-brother to his boatman, doesn't he ?
Rousseau above, is it ? Of course there may be great
psychological superiority in his head, but how uncomfortable he
looks on such a day in that fur cap and tippet! Yes, Captain
D'Eresby is so absurdly, idiotically sensitive! Cowper, is this?
Ah, yes, there is a certain intellectual gratification to be derived
from studying his poetic lineaments, but one must still regret
his descending from generation to generation in a night-cap.
Quite a fool D'Eresby is !''
* "I do not think so," Dorothy said, decidedly. It was
impossible to take offence at this outspoken superficial tirade,
but she could not resist her warm contradiction.
"Yes, True! Such a fool!" Mr. Bagot went on, as if
promptly indorsing an opinion of hers. " We commissioned
him to meet the- Calais boat here last Monday, and, if Mr.
Quentin did not arrive by it, to prepare you not to expect him
any further—in short, to assure you that he had changed his
mind about coming to England at all. Last Tuesday morning
he received here from us explicit and distinct information that
Mr. Quentin was not coming to England. We had a telegram,
and we instructed him to inform you. But he is such a fool!
Early this morning he came to me and declared he had not
performed even the one half of his commission ; the soft-hearted
idiot expected to be dismissed for it, yet never made the
slightest pretence of regret, or volunteered further. You don't
feel faint, I hope, Miss Quentin? You have grown rather
pale."
" Did you mean it ?" Dorothy asked, her sad eyes seeking his.
" Is my father not coming ?"
Dorothy's venture.
63
"Not yet," was the unnaturally cheery answer. "We
felt it uncertain from the first; but we hoped last
Monday might bring him if he changed his mind. After
that, D'Eresby was to beg you not to hope, and on Tuesday
morning was to give you a definite message to the
effect that Mr. Ouentin had gone on to the States. My dear
young lady, I wish you did not look so grieved. He has only
gone to wind up his affairs in Georgia. Perhaps he is selling
property, perhaps buying for your settlement there, perhaps
merely setting his house in order before fetching you. We are
not told ; we know as little as you do. Probably he will write
to you before he writes to us, and then we shall have to come to
you for information and instructions. What an unconscionable
time the Calais-Douvres is detained in Calais Harbour ! You
would have been anxious now, I know, if I had not come to
relieve your mind. Yes, yes; I see this has been a blow to
you ; but, my dear young lady, it is a trifle. Still that noodle
ought to have prepared you; though I don't know why I should
talk of your being prepared—as if it were a death. What a
feeble notion ! Though we know only mere facts, we have all
instructions for you; and this little delay, Miss Quentin, in
your papa's coming will enhance the pleasure of the reunion.
He will join you, I daresay, even before you have realized the
fact of hi^ having reached America. Why, what is a journey to
America now-a-days ? You may depend he thinks less of it
than you will of your journey up to Northeaton. Pray don't
look so stunned, my dear young lady ! Will you, when I have
left you, look over that little packet of letters ? Pugh sent them
for you. He believes they will explain all, and what they do
not he will. Any advice in my power I shall be most happy to
tender. I am afraid you are tired to-day. It will all seem
different to you presently. Paying a delightful visit, and by the
time it is over, your dear papa's return ! Look at it in that
way. What an abundance of china ! I hate bits of valuable
china. As soon as ever I go near them they break of their own
accord."
" Has father not written to me, nor even to you ?" inquired
Dorothy, too deeply puzzled to smile at the restlessness of this
man of law.
" Not that I am aware of. What a disgusting old vessel that
is lying at anchor ! Ah ! a diving apparatus, I see ! I suppose
a man goes down from it to free the anchors. But he shortly
will, no doubt—indeed I believe he said so in- . Not quite
yet, though,"—hurriedly substituting other words—" not until
he can fix the date of his return—the very day and hour
probably. But those are your mother's letters, and you will
read them. I ought to leave you at once for that purpose. I
64
Dorothy's venture.
will," he added, determinately, when he saw how tightly the
girl held the packet. " I will leave you now, and come in
afterwards for your decision and instructions. Don't you feel
troubled about anything—I mean about any little business
arrangement—I shall settle your bill, of course, at Mr. Quentin's
request. Never mind any question of money. Perhaps the
letters will explain. If not, Pugh will. Now I shall leave
you."
" Oh! no," said Dorothy, vaguely conscious of her long
silence, and forgetting that it had been imposed on her. " I
have been remiss. You will take a glass of wine, Mr. Bagot ?
I have been thoughtless, and allowed you to tire yourself
talking to me."
She rang the bell as she spoke, and Mr. Bagot, by an effort,
ceased his peregrinations and sat down. Dense as he was to
subtle changes, he saw that Dorothy now was anxious to speak
to him. Perhaps while he took a glass of sherry she would
bring herself to do so. And his mode of assisting her to speak
on a subject so near her heart that the words could not pass
the lump in her throat was to talk on to her without a break.
" I hope D'Eresby amused you a little while he was here,
Miss Quentin. A comic mixture, isn't he ? Weak as water in
some things, yet with strong sense in others. A shrinking
nature, yet capable, I do believe, of real ferocity. He ought to
have lived in the time of the Crusades."
"Was that," asked Dorothy, "the only age for such a nature
—the age of chivalry ? "
" The only one," laughed Mr. Bagot, " when appreciation and
promotion could be possible for such a contradictory nature—
such unquenchable daring, yet gentle courtesy. This phleg-
matic business age is not a fair field for him, and no wonder his
existence is a harrassed one. Bless me, what a fool he is
to keep—in this age and in our profession—his reckless
enthusiasm, and impassioned fervour, with a woman's heart,
tender, timid, and sympathetic ! "
" He was very kind to me," put in Dorothy, earnestly.
" Always in extremes," Mr. Bagot went on, too much accus-
tomed to interruptions to be fully aware of them, "but in
consistent obstinate extremes of unwavering fidelity to a motive,
or a principle, or a person. How I should have relished, years
ago, studying such a man in love ! Humble as a slave before
his mistress; proud as a king beside his queen ; reckless as a
knight in tourney for his lady-love; fierce and watchful as a
mastiff! If he shows this at fifty, what must he have been n
earlier decades, and in a bold profession, whose surroundings
engender all that is elevated, dashing, and sincere ? Did this
strike you ?"
Dorothy's venture.
65
" I thought him," said Dorothy, frankly, " a gentleman, a
scholar and a soldier."
" Capital! " laughed Mr. Bagot ; " as he came to you in the
character of a lawyer's clerk ! But a lady's instinct never fails ;
I tell my wife so often. I think," he went on—for, while he
sipped his wine, he felt it his duty to entertain her, and not
knowing what fresh subjects he could start so safely, was only
too glad not to have to hunt one up—" much, of course depends
on early scenes, as well as on education and profession.
D'Eresby was born in the West Indies, and so was reared amid
romantic scenery, as well as gentle influences and courtly
opinions. I look upon him as a man high-spirited, refined,
unpractical by constitution, but practical, hard-working, and
sensible by adaptiveness. I hope that nothing will ever change
him now, if he is to remain with us."
" He must be a very valuable clerk," said Dorothy, loyally,
while a faint colour rose in her cheeks as she remembered all
he had said to her of the change in him.
" Pretty well," allowed Mr. Bagot, rising and evidencing by
an unwonted pause that he meditated departure. " He has
picked up a little knowledge in our office. Besides, he knows
who is who, and has met many well-known men, which makes
him of use to us. We can trust him to give us all his time too,
and that is something. He is conscientious. Pugh puts it
higher ; but D'Eresby would never call himself a religious man,
for he places the standard too high for that ; however, he does
his duty well to us, and reverently towards . Well, I'll
look in again, Miss Quentin, when I've given you time to read
those letters. May I shake hands for the present ?"
It was quite two hours after this when Mr. Bagot again pre-
sented himself in Dorothy's room. She still sat with the letters
before her, very grave and thoughtful, but she gave Mr. Bagot
a smile in answer to the broad one with which.he greeted her ;
and, in his delight at finding her not in tears, he did not notice
the feverish brightness of her eyes.
" I have read my mother's letters," she said, in the pause
which he uncharacteristically allowed her. " I know her little
story now. You do too, I suppose ?"
" Pugh does. He was a friend of hers years ago—let's see,
twenty-one years ago, he said."
" I will do what my mother wishes," she went on, softly.
" It is a very simple thing."
"Pugh told me there was no real difficulty; only an awkward
responsibility—for you."
" Oh ! no ; for father will soon return !"
" Yes. When shall you be twenty-one, Miss Quentin ?"
■" On the twelfth of May, next year."
E
66
dorothy's venture.
" It is not long, is it? Not a year. In the meantime you
are going to pay a visit in our neighbourhood, are you not ?
Was not that what I understood Pugh to say ? Your mamma
left him a letter to post to Mr. Yorke—or one of his family—■
in—these circumstances, and he did it. You see there Mr.
Yorke's reply, for I slipped it in among the others. You have
nothing to do further, except post a line when you have fixed
upon the day of your arrival there. He leaves it to you, you
see. If you have any reason, or wish to stop on your way—I
don't mean with my wife at Northeaton, for that would be no
advantage, but—in London for any little business, I have a
sister married there who would be very happy. Pugh has
no women belonging to him, so I put in my claim. A few
days' rest, and to get anything you may need, may be what you
wish."
" Thank you," said Dorothy, gently, but a little hurriedly,
being afraid of possible tears. "It is very kind of you, but
I have an old school-friend here to-day, and she has asked me
to go home with her—to London. I will go on my way to
Northeaton."
" And shall I offer you escort from there when you go on ?
I don't understand exactly what I can do ; but "
"You understand kindness," she said in his abrupt pause;
" but I have been accustomed lately to be alone. I can travel
very well from London to Northeaton."
" And if they do not meet you there from Lynhead, you will
take a cab on ? You will like Lynhead," he went on, cheerily.
" The Yorkes are—are all very nice ; sons and daughters and
the old man. Bless me, fancy the boat not being in yet, and it
is nearly eight o'clock ! The heir is in Dover, I think. He is
in the Artillery—a fine fellow. His younger brother is at home,
and does nothing. Certainly you will like them all—yes, I
daresay—and be happy. You are sure your friend is here, and
will take care of you ? "
"Quite sure," smiled Dorothy, thinking how astonished Truth
would be at her change of plans.
" Then good-bye for a time. We shall be quite near, and
I hope to be often of service to you. Do not trouble yourself
about any money matters. You will have pocket-money from
your father, through Pugh; and I hope it will not be very
little."
" I do not care for that," put in Dorothy, wearily.
"No, no, of course you do not; and probably the letters
explain. But—I hope you took notice that one letter contained
a twenty-pound note. That is for the little shopping on your
way, and Pugh will tell you when the next will be ready for
you. I am afraid not for a good while; but I daresay twenty
Dorothy's venture. 67
pounds goes a good way for a young lady. Now I will take a
run."
" Thank you for this visit," said Dorothy, suddenly growing
pale, as if its full import were brought more clearly to her as
it closed. " Good-bye. Will you remember me to Captain
D'Eresby ? "
CHAPTER X.
" There was no need
To ask my love, without a spoken word
Love lit his fires within me, my young heart
Went forth, love calling, and I gave him all."
An hour after Mr. Bagot's departure, Dorothy roused herself
from her long thought, and went to Truth Baring's room as she
had promised. Truth sat unemployed in the soft summer
twilight, while her maid moved quietly about the room, packing.
"At last!" she said, rising and bringing Dorothy to the
couch beside her. I kept Louisa that she might fetch us coffee
when you came. Go now, Louisa."
" Truth," said Dorothy, as soon as they were left together,
" if you ask me now to go home with you- just for two days, I
shall say, ' Yes, thank you ; I will.'"
" That's right !" exclaimed Miss Baring, with real delight,
though her glance of inquiry was a little anxious. ' But don't
say only for two days, Dorothy. Can you be ready to start in
the morning early, as Uncle Charles wishes ? Shall Louisa go
and pack for you while we chat ? "
" Oh, my packing is nothing ! " said Dorothy, looking round
at Truth's open boxes.
"Very well, dear. Is that the coffee, Louisa? Arrange it
comfortably for us before you go. Now,"—when the maid
again had left the room—" take your cup, Dorothy, and some
of these little cakes, and tell me nothing till you wish, though I
hope you have now heard definitely of your father's return.
Fancy the Calais-Dotivres coming in only an hour ago."
"And for the first time," said Dorothy thoughtfully, " I have
not met it or longed for it. Father is not coming, Truth, yet."
" When, then ?" asked Miss Baring, not knowing what else
to ask.
" I do not know quite. I have just been reading letters my
mother wrote to me fourteen years ago. It has made this real
world seem like a dream to me, Truth, and those old times of
which she wrote seem real. It is such a strange feeling !"
63
Dorothy's venture.
" Never read old letters if you can help it," Miss Baring said,
looking over Dorothy's head.
" My mother tells me her story," Dorothy went on, presently
''It is a very simple one."
" I should have felt it must be romantic, she being your
mother," smiled Truth.
"No; it is an uneventful, every-day story—almost. May I
tell it you, Truth, in a few words ?"
"All that you know, yes. But no woman tells her story
wholly, Dorothy—no woman."
" I think my mother does," said Dorothy, simply. " Before
she was my age she was an orphan and penniless. Her father
was a clergyman, and she his only child.. He had saved
nothing, so when his living was given up, she went as governess
in a family in another county. Mother was delicate and frail,
and never fit for her task, though it was made easy to her by
the kindness of her pupils' parents. She says she never can
make me understand how kind they were. At last she fell ill,
and not only through her long illness was untold kindness
shown her by the mother of her pupils, but when she got better
and the doctors said only one.thing could restore her to health,
it was done. One day this lady told her that several friends of
hers—of my mother's, I mean that she said—had conspired to
give her a change. They had joined, she said, in a little gift, and
it was enough for mother to go to Madeira, with a motherly skilful
woman who was a sort of nurse and companion in one, and live
there quite easily and idly, until she was strong enough for
England again. Mother knew that the parents of her pupils
were not really rich ; but as they seemed only two among
several who had united to do this kindness, mother—I know
how gratefully, now I have read her letters, Truth—accepted
this present and went, knowing she was of no use, and de-
termining never to return to be a drag on such good friends.
Each day she found fresh cause for gratitude. Among her
luggage there were stored cases of old wine and such nutritious
things as she could not have bought, and luxuries and comforts
she would not have thought of. Could she ever forget the
thoughtfulness of this generous act, for afterwards she knew,
Truth, that only the parents of her pupils had done all this,
pretending others had joined, to make the obligation seem less ?
She had, and could afford, every comfort in Madeira, and the
change restored her. In Madeira she married. My father had
gone there with a delicate sister who died ; and he took mother
afterwards to Aiken, on the borders of South Carolina, having
heard that that climate was drier and better. There they lived
until my mother died—when I was seven. Then I went to
ma'm'selle in Boulogne, because your mother had told ray
Dorothy's venture. 69
mother you were there, and from that time father never settled
again at home. That is all mother tells me of the past, except
her gratitude to these kind friends and the regret that she never
saw them afterwards ; but in memory of this unusual kindness
to her, she has left me a task to do, if I can, before father comes
for me. It seems as if it were impossible, but I must try. I
am to stay with this gentleman—his wife has died—who was so
very, very generous, and I am to try to repay to his family their
goodness to her—in a little way, as she would have liked
to do."
"Then you are rich ?" interrogated Truth, a little stupefied.
" Rich ? Oh, no ! My allowance will be very small, Mr.
Bagot said."
" Then what can you do ? "
" It is no command," Dorothy hastened to explain, as if in
justice to her mother's memory. " She leaves me free to refuse
if I will, and in that case Mr. Pugh will provide me with an
escort to my father, or another home until he comes. But I
shall venture, Truth. She wishes it, I know ; and what matter
where I am till father comes ? "
" I see nothing that can be in your power, dear," observed
Truth, musingly. " What good can you possibly do, little
Dorothy, in any household? It is not as if you were rich or
influential, or anything of that kind."
"None, I think," said Dorothy, simply. "But it will feel
better to me to be trying, as mother wished it. I can but fail,
you know ; and they will not know that I have tried."
" It is altogether awkward for you, and a mistake, I think.
And are you to invite yourself ?"
"No. Mother left a letter, and I have had the reply to it.
A most warm and kind—though very short—assurance that my
mother's daughter will be welcomed at Lynhead."
"Where?"
"At Lynhead," said Dorothy. The girls were still sitting in
the dusk, and she could not distinctly see her companion's face,
yet she turned to look at it as Truth asked that one question.
"At Lynhead, near Northeaton."
" I do not know it," said Miss Baring, in a strange way, as if
Dorothy had questioned her. " Who lives there ? "
" Mr. Yorke."
"Who?"
Truth had risen and stood at the window, with her back to
Dorothy ; but Dorothy fancied she understood, for Louisa had
brought lights, and, after the rest of the dusk, these were
dazzling.
" Mr. Yorke," she said again.
"Yorke? Yorke? What do you Want, Louisa? Oh, the
70
Dorothy's venture.
blinds ! Don't worry. Leave them. rYou can go. What did
you say, Dorothy ? "
"I only told you it was Mr. Yorke who lived at Lynhead.
Doesn't the Lyn run through Northeaton ? I suppose that
house stands above the river—that has been my fancy. A noted
river, isn't it? Shall I help you, Truth ? "
For, after hurriedly putting down the window-blind, Miss
Baring had crossed the room and was folding one the dresses
her maid had left upon the bed.
"No thanks. Louisa was doing this, and, as I sent her away,
I may as well go on with it. Stay where you are, child. What
family has that Mr. Yorke?"
"I did not ask," said Dorothy, turning on her couch to face
her frjend. " But I know Mr. Bagot mentioned sons and
daughters ? "
" How many—daughters ?"
"He did not tell me. Indeed I don't think he directly
alluded to the daughters ; only "—with a little pause of thought
—"to the sons."
"As being of more consequence," said Truth, with a laugh
which jarred upon Dorothy.
" I daresay Mr. Bagot spoke of them? explained Dorothy,
gently, " because one is here."
" Which ?" inquired Miss Baring, going on with her
occupation.
"The eldest son, the heir, as Mr. Bagot called him. The
younger son is "—she had been going to say " a spendthrift,"
but corrected herself, remembering that it had not been Mr.
Bagot who told her that—" at home."
" You are sure ? "
" I am sure. Some one else, a friend of Mr. Bagot's, had
told me before of the son who is here being the elder and the
heir, and the one at home the younger one—and idle rather."
" Which this one is not, of course. Do you know his name—
the elder son's ? " asked Truth.
She was on her knees locking a bcx, and did not glance
round.
" Josslyn," Dorothy answered, with a faint, slow blush, as she
remembered neither Mr. Bagot nor his friend had told her that.
"Josslyn Yorke ! " said Truth, rising now and coming nearer.
" Josslyn Yorke ! You are going to stay—there ? "
" Only till father comes."
" You are going to stay with Josslyn Yorke, and repay a debt
of gratitude—to him ? "
" To them," corrected Dorothy, softly, as she rose and put
her warm young arms about Truth, who looked so small, and
pale, and stern. " That is, if I can ; and I do not think I ever
Dorothy's venture.
71
can. Truth"—for only silence had followed her anxious words
—" why are you so sorry ? "
" Sorry ! " Truth shook herself free, standing back a little,
and looking first into the tender, earnest, beautiful face before
her, and then into the mirror beside her. " Sorry!" she
repeated, with a momentary laugh. "Would you like"—
turning suddenly back to Dorothy—" to read a page or two of
a diary of mine ? You remember how I said, hours ago, that
I would not tell you more of the man who—won my heart, and
—tired of it ; who said he loved me—loved me—and lied ?
But I will tell you now. It was Josslyn Yorke."
" Not this Josslyn Yorke?" said Dorothy, bewildered.
"Oh, not this!" laughed Truth, bitterly. "Some other
Josslyn Yorke of course, outside the pale of English society,
tabooed, hated, shunned for his false heart! Only he was heir
to Lynhead, eldest son of its owner ; and he had a younger
brother. Oh, he told me so much, though little else ! At least
I suppose I learnt it because he did not care to keep it secret.
Besides others said and knew it. He was frank and open
always—such a perfect gentleman ! "
"Is there no hope of a mistake?" asked Dorothy, with
unconscious pathos, though while she asked it there came back
to her Captain D'Eresby's words, " There are whispers that he
is a flirt, as it is called, and has the power of deceiving women ;
but to me he seems a man who has kept the whiteness of his
soul." " Oh, Truth, dear Truth ! " she cried, with a wonderful
sympathy in her compassion, laying the cold, pale cheek
against her heaving breast, and glad her own face was hidden,
though she did not know how feverish her eyes were growing
in their anger.
"Will you read just one day?" asked Truth, moving away
and unlocking a box, while Dorothy's eyes followed her.
" Here," she said, returning with a small clasped book and
finding a certain page. "It is not very long ; it shall not
hinder you. Just read what I wrote on our last day in Norway.
I will sit still and wait. Begin here "—putting, with rather un-
natural calmness, the book into Dorothy's hand and seating
her upon the couch. "You know we went to Norway last
summer. This is what I wrote on our last day. Read it."
"Where shall I leave off?" inquired Dorothy, nervously.
"You will see"—with a transient laugh. "I have plenty of
books here—for myself."
She took up one as she spoke, but even Dorothy, while she
read, knew that Truth's eyes never followed a single sentence
in her own book.
" You are sure," asked Dorothy, touching the open page,
with an almost pleading glance at her companion, " that you
would rather I read this ?"
72
DOROTHY'S VENTURE,
" Quite sure," was the quick answer.
And so Dorothy read.
"July 22nd.—Our last day in Norway. I could not write
last night, so I must now finish my account of yesterday. Oh,
how soon this happy time will have passed like a dream ! But
its happiness will live. I know now that it will live. At about
six we arrived at the Sunnenwold, the little roadside inn at the
foot of the sombre Krok Kleven. 1 was glad it looked so lofty
and so inaccessible, for it was to be our last ascent, and I
wanted to lengthen every hour of this happy time. What a
different happiness from anything my life ever held before !
While we sat at tea—our table snugly set in one corner of the
balcony, which was the roof of the verandah running the whole
length of the primitive little inn—Josslyn Yorke joined us,
seating himself beside me and laughingly showing me how
he had damaged his hat and coat through some formidable
climbing in his haste to overtake us. I remember how there
darted into my mind three lines of Monckton Milnes, though
of course I did not say them—
" ' In his guise of every day,
In his common dress the same,
Perfect face and perfect frame.'
" All we looked upon was grand and picturesque—the blue
waters of the Fjord below, the sunny landscape beyond, and
the great mountain towering darkly above us. Josslyn sat near
me, as he has been always near me through these happy weeks,
and was even more merry and talkative than usual. In the
garden below us—scarcely to us so much a garden as a meadow
or orchard—merry groups were taking their tea at tables set
under the trees, some seated on chairs or benches, some lying
on the unmown grass ; while peals of laughter and a confusing
hubbub of Scandinavian idioms were wafted to us, and made us
laugh—so little makes us laugh now ! Tourists, singly or in
groups, were constantly emerging from the dark recesses of the
woods to enter the inn, or issuing from it, staves in hand, to
start on their upward journey. Josslyn did not seem to mind
how long he lingered there ; but Cousin Ellen reminded us
that all those who were setting forth up the hill at this time
would intend, as we did, sleeping'at the kle-ve stue, or mountain-
cottage, to be nearer the mountain-top when the sun rose, and
that we lessened our chance of rooms by loitering. So we
started, just as a char-a-banc came sweeping from the high-
road up to the verandah steps, and the innkeeper stood bare-
headed, courteous, and good-natured—as we have found all
Norwegians—to assure this unexpected bevy of guests that he
could accommodate them, adding cheerfully that, though his
dorothy's venture.
73
inn held only fifteen or twenty comfortably, this was one of the
frequent nights when he must take in more than fifty. As he
had told us that as many could be lodged in the kleve sine
we were not afraid ; but still we set off, determining that no
other party should pass us upon the road. Josslyn was again
at my side as we went up the shady lane—only gradual at first
in its ascent—and was merriest of us all, while I grew strangely
silent, as if I were in a dream and feared awakening myself.
What an exquisite evening it was ! What an evening to shine
among one's days and years! It stands light, and fair, and
beautiful against the background of my past, like one birch-tree
I saw there, with its white stem and fairy foliage, standing
against the gloomy pines. Such a happy evening ! I could
not even gather the flowers that gleamed like stars among the
feathery fern, because, in my supreme content, I could disturb
nothing.
" The opening widened, the path grew steeper ; there was a
turn, and then before us was the dark mountain wall, and our
way lay steep and straight up the cleft, open at its lower part,
closed in by the rocks above. Now and then we sat down to
rest on mossy boulders, looking down into the yawning ravine,
then trudged on ; but Cousin Ellen, on horseback in advance,
with her husband at her side, did not stop. Our good staves
helped us all; but Josslyn was ever at my side and ready to
help me. Pleasant and helpful as he is to all our party, it is
wonderful how I never miss him from within hearing of a word
of mine. Now and then we passed a tourist, stretched on his
back, and looking away to the western sky ; now and then an
exhausted one, lying with his face on his folded arms—asleep.
We met one party of about fifteen girls in charge of one poor
gentleman ; and once three young Englishmen came rushing
down-hill with such impetus that their arms swung like
marionettes with the wires in action. How my cousins
laughed ! Yet not even they as Josslyn did ; for he is in such
wild spirits now. How strange it is that only four weeks ago I
had not seen him ! Even those early days seem long ago now;
when he only seemed to cross our path by chance in the Fjelds,
and my cousins used to laugh and look for him ; when Cousin
Ellen used to tease her husband, and tell him that the English
gentleman could secure us horses, however great the demand
lor conveyances, while he could not; and when he and I
I know now what I so often puzzled over then, why I was so
shy with him from the first. I know, and I am glad. But it is
different now. When he joins us, it seems as natural as if he
had started from home with our party ; when he is with us, he
is thoroughly one of us. Yesterday I dreaded to think how
soon that would be over, but to-day I see my whole life lying
74
DOROTHY S VENTURE.
in the new, sweet light which gilds this happy month. And
many, many days to come may be as fair and beautiful as this
one !
" Even on that precipitous road I felt obliged, before it
passed again into the cleft, to stop and look around. Ah, what
a glorious sight! The horizon seemed on fire, and the clouds,
in wild, fantastic shapes, glowed in the luminous, changing
tints of such a marvellous sunset as I had never dreamed of;
and under it the sea-blue line in the Fjelds, chain beyond chain,
paled in the distance, until we could not separate the mountain-
line from the light sky. I do not know how long I stood
feasting my eyes upon this matchless sight ; but when I turned,
with a long sigh of wondering happiness, I met Josslyn's eyes,
and I knew what they said. He did not speak to me—not a
word—just then ; but I knew. And when we climbed on, hand
in hand, a wonderful gladness filled my heart and touched my
life to beauty, as the red glory of that setting sun gilded the
forest trees, and dashing spray, and the moss upon the steep
slopes of the chasm.
" Cousin Ellen's sure-footed little horse had courageously
picked his way from side to side of the steep road to the little
forest plateau on which stands the kleve sine, and carried
her, of his own accord, though the gate up to the stone table
where he considered she might safely dismount—much to
Mr. Potter's amusement, who was so near to lift her from her
saddle. All my cousins had trailing wreaths of linnea upon
their hats, or round their waists and necks, and carried bunches
of white campanula or the bright pink blossoms of the wild
geranium. Inside the little mountain hotel an old-fashioned
neatness seemed to say. ' We are respectable indeed, and you
need have no doubt about being comfortable, if you can only be
admitted.' But that was indeed a weighty ' if.' We went forward
to hear Cousin Ellen question the neat old mistress of this
house, and heard that all her rooms were engaged. She seemed
troubled, and very anxious to accommodate us ; but there
really was only the stabbtir, she said ; and the stabbur is the
storehouse of a Norwegian farm, built apart, and raised on
wooden posts to make it inaccessible to rats or mice. It was
fresh and clean, she assured us, and had six good beds raised
from the floor on straw pallets ; but——. No, she would not
deny that there might be a smell of cheese, and flour perhaps.
Still there was nothing else, except the granary ! Just then a
servant drew her aside and whispered. Afterwards she turned
to us, her kind face still more troubled. It was too bad, she
said. Her best bed-room had been bespoken by letter, and now
the traveller had come who had reserved it, and he was a single
gentleman. It had three large bedsteads and a sofa, and would
Dorothy's venture,
75
accommodate half a dozen ladies; and yet one gentleman alone
was to take it, while so many strangers were asking for beds.
It really was too bad !
"' But these are the very ladies who are to occupy your
famous best room, madame,' said Josslyn Yorke's voice just
behind me, light, and bright, and laughing. ' It was reserved
for them, and these gentlemen and I speak first for the stabbur
■—two beds each.'
"And so it was to Josslyn Yorke's forethought we owed our
comfort, and especially were we pleased for Cousin Ellen,
because she could not rough it, as, if need be, we could.
" The air had grown chill then on the height ; but we all
supped out of doors , and I don't think I ever can forget that
hour in the green court-yard and the scene around us—so
primitive, yet so wild, so grand, and yet so quaint. All the
glory had faded from the sky ; but there was light enough to
see the waters of the beautiful Tyrisfjord glistening below us.
On three sides the mountain-tops shut out the view ; but on
the fourth we could look far to other hills, wrapped in the blue-
grey mist, and down upon the valley. Then, while we sat in
that sweet dusk among the everlasting hills, there rose amongst
us the most exquisite singing I had ever heard. During supper
Josslyn had whispered to me that not only was the finest tenor
singer in Norway here to night, but some of the Swedish
student-singers who had won the palm for Sweden in the great
international singing-match at Paris ; but I had not imagined
this treat in store for us. I remember how the melancholy face
of the master-singer changed as he began to sing; but I forgot
him soon. The music was not a man's singing, but the voice
of the solemn, beautiful night! And it silenced even thought.
"No wonder that I could not sleep in my intense happiness !
Cousin Ellen said afterwards that there had been noise and
unrest in the house all night, people arriving every hour ; but I
had not noticed. Whether lying still or at the window, my
waking dream held me as closely as a sleeping one could do.
By midnight not only had the granary been filled, but two
Danes lay in the lobby outside our door. At three o'clock the
leaden sky cleared. Shafts of pale blue pierced the mist, then
streaks of yellow darted across the heavens, deepening in colour
until they were like tongues of flame.
" As soon as our Danish guards had left the lobby, we joined
the gentlemen down stairs, took what coffee we could, and
hastened out. One by one, or in parties, all our fellow-guests
were sallying forth on the same mission—to see the sunrise
from the King's View, the path to which lies through thick
forest, not always to be traced without the white crosses on the
trees to guide us. The cool air was laden with the scent of
76
Dorothy's venture.
turpentine ; yet even that could not stifle the delicate odour
of the linnea, creeping among the moss and dry fir-pins, and
lifting its tiny, graceful bells upon their dainty stems as bravely
as the mighty trees, and with a rose-tint deep within its heart,
like happiness.
"Then, as last evening, Josslyn was ever at my side, his hand
always ready when I needed help—ah ! yes, and when I did
not need it too ! The cliffs were steep to climb ; but what a
recompense at last when we reached the King's View ! Indeed,
indeed a royal sight ! How can I describe it in its morning
glory ? I hope I may dream of it often, and some day s>ee it
again ; but in words I could never really bring it back. It was
partly the picture of last evening, but in another light, and, oh !
so much wider ! Below our mountain—rising in some places
precipitously from the water's edge—lay the broad Holdfjord,
and farther on, the long, beautiful Tyrisfjord, sometimes narrow
and winding like a river, sometimes opening its broad clasp for
a cluster of islands. But my gaze was held spell-bound by the
wonder of the sunrise, and its flush upon the mighty snow-
capped mountains.
" Cousin Ellen and others seated themselves upon seats
placed under the shelving rock, letting their eyes alone be
active, feasting on the grandeur and sublimity of such a sight ;
and a group of Norwegians on the edge of the little platform
sang their national hymn. In this wonderful hour Josslyn and
I stood side by side, and somehow I felt through all my being
that I was his. There seemed no need of words, not even that
one he used so tenderly, when—they calling me 'Truth!
Truth !'—he gave his hand, and softly said, ' My Truth.'
" After breakfasting at the kleve sttie, we went in the opposite
direction to see the Queen's View, which was a contrast—
beautiful land-scenery set in a frame of hills, but no snowfjelds.
Then down the cliffs again, not even staying to gather the wild-
flowers growing so lavishly among tbe juniper and brambles.
When, at noon, we returned to the Sunnenwold, the same stir
and confusion prevailed, travellers of many nations coming and
going. Two chars-a banc were ready to take us to Kristiania ;
but one spot upon our way stands out, and ever will, among my
sweetest memories. Our road wound upwards very gradually
along the great mountain chain, on the verge of deep ravines
and precipices, always with the hill towering like a dark green
wall on our left, while on our right it rose steeply from the
shores of the Fjord. Suddenly the horses were pulled in, a
sharp corner turned and the view changed ! We dismounted
and went out upon a platform jutting over the abyss, and
looked straight down into the dark Fjord, through the branches
of the fir-trees growing out of every opening in the rocks, their
Dorothy's venture.
77
roots deep in the heart of the mountain, while they lifted
their crowns so proudly.
" While most of our party stayed there—such safety fascinat-
ing in the midst of peril!—some of us went farther on, the very
peril alluring us. But Josslyn and I went farthest. I stepped
safely on the mossy stones, held firmly up by Josslyn's hand,
swinging with him from jutting crags and crooked trees, until
we reached a wonderful point round which we saw the sombre
pine-covered mountain rise sheer, as it seemed, from the dark
waters of a bay, while below us were the blue waters and a
broad plain, and then the distant Fjelds. Strangely in those
first minutes—as never before, I think, in all my life—I was
thrilled and awed by the deep consciousness, through all my
insignificance, that I was the special care of Him who made all
this ! I do not know what the feeling was—exultation, thanks-
giving, rapture. I even forgot the engrossing joy of my love,
for it was joy in something better, higher, purer. And I even
forgot that J osslyn was near me until he gently lifted me to the
bent trunk of a pine-tree growing out of the rock, and ensconced
me with my feet upon a mossy stone, his arm around me as he
leaned against the upward rising trunk of a tree—so safe in the
heart of danger. And then he told me how he loved me. I
feel to-day that, if my life were to be all unhappy, that hour
has held happiness enough. I had known it before ; but it was
such bliss to hear in his own voice all that my sweetest thoughts
had whispered ! He told me that his life would be nothing
worth to him unless I shared it with him, and then talked of what
we two would do together in the years to come. But, most
and best of all, he told me that one shining truth—he loved me !
"When at last we joined Cousin Hllen—who had grown
anxious a little when all had returned to her save me—I was
Josslyn's promised wife. I almost think she read it in my face,
and then in Josslyn's—ah ! I saw how very, very easily any
one could read it all in his !—because she looked so kindly at
me ; but I have not told her even yet. I cannot bring the
great joy from my heart to clothe it in words that are so
meaningless and shallow. Oh ! the sunshine on this day-—our
last day in Norway ! "
The pages were blank when Dorothy turned the next leaf.
All the leaves throughout the book were blank after that.
" It is the end," said Truth, as if she had been reading with
her. " That is all. What would you have afterwards ? That
was our last day in Norway. That was my last day in-
Pooh! I am not going to be made childish by your reading
those silly pages. This morning I was a middle-aged woman
without a memory of love in my heart. That was better. That
was right—for me."
78
Dorothy's venture.
"But after this? " interrogated Dorothy, gently.
" After this," said Truth, with a swift touch upon the girl's
fingers as they lay on the book, " my life was like the pages
there—all blank. That drive—oh ! how can I, from the shadow
now, dare to look back upon its radiance ?—brought us to
Kristiania, and there we were to part, Josslyn going at once to
England, we not yet. There were letters there, but no ill news for
any of us. Later that day J osslyn bade me good-bye, very, very
grateful, he said, for my love. I—I have never seen him since."
"Oh, but he will come ! " cried Dorothy, earnestly. "There
is some mystery, which he will come and explain."
"He has explained," Truth answered, slowly, through her
stiff, cold lips. "He sent me a letter to bid me farewell. He
even asked my forgiveness—oh, most conscientiously !—and
gmerously blamed himself for having sought my love. He was
so fair and just ! He told me so frankly—then, when.it was too
late !—that an old promise bound him, and he could not free
himself. It was not so easy as to free himself from me perhaps.
Yes, it was a manly letter—very ! What else could I want
when he had nobly owned that he had been to blame in
petitioning for my regard ? Oh, he had not much petitioning to
do, as he remembered well! He remembers it now as one of
his easiest conquests. He had been wrong, he confessed, in
urging me to listen to him—oh, he knew the urging was not
difficult. He remembers that, too, and laughs now. The letter
was a masterpiece, and worthy of him. He had taken his
pastime, and he wiped off the debt with that most skilful,
honourable letter. I wonder how many such letters a year's
amusement costs him? Now, Dorothy, we have said enough
of him. He is content, and at his ease. Why should I not be
so too? His name should not have passed my lips to you but
for what you have told me. Talk to me, Dorothy."
But Dorothy had covered her eyes. The happy day of which
she had been reading contrasted so painfully with this ; and
this sarcastic, bitter mood of Truth's was so different from the
glad, grateful words she had been reading, that she could not
keep the tears away. But it was only this change in her old
school-friend that had brought them. No thought of any sorrow
that could touch herself had moved her yet.
But it did at last ; for Truth, after her long, silent stillness,
was melted by this sympathy, and for the first time for many
months a great weeping eased her heart. Then suddenly, with
a new thought, she took Dorothy's hands in hers and looked
straight into the innocent, kind eyes.
"Oh! Dorothy," she whispered, breathlessly, "ought I to
have told you this ? How can you remember this, and yet
fulfil your mother's wish ?"
Dorothy's venture.
79
CHAPTER XI.
"The willowbends unbroken when angry tempests blow,
The stately oak is levelled and all its strength laid low.
No one could have explained why it had been originally called
Kerry's hut; but then of such a trivial matter who would care
to seek an explanation ? It must have been more than a
hundred years ago that the first Kerry squatted there, and the
poor land and ugly tenement had passed ever since from father
to son ; but that patch of meagre land upon the height above
the granite quarries, and the rickety, grey-stone dwelling with
its rotting wooden out-buildings, were altogether too utterly
insignificant to court inquiry or even observation. Yet Mr.
Bagot's mind was harrassed on this worthless subject as he rode
slowly up to the quarries on this warm June afternoon. Of
course Lord Avory's whim had to be respected ; and, in truth,
the ill-kept farm and decrepit buildings were an eyesore on the
estate, if any one thought it worth while to penetrate so far ;
but if he had waited for Kerry's death it might have been a
more kindly act. Kerry was an old man with broken health,
so that he was good for little now—or rather, thought Mr.
Bagot with a smile, bad for little now, good he had never been
for anything ; besides, as he had no son, the matter would soon
have settled itself, it not being likely that his daughter would
keep a hold upon the wretched farm. Then, too, the real evil
of the place had ceased with the death of Kerry's wife and the
disappearance of his elder daughter. Lord Avory should have
made a stir while they reigned there ; for he could not have
been blind and deaf to all that was seen and heard of the illegal-
sale of spirits here by that clever woman and her handsome
daughters. Pugh had often then suggested the matter being
looked into ; but now that the woman was dead, and that
striking-looking girl had disappeared, it might have been left
alone for a little longer, as Kerry was a harmless vagabond with
but a remnant of life left in him, while the only girl left him was
less actively harmful than passively dogged and idle. So,
thought Mr. Bagot, it would have been better for this little time
to let sleeping dogs lie. Of course Lord Avory had acting power
from the earl, and his wishes must be carried out—and very
natural wishes they were too—but Mr. Bagot wished all the
same that this commission of his had not to be fulfilled.
Doubtful as to how his horse would fare at Kerry's hut, he called
a man from the quarries and gave him charge of it, walking the
last stone's throw. The little wooden gate, or rather the re-
maining half of it, was fixed open ; but two lean cows, standing
180 Dorothy's venture.
close together in the patch of dissipated grass between it and
the low, grey house, made no effort to escape in quest of
pastures new, nor did the brood of vagrant ducks leave that
dirty little pool near the open door. As Mr. Bagot's rap upon
this door met with no response, he entered the hut, which, in
spite of its bleakness, was cool and refreshing after the sun's
glare.
" Pugh fidgets more than he used," Pugh's partner said,
wiping his face with an ample silk handkerchief, "else D'Eresby
might have done this, or one of the other fellows. I hate this
sort of thing ; besides, a good talker is wasted on a man like
Kerry."
A narrow window, looking heavy-browed in the thick wall,
stood open to a weedy strip of garden running along the side of
the house; and as Mr. Bagot sat down, just out of the draught,
a voice reached him through this window. Not at first recognis-
ing it, he still sat waiting with uncharacteristic patience for
Kerry to appear.
" Much good your words are to me, or those kisses you try
to give me and think I ought to be grateful for ; Pm not that
sort of girl. I hate a man who means nothing ; and you don't.
I know all about it by now. I've had a lesson ; and no people
with any sense get bitten twice by the same dog."
" What do you mean ? " was the reply, in an indolently angry
voice, which Mr. Bagot recognised.
" I mean we've had enough trouble through one of your
name, and there shall be no more."
" I think it is we who should say that," was the negligent
answer. "But never mind others. You may just as well
show how glad you are to see me when I toil all this
way "
A ready, rough laugh interrupted this speech, and roused Mr.
Bagot. His broad figure emerged from the cottage door,
and appeared in the strip of garden round the corner of the
house.
" Good afternoon," he said at once to a handsome-looking
girl leaning against the wall, and only gradually seeming to
become aware of the presence near her of a young man, who
instantly took his departure. " Is Kerry about ? Ah, Mr.
Yorke, you want the old man too, I suppose? "Warm after-
noon for business, isn't it ? I want to see your father if I can
to-day. I'm very sorry you have to quit this little place, very
sorry. But I've some business particulars to enter into with
Kerry; and, as I daresay he will not care to call on me, I have
come up here to oblige Lord Avory."
"Father won't see you,'' said the girl, looking straight and
sternly into the solicitor's red face, and not seeming to see
Dorothy's venture.
Si
Anthony Yorke on his way from the garden. " He won't want
to hear anything about his own affairs from you. He knows
them best. He hasn't, anything to say about going. If we're
to go, we shall go. That's enough said."
" Perhaps his lordship feels differently, returned Mr. Bagot,
roused by this insolence. " He has let your father stay on here
too long, considering he pays no rent for years at a time, and
claims what is not, and never was his. His lordship had been
pitiful enough, and allowed first one consideration and then
another to delay this eviction," Mr. Bagot went on, with more
warmth than correctness, as his firm conviction was that the
young viscount acted on his own impulse always, regardless of
anyone else's trouble. "First your sister's flight made him
give you further grace, then your mother's death, and, lately,
your father's illness. He is most patient, considering that the
land Kerry only pretends to cultivate is an ugly blot upon a
fine estate. Few landlords would have waited so long."
"You think that, sir, do you?" the girl asked, mockingly.
" I don't; but it's no matter to me. I'll leave the Lord Vis-
count to settle with the Lord above. It's no matter to me."
As she spoke, she turned and coolly walked to the back of
the house, so that Mr. Bagot had no choice but to leave, which
he did, pondering much on his way down the hill, but restless
and talkative as ever by the time he had ridden into Northeaton
and entered his offices ; and most rampant in his mind was a
feeling of wrath against Anthony Yorke.
"A fool ! " he muttered, given as usual more to speech than
thought. " How a well-born and well-educated young fellow
can so demean himself passes my comprehension. Business
could not have taken him up there. Just now too, when the
old man must be worried in other ways, and through him too !
I would not have believed it. Even a month ago I would not
have believed it. Do you hear me, D'Eresby ?"
" I heard nothing—to distinguish it, Mr. Bagot," said Captain
D'Eresby, looking up from his desk. "I did not know you
addressed me."
" And so you were afraid of hearing what was not addressed
to you ? Confound it! A man must address somebody, and
why not you? There you sit, like an automaton. Things don't
worry you as they woiry me. Why, even the flies leave you
alone and make my life a burden ! Oh, it's of no use your
getting up ! It is one obstinate little brute. I can wrestle with
a swarm of them ; but this one is too much for me. I believe
he has been billetted here among my papers for a week, and
neither famine nor pestilence will touch him. Did Pugh say
anything 10 you when you where at his house this morning
Don't interrupt in such a hurry, for of course he spoke, but I
F
82
DOROTHYS VENTURE.
mean anything of Mr. Yorke's affairs ? It's a bad move, and
I'm afraid he'll find it so. He has been borrowing from Hoff-
rnann without consulting us, and has given a bill of sale. I
saw it in the gazettes, and, besides that, Oliver told me of its
registration in the New Inns of Court. As likely as not, there
were no proper conditions inserted ; and, though the interest
may be paid ever so punctually at first, Yorke is just the man
to forget—he forgets everything—and they may give but an
hour's notice. What folly it was ! And you—I mean this Hy
drives me to distraction ! I've tried banging round like a
lunatic, and lying in wait like a detective; I've sunk into
despairing idiocy and appealed to him, and I've risen to the
occasion with maniacal strength and defied him ; yet back he
comes, smiling and sweet-tempered, proud of being unmoved
by such trifles, and to one thing constant ever—my nose, to wit.
I hate the blunders of good old clients. And there you sit as
patient It is so easy to be patient over another man's
flies ! »
"I think," put in Captain D'Eresby, when he saw that Mr.
Bagot was in one of those moods when occasional answers
were necessary to him, " that engaging Oxley as his agent was
a mistake of Mr. Yorke's."
"Mistake? Did any man ever dare insinuate here that it
was not ? Oxley is an upstart, and worse, and Yorke was ill-
advised indeed when he gave the agency—poor as it is—to
him. He will of course play into the hand of the man who got
him the berth, and so what money young Anthony may want
will always be forthcoming, though there may be none for
other purposes. A bad arrangement altogether, and it disturbs
my'usual calm."
" I thought Anthony Yorke was to have been his father's
agent ?"
" So he was, of course. If I were his father that should be
my condition for his remaining at home. He has succeeded at
nothing, and, as he needs so much money, he should earn it,
or at any rate help to save it. The old man never had due
authority over that lad, and will have less now he has let him
put a friend of his over the estate. Well ?"
" There are two great troubles," said D'Eresby, though he
had not spoken nor intended to speak, "which Byron men-
tions, ' a sullen son, a bill unpaid.'"
Mr. Bagot's laugh relieved him a little.
" If Yorke could but arrange a marriage between his younger
son and his wealthy niece, it would put all right, but I see no
likelihood of it, the elder son being so greatly superior. But,
as his father sees no fault in Anthony, he may possibly imbue
Miss Barber with a similar idea. What do you say ?"
dorothy's venture.
tl There is, I think, less wickedness" than weakness in young
Yorke."
"All the worse," was the prompt retort, as Mr. Bagot rose
and paced the room. " Wickedness enters into mischief by
itself, weakness opens the door to a whole tribe of rascals. It's
a large world, and villany of lavish growth. What was I going
to say? Did you ask Mr. Pugh if he knew on which day Miss
Ouentin was expected at Lynhead ? I suppose, if you knew,
you would meet her. Not, eh? I see you would not! Not
gentlemanly, I suppose ?" as a flame of scarlet burned for one
second in the thin face, which grew white then, as if the fire
had gone out as suddenly as it had flashed forth. "Well, I
thought you would have liked it. 1 wonder how she will
receive you here, D'Eresby? I have been thinking of it," Mr.
Bagot continued, arguing aloud and restlessly, as usual, but
fully aware of the shaking of his clerk's hand upon the deed he
copied so busily. " I suppose you and she were quite friendly
down at Dover ? Oh, yes ; I know all you want to dictate to
me about its being only her kindness. All right! But now
it will.be different for her. Have you thought of this? Yes,
you have," quickly answering himself, as he intuitively under-
stood the pride in his clerk's face. " I hope it will be no blow
to you. How stupidly silent you are to-day ! Never mind, so
that you are prepared not to let it interfere with your temper or
industry. We can't afford that. Come, you are proud of your
military savoir, so you must plan some strategic flank move-
ment. She may be in the neighbourhood any day, even
to-morrow. Are you prepared ?"
" To-morrow is not mine," said D'Eresby, with his quiet
laugh, " so why should I prepare for it ?"
And the loud-voiced genial man of law, shrewd as he was,
never guessed the tempest of hope and fear and longing those
few quiet words disguised.
CHAPTER XII.
" A jest
In time of danger shows the pulses even."
A luxurious little brougham, with a pair of spirited greySj had
been long standing before the lofty porticoed doorway of
Northeaton Chase when Lady Ermine Courtier, in pale pink
silk and a long wrap of exquisite lace, entered her brother's
favourite sitting-room, and looked vexedly round in the soft
light of the early June evening.
" Sydney, don't you think we shall be late ?"
84
idorothy's venture.
" No ; I think we shall be far too early, whenever wfe go,"
replied Avory, rising reluctantly from his lounging-chair, and
giving himself a kind of shake before he stood, in his goodly
height, a fair young Saxon giant. " You always are too soon."
" Or rather you would always be too late but for me."
" What a bore it is to go ! There, don't begin to preach, my
dear ! You say it too when Josslyn is not at home. 1 repeat,
it is a bore."
"If we had refused Mr. Yorke's invitation," said Lady
Ermine, twisting one of the coral buttons of her long, pink
glove, " you would have said dining at home with me was
a bore."
"Very probably, as I am a man of discernment. Are not
you rather a swell for a seven o'clock dinner with only one
family?"
" I never," was the rather stiff reply, " go out of my way to
dress otherwise than is my habit. Come."
" Of course I know nothing about it," rejoined Lord Avory,
butto'ning the silk coat he wore over his evening dress, " and I
would not interfere for the world ; but the Yorkes are not too
well off, you know ; and though I don't care a snipe's wing for
most of them "
" Oh, I understand ! " his sister interrupted, with a rather
forced laugh. " Tell me which of the girls it is, Sydney."
" I have not taken a leaf out of Tony Yorke's book yet," said
the viscount, with a yawn. " I do not discourse of nothing but
girls."
"Leave Tony then," smiled Lady Ermine, with no unwilling-
ness to discuss this household subject; " I was speaking of the
girls. You know Alice is nice ? "
" I suppose she is—to Noyes. She thinks of no one else,
does she ! I expect she does nothing all day except read and
answer love-letters. I never say anything to her that is not
connected with Noyes, for I do not believe she would listen."
" Oh, Avory, what nonsense !" said his sister ; but she
laughed merrily. " There is Sophy, then."
" So there is. ' Oh, really, I believe you sometimes forget
my very existence, dear Lord Avory !' "
" For shame ! " cried Ermine, but laughed at this mimicry of
her friend. " Now, last, but not least, there is Ethel Barber."
"Generally there is—yes," drawled the viscount, "always
when Josslyn is on leave. I was bored before you reminded
me of her ; I am inclined now not to go at all."
"Do you think," inquired Lady Ermine, buttoning an extra,
button in his coat, with her head bent, "that she times her
visits more for Josslyn's leave than for you being in the neigh-
bourhood ?"
Dorothy's venture.
85
" Don't speak to me in that tone of voice," laughed Avory,
"or I shall say you are jealous. The Barber worships the
ground Yorke treads upon. Oh, I know all about it, though it
fatigues a man even to look on ! Well come along. One un-
alloyed bliss awaits me—the privilege of paying homage at her
shrine. You know her better than I do ; so tell me, does she
ever stir from any comfortable position in which she has once
ensconced herself, and where she permits us to seek her, and to
be entertained by her ?"
" She generally will in your case, Sydney," said his sister,
laughing ; " and she is very rich, and knows how to dress ; and
I have heard you say her self-complacency is soothing, and
saves you trouble. And I am sure—oh, quite sure !—that
Josslyn does not even understand her spiteful little remarks
about other girls, does he ? Does he ever "—drawing her long,
rich train over her arm—" speak of her to you."
"He idolizes her," said Avory, lazily. "Any man would, for
she is irresistible in her plethora of affectation. I hope oldYorke
is better," he went on, languidly crossing the hall, his sister
hastening him with her arm in his; " but, as Josslyn is at home,
the evening will be endurable."
And Lady Ermine smiled, but said nothing, for the pompous
butler and the two men in purple all could hear.
From the great white house, across its extensive park, the
brougham rolled into the wide highway, and presently turned,
through a rather ugly iron gate, into a drive which wound and
twisted up a hilly, richly-wooded park, while at a little distance
the rooks made quiet music in a long row of splendid elms
eight deep. This had been the grand avenue leading to the
front entrance ; but, since the furneral of Mrs. Yorke had
passed down it, it had been unused, the great cast-iron gates at
its end locked, and the wide, brass-clamped entrance door to
which it led closed, " not to be opened again," the master of
the house said, " until i follow her."
It was a quaint, old, picturesque house of black and white,
with five large gables, and would have been ivy-covered but
that the ivy was cut and pruned to leave the picturesque old
timbers visible. It was built round three sides of a square
courtyard, the wall of which formed the fourth side, and in this
wall was the chief entrance now that the one in the long front
was closed. It was under a low, quaint, oaken porch with a
curious clock in it ; and from it a covered arcade ran down one
side of the quadrangle, in the centre of which stood an old
fountain, a group of wonderful stone figures at its base, and a
Ijhe from Horace broken and defective running round its brim-^
Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero.
86
Dorothy's venture.
The low, wide, old-fashioned windows gave the impression of
small rooms within, though numerous ones ; but in reality the
rooms were large, and the house, though intricately built, was
far more spacious than many a more imposing-looking modern
mansion. One or two of the rooms were tapestried ; and in
the quaint old hall and many passages the light was dim, falling
through coloured windows emblazoned with the armorial bear-
ings of the Yorkes and the families with whom they had
intermarried during the eighteen generations through which
Lynhead had descended from father to son in unbroken succes-
sion.
Against the high oak wainscot of the hall and corridors, here
and there stood a suit of armour, plate or mail ; above hung
pikes and halberds, bows and arrows, swords and arquebuses ;
with spoils of the chase in many lands. And all over the old
house, with no gallery especially for them—yet ample space—
were hung the old family portraits so scantily relieved by those
of modern date. For while, long ago, the Yorkes would as
soon have thought of dying without leaving their portraits as
without leaving their wills, their grandsons and daughters of
these later days were not so thoughtful for posterity.
Yet, while there was not one old face upon the canvas which
had so great a charm as the face of the old master of this house,
there was not a young one which wore—as far as one may read
a face in flesh or canvas—a braver, truer courage than that of
the heir, who now, in evening dress, walked slowly down the
old oak staircase, the eyes upon the canvas following him, for
was he not one of them ? He crossed the hall, with its polished
floor, and brazen fire-dogs gleaming on the open grate, and
entered a comfortable wainscotted library, overlooking the
flower-garden of Dutch design, which ran like a raised terrace
along the front of the house, and then sat down opposite to his
father in an easy chair upon the hearth.
" Pelly told me some ridiculous nonsense about your not
intending to join us at dinner, father ; so I have come for you.
You shall be released when you choose; but we will not dine
without you."
" I feel worried," said Mr. Yorke ; but his fine old face
brightened at his son's cool determination. "I have a good
deal to worry me just now, and Anthony does not seem to relieve
me of it. I'm afraid I don't like that agent he persuaded me
to engage, Josslyn ?"
" I was surprised. I thought Tony had elected to be your
agent himself."
" So he did. So he did, certainly ; but he changed his mind.
He will do nothing ; and really, as he is so fond of money, he
ought to earn a little. Don't you think so Josslyn ?"
Dorothy's venture.
87
"We will look into it all to-morrow, father," said Josslyn,
not rising, and not as if hurried ; but wishing his father to
forget this present trouble.
"I suppose you, Josslyn," the old man said, looking fixedly
into his son's face, " are as fond as ever of your profession."
" Yes."
"And a perfect soldier," Mr. Yorke went on, with a proud,
fond glance. " Oh ! how I laughed the other day when Chat-
field was here, and reminded me of how he had offered you a
chance in his office years ago. You did not hesitate long over
that choice, Josslyn, young as you were. You did not seem
ambitious to be a general merchant like your godfather—eh ?"
"No," said Captain Yorke, with an involuntary gesture of
repugnance.
" No, no. . It was not your style of work or life, as Chatfield
himself acknowledges. He said he could not fancy your poring
over ledgers ; and he would not like to see it, he said. He did
not trouble to be very explanatory—what need when I under-
stood ?—but he said he should be very sorry if you were, in one
single particular, other than what you are."
" He is kinder than he ought to be, after my unconcealed
dislike to what he proposed as for my good. Not that it was
to be a favour ; was it ?"
" Oh ! no, for he has too long a business head for that. I
wish Anthony had some profession, Josslyn. I cannot under-
stand why the lad failed in every attempt, for he has good
abilities—I ought to know, being his father. I wanted to ask
Moneypen to assist and advise him in the agency—a shrewd,
clever, cautious man—but Tony would not hear of it, and indeed
I doubt whether Moneypen would have acted under him ; so
perhaps it is better to have escaped his refusal. I knew you
ought to have been the one consulted, though your brother did
not think it signified. All the right of interference is yours."
"You know I never feel it so," said Josslyn, so quietly and
firmly as for the words to sound stern. "Act as you will,
father. Anthony can—as he knows—fear no interference from
me. Now come."
Twice during that long dinner Josslyn left the dining-room
for a few minutes ; but he returned so soon and so pleasantly
that no one seemed able to put to him any words of rallying or
reproach. But when, for the third time, Pelly, the brisk little,
elderly butler, made a mysterious sign to him, he rose and
went to his father's side.
" Alice wants you to go with the ladies into the drawing-
room, father," he said. " You are taking no wine ; and it is no
rest for you here, See—Lady Ermine is waiting for your arm.
.88
Dorothy's venture.
Anthony," he went on, when his younger brother h id held the
door open for the girls, and stood with it in his hand, torn
between the rival attractions of Lady Ermine's presence and
his favourite red Burgundy, " follow them, will you ? I want
you to take my place, as well as your own this evening. I
know you will entertain Lady Ermine ; and Avory is going to
stay here with me on a little matter of business."
" Don't bore a man to death, Yorke," sighed the viscount,
when they two were left.
'"No," Josslyn answered, looking steadily into his friend's
face, as if to read below the surface. " But I am obliged to
take you into my confidence to-night. It is hard enough to do.
Avory, my father has—he had to borrow money, it seems, and
he gave Hoffmann a bill of sale. There would be no need to
tell you particulars, even if I could; but I cannot; I have
heard only within an hour or two. The interest lapsed once, and
this afternoon he was served with a notice ; and—there are
two great vans outside, waiting to take away five hundred odd
pounds' worth of our furniture."
" Yes, I see ; whatever the men like," suggested Avory, with
much evidence of being bored.
"They shall not touch one article in this house," said Josslyn,
calmly. " What is it, Pelly?"
> " The manager, or whatever he is—the gentleman they sent
for—has evidently come, sir. We saw a cab come up the
drive. Listen, sir !"—as the entrance bell pealed loudly.
" What are we to do now ?"
" Shall you let the scoundrels in ?" asked Avory, idly.
" Not one of them. Not one step."
" Then- here I am, Yorke," cried the viscount, all alert. " I
do not care who caused this : you did not, and I did not.
Keep the women out of it, and we are all right. But what on
earth made them come at this hour ?"
" They had an accident with one van, sir," explamed Pelly.
" It detained them hours on the way having it repaired ; and
then, as Captain Yorke "
"As I would not let them in," said Josslyn, lightly, "they
had to send for some one—their master, I presume—for orders.
This is he, Pelly thinks. I suppose I must go out and speak to
him."
"Not a bit of it!" cried the viscount; and.no one could
have guessed from his tone that he had ever known what bore-
dom meant. " Why should you ? Put up all the bars, Pelly,
and shoot the bolts."
" That is all done, my lord," said Pelly, looking inquiringly
into Captain Yorke's steadfast, rather amused face. "Two.
men have been trying one of the side-doors for hours; and
DOROTHY S VENTURE.
89
they said through it, when they heard me just within, that they
should stay all night, and push in when they could."
" It seems incredible ! " said Avory. " Where are you going,
Yorke ?"
"To speak to those men."
Lord Avory followed, and stood listening, while, from an
open window just above the door, Josslyn, leaning through,
told the men that, if any one of them did contrive to enter the
house, he would be locked up in it; and that, if they had deter-
mined to stay out there all night, he should send them what
they liked to drink, but would not let one of them in. And,
when they said that the law was on their side, he told them to
obey their orders—as far as he would let them.
"That, you do not succeed," he added, coolly, "will be my
fault."
Then, without waiting for a reply, he came back into the
room, excited, and a little dishevelled, while the viscount rose
to follow him calm and big.
' I think you had better go into the ladies now, if only for a
few minutes, Yorke," he suggested. " I will take my turn
presently. Meantime, I will go round and look at the doors.
How fortunate it is that no approach to the house can be seen
from the drawing-room windows—now ! "
Josslyn went into the drawing-room, and for ten minutes
talked with Lady Ermine and his sisters, sipping his coffee as if
no harassing thought were in his mind ; and they were all so
unsuspicious that, when his sisters asked him if he knew any-
thing about the door from the outer drawing-room into the
garden being locked and the key gone, he could have laughed
to feel how he had only secured the key just in time to prevent
their going out. Not until Lord Avory had sauntered into the
room did Josslyn feel at liberty to go.
"All right, sir," said Pelly, mee'ing him ; you need not
trouble to come just yet. Their master must be still with the
men, for I saw the cab ; and there's been another row at the
servants' entrance. As I'm just sending the tea in, it would be
least suspicious for you to go back, sir. Shall I tell my lord's
coachman when he comes that it's a mistake, sir, and that
those vans have come wrongly?"
"Certainly not," said Josslyn ; and there was a pained, set
look upon his face in this new humiliation. But he went back
to his duties in the drawing-room until another escape was
feasible. Then Pelly met him briskly in the hall.
"There's been more noise than ever at the servants'entrance
sir," he said ; "but it's all quiet now. The cab went away—I
suppose with the men's master in it—half an hour ago. One,
man didnngafew Jotid peals of the hall bell. Pid you notice,sir ?"
9°
Dorothy's venture.
" Indeed I did, and had hard work to prevent your being
summoned, that inquiries might be made."
"I was afraid of that, sir," said Pelly, cheerfully. "Won't
you gentlemen have another bottle of port ? I've brought up
a bottle of the '47, and, if anything will make you and his lord-
ship forget this vexation, and go on keeping the men out, it
will be a glass of that."
" I cannot say no, Yorke," remarked Avorv, meditatively ;
" it would vex your man so much—and myself. He looked
inspired by that idea."
"'Pride in his port, defiance in his eye,'" quoted Josslyn,
placidly. " How quiet it all is now, Pelly ! " he added, as he
entered the dining-room.
" Yes, sir"—hotly. " They've taken the horses to the village,
while the vans are left here to disgrace us. There was noise
enough half an hour ago. One man positively demanded to speak
a word to the master. I would not tell you, sir, for I believed
you would go out to him if I did, and we were safer as we
were."
" I shall just go out now and see that all is right," remarked
Jossyln, with a glance at his friend. " Get me Mr. Anthony's
lantern, Peily ; it gives a fine light."
" I will come too," said Avory ; " and I can look how our
man may drive past those machines without seeing them."
The machines, as Lord Avory called them, stood, with empty
shafts, drawn aside out of the way of possibly passing carriages,
towards the entrance of the stable-yard ; and Josslyn went up
to them, lifting his bright light to look in. The first indeed
was empty, not even a litter of straw about it ; but, when he
glanced into the second, he started, and mechanically gave the
lantern into his companion's hand. At the inner end of this
van a pile of straw was arranged at the bottom and against the
side ; and on this was spread a grey fur railway-rug, on which
a girl half lay, half sat, wrapped in a huge plaid shawl, and
looking out upon the two young men with wide, blue, wakeful
eyes.
"Good heavens!" said the viscount, before Josslyn had
uttered a word.
But he had sprung up into the van, and Dorothy could see
how regretful and sorry he seemed.
" What does this mean, Miss Quentin ? " he asked, brokenly,
in his bewildered distress, a twofold distress, " Can you ever
forgive me ? Why did you come in this way ? "
" I did not," said Dorothy, rising to her feet, ignoring his
assistance. " I would never have chosen this conveyance—in
motion. But it is comfortable now, and I was very glad of it
\vjien I lost my cab, especially when I felt I had to spend the
Dorothy's venture.
9i
night out here. That"—pointing to two neat black boxes
which Lord Avory was rather demonstratively removing in his
bewilderment—" is my luggage. Am I to be admitted now ?"
" As if there were a question of your admittance at any
time!" said Josslyn, and lifted her to the ground before she
could have drawn back. " I wish we had known you were
coming; you should have had a very different reception."
" Oh, I liked this !" she answered, with quaint calmness.
" My cabman waited as long as he could, trying in vain to send
in a message. At last he had to go, after his great efforts to be
heard and noticed, and some man arranged this for me very
comfortably. Then he too tried to get speech of some one, but
could not."
"What fools we were ! " cried Josslyn. "But why did you
you not show yourself, Miss Quentin ? "
" There was no one to whom to show myself. And besides,"
the girl said, drolly, " I did not know that that would gain me
admission. I was very comfortable, and quite prepared for the
night!"
"But what could you have thought us?"
" Eccentric a little," said Dorothy, sedately, "but not danger-
ous. I beg your pardon "—for she had started back at the
drawing-room door, Josslyn having taken the hidden key from
his pocket and led her in the garden way—" but that van was
dark, and this light dazzles me."
"But you must have your welcome," Josslyn said. " I wish
you had sent us word when you were coming, and it should
have been a different one."
She turned for a moment and looked up into his face, a
wondering, inquiring look ; then something she read, or failed
to read there, scattered that momentary doubt.
"Never mind. I will be grateful for my welcome now," she
said, gently, advancing into the strong, rich light, while the girls
looked at her suspectingly and could not comprehend.
But when Josslyn, going to his father's side, uttered her
name, the old man rose and drew his hand across his
forehead.
"She told me so, Josslyn. She wrote to me and said that
she should come to-night and by what train, and I forgot, and
never told you. Yet I thought my memory was good. My
dear, you must forgive me." And he drew her to his side and
kissed her as a father might.
" I have more need of your forgiveness even than I thought
then," said Josslyn, softly. " I did not dream that you had
written. I only knew that my father begged you to visit us,
and left the day for you to choose. These are my sisters, and
my cousins, and Lady Ermine Courtier."
92
Dorothy's venture.
- And then the ladies, so daintily and brightly dressed, came
forward to greet this tired, dusty girl, with the little blades of
straw clinging here and there to her sombre travelling-dress,
and even to her hair and the bent brim of her hat ; and not
one of them but felt it was a rather meritorious act, and would
look well in eyes that were on-looking.
CHAPTER XIII.
" Side 1 y side the beaver and the bonnet."
Slowly wandering among the shady slopes of the beautiful
park, Dorothy spent the whole of the sunny morning following
her strange arrival at Lynhead, and felt then that she could so
spend every morning through the summer, all was so new and
sweet to her. Neither of the girls had volunteered to accom-
pany her when she left the house, and she was even glad of
that, so restful was solitude there in the shade beneath the
giant trees, and all night her thoughts had been so curiously
tangled and unpeaceful. " Oh, Truth, Truth, if it had only not
been he ! " she had moaned to herself in real pain. " Or if
mother had but known ! " But now, with the elastic happiness
of youth, she was so revelling in the freshness of the summer
morning and the beauty of the scene, that she was singing softly
when Captain Yorke overtook her.
As he smiled she proffered a little explanation.
" I am so town-bred, Captain Yorke, that my heart is in my
mouth with delight in the mere grass and trees. You never
could understand."
" Never," he assured her, going on beside her over 'the
hillocks—rustic seats in vain inviting them from^every nook—
" I am on my way to the pheasantry. Do you like our hilly
park ? "
" These trees that have their lower branches lying on the
ground," she said—but he had read her answer in her face—
"look as if they took their growth downwards ; don't they?"
" Yes, though they also take it upwards pretty fairly.
Miss Quentin, I feel as if you could not have forgiven us our
inhuman reception of you last night."
" I liked it," said Dorothy, with her clear sweet laugh. " It
was original and informal. I believe you gave me a reception
never before accorded to a guest of yours."
" But you must have been so disgusted with us ? "
"No,"—thoughtfully—"I was too comfortable; but I owe
fhat to a very agreeable foreman. He will be one of the
memories of my life,"
DOROTHY^ VENTURE.
93
" I hope not. I hope you will forget the whole adventure,"
Josslyn said, impatiently. " Has my father told you that
Hoffman—the master of those men, we took your cab to be his,
you know, and so held out the siege more desperately—has sent
for the vans, with an apology, and the assurance that he would
wait for the payment of his debt ?"
" I am very glad," said Dorothy, quietly. " I daresay that
foreman told him how agreeable you were."
" You do not care, I see," he muttered, glancing sideways
into her nonchalant face, his own rather stern.
" I care very much what that foreman reports of me. Is this
the way to the pheasantry ? "
" Not quite the shortest," he acknowledged, unreadily ; "but
I thought you would like to see some of the features of our park.
I am taking you to the cedar hall," he went on, as they walked
up a smooth incline, on the crest of which stood a marvellous
old cedar-tree, with branches so huge and spreading that in
the elbows of its massive arms a summer-house was fixed,
standing four-square, with [little open windows facing north
and south and east and west, a rustic staircase leading to the
door. "Will you mount?" Captain Yorke asked. "There-is
a seat at each window : and I think the scene is worth looking
down upon."
The scene was indeed worth looking down upon. The wide,
umbrageous, hilly park, with its unused avenue of elms, eight
in each line ; the long, gabled, black-and-white house; the
brilliant, Dutch flower-garden carpeting its long white front'.
Here and there an opening among the trees gave glimpses of
the winding Lyn, where far off it flowed along the valley ; but
here, upon the margin of the wood, its banks were steep and
high and opulently wooded, so that the river was seen only in
passing moments gleaming among the trees. Down in the
valley the ivy-covered tower of a low grey church stood among
scattered farms and cottages, and beyond that a church-steeple
rose from the trees above a great white house standing in a
clearing of the woods.
" That is Northeaton Chase," Captain Yorke said, in Dorothy's
silence ; but she stood silent looking on the scene, to her so
beautiful, and listening to the musical bay of two Irish stag-
hounds. How could he know the view delighted her when she
had said no word ? So, when he had waited long in vain, he
questioned her.
"It is a beautiful home," she said then, with a long-drawn
breath. " You must love it."
" I do," he answered, his quiet earnestness holding more
meaning than many words. " You will too, I hope."
"What use," she asked, her soft colour deepening, " to love
the home of others—to love a place to leave it ? "
Dorothy's venture.
"No use," he said, and then was silent, while she stood
watching a pheasant walk sedately among the flowers, with
his green-hooded head aloft, his own scarlet and gold as brilliant
as the hues around him.
" That picturesque old-fashioned garden is scarcely ever less
bright than now," he said, " The flowers follow each other every
season, almost of their own accord now. It was my mother's
delight to perfect that, and it took her many years. I am so
glad Miss Ouentin, to remember and to hear how fond my
mother was of yours."
" She was very, very good to my mother," said Dorothy,
simply, " so was Mr. Yorke ; and it was very good of him to let
me visit the home of which my mother had such grateful
memories."
" Good ! " He only echoed the word ; but by that time
Dorothy had stifled, though he did not know it, her warm
grateful feelings, and filled all her memory with the pages she
had read in Truth Baring's diary. " Will you stroll to the river,
Miss Ouentin? Its banks are very steep and wild through the
woods here, though lower down there is a pretty walk beside it
on the meadow-land. You can see the idle ferry-boat waiting
there among the rushes, and the boat-house on the margin of
grass. Some day I will show you the Lyn properly, for it is a
beautiful river, though very capricious. In this hollow"—for
they had reached a dip in the woods, with intricate tangled
paths leading down the incline and up the opposite height—
" it has been known to make another course for itself in flood-
time."
"Listen!" cried Dorothy. "Is not that blackbird's note
delicious? I suppose the birds have a Tietjens and a Patti
among them now and then."
"Why not a Faure or a Sims Reeves?" laughed Captain
Yorke, " you are very negligent of our sex. Is not the foliage
rich above us ? " for now only the thinnest shafts of sunshine
lay among the shadows on the soft carpeting of moss and
flowers.
" Yes. I always wonder why the poet's simile is ' glad and
thick as leaves upon a tree at primrose-time ;' because they are
gladder and thicker later on."
"Which poet was that?" asked Josslyn, glad to have made
her talk at last.
" Oh, I cannot teach you more—in one lesson."
" You were singing when I overtook you," observed Captain
Yorke, as they went on up the slope where the Spanish chestnuts
spread their massive limbs, rivalling the proudest oaks. " Do
you remember telling me you had learned to sing an old book
of songs straight through ? You were sitting in old Cuft's boat."
dorothy's venture.
95
"And jmu told me," she put in, without further reply, "of a
friend of yours who was fond of Claribel's songs. Was it Lady
Ermine Courtier?"
"Yes-'
" Is she not beautiful, Captain Yorke?"
"No!" ■
" I used to think her so at Dover," the girl went on, earnestly,
"before I ever heard her name. I doubly thought so last
night."
"Did she look well? She does sometimes succeed in
arranging herself like a picture."
" Like a picture !" repeated Dorothy, indignantly. "Just the
work of a man's hand ! It is an insult to her."
" Oh, I don't think she would look at it in that light!" the
young man said, composedly. Do you think her brother
beautiful too, Miss Quentin?"
"Very ; but he seems rather delicate."
" Delicate ! " echoed Josslyn, laughing heartily as he pictured
the young Saxon giant in his stolid, perfect health.
" I mean," explained the girl, tranquilly, " that he seems
threatened with that painful species of consumption which the
French cali ennui?
" Oh, so he is ! Now we are on the highest ground, and I
am going to show you Sir Anthony's Leap, if you are not tired."
" I am not tired, of course," replied Dorothy, rather chillily.
" But I can go on alone. You were on your way to the
pheasantry."
" This is my way," he affirmed, promptly ; " not perhaps the
very most direct, but direct enough for me. Do you for a
moment imagine you could have found your way unguided here
among the countless paths ? "
" Certainly—to somewhere ; and I had no choice where it
might be. What a soft, delicious air and dainty sunshine !
How blue and rejoicing the sea would look to-day ! "
"You think so, just because it is not here," he said, jealous
even of this stray thought of hers. " Those mountains that
look so soft and beautiful to us now, are rugged and grim
enough when one reaches them. " I wonder how long it would
have taken me to find you, if you had reached the woods to
wander there, before I overtook you ? "
" Oh, how did you find me ? " she asked, in sudden wonder.
"A white gown is conspicuous on green," he coolly said.
" Besides that, your ' chips' guided me "—looking round at the
rose in her dress. " ' The tiniest chip betrays the woodman's
path,' you know."
" Did the leaves fall ? " she asked, unconcernedly, as she took
out the rose,
Dorothy's venture.
" Yes. Very scantily, but they sufficed for rr.e."
"It is too full blown," she said, and threw it from her down
the slope.
For just an instant he paused, as if he would have picked it
up ; in the next he walked proudly and carelessly on.
"This is Sir Anthony's Leap," Captain Yorke said, when,
presently, they stopped upon the steep and thickly-wooded
bank above the river. " He threw himself from here, thinking
death better than being captured by the soldiers searching the
grounds for him ; but somehow the roots and branches, or a
natural ledge, caught him half-way, and saved him. The bank
here projects so far over, that its face is not visible from this
side. Fcr three days he was hidden securely by the foliage, and
must have found something to sustain life ; for when the pursuit
had cooled, because it was believed he had left the country,
he came forth, and really did so in safety. St. Anthony has
taken good care of his namesake, hadn't he? So when he
returned, in quieter times, he built that votive chapel on the
rock, and dedicated it to his patron saint."
" It is very steep and dense here. I should not care for such
a fall," said Dorothy, shuddering as she turned away.
" It is perfectly safe here," Josslyn said, looking at her a little
surprised, as if he had not expected this nervous weakness.
" You can safely lean over—especially if you will allow me to
hold you. That," he added, turning away, when he saw that
she really wished to leave the spot, " is St. Anthony's chapel,
built, you see, on a rocky opening. An ugly little building, I
think, and not very ghostly-looking, is it ? Yet not one of our
country-folk would pass it, much less enter it, after nightfall."
" It is haunted, then ?"
"Yes, by the outraged spirit of St. Anthony, because the
successor of his grateful disciple was a renegade, and neglected
him."
"Your brother's name is Anthony, is it not?" inquired
Dorothy, as Captain Yorke took the key of the chapel from
behind a loose stone in the wall, letting her laughingly into
the secret.
" Yes. Does it ever strike you that when people, are so
distinctly unlike the same name fitted to them becomes
different ? "
There was very little to see within the chapel, excpet a few
stained windows, one fine old faded painting, and a huge stone
effigy of St. Anthony ; and Dorothy was not sorry to leave the
cold, bare little building.
" Thank you," she said, when she had watched Captain
Yorke replace the key; " Now I can find my way back alone,
while you at last perform your own errand. I know exactly how
DOROTHYS VENTURE.
97
the house lies, and I can steer myself correctly, independent of
the paths."
" If you wish it, I will leave you," the young man said, coldly,
for he could not help seeing that she wished it; "but the
beaten track is safest, Miss Quentin—always."
She smiled as if she did not think so ; but she heeded his
words, and kept to one path. It seemed to her a longer way
than the one she and Captain Yorke had trodden together ; but
it ran through the woods without diverging, and eventually led
ber through a shrubbery, and across the tennis and archery
grounds to the house.
Just as she was entering the court, she caught sight of Miss
Barber walking towards the porch from another direction, and
she joined her.
" I understood you were not going out this morning ?"
Dorothy said, in her frank, unsuspicious way, for she had not
yet discovered how politely Ethel Barber could plan to pursue
her own way as the way best for others, crushing and hurting
no one, unless they were ill-advised enough to impede that way.
" I was not going out for my own pleasure, as you were," she
corrected, with her ready artificial smile, " and so I declined to
accompany you. Doubtless you found another cicerone."
" Not at first," said Dorothy ; "but afterwards I met Captain
Yorke, or rather he saw me, and showed me what he called the
features of the park. It is very beautiful here."
" It would of course strike yo^," allowed Miss Barber,
amiably taking account of Dorothy's meagre experience. " I
have been to the almshouses. I often go to sit with the poor
women, for they are greatly impressed by visits from me. You
see Alice has her hands pretty full, and Sophy is—well "—with
a shrug of the slanting shoulders—"we will say she is not
accustomed to pay consolatory visits, for she means well, I
have no doubt. I wonder Captain Yorke did not show you the
almshouses. By-the-way, just after you left this morning there
came an invitation for us all to dine at the Chase to-morrow.
Shall you be too shy to venture ?"
" I fear not," said Dorothy with quiet humour.
" I will assist you, if you like to ask me anything," proffered
Miss Barber, generously. " I should like you to feel able to go.
Last night it struck me that Lord Avory's latest whim would be
a flirtation with you, and Lady Ermine will encourage it, as it
will leave her free from his surveillance."
" Oh ! Miss Barber, what an involved idea ! " cried Dorothy,
laughing.
" I quite hope it will be so," Ethel went on, unmoved,
because I look upon Josslyn Yorke as a brother, and I shall
rejoice in his having opportunities for studying Lady Ermine.
G
98
Dorothy's venture.
I think he may eventually turn his affections to her ; I hope so,
especially as his father would be pleased, she having a fortune
as well as a title. I consider Ermine quite attractive enough ^o
succeed—though not perhaps quite yet—and not unlikely to do
so, as Captain Yorke is such an admirer of dark women. I can-
not at all understand his prejudice against fair girls."
Dorothy looked round into Miss Barber's face, dark, and
wide, and placid, then recalled Lady Ermine's dark brown hair
and eyes ; then a flash of memory brought before her Truth
Baring's small, pale face and silky black hair ; and she would
fain have heard or said no more.
But Miss Barber had no such inclination yet.
" Captain Yorke is far from rich," she said, in her low, even
voice, glancing up at the quaint old clock as they reached the
porch ; " or I suppose by this time I should have been drawn
into an engagement with him. Like all poor men who are
gentlemen, he is proud and sensitive, and will not bind anyone
who is differently situated. It is under temptation that a man"
shows whether he is noble or not ; and Josslyn has to me shown
himself noble. I absolutely admire his conduct."
"For betraying his love for you, yet forbearing to give you
the option of returning it."
" Yes, if you must needs put it in that matter of-fact form."
"You really mean it, Miss Barber?" queried the girl, with
an earnestness which her companion did not attempt to
analyse.
Miss Barber nodded, with a little reticent smile which
seemed to say that the bad taste of such blunt questioning
required forbearance, but should receive it. How could a nod
or smile be a falsehood ?
" I really did not mean to tell you anything of my own affairs,
Miss Quentin," she , added, in a tone of gentle injury. " I do
not think you were justified in probing me."
" I might have known without asking anything," said Dorothy,
swiftly and passionately. " The wonder would have been, Miss
Barber, if you had known anyone whose love he had not tried
to win."
Then, with her heart full of anger against Truth's one-time
lover, she laughed a little unnaturally, and never saw Ethel
Barber's sudden glance of suspicion.
dorothy s venture.
99
CHAPTER XIV.
" I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow."
t£ This unexpected leniency from Hoffmann is almost incom-
prehensible ; isn't it, Anthony ? He says he will wait for the
money, and does not even limit the time of his waiting. It
makes me all the more anxious to be as early as possible with
the payment."
" When he offers to wait, why not let him ?" inquired young
Yorke, standing against the chimney-piece in his father's room,
a short, sturdy young fellow, with hair and moustache black as
an Italian's, and straight, pale features, which were so deficient
m expression and in strength that his face, though decidedly
handsome, was one which it was easy to overlook.
" I don't like that spirit, Tony. The money is legally due to
him, and indeed it will be a great relief to me when it is paid.
His forbearing to hurry us now merits a great elfort on our
part to pay him. Will you exert yourself, dear lad ? It is
heavy on my mind, and I cannot forgive myself for having
such a humiliation in store for Josslyn when he came home to
enjoy his furlough. And then for it to be known to the
Courtiers ! His old college chum and his sweetheart ! "
" I don't see that last," said Anthony, with a rather feeble
smile ; "though I daresay he fancies she is."
" I fancy it," returned the squire, with unwonted decision ;
" and I am mad with you and with myself that this degradation
met Josslyn in her presence. I wish you were more prudent,
Anthony, I do indeed ; and it positively will break your old
father's heart if your brother does what he said he should do,
when he fancied Hoffmann must be paid at once."
" What was that ?" interrogated Anthony, with unconcealed
curiosity.
" He said he should sell out and pay Hoffmann."
" He never would be such a fool," put in Anthony—but
there was a note of relief in his voice—" when he is so devoted
to his profession."
" He would never be a fool," was Mr. Yorke's most pointed
retort ; "but he would do that. He says so ; and Joss is not
one to .say what he does not mean. This is not his debt,
Anthony ; and it will be most unfair "—waxing warmer—" if
he forfeits, through you, the career he chose, and loves, and is
a credit to."
TOO
Dorothy's venture.
" Your paternal pride leads you rather far, sir," observed
Anthony, with his weak, suspicious smile. " But what is it
you want with me ? What can I do ? "
" What you have not hitherto done," said his father, with
sternness only too shortlived. " I wish Moneypen were my
agent, he has so little to do for the earl, among the other
agents."
" I do not," put in the young man, curtly. " A great, hungry,
fierce-looking Scotch snob."
" I have yet to learn that appearance signifies in a man's
agent," remarked Mr. Yorke, almost wrathfully. " I would
sooner have a coarse red moustache and a conscience than a
fine black one and none. But the scorn is mutual, I fear, for
he would hesitate to act under you, Tony. You will look into
affairs now, though, won't you, lad ? If the rents came duly
in, and were not appropriated beforehand, I should not be
be worried and humiliated as I have been lately. At my age,
Anthony, my sons " But then he suddenly broke down.
" Oh! cheer up, father !" said the young man, with well-
intentioned solace. " I'll see after Oxley and raise the rents."
" Indeed you will not," replied the squire, determinately;
" you will make things still harder for me. I—I wish you did
not need so much money, Tony. Perhaps "—hopefully—"you
give away too much, lad. Sixpence is enough at a time ; for
while that will refresh a man, more might make him drink.
And you know my wish that you should marry Ethel : though
only for your happiness, dear lad, and for hers. I think it
would be so."
" Josslyn had better go in for that matrimonial prize," said
the young man, flippantly ; " he might walk over the course."
" No, no," said Mr. Yorke, his head resting on his hand.
" He will win Lady Ermine."
" I am not so sure of that," said Anthony, colouring.
" I am, Tony," was the gentle answer. " I feel that my wish
will be fulfilled there, and that it will be for Josslyn's happiness
—and hers. Now don't let me keep you from joining the girls
before their tea."
" I don't care about that bliss," Anthony returned, sullenly.
" There will be Alice writing to Noyes, and Sophy fussing and
making a fellow's head ache, and Ethel limp in the corner of a
couch, just looking up to smile in case I might be Josslyn."
" But there is another girl now," said Mr. Yorke, looking
kindly into his son's moody face.
'' She will be mooning about with Josslyn. She was all the
morning."
" Was she ? " inquired the old squire, surprised. " Do you
know, it has seemed to me that she likes him least of us all
DOEOTHY'S VENTURE.
161
I am sure it is so, Anthony, though I cannot understand
why. Go and help to make the girl feel at home among us.
Remember that your mother loved hers."
" I suppose my mother was very kind to hers," amended the
young man.
"I do not call it kindness between two real friends," corrected
Mr. Yorke, courtly and generous.
"It is curious," Anthony went on, "for a girl with no claim
upon us, and no kinship with us, to come here for apparently
an indefinite time."
"Be quiet, sir !" cried his father, with authority. " She shall
be received—and detained too—with warmest friendship, for
your mother's sake—ay, and for her own too," he added, in his
son's ironical silence—" for her brightness, and her goodness,
and her prettiness and her sweetness. There ! "
" Sweetness !" echoed Anthony, lifting his shoulders and his
eyebrows. " She knows how to nip a man."
" That's right," laughed the squire. "A little of that sort of
thing will do you good, Tony. You are a good-looking young
fellow, and the girls have spoiled you."
" Thank you ; but I happen to differ from you there, sir, and
I object to be governed by any woman."
" So you may," said the old man, a little wearily ; " but
women like Dorothy Quentin have only one way by which they
can govern a man, for I do not think she is a model girl at all.
I am going out for a mouthful of fresh air."
Just as Mr. Yorke left the house, Josslyn rode up, dis-
mounted, and, whistling for one of the "grooms, sent his horse
to the stables and gave the squire his arm.
" Did you ride with Avory and Lady Ermine, Joss ?"
" Yes. It was an old engagement ; but I would not go in
afterwards."
"That was a pity," said his father. "I am always pleased
when you are with Ermine. I wish your leave to be made as
pleasant as possible for you, and she will make it so. Is there
no travelling you would like to do ? I am afraid it is dull
for you here."
"I almost wish it were," said Josslyn; and then he spoke
again, hastily, as if those words had been unconsciously uttered.
"You know how I always loved every nook of the old
place."
" Yes, yes ; and you will make the better master for that,"
said the squire, leaning a little more heavily as he spoke. " You
must not again entertain that wild idea of sending in your
papers. Do not dream of leaving the Army, Josslyn, till the
old place is yours."
" I shall not dream of it," the young man answered, his face
id2
Dorothy's venture.
and voice very earnest, though there was a look of real suffering
ih his strong blue eyes ; " but I shall, if need be, do it. I
read the soldier's art reversed—fight first, think afterwards."
" No, no," said the squire, absently, " I shall never consent
to that. You had no share in endangering the old place, and
ought not to be the one to redeem it. It is all your own, too—
remember that."
" I never feel it so," returned Josslyn, quietly, " and, if I sell
out to free it from debt, it will not be for myself."
"If Anthony would but turn over a new leaf, all would be
well in time," said the old man, thoughtfully ; and Josslyn did
not answer, fearing that he knew more of Anthony's debts than
his father did. " If he could win his cousin Ethel for his wife,"
the squire went on, presently, " I should have no more anxiety.
There, don't let me keep you from the girls. I am sorry
Anthony does not more genially welcome Dorothy Quentin.
You won't forget, Josslyn, who loved her mother ; and, though
she is ever so poor—as her mother also was—I wish her to be
regarded quite as one of the family while she will stay here.
I suppose you are going up ?" as they reached the steps from
the garden to the outer drawing-room. " I think I will come
too. I hope Tony is there ; it does the lad good to be with the
girls, though he seemed to anticipate but little pleasure."
It was the remembrance of this which made the old man
smile to find Anthony laughing, as he sat opposite to Dorothy
in one deep, cushioned window-seat, while the girl, grave as she
looked, seemed to fill the room with merriment. To Josslyn it
was as though he saw an old familiar landscape, with a sunshine
on it he had never seen before.
CHAPTER XV.
" You like us for a glance, you know—
For a word's sake,
Or a sword's sake ;
All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know,
But for loving, why you would not, Sweet,
Tho' we pray'd you."
Are you up there, Miss Quentin ?"
" I think so," said Dorothy, peeping out from one little window
in the cedar hall. "Who wants me ? "
"Why not I ?" asked Captain Yorke. " May I come up ?"
"You may sit on the branch outside," was the reply vouch-
safed him when he expected to be reminded that the summer-
house was at least as much his property as hers. " You look
Dorothy's venture, 103
angry," she went on, leaning from her window, as he stood on
the wide out growing branch, or rather half sat upon a higher
one.
" There is a letter for you," he began, handing it in, " and
the man is waiting."
" It is from Lady Ermine—as of course you know," she said,
as she opened the coroneted envelope. " It is an invitation to
the Chase for two days. Are you all going ?"
•"Only to me has the privilege been offered," returned
Josslyn. " Avory asked me to go—with you."
" You don't appear overwhelmed with gratitude," observed
Dorothy.
" Because I am simply asked to pair with Ermine."
"To your delight," explained the girl, calmly contemplating
him.
"To Avory's," corrected the young man, hotly.
" Or have you not thought it probable—having thought upon
the subject—that I am simply asked to pair with Lord Avory?"
" To your delight," mimicked Josslyn.
"To Ermine's," mimicked Dorothy ; and then they both
laughed.
"I wonder," mused Dorothy presently, "why you are so ill-
tempered. I met Lady Ermine here, and yet you do not seem
to like our intercourse. You have not all these weeks."
"She has sought you so persistently," argued Josslyn;
"and Yes, I am an ill-tempered fellow, but I like
consistency. Ermine has always been so markedly exclusive
and punctilious ; yet she has struck up this fierce friendship
with you, positively knowing nothing "
"Not very fierce," corrected Dorothy, gently intercepting
his words.
" I see no reason," he went on, crossly, " for her to change so
curiously. How have you made her drop all her old tendencies
and prejudices ?"
" By deepest craft,'' replied Dorothy, placidly. " I pretend
to be of noble extraction. I allude casually to family
diamonds, and bring an earl into my conversation as if he
were a sort of uncle of mine. Why do you laugh ? It is not
polite. But—is Lady Ermine different from us ?"
" If so, it is in your favour ; but I maintain that her behaviour
towards you is not characteristic."
For a few minutes Dorothy sat looking down upon her letter
as if it were difficult to read, but her thoughts were busy
otherwhere. Had not Lady Ermine herself, in her pretty,
proud, shallow manner, shown delight in her having found
someone to relieve her brother of boredom when at home, and
prevent his constant demand upon Josslyn Yorke for all, the
i°4
Dorothy's venture.
intercourse he condescended to care for ! " Sydney always
contrived to monopolise Captain Yorke as far as possible before
you came," she had said to Dorothy, betraying her motive.
"It is not my fault," observed Dorothy, suddenly looking
up, with a new but short-lived anxiety, " if I seem a lady in her
sight. I use no fraud. I don't want to be patrician. To me
the blue blood is always suggestive of a tweak of cold, and I
would not give my potter-grandfather for all the earls in
Christendom."
"Yet you cultivate Avory—and Ermine!" Captain Yorke
added the last two words as if they would hide the jealousy
of the first.
"Cultivate? How?"
"You always go to the Chase."
"Oh, yes!" she acceded, lazily. "It is very nice there—
very. And Lord Avory is so amiable and so big."
"He is growing an abject and ridiculous slave to you."
" Yes, that is so pleasant," returned Dorothy, with a
thoughtfulness which she knew that he was far from under-
standing. "And I suppose he has taken something to cure
his ennui.
" He shows very little ennui in your presence."
"He is far too polite. I often wonder when he makes up
for the effort."
"He is net the same man he was a month ago, when
you came."
" Whatever you do, Captain Yorke," pleaded Dorothy from •
her window, " do not tell him my grandfathers were potters.
I could not live to be looked down upon by the earl of
the future."
" You would rather he thought well of you than that I—
that we did ?"
" Why, of course! You are not earls of the future.
Besides, even Miss Barber says he is charming."
" Even Miss Barber ! Why, she calls everybody charming !
Avory tries to be so to you, certainly."
" He has not made me an offer yet," sighed Dorothy, " but he
will, I suppose ; for Ethel says he makes every girl an offer."
"I never heard of it," said Josslyn, laughing in spite of his
moodiness, for her extravagance gave him a new hope. " I
know to whom he has not made one."
" She would not allow him, spoke Dorothy, warmly siding
with her own sex. " She does not admire him—much to my
surprise, Captain Yorke."
" Of course. Shall you go to the Chase ?" he asked
impatiently.
" Oh, yes ! " And Dorothy herself, as she so promptly said
Dorothy's venture.
it, was as far as he was from guessing that her willingness to go
would have been dead within her had he not been going also.
Looking out upon him, she tried—as she had tried so very,
very often—to see his falseness and his inconstancy in his face.
Then, for her own sake, she.recalled his injury to Truth, and
made her heart beat once more, as it so often did, with wrath
against him. She so often now—so often—recalled what she
had read that summer evening in the silence, while Truth sat
beside her, changed and suffering through him. If she might
have spoken to him of Truth it would have eased her ; but this
was thinking for herself alone. Even if it had been just to
Truth—even if Truth had not bound her to secrecy—that would
not be respecting her mother's wish. And often and often, for
her own sake, she recalled Captain D'Eresby's words, " There
are whispers that he is a flirt, as it is called, and has the power
of deceiving women." She never went on with the recollection,
nor allowed herself to remember that D'Eresby himself had not
believed these whispers.
" Why so thoughtful suddenly ?" inquired Captain Yorke,
who had been earnestly watching her.
" You would be thoughtful," she returned, no effort observable
in the meditative tone, " if you were exercised in your mind, as
I am, how to pack your best dress, when it is so impossible
now-a-days to fold a gown smoothly ? "
" I hoped you were making up your mind not to go. Do you
not like Lynhead ? "
" Very, very much."
" As much," he asked, his face brightening visibly, " as the
Chase ?'
" Oh, that," she said, with suspicious readiness, " is different—■
so long as Lord Avory does not know about my potters. You
are quite, quite sure you will not tell ?"
" He would not care," said Josslyn, suspecting the truth that
she herself had told Lady Ermine. " He used to be different.
He used to allow women to entertain him, but never troubled
. himself to amuse them ; and he made no secret of the fact that,
when he did' exert himself to accept a wife, she must be abund-
antly blessed with the three, to him absolute, requisites to prove
her fitness—title, beauty, wealth."
"I would not, if I were a lord," spoke Dorothy, contempla-
tively, " hold out for another title or for beauty ; but every man
really ought to marry a rich wife. He owes that duty to
himself—
' Proputty, proputty's iverything hire, an, Sammy, I'm blest
If it isn't the same oop yonder, for them as 'as it's the best.' "
" I will fare ill oop yonder then," said Josslyn, laughing
io 6
Dorothy's venture,
heartily at her, as his head went back, and he looked among the
branches above him.
Then Dorothy looked at him. It was but a momentary,
glance, and he did not meet it ; but just then the girl's sad
heart was in her eyes—the eyes that would at any time meet
his so carelessly.
" I never get a word from you at the Chase," he said
presently.
" Oh, I think you do ! I am sure I say ' Thank you' if you
do anything for me. But perhaps "—demurely—" you never do
anything for me there."
" Avory intercepts me, and you always favour him. Yet I
am an older friend, and an older fellow ; and if you cared——"
"You remind me," said Dorothy, and the interruption was
too gentle to excite any suspicion, " of one day when we had
apartments in London with two very elderly ladies, ma'm'selle
asked one of them whether the noise in the street distracted
her, and she said, ' Oh, I'll ask my sister ! She's a year and a
month older than me.' "
" Don't get into the way of mimicking, Miss Quentin," said
Josslyn, determined not to laugh though she made the incident
ludicrous. "Do you know'you one day unconsciously carica-
tured Lady Ermine's pleasant, shallow manner, and once
Ethel's languor ? "
" It was not unconsciously done, Captain Yorke, though you
give me credit for that," the girl said, eagerly. " I did it
purposely, wickedly; and I hoped you would laugh, and you
did not."
" No ; I was vexed and disappointed in you."
" I should think you very often are—if you ever thought well
of me in the slightest," Dorothy said, the soft pink deepening in
her cheeks, her eyes feverishly bright ; for, while she knew her
wish fulfilled of turning him against her, she felt its sorrow too
through every nerve. " I have often mimicked you," she went
on, calmly, even before the pained blush faded.
"To whom?"
"To anyone I could get to listen or look on—except Miss
Barber. She—I don't know how it is ; but she and I generally
see things in different lights, and then I—but you know how
often I am chafed and disagreeable."
"Yes, I know"—pleasantly. "Besides, I too have heard a
Barbed speech once or twice. Yet people call Ethel Barber
4 nice.'"
" She is very nice," assented Dorothy. " A little somnolent;
but that is comfortable. You told me last night that women
were perceptive without being reflective, but I think Miss
Barber is—often reflective."
Dorothy's venture.
107
" Did I say that ? Do I often make such disagreeable
speeches ?"
"Very often."
"I am a bearish fellow," he said, with a flush on his blown
face. "No wonder you do not like me."
Silence, while Josslyn looked down from his elevated perch,
then met her eyes again.
" Avory is very different, is he not ?"
" Very. So very handsome," she suggested, meekly.
" So very handsome, yes !" he echoed, with a laugh. " But
a man must be a fool who would cry quarter because his face
is ugly."
"Yes, he must," said Dorothy, composedly studying the face
before her.
" One of the ugliest men who ever lived to be famous," he
said, " if not the very ugliest, declared he needed only half an
hour to be up with the handsomest man in England."
"He must have been exceptional," remarked Dorothy, rising.
" Well, there's one comfort for us—a man may do his duty
without being exceptional. Do not let yourself grow aggra-.
vating, Miss Ouentin."
"No," said Dorothy, with apparently unbounded self-satis-
faction, as she came from her shelter, " oh, no."
"Are you going down ? Wait one moment for my hand."
He sprang to the grass as he spoke, and as he stood offering
his hand, noticing the graceful outlines of her figure against the
dark green background, his face lost the sternness which her
tone had brought there. Still she had seen that he was vexed
and disappointed.
" What are you going to do this afternoon, Miss Ouentin ?
Will you ride ?"
" If I tried, I should tumble off."
" No, you would not. Do let me teach you."
" I must hasten in now to answer this letter," said Dorothy ;
but he could not tell that there were tears in her voice as she
refused what would have been such great enjoyment to her.
" Will you play tennis, then ?"
" You know I cannot play."
" Indeed you can—far too well when you are not on my side.
Shall we have a little practice, as you will have to play at the
Chase ?"
" It is perfectly and utterly impossible, for I am going to see
Mr. Pugh."
" Poor fellow! May I drive you ? It is too long a walk,"
" I like the walk, and I am going to stay to tea."
" Then I will fetch you."
"Thank you," said Dorothy, gravely, "but Mrs. Bagot has
j ©8 Dorothy's venture.
promised to drive me home- She is to be there, and Captain
D'Eresby."
" Pugh told me how good you were to that poor fellow," said
Josslyn. "There is much in D'Eresby worthy of your friend-
ship."
He said it frankly and kindly, and in his manly way would
have said it still, even if he could have foreseen the tragedy
whose shadow hovered near them.
CHAPTER XVI.
" Love, in the tempest most alive,
Hath ever held that pearl the best
He finds beneath the stormiest water !"
" Tell us about your evening at Mr. Pugh's yesterday,
Dorothy. You have not made us any fun out of Mr. Bagot."
The girls were in their usual sitting-room when Sophy Yorke
said this, without ceasing her engrossing occupation of em-
broidering a gentleman's slipper.
" Oh, pray don't urge her to give us that gratuitous infliction!"
sighed Miss Barber, without looking up from her book or lifting
her head from the corner of a couch. "That man's whole tone
and manner and appearance are in such exceptionally bad
taste that his entourage must be so too ; spare us, Dorothy."
At Mr. Yorke's especial request the girls had dropped the
formal Miss.
"I have spared you," said Dorothy, calmly. "I have told
you nothing, because you had said you would none of you
condescend to visit him."
" I should hope not," breathed Ethel.
" Still one might hear what you did," put in Sophy, in her
restless way. "I know father used to go there, and Josslyn
does sometimes."
" Men are different," Miss Barber observed, conclusively ;
and for a time Sophy was silent over her embroidery, while
Alice wrote at her devonport and Ethel read.
But presently Sophy dropped her own needle to watch
Dorothy."
" How exquisitely you are working those sleeves ! " she said,
" Yet how South Kensington would laugh at them."
"They are exactly forget-me-nots, any way. But why do
you make the dress yourself? "
" I could not afford a dressmaker's bill just for this oatmeal-
cloth. Do you know that my friend in London bought a cheap
Dorothy's venture.
dinner-dress for a guinea, and the bill for making and trimming
it was five guineas ! None of my bills were in that proportion;
but still I could have only my best dresses made for me."
" You always speak of your friend in London, Dorothy,"
observed Ethel, putting her book down in her lap, as Captain
Yorke entered the room, and, seating himself astride on a chair
close to her couch, crossed his arms on the back of it and
contemplated Dorothy's forget-me-nots. "Why do you never
mention her by name ? It is just as if you were ashamed of
your friend. Who is she ?"
"Not an earl's daughter," said Dorothy, tranquilly, without a
glance at Josslyn, though her angry thoughts were filled with
him while she kept Truth's name a secret.
" I suppose you want that dress to take with you to the
Chase ? " put in Sophy. " I'm so glad Ermine has asked you,
Dorothy, for we have all been there so often, and you have not
yet, to stay. I intended to offer to help you—though I don't
understand such things—for cutting out the dress seemed to
bother you."
" A little," laughed Dorothy ; " for I bought ten yards of the
material, and then a pattern, and the first words I read upon it
were, ' Provide eighteen yards of cloth.' It baffled me—at
first; especially," she continued, placidly working on at her
forget-me-nots, " as I thought to make this rival Lady Ermine's
tennis-dress."
" It will be a vain ambition for you to endeavour to rival
Lady Ermine's dresses," observed Ethel. " She has unlimited
means."
" Yes ; but an imitation could be compassed for compara-
tively little. I often see a splendid dress I could copy for a
trifle."
" Dear me ! I never dreamed you were so vain," said Miss
Barber, with a smile.
"No, you would not dream it," the girl said, lightly ; "my
vanity is too real for a dream. You cannot imagine what I
would give for even one of Lady Ermine's dresses."
" I wonder," observed Josslyn, abstractedly—and he did not
seem to see Ethel's lifted brows—"what Ermine would give
for one of your's, Miss Quentin ? "
"Such as this - when finished," conciuded Dorothy, demurely.
" Its joins beautify it, and the eight yards' deficiency is a bless-
ing in disguise. How shall I soothe Lady Ermine's envy ? »
"Dorothy," put in Ethel, "you asked me once kindly to
point out to you where you failed a little in society ; and so I
try as you wish it. Yesterday, dear, you turned back one
sleeve as you played tennis ? and it seemed, though I daresay
you did not intend this, as if you did it to show your wrist,
no
Dorothy's venture.
because Lord Avory had just paid you a compliment on the
beauty of your hand." ,
"He only said it betrayed my patrician birth," corrected
Dorothy solemnly, without caring to explain that she had
pinned back the lace at her wrist because it got torn.
" Avory knows a great deal; does he not ? " asked Josslyn.
"Yes. It is my firm conviction that
' He hath learned the secret hid
Under either pyramid.'
Alice,"—with a wistful glance at Miss Yorke—"do let us have
our little picnic up the river this afternoon."
" I am ready," spoke Josslyn.
" Thank you ; but it is to be a feminine picnic," affirmed
Dorothy, gently. " We even take our own kettle "—as if that
must convince him.
"No one but myself can row the kettle. Who did you
suppose could ?"
" I learned to row, and swim, in Boulogne."
" And pray can you row—and swim ? "
" Oh, no ; but the fact remains—I learned ! "
"Take care Dorothy!" laughed Sophy. "Joss will cross
your name off his good books if you profess what you can-
not do."
" For one person who detects what I can really do, one
hundred give me credit for what I profess," returned Dorothy,
striving as usual to show herself at her worst before him. " On
the risk of being tumbled over, girls, will you come ? "
" I am too busy," said Sophy, colouring inexplicably.
"Besides, I've something to do—for Tony."
" Do not ask me," sighed Ethel, " unless you secure a com-
petent oarsman. And I am sure Alice will not go upthe river
without Josslyn or Mr. Noyes.".
" I wonder what .Mr. Noyes is like ? " mused Dorothy, taking
her refusals serenely.
"Surely you know!" laughed Josslyn. " We have photo-
graphs enough of him. When he was elected M.P., every
photographer in his ancient borough tried to make a fortune
out of his photographs ; and, as each man had a large stock on
hand after the election craze was over, they hinted that he
might generously relieve them. He is the most good-natured
fellow in the world, so he bought them all. Of course Alice
begged them from him, and so there are hundreds lying about
here, besides the hundreds she has under lock and key."
" What is it like, Alice," asked Dorothy, gravely, " to be
love ?"
Dorothy's venture.
i 11
"You will soon know," rejoined Miss,Yorke, pleasantly.
"No, I shall not."
" All girls know," remarked Ethel Barber, complacently.
" No ; for I do not," Dorothy asserted. " Why do you
blush, Sophy?"
"I was only thinking—I forget what I was thinking," Sophy
answered, nervously. I should like to see you in love,
Dorothy."
" I should not," said Dorothy, placidly working.
" What—shall you marry without loving ? "
"No, I shall never marry. I have been for many years an
observer of human nature, and I have not yet found that
marriage makes one's world bigger or one's sympathies
wider."
"O rare philosophy!" laughed Josslyn. "Does not a
woman's life contract if she will not share it with a man who
loves her ?"
"Only," said Dorothy strangely and coldly, as her sad
thoughts touched the open page of Truth's diary, "if she has
dreamed of doing so, and then is cruelly awakened from her
dream."
" The fact is," put in Alice, " you cannot judge, Dorothy, until
you receive an offer."
"The average number of offers a girl receives," observed
Dorothy, "is, I have been toid, eighteen. Fancy varying
eighteen refusals !"
" What rubbish !"
"Yes, I think so, Ethel; therefore I hope to be one of the
girls who have none."
" You would not like that," said Alice, appreciating the
superiority of her own position. " Marriage is the completion
of our happiness."
" Then there ought to be marriage-brokers who can be relied
upon," declared Dorothy, fully conscious of Captain Yorke's
fresh disappointment in everything she said. " I suppose "—
looking coolly at him as he rose and paced the room—"as
every girl receives eighteen offers, every man makes eighteen.
Have you made nearly all yours by now, Captain Yorke ?"
" I wait," he said, stern in spite of his apparent negligence.
" I have read that a man's whole happiness consists in the well-
choosing of a wife ; so a man's whole unhappiness must consist
in the ill-choosing ; and I am cautious."
" I suppose it is a different question viewed from your side,"
said Dorothy, with gentle nonchalance. "If your happiness is
shared, it is doubled ; if your sorrows are shared, they are
divided. I suppose men would be very miserable and very
disagreeable without wives and sisters and cousins ?"
112
Dorothy's venture.
" And does not our happiness also grow by being shared ? "
laughed Alice. " Dorothy, you trust nobody."
"No," said Dorothy, quietly debonair. "A man would have
to give me very many valuable presents before I. could believe
in him."
" Oh, Dorothy, for shame ! " cried Ethel. " You do not
suppose true love is won by gifts ? "
" How else ?" asked Dorothy, with puckered brow.
" It is very plain that you have never seen the man you could
love," observed Ethel, with a glance at Captain Yorke, who had
resumed his listless attitude near her.
"Is that true, Dorothy? "
" I have never seen indeed," the girl said, with gentle de-
liberation, "the man whom I could marry. I believe with
De Quincey that to women a female friendship is much
preferable to marriage,"
" Have you not altered things a little and exaggerated,"
asked Josslyn quizzically ; "applying to all women what De
Ouincey suggested of some—and very few ? "
"I noticed the other day in Fanny Kemble's Records,'
observed Ethel, " that she likens marriage to a duet for four
hands ; and she says how much a performance without bass—
the man—lacks depth and dignity and importance, as the bass
really governs, leads, steadies, and sustains."
" But, oh," laughed Dorothy, " what would it be without the
treble ?"
"You will judge more fairly, dear," said Alice, ."when you
have a lover of your own."
"Not of marriage," corrected Dorothy, "for Shakespere
himself tells us that men are April when they woo and De-
cember when they wed. No"—with a shake of the head—"I
could not trust them."
" Yet, Miss Quentin, you surely know ' Nature's law ?'" said
Josslyn, coolly. "' Given the peerless woman, certainly Some-
where shall be the peerless man to match."
" That is very beautiful and impossible," she said, sedately.
" They are ideals."
" You might be some unfortunate man's ideal."
" And he not mine. How terrible ! " .
"Why, Dorothy," cried Alice, "you speak as if that were a
real sorrow and one you know ! "
" Can you fancy a greater ? " the girl asked, quietly. " Seeing
a good man give you all his love, when you can give him
nothing is—must be—the greatest of all sorrows."
"It would be worse, I think, to watch a lover's defection,"
suggested Alice. " In the case you mention, Dorothy, as you
would not love him you would not feel for him."
Dorothy's venture. 113
" Then you own at last that it is best not to love," said
Dorothy, laughing a little constrainedly. " You have read
novels, and you know that all the troubles in the world are
love-troubles. Though, at the same time "—pensively—"their
is a beautiful reverse. In love all selfishness is faithfulness
and all self-will is constancy. You love a man and cling
to him, and are held above all praise for doing so ! Where
is the merit in clinging to your own wish, and hope, and
happiness ? "
" But I have read of women who have given up their own
wish, and hope, and happiness—even though it has killed
them."
" Even though it has killed them ! " repeated Dorothy
slowly. " But I would read of women who have given it up and
lived, and no one has known—not even," the girl added, with
with one of her swift transitions to nonsense, " the author ! So
our picnic is to be put off, is it ! I must fetch my other sleeve
now, Sophy."
" f)on't you think, Josslyn," inquired Ethel Barber, with a
smile, when Dorothy had left the room, and Captain Yorke
pausing in the act of following her, had strolled back to the
window, "that Miss Quentin is a very charming girl? "
" I scarcely know," he answered, absently.
" I sometimes wonder what sort of men she must be
accustomed to that she should have an ideal so different to that
of any one here. It is quite distressing to us girls that she so
little appreciates you and Anthony"—the two were classed
indifferently together thus with fine skill by Miss Barber ; but
Sophy began to be very industrious, and Alice wrote on, neither
attempting to indorse the opinion of " us girls."
"Try not to be distressed," said Josslyn, "or I must be
distressed that you so little appreciate her."
" Oh ! I like her !" exclaimed Ethel, almost aroused from
her normal inaction. " She is quite good-natured and sweet "
—Miss Barber had a peculiar way of calling people sweet—
"'so sweet that I feel a real interest in her, and should rejoice
if some one would convince her that to flirt as she does is a
mark of bad taste, and unworthy of her."
" I suppose all pretty, captivating girls flirt intuitively,"
returned Josslyn, his quizzical, blue eyes frankly meeting Ethel's
though her words roused a pain now always dormant in his
heart.
" I hope, for your sake, that she is not at all the style of girl
you can admire, Josslyn," his cousin said, folding her white,
languid hands upon her open book, " because I don't like
to say it."
" I can admire all styles," he answered, laughing. " You are
H
H4
dorothy's venture.
all problems insoluble to me, but I admire you all. What
were you going to say ?"
" Only that—perhaps it is kinder to tell you, Josslyn—she
makes no secret to me of the fact that you are very far from
the style of man she ever could admire."
" She has run out into the gardens to join my father," said
Josslyn, lightly. " I believe she admires him.'"
But, as he turned to leave the room, Ethel saw that her shaft
had struck home.
CHAPTER XVII.
" One born to love you, sweet."
Though Captain Yorke had not been aware of such an
intention when he left the girls' sitting-room, he soon found
himself strolling to the gardens, where he had caught sight of
his father and Dorothy ; and when he failed to find them there,
after searching every nook and scanning every glade, he
returned to the house and to his father's room, confident that
they would be together there. But when a second disappoint-
ment met him, and he had looked into other rooms in vain, he
left the house again in his search, wandering through the park,
and trying to make himself believe that it was only his father
whom he sought.
It had grown habitual to him now to struggle against the
consciousness of his own delight in Dorothy's presence, because
he knew—and every hour showed him the fact more unmis-
takably—that, whatever the joy of her presence might be to
him, she both dreaded and avoided his. It was a new experi-
ence for him, and a most unhappy one. The hunger of his
heart when he was apart from her impelled him perpetually to
seek her ; yet in her presence the restless consciousness of
how lightly she regarded him ; how little his thoughts or words
affected her ; and how unimportant he himself was in her eyes,
was unbearable. Yet, proud as the young man was, this new
experience did not, for all its misery, stifle hope within him, or
even check his fervent, resolved, determined suit. He was in
deepest earnestness ; and, though Dorothy's light and heartless
indifference wounded keenly, his own strong, steadfast nature
would not readily surrender to despair.
"It is a wretched feeling for a man," he thought, with a smile
almost of compassion for himself, " to be miserable out of one
woman's presence, while she does not care for his. He is a
fool if he cannot crush such folly."
Dorothy's venture. 115
Yet it was of no use arguing with himself even in his
thoughts. He knew that all the light which made earth bright
to him was in her lovely eyes, and all the sound which made
earth glad to him was in her voice.
Josslyn had walked through the woods and to some distance
down the valley, when he saw a small boat drawn up among
the rushes against the river bank, where, though the trees yet
shut it from his sight, he knew there was an opening in the
wood. The boat was empty ; but it had not been there early
in the day, and so Josslyn knew that Dorothy had carried out
her plan and rowed herself. As he neared the spot—his light
step almost silent on the grass—he heard the sound of singing
and he paused to listen. He had often heard the sweet, pure
voice, yet it seemed as if he had never felt its beauty as he did
then ; and often in far other scenes was this quiet hour to come
back to him with the tender notes and words she sang.
" While my.eyes are dim with weeping,
Deep within my soul I bear
Thoughts of thee sweet recollection
Stealing o'er me like a pray'r."
"Yes, I remember it well," Mr. Yorke said, when Dorothy
finished. "Your mother sang it often, because my dear wife
was so fond of it."
" That is one of Mendelssohn's little heavenly songs, I
think," said Dorothy, busily pushing little dry twigs under a
small brass kettle which stood on the edge of the fire. " It was
inspired, wasn't it, by the sister whom he loved so dearly and
lost ? I could have sung more cheerfully if you had not asked
me for one of mother's songs Mr. Yorke."
Still Captain Yorke paused, looking between the tangled
boughs upon an unexpected picture : painfully conscious that
his presence would disturb it. But when Dorothy rose from
her seat upon the ground near his father—who sat at his ease
upon a fallen tree—and laughed to hear the crisp dry branches
crack and burn, and see the blaze fly upward, he was fain to
join them.
"Isn't it nice?" asked Dorothy, stopping to smile into the
old squire's eyes. " The water will boil in two minutes. Now,
will you unpack the rest of the things while I make the tea ?
There, I will put the basket to your hand. Pelly has given
us such a curious medley of china, because I would not take
the responsibility of any of which he was careful, as I might
not take it back sound— Oh—here's Captain Yorke."
He could not help seeing that a shadow had fallen over her
eyes as they met his ; but this pain had grown familiar to him
now, and he could hide it.
n6 Dorothy's venture.
"How did you find us ?" she asked, quietly continuing her
occupation, while the squire frankly showed how pleased he was
to see his son.
" You could not be hidden while your kettle ' shines like a
good deed in a naughty world.' Stay, let me pour the water.
What a hideous old tea-pot ! Are you sure you have put
enough tea in for me to have a cup."
" We have not invited you yet," she said and retook her seat
near the squire to wait until the tea had drawn, without
proffering furtner discourse.
"Miss Quentin," Josslyn said, jealous of her silence, "will you
sing again ? You have no idea what a treat it would be to me.
You sang for my father ? "
" Yes."
" And you will for me ?"
Oh, that is different! This is our picnic, not yours."
" You will sing for Joss, dear ?" put in the squire, in his gentle
courteous way.
"What sort of songs does 'Joss' like ?" inquired the girl,
her grave voice full of inimitable drollery, as she looked straight
into the fire.
" I am sure you know as well as he does, you romantic little
girl !"
Without looking round, with her eyes still fixed upon the fire,
she began to sing, while Josslyn sat upon the great fallen tree
and watched her, angry with himself because he could not be
angry with her, while the beauty of her grave sweet voice made
him listen entranced, even when she so wilfully sang rubbish to
him.
" Between the Po and Parma
Some villians seized my coach,
And dragged me to a cavern
Most dreadful to approach.
By chance the Maid of Lodi
Came trotting from the fair ;
She paused to hear my wailing
And see me tear my hair.
Then to her market-basket
She tied her pony's reins,
And thus, by female courage,
I was dragged to life again.
She took me to her cottage,
And cheered my heart with wine,
And then she decked a table
At which the gods might dine.
I sing the Maid of Lodi,
Who sweetly sang to me,
And, when this maid is married,
Still happier may she be ! "
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Is that the style of song you will sing to-morrow at the
Chase?" asked the squire, laughing, as Dorothy still sat gazing
into the fire. " I wonder what Ermine would say to such a song?
Ermine is a great favourite of Josslyn's, Dotothy."
" Say 'friend,' not 'favourite,'" corrected Josslyn, rising and
helping Dorothy as she poured out the tea. " I believe, Miss
Ouentin, it is her name which fascinates my father. Do you
like it ?"
" It is soft—and sleek," said Dorothy, knowing exactly how
such a reply would vex him.
"That is unfair of you," returned Josslyn, crossly, " for you
profess to be her friend."
" But anyone's friends may say what they choose, or else what
is the privilege of friendship ?"
" Would you say that at the Chase ? "
"Oh, no!" the girl answered, tranquilly. "While at the
Chase I adore her, and while she is here she adores me ; but
I'm sure that in the bosom of her family she is truthful,
otherwise what is the use of a bosom of her family ?"
" Dorothy, you have changed since Josslyn joined us," put in
Mr. Yorke, perplexedly. " How is it ? "
Ah, how was it ? The girl's heart throbbed painfully with every
hard or careless word she uttered to him, and often she could
have bowed her head within her hands and sobbed like a child ;
yet some strange, wistful restlessness impelled her to every
word and act which could heighten the barrier between them,
yet leave none between herself and other members of his house-
hold. Was this all fealty to Truth, or was there fear too for
herself?
" Yes," she gently said, " we were very comfortable before.
But "—gravely watching him—" you cut bread and butter very
well, Captain Yorke. Your ample manner of spreading the
butter meets my approval."
"And so perhaps you will grow comfortable—after %" he
asked, trying not even to smile as he plied the knife with
comical deftness.
" Yes ; I have never felt so thoroughly comfortable since
that evening I spent in the furniture-van," she said, lightly ; for
she had found that it was a relief to Mr. Yorke to hear her
jesting of her curious reception at Lynhead.
" It seems that Hoffman called on Pugh the other day, Joss,"
he said, smiling with real pleasure, " and told him they were
taking a new partner, and he wished none of the old debts to be
settled until that affair was arranged. It is fortunate for us, is
it not ? I ought to apologise for speaking of business before
you, dear child."
" I do not understand," said Doro.hy, gently ; and neither of
ii8
BUROTHY'S VENTURE.
her companions noticed how frightened she had lc'oked for the
few seconds while the squire spoke.
"Did you find it hard work to row my father down here?"
inquired Josslyn, presently.
" Oh, we drifted chiefly, so had no trouble at all ! Mr.
Yorke steered, and I watched that the kettle did not fall
overboard."
" You will find it more difficult going back."
" You will row back. I could not let you see my Blunders."
" She rows daintily and well, Josslyn," his father said. " She
might do with a little more strength, but her skill is there."
"Yes," replied Josslyn, absently. "Do you like our river,
Miss Quentin ?"
" I prefer the Delaware, in one spot," she calmly answered.
" I like a river to be about thirteen miles wide."
" I hope you will like even the little Lyn," said the squire,
laughing, '' and everything about the old place, Dorothy—your
mother did."
" She was so happy here, you made her so happy," the girl
said, with a momentary glimpse of yearning tenderness in her
beautiful blue eyes.
"Nonsense, dear! My wife loved her. I could not show
Dorothy much from the river, Joss. I told her when we passed
the chapel; but the overreaching bank hides it thoroughly, you
know. Perhaps you can row her somewhere to see it. You
can take her up, and fetch me afterwards, as the boat holds only
two, and she must not row against the stream."
But, at Dorothy's request, it was arranged differently.
Captain Yorke was to take his father back and land himas
near the house as possible, then return for her.
" Unless," she gravely said, " I have grown tired of waiting,
and have started inland"—which she had every intention of
doing.
Again and again the squire urged her to go first; but she
was tranquilly determined.
" You are sure you will wait for me ? " asked Josslyn.
" If I can do so comfortably. That is to say, if ' The usual
evening midge, Does not settle on the bridge, Of my nose.'" 1
Then she watched them take their seats in the little boat, and
waved her hand to the old squire, but, when Josslyn turned
bareheaded to give his farewell, she was contemplating the
opposite hills serenely.
" I wonder, oh, how I wonder," said the girl, in her thoughts
rising slowly and sauntering onward, when the boat was out of
sight, " what such a girl as I can do of good to anyone any-
where ? But here ! What did my mother dream was possible.
Mr. Yorke is happy and at peace, waiting to join the wife he
1)0ROTHY*S VENTURE.
loves so well, Alice has all she covets in her lover, Sophy is
happy in her way, Ethel—but Ethel"—with a little shiver—" is
not one of them; and mother did not know her. Anthony !
Yes, that is different. But how could I," the colour flushing
uneasily in her cheeks as she recalled what Mr. Pugh had
hinted of Anthony Yorke, " help Anthony in any way ? It is
impossible. And for Josslyn "
With a great sadness the girl's thoughts paused at last where
they had started. If he loved her, had she not done him harm
instead of good? If! Ah, there was no uncertainty! So
surely, so unmistakably did she feel his love ever surrounding
her. She had persistently shown herself at her worst before
him, proving herself unworthy in other eyes than his, yet he
sought her ever. She had contradicted him when right was on
his side ; commanded him when others obeyed ; and in count-
less different moods had aggravated him ; yet, though angered
often, and roused to keen impatience, it made no difference in
the strength and steadfastness of the love she knew that she,
against her will, had won from him.
"How can it end, mother?" she whispered in her heart,
"If it is to be happiness for Truth, will it be so for him? It
must not—cannot be for him and not for Truth !" Then,
with a feverish brilliance in her eyes, she spoke aloud in her
solitude, coldly, convincingly—" There are whispers that he
is a flirt, as it is called, and has the power of deceiving
women." " But it is not for me to adjust," she went on,
walking with no plan, save to avoid Captain Yorke on his
return. " The time will come to an end, and father will tell
me what to do. Mother said " Make no effort. Let the time
come if it will. Be yourself." And Mr. Pugh said "Wait and
see." He does not feel that there is anything for me to do,
still he says " Wait." And perhaps father may soon come."
Dorothy had just reached the wide iron gates which had
been the chief entrance to the park since the grand avenue
entrance had been closed, when she saw Anthony Yorke
latch the little single side-gate behind him from the outer
side, and start at a brisk pace along the wide high road,
Instantly there flashed into her mind all that Mr. Pugh had
told her ; she remembered how the quarries lay off this very
road just as it touched the heath after its gradual incline, a mile
farther on, and she opened the side-gate and followed Anthony.
" Stop, Mr. Yorke !" she said, her bright girlish tones raised.
" I came for a little walk this way ; may I join you ?" For
though Dorothy was a quick observant girl, and had long since
read Anthony, and knew he thought all girls were flattered by
his favour and pleased with his society, and though this
knowledge was repellent to the sensitive high-spirited girl, yet
I 20
Dorothy's Venture,
there was no hesitation now in her frank offer of her society.
" I thought Sophy had been with you," she said, when he had
moodily awaited her and walked at her side, most evidently
discomposed. " She said she had something to do for you.
" You may always guess what that means," he said, with an
unattractive laugh ; and Dorothy grew silent and uncomfort-
able, recalling how confusedly Sophy had made that excuse
for not accompanying her.
" You had better turn back, Miss Quentin," said young
Yorke, breaking this puzzled painful thought. " I am going to
Kerry's hut for—about some ferrets. It is not the sort of
excursion to which I should invite you."
I should like to go to Kerry's hut," she genPy said. " I
have never been."
"Of course not," he bluntly answered her. "Take my
advice, and turn back."
" Not till you do "—her colour deepening as she knew how he
would misread her. " Anthony, why may I not go with you."
" It is—it will be so stupid for you," he muttered. " I have
business with Kerry."
" I will wait for you."
"You don't know how long I may be kept. The girls
never come."
" They have other occupations," Dorothy answered,
patiently ; " I have not."
" Great occupations," sneered Anthony ; " especially Sophy.
Her own affairs are most engrossing ; nor is Alice responsible
for her actions while her mind is filled with Noyes."
"What is Mr. Noyes like, Anthony?" asked Dorothy,
feigning an interest in his conversation.
"Oh, an infatuated M.P., that is all! When I am with him
in town, he always points out to me every member of
Parliament he sees. He has never spoken in the House, yet
he will coolly tell us here how each good speaker has a trick in
speaking, and his is—so-and-so. He promises admission to
the ladies' gallery quite regardless of the ballot ; and he is a
fellow you could never call ' Mat.' But I think you had
better not come any farther."
" That is lucky for him," said Dorothy, wearied and
uncomfortable, yet steadily pursuing her new purpose, and
so receiving brightly all that Anthony would say. "And
in appearance ?"
"Well, to begin with he is six feet four; and, as Bagot
says, that is an awkward height—too tall for one, and not
tall enough for two."
" Alice is so tall too," said Dorothy, readily. " Would not
Frederick the Great delight in such a couple ?"
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
121
"Did he like others to be great too? I should think.
Miss Quentin"—they had reached the moor now, and
Dorothy paused to look around, even then imagining a time
when this might be a weird and desolate scene—"that you
are not quite unread ; Ethel said you were, and that she
should advise you, because it is so unusual for a girl of any
position not to be well lead."
" She has advised me to begin from the beginning," Dorothy
said, merrily. " I had serious thoughts of bringing out
Chaucer to-day and learning him off by heart."
" Do you know Captain D'Eresby, in Pugh's office ?"
inquired young young Yorke, presently.
"Yes; and I like him very much," the girl said, warmly.
"Why?"
But, when Anthony turned to look coldly at her, she could
not help the colour deepening in her cheeks.
" I found him wandering in the woods this evening as I
came ; that is all. Of course our woods are partly open to the
public ; but I never saw him there before, and it seemed odd.
I never talked to him—he is the sort of fellow to encroach
upon a kindness—but Joss does, so perhaps he will be glad."
" He is not the sort of fellow to encroach upon a kindness,
I think," said Dorothy, earnestly. " You must be glad for your
woods to give pleasure to any man mewed up in the town."
" Oh, very glad ! " scoffed Anthony, laughing at the idea.
" He lives in one of those grim little houses by the Northgate ;
they call them villas, and Bagot calls him the Northgate
villa-n. Do you see the joke ? Bagot is awfully bad style."
" Is it not a long walk from Northgate Villas here ?" asked
Dorothy, scarcely knowing what she asked, in her contempt
for Anthony, and her sympathy for the man whom she called
friend.
" Yes, a long walk for such a worn-looking old sneak. I
don't want him here."
"Perhaps, if ever you own Lynhead," suggested Dorothy,
composedly, " you will close the woods ? "
" Perhaps." he answered, curtly, as if he did not like her
doubtful way of alluding to his power. " Here we are, Miss
Quentin. That is Kerry's hut."
"Yes, said Dorothy, looking straight into the handsome
sullen face of a young woman who leaned against the open
wicket, and then bidding her "good evening" with bright
nonchalance.
" I just want to speak to Kerry," said young Yorke, his ease
a little forced, and his eyes furtively watching Dorothy while
he spoke to Kerry's daughter.
"You want father?" queried the girl, with a derided laugh
JDOROTHY'S VENTURE.
into the youlig riian's confused face. " Then go to the quan'y.
He went there in a bad temper and took his pipe. He had
had enough of me, he said. You'll find him there, Mr. Yorke,
and he'll be glad to see you. The young lady'll like a rest
while you go. Oh, yes, father'll be as glad to see you as you'll
be glad to see him ! Oh, of course I know you came here to
see father ! Yoic don't want father, do ye ?"—to Dorothy.
"No, I will stay here, thank you," said Dorothy, a little
afraid of the hard look the young woman cast upon Anthony,
yet not afraid at all of being left with her.
" You're the visitor at the house," she said presently, after a
long gloomy gaze into Dorothy's face. " I've met you. I've met
you with the squire, haven't I ? "
" Yes—often, I daresay.''
" Once is enough," was the answer. "And I've met you with
the captain; and now you come up here with—that one.
They all like you, I s'pose ? "
" I hope so," was Dorothy's quiet answer.
"Yes, of course. Some are liked, some aren't; some are
hated. It's all managed right, because we haven't anything to
do with it. Oh, it's all right that some of us are liked, and
some of us are hated. It'll be your turn some day, p'r'aps, and
you'll know what it is to be turned away from. It's well to feel
it'll be somebody else's turn soon ; and why not yours ? "
" Why not, indeed ? '' asked Dorothy, smiling bravely. "And
the good turn will be yours."
"Mine!" Oh, such a cruel bitter sneer! "That shows
how much you know about being turned away from, an d spoke
lightly of, and lightly to, except by one, p'r'aps, and he the
worst of all. I hate his house. I hate the house you live in,
worse than the great white house up yonder. I'll tell you why
some day."
" I will hear nothing against the house," said Dorothy,
sturdily."
" Oh, yes, you will, and be glad to ; and I'll tell you—when
there's no fear of his coming back to interrupt us. He wanted
to see father ! Oh, yes, of course! Did you see the gratitude
in his face when I sent him on to father ? He said he wanted
to see father, so I only took him at his word ; I daresay you
havej* pften enough. You like him, I s'pose? You don't like
his brother, I know—— "What's the matter? Don't go faint.
We've no water in this ugly hole ; we've only whisky and milk.
Why don't you like the elder brother?"
" I do," said Dorothy, hating herself because the girl knew
otherwise.
" I hate the brothers both," Nancy Kerry said, her lips grow-
ing stiff over the slow hard words; " the oldest and the
£)6R0THY'S VENTURE.
youngest. "I want to know"—bending forward and almost
whispering the words—"when Captain Vorke's going to marry
Lady Ermine. Oh, I know it's fixed and going to be ! Doesn't
everybody say so ? But I hope it won't, because the Lord
Vis:ount wants it. Things come between lovers sometimes,
and something will come between them."
" Things come right at last," said Dorothy, scarce knowing
what she said, yet in no haste for Anthony to come ; and
standing willingly to watch the sunset sky across the valley,
and its blush upon the gently-flowing river.
" Shall I tell you," spoke Nancy, roughly breaking the short
silence, " what we owe to the man who'll own Lynhead?"
" Oh, no ! "
"Oh, no!" mocked Nancy. "Why, 'Oh, no'? Now answer.
Shall I tell you what we owe to him ? "
■ " To Josslyn Yorke ?"
"Yes, to Josslyn Yorke ; who else? You've heard of me,
I s'pose—Kerry's sour, spiteful daughter ? Most people have.
But p'r'aps you haven't chanced to hear of Kerry's other
daughter, gone a year ago ? She wasn't sour or spiteful; she
was handsome and false, and happy and heartless. Oh, I'd no
cause to love her ; but I've not forgiven him ! I was sorry for
him too. She'd got his promise and he couldn't escape her.
She knew too much."
" You are not speaking," Dorothy bravely asserted, " of any-
one I know."
" Aren't I ! " the woman questioned, with a shrewd, hard
look into Dorothy's eyes. "I'm speaking anyway of Josslyn
Yorke, who—more's the pity—will own Lynhead soon. Yes,
Zara knew too much, and he was in her power, and mother's ;
so it was right for her then. But she may choose to tell. I
wouldn't trust her, though I'm her sister."
"Where is your sister now?" asked Dorothy, gently.
But Nancy's only answer was a laugh.
" I will come again and see you," Dorothy said, urged by
some impulse which she could not understand.
"You had better not," said Nancy, with another cold, hard
stare. " Nobody comes to see me. Maybe Anthony Yorke
comes ; but it's to do me harm in the neighbour's eyes, not
good. Not that I care for the neighbours any more than they
care for me ; but I'm bad enough left alone, and I don't want
to be anything else. I'd a bad mother and sister ; I've a bad
father ; I'm bad, of course, else how should I be one of them ?
There's your Mr. Yorke in sight again. I'll tell you more
another day ; you shall know more of them."
" No, I will not," said Dorothy, with a flash of girlish spirit,
" unless it is good to know."
124
dorothy's venture,
"Oh, it's very good to know," sneered Nancy. "Where's
your colour gone ? You look as if I had hurt you. That's
another to hate me. Well, it's no matter ! "
Abruptly, without another word, Nancy turned and entered
the house, and Dorothy stood dazed and bewildered while
Anthony approached her. There was no sound except the
uneasy sunset twitter of the birds ; yet clearly, as if Truth's
voice uttered it again, she heard the bitter explanation Truth
had given her—
" When it was too late, he told me that an old promise bound
him, and he could not free himself!"
CHAPTER XVIII.
" Dorothy,
Lcok, look, look, within this eye, my dearest,
Where like a tiny fairy thou appearest.
There, thou teasing elf,
1 hou wilt find thyself,
There thou hast thy home
Never more to roam.
Dorothy, look, look, look, within this eye, my dearest,
Where like a tiny tay thou hast thy home, love."
Pephaps it was because Lady Ermine Courtier's conscience
pricked her just a little as to her weightiest motive in inviting
Dorothy to the Chase, that she determined to make the girl's
welcome as warm and friendly as possible, and so stood out
upon the terrace the next afternoon, awaiting her guests. Not
that there had been any evil in her motive, for it was simply
the over-mastering desire to bring to the Chase with Josslyn
Yorke one who had proved herself capable of engrossing Lord
Avory, and averting his observation of his sister equally with
this monopoly of her friend. To Ermine, in her unruffled ease
and content, her action in this appeared a kindly one to all
concerned, even though she was conscious of having a motive
only half defined as yet to herself. True, as she had told
Josslyn's sisters, it was kinder to invite Dorothy, and to show
her the Ghase and the country around, because she might soon
leave the neighbourhood, and this little visit of Captain Yorke's
to her brother afforded a good opportunity of her doing so.
True they, with Ethel Barber, had been so often that they really
seconded Ermine's wish for Dorothy to go. But equally true
was it that Lady Ermine's anticipations of the enjoyment of
this visit of Josslyn's would have been very different indeed if
she had been expecting his sisters or cousin with him, instead
of the girl who had already captivated her brother. She
DOROTHYS VENTURE.
125
smiled now as she saw him strolling in the park to meet his
guests ; and when the sound of wheels and voices reached
her, and she watched Avory walking beside Captain Yorke's
dog-cart up the wide, exposed drive, she smiled still more.
For a moment her eyes rested with involuntary admiration on
Dorothy's bright head, bent a little as she talked from her high
seat to Lord Avory ; but they rested longer and still more
willingly on Josslyn's face, unusually grave, she thought, as he
held his horses in to suit Sydney's step. But, when he saw
her, he drove lightly round the sweep, laughingly leaving her
brother behind, and had shaken hands with her and lifted
Dorothy to the ground, by the time Avory came up.
They lingered out upon the terrace for some time after
Captain Yorke's groom had taken away the dog-cart ; then
Ermine proposed an adjournment, and, blushing a little con-
sciously, asked Dorothy whether she preferred that they two should
drink tea alone in her boudoir to-day, or with the gentlemen.
"We might quarrel alone," suggested Dorothy, merrily, for
she had read Ermine's secret, and it was in her nature even in
trifles to give pleasure when she could.
Half an hour afterwards, Lady Ermine, in an exquisite tea-
gown of maize-coloured silk and old Flemish lace, called in
Dorothy's room for her.
" But I have no tea-gown," said Dorothy, looking comically
down upon the home-made white dress in which she had come.
Ermine only laughed, and led her into a beautifully-furnished
room, with windows opening to the terrace, and opposite the
windows hangings of brocade drawn aside to show the two
long drawing-rooms beyond.
" This is especially Sydney's room, and he so seldom invites
me here to- tea that I appreciate the honour," said Ermine
merrily to Dorothy, as her brother rose to receive them, Josslyn
Yorke standing against the chimney-piece on the soft fur rug.
" I am sure you appreciate antique furniture ?" said Lord
Avory, handing Dorothy a squat little ebony arm-chair.
Her white fingers wandered over the black arms, and then
she raised inquiring eyes to his.
"Is this called walnut furniture, for it seems to be made of
pickled walnuts petrified and strung ? But perhaps"—as
Avory's face betrayed his astonishment—" you do not know
what pickled walnuts are."
Lady Ermine's eyes deprecatingly sought Captain Yorke's, as
if pleading an excuse for Dorothy's silliness, before she spoke.
"You must not deny my brother the admiration his taste has
legitimately earned him, Dorothy. He has wonderful things to
show you."
" I would not show them to me if I were you, Lord Avory,"
126
Dorothy's venture.
the girl said, as if in friendly admonition. " I never know even
the difference between marqueterie and parqueterie, isn't it ? "
" I will teach you," he answered, laughing ; drawing up to
her side, and setting her cup upon a marqueterie table inlaid
with porcelain plaques. " I believe, between you and me.
Miss Quentin "—as he spoke he seemed to shut " you and me "
from the rest of the room—" Ermine is jealous. She is always
trying to beg that black and red buhl cabinet."
" But why should she mind," asked Dorothy, looking upon the
beautiful things about her, " when she can sit here always 1"
" Oh, but 1 cannot," laughed Ermine ; " only on specially
festive occasions, such as this." *
"You might borrow the cabinet," suggested Josslyn ; and
Ermine laughed again.
" I think papa might really consider the white drawing-rooms
sufficiently furnished now," she said, as Dorothy's gaze wandered
through the open curtain along a vista of white furniture, among
exquisite cabinet sculpture and crystal and Venetian glass.
" Our accumulation is one of the penalties of our name, for
everybody suggests purchases to papa. You should suffer even
more, Captain Yorke, yours being an older name."
" Miss Quentin, don't you be taken in by my sister's modesty,"
laughed the viscount. " In the matter of birth she does not
really yield the palm even to the Yorkes, who are older."
" Impossible, isn't it ? There must have been Courtiers as
long as there have been kings."
" For myself, I don't care a jot about it," put in the viscount,
lazily joining in the laugh. " But put it to Yorke, Miss Quentin,
how he would like to belong to moneyed groundlings who never
had a grandfather."
" It is too terrible. I cannot imagine whence they come,"
said Dorothy.
" Oh, well, nameless grandfather, say," corrected Avory,
laughing still. "It is safe to say it here. Byron was quite
right ":—looking down upon Dorothy's pretty slender fingers—
"when he said the hand was an infallible sign of birth."
" Oh, no, he was not," said Dorothy, sturdily. " Excuse me,
but I must take the only privilege of our sex and contradict you.
But as it is too late now for me to obtain a grandfather, I am
resigned."
" I don't suppose it affected the first woman," observed
Josslyn, drily, " nor that it will signify to the last."
" I feel so grateful to the poet," returned Dorothy—for he had
looked at her—"for assuring us that the last person is to be a
man. It does not seem hard to a man to have no one to talk to
—indeed I sometimes find they don't talk even when they might
—but it is dreadfully hard for a woman."
Dorothy's venture.
127
"Captain Yorke, what should you do as last man, thrown
upon your own resources ? " asked Ermine.
" Dine, in any case," he answered, taking a low chair at her
side ; and then the talk went on in pairs until the first gong
separated them.
"We have no company to-night, Dorothy, I am glad to tell
you, Lady Ermine said, as the girls went upstairs together. " I
wanted you just to make our own acquaintance, and to know us
and the house as well as Alice and Sophy do. I will send
Suzette to you presently," she added, pausing a Dorothy's door,
"she will dress your hair in fillets—Sydney's favourite way.
What dress shall you wear, dear?"
" I have brought but one evening dress, Ermine, as I possess
so few," the girl said, a little shyly; "but I brought my prettiest.
It is a pale blue sort of gauze, and is well-made, and—rather
pretty."
"Of course it is, and you will look 'rather pretty' in it,"
Ermine answered, lightly.
But when, almost an hour afterwards, arrayed in a long
intricate dress of the shades of the African marigold, she
entered the small white drawing-room and found Dcrothy
talking to Avory at the open window, she smiled as she re-
called the words " rather pretty." The girl's warm brilliant
eyes were bluer than her dress ; the beautiful gold-brown hair,
dressed so unusually seemed to have wondrous new lights upon
it ; and the round whiteness of her arms and neck, half hidden
suffered nothing in the sun-light. Rather pretty! For three
years Lady Ermine had mixed with the highest, fairest,
proudest among Englishwomen and foreigners, yet she never
remembered such a strange thrill of spontaneous admiration,
and then such a curious sinking at her heart. Yet Captain
Yorke had been seated reading when she entered, and had
risen only on her entrance, and now proffered his arm as the
last gong sounded. He had not even seemed to glance at
Dorothy, nor did he do so at all noticeably during dinner; and,
though Ermine was glad, she caught herself wondering whether
he could possibly be so accustomed to Dorothy's prettiness as
not to see a new power and brilliancy, and even purity in it
to-night, caused, as Ermine imagined, by Lord Avory's atten-
tion, and this new position exciting, and pleasing, and flattering
her. She guessed nothing of the girl's restless distrust of.
herself, and childish gratitude to Lord Avory for putting himself
so persistently before Josslyn.
Scarcely had the girls had five minutes' chat together alone,
when the gentlemen joined them ; and again the viscount
seemed to take possession of Dorothy. They looked over
photographs together, worked out a puzzle jointly, got half-way
128
Dorothy's venture.
through a game of chess, which Dorothy had not the patience
to finish because he would not win it, and then sang together.
But when, after Dorothy accompanied him, he entreated for a
song from her, she kept him an unconscionable time searching
for one which she would undertake ; and, while he was busy,
she played softly, as if—for all her seeming pleasure in it—she
was grateful for this rest from his wooing. And, while she
played, her eyes saw nothing of the handsome room ; Ermine's
smiling happy face had faded, and there were Truth's saddened
eyes and the gentle lips that spoke such bitter words. It was
only when Ermine spoke that Dorothy's hands fell to her lap.
" I recognise only one strain, Dorothy, and that was Heller's.
How pure and poetic his music is ! Always fresh, like Nature
herself."
" Here is a song I want from you, Miss Quentin," said Lord
Avory, putting on the piano a little balled set to a Spanish
melody.
Lightly Dorothy, without seeming to have glanced at the
sheet—for she knew it—sang two verses.
" Tell me one thing, tell me truly,
Tell me why you scorn me so.
Tell me why, when asked the question,
You will always answer, ' No !
No, sir—no !'
' My father was a Spanish merchant,
A.nd, before he went to sea,
' He told me to be sure to answer
" No," to all you said to me—
No, sii—no !' "
Then Dorothy closed the music, and would not be tempted
to sing the other verses.
So Lady Ermine sang, and then played for Captain Yorke ;
and all the time Dorothy sat quite still at the window and never
looked round. He was singing "To Anthea," and she
remembered the day he had spoken of it, as he leaned against
the boat in which she sat on the Dover beach. How long ago
it seemed ! It was when she had believed that he really was
able,
" In the teeth of clenched antagonisms,
To follow up the worthiest—"
How strangely real and heart-felt the quaint old words
sounded from him ! Surely never before had she understood
the song ! Nor though all her life did she forget how it stirred
and pained her, as each note and word went straight to her
heart.
DOROTHY's " VEXtUkiv
129
u One fftorb song !" cried Ermine, while a long sigh came
from Dorothy's heart, as if of relief that it had ceased. " One
more, Captain Yorke, before the tea comes in and the twilight
is quite shut out. Which shall I play?"
"This—if you will," said Josslyn ; "though I would rather
sing no more to-night. I have heard the song and know the
words, so, if I am to sing another, let it be this."
All through the song Dorothy did not move, though Lord
Avory had thrown himself beside her. She had a strange
feeling, against which she vainly fought, that the music
belonged only to her ; that it could not and did not touch
the viscount or his sister, but was hers, and she must hold it
hers, though it pained her.
" Think not my love will soon be failing,
As all that's lovely fleeth by ;
Though music falls and stars are paling,
And leaf by leaf the roses die.
Birds may be silent all in winter's rime
That sang so loud in summer's glee ;
But hearts that truly love know neither change ror time,
And thou art always dear to me.
Last night I dreamed a dream so tender—
The silver moon rose o'er the wood,
And bath;d a dark tree in its splendour,
Till like a spirit fine it stood ;
The silent moon passed on—the tree was lone :
The light fell fair on distant sea ;
Deserted—loveless now—the light and glory gone,
Thou art the light, love, I—the tree !"
"Now, Dorothy dear, wake up!" Lady Ermine's hands
were on her shoulders, and one cheek touched hers. " I
positively believe you napped ; and that is a poor compliment
to Captain Yorke ! Look—you have made Sydney dull too !"
"Dull!" cried Dorothy, rising with a laugh; and even in
the extra light—for the men who brought the tea were lighting
other candles now—there were no shadows in her eyes. " Oh,
everything is far from dull ! That music was very cheerful;
wasn't it ? What shall we do now ? We might have a game
over our tea, as ma'm'selle and I used to do when we were
afraid of being low or lonely. We might bury cities. It is
fearfully stupid, Lord Avory ; but we can soon stop, can't we ?
My head aches terribly—Oh, don't look sorry for me, please !
It is only a sentence, and there is a city buried in it."
"A city buried in it ?" repeated Avory, vaguely ; but Josslyn
laughed.
I
130
Dorothy's venture;
" If your head aches, hire a lady-help—there is its county}
Miss Ouentin."
"Now, Lord Avory," said Dorothy, "do guess one! You
would die ttnless surrounded by bric-a-brac or knick-nacks —
well, what city lies here ?"
" I shall require an hour to guess, and you to prompt me
all the time."
" Then I have thought of an improvement," said Dorothy,
her eyes radiant with excitement; " a game of magic-music'.
Please go out of hearing, Lord Avory, while we decide on what
you are to do. Don't be afraid ; I shall play very loud on your
return to guide you in doing it."
It was the merriest game that had for years been played
within those lofty walls ; and not only did they laugh over the
droll situations in which they placed each other, and the
comical tasks they gave, but in real and fresh enjoyment of the
game ; and not one of them but was taken by surprise when,
resting at last and drawing the curtains aside to see the moon-
light, they heard the stable-clock strike twelve.
" I do not believe an evening ever went so quickly before,"
declared Avory. " And yet what infants we have been, making
each other look ridiculous ! "
" It is your fault, Sydney," laughed his sister, knowing all
the time whose ' fault" it had really been. " Isn't it, Dorothy?
Is not the master of the house always the head ?"
" If the mistress," said Dorothy, gently and prettily, " is the
heart."
CHAPTER XIX.
"He doeth well who doeth good
To those of his own brotherhood ;
He doeth better who doth bless
The stranger in his wretchedness."
Dorothy rose far before her usual hour on her first morning
at the Chase. She had spent a restless night, though scarcely
conscious herself of any reason for doing so, and she fancied
an early solitary ramble while Nature herself was only half
awake would shake off its ill effects. With this resolution half
formed, she had risen to look from the window, and the beauty
of the summer morning had scattered all uncertainty. A
demure-looking Puritan figure, in her smoke-coloured morning-
dress, with hat to match, she left the park as if not certain
there of being undisturbed. She paused beyond the gate,
looking either way. Before her, across the river, she could see
the Lynhead woods, and almost enviously she pictured their
nOROTHY's VENTURE. 131
rich solitude. On her right lay the carriage-road passing
Lynhead, and_ on her left it rose to the moors. Across the
railway line, in its deep cutting, she saw the quarries, and
recalled her walk with Anthony Yorke to Kerry's hut a few
evenings before. It lay nearer to the Chase than to Lynhead,
as the Tine could be crossed by a little railed-in bridge thrown
across it, on the high embankments. The road towards the
moors looked pleasant, with its margin of grass and scattered
trees, and Dorothy chose it, longing for the dewy freshness of
a moorland breeze. As she walked slowly on, thinking per-
sistently of what she saw, determined not to let her thoughts turn
inward ; her restlessness soothed by the musing restfulness of
Nature in its fresh and sweet awakening, she became gradually
aware of the curious double step behind her; and when, after
long hearing it, she turned—knowing it was not the step of a
man or woman—she saw two lean cows coming slowly behind
her, walking abreast, their long grave heads bent. In a patient
dogged way they plodded side by side along the dusty road,
and Dorothy stood to watch them, looking vainly for any
human being. When they had passed her, she followed them,
drawn pitifully to them, as they steadily, yet with evident
weariness, pursued their slow way, close together, heedless of
anything beyond their own progress onward. There was no
lowering of the heads to crop the dewy grass, no turning of
them to the right or left, even no lifting of them to look along
the road ; only the deliberate, resolute pursuit of an unknown
purpose ; and Dorothy wondered curiously as she followed.
After a time, still side by side, they turned from the high road
into a lane, and ascended it in the same dogged and determined
way. Even when they came to the foot-bridge that crossed
the deep railway-cutting, they still walked abreast, scarcely
pressed closer by the scanty space allowed them. Quite certain
Dorothy was that these cows had come from far ; and now her
curiosity had grown into real interest in th"em, and she could
not have left them until assured of rest and safety for them.
Even yet no one had met or passed them ; and, though she had
seen men at work in the fields, and now could see them in the
distant quarries, no one except herself seemed aware of those
two tired animals. At last, without halting for a moment or
looking around them, they passed singly through a gap in a low
quickset hedge, and walked straight across a rocky little
paddock to a dilapidated black wooden building at its farther
end. Dorothy, still following, saw them push open the door,
which had been ajar, and enter and lie down. In her sympa-
thetic observant way she had been feeling for them to the
exclusion of all else ; but, now that they seemed at rest at last,
she heaved a quaint little sigh of relief and looked around.
132
DOROTHY'S VENTURE,
Then she saw that she stood close to Kerry's hut. She had
not forgotten her one disagreeable interview with Nancy Kerry;
but she was only wondering now whether the girl had missed
her cows, and might not perhaps be seeking them. She left
the paddock and going up the weedy path to the open door,
rapped upon it gently.
" What is it ?"
Kerry's daughter was ironing at a table behind the door, and
neither stopped in her occupation nor looked round, as she
asked the question in her hard and sullen way. But when
Dorothy entered, and, after apologising for coming in so early,
sat down beside the ironing-table, just as if she were used to the
kitchen and liked a visit there, the girl ceased her work abruptly
and answered Dorothy's smile with a suspicious stare. She had
not been accustomed to this kind of visit. Few enough people
ever entered the hut at all, and if they did it was a visit of
censure, or curiosity, or would-be charity undisguised. This
was different. This beautiful, dainty girl had come in naturally
and gently, with no sign of arrogance, or even superiority, and
her smile was genuine, and never shadowed the least by the
grimnesss of the dwelling.
" Nancy," she said, pleasantly, watching the girl's fingers
when, after her suspicious stare, she resumed her occupation,
" you will excuse my coming at this hour ; won't you ? May I
ask you a question ?"
" Those that want a question asked me, ask it whether I will
or not," returned the woman, gruffly, avoiding Dorothy's sweet
eyes as if such words might not be easy to her if she met them.
" Where were your cows last night ? " asked Dorothy, wisely
and kindly ignoring the rough retort.
" Cows !" echoed Kerry's daughter, with a hard and ugly
laugh. " What cows have we ? "
" I thought," said Dorothy, her warm sympathy guiding her
to the sure way of winning Nancy's, "that you had two brown
and white cows, both with white faces, and one with a nearly
quite white tail."
"And what if we had?" interrogated Nancy, sharply ; but
Dorothy knew that the sharpness was of pain, and did not
resent it.
" Then you have missed them, Nancy ?"
"Missed them!" Such a scoffing laugh! Yes, I missed
them."
" And do you know where they are now ? "
"Oh, yes, 1 know where they are now?" returned Nancy
doggedly. "Why shouldn't I ? They're sold to Varth Tyacke
of Little Eaton Farm and taken away. Their new master took
them. It's no matter. We're going ourselves."
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
133
" How far from here is Little Eaton ?" inquired Dorothy
wondering.
" How far ? Eleven miles, good. Why 1"
!< Nancy, will you come with me for a minute or two ?" asked
Dorothy, rising and laying one hand on the woman's hard
fingers.
" With you ? No. What have I to do with you %"
" But why not 1 —as you yourself just said," replied Dorothy,
in her bright, gentle way. " Why may we not do each other a
favour 1"
A strange, slow flush spread over Nancy's dark face as she
still suspiciously met Miss Quentin's eyes.
"A favour ? Stuff!" she muttered ; then added, as if ashamed
of herself for a momentary softening, " You'd better go. This
isn't anything of a place for y ou. Go back to the big house."
" Come with me for one minute first," said Dorothy, still with
her hand on Nancy's ; and the woman turned and went, not
trusting herself to say another word, for fear of the hardness
having left her voice.
With a heavy, unwilling step, she walked where Dorothy led ;
but, when they reached the door of the byre and Dorothy paused
there, the woman broke into one of her moody, mocking laughs.
" You've chosen a delicate walk. Something new for you.''''
Just then, as her guide stood back at the open door to let her
pass, she saw the two cows lying within, and saw them lift their
heads and look at her. Never through all her life did Dorothy
forget the cry with which Nancy threw herself down beside the
animal nearest to her, laying her head upon its neck. No
other cry had ever sounded, or would ever sound, like it in
Dorothy's ears, coming as it did with vehement suddenness from
the hard lips which had uttered such derisive laughter just
before. And Dorothy—ah, how wise our thoughtful sympathy
can make us ! —let the girl's passionate tears have way, and
stood very quiet herself, stroking the cow Nancy had not reached.
When at last the violent crying ceased, she spoke ; scarce seem-
ing to have seen this strange abandonment of grief.
"This one is jealous, Nancy," she said, gently.
"Jealous!" echoed Nancy, with a rather hysterical laugh.
"They can't be, for they know how I love them. Oh, they
know ! Haven't they come back to me ? Haven't they walked
all night to reach me because they knew how I was fretting ?
Oh, go away ! " wildly, yet shamefacedly appealing to Dorothy.
" What should you know of a woman's love being given to
dumb things—poor, paltry, dumb things. He called them poor
when he bought them. They know I never said it. They
knew I loved them, and they've come back to me."
" Don't let them go again," said Dorothy, her tones so soft,
134
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
after the woman's passionate excitement, that they wrought a
sudden change in her.
She rose and faced Dorothy, cold in her distrustful and
suspicious pride.
" How am I to keep them here 1" she asked. " They aren't
mine now. They must go to the man who bought them. We
shall be gone too, presently. Oh"—breaking down with
another burst of unchecked misery—" if they'd only kill me
first I "
" Do not let them go again," Dorothy repeated, with difficulty
checking her own tears that she might calm and soothe Nancy.
"Let us talk it over for a few minutes. Was it quite—quite
necessary that the cows should be sold ? Walk with me to the
road and tell me."
" I've been very wrong to keep you here," said Nancy, stiffly,
while yet she almost savagely struggled with her tears. " I
forgot."
" I wish to be here," corrected Dorothy. " Did I not bring
you myself? Now, Nancy tell me if it is quite necessary that
they should be sent away again ? "
" They will be fetched away again—this very hour maybe.
Tyacke took them for a debt of father's. But what matter?
We're going; so they'd have to any way, and the sooner the
better."
She tried to say this with the old scoffing laugh, but the
sound of tears still bro^ce her voice, and the barrier between
them could not be so instantly and easily rebuilt.
" You are going ? " queried Dorothy. "Is that sure ? "
" Couldn't be surer"—with a ghost of her jeering laugh—" for
the Lord Viscount wills it."
" Lord Avory ? "
" What other Lord Viscount ? There's no other lord over
him—he thinks."
" Why are you going ?" asked Dorothy, her voice very earnest
now.
" Why's hard to say from our side," the woman answered,
speaking fast, " because we've been here all our lives, me and
father, and we're fond of the place, hideous as it is ; and father's
old to begin again, and old trees don't transplant to be healthy
and bear much, and he does no harm here, if no good. From
the Lord Viscount's side, I s'pose it's easy. We've no money
sometimes, and we let him starve because we can't pay him our
rent. He don't know how to live, and has to deny himself
everything, when we don't make enough money to pay him.
Why, it's a lot of money, our rent for a year, almost as much as
my lady pays for one of her gowns ! Yes, it's very easy from
his side to tell why we're going,"
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
*35
" Has he himself told you to go ?" asked Dorothy, again with
her gentle touch upon Nancy's hard brown hand.
" Oh, of course ! " derisively. " He so often talks to me
He's proud of talking to me. He tells me all his private
matters. He "
" Hush," pleaded Dorothy. " Let the tears come. Don't
harden yourself. I shall see you again, if you will let me ; for
I must go now."
" I never kept you," cried Nancy, sharply moving aside to
leave the way free for Dorothy, but her eyes kept her wistfully,
for all the irony in the tone.
"No, I came of my own accord, and I stay of my own accord,
and, if you will let me, I shall come back of my own accord."
" Why should you come back 1"
" Because," said Dorothy, with a smile that was kind as a
kiss, " I shall think of you so much that I must come again to
tell you what I have thought. Will you let me ?"
" You'll think of me V queried Nancy, looking into the beau-
tiful true face, and then down on the pretty hand which held
her own, while she fought against the quickly rising tears.
"What use your coming? We shall have gone. We're to
clear out in a few days. We shall be "
Then she broke down utterly, drawing one hand away and
giving a blow to her swollen eyes, as if too angry with the tears
. to wipe them.
" I must come," said Dorothy, '' for I must see those cows
again. They will always seem old friends of mine after the
walk we took together this morning ; so it is good-bye only for
a little time.11"
Then she went away without a backward glance, as if she knew
how hurriedly Nancy had turned and gone into the cowhouse.
Very slowly Dorothy walked from Kerry's hut ; and so deep
in thought was she that, when, on the corner of the moor, she
came upon Captain D'Eresby, she started unaccountably.
" Miss Quentin, this is bliss indeed ! " he said, his worn face
flushing deeply. " I have walked far and often for this sweet
reward." ,
" I hope not too far," Dorothy said, giving him her hand in
her frank way ; " and I am afraid it is, if you have walked from
your own home."
" Home ?" he echoed, wistfully. "Yes, I have walked from
Northeaton, and shall walk back ; but"—drawing himself up,
as if unlimited strength lay in reserve—" I am strong and active
and I like such walks."
" But they wear—any man," returned Dorothy, avoiding the
" you " she had been about to say, and glad she had done so,
wheq she met the smile that was so young on the old fstCQ,
136
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
"Some men,1' he said ; " but I am very strong. I could even
forget sometimes that I am not young. Will you forgive me if
I tell you that I have been past the Chase or Lynhead each
morning or each night since you have been here, just to rest
my eyes on the roof that sheltered my destiny % I love to
picture your happiness and gaiety—at least," with pathetic energy,
" I hope it is so ; I hope no jealousy makes me restless. I
don't think so ; no, I don't think so."
" Captain D'Eresby," entreated Dorothy, plainly reading the
stern self-control, " I wish you would not think of me save when
we meet."
"Not think of you?" he queried, with sad gentleness, and
again the grip of discipline. " Not think of the all-engrossing,
holy joy of the remainder of my life ? It never holds a moment
when I am not thinking of you ; you are always with me—when
am walking by the way or plodding in the office. In the visions
of the night you are ever present : and in the evening my only
rest 4s to sit and think of you. If you only knew how often I
am anxiously wondering whether you have forgotten me."
" I never forget you," said Dorothy, but she was afraid of
what she had so simply said, when she witnessed his pathetic
gratitude.
" I knew it! " he cried, strong in his simple faith. " I knew
it ! I told myself it was ungrateful to hunger as I have done
for a word or glance, or even for a glimpse of you in the
distance, and to let myself be consumed with jealous fears.
Bear with me. I am grateful in my heart, but am afraid to
hope ; I have been so often disappointed in this world. I have
had in life to gulp down much suffering, and hope deferred has
made my heart sick. I am at times weary of so many long
unencouraged years, and now this anxiety is beyond all others.
But I am grateful, so grateful !"—lifting his hat with quaint
reverence as he spoke.
" Do not be depressed, Captain D'Eresby," entreated Dorothy.
" You say that in your gentle woman's pity," he said, " just
as you bear with my great arrogance. It can be only pity which
lets you continue your friendship with me. I know I am
irksome to you? yet you show a woman's tender pity to a
crushed and battered veteran. I remember all you have done
for me. I live those days in Kent over and over. I was
supremely and perfectly happy. What could make me happier
now than re-living those dear days ? I walked erect and elated
for the first time for many years ; yet I frightened you some-
times, my ideal, and my heart sank ; I was so afraid of mistaking
a dream for a reality."
" But if you live on dreams," said Dorothy, in her gentle way,
" you can have only a dreamy happiness, can you ?"
DOROTHYS VENTURE.
137
"But without it, what would my life be now?" he questioned,
very low. "Do not take it from me. You have made me verv,
very happy ; your friendship has changed the treadmill of life
into a sweet charmed round."
"We none of us are always happy," she said, almost uncon-
sciously uttering a thought aloud as she pictured what his
" sweet charmed round " must be.
" I am happy now," he said, eagerly ; " I am indeed. And
for you, as nothing can make you unhappy save compassion for
me, do believe me that my happiness is perfect at this minute ;
and who is there who ever knows his happiness will last ? You
do not deny that love is good for us ?"
" Love may be good for us when—we love wisely," the girl
said, bravely in her own sad experience, gently in her conscious-
ness of his. " But "
" I understand," he hurriedly interpolated, as if he could not
bear the words she might be going to say. " But who is to foil
destiny 1 To love you was my destiny. I live for you ; I would
die for you ; I am dead to aught else. You will let me worship
on, let me dream on, as I have no other happiness. Let it be "
—wearily drawing his hand across his brow.
" I shall be your friend always," Dorothy said, trying pitifully
to choose words which would soothe him ; " I shall never
marry ; and I shall be glad of your friendship all my life."
A minute afterwards she was afraid of what she had said, his
reception of it was so intensely, strangely quiet.
" Then," he said, below his breath, " you may be mine in
heaven ! " and raised his hat as he said it.
" Captain D'Eresby, what do you think would be the value of
two very thin cows ? " asked Dorothy, glad to turn her thoughts
—and hoping to turn his—from the pathos of his wasted
love.
He told her what he thought, discussing the subject with
her in his anxious, ready way. Then she sent by him a
message to Mr. Pugh to tell him that she was coming to see
him in two days, and lured her companion to other topics, until
they had reached the bridge over the railway-cutting, when she
stood and offered him her hand, knowing that Northeaton lay
on his side of the line. In his innate courtesy he was always
quick to take the slightest hint; and so he bade her farewell—
yet he lingered.
" You have decided young," he said at last, " that you will
not wed. Have you been alarmed ? Have you seen among
the united that harshness wounds, and coldness slowly kills ?"
"Oh, no ! " she answered, her own sad reason undisturbed
within her heart.
" I used tp think," he sqid, standing against the mils of the
133
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
bridge, " that I was destined for stirring scenes. Some men
are ; and I have never known fear. I was promised an English
consulship abroad. If I had "
"Is not this a beautiful morning!" Dorothy asked, lightly,
as she looked along the moor with its golden splashes of furze
in the distance.
" Do you ever," asked D'Eresby, looking down upon the
single line far below them, " have strange presentiments, Miss
Quentin ? I am often forewarned. But''—gently— " no evil
haunts me now. It could not in your presence. I have a
horror of illness, but not of death. Of course, if I could choose,
I should die by the sword of my enemy tor the woman I loved ;
but one may not—choose."
" I think," said Dorothy, trying to shake off her gravity,
"that you are very belligerent. Have you never felt fear in
all your life ? "
" Never," he answered, readily, " except in your presence. I
have braved death coolly in almost every form, and yet am in
positive terror lest I might offend you. Old proven warrior as
I am, I have no nerve unless you smile."
"What is it?" cried Dorothy, alarmed, for he had suddenly
started from his leaning posture and gone back to the other
rail of the bridge, breathing heavily, with a strange pallor on
his face.
" I would not have frightened you—for all the world," he
said, brokenly and apologetically. " I do not know what it
was. A horror—a giddy, nervous horror—of the line. Absurd,
was it not? Forgive me."
" You grew giddy," Dorothy said, compassionately. " I
think I am growing giddy too."
His last words, in their touching humility, were haunting her
still when she reached one of her doors in the park wall of the
Chase and found Lord Avory passing it, looking anxiously for her.
" At last! " he cried, with evident delight to see her. "What
a mysterious disappearance it was to us all! Breakfast has
been postponed sine die, and I believe Yorke is beating the
covers. He was coming here ; but I put it to him feelingly
that I had priority of choice. I seldom win over Yorke's head,
so I like to when I can. Where have you been, Miss Quentin?
Has it tired you into silence?"
He was taking her through the shrubbery, as being a nearer
way to the house ; and, when he asked this, Dorothy turned to
him, hoping that her silence had not annoyed him.
" Lord Avory," she said, standing still and blushing a little
as she spoke, " will you do a great, great favour ? "
He was silent, as if she had not finished her sentence ; but
she did not go on,
Dorothy's venture.
139
" You have left out two pretty words," he said then, smiling.
"Will I do a great, great favour—for you ? Need you ask?"
" Not for me," she corrected, quickly.
" Then I will not promise."
" Please promise."
" No," he persisted, enjoying her deepening blush, " only for
you."
" I mean," she said, earnestly, " need the Kerrys leave their
cottage ? "
" Indeed they need," he answered, laughing. " I have put
up with that idle, unscrupulous fellow far too long."
" So many of us are idle."
" I own your sweet impeachment, Miss Quinten," he said
good humouredly. " But Kerry must go. I thought he would
cringe perhaps at last, for all his paltry false conceit. Has he
been worrying and waylaying you this morning to get you to
appeal for him ? "
" Oh, no ! " said Dorothy, earnestly, " I have not seen him."
" If he had," said the viscount, placidly, " I would turn him
out the sooner for having given me an hour's anxiety."
" Lord Avory," said Dorothy, growing pale a little. " I—I
want to beg this favour from you."
"You want it, Miss Quinten?" looking intently into her face.
" Yes," she said, with swiftly changing colour.
" That makes a wonderful difference. If it be so really," he
said, with a look of tender inquiry, " ask me. You know I
could refuse you nothing.
" That is why I asked it as a favour to Kerry," explained
Dorothy, with quiet honesty.
- " That was of no use," he said, laughing again. " Kerry does
harm to the land, and his farm is an eyesore to me. He shall
not stay there for his own sake, nor for any one's save yours.
To please you, though, he shall stay there till the house falls
on him."
" If he does no real harm, could you not let him stay—as he
is old—for his own sake ?" asked Dorothy, looking candidly up
into his eyes ; and the young man tried to hold the gaze.
"To please whom? "
" Kerry."
" No, that will not do," he answered, enjoying her proud
struggle with herself.
"To please his daughter."
" No," very decisively. " She comes of a bad lot. I endured
her mother and sister far too long, as I knew afterwards. To
please whom."
" Me," she said, quietly, and had not seen the satisfied look
he gave her, before her own eyes fell.
140
Dorothy's venture.
"To please you they shall stay. They should if they were
Red Indians.''
" Thank you, Lord Avory, very much. But you will not let
them know that I "
" That you bewitched me," he supplemented,^ laughing.
" No, that shall be my secret. To whom is Kerry to believe he
owes this, I am sure unexpected, leniency?"
"To you."
"Tome? Why, he will never believe it; But it shall be
as you like, my—exactly as you like. You shall give your own
orders to Moneypen."
" Oh, no !" she cried, with again the swift, bright blush.
" Why not ? " he asked, delightedly watching it.
" I would never do it, of course," she said, with gentle
emphasis.
" I will not mar the favour by any stupidity of mine," he
answered courteously. "Tell me exactly what you wish, and
it shall be done. But are you not going to thank me ?"
" I have," she said, sedately.
"Not very demonstratively," he told her, laughing to see
how she hurried onward now. " But presently I shall ask a
favour of you—Dorothy."
" If so," she said, lifting her eyes fully to meet his, and
answering with grave quietness, though her heart was beating
wildly, " I am quite sure, Lord Avory, that you will forget
this first. Noblesse oblige
CHAPTER XX.
" Deep in your breast lie doubts of me."
After breakfast the next morning the two girls started for a
ramble, promising not to go too far for Avory and Josslyn to
find them. But they were not apparently inclined to limit their
stroll to that portion of the grounds where they would certainly
be sought. Lady Ermine seemed bent upon a long talk with
Dorothy ; and, though Dorothy was unusually thoughtful, she
only understood afterwards why her companion more than once
essayed some subject which she nervously dropped. She only
understood afterwards, when Ermine had asked the favour which
she vainly tried to ask this morning.
Sauntering far along the park, they came at last to double
gates shutting off the railway-line ; and here Ermine paused.
" You have heard the tragedy of my father's life, Dorothy, of
course ? " she said. "This is the spot where it happened. You
know he married a second time ; and a? his wife was delicate
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
I4f
yet took an interest in everything, she used to drive him daily
in a pony-carriage, and take her two children, spending hours
in the open air. She was so pretty and so good, Dorothy, and
the children were like little angels. They never took a groom,
for this was their time together ; and so papa always stepped
out to open the gates. One day they were driving here, and
though papa knew that no train was due—this is only a branch
line, and the trains are very infrequent—he, just by force of
habit, looked at the signal. It was all right; no train had left
Northeaton. He opened the gates for his wife, and waited to
fasten them after she had passed the line. Dorothy, it was all
done in one second ! The train rushed up, and they were killed
before his eyes—all! Don't look as if you saw it, dear ; but
wasn't it terrible ? Do you wonder he lives abroad and hates
this place? He is a perfect recluse, and says it would not be
well for me to live with him ; but I would if he wished it. He
has given Sidney almost everything—except the title, of course
—so he is very rich, as you roay guess. My fortune is large too."
"But," asked Dorothy, bewildered, "how was it about the
signal ?"
" The signalman was found dead in his box, sitting appa-
rently asleep in his chair, but dead. That was a special train,
just one carriage, taking the engineer along the line on business,
and they had signalled it from Northeaton. No wonder the
signal had not heen passed on."
"Oh, what a tragedy!" breathed Dorothy. "Let us go
another way !"
" That has reminded me, Dorothy," said Ermine, as the girls
walked slowly away from the railway-line, " to tell you a little
story of that time. It is about—Josslyn Yorke."
"Yes," said Dorothy, quietly, for she had grown accustomed
to Ermine's bringing every conversation round to him.
" You will laugh, I dare say," Lady Ermine said, with a side-
long glance, " for you never are seriously impressed by anything
Captain Yorke does ; but I assure you it was no laughing matter
then. When my father, in his distress, left England, Dorothy,
I too took a dislike to the Chase, and, for a time, stayed among
friends just where I felt I should be quiet. Alice Yorke was
then staying wiih Mrs. Sagess—Mr. Yorke's sister—in Cornwall.
You have heard of her, I—fear?"
"No," said Dorothy, surprised.
" Oh, well, she is dead now. She was then as frail and uncer-
tain of life as she could be, having a hopeless heart-complaint.
She had but lately taken that house—Tresawednack—for its
quietness and the bracing air, and because a doctor, who had
been her husband's friend in India, was living near ; and we
laughed when we found that any fresh discovery we made on
T42
Dorothy's venture*
the estate or in the country was as fresh to her as to us ; for did
I say that Alice—or Josslyn—had asked her to invite me to stay
there for the quietness and change? Tresawednack was a very
pretty place, though it lay on the borders of an ugly mining
district. The parish adjoining it was in the heart of this district;
and when I went down, there was a good deal of discontent in
this parish—though of course it did not touch us—because the
vicar, a new-comer, had set his mind on thoroughly changing
the old order whether his people would have it or not; for not
only were these miners men who had thought out their own
thoughts, as Cornishmen will, and held to them with the rugged
strength of the very rock they laboured in, but in this parish
John Wesley's name was still the watchword of religion. The
previous vicar had always timed his own services to suit the
Wesleyans, who held theirs earlier and went straight from their
chapel to fill his church. But this new young vicar was—
opinionated, shall I say? for I ought not to blame him for
holding to the opinions he thought right, though he should
have tried to effect his changes gradually. He meant well—
Josslyn said so—but his going to extremes without any tolerance
for those who thought differently was, at the least, a sad mistake.
Sometimes he wrote ironical appeals to the people, sometimes
unmeasured censure, sometimes allegorical verse ; but neither
had these softened them, nor had their alienation changed him.
He took no hint, accepted no suggestion, followed no advice,
rebelled against all interference, and obstinately clung to his
own way. ' I will do my duty,' he said, in spite of what the
people say or think and so, day after day he took solitary
sacraments in the empty church, and Sunday after Sunday
performed the service to two or three people, changing his
vestments two or three times. Often only his two maid-servants
and the sexton were in the great bare church, and so it had
gone on until the Easter I speak of, when Trevor Yorke "
" Trevor Yorke ? " echoed Dorothy.
"Did I say Trevor? How stupid! Josslyn I mean. His
second name is Trevor, and sometimes I use it unawares—
that is all, dear. Where was I ? By this Easter-time all his
parishioners were against him, and the men had shown un-
mistakably that they were not going to stand it. We heard
how the vicar had resolved, independent of his own parish, to
celebrate Easter with gorgeous observance ; and he collected a
choir from other parishes, himself paying them, and buying
banners for them to carry. The people sneered, complained,
and threatened, yet still the preparations went on ; while the
vicar's churchwarden wrote to warn him, and the parish church-
warden, more strongly, to prohibit the procession from the
schoolhouse to the church. We heard of this at Tresawednack,
DOROTHY'S VENTURE. 143
&nd Josslyn Yorkd determined to go. Afterwards I knew why,
but I then thought it only curiosity ; and I was curious myself,
and asked to accompany him and Sydney, Alice driving with
Mrs. Sagess to her own church. A great many men passed us
as we went, and we found a crowd of people opposite the school-
house. Just as we reached it, the procession came from it,
singing and carrying banners, the little vicar bringing up the
rear, and singing most lustily of all. The waiting mob allowed
the surpliced line to come out into the road ; then there was a
sort of rush and tussle, and it was all terrible to me. I saw the
men seize the banners, throw them away, and surround the
vicar ; but, angry and excited as they were, I believe—at least,
I heard—they would not have fought if he h^d not gone on
singing, looking through them and over them, but never at
them. This aggravated them, and they fought in earnest—
great rough, brawny fellows. I saw him knocked about, his
surplice torn, and his face pale as death, but singing still; and
at the same instant, as it seemed, I saw Captain Yorke push his
way through the crowd, knocking down one man who tried by
force to stop him. Sydney would hatfe followed, but I held him
fast, and he could not shake me off and leave me unprotected on
even the outskirts of such a mob. Even when Josslyn reached
him, the vicar would not or could not voluntarily move ; so
Josslyn, lithe and strong, took him up under one arm, and fought
his way with the other back to the school-house, dropped him
within it, locked the door, and stood with his back against it,
facing the surging crowd. Then I looked wildly,but vainly,round
for the police. 'We'll have un out !' they cried. ' We do want
to give un a lesson once for all.' 'Come then,' said Josslyn,
coolly, his slight muscular figure braced for action. ' You can-
not fight your parson, so you shall fight me instead. I'm ready.'
Oh, Dorothy, I have often laughed since at the remembrance
of it, picturing the trembling little vicar behind the locked door ;
but I was very far from laughing then, and I shall never forget
Josslyn's face flushed and dauntless, his hair dishevelled, his
eyes flashing, yet so steadfast, his whole bearing so cool, yet so
intrepid. ' Let him recover his breath, men,' he said as he kept
them from forcing the door. ' He has to preach, you know, and
we are going into the church to hear him.' Dorothy, you never
saw such a change as came amongst those men, just by
force of Josslyn's dauntlessness. It was as if his manliness had
proved to them his gentlemanliness ; and his courage had shown
them his power. ' Come in yourselves, men,' he said in a sort
of easy friendly way, when he saw that they would condescend
to listen, and then added a few more words. Then the men
actually drew back and left a way for him, and I think it was to
show that he might even bring the vicar if he chose, for had he
144
DOROTHY'S VENTURE,
not shown pluck enough—one man to two hundred ? His coat
was torn, and his hat gone ; but he took no notice, and I think
the miners were a little ashamed, seeing it; especially in church,
where they had uninterrupted opportunity ; for some of them—
a good many indeed—came in after us. The service was very
shaky, and the vicar's sermon was broken now and then ; but I
do not fancy he had ever had so many hearers there before,
even though the procession had been stopped, and the banners
spoilt. Ah, there are Sydney and Captain Yorke ! "
" Avory is hunting the grounds for you, Miss Quentin. He
is afraid you have forgotten our challenge game of tennis for this
afternoon. I met him disconsolate."
Dorothy turned to face Captain Yorke, half petulant, half
ashamed of herself.
" I never can hide from you," she said, unthinkingly. She
had had both hands upon the hammock which swung between
two great elms, when Josslyn's voice stayed her. "Where is
Lady Ermine 1"
" She was summoned to a visitor, and she excused our follow-
ing her, hoping she would be only a few minutes," said
Josslyn ; and by that time Dorothy had conquered the strange
restlessness which he took for anger against himself, and could
calmly meet his gaze—for he could not see her heart-beats. " I
brought you this," he said, offering her a lovely half-blown rose.
" Will you wear it, as you have not one 1"
"Thank you," she said, but took it negligently ; and, while she
leaned back against the hammock, steadying it with her hands,
the rose fell and lay unnoticed on the grass.
" Shall I lift you in 1" he asked. " I know you cannot do it."
" Not do it 1 I had a hammock of my own in Boulogne," she
answered, with a flashing glance intended to annihilate him.
" Then why do you not mount ?"
" Because you have come. I must give up my feeble project.
I thought no one would pass, for Lady Ermine told me once that
she had had her hammock hung in a very retired spot."
" I cannot imagine," ruminated Captain Yorke, gazing at her,
"how Avory managed to loose you."
" I sent him in for a book," she answered ; and her quiet tone
made Josslyn wince, it seemed so finished in its coquetry.
" He is your humble slave, Miss Quentin. Why do you never
let me do your bidding 1 "
" ' Bid me to die, and I will die,' " hummed the girl, with
gentle nonchalance.
" ' It shall be so for thee,' " he added. " But why do you bid
me nothing ? "
" I am afraid of you," she said, slowly turning her lovely eyes
to his tace, while, of course he could not understand the real sad
fear they held ; " you are so martial."
Dorothy's venture.
145
" And you have no fear of Avory ?"
" Oh, no " —shaking her head with a laugh—" because, though
he is so big, he has his fears too."
" Of what or whom ? "
" Of groundlings who have no grandfathers. Of course "—
musingly—" he still believes me to be born in the purple ; but
I have disappointed him to-day. I did not know "—sorrowfully
—"what an early Italian triptych was. He was very patient
with me ; but afterwards I shocked him irremediably, for, when
he was praising Benvenuto Cellini—I think that's the name—I
said I considered George Washington the better man. But I
do"—earnestly, when Josslyn laughed. "I am an American,
and I am allowed to have my choice."
"You are a—-something else," laughed Josslyn ; and the girl
did not question him, for she understood, and, recalling Captain
D'Eresby's words, " He is a flirt, as it is called," clutched at the
memory, as if it helped her to fight him with his own weapons.
He was so heartless, so unworthy—so practised, too, else why
was this standing aloof not easy to her ? But it must be done,
though she felt that every cold word pained her more than it
could pain him—pained her, of course, because her mother had
wished her to be different. But he was heartless and unworthy.
How could such a man be anything but hateful in her eyes ?
" Did you know what I meant ? I meant you were a
coquette," said Josslyn.
" Oh, yes " she answered, wishing it were quite impossible to
her to forget this strong and worthy feeling of contempt for
him at the sound of his voice. " Captain Yorke," she went on
presently, ignorant of the new earnestness in her voice, " did you
ever chance to read two lines, originally Goethe's, I believe ? "
'You complain of the woman for roving from one to another :
Where is the constant man whom she is trying to find ? '"
"Then we prevent your being constant, do we?" asked
Josslyn, laughing.
"You,"—gently. "I think I cannot resist telling you how
Browning has described you—just as if you had spoken—
' My life long
I've been a woman-liker,—liking means
Loving, and so on."'
" It is not true," said Josslyn, hotly.
" Not ?" she echoed, with dainty lifted brows.
"No, not," he answered, crossly; and then his stern face
relaxed, and he apologised for his ill-temper. " You do not
know," he told her wearily, " what the pain of jealousy is like."
" What is it like ?"
K
146
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Never mind. I hope you will never know. And yet—what
would I not give to see you, just for once, as jealous of me as
I What an impossibility !"
" No, for I take a great interest in you," she said conscious
of speaking idiotically, while his earnest, troubled words had
made her heart ache. " I am almost a sister to you.''
"No, you are not," he said, heavily; for her reply had
discouraged him exactly as she meant it should ; " and I do
n<3t wish you to be."
" Shall I be then almost an aunt ?"
" Do not be absurd, Dorothy."
"You must not call me by that name," she said, while her
heart beat with a restless nervous haste. "You know I—I
am always ashamed of my uncouth name. I wish "—with a
sudden wistful nervousness inexplicable to herself—" that you
would be a brother to me."
" Impossible !" he answered, sharply.
" I think in a book," she said after a brief pause, her eyes
calmly dwelling on his face, " yours would be called now a
lowering brow. It seems to be coming down over your eyes."
" I am a savage fellow, I know, and ugly enough. Let
me be."
" I do not put it that way," she said, while her heart ached
and yearned, and her pulses throbbed. "I would but say, as
politely as the wedding-guest did, ' Thou art long, and lank, and
brown.'"
The next minute she would have given much if she had not
said those heedless words ; yet her mood was random still,
and as incomprehensible to him.
" Dorothy, do you remember walking with me in the meadow
at Dover?"
' " Oh, yes ! "
"Is it," he asked, eagerly "a pleasant memory to you, pr an
indifferent one ? " "
" Oh, not an indifferent one ! "—with a grave shake of her
head. " There is, I know, some pain associated with it ; but I
cannot exactly explain. Perhaps lovely woman had stooped to
folly and wore tight boots. I think the pinch of a small boot
very painful; don't you ? "
" You did not look as if you were in pain."
"No; a true Englishwoman bears her wound unseen. Let
us go now. Lady Ermine will surely be at liberty, and you at
peace."
" Dorothy," said Josslyn, gravely, " I am not in love with Lady
Ermine."
"You think not, perhaps," amended Dorothy, with matronly
forbearance.
.DOROTHY'S VENTURR.
i47
" I am sure not. A man cannot mistake."
" I am rather glad," observed the girl, absently.
"You are glad ?" he queried, eager and hopeful. " You are
glad ?"
" Yes ; I am glad you are not in love. I have read so much
about the simpleness of men in love."
" I did not say I was not in love," said Josslyn, promptly. " I
am not in love with Ermine Courtier."
" Oh, that tennis ! " sighed Dorothy, rising from her leaning
position without a glance at her fallen rose. "We must go, I
suppose."
Then she walked silently at his side, shrinking as ever from
the consciousness of her own power over him, and hoping
fervently and generously that she had never said a word to him
of Ermine save in honest praise. Their silence was not broken
until Lord Avory met them.
" So you found her first, Yorke, after all," he said, turning
with them. " Now we are going to beat you and Ermine."
" If you can," said Josslyn, drily.
"We shall do our best to win ; shall we not, Miss Quentin?"
the viscount went on, as Josslyn left them to seek his partner ;
and he bent to her with a smile, rather surprised at her
unexpected quietness. " Has anything happened ?"
But this question roused her. Nothing had happened, she
said, except that she was meditating a defeat for their
opponents. Then Avory was at ease again, and quite certain
that he entertained her acceptably, until they reached the
tennis-ground ; while she was wondering why the time passed
so differently with Lord Avory and with Captain Yorke, while
yet she liked the one with whom it crept, and so disliked and so
despised the one with whom it hew.
" Mother," she whispered in her heart, " you would not have
sent me if you had known."
The game was a very merry one that afternoon, each side
being determined to win, each separate player laughingly bent
on conquest. Lord Avory was roused to exert himself in a most
uncharacteristic manner, and Ermine's laughter was quite as
unusual, for her ordinary play was quiet and conventional.
Josslyn's great effort to appear careless over the struggle, while
he was in reality exerting his utmost power to win, caused
laughter in which he himself joined willingly ; but still greater
merriment was caused by Dorothy's unconcealed care and
anxiety, her wild excitement over every good stroke, and her
great depression over the poor ones. When at last her side lost
the game, she threw down her racket and turned to Josslyn with
brilliant defiant eyes.
" I wanted to win this game."
I4S
dorothy's venture.
" But you could not—against me. All your power is wasted
unless you are on my side. Yet you played so well that it
is plain to see you have been through a course of secret
practice."
" I feel ignoble, Lord Avory ; don't you ?" she asked, looking
resolutely away from Josslyn as the viscount came up to them.
" Let us go and mingle our tears. That is not humiliating, is
it, as the Duke of Marlborough cried over a lost game of
piquet ?"
That evening Dorothy hurriedly finished dressing, and,
leaving the house quietly, ran to where Lady Ermine's hammock
swung between the elms. Beside it lay a beautiful half-open
crimson rose, and Dorothy looked down upon it for a minute ;
then picked it up and turned to leave the spot. Suddenly she
stopped, and, with a piteous questioning in her eyes, looked
down again upon the rose she held.
" No, no," she whispered ; "it was better to forget."
For one moment she crushed the flower to her lips, kissing it
passionately ; then she threw it from her, with her eyes averted;
and went slowly back to the house.
CHAPTER XXI.
" She never confessed a favour aloud,
Like one of the simple, common crowd,
But faintly smiled and coldly bowed,
As who should say, ' You do me proud,
And do yourself an honour.'"
The library was very silent, and Dorothy sat on the floor, her
head bent over the book she held, her eyes intent upon its
pages ; while Captain Yorke watched her, standing with his
back to the flower-filled grate. It was not for a long time that
he broke the silence in the room.
"Miss Quentin, are you sorry this is our last day at the
Chase?"
She nodded, without lifting even her eyes, for her heart was
beating quickly.
" Does it seem strangely silent to you here ? Do you miss
the rooks ?"
A shake of the head ; that was all.
" I shall be sorry to take you away, Dorothy, for I fear you
are happier here."
No answer. She only read on calmly, or seemed to do so,
while she stifled the gladness she felt at her heart because it
DOROTHYS VENTURE.
149
was he who would take her away from Avory and Ermine, not
they who could take her from him. Another silent pause of
his, and, as she would not break it, he did, his eyes still on
her face.
"Miss Quentin, when you went into raptures this morning
over the engraving Avory showed you, did you not remember
we have it at Lynhead? We have at least a hundred proof
engravings of Sir Joshua's pictures."
" But you never showed them to me, I mean," slowly lifting
her face at last to see his astonished incredulity, " not so
agreeably as Lord Avory does."
" I have no chance. You have no patience with me, and
every patience with him."
" Where is Lady Ermine ?"
" Giving some orders for to-night. Were you looking out a
subject for a tableau that you lighted on that musty old book ?
It is not suggestive of Mudie."
"No, I felt that it must be a rare and ancient tome, and I
like the idea of tomes."
"Especially of novels in three tomes," laughed Josslyn.
"You hold it tenderly. Does it inspire such reverence ?"
" Partly, and the other partly it suggests mildew and animal-
culae."
" What is it ?"
"A catalogue of paintings in an exhibition in 1689; and the
titles of the pictures widen my classical knowledge ; though,
being built on Mangnall, that ought to be complete, oughtn't it ?"
" Read it to me. Perhaps it may widen mine."
" It will, of course. For instance, you never knew before, I
fancy, that when Andromeda was bound to that uncomfortable
rock, she was supplied with a field-glass for the easy recognition
of Perseus at a distance. I did not, yet the fact has been illus-
trated in one of the greatest works of the year 1689—a day
much nearer Andromeda's own than ours—for one picture is,
' Andromeda with a Glass.' "
"Perhaps a wine-glass," suggested Josslyn. "What else is
there ?"
-" Oh, so many wonderful paintings ! Is not this irreverent—
"A Little Dog after Van Dyck'? It would have shown far
more respect to have called it 'Van Dyck, Followed by a Little
Dog,' for the little dog ought to be the secondary consideration."
"What else is there ?" asked Josslyn, listening as if he could
never tire of the sweet, grave voice.
" Here is 'A Fool Playing with a Maid well Painted.'"
"Then the weaknesses of these days were not unknown in
those more primitive ones."
" But even then our artists liked to point a moral as woU as
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
to adorn a tale, Captain Yorke, for one picture is 'A Libertine
neatly Done.'"
"Is that all?" asked Josslyn, with evident disappointment
when she looked up from the book.
" Oh, no ! " she said, glad to return to it. " Have you ever
ungratefully marvelled over our artists employing unnecessary
canvas ? If so, here is a mediaeval precedent. A Landskip
with Geese five feet long' does not seem to be considered out
of the way."
"Nor inconveniently in it?" queried Josslyn. " Is there no
restriction to the production of these geese ? "
"A large Piece of Venus," read Dorothy, tranquilly; and
Josslyn's laugh was very prompt.
' I have thought now and then," he said, " that Venus has
been quite sufficiently portrayed ; yet I never went so far as to
imagine that giving her to us in parts would be any improve-
ment."
" ' Daniel Lambert on copper,' " read Dorothy.
"Serve him right !" laughed Josslyn. "That reminds me"
—as Dorothy closed the book—"of Noyes telling me once on
Ludgate Hill to look up and I should see a portrait of Daniel
hanging over a door, I believe—I suppose the galleries were
closed, and we had to seek our art elsewhere. He drew me
sideways and backwards and upwards, careless of our inter-
cepting harmless passengers, and at last planted me in a spot
and told me that from there I could see Dan plainly. I never
did see Dan plainly—indeed I may say I never saw him at all;
but I enjoyed a general impression of varnished waistcoat, and
knew there might be a great work of art there."
"You could bear that disappointment very well, I daresay,"
observed Dorothy. " Don't you think, with regard to Mr. Parr
and Mr. Lambert, that one lived too long and the other too
broad ? "
" Do get up," he urged, presently. " There are better
pictures here to talk about until Lady Ermine returns. Will
you come out of doors a little, then ?" pursued Josslyn, when
she neglected his first suggestion. " There is much you have
not seen yet."
"No Cedar Hall. No Sir Anthony's Leap."
" You miss them ? " he asked, his gladness pitifully apparent.
" Oh, yes ! When Ermine first took me out, I felt as grateful
as that worn-out sightseer who awoke in Berlin and thanked
heaven there was nothing there to see."
She noted the cloud upon his face, and, when he hed left the
room, her own grew strangely shadowed too. A few minutes
afterwards Lady Ermine looked in, and Dorothy greeted her
with a srnile,
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
"Alone, Dorothy?" she cried, with the nervous hesitation
Dorothy had noticed before. " That is unusual. I thought
Captain Yorke was here."
'' So he was for a little time,'' the girl answered, leaning
against a writing-table, with the old book still in her hand ; and
looking down wistfully upon Ermine, who had thrown herself
into a low easy-chair—wistfully, because she knew so well the
wish in Ermine's heart. " He went away, though. He never
finds me a soothing companion."
" I notice that," said Ermine—and it was not difficult to see
that this fact was not unwelcome to her—" while he and I have
always been the best of friends, Dorothy.
" I am sure so," said Dorothy, wondering whether it would
be possible to warn Ermine from bringing on herself such
suffering as Truth's, and yet unwilling to deny her the pleasure
she so often sought of talking to Josslyn.
" Why do you so dislike being with Captain Yorke, Dorothy?"
" Do I ? Do you find that some people, when you talk
alone with them, have a habit of finding out how little you
know ?"
" Nonense, dear ! Besides, it never seems really difficult to
you to talk to Captain Yorke."
" No, perhaps not difficult.—How beautiful that lace of yours
is, Ermine ! Do you know, I begin to prefer the real to the
imitation, now I know what the real thing is ?"
" Just at first," continued Ermine, overlooking with graceful
contempt that idiotic remark, " I believe I was a little jealous
of you, Dorothy, because, on that night you arrived at Lynhead,
Josslyn was so changed from what I had ever seen him before."
" Surely he had cause to be?" put in Dorothy, gently.
"Yes; and afterwards I fancied that was all. It was a
miserable feeling, and I am glad to have lost it. Everyone can
see that you do not care for Captain Yorke—do not like him
even—though you seem fond of all the others. I cannot under-
stand, but I must confess that I am glad, for I do care for him.
I do not consider it wrong to care for him, for we are such old
friends. He has always been my best friend, and once "
"And once?" qeried Dorothy, quietly, in her pause.
" Once I think he never thought of any future wife but me.
I think so indeed. It seemed so, if he did not say it, and his
father wished it. Now my father would be willing—quite."
" And was not before ? " questioned Dorothy, puzzled.
" No, not before. It was different, you see—at least you do
not see ; but—I forgot," stammered Lady Ermine, avoiding the
girl's gaze. " I cannot tell you, dear ; I wish I might. But
there need be no barrier between us now ; and he—does not
know this, I fear. I want him to .know it, Dorothy ; and so I
IS2
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
am going to ask you a favour. You are quite sure you do not
care for him ? "
" I do," said Dorothy, something in her voice surprising even
herself, " as a friend."
" As a friend, yes," echoed Ermine, with a sigh of relief.
" That is so different. You do not love him yourself. I would
never ask you this if you did ; but you would wish him to be
happy, would you not, Dorothy ? "
" Yes." Such a strange, low " Yes ! "
" And you would help me to make him so ? "
" I do not know," said Dorothy ; for now she was recalling
Truth's sad words, and strengthening her own oft-expressed
dislike of him.
. " You would help to make me happy?" whispered coaxingly.
"You are happy," Dorothy answered, absently. "You have
everything."
" You say that, dear, just because you always admire my
dresses," said Ermine, smiling, in perfect ignorance of the girl's
vague suffering. " I like your taste, Dorothy; but you need
not envy me, for you beautify your own dress always. It is so
evidently a part of you. Now Ethel Barber dresses well; but
she is always so evidently dressed, that it is different. I do not
think Josslyn Yorke was ever likely to fall in love with her; do
you. Dorothy?"
" I think not."
" I think not too," said Ermine, with a laugh. " Dorothy "—
after a little pause—" could you tell Josslyn? Could you bring
it out casually in one of your conversations—of course leading
up to it, as you have plenty of power to do ? Just show him
that, if he wish it, he could be my lover now—as I believe he
used to be years ago—up to a year ago—when he felt his pride
so lowered. Tell him/do not care. It did not change me.
Don't let him be so proud, and so eccentric in his pride. I
mean," Lady Ermine went on, struggling with her uncharac-
teristic nervousness, " it was pride, I am sure ; and, though I do
not wonder—though he has cause to be abased and humbled, I
—care for him so much that I forget all that. And"—with a
forced laugh—" now I have humbled myself, have I not, to ask
you this ? I want it done soon, Dorothy. I want him to feel
that he may depend on my constancy, and my love, whatever
happens. It is not unwomanly to bring him back to what I
believe he used to feel, for I want him to be happy really,
Dorothy. You cannot blame me ; but, as you do not love him,
you cannot understand. Still you wish him to be happy, and
you wish me to be happy ; so I think you will do this for us."
" You do not know," said Dorothy, very low, " what you
ask me,"
Dorothy's venture.
i53
"Oh, I do!" said Lady Ermine, rising to kiss the pretty
tremulous lips ; " and I know you will do it; and soon, dear,
for this reason. I am afraid—Sydney thinks, at least—that a
blow awaits Josslyn about Anthony's debts; and, if so, it will
be much lighter to him if he—if he and I are engaged. He
need not think of his brother's debts or his father's death, for
1 am rich enough for us both, and I want—only him. Then, at
such a time my title and a marriage into our family will have
its advantages for him. Oh, you understand, dear ! "
" I think I understand," said Dorothy, absently. " Is there
trouble coming through Anthony ? "
" I fear so, but I try not to think of it. Only, if it comes
first, it will be another barrier between us."
" Was that other barrier an old promise binding him ?" asked
Dorothy mechanically.
" Never mind, dear. I may not tell you, but it never changed
me. Love is a curious thing. Oh, I have such a yearning
sometimes to feel my hand in his, or his arm about me !"
" If I loved him," said Dorothy, sturdily, yet wearily, as if
she had heard enough, " I would rather have his trust than his
caresses."
"Dorothy," said Ermine, gazing wonderingly into the
beautiful young face, have you never had a lover ?"
A slow vivid blush rose in th# girl's cheeks as she met the
gaze, and, with a gravity which she had never dreamed it
could evoke, she was recalling Poulter's speech—" It's a sure
sign a girl is plain and disagreeable if she has no lover.''
"Tell me," urged Ermine, smiling. "I believe Sydney
fancies no one ever made love to you until he chose to do so."
Dorothy put from her mind a hundred things Lord Avory
had said to her even within these few days, resolutely turned
from every memory of Josslyn Yorke, and held in her thoughts
only the sad worn man who, through the three summer days
in Dover, had told her how no power of hers could prevent his
being all his life her lover.
" Yes," she said, quietly, " I have a lover."
" I thought so !" cried Ermine, clapping her hands softly
together. "I was sure so. I shall not tell Sydney—at any
rate, not until after to-night—because he is so enjoying your
visit, Dorothy. And you need not mind him. He is never in
real earnest, for he is far too idle to be so. Is your real lover
very much in earnest, Dorothy ? "
"Very," Dorothy said, gently, in her sad, compassionate
remembrance of Captain D'Eresby's earnestness.
"This is a kiss of sympathy, dear, for I am so glad. And I
know now how sure you are to help me, for you must feel for
me and Josslyn Yorke, It is a promise, is jt pot ?"
i54
Dorothy's venture.
" If there is anything I can ever do to bring happiness to any
one of Mr. Yorke's household, you need never fear my refusing
to do it," the girl said, with a strange new firmness. Then her
tone changed, as if she would turn from this thought utterly.
" What detained you, Ermine ? "
" Only some necessary arrangements for this evening. Then
there came an unexpected telegram from a distant connection
of ours to say that she would be here to-morrow—Lady Letitia
Chilton. What is the matter, dear ? "
" Nothing," said Dorothy, coldly, as she turned away. "I
will put up this old book. I wonder where I took it from ? "
"Never mind," said Ermine, cogitating over a reason for
the girl's sudden pride and pallor. " Make room for it
anywhere."
So, in the first spot where the books did not seem to be
tightly pressed, Dorothy pushed them apart to make space
enough for hers ; and, when she thus disclosed a card upon the
shelf behind the books, she drew it out. It was a dusty photo-
graph, and she glanced at it involuntarily before speaking.
" Why, Ermine," she said then, rising with it in her hand,
"can this really be Anthony Yorke? How splendidly he
photographs ! It is positively unfair, for in reality he is far
from being as handsome as this. What flattery ! I knew his
features were good, but yet this is scarcely like him."
" Give it to me," said Ermine, hurriedly ; and, after a brief
glance she tore it through.
" Ah, let me see again," pleaded Dorothy, "for it will make
me like Anthony more ! It is a far, far better photograph than
those at Lynhead. Why do you have it, and not them ?"
" I haven't it—now," said Lady Ermine, with a quick
nervous laugh ; and she tore the cardboard through again and
again, glancing at the fireplace, as if she wished there were a
lire there instead of ferns and flowering plants.
CHAPTER XXII.
"Yet she was coy and would not believe
Th2t he did love her soe."
" I wish you were not going to leave us to-morrow, Dorothy,"
sighed Lady Ermine, with real regret, as she led Dorothy into
her dressing-room, and seated herself on a couch before the
window. " Shall you speak to Captain Yorke—you know of
what I mean—to-night ?"
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
155
A shadow fell over the younger girl's face ; she had been so
glad to feel it need not be done this evening.
" Well, Dorothy ? " presently.
" If you like ; but I thought to do it afterwards quietly at
home, if you agree."
" I leave it to you. I know you will not pass by the
opportunity ; and when we come over for Alice's birthday
festivities you will tell me."
" But perhaps you will have something to tell me first,
Ermine," Dorothy said, gazing now into the contented dark
eyes, and wondering how anyone could look so serenely sure of
—anything.
" Yes, I hope so, dear. The Yorkes always give a picnic and
a dance on Alice's birthday—Mr. Noyes comes down for it—
and we shall have opportunities then. We shall dance
to-night, Dorothy. I have had the rugs carried from the long
drawing-room, for it makes a magnificent ball-room, and the
floor is splendid. Papa used to talk of building a ball-room ;
but I am sure it is unnecessary. We shall be twenty to dinner,
and about eighteen come afterwards. What dress have you ? "
" Only the blue I have worn each evening," said Dorothy,
just a trifle shamefacedly. " T. told you I brought that, thinking
it my prettiest."
" And it is quite pretty enough, dear, unless you would like
" Ermine broke off abruptly, one glance into Dorothy's
unsuspicious face warning her from venturing on the offer.
" Suzette is bringing us a tray of flowers to choose from. You
see my dress, Dorothy ? "
"It is exquisite," said Dorothy, with genuine admiration.
"I'm sure I never saw so splendid a silk before ; and it has
every colour in it, like the sky above the sunset—far above it,
where the colours are very pale. And what a wonderful
trimming! That pearl lace must be worth a king's ransom.
The whole dress is magnificent, and must have been, like
Enoch Arden's funeral, ' costly.' "
" I am glad you read Tennyson, Dorothy. I feared you would
prefer some obsolete old-fashioned poet ; you are so contrary."
" Perhaps I do," laughed Dorothy, " yet can love him too—
except for that one word.'
" Dorothy, I have had another telegram from Lady Letitia
Chilton, and she may be here to-day. I am sorry, because not
only do you not know her, but she will disturb our quartet- I
am a favourite of Lady Letitia's," Ermine went on, as Dorothy
pondered rather proudly. " She says I never grate on her
susceptibilities."
" Perhaps it is good," said Dorothy, gently, " tq be anyone'?
favourite."
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Come," said Ermine, with a laugh, " do not leave all the
flowers for me. I want the Yorkes to see that the best flowers
we have are at your disposal. Make yourself gorgeous, for fear
Sydney should wonder over your wearing the same dress in
which you have dined with us alone, at such a party as this."
There was small evidence of Lord Avory's wondering over
that, for, even while he was busy as host among his arriving
guests, he made but a poor pretence of treating her as the most
insignificant. The small young gentleman who was told off" to
take her in to dinner, found their appointed places very near
their host's ; and, when Avory met Dorothy's eyes, he smiled
in placid content, having calmly worked, as usual, his own will.
Alice shot a meaning glance across the table at her brother:
but Josslyn apparently did not see,
"Lord Avory seems to like Sir Marmaduke to be within
speaking distance," pointedly whispered the resplendent duchess
whom Avory had taken in. to the gentleman on her other side.
" Right too," was the whispered retort. " He is Lady Ermine's
ardent admirer. But who is the girl next him1? Deliriously
pretty, is she not 1"
"A nobody," the duchess answered, with a sigh. "It is
unfair upon Sir Marmaduke Coddington."
The small young gentleman, who was already a baronet,
and seemed oppressed neither by his imposing name, rior his
elaborate dress, nor the unusual height of his forehead, scarcely
seemed to need pity as he glided into conventional dinner-table
talk, positively astounding Dorothy by his power of investing
the mildest observations with importance ; and, though his eyes
often wandered to the head of the table, he certainly improved
those two shining dinner-hours. There was something so
infectious in the girl's sweet, bright readiness, that the duchess
congratulated herself on having taken the precaution of dis-
covering she was nobody, before she could be lured into accept-
ing her as pretty and piquant, or well informed. Avory
tranquilly anticipated the pleasure he should give his father
when he exhibited his wife—the loveliest countess in their line,
as surely the earl himself would think.
There was a pleasant recess of music and chat in the white
drawing-rooms,while the evening guests arrived ; but it seemed
to Dorothy that the gentlemen followed them immediately ; for
no one, watching her to-night, could guess that she had
been for two hours looking forward to the restfulness of their
absence.
" Isn't kit always dull till the men come in?" whispered
Sophy.
"Oh, dear no!" returned Dprothy, surprised. "I I'Jke it
SO."
£)6rothy's venture. 157
" Do you? No one would think so, dear," and Sophy smiled
with good-natured irony. " Here comes Lord Arory, greeting
his fresh arrivals ! "
The task soon seemed over, and he was at Dorothy's
side.
" What partners will you have," he asked her," while I dance
my duty dances ? There are no programmes, and it is to be all
informal; so look and choose. They will all be willing
enough."
" No one premeditatedly."
"Well, their chances will be brief. Au revoirA
Dorothy saw Sir Marmaduke and Captain Yorke talking
together; then the baronet went to Ermine's side, and Josslyn
came to hers.
" Will you dance with me ?" he asked, looking anxiously into
her radiant eyes.
" No, thank you," she said straightening her pale blue mittens,
over which no single bracelet gleamed.
" No ?" he echoed, as if he scarcely comprehended. " Have
you any reasons ? "
" Whims," the girl said, demurely ; but she looked across
at Lady Ermine as she spoke, and he fancied he understood
her.
" Coddihgton has bespoken this dance ; I am to have the
next."
" Then later on, perhaps," observed Dorothy, in a quaint,
instructive manner, " you will ask me," and the next moment
she had accepted a partner and left him.
It-was indeed later on, as she had said, when he again joined
her, having. seized on the moment when she sat down to
rest.
" It is a lovely night, Dorothy," he began, monopolising her
settee for his own especial reasons. " Will you come out and
see ?"
" Oh, no !" she said, dropping her fan a little, its white
feathers no whiter than the pretty neck it touches. " How
could I leave such gorgeous rooms? I feel as if I could not
exist now without Italian ivory, carved four centuries ago.
" Avory has imbued you with all his fancies, has he ? "
"Almost," she said, her eyes brilliant with excitement,
though she tried to lift them unconcernedly to his. " I am
even meditating a dress of white brocade like these chairs."
"It will be easy enough for you presently if "
" If what ?"
" If it is really your wish."
"You often say that," she answered, with a frown, "as if what
I said to you were generally—not real."
.DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Do I ?" ke asked, and laughed.
"You do," she said, and did not laugh, though the dimples
seemed uncertain about it.
"Do come out," urged Josslyn again. " It is a beautifully
starlit night, and so warm."
" No," with a resolute shake of the head.
" If I wish you to stay in, you would be sure to want to go
out," said Josslyn, crossly. "A man is mad, or a fool, who tries
to bend a woman's will to his own."
"It collapses back,.you think?" inquired Dorothy, alert for
information, but indifferent to grammar.
" Last time I asked you to stay in you went out, even though
it rained."
" I like rain," she affirmed, amiably. " Nothing is pleasanter
than a soft fresh shower."
" But this was desperate, determined rain."
" I like that too. I have a keen sympathy with Nature in the
dumps."
"The fact is," said Josslyn, heavily, " you always like what
is contrary to what I wish ; you have always done so."
"Not always," she said, unconscious of the pathos in her voice.
" When was it otherwise ?" he asked, with eagerness.
"When?" she repeated, musingly. "Let me see. In the
accurate words of a great man, it was ' some time ago
exactly.'"
"Then you will not have a stroll—or dance with me ? "
" The next dance, if you like," she said, gently, without dis-
missing him. " How nice your sisters look!"—her eyes following
various figures in the throng—" and your brother ! I scarcely
realised how handsome Anthony is until to-day, when I found
his photograph in the library here."
" But you have seen them at Lynhead ? "
"Not the same at all as this one. The figure looked more
like yours than his, and the artist had caught quite an unusual
expression in the eyes You are not listening to what I say,
Captain Yorke."
" I will repeat every word if you like," he answered, smiling;
but her quick eyes had caught that long intent gaze into space,
and she was sorry.
" Anthony is always brighter with you," Anthony's brother
observed, hastening to say something. " How do you do him
so much good ?"
" I tell him frequently of the young man who met his death
so tragically through smoking ; for of course, Captain Yorke,
you would not insinuate that any young man would have been
burnt to death by a lighted pipe being in his pocket, if he had
not been a smoker, would you ?"
DOKO I HY'S VENTURE.
" He does smoke inveterately. I am exciting envious
glances, DorotHy. You will be carried off, I fear."
" No, thank you," the girl said coolly to the eager aspirant
who had sought her. " I am engaged for the next dance.
There is not," she went on, once more idly watching, though
she knew that josslyn's eyes were not following hers, "much
variety in a gentleman's ball-dress, is there, especially now
they all turn down their collars? Captain Yorke, how do you
know when you are to turn your collars down ? "
" How do you know," he asked, laughing, " when you are to
wear trains or—anything ? "
*" Oh, I believe we have papers which tell us everything ;
have you ? Who is that gentleman dancing now with Alice ?
I forget, though I danced with him. Doesn't he remind you
of Mr. Bounderby, looking as if he had just been inflated like
a balloon and was ready to start ? He actually jumps ! He
took me up so high once that I hazarded a suggestion about
starting down again."
" Oh, Dorothy, what nonsense ! "
" I did not feel it so, I assure you."
" Why on earth did you dance with Watkinson when there
are so many better men anxious for the favour ? "
" No, there were none—better."
" I'm a poor dancer myself," said Josslyn, honestly ; " I do
not care for it—at least I have not yet."
" How Mr. Bounderby seems to be enjoying himself," put in
Dorothy, soberly.
" He enjoys everything. If he believes, with Mohammed,
that there is only one Paradise for man, he certainly means to
enjoy his in this world. He has bought a splendid estate, but
not an education. Avory wrote a sort of official letter to him
the other day, and, as he needed more than a page, he put in
the corner 'T.S.V.P.' Bounderby was not going to be beaten,
if puzzled. In his reply, though his letter was merely three
lines, he put the same letters in the corner, but, to vary it, he
reversed them ; and so at the foot of his letter to Avory stood
' P.V.S.T.' The viscount was not to consider he monopolised
the learning of the county."
"I suppose," mused Dorothy, "that Sir Marmaduke is of
the cream of the county, for he is dancing for the third time
with Lady Ermine."
" Sure sign," laughed Josslyn ; " yet he very nearly missed it
too. His father left certain instructions in his will, and, unless
they were carried out, all his property was to be divided among
his grooms How can you laugh ? He was to be buried in
his pink, spurs and whip and hat complete, and his coffin was
to be carried to the churchyard straight across country. So the
l6o
dorothy's venture.
river had to be bridged, ditches filled, hedges broken, gardens
trampled, and walls knocked down. It was done, of course ;
and so Sir Marmaduke inherited the fortune he would cheerfully
lay now at Ermine's feet."
" He seems very ladylike," quoted Dorothy, placidly. "There
are plenty of happy faces here."
" Your own the happiest," said Josslyn, earnestly ; yet even
you have your sad hours, I fear. I often think," he went on,
not even aware of her effort to look a negative to his last
surmise, " of that Caliph who was blest with heaven's choicest
gifts—riches, pleasure, friendship, success—all that men desire,
yet had counted the days on which he had been happy, and
through fifty years, they had been fourteen."
"No, thank you, Lord Avory," said Dorothy, gravely as the
viscount begged her hand. "My next engagement is to
Captain Yorke, and I am too idle yet to fulfil it."
A few minutes afterwards the viscount came up to her again
with a lady on his arm—a tall, limp, elderly lady, with a pale
face, and a heavy dress of bronze-green velvet. She bent
graciously in acknowledgment of Captain Yorke's bow, then
started and turned as Avory introduced Miss Quentin. She
lifted her eyeglasses and looked through them, as Dorothy
gravely and silently bowed.
" I do not need your introduction here, Sydney," she said,
with a stare which might have been rude in anyone less aristo-
cratic. " Geraldine Quentin was in my charge for some weeks
during this summer."
The girl stood silent, looking down, her face very pale and
proud.
" You know you need not trouble Lord Avory for an intro-
duction to me, Geraldine," Lady Letitia went on, more sharply
than she had meant to speak.
Then Dorothy gravely bowed once more, and put her hand
within Captain Yorke's arm.
" What does this mean, Ermine ?" inquired Lady Letitia,
when Avory had not unwillingly deposited her in bis sister's
vicinity. " How comes Geraldine Quentin here ? "
Lady Ermine told as briefly as possible, and the elder lady
listened in silence. An hour afterwards she found Avory at
her beck, and expended a little of her surprise on him ; for she
had watched him as well as Dorothy.
" I am positively astounded to find the girl so beautiful! "
she said. " Why, she is brilliantly lovely ! And, if she is so,
dressed as she is, what would she be dressed by Worth ? I
am almost tempted to give her a season in town. What is it in
her so unlike—the rest of them ? "
Lady Letitia had seen that Avory was enslaved by the girl;
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
161
and, if such a match as this was to be consummated, would it
not be wise to have it done under her auspices ? She was
tired of London seasons undergone alone, where—except
among the dull and ponderous—her presence was excepted
only on sufferance. How different it would be if she chaperoned
a girl who would be a reigning beauty, and an earl's eldest son,
handsome and fabulously wealthy, were always in her train ?
It would be a new and exciting sensation for the jaded woman
of fashion ; and, as she thought of no one's sensations but her
own, this was a weighty consideration.
She saw how eagerly Lord Avory returned to Dorothy, after
his enforced conversation with her, and she smiled in her limp,
bland way.
" The girl encourages him," she said to herself, seeing no
flickering glimmer of the truth. " She has a little sense, after
all. Yet. I wonder at her seeming so bored by Captain Yorke."
Bored—when every power Dorothy possessed was exercised
to resist what was tempting her !
" Geraldine," said Lady Letitia, waylaying her at last as she
walked down the long drawing-room at Josslyn's side—for she
had waited in rigid displeasure, and in vain, for the girl's
advances or apologies—" come here and tell me of your father,
and of all that has happened since I saw you last."
But Dorothy passed on with again that slight, grave courtesy ;
and Josslyn, though surprised, and even hurt, kept at her side,
only too glad that at last—althought it was in unrest and dis-
pleasure—she let him wrap a warm shawl about her, and lead
her out. It was indeed, as he had said, a lovely night ; and
when he had led her to the shrubbery, and she paused, looking
up into the star-crowded heavens, her whole being thrilled with
the consciousness of how small and mean a thing resentment
was. This was one of those rare, silent moments when nothing
comes between the soul and heaven ; but Dorothy quickly
looked into Josslyn's face, putting back with her own band the
sweet peace from her heart.
"Did you see me?" she asked, low and distinctly. "Did
you see how I behaved to Lady Letitia Chilton ? "
" Yes," he answered, gravely.
" That is only a faint specimen of my natural temper,
Captain Yorke."
" I und erstand," he said. She was looking at him still, and
her lips trembled a little ; but it was with a new fear, because
his gaze was so kind and tender. " I know what little cause
you have to love Lady Letitia."
" You ? Oh, no ! "
" Oh, yes ! " he insisted, smiling now. " I heard from Bagot
pf her leaving you in Dover."
E
162
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" I am so sorry that you know ! " she said, her cheeks flaming
in her unreasoning humiliation. What had he thought of her,
hearing that her presence could not be tolerated by one he
knew, and that she had been left unprotected, as no lady in his
class In her unsuspicion and her ignorance of the world,
she did not understand, as he did, what Lady Letitia's negligence
meant; but even as it was, her humiliation was keen and
intense.
" I think," he said, almost as if her thoughts had been put
into words, " we need not waste our precious time in either
speaking or thinking of Lady Letitia. She is not a happy
woman, and her selfishness brings its own punishment. I wish
to remember that, when I recall her conduct to you, that I may
not be more of a bear to her than I need."
44 May I explain to you why I did not speak to her?" pleaded
Dorothy, gently. " She said that, while my father represented
himself on the way to me, he was in Paris chuckling—she said
4 chuckling '—over my disappointment—as I should discover,
she said. I was very angry, Captain Yorke, indeed I was. I
told her that, if I did discover it to be as she said/I would
before I even spoke to him apologise humbly to her ; but if it
were not so—for it never could be—I would not speak to her
until she had apologised humbly to me."
44 And it was not so ? " he queried, with perfect confidence, as
he met her flashing, passionate eyes.
,4 Never," she said ; and then fell into a long, strange silence
—for what did she know ?
441 want to ask your permission to do something," Josslyn
said, presently. 44 Lady Letitia has invited herself—though of
course we should have asked her with the Courtiers—to Alice's
birthday picnic next week, and I want to invite D'Eresby, if I
have your permission."
44 Mine?" she echoed, with a soft, bright blush.
44 Yes, I know you are kind to him; and I shall be glad. I
often wish it, but I am so seldom at Lynhead. If he cannot
give us the whole day, he will come for the evening ; but I shall
get Pugh on our side, and my father will invite him. Lady
Letitia is a relative of his. And yet "—with a twinkle in his
calm blue eyes—44 it will be a new experience for her to meet
him. In old times she might have met him anywhere."
"But," said Dorothy, faltering a little as she recalled the
worn, old-fashioned coat, 44 do you think he will—will be—
prepared ? "
44 I'm sure of it," said Josslyn, lightly; and, without under-
standing how, she knew it would be all well. 44 He is a perfect
gentleman ; more so than many whom Avory is courteously
entertaining to night, Even Avory himself, though so much
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
163
younger, richer, stronger, handsomer, more accomplished, does
not boast such long descent, nor possess more physical courage.
He never was a toy-soldier, as I have often heard ; and he
served through the Franco-German war just as an interlude—
to keep his hand in, as he called it. Dorothy, how strange it
was to hear you called Geraldine ! Do you know it was the
name of my mother and my eldest sister, who died ? "
" Yes," said Dorothy, softly. " I was named after them both."
" It was in memory of his boy-love for my sister Geraldine
that Avory named his yacht. Did you know ? "
" I have guessed—lately. My mother loved Geraldine best
of her pupils ; and she loved your mother dearly, Captain
Yorke."
" I have need to be grateful in my heart for that," he said,
" as otherwise you would not be with us—would not be beside,
me now."
As he spoke, she looked up into -hi-s face; Handsome as it
was at all times, it was far more with this new look upon it; and
softly and quietly she moved from his side. She must speak to
him of Ermine now. She had not meant to do so to-night; she
had meant to be happy to-night, almost as if there were no
weight of care upon her heart; but now it should be told. This
thought was only momentary, for, almost before he had noticed
that she was shrinking from him, she was speaking, just in her
clear, gentle, usual tones, one hand straying among the cypress-
leaves, one holding the fleecy shawl upon her breast.
" Captain Yorke, perhaps your sister Geraldine would have
married Lord Avory if she had lived,"
" Perhaps."
He was smiling as he recalled the boy and girl lovers.
"Then your two houses would have been doubly united,
would not they ?"
"How?"
" How ! " The so natural question echoed dully in her heart.
How could she explain if he did not follow her? How make
him understand perfectly ? What was she to say ? Ah, but
what had she said ? Even that she could not remember. " I
am sure," she went on, looking with troubled eyes into his face,
as he waited thoughtfully—yet with an almost cruel amusement
it seemed—while her thoughts sped from Truth to Ermine, and
she broke the cypress-twigs in her fingers, " that Ermine is one
to keep true all her life to—one—love."
" I fancy so."
"And I am sure, too," she went on, striving bravely after this
faint chance of giving happiness to some one, "that Ermine
loves some one very dearly ; and I
"You guessed it was me," he said, with a strange swiftness
164
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
of tone and glance, stopping her. " Do not guess. 'Tis a bad
plan always. I honour Ermine and admire her—she knows
how sincerely ; but she does not love me, Dorothy. She is
courted by men who do love her and worship her, and she
would never give her heart to an idiot who does not."
" But," put in Dorothy, not knowing what to say in the great
wonder how she could make him understand.
"And," he interrupted her gently, as if finishing his own
speech, " never did, and never could."
" Could not !" cried Dorothy, while the stars seemed dancing
before her eyes, and her cheeks burned with actual pain. " She
is so good, so beautiful, so "
" So everything that it is desirable to be," he added warmly;
< and a dear friend of mine ; but not my love—my love,"
< repeating the words tenderly.
" But if she once has been ?" began Dorothy, very low, and,
the moment they were uttered, wondered how she thought of
such words. .
"What do you mean?" he asked, stern and proud in a
moment. " I am not that sort of man. If I loved Ermine, I
have insulted you every hour I have known you ; and you have
no right to imagine that. You have no right to speak of my
love for anyone else. I never loved before I saw you ; and,
from the first hour I saw you, I have loved you only. I shall
never "
" Oh, hush !" she cried, in real terror, lifting her hands to
her head ; then suddenly her flashing eyes grew wide in their
wrath and disdain. How dared he utter this falsehood to her,
as he had uttered others to Truth ? "You—cannot love," she
said, bitterly.
" If a man had dared to say that to me," he began, then
curbed his hasty words, while the passionate paleness of his
face was terrible to see. "Is this fair?" he asked, slowly.
" Quite fair,'" she answered ; and he could not see how her
folded hands were pressed upon her heart.
"You think this?" he asked, with deadly coolness. "You
not only imagine wild impossibilities, and tell me of them, but
you—feel that I cannot love. " You say it—you ?"
" I say it; yes," she answered. The words were very low and
not too steady, while her heart beat as if it hurried all its life
into one hour ; but her eyes never drooped in their defiant gaze
into his, and the words were distinct. And he, not being a
woman, could not understand the anguish of a woman's bravery,
the blind, false reading of her own heart in her unselfish, strong
desire ; just as she could not understand how he—judging her
by himself—believed her word &§ if it had been an oath.
Dorothy's venture.
165
CHAPTER XXIII.
" It has been said
By some adventurous thinker
That women are a little curious."
Mrs. poulter was asleep on a couch in Lady Letitia's dressing-
room, for she was tired after her long journey; and, as there
was no one to gossip with, it was as well to sleep. She had
most successfully trained herself to awake the instant Lady
Letitia's fingers turned the door handle ; but now some one else
had opened the door, and even closed it behind her, without
Poulter rising in that brisk alarm which was her customary
mode of throwing off all traces of her surreptitious "winks."
Not until a small soft hand had stroked her cheek did Poulter
start up.
" Miss Dorothy ! Good gracious !"
" Yes, Poulter, here I am," the girl said, giving a farewell
pat to the woman's cheek, and then slipping to the rug beside
her. " Can you form any conception of how loudly you were
snoring ?"
"A pretty good one, miss," said Poulter, her face widening
in a smile, " for I shouldn't have been a month with my lady,
if I'd ever snored. And so 'tis really and truly you, Miss
Quentin ? You sound bright enough, but I should like some
mere light to see you."
" We will look at each other to-morrow," said Dorothy, with
a sad consciousness of her own paleness. " I'm very glad to see
you, Poulter."
" Were you glad to see my lady?" asked Poulter, sleepily
curious as she lighted two candles on the mantelshelf.
" No," replied Dorothy, with unwilling honesty. " Though
I try to think how little it matters. I wish I did not even
remember."
" You aren't changed in your manner. Miss Quentin," said
Poulter, standing pensively before the girl now that she had
extra light; " but you are in your face, Why "—with a sudden
suspicion of the cause—"aren't you down dancing with the
others ?"
" I came up to see you. I have been there, of course, and I
must go back, I suppose, presently."
"Of course you must!" was Poulter's brisk retort. "You
sound as if you were falling asleep, Miss Dorothy. Rouse up.
I've been asking about you ; for when Suzette carne up with a
glass of negus, after my lady had gone down, she told me you
were here. I'm so pleased that Lord Avory is courting you.
Dorothy's venture.
" Courting ! What is courting ?"
"Why, he's going to propose to you. Suzette says they all
see it."
" One out of eighteen then. That will be a beginning,
Poulter."
" You look very like eighteen," said Poulter, grimly. " White
cheeks aren't what bring lovers. You look sickly; but your
hair Who did it ? "
" Suzette. Whenever she comes into my room, my impulse
is to beg her to take a chair ; but I'm getting a little accustomed
to her now, and she does my hair."
"You ought to bring your own maid when you visit such a
house as this, Miss Dorothy. Well, it's lovelily done ! I want
to see Lady Ermine. She looks stylish to-night, I'll be bound.
She's to marry Captain Yorke, so they say."
" So they say."
" I saw him," Poulter went on, resuming her seat on the
couch, Dorothy still on the rug beside her. " He was with
Lord Avory when he came out to meet my lady. It was him
that picked me up when you terrified me with that shooting in
Dover and threw me down."
" Yes," smiled Dorothy.
"And, just think, he asked me if I remembered it! Gracious!
Hadn't I cause to ? But I wonfier he did."
"He has a very good memory."
" What's he like, Miss Dorothy—not in the face but other
ways ?"
" He is daring, I think, yet gentle ; and true—seeming—and
touchy."
" Lady Ermine will be a good match for him."
" If he loves her."
" Oh, you're very wise, of course, Miss Dorothy—young folks
mostly are ! He don't pay you court, I suppose ?"
" Poor Poulter !" said Dorothy, gazing at one of the candles.
" She cannot find another to swell the eighteen."
"Now don't be imprudent," urged Poulter, with honest
anxiety. " Beauty don't last, and you've nothing else. Money's
better than beauty any day ; but still you must make the
best of the one thing you chance to have. Why don't you
rouge a bit? You never used to be so colourless in Dover."
" There were sea-breezes there," said Dorothy, rubbing her
cheeks softly.
" As you've got a lover at last," remarked Poulter, looking at
her with critical disapproval, " try to keep him. I remember
your nonsense about its being melancholy to think always of
only one person. You don't say that now ?" she questioned
with a fixed gaze.
bOROTHY's VENTURE.
tc No, not to think," the girl said, dreamily. " I long for soli-
tude to think more ; but "
" Oh- never mind ' buts '!" was the brisk interpolation. " It's
all right, Miss Dorothy; and we'll be here for the wedding."
" Whose ?" the girl asked with a curious, dazed look.
" Stuff and nonsense ! You're changed with a vengeance,
Miss Quentin, to be so simple ! Now don't you risk losing
your chance. I've known it done at the very last minute."
" I wonder whether all women hurt the men they love ! "
" Gracious !"
" It seems so easy to make each other miserable," Dorothy
said, a great bewilderment in her sweet, low tones, " and so
hard—however much we try—to make each other happy."
" Oh, this is all nonsense !" interposed Poulter, grimly.
" You've been fidgeting over things like that ridiculous verse
you copied, about always singing the same song."
" I ?" said Dorothy, pushing back her hair with a nervous
laugh, as she recalled what the woman meant. " /' do lovely
things all day'!—I ?—No, I never do one, Poulter."
" That's right," sighed Poulter, as if she felt a burden removed.
" You'll soon get back your looks, if you never bother about
that sort of thing. Has your pa come ? "
' "Not yet," Dorothy answered, softly.
" Nor wrote to you ?"
" No"—with gentle sadness.
" You know where he is, of course ?"
" Na"
" Yet you go on expecting him ?" ejaculated Poulter, in un-
feigned amazement.
" Yes ; I know he will come."
"Well for you you do, Miss Dorothy," returned Poulter, with
her nearest approach to a laugh. " I don't. How long are you
going to stay in this part ? "
" Till my father comes or sends for me."
" And you actually expect him after all his failing ! Well, you
must be India-rubbery."
"I suppose all is right if we do our best?" said Dorothy,
smiling as she rose.
" Pooh 1 That makes no difference!" rejoined Poulter,
promptly. " Don't you be thinking it, miss ?"
" If we do not try though, our happiness cannot live if we do,
it may But I don't know. I suppose these are our places,
and we were put into them."
" But can leave them when we like," supplemented Poulter,
cheerfully. " I always remind my lady I can leave. It's my
due A smile at last, Miss Dorothy ! Pinch a bit more
colour in. Certainly you're woefully changed !"
i68
dorothy's venture.
Poulter might have seen the old colour come back then, if
only momentarily, for she had recalled to Dorothy's mind Captain
D'Eresby's words, " Love changes us all."
" Yes, I am changed," she said, in her thoughts, as she went
slowly along the silent corridor; but it cannot be by that, for I
hate him and despise him. Ah, how I have iried to hate him !"
She paused at the window, trying to shake off the weight of
thought which troubled her, looking out into the silence of the
summer night. It turned her faint at first to look among the
stars which had been above her in that miserable half hour in
the shrubbery ; but presently their far-off silent beauty brought
a little rest and soothing to her heart.
" Love !" she whispered, wearily, to herself, as she fought
with the new, strange, sweetly painful consciousness of Josslyn's
love. " ' I never loved before I saw you!' It was not like a
falsehood. He did not say it like a falsehood ; yet was his love
for Truth all feigned ? That would be worse. Oh, poor, poor
Truth"—the name breathed with a new, intense compassion
now. " And I may never tell, and he must think But what
is it to me"—suddenly and proudly—" what he thinks ? I can-
not care, for I despise him. Or"—very sorrowfully in her
thoughts—"have I failed even in that ? Was I so weak that,
even though I knew what he had done, I did not despise him ?
Am I so weak that, though I try hard, I cannot hate him? He
made it hard, for he tried to make me love him. Oh, how true
it is that he has the power of deceiving ! How full life is of
sorrow ! But sorrow should take me from myself, and mine
does not ; thought is so strong. Oh, mother "—with a longing
look among the quiet stars—" forgive me ! I fail in all, but it
is harder than you meant, dear. You never meant anything
hard—you said not; I have made it so. I have brought
misery where you wished me to bring happiness. Can you—
forgive me ?"
CHAPTER XXIV.
" Some one is to be made more miserable, needless in this world,
to my thinking."
Dorothy rose early on the morning following the dance, for
she had determined to walk to Kerry's hut on this her last day
at the Chase, professedly to ask after the cows, but in reality
because she was anxious to find Nancy less miserable. After
an almost sleepless night, the solitary walk in the fresh morning
air soothed and strengthened her; and by the time she had
bOROTHY'S VENTURE.
169
Ci'dssed the little bridge above the railway-line, and was upon
the heath—the slanting sun-rays blending its purple, gold, and
green into a " harmony " no painter ever yet has put upon his
canvas—she had even broken into a snatch of song :—
"Well-a-day, well-a-day,
The sweetest melody
Could never, never say
The half my love for thee ! "
With the air the words had come unconsciously front her
lips ; but when they ceased she laughed impatiently.
" Indeed it could not," she said, in her thoughts, " for the
whole is none; so what melody could tell the half? I expect
I have not remembered it rightly, except that Well-a-day, which
is a sensible practical expression, and commends itself at once.
How pleasant it would be this morning if one need not think !
It is a shame to burden the sweet new-born day with thought."
Then she hastened, as if to hasten from thought, trying only
to notice how the distant hills changed in hue with every step
made by the climbing sun.
Just as she reached Kerry's paddock, and paused at the gap
in the hedge, to look towards the cow-house for any sign of the
companions of her last walk thither, Nancy met her, and,
whether consciously or unconsciously, barred her further
progress towards the hut.
"How are my two friends?" Dorothy asked; but the
pleasant tone was almost an effort now, though she generously
reminded herself that the woman had a perfect right to show
her that she would not be welcome beyond her threshold.
"They've not been fetched yet," Nancy answered, heavily.
"Tyacke knows they're safe with us, but he'll take care to come
for them in time before we go."
"When do you—think you are going?" inquired Dorothy
flushing a little in her consciousness of knowing more than
Nancy guessed.
For a few seconds Nancy looked at her in silence—first into
her face, then down the white dress, then up to the white gipsy
hat—then she turned her back more resolutely upon the hut,
and took a few steps on Dorothy's homeward way.
" I'm going your way a bit," she said, " and I've got to speak
to you."
" Very well," replied Dorothy, turning with her, but feeling it
would have been easier to talk to Nancy in her own kitchen,
bleak and comfortless though it was.
" I've got to warn you," Nancy said, walking on a level with
Dorothy, yet as distant as the road would allow, " of people you
don't know."
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" There is no need," said Dorothy, proudly.
" Yes, there is," asserted her companion, with another hard
glance, and then a swift withdrawal of her gaze, as if the white-
clad figure offended her. They'll like you to be blinded, but
you shan't be. You don't like him—so what matter? You
needn't look frightened."
" I am not frightened," said Dorothy, quietly, " of anything
you could tell me."
"All the better," said Nancy, in a hard sharp voice. "I've
partly told you before. I told you about my sister holding him
to an offer he'd made her when he wasn't much more than a
boy."
" Who ? "—such a hopeless " who ! "
"Who !" echoed Nancy, with her mocking laugh. "Who
but Josslyn Yorke of Lynhead? I've told you how she held him
to his word, and went away to him—or with him—who knows ? "
" His wife ! "
" Who knows that either ? I say ' Yes,'for Zara was always
worldly wise. Why not ? "—quickly and harshly. " She was a
handsome girl, the talk of the country, when he said he would
marry her five years ago. He was fond then of idling and
flirting with her—I'm witness to that—and afterwards it was no
use his trying to pretend he'd meant nothing more than idling
and flirting. Zara had his promise, and she held him to it; and
there was mother to back her—and mother was always clever.
Father and me weren't any good ; we went on our own sulky
way ; we'd nothing in common with them, except the housework
and the getting money. There were days when I hated her
and mother, but there were no days when I didrit hate myself.-
What ! "—turning sharply as Dorothy spoke, then moving farther
from her. " Let me be. You've just got to listen. I'm not a
baby to stop half-way at a word or a touch, soft as your hands
are. You know the Yorkes had an aunt who went to live down
in Cornwall. You've heard of her 1"
"No—oh, yes!" corrected Dorothy, recalling how Lady
Ermine had only the day before mentioned to her a sister of
Mr. Yorke'sin Cornwall.
"I thought so," resumed Nancy, in her most jeering tones.
" Secret as they try to keep it, people do hear sooner or later.
I daresay they're sworn not to speak of her, but I'm not.
You've heard Mrs. Sagess's name somewhere, I'll wager;
anyway, you have now. She was very rich ; and as, years and
years ago, they'd made her godmother to the eldest son, that
was lucky. He had her love then, and he has her money now.
Oh, everything's very fair. Who said it wasn't ? She was a
small, feeble, old lady, frail as glass, with a sick heart and a
death-white face ; but Josslyn Yorke knew he should have her
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
171
money, and he was attentive enough. Then she got foolish and
wasn't happy without him, and would do anything he chose. It
was just when he was trying harder than ever to cut himself free
from that engagement with Zara, that Mrs. Sagess sent for him
for the last time—that's about a year and a half ago. Zara got
frightened then of his escaping her, and followed him. Mother
went half mad, for it was Zara's beauty chiefly made people
come and buy—what we had to sell then, and father was moody
enough ; but I guessed she wanted it thought he'd sent for her,
and I said nothing. What was he to me ? We heard every
thing about Lynhead from one of the men servants, who spent
most of his evenings here, and used to gather all he could to
tell and curry favour with us—till his master turned him away—
and that way we heard of Mrs. Sagess's death. She and her
nephew had gone to see some fearful cave on the coast, and,
when they were far in, the boatman had fired a pistol, as his
way was, the man said—telling us what he had heard—to show
the wonderful echo, where it sounds like all the rocks falling on
you, and where he can take people unawares. The shock
killed Mrs. Sagess in a moment, having, heart-disease. Well,
her nephew—Josslyn—had all her money, and he went away ;
and we heard of him next—a good while afterwards—in Norway.
Why do you start ? "
" Did I ? " asked Dorothy, absently.
" Yes. Well, I believe he went to get out of Zara's way,
though I never saw any sign about him of really fearing her, or
believing she had any power over him. One day, soon after
that, there came a Cornish sailor to the hut, and told us the
truth about Mrs. Sagess's death. He said that her nephew—
Josslyn Yorke—had told him to take the pistol and fire it when
the shock would be most alarming, and when the old lady was
entirely off her guardand tired, and had paid him well for doing
this and keeping it a secret. Mother took the sailor to Lynhead
and he told all this to -Mr. Yorke. I've heard he's never
looked the same man since ; but I never notice his looks when
I see him, and that's not often. He's nothing to me Oh,
I see what you mean ? Yes, he may be good to his own people ;
but they've nothing to do with me, and they don't tell me of his
goodness, or anybody else's. It's a thing I don't hear much
about, and don't want to."
"That story was an utter falsehood?" said Dorothy, very
seriously.
" Mr. Yorke—they told me so—bribed the sailor to be quiet,"
Nancy went on, with her harsh laugh. " That looks as if it was
lies, doesn't it"? Then, as the footman I spoke about told
mother, there were letters from Mr. Yorke to his son in Norway,
and then they didn't utter his name."
172
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" If that were so, it did not last, as you see," said Dorothy,
with the same grave seriousness. " They soon found out what
an untruth that sailor told."
" Didn't last ?" repeated Nancy, as if she had heard no other
words ; then she turned suddenly to face her companion, and
laughed mockingly. '' Oh, yes, I see ? Well, it was hushed up,
and they managed it should never be told about here that young
Yorke had done for his good name—gentleman, as he called
himself. Nobody knew but us and them ; nobody else ever has,
I think, till now."
"No one else knows now," said Dorothy, steadily. "You
have told me what you chose, against my will, but you have not
made me believe a word that you have told me."
" You mean to say you won't believe harm of—Josslyn Yorke ? "
" I mean to say you have not made me believe one word of
harm of him. Where is your sister now? She did not go to
him, I know."
" Then you know more than I do," said Nancy, icily.
" But you knew, when Captain Yorke returned without her,
that "
The words were interrupted by Nancy's discordant laugh ;
but Dorothy repeated them with uncharacteristic sternness.
" Captain Yorke returned without her."
" Oh ! yes, Captain Yorke returned without her," said Nancy,
subduing her unmirthful laughter. " It isn't very likely he'd
have brought her. It's all right as it is. I've told you all I
mean to tell. I didn't put in mother's death ; but it wasn't
anything to talk about, and 'twas a year ago. Father and
me've been alone since, and now we're going ; but I've told
you the truth first; and he deserved that.'
" Nancy, I believe neither that sailor's story nor that your
sister went to Captain Yorke," said Dorothy, speaking almost
unconsciously ; " else how could he be—as he is now ? "
" How do you mean ? " Nancy again broke off suddenly, with
a searching gaze into her companion's face. " Why not ? " she
said then, in a different tone. " You don't know even so much
as I do. Well, you're right to stick up for the big folks, as you
belong to them ; it makes no difference. I hate them all; but
most I hate those two brothers—both of them—the oldest and
the youngest."
" Do not be so hard, Nancy," pleaded Dorothy, gently, in
spite of the angry beating of her heart, and with real compassion
for the woman who had so little love or tenderness in her life.
" Try to feel "
" I'll feel what I like ; the harder the better for the life I've
got," she answered. " Nobody cares about me, and I care
about nobody Be quiet! "—sharply and suddenly silencing
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
173
Dorothy's low words. " You just leave me and Heaven alone ;
we'll settle our own affairs. There's the Lord Viscount coming
for you. Pity he hadn't to go all the way, as he loves Kerry's
hut! He loves it so, he wants to live in it himself; that's why
we are to go."
As she spoke, she turned shortly round to go back upon her
way; but not before Dorothy had seen the eager glance she
gave into her face as she did so.
" Mrs. Kerry ! " Lord Avory called, in his authoritative, high-
bred tones ; and Nancy stopped instantaneously, turning with
a supercilious air of obedience. He had not heedlessly mis-
taken her for Kerry's wife—dead a year ago—though she
thought he had ; he only addressed her thus because he had
forgotten her name. " Have you seen Moneypen ?"
"No," she answered, curtly; "but I can live without that
sight."
" Perhaps if you had more to do with him—on rent days,
for instance—you would think differently," said Avory, with
negligence. "But"—glancing with amusement at Dorothy, as
if she now must needs be ashamed of her intercession on this
woman's behalf—" you will have a different opinion of him
presently, for he is bringing you permission to stay on at the
hut for a few years—you and your father.. Will you come now,
Miss Quinten ? "
But Dorothy stood still, actually frightened by the strange,
wild stare Nancy gave into her face.
" Who—do we owe—this to ? " she asked, without removing
her eyes, and addressing no one by name. Not to—my Lord
Viscount ?"
" No ; not to me indeed," said Avory, readily, and then
looked at Dorothy with a smile, as though to ask her whether
this were not skilful and inscrutable handling of her secret.
The woman, still with that fixed, incredulous stare, saw the
pleading glance Dorothy gave him before she started slowly on
her homeward way—as if she dared not trust him further—and
she read it right.
" I see now. I see," she said ; and there grew a perfect
terror—not abject, but pitifully defiant—in the great black eyes.
" She did this—for us ; and I told her—that ! Well, it's too
late now to undo. Take her away, my lord. I've paid her
—in my own way; and anybody'll tell her what a bad way
that is. Whose could be badder? But it's all right. Who
said it wasn't? Everything's all right. I'll tell her more some
day ; it's the way I pay her—back her What is it called?
I'm so unused to it. I don't know what to call it. It's almost
like caring for—me !"
The words broke off with a laugh, but such a ghost of the
174
dorothy's venture.
old, derisive laugh that Dorothy turned at the sound, and in a
second was at Nancy's side, with her arm round her, for the
strong, firm figure had tottered as if it would fall.
" Go away," she whispered through her teeth. " I shall be
all right when I can't see your face. I saw the misery come
over it while I told you my story, and I can't forget ; and you
had done this—for me. And why do you come to me now—
and hold me ? I only laughed. That's the way my life's
taught me to laugh. It didn't, sound nice, did it? Some laugh
—differently. Oh, go away ! "—-the tones piercing now in their
sharp misery. " Go with the Lord Viscount. Look at his angry
face. He knows this is no spot for you, and that I'm nothing
to you. Go ! I don't want help. I'm not a lady to faint at
nothing. I'm all right. Take your hand away ! " Yet while
she spoke, almost savagely, her own fingers closed convulsively
for a second round the little hand at her waist. "You'll never
come up here again ; and it's all the better. It's a bad place ;
and we're bad ! "
"Miss Quinten, I must hasten you. We shall be very late,"
put in Lord Avory, courteously, but pointedly. And Dorothy,
with a little parting touch upon Nancy's hand—childish per-
haps, but stirring the woman's cold heart strangely with its
unfamiliar sympathy—went with. him. " You see," observed
Avory, placidly, as they walked on side by side, " I made a good
guess this time where to find you."
CHAPTER XXV.
" Be good, and leave the rest to Heaven."
" I wonder," mused Dorothy to herself, leaning on the brim of
the old stone fountain in the court-yard, " why I should feel so
very, very glad to be once more at Lynhead, it not being home ? "
It was Sunday afternoon, and in her restlessness—half glad of
her return, half sad, she knew not why—she had, as soon as
luncheon was over, wandered out into the quadrangle. It was
such a beautiful day—such a real day of rest.
" The Lord's own day," she whispered, reverently, her beautiful
eyes straying to the far blue hills. " I must do something," she
sighed, with her old intense longing. " Mine is such an idle,
useless life. Oh, if I could only do a little—ever so little—good
for some one ! "
The wish involuntarily brought the memory of what Lady
Ermine Courtier had given her to do ; and she went slowly in.
" They will come to-day, I fear," she said, in her thoughts^
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
n 5
" but not yet; and I need not make it sooner than it must be.
Yet I shall be glad when I have told her. Told her what ?
What can I say? Only that I feel sure by Josslyn's manner—
I feel sure ; that is all I can say ; and I do feel sure—that he
will never marry. Oh, if she did but know about Truth, how
entirely she would banish him from any thought of hers—
entirely—entirely ! "
There was a curious satisfaction to the girl in repeating the
word so determinately, as she went to the drawing-room.
"Alice, are you inclined to go to church this afternoon?"
she asked, with the shy gentleness which always seemed more
to belong to her even than her piquancy.
"No thanks, dear," replied Miss Yorke, sleepily, from her
comfortable chair. " I like a little rest on a Sunday afternoon ;
then I have a letter to write, for Mathew always expects to hear
from me on Monday morning, as he cannot on Sunday. Perhaps
the Courtiers will come over—they often do in Josslyn's leave."
" Will you come, Sophy ?"
"Too warm," answered Sophy; but Dorothy noticed that,
while she kept her eyes on her book, a tide of crimson swept
over the short, pleasant face, and Dorothy wondered over this
as she had wondered many times before. " Ethel is lying down
in her own room,'' continued Sophy. " She always does after
luncheon—I mean, on Sundays—then she comes down fresh
and unruffled for tea. I'm so sorry for you to -go alone,
Dorothy ; but I know Joss and Tony are out."
"Yes," Dorothy said, for she had made sure they were out
before she had entered to seek a companion.
On her way to leave the house by the least-used entrance, she
passed Mr. Yorke's door, and paused outside, involuntarily and
wistfully. Wete his thoughts all sorrowful as he sat there alone
through so many hours ? Did he ever—could he ever—quite
forget the tale that had been brought to him of the son she
knew he loved so well ? He knew how untrue it was, though.
Of course he had always known that ! The girl's head was
lifted and her eyes flashed, in her proud, unquestioning
disbelief; then she laid her hand gently on the door, for a
strange, sweet, unknown sympathy drew her heart to the father
in that moment !
The majestic old peacock took a few stately, languid steps
after Dorothy, refusing to be lured farther by smiles or words,
yet standing to watch her, as if aware of what a picture they
two made on the sunlit green. Now and then, as she went
through the woods, Dorothy saw little groups moving towards
the church ; and a party of women—gravely dressed, as were
all the servants at Lynhead—came from the picturesque old
176
DOROTH k's VENTURE.
laundry and went before her; but she walked alone under the
whispering leaves, while there came into her heart a great
restfulness, which she did not even comprehend.
The white-headed sexton, who officiated in every secondary
capacity in the church, marshalled Dorothy up the uneven old
aisle into the great Lynhead pew, and silently bolted her in, as
if the solitude there might induce her to attempt escape. The
twin pew on the other side the aisle was empty—little Sir
Marmaduke Coddington was not accustomed to attend two
services in one week—and even the rectory pew next to hers,
which had the pulpit growing as it were in its centre, was un-
occupied. So Dorothy looked around her, her thoughts
wandering in the silence. Again and again she read a few
remarkable words she now knew well on an old tablet just
within her sight—" Here lie the relics of a lovely youth "—then
gazed at the chancel ceiling, painted long years ago to represent
heavy crimson curtains, from the folds of which protruded
cherubs' heads and wings. Then she looked round to another
great square pew, low down in the church, with seats not only
all round, but in the centre too, for here the occupants of the
Lynhead Almshouses sat. Dorothy looked at them almost
longingly, for she would have liked to make friends among them
had not Ethel spoken of them as her care.
The schoolmaster had performed an unembellished version of
"Wise men flatt'ring' on the harmonium ; the rector had given
out a hymn, and the school children, in curbed excitement, had
got half way through it, when the old sexton came up once
more to the Lynhead pew, and, with ceremonious deference,
opened the door to admit Captain Yorke. He took his seat
in the corner exactly opposite to Dorothy ; and, when he stood
up, he crossed the barren space to read the number of her
hymn. Then Dorothy became aware that in her surprise she
had never yet removed her eyes from him, and that he looked
fully aware of this fact. Sedately she showed him the number,
then looked up no more through the hymn. But this unnatural
self-consciousness could not live in Dorothy's nature; the
sweet calm of the old familiar service stole into her heart, and
she forgot all but the peace and rest it gave.
The service was over; and Dorothy went slowly down the
aisle, Captain Yorke beside her instead of behind, while she
wondered bow he could walk just as if the floor were not all
up and down in an inexplicable arrangement. Josslyn led her
round the churchyard, heedless whether or not she saw through
his determination to lengthen their walk all he could.
" I want just to show you one curious epitaph," he said.
" I have read them all, I think," she answered, but strolled
on, for there were two ways of leaving the churchyard.
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
177
"Not this one," he urged, confidently. " The stone is aimos
hidden under a great tree. Here it is. Listen ! 'Here lie the
remains of Ebenezer Kerry, who died in Otago in 1850. Had
he lived he would have been buried here.' Why don't you
laugh ?"
She roused herself in a moment. So often now the sound o
his voice brought a feeling too deep for laughter !
" Is not there an Ebenezer Kerry now ?"
"Yes; though he is never called anything but 'Nezer.'
Perhaps this one was also, except upon his tombstone."
" Don't you think, Captain Yorke," asked Dorothy, trying to
speak calmly, "that Kerry's daughter is rather strange?"
" Very strange, I believe."
" She is not Kerry's only daughter, is she ?"
" No," briefly.
" Was her sister the same kind of girl ? "
" Oh, no ! "
" She does not live in the hut ?"
" Not now."
" Otago ?" repeated Dorothy ; and, though he was puzzled
by her thoughtful reiteration, he never guessed how wildly her
heart was beating over even these few words. " I suppose you
have been to most—to very many places, Captain Yorke ? "
" Not to Otago," he answered, smiling.
" To—Spain ?»
" Yes."
"To Sweden?"
" Yes."
"To Russia?"
" Yes."
"To Norway ? "
" Yes. But why did you not bracket Norway with Sweden ?
You remind me of an epitaph I remember in a village in
Cornwall Why do you look astonished ? Do you know
Cornwall ? "
" No ; no. What epitaph ?"
" This—
" ' Belgia me birthe, Britaine me breeding gave;
Cornwall a wife, ten children, and a grave.'
Cornwall and Britian are quite distinct, you see."
" Do you like Cornwall ?" she asked, involuntarily.
"No," he answered, very promptly, and then turned the
conversation with quite evident eagerness. " Do you remember
the cemetery at Dover, Miss Quinten ? "
" Yes," she said, the soft colour glowing again in her cheeks ;
" and the beads, and so many times reading ' Deposita in
pace,'"
M
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" I only remember," he said, in his quiet, earnest -way,
" watching you, while I went about with Lady Ermine and her
friends. You don't know what I would have given to join you,
and the misery of going away with them and leaving you
there."
" Suppose," said Dorothy, nervously, " we could see where
our deaths lie ? "
" Dorothy," he said, turning quickly to look into her eyes,
"what is the note of unhappiness I sometimes hear in your
voice ? I—I would rather anything than unhappiness for you."
" I am perfectly happy—perfectly," she said, in haste. " How
could I be otherwise when you are all so kind to me ! Oh!
this is a new way," she went on, intercepting his deprecating
words, and scarcely heeding what she said. " What an old
church yours is ! "
" We Yorkes are not well off," he said, composedly, " else
we should beautify it. As long as I can remember anything, I
remember it just as it is. I used to think those were real
angels' heads looking down through the curtains—behind
which, of course, heaven lay—to see h,ow we earthly children
behaved. But I remember best how anxiously 1 used to watch
for old Sir Marmaduke, because I knew there would be some
diversion during service if he were there—he did not come
when he had quarrelled with the rector, which was pretty often
—such as his dogs jumping over the communion-table when he
knelt there. I told you of his funeral, didn't I ? I had one
other pleasure ; that was watching the old rector drop each
sheet of his sermon, as he finished reading it, down into the
pew below, where his wife sat reverently gathering them from
the ground and sorting them in her lap. What a number of
years ago ! "
Though Dorothy had a strange wish to talk of those old
times—or any times except this present—she did not answer,
for there was a pathos in his few words which silenced her.
They had walked for many minutes before he spoke again.
" My leave will soon be over now, Dorothy," he said, and
did not fail utterly in his effort to speak unconcernedly.
" You will be glad. I mean you are so fond of your pro-
fession."
" Yes, there is something for a man to do. Do you remember
our talking of the Artillery motto ; and you said it would be
hard for a man to go everywhere whither right—not Glory—
led ? I suppose you thought a man who was not a soldier
might have hard fighting, eh, Dorothy?"
" Yes," she said, and stooped to pick a daisy as if it were a
treasure she had sought. Oh ! why did he remember all her
words when she was striving so hard to forget his ?
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
179
They were passing now a long, old, red brick building with
twelve gables, and. a shield upon the front with the Yorke arms
barely discernible.
"You know the poor people there, Dorothy?" Josslyn
questioned, just as if he had understood that thought of hers
which made her look up at the doors of the almshouses.
"No," she said, blushing painfully; "there is no need.
Ethel does all."
" Try," he said, and laughed.
" It—it would be interference," she answered, puzzled by the
laugh.
"Just make the experiment, will you ? "
" I should like," she began, but then remembered that her
wish was to do nothing that should seem in his eyes useful or
well." I am not the sort of person," she said, impressively.
" I should be no satisfaction and no use. I should hinder, and
not help Ethel."
"You will try?" he asked, earnestly. " My mother was so
good to them all, and you would be. Will you go !" with a
change of tone.
But, while she felt how gladly she would do so, after he had
left, she said nothing, and they reached home in silence.
Though Josslyn did not speak of it, he could not prevent his
eyes betraying the pleasure he felt when Dorothy went straight
round to his father's room and won her own admission.
"Avory is in the drawing-room," Mr. Yorke said, after
rousing himself and greeting her smilingly.
" May I stay here ?" asked Dorothy, quite aware of Josslyn's
glance.
" No, dear ; I will not take your time from your friends ; and
it is your tea-time too."
" Have you been in, Mr. Yorke ?"
" No."
" Not ?" she questioned eagerly. " Then please may we take
tea together ?"
" If you really don't object, dear."
" Oh, I shall like it so !" she said, brightly, fancying Mr.
Yorke accepted her presence, in his delight at having his son's
" You will go into the Courtiers, Joss ? "
" No."
" But you always were so glad to see Avory."
" And am. He will wait."
" Oh, well, if you feel that," said Mr. Yorke, with no further
attempt to conceal his pleasure, " let us have this hour in peace !
I will ring, Dorothy. Take off your hat, dear."
"It is a bonnet, Mr. Yorke," corrected the girl, demurely
taking it dff -and exhibiting it. " Don't you think it pretty ?"
l8o DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Very. If you met admiring glances to-day "—with a smile
into the blue eyes—" they were due solely to the bonnet."
"I noticed," said Josslyn, placidly, "that nme-tenths of the
congregation paid more attentions to it than to their devotions."
"Yes, Captain Yorke, of course. Now where can I put it
to be very safe while we have tea ? "
"And so you went to church together ! " Mr. Yorke said.
" No, I went alone," replied Dorothy, solemnly ; "and Cap-
tain Yorke, like the heroine of the classical legend, ' came
tumbling after.'"
"You had the benefit of the good example, Joss," said his
father, laughing ; while Josslyn felt wroth with himself that he
should care so much, so deeply, for the winning of this girl's
light heart. " I hope you will always set it him, dear."
" I think it would be better for me to be a kind of warning,"
she answered, meditatively. " Captain Yorke could fancy I
say those words we saw on one of the graves to-day—
" ' The faults thou saw'st in me take care to shun,
And look at home, there's something to be done !'
It is a beautiful sentiment. Pelly"—with fresh childish en-
joyment as the old man cheerfully arranged the tea equipage
before her—" tea will be delicious in here."
It was impossible to resist her brightness ; and Josslyn re-
joiced with all his heart to see her win the shadow from his
father's face, and to hear his laughter.
" We had a funny little scene to-day in church, Mr. Yorke,"
said Dorothy. " The rector's son is at home, and read the
lessons for him. He said, ' Here beginneth the twelfth
chapter ' ' No, it isn't,' said his father, sitting behind him—
' Of the Acts of the Apostles,' the reader went on unmoved,
and, ' Oh, yes, so it is ?' said the rector, relieved."
" He can preach a healthy, vigorous sermon when he likes,"
said Mr. Yorke, laughing over Dorothy's droll way of describing
the scene ; " yet I remember last year, in the wretched harvest,
when our farmers were miserable, he told them cheerily that,
in consequence of the abundant crops in America, bread would,
in the coming winter, be cheaper than ever. You remember,
Josslyn?" Mr. Yorke asked ; and then the talk grew grave a
little, until at last, tea being over, the squire appealed to them,
taking his usual seat on a couch near the open window. " Now
you ought to go and see Avory."
"Captain Yorke, won't you go, please—not me?" asked
Dorothy, coaxingly, kneeling beside the couch.
" Not you ? " he queried, and could not help the look of glad-
ness in his steady eyes. " Will you lose Avory's visit ? "
Please," she said simply ; but there was an earnestness
that was almost sad on her'lifted face,
Dorothy's venture.
''Yes, joss, leave her and me," put in Mr. Yorke'; and
Josslyn went, not unwillingly. It was so much to him that she
had not wished to go to Avory !
" It is very kind of him to go alone," said Dorothy, thought-
fully, when her words could not reach him; and Mr. Yorke
laughed, as well he might.
" You are grateful to Trevor, are you ?" he said, stroking her
hair, and not noticing the start she gave. " But what is this new
whim? I thought that you were—well, rather partial to the
earl's son, little Dorothy ?"
" Oh, no ! "
"No! " he ehcoed, smiling. "What! is there someone
else ?"
The girl laughed, and he was satisfied ; for he could not read
the swift look of fear in her eyes, nor hear her heart beat.
" Mr. Yorke, the day we left the Chase, Lady Letitia Chilton
told her maid—her maid, Mr. Yorke—that I evidently forgot I
was only the daughter of a governess ! I do not want to forget
it. I want to remember it. I love to remember it ! "
"And Avory would remember it—eh" mused the squire.
" Perhaps so ; he is not like Josslyn." And then he talked of
Josslyn ; and the girl listened with a sweet, bright interest,
knowing how it pleased him to talk of the son he loved. When
at last he ceased, she still was kneeling beside him, her fingers
straying over the rich embroidery of the couch.
" What beautiful work it is ! I should be so proud if I were
Alice, and had done it," she said, thinking it would be well to
turn his thoughts.
" Yes ; I have promised it to Noyes."
" What a pity !" said Dorothy, her hand and wrist lost in the
crevice beneath the deeply padded arm, while he watched her
dreamily.
" Noyes deserves it, as it is Alice's work. You know it is her
birthday on Thursday, Dorothy ? I suppose we shall have many
here. Josslyn wishes me to invite Captarn D'Eresby, and I
shall unless Tony objects. I'm—I'm a little anxious about
Anthony just now, only Josslyn begged me not to think of it
to-day. He always wishes me to put off thinking of—of
worrying things. I am sorry he goes so soon after the twenty-
first."
" The twenty-first !" repeated Dorothy, recollecting how
D'Eresby had told her the twenty-first was his auspicious day,
" May I play a little ? " she asked shyly and wistfully, as she rose.
A vainer girl would have said, " May I play for you?" and
then perhaps the squire wot Id have hesitated before answering.
As it was he assented readily.
" It was my wife's piano," ne said, glancing at the instrument;
182
DOROTHY's VENTURE.
" and your mother played it often, The girls use their own,
and I keep this near me for the old memories' sake. Yes, play,
dear. It is always seen to with the others, so it is ready. Yes,
play."
She played softly, such sweet, old sacred airs as she guessed
that he would know and love. She thought of him only ; and
the familiar and pathetic melodies seemed to him like an echo
of the dear wife's voice.
Gradually Dorothy, without looking, became aware that Mr.
Yorke was reading a paper he held in his hand—listening to her
still, she fancied, but reading without lifting his head.
Suddenly the door was opened, and Dorothy saw him crush
the paper in his right hand, and put the hand behind him on the
couch.
" Papa, you must come," said Alice entering. " Lady Letitia
is so anxious to see you ; and, Dorothy, Ermine is so astonished
at your absence! Do come, papa ! "
" Yes, dear," said Mr. Yorke, abstractedly, bringinghis hand
forward now and rising. "I will come at once ; " and he put his
arm within his daughter's with a smiling sign to Dorothy to go
with them.
She left the piano, but paused a moment, instinctively,
glancing round to see if there were any books or papers for
her to pick up or put aside. No, none ; and she followed
slowly from the room, but first gave one long look around it
as if she had known that no such tranquil Sunday afternoon
would they ever again spend within its walls.
CHAPTER XXVI.
"If she will, she will, you may depend on't,
And if she won't, she won't, and there's an end on't."
" Dorothy," exclaimed Sophy Yorke, bursting into Dorothy's
bed-room, " Lord Avory is in the drawing-room, waiting to see
you. Is it not mysterious?"
Dorothy turned from the dressing-table, with her hat in her
hand.
"And I was just going out," she said, dismayed, but with
a deeper dismay than Sophy guessed.
" Oh, what matter ? This may be better than a hundred
walks. Shall I help you to beautify? Don't put your hat
on, Dorothy."
" He will see I am on my way out," explained Dorothy,
bOROTHY'S VENTURE. 1&3
Without any satisfaction in contemplating her own face under
the broad brim, lifted so cavalierly on one side.
" What will Ethel say ?" observed Sophy, laughing. " Her
feelings will be a mixture of jealousy and relief."
"Jealousy of a message from Lady Ermine?" asked Dorothy ;
but she had coloured vividly at Sophy's last word.
"Wait and see," laughed Sophy; and so Dorothy laughed
too, and ran along the quaint old corridor ; but it was a quite
grave and sedate girl who entered the drawing-room a few
minutes afterwards, and stood still in surprise because Lord
Avory made no step to meet her.
His steady glance of admiration for a moment made her
timid ; in the next she went up to him with her hand extended.
He took the hand and held it while he spoke ; but as she had
turned aside her head, and the broad hat-brim drooped on the
side nearest him, he could not, as he had thought to do, read
in her eyes the answer to his words before her lips could utter
it. In a straightforward and unhurried manner he was making
her a proposal of marriage, his words considerate, if confident
and deferential, though a little condescending. While the girl
l'stened, she was reminding herself conscientiously that she was
to blame for this, that it was all her fault for shunning Josslyn
Yorke, as she had always done in Lord Avory's presence ; for
she never thought how very little difference her gentle or merry
encouragement had ever made to Avory, he having once set his
mind upon winning her. .When he paused, she thanked him
gently and frankly, as if he had brought her a gift, but told him
she could not marry him.
" Why ?" he asked, but instantly confessed that he had no
right to put such a question.
" I have never thought of marrying," she said, her cheeks
brightly pink, but a smile now on her lips, as he could see ;
" and I do not wish to. I want my—my home-life first ; and,
until my father returns, that cannot even begin."
"Then I will wait for his return and his consent," said Avory,
with uncharacteristic animation. "Just let me have yours now,
and I will beg his when he comes."
" No," said Dorothy, gently.
" I must win it!" he cried, with unusual fire in his careless
eyes, and still with her hand tight in his, for both were standing.
" I must win you, Dorothy. The earl will be pleased, I know,
for he will not be able to help admiring and loving you, and
your father cannot be vexed ; for I'm not such a despicable
match for any girl, am I ?"
"You know the answer to your own question too well for me
to answer it. You know you think my father would be proud
of my winning a viscount—and not even an ordinary viscount,"
184
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
she said, with a flash of merriment from under her lashes.
"But "
"Do not let there be any 'but,'" he pleaded. "Whatever
I am, I offer myself humbly to you ; whatever I possess I lay
at your feet. The more it is, surely so much the more it proves
my love !"
" I do not know," she answered, musingly, and then roused
herself and laughed a little. " I am a potter's granddaughter,
Lord Avory, and not in your sphere at all—ask Lady Ermine.
Besides "—earnestly, when he laughed—" I have an uncertain
temper and small ideas, and not a nice disposition."
" I only know," he said, " that if I had been allowed to order
a wife created for me, my directions would have been to model
you in every way ; though on my honour I never could myself
have even described the type so perfectly. So you see that to
my taste you are peerless."
"Fancy," said Dorothy, with a droll little smile, "our issuing
orders for our wives and husbands !"
" Do not waste precious time in fancying," pleaded Avory,
disturbed by sounds in the hall; " talk of my love."
" Whom shall I talk of your loving ?" she asked, hoping
some one would enter, yet so anxious to convince him she could
never love, though she liked, him. " Whom are you likely to
love, Lord Avory ? For this is only a fancy."
"Dorothy, do you know that my love for you gives me a
faint dislike for all other women ? Since you have so engrossed
my thoughts, all others seem intrusive and a weariness. Say
' Yes' to me ; you shall never regret it."
" No I should never regret it, Lord Avory, of course," she
said, kindly, but with an unconscious falsehood. " Yet it cannot
be—it cannot indeed."
" Then you must have a reason which you have not given
me," he said, anxiously. Do not tell me that Ermine's jest was
true, and that you have—that you had a lover before I saw
you."
In a moment Dorothy grasped the escape he offered her.
"Ermine never told you a falsehood even in jest," she said,
gently, and with no evidence of the few words being difficult to
utter.
" You mean me to think it is true then ?" he asked, meeting
her eyes quite fully for the first time.
" Yes."
" Yes ?" he repeated, incredulously, "It cannot be, Dorothy ;
you had not the manner of an engaged girl. I am not so
unlearned as you think in woman's whims, and I do not think
you are engaged. I will wait until your father comes."
" It will not be different then."
Dorothy's ve^tuRR.
" I will try, at any rate," he answered, almost hopefully. " I
have set my heart upon you. I have great confidence in—
well, in myself, as well as in you. I have said I will win you,
and I never toldja lie yet."
" I have," she said then sadly ; but.he laughed.
" You will, dear little girl, if you ever say I shall not win
all I want."
Then once more voices in the hall disturbed him; and, as
Alice and Ethel came in, he took his departure coolly.
"Why, Dorothy," exclaimed Miss Yorke, "did Sophy leave
you all alone to entertain Lord Avory? I cannot imagine
where Sophy spends her afternoons."
" Lord Avory would not fret, for he always prefers an audience
of one," observed Miss Barber, furtively studying Dorothy's
face as far as she could see it. " He likes to be king of the
company, and he pretends each girl to whom he speaks is all
in all to him. How it would amuse me to hear him tell of all
his conquests ! for each one is chosen for a passing hour's
amusement. Did he represent you as the latest, Dorothy ? "
" He would have done if he had any notion of the fitness of
things, for
' 'Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate,
And—Dorothy Draggletail !'
You remember?"
" Lord Avory has never been a general lover," corrected
Alice, calmly . " That is not his character at all."
"I'm afraid you will not come out again, Alice?" asked
Dorothy.
"No, dear. I expect Mathew every minute; but Ethel is
going to see a protegee of hers in the almshouses."
" May I come, Ethel ?" asked Dorothy, blushing over the
simple request.
" You had better not, I think. The poor old creature looks
anxiously for me, but would fret to see a stranger with me."
Repressing an involuntary sigh, Dorothy went to seek Sophy.
She was nowhere to be found ; and so, escaping by a side-
entrance when she caught sight of a gentleman's luggage lying
in the hall, she left the house. When presently she overtook
Anthony on his way to the park gates, she joined him with
apparent eagerness.
" Mr. Yorke," she began, not allowing herself time to meditate
upon her words or plan, " will you be so very kind as to drive
me into Northeaton ? I can walk home quite well when it is
cooler. I do so want to know how Mr. Pugh is, and I shall
think it so good of you."
Anthony had paused willingly at the sound of her voice ;
i86
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
and yet she could detect at once that her surmise had been
correct; he had been on his way to Kerry's hut, and her unex-
pected summons had confused as well as pleased him.
"Why ask me?" he began,, with his innat^ suspicion. But
her frank, sweet eyes met his merrily, and disarmed suspicion
even in him.
" I never meant to ask anyone else, Anthony. I will only go
if you will drive me, and I shall be very glad to inquire for
Mr. Pugh."
" Why are ) ou so tender to old Pugh ?" asked Anthony ; but
he had turned and was walking back with her. " I expect you
would not be so anxious about me, if I were ill."
" Mr. Pugh was my mother's friend," said Dorothy, simply.
Anthony Yorke's manner always chafed and even depressed
her, so plainly betraying that he knew women were pleased and
flattered by every trivial attention from him ; but while she
fancied that any act of hers could in even the smallest degree
aid her mother's wishes, she could bear this. She went with
Anthony to the stables, and stood talking with him while a
horse was put into the low phaeton,chatting still with him as they
drove away, straight from the stable-yard to be unperceived.
And he grew interested and excited, talking to her almost as if
he had forgotten that he was such a handsome fellow that all
girls to whom he condescended must admire him to a fatiguing
extent. No wonder his characteristic heaviness left him as he
looked round so often into the beautiful young face beside him,
and listened to the sweet voice talking only for his delecta-
tion.
" Dorothy," he said, suddenly, the spontaneous words
surprising even himself, " if you weie oftener with me, I should
not— " He stopped abruptly.
" Should not like me so well ? " suggested Dorothy, quaintly.
" That was not what I was going to say," he amended,
laughing, but colouring too. " Tell me whether you will drive
and walk with me when I ask you ? You refuse Josslyn ; so I
have been afraid to ask."
" I will whenever I can," she answered, longing all the more
to do what he wished because she could not like him—even in
recalling her mother's desire.
" Then that's agreed," he said ; and, for the first time since
she had known him, she caught a passing resemblance to
Josslyn in his face. " There is something about you different
from the generality of girls," he said, presently, in a pause of
their light talk, and from his wide experience; "yet I cannot
describe it. You take a fellow so easily, and are neither exacting
nor appealing—nor patronising. 'Tis aS if you never thought
of falling in love with a man, yet all the while you are putting
Dorothy's venture.
the biggest of temptations in his way. Very few girls—
especially young and pretty ones—can be real friends to a man,
Dorothy."
" Who is this ?" interrupted Dorothy, as a gentleman on
horseback came into sight.
" As if you cared!" said Anthony, with a smile for her
transparent subterfuge. " You know Oxley, surely ?"
" I see now," she said, chillily, after he had passed. " I do
not like Mr. Oxley."
" I am very glad,'' laughed Anthony. " I would not have you
a repetition of Sophy."
" Sophy," Dorothy echoed the word in bewilderment, and
then was silent, while many things which she had often
pondered grew clear in her mind—Sophy's absence this after-
noon amongst them.
" Who is Mr. Oxley ? " she asked, after a sad little silence.
" Our agent now. He used to farm his own land, but he came
to grief."
"If he failed in managing his own affairs, how can he be
trusted to manage yours ?" Dorothy asked, not unreason-
ably.
" Why not ?" laughed Anthony ; but his face crimsoned.
" We thought it well. He is a clever fellow."
" Where does he live ? "
" He has rooms in Northeaton, and rides out every day. He
leaves his horse at the home farm, never up at the stables. He
rather avoids the house when Josslyn is at home, though I am
sure I do not know why he should."
"And meets Josslyn's sister clandestinely in the grounds,"
said Dorothy to herself, her heart beating strangely, con-
sidering that Sophy was not her sister too. " I must not ask,
but I must— Oh, what can I do ? For where I try, it is
only harm I work—never good !"
" It strikes me," Anthony went on, " that Oxley is imagining
Sophy's fortune to be greater than it is, for he is such a one
for money."
" Could you not stop this ? " asked Dorothy, anxiously.
" I ! Why, if I annoyed him, he . He is a clever fellow,
Dorothy"—with an abrupt change of tone—"and he would
stand no interference from me."
" Yet he is your agent," argued the girl, sensibly.
"Yes, but I What was I going to say? Anyway, I
have no chance against him. You see, Dorothy"—presently,
and more deliberately—" I, too, must marry for money, unfor-
tunately."
" Yes, of course. ' Proputty, proputty's iverything.'"
" There is Lady Ermine," Anthony went on, in his shallow,
i88
BOROTHY'S VENTURE.
matter-of-fact way. " She has recommendations beyond wealth ;
but I suppose Joss goes in for her; eh, Dorothy?"—with ill-
concealed curiosity.
" Goes into what ? " inquired Dorothy, while she understood
quite well, and knew better than anyone how Josslyn might do
so if he would.
" It is not quite fair," observed Anthony ; " but it is of no use
saying a word against that. Ermine may be deceiving us, and
pretending to prefer him—I often think she is—but, even if not,
she must have her own way of course. After all, Trevor is an
honourable fellow."
" Why do you call your brother Trevor ? "
" Did I ? " queried Anthony, inattentively. " Old habits stick
to one."
" Then you used to call him so ?"
" I daresay," he answered, with exaggerated indifference.
" I do not see ihat it matters what name one uses, when there
is a choice of two. You may call me Josslyn, if you like,
Dorothy."
" I do not like," she said ; and an actual shiver ran through
every nerve.
'* Then you do not think a rose by any other name,
et-ccetera ? Here we are. I must go back, because I have an
appointment with Oxley ; but, if I possibly can, I will come in
for you."
At first Dorothy begged him not to do so, in her real desire
for the solitary walk ; but other thoughts came, and she nodded
with a smile when he raised his hat to her, reiterating his offer
as she stood on the steps of Mr. Pugh's house, and showing
plainly that he felt he should give her a pleasure equal to his
own, if he could arrange another drive that day.
She had spent a quiet, pleasant hour beside Mr. Pugh's
invalid chair, listening gratefully to all he would tell her of her
mother, and then amusing him in her soft, bright, natural way,
when Mr. Bagot came in, and the whole atmosphere and
character of the room seemed changed by his loud, genial,
one-sided discourse, and his large jovial presence.
" Better, Pugh ? Ah, yes ! Delighted to hear it ! "
" You have not heard it."
"You will get better still—get better daily, now," Mr. Bagot
went on, apparently unaware of the feeble interpolation. " You
have turned the corner, and you will rush ahead now."
" I am not better," said Mr. Pugh, with a faint smile at this
picture of himself ; "but I am cheered up to-day by my little
friend."
" Why, that is what I meant, of course ! Bless me, it is as
bad not to be cheered up as not to be better. You remember
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
189
the celebrated man who, when he was asked how he was, said,
' My heart is better, but my early peas have gone to the devil.'
Why, if his early peas had not gone to the devil just then, he
would have been quite well ! Don't you see ? No wonder
you are cheered, Pugh. So am I. Put the finishing touch to
my bliss. Is a spot of your famous maraschino obtainable by
fraud or cajolery ? I have just been to the court on that
poisoning business, and it is thirsty weather. Do I remind ypu
of that murderer who entered one day in his diary, with brief
tenderness, 'Killed a young girl. Weather fine, and hot'?"
" Mr. Bagot," said Dorothy, taking advantage of his silence,
while he sipped the liqueur his senior had ordered in for him,
" I have never yet thanked you for buying those two cows for
me. I have told Mr. Pugh how very kind I thought you both
for advancing the money."
"Advancing ! Nonsense, my dear young lady. You may
buy a whole herd if you choose. At the same time, I could
recommend more pleasing—not to say appropriate—purchases.
Ah ! I drove a skilful bargain over those cows. Don't look
shocked. It is my pride not to be taken in. Why, I delight in
remembering that while I was a lad, serving my articles,
I discovered one of the meanest and most ingenious little
frauds ever practised, even in London ! There was an old man
not far from our office who bought old gold, very often in the
smallest possible quantities, to sell again. I had once a broken
ring to sell, and during the transaction my suspicions were
excited. I went again and again, and saw through him. He
always, while he weighed the metal, held the tiny scales rather
high, and—whistled.' His mouth was always over the scale
with the weights in it, never over the other, and he could
whistle the scale down. Of course I exposed him, but it went
to my heart to d o so, because he had acquired such marvellous
proficiency. That man should have been a lawyer. What a
different fellow, Pugh, from your idiotic D'Eresby! Oh ! for
pity's sake, don't you mention him to me, Miss Quentin ! I
do feel so enraged against a man who excites one's sympathy,
and win's one's goodwill, in defiance of one's better judgment.
Bless my soul, what an idiot he is ! But Pugh knows I always
detected latent insanity, though our profession does not
generally tempt lunatics."
"No," put in Mr. Pugh, with quiet significance, "even
Boccaccio would not be a lawyer after visiting Virgil's tomb."
"It is all very well for you," laughed Mr. Bagot, "for you
have a sensible partner to work for you ; but you would feel it
in my place. Confound the fellow, he worries me more than
all the other clerks put together ! "
"Turn him away," suggested the invalid, with even a twinkle
igo
Dorothy's venture.
in his half-closed eyes ; as if he knew how this proposition
would be received.
" I wish I had, long ago," was the ready answer, as Mr.
Bagot rose and looked from the window, tapping on the panes,
" before I had to undergo these new moods of his. There he
is, wrapt in a dream all day, and yet struggling to be alert,
and looking Confound the man, I don't believe he either
sleeps or eats now ! Something has changed him ; for he
used positively to boast how calmly lie slept, and how heartily
he took his two meals a day—never more than two."
" I had hoped," said Mr. Pugh, wearily, " that he had dropped
now into the calm and quiet of middle age."
" Whereas he is insaner than ever."
" His great zeal and warmth and energy only lie dormant—
I always said so—and they would naturally cause him fits of
depression ; but he is an upright, blameless fellow, Bagot, and
will be all right."
"No doubt of it," replied Mr. Bagot, determined not to
smile ; " like that Californian worthy who
' Endeavoured to live a Christian life,
And carried a 'leven-inch bowie knife.' "
" I believe," said Mr. Pugh, with a smile for Dorothy, "it is
more disturbing to my partner to see a man of such impetuous
temperament sitting subdued and quiet at his desk, than if he
saw him—what shall I say ?—using the 'leven-inch bowie-knife ;
and most of all to see him spending his life not only in poverty
comparatively, but depressed by such a lugubrious, soulless
wjman as D'Eresby's landlady ; tied to her by his own impul-
sive generosity, for she has no claim upon him beyond the
simple claim of humanity which he has tightened for himself.
I scarcely wonder that, like Jonah, Bagot thinks he does well
to be angry. She is a most dismal and depressing woman."
"And, pray, is not his conduct to her quite enough to prove
insanity ?" inquired the junior lawyer, irrepressible once more.
"All the same, I always said it was an iniquitous thing that she
should have such a burden laid upon her. What, Miss
Ouentin—tell you ? Oh, there's nothing cheerful enough to tell!
About eight years ago an uncle died and left this Miss Rosahn a
hundred pounds. It set her up in business in Northeaton, but
she failed ; and just then Captain DEresby came here and
entered our office—poor enough himseu"; but that is neither
here nor there. He found that Miss Rosahn's father had been
the steward of a relative of his, and not treated too generously;
and so he went to lodge with her in that grim house near
the Northgate. But there is a trifle to add to the story.
About four years ago a later will was found ; her uncle had
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
I9I
changed, his mind about his savings, and the snob who inherited
all insisted on the poor creature refunding her hundred. She
could not do so, of course ; and D'Eresby bound himself to
repay five shillings a week as long as he is able, while she is to
assist, if she gets better and has anything to do. She is a
dress-maker. Isn't it a consolation that, though the population
yearly increases, the average number of fools remains the
same ?"
" You see D'Eresby can be a good friend, Dorothy," smiled
the old man, " fool as Bagot would call him."
"And as good a foe, I'll wager," put in the younger man, with
cordiality. " It is my firm conviction that he would like nothing
better than to stand at early dawn with sword-blades crossed,
duel a mort, dying to prove a woman immaculate. I am an
idiot to care about it one way or other, but it enrages me to
watch a man with such capacity for intense emotion, fearless,
inflexible—even ferocious, I think—quietly drudging all day at
a profession he not only cannot like, but in which he has not an
atom of personal interest to encourage a liking. How can he
live on fifteen shillings a week ? Do not rise, Miss Quentin.
I apologise for my rough, restless ways, but I hate to feel
puzzled and nonplussed. Whenever I have quite convinced
myself that D'Eresby is mad, then I am comfortable ; but, when
any act of his or word of Pugh's puts me on another tack, I am
put out, and needs must pay it back upon somebody. But you
really must not go, for I have given my word that you should
be here when Captain Yorke calls for you. He was at our office
just after I had seen his brother drive here with you and back
alone, and I told him. He said the walk home would be too
far for you, and bade me detain you till he came. I knew Pugh
would only be too glad. He was walking, but said he should
go to Lynhead for his cart, and soon be back. Of course he
walks with my motive—to get out of the reach of corpulence—
eh, Miss Dorothy? It is no laughing matter"-—humorously
eyeing the two laughing faces. " It only shows that both he
and I have common sense—the most uncommon sense of all."
" Captain Yorke is no languid swell," said Mr. Pugh, after his
laugh. " He likes the tonic of the sun. I suppose he will soon
be leaving again, Dorothy. I am always sorry. I wish he
could settle at Lynhead, and could afford "
In his abrupt pause Dorothy rather nervously asked a
question.
" Has not he a fortune left by an aunt in Cornwall ?"
" An aunt in Cornwall ?" repeated Mr. Pugh, with a gaze of
languid astdnishment. " Oh, you mean "—swiftly removing his
eyes to his partner's face, and then back to Dorothy's—" Mrs.
Sagess's fortune ! That is—gone."
I92
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Gone ! " echoed Dorothy, wondering. " Oh, gone ! "
For what further could she say, while both the lawyers were
looking down upon her, as if she had somehow overstepped the
privilege of a friend?
" We do not yet," observed Mr. Bagot, very demonstratively
turning away from Dorothy now that she had blushed so shyly,
" hear anything definite about his marriage with Earl North-
eaton's daughter. I always was doubtful of his being shrewd
enough to make marriage a stepping-stone. There are some
men who will not pay a certain price, even for a fortune and
power ; men who stand four-square, and can keep their inde-
pendence of character, but who fail lamentably in doing sensible
things in the way of marriage. I daresay now that Anthony
Yorke will carry off his wealthy cousin, while his elder brother
dallies over a proposal. Those impertinent, heartless, flimsy
men generally do succeed were a manly, whole-hearted fellow
fails. To Anthony one handsome girl is just the same as
another, while his brother would live—and die, I guess—for one."
" Yet have you never heard," said Dorothy, laughing, though
with rather tremulous lips, " that Josslyn Yorke is what you
call a flirt ? "
"Yes," returned Mr. Bagot, with rather uncharacteristic
deliberation, "I have—and so has Pugh. What matter?"
"Is it no matter?" queried Dorothy, scarcely guessing of the
sadness in her eyes.
" Dorothy," asked Mr. Pugh, suddenly, " is Oxley out at
Lynhead to-day ?"
"Yes, we met him ; and Anthony returned because he had
business with him."
" Do not have more to say to him than you fieed, my dear."
" Oxley is a clever fellow," said the younger man, with again
his cordial laugh. " Oh, a capital fellow ! Model farmer,
company promoter, self-taught attorney-at-law, and rogue
generally ! I never hear his step without thinking of the trade-
mark on Hall's gunpowder, a gull on a piece of wreckage, and
the Latin translated freely into ' When you see me, look out for
squalls.' Ha, there is Captain Yorke ! What a fine pair he
drives, yet he has brought no groom. Well, you will have a
tcte-a-tete. I always say there is something about him that
even Lord Avory cannot boast, but I never know exactly what'
it is."
" He will not come in, my dear," said Mr. Pugh, clasping his
thin fingers round both Dorothy's hands, " as he has been here
to-day. Good-bye ! I am always better for seeing you.
Bagot will put you safely up. Good-bye !"
" If you please, sir," said Mr. Pugh's nurse, entering as soon
as he was alone again, " the young woman from Kerry's hut is
fcOROTHY'S VENTURE.
193
Waiting, and begs you to see her for a minute. I told her you
saw no one, but she has waited an hour on the chance, and
seems very anxious. She would not let me come in to ask you
while the young lady was here."
" Nancy Kerry !" mused Mr. Pugh, in genuine, though languid
surprise. " Send her in, nurse, but tell her I cannot give her
more than five minutes."
" I need not keep you more, sir," said Nancy, bringing her
own answer when this message had been delivered to her. " You
know as much about me as I could tell about myself, except
just t>ne thing. I only want to ask you a question. I told Miss
Oueptin, who's just gone from here, so they say, about my
sister and—Josslyn Yorke."
"Well?" questioned Mr. Pugh, sternly, in her pause. "No
one could prevent you if you chose to do so. A good-natured
girl would not have done it; but "
"But Pm not good-natured," interposed Nancy, with her old
' harsh laugh. " Nobody ever said I was, and nobody ever will.
Don't waste the five minutes. I told her about Zara and
Josslyn Yorke, and—that death in Cornwall. You know it all,
if nobody else does, except them and me—and now her. I
want to know if I may tell her more ?"
" No," was the lawyer's calm reply. " It is not your secret."
" I know that, else I should have told at once, and not had
three days of misery. No matter though for that. It's only
her I want to speak about, and the five minutes are going. May
I tell her—no one else—if I first bind her to secrecy?"
" No."
If Mr. Pugh had studied Kerry's daughter all her life, he
could not have known better how to impress or silence her than
by his calm, cold monosyllables.
" You could surely give me leave just to tell that," persisted
Nancy, faltering in her anxiety. " It's making me miserabler
than ever, and I've been miserable enough always—for worse
causes—and might be having a rest now, as she's given us back
our home. I can't think "—her voice growing passionate and
eager, yet suppressed suspiciously, as if she fancied listeners
outside the door near which she stood—"why I told her, for
even then I knew somehow that she'd given me back the poor
dumb brutes that loved me when nobody else did. And she'd
given more even then, only I didn't know it. But it's no good
remembering that"—with angry vehemence. " I did tell her,
and now I always see her face—always ; for it showed she cared
so much—so much—though she didn't believe it—not all. And
I remember her voice, and her—tenderness—I think it was
tenderness ; it seemed so to me, but I've seen little of that, and
I don't know. When I saw her face, I kne,r what she'd felt
N
±94
Dorothy's venture.
while I told her ; but it was too late then. Don't let it all be
too late now. Let me "—with a gaze of entreaty all the more
piteous from its suspicion—" tell more ! "
" No," the lawyer answered, still resolute in spite of increasing
weariness.
" Then suppose I tell without your leave ? " cried Nancy, in
a new sharp tone.
" You will not," he said, coldly. " Is Nezer well ? "
" Yes, he's well. Aren't you glad ? Everybody's glad when
Nezer Kerry's well."
" Yes, I am glad," replied Mr. Pugh, composedly.
" What matter ? " she cried, with a passion which was very
different from her old sullenness. "Nothing matters to me
now but that one thing. May I tell her ? "
" Decidedly No. Do you not hear ?"
" I hear "—slowly, as she turned from the room ; " I will not
trouble you again. But maybe I shall take my own way,
though that's always bad; everybody knows that's bad; why
shouldn't it be ! There's not a soul in Northeaton to-day has
spoken to me ; yet, if I'd met her, even in a crowded street, I
know she'd What matter? Yes, I heard."
CHAPTER XXVII.
" But rainbow words, light laugh, and thoughtless jest
These are the bars, the curtain to the breast,
That shuns a scrutiny."
The soft west wind fanned Dorothy's bright cheeks, and
wooed her to a most strange and dangerous happiness, as,
sitting high at Josslyn's side, she sped from the little town out
into the wide, sweet summer land. As they drove—they two
alone behind the perfect bays—she had been rejoicing that they
did not pass the little house in which Captain D'Eresby must
lead such a joyless life, and the thought made her silent; but
now that they had left the suburb, with its little white houses—
trimmed profusely now with green—and were driving on among
the farms and manors in their rare old-fashioned setting of elm
and oak, she suddenly broke her own silence, her companion
having made no attempt to do so.
" It was kind of you to come forme, Captain Yorke ; but I
could easily have walked back, for your brother drove me here."
"Yes, but the walk is too much for you. Besides, you are
not to be spared too long from Lynhead. We cannot do without
you now, Miss Quentin; you are the sunshine of the place."
"Where was the sunshine through all the years before I
came ?" she asked, a little nervously.
.DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
195
CfA priest once asked a Protestant where his religion was
before Luther's time, " replied Josslyn, composedly; "and le
inquired in his own turn where the priest's face was before it
was washed. I could not venture such a reply.''
"Not at all applicable. Mr. Noyes had arrived when I left,
for . Oh, Captain Yorke, I fear I was going to say i
heard a Noyes, and that sort of thing is so objectionable !"
"Yes ; it is plain to see you have been with Bagot," Josslyn
answered, all his attention concentrated on his horses.
" I saw one portmanteau in the hall before I escaped, and it
had man on it in capitals. I have been wondering whether I
ought to have woman on my boxes. Have you man on yours?"
" Noyes's initials are unfortunate, are not they? If I were
he I would drop one or add another. He is Mathew Alison
Noyes. You will like him, Dorothy ?"
'' There is no need," she said, unaware of the wistfulness in
her tone ; " Alice does."
"True," said Josslyn, briefly. "He needs no more ; I should
not, if I had the one love I seek."
" It would be very nice," said Dorothy, with superlative
indifference. " I was thinking only to-day what a blessing,
even to me, Lady Ermine Courtier's affection had been."
"Has it?" questioned Josslyn, turning to look at her as if
her voice had told him how pale she had grown. "Ycugave
Ermine.even more than she has given you. While I"—gravely
—" have nothing to give her. You know that all I have to
give is yours, Dorothy You know how dear you are to me. I
have never kept it secret, or even tried to ; have I ? All my
effort has been to make you like me ; and I have tried for that
as I never dreamed of trying after anything on earth."
" Except to pass examinations," interpolated Dorothy, look-
ing around her with no appearance of nervously avoiding his
gaze.
" I never tried to keep it a secret; and, if I had I should
have failed. You know how I seek your presence, never happy
elsewhere, never content without you; you know how I seek all
my light in your dear eyes. I have made no secret of trying to
prevent another man bearing away the life of my heart. I have
sometimes wondered you did not hate me, I have so wearied
you."
"No," put in Dorothy, involuntarily, her heart beating in
strong sympathy with his ; "never that."
"I ought to gDe up hope," he said—he was looking away
from her now over the far-off river, and her eyes, following his,
grew sad and yearning—" yet it is too strong within me—as my
love is. I never loved before "
" Oh, hush ! " she cried, and he turned to her in wonder.
You do not mistrust me, Dorothy ? If you do, tell me so.
lg6 DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
I have been vain and conceited—selfish, too, I know—fancying
■I might win you even yet ; but, if you mistrust me, tell me so
and kill the hope at once."
" Oh, how much, much better it would have been," she said
—and there was real anguish in her voice—" if you had never
seen me !"
" No," he answered, seeing how she could suffer in her
sympathy with him, " never think that. I shall be grateful all
my life for knowing you. A man would not willingly shut out
the sunlight, though he knows the darkness must soon fall. I
will control my longing and not distress you—I will indeed—
for I would rather anything than your sorrow. There is no
sacrifice I would not make for your happiness ; and if any
memory of me is to make you sad, I would even pray you
to forget me."
" I could not, and I will not try," she said, softly ; and then
for a little time they both were silent, while the sun sank
behind the Lynhead woods, and the trees grew sad and sombre
for all its warm red light.
" I so well remember," said Dorothy presently, striving to
speak with unconcern and on a trivial subject, " climbing the
western heights at Dover to see the sun set."
" And never again, I suppose ?" he questioned, laughing;
and Dorothy never dreamed that the laugh was an effort.
" Yes, once more, lured by the prospect of seeing a church of
the Knights Templars."
" And you saw it ? "
"After a time. At first I could not, it was so near,the
ground. Oh, what a glare there was that afternoon ! Two
troops—no, not troops, and you will laugh, Captain Yorke, if
I say groups—of soldiers were being drilled, and it seemed
to me that the sergeants were killing themselves in their fierce
authority, and the men in their fierce obedience. I have
often thought of it since, when you have been extolling your
profession."
He had laughed in the first minute, in the next he spoke with
a sternness almost sad.
" Even the life a man loves may Well, he cannot always
keep it."
" But you can," she said, with almost frightened earnestness.
" In any case, there are other lives for a man, and "
"And ' Peace has her victories,'" quotes Dorothy, gently, in
his pause.
He turned to her eagerly and gladly foi one moment, touching
her gloved hand with his own ; then he turned back again,
with an odd little laugh, and, hearing this, Dorothy's gentle
earnest mood vanished.
"Could you fancy me now in any other profession, Dorothy?'
Dorothy's venture.
197
" No ; not any more than I could fancy the disarming of that
warlike person celebrated in song."
" Whom do you mean ?"
" I do not know his name—only his achievements. His
biography begins—
' There was a little man, and he had a little gun,
And his bullets they.were made of lead, lead, lead.' "
The smile was gone from his face, and no wishing now of
hers could bring it back again.
"I have always noticed," he said, "how nothing in my life has
ever awakened interest in you. I do not wonder, for there is
nothing in my life to be proud of. What a fool I have been
ever to imagine you could feel interest—I have even dreamed
of more than interest—in me ! I am neither clever, nor rich,
nor handsome, nor even a lady's man."
"A lady's man is indispensable to a lady's happiness," put
in Dorothy, serenely.
" Shall I throw my old nature to the winds, then, Dorothy,"
he asked, looking half anxiously, half quizzically into her
demure face, " and, instead of being ready to go ' Everywhere
whither Right and Glory lead,' say, Everywhere whither Love
and Dorothy lead ? "
" Would you ? " she asked, with inexplicable apprehension.
"No," he answered, quietly. "Do not let me mislead you
even for a moment. Why do you look sorry for me ? I was
not trying to intrude myself by the side-path of pity. I will
wait; and I will trust"—with earnest quietude—" where no man
who waited reverently ever trusted in vain."
" I am not worth all you offer me—I mean, all you think of
me," said Dorothy, recklessly. " I am so false, and I told a lie
—once."
" In Dover ? " he asked smiling. " I remember. It was about
the empty hotel."
" No ; it was worse."
" Could not be," he said, cool in his thoughtful consideration
for her. " Besides, I remember everything you told me there ;
even to your having sought recreation in the museum."
"Aren't museums dismal when one goes alone? "
" Oh, Dorothy," he cried, " if I could but prevent your ever
feeling lonely again ! "
"I never shall—in the Dover Museum."
"You do your best to disillusion me," said Josslyn, presently,
with a new, stern calmness. " It is not your fault—fault ! " he
repeated, with a curt laugh—" that I love you so entirely. You
hold a great power in your hands, Miss Quentin. Do you ever
hink of that, or of the harm that your light words may do ?
pu know the old tradition that Adam's first wife still lives--
193
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
always young and beautiful—and strangles men who love her
with one golden hair."
"What a-delightful, painless death! But you must never
make that allusion before a girl who is beautiful or has golden
hair," said Dorothy, reflectively. " Of course, to me you may
say it with impunity, though perhaps a nondescript-coloured
hair would strangle a man, if allowed sufficient time."
" Dorothy, I often—oh, so often !—cannot understand you."
"You see, Captain Yorke, you are accustomed to old families,"
she explained, quaintly ; " and I belong to potters ; so that is
accounted for. I wish you did not forget."
" I wish I did not," he said, sternly, and did not speak again
while they drove through the shadowy park.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
" If men were kind to one
Another, and if women—harder task—
Were kind to women, would the world be still
Distraught and miserable ? "
" QUEEN'S weather for you, as usual, Alice," said Lady Ermine
Courtier, as she came into the hall at Lynhead on Alice Yorke's
birthday. " Happy returns, dear, and many ! Sydney drove
here first, because he thought a seat in his drag might be of
service to some one. Lady Letitia is not coming to the picnic,
yet begged us not to forego it on her account; she dreads
climbing, but will drive here in the brougham for the evening
party. Is it the usual programme, Alice ? "
" Yes ; we lunch at the Knolls, wander among the hills, meet
other guests here for high tea, dance, and sup—yes, just the
usual programme. And I am glad to say that, just as usual,
father will go with us to-day. He could not bear, he said, to
damp my picnic by his absence, though he has been fearing
the fatigue. He seems pretty well this morning. Joss is going
to drive the waggonette."
" Oh, I fancied he would drive his own T-cart ! "
" So he would, but father likes the waggonette, and likes
Josslyn to drive him."
"You and Mr. Noyes, I suppose, go together?" inquired
Ermine, looking round, as if the answer were a matter of very
trivial moment to her.
"Yes. We all seem readv now, except Dorothy. Where is
she, Sophy?"
" Still at her toilet," laughed Sophy. "Not because it is an
elaborate one, but because it is a failure. She gave her dress
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
I99
to some unknown woman in Northeaton to make, Ermine, and
naturally she has to suffer for her whim."
" But she has other dresses," suggested Alice ; while Lady
Ermine grew angry with herself for being conscious that this
intelligence had not been wholly displeasing to her.
" Yes ; but you will not find Dorothy acting in so ordinary
and sensible a manner as to put on one of her really pretty
summer gowns. She must needs have this clumsy thing made,
and wear it on such a lovely summer day as this, only fit for
Oh, you may well look ashamed, Dorothy!" Sophy went
on, with a change of tone, as Dorothy entered the hall. " I
am telling of your eccentricities ; and I am sure Ermine will
want to know who is your dress-maker. "
" Miss Rosahn, 2, Northgate Villas," said Dorothy, com-
posedly. " If Suzette ever needs a dress-maker's help in a small
way, will you remember, please, Ermine ?"
" Behold the specimen costume ! " exclaimed Sophy, turning
Dorothy round to exhibit her, while the girls all joined in her
laugh. " Dorothy would not take the liberty of giving direc-
tions, and here is the result."
" But why wear it to-day ?" inquired Alice, not without
reason, as they contemplated the plain dress of soft, dark cloth,
tight-fitting and untrimmed.
" Because Captain D'Eresby is coming to-day," said
Dorothy, simply; "and, as he lodges with Miss Rosahn, I
want him to tell her of my dress. It is rather autumnal,
perhaps ; but I could only afford a new one just now by having
it to be useful later on."
" But you were not obliged to get one for her to make,"
smiled Ermine ; " and I think, dear, I shall be wise to keep to
Suzette—and Paris."
" You do not look exactly bad, Dorothy, " observed Sophy,
still comtemplating the beautiful young figure.
" It suits her better than her home-made tennis-gown,"
added Miss Barber, addressing the group. " That always
suggests her being tied up in towels."
" And does not this ? " queried Dorothy, serenely.
"Dorothy," whispered Alice,'drawing her aside," you had
better change your mind ; you 'will just have time. Put on
your white, or pompadour, or better still, your pale blue sateen,
for you look so pretty in that, dear."
" No—no," said Dorothy, shaking her bright head. " I like
this best. "
"Just as if you did not wish to look pretty, you baby !"
" Miss Ouentin, you will let me lighten Yorke's freight, will
you not ?" ask Lord Avory, coming up to her. " He is certain
to have promised to call for numberless waifs and strays. Will
you come on our drag ?"
200
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
It was such a frank and unabashed selection that Dorothy
could have declined just as frankly, but she did not. She
blushed nervously ; and Avory, seeing this, was recalled to a
sense of his own remissness.
" Sophy, I hope you will come too. I am afraid I coolly
took your consent for granted because Anthony has accepted
a seat."
" Captain Yorke," said Dorothy—she had quietly turned
aside to Josslyn, and looked anxiously into his face—"how is
Captain D'Eresby going ? "
' Oh ! he is all right," said Josslyn, understanding her kindly
thought. " I have sent my cart into Northeaton for him, and it.
is to wait, because he may not be at liberty when it arrives. He
will drive back with us. How are you going ? On Avory's
drag ? "
He said it lightly, feeling confident this would be what she
preferred ; and, though it cost him a real effort, she could not
detect that, just as he could not guess how anxiously she wished
even in such a trifle to do right.
"How is Mr. Anthony going? " she asked, without the
faintest suspicion that this would sound strange to Anthony's
brother.
" On Lady Ermine's drag, of course," said Josslyn, smiling.
" Oh ! yes, and Lady Ermine with you—I see ! Then may
I go with Anthony?"
" Of course you may go exactly as you like," said Josslyn,
quietly ; " but Lady Ermine is not coming with me."
He stayed beside her for a few seconds after he said it, as if
he hoped she would propose something else ; then he left her
talking with Avory, and went out to the waiting carriages. He
settled Alice in her own comfortable phaeton, and jested with
Noyes over his idleness in letting her drive ; he arranged the
support and cushions in his father's seat ; and just then little
Sir Marmaduke Coddington rode up and asked if anyone had
a seat for him, or whether he should ride on.
"As if," laughed Josslyn, " you had not ascertained that Avory
has his drag here, and a seat to spare beside Lady Ermine !
You are a vile impostor, Coddington. Take Sir Marmaduke's
horse in," he added to one of the attendant grooms.
" Captain Yorke," said Dorothy—and he started, though she
spoke so gently, for he had not seen her there beside him in
the shadowy old porch—" if I went on the drag, would Lady
Ermine have my seat in the waggonette ?"
" No. Coddington has come, and you would break his heart
if you suggested her leaving the drag. He and Anthony will
take good care of her, if you take "
" If I take care of Lord Avory," she concluded, blushing
yividly in spite of the coolness of the words, " But would it
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
201
vex you very much if I leave Lord Avory unprotected just
this once, and sit with—Mr. Yorke?"
"With us?" he asked, his face brightening. "You know
how we want you always."
"Then may I ask Lord Avory to offer the seat to Ethel ?"
Josslyn laughed the prompt gay laugh she heard but seldom
now.
" Though Avory may be obedient even to that extent," he
said, "do not you trouble. Why do you try to think for
everybody ? "
"Because," said Dorothy simply, "everybody thinks for
me—but I fail."
"Of course you fail," he answered lightly, as Avory ap-
proached, evidently pursuing Dorothy. " Miss Quentin says
she will drive with my father, Avory, I am glad to say. It
is very kind of her to resist the drag for his sake; and you
must give her her reward on our return."
She guessed that he fancied he pleased her best so,
and ensured her pleasure later on, without her being
troubled ; and, looking into his face, she knew well that he
wished for her pleasure or enjoyment far before his own.
She stood to watch the drag start, Ethel at the Viscount's
side, Ermine behind, between Sir Marmaduke and Anthony,
and the servants, magnificent and motionless, as if a part of
the machine. Then Josslyn assisted her to her place oppo-
site to his father without trying to tempt her to the seat
beside him, which Sophy placidly appropriated, for they were
to call for other friends. Now and then they caught sight of
the drag in advance, and before very long they overtook the
phaeton, merrily bantering Alice as they passed on. Mr.
Yorke enjoyed the beautiful noon-day drive as much as the
young ones did, and pointed out to Dorothy a hundred things
upon the familiar road. He told her whither the many bridle-
paths which crossed the heath would lead her, and proved, she
said, how deeply he had studied the old finger-posts which
pointed so weirdly here and there upon the wide expanse. He
showed her the way on which he used to ride from Lynhead
when he was wooing—five and thirty years before—galloping
to within sight of the house of his love, and then walking slowly
to lengthen the time.
" Or perhaps," suggested Dorothy, demurely, " you would
have been too early."
So she wooed him on to talk to her, Josslyn so silent that
he might even have been listening too, while she watched the
hills lose their purple hue as she came nearer, then from
feathery, misty grey growing to golden green. The horses
were pulled up before a tall red inn at the foot of the great
cjjain of hills, and the party met to separate once more, but
2 02
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
this time falling into groups or pairs without premeditation,
and changing as they climbed the smooth green turf, running
sometimes and sitting at others, now helping each other, now
hindering, but always ready with a laugh or gay reply. Lord
Avory seemed to take it for granted that Dorothy needed his
hand perpetually, and, though she never took it, he sturdily
tried to maintain his place beside her, resuming it directly
after she had succeeded in for a time eluding him. If Mr.
Yorke had accompanied them, she would have kept with
him ; but he had taken a mountain-pony at the inn, and was
riding by a more circuitous way.
" I presume," remarked Mr. Noyes to Alice, as they two
plodded up the hill unmolested, varying the interchange of
plans and endearments with a little criticism on their com-
panions, " that your friend Miss Quentin is betrothed to the
viscount. He takes possession of her as I do of you."
" I positively think he means it seriously. Think what
exaltation it will be for Dorothy ! "
" She takes it calmly, do you not think, dear ?"
" Curiously, I think ; in jest, yet, as it might be, gratefully.
I often cannot understand Dorothy. Of course I like her very
much," added Alice earnestly ; " but I should think better of
her if she could better appreciate Josslyn."
" Does she not ? I am sorry to see Sir Marmaduke trying
to monopolise Lady Ermine, though of course she would not
let him rival Josslyn !"
" Oh, no," laughed Alice. " But Ethel never can climb
without his arm, so he is sure to be somewhere assisting her."
" I heard by chance a strange thing in town the other day,
Alice," said Mr. Noyes, as they trod slowly on, arm within
arm. " That Oxley—your agent—had alluded to his engage-
ment with the rich Miss Barber."
" An invention," said Miss Yorke, placidly. " Mr. Oxley
scarcely ever visits at Lynhead, except taking luncheon when
he happens to be with father on business, or coming to dine
with us at very rare intervals as a sort of form, and when we
are alone. You see he is not with us to-day."
" I noticed that, dear; but, notwithstanding all you .say,
the rumour reached me. Of course I can gauge his motive
for asserting such a possibility, but—well, 1 should not like
to tell your brothers or Mr. Yorke. There comes Josslyn.
Whom is he with?"
" Oh, I see it all now!" said Alice, glad to stop and regain
her breath as she looked below. " That is Captain D'Eresby,
and Josslyn had waited for him. How thoughtful ! "
"Then how can Miss Barber climb?" inquired Mr. Noyes,
practically.
" Oh, he will make it up to her now ! Having once brought
Dorothy's venture.
203
Captain D'Eresby among us, it will be all right. Be genial to
him, Mathew, for Josslyn's sake."
" No, for yours," corrected her lover.
And he kept his word, being scarcely to blame that his
geniality was a little forced and patronising ; while Alice too
was friendly in" her sensible and circumspect fashion. So were
others, though a few of the party cast scrutinising and suspicious
glances at him; but Anthony Yorke was the only one who openly
betrayed a cold, morose displeasure at the presence of— as he
phrased it in his angry thoughts—that lawyer's drudge. But
for all this, as he told her afterwards, Dorothy's sweet friendli-
ness made amends a thousandfold. It was different from all
the others, and gave him perfect happiness. Once or twice
Josslyn caught himself wondering over it ; her sympathy was
so dainty and delicate, yet so gay and unconstrained ; so watch-
ful, yet so instinctive ; so thoughtful, yet so spontaneous. Mr.
Yorke spoke of it when—having declined all suggestions and
invitations to walk after the abundant meal which they called
luncheon and the idling over coffee which followed it—he found
himself comfortably.ensconsed for a rest, and Josslyn still near
him.
"In spite of its worn look, Joss, the happiest face here is
D'Eresby's. This is a red-letter day to him ; but do not let
Dorothy weary herself in her great kindness. I never saw
anything prettier than her quiet, sweet consideration for him ;
so unobtrusive too. One could fancy she had felt what it is to
be poor and solitary."
"Or rather," said Josslyn, watching Dorothy wait for and
talk to D'Eresby, though Avory was on her other side, " she
has thought what it might be, as she has thought most things."
" She is frank enough about her somewhat vagrant and
unique educational advantages, Josslyn," said the squire,
smiling ; " yet I fail to find how or where she has acquired the
power—not usual in girls of twenty—of putting herself so
readily in the place of another."
"Never acquired, is it?" asked the young man, watching
still how, though the viscount was doing his best to circumvent
her, Dorothy had won others into their group, and was strolling
on in a manner so exceedingly leisurely that separation was
almost impossible. True, those who wished to leave her
behind could do so easily—and that was what Josslyn fancied
her motive to be—but no one could lure her on to leave others
in the rear.
" Do not let me keep you, Josslyn," said his father, breaking
this thought; " I want you all to enjoy this day. Surely you
will no longer leave Ermine to be bored by Coddington ! "
" She has Sophy and Anthony with her too."
" Yes," laughed the squire ; " and when you join them Sophy
204
Dorothy's venture.
will fall to Sir Marmaduke, as you will see, and Anthony go
back to Dorothy. She is always ready to be his companion.
She seems very much Anthony's friend, Joss."
" Yes," said Josslyn, simply ; " she likes Anthony."
Later on he was to hear this fact expressed in other ways ;
and, though his heart was sore, it amused him a little, because
he understood her best of all. Later still he met his father
sauntering down towards the inn between Dorothy and D'Eresby,
chatting willingly and merrily with both.
" We started early," explained Dorothy, in her cool, frank
way, " because we are sensible and do not care to spoil a
pleasant hour by hurrying."
" We old folk," supplemented Mr. Yorke, with a little loving
tap on the girl's shoulder,—" we dismissed the young ones
summarily."
After that not one of Lady Ermine's gentle smiles, or Ethel
Barber's scarce-veiled hints, seemed wasted on Josslyn. He
was eagerly and anxiously at their service, for a great gladness
had filled his heart, as if the girl he loved so devotedly had
been tender to him as he had seen her to others ; and, though
even' to himself he could not have explained this feeling, it
filled his heart with a nameless strange rejoicing. To Lady
Ermine, who sat beside him on the waggonette, he made the
hour's drive home seem like five minutes, and even Alice was
roused to wonder over Josslyn's infectious gaiety.
The summer afternoon was waning when the picnic party
reached Lynhead, and they had scarcely changed their dresses
when the evening guests began to arrive. Then came the long,
merry, unceremonious meal for which Pelly nourished a lordly
contempt, as "not the old rejeem," and after that an assemb-
ling in the hall, which looked so large with its furniture all
removed except the armour, and its floor gleaming. The wide
entrance-door was open, but curtains fell between the brilliant
changing scene within and the still twilight scene without.
" How beautiful Miss Quentin looks in white ! " whispered
Mr. Noyes to his fiancee, in the medley and the buzz of con-
versation. "I cannot imagine how your brothers keep their
hearts. I could not if I had not forfeited mine long ago."
"But they have too," smiled Alice. " Lord Avory is the one
who has fallen a victim to Dorothy. Do you notice how he
takes it for granted that everyone will allow his claim and leave
her to him ? "
" She does not, though. She seems this evening just the
same to everyone, which rather surprises me, because on the
hills to-day she almost devoted herself to that old military
fellow ; and before that, ever since my arrival, I have fancied
her to be at Anthony's beck. She would strqll wi^h him when
with no one else,"
DORO'l'HVS VENTURE,
265
i: Yes, she likes Anthony," said Alice, so little comprehending.
"Are you enjoying yourself, Sophy?" whispered Dorothy,
with inexplicable wistfulness as she noticed Sophy's restless
glances and rather inattentive manner.
" Of course," replied Sophy, a little sharply, while her cheeks
grew scarlet. " Pray do not watch me all the evening, Dorothy.
Not that you are likely to," she added, growing at her ease
again ; " you are too much bound up in your own enjoyment.
How happy you look, even when you talk to that stupid lawyer-
man, though, fortunately for you, you are not allowed many
opportunities for indulging that whim. Oh, Lady Letitia"—
Lady Letitia Chilton, on Mr. Yorke's arm, had come upon the
girls in their semi-retreat, and had paused with gracious com-
placency—"we were so sorry you could not come to our picnic !"
said Sophy, promptly receiving the proffered hand and then
resigning it for Dorothy. But Dorothy stood silently ungrateful
for that bliss vouchsafed ; and, though the delicate colour came
and went nervously in her cheeks, she only bowed with cold,
grave dignity.
"Now, Miss Quentin, the dance is forming," said Captain
Yorke at that moment, speaking for Lady Letitia to hear.
" Please do not delay."
Dorothy knew why he had rescued her from Lady Letitia's
cold and supercilious gaze, and she thanked him as they went
away together; but the nervous colour still fluttered in her
cheeks, and she felt herself humiliated in his eyes.
" I am so resentful," she said—and, though he had taken her
from Lady Letitia's presence, he did not attempt to excuse her
■—"I know it, yet I do not change. Oh, I do not know"—as
her eyes met D'Eresby's for a moment—" even yet what I owe
to Lady Letitia! "
" Never mind," he answered, lightly then. "-Of course, when
I claimed you, I knew you were not engaged to me for this
dance. Is it Avory or Anthony who is to be your partner ?"
" Why ask that as if one were a matter of course ? "
" Oh, Anthony, is it ? May I have the next ? "
"No, please," said Dorothy, rather unconventionally, and
with unconscious wistfulness, as she looked at one rather
solitary-looking figure apart from the dancers. "Later on,
please."
"Very well," said Josslyn, letting his brother take his place ;
and then he sauntered back to Lady Letitia.
" An old friend of yours is here to-night," he said, allowing
Mr. Yorke to take his not unwilling departure.
" You mean Geraldine Quentin. She is no friend of mine.
A most ungrateful girl! But then what ought I to have
expected from one who is not a lady ? "
" Do not let Avory hear you say that, Lady Letitia. It sounds
206
Dorothy's venture.
comic here, where we know her so well ; but Avory might—
resent it."
" I believe Lord Avory to be too sensible a man," she said,
stonily, " to allow a butterfly like that to captivate him. Is
she this friend then, Captain Yorke ?"
" No, it is a man one does not meet so often now as you and
Mr. Chilton used to do years ago, and Earl Northeaton. I
mean "—rather hastily, as the lady evinced a benign curiosity—
" your husband's old friend, and your cousin, Paul D'Eresby."
" Oh," said Lady Letitia, blandly—Captain Yorke was not
looking into her face, or he might have been startled by its
expression—" to extend your hospitality to him, even on such
an informal and festal occasion, is rather eccentric generosity ;
but still it was well-meant, and of course, now that I know this
is a mixed assembly, I can avoid whom I choose."
" Each of our guests can do that certainly."
CHAPTER XXIX.
" I and my mistress, side by side,
So one day more am I deified.
Who knows but the world may end to-night ? "
" Captain D'Eresby, I promised to sit with you through this
dance. Do you forget to claim the promise ? "
" I feared," he said, looking almost reverentially into Dorothy's
bright face, and then deprecatingly up into Anthony's, " I
have no right to claim a grace accorded in such kindness."
" I think not," said Anthony, while his slow, contemptuous
glance took in every detail of the old-fashioned dress-suit.
" Miss Quentin is very generous ; but she ought not to be
allowed to sacrifice her own enjoyment; and we must draw the
line for her, as she will not for herself."
" I will draw my own lines, thank you, Anthony," she said,
with quiet dignity, as she placed her hand within D'Eresby's
arm ; " and one of them is against dancing twice together with
the same partner."
" I was to blame," said D'Eresby; and she saw how he had
only with difficulty repressed his own hasty reply. " In my
happiness at your concession, I had forgotten that I am not
young, while the young, of course, could not forget. How
grateful I am to you for this delight! " he went on, as they
walked slowly to the almost deserted drawing-rooms.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" asked Dorothy, childishly,
while she wondered why one man should be so grateful for
what another looked on as even less than his due.
Dorothy's vENTtritii.
"Enjoying myself!"—the worn face brightening pitifully.
" How kind, and good, and merciful it was of you to remember
me ; for that I am here I know I owe to you ! Yes, I feel as I
used to feel years agone, in a lighter life. Did I not say the
twenty-first was my auspicious day ? In one's career things go
in circles ; do they not, Miss Quentin ? History repeats itself,
and in a cycle of years—say, seven—occur important crises in
our lives. Why not? The planetary influences strike the
electric chain which darkly binds us. You doubt this. I can
read it in your face. This is the twenty-first, and I could not
resist the temptation to come, though I have been afraid of the
unfamiliarity now to me of such a scene, and my old-fashioned
presence, and unfitting ways. But surely, I thought, I could not
have lost all my old gentlemanliness, and if I tried "
" You had no need to try," she said, gently, as they sat down on
one of the deeply-cushioned window-seats, " being a gentleman."
" Thank you," he answered, simply ; " but so little remains to
me of my old life ; and now "—with nervous slowness—" living
as I do in one idea, I shall grow worse. I cannot help it. I
think of you in all places, at all times. So deeply and gratefully
I thank you, that that is the one engrossing thought of my
charmed life. I know I am old, yet I am living now the one
romance of my eventful and mistaken life. Earth offers so
little joy in reality, that I must needs grasp what memory and—
imagination give me."
" Oh ! Captain D'Eresby," said Dorothy, earnestly, " I have
given you nothing ? Please, please, do not idealize me.",.
" Is what you have given me nothing?" he questioned, with
a flashing brightness in his sunken eyes. " Are your gracious
friendship and your sweet sympathy—nothing ? Is it nothing
to have lifted the dark clouds ot distrust from my soul, to have
given me back my old faith ? Oh ! heaven, what have you not
given me? No, do not turn away ; I will control myself. I
have alarmed you, just as I did before when I was so happy.
Then you were pitiful and hid it; but—I saw the fear, and I have
hated myself for it. And I have striven to-day—ah, you can
never know how I have striven !—to be calm, and English, and
unmoved ; but it is not possible."
" Oh ! yes," said Dorothy, kindly, " you have been calm and
—and English ! " with a little laugh.
" And you are satisfied ?" he questioned, eagerly, his lined
face flushing like a girl's. " Oh, you make me very happy ! I
was so anxious ! I had dreamed so often of being under the
same roof with my destiny; and I could not believe in its
probable reality, for I had said I would give my life for one
hour with you. And—now it is true."
" And you have not given your life for it," smiled Dorothy;
but the answering smile she hoped for did not come.
208
Dorothy's venture.
" Yesterday," he said, quietly, " the little looking-glass in ftly
room fell, and was broken."
Then Dorothy laughed, though her heart was a little heavy
as she heard the heaviness in his.
" Still superstitious ?"
" Can I help it ?" he asked, gently. " I have always been
warned. And can I fight destiny ? But death will not come to
me unwelcomed. I shall await you then, and there will be no
wide separation as there is now. You said you should not
marry ; so no one will claim you then "
" Oh, hush !" breathed Dorothy, in frightened, sorrowful
tones ; but he went softly on, as if not hearing.
" This world is but for seventy years, the other for ever;
and in death, as in life, I am yours. You cannot help this.
Destiny gave me to you—destiny which never can give you to
me !—and you cannot help it. You gave me life, and the life
you gave is yours. Now in your presence I feel like—other
men ; but this hour will soon be over, and then it will be the
old dead routine. If only I had hard things to do ! "
" I know that feeling," the girl said, involuntarily.
"No, no!" he cried, his dim eyes filled with sadness, as he
looked eagerly into hers. "It is impossible that you should
know it. You could not chafe ungratefully against your fate as
I do. Sometimes I feel that, if I do not strenuously govern my
passionate and impatient temper, I shall do some dreadful
deed. Ah ! how I should like to pass now quietly away and sin
no more ; I feel so grateful and so glad, so proud in your
precious friendship ! If you withdraw it, then farewell to all
on earth."
" Do you think, Captain D'Eresby," said Dorothy, trying to
lead his thoughts away, and wondering over the patient look
of one who dreaded so his own impatience. " you would go into
the hall for my fan ? I slipped it under the arm of one of the
carved figures on the mantel while I was talking with Mr.
Noyes—just for fun. Would you ?"
" Would I ?" he echoed. " Command me anything, my
chieftainess, and you shall see. To serve you I would jeopar-
dise everything."
"There is no jeopardy in this," she said, laughing to distract
him, though yet frightened and unnerved a little by the power
she held. "You always use such unusual words."
" Old-fashioned ones," he said, and smiled in his quiet,
patient way. " I will go now ; but I feel as if I may not return
to this same happy hour. It would be too great a joy for me.
I have kept you too long now; yet my impassioned soul tries
not to be selfish."
" I shall await your return here, Captain D'Eresby," said
Dorothy, with all the quiet unconcern she could assume.
' You know, of course, that Lady Letitia Chilton is here?"
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
209
" Here ! " he repeated, with strong, suppressed excitement,
and a fierce restlessness in his eyes. " She here, and well, and
taking ease and pleasure; yet I have asked on my knees that
a judgment should fall on which of us was wiong. If I were
wrong that I might suffer, and if she were wrong that she
should ! Well, it will come ! And she is here ! Ah, now "—
with a strange, bright, sudden smile—" I understand why the
looking-glass fell ! "
Left alone, Dorothy turned and opened the window behind
her, leaning from it and breathing gratefully the scented, still
night air. It was a fair, calm summer night; and though the
music and the voices, and even the footsteps in the hall,
reached her here, and now and then the low, mellow baying of
the staghounds from without, it was silent by comparison, and
soothed her, and prepared her to go back and be again the girl
they all thought gay, and careless, and heart-free. As she sat
looking, not below her, but far away over the sombre woods,
one of the gardeners came in the most natural manner up to
the window, and taking off his hat, stood theie, his head just
reaching to the level of hers.
" Miss Quentin," he began, in a deferential whisper, "are
you alone?"
" Yes," said Dorothy, involuntarily whispering too. " Do
you want something ? "
" Will you read this, please ma'am, and give it me back ?
You needn't seal it, for I have sworn not to read a word ; but
I'm to take it back, not knowing where it might fall,"
Without another word, Dorothy took the paper and turned
in to read it by the candlelight. It held no signature ; but she
guessed in a moment that the scarcely decipherable writing
was Nancy Kerry's, though she wondered afterwards why she
had done so. Slowly and thoughtfully she read the lines.
" I erd Mr. Oxly say to Miss Sofy I mus.t speke to you
to nite go into the Seeder All as soon as you can after 12 wile
thay are all dancing and ingaged Close all the windas to sho
you are there It must be to nite I erd him say this Miss
Dorithy never mind how youll no some day If you can inder
them speaking to nite praps I can elp more after. It might do
a grate arm."
" Thank you," Dorothy said, giving back the paper. "Tell
her I understand." •
After twelve, while they were dancing ! Supper was ordered
for twelve, so probably Sophy would stay only for that.
Dorothy turned to leave the room, pushing the bright hair from
her forehead, and with her fingers closing, for a second, the
wide, troubled eyes.
te It will all come right," she said, as if her own heart needed
o
2 IO
DOROTHY S VENTURE.
this encouragement. "It is a false idea of Nancy's, and an
insult to Sophy ! It will all be a mistake."
So she said to herself again and again, even while she
laughed and listened to those who spoke to her; for, before
Captain D'Eresby had rejoined her, Lord Avory had come to
seek her to go in to supper with him. So she walked between
them, taking the arm of neither ; and angry as the viscount
felt at her caprice, he laughed to find that others sought her
also and were too late.
Even in the confusion of the guests leaving the dining-room
and re-assembling in the hall, Dorothy found it no easy matter
to slip away unobseived. When at length she did so, she
never dreamed of stopping for any wrap, but as she ran
through the park she tied her handkerchief round her neck.
Her dress was but slightly opened at the throat, and it was a
still and balmy night; so,she felt no cold until she had mounted
the steps and entered the Cedar Hall, when a chill of misery
and humiliation struck to her heart. She had scarcely glanced
from the open windows into the dark shadows, when, keenly on
the alert as she was, she became aware of Sophy's hurrying
footsteps.
Her heart beat as wildly as if she had been a child in
physical terror ; but it was little wonder, for this task—so alien
to the girl's frank, unsuspicious nature—had been thrust
suddenly upon her.
" Dorothy ! " cried Sophy, too much startled to conceal her
annoyance. " Why are you here ? "
" The beauty of the night is tempting, Sophy," said Dorothy,
gently, as she looked from the open eastern window.
"It tempted me? returned Sophy, but impatiently, as she
moved from window to window. " Make haste back to the
house, Dorothy. It is dangerous here among open windows.
I will close them and follow you."
"Are they generally closed?" asked Dorothy, betraying
nothing of her painful disappointment in this friend of whom
she had grown fond.
" Yes, but we often forget if we come here after the gardeners
have left their work. I shall lock the door and bring away the
key, but I will not keep you. See, I have my sortie ae bed, so I
am all right ; but you will catch cold, so let me see you safely off."
" I would rather wait for you,' said Dorothy, in the easiest
manner, while her head was aching painfully, and she wondered
whether her life would ever hold again so sorely unpleasant a
task as this.
"Nonsense!" cried Sophy, irritably. "What good can
waiting here do you ? "
"None," was the steady, gentle answer ; "but as you are
here, Sophy, I should like to jp back with you,"
DOROTHY'S • VENTURE.
211
"1 will follow you. I have told you I must close the windows
and lock up No, do not close them yet," staying Dorothy's
hand, and speaking hurriedly, though she could not surmise the
truth. " I will do it. I do not want you here."
" Do you want solitude ?" asked Dorothy, gravely.
" "Why else should I come here ?" Even in the almost entire
darkness Dorothy blushed for this prompt prevarication, and a
silence followed, which seemed long to Dorothy, but to Sophy
interminable. Still Dorothy kept her position before the little
window looking eastward.
" How ridiculous you are ! " cried Sophy, breaking the silence
at last with irrepressible petulance. " This new freak of yours,
Dorothy, is as inexplicable as it is annoying."
" I will not cross the park alone again," said Dorothy, in a
light though resolute tone, " nor oblige you to do it ; so I shall
wait till you decide to come."
Another silence, while Sophy in repressed exasperation still
went from window to window, looking out from each. Then
she paused beside Dorothy, who knew quite well what an effort
was the command she put upon her voice.
" Dorothy, will you oblige me by returning. ? "
" Yes, with you."
" But I mean without me—now ? "
For a moment a question hovered upon the girl's lips, but she
did not utter it.
" If I do," she said, quietly decisive, "I shall race to the
house as swiftly as ever I can—you know I can run fast, Sophy
—and send Captain Yorke here to bring you safely in. I daresay
that will be better, for he will be more protection than we are
to each other."
"Nonsense ! " cried Sophy, roused to unmistakable anger at
this prospect. " My affairs are not in your hands."
" No," said Dorothy, gently ; "we have to each arrange our
own, of course, and it is hard sometimes—I mean it is hard just
to do the right thing when the wrong is pleasanter."
Another silence ; but this time Sophy had not moved away
from Dorothy's side.
" Then you will not go ?" she asked at last, in a hard, hope-
less way.
. " Only when you do, Sophy. How late it is ! There comes
the message of dawn, but faint and far off yet. Shall we come
now?"
" We had better," was the .dogged reply. " Your whim has
spoiled the evening for both of us."
" Yes," acquiesced Dorothy, gravely. " How Alice will have
missed her fellow-hostess ! Are the hills light at all ?" she went
on, crossing to another window, as if her thoughts were only on
the .scene around her, while she hoped Sophy would regain her
212
dorothy's venture.
ease. " Fancy those dark masses being the sunny hills we
climbed this afternoon ! I suppose sometimes our own lives
change as suddenly, even in a day, and we would give all we
have to bring the sunshine back—and cannot."
" Come !" exclaimed Sophy, pettishly; and a few minutes
afterwards, treading rather slowly side by side, the girls reached
the house.
But, a few minutes alter they had entered the outer drawing-
room from the garden, a thought struck Dorothy. Sophy
certainly had not brought the key from the Cedar Hall, and
yet had said she meant to do so. It would be better to have
it ; it would be far better for the little house to be locked. The
thought was no sooner framed than Dorothy had escaped again
from the window. She had heard Sophy's voice among the
guests beyond, and she had no fear, for soon it would be dawn ;
and before night came again Nancy would have explained this
intangible fear. But, when she reached the Cedar Hall this
second time, it was occupied, and its occupant, hearing her
step—and mistaking it—pushed open the door to meet her on
the threshold.
She grasped the rails of the steps as if she feared to fall,
turning faint and giddy in the weak, vain longing to do wisely
in this crisis ; and in another moment Josslyn Yorke had.
mounted the steps behind her and with a terrible anger in his
eyes, was looking from her troubled face into the smiling one of
Mr. Oxley.
CHAPTER XXX.
"I loved, and was lowly, loved and aspired,
Loved, grieving or glad,
Till I made you mad,
And you meant to have hated and despised."
Scant as the light was, Dorothy could see the passion in
Captain Yorke's eyes, as he stood almost on a level with her.
She was leaning back against the rail of the steps, holding it—
for she actually needed support—and, above them both, Mr.
Oxley stood on the threshold of the little summer-house,
apparently waiting, with smiling patience, for any movement
of theirs which should allow him to pass. Though Dorothy
saw nothing of this, his quiet insolence was not lost upon
Josslyn, though he withheld any word of it in her presence.
" Miss Quentin," he said, " are you returning to the house ?"
But Dorothy, feeling through every fibre of her being that
now at last he would indeed despise her, shrank a, little from
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
213
him, though her wide, sorrowful eyes still met his. This silence
of hers gave Oxley courage, and showed him how this chance
encounter might be made useful in blinding Captain Yorke to
the truth.
" Have you then the right, Captain Yorke," he asked, in a
smooth but sneering tone, " to prevent Miss Quentin meeting
whom she will ? "
" Miss Quentin is my father's guest, and will do exactly as
she chooses at Lynhead," said Josslyn, in his easy, resolute
tones. This summer-house is as much hers as mine ; but you,
Mr. Oxley, have not similar privileges."
" You speak as the master here. Is that intentional ?"
" Quite intentional. I am at your service, Miss Quentin."
Again the quiet reminder was in vain. Guessing nothing of
his suppressed anxiety for her to leave this spot with him,
Dorothy still stood, imperceptibly recoiling from him, knowing
how he must blame her in his heart, and literally dreading to
give him the power of questioning her ; feeling how hard it
would be to keep Sophy's secret from him, while she—whatever
misery it caused her—must forfeit his esteem.
" May I ask again," inquired Oxley—for with every instant's
pause of hers he gained hardihood—" by what authority you
attempt to influence Miss Quentin ? "
"No, you may not sir," retorted Josslyn, stung beyond
endurance. " You may ask me nothing, unless it is for per-
mission to slink away before I throw you down these steps—
you coward !"
The swift warm colour rushed into Dorothy's cheeks as she
turned and looked at Oxley for the first time. Though she was
not aware of it, she was glad to hear these angry words. A
coward ! How well the word fitted him ; for, though there was
no fear in his attitude, there was a subtle something which put
him down immeasurably beneath the feet of the man whose
passionate anger had burst its bounds !
"You will seethe wisdom of apologising to me, Captain
Yorke," said Oxley, with a slow, stiff smile, "when you have
thought over this matter. A little conversation with your
brother will doubtless make you more anxious to do so."
" I shall trouble you to be present at that conversation,"
remarked Josslyn, coolly, "and at the hour I appoint."
" Do not trouble yourself to hasten Miss Quentin away,"
resumed Oxley, watching Dorothy turn to Josslyn; "I have
something to say to her."
Dorothy paused at once, really in fear—as for herself she
never could have feared—and, though she was silent, a vivid,
shamed flush burned painfully in her face. For a moment
Josslyn looked at her questioningly; in the next he had taken
her hand.
214
BOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Doubtless," he said, speaking with easy, cool disdain, "you
will obtain Miss Quentin's permission to say it, if you call upon
her at Lynhead in ordinary visiting hours; but I myself will
see you first."
The glance which Mr. Oxley threw after the retreating figures
was weighted by a fear which Dorothy would have rejoiced to
see ; but it was wasted not on her alone, but on Captain Yorke
also. In utter silence he walked at her side towards the house,
and'this frightened her a little. To the girl who by nature was
so fearless and high-spirited, this humiliation was such a new
and strange experience that it had crushed her utterly at first.
But in his silence her thoughts—still so sorrowful and heavy—
struggled back to their old freedom.
" It is a chilly morning," she said.
It was but a feeble observation, and certainly merited no
more than the muteness with which it was received; yet
Dorothy presently hazarded another, looking away from the
stern, still face beside her, to where, through an ashy wall of
cloud, a blurred, red streak proclaimed the rising sun.
" It will be a wet day, I suppose."
"Dorothy," said Josslyn, looking steadfastly down into her
face, " I wish I understood you."
" It is very easy," she said. " You have only to remember I
always do harm where I mean to " She broke off, with a
nervous little laugh, as if she had said a lesson wrongly. " I
bungle over everything, even my own excuses, you see, Captain
Yorke. You will be always able to remember this one thing
about me, that I bungle over everything. Whatever anyone
gives me to do, I fail in."
Her thoughts were far away just then from this night's task.
They held, as they ever did, the duty laid so gently upon her by
her mother ; but at that moment they were burdened too by the
task Lady Ermine had given her, and which she so childishly
had blundered over. But Josslyn, always quick and discerning,
had gained from these words just the insight that he had
desired.
" I may not ask you who gave you this task to-night," he said,
quietly ; "but, if you ever choose to tell me, it will lift a great
weight from my heart."
" Gave me this task ?" she echoed, in dismay for what she
could have allowed him to fancy. " What task ? I went to the
Cedar Hall of my own account. There was no task."
" You mean, you went to meet Oxley ? "
Then quietly, with her quick woman's wit, she turned his
words against himself.
" Did you go to meet Mr. Oxley, too, or did you go to meet
me, or I to meet you ? Or—how was it, if it were not all
accident ?''
Dorothy's venture.
''You alone could answer the question you ask," he said,
sadly. "Do not equivocate, Dorothy ; it is unworthy of you."
" On the contrary, it is characteristic of me."
" I wish to Heaven," exclaimed Josslyn, with irrepressible
wrath, " I could at this moment dismiss you from my thoughts
for ever ! What use is there in wearing out my heart for one
who slights, and scorns, and jests upon the gravest feelings a
man can have ? But it is my own fault that I care. I might
have been prepared, for you hated me from the first."
" Hated you ! " she cried, as if in pain, while her eyes were
lifted instantly and unconsciously to his ; then dropped again as
if she feared what they might tell, even in the uncertain light.
" Hated me," he repeated, steadily ; "so I have only myself
to blame for all disappointments since. I know I am, and have
been, a troublesome lover, and you have shown me so quite
often enough to have cured me, if I had had any sense."
" And you are tired of trying to make me love you ?" she asked
with a strange yearning to punish herself by the consciousness
of how little trying had ever been needed.
" Tired ? Yes, of its hopelessness. I never could be tired
otherwise. I can never give up trying, if I have even the
faintest chance of success at the last, however long you make
me wait. But it will be different, if you take all hope away."
"You have tried very generously and unselfishly," she said,
gently.
"Unselfishly!" he echoed, with a laugh. "No, you are
wrong there, Dorothy, as once or twice you have been wrong
before—indeed you have—in your estimate of me. My effort
has been most selfish. You are not what I used to dream of as
an ideal; not even " —-with the laugh again, but a little softened
now—" at all a model girl; yet I never dreamed, before I saw
you, of how persistently and selfishly I could woo any girl.
Since the day I first saw you, you have been my one and only
love ; and till the day I die you will be so still. Do you
remember, when you sat in old Cuffs boat on the Dover beach,
that I reminded you that it did not take long for the lightning
to strike, however firm and resolute the tree might be? I
meant so much, Dorothy, even then. But of course you did
not understand how I, with all my fancied firmness and resolu-
tion, was—lightning-stricken. Besides, you would not even
remember. What would you care to remember that I ever
said or did ?"
" I remember that," she said, softly.
" You remember?" he echoed, in eager, glad surprise. " You
really remember? But you did not guess what I meant?"
" Was it a kind of riddle, then ?"
" I wonder," he said, in quick, pained tones, " how it can be
that I so dearly love you, for you are cruelly heartless. It
216
Dorothy's venture.
seems impossible for you even to comprehend the depth hnd
intensity of a man's devotion."
" No," she gently said, " I am not the sort cf girl to whom it
should be given.''
"Forgive me!" he cried, with sudden anxiety, "I am a
cross, exacting fellow, I know ; but—but, Dorothy, I can be
loyal and faithful; and under your gentle influence 1 shall lose
my inexcusable impatience."
"Is it manly," she asked, only by a great effort seeming
unconcerned, "to require a woman's influence to keep you
patient ?"
" I am sure," he said, with a quick glance into her face,
" that you have never loved. You could not speak to me so if
you had. Oh, Dorothy, if I am right—if you have never yet
loved—try to love me ! I will wait your own time ; I will not
weary you, if you will only give me hope. 1 will wait and wait
for years for you. You know how dear you are to me—No,
you cannot know. You would not listen if I tried to tell you ;
and I should only fail if I tried, for I could not speak of such a
vivid inner life."
" You will soon forget—— I mean," she said, for, try as she
might, she could not even feign ignorance of his suffering now,
" I mean that other hopes will come, and other love."
" That is so probable ! " he answered, with a low, curt laugh.
" When I lose you even for an hour, it is like darkness to me ;
a world without a sun—no, not even that, for you are all the
world to me, my dearest —dearest—dearest ! "
" Oh, hush ! " she cried. " 1 cannot listen. It—it breaks
my heart."
" It breaks your heart! " he echoed, sadly. " I know it has
always harassed and disturbed you to feel my love, and you
have tried to prevent my showing it, even before I dared to tell
you of it. Well, you have not been to blame ; but you could
not help being the hope and light and longing of my heart. It
was never your fault, Dorothy—only mine—that I let my love
grow too strong and deep and absorbing to be hidden. It is
my fault that your consistent repulse has never killed my love,
or even changed it. A man's hope may fade, but his love does
not, I think. No change seems possible to me to the last day
of my life. You may take all hope away, but still you will be
always dearest, sweetest, best to me."
" It is so wrong for me to let you hope even for one day," she
said, in anxious earnestness. " I never ought to have done so."
" You have not. You prevented, it as far as your own power
went," he gently answered her; "but only in one way could you
have killed a hope so dominant and so tenacious."
" One way ? "
" I mean if you had told me in earnest what others have told
Dorothy's venture.
217
me in jest—I trust in jest—when I may have betrayed before
them how jealously I love you."
" You mean ?" she queried, in his pause.
" I mean "—hurriedly—" that another man had won your
love."
" That I had another lover?" The correction was too gentle
for him to read its misery. " Yes, Captain Yorke, that is true."
The words sounded calmly decisive and final. How could
he guess the weight of pain against which the girl struggled,
holding her hand upon her heart, trying to still its hurried,
anguished beating ?
"It—it is best to tell you," she said, in his silence ; but she
could not look into the face of the man whose love she rejected—
even though she had another lover ! " I have"wanted to tell you."
And then the brave heart, being only a girlish, tender heart
after all, and full of deepest, purest love for the man whose
' sorrow was heavier upon her than her own, failed her. She
bowed her face in her hands and sobbed as if she had no
bravery at all, and were but a child, for all her firmness.
" Dorothy," he whispered then, looking down upon her with
all his heart in his sad eyes, " do not grieve for me. I hate
myself for your suffering. It is a forerunner to me of the
bitterness of death. I will bear my wound unseen, dear. It
shall not hurt you again as I have made it hurt you to-night.
I have seen it trouble you before ; but it never shall again.
Hush, my best beloved ! I ought not to have let this great
longing of mine sadden you. I did not know how hopeless it
was, or it should never have distressed you for one moment. I
wish you had let us know your love was given ; then I would
have tried But you are not to blame ; you never were, for
we had no claim upon you that you should tell us—everything.
You tried to show me from the first how vain my dream was ;
but I was blind. Now I must bear my fate to the end. But I
will bear it differently, and your happiness shall be my recom-
pense. Dorothy, these tears are agony to me. I would not for
the world have made my sorrow yours. I will not trouble you
more, dear—even by my presence. I shall leave Lynhead to-
morrow."
" And always," she whispered, in sad, slow tones at last, as if
she could not prevent the words, "you will think me heartless."
" No, no ; I said it in anger. If I could have really thought
you so, I should have been now a less miserable man. If 1
had thought you so, could you have been so very dear to me ? "
" You cannot understand," she faltered, piteously.
And then he took her trembling hands into his, and looked
down into the sad depths of the eyes whose soul, even in this
miserable moment, she strove, as she had always striven, to
hide from him, while he alone could bring it there.
2lS
Dorothy's venture.
"I understand," he said, softly and solemnly. "I know what
it means for me, and I am a man and can bear it ; but I know,
too, that it means happiness for you—when you have forgotten
this sorrow of mine, which I ought to have spared you, and
which you must soon forget. Happiness for you ! Yes, dearest
and best beloved, I understand."
Then very gently he laid his hand upon her head, while she
could not see his face ; and in the silence she knew that, for
her sake, he was burying his sorrow from her sight. And a
longing deep as prayer went from her heart that in the time to
come, in some other way—not this—she might repay even to
him a little of the debt of love and gratitude her mother owed,
and might bear her own wound—as he had said he would bear
his—unseen.
"Josslyn!"
The call came softly from Alice, standing outside the curtained
door, as Josslyn and Dorothy walked slowly from the porch up
the shadowy corridor.
" Will you go," pleaded Dorothy, in a whisper, looking wist-
fully across the silent court, "and leave me just a little here
alone ? I will follow you."
" I thought you would be out here with Dorothy," Alice said
as he instantly obeyed Dorothy. " She is such a ravenous
person for the open air when she can get a companion."
"What can I do for you?" Josslyn asked. "Miss Quentin
is not to be tempted in yet ; but I can leave her, and am at
your service. What is it, dear ? "
"A strange man is here. Joss, and insists on seeing father.
Pelly took him into our sitting-room and told me. He did not
like seeking you. I feel so anxious."
" You need not, dear !" said Josslyn, as if his own heart were
not aching. " I will go to him."
" How thankful I am that you are here, for when I told
Anthony, he was so strange that I grew nervous. If you had
been away Dorothy, how you startled me ! What is it 1
Oh "—as the girl kissed her with a yearning sympathy and self-
reproach Miss Yorke could never understand, for she knew that
presently it would be her fault that Alice would look in vain for
her favourite brother—" I know you are sorry for anything that
vexes us, but Oh, my dear, how sad and ill you look !
And Josslyn Then you both had heard of this and been
alarmed ! "
Dorothy's venture.
219
CHAPTER XXXI.
" The battle is not always to the brave,
Nor life's sublimest wisdom to the wise.
True courage often is in frightened eyes."
" My dear little Dorothy, what is your trouble ? Do you miss
Sydney ?"
" I am not troubled," said Dorothy, a smile breaking in her
beautiful eyes as they met Lady Ermine's. " Many guests seem
to have left, Ermine."
"Yes, dear—notably Lady Letitia, as you may perceive.
Are you surprised—I being still here ?"
" I am very glad," Dorothy answered, honestly.
" But I am afraid you will not be when you hear more,"
resumed Lady Ermine, looking restlessly about the hall as she
spoke. " She was very disagreeable, Dorothy, to that poor
cousin of hers ; and he was as proud as Lucifer, but perfectly
courteous, though only by a mighty effort. Poor fellow ! I was
delighted you were not here, for even I felt hot and inclined to
stand up for him, and I cannot imagine what you would have
done. He wished to speak to Mr. Yorke before leaving, but he
had retired. Then he sought Josslyn, and could not find him ;
so he found Anthony. But Anthony was not quite so courteous
as he might have been, or as Captain Yorke would have been ;
and I was sorry."
" Oh, how very, very sorry I am !" said Dorothy, with a great
sinking at her heart; for was it not her fault that Josslyn had
been absent, and did not everything with which she had to do
go wrong ? And this had been what D'Eresby called his lucky
day, and he had been so grateful !
" I did all I could," continued Lady Ermine. " I proposed
to Lady Letitia that for her health's sake she should return to
the Chase, and Sydney took her. I reminded her that the
brougham held only two comfortably, and that he would not
trust us alone ; so he is to return for me. I knew quite well he
would have gone only on those conditions, as you were not
here, and Alice begged him to come back for a family coffee-
party, after the other guests have left. Where- What was
I going to ask you? Oh, where do you think Captain Yorke
can be ? Do you know ? " she'added, hurriedly ; for Dorothy
had not answered, and Anthony was making his way to them.
" I saw him speaking to Alice not long ago," said Dorothy,
making room between herself and Lady Ermine for Anthony.
But, when she could, she slipped away and left them, for not
only did Anthony's unnatural excitement pain her keenly,, but
she was troubled too by Lady Ermine's expectancy.
220
Dorothy's venture.
The guests were rapidly departing when Lord Avory came up
to Dorothy, as she bade good-bye to the gentleman whom she
had jestingly called Mr. Bounderby, and to whom Sophy was
talking with forced, artificial animation.
"Take care of Dorothy, Lord Avory," she said, with rather
heavy laughter, when Mr. Watkinson had taken his departure.
She has a whim for midnight rambles, and she will fly out into
the park when you least expect it.''
'' Fly with me," quoted Avory, smiling as Sophy left them,
" and then it will be all right. I want soothing, for I have been
so angry with Lady Letitia."
" You were very kind to feel for Captain D'Eresby," said
Dorothy, simply.
" I am afraid it was only because I knew you would. I had
heard you say you were glad he had this happy day, and I did
not see why it should be all spoiled for him by that selfish
woman's airs—confound her ! "
Avory had led the girl to a comfortable settee, and, without
seeming to notice that she was tired, was sparing her fatigue,
and talking just enough to interest her. And when he told her
that that had been his happiest hour all day, and that his life-
long care would be to make her happiness, speaking as if she
belonged to him, he did it so naturally, and so calmly ignored
her attempts to gainsay or oppose him, that she was silent, be-
wildered, and perplexed, but, most of all, sadly buried in her
own pitiful thoughts. But he was content. Her scruples and
diffidence were natural and excusable, he felt; but it would be
all right. Even if she did not love him now—though that were
scarcely possible—the love would come afterwards. So, when
Pelly summoned the house-party to morning coffee, he kept
her hand in his too tightly for her to release it—though he
was aware that, if she had been in her usual mood, she would
have had her own way solely—as he led her to the sociable
little group round the coffee-table.
" You look fearfully tired, Dorothy," cried Sophy, with a
sympathy as artificial as her gaiety had been. " But I will tell
you something to cheer you"—feigning to whisper. "Alice's
wedding is fixed, and in near prospect. I know you will de-
light in the preparations for a wedding."
" I ?" cried Dorothy, with passionate impatience. "I hate
the very thought of them !"
" Oh, Dorothy," exclaimed Sophy, with a laughing glance
behind her, " Josslyn will think you have been as cross as that
all the evening ! What a pity he came in at such a crisis !"
"Why should you hate weddings, Dorothy?" inquired
Ethel; and, questioned so, with Josslyn near and Avory beside
her, Dorothy, by a strong effort, threw off the weary, restless
depression that was upon her, and, just her old self again, made
Dorothy's venture.
221
wild merry plans for their festivities, until, when Ethel placidly
suggested she was projecting impossibilities, Avory, who had
listened delightedly, declared that every plan of Dorothy's, in
its minutes tdetail, should be carried out on his own marriage.
Then the girl, blushing crimson, still did not lose the mad and
merry mood, though she turned the conversation in a ready
natural way peculiarly her own. And all the time she was the
only one who saw the deep and anxious thought on Josslyn's
face.
About an hour after the Courtiers had departed and the girls
had retired to their own room, Sophy was startled by a rap at
her door and Dorothy's quiet entrance. The shutters and
curtains were closed, so the room was dark, in spite of the
broad sunlit sky without ; but Sophy started from her pillows
in as much alarm as if she had seen Dorothy's white troubled
face.
"Sophy," Dorothy said, standing beside the bed, "I want
to tell you something. I cannot rest."
" Cannot you ?" inquired Sophy, putting out one hand to
touch her. " Why, Dorothy, you are not undressed ! Sit
down on the bed. Is it about Lord Avory?"
"No," said Dorothy, sadly ; "it is about yourself."
" Oh !"—blankly, and yet with irrepressible uneasiness.
" Sophy, after we came in to-night—you and I—I went back
to the Cedar Hall to lock it, and I found Mr. Oxley there.
Perhaps you and he had intended to meet, and he thought I
was you, for he came to meet me ; and just then—your brother
came up and found me there, and Mr. Oxley. You know how
angry he would be, thinking I had purposely gone to speak to
him."
As she sat on the bed, she held Sophy's hand in hers, and
once she raised it and laid it against her cheek in a strange
tenderness, the yearning of which Sophy could not understand,
though it brought the tears to her eyes.
" Almost as angry, Sophy, as if I had been his sister, as you
are. I—I did not wonder at his anger and contempt for—me.'!
" But you told him ? " panted Sophy, grateful beyond words
that Dorothy had waited for the darkness.
"Told him what? That it was his own sister who had
desired to see this man whom he despises, and stooped to plan
a clandestine interview with him ? It would have been horrible
to him to know that."
" And you did not tell? He does not know? Did you let
him think it you ? Did you?" questioned Sophy, faltering and
hurried in her amazement.
" Yes ; he thought it me."
" Oh, Dorothy, how good of you !"
"No,no," said Dorothy, shrinking from her kiss, and even
222
Dorothy's venture.
dropping the hand she had held ; " I was not good, and I want
to say more, Sophy."
" You want me to tell Josslyn now," sighed Sophy, in Dorothy's
pause.
" I will tell myself," replied Dorothy, her old frank, proud
spirit roused by this selfish fear, " if you do not promise me not
to meet Mr. Oxley secretly again."
" Oh, Dorothy, you would never tell now ? " cried Sophy,
with a burst of tears.
" Yes," said Dorothy, steadily, " unless you promise not to
let such a man as that tempt you to deception. If you promise,
I shall never tell. If you do not, I shall tell Mr. Yorke about
his agent, and—and clear myself in your brother's eyes."
" Oh, my dear," cried Sophy, stung by the sudden pain in
the girl's tones, " you ought not to lie under this odium .! I
ought to tell, though Josslyn will never "
"You need not tell," put m Dorothy, gently, "if you give me
the promise I ask for, Sophy."
" And will you really
" Will you promise ? " asked Dorothy, in the darkness taking
Sophy's face between her gentle hands.
Then Sophy caught the hands within her own and kissed
them.
" I promise ! " she cried. " Oh, Dorothy, Dorothy, I hope it
is not wicked to let this pass ; but father would be broken-
hearted after having had so much to bear ! "
; " How could you do it, knowing that?"
" He asked me. He is so fond of me, and he cannot see me
here ; and they look down upon him, and he says that. it is only
because of his misfortunes, which are not his fault, and. that
they try to find faults in him "
" 1 will not hear Mr. Oxley's falsehoods," Dorothy passion-
ately cried. " You knew it was not so. You are a Yorke, and so
you knew'ftv&X. misfortunes would win the sympathy, and kind-
ness, and friendliness of all of your name, and that only
meanness or sin would be despised."
" I will tell him that he must ask father's consent," said Sophy,
with a vague, uncomfortable consciousness that her own nobility
was very,shadowy indeed beside that of the girl whom she had
always looked upon as one who was countenanced and befriended
by her house. " I will indeed, Dorothy ; but he is so sensitive
and frightened for 'me. Did he—did he not by a word betray
me to-night to Josslyn ? Are you quite, quite sure ? "
" Quite," said' Dorothy, with a note of actual amusement in
her quiet, disdainful voice. "He was abjectly afraid of Captain
Yorke, and delighted for me to be detected there, and to share
the blame with hini. I never in my life, saw a map look SO
mean and behave so contemptibly, Sophy."
dorothy's. venture.
223
" He can behave very far from contemptibly," asserted Miss
Yorke, feebly ; "but I will promise what you ask, Dorothy—to
please you."
Without trusting herself to answer this, Doi'othy returned
Sophy's kiss and left the room, her thoughts strangely struggling
between Anthony and his younger sister, as she pondered the
worth of a promise wrung from anyone in fear. Then, afraid of
letting her thoughts be hard upon Anthony, of whom she knew
no actual harm, Dorothy recalled, as she often did now, the
photograph she had seen of him at the Chase, and tried to see
him as he must have been when that was taken ; and it could
not have been long ago, she told herself, for he certainly did
not look younger in the photograph than he did now. But
even yet she could not fit that new expression to him, try as
she would.
CHAPTER XXXII.
"It's wiser being good than bad ;
It's safer being meek than fierce ;
It's fitter being sane than mad,
My own hope is a sun will pierce
The thickest cloud earth ever stretch'd."
Mr. PUGH, looking paler and more weary even than his wont,
lay back among his pillows that afternoon, listening keenly to
every footstep in the street Without, although it was his usual
hour for sleeping ; and his restlessness alarmed his nurse as
she now and then came noiselessly to the door and peered in.
But she understood all this when, later on, she ushered Mr.
Bagot into his senior's presence. The old lawyer's eyes lost
their feverish unrest, and, after one glance into his companion's
genial face, were closed suddenly in sleep.
" Poor fellow ! " whispered Mr. Bagot to the nurse. " He has
been worrying as to whether I should come. Have a cordial
ready, and we'll let him awake of his own accord. Well, bring
me just a sip of maraschino, if you like."
Apparently the nurse did " like," for Mr. Bagot was enjoying
the sip when, ten minutes afterwards, Mr. Pugh calmly and
languidly awoke and asked what had been done at Lynhead.
" Just everything you advised," said his partner, cheerily,
" and I came straight to tell you. The crisis was a great
shock ; but it is all right now. Oxley has been paid every
farthing he claimed, and dismissed. My only regret is about
the way the money is to be repaid us, for it exasperates me to
think that, just because of his younger brother's indolence and
224
Dorothy's venture.
extravagance, Captain Yorke should leave the Army when he
is such a thorough soldier. What a fine, upright fellow he
looked this afternoon, in contrast to his brother in his trepida-
tion, and to that snob Oxley ! "
" The money could have been raised in other ways."
" Yes, of course ; but Yorke is determined to sell out. He
will not have the estate burdened—we know his reasons for
that—nor his father told of this debt. Nothing on earth now
will prevent his sending in his papers. Knowing how fond he
is of his profession, Anthony had the grace to be sorry ; but
he turned it aside. " I will be fond of another," he said, look-
ing every inch a soldier ; but I saw him wince. I see most
things."
I "Yes," assented the old man, absently. "Does Mr. Yorke
understand all this ? "
" He only understands that Oxley is dismissed, and his own
original plan is to be carried out, his younger son being his
agent, with Moneypen's occasional assistance or supervision.
The squire is not to know that Oxley had young Yorke com-
pletely under his thumb, first by lending him money, then—
after forcing Anthony to secure him the agency—by cooking
the accounts to supply his inexplicable extravagances in town.
By threats too of betraying what it now seems Captain Yorke
knows. Perhaps "—Mr. Bagot always most active in body
when active in mind, rose and walked about the room—" we
may find ourselves able presently to turn this very threat against
Oxley in a way he little anticipates—I mean if he is any trouble
to us after this. Anthony Yorke has for a long time felt himself
in Oxley's power, and dreaded an investigation ; and Oxley
has traded on this fear."
" Does this eclaircissement seem to have changed Anthony
Yorke ? "
" Pro te7ii, certainly ; but I have no faith in such a change
lasting. I'm not such a credulous nincompoop as that. Those
superficial, sceptical young fellows don't so suddenly change to
good purpose. Bless me, what a reed for any family to lean
upon ! Nothing lasts in a weak, impertinent fellow who is in-
different to debt."
" Captain Yorke refuses to assert the prerogative of elder
son ?"
" Flatly. For pity's sake, Pugh, take that cordial, and don't
look as if I had just knocked you down. I wish to Heaven I
could know what he is going to do now. It is hard to guess,
isn't it ?"
" Yes ; but it is harder still to guess what such a proud,
honourable, passionate nature suffers in this humiliation."
" Pooh ! It was a conquest, not a humiliation, for him—a
humiliation only for the lad who, gentleman as he may write
Dorothy's venture.
225
hinlself, laid his honour gratuitously under the heels of a cad.
But Captain Yorke, though blameless, has a humiliation in store,
and a daily one, 1 fear. Well, he would do anything to save
the old name from dishonour."
"To spare his father," corrected Mr. Pugh.
"Well, either way ; and none of the old dead and gone Yorkes
need boast abetter one. What? How did he look? You do so
interrupt now and then ! He looked bad enough in all
conscience ; but then he had not been to bed, you know, and
that will account for it. Bless me, how I loiter here, when I've
work to do at home ! It's a fortnight since I put in my last
salading."
" And gardening is your infallible remedy against growing
fat," smiled Mr. Pugh, taking up his cordial for the first time.
" I should prefer the disease to the remedy."
"It is simply to counteract the effect on my constitution of
you—and D'Eresby," asserted Mr. Bagot, with a laugh, as he
stood, tail and big and strong, above his frail, recumbent senior.
" I'm hopeless about him. The touch of insanity goes deeper
and shoots higher every day. Why, positively to-day"—Mr.
Bagot buttoned and unbuttoned his coat for want of other
occupation—" I could not arouse his wrath even by the most
aggravated case of despotism in any of the papers ! I believe—
that maraschino does a little good sometimes, so I must sip it
now for your sake—1 believe he is in love."
"Nonsense!" sighed the invalid. "He is a middle-aged
man."
" He is ; and I can tell you middle-aged men love terribly
sometimes—especially such natures as his—when it is a first
love. Oh, you are very sagacious, of course, but, fortunately
for the firm, I've had my eyes more open—I'll just docket these
memoranda to leave you—to human nature than my senior
partner ever had, and I know the symptoms of most things."
"Love as well as insanity?" muttered Mr. Pugh
"Yes, both. Why not? 1 suppose there will sometimes
come a feeling over a man that he is not fairly dealt with."
"Are you thinking now of D'Eresby or Josslyn Yorke ? "
" Why should it be of either—confound it ! Now I'm ready.
Halloa ! Your housekeeper's heart would break to see me
shake my pen over this carpet. That (ffice carpet spoils me,
having no distinguishing pattern except blots. Yes, in love I
positively believe him to be, and the hopelessness and patience
in him to-day aggravated me beyond endurance. It is all very
well for you to smile, as you have not to endure it ; but excite-
ment and tearing round would be a joke to it. There—I've wiped
that precious quill. I always feel as if I ought not to write in
this spick and span room of yours, unless I arrange myself, like
Lawrence Sterne, fresh shaven, in ruffled shirt, and with per-
P
226
Dorothy's venturT.
fumed hair. The only surprise to me is that that very seemly
preparation for writing never affected what he wrote. Well,
anything more to say ? "
" Only this," said the old man, offering his weak hand and
looking up into his partner's genial face with a glance which
Mr. Bagot saw but rarely now in these sad suffering days—a
glance of perfect confidence and fellowship, and a twinkle in the
sunken eyes—" only this. Say nothing of the Lynhead affairs
even to the one woman whom we both trust so well, for this is
a secret even from the squire himself."
"Teil my wife ! " echoed Mr. Bagot, laughing loudly in his
genial, cordial way. " I wasn't married yesterday, Pugh. Not
but that she keeps some secrets splendidly—-splendidly ! I
mean those I never tell her. Don't laugh. You'll be wanting
another cordial, and I can't wait to administer it."
CHAPTER XXXIII.
et If the wild filly, ' Progress,' thou wouldst ride,
Have young companions ever at thy side ;
But wouldst thou stride the staunch old mare, ' Success,'
Go with thine elders, though they please thee less."
It was the next day, and in a good-sized but rather shabby
Liverpool office, two gentlemen sat opposite to each other—the
one small and elderly, with a bald head, and so high a forehead
that his piercing little dark eyes seemed to look out from
exactly half-way down his face ; the other young and handsome,
with a natural ease in his well-knit figure, in spite of its upright
military bearing. He looked what he certainly was, a stranger
to this grim room ; but his companion seemed so thoroughly a
part of it that it was hard to Josslyn Yorke ever afterwards to
picture him elsewhere.
While the merchant's eyes were almost constantly fixed upon
Captain Yorke's face ; now boldly questioning, now furtive, now
even sad, Josslyn looked round the room—so unbeautiful, but
so amply supplied with the countless concomitants of business
—and wondered over the many years his godfather had spent
here, and the many years that other men would spend. And
then his thoughts for one brief moment touched his old attractive
life, filled with excitement, ease, and change, the friendship of
brave men and the smiles of high born women ; his home at
Lynhead, and then the splendid home so near, where he was
made most welcome of all guests, knowing that, had he so
willed it, the soft patrician hand which was given in such glad
welcome there might have been held by him for ever. He
Dorothy's venture.
227
Scarce was Conscious of these thoughts while he glanced round
the dingy room, but he was acutely conscious of the few words
they had brought to his mind—" In the teeth of clenched
antagonisms."
"Have you thought it over, Mr. Chatfield? Can you take
me," he asked, his whole manner changing as he looked into
the face of his companion—an honest, shrewd face, with an
indefinable dignity even in its ugliness—"to work my way up
as you so generously offered years ago ?"
" Up to what ? " inquired the old man suspiciously.
" To a partnership, I hope," was the frank and ready answer.
" Things are different now from what they were when I
proposed this very step to your father, Joss. You were a
youngster, and ready for any career. There was no prospect
then of your inheriting Lynhead ; and I only put the choice
before you, not the necessity. You chose your profession, and,
as I have seen that you fit it well and like it, I am not the man
to advise—or even encourage—change. There is a good deal
of pride in your old race, and you will be sorry if you sell out
of the army, as you speak of doing."
" I have virtually done it, for I have sent in my papers," said
Josslyn. " I am in earnest, though you will not believe it.
There was no other way."
" Whose debts are these you are paying ?"
" Debts burdening the estate," replied Josslyn, evasively.
"What does your father say to it?" inquired Mr. Chatfield,
with no appearance of having perfectly comprehended what the
young man hid.
" He does not know yet. If you will take me, I shall merely
tell him I have decided to join you."
" He will never recover from such a degradation for his
favourite son."
" It is no degradation—-not even if you make me start from
the very lowest position in your office."
" Hem !" It was merely the old merchant's expression of
self-gratification when he saw in Josslyn's face the proof of his
assertion. " Of course you will have to start low, for your
ignorance of commerce must be mighty; and I do not know
how the old Yorke pride is to stand that. There is no
graduating as a general merchant through the Royal Artillery
Service, Joss. Besides, I'm not ignorant of the sort of life
you've led, and might lead still if you chose ; and it is my duty
as well as my will to warn you of the difference in the one you
contemplate. It's all very well for me, for I'd sooner live in
this office without leaving it all the year round, than I'd conduct
parties of pleasure or sport over the country—lending my horse
to another man's spurs—but you will miss it. And, beyond
your own hospitality, you are welcomed everywhere for your
228
Dorothy's venture.
own sake as well as your father's, for I know now that you are
a favourite even with that fickle jade Society. You'll long in
vain, supposing you do fall down into trade—I'm not going to
mince matters ; I'm going to honestly admonish you—to be
be relieved from daily contact with the common business herd,
grinding, suspicious, vulgar—never mind exceptions, we are
dealing with the mass. You can never imagine how the petty
annoyances and stumbling-blocks and humiliations will jar on
a spirit such as yours. I've no doubt you would bear great
reverses well and manfully; but these would be different, and
it needs an exceptional manliness to fight the devil with his
own mean weapons. It may have been comparatively easy to
keep your independence of character among your gentlemanly
comrades and noble acquaintances ; but 'twill be no easy
matter to do so in the whirl of business. I am sick of it even
myself."
" You do not look so," put in Josslyn, amused at the old man's
difficulty in conscientiously forewarning him.
" I am, though. You don't know the modern commercial
Englishman of scepticism and sharp practice. As that Spanish
monarch said of them so long ago, I could say now, ' I hate
their language, their laws, their religion, their climate, their
country, and I hate them.' What is there to laugh at in that
honest opinion? The vigour and integrity of England are in
the dust. No wonder her armies get thrashed, her ships go
down, her trade dwindles, her men are irreligious, her women
hysterical You will not laugh when you are an older man.
She is a vulgar, selfish, trading, lying, worn-out old country,
given over to the abject worship of wealth ; and you must
worship the national idol if you are to succeed."
" I do not call it the national idol, nor will I worship it," said
Josslyn, composedly.
" Not the national idol ! Why, even in church, in petitioning
blessings on our queen, don't we put wealth first ? Of course
we do, for 'tis the most important. Then we ask for peace as a
secondary consideration ; and, last, for the added trifle of god-
liness ! You must know only one way to get on Joss—you must,
as the proverb says, see a penny like a cart-wheel. Even then,"
Mr. Chatfield went on, without a smile, " you must remember it
is not the honest men who get encouraged ; and, when there's
money to be made, it is made by the rich, not by those who
want it."
"You have thoroughly warned me," said Josslyn, tranquilly.
" Now will you take me ? "
" According to Lord Bacon, merchandise doesn't flourish in a
state until it is growing decrepit, while arms flourish in its
youth. You are prepared to make that spring from youth to
old age, are you ? Why," suddenly inquired the merchant, with
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
229
his sharp, fixed gaze, " do you not marry ? I've not been blind
to the way you've been received everywhere by Northeaton's
family, and that marriage would be a swift road to wealth,
as well as to "
" I wish to earn my own wealth," interposed Josslyn, quietly ;
but the astute old man saw something which gave him an
indefinable sense of relief and pleasure. Yet there was little
evidence of this in his retort.
" Oh, you'll earn it, will you, and as a general merchant ?
And pray what essentials do you bring into the commercial
field ? Faculty for commanding troops, mastery of fence,
power to break a spirited horse, to dress and look as we
'merchants never can, to dance minuets, and to win the woman
you set your heart on What's the matter ?"
" Nothing," said Josslyn, coolly, "except that I have not any
of those tatents."
" All the better "—but the keen old eyes had seen where his
words had hurt—"for those talents are nothing compared with
the art of driving a sharp bargain, and saying a smart thing.
Have you thought well that that is what will be required of
you, if you join me?"
" I have thought what will be required, and still I ask you,"
said Josslyn, earnestly, "to repeat the offer you made me once."
" All selfishness. You think this is your only road to wealth ? "
" I am afraid I do. I will confess, Mr. Chatfield, that I
should go to Australia, but for my father."
" Oh ! " very deliberately and thoughtfully; then with a
change of tone—"Well, there's no chance of wealth for you
here, but perhaps you can keep your head above water. I'm
doubtful, though, of your resolution. I don't forget your un-
hesitating refusal before, and I don't see how or why you should
so suddenly develop into a man of business. Where's—your
brother ?"
" Need we speak of him ? "
" As you like ; but I cannot believe you in earnest."
" I am in deepest, truest earnestness," said Josslyn, gravely.
"And you will be at my beck and call—a poor brigadier-
general, you will say—to go to hideous places, inspecting things
of which you have even less liking than knowledge : salt-mines,
slate-quarries, sand-tracks, collieries, alkali-works, and tile-
factories ! The business sounds wide enough now, but three-
and-forty years ago, when your father and I left Balliol, and I—
lost the little I had, I laid the first stone of it with my own hand,
and with my own hand have I laid every stone upon it since.
That was in '38—I remember, for that very winter I crossed the
Thames on the ice—and by the next summer I had saved
enough to take me up to the North Sunderland Lighthouse
fo see the brave girl all JLnglapd raved about. \Veli"—wdli
230
Dorothy's venture.
a sudden relapse into the old business tone as he rose—" I have
forewarned and cautioned you honestly, I hope, Joss. What is
your decision now ? "
" Just what it was before you cautioned me," said the young
man, lightly : but Mr. Chatfield easily read his quiet, staunch
determination.
''You are right," he said, curtly ; but the grip he gave to
Josslyifs hand said more than that.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
" Come to me and pour thy woe
Into this heart, full tho' it be.
Aye overflowing with its own."
captain Yorke remained in Liverpool to make final arrange-
ments with Mr. Chatfield, then spent one day at home before
leaving for Dover, promising Alice to return without fail for her
wedding.
" Secure your leave in good time, Josslyn," she entreated ;
and he smiled, and promised he would be there.
It was not until some days had passed, that, in a letter to his
father, he told of having left the army and joined his god-
father. It was a real blow to the squire, whose sole care now
was for the happiness of his children, and whose best thoughts
were that his favourite son followed the profession he loved,
and had a grand alliance and career in prospect. But the
blow, though heavy, left no scar of discontent on the dreamy,
patient soul of the old squire, and, long after he could placidly
bear to picture Josslyn at his unfamiliar occupation, the girl
who had comforted and cheered him when the blow fell, could
scarcely bear the wound which ached so terribly.
" If Joss needed that money which the sale of his commission
brought, we would have got it by other means," sighed his
father, with a tender light in his dim eyes. " This will vex
Ermine ; that is what I fear."
" He should have discussed this step with us," said Anthony,
in his cold, self-satisfied way. " We could have argued him
out of it; " but, though he said this, he knew that no arguments
of his could have shaken Josslyn from the resolution which he
himself had forced upon him, and that the only thing Josslyn
had spared himself was this useless and unnecessary discussion.
"He had not, before he went, discovered the truth about
that night at the dance," mused Sophy, witha faint, unwilling
sense of relief; " so he will not discover it at all. . Dorothy
would not fail me now ; and, even if she did, he could not he
proud, now that he has gone into trade."
Dorothy's venture.
231
" I wish," fretted Alice, with her calm, handsome face
clouded, " he had waited until after our wedding, and talked it
over with Mathew. Mathew gives such judicious advice."
" Even if Josslyn had urgent need of the money," observed
Ethel Barber, with uncharacteristic placidity, "he need not
have resorted to such debasing and abrupt measures."
And to her, as to everyone else, when all these things fell on
her ears, Dorothy answered, " He knew best." And, while
she was looked upon as the only one among them who was
personally unaffected by Josslyn's plans, she suffered, in every
hour of this absence, as not one of them could. It was terrible
indeed to miss him as she did through every minute of the day ;
but even worse than that was the fact that* she heard his step
for ever, started continually at the imagined sound of his voice,
and was haunted by his face.
She was allowed little solitude just now. Everyone sought
Dorothy, not only for her keen, ready sympathy, but because
she could brightly turn aside their regrets, or merrily argue
down their scruples in a way peculiarly her own—afresh, sweet,
tender way that never could offend because it was in perfect
harmony with every mood, and always cheered because it
touched and held the better, higher thoughts of each. But in
the rare and sought-for hours of solitude, which used to be such
luxury to her, she would recall again and again the slight, grave
good-bye between herself and Josslyn, when she had only so
faintly and sadly guessed that he was bidding her a long fare-
well, because he had once said even his presence should not
disturb her. She recalled the quiet manner in which he had
told her he trusted she would be still at Lynhead on his l'eturn,
but that whatever was for her happiness he wished. She
remembered exactly where he had stood, how he had looked,
and the changes in his voice ; the earnest words and tone came
back to her constantly.
On the day following Mr. Oxley's dismissal, Nancy Kerry
had met Sophy and Dorothy on the heath, and had asked to
speak a few words alone with Miss Yorke. Sophy had joined
her unwillingly, and had hurried from her afterwards, evidently
resenting her interference ; but, when Dorothy looked sorry
for this, Nancy, who had followed, laughed her short, hard
laugh, and said it was what she was used to and good for her.
Sophy never told Dorothy what the woman had said or shown
to her, but from that hour she became almost inseparable from
Dorothy, clinging to her in an odd, timid, yet patronizing way.
And though once or twice, just for an instant, that weakness
brought a flash of disdainful wonder across Dorothy's proud,
honourable nature, still she was drawn to Sophy now as she
had never guessed that she could be.
Put to be Anthony's companion Dorothy was ever ready,
232
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
Though vaguely conscious that he was the cause of Josslyn's
absence, she tried earnestly to give him every moment of
amusement, or enjoyment, or help it might be in her power to
give. It was a pathetic effort to do her mother's bidding,
while, in her sad self-upbraiding, she told herself that she had
failed. "Josslyn can remember only the harm I have done,"
she moaned in her thoughts ; " he knows I brought unhappiness
instead of just a little happiness. But surely Anthony need
not have to regret my coming !"
So the time, went on, and Alice's wedding-day drew near. In
all the preparation, Dorothy was the one most sought and most
consulted, ever ready and prompt, ever sweet and patient, and
untiring ; the brightest and quickest in arranging, and helping
and devising, not because her wisdom excelled, or her experience
even equalled, that of any one of the other girls, but because
she had what they lacked—a fresh, artistic originality, a sweet
audacity of invention, a generous, instinctive delight in provid-
ing pleasure for others, with never a thought of holding back
what would take one iota of this pleasure from herself.
Sometimes the girl wondered whether it would not be best
that she should go away when Alice went.
"I might go to Truth," she said once to herself, and then
shuddered, as if the thought hurt her, and so knew she could
not do it ; for no word had Truth Baring written to her since
she knew her to be in Josslyn Yorke's home. Not very often
did Dorothy write to her, but occasionally—frank, loving little
letters, without one mention of the Yorkes' name. Dorothy's
only letters which were really like herself went to her old teacher
in Boulogne ; and sometimes a weary longing came over the
girl, when she sat down to write, that somebody cared for what
she might have to say. But it was only fleeting, as were all
Dorothy's complaining thoughts, and was put aside that she
might do what she could, with the old unselfish aim, until her
father came ; for, though he never wrote to her, she knew that
he would come.
Lord Avory was perpetually at Lynhead through this time.
His devotion to Dorothy was unceasing and undisguised, and
it was the devotion of an accepted lover rather than of one who
had not put his fortune to the test. He claimed her as his own
in spite of her gentle, debonair indifference to him, or unlover-
like friendliness with him. He claimed that she had always
understood what his devotion meant, and not repulsed him ; he
actually at last claimed from her a reward for the leniency he
had shown to the Kerrys at her request. He did not say,
"You owe me a return favour, Miss Quentin, and you must
oblige me," or she could at once have disillusioned him ; but by
countless, nameless, gentle, courteous innuendoes he gave her
to understand that he waited fpr a favour from her which was
Dorothy's venture.
233
his due. He began to treat the fact of her father's continued
absence as a personal injury to hunself, because he was await-
ing his consent to proclaim himself Dorothy's accepted suitor
and proudly introduce her as his fiancee. H e spoke as if her
father's voice were all that was wanting to his blisss ; and all
this, inferred rather than uttered, was shown so easily, lazily,
and confidently, that Dorothy never really understood all he
meant, and so had no opportunity of refuting it. Then he was
so unvaryingly attentive, protecting, and considerate—so truly
a friend—that it blinded her to the fact that in his thoughts he
held her his, and in his acts and words to others declared her
so. He was Josslyn's friend, and so she had felt him doubly her
friend too; and he was such a different companion from
Anthony that no wonder her heart was light with him, and it
was a rest to feel his care and friendship. Still even he himself
had sad misgivings now and then ; and one day his sister found
him suffering from one, and for the first time openly—-yet
scarcely with perfect openness such as his—discussed this
matter with him. She fell into a long thought afterwards, from
which Avory did not attempt to arouse her, and the thought
made her restless and wakeful all that night. Next day she
went alone to Lynhead, invited herself to luncheon, and, after
long conscientious chats with Alice and Sophy, lured Dorothy
away. They sauntered out to the fountain in the quadrangle
and sat down upon the stone rim of the basin.
" The wedding-day is very near now, Dorothy," observed
Lady Ermine, just as if the thought had on the instant struck
her. " How glad I should be to feel sure that Jossiyn will come
for it !"
" He will," said Dorothy, gently.
" So they all believe, of course," resumed Ermine, building
her false frabic on the one stone of truth she held ; " but 1
am afraid there is a disappointment in store for them. 1 have
heard from him "—as Dorothy turned questioning, astonished
eyes upon her-" and he does not intend to return here unless
—until "—as the questioning glance grew grave—" Sydney's
marriage is arranged. He acknowledges that he is tired
already of the life he leads, and longs for what he calls the
old and happy days of the Chase—perhaps if he were writing
to anyone here, dear, he would say at Lynhead, but, writing
to me, he says the Chase—but will not come home until he
has heard that Sydney's fate is determined, and that he has
won ' little Dorothy' for his wife."
" Your brother never told me this," said Dorothy, slowly.
" No, dear ; he is too sensitive. He is afraid of influencing
you unfairly. He wishes it so intensely that he says it would
be selfish to tell you how his old friend wishes it too. Josslyn
has never made any secret of hoping Sydney would many you.
234
Dorothy's venture.
Dorothy ; and he is so much my brother's friend that he hopes
it will be soon. Of course he could not have seen you together
so much, and not known that Sydney had chosen you, and that
you allowed and encouraged it."
" I ! "
"Why, of course, dear! Everyone saw that. Some of our
friends would not believe that you were not actually engaged
to Sydney when you and Captain Yorke stayed at the Chase
first. Your conduct made it as plain as Sydney's infatuation
did. But I never let them believe it. I always said, ' Though
it appears so evident, it is unfair to call it an engagement until
they have made the promise to each other.' Captain Yorke
was always certain it would be. Did you not know ? "
" No," replied Dorothy, quietly. " How could I know ? "
" How indeed, for I am quite sure Sydney would not try to bias
you, save by your love for him ! In his rep—in this last letter,
Dorothy, Josslyn gives me to understand that, in accordance
with a sort of boyish joke with Sydney, he himself wishes to
marry after Sydney's festivities are over, for he likes a quiet
wedding—Josslyn is a little curious in his tastes—and I do not
wonder at his having wearied of his present life, and looking
forward happily to marriage.''
"You mean he wishes to marry you, Ermine?" asked
Dorothy, seeing, as in a flash of light which made her eyes
ache, what a different life was ready for him, and how natural
it was that those who cared for him wish for it.
" I presume so, dear. He has wished it, I believe, for a
long time, as I have told you."
"Yes; I forgot. Ermine"—with a strange, sudden glance,
which startled Ermine a little—" if you care for Captain Yorke,
does it not frighten you to think how he may have wooed other'
women, and may be doing so now ? Winning hearts as if he
could not help it, just to toss them aside when they are won ?
Does he spare anyone ? "
" My dear,'' said Ermine sagaciously, "you are inexperienced.
Such men as Josslyn Yorke have a power of charming our sex ;
but they exercise it only unconsciously, ana it is a woman's
own fault if she is deceived. Now you were never one to
be so."
" No," said Dorothy, curtly.
Her thoughts were with Truth Baring in her changed, em-
bittered life ; but she comprehended also what Ermine's tone,
more than words, had suggested. Other women might be
deceived ; but for her, with title, wealth, and beauty, it was not
possible; and the knowledge was on the instant brought
clearly and forcibly home to Dorothy. Lady Ermine was an
earl's daughter, a coveted prize among men, an envied star
among women, with everything the world valued in her power
Dorothy's venture.
235
to give. How could she dream that any man could drop the
hand which she might graciously accord him? Poor Truth!
Poor lonely Truth !
"Why," asked Dorothy, with sudden passion, "should
Captain Yorke's wishes or intentions trouble me ?"
"You never did allow them to do so, did you?" asked
Ermine with a smile. "We always noticed that—all of us.
Sydney used to fear that that very fact would make Josslyn
determined to overcome your prejudice, and not rest until
he.had won you to change your mind; but I know Josslyn
would never try, for it would have been mean, and he was
never mean. Besides it would have been in vain, for it was
plain to us from the very first that you could not make
yourself like Captain Yorke. And so '—with a sigh—" I
suppose I need not have said all this, for it is not probable
that Sydney will win your earlier consent just because it would
pleasurably .affect Josslyn. Forgive me for even touching upon
it.. I would not coerce you, Dorothy dear, for any possible
happiness for Josslyn Yorke?
As Lady Ermine slowly drove herself home that afternoon,
wrapped in deepest thought, she pondered over and over again
this little dialogue, but not with any qualm or regret at all, for
it never even faintly struck her that she could have done harm.
On the contrary, she felt that she had been both wise and kind.
She was perfectly aware that it was generous on her part to
overlook the total deficiency of birth 01* fortune in the wife her
brother had chosen, and to give her the warm kiss of friendship
as she had done ; therefore surely she had acted indulgently
now. She had hastened Dorothy on to a future which would
be all bliss for her, and had given Sydney, too, a helping hand
Upon his way to happiness ; for, as he himself did not object to
his wife's insignificance, he might have done a hundred times
worse—Dorothy being so beautiful and lovable. Yes, it was
kind both to her brother and her friend to hasten by any means
within her power a felicitous consummation to their wooing.
Besides, though Dorothy had never cared for Josslyn, she had
always desired his happiness, and would surely rejoice to bring
it nearer, now that she had been told how a touch of hers could
perhaps do so. Thus Lady Ermine mused with perfect
satisfaction on her homeward way ; while Dorothy rode into
Northeaton with Anthony, just the piquant Dorothy of old,
with only a throb of pain at her heart now and then when
memory broke the reins she held so tightly.
A few days after this, Lord Avory, coming in one morning,
told his sister, in a quiet, satisfied way, that Dorothy had
consented to be his wife, subject to her father's approval ; and
that very night, meeting at Sir Marmaduke Coddington's,
Ermine went up to Dorothy to tell her how glad she was; but
236
Dorothy's venture.
something in the girl's face and manner stayed most of the
congratulatory words on Ermine's lips.
" Do not speak to me about it just yet, please, Ermine," she
said, simply. " I want to feel nothing yet, except how good
and kind and pleasant he is. Tell me that, if you will, for it is
like a hand-clasp in the darkness. You will tell Captain Yorke
that it is all arranged ?
" You may be sure Sydney has done that."
" But he wrote to you. You will tell him too ? "
" Yes, dear, I shall be glad to tell him how I rejoice with you
and my brother. I am sure he will too."
Dorothy's strange, far-off glance and smile when she heard
this, haunted Ermine—she, knowing as she did how Josslyn's
letter had been a reply to one of hers, and how easy it had been
to change its meaning just a little, while she kept to the letter
of the truth—and for several days she did not go to Lynhead.
But presently, when Avory talked of Dorothy as gay and happy,
and told how she had laughed over his pointed allusions to
the festivities she herself had projected, and which were to^e
carried out magnificently on his marriage, Ermine fell back into
her old habit of appearing constantly at Lynhead as if it were
her home. She found it as Avory had said. Among all the
girls—in spite of Alice's closely approaching happiness—
Dorothy seemed the most light-hearted. Ermine seldom won
her for a tete-a-tete now, for she was always so busy, so engrossed.
She spent hours in Mr. Yorke's room, or driving him, or riding
slowly at his side over the estate. She rode and walked and
drove and sang with Anthony, sewed and played and walked
and chatted with Sophy, and with Alice discussed every item
of the wedding festivities and finery. It was Avory alone who
was not allowed to engross her ; yet never once could he feel
hurt or angered by the way in which she daintily evaded him.
Then Nature herself helped the girl to elude those long rides
and strolls for which Avory entreated, for there came weeks of
almost constant rain, and many dull anticipations in con-
sequence.
CHAPTER XXXV.
" Excitements come, and act and speech
Flow freely forth ;—but no,
Nor they, nor aught beside can reach
The buried world below."
Alice's wedding-day dawned fair and sunny, though the
sunshine fell on soddened grass and on shallow pools in every
dorothv's venture* 237
hollow of' the woods and heath. True, the Lyn had overflowed
its banks and rushed on its own way, with clouded face and
angry voice ; but neither rain nor wind had bared the glorious
autumn woods, or the grand old line of trees which marked the
avenue that was not to be passed through even by the wedding-
procession.
Only late on the previous night had Josslyn arrived, and his
first meeting with them all had been when they were in the
drawing-room before dinner ; for after they had vainly sent to
meet the Liverpool train, for which dinner had been delayed,
and had given him up until the last late train, he came in,
having travelled from Germany, whither he had been on
business. Dorothy had never dreamed that she might find him
changed ; and so, when he met her as she came up to him, she
started visibly. Could the new life alone have made him look
so careworn ? After the first shock, she fancied she must have
been mistaken, for he seemed just his old self; and, when once
some one ventured to say that Liverpool life could not agree
with him, he turned the question aside in a way which silenced
them, especially as the presence of Mr. Noyes and the Courtiers
with that of several guests who were staying in the house,
naturally prevented the talk being personal. The subjects of
conversation which started up again and again were the
prospect of a flood; its probable consequence ; and remink-
cences of the floods of other days.
It was as much the memory of all this, and a desire to see
whether the river still was rising, as a vent for her great restless-
ness, which made Dorothy rise so early the next morning and
wander alone through the woods towards the river, smiling, as
she looked down upon her compact, little wet boots, to think of
the satin ones which were to take their place in a few hours.
She went—scarce recognizing her motive—the very way Josslyn
had guided her on her first morning at Lynhead ; and in one of
the public parts of the woods she caught sight of Nancy Kerry,
and stopped for her.
" By yourself, Miss Quentin ? Are you by yourself?" inter-
rogated Nancy, eagerly, with the unwilling yet involuntary
curtsey she always now gave to Dorothy. " Where's the Lord
Viscount?"
"At home, Nancy, I suppose."
" But he'll be at the wedding—with you ?"
" Of course he will be at the wedding."
" Miss Quentin, tell me one thing," pleaded Nancy, turning
her head aside as she stood in the path with Dorothy. "You're
engaged to the Lord Viscount ?"
" Yes."
"You're sure ?"
" Quite sure."
bbftOTHY'S VENfUftfi.
" Not to Captain Yorke ?"
" No."
Swiftly Nancy's head was turned, and her eyes were fixed on
Dorothy's face.
"Not to Captain Yorke?" she reiterated, with a strong
emphasis on the first word.
" No, Nancy"—with a smile this time.
" Thank God ! Then I've done no harm by aught I've said.
Oh, Miss Dorothy, it would have broke my heart to have
helped to break yours ! I won't speak of it again. It was too
bold of me now. Yet how I've watched to see you by yourself !
Even in the rain I had to wait and wait. Are you going to see
how quick the Lyn rises, Miss Dorothy ? Father says it's ten
years since it rose so quick, and that was in a sudden thaw.
This is different."
" You will come and see the wedding. Nancy?"
" I !" cried Nancy, with the old mocking laugh which Dorothy
had not heard for so long. " What have I to do at weddings ?
What place would there be for me ?"
" Then I will soon come up to the hut," put in Dorothy,
kindly, " and tell you all about it."
" This won't be any holiday with us," said Nancy, moodily.
"The bit of barley we carried is heating, and we've got to
Carry it out again, fear of fire; and we've pools all about us,
just as they lie on the heath. I don't care, though. I've only
care to-day to be thankful that it wasn't Captain Yorke. Oh,
Miss Dorothy, how glad I am, because I'm such a slave—don't
mind me. It was only a fright I had. I've been trying morn,
and noon, and night to ask you, yet even when I saw you—and
you were always kind—I couldn't ask it. I prayed-—frayed /
as if that would bring me any good !—that it shouldn't be him."
"No—not Captain Yorke," said Dorothy, gently, fancying
that she understood the reason of Nancy's fear that it was
Josslyn Yorke she loved. Ah, what a far, far distance between
that fancy and the truth !
For long minutes the woman stood to watch Dorothy, her
great black eyes softening as no one else through all her life
had made them soften, and lingering wistfully to the last upon
the pretty young figure, just as if she might have known in
what an hour of woe she should look next upon it.
Still following intuitively the path she had learned to love,
Dorothy went down into that hollow in the woods through
which Josslyn had told her that the Lyn made a new course for
itself when greatly swollen, up the opposite incline, and on to
the river's bank, just at Sir Anthony's Leap. The waters had
risen almost to the spot where Sir Anthony had been stayed in
his fall, and the broad, discoloured stream stretched far up the
Steep fields opposite. Down the wider valley the little elevations
bOkOTHV'S VENTURE.
in the rneadow-iand were green islands in the expanse of water,
and only a row of willows with their heads above the glistening
surface marked the boundary of the river, while farther still
away the woods rose weirdly from the water's edge.
As Dorothy stood gazing dreamily upon the changed scene,
Captain D'Eresby came along the river-bank and paused near
her, drawing his hand across his eyes as if he doubted that he
saw aright, until Dorothy for the first time caught sight of the
quiet figure.
" Good morning, Captain D'Eresby," she said, just in her
gentle, friendly way, though a little nervous, too, to see his great
nervousness. " Did you think, as I did, that this would be a
fine spot from which to see the flood ? "
"No," he said, speaking with a diffidence which yet was
neither shy nor unmanly. "No ; I had a strange dream, and
it seemed this very spot, so I was fascinated to come and see.
And it is," he added, his gentle, dim eyes wandering over the
scene, and then with a pathetic wistfulness seeking Dorothy's
face. " Had you a dream, too—of such a scene as this ? Of
this very scene ? Had you, Miss Quentin ? For, just as there
is in death, there may be in sleep—which is half death—a
strange communion between souls that—that The ancients
had a theory like this of souls that—loved."
"You have had a restless night, Captain D'Eresby," said
Dorothy, looking compassionately into the pale, thin face.
"My nights are often restless," he answered, patiently. " I
am generally glad to rise, and a walk is good for me."
" Not too long a one," said the girl, gently, looking away, as
if she feared the tears rising.
" And a walk here," he went on, quietly, " is best of all. I
feel—as surely the waters must feel to-day—I have escaped !
Miss Quentin"—again drawing one thin hand along his fore-
head—" I think, if I might choose, I would have one word upon
my gravestone—if a stone ever cover me—Evasi! I shall
indeed have escaped."
"Yes, we can all say that then," spoke Dorothy, her kind,
sweet voice a little tremulous ; " but I fear you are not well
enough to-day to have taken such a walk so early, Captain
D'Eresby."
" It has done me good," he answered, meeting her eyes with
an unnatural attempt at representing supreme enjoyment and
health, and with that rare smile which told so mutely of the
submission of a heart by nature unsubmissive ; "so much more
good than Mr. Bagot's recipe yesterday."
" What was that?" asked Dorothy, sociably, as she answered
the smile.
"He said that I looked older even than I ought to look, and
that if I did not go home—it was quite half an hour before
uokoTHV's Venture.
time—and drink off a glass of port wine, he would have me
turned out. Mr. Bagot is very kind."
" And you had it ?"
" Yes. At least," he amended, " I had a glass of rhubarb
wine. Miss Rosahn—I mean my landlady—said it was better
for me. She made it herself."
"Perhaps that accounts for your dream," said Dorothy, with
a flash in her eyes which he took for m erriment.
" It is a long time," he said, forgetting all else in his delight,
" since I have made you laugh. I did it in Dover—sometimes.
Ah, I think I remember even every smile—especially at St.
Margaret's ! More than once that day I wished some great
convulsion of Nature would occur and kill me at your side,
for I knew life could never again hold such happiness for me."
" Suppose it had killed only me ? " suggested Dorothy, merrily.
" That would have been separation only for a minute," he
said, drawing a small revolver from his breast, and looking
down upon it thoughtfully. " Only for one minute. But, Miss
Ouentin very gravely as he replaced it—" I must not grow
intrusive. I have no right to linger here."
Then, in his courteous, gentle way, he bent above her hand,
just touched it with his lips, and went from her with a pretence
of being strong, and brisk, and active.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
" My train of blue satin (judiciously chosen,
'Twill make a pelisse in the spring),
And then my red feathers—I'm sure, Lady Susan,
I must be remarked by the king."
IN spite of her early ramble, Dorothy was in good time for the
introductory breakfast, which was served unceremoniously in
the girls' sitting-room ; and though all had assembled—even
Lady Ermine, who, being a bridesmaid, had stayed the night
before at Lynhead, while Lord Avory entertained Mr. Noyes at
the Chase in bachelor style—when she entered the room, no
one was likely to guess that she would, on this day, have been
already out of doors for more than an hour. Certainly, from
excitement or exercise, her cheeks had regained just their own
soft colour, but except Josslyn, who had looked in vain for
it on the previous night, no one noticed its fortunate return.
Except Dorothy, the girls wore their long coloured dressing-
rowns, while Anthony lounged in a smoking-jacket ; and as
the squire was absent, the whole scene was one of freedom and
ease, its very informality and homeliness having a chaim
by virtue of its contrast with the coming ceremony. Still this
DORTHY'S VENTURE.
24I
ceremony was to be as quiet a one as was consistent with
the marriage of the eldest daughter of Lynhead ; and this was
Alice's own arrangement, because of her unwillingness for her
father to exert or excite himself.
There was to be the usual wedding-breakfast; and, after the
bride and bridegroom's departure, the other guests would
depart too ; while, to break and explain this abruptness, invita-
tions had been already issued for a ball on that day of the
following month, in time for which Alice and her husband
intended to return.
As soon as Mr. Yorke's unwilling assent had been won to
this proposition—for he knew that Alice was right in thinking
him unequal to more on that day, especially as Josslyn's return
on the evening before had excited him—it became known that
Josslyn would have to go on to Liverpool that evening, he
being able to spare only one day, he said. And it was of this
they were speaking, when the conversation which Dorothy's
entrance had interrupted was resumed.
"Just as if you were an office drudge," observed Anthony,
lounging sideways at the foot of the table, with one elbow on it,
" and not to be allowed a day's holiday !"
"I can take a holiday whenever I choose, Tony," said
Josslyn, as he stood on the rug sipping his tea ; "but a man
does not ask for furlough on the eve of battle, and Chatfield
has an awkward affair on hand just now."
" Oh, how curious it is," smiled Ethel, " to hear you talking
of [business, Joss! The idea is as incongruous as if I were
to take to dressmaking."
" If you really think of it, Ethel," put in Dorothy, gravely
anxious as she sweetened her tea, " do take me for an assistant."
" I positively believe," said Ethel, with her characteristic
shrug of the shoulders, " that you really meditate something of
that kind, Dorothy. If uncle had not interfered, Joss, she
would actually have had her bridesmaid's dress made by some
Northeaton dressmaker in whom she takes an interest, and so
have spoiled the whole effect of the wedding !"
" By rivalling the bride," explained Dorothy, demurely.
" Fortunately ,uncle came to the rescue, and insisted on
providing Dorothy's dress with Sophy's.".
Of course. I mean," Josslyn coolly explained, as Ethel
looked up inquisitively into his face, " he is too considerate to
let Alice be rivalled."
" Ermine and Ethel are far too wealthy to accept such a gift
as a dress," said Alice. " Mathew was even doubtful whether
they would accept the bracelets."
"That is a usual thing," smiled Ethel. "To accept a dr^ss
is—very different,"
9
242
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" What are the dresses ?" inquired Josslyn, purposely inter-
cepting what Dorothy, with bright brave eyes and blushing
cheeks, had been going to say. "What are Ermine's and
yours, Ethel ? "
" Oh, all four are the same—we are only four—except in
colour ! Ours are pale pink, and Sophy's and Dorothy's pale
blue. Uncle insisted on silk, though he is having everything
so inexpensive to-day. I should fancy a bride never went
from Lynhead before so unostentatiously."
"Nor I should say more happily," put in Josslyn, with a
gentle touch upon Alice's shoulder as she hovered near him,
for this seemed to her a last hour with her favourite brother.
" What else, Ethel ?»
" Shoes to match the dress, with buckles," elaborated Miss
Barber, " and fans and gloves also to match, Olivia caps,
muslin fichus with long ends tied behind, and muslin turned
back at the elbows, and "
" Oh, that is enough ! " laughed Alice. "Joss will soon see
for himself.''
"And why should not Sophy and Dorothy wear pink, or you
and Ermine blue ? "
" Why, you silly, we are fair and the others dark!" expounded
Sophy.
" I see," said Josslyn, calmly.
"You are not one to 'die because a woman's fair,' are you,
Joss ? " asked Ethel, smiling.
" ' If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be ? '"
sang Lady Ermine, softly.
" Sophy, I don't think you and Dorothy should dress alike,"
asserted Anthony, in his cold, critical way. " If you are sup-
posed to be a fair girl, Dorothy must be a dark one. Look at
the colour in her hair and lashes."
" I recollect only one observation ever made upon my lashes
before," said Dorothy. "I was dressing for a concert in the
Albert Hall during one of my seasons in town with ma'm'selle—
your seasons are nothing to them, Ermine—and she entreated
me, with tears in her eyes, not to look about me. "When you
feel inclined to roll your eyes, Dorothy,' she said, ' do recollect,
dear, that no girl should do so who has not black eyelashes.'''
" They are better than black," affirmed Anthony, boldly.
" If you are personal, Mr. Anthony Yorke," observed Dorothy,
looking over her shoulder at him as she walked up to the head of
the,table with her cup, " I shall make a personal remark to you."
"IDo !" cried Anthony, who was vain enough never to fear
being the subject of a conversation.
Dorothy's venture.
243
"Then it is this. You are very unwarrantably flattered in a
photograph Lady Ermine has—I mean had—at the Chase—one
in which you are sitting across a garden-chair. It is so curious
too,i' Dorothy went on, forgetting her motive in speaking, now
that she had recalled the photograph, " for I have seen your
brother sit so a hundred times, yet never you."
" Perhaps it was Josslyn's photograph," suggested Anthony ;
and to Dorothy's surprise there was an actual sneer on his face
as he looked round.
" You know it is not," she said, gravely.
" Indeed I do not, my dear," said Anthony, with a burst of
laughter, in which no one joined him, and which made Dorothy
—without understanding why—glance nervously at Josslyn.
"Talking of the Chase," he said, calmly addressing Alice,
though Dorothy knew he had swiftly answered her glance, " I
suppose Noyes has hurried Avory out of his usual composure,
and is in church by this time, fuming and pacing, and calling
you late."
" We had better go," cried Alice, glancing at the timepiece,
and too pre-occupied to see any absurdity in this idea. " Dorothy,
don't forget that you have promised to arrange my veil and
flowers ?"
" I hope Lord Avory will arrange Mr. Noyes," observed
Dorothy, anxiously. " I think it too bad that bridegrooms are
not allowed to wear veils."
" How absurd you are, Dorothy ! "
" Generally. What is it Clough says so wisely?
" ' But for the funeral'—I forget what—' which the bridegroom sees
in the future,
Would he so joyfuUy, think you, fall in with the marriage procession? '
I think it rather unfair, though, that no such alluring prospect
is held out to the bride."
" Come," cried Ermine, laughing, " you are even more absurd
than usual, Dorothy."
There did not seem much absurdity about the girl, as, dressed
herself, except for the final adornments, she daintily and deftly
/gave the beautifying touches to Alice's flowers and lace, while
the maid the sisters shared between them was despatched
to Sophy, for Alice felt quite certain that Ethel would keep her
own maid employed, and that Suzette would be busy with
her lady.
"Dorothy," said Alice kindly and tenderly, when she was
ready, and they were still alone, " you do not know how glad I
am to feel that you will be here with Sophy. Father has been
fond of you from the first—as of course he would, remembering
how my dear mother loved yours—but beyond that he now^ikes
244
DOROTHYS VENTURE.
to have you with him. You soothe him somehow, dear, and yet
are never dull. He has told me—at least, he has tried to explain
it to me, and could not. Perhaps"—with a laugh—"you
understand exactly when to leave him. At any rate, he always
seems composed and at his ease with you, yet enlivened and
exhilarated too. Sophy—well, Sophy has been our youngest
always, and so I daresay Ethel will take the lead here ; but
father will never feel the same with Ethel as he does with you.
You will remember, will you not, my dear ? And—but I need
not speak of them, for Josslyn will not be here, and you are
always sisterly and nice with Anthony. Mathew noticed that
from the first."
" You wish me to stay here, Alice ? " asked Dorothy, wistfully.
" Indeed I do," said Alice in her honest, unexaggerating way.
" I should be less happy to-day, my dear, if I were not leaving
you behind."
" I am so glad," breathed Dorothy, very low. " It is at least
just a little of the happiness I longed to give."
" What, Dorothy ?" asked Alice, catching only the first
words ; but at that instant Sophy came in, and Dorothy ran off
to complete her own toilette.
Scarcely ten minutes later, the bridesmaids, with other guests,
had assembled in the hall, where the autumn sunshine, clear
and silvery, met the warm, red glow of the wood fire burning
on the open hearth.
"Will you choose your bouquet, Ermine?" said Anthony,
graciously pointing to the four for the bridesmaids ; and Lady
Ermine deliberately selected one, Anthony standing near, his
handsome face more animated and less self-conscious than
usual.
"Now, Dorothy, choose yours," he said; but Dorothy
touched him on the arm.
" Ethel and Sophy first," she whispered ; and Anthony
turned away with a frown. When he was inclined to be
gracious, it was no one's province to gainsay or contradict.
" Indeed they are all equally beautiful," explained Dorothy.
" I really have no choice. Do ask Ethel to choose next."
" If they are all equally beautiful," said Anthony, the frown
vanishing, and his glance involuntarily seeking Josslyn's, "the
bridesmaids are not, Dorothy. Ermine looks awfully stylish
and picturesque, and I thought she was going to throw you all
into the shade ; but I never guessed what this quaint dress
would do for you. You are perfectly lovely! Not at all
picturesque though, but a perfect embodiment of intense life.
I tremble for Avory's peace of mind through the ceremony.
Jos^n should have had his post, for he has never even looked
at I do believe he is as cold as ice."
bOROTHY'S VENTURE.
245
" Do you ?" asked Dorothy. " Is it because he will not pay
compliments to me and, at the same time, court to Lady
Ermine and Miss Barber ?"
The colour rose in Anthony's clear, sallow cheeks. This
was not the first time he had suspected Dorothy of seeing his
double game, but her sweet, careless negligence now, as ever,
disarmed his suspicion, and made him laugh even at himself.
" I am an unfortunate fellow to have to be told off with
Ethel," he said, heaving an exaggerated sigh. " Josslyn's pre-
rogatives always interfere with me ; but poor Avory, as best
man, will consider himself worse off still, while you are to be
Coddington's property—lucky fellow ! "
"Even if I were out of the way," observed Dorothy, de-
murely, " you know you could not all three walk with. Ermine."
"Dorothy, you little impostor! There comes Sir Marma-
duke ;" and Anthony went to greet his friend.
Then the carriages came round ; and soon Dorothy had lost
all personal feeling, in her anxiety to participate properly in
this first English wedding she had ever seen. The old church
porch seemed a mass of flowers, and on either side the carpeted
pathway up the churchyard stood children with baskets of
flowers to throw before the bride, who, with her hand upon her
father's arm, yet never leaning on it, walked with her usual
calm and easy bearing.
With a solemn dreaminess, and then with a strange new
awakening of thought, Dorothy listened to the service, and then
looked from bride to bridegroom, wondering, wondering. Then
from Josslyn to Ermine. Often afterwards she tried in vain to
recall that service to her memory. She seemed quite conscious
only when it is over.
One thought weighed upon her through the whole day, below
her merriment and care for others ; and when, after the
departure of the wedded pair, Lord Avory had followed her into
Mr. Yorke's room, and finding her alone, awaiting the squire's
return, had asked her anxiously why she had been so often
grave that day, she spoke to him straight from her heart, where
this thought lay heavily.
" Lord Avory," she said, turning from his kiss, but gently
taking his caressing hands into her own, " will you forgive me
if I ask you to release me from that promise which you won
from me ?"—she was too generous to say " forced " or " wrung "
from me.
"No, indeed," he answered, laughing. " I would give you
all my fortune rather than that promise back."
" I could not repeat that service with you," she went o^ her
breast stirred by a strong suppressed emotion, though herToice
was steady and quiet. " I scarce had thought of that before."
DOROTHY'S VENTURR.
" Whom could you say it with ?" asked Avory, surprised, but
not suspicious,
"No one," she answered, swiftly, a vague look of trouble
crossing her face. "No one, Lord Avory, indeed. I shall
never marry—never."
"Never!" he echoed, laughing. "Oh ! wise little woman,
how many other wise little women have said that to the very
men they afterwards married, and always had intended to
marry ! I am not afraid now, even of that truant fellow whom,
before you knew me, you thought you loved, and by whose help
you tried to evade me. When he turns up, my Dorothy, I will
settle with him. Have you heard from your father, my darling?"
" No."
" It is too bad of him ; and I am so patient, am I not ? "
" Oh ! Lord Avory be really patient with me," and let
me be free from my promise. I—I never wanted to marry.
You know I did not ; and to-day it seems to me a sin."
" A sin to marry !" cried Avory, still laughing. " What
would Alice say to that ? Have not you yourself planned all
things for our wedding, my charming little wiseacre, and have I
not sworn that all shall be carried out to the letter ? I thought
all the morning what a lovely bride my Dorothy would make."
" You know I did not plan for that. Besides, those would
do for Christmas."
" No, love. For our first Christmas together you shall make
fresh plans entirely, and, whatever they are, they shall be
accomplished. Your power shall be unlimited."
"And yet " began Dorothy, breathlessly.
" Yes," he said, strong and happy in his perfect incredulity,
" except your power to separate yourself from me. Now let us
forget your wild little whims about marriage, and have a talk
before the squire comes in. You have not let ire say a word of
love to you this day."
" It always has a comic sound, and does not suit a tragic
sort of day."
" Nonsense, darling ! Sit down beside me for two minutes.
Why is this couch covered so jealously ?"
"It is going to London to Mr. Noyes' house. The squire
always said he should give it to him when he married, because
Alice worked it, and lately he has kept the cover on to save it,
for he is always thoughtful. But please let us go away now ;
he will be tired when he comes in here, and will want silence
and rest. Do come, Lord Avory."
" My Dorothy," he said, stopping her with a smile, " when
are you going to leave off giving me my title? Not until you
have'one of your own?"
" No—not until then."
dorothy's venture.
247
CHAPTER XXXVII.
" How dare we break true love's true heart,
Going apart? "
The girls had all decided that, after the long morning's excite-
ment, they needed a rest before dinner, which was to be as
early as six o'clock, in order that Josslyn might comfortably
catch the mail-train afterwards. So they separated and went
to their own rooms to lie down, Sophy giving orders that tea
should be carried to each room, so that no one need feel bound
to appear downstairs until dinner-time.
Lord Avory and Josslyn had decided upon a ride, and Sir
Marmaduke and Anthony upon billiards, when left to their own
resources ; and Dorothy, having ascertained this, went to Mr.
Yorke's room and opened the door softly after her quiet rap had
met with no response. The squire lay back in his easy-chair
fast asleep ; and Dorothy, with a sigh of relief, closed the door
noiselessly upon him. But when she entered her own room,
and took off her pretty, fanciful dress, it was not to don her
dressing-gown, and lie down as the others had done, but to
put on a walking-dress.
" I look tired—and old," she said, gravely contemplating
herself in the glass ; " but I cannot rest, and, if I tried to stay
in this one spot, I think I should—scream. In a few hours he
will have gone. In a few hours !—and I can rest then. It will
be easy to rest then. There will be nothing to "
She never finished the thought. Resolutely she turned from
it as she went from the house, and, without pausing a moment
to consider, chose the old path through the woods to the river,
strangely attracted once more towards the unimprisoned waters.
In one of the public paths which crossed the wood, she came
upon Captain D'Eresby, walking parallel with the river.
" I have to make an appointment with Mr. Moneypen to
meet our partners together," he said, after his usual greeting
to Dorothy—so eager yet so deferential. " Mr. Bagot is un-
willing to waste either his own time or Mr. Pugh's strength on
a chance, and so sent me because I know all his available
hours, and can finally arrange according to Moneypen's en gage-
ments. His house lies beyond the chapel, does it not, on the
border of the eastern woods? -Is this the nearest way to it,
Miss Quentin ? "
" Yes, this is the nearest way," said Dorothy," if presently you
will turn eastward. I will show you where; and you may be glad,
for you will avoid the dip in the woods and the climb beyond."
Thanking her, he stood bareheaded for a minute, not quite
certain whether she had given him permission to walk beside
248
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
her; but, when they went on side by side, he grew' very
cheerful.
" I enjoy these walks," he said. " If Mr. Bagot had known I
had been here before to-day, he might have sent one of the
other men ; so I did not tell him. Of course I could take a cab
if I chose"—with a pathetic| pretence of being exceedingly
well off—"but I so infinitely prefer the walk. When I leel
happy I am so strong, and to be grateful is to be happy."
" Some natures cannot feel gratitude," said Dorothy, rather
absently. "Are they, then, never happy ? "
"They cannot be," was the prompt yet thoughtful answer.
And then there was a little silence between them, which pre-
sently D'Eresby broke with a smile. " Are you wise to fatigue
yourself further to-day, Miss Quentin? I have heard the
wedding spoken of. It must have been a very pretty sight—
for those who see such things only as a pageant or an exhibition.
To me they are different. I hope it was not sad to you."
" I did not cry," said Dorothy, smiling.
"No, no," thoughtfully, "you are not one to cry easily, I
fancy. If you cried—if any one made you cry "—his cheeks
flushing hotly—" I would soon Ah," with a deep-drawn
sigh, " there is so little enjoyment in this poor world that if I
thought any one took from yours I would take his life, if I risked
my own ! What is my life to risk ? You saved it for me, and
it is yours. If the death of such a friendless veteran could
secure your happiness, I would die for you in one hour—
not willingly only, for I should think it bliss to die for my
deity. Sometimes I hope it may be so, and I grow happy at
the thought. It is my dream. Oh, my ideal, let me dream on !
What else have I ?"
"I suppose there is no letter for me yet from my father?"
asked Dorothy, feeling she could not bear the responsibility of
the power he said was hers.
• "Not yet," he answered, with fictitious cheerfulness; "but
there soon will be one. You are not one born to an unhappy
life, Miss Quentin."
" Is any one ?" asked Dorothy, falling into his tone, yet sorry
the next minute, seeing the strange shadow which fell over the
patient face.
" I- have never found much .happiness myself," he said,
quietly. " All my life, even when I have had most excuse for
being sanguine, the remembrance of hope for ever deferred has
made my heart die within me. But what a shame to dispirit
you with an experience the antipodes of yours ! I am happy
now, for my heart's worship is entrancing and engrossing.
Though I am a withered old veteran, worn with many years'
service, my energy is not diminished. I sedately rest in the
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
249
assuring reflection that in the end all will be well. For many
years in the wilderness I have had hard lines, but in my faith I
am rich ; and, though I may never see you save in a chance
minute such as this, my inflexible allegiance to you all my life
will be my blessing."
" I think this is your path, Captain D'Eresby," said Dorothy,
too kind not to pause distinctly, as if she were in no haste to go
on alone. "You will not," looking into the worn face, " take
this long walk a second time on any other day, will you ? It is
too much for anyone. Promise me."
" I promise," he answered, simply.
" Thank you, for I know you will never break your word."
" I would have my heart torn out," he said, " sooner than
violate my merest word to you ! "
Dorothy had just passed the wooded hollow, and was going
slowly up the ascent, when she was conscious of a quick light
step behind, and, recognising it in an instant, she paused,
pressing her hand upon her heart to still its beating before her
voice should betray it.
" Dorothy," said Josslyn, frankly, when he reached her, " may
I join you ?"
"Were you going to see the floods?" she asked, stooping
to gather a spray of fading heather.
" No ; but because I heard you had walked here, I came to
bid you good-bye. We had not started for our ride when
Pelly happened to tell me that he was sorry you had gone to
the woods instead of resting like the other ladies ; and as
Coddington had challenged both Avory and Tony against him,
Avory was willing to play, and I came away."
"To talk over the wedding," supplemented Dorothy, with a
gentle nonchalance which hid her trepidation.
"To bid you good-bye without a hundred eyes upon us."
"We have two each, and we are about ten of us," corrected
Dorothy. She still had not looked round at him, yet she
knew exactly how his slight muscular fingers gripped the riding-
whip he had bought with him, doubtless unconsciously, and she
knew just how the steadfast grave blue eyes were looking down
upon her. If it had been that she could not know this, she
herself would have been suffering less. " How beautiful these
autumn days are, Captain Yorke ! " she said, as she stood
listening to the rich note of a blackbird among the trees below
her. " They hold the quintessence of all the year's beauty, and
their melancholy is—almost better than joy."
" All our best joy is half melancholy, I suppose," he said,
quietly, " but there is little of any kind for me just now."
" I hope Anthony and Lord Avory will win that game,"
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
observed Dorothy, so musingly and naturally that he never
guessed with what disquietude she was struggling to prevent his
growing earnest.
"Doyou not like Coddington ?"
" Not so well as either of his opponents—of course."
" Of course not."
" Sir Marmaduke," observed Dorothy, not at all as if she had
understood the jealous brevity of his retort, " is one of those
men who look to see whether a woman is worth talking to,
before they venture to embark on a conversation."
" A wise little fellow ! Think on what desert islands some
such embarkations may land him."
" He reminds me of what Pepys must have been as a young
man."
" Reminds you!" exclaimed Josslyn, unable to resist a
smile.
" Yes reminds me. That is correct enough. I wonder he
does not name his property the Universe, for I believe he thinks
that beyond it all is chaos."
" Dorothy," said Josslyn, earnestly, " will you forgive me if I
ask you one question ?"
" Let me ask one first," she said, trembling involuntarily.
" Did you notice Mrs. Bishop's dress at the breakfast to-day ?
Was not its architecture of the decorative style ? Such a
contrast to little Mrs. Vicar's ! But I find she doesn't take
much interest in weddings, funerals being her favourite
diversions, and she has them for dates. She told me she much
lamented the change in the fashion of funerals, for her husband
got no scarves and bands now ; and so she suffered, for she used
soon to collect enough for a dress. Oh, to fancy the varied
shade and texture of that dress ! Did she relate anything to
you of funeral chronology ?"
"No," said Josslyn; and an impatient cut of his whip sent
the dying leaves from a great rhododendron.
" Not ?" queried Dorothy, gently. "Then of course she told
you how her husband is thinking to write a poem on Alice's
wedding ? He has to my knowledge so long thought of writing
that poem that it is delightful to feel what a fine work it must be
as the result of so much reflection."
" Dorothy," said Josslyn, " listen to me for one minute, and
do not wring my heart by your frivolity." He stood facing her,
with his back against a fir upon the summit of the slope, and
Dorothy looked straight into his harassed face, trembling in
her fear, not for him, but for herself. " Perhaps it is inex-
cusable in me to ask you, but you must remember how I have
loved you. Dorothy, are you happy ? Does Avory's love satisfy
you—utterly, as the love should which is to be lifelong ?"
Dorothy's venture.
25t
" 11 Is very generous love," she answered, loyally, " for he
gives all."
" Then you can trust him to win yours—later ? "
" How do you know he has not won it now ? " she questioned,
recklessly.
" I know he has not," Josslyn answered, very gravely and
steadily. " You had told me a man had won your love, and that
was not Avory. Dorothy, I am not speaking selfishly now, for
still more keenly and painfully I know it was not I."
" You ! " the girl cried, passionately, as a tide of remembrance
rushed across her heart, and Truth's heavy voice rang in her
ears, reminding her of the evil he had done and even of the
pain she had suffered. " If I had ever—loved you, I would
have torn the love from my heart before I could have borne
myself."
" I cannot tear mine," he said, with a man's patient com-
prehension of her irritability. " I thought before I came back
to you that I had almost done so ; but I found my mistake in
the first instance that we met. It was so different from the
separation, though every day, every hour, in every place, you
are with me. I can bring you near me by my will, I woo
sleep now as I—have wooed my mistress, for in my dreams you
speak to me. So by day and night the sweet eyes and image
of my beloved are ever near Do not wince ; I am only
telling you of the happiness I find, even in my exile. This
is our good-bye, you know, Dorothy, and some day perhaps
you may be even glad to remember I have told you this. I
know you cannot love me, but you cannot help being my
beloved. I am never going to trouble you again. I did
not mean to speak to-day, but it tempted me to know that
you were here, and that I might speak to you once more in this
quiet spot. I know it was cowardly of me ; I ought to have spared
you, considering how jealously I love you. Oh, Dorothy,
Dorothy, why did you ever come here ? It was—peace before
you came."
Suddenly, in the anguish with which she fought against her
love—even more resolutely than he fought with his despair—a
cry came from the girl's white lips. Was it true what he had
said, while, by her dear dead mother's wish, she had come
to bring happiness here! It had been peace before she
came !
"My dear," said Josslyn, holding her hands tightly in his,
and looking bravely down upon her for all his sadness,
comforting her in all his own hopelessness, " forgive me. I do
not know what I say in my great love. It seemed to frighten
even me to find how dear you are to me, and that I can have
no pain or aim save what is connected with you ; while you are
252
DOROTHYS VENTURE.
so far from me. Dear, can you fancy what it is to love one
person beyond all else on earth, beyond one's own life, and to be
so far from her that—even now while I hold your hands in mine
—oceans might roll between us ? Can you fancy it ? If so—
even for one moment—you can know a little of what I suffer.
But it is impossible you could fancy the depth and—pain of such
a love as mine ; and you never felt it certainly ; though
my misery could bring such a cry from your dear, tender
heart."
" It—it was not that," she faltered ; and he never understood
why his heart beat so strangely to meet her troubled eyes. " I
am not good "—hurrying to other words. " Why did you often
think of me ? "
" Not often— only once."
" I am not worth loving."
" I daresay," he said, lightly as it seemed, trying with all his
brave, unselfish heart to drive away from her eyes that strange,
grievous look ; " but I love you all the same. Do not fret for
my sorrow though, my dearest, sweetest. This love of mine,
even though hopeless, shall be the blessing of my life, and do
me good, not harm. 1 am not afraid for myself. If never
happy, I shall be content, for still I shall have my memories and
thought of you. I daresay that in love, as in battle, the desire
of conquest maddens men's brains ; but it will soon be over. I
am not afraid, for I was always a fighter, Dorothy, Besides,
dear, as the battle of life thickens—and it will of course—I shall
have no time for repining. So it will all be well, my dearest.
I only want to feel that you are happy."
" You are miserable sometimes," said Dorothy, for a moment
her whole heart in her eyes as she looked into his brave face,
" but I always "
" Oh, Dorothy, my love," he cried, " can I not help you ? Will
you never even let me understand you ?"
" No," she said, suddenly and painfully awake to the words
she had so impulsively spoken. " You cannot even understand,
Captain Yorke. It is only a—a little—passing—annoyance."
" I am glad," he answered, very low, never for one moment
doubting her, though still haunted by that flash of misery in her
eyes. " Dorothy, this is our good-bye."
" But I shall see you—you are not going before——"
"Not before you return ; not before dinner," he said, with
a faint smile, " and I shall part with you later on, as with all
the others ; but—this is my farewell to my best beloved. You
will forgive me that I followed you to ask if I could help you,
because I cannot see such perfect happiness as I should like to
see upon the face I love. Give me your hand one moment,
Dorothy."
dorothy's venture.
253
She laid it in his, and he lifted it to his lips, then held the
soft white fingers against his cheek for many seconds." When
he let her draw it away, and she went from him, he folded his
arms upon the bough beside him, and hid his face upon them.
And Dorothy went back down the incline, and took the path
Captain D'Eresby had taken, wondering where the river was.
But as she walked on, /dazed and bewildered, suddenly a
blackbird's note broke the silence, and, bringing all back to her,
broke too this strain the girl had put upon herself. With
groping hands outstretched, she fell upon the slope, and, burying
her face in her hands, sobbed as if her heart were breaking.
And while she lay there, stricken so sorely, D'Eresby, walking
thoughtfully and noiselessly along the grassy border of the
path, came within sight of her and paused, looking and listening
—paused for long painful seconds, with his hands clenched
upon his heaving chest. Then he went upon the way that she
had come, but not slowly now, and with a flash of dangerous
brilliance in his eyes.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
" She touches sorrow with her hand
Taught softly not to shrink nor frown,
But bring her pity bravely down
To depths she cannot understand."
After her passionate fit of weeping, Dorothy rose, pale and
exhausted, and so uncertain now of her own strength that, as
she knew Mr. Moneypen's house was not far away, she deter-
mined to go and ask him if he could drive her back to Lynhead.
When she reached the gate, the Scotch agent was leaning on
it, and, after vainly beggingher to enter the house, congratulated
her on the wedding. Dorothy listened and answered, hesitating
to prefer her request as an interruption, and presently a casual
remark of his entirely altered her intention.
" There's some trouble, I fear, at Kerry's hut"," he said. " I
rode past an hour ago, and the woman was crying, so that I
heard her out in the road. I never see anyone there save you,
Miss Quentin, so I thought I'd tell ye."
" I shall go there now," said Dorothy, without any demur.
"Mr. Moneypen, will you be so very kind as to send to Lynhead
and ask one of the grooms to drive up for me before six o'clock?
Or—Captain Yorke is in the woods, or I'm sure he would
kindly take the message if you see him."
" If he's about here, he'll call in," said Mr. Moneypen. "He
isn't like the other Mr. Josslyn."
254
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Mr. Anthony, you mean."
" Yes, miss, yet Mr. Josslyn too—Mr. Josslyn Anthony. Why,
if squire had had a hundred sons, they'd all have been Josslyn,
as he is. A Josslyn Yorke has ruled at Lynhead for more than
a hundred years, and there was no b'eing certain which should
succeed—as he's proved—so each was Josslyn."
" But Mr. Anthony is never called Josslyn."
" Not yet, miss."
" Then why do they sometimes call the elder brother Trevor,
as if they were used to it?"
" Miss Quentin "—brusquely—" how am I to know their
whims up at the house ?"
" I did not mean to ask the question," said Dorothy, gently
arousing herself from thought. " What is that, Mr. Moneypen ? "
" Not a very rare sound this time of year, miss," he answered,
smiling to meet her startled glance. "The gentlemen aren't out
to-day, but the keepers are about, and they fire senselessly
enough. I'll be sure to send, miss. It's well you are going
that way, for I expect the water will soon be in the hollow in
the woods."
And then Dorothy went on her way, the Scotchman following
her with his eyes, and not wondering his master had chosen
her for his countess.
" But that was a fool who fired," he said to himself, as he
went back to his leaning posture. " It seemed strange to me
too. Perhaps the captain's trying some new gun or—pistol. It
was more like that. I suppose he'll be round here soon."
Swiftly and restlessly Dorothy walked to Kerry's hut ; and,
receiving no reply to her summons at the door, entered the
kitchen. A low, gloomy fire burned in the grate, and before it
bent and huddled in his tall, uncushioned air-chair, sat Kerry,
gasping, with a painful metallic sound in every breath, the
danger of which Dorothy understood, having helped
mademoiselle to nurse her father through the terrible attack
of bronchitis which killed him. Dorothy looked in vain for
Nancy ; then called her at each door, while the man, with his
strained, staring eyes fixed on her, tried to speak between his
gasping coughs.
"Nancy is out then, Kerry? I see," said Dorothy, anxious
to show him she understood, and so prevent his making any
effort to speak. "Never mind ; I will wait for her. Sit quite
still "—for he made a feeble attempt to rise. " I am going to
build up the fire. I know where the wood is, and you will see
I don't want help. This room is cold, isn't it ? I'll just fetch
you a pillow and blanket; and you won't mind, will you, Kerry,
if I put a little mustard poultice "to your throat ? It will relieve
you indeed. We shall be all right before Nancy comes back,"
Dorothy's venture.
255
So, kindly cheering him, and making nothing of her own
trouble, she moved about the wretched home, all her heart
filled with sorrow for the poor fellow who had nothing to make
suffering bearable to him ; all her thoughts intent on helping
him. She built a bright, clear fire, with no regret for the soiling
and hurting of her soft, white hands ; she wrapped round him
the worn blanket she had fetched from an inner room, and
contrived, with the scant bolster, to give his head rest against
the high-backed chair ; she talked gently to distract him while
the mustard so slowly burned his hard skin ; and then, search-
ing the kitchen, she found milk, and warmed it for him. And
all this time she would not give one thought to the sorrow
lying almost sacredly within her heart, and, though as time
went on she now and then wondered why no carriage had been
sent for her, she knew that, if it had, she would not have left
Kerry, and she was far more anxious for Nancy's return than
for her own release. And more grateful than she could
have been for either was she when, at last, eased and soothed
and warmed, Kerry fell asleep, sitting up against the impromptu
pillow Dorothy had contrived and fastened. Then, very silent
and still, Dorothy sat, as anxious not to disturb this invalid's
sleep as if she had been watching some one she loved in one of
the splendid rooms at Lynhead ; and not even after the moon
had risen did she think of drawing the little calico curtain
before the window, for fear of that disturbing him. Sometimes
she turned, looking wistfully from it, when the branches of a
tree outside touched the glass in a ghostly manner as the wind
rose ; and far off she thought she heard the river.
At last! At last a step outside ! Nancy, of course. Hoping
intensely that she would enter silently, and not awake her
father, Dorothy anxiously watched the door. In the firelight
she saw the latch lifted, without hearing a sound—Nancy was
indeed thoughtful—then the latch was dropped, as if she had
faltered in her resolution. After a few seconds it was silently
lifted again, and this time the door was opened, bringing the
cold, pale moonlight all across the kitchen. But it was not
Nancy who entered and stood in this light, looking so strangely
into Dorothy's face.
" Captain D'Eresby ! " she said, her lips scarce forming his
name, in her inexplicable fear.
But at the sound of her voice the wild, strange look left his
eyes, and there broke a smile on his white face.
" I will not stay, Miss Quentin. I will not trouble you," he
said. He had dropped on one knee as she came to him, and
he laid his cold forehead for an instant against one hand that
hung beside her, then looked up, his dim eyes glad and fearless,
his voice calm and clear. " I came to tell you—for I saw you
256
Dorothy's venture.
here—that he will not trouble you again. He will not make
you cry again—you who used to laugh—never cry ! He will
not pain you again. You were unhappy, and it was his doing.
He brought those tears, for I had seen you with him ; and
before that you were happy. It was worse to me to see your
tears than any bullet through my heart. I had liked him, but
—he hurt you, and brought those tears. For anyone who
loved you I would give my life ; but from one who grieved you
I would—take his—I, your champion, your slave—nothing
more. I was right to take his. It is all I can do for you."
As he lifted his head from her hand, the moonlight lay on
his white, rapt face ; and, as Dorothy staggered from him, she
was conscious only of one feeling, a deadly hatred for the
moonlight.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
" Her very dread had calmed her."
Dorothy never knew how many minutes had passed after
Captain D'Eresby had so quietly left the hut, before the door
was opened once again, and Nancy came into the broad line of
moonlight. She stopped, with a gaze of intense amazement
when she saw Miss Quentin standing against the rickety old
dresser, with her hand among the leaves of a rarely-opened
Bible, but sadly watching Nezer's sleep.
" Miss Quentin !" cried Nancy, shading her eyes as if they
had deceived her ; and then, for the first time, Dorothy was
aware of the woman's presence.
" He is asleep," she said, with a wan, bewildered smile. " If
you awake him he will cough again."
" Oh, Miss Dorothy," cried Nancy, starting forward and look-
ing intently into the young white face, " what has happened ? "
" I heard you were in sorrow—had been crying," Dorothy
said, her fingers still on the open pages of the Book, her gaze
fixed and troubled, "so I came. You were not here, and your
father ill, so I stayed with him a little."
" Oh, Miss Dorothy, Miss Dorothy, who told you I cried ?
It was only my temper. The wedding had put me out—and
the contrast here ; and I cried for—a relief. Then I went out
to take the feeling off—I often do—to the river. It-—tempts
me. But I've stayed too long. I had no idea father was bad.
How good of you, Miss Dorothy !—but you are always good.
I never forget that, whatever tempers I have. And you've
helped father. But why ?"
Dorothy's venture.
257
The question was interrupted by a cry. The Sweet, sad,
vacant look left the girl's face as at a breath, and the soft, white
fingers that wistfully touched the sacred page clutched nervously
at Nancy's one hand, in which she held a gentleman's riding-
whip.
" Where—where ?" she gasped. " I remember. Where
was it ?"
" I picked it up," said Nancy, terrified to see this sudden
startling change. It has Captain Yorke's name. I picked it
up just above Sir Anthony's Leap."
"Above Sir Anthony's Leap !" repeated Dorothy, in a strange
clear whisper, as she moved to the door. " Above Sir Anthony's
Leap'!"
"Miss Dorothy," cried Nancy, pushing before her in alarm,
" what does it mean ? What has frightened you ? What has
changed you so awfully?"
"Above Sir Anthony's Leap!" whispered Dorothy, as if
fearful of her memory losing that, while she grasped the whip
in her hand. " Don't keep me, Nancy. He has fallen there."
A look of horror passed over the woman's face, though its
dark hue did not pale. Without saying a word to Dorothy, she
turned and scrutinised her father. Even Dorothy's cry had not
awakened him, and he sat comfortably as Dorothy bad propped
him. Taking a long, woollen comforter from a nail behind the
door, Nancy tied him into his chair, knotting it on his chest,
where he could easily unfasten it when he chose ; then she
drew close to his side the table, with everything on it that
Dorothy had prepared ready to his hand, and built up the fire.
It had taken her only one half minute, yet Dorothy had reached
the road, and was walking swiftly on above the quarries. No
word was spoken between the girls when Nancy overtook her ;
but after a few minutes' rapid walking, Nancy suddenly stopped.
" Miss Quentin, what are we going to do ? " she questioned,
almost, as it seemed to Dorothy, in her old hard way ; but it
was the new consciousness of a call to think and plan which
had suddenly taken the place of her vague compassion and fear.
" Tell me something. What can we two women do ?"
" I do not know," said Dorothy, shivering as she stood, "but
he has fallen, and I must go. Above Sir Anthony's Leap ! "—
again reiterating Nancy's words.
" If he has fallen," said Nancy, all the more clearly from her
surprise, " how did you know ? Oh, Miss Quentin," as Dorothy
started again, understanding now by intuition what alone would
stay her, " if we take nothing with us we are useless, for we
aren't likely to meet any help on this road at night, however we
look ! I'm going back for something. Will you come, or will
you stay here for me ? "
R
DOROTMy's venture.
"I will go on," answered Dorothy, with wide, fevered eyes.
" No, miss. If you won't stay here or come with me, I'll not
let you go on alone ; so I'll not go back, and we shall be no
help at all—to him."
" Oh, run ! " cried Dorothy then, and ran herself back towards
the hut.
" Lean there a bit, miss," said Nancy, when they reached the
broken gate. " I'll go in alone quietly, and father won't wake."
Though it seemed hours to Dorothy as she stood waiting,
Nancy was absent scarcely one minute, and returned with an
old fish-basket slung on her arm. Dorothy did not pause-one
second longer, but ran down the steep from the quarries, Nancy
at her side. Through every step of the way her memory was
keenly and painfully alert. All the vague bewilderment which
followed her first shock had vanished since her eyes had fallen
on the whip Josslyn had held through their sad last interview,
and every moment now brought the past more vividly before
her. As they ran across the corner of the moor, wide and
desolate, with little splashes of water glistening in the moon-
light, she could recall its beauty in the summer daylight when
they had driven across it on Alice's birthday. That day seemed
years ago now, back in a far-off girlhood. And; when they had
reached the foot of the quarried ground and came within sight
of the river, she stopped and put her hand to her throat with
one deep gasping breath, as if she were suffocated.
" It looks wisht here, Miss Quentin, with the moon on the
flood, though its pretty through the firs," said Nahcy, as if she
must speak aloud in her great fear, and anxious to call Dorothy's
attenti on anywhere from herself.
But Dorothy silently hurried on, not along, the path that she
had trodden that afternoon from Mr. Moneypen's house, but at
the water's edge, until they reached that hollow in the woods
into which the water ran when the river was greatly flooded,
making—as Josslyn had told her—an island of the height on
which the little chapel stood. But, as the slope was shallow at
this eastern end, and on a higher level, the stream was not
formidable, and in a moment, without giving her time to think,
Nancy took Dorothy in her arms and waded across.
"Nonsense, miss 1" she said—surlily, it would seem—when
Dorothy thanked her, and begged her not to think she could
not do what Nancy did. " It isn't but a few steps, and.I'm used
to carrying. Why, if I've been wet once like this, I've been a
hundred times ! Now don't you stop running 'cause of me, miss,
for I can run with a bit of wet round the heel of my gown."
So they ran once more up the ascent, which was gradual on
that eastern side, and only stopped when they reached the spot
known so well as Sir Anthony's Leap.
bOkOTHY'S VENTURE.
&S9
"Was it here?" whispered Dorothy. " Oh, why does not
anyone pass us ? Why will no help come ? "
" People don't like this part even in summer dusk," said
Nancy, looking anxiously at her; and there's no folks about
here would come past this chapel at night. Yes, it was here
the whip lay, Miss Dorothy—just here."
"Just here?" repeated Dorothy, turning her eyes from the
stretch of water, but not even yet daring to glance down through
the^ranches and bushes of the precipitous bank to the water
below. "Then, Nancy, it shall lie there still;" and after
holding it one moment passionately to her lips for was it not
the last thing his dear hand had touched?—she laid it down
on the spot where Nancy had found it. "Nancy," she said
then, clasping the woman's hand and standing to look down,
" the river must be almost up to the spot where Sir Anthony
lay—the merciful spot that stayed him. I am going down."
" I ought to go," was the reply, as Nancy put her basket upon
the path ; " but I'm too heavy for you to hold the rope. There's
no man to be found, and a mattress couldn't be lowered here if
there were men ; but if you're sure, miss, that you "
" I shall go," said Dorothy, her face wonderfully calm in its
pallor as she looked down upon the broken glimmer of the
water. " If you can help me, Nancy, I know you will."
Nancy did not answer by a word, for she was busily em-
ployed ; and Dorofhy did not turn to read the answer in her
resolute dark face.
" This is real prime whisky," she said presently, with a futile
attempt at cheerfulness ; " we have that good when we have
it at all; and many a man hereabouts knows it used always to
be had at Kerry's hut. You'll want it if Now, Miss
Dorothy, stand a minute, please, for you mustn't be cold, or be
hurt by the rope."
" She took from her basket a clean woollen shawl, which she
put on Dorothy, crossing it on her chest and tying it behind,
then wound a small, clean coarse sheet round her waist, knot-
ting a double rope in with it at the back.. Then she secured
the small flat bottle of whisky among the folds of the sheet in
front, and looked intently into the girl's face.
" Are you quite, quite steady, Miss Quentin, and not afraid.
I don't mean"—hurriedly—"for any danger to yourself, for I
shall have you safe even if you trip, but for anything you might
see if "
" Let me go !" cried the girl, with the tearless horror in her
eyes ; and in another moment she was feeling her way back-
ward, step by step down the steep, perilous bank, holding to the
roots and rocky edges ; step by step, slowly and warily, yet
lightly and without fear, trying all the while not to listen to the
26©
Dorothy's venture.
one terrible word that had been formed in her own heart, and
which every sound of the clear night repeated—" Dead ! "
Once or twice she paused an instant, just to touch the bottle
at her waist and assure herself it was safe—this medicine which
might give back life—while still the horror of this whisper
seemed to stop her very heart-beats. " Dead ! "
It was clear and cold and cruel, the sound of this word in the
silent night ; and yet she paused once more to be quite certain
that she held the restorative safely. She knew she must be
close to the swoollen water now, for she was out of sight of
Nancy, and felt she must be just above the projecting ridge
where, hundreds of years ago, Sir Anthony had lain for three
days. Taking a firm hold with her left hand, she turned and
looked below her ; but the shadows were too deep for her to
distinguish anything. So she stepped down again cautiously
and slowly, and, after a few moments, one foot stood firm, as it
had not done before, and the other found a resting-place beside
it. She. gave the rope a pull for Nancy to loosen it a little;
then she stooped and crept along the ledge of rock. To have
found nothing would have been as a death-blow to her; yet
when, in the glimmering light, she saw a man's dark figure
lying motionless, one arm fallen across the chest, one hanging
lifelessly down the steep bank until it almost touched the river's
shimmering surface, she could have screamed with fear. Just
a few inches farther, and death had been inevitable. And even
now ? Dorothy looked up from the low, thickly-shadowed spot,
with a gratitude too intense for words, a look that was a prayer.
Then came a strange thanksgiving. Was she not with him
once again? Could she not look upon him once without fight-
ing against her love, as in his presence she had ever done—
until now ? Could she not utter now aloud the words of love
which he alone of all the world could win from her, and yet
would never hear? Need she fight now against the love which
he would never know ?
But, except in that first moment of wordless gratitude, her
hands had not been idle.
" Nancy," she called up, in a soft, clear whisper—and Nancy
answered readily, for she had from the first been keenly listen-
ing for a word—'' bring help ! Fasten the rope, for I want my
hands free, and I am not safe here. Then go for help. Run !"
"I suppose a mattress couldn't be lowered, Miss Dorothy?"
called Nancy. " It doesn't look like it from here."
" Oh, no ! Our only chance is a boat."
" But the boat-house is under water, Miss Dorothy."
" Yes ; but the ferry-boat was brought up this morning to
carry some villagers over to the wedding, and they were afraid
of the flood and walked back, so that the boat is still on this
DOROTHYS VENTURE.
261
side—thank Heaven ! Lower down, a little on the shallow
bank. Oh, Nancy, make haste! Run to Mr. Moneypen's
house if you meet no one.''1
While she had been speaking, Dorothy knelt on the narrow
ledge, supporting herself against the bank, and then, trusting
herself implicitly to the rope, took Josslyn's head into her arms,
and, resting it on one, slowly poured between his teeth a little
of the fiery spirit which was Nezer Kerry's pride. Then she
paused, then tried again, terrified lest she should give one drop
too much, or leave one smallest effort untried by giving a drop
too little.
" Dead !"
Still the word echoed hopelessly around her, while the pale
face still was motionless against her breast, and neither lips
nor eyelids gave one flicker of returning life. Shivering as if
with ague, she saw what she knew then that she had been
dreading to see; and while she bound Josslyn's handkerchief
about his neck with what skill her trembling fingers could com-
mand—folding her own within it over the wound—she whis-
pered fond, sweet, senseless words which eased her heart a
little, though no ear save her own could hear them. From that
moment every longing in her soul was swallowed up in the
great longing for help for him. No thought, no plan or memory
could live for one instant in presence of this absorbing anxiety.
She lost every sensation but the overmastering one of appre-
hension. Was there a failing life to save, or was it all too
late ?
CHAPTER XL.
" There is no space for grieving or for weeping.
. No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with.
And nothing but a horror and a blankness."
IT was a most terrible time to Dorothy, while her wide, yearn-
ing eyes dwelt in this dim, sad light upon the face she loved ;
but there came a sound at last, the steady, restrained sound of
oars in the water, then smothered voices below her, and she
knew a boat was there.
" Can you fasten it ?" she softly called, her heart full of
thankfulness that they had come at last.
"All right, miss," was Nancy's ready answer. "Wait a
moment."
She had waited what she thought a long time, when Mr.
Moneypen, climbing very cautiously, reached the little ridge
on which she knelt, He stood a minute silent, as if a strange
Dorothy's venture.
shock had passed over him ; then he turned abruptly away,
and spoke down tq some one in the boat.
"Raise the mattress as high as you can. Use all your
strength, and it shall only be for a minute. The jagged bank
will steady the boat. Now, Miss Quentin, take your arms away.
Where is he hurt ?"
" In the neck," she answered, breathlessly.
"How curious to be hurt in the neck by a fall!" said the
Scotchman, thoughtfully. " Leave it to me "
He planted his feet firmly, then stooped and put his arms
under Josslyn. Strong, and big, and sinewy as he was, Dorothy
saw what a mighty effort he had to make, to raise the lifeless
form with such bare vantage-ground; and, though some
unseen hands had lifted a narrow mattress almost on a level
with the ledge, when he had laid it on this, the drops of
moisture stood thick on his high, bald forehead, and it was
fully a minute before he couldr regain breath to speak to
Dorothy or move from that spot. Then he untied the rope
which held her, and dropped her gently down into Nancy's
arms, himself following.
She did not seem to hear his entreaty that she would occupy
the seat he had prepared for her ; she knelt beside the mattress,
seeing nothing beyond the white, still face on which she gazed
so hopelessly, so yearningly, hearing nothing but that one
haunting word which now she thought that Nancy uttered in
her sobs—" Dead ! "
But, though Nancy sobbed, she said no word ; and though
she rowed with a vigorous, even stroke—for one of the men
whom Mr. Moneypen had brought could not use an oar—she
steadily and persistently watched Dorothy, until a new, sad
knowledge sprang up in her heart.
" Round the point," directed Mr. Moneypen, as they rowed
from under the shadow of the abrupt bank, which shut from
their gaze even the chapel on the height, " and pull up on the
shallow slope. We can go no nearer to the house by water, but
while you stay there we can unhang one of the gates to carry—
the mattress."
So against the slope beneath the sombre woods, they made
fast the boat. The Scotchman and his servants left them, and
Dorothy, seeing nothing in all her sad, wide world except that
immovable figure lying beside her, laid over it both the sheet
and shawl in which Nancy had enwrapped her ; while Nancy
gazed fixedly on her, in the pain of that new discovery. But,
when the men were out of sight and hearing, Nancy leaned
forward, her handsome, swarthy face intensely, pitifully earnest,
" Miss Ouentin, may I speak one word to you ?"
" No." "
Dorothy's venture.
263
" They will be back soon, and I shall have to go. Oh, Miss
Dorothy, let me say two words to you ?"
" Not here," said Dorothy, without turning.
"Yes, here—arid now"—entteatirigly. " Miss Quentin, you
remember all I've told you of— Josslyn Yorke ?"
No answer, while Dorothy's head was bent, and her sorrow-
ful eyes still held the face she loved.
"Miss Dorothy, you never believed the wickedness I told you
he did?" . . . .
" Never," said Dorothy, very low, but clearly and readily.
"Yet you believed something, for you were different to him
and the others. You never liked him."
" Never," said Dorothy, for the first time turning her white
face to Nancy; "but I loved him ! I loved him so that I would
give all my life now for one hour—one minute even—to tell him
how I loved him ; to tell him once, and feel he understood. To
tell him how it was of no use to fight against my love, for, in
spite of all my struggles and of all I knew—he did, I loved
him. I loved him, loved him ! It seems now as if the words
did not mean all—I—mean. I have heard them often, but
never understood."
"You love him!" echoed Nancy, with such a wonderful
softening of the sullen face that Anthony could not have
recognized it, well as he fancied that he knew this woman's
moods. " Then, because you do, Miss Dorothy, I must speak
-to-night. You didn't believe that story which I told you the
Cornish sailor repeated, nor about Zara going with him—thank
the Almighty on your knees, Miss Dorothy, that you didn't!
Yet it .was true—of Josslyn Yorke. Miss Dorothy"—with a
change of tone to rouse the girl from the old attitude and gaze
which she had resumed—" when I went home to-night and
found you with father, you'd our Bible open. It's seldom
opened there by anyone ; but I remember there's a picture
slipped in it—has been for years—it was Zara's—a large, fine
photograph. Did you see it ?"
"I forget."
" Try to remember, miss. A photograph—large—of a gentle-
man sitting in a garden-chair—backward on it—very hand-
some."
"Yes, the photograph of Anthony Yorke," said Dorothy,
quietly, a little proudly, too, as she was reminded that Anthony's
intercourse with Nancy was unknown to his brother.
"Of Anthony Yorke, you think ?"
" I am sure. I saw it at the Chase: before."
"And they told you it was Anthony? And you believe I
keep Anthony's photograph after telling you I hate his coming
to the hut ? What have you thought me, Miss Quentin ?"
264
Dorothy's venture.
"I did not think, Nancy, indeed," said Dorothy, kindly, in
her own sorrow. " I only mechanically looked at the photo-
graph to-night. I had seen it, and I— I understood it to be
Anthony's. I forget •"
"Just try to remember for one minute, Miss Dorothy,"
pleaded the woman. " You remember what I've told you was
done by Josslyn Yorke ? "
" Oh, hush—hush !" cried Dorothy, tortured beyond endur-
ance. " I will not listen ! I have heard that so often—so
often ! I will not listen again ! He has paid all back now ! "
"You must, Miss Dorothy," said Nancy, with a timid little
touch upon her dress. " I have kept the secret long enough.
I was told to keep it, and, though I'm only a Kerry, I've a
notion of my own about honour. I asked Mr. Pugh to let me
tell just you—only you—but he wouldn't. I was afraid then
that it might be making you unhappy to have heard all I told
you in my rage before I knew you were going to marry the Lord
Viscount ; but afterwards you set me at rest, for you told me—
was it only this morning ?—that it wasn't Captain Yorke you
loved, but Lord Avory."
" That I was engaged to," corrected Dorothy, very low.
" Miss Dorothy, the picture you saw to-day is Josslyn
Yorke's."
" It is not," said Dorothy, with quiet confidence. " I never
could have been deceived in that. Do you think"—touching
the brown hair below her with a wistful smile—" that I cquld
ever—or anywhere—mistake his face?"
"No, Miss Dorothy," said Nancy, piteously, "it is not his.
It is his elder brother's. The eldest son was Josslyn. Oh !
Miss Dorothy, don't look so terrified, as if you'd done harm !
It wasn't you did harm, it was me—only me. Stop—I'll tell you
quick - I never knew you'd take it in this way. It was the eldest
son that story was told of, and it was his promise my sister held,
and he's been away ever since that sailor brought the story—I
don't think anyone knows where. And, when he was cast off,
his brother took the name of the heir—that's always Josslyn.
Ail the brothers have the name. The eldest was Josslyn
Percival, the second—this one—Josslyn Trevor; and when he
was made heir he had to drop the 'Trevor'—they always called
him 'Trevor' before—and the youngest is Josslyn Anthony.
He'll be Josslyn if——"
" Hush, hush !" cried Dorothy, with flushing tearless eyes.
Then such a cry—
" Oh, if I had only known ! "
" We were told to keep the secret," said Nancy, wildly
doubting now whether she had been wise to tell. " They none
of them mentioned him after mother took that sailor to
DOROTHY S VENTURE.
265
Lynhead. Nobody lost by the change, though Captain Yorke
never cared to be considered the heir ; but now, if it's, after all,
got to be Mr. Anthony Oh, Miss Dorothy, don't look so
frightened ! I daresay he'll come to. I feel as if you'd saved
him."
" Saved him ? I ! I—killed him ! Yet, if I—had—
known "
" Oh, Miss Dorothy, what is it ?"—for another cry had burst
from the girl's lips ; and at last she had covered her wild feverish
eyes. "IfI'd only known what you felt, Miss Quentin," said
Nancy, doggedly ; " and yet'—what right had I to know ? You
. could never guess what joy it was to me to hear you say 'No, it
wasn't him,' when I asked you if it was him or the Lord Viscount.
Of course, you thought I was glad because Captain Yorke was
wicked—as you thought—but it wasn't that ; it was for fear I'd
told you in my spite, what would have made you unhappy if
you'd cared for him. I was so sure you didn't, yet there was—
something made me afraid. But, when you said you were
engaged to Lord Avory, I knew it was all right. Miss Dorothy,
don't you remember one day when I was trying to make you
hate them all because—well, p'r'aps because I hated everybody
that was above me then, that I said, ' I hate both brothers, the
oldest and the youngest' ? It only meant one thing to you, for
you thought there were only two brothers ; but I never hated
—this one. It was for his sake—and yours too, for you're her
friend—that I tried to stop his sister sneaking away to marry
young Oxley, for in the Cedar Hall that night he was going to
arrange with her to run away with him .next day ; he suspected
his time at Lynhead was about over. He tried for Miss Barber
first, but she could take care of herself; but Miss Yorke I stopped.
Then I showed her one or two of Mr. Oxley's love-letters to my
sister,- written two years ago, and I knew that was enough.
She wouldn't have been a Yorke if she'd taken a lover Kerry's
daughter had had, though she pretended to disbelieve it all.
How could she, knowing his handwriting as she did ? She
owes it to you, Miss Dorothy, that she was saved from what
she'd have miserably repented all her life. Perhaps I should
have Iried for her brother's sake ; but I couldn't have done it as
you did it, and he must at any rate have known of the secret
meetings. Miss Dorothy, I've often wondered how you've
escaped hearing of the eldest son. I should have thought
even the old people in the almhouses would have let it out."
I never went to them," said Dorothy, sadly. " I might have
known by instinct. Oh, how easily I might have known if I
had let my own heart speak ! And he—he was so patient and
so "
Ker \yan-p soft fingers closed upon the nerveless hand beside
266
Dorothy's venture.
her : her beautiful eyes were bent upon the pale mute lips; then
she laid her own upon them lingeringly and tenderly, and, when
she lifted her head again at the sound of footsteps, her whole
face was transformed. He was true and honourable! He
had been blameless all though the time of which she had been
afraid to speak or even think ! Truth Baring could not again
stand, injured and upbraiding, between herself and her love !
"Oh, Father in Heaven," she whispered in her heart, "be
merciful and spare him ! "
" Has he come to, then ?" inquired Mr. Moneypen, fancying
that he read this in Dorothy's new expression as she turned to
him. But there was something in the sad shake of her head
which made the Scotchman turn away before he and his men
lifted the mattress to the hurdle.
Nancy turned homeward then, Dorothy, even in her own
grief, begging that she might soon hear how Kerry was.
"This is the saddest work I've been in for forty years," the
agent said to Dorothy, brushing a hard red hand across his eyes,
as they entered the brown old woods, " and it's taking worse
than death to the squire."
" I will go on," said Dorothy, bravely. " He shall not hear
this suddenly while he is unprepared."
"That's very kind of you, Miss Quentin. And have you
forgiven me for not having sent your message to Lynhead this
afternoon ? "
" I never even remembered it, Mr. Moneypen."
" I waited and waited for Captain Yorke, as you'd said he was
in the woods, and, when I'd given him up, I started to take
your message myself; but I met a groom seeking the captain
so anxiously that I forgot everything else, and turned and
hunted the woods with him. Oh, you're going on now, Miss
Ouentin ? It's very good of you ; and you might send a couple
of men to meet us."
"Yes," said Dorothy, and went to the house as swiftly as if
this day had not been one of incessant fatigue to her, and of
very grievous excitement.
After sending the men and despatching a mounted groom
into Northeaton for Dr. Lake, the family physician, she very
sorrowfully, but very thoughtfully, broke to the old squire the
sad intelligence of his son's accident ; then prepared Sophy
too ; but she turned away with a passionate refusal when Sophy,
weeping copiously, proposed her going to Anthony and Lord
Avory. . ' ' ' " ; ' '"
"They quite decided that Josslyn went on to Liverpool by
an earlier train," she said through her tears; "but still they
have not gone to bed. Avory scoured the country after you,
Dorothy, till Ethel told him she heard you promise to go to the
Dorothy's venture.
267
vicarage. She said she was obliged to make that up. She
went to bed, for she says she is always ill and useless, after
sitting up. Tony says, 'When is she not useless?' but she
cannot help her nature, can she, Dorothy?"
"No," said Dorothy, patiently. "Where is Ermine?"
"Oh, she's been fearfully anxious! She insisted from the
first that Josslyn had not gone to Liverpool. Neither Sir
Marmaduke nor Anthony could win a word from her. She is
in her room now, and I am sure she is crying. You will go to
her, will you not ? "
"No," said Dorothy, with a shudder she could not repress as
she felt Ermine's need of comfort; then she went away, taking
her sorrowful story to the old housekeeper, so that all was ready
when the men carried their burden slowly in.
CHAPTER XLI.
" What I can do I will, and more I will
Than for myself I dare."
"If you please, Miss Quentin, Mr. Yorke desires to speak to
you for a few minutes."
" And not to me, Pelly ?"
" No, ma'am; he only said Miss Quentin."
Sophy turned her head away again, trying too late to hide
her tears from the old butler ; Lady Ermine heaved a sigh, and
returned to her gloomy contemplation of the fire ; and just
then Miss Barber entered the room in her dressing-gown, for it
was less lonely here, even with only the girls, than in her own
room.
Dr. Lake had been for an hour in Josslyn's room, and had
been joined now by a surgeon from Northeaton, who, among
country practitioners, had quite a wide celebrity ; and beyond
this there had been a telegram despatched to summon a London
surgeon whose name was a power in the hospitals, and two
skilled and efficient nurses.
" I expect father meant me," observed Sophy, plaintively,
as Dorothy went to the door. " If so, send or come for me
quickly."
"Yes," said Dorothy, while her heart throbbed with fear
untold, because she knew so well that it would be herself whom
Josslyn's father would ask to see now.
" How fearfully tired Dorothy looks ! " observed Ethel Barber,
as the door closed upon her,
268
Dorothy's venture.
" I wish she did," said Ermine, gently. " She looks far worse
than tired. I never saw anyone look so before, except "
" Except whom, dear ?" inquired Sophy, with an effort of
sympathy.
" Except my father on the day when, in one instant, he lost
wife and children before his eyes. It seems absurd, but his
eyes had that same look in them that Dorothy's have. I always
thought he could never lose it again, and she looks as if she
never could. Oh, Sophy," with a petulant change of tone,
"how can you sit here and cry so wearily? If it were—my
brother, I would not rest until I learned what others know."
" I dare not go," said Sophy, with a doleful sob. " Mrs.
Fletcher begged me to stay here ; and what is there to learn
while he is unconscious ? "
" Nothing," said Ermine ; but there was more pathos in her
curt disdain than in Sophy's tears, genuine as they were.
"To think," sighed Ethel, "that this is Alice's wedding-
day ! "
The squire was not in the library when Dorothy entered it,
and she saw at once that she had been sent for, not by him, but
only in his name, and guessed rightly that he had never left his
son's room. Anthony sat in his father's chair. Avory leaned
his back against one of the windows, his arms folded, his eyes
fixed upon Dorothy's face with something more than their usual
gentle but indolent admiration—a restless, feverish impatience.
Near the writing-table stood Avory's Scotch agent, who in a
measure was Mr. Yorke's agent too. Dorothy looked only at
him, her white cheeks growing feverish, her breath coming in
short, painful gasps. He had a paper in his hand, and seemed
to be studying it intently. Dorothy looked at it too, the
indescribable fear which possessed her extending even to that.
It was but a printed wine-list ; and then she knew—for her
thoughts were quick and clear as usual—that he had taken it
up at random, as he would have taken any paper, to avoid looking
at her.
'' The squire sent for me, Anthony," she said, in the general
silence ; but her eyes still followed Mr. Moneypen's, while he
turned from the catalogue of ports and began intently to study
a page of clarets.
" I did," corrected Authony, a little huskily. " Will you sit
down, Dorothy?"
" No," she said, her voice too sad and gentle for the refusal
to sound brusque ; and then she lifted her head, listening to the
staghound's bay, and, farther off, the tinkle of a sheep-bell.
This removal of her eyes from Mr. Moneypen seemed a relief
to Anthony, and he shook off his uncharacteristic hesitation.
" Porothy," he said, " we hear that what has hurt Josslyq
DOROTHY'S VENTURE,
269
more than the fall, is a bullet; and Moneypen tells me now
that you, as well as he, heard the shot."
" I!" she said ; but they saw how her hand went swiftly to
her heart.
"Yes ; will you tell us of it ?"
" Have I not told you all ? I seem to have said it Several
times, Anthony. I was in Kerry's hut. 1 had waited there,
Kerry not being well—and alone. Nancy came in with
Josslyn's whip, which she had picked up at Sir Anthony's Leap.
I was frightened, so we went. Mr. Moneypen will tell you ti e
rest."
" But why were you frightened ?" inquired Anthony, judicially.
" Because," said Dorothy, bravely tacing him, while she felt
as if the ground were moving from beneath her feet, " Josslyn
had the whip in his hand when he and I met in the wood this
afternoon ; and it was so unlike him to have dropped it care-
lessly."
" I see, I see," said Anthony, with an aggravating air of for-
bearance ; " but before that, Dorothy, about four o'clock—cer-
tainly between four and half-past—you and Mr. Moneypen heard
the report of a revolver."
" I do not understand," returned Dorothy, quietly. " I do not
know the report of a revolver. Mr. Moneypen said something
about the keepers being in the woods shooting ; that is all."
"Well, I will not worry you now, dear," said Anthony, with
an assumption of the protector and partisan as well as judge,
for the benefit of his audience. " Unfortunately, you will have
to be questioned before a sterner tribunal than this. I wish I
could spare you that ; but it will be impossible."
One grievous, questioning look Dorothy gave into Mr.
Moneypen's hard face, afterwards smiling faintly, as if she asked
him what there could be that she should dread. Then she
went slowly from the room, never fancying that they saw she
was dazed, and giddy, and likely to fall. She did not even see
Lord Avory, though he held the door for her, and followed her.
" My darling," he whispered, crushing her hand in his,
" Yorke's wish is but a feeble echo of mine. If I could only
spare you that inquiry before the magistrates, I would ; but it
must be held, for we will have justice on the villain who mur-
dered—oh, my darling, how you frightened me—well, who tried
to murder, the best fellow in the world."
" If it must be that I go, Lord Avory," said Dorothy, very low,
but with a determination Avory had never seen before upon the
gentle lips, " I shall not answer them one word—not one."
" But, love, you must. The law will make you."
" Will it ?" she questioned, dreamily. Then, in sudden
passionate grief, she tore her hand from his and left him, and
27<3 DOROTHY'S -VENTURE.'
for hours afterwards hovered near Josslyn's door ; waiting1,
waiting ; grateful for any word that she could glean of him, yet
comforting the others too when they broke down, as if her grief
were nothing in the strong light of theirs.
CHAPTER XLII.
" If then a painful sense comes on
Of something wholly lost and gone,
Vainly enjoy'd or vainly done,—
"Upon your heart this truth may rise,—
Nothing that altogether dies
Suffices man's just destinies !"
In the small parlour of No. 2, Northgate Villas, the mistress
of the house sat, in a condition of melancholy determination,
evidently awaiting some one. For more than an hour supper
had been laid for two upon the round table, a neat but unalluring
little repast, rigidly undisturbed. Miss Rosahn was gradually
subsiding into a very limp state of resignation, when her
attentive ears caught the click of a latch-key, then a familiar
footstep in the passage, an expected pause beneath the hat-pegs,
and the opening of the parlour door.
" At last!" she said with a plaintive sigh. " I kept your
dinner hot from five till nine. N ow it is cold, of course ; so^ I
put supper for us both."
"I am late," said D'Eresby, quietly, glancing at a square
American clock above the mantel.
"Ten o'clock !" lamented his landlady.
"Yes ; I see. Have you been pretty well this evening?"
" As well as I ever now feel or expect to feel."
"And not worried or over worked?"
" Only by your delay."
As Miss Rosahn said this, she looked closely into her com-
panion's face, perhaps inquisitively seeking there the solution
of his tarrying, perhaps musing over its pallor and the absent
look in his eyes.
" What's that ?" she cried, suddenly springing from her chair
as the door bell rang sharply through the little house ; but he
did not start or change colour in the slightest.
" Do not rise ; I will go," he said, sorry to see her alarm, as
he knew a shock was bad for her weak heart.
She heard him open the door and genially answer some one,
and then go into the back premises, after a time returning to
the door.
BOROTHY S VENTURE.
Only our. next door neighbour," he explained, when he
re-entered the parlour. She came to borrow turfs ; so-1 went
for them. There was no need to trouble you."
"Thank you," she said, with one of her very rare glimpses of
gratitude. " I'm afraid you had some difficulty, as it was all
locked up and in darkness."
"Difficulty? Oh, no!"
He drew his chair up to the hearth-rug, and sat down with
his eyes fixed upon the empty grate.
" Mr. Bagot has been here, Captain D'Eresby," his landlady
said, and presently repeated the information more loudly, and
with evident astonishment, for she saw he really had not heard.
"You seem a little deaf."
"There is," he said, quietly, " a strange deafness about me.
Is everything unnaturally still to-night?"
"Mr. Bagot was here," reiterated Miss Rosahn, being
desirous of relieving her own mind of its responsibility before
entering on extraneous matters. " He thought you would have
been home. He blamed you for being persuaded to stay
gossiping with Mr. Moneypen."
She was a trifle anxious when she repeated this, knowing
so well the fiery energy that underlay his quiet self-control;
but he only smiled.
" Moneypen did not try to persuade me to stay; did not
even ask me in. He came home just as I reached the Cause-
way, and we made our arrangements at the gate."
"Well, I think he might have asked you in after such a
walk," observed Miss Rosahn, tartly, " and given you a glass
of wine too. He must know there's none here."
"Why should he know it?" was the answer, rather proud in
in its quietness. "We do not tell strangers our affairs. How
I remember"—dreamily—" the boxes that used to come for us
to school, with the Chambertin over which we made so merry !
It was better than the wine at mess through all the years that
followed. Those boxes had every corner filled by our mother's
own hand. Most of the things were for Claud—he was a
smaller fellow than I—but I never saw him kiss the things that
her hands had touched, as I did."
" You weren't good boys at school," intimated Miss Rosahn,
conscientiously. " I've heard my father say you two dared to
revolutionise the school.''
"Yes," he said, the tired face brightening, "and were
punished—justly. Claud must have had great influence, for
we were' ninety boys, and I know no other brothers who could
have carried it through. Poor Claud ! He was but such a
lad, and his was a terrible death. No wonder mother, followed
him so soon."
DOROTHY'S VENTURE,
" But she Was hurt too ?"
"Yes, yes; but she died because he had died. We could
not keep her. How well I remember that day ! We thought
daylight was never coming, for in our West Indian
Islands the sun in August has great power by eight
o'clock—we had come home to St. Kitt's for the vacation at
our mother's wish, for I think she felt she might not live to see
another—and we looked in vain for the sun that morning, Claud
and I. The whole scene was new to us, for the waves had
towering crests, and the sea-birds screamed as if they saw the
storm far off and welcomed it. I sat with mother, looking out,
when father came in and told us the people were preparing for
a great gale—no one had the faintest expectation of a hurricane
so early in the year. I remember the awful roaring sound in
the mountains, and the rush with which the great raindrops
beat the trees. I remember how the huge clouds whirled across
the sky, and how the vessels in the distance drove under bare
poles before the wind. Then we could look out no longer, for
the shutters had to be doubly bolted, and everything lashed
into its place. Father had one friend and brother-officer, whose
house was not built substantially on beams and pillars as ours
was, and who had little children ; so he said he was going
down to bring them up to us, and he asked me if I were afraid
to go with him. I afraid! We took two of the black servants,
and we left Claud with mother, they two content. Through all
the risks and dangers of my after-life, that walk has dwelt
vividly in my memory—a run, though, rather than a walk. Now
and then a tree near us was torn up by its roots and whirled into
the air before it fell; an avalanche of water tore down the
mountain, washing young trees and shrubs away, and scooping
a course for itself, which was afterwards a deep ravine; birds
were driven, stunned, against us, oranges lay scattered about
us in tens of thousands, and between the awful roaring of the
thunder we heard the wailing of the cattle, drenched and cower-
ing in the ruins of their huts in the plains ; while the lightning-
flashes showed us sentry-boxes. whirled in the air, houses un-
roofed, and sugar-mills blown away. And all this time the
terrific rain seemed, as it does on the ocean, to beat down the
wind. Our walk was most dangerous, and we only reached
the house just as the second half of the roof was lifted and
sent through the air down the mountain-side, but we got
safely home again, carrying the children, and by sunset the
hurricane had passed—only its desolate results remained. But
that night abeam in our house, which must have been loosened,
slid down quite quietly, and — Claud was underneath. Other
hurricanes have raged since then, but the little island still rests
in the wide Atlantic, as the eternal truth of "
Dorothy's venture:,
" You are drowsy," observed Miss Rosahn, as the quiet
words died away ; " and no wonder, being so late. You had
better have some supper, for you've had positively nothing
since eight o'clock this morning. I don't know why your
thoughts should go back to those old times to-night. Old
times aren't always the best."
" Yes," he said, gravely, those were good days, when a man
went boldly forth and stuck his enemy under the fifth rib."
" Or was stuck himself," she suggested, gloomily.
"Yes, that was good, too. There is no end save death for
anguish of mind. It soon crushes the—strongest of us."
" Oh, for goodness sake, don't go on in this way !" cried Miss
Rosahn. " And I am sure you don't look like one of ' the
strongest of us.' I've got some good news for you ; but I am
not going to tell it while you are so dismal."
"The room is close—a little," he said, looking vaguely
round the low darkly-papered walls.
" You will be glad to go to bed."
" I should like," he said, as if he had not heard, " this very
hour to undertake some desperate enterpri ze, as I have done
on such a night. I would join in any fierce engagement from
which I thought I never should return alive. I remember," he
went on presently, " a night like this in '71. We—part of the
Franco-American Legion—were bivouacking at the head of a
defile on the outskirts of the encampment. The tattoo had
sounded, and the command lay down on their arms. I was in
charge of the post, and lay outside my most extreme sentry.
It was too dark for me to see a girlish figure running towards
me, until it reached the tree under which I lay ; and a voice
cried, ' Amie^ amie, mon officier!'' when I had challenged, with
my revolver grasped and my sabre hanging from my wrist.
Without one pause, this lady of high birth had run two miles
from her father's splendid chateau, to tell me how her English
groom—not being supposed to understand German—had over-
heard the German brigade-major talking with one of his officers
in the next stall, as they put up their tired horses, and had
found out that they would advance at midnight in two bodies
on our position, and But you would not understand the
strategy. We put her safely within the lines—a lovely girl she
was, only seventeen, reared in wealth and luxury—and she looked
and bore herself like a young queen with her own loyal troops
around her ; then I sent to the patrol field-officer on that day's
duty, and we got our men rapidly under arms and posted to
intercept the advancing foe. For an hour at least I lay, with
finger on trigger, listening ; then the moon shone out suddenly,
as it did to-night, and showed me one thousand men close upon
us. My position was at the nearest point of attack, and I told
T
274
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
the young bugler to sound. Our fire seemed literally to bring
down the whole front rank of the enemy. What a splendid
night that was ! How well I remember the rush, the melee, the
terrific hand-to-hand fight, the yell with which my Irish troopers
rushed on the foe ! How we fought ! Oh, for one such night
again ! The Germans' attack had failed through the bravery of
Americans and Irish ; and their plans had been foiled by a
child's courage. She was almost a child, yet, when all was
over, she was as calm as the veriest veteran among us ; only
so pale !"
"Was she in love with you?" inquired Miss Rosahn, practi-
cally.
" Of course not! But I had often visited her father's chateau,
and she was brave and thoughtful for us. Soon after the war
was over I chanced to hear of her death."
" I don't see why the moonlight should have reminded you of
all these things," remarked the lady of the house, fretfully, as she
helped herself to bread.
" I remember another night, when the moonlight broke even
more suddenly that that," he went on, dreamily, " and just as
distinctly in our favour. A brother-officer and I took two
hundred of our men to a native Indian village, where we had
seen a huge idol on the plain in its midst. We went unarmed,
only carrying ropes and irons for pulling it down. I had
climbed to the shoulder, I remember, and was battering in the
head, while my friend directed the men in fixing their ropes to
drag the monster down—its height was fifty feet at least—when
the moon shone out suddenly, and we found we had been
silently surrounded by a thousand armed natives. That was
a fight indeed ; but—well, the great idol lay in fragments on
the plain when we marched back at last, and not one of our
men was missing. What writer is it who says the dawn makes
a hundred reminiscences start from their lair ? It did not
need the dawn to-day, you see, for me. I think it is Alexander
Smith who says it, isn't it ? "
" Dear me," cried Miss Rosahn, " do you suppose I've ever
had the time or strength^ to read all the books you've read ?
I wish you'd give me time to tell you Mr. Bagot's message.
You've been so long without a day's holiday, he says that you
can take it to-morrow."
" He is very kind," said D'Eresby, with a sudden flush. " I
shall go to the hills. Having plenty of time, I can walk it quite
well, and the air will be fresh and delightful."
"Oh, I was thinking that as you would be at home, and
haven't been for such ages "—in the sombre, stolid manner of
one who has been accustomed to have her way by force of her
own weakness—"I would have up your carpet and 1 his one !"
BOPothy's Venture.
''Very weil," he answered, quietly ; " I will stay and help of
course. The task is too heavy for you."
" Certainly we shall have old Bridget," explained Miss
Rosahn, almost apologetically; " but she is such a clumsy
creature, and weak ; and so, if you don't mind "
" No ; I do not mind," he said, but with a quiet sigh, because
the fresh air he longed for was not quite the air he was likely
to find in these circumstances.
" Now come and eat something, Captain D'Eresby," urged
his landlady, less lugubriously, "and just disturb that dog
of mine."
The little animal sat at D'Eresby's feet, with its eyes fixed on
his face, licking his hand when it could, but whining a little
now and then.
D'Eresby looked down upon it with a smile.
"He knows that my heart is sore."
" Good gracious ! " cried Miss Rosahn. She had leaned
forward as if to coax the dog away ; but her inquisitive eyes
were not fixed oit the clinging little animal. " How come you
to be so wet ? You have been saturated up to the knees !
Why, Captain D'Eresby, what does it mean ? You can walk
from Mr. Moneypen's here without being wet, though the river
has overflowed into the woods. It is as if you'd gone to the
quarries.
" Yes," he answered, quietly. " I went to Kerry's hut."
CHAPTER XLIII.
" Some friends as shadows are,
And fortune as the sun ;
They never proffer any help
Till fortune hath begun."
Captain D'Eresby kept his word, and lent his time and
strength to his landlady on that Friday which his employers
had given him for a holiday. On the following morning Mr.
Bagot found him seated as usual at the lower end of his own
room.
" All the better for your holiday, D'Eresby ? Of course you
are. I shall want you to go to Pugh's presently," he said, in
his cordial, headlong way ; but his eyes did not, as usual, dwell
quizzically upon the wiry figure leaning over the desk. They
were fixed upon the window as he took off his overcoat, and
then upon the letters on his table ; yet he opened and read these
with uncharacteristic slowness, and anyone watching him would
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
have seen that he read some of them a second time—a proceed-
ing rare indeed with the straightforward unimpressible man of
law. And even after that second reading, instead of laying
them aside as if he had mastered their contents, he put them
prominently in the rack before him, as if for a reminder.
" Of course you have heard," he said, addressing no one by
name, as he took up his office-diary, and began an apparent
study of its contents, " the sad news from Lynhead."
"No," said D'Eresby; "news from Lynhead rarely reaches
Northgate Villas."
"And I don't suppose," mused Mr. Bagot, "you are a man to
fall in for much gossip. Captain Yorke has had a terrible
accident, and is at death's door."
" Great Heavens ! " said D'Eresby, turning round. " Living
—and suffering ? "
Mr. Bagot sat for many seconds looking into the thin, earnest
face turned towards him, then studied bis diary again.
" He has been half killed," he said, in his blunt way, but with
a peculiar emphasis. "He was saved by a sort of shelf there
is in the steep river-bank at Sir Anthony's Leap, and by the
peculiar way that the roots grow against it. Otherwise it would
have been death for him."
" I suppose," said D'Eresby, looking away again, " he had
done something wrong ?"
" The man who tried to kill him had," exclaimed Mr. Bagot,
with a thump of his clenched fist upon the table.
" Yes," said D'Eresby, quietly, " that, of course ; but there
must have been some cause."
" Perhaps there was," returned the lawyer, drily ; " perhaps
there was not. I presume we shall know eventually."
" It failed, then, and he is—ill ?"
"Very ill ; too ill yet for them to try whether an operation
will save him, though Sir James Paget is here. The fall added
to the evil."
A long silence, while D'Eresby wrote with an unsteady hand,
and while Mr. Bagot strove in vain to concentrate his thoughts
upon his work.
"You were fond of Captain Yorke, D'Eresby," he said pre-
sently, failing utterly in that attempt.
" Personally, yes, I was. To hear of his illness is a great
blow to me. Death is different."
" I cannot have you here this morning," cried Mr. Bagot, in
ungovernable excitement. " I mean I want you to see Pugh.
Make haste. Besides, I am very busy this morning, and any-
one in my room upsets me. I will write a line for you to take ;
and I think you will have to run up to town by the 11*15, on
business for the firm. Go home first and put up what you want,
BOROTHY'S VENTURE.
277
taking your bag with you to Pugh's, to prevent having to come
back. I'll send you word within half an hour. Wait with Mr.
Pugh until I do; but say no word to him of this sorrow at
Lynhead—not a word."
D'Eresby found the old lawyer very ill and languid, yet
seeming glad to have him there simply to talk a little now and
then. In less than the half-hour, a letter was delivered to Mr.
Pugh, and, when he had read it, he looked round upon his clerk
with rather amused surprise, as he gave him an enclosure.
" So you have to go to town on business ? It is a new whim
of my partner's to send you up to the Law Courts, D'Eresby ;
but he knows best. It seems his letter will give you full in-
structions, and there is one for you to deliver personally to his
brother in Worcester Chambers. You must not waste a minute
now if you are to catch the 11.15 train. I am glad you looked
in this morning."
When Mr. Bagot was left to himself, he threw off the self-
constraint so uncharacteristic of him, and rose and paced his
office with his old turbulence—indeed one of the articled clerks,
who came in to request an interview for Mr. Moneypen, thought
he had never seen Mr. Bagot so perturbed before.
" I will see Mr. Moneypen—yes, now," he said, subsiding
into his chair, and endeavouring to look perfectly composed ;
but, when the clerk had withdrawn, he drew his large restless
fingers through his hair and muttered to himself,
" If the man is going to haunt me in this manner, I shall
make some blunder where I need all my senses alert; and if
those ridiculous words don't go out of my head, I shall not be
worth my salt."
He said it resolutely, yet again and -again, as Mr. Moneypen
talked with him, clearer in his mind than the words to which
he listened were those " ridiculous words," he meant—
"And Eugene Aram walked between,
With gyves upon his wrists."
"There seems some hope at Lynhead that Captain Yorke
will pull through," said Mr. Moneypen, rising after business
details had been gone into.
" Of course he will pull through," asserted Mr. Bagot,
irritably ; " a young fellow with a constitution unimpaired, and
the best a'dvice and treatment in Great Britain. Pull through !
Why, of course he will."
" It is to be desired," said the Scotchman, seriously ; " but I
don't like this long insensibility."
" I daresay not!" exclaimed Mr. Bagot, promptly. " We
probably should not have chosen it for him—any one of us,
Put yoq'll see, he'll be able to dictate his deposition to-morrow
278 Dorothy's venture.
and the operation will be a complete success. My firm opinion
is that Kerry's whisky saved him, for whisky that pays no duty
always has a power of its own."
"It was a most strange provision for Kerry's daughter to
make, if she knew nothing of the accident; was it not ? "
" Kerry's daughter is a most strange young woman, so what
can you expect ? " returned the lawyer, drily.
"But Miss Quentin also "
" Oh, Miss Quentin"—with peculiar and unreasoning im
patience—" is a child !"
"To you lawyers perhaps," smiled the agent, "but not to
ordinary eyes, especially where a gentleman is concerned."
"Mr. Moneypen," said the lawyer, with a sudden coldness
even in his disquietude, " you will, I hope, be ready to attend
the magistrates' meeting on Monday morning. You will let no
business either at the Chase or Lynhead interfere with that.
Mr, Anthony Yorke is bent upon the mystery of his brother's
accident being solved, and possibly the inquiry may throw some
light upon it."
" Possibly ? " queried the Scotchman, in surprise. " Of
course it will, and not one of us will be satisfied until the
light shows us the villain we want. I never saw Mr. Anthony
Yorke roused as he is by this ; but 'tis for his brother's sake
that / shall follow the clue I have. Some of your clerks"—
after a little pause—" seem to be absent. I do not see the
one you sent to me the day of—the day before yesterday."
"No, he has just gone to Mr. Pugh's house on business.
My partner prefers seeing him to any of the junior clerks.
D'Eresby is what Mr. Pugh calls 'soothing.'"
When Mr. Moneypen had quitted the lawyer's offices,
instead of leaving the town by the direct road for the Chase
and Lynhead, he rode along the narrow northern streets, and
stopped before the two little grim suburban houses which had
"Northgate Villas" painted on them; there dismounting, he
entered No. 2. The Scotch agent knew almost everyone in
Northeaton, so even Miss Rosahn came creeping forth from
her mantle of depression to shake hands with him.
" Alone ?" he said, looking round as if he had been accus-
tomed to find her surrounded by satellites."
" It is seldom I am otherwise," she sighed.
" Where are your lodgers ? Oh, I recollect that you have
only one ! Has he laid himself up by that long walk he took
on Thursday ? You must have grown anxious for his return
that night."
" I felt alarmed and ill," asserted Miss Rosahn, with melan-
choly promptness.
" Of course you did. You would be grieved for anything
to happen to him,"
Dorothy's venture. 279
The Scotchman said it with rather pointed sarcasm, but
met such a glance of honest fear that for a moment he was
nonplussed. She evidently felt far more than he had thought
possible to her.
"You must have spent very anxious hours until Captain
D'Eresby came in," he said, in a rather different tone. " I
should have thought you had given up expecting him by that
time."
" How could I, when I knew nowhere he could go ?" she
said, not questioning what he meant by "that time." " But of
course I grew very anxious when it got to ten o'clock."
"Mr. Moneypen drew a long breath, but quietly, and his
hard features showed no change.
"Drenched, wasn't he? It was positively dangerous for him
to come in so wet after crossing the water, poor fellow !"
"Yes, I was quite sure he would take cold when I found out."
"You did not notice at first, then ? "
" No, for he said nothing, and seemed to have forgotten ; but
he always is eccentric."
"Ah, well, he has been a soldier ! " explained Mr. Moneypen,
quite regardless of sense or reason in his explanation, while he
successfully pursued his own inquiries. " They often have some
oddity—carry pistols, for instance, as if they went in fear of
their lives."
" Captain D'Eresby never went in fear of his life, or of any-
thing else," observed Miss Rosahn, almost sturdily ; " but he
carries what he calls a ' revolver,' I believe."
" Oh, of course, of course ! Men often do," said the Scotch-
man, with forced geniality and indifference, rising now that he
had gleaned all the information he sought. " Good night, Miss
Rosahn ! I like to look in upon you when I can, though of
course you are more out of my way here than when you had
your pretty little shop in the town."
CHAPTER XLIV.
" I seem as nothing in the mighty world
And cannot will my will, nor work my work."
At Lynhead the hours were passing with a terrible slowness
and uncertainty. For the girls, in their anxiety and sorrow, it
would have been better if there had been something to do for
Josslyn, or if they even might have seen him. But the family
physician, almost in constant attendance, the surgeons awaiting
their opportunity, and the trained nurses, took all responsibility
28O
Dorothy's venture.
away, and even forbade the entrance into Josslyn's room of
anyone save his father, whom indeed they could not keep away,
for his own weakness seemed forgotten as he quietly asserted
his authority on this one point.
Even beyond the sick-room, there could be nothing done for
the invalid by those who would have been grateful for the .most
trifling or the heaviest task. Mrs. Fletcher, the clever and
faithful housekeeper, allowed no one to share her prerogatives ;
so the girls could only wait and hope—and pray.
Dorothy's loneliness at this time was the very intensity of
suffering, for not one word of sympathy was ever given to her,
she being looked upon as the only one whose sorrow could not
touch her heart. She bore up bravely in her struggle to be to
the 'others all that her mother would have had her be in this sad
time, while the low-lying, unbreathed consciousness that she it
was who had brought this bitter suffering upon those her
mother loved, seemed killing her.
She seized gratefully any solitude, when she could do so
without selfishness, and always the rest she sought was to fall
upon her knees in wildest, passionate prayer for Josslyn's life.
Sometimes she would bow her head and tell of all her own
wrong-doing, humbly praying that the punishment should fall
upon her—not him. Sometimes it would be rest for her simply
to kneel without words thought, as well as without words
uttered, just as if she felt her Father knew what filled her
heart; for always from her heart or lips she was pleading for
Josslyn's life ; not crying for any relief from suffering for him,
as she had done ki the first hour, but tenderly, solemnly,
fervently, begging for his life.
Clearly and sacredly there dwelt in her memory every word
of their last interview. Had he not told her that his love for her
had made him happier, and said that some day she might be
glad to remember this ? Ah, it would be the one hallowed
memory of her life ! For he had forgiven her even then. She
knew he had forgiven her, for his was not one of the little
hearts that could not forgive.
To this great sorrow of Dorothy's, so unselfishly suppressed,
so patiently and generously borne, there was added an over-
powering anxiety, which in itself would have been enough to
make each word that was uttered in her presence a burden and
a terror to the girl who held so cruel a secret in her heart.
Keenly and terribly she had dreaded the summons before the
magistrates ; but it had come at last; and Lady Ermine, who
in her great anxiety had never appeared to dream of leaving
Lynhead, and who clung strangely to Dorothy, as some natures
cling to those to whom their hearts have once been laid open,
went with her to the town hall, and stayed near her through it
Dorothy's venture.
281
all; making Sir Marmaduke Coddington now and then oblivious
of his duty as magistrate, yet making him also endure placidly
the viscount's cool reproofs.
" I excuse Avory anything," he said, generously, to Avory's
sister afterwards, " after seeing him so awfully worried, between
his wrath against some' scoundrel unknown and his anxiety for
Miss Ouentin.*
Now and then, as Dorothy sat waiting, she turned and met
Avory's gaze with what would have been a smile, only that her
lips could not form it ever so faintly ; nor would her beautiful
eyes lose that wonderfully sorrowful look which Ermine thought
they never again could lose ; but he seemed to understand, and
his grave face brightened. She did not look as if she listened
to what passed, yet she could have repeated almost every word.
She heard Nancy Kerry tell of picking up the riding-whip, of
finding Miss Ouentin at the hut, and how the sight of the whip
alarmed her ; then of their going together to the spot, and the
rescue. She heard her suspiciously questioned as to the reason
of Miss Quentin's so readily believing there had been an
accident, and she tried to give Nancy a look which should
re-assure her, and tell her that all she should say would be right.
She heard Mr. Moneypen recapitulate his share in the rescue,
and then tell of how, at four o'clock on that afternoon, he had
parted with Captain D'Eresby, after a brief business interview,
and before half-past had heard a shot fired in the direction of
St. Anthony's Chapel ; how he had remarked upon this to
Miss Ouentin, who chanced to be with him at the time, and had
herself come from that direction ; how she had told him
Captain Yorke was in the woods, and had given him a message
to deliver; and how, after vainly waiting for him, he had
walked towards Lynhead and met a groom seeking Captain
Yorke. She heard the groom tell of his own vain search,
and Mr. Honeypen's assistance ; then Miss Rosahn, with many
tearful, nervous breaks, replied under protest, to the questions
put to her regarding Captain D'Eresby's return on that Thursday
night. Every word was wrung from her unwillingly and as a
lamentation ; yet, when she was dismissed, there was a peculiar
hush in the room—so infinitely much had been told !
Dorothy heard Mr. Bagot explain Captain D'Eresby's
absence, and assure the magistrate that the business of the firm
need keep him only another day or two, during which time
probably Captain Yorke would be so far recovered as to be
able to dictate his deposition : and then she was summoned.
She could not guess with what unwillingness each question was
put to her. She only felt how tenderly Avory thought and acted
for her, and how kind it was of everyone to speak so quietly ;
while she wondered why she still could hear the whirring of q
282
Dorothy's venture.
thrashing-machine which she had heard as she drove thither.
One strange, slow gaze she gave into Anthony Yorke's face as
he talked eagerly with the chairman ; then that sudden fear of
her own wrong-doing died.
" If it could save Josslyn's life it would be different," she said
in her heart ; " but it cannot."
" Miss Quentin," whispered Mr. Bagot—long minutes had
elapsed since Sir Marmaduke had put his first query to her—
will you answer, please ?"
Dorothy looked at him—at the genial, rubicund face which
was so hugely puzzled, and yet had an indescribable look of
confidence for her—then at the magistrate, and dropped her
eyes dumbly. With a half-smile at the chairman, who had
vainly reiterated Sir Marmaduke's question, another magistrate
took up the task.
" Miss Quentin, will you kindly tell us what you can ? I
believe you met Captain Yorke in the woods on the afternoon
of Thursday, the 13th instant."
No word—not even a movement; and the question was re-
peated in a different tone—again to be received in utter, silence.
" Dorothy," whispered Avory, bending beside her, " do not
lengthen this most painful scene."
But she did not lift her head to answer him, even by a
look. He moved back, his arms folded, every sinew tense,
looking as those who knew him best had never seen him look
before.
And Dorothy, though she did not glance at him, knew,
better than they all, how fierce must be the struggle between
pride and his love for her. And yet she never raised her head,
nor loosened the tight clasping of her fingers.
More harshly Dorothy's examination began again ; but,
except for a hot flush burning now in her pale face, the result
was just the same—her silence was unbroken.
Sir Marmaduke tried again, intercepting the stipendiary,
who in his turn went back to the task when Sir Marmaduke
failed ; but still the girl sat almost as motionless as she was
silent.
Avory whispered to her again.
" Help us, my love, to get at the bottom of this villainy "
Lady Ermine came to her side and spoke low and entreat-
ingly to her.
" For the sake of all who bear his name, Dorothy, try to do
something to clear this mystery from Josslyn Yorke."
Yet not even by a glance did she acknowledge the words,
for she was growing afraid now of herself. She saw Mr. Bagot's
large form bearing down upon her again, after a whispered
colloquy with the magistrates, aqd then for one moment she
Dorothy's venture.
283
put her hand to her heart, while she gave a wild^ frightened
look into his face.
" Miss Quentin," he said, in the nearest approach to a whisper
of which he was capable, " are you aware that if you persist in
this silence you will be committed to prison for contempt of
court ?"
CHAPTER XLV.
"O, you gods, think I, what need we of any friends, if we should
never have need of them ? They were the most useless creatures living
should we ne'er have use for them ; and would most resemble sweet
instruments hung up in cases, that keep their sounds to themselves."
Dorothy never quite understood whether it was through the
influence of Messrs. Pugh and Bagot, or in deference to the
supposed wish of Lord Avory—who, though not bearing his
father's title, possessed all his father's power—that the magis-
trates' examination had been adjourned when it was found
that the principal witness—presumably the last to have seen
Josslyn Yorke before the shot was fired—persistently main-
tained her silence.
There was an impression in her mind that Mr. Bagot had
become responsible for her appearance at the adjourned inquiry,
and, indeed, for that of Captain D'Eresby too ; but all that had
happened after that one whisper, uttered warningly by the man
whom she had always known so genial, was obscure and un-
certain in her memory; and, far from trying to make it clear,
she shrank from the merest word or thought which might
recall it.
Anthony Yorke was constantly alluding to the stupidity of
lawyers and police ; but, except Lady Ermine in her agreement
with him, the subject was avoided by all. The squire, though
able to wean his thoughts only temporarily and briefly from
Josslyn's suffering, seemed to be even more than usually con-
siderate for Dorothy.
" She has a painful ordeal in view,'' he would say, " which
she would not have had to undergo had she not been visiting
us. I wish we could have spared her this."
"Wait and see whether she really suffers in the ordeal," sug-
gested Ethel Barber, on the day before the magistrates' meet-
ing. " If she had thought it so, she surely would not have
lengthened and magnified it."
But by this time the squire's thoughts were back with his
son, and the discussion dropped.
Though so terribly ill, Josslyn had been able to dictate a few
284
Dorothy's venture.
words to Mr. Bagot in Sir Marmaduke's presence. He had no
recollection of meeting any man in the wood on the- afternoon
of the thirteenth. He had certainly not spoken to one when he
felt the shock of the bullet. Of the fall he knew nothing. This
was his deposition, and, as Sir Marmaduke said, it threw no
light at all upon a most mysterious and inexplicable crime ;
for no one could recollect that Josslyn had one single enemy ;
or even vaguely conjecture any cause for an attempt upon his
life.
One thing which gave Dorothy more hope than she was
even aware of, was the fact that Alice had not been summoned
home, and so of course had not been told of her brother's ill-
ness. The newly-married pair were in Paris, and their letters
— so unwitting of any sorrow, so full of their own joy — read
strangely in the saddened house. During those days between
the seventeenth and the twenty-first, to which date the exami-
nation had been delayed, Lord Avory was tender as ever in his
manner to Dorothy, and though afterwards she knew there had
been a chill, imperceptible to others, and which she could
neither have described nor evidenced, though she could
acknowledge its reasonableness and justice—she knew she had
never felt it at the time. She thought only how manly and
honest was his wrath against his friend's unknown enemy, and
his kindness to herself.
Lady Ermine had professedly returned to the Chase, yet she
haunted Lynhead ; and on this Thursday—the day preceding
the inquiry—she had appeared early in the day, and had asked
Sophy, with uncharacteristic meekness, whether she might stay
until Sydney came for her.
" The Chase is unbearable," she added, " when I am in such
anxiety to know how—you all are."
And Sophy candidly betrayed her delight to add one to their
number in this sad time, especially as there had grown a more
sympathetic intercourse between Ermine and Anthony, they
two being equally bent upon tracing the man who had shot
Josslyn.
To Sophy the subject always brought a flood of tears, and so
it was generally avoided in her presence. Ethel's inert nature
was incapable of the exertion of thought necessary to dive into
so deep a problem, and Dorothy, though the recipient of more
conjectures and queries than any of the others—she not being
supposed to feel the wound as they felt it—had never any reply
to make, could only look and listen, with quivering or closed
lips and a great patience in her eyes.
" I think you will be happier, Dorothy," said Lady Ermine on
this Thursday morning, looking into the girl's changed face,
" when you hqye gone through to-morrow's investigation. {
bOROTHY's VENTURE. 2 £>5
daresay you dread it, because your answers will recall that
miserable day ; but, however cruelly the magistrates harp upon
it, all will soon be over, and you will know it has been done for
Josslyn's good."
" If it were so," began Dorothy, absently ; but just then Pelly
came to the door to say that Mr. Bagot wished to speak to
Miss Quentin, but would wait in the dining-room to see her
alone.
" Of course you expected me to turn up again with the same
question," exclaimed the lawyer, walking to and fro in the long
dining-room after Dorothy's entrance, and not once meeting
her troubled eyes. " Are you resolved ? "
" Quite resolved," she said.
" I wish you understood, Miss Quentin," he went on, the
fingers of one hand rapping the palm of the other, " how severe
a punishment can be awarded for contempt of court."
" It would not influence me," said Dorothy, quietly.
She had grown a little paler ; but he was so accustomed now to
look in vain for the old wild-rose colour that he did not notice it.
"Will nothing I can say influence you?"
" Nothing. You have been always kind to me, Mr. Bagot;
will you be kind still by not trying to influence me ?"
A sudden change came into the lawyer's tone and manner ;
Dorothy thought he really threw off all desire to bias her, never
guessing he had a deeper motive.
"That Northgate villain," he said, carelessly, "has never
turned up to give his evidence. Though what good will it do
to us ? Stupid fellow ! It was awkward of me to send him to
London just then. I daresay the familiar spots enthrall him—
his old clubs and haunts. Poor fellow ! He can see only the
outsides now. Idiot, to stay up there ! "
"Do you know," asked Dorothy—she had turned away to
warm her hands at the fire which the great room needed on
these autumn mornings, while he was drawing his handkerchief
across his face as if he felt the heat—" how his landlady is, and
whether "
" Oh, she is all right! " he interrupted. " At least—well, to
say she is all right would not be strict veracity, but she is as
right as such an exceedingly limber party can be expected to
be when left unpropped. That's a woman, my dear Miss
Quentin, who could not cut a pencil to save her life, and who
always"—going delightedly on when he saw Dorothy's faint
smile—" does exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time, and
is a perpetual aggravation to anyone who is near her. Did I
not myself see her yesterday in the rain without an umbrella,
and actually selecting as her shelter a shop where nothing else
is sold ?"
286
Dorothy's Venture.
" Do you think, Mr. Bagot," said Dorothy, shyly, " 1 might
pay the five shillings a week for her now ? You remember tell-
ing me of the legacy she had to refund, and for which Captain
D'Eresby had made himself answerable ? "
" Oh, I'll see to that! " was the prompt reply. " As D'Eresby
was sent on my business, I'm responsible for his re-appearance
and his—debts. Bless me, what a fool he is to stay ! Well, I
always did detect the latent touch of insanity. I don't like those
intense natures, always in fierce extremes of good or evil, love
or hate. What can even a lawyer make of them ? Never
stereotyped by line or measure, never modified to order !
What's that about 'the lava flame that burns in Etna's breast ?'
I think I will go, Miss Quentin "—with a change of tone again,
and yet a nervous lingering—" I have a meeting of creditors to
attend, and I want to snatch some leisure for my garden. I've
a hundred tulip bulbs to put in, and my seeds ripen faster than
I can gather them. What else had I to say ?"
It was quite apparent to Dorothy that what he had to say
was of more consequence than what he had said, yet he deferred
it with a hesitation most uncharacteristic of him.
" So you sent Doctor Lake up to see Nezer Kerry, eh, Miss
Quentin ? " he asked. " You really wish the poor old scamp to
live, do you? Ah, well, you know nothing of his life, so it is
excusable perhaps. Now I'm going. What did you say about
to-morrow ? "
" Only," replied Dorothy, with an irrepressible smile, for she
had said nothing, " that I will accept the kind offer you yesterday
made to drive here for me."
" I shall be overjoyed. Will no one from the house be
going?"
" I hope not."
By this time Mr. Bagot had shaken hands with Dorothy and
opened the dining-room door. Suddenly he disappeared beyond
it, and closed it upon himself. A minute afterwards he had as
suddenly re-appeared in the room, where the girl still stood
against the table.
" Did I tell you, Miss Quentin," he asked, as if plunging
cheerily into a new subject which had just struck him, " that a
rigorous penalty may be exacted for contempt of court ?"
"Yes, you told me so, Mr. Bagot, thank you."
"Well, did I add Bless me, what was it I meant to
add? You put me out, my dear young lady. Oh, I recollect 1
There is one way I can save you—I mean can have you
acquitted, with no punishment at all; and, if you see no
injustice in it, of course I cannot, as it would be unjust to
you alone. The other penalty must be avoided in your
father's absence, and this is the only way. There, I have
iDOROTllY'S VENTURE,
287
jotted it down. Will you read it while I just go out and see
if my man and horse are asleep ? They always are. Shall I
find you here when I have awakened them ?"
Dorothy understood what he meant, and gratefully took the
few minutes' solitude and silence to read the pencilled lines he
had given her. When he returned, she stood just where he
had left her, still reading.
" Thank you," she said, lifting her eyes to his when he had
entered and once more closed the door behind him.
" You agree to what I propose ?"
" Yes. You say it is the only way ?"
"Unfortunately it is, if you will not prevent its necessity.
Let me plead once more ?"
"No,please," said Dorothy, simply. " It cannot change me ;
but 1 accept this offer of yours ? "
"Have you looked at it in every light? Have you thought
how you can face the Yorkes afterwards, and "
" Afterwards," she said, glancing down at the paper she held,
" I can never again enter this house."
" Oh, nonsense—veritable nonsense, my dear young lady !"
exclaimed Mr. Bagot, with a positiveness suspiciously im-
petuous. " That feeling will soon pass off, I can assure you.
Besides, you might have felt just the same if you had kept to
your own determination barely, for how could Captain Yorke's
family have interpreted your silence even without an expla-
nation ? You puzzle me indescribably, Miss Quentin, seasoned
though I am to all phases of character ; but it will be some
satisfaction to me, in this mental darkness of mine, to snatch
you from the power of the law, leaving the future to fate. Now
tell me exactly what you would have me do to-morrow. Drive
here for you, and after the—afterwards ? "
" Afterwards, please," said Dorothy, with a strange thoughtful
firmness in her voice, " straight from the meeting to the station,
I shall go to London."
" But surely—well, I cannot coerce you ; but I. must know
exactly where you will be, for your father may arrive any day,
and will come to us."
" Oh, you shall know indeed ! " said Dorothy, the old loving
brightness shining for a moment in her eyes at the mention of
her father's name. " My father knows the old school-friend to
whom I shall go. She lives in Holland Park with her uncle.
This is the address."
" I expect very shortly to be up in town myself," asserted
Mr. Bagot, scraping his throat as if the huskiness were a
tangible thing to be got rid of so. "I have a brother there
whom I ought to see presently. He upholds one of the London
papers, and is a pillar of the press—so you understand when
288
Dorothy's vknlurk.
discoursing with him—but I think him a vagrant Bohemiati,
' literaryly' starving himself to death. No wonder, for he puns
—a habit I detest; a habit old D'Eresby used to call uncaste-
like. He fancied I did it. Bless me, what a fool he was ! I
remember his saying that; it was when I told him Tom spent
half his time groping for antique information in the Lore
Regions—by which I meant the reading-toom of the British
Museum. Poor D'Eresby, what a fool he was—always a fool!
I'm glad to remember he had a hit himself one day when Tom
was down here. Old Biddy—knowing his ways—went wheedling
up to him for something for a handful of coal. Her thanks
were profuse, and concluded suggestively. ' Bless ye, sorr,
and may ye niver want forfiring yerself in this wurrld or the nixt.'
Good, wasn't it ? Dear me, how you detain a man, Miss
Quentin ! I hope—well, it is good-bye then for a few hours. I
will be in time to-morrow."
To-morrow !
Even in his active mind the word echoed dully as he drove
away from Lynhead and straight to Mr. Pugh's house, with a
harassed look on his genial face which told his partner far more
than his rambling, headstrong words could do.
CHAPTER XLVI.
Ah ! if you prize my subdued soul above
The poor, the fading, brief pride of an hour ;
Let none profane my Holy See of love,
Or with a rude hand break
The sacramental cake :
Let none else touch the just new-budded flower ;
If not—may my eyes close,
Love ! in their last repose."
To-morrow !
The word echoed drearily as a knell to Dorothy, as she still
stood where the lawyer had left her, feeling through every fibre
of her being how this fair life was slipping from her, and that
this was her last day.
"It is as if I knew," she said, with a wan smile, "that I
should die to-night. How strange to feel there is but one day
more—to live ! "
Then, with a strange, pathetic haste, she began counting the
hours to come, greedy for every one.
"Ah me," she cried, pushing her white fingers through her
hair, " night will swallow up so many ! How can I spare them
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
289
when they are my last ? What have I to do ? " she said, groping
in her thoughts. " What is there I must not leave undone on
my last day? I must see Nancy, but that will do to-morrow ;
and No,. I can write to Mr. Pugh from London. I need
not shorten these precious hours. To-morrow ! It will be all
over then—this happiness which my mother put into my power,
and I—by my want of faith—turned into misery. Oh, how
truly he said it was peace before I came ! Why had I come ?
he asked. Why had I come? Oh, mother, why was it, when
my coming did such harm, and brought sorrow to the one in
all the world for whom I' would give my life now to bring
happiness—now that it is too late ? It was peace, he said,
before I came. Oh, Heavenly Father, let it be peace when I
am gone ! "
" Dorothy," said Sophy, peering in, " surely your lawyer has
left you at last! You and he are unconscionable. Why, how
he must worry you, dear !"—as Dorothy came forward, the
bright hair pushed from her white forehead, and her eyes wide
and feverish. " Come and forget him. We all want you to
cheer us. Father has fallen asleep in Josslyn's room, and Sister
Margaret tells me Josslyn is not now in such pain. Anthony is
out. Will you come, Dorothy, and help us to pass the time ? "
Pass the time ! When poor Dorothy was so covetous of it
that she would have lengthened every moment of it into an
hour!
" I will come," she said ; for were not these little things now
all that she could do ?
She joined the girls in their sitting-room, and for the next
hour there was no heaviness apparent among them. Dorothy
went herself and begged a log of the squire's favourite bogwood
for the fire ; and then, in its warm, ruddy glow, with the windows
wide open, they sat on their low easy-chairs at the gipsy tea-
table, and, though their voices were subdued, and their ears
alert for any sound without, as had lately become habitual with
them, there was no dulness in their faces or words.
"We are quite cheerful now, are not we?" Dorothy had
queried, rather pathetically, as the log began to blaze, and she
had come behind Sophy at the tea-table and kissed her.
" What a child you are sometimes, Dorothy ! " said Ethel.
" And yet at other times I declare you make me feel myself
your junior."
" I do not feel like a child," returned Dorothy, as she took
her seat.
" I believe," said Sophy, meditatively following her with her
eyes, " that you have aged within the last week or so. Now if
it were mysejf I could understand ; but being you, Dorothy, i
cannot."
u
290
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Sydney will be here presently," observed Ladv Ermine,
meaningly, yet wondering too as she touched Dorothy's white
cheek. " He brings the roses with him ; does not he, Dorothy."
" You. did not answer me before," said Dorothy. "You are all
given to wander from the subject in hand."
" You only asked us if we were not cheerful," exclaimed Sophy,
plaintively.
" Only!" echoed Dorothy, with her dainty eyebrows lifted.
" Where did Alice say they should be this evening ? " And so
she led the conversation into safer channels, and the time
passed until Anthony came in, and presently Lord Avory.
"We have had a case from Florence," he said, falling into a
chair beside Dorothy when he had questioned Sophy about
her brother ; " two splendid mirrors encrusted with rock crystal.
When will you come and see them, Dorothy?1"
" Lord Avory, may we go out for a few minutes ? I should
like to speak to you," she said, quietly. No flush rose on her
cheeks, and her heart did not hurry in its beating. It struck
her strangely that, if she had been dying, she would have spoken
to him just so.
" Certainly, my darling, where and when you will; and, if
you make the few minutes into a few hours, all the more shall I
be pleased."
But, when they came back together from the dim quadrangle
into the lighted hall, he was looking far indeed from pleased.
In the quietness she had told him the truth, then prayed him to
release her from the promise he had won from her. She told
him of having believed of Josslyn what was not true, and what
now she knew could never be true of him. She told how she
had came to Lynhead prejudiced against him, and that this
prejudice seemed to her so just, and yet was so difficult to
keep alive, that it had coloured all her life there. She told
him—in her humility hiding nothing save the fact that Josslyn
.loved her—how she had fought against some feeling which she
knew now, and had known since that terrible hour when she
had thought him dead, was love for him ; and how, since she
had learnt how unjust had been her prejudice against Josslyn
Yorke, she had learnt also that her love for him was lifelong,
and the only love that she could ever know. She told this very
simply and very humbly, letting no thought of blame touch
anyone saye herself, but letting it rest heavily. upon her.
There was no sign of hope as she told of her own love ; it was
as if it had all passed long ago ; and this patient hopelessness
touched Avory as perhaps nothing else could have done. Still
his words to her were brief and cold ; and, as soon as he had
brought her into the lighted hall, he turned away, and she saw
him no more that night.
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
291
/"'Will you please tell Ermine?" she had pleaded, when
offering him her hand at the door ; and he had not answered.
" If you do not regret this very soon, Dorothy," he had said,
" I do not understand womankind. I am very sorry for this
fancied sorrow of yours, but it is only a fancied one, brought on
by distress and excitement during the past week. You will
presently tell me so, and coax me into passing it by."
" You will never try," she answered, solemnly. " After to-
morrow you will—be glad I spoke to you to-night ; and I
should be so grateful if I might remember that you forgive me.
I have not meant to do you—any wrong. It was all such a
dark and miserable mistake."
" It is so now," he said, dropping her hand. " You have had
more power over" me, Dorothy, than anyone else ever had, and
you have unfortunately known it; but my patience is scarcely
equal to this kind of whim, dear ; so do not repeat it." And
then he had gone, and Dorothy thought how much his patience
had indeed been exercised by her, and how little his experience
had prepared him for any plan or hope of his to lack fulfil-
ment.
"As Avory and his sister expected an old friend of their father's
to arrive at the Chase that evening, no surprise of course was
felt at their returning before dinner ; and Dorothy was grateful
that they did so. These last hours of hers seemed much more
sacred spent with the home-party only, ho one occupying
that place which in her memory would be'Josslyn's always.
The evening—every moment of which was so cherished by
Dorothy—had grown into night, when she went softly to the
squire's library and begged admittance. It was as if she could
not resist the longing to be near him, and dreaded leaving him
for that long, dreary night of which she dared not think. She
found him sitting beside his writing-table, carefully turning over
the papers in an open drawer ; but he looked up with a smile
for her.
" I miss a paper, dear. It has been strangely recalled to
my mind this evening, and I came at once to seek it. I am
sorry to say I can find it nowhere."
'* I wish I could help you," she said, with anxious earnest-
ness. " It is a letter ? "
"Yes. There is nowhere else to look. I have emptied every
drawer, and I never put papers elsewhere. Yet," musingly, " I re-
collect reading it, and—it seems to me—putting it away—in this
room too, and Why, Dorothy, certainly you were present
when I read it! I have a dim remembrance of your speaking
to me, and of my laying it aside to answer you."
" Was I playing ?" asked the girl, breathlessly. " Did I play
while you read it ?"
292 DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" I forget," he answered, dreamily. " But you were here, and
—yes, Trevor ; and you and—yes, you played. Yes, fyes ! It
was because you played that I took the letter to read. Poor
creature, she asked for money, and she may be poor. I should
like to have sent her something."
" Have you never seen the letter since you were reading it
then ?" asked Dorothy, deep in thought as she recalled that
Sunday afternoon, when she had watched him read as he sat on
the low, luxurious couch which Alice had made so pretty, and
which had been sent now to the bridegroom's house in town.
"Never, though I intended to send her something. My
memory is a little failing now and then. But I thought of her
—to-night ; and that she might perhaps tell me where "
" You mean, Mr. Yorke," said Dorothy, gently, in his pause,
as she knelt beside him, and looking up in his face with wistful,
truthful eyes, "she may tell you of—Josslyn's brother. The
letter was from Zara Kerry. Tell me if I am right, and I may
find the letter."
" You are right, dear," he answered, just as if this had never
been a secret he had kept; and Dorothy feared a little, fancying
he must be ill to be so little moved. " You are right; but how
can you find what I cannot ?"
" I can try," she said, with another glance to where the little
couch had stood, and a vivid remembrance of the Sunday
afternoon when she had fancied that he hid a letter from Alice.
And then there was the bright whisper in her heart—" This is
something I can do."
CHAPTER XLVII.
"What, gone without a word ? "
" Ay, so true love should do, it cannot speak ;
For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.''
As Dorothy passed Josslyn's door that night, or rather lingered
near it, Sister Margaret, coming softly from the room found her
there.
" He sleeps," she whispered with a calm smile for the girl.
" Sister Anna is lying down, and I sometimes come to walk here
for one minute. Will you go in ? "
"May I?" asked Dorothy, the soft pink colour creeping to
her cheeks once more ; and for all answer Sister Margaret stood
aside from the open door, smiling, and Dorothy passed in.
She gave no glance round the room. She saw nothing but
Dorothy's Venture.
293
the face upon the pillows, with its closed eyes and lines of pain.
Noiselessly she fell upon her knees beside the bed, her eyes
fixed so intensely, so yearningly, so piteously upon the sleeping
face, knowing this was the last time she might look upon it,
that in that bitter consciousness all her sad heart spoke in them.
As she looked thus upon him, he awoke, and his eyes looked
into hers. There was no smile, but afterwards Dorothy wondered
whether any smile that she had ever seen upon the face she
loved could have been as precious to her as that silent, longing
gaze.
"Forgive," she said, below her breath, knowing he
could not hear, yet feeling still that from that spot beside
him One would hear. "Forgive me."
And then—while still his beautiful sad eyes held hers—
she bent and kissed the hand that lay upon the coverlet,
while one of those curious flashes of memory which we
never understand, showed her the strong slight brown hand
resting on the side of the old boat in which she had sat upon
the Dover beach.
" Good-bye," she whispered from her bursting heart ; and
then she rose and went away.
Walking uncertainly, as if she had been ill, she went to her
room; but long before the morning lighted its red fires in the east,
she sat dressed at her window, waiting for the day to fully dawn—
this last day. The outline of the hills grew clear ; the sunrise
burned in bars of red behind the firs ; and, putting on a cloak
and hat, Dorothy went silently downstairs and out into the
park.
How fresh and sweet and chill it was ! and how she loitered,
lengthening to the utmost the walk to Kerry's hut, feeling so
sure that it would be her last!
"Only a week ago," she said, "the twenty-first seemed so
far away ; and now " At the thought a little pitiful smile
broke on her lips. " The twenty-first," she repeated. " Poor
Captain D'Eresby ! He said the twenty-first was always his
auspicious day."
The day was still so young when Dorothy reached Kerry's
hut that it gave Nancy a shock of real alarm to see her coming
up the little ragged square of grass before the door.
" By yourself, Miss Quentin ? " she exclaimed. " Is it right ? "
She had left off now attempting to hide the real delight it gave
her to welcome Dorothy, though she could not hide nor drop
so soon her old mocking and sarcastic way. " It's good of you to
come ; but you'll only make them angry at the house. Wurn't
they angry, Miss Dorothy, at you sending up the doctor here ?"
" Certainly not," said Dorothy, loyally. " They would be
glad if they knew. How is Nezer ?"
294
DOROTHY'S VENTURfi.
"Bad," said Nancy, rather savagely stirring something she
was mixing in a jar. " He finished the doctor's stuff in the
night—he's fond of it—but more'll come to-day. This is a
cough mixture I once saw mother make when Zara was ill.
What a many years ago ! I watched her. I knew she'd never
have done it for me, and I ill-wished it, I think—a little spite-
ful child I was. I know I hoped it wouldn't do Zara good, and
that the cough would kill her."
" Oh, Nancy !"
" It's true," said Nancy, doggedly ; " and it doesn't make me
any unspitefuller to sit up nights as I do now."
" Does no one really come in to help you ? Does no neigh-
bour know Kerry is ill ? "
" Oh, they know !•" said Nancy, with her old hard laugh.
" They hear ' Kerry's bad,' and they say he always was, and'
laugh. Then again p'r'aps 'Nezer's bad,' and they ask when
was he anything else ? Oh, what's it matter ? You've come
when you could ; I don't want any more."
For two long hours—hours Kerry's daughter liked to
remember all her life—Dorothy stayed at the hut ; then she
said good-bye to Nancy, wishing not to have to hurry on the
dear familiar road, nor yet to be late for Mr. Bagot. • She
had taken a bowl of bread and milk Nancy had prepared for
her, and therefore was independent of the breakfast-hour at
Lynhead.
" You'll come again, Miss Ouentin ? " asked Nancy, wistfully.
"I shall wish to," the girl said, trying to speak easily ; but
she felt this was good-bye.
" Mr. Anthony seems still 'raged against the man that shot
his brother, Miss Dorothy. • Oh, if I could but catch that man !
D'you know "—in an awed whisper—" what one of the quarriers
said to me yesterday ? That after to-day's sitting-the police
would take up Captain D'Eresby. Has he come back yet ?"
" I think not," said Dorothy ; and at the sound of her voice
Nancy turned sharply and looked into her face.
" Miss Dorothy," she said presently, " if ever—''tisn't likely,
but if it ever passes that you need anything I can do,-you'll
tell me, just in your own way, won't you ? "
" Indeed I will," answered Dorothy, readily ; and her eyes
filled with tears. "You may be sure I will. You did help me,
Nancy, on that most sorrowful day. No one could have helped
me more."
A wonderful brightness broke on the woman's dark swarthy
face ; then she turned away.
" I'm busy," she said, almost gruffly. " I've got the onions
to lift and lay on the bed."
This abrupt change in her companion did Dorothy good,
boRoTHV's Venture. 295
and instead of tears there was actually a smile upon her face
when she left the hut.
After passing the quarries, she kept her eyes upon the heath
^where little lakes of rain-water still lay here and there—to
avoid that glimpse of the river. And it was a relief indeed
when the Lyn was once more shut from her sight, and she had
crossed that corner of the heath. She looked towards the
Chase, recalling her first walk from there, when she, had
followed Nancy's cows ; and, in looking over towards the great
white house upon the hill, her eyes fell first upon the narrow
wooden bridge thrown over the deep railway-cutting, and she was
aware of a solitary figure leaning there, turned from her. She
paused suddenly, almost as still as he, for a few moments, while
her heart beat wildly and her pulses throbbed with pain.
Then, just as if he had felt her gaze, he turned, and, at sight
of her* there broke a happy smilq over the thin worn face.
CHAPTER XLVfll.
" Never mind myself—
What I am, what f am not, in the eye
Of the world, is what I never cared for much."
A wild and miserable train of thought, seemed to flash through
Dorothy's mind as she stood facing Captain D'Eresby in those
first few silent moments ; and though she could not grasp it all,
one conclusion stood out as if in letters of fire—he had come
back to suffer himself, and his sufferings could,save no one,'his
punishment could spare no one. Must this be, she wondered
pitifully, while all was her fault? Yet. she stood enfolded still
in a great dread of him, with no smile upon her closed lips, no
tendering of her hand. He had come towards her with a smile
both in his eyes and on his lips ; but, seeing her hesitation, the
smile died suddenly and sadly, Then her tender heart was
touched, and though the fresh young lips were still inflexible,
she offered him her hand.
" You have returned, Captain D'Eresby?" she said, as un-
conscious of the generous effort she made to speak to him just
as she had ever spoken, as. she was of the gratitude with which
he would remember she had done so.
" Yes, I. have returned, Miss Quentin," he said. " I fancied
Mr. Bagot's brother—in. London—was detaining me rather long,
when there seemed no. business to make it necessary,, and I
heard—read, I mean—of the magistrates' intended examination
to-day. So I returned to tell all."
296
Dorothy's venture.
"Does Mi*. Bagot know of your return?" asked Dorothy,
standing very still.
" Not yet. I left London last night, unknown to his brother,
who was hospitable, and would have kept me. I have had three
hours' sleep ; but I was tempted to come out here, as I have
come so often, before office hours. I have still more than an
hour."
"Yes," said Dorothy, nervously looking at her watch, her
thoughts busy as she tried swiftly to form a plan which should
be wise and not excite suspicion ; " I have still an hour myself.
Oh, I wish," she cried, impulsively, as her morning's task was
thus recalled to her mind, " that you had not come ! Why did
you come ? "
" It is better ; for life is not worth a lie. Besides "—with a
tranquil smile—" I am proud. I did it for your happiness, and,
though I failed, I have proved how you are loved—ah, so much
loved ! Do not look sad, for it is beautiful to love as I love
you, soul of my soul. What made my hand fail that I could
not quite prove this ?"
" Infinite mercy," said Dorothy, very low.
" How ? " he questioned, pondering.
" Infinite mercy has saved you from an awful crime," she
said, with timid seriousness ; "yet, even so—oh, Captain
D'JEresby, how terrible must be your regret now !"
" No," he answered, with a grave shake of his head, "for I
did it to spare my soul's beloved."
"And broke my heart," she said, while the consciousness of
its being all her fault pierced her as if her heart indeed were
stabbed.
" Broke your heart !" he faltered. " By what ? "
" By such sin of yours."
" You were not relieved then—not eased? Your heart not
lightened, but—broken?"—and he gazed with sad amazement
into her pale face.
" But for our friendship, Captain D'Eresby—made firm and
lasting in the old Dover days, when you were kind to me—and
the bitter consciousness of being myself to blame, I dare never
look at you again."
" But he pained and grieved you," said D'Eresby, deep in
gravest thought. " You disliked him. Could not I see?" he
went on, looking at her with a sad bewilderment in her silence.
" Did I not know? Miss Quentin, you know you disliked him.
I saw it," he added, eagerly, when she still was silent.
Then, in spite of her pitiful concern for him, she broke her
silence loyally.
" I had heard a false report of—Captain Yorke, and I thought
—as you do—that I disliked him. I tried to think so, because
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
*97
I was meatl aftd weak and wavering, and believed all I heard,
judging him wrongly. Now I know how wrongly I had judged
and that I never have disliked him—never; and that now he
is "—she made a pause, but he did not utter a word to interrupt
her—" the dearest friend I have ! "
" You mean you love him ? "
There was such intense suppression in the calmness of the
anguished words that she could not answer them.
" You feel for—him, this that I—feel for you ? "
As he said it, he turned away and leaned over the rail of the
little foot-bridge, with a grievous, dying look upon his face.
" Captain D'Eresby," said Dorothy, softly, after a long, silent
pause ; and he turned instantly at her call, though slowly, and
lifting his hat as if his head were hot or tired.
" Did you speak to me ?" he asked, with gentle patience.
" Have I been negligent of any words of yours ? I am deaf a
little. To-day I do not seem even to see so well as I did ;
yet"—with a strange, intent gaze into her face—" I can see the
change in you now. I think I was blind before—not now.
This is a burden too heavy ! I thought to help you, and I
broke your heart. There is nothing more for me to do."
"Oh, yes—so much!" she cried, alarmed to see that, while
his guilt had been no burden to him, her sorrow was a great one.
"Yes," he answered, heavily, " much perhaps. Much more
to be done—for life is too miserable for death to come to me.
No"—in a sudden acute whisper, as he reeled back from the
rail—" death will come. I staggered then in desolate darkness,
but as I looked below there was a strange glimpse of light—a
feeling of brightness at last. Yes, death will come."
" Captain D'Eresby," said Dorothy, earnestly, " will you help
me in what I am going to do ? Will you come with me ?"
He rose erect in an instant.
" Am I not your slave, Miss Quentin—nothing more ?"
" I want," said the girl, terrified to feel her own power, and
busily trying to plan, because, while he would consent to no
concealment, she knew he would obey her unquestioningly,
"to cross the water that has flowed into the woods between
here and St. Anthony's Chapel. Will you take me ?"
His face brightened ; and side by side they turned from the
little bridge and went on to the river's side ; to the path which
Dorothy had last trodden in such fear, and the very sight of
which made her heart ache.
" You will never forgive me," he said with a weary sigh,
" and you say your heart is broken Ah, so few know what
that is ! But I will not harass you. My name, locality, and
identity shall be lost. Heaven knows how idolatrously I have
loved you!"
298 DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Wrongly," said Dorothy, with great gentleness.
"Wrongly ! How? My love had no hope, no aim ! How
could it be wrong? And I always put Him first. I prayed
before I fired that shot. I prayed for it to be guided——"
" Captain D'Eresby," interrupted Dorothy in hurried troubled
tones, " there is the boat."
He drew it up for her, assisting her to. the stern with his
quaint old-fashioned courtliness ; and, though she longed to
lighten the work for him by taking one oar, she would not do so,
for fear he should think she doubted his strength, or had not
perfect confidence in him. So she sat still, and in silence they
crossed the stream and walked up the ascent—which , was
almost an island now—over the dusty brown leaves lying.in
vague patterns on the moss; until they rose above the
sombre woods and reached the chapel.
Nervously Dorothy took the key from the hiding-plate which
Josslyn had shown her, and opened the door.
"Will you do one thing for me, Captain D'Eresby?'?- she
said. " Will you wait for me here while I speak to a friend? ",
" Where would I not wait for my .heart's life?'"
"You will not be restless"—with a smile—"but will wait for
—my signal?"
" How ?" he asked, trying to look calmly ready,, though she
could see that he was restless in his suffering.
" You will lock the door after me, and take the key from the
lock, because my signal will be a narrow strip of white paper
pushed through the key-hole. When you see it, you will open
the door, will you?" . ^
" Captain D'Eresby," she went' on, hurriedly, after his affirm-
ative, fearing lest he should see that her motive for Wishing the
key to be taken out was, that in the very improbable chance of
anyone wishing to enter the chapel, and finding no key in;its
hiding-place or in the lock, they would imagine the door to
have been looked on. the outside, and the key taken a\Vay,
" have you breakfasted ?"
" Oh, yes ! I always get my own breakfast early. My land-
lady is not strong, and is later."
"And you still take only two meals a day?"
" Why more ?"
" Then you will not be hungry ?" she queried, and he smiled.
"You speak as if you were going far. If so, how can I aid
you by remaining here? "
" I have something to tell you," she explained with nervous
earnestness, " and I want to say it before you have spoken with
anyone else, but—but before that, I have to speak to somebody
whom I shall meet in a few minutes. You will not think it
unkind of me to beg of you to wait here, and to see and speak
.DOROTHY'S VENTURE. 299
to AO One before you open to my signal ? I know bow impli-
citly I can trust you, if you promise me."
"I promise," he said, quietly, as if there were no need for more.
"You will lock the door when I am gone, take the key, and
not put it into the lock again until after you have seen my paper
in the keyhole."
" I promise," he said again, not noticing that she never spoke
of her own return.
" And now, what will you do ?"
" I shall, as ever, have my thoughts of you," he answered, in
his quiet way. But it was such a hopeless quietness now !
" Oh, no !" she interrupted, with a shudder.
" They are my companions always, and so I am never lonely.
Leave that one joy to the lonely man to whom you are all-,, and
whajn Destiny threw in y.our way."
" Try not to think of me," she pleaded, wistfully.
" I did try once," he said, curbing his strong emotion. " I
thought it right to try, and tried; but to, succeed was impossible.
That, fight with myself was the hardest I ever fought—though,
in old times, I have fought many. After that I never tried.
But before you go you will , say you have forgiven me ? I have
been wild, and mad, and wrong, and now—now the sanity of a
strong but heated brain is in your keeping.. Say you forgive
me. I know I have been a great deal of trouble to you ; but
God will reward you for all you have done for me, and so that
is right. Yes, even though I have done, wrong, all will be well
for you. . _ I have often prayed fervently for a particular thing,
and, as it was not granted, I repined, submitting of course, but
murmuring and in depression. Then—then in Heaven's good
time an answer came, and I knew it was arranged by a prescient
Providence, and better than any essay imperfectly bungled by
me. So He will make this all well for you, light of my heart,
and you will forgive me."
"If ever," she said, solemnly, "there was anything between
us, Captain D'Eresby, for me to forgive, I forgive it you indeed
—as I pray that I may be forgiven." ,
" I am forgiven ! You have not cast me off!" he murmured,
almost joyous in his gratitude. " You have not forsaken me.
So soon are you going ? I am weak indeed to try to keep you
now you have made me at peace, but ' who in patience parts
with all delight' ?" .
" What will you do ?" she said once more, looking round
the bare little chapel, with the great stone figure of St. Anthony
standing in the chequered light of the small stained windows.
" I have a book. I shall read, as I may not think of you,"
he said, and drew a little Testament from his pocket.
Something in his gentle handling of it, and his dreamy smile
3C0
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
of perfect content as he looked down upon it, touched Dorothy
strangely ; and, on the impulse of the moment, she laid her
hand on the thin white fingers that held the book. This gentle
touch, and the sweet, pure sympathy in her face, unnerved him,
in spite of the strong restraint he kept upon himself, and he
bent his head in his hands and cried convulsively, as men do cry.
With beating heart Dorothy stood by, frightened for the power
and torture of such a grief as this, but vaguely conscious that it
was well to let tears have their way. But they did not last;
for he conquered them as suddenly as they had conquered him.
" I was wrong," he said, apologetically. " I try to be patient;
but I have gone through a good deal in life, and cannot now
bear so submissively. I feel as if there could be no rest save in
eternal entombment. The world is too strong for me."
" But, Captain D'Eresby," said the girl, with a smile which
cost her much, " Y ou like strong things, I know ; and is there
not sorrow for all ?"
" Yes, for all," he answered, thoughtfully.
"A fellow-officer of mine in a great sorrow gave up the world,
as the late Pope did. I do not wonder. Weighing this world
against the other, one longs to leave fit, though I would not"—
with his dreamy smile—"be glad, as Hobbes says, 'to find a
hole to creep out of the world at.' I often, before I knew you,
Dorothy, prayed on my knees for death ; and walking alone I
have seen my Saviour at hand, and have taken off my hat and
said, ' Come quickly, Lord !' Ah, it is better to die ! If only
I could have spared you suffering ! I long for your happiness,
and my release."
"No," whispered Dorothy. "Do not long for that. We
wait His time."
" But how can I help it ? I do long for it. You have forgiven
me. Oh, that you would £tab me through the heart this moment,
that I might forgive you and die ! Does not the poet truly say,
' Life is little, Love is all' ? "
" No, not truly. Life is much, and love is only all when it is
the love you—you are not speaking of."
" This is love," he said, with gentle determination. " I some-
times wonder death did not follow for me the hour of our first
meeting. Fierce pain of mind and body both were mine. The
shivering of hopelessness attacked me, my heart ceased to beat,
my temples throbbed, every breath was a pain, then came the
chill of ague. But now all is well. You have forgiven me—do
not look sad, dear. What the world says of me does not
matter ; and it will say nothing of you. What makes you smile
so strangely? You have forgiven me; what unto me is the
world besides ? Think, if I might die now, with your hand in
mine !
Dorothy's venture. 501
"No ; you will live and—and "
" Yes," he said, as if anxious to help her in what she wished
to say. "1 will live, but release will come to me. Only a few
years more, and then Is not it Lord Carlisle who says
heaven is the place for beaten men ? Ah, I am keeping you, I
know ! What wonder ?
4 Together life and thee depart,
Dream, idol, treasure of my heart.'
What feeble scraps my memory holds of the books I used to
know !"
"The boat is on this side," said Dorothy, nervously, as she
went to the chapel door, D'Eresby with her, " and just at the
best spot to cross for the highway and Northeaton. I go down
there straight towards Lynhead, to meet the friend I spoke of.
You will wait for me ? "
"For ever," he said, clasping the hand she gave him. "I
shall often re-live this hour, and fancy this little hand in mine,
4 soft as the memory of buried love.' I'm—I'm not low-spirited
indeed. I am quite ready to await you, and I understand all
about the signal, and you have forgiven me, my Destiny.- I am
very, very grateful. I shall be quite cheerful ; and when I do
not read—for is not the light rather dim ?—I will recall those
three days in Dover. I had not grieved you then, had I ?
You believed in me then? And what wonderful happiness
it was ! I will wait, and I understand, and will watch for your
signal, life of my heart. I—I feel a little deaf. It must be that
the east wind cuts me, though battered old veterans ought to
be tough and seasoned. And you are going ?" still pathetically
detaining her by his sad, eager eyes and words—" but I am
not afraid of any disappointment through you. I never could
be. Besides, to-day is the twenty-first. You smile"—smiling
himself in his delight at seeing her do so—" as you always do
at my faith in presentiments. I remember a-great friend of
mine in our regiment who had one strong evil presentiment;
he was a splendid fellow, a most perfect gentleman and soldier,
and as gallant a heart and chivalric a soul as ever made a
leader in the imminent deadly breach; and no one—all
respecting him—laughed at the one strange chronic impression
under which he suffered—yes, positively suffered. He never
would sit down the thirteenth man in a circle of friends. We
often tried by fraud or stratagem to conquer this ; but no, he
never could be caught off his guard. One night in Dinapore a
number of us had met in my barrack-room. The Ganges
glided under the windows, and the bright moon lit up flood and
morass, making the scene beautiful, though there lurked there
perpetu- those two fell agents of Satan, fever and cholera.
302
Dorothy's venture.
We were a merry party, telling- brisk tales of derring-do, of
love, or sport, or mischief. Regimental mess had dispersed
at nine, and at about ten this friend, Grey, the adjutant, came
in, looking round, as was his cautious wont, before seating
himself, for fear there should be already twelve seated men ;
and there were ! He was a great favourite, and somehow his
presence always checked raillery, so no one laughed to see that he
remained standing near the door. Presently the orderly-officer
rose and left the room to go on his rounds with the sergeant,
and seeing this, Grey sat down. A few minutes afterwards I
became aware that a young fellow had entered by a passage-
door from his own room, and, unperceived by the others, had
sat down in one of the windows, behind the drawn curtains.
Feeling sure this lad must have entered before the orderly left
the room, I kept silence ; but a young Irish lieutenant, suddenly
discovering the fact, cried out to the adjutant that, after all, he
had been thirteenth man. Grey at once betrayed a strange
depression, and, waiting behing after all the others had left, he
begged me to go with him to his room, and indeed to stay with
him ; growing pale as he preferred the childish request—he in
fight or peril a man of such brave nerve and sinew ! I stayed
until I was obliged to take the Catholics to early service.
When I returned to the barrack-square at seven, the first thing
I heard was that Grey had been seized with cholera. That
afternoon he died. I have wearied you. Forgive me if I told
you this on purpose to detain you ; I hope I did not. I was
thinking how little we understand things. It is good that we
are never told to reason or discover—only to have faith. And
now it is good-bye—but only for a little time. Good-bye."
CHAPTER XLIX.
" Tis not the fight that crowns us, but the end."
D'Eresby, his eyes constantly turning to the keyhole of the
chapel-door, saw the folded strip of white paper at last, and,
drawing it through, unlocked the door gladly and hastily. But,
instead of Dorothy standing without, there was a burly, restless
form far more familiar to him.
" You here ! " exclaimed Mr. Bagot, as if this solitary occu-
pant of the chapel were the last man on earth whom he could
have expected to find there. " What attracts you up here ? That
ridiculous propensity of wandering in the early morning, ' the
early, early morning,' as those idiotic poets say when they need
to lengthen a line ? I don't like early, early mornings—even
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
through Tennyson. Bless me, what a place to choose foi idling
in! . What's that about'rawness and recency?' Here's one,
if not the other—eh? Now, D'Eresby, what, in the name of
all'% that sane, brought you from London before the business "
—Mr. Bagot was pacing the stone floor ceaselessly, and when-
ever he passed the carved saint he gave it an attempted shake,
as if to test its equilibrium—" was satisfactorily arranged ?
My brother was seeing to it; but you were necessary for—for
reference. , Now, ten to one, I shall have to go up to town my-
self, while I'm Wanted here, for every man in the county is
either making his will or becoming bankrupt just at present.
Bless me, I can't support this dreary cavern without a sip of
.wine ! Here, D'Eresby, you take one first."
Though over-acting as usual, Mr. Bagot had now an audience
who believed in him ; and D'Eresby, never suspecting that
the flask had been, sent for him, drank willingly.
" Finish it up," Mr. Bagot said, refusing to receive back the
cup unemptied. " You safely may. I think "—drily—" you
are not often seen intoxicated—eh ?"
" It is always a puzzle to me," said D'Eresby, simply, " how
any man of pride or spirit can voluntarily place himself in
such a degrading position."
"Fool Pugh was!" muttered Pugh's partner under his
breath. " What could he have ever expected, from a man who
will not even drink like other men ?"
" Has something annoyed you, Mr. Bagot ? " asked D'Eresby,
his worn face flushing in a sudden fear for Dorothy.
" Yes, of course, of course ; having to go to London in your
stead annoys me. So it would you, if you had a brother who
dragged you up and down Fleet Street all day, and you had a
corn which pedestrians in City streets have a fiendish skill in
selecting for private attack. What is it one of those favourites
of yours says about the pain within the boot, which by-and-by
will make one's laughter mute—eh ? Take another sip,
D'Eresby. Lady Letitia Chilton is at the Chase, it seems. I
had no idea until I gave one of the post-office lads a lift from
Northeaton, and found he had a telegram for her. She can
have arrived only last night. What can be up ? "
"Nothing, I trust, which can affect Miss Quentin," said
D'Eresby, gravely, " for Lady Letitia has a baleful influence, I
believe, on all she I beg your pard-m, Mr. Bagot; I was
thinking only of the injuries she has done me. I wish I had
not, on this day, even heard her name. I have felt at times
that I actually could not breathe the same air with her. I have
asked on my knees to let a judgment fall either on her or me.
If I were wrong, to let me suffer ; if she But she has not
suffered, else it would be no presumption to say
•304
Dorothy's venture.
" Wait and see," interpolated the lawyer, encouragingly ; and
now, still every now and then below his breath, he muttered to
himself, " The fool I am!" instead of, as it bad been at first,
" The fool Pugh was ! " " Let me see—what other news have I
for you ? You stupid fellow, to be lingering here ! Oh, what
do you think ?"—with a burst of apparent joviality, aud yet with
the lines between his eyes which even the clerks in his office so
very seldom saw. "That legacy of your grim and chilly land-
lady's is all paid up."
" Impossible ! " cried D'Eresby. " I have We have paid
little more than half—not half with the interest — by the
weekly five shillings."
" The very weakly five shillings," said Mr. Bagot, turning
away and pacing the floor once more. " The weakly woman
too to let you pay it ! "
" I beg you not to say that, Mr. Bagot," said D'Eresby, with
a glimpse of the pride of old days. " She is delicate, and I am
strong."
" Oh, indeed ! Well, it is paid, at any rate, by some absent
friend of hers ; and both you and she are absolved from any
farther responsibility or uneasiness."
" It must be a very kind friend," said D'Eresby, quietly.
" Pretty well. Now I hope she will cheer up and exert her-
self, and not fancy herself constantly dying of unique ttibula-
tions. So she," queried the man of law, with a twinkle in his
eyes as he took a pull from his own flask, " is delicate and you
are strong—eh ? Well, I must say I'm glad you are likely to be
the longer of the two left to worry us."
" That," returned D'Eresby, smiling gravely, " does not
follow. I remember once I had a friend—we were quartered
in Demerara then—and he was dying of fever, the doctors
said, and so we all believed, and bade him a solemn farewell, I
last of all. I was standing in the verandah, which runs round
each story of the officers' barracks in Georgetown, and there
came up to me an officer who had lately returned from leave, a
vigorous, handsome fellow, who looked the very embodiment
of health and strength. ' I suppose he must be buried at
once ?' he said, pointing as explanation towards the sick man's
window above us. ' I am going to buy his horse. I made up
my mind at once when I knew he could never mount him
again.' I looked at him, while he spoke in such sure con-
lidence, and thought of the contrast between him and the sick
man I had so lately left. On the third day from this he was
buried, and my sick friend came down among us."
"Talking of death," observed Mr. Bagot, festively, "poor
Kerry has gone over to the majority—an hour or two ago.
Well, what other message have I for you ? Lord Avory seems
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
in the dumps, and it will require an extra rare specimen of
Chelsea porcelain, or Pompeian candelabra; or a doubly
eccentric Chinese bronze to calm his perturbation, especially as
Lady Letitia is at the Chase."
" When," asked D'Eresby, turning anxiously from this
subject, " is Miss Quentin coming here ? "
" Oh, you are expecting her, are you ? " queried the lawyer
finding it necessary now to try whether each successive window
were secure in its frame. " Ah, well, she What did she
tell me to say to you? I have such a feeble memory—con-
sumptive, I fear. What was her message ? Oh"—looking
away from the still attentive figure—" she has had to go
suddenly to London—I believe that was it—and will see you
on her return ! She said I was to wish you good-bye from her,
and she bade me say—she bade me say from her, and whether
right or wrong, I say it—' God bless you !' What's the matter."
" Nothing," said D'Eresby, lifting his bowed head. " Tell me
again, please—the whole of her message. I am a little deaf, I
think, and it is so long since those words were said to me."
"Then you heard them!" cried Mr. Bagot, with a forced
laugh which successfully hid the fact that he could not trust
himself again. " Now will you walk with me through Lynhead,
or take the boat to go to Northeaton by the road ? "
" I cannot understand yet," said D'Eresby, drawing his hand
across his forehead. " Miss Quentin has gone to London—
suddenly ? Is it as I went Have you sent "
" I have done nothing beyond rendering her a little assistance
and seeing her comfortably off," returned Mr. Bagot, buttoning
his coat, and finding it necessary to contemplate each button.
" It was her own decision. I shall soon expect her back. Are
you ready ?"
" But the magistrates' examination ?" said D'Eresby, be-
wildered, " It is to be held to-day. Can it be over?"
" Certainly. I was there."
" And I have been here—a coward."
" You stayed here because Miss Ouentin asked you," amended
the lawyer, with unwonted gravity.
" What did she say when those tyrants catechized her ?"
" Nothing."
" Silent again ? Then they "
He stopped, putting one hand to his throat, his breath quick
and irregular.
" I got her off, D'Eresby," said the lawyer, with a com-
passionate touch upon his companion's shoulder. " I told them
she legally withheld evidence which would criminate herself."
" Mr. Bagot!" cried his clerk, looking for the moment like
his superior officer. "You—know—"
X
3 o6
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" It was her wish, not mine," interpolated Mr. Bagot appa-
rently unmoved. " She would give no evidence, even under
compulsion. And, as she chose to tell me her evidence might
condemn herself, I legally put in the plea—a legal plea, and
one that) spared her punishment. Her thought and prompti-
tude most probably saved Josslyn Yorke's life a week ago ; her
reticence and courage now have spared his would-be murderer.
Oh, it is all right ! She said she was to blame entirely, and so
I suppose she thought so. This will not harm her. Now, once
more, are you ready ?"
" I will follow you," replied D'Eresby, quietly; and Mr.
Bagot, seeing more than he pretended to see, said he would
walk on then to Lynhead, and left the chapel without waiting
for his companion.
D'Eresby stood to watch him down the slope and into the
depths of the sombre old brown wood ; then he turned back
into the building, closing the door upon himself.
When, a long hour afterwards, he went alone from the silent
chapel, he was changed so strangely that Mr. Bagot, had
he been there, would, however restive, have walked constantly
beside him, in nameless fear of some new purpose which
brightened indescribably the thin Velasquez face.
"It will be long," he whispered to himself, with his eyes
lifted to the grey, tranquil sky, " before the dusk falls."
He entered the little boat, and as he rowed, his eyes were
fixed in the stern as if he saw again the girlish figure seated
there ; and when he landed he laid the oars gently down,
wondering whose hands would lift them next.
Crossing the road, without a glance along it towards North-
eaton, he trod the heath, passing the finger-posts without a
glance at them, strolling from one to another of the diverging
paths, and moving aside only in consequence of the little pools
still left after the heavy rains. Now and again with lifted eyes,
thirsting for what he could not find, he told himself patiently
that the dusk was long in coming ; and now and then he smiled
and said, " Not long ! "
Without having noticed whither an hour's wandering had
brought him, he left the heath, and entered the narrow little
lane which skirted it, going on more slowly and thoughtfully
now, as if its comparative shadow soothed him.
Suddenly a sound in the distance made him stop, catching
his breath oddly. Then he laughed at himself, and went on.
" It was a down train whistling for the tunnel," he said. " I
have not travelled far after all, but taken a great round. And
yet "—looking wistfully beyond—" it is still only afternoon."
He had left the trees now, and could look down upon the
line ; for he stood just above the opening of the tunnel which
DOROTHYS VENTURE.
was cut through a portion of the heath, and he saw that there
had been formed a temporary station where there was to be one
built for the junction.
" Last time I was here," he said, " they were only laying the
sleepers. How long ago it seems ! And this will be the last !
How curiously familiar it is to me, and yet all new ! "
He went slowly down the awkward wooden steps which led
from the lane to the platform, and leaned against the hand-rail,
glad of the brief rest. As he stood gazing about him absently,
yet with an inexpressible thoughtfulness, and touching now and
then something which lay alone in a breast-pocket of his coat,
a policeman, walking up and down the unfinished platform,
passed near him, with a furtive glance ; then went nearer and
lingered, but presently touched his helmet involuntarily.
" Good day, officer," said D'Eresby, in his easy, gentle way,
and then looked after him. "They like to be addressed as
' officer,' " he thought, with a kindly smile. " The police force
and the railway service get now all the fine fellows we used to
have in the army."
Then the policeman was forgotten, though his watch was
stealthily and strictly kept; for again that strange wild solitude
enfolded D'Eresby, and he felt that sensation of curious un-
natural deafness in the air.
All this time a woman, standing near a pile of luggage, was
gazing inquisitively at him, and pondering whether it would do
to risk her personal comfort by speaking to him. Presently she
must have decided to run the risk, for she came up to him with
heavy, swaying step.
" Captain D'Eresby, it is you, sir, is it ?"
" Poulter," he said, without a note of surprise in his voice,-
" are you travelling ?"
" Yes, we're going, sir. My lady's got one of her gadding fits,
and we're off to London. It upsets me, for I'm not used to it,
and it oughtn't to be laid on me. We only came down to the
Chase last night ; and that was unexpected too, and we 'adn't
our usual comforts. Why we should go back to-day puts me
out ; and just only for a telegraph all through that tiresome
Miss Ouentin, because there's something come to my lady about
her pa."
" Yes ?"
Poulter scrutinized the questioner, wondering over the change
in his voice and face.
" She always was a worry, though she never 'armed me, and I
always stuck up for her, and allowed her 'air was pretty. But
she was so foolish about gentlemen."
" That will do," said D'Eresby, his face stiff and proud. " Do
not name her, please."
3°8
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Oh, but she was," insisted Mrs Poulter, briskly, as silly as
silly could be ! But, as I passed it by when I had to put up
with 'er aggravating opinions, I'll pass it by now. She meant
no 'arm p'r'aps, and it wasn't nice time for 'er with my lady. It
almost serves my lady right that she's got a bit of a fright now
about her pa."
" About Miss Quentin's father ?" questioned Captain
D'Eresby, earnestly. " Is Lady Letitia coming here ?"
For to win the joyous certainty that Dorothy soon would
have her father with her, he would speak even to Lady Letitia
—on this one day.
" Yes, she's coming, sir. I was sent on with the luggage, and
she was to drive after me. I 'aven't seen her so flurried and
commotioned since—she met you last. Our train's due now,
only the man told me the express passes first. Captain
D'Eresby, do you notice how that policeman watches us ? As if
I'd look at such ! There's the carriage ! Why, 'ow stupid to
stop at those wrong -steps !"—for the station buildings, such as
they were, were on the speaker's side of the line, and on the
opposite side another flight of wooden steps led from the lane.
D'Eresby, listening, heard the carriage start again, the wheels
roll nearer, over the arch, then on behind him. A few moments
afterwards he saw the limp and gorgeous figure of Lady Letitia
on the steps opposite ; then he looked away, hating the very
sight of the colourless, characterless face.
He did not see her look along the unfinished platform for her
maid and luggage and a few attentive porters—finding none.
He did not see her recognize Poulter and the luggage, evidently
in their right place, and, with an impatient gesture, step from the
platform to cross the line.
But a moment afterwards he saw her.
He gave one glance up at the signals—one swift glance with
the old military alertness and precision—and at that instant
the signal was put on for the express to pass, and a shout arose
from the far end of the temporary station. He did not see that
it paralyzed the woman for whose deliverance it was intended,
for he saw nothing but her danger. Not one second's hesitation
was there in the brave heart or willing limbs. He rushed across
the line and pushed her back into safety ; and one second
afterwards—that very second, it would seem—the buffer of the
engine caught his shoulder, and threw him forward along the
line, out beyond the platforms, fifty feet away!
Then the wild express passed over him, crushing and tearing
him in its cruel speed ; and when it reached its destination—
twenty miles away—there still were tattered pieces of his dress
fast to the engine.
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
CHAPTER L.
" Her hands' light touch was such,
Care vanished at their touch.
Her feet spared little things that creep."
DOROTHY climbed the steps of one of the sombre mansions in
Cromwell Road, and rang the bell, with a nervous glance back-
ward to assure herself that the cab which had brought her was
faithfully waiting to take her away ; but not until the door had
been opened to her—in a tardy, partial manner, suggestive of
the emptiness of London—did it strike her that she had pre-
pared no method of gaining her admittance. The sad and
yearning thoughts which had engrossed her during her journey,
and kept her heart within that one silent room at Lynhead, had
not touched this momentary situation, and so she stood in utter
silence facing the tall, solemn woman who had opened the
door. To ask for Mr. or Mrs. Noyes when she knew them to
be in Paris, would of course be absurd ; but it was not that
feeling which made her hesitate. She had never intended to
say or insinuate anything save the truth, but what she particu-
larly desired was to say as little of the truth as need be.
" You can close the door," she intimated to the woman.
" My cabman will wait for me. I am a friend of Mrs. Noyes,
and have just come from her home. Can you tell me in
which room to find a little couch which was lately sent from
there ? I believe that before it was packed a letter had got
pushed into its recess, and that is what 1 wish to look for,
if you please."
" I am put in sole charge here ma'am, by Mr. Noyes'
housekeeper, and I feel it a great responsibility," observed
the woman, with cautious reticence, as she opened a door
near Dorothy, and followed her into a small, lofty room with
shrouded furniture and drawn blinds. And here Dorothy, in
her first glance round, saw the couch, unpacked, as she had
scarcely hoped to find it, and only tied compactly in its
holland cover. She knelt at once to unfasten the strings,
and the woman, though she assisted, suspiciously watched
the small white hands that went so restlessly to work.
The cover was taken off, and Dorothy felt slowly along the
narrow crevice under the arm—deeper and deeper. Suddenly
her cheeks flushed, and she brought out a paper in her hand.
"This is it," she said, in her frank, straightforward way. '■ I
thought I should find it here."
" Please be sure it is the letter you meant, ma'am," suggested
3io Dorothy's venture.
the woman, in her solemn, suspicious way. " I cannot help
being anxious."
" Of course not ; but I am quite sure," said Dorothy, blushing
like a child, and her eyes dancing with delight, as she met the
stony gaze of this conscientious care-taker.
" I must beg you to read it that you may be sure it is yours,"
she requested; " I don't mean aloud. I don't wish to be
impertinent, only cautious, and I've had warning experience."
" I would rather not read it,'' said Dorothy, with almost pain-
ful nervousness—for this was an unlooked-for stumbling-block
in the way. " It is a letter of Mr. Yorke's."
" But I must get you to read it, ma'am, before you take it
away," the woman insisted, with respectful obstinacy, "just to
ascertain and to tell me. I will explain to Mr. Noyes."
" I will look at just enough to prove that, then," said
Dorothy at last, with great unwillingness.
She meant to read only two or three lines to assure herself
that this was the letter Mr. Yorke had lost; but there was
so few lines of writing on the large sheet, and they were so
conspicuous, being written almost like a child's copy, that
Dorothy had read them all before she could have made a pause.
And, as she read, she recognized instinctively the fact that this
ignorant and brief appeal to the squire of Lynhead for money,
on the plea that the writer's poverty was the consequence of
his son's conduct years before, was made by one who not only
had no claim upon him, but who also knew and felt she had
none, and so, with the more labour, asserted an invented one.
" It is the right letter," Dorothy said gravely to the woman
who stood watching her. " Mr. Yorke will write to Mr. Noyes
about it, and I to Mrs. Noyes. Thank you for the trouble you
have taken."
Mechanically repeating to herself the address displayed so
boldly at the top of this letter she returned to the waiting cab,
her thoughts intent on one vague, half-formed plan.
" Where to, Miss," the cabman inquired, cheerfully ; and she
repeated this address, without pausing to allow herself one
instant's thought. Then she leaned back in a corner of the
cab and tried to form some project clearly. But back her
thoughts fled anxiously to that sick-room at Lynhead, and in
the light of those beautiful patient eyes all else was dim and
unimportant to her. So it was a great surprise when the cab
stopped before a narrow, grim-looking house in Westminster.
It was too late to turn then from this sudden purpose of hers ;
and so she set all thought aside, and went up the muddy steps
just as if this house had been the goal of her day's journey.
Yes, Mrs. Kerry was in, she was told by a slovenly man who
opened the door, coatless and not too cleanly in the sleeves;
Dorothy's venture. 311
but she was going to new lodgings next day. So saying, and
staring hard at Dorothy the while, he opened a door in the
narrow passage, and, without any attempt at announcement or
guidance, made her understand that she was to pass into the
room beyond it.
It was a dingy, unhandsome little room which she entered ;
but Dorothy did not notice that, for at the farther end two
small folding doors stood open, and through them, from the
little bed-room thus displayed, a woman was coming towards
her—a woman so strikingly fair that Dorothy had not a
moment's doubt what the reply would be when she said, in her
gentle, easy way, yet with a quiet pride which Nancy would not
have recognized in her,
" Is it Zara Kerry ?"
" The woman paused in involuntary surprise, then laughed,
and came forward, offering Dorothy a chair, and standing
opposite to it to stare at her with unabashed curiosity.
"Who are you?" she asked, presently. "For I'm not Zara
Kerry in these parts."
"You wrote to Mr. Yorke in that name," explained Dorothy,
her colour fluctuating painfully as she even already regretted
this rash step of hers. But she added a few more words in her
girlish generosity. " I am a friend of Nancy's, and I have just
come from Lynhead. I saw Nancy to-day"—the girl's face was
deathly pale as she recalled the morning of this day ; so long
ago it seemed !—" and soon after I left her your father, who
has been very ill, died."
" Oh, I expected to hear that ! " said Zara, lightly. " I am
up in all Lynhead news. I thought I knew all Lynhead faces
too ; but yours Oh "—with a sudden laugh—" I know
now ! You must be Miss Quentin ! I've heard of you too ;
but you're not so pretty as he pretended you were."
The mocking tone reminded Dorothy of Nancy's ; but while
there was, with all its roughness, the ring of sturdy honesty in
Nancy's, this was all light and vain and heartless. Yet what
a comely face and form the woman had ; Dorothy remembered
how bitterly Nancy had once said that Zara could twist men
round her fingers when she chose, and now it did not seem
impossible.
" You wrote to Mr. Yorke," she reiterated, colouring angrily,
but blaming only herself for her humiliation.
" Yes ; but that was long ago," said Zara, still gazing inquisi-
tively, but speaking with a sort of grudging respect, " and he
took no notice. I don't want his notice now."
" He lost the letter, and he was very sorry, for he had in-
tended to send to you. He wished to help you, and he—the
letter has only this very day been found."
312
Dorothy's venture.
" A likely story ! " laughed Zara, showing faultless rows of
large white teeth. "And he sent you? It isn't a very aristo-
eratical part for anyone so dainty-looking. And you're only
just in time, you see. This time to-morrow I shall be off."
"To Mr. Oxley ?"
Never afterwards could Dorothy understand what had given
her the strange, unexpected courage to ask this ; but she could
well understand-why, after the woman's cool little smiling nod,
she longed to end this interview. But could she ever say what
now she knew she had come on purpose to say ?
" The squire was quite willing to assist Nancy Kerry's sister,"
she said, and seemed to say it without difficulty, though her
heart was beating rapidly ; " but you do not need it, you say ?"
" No, I don't want help from the Yorkes now. Why, I might
have been the next squire's lady myself, if I'd liked ! "
" No," began Dorothy, firmly, and then remembered that
that would not be the way to win from this woman what she
longed to win.
" Zara," she said, in her pretty gentle way, just as she had
often spoke to Nancy, "I know your sister very well, and I
knew your father, and I know—your story. Will you trust me
enough to answer me one or two questions for the squire's sake ?
You know he was always kind to everybody; and he is weak
and unhappy. You went away from home with—Mr. Oxley,
did not you ?"
" Scarcely," said Zara, laughing, " for I went after my other
sweetheart. He'd gone to Cornwall, and I went after him, for
his aunt's cook was mother's sister ; and I went down there
because my mother worried me so about letting him slip. He'd
gone on for years never coming near me, after having said he'd
make me his wife. Of course I wanted to be a lady ; so I went
to try to make him keep his word ; but, except for mother's
worreting, I didn't care. I wasn't ever comfortable with him—
always afraid like. Besides I'd somebody I was comfortable
with. He knew how pretty I was ; and young Yorke never
seemed to see it, after just years ago, when he was merry and
like a boy, and said I was lovely. But of course I wanted to
be a lady at Lynhead, and ride in my own carriage past the
hut, and visit at the big houses ; so when he wouldn't keep
his promise to me, I told him—mother said it first—that I'd
have him up for breach. Still he wouldn't, and mother was mad.
Father didn't care so long as he had his whisky; and Nan
never cared about me, and never talked, and was odd. Mother
said she was awful, though, about Jan Treweeke."
"That was the boatman you sent?" put in Dorothy,
trembling almost visibly in her effort to command herself, and
not lose this one chance of hearing the truth by any evidence
Dorothy's venture. 313
of her scorn of the narrator. "\Vho invented that lie for him
to tell ?"
" Lie ?" echoed Zara, scoffingly.
" He swore a false oath," declared Dorothy, firmly. "That
is well known now. Was it his own invention ?"
" It wasn't mine," said Zara, with a laugh, and answering
quite readily, in her lazy willingness to discourse with this girl
who had come on such a harmless errand. " So they didn't
believe it? Well, he said they wouldn't, though it had all
happened so like that. She did die off" curious 'in the shock. If
the man swore he bribed him, there was only young Yorke
to swear against it. Mother said squire must have believed, for
he nearly fainted off; but he wouldn't give him money to keep
him silent, so mother'd a pretty row after. I had to marry
him," she coolly added, " when he went back to Cornwall."
" Your mother told Mr. Yorke, at the same time of his son's
proposal of marriage to you, and her determination that he
should fulfil the promise—as if it had been a promise lately
made," said Dorothy, her own voice sounding like a stranger's
in her ear.
" I daresay. Anyway, mother did it well, I'll wager," the
woman answered, laughing, and still staring with unconcealed
inquisitiveness. Perhaps you think that was the bit of news
that made him faint like? No matter what it was, Josslyn
was disinherited, so that was all right. The worst of it is, it
wasn't enough to harm him, for he was rich with his aunt's
money ; and what's it matter which son has the place ? But I
got none of his money ; and so, when I was left so long, I
wrote to the squire, though the son's thrown off by all his
family, and to this day they don't know where he is. Oh, you
see, I know all about Lynheau ! "
"You have dropped your husband's name," said Dorothy,
her lips trembling pitifully in the fear that she might be speak-
ing unwisely, and yet the hope that she had heard all that was
necessary.
"Yes. You don't suppose I could stay down there? I never
meant to ; and it was hideous." And then a sudden ray of
shrewdness broke over the woman's shallow liveliness. " I'm
not going to tell it," she said, oblivious of the fact that she had
done so, and that Dorothy's quick ears had caught and held it.
" He'd do anything for money. Leave him alone."
" I have done Mr. Yorke's errand," said Dorothy, glancing
down at the letter not only as explanation, but also for the
momentary relief of turning her pale face from the woman's
sparkling gaze. "You say you do not need help from him
now ?"
"No ; he'll never leave me in a strait again. I'm glad I've
3 :4
Dorothy's venture.
seen you, for he said there was nobody at Lynhead to be com-
pared with me."
"Zara," said Dorothy, with a strangely earning of compassion
for this fair, vain, shallow woman, as she thought of the younger
sister, whose dark face had never broken into smiles like these,
" I can do nothing to help you, else I would. I know of whom
you speak, though I will not utter his name. I know so much
of the wrong he has done to others that I can believe any
wrong he has done you ; but you equally wrong yourself. As
for him," she went on, stung to keen contempt by the listener's
lazy smile, " he has been turned out of service at Lynhead. He
dare not ever be seen there again, so I do not wonder what he
says of it—being the man he is."
Then she turned to leave the room, with a long sigh, as if
she would throw off some weight which had oppressed her ;
but, when Zara hurried to open the door, still inspecting every
feature in the beautiful, pale, young face, a strong and brave
compassion moved Dorothy to a few last, kind words.
And in a time not very far distant, this woman, feeble, for-
saken, and unbeautiful, sought and found fulfilment of the girl's
pure and generous-hearted promise.
" Stop at the first telegraph-office," she said to the cabman ;
and, when they did so, she telegraphed to Mr. Bagot that there
was news for him if he could come to London, feeling that he
would know what to do about this Cornish guide.
And then she gave the driver Truth Baring's address in
Holland Park, and tried to rest and grow calm, that she might
not look feverish and ill at ease when she met Truth.
" Have I done right?" was the thought that harassed her
now, even more than the longing foT news from Lynhead.
"Can Mr. Bagot make it right ? Why did I go ? And yet
to-morrow it would have been too late."
CHAPTER LI,
" What we lack in our work may He find in our will,
And winnow in mercy our good from the ill."
"You have not even yet recovered from your surprise at seeing
me, Truth, have you?" asked Dorothy, bravely trying to see
nothing beyond surprise in Miss Baring's rather stiff and
nervous manner.
" Not quite. Surprises are rare with me now. I have settled
down into so—well, so deep a calm perhaps. It seemed un-
natural that you should have left Lynhead to come to me,"
Dorothy's venture.
"I need not tell my reason just yet, need I, Truth?" the
girl pleaded, kneeling at her side, and laying her head against
Truth's shoulder, unconsciously falling into an old habit of the
Boulogne days, when she was a child, and Miss Baring had
been so wise, and kind, and tender. "I am glad to be here
with you at rest."
Quietly Truth turned and kissed the sweet, young, tremulous
lips, and at that moment her face lost the bitterness which had
so pained Dorothy.
" It seems strange for you to want rest, little Dorothy," she
said. " You should rather have wanted dinner, and you did
not."
" It is only a passing feeling," Dorothy said, and rose, hurt
by the forced tone. " Oh, yes, I was hungry—at least, I
enjoyed your tea ! It was delicious, Truth."
" Uncle Charles is away, so I can give you only my society.
You look already weary of it."
" No," said Dorothy, pushing the bright hair from her
forehead, unaware that her pale face had grown paler at these
chill words, but trying to speak brightly and at ease. " Is it
new to you to have a quiet evening, Truth ?"
"To me? Oh, no ! I How perfectly your dress fits,
Dorothy, and it suits you so ! You have plenty of money, I
suppose ? Who gives it you ?"
" Mr. Pugh—or Mr. Bagot."
"And is it much ?"
" Quite enough," said Dorothy, gently. " I do not need ex-
pensive things as you do, Truth."
" I do not now, for who cares what I wear ? I have no need
to go out. No one wishes for me. One woman finds me harsh
and cold—perhaps because she talks of subjects I have done
with—and so "—in a dull, cold tone—" she soon dislikes me.
That is infectious, and another dislikes me. I do not mind.
Do not look sorry, child."
" I am not sorry for the fact," said Dorothy, earnestly, " be-
cause I do not believe in it ; but I am sorry for your fancy.
Besides, am I no one ? For you know how I ' like' you"—with
a kiss that made the " like " as sweet a word as " love."
" You ! " said Truth, half quizzically, half pathetically, as she
held her at arm's length and gazed into her eyes. " What do
you know of me to like ?"
" Truth," answered the girl, with a strange, solemn gentle-
ness, " I know now what you have suffered. I can understand."
" No," Miss Baring said, and drew her hands away almost
roughly. "Now talk of something else. Shall I show you my
last work? You know I told you I painted perpetually because
one must do something. I wish "—with a new tenderness in
316
Dorothy's venture.
her swift words—" I could paint portraits. I would paint you,
Dorothy. You look so—strangely lovely. You are not—yet
are—the little Dorothy of old days ; the Dorothy even of our
last meeting in Dover. Just tell me that you are happy, dear ;
if you can do so without mentioning a name I hate."
" Then I cannot," returned Dorothy, sturdily, not only resolved
to mention the dear name, but sorely tempted—human nature
being weak—to let her words be guided by a remembrance of
the pain which Truth had given her to bear. But the wrong
thought was conquered very swiftly. "Do you never hear that
name now, Truth ?"
"Never," said Miss Baring, curtly, walking away from
Dorothy to seat herself at the piano. " I know, and will know,
no one who is a friend of—theirs."
" Hush !" said Dorothy, gently. " Do not say what you will
wish unsaid. I want to ask you one thing. Have you a photo-
graph of Josslyn Yorke?"
Truth, softly playing one of Handel's slow, pathetic sarabands,
turned a little, wondering over Dorothy's utterance of the name
so strange now in her ears.
" Your voice," she said, involuntarily, "actually trembled as
if »
"As if / knew what it might be to love a Josslyn Yorke,"
the girl said with a slow smile. " But answer me now, Miss
Baring. Have you his photograph, and may I see it ?"
" If I had," began Truth, blushing hotly ; and then grew
silent.
" Show it to me," whispered Dorothy.
" I ought to have returned it," said Truth, her fingers wander-
ing dreamily now into one of Chopin's ideal mazurkas ; " but,
oh, what nonsense ! As if you had not seen it, and seen—
him "—flinching at the word—" a hundred times ! I—here it
is."
Dorothy, startled a little by the swift, unexpected words and
movement, could scarcely distinguish the picture put so
suddenly before her, the photograph she at once thought
Anthony Yorke's. Then she looked up at Truth with a smile.
" I never saw this Mr. Yorke. I only know his brothers."
" Brothers ? "
" Yes ; he has two."
"Two! But what matter?"—with an icy change of tone.
" I hope they are not like him ; and I hope you—could never
be like me."
" Never mind me," put in Dorothy, with unguessed-of
bravery. " I was speaking of you and some one else. I will
tell you more of him to-morrow, I hope. Don't try to look so
very exceedingly nipping. Play once more. You said I might
Dorothy's venture. 317
rest; and this rests me. Ah, that's one of Volkmann's Musical
Poems—an appropriate one, too, for you, the ' Love Song.'
Now for the 'Bridal Song' to follow."
"No," said Truth, her hands falling, and her eyes full of
tears.
" Then play one for me," requested Dorothy, tranquilly. " I
will tell you which will suit me exactly, the ' Fortune-Teller.'"
Though vexed with herself for her inconsistency, Dorothy
could not prevent a feeling of acute disappointment next
morning, when she found there was no letter for herself. Of
course she was not aware that she had even imagined it possible
Mr. Bagot would write to her, on the very day she had left
Northeaton ; yet, when she knew he had not, the longing to
hear of Josslyn grew almost unbearable. Truth, seeing the
effort she made to throw off some anxiety, without guessing
its cause, proposed a walk in the park ; but, before Dorothy had
put on her hat, Truth came into the room to tell her that a
gentleman had called to see her.
" It is Mr. Bagot, I am sure," said Dorothy.
And Mr. Bagot indeed it was, walking up and down Mr.
Hancorne's double drawing-rooms just as he paced his office
floor in moments of perturbation. Dorothy, giving him her
hand, could only look the question that filled her heart, for her
lips could not form the words.
" Better," said Mr. Bagot, with unwonted gentleness. " Of
course only a little, but there's a tremendous step between that
and even ' not any worse.' Bless me, you look very grateful for
my news, considering that you chose to run away from his
family, and appear in their eyes a most ignoble and unworthy
friend ! Well, the ways of women always were inscrutable—so
Pugh says. I know nothing about such things, being married.
It is the bachelors who will tell you best what women are."
" They will never forgive me, of course," said Dorothy, her
eyes shining wistfully through grateful tears ; but to me they
will always be the dearest friends on earth—the dearest and
best."
" Now tell me everything," observed Mr. Bagot.
He never once interrupted her while she related her inter-
view with Za'ra, but questioned her afterwards, and then seemed
to put the topic from him.
" I have a message for you, but I forget it," he placidly ob-
served. "Now I must go and see my brother,for that's what a
man must undergo who has a brother. I shall be towed about
in Fleet Street for unlimited hours, and, as usual, be lost in
wonder how Doctor Johnson could like it, when his burly figure
must have been much run against on those narrow pavements ;
and how in that roar he could possibly have heard what little
31S Dorothy's venture.
Boswell said to him—though I should myself scarcely think he
ever tried."
".Is your brother so fond of Fleet Street?" asked Dorothy,
smiling, while there was a far different question in her eyes,
seeking his though his face was turned away, and he had walked
from her to one of the long windows.
"All newspaper-men are. If the mania were confined to
Fleet Street I could bear it better; but he lures me into what
he calls a stroll through the lanes, and in a minute I am lost
in hot narrow grooves, like American canons, between ware-
houses calculated to strike alarm into the most valiant
pedestrian. Bales and boxes sail up and down in closest
proximity to my nose, and my valued life is in the greatest
jeopardy, for the ropes must break at some moment, and will,
of course, select the moment, when I'm passing underneath.
If"—Mr. Bagot was drumming now upon the window-frame,
and Dorothy, still dumbly questioning him, had grown quite
certain that every now and then he was on the point of saying
something from which he turned as resolutely as he turned his
face from her—" a man knew where he was among these lanes,
it would be some poor satisfaction, but their baptismal
appellations are a decoy instead of a guide. I look in vain for
any head-quarters of the Good Templars in Water Lane, or any
especially tavernous attractions in Beer Lane. The lane which
boasts one shrub is not Bush Lane, and I'll defy the most
inveterately conjugal couple to find a nook in Love Lane for the
surreptitious interchange of a kiss. Harp Lane is as silent as
' the harp that once,' and as for St. Swithin's—but then of course
St Swithin might have been exceptionally devoted to commerce,
like Captain Yorke."
" I should like to accompany you," said Dorothy, with a
sudden weariness of inaction.
"To the lair of the merchants? " queried Mr. Bagot, turning
shortly round to regard her, and still fighting clumsily—for this
man of law was not a born dissembler—against a most evident
impulse to say something which still he left unsaid. " Now,
Miss Quentin, whom do you want to ask about?" Yet when
she gently said "You know," he seemed suddenly to become
aware that he had not done with the previous subject. " There's
a classic proverb, I believe," he remarked turning from her
again, " to this effect—See Cornhill and die ! I suppose Tom
thinks it would never do for the brother of such a celebrated
man as he not to see Cornhill—or die—so he lures me there,
comforting me all the while with puns. I never stoop to betray
even a remote consciousness of them, because they show the
deteriorating effect of newspaper erection on a young man .of
excellent natural parts,"
Dorothy's venture.
319
There was a little pause at last. Dorothy made no second
effort to feign interest in this delusive chat ; she waited with
what patience she might for Mr. Bagot to tell her what she
wished.
"Still," he said, turning from one illustration to another of a
book he had taken in his hand, " I shall stay in London over
to-morrow, though. I don't care as a rule for Tom's Sundays.
'Few and short were the prayers we said,' and that sort of
thing. What was it you remarked just lately ? You'd like to
come with me ? My dear young lady, why don't you ? You
are rather conspicuous, you know, and don't look exactly like a
city man ; but, never mind, we'll go and see what Captain
Yorke will look like as a developed merchant, though of course "
—suddenly—"he never will, eh ? Can Miss. Hancorne spare
you ? "
"My friend's name is Baring," corrected Dorothy, "though
this is Mr. Hancorne's house. He is her uncle. Yes, I know
she will spare me."
They walked together to the cab-stand, and Mr. Bagot called
a hansom.
" More swift, Miss Quentin, if you don't mind," he said to
Dorothy apologetically, but scarcely as an interrogative.
She did not listen to his directions to the man ; and so, when
they stopped at Westminster Abbey, she looked at her com-
panion in surprise.
"Would you mind waiting for me in here?" he asked. " I
am going on to see Kerry's daughter, and I will return to you.
I must speak to you afterwards."
She smiled her assent as they quietly entered the Abbey, and
the smile told him her gratitude not only that he would tell her
what he thought after seeing Zara, but that she might await him
there.
In the hallowed calm and silence of the great church, she
rested mentally as she could have rested nowhere else. And Mr.
Bagot, on his return, joining her before she was aware of his
approach, was puzzled how she could have won that look of
sweet, untired trust. Could it be only four-and-twenty hours,
he thought, since she had suffered so terribly in that voluntary
ordeal before the magistrates ?
He led her quietly from the Abbey, and presently turned
through an archway, out of the wide noisy thoroughfare, and
then under other arches into a calm, chill, silent spot that
seemed—so empty was it then—to be known only to these two.
" It is quiet ^lere so early," observed Mr. Bagot, who
seemed at ease now he had apparently found room to pace
either way uninterrupted; "though I dare say'you are more
familiar with the cloisters than I am. Well, Miss Quentin,
320
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
what have I to tell you ? It is all right, and I believe we owe
that to your promptitude. I have a shrewd suspicion that
Oxley—under another name of course—will set up in fashion-
able roguery ; but if he does he will soon find That's no
matter, I have proofs now of what will give Mr. Yorke unmixed
happiness, unless Oh, what ridiculous apprehension !
He is sure to recover, for I don't think any other son returned
could compensate for that son lost. I have got the proof and
clue I want now, and can easily reach that Cornishman. Yes, I
ought to have suggested your sitting down. A curious old bit
of mural antiquity, isn't it ? And such a length of an epitaph !
I don't myself think that epitaphs signify, when all that can be
criticized in a man'is a stone slab. I've just one thing more to
tell you, Miss Quentin. Did you hear of Lady Letitia Chilton
trying to come after you ? She intended it indeed, in her mean
anxiety to gloss over, at a crisis, her old neglect; but she—did
not succeed. Something happened at the last. An accident
on the line, I believe—My dear young lady, don't look troubled,
for people must be hurt, you know, and why not on railway-
lines as well as anywhere else ? I don't suppose you feel
especially anxious about Lady Letitia, but I may as well say
she was not hurt. She isn't the sort. Dear me, what does it
say here ? Reader, if thou art a Briton, Behold this Tomb
with Reverence and Regret. And why mayn't I, if I'm not a
Briton, pray? Well, I'm quite willing, though I'm sure I don't
know what good it will do to any one for me to behold tombs.
What is it there ? The Fruits of Tedious Experience—that
isn't a pleasant idea—and the what ? The Acquisition of an
Undissifated Youth. That's more comfortable, and I believe
he Quiet spot ; isn't it ? And the grass refreshing to the
eye ? Reminds me that my currant-trees will soon want
cutting to skeletons. You always rather liked D'Eresby, didn't
you ! Bless me, why should currant-trees remind me of him ?
He was always a worry to me, and irritated me beyond bearing.
I don't like to like a man I don't like, do you ? What—you
like him ? I thought so. What's that it says ? • Gentle,
humane, disinterested, beneficent, he created no enemies on his
own accountj Firm, determined, inflexible, He feared none he
could create in the cause of Absurd ; isn't it ? Why do you
read it? No ; it was I read it, I suppose. Folly, Miss Quentin.
Well, D'Eresby was killed by—I mean he saved Lady Letitia's
life at the junction, and—yes, unfortunately was killed. My
dear young lady, don't look so It's better to cry, though
crying won't do any good. It was a glorious death, and I
wouldn't wish—Bless me, there's a verger ! I must just go and
speak to him—most important. 4 With verger clad'—you
know the rest ? I won't be a quarter of a second."
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
321
CHAPTER LII.
" God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly
What He hath given ;
They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly
As in His heaven."
" How quiet every place is ! "
It was quite half an hour since Mr. Bagot had left Dorothy
sitting in the cloisters, and now he had rejoined her, and was
walking beside her, slowly and with unwonted composure,
through the dim arches out once more into Dean's Yard, talk-
ing, not with any des ire to make her talk against her will, but
simply as it were to assure her that he was there, and not
crushed down at all, although in an unguarded moment he
might have been betrayed into a muteness which he was now
throwing off, unaware how transparent was his determination
to do so.
" I don't suppose I have ever been here before without
seeing, and hearing too, the boys at football there ; but of course
there's positively nobody in London now. I am so emphati-
cally nobody through being in London now, that this morning,
in the desert solitude of Portland Place, my cabman drove
funereally alongside another cabby and entered into a friendly
political discussion, while I could only sit in the vehicle, for
which I knew I should be overcharged, and suffer and be strong.
Oh, no need to fret for him, poor fellow! He was. never afraid
of death. Not the sort of man to have spent his life in grati-
fying himself, intending, when he found he had exhausted the
strength and capacity for enjoyment, to turn coolly and fami-
liarly to his Creator and say, ' Suppose we square matter snow.
I will serve you all the rest of my life.'"
" No," resumed the lawyer, presently, in his companion's
silence, "nobody in London. I must confess that I saw one
face at a window in the Langham, but there was an awful lone-
liness upon it. I think we won't go to the City—eh, Miss
Ouentin? Not this morning, perhaps. Somehow I feel as if
we should not be appreciated there—you and I. I begin to
think that to a City man everybody else is a City man, or no-
nobody; and we don't like to be nobodies, you and I. Never
mind. Still more sylvan spots await us. Is that a line of a
hymn? We will just call in on my brother, if you've no objec-
tion. Certainly he is up a great many stairs ; but he will be
equally glad to see you."
"If he will not think me in the way," began Dorothy,
anxiously, for somehow she dreaded being left by this friend,
who knew all that she wished to know.
Y
322
Dorothy's venture.
"It would be of no use my going without you, my dear young
lady!" cried Mr. Bagot, with a laugh which Dorothy did not
understand, and so which jarred upon her ear. " This way!
No, we won't walk, please. I daresay you feel inclined for it,
but you can walk afterwards. I'm not quite so light as you,
and possibly not quite so young ; so we will take a cab, I think.
Doesn't Portia say, ' My great body is aweary of this little
world' ? Why do you smile ? "
"Only at Portia," said Dorothy, sedately.
" Of course; for you cannot sympathise with her as I can.
Oh, by the way, I've a little bit of a romance to tell you which
will just suit you, Miss Quentin. Worcester Chambers !
this loudly to the cabman as, in his boisterous way, he threw
open the doors of a hansom. " Yes, you will like it, I verily
believe. This morning, early as it was when I left North-
eaton, I met Varth Tyacke coming in to fair; and, as we've
been doing a little business for him, I stopped. He is the
farmer at Little Eaton from whom I bought you those two
skinny cows. My dear young lady, you have oddly discon-
tinued your interesting traffic in cattle. Well, now that Kerry
is dead and the things must be sold, he wants those same
animals back, but will not buy them unless Kerry's daughter
is added in the transaction. He had been up to the hut last
night and told her. Lost no time, did he? She could not
believe it, he said. She was so unaccustomed to being cared
for, that she positively could not believe it—such ninnies some
handsome women can be ! "
" I am so glad for Nancy," said Dorothy, earnestly. " She
thought no one ever could care for her. Is he "
" Yes, yes. He is an honest, well-meaning fellow, and doing
well too on his compact little farm. I hope she will listen to
him. Oh, I merely hope it because you've taken an interest
in her ! No one else ever did to my knowledge. How do you
think he put it to her?"
" Pretended the cows needed her ? " proposed'Dorothy, with a
smile ; for, as Mr. Bagot had said, this romance did please her.
" So he did ! " cried the lawyer, with a hearty laugh, and
bringing his right hand heavily down into the palm of his left.
" He told her he was obliged to have the cows, because Kerry
owed him money again ; but he would take no notice of them
and let them starve, unless she'd go with them ' as a dowry,'
and prevent their deserting again, or dying of broken hearts
That was a famous idea of Tyacke's, and I liked the fellow for
urging that plea instead of telling her how he had begun to put
by money, and how things had prospered with him. He told
me she was 4 just mazed'—that is Cornish, I presume ; but the
best bit of Cornish I heard was that he called the cows Nancy
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
323
and Nezer, because he always, he said, named his cattle after
their ' ancestors.' Ah ! laugh, do, Miss Quentin "—delightedly—
" for you won't when you get to Worcester Chambers and see
the stairs you have to climb ! I never complain, though, for I'm
Tom's abject slave in every way ; and it's to be hoped he will
remember that when he finds himself writing at his own sweet
will. Well, well, let us hope Kerry's daughter will get through
her ' maze,' and accept Tyacke's offer. She will be happy
enough and turn over a new leaf—not the easiest thing in the
world for any of us to do, is it? Yes, poor D'Eresby,
his was not a bed of roses. Perhaps it is better now.
Who knows ? Here we are Miss Quentin. Mind the stairs.
Up and up. What's that about the crazy young man they call
Excelsior, who ' saw, as he kept getting upper and upper, lots
of families sitting at supper ?" My dear young lady, I should
say you are the first person who ever laughed on Tom's stairs.
The form it takes with most is cramp. This is the door. One
moment before you open it, because I—I've to go down for
something I've forgotten. I never had any memory worth
speaking of. You'll hear now all that you've been patiently
waiting for me to tell you. When do you think of returning to
Lynhead, Miss Quentin—just in case, you know, Tom hinders
you, and my train won't wait ?"
" I !" said Dorothy, with a troubled glance into his face.
" Never. They can never forgive me. I have cut myself off
for ever from their—remembrance."
" Don't you think," observed Mr. Bagot, almost placidly,
"that poor D'Eresby's death takes away all need of secrecy
about—anything ?"
" I owned myself criminal," she said, very low, " yet would
not meet inquiry, or help to clear their horrible suspense. How
can they ever forgive me—they who love him so ? "
Mr. Bagot, noticing that she spoke of " they," not " he," and
misconstruing her meaning, answered with unnatural joviality,
" Why, bless me, we need not so utterly despair of his re-
covery ! I have hopes myself, and " He stopped and
turned the subject. She looked—as he told his wife afterwards like
someone watching by her dead. " Now what else was I going
to say? Did you know the cause of that mean haste of Lady
Letitia Chilton's to follow to London quickly on your steps, not
knowing what might be your farther destination ? It was the
wish to have you with her on your father's return, because he
had telegraphed to her, as well as to me, from Liverpool. I
telegraphed back to him begging him to stay here in town. I
had your address ; but I did not know that Mr. Hancorne's
hpuse was where you would wish him to go. So—so—my dear
young lady, your eyes ask me a hundred questions at once.
324
DOROTHY'S VENlURF.
Well, you will be answered in Tom's room, though Tom is out,
safely wrapped in newspapers at the office. For this"—with a
cheery laugh—" is the address I gave."
As he spoke, Mr. Bagot opened the door for Dorothy, and
after he had closed it upon her, went downstairs,, whistling
and treading noisily. But neither of the occupants of his
brother's little bachelor sitting-room heard a sound of this.
At last the girl was held within her father's arms ! At last
the father's happy eyes rested on the face that was dearest to
him in the world, and yet which he so long had shrunk from
looking upon ! At last ! And while he kissed her, as if he
never could leave off, her glad cry of "Father !" seemed to
fill and satisfy his hungry heart.
It was quite a long time after this before any sensible words
were uttered by either father or child ; and even then they
were interrupted often for loving words of nonsense, or a fond
caress. But at last Dorothy, heaving a long sigh as if her heart
were overcharged with happiness, asked him of his long silence
" Not that it seems to matter now in this good hour," she said.
"Did it matter much even then, Jerry?" her father asked,
with tender drollery.
" Oh, so much !"
He looked down in the sweet grave face, then drew her close
within his arm and kissed her again.
"My pet, it mattered more to me ; yet my worst fear was
lest you should doubt my love. Stay, I.can tell you without
many words ; and Mr. Bagot has most kindly given me this
opportunity of seeing my little girl alone. He stopped my
going on to Lynhead, and promised you should meet me here.
I did not know then that you had left Mr. Yorke's house. You
must tell me of that afterwards ; and all will be right now. I
telegraphed from Liverpool to Lady Letitia, because I had, in a
certain sense, confided you to her charge, and I fancied she
would have kindly felt still a remnant of that responsibility.
Why do you shudder ? Was she worse than her word to my
little girl for that short time ? "
" I do not mind her ; I do not think of her," said Dorothy,
with the impetuosity of real pain, as her thoughts flew from
that waiting time in Dover to the story she had only this
morning heard. " But oh, father, how I longed for you ! "
" At that time, my pet, I was lying ill in Paris—very ill. Oh,
I am all right now !" he added, with a laugh, and tenderly
stroking her bright hair as she studied his face. " I got well
again, though I suppose it was scarcely expected of me. It was
a fever of some kind ; but we will forget it now. I was, when
conscious, terribly anxious about you, but solaced myself with
Dorothy's venture.
'325
the reflection that Lady Letitia had promised to keep you in
her care until I joined you, and would do so, even though I
should be late. Well, dear, as soon as I was able to sit up
again, and was allowed to read my letters, a great surprise
awaited me. I found the letters Mr. Pugh had forwarded to
me of—my wife's, and all my plans were changed, just as I
began to feel that I soon might join you. Jerry, if you had
known the agony it was to me to read those letters her dear
hand had traced so long ago, you would understand how it was
I had for twelve long years been too weak and cowardly to
even see—her child. I could not bear it ! "
"I understand," said Dorothy, gently, for the broken, agitated
voice told her much.
" Even as a child you were so exactly like her that I felt it
would bring back the old agony, and that another parting would
be—for me—another death. All through your schooldays I
travelled and employed myself without settling at the old home,
avoiding my child, but always grateful to hear of her and from
her, and looking forward to be afstronger and a happier fellow
when her studying days should be over, and we need not be
separated again. This was my one consoling thought when I
felt I had been restored to life after that illness in Paris ; but
suddenly one hour showed me that it could not yet be.
Your mother had never spoken to me, dear, of this wish
of hers that, after your studies were over, you should go
for a time to the English home where she was so
generously received and loved ; • but I understood it all as I
read what she had written—years ago, when perhaps she felt
the time too far away to speak of it—death came suddenly at
last, dear. She had told me all her wishes thus, sending the
letters to Mr. Pugh, to be given, some to you, some to me, and
one to Mr. Yorke, when your education was complete. She
begged me to let you fulfil this wish of hers—to try if you could
repay in any way, however small, the debt of love she owed
them—and to leave you to fulfil it unhelped, unhindered, un-
disturbed. This set me deeply pondering, Jerry—but I must
drop that old name now, my darling, mustn't I ? I felt that I
could not bear another parting so soon, and then another
silence, so I decided that, instead of taking my little girl with
me back to the States, I would go alone and wind up my affairs
there, and so return to be free for our life together—either
roving or at rest, just as my child should choose. Thus I
should leave you free to fulfil your mother's wish unbiassed,
even as she desired. I fear I thought it an eccentric and rather
childish idea ; but her wish was always my wish, whatever hers
might be ; and you are too like her, dear one, not to have acted
just as she would have done."
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Oh, father," said Dorothy, in a low, sad voice, " wherever
she would have done good, I did—only—harm."
" Of course I arranged with Pugh to hear constantly of you.
I could not have been satisfied without that; and Mr. Bagot
crossed to Paris and arranged all with me, after I had tele-
graphed to them that I should go the States, instead of to
England. Mr. Pugh is one of the good friends she made when
she was—just as her child is now."
" How grateful she was ! " sighed Dorothy, softly stroking the
hand at her waist, as her father kissed her for the hundredth
time. " And I know how good they could be to—anyone."
" They were indeed to her, my pet, and to you, as I soon
knew. I heard everthing from Pugh ; and I was so proud and
glad; yet jealous, too, of everyone at Lynhead—especially of
the squire."
" I am glad you heard, father," sighed Dorothy, wondering
why those words should have relieved her so; "but I
Yet Mr. Pugh thought he made me always comfortable by his
constant assurance that I should hear from you presently."
"Now tell me more of yourself, dear. We must go soon;
and I have so much to hear."
" But are we to separate again ?"
" Only for a day, of course. You must win your friend's
permission to go on to Lynhead with me to-morrow."
"To Lynhead ? Oh, father, no ! I have forfeited their love;
and ungratefully repaid their kindness !"
" Nonsense, nonsense ! Then how did my little girl manage
to win all hearts ? And—has she left hers in the quaint and
beautiful old place? You see I know it, though I was never
within twenty miles of it, and have not yet heard your de-
scription."
. "You know it from what mother has said?" asked Dorothy,
softly.
"That"—with a sigh—"was the Lynhead of twenty years
ago ! but the Lynhead of the present is as well known to me,
and through one who loved it still more dearly. One of the
Yorkes has been with me all these months."
■ "Father!"
"Yes, dear. "Why such wonderful astonishment; I mean
the squire's eldest son. He was always your mother's friend—
boy as he was—and mine afterwards. He chanced to be in
Paris when 1 was there ; and he stuck tome kindly, and nursed
me like a woman. He was, in fact, just what—having listened
to your mother—you would imagine a Yorke to be. But I
believe there was another boy whom she loved even better, and
a sister who died—you were her namesake, Geraldine. The
others were mere children. This eldest son, Josslyn, though he
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
327
has dropped the Josslyn now, is the only one you do not know.
He is, as it were, separated from his family. There has been
no quarrel ; but there was a suspicion against him ; and he
was too proud to refute it, because he had in stern reality most
sorely hurt his father's pride and honour, and as he felt his
exile was deserved for one fault, he would not deny a greater
one. I am confident that he felt sure it was not really credited
against him. It was the whisper of a heartless crime, and
would have been as impossible to him as—well, as the genial
friendship I have experienced from him, and the generosity I
have witnessed in him, would be to a man who could commit it!
But he knew that in one way he had dragged down the good
old name ; and so he tacitly accepted his banishment from
home. Then, being restless and alone, he wisely came with me,
as pleasant a companion, Jerry—Dorothy, as your poor lonely
father could have had, the company of his little girl being
denied him."
" And he is with you here ?" asked Dorothy ; while her father
wondered over her sudden paleness.
" Not in Mr. Bagot's rooms, dear, certainly, but in London—
yes. Why, he is as innocent as "
" Oh, I know, I know," the girl said, eagerly ; " and I want
to speak to you of him ! Will you do me a great, great favour ?
Will you come to see me at Mr. Hancorne's house, and bring
Mr. Yorke ? This is the address."
As she hurriedly and nervously spoke, her face pale in her
intense anxiety, but her eyes radiantly bright, she wrote the
address at Mr. Bagot's table.
" But I heard that you were visiting your old friend Miss
Baring."
" Oh, I forgot you knew !" she said, pushing back her hair,
with a smile that was first sorry and then glad. " Yes, father,
I am visiting Truth ; and Mr. Hancorne is her uncle. Will
you bring Mr. Yorke there, and never mention Truth's name to
him ? I will tell you why."
Then gravely, in a few words, she told Truth's story—now,
when she felt at last she could—and just as gravely then, he
told her Josslyn Yorke's, as he knew it.
" May it be to-day that you will come ?" pleaded Dorothy.
" What time exactly—exactly ? Shall we say four—to the
minute ? Will you, father ? "
" Too late. I cannot wait for four. Say three. And we
are to be to the minute, are we ? I must have you all to myself."
''You are sure Mr. Yorke will come ? "
" Indeed he will, to see my little girl. He has been looking
forward to it, and he well may, after all I have dinned into his
weary ear§ about her. He is rather too indifferent to ladies, I
328
Dorothy's venture.
think, and I often tell him he is more like a widower than an
unmarried man. My dear, you are actually trembling. You
must not feel things so, or I shall take you to the backwoods,
where you can have no one to feel for but your old dad. Now
for violent shopping ! You shall see how well I can choose
dresses and jewels and luxuries you've never even dreamed of.
How beautiful I will make you, my own pet, though as for that
I need not "
" I want to speak to you."
" Plenty of time, dear. You shall speak to me all day and
every day, and of everybody—with one exception. Spare
me Lady Letitia Chilton. Now for the sealskins and "
" No, father, nothing, please. I have you."
" I fear," said Mr. Quentin, a little huskily, " that you have
been but scantily supplied with money, pet ; but that was one
of—the arrangements. You were not to go as a rich girl among
your mother's kind friends, who were not rich. You could
have done nothing then, though you must be a little older
before you can understand the subtleties of that question.
Never mind that now. You will have everything that money
can buy."
" Father"—Dorothy stood facing him, her hands in his, and
her eyes beautiful in their tender earnestness—" I guess one
thing. I was told to tell everything to Mr. Pugh—everything
that I thought could benefit anyone at Lynhead—and, father,
I think you did things for them—through Mr. Pugh. I told
him of that Mr. Hoffmann, and—did you pay him ? And it all
seemed so natural and right, as Mr. Bagot put it; and
Oh, father, I see now ! And that poor Miss Rosahn's legacy !
I had only to wish, and all was done."
" It was not much," said Mr. Quentin,tranquilly ; "not much
to do in gratitude for what they had done for her, Jerry ; and I
could not not get at Anthony's debts, and so save Trevor's
commission. I did just what I could, and it was easier while I
was unknown, and you were there as a girl with a small allow-
ance, and a father who was not only not rich, but not even
considerate for her. Thank Heaven that's all at an end now !
The three months your mother fixed upon as the shortest time,
are more than over, and once more you are my little girl—mine
only. And you have no idea how rich I am, Jerry ! "
" And so am I—now," the girl said, softly.
" Then off we go for the satins and pearls and feathers."
"Father, please first let me go back and see Truth and
prepare her. Are you quite, quite sure that Mr. Yorke will
come 1"
" I wish I were as quite, quite sure, dear, that he would co me
with us afterwards to Lynhead,''
Dorothy's venture. 329
" Perhaps he will go," said Dorothy, sadly, " when he hears of
his brother's illness. But I can never go, father—not even with
you ! Not even you can persuade me, knowing what I have
done. May I tell you this afternoon ? We two shall be
together. Oh, what joy it is to have you ! "
And the girl's tremulous lips fell softly on his sleeve, as if her
joy were far too deep for words.
CHAPTER LI 11.
"A sound shall quicken content to bliss,
Or a breath suspend the blood's best pUy."
"No wonder you were long away to-day, Dorothy! I only
marvel how you could come back to me at all from your father.
Do you know I was haunted for months by your pitiful disap-
pointment at Dover ? Why did he not come back with you ?
Dull as our house is, he would have had you."
" He is coming," said Dorothy, her cheeks brightly pink, as
she glanced at a gorgeous timepiece on a cheffonier near Truth's
low chair. She had chatted brightly all through luncheon ; but
now that she and Miss Baring were alone, and three o'clock
drawing so near, her calmness became an effort to her.
"Truth," she said, sitting childishly at Truth's side upon the
thick white rug, and looking down as she laid Truth's cool hand
against her cheek, " what do you think that I would give if some
one loved me as Josslyn Yorke loves you ?"
" Did love me once—or thought he did," was the sad correc-
tion. " It will never be so for you, Dorothy. I believe some
women are born to love, and some to be loved. There is a great
difference."
" Either would be unhappiness by itself," said Dorothy,
struggling against the memories Truth's words had evoked.
"If I tell you one thing, Truth, you will know how I can—feel
for you. I too love Josslyn Yorke Oh, my dear, do not
start so !"
" It is not true ! " panted the elder girl.
"Yes, it is true," said Dorothy, gravely. " I love him as—I
suppose "—humbly—" as women generally love. But I have
done what will separate me from him for ever. Is that not
worse than your separation ?"
"Who? Who?" faltered Truth, her white and stricken face
telling all Dorothy could wish to know of the vigorous life of the
love which she had tried to represent 3s dead,
33°
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Oh, Truth, my dear," cried Dorothy, seeing this, "what pain
I must have given you ! But I will cure all with my good news.
Truth, I never saw the Josslyn Yorke you love. As you"—
with a faint, tender smile—"never saw the Josslyn Yorke I—so
dearly love. Go back in your memory, Truth, to that day at
Dover when you showed me those few pages in your diary.
Yes, you remember—I see you do. When I went to Lynhead,
I remembered this always. I never could forget what I had
read, and what you had suffered ; and Josslyn—the eldest son
it seemed, as you had said—was the only one whom I could
never make my friend. Your face, your sorrow always came
between. Oh, my dear, my dear, all this while, as I knew after-
wards, I was fighting in my heart against a love which was
stronger than—my life ! "
" And he ?" asked Truth, below her breath.
" He loved me and told me so, and never understood. Oh, how
he—so manly, so truthful, so straightforward—must have won-
dered over my Ah, what word is there to tell of my mean
prejudice and hateful behaviour ? When I understood, it was too
late. That is all my story. My life's story, I think, ends there.
You understand, Truth? The Josslyn Yorke you knew and
loved had gone away, and his younger brother had to take the
name—all the three brothers had been baptized Josslyn—and
became his father's heir. The eldest son was never mentioned,
and so I had no clue, and only knew—too late. But it is of
your friend I want to tell you. Years ago he, in a boyish,
heedless way ; but I do not excuse him, as perhaps you will,"
with a brave little smile, " was led into proposing marriage to a
lovely, worthless, low-born girl who lived in scarce honest
poverty near Lynhead. He had soon repented of his in-
fatuation, and had unmistakably shown her so. She told me
this herself—oh, you may stare, my dear, but I am not like
you, you know ; I had a dear old potter grandfather,
and I go to curious places and speak to curious people
—and that, when she and a very scheming mother failed to
win him to a fulfilment of this promise, she in desperation
followed him to Cornwall. When even that step was unavailing,
they—others perhaps assisting or advising—invented a wicked
lie against him, and sent to Lynhead, to his father, a man
who was paid to swear that he had been bribed by young Mr.
Yorke to cause the death of his aunt, whose wealth he was to
inherit. This man's oath was never contradicted by young Mr.
Yorke— Ah, Truth, how good it is to see you smile at the
possibility of such guilt ! They say he was too proud ; but of
course, my dear, he knew that no one who cared for him ever
would believe it, while he knew himself to blame in the other
matter. Though his father would not pay that sailor to keep
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
331
silence, as the man had expected, he did believe what the
woman told of his son's promise to her daughter—rwhich she
represented as a late promise, and not of years before—
and so told him he would have to marry the woman, but
that she should never fill his mother's place; and so his
second son should be his heir, being Josslyn Yorke from
that day—his kfirstborn being as if dead to him. He—he"—
Dorothy went on, unconscious of the strange tenderness in
her tones—"was always his father's favourite, and I have
heard that some were glad. But he never considered himself
heir to Lynhead and eldest son—never, even though his
brother wrote no word to any of them, and they did not
know even where he was. No, he never accepted the position;
and when he had to sell out of the Army, not for his own
fault, he even went into business. Truth, you understand all
now ? The eldest son was in Norway—now you understand ?—
when his father's letter reached him ; and you know now why
he left you. You see now why he could not marry while this
woman and her mother held over him the threat of going to law
if he neglected his promise to her. That would have broken
his father's heart, so he has married no one. I have
heard that he did not—does not fret for his inheritance
because he loves his brother very dearly, and because he
has the fortune his aunt left him ; but I know he has
fretted for some one he loves. And now, Truth dear, I
have seen the woman who lured him to that boyish courtship—
though that is no excuse for any man, and you must not say it
is—and she is married ; so he is free. You understand, dear?
I went to her for his father's sake, and all is clear now. Oh,
Truth "—tenderly touching the pale, dark face which had lost
now all its coldness and all its bitterness—"is it not your
blessing now to love and to be beloved ? "
"But," faltered Truth, her fingers strained in their clasp, "he
will never come to me. It is so long ago. He has forgotten me."
" I do not think so," Dorothy answered, calmly as it seemed;
"but perhaps father will know."
" Your father, Dorothy ! Is it possible ?" cried Truth, looking
nervously up at her companion, who had risen now.
" It is very possible," said Dorothy, with a smile. " It is
three o'clock—at last."
Almost at that very moment she heard the footsteps, and
went slowly from Truth's side, crossing the large, bright room
quite calmly, as it seemed, though her heart was beating wildly
in her fear of having been unwise.
" Mr. Quentin," a servant announced, just as she reached the
door ; and Dorothy, meeting her father, and linking her hand in
his arm, led him away ; while the gentleman who was with him
33 2
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
passed mechanically on into the room, and the door was closed
upon him and Truth.
" Now come with me," said Mr. Quentin, gaily. "There are
a hundred things I long to buy you. I must be doing something
for my little girl."
It was a very happy afternoon the father and daughter spent
together, though Dorothy's thoughts went so often longingly to
that sick-room at Lynhead, and sometimes anxiously to Truth ;
and, when they returned, Dorothy had indeed been lavishly
supplied with loving gifts.
" I hope Mr. Yorke will still be here," she said, when they
reached the house again. " I liked his face."
" Why, you could have caught only a passing glimpse, dear!"
" But that showed me ; and I knew him before by his
photograph."
" Oh, I see ! Well, I like it too ; and you and I know life
better than that Roman fogy did who four thousand years ago
advised us not to judge men by the countenance. I shall be
glad to see you and him becoming friends."
But a surprise awaited them. Though Miss Baring met them
with a glad face which Dorothy scarcely recognized, Mr. Yorke
had left her an hour before.
" In telling him," Truth simply said, " all that you had said to
me, Dorothy, of course I spoke of his brother's illness ; and
after that he never hesitated for a moment. I think he had
meant to go ever since he knew Mr. Bagot could tell Mr. Yorke
the truth about what Dorothy had discovered ; but he would
not "—blushing vividly—" have gone quite so soon unless he
had heard that sad news of his brother. Then he would not
delay even for—would not miss the very first train. It seemed
as if he could not bear such an anxiety, and he was determined
to catch the express."
"Were you very sorry?" asked Dorothy, wistfully, unaware
that her eyes betrayed how this very determination had won
her heart.
" I was glad," said Truth, loyally. " It was like him. Mr.
Ouentin, he begged you would follow him."
"You hear that, Jer—Dorothy? How soon can you be
ready ? "
" I cannot come, father. I could not do such a—a—dis-
honourable thing for any persuasions—even of yours, dear—not
any "—with quaint firmness. " Mr. Bagot will tell you why. I
have told all to Truth. It would be wicked, father; and—oh !
go alone—do, my dear; and I shall hear from you, and be so
grateful, and—and happier."
" Then what shall I say for you ?"
" Nothing—npthing. They will never ask. They would
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
333
never listen. You will understand, when they tell you all, how
they can never forgive me."
"I am not afraid," said Mr. Quentin, with a kiss. " Then,
if you wish it, I will go by the first morning train, if I may spend
the evening here, Miss Baring."
Very warmly and pleasantly Truth seconded this plan—having
indeed never meditated ony other—while Dorothy still was
lost in wonder over the change in her.
" Aren't you very happy, Truth ?" she whispered once : and
even the smile was answer enough.
"He has loved me ever since, Dorothy," she whispered
back ; " only me. And I was "
" Yes ; you were," said Dorothy, with a quaint little nod.
All through the evening Dorothy clung almost childishly to
her father, as if his presence saved her from her sad and
frightened thoughts, while Truth sat often wrapped in happy
musing, unconscious of their very presence ; but, when Mr.
Quentin rose to leave, they were all sorry that the peaceful
hours were at an end.
"Is there really no message to take to anyone at Lynhead
from my little girl ? " he asked, as he bade her good-night.
" No, father, indeed. You would try to excuse and justify
me, and it was too great a wrong. But in time perhaps—in a
long time—if I pray, and wait "
His tender kiss interrupted her ; but his words were sus-
piciously brief.
From his cab he looked back and saw the two girls standing
in the brightly-lighted hall, looking after him ; and he smiled,
and thought what a pretty picture they made, and what a great
beautifier joy was, though even in her perfect content Truth
Baring was not beautiful as was his daughter in the gravity ot
this parting moment.
On the seventh evening after this, Mr. Bagot looked on just
the same picture, and thought how fear and trouble and sus-
pense could change even the youngest and prettiest of faces.
Dorothy had come out into the hall, hearing his voice, and
again was standing in the lamplight, Truth beside her, anxious
and loving.
Mr. Bagot had stood silent for a few moments, and by this
had puzzled Dorothy, as he had never puzzled her by his most
random and irrelevant speeches ; then he had looked down at
Truth—not Dorothy—and asked her whether Miss Quentin
could be at Euston within one hour, and he would meet her
there and take charge of her.
"Why?"—the word was a cry as it came from Dorothy's
lips.
334 dorothy's venture.
" Because," said the lawyer, addressing her now almost
sternly, " you had better come with me. to Lynhead by the
next train, Miss Quentin, if you wish to see again, and bid
farewell to, your old friend Josslyn Yorke."
CHAPTER LIV.
" My thought must fly to rest on thee,
And would—though world's should intervene."
During the drive to Euston Dorothy was very silent, feeling no
constraint in Truth's presence, because Truth now knew all.
Mr. Bagot seemed very much engrossed, and even brusque,
but it only made Dorothy more anxious not to be a trouble to
him, or a tie upon him. He chose a carriage where an elderly
lady and gentleman sat opposite to each other; and he put
down a handful of illustrated papers beside Dorothy when she
had taken her seat. Then, while Truth still stood at the door, he
went away again to fetch her a novel, and, after hurrying at the
last minute into the recess opposite to her, he rose, when they
were fairly off, and settled himself at the farther end of the
compartment, on the same side as she sat, with the elderly lady
between them. From that moment he seemed to be buried in
his papers ; and Dorothy fancied that he did not once again
glance towards her. Long afterwards she wondered what the
novel had been which she held open in her hands while she
gazed from the window, not even seeing the autumn landscape
through which she flew. But, when the train ran into the
Northeaton station, her suspense was so acute and painful that
she dared not look whether anyone awaited them upon the
platform, but leaned back, with blanched lips as well as cheeks,
while Mr. Bagot passed her and descended.
"No one to meet us," he said, giving her his hand ; " but I
daresay a carriage is here." Yet, when he found there was not,
it struck Dorothy curiously that he was relieved. " We shall
soon be there," he muttered, as they stood waiting for a cab to
draw up ; but after that he again relapsed into silence and left
Dorothy to her own thoughts.
How often she had passed along this familiar road, both alone
and with others ! How often lately with Mr. Yorke—oftenest
of all, perhaps with Anthony—yet the one recollection which
filled her heart and memory was that summer evening drive
with Josslyn, when he had told her what she was to him, and
she had seemed so cruel and so frivolous. Dreamily she looked
across at the grand old avenue, still closed, and remembered
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
335
how the squire had told her it was to be opened for his funeral.
Ah, he had never thought of any other funeral going from
Lynhead !
How beautiful the old house looked this afternoon, touched
by the frail bright autumn sunshine ! No one met then even
at the porch, and Dorothy walked sadly up the quadrangle.
Carpe diem quam How even the half-defaced old motto
round the dial, which it was such a habit of hers to read in
passing, mocked her now ! Mr. Bagot still lingered with the
cabman ; and Dorothy was suddenly aware of a new blank
loneliness. Was she for the first time in her life to ring the
great entrance-bell as if she were a stranger? Yes, for surely
it was right that she should be a stranger now. Her fingers
closed upon the iron handle hanging beside the wide old oaken
door ; but while she hesitated—positively flinching from the act
—the door was opened ; and she looked up to meet Anthony's
silent gaze. He did not speak, but he threw the door wide and
gave her both his hands ; and this friendly Unexpected greeting
brought the tears to her eyes. But they were only few and
painful tears, and did not fall; they only added to the great
sorrow in her eyes.
In another moment Sophy's kiss was on her cheek; and
suddenly there seemed to her bewildered senses to be quite a
crowd of faces, all saddened by the sorrow she had come to
meet—so she felt, unconscious that her own hopeless thoughts
could see them only thus.
" Come up to your room," whispered Sophy, seeing that the
girl was dazed. " Come." And Sophy led her along the
quaint old passages which she seemed to have left so long ago,
and talked to her almost cheerfully—Sophy was always so
easily won from any anxiety ! " Ethel has not gone away, you
see," she said, speaking almost briskly while she helped Dorothy
to undress, and vainly tried to make her take some refreshment.
" She was staying, you know, for the wedding ball ; but we
had to put that off, of course ; and she would not leave me
What made you shiver ? By the way, you did not seem a bit
astonished to see Alice, Dorothy." Alice ! Had she been
among them ? There must be no hope indeed if Alice had
come home. " We did not send for her, but she heard. Are
you ready, dear ? "
Dorothy turned, half gropingly putting her hand into Sophy's;
but as the two girls went silently downstairs together, and up
to the bright wood fire in the hall, not only were Dorothy's
eyes dim and bewildered, so that she could not at first dis-
tinguish the faces, but a surging sound in her ears made the
voices' unintelligible. Yet of her father's absence she was
acutely cognizant; and its explanation seemed clear to her—
336
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
he would not witness her grief! She thought long hours were
dragging by while she kept at Sophy's side ; but they were only
moments, and her gentle answers never betrayed that pathetic
cry in her heart—that no one could know how she loved him,
or they would let her go to him, if only for that terrible farewell.
She could not ask for him, though again and again she tried to
school herself to utter the words. She heard some one enquire
anxiously after Truth, and she knew this must be the squire's
eldest son. Could she ask him ? She lifted her eyes with a
wistful, searching look ; and he smiled.
" I wish she were at Lynhead now," he said, as if she too
must be thinking of Truth ; "but when Alice returps she will
win her friendship ; and I may fetch her soon."
No, she could not even ask this brother of Josslyn's ; and
she was wondering why she was glad that he was so much
more like Anthony than Josslyn, when suddenly he turned and
looked away from her. Then they all seemed to turn ; and
she looked eagerly where they were looking, vaguely feeling
that some one was coming who could tell her of him—his
doctor, perhaps ! But in an instant she lifted her hands to
her temples, as if that would quiet the wild tumult at her heart;
for there was Josslyn coming to her, his figure wasted, but
with the old upright bearing still—as he came straight to her;
his face thin and delicate as she had never seen it, but the
eyes beautiful and steadfast—seeing only her. Her breath was
hurried and painful ; but, when he took both her hands in his,
and she met his look of worldless gratitude, her eyes held his,
beautiful with perfect happiness. Just then her father came
behind her and laid one gentle hand upon her shoulder,
speaking a little brokenly—
" It was a stratagem, my dear. We could not get you here by
other means, so we deceived you a little. I had tried in vain,
and others tried ; and you were making everyone anxious as
well as impeding somebody's recovery. So I consented when
Mr. Bagot proposed this little deception, which yet was no
deception."
" Consented under protest," amended the lawyer, in quite his
old boisterous manner. " I had a great deal of difficulty in
making anyone see the thing as I saw it; but people always
come round to my way of thinking—if they are sound in the
brain. I had to leave a note for Miss Baring, explaining all;
I could not trust her to know before we were safely off. Ah, it
takes a man of law, successfully to execute a fraud—not that
this is a fraud, though—not a bit of it, Miss Quentin—for this
is indeed your farewell to—and your last sight of—your old
friend, Josslyn Yorke. As soon as you are thoroughly recon-
ciled to that, we may pronounce him to be no more."
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
337
" And offer a welcoming hand to Trevor," put in Mr. Quentin-
suiting the action to the words, and so releasing Dorothy's hands'
" Mr. Bagot did not tell me of this plan of his, Dorothy,'
Trevor said, in quiet earnestness. " I suppose he guessed that
I never should have agreed. I knew—as we all did—that you
would not come ; but I was hastening to get well, that I might
fetch you."
" Dorothy," whispered Alice, "this is very trying for Trevor.
He ought to go into our sitting-room. He is accustomed to the
old giant sofa there.'"'
" Help me," he asked her, gently laying his hand upon her
dark cloth sleeve, but without leaning.
With a grave and anxious face, she led him into the familiar
room, while yet there was a perfect tempest in her heart. But,
when they had entered the room, he drew his hand away and
closed the door, leaning against it, his face growing paler even
than it had been.
"Dorothy," he said, "have you come back—to me? Or
only—as it was before ?"
" It never can be as it was before," she answered, brokenly.
" I must go away again, unless you can forgive me ?"
" Forgive my Dorothy, do you forget you saved my life ?"
" Saved you ! I ? Oh, I wish you knew ; it is so terrible to
tell! It was my fault. It was I who—did all."
" I understand," he said, gently, with none of the horror
Dorothy had feared to see. " I seemed to guess, even at first;
then what Bagot told me made it clearer ; and then my brother
knew all, having heard it from your friend. Dorothy, you
saved me from death, and you saved D'Eresby from—worse.
It was no injury to me."
" Oh, yes ! " she cried. " It seemed as if I did not care for
your sufferings—though it almost killed me—or for justice for
you. In every way it was all my fault."
" I know—at least, I think I know, dear, for I of all men
ought—what you were to him, poor fellow ! Do you think I
forget that day I saw you first in Dover—the sunrise of my life
—when you stood in danger yourself to help that obstinate
woman ? I asked you if you always stood by your friends in the
time of danger. You have indeed."
" Then I was not your friend," she said, softly, with pained
and anxious questioning in her eyes.
"No, not my friend," he answered, with passionate quietness,
" but my love—my blessing ! Is it, Dorothy ?"
" Is it what ?" she questioned, very low,
" Dorothy, have you brought me the gift for which I have
longed, and striven, and prayed ? I know that you and Avory
have parted. Dorothy,are yju my own at last?"
z
538
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
"If you still care."
" My own ! " he whispered, drawing her to him with a tearless
sob. " At last my own ! But "—his face still very pale, though
his eyes were glad and steadfast—" I must remind you of one
thing, Dorothy. I am not what I was when first I asked you
for your love, my I must not take my gift until you
understand."
" You came in here to lie down," suggested Dorothy,
demurely.
" That was Alice's excuse," he said, with a smile. " I have
left off being quite dependent ; and, if I had not, this joyful
day would have cured me. But I must tell you, my I
never considered myself my father's heir, Dorothy ; and, if any
power of mine would have prevented it, it would have been
prevented in any case. But others thought me so ; and I am
nothing now. I would like to tell you how generous Josslyn h^is
been. He wished me still to be—what my father had made me ;
but I would not, of course. I ought to tell you this before I let
you give yourself to me. I am only a man of business.
" I am proud of men of business," the girl said, sedately
linking one of her fingers into a button-hole of his coat. " My
ideal man is the potter of the last generation, only equalled, I
think, by a general merchant of the present day."
" Oh, Dorothy, my blessing, there is one thing more ! I am
a poor man too, and not even strong as I was when I pleaded
so daringly for your love before. I am only a weak effeminate
fellow just now ! "
" Only a weak effeminate fellow just now ! " she reiterated,
with gentle drollery. " Only a poor man ! Only a man of
business ! And one thing more. Only "—the wild-rose colour
deepening richly in her cheeks—" my heart's beloved !"
" And you do not call me mean," he said, drawing her
closely in his arms, his chest heaving with emotion, "for
trying to win my beloved wife while my life must have struggles
and defeats ?"
"I am no judge," said Dorothy, quaintly; "but for not
taking what your brother offered' I like you better."
"And for winning my heart's darling now I am poor? "
"You did not," she said, softly stroking the thin, brownhand
she held. "That was done long ago. And so," she added,
presently, in his weighty silence, "you are not Josslyn now ? I
am so glad. It was Josslyn whom I unjustly and wickedly
despised before I saw him. It was Josslyn whom I would not
even like. But it is Trevor," in a happy whisper, " whom I
more than liked, and so 'tis straight at last. As for being poor,
how could you be so, yet have given me now all that I need or
wish—I, always so covet(?us and greedy ! "
dorothy's venture. 339
" I have given you nothing now, my best and dearest. All
of mine—all of me—was yours even from that first hour in
Dover, only growing to be more yours through ever hour since.
You could not even faintly guess how I loved you. You would
not let me tell you."
" I knew though," she said, gently, " and I "
"And you?" he questioned, eagerly.
" I—loved you—quite as well."
" What, darling mine ?"
" You heard."
"Yes," he answered, with the laugh so long unheard; "but
give me the bliss of hearing it again, my best beloved."
"It is rather cold," observed Dorothy, with a backward glance.
" Not for you, dear love," he answered, understanding her.
"You always loved fresh air ; and, if I closed that window, you
would only open it again, or dislike the fire. These arrange-
ments have helped me to get well."
" Then I love the fire and the open windows," said the girl,
with happy earnestness. " I was afraid only for you." She
had tempted him now to the comfortable old sofa ; but he only
leaned against the wide end, his arm still round her, and his
eyes dwelling fondly on her face. " It was such a terrible
time !" she said, below her breath.
"Oh, no!" he answered, re-assuringly. "The bullet was
most cleverly extracted ; there is not much depth under a man's
ear for it to cut into. As our army surgeons would say, my
wounds healed on the first intention. So much depends on a
man's constitution."
" The fall, they say, made it so much more dangerous."
"Yes, I suppose so; and that was entirely my own fault. I
had no right to be mooning there with my sorrow. Oh, Dorothy,
my heart's beloved, what do I not owe you that that poor fellow
died a noble death, instead of "
" Hush!" she said, softly, afraid of her own thoughts ques-
tioning the worth of that selfish life for which his had been
given. " I wrote—I mean Mr. Bagot has been most kind ;
and he lies just where we paused one day—you and I—and you
talked of him—kindly. Oh, such a heavenly summer day it
was ! And I am going to Did you know," with a change
of tone, "that my father is very rich, Trevor, and buys me
everything you can think of."
" He will leave nothing for me to buy you."
" You are so poor," said Dorothy, solemnly.
" So poor ! " he cried, clasping her passionately. " So poor,
with my great gift ! But, Dorothy, what pleasure can I have in
earning, save to spend all on you ?"
"You are naturally of a jealous disposition, Trevor," she
340
Dorothy's venture.
observed, reflectively. " You were jealous, I remember, even
of Mr. Bounderby."
" You danced with him when you would not with me."
" You did not jump so high ! You were always jealous in old
times."
" You gave me cause, my very loved one."
" Yes, I was—a viper ! "—with an impatient contempt for
herself. " But I am not now."
" And I am not jealous now," he said, with earnest quietness,
" and never shall be again. I had no hope then—only fear. I.
can never fear again, after your given me your love."
"Now, Trevor, lie down. I am going away. I want"—
shyly—" to go for a minute into the squire's room. I want at
last to tell him of my mother's gratitude to—you all. She had
such cause for gratitude."
" If she had had ten thousand times what you fancy she had,
it would have been all repaid by what you have given me this
day, my own—my own ! I cannot believe it ! "
" I can," she answered, arranging his pillows, with a happy
light in her lovely eyes ; and he took the small white hand in
his, drawing off a little mourning-ring she wore, and carefully
measuring how far it went down upon his own finger.
" I do not want a ring," she said, hastily. "No ring is needed,
Trevor, to—bind us."
" I am not so poor as that, my loved one," he said, gently,
olding her fingers to his lips. "And even if I were, and it
host me a year's earnings Going so soon ? "
" Soon ! " she said, with happy laughter in her eyes. " I call
it late."
Dorothy did not find Mr. Yorke alone in his library ; but
still he welcomed her just as he used to do. A gentleman was
seating himself—a small old gentleman, with such a high bald
forehead that his twinkling eyes seemed midway between his
brow and chin.
" Chatfield, this is Dorothy Ouentin," Mr. Yorke said, giving
her her usual seat beside his lounging-chair. " Almost another
daughter of mine."
" Oh ! " said the old merchant, with a scrutiny which made
Dorothy blush rosily. " Don't I remember her mother, Yorke ? "
" Yes ; you ought "—smiling.
"I do"—curtly. "Well, what was I saying? I haven't
been here before, as you may be aware, for telegrams told me
all, and visitors are a bore to folk who are anxious ; but I've
come now. I hear he gets steadily better. The cool weather's
in his favour, eh, and his manner of life and healthy habits ? A
man can stand a good deal when his circulation is rapid and
Dorothy's venture.
34i
regular. Still there's a mess somehow, as usual, in England. I
tell you there won't be a proper straightening out till some great
national calamity overtakes her. So"—with a change of tone—
"you've got your eldest son back? Well, he is not to have
Lynhead, of course."
" He is," said the squire, gently laying his hand on Dorothy's
shoulder as she had half risen. " Sit down, dear. Yes, though
he declared he would not take it. He said it would not be fair,
because he had—in a way—disgraced the old name, and Trevor
never had."
"Except by going into business. Well, and Trevor accepted
the position ?"
" Indeed he did not, Chatfield. He said he never would.
Now it has all settled itself, and Josslyn says his fortune shall
free the old place from all its debts, and he will make it the
Lynhead of my younger days."
" Yes," was the glum acquiescence ; " and in the meantime his
brother is to dishonour the old name by trade—eh ? Or will he
shirk it now ?"
"Trevor is not only intending, but anxious to get back to
you," said Mr. Yorke, with a brightening of the fine old face.
" He will dine among us presently, and you will see he is on the
highway to health. It was a dreadful time, though."
" Yes, yes," was the gruff interruption ; " I'll take that on
trust. Yorke, did it ever strike you as odd that I said nothing
about your son's name being in my business ? Oh, well it would
have struck anyone else ; so 'tis the same thing ! Well, I don't
exactly despise the name myself, but I'm not going to have it
on my office doors. I made the business, and I'll be myself
the only one to kill it. Now why should you snarl?" he
queried, in the squire's patient silence. " I created it and culti-
vated it, and never had any idea of anyone benefiting by it
except myself, until—well, until that idiotic son of yours pro-
posed to come to me. I was glad he came voluntarily, though
sorry for the cause, Yorke, as you may guess. What about
Anthony ? "—abruptly.
"Josslyn wishes him to be sole agent here," returned the
squire, cheerfully, " with a fixed salary—a handsome salary too
—-and that he should, if he choose, have the agent's house,
which I know you always admire. But Josslyn says the lad shall
have a year's travel first, or as much of a year as he chooses.
Josslyn is so emphatically elder brother to Anthony, as Trevor
never seemed to be. I fear Anthony was always a little jealous
of Trevor ; Anthony and Josslyn are more alike."
" Yes," assented Mr. Chatfield, curtly. " As I was saying, it
pleased me that your lad came voluntarily into the business, as
it was too late then for him to keep the profession he liked. He
342
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
should have come to me in time to save that; but, as he did
not, it was—well, it was manly to part with it so quietly and
wish to begin again. I knew it would do him no harm, and it
gave me a new idea, always a thing to be grateful for. I had
watched him in his profession, as far as I could—I'm afraid I'd
always a sneaking fondness for the lad—and I'd seen—well, not
much meanness or dishonour. Then I watched him in business,
for I was afraid of that pride he inherited from my old Balliol
chum. But I found I had no need to fear. He showed itonlyin his
staunch inflexible uprightness,and was as thoroughly a gentleman
among his clerks as among his fellow-officers. He did the
business good, and that's no trifle for me to say who made it.
But, of course," the small eyes shrewdly twinkling, " I never
said this to him. He considered he was working his slow way
up the long incline to a junior partnership, and I let him think
it. But there's one thing I've come to tell you, and you, Miss
Quentin, so don't leave us. It hasn't been bliss unmixed to me
to see him at his desk ; but I've one satisfaction. I've made
enough—not saved, I never had the wit—to drop the business
at any moment, and secure him sufficient for his future
Don't interrupt. I shall stay in the concern as long as I like,
possibly all my life—and then it will be sold ; and that's the
reason I won't have his name in it."
"That is quite fair to Trevor," said the squire simply.
" I don't think he will be short of occupation," Mr. Chatfield
went on bluntly, " and I still less think he will be short of funds
to carry out his whims. Perhaps he can find a little estate near
Liverpool for business purposes, and far enough away for
pleasure; and he can add to it like that abominable person in
the Psalms. I shall get it him if I can. What are you trying
to say, old friend ? Who else is to have my money, pray ?
That house can be my wedding-present. Why, if he doesn't
settle within my reach, I shall be worried into my grave ; so 'tis
for my own sake, especially as it is my only chance of occasion-
ally meeting my old Balliol chum. Oh, what's the use of ever
trying to discuss any sensible topic in this house, when that
inveterate gong disturbs a man? It's always the same here.
N o peace! "
CHAPTER LV.
" The loves of our hearts can rest."
ON their return to London, Mr. and Mrs. Noyes went at once
with Josslyn to visit M:ss Baring, and from that hour Alice
Dorothy's venture.
343
sought her friendship warmly and affectionately, until, a few
weeks later, they all went together to Lynhead, for the delayed
ball which the squire considered was owing to Alice, but which
also now would celebrate Josslyn's return and introduce his
bride-elect. Truth had been met with such glad welcome that
it was to her a day never to be forgotten; and Dorothy—to
whom the festive reception chiefly had been owing—gazed with
keenest delight at her friend's happy face, and, in the light of
such a change as his return had wrought, almost thought
Josslyn all that he had seemed to her while she read of him,
as Truth's loving hand had written, on that day in Dover.
Through those few weeks, Mr. Quentin and Dorothy had
stayed at Lynhead, only going up to town now and then—
always together—because Mr. Quentin had taken a house there.
" We old travellers like London for a goal at last," he would
s.ay ; " and I must have a nook of my own there, to which, even
after we separate, Dorothy, you can come and I can go." Yet
still he seemed to appreciate the English country home, filled
as it was with memories of his wife.
Day by day Trevor grew steadily better, until he was able to
return to Liverpool ; and Dorothy would not let the parting be
a sad one. It was for so short a time, she said, her heart filled
with gratitude, as she remembered the long parting which had
been spared them.
Mr. Chatfield found just the estate he wished, and purchased
it, and Mr. Quentin soon became interested and engrossed in
its preparation. " I shall be so often there," he explained to the
merchant, " that I must have it to my taste as well as theirs."
And, as Mr. Quentin's was a finished, cultured, and rather ex-
travagant taste, the carrying out was what he alone could
accomplish.
There was one project on which Mr. Yorke's heart seemed
set; that was the solemnization of his eldest son's marriage
at Lynhead. Mr. Hancorne offered no objection—indeed,
barely concealed his own delight in the arrangement—and,
when he had desired his niece to spare no expense in her
trousseau, he felt the matter to be comfortably off his mind.
Trevor pleaded with Dorothy to let their marriage be on the
same day as his brother's, and his father seconded and urged
and solicited this ; but Dorothy would not listen.
"No," she said, gently, when Trevor implored her, "father
cannot spare me." And then, more merrily, when he said he
would win Mr. Quentin's consent, " I cannot spare father."
Many plans were discussed for the time following the wed-
ding. Mr. Quentin decided to take Dorothy abroad ; and then
it was proposed that the Lynhead party should join them, when
Josslyn and Truth returned to Lynhead after their wedding
344 Dorothy's venture.
tour. Ethel determined to go with them, Anthony to join them
all in Rome, and Trevor to go later and return with them.
" It will be wiser, Dorothy," her father said to her in con-
fidence. "Trevor is very conscientious, and has had a long
absence from business. Let him come to us, as he will be bent
on doing, and he will be my guest. Then you need not think
it necessary to travel abroad immediately after your marriage.
You understand, dear? A little later on, when he will feel he
has earned the right and power to do it well, you two will go
together and enjoy it more."
And Dorothy understood the generous thoughtfulness of this
arrangement.
Lady Ermine Courtier had been at Lynhead for the ball, but
without her brother, and had, as usual, taken Dorothy into her
confidence, but this time with a strange, defensive coldness.
"You see, Dorothy," she said, "it makes such a marked and
decided difference to me, Trevor being a merchant. He used
to be a special friend of mine ; but then he posed as the
future owner of Lynhead, and was at any rate a captain in the
Royal Artillery. Of course he can never be the same in my
thoughts again." And Dorothy said nothing, remembering so
vividly how Ermine had told her nothing could make any
difference in her thoughts of him. " I shall come to his
brother's wedding," she went on ; "then I must pay some visits
I have long neglected, and probably I shall go to Florence, and
not be able to be present at your marriage, Dorothy. I am
very sorry, for I think it a most suitable and desirable match.
I do not think that Sydney will be here for it, though he and
Trevor are such old friends—or rather were. He is visiting at
Beam Castle now, and you know—at least you would know if
you were more in our world—that the marquis's daughter is an
old love of his. She was the belle of last season, and everyone
used to say what a fine-looking couple they were, and always
together! She was the only girl I ever saw him with who did
not seem to bore him. It was well, Dorothy," Lady Ermine
went on, in a kind, calm way, "that you saw things clearly
enough to cancel your hasty engagement. Of course Sydney
could not have fulfilled it—don't be vexed with me, dear, for
speaking out—after that confession made for you in public.
The idea of such an antecedent for the Countess of Northeaton !
Certainly Trevor got Anthony lately to write and explain, but
still of course you were right to break all ties between you
beforehand."
" Lord Avory was very kind, and saw it all as I did," said
Dorothy, simply ; for there was some feeling which made her
wonderfully tender and forbearing with Lady Ermine.
And now it was the afternoon before the wedding-day, and
DOROTHY S VENTURE.
345
a merry party had gathered in the great outer drawing-room
at Lynhead, when Trevor went slowly up the steps from the
garden, hoping Dorothy would see and meet him before h*
joined the group whose voices reached him. But even whtn
they met him, the one greeting that he looked for was nm
among those that were given him.
" Dorothy is out," said Alice, after he had spoken to them
all, understanding his glance. " She is coming back in time 10
meet the five train, by which you are expected. This will be a
great surprise."
. " I had business in Chester yesterday," explained Trev
" and could not resist staying all night that I might reach here
earlier to day."
'•What an impatient fellow you are, Trev!" observed
Anthony, watching his restless glances from the window. " By-
the-way, I offered to go with Dorothy, but she would not have
me or Mr. Quentin. There she comes ! "
But Trevor had seen her first, though, after his close hand-
clasp, he would not monopolise her, but was content to see how
her coming gladdened all the room. Everyone had something
to say to Dorothy ; everyone was the brighter and merrier for
her coming ; and her lover, feasting his delighted eyes upon
the lovely face—so gay, and frank, and debonair, yet pure as
the spray of sweet Cape jasmine at her neck—had no shadow
of jealousy now upon his happy, handsome face. But it was so
hard to him to resist hovering near her—even in this first-hour
of his return, when there were many to receive his greeting—
that presently he gave up trying to resist it.
" Now for tea ! " said Sophy, as if the very sight of Dorothy
had reminded her of it.
"Now for an hour of freedom !" cried Mr. Noyes, boyish as
the youngest of them, and not at all the anxious politician to
whose measured words the guests would listen a few hours
later.
" It will beat the dinner-party," observed Josslyn, as he rang
the bell.
" It will beat the wedding," added Anthony, laughing.
" Does not Truth look happy, Trevor?" whispered Dorothy.
" Both her heart and Josslyn's must be very full of gratitude
to you this day, my darling."
"Nonsense ! Will she not make a beautiful bride? "
But, before he could answer, Dorothy was chatting with
Lady Ermine, then was listening to Mr. Yorke, then pausing to
return her father's smile.
" Oh, Mr. Bagot," she cried, suddenly," I did not see you come
in ! Let me bring your tea here."
When she came back, Trevor following her with the cup, Mr,
346
Dorothy's venture.
Bagot, glancing shrewdly up into the two faces, broke into one
of his old, cordial laughs.
" A nice shock it was for me to come and find the Lynhead
of old—the noble avenue smooth and passable ; the grand, old
gates wide open; the fine east entrance shining a positive
invitation and welcome. Bless me, how can a man of my
equilibrium get over it? Your doing—so the squire says, Miss
Dorothy."
" Her doing," affirmed Trevor, laughing to see Dorothy blush,
" though it strikes me the squire promised her not to
tell that. She gave him no peace uutil he ordered it to be
done."
" Quite right too," asserted Mr. Bagot. " ITnot for the heir's
marriage, then what for, pray ? For certainly that funereal plan
of his was most depressing. How delighted Pugh will be to
hear that this is again the Lynhead of his remembrance ! Ah,
but I've far more important and enlivening news for you ! My
brother saw Oxley in the town the other day—there ! Aren't
you rejoiced? He had left off these long whiskers of his
which always made me listen for a purring sound, and disports
in a clever imitation of Captain Yorke's moustache." Mr.
Bagot had never dropped the old military title. "Tom
considers he looks too prosperous to last, so we will wait and
see ; but general roguery pays for a time. Fools will be
taken in, you know, and so there must needs be knaves to take
them. Doesn't Byron say, ' Man may despoil his brother-man
of all?"'
"'Save,'" supplemented Dorothy, smiling, "'a heart that
loves without self-love.' "
" Oh, that's it, is it ?"
"Dorothy," said Sophy, joining her a little later, "father
wants you to sing. Alice is planning how I am to spend next
season in town with her."
" Mr. Bounderby will call upon you every day," observed
Dorothy, calmly, as she went to the piano. " No music, thank
you, Trevor ; " and then she sang that little song of Mendels-
sohn's to which he had listened in the wood unseen, and for
which he had vainly pleaded afterwards. In spite of the merry
glance she gave him, the song was sung for her father. Would
he remember who used to sing it ?
" It isn't half so beautiful as it was when your mother sang
it, Jerry," he tranquilly observed when she had finished.
" How is that ?"
" Perhaps because," she explained, quietly, " you are not in
love with the singer now."
" I don't know that," he answered, drily. But the laugh had
averted any suspicion of his wet eyes,
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
347
" Miss Baring," whispered Dorothy, when presently Truth
took her seat at the piano, " what do you say now to the fitness
of repeating some of the Musical Poems? For instance, for
yourself the ' Love Song,' then the ' Bridal Song,' and for me
the 'Fortune-Teller.'"
It was while Truth played that Trevor, at last, won Dorothy
into the inner drawing-room, which had been tacitly left to the
wooing of the coy, sweet twilight by the bold flashing glances of
the fire.
" At last, my love ! " he said, and now could kiss her. " Give
me one minute. I have waited very patiently for this, and let
you talk with all. Surely it is my turn now, and you have one
word for me ?"
" Several. First of all, I have such a gorgeous dress for this
evening, Trevor—father's present. You never saw me gorgeous,
did you ?"
"Never, and never shall. But I never saw you anything
but lovely, little Vanity."
"You will, though. I shall be superb, resplendent—what shall
I say? Is effulgent a good word? But to-morrow! Oh!
Trevor"—with pursed-up lips and wide eyes—"our brides-
maids' dresses—oh ! "
" I remember them," he said, so convincingly that she
laughed.
" You think that we are going to wear the same dresses
again ? Mistaken mortal ! These are all creamy, with a
ravishing ruby plush ! A sort of cavalier arangement! Broad
hats ; trains slung one side in the plush, with bags and muffs ;
and—Trevor "—suddenly serious—" don't you think—we wish
it to be altogether different from that other wedding-day which
ended so—terribly."
" If only you had let it be our marriage day, too, my love ! "
he said, tightening his hold of the pretty figure so plainly and
darkly clad. " Your ' excuses were weak, for your marriage
can never really separate you from your father. You must have
had another reason, darling."
" Yes," she answered, softly. "To-morrow is to be Truth's day."
" I see," he said, with curious quietness. " Truth's day—and
Josslyn's. I see, my darling."
"Aren't they happy, Trevor—isn't everybody? Do you
notice how kind Lady Ermine is to Sir Marmaduke, and how
he appreciates it ? And isn't Anthony much more attentive to
Ethel, and she considerate for him ? "
"Two facts are consequences of the other two," laughed
Trevor. " I am so glad Anthony will be settled near home.
There is much good in Anthony—but then you always saw it,
love of mine. You were always Anthony's friend,"
348
DOROTHY'S VENTURE.
" Because," she said, a passing shadow on the beautiful face,
" I tried to escape you. With you, even then, I was afraid of—
myself."
" You are not afraid now?" he questioned anxiously, though
there was perfect content upon the grave brown face. " You are
happy with me now, my heart's beloved ? "
"You could never question it, Trevor "—and with her hands
in his, she leaned her head one moment on his breast—" if you
knew. My world is full and sweet and perfect when you are
near. Even if I do not speak to you, and cannot see you, if I
know that you are near, it is all different—so different ! I felt
how great this difference was to day when I found you here.
And you ?"
" I should want a new word coined, my best beloved, to tell
you what I feel this moment."
" Have you been really well, Trevor ?"
" Quite, darling mine, I could not even remember my pain now
if I tried. And busy. I am working my way steadily on."
"Perhaps," she said, with quiet drollery, "to win a junior
partnership some day."
" Dorothy, my darling, tell me where you were to-day. I
know you have thought it a kind of farewell, because to-morrow
the house will be full, and next day—oh, that desolate day for
me, though the separation will be so short! "
" I went to see Mr. Pugh, and it was one of his good days,"
she answered, unconscious that her lover's words had brought a
shadow to her eyes ; " then I went by train to see Nancy, and
found her so busy and cheerful and happy, Trevor. You would
scarcely recognize her."
" Possibly," he corrected, " if I had not seen her since the
old days at the hut ; but, as I have in the meantime been lured
to Little Eaton to witness her felicity, it is not so utterly incre-
dible. How are the cows—her own two ? "
" Growing sadly stout," sighed Dorothy. "Tyacke conversed
much with me. He told me Nancy made ' bra'pasties ;' and
his idea of bliss on Sundays seemed to be ' a potaty pasty and a
new preacher.' He owned that Nancy seemed content with one
kind of preacher always, but he thought the flavour more fitty
if they were mixed, like his tea."
" Anywhere else ?" questioned Trevor, laughing, and evidently
dreading her sudden disappearance.
" Yes, to Miss Rosahn ; and she was sewing away, and was,
for her, quite lively. Her business flourishes, I think ; and,
best of all, her new lodger is hard to please and masterful; and
that does her good. So different from "
" Dorothy, my darling, do not hesitate. I often think how,
but for him, we two should have drifted apart,"
Dorothy's venture.
349
"And then," she went on very softly, as he bent and laid his
cheek against hers, " I went—there."
" I understand, my loved one."
For he remembered seeing just the same dreamy look in her
sweet eyes, when he had stood with her beside one certain
grave ; and she had told him why there was only one word
carved below the name—Evasi.
the end.
LONDON :
william ridir and son, printers,
Bartholomew close.
CHEAP EDITION OF
Miss Braddon's Novels
Price,as. each; cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.
1. LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET.
2. HENRY DUNBAR.
3. ELEANOR'S VICTORY.
4. AURORA FLOYD.
5. JCTIN MARCH MO NT'S LEGACY.
6. THE DOCTOR'S WIFE.
7. ONLY A CLOD.
8. SIR JASPER'S 7NANT.
9. TRAIL OF THE SERPENT.
10. lADY'S MILE.
is. LADY LISLE.
12, CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE.
* 13. BIRDS OF PREY.
14. CHARLOTTE'S INHERITANCE.
55. RUPERT GODWIN.
16. RUN TO EARTH. j .
17. DEAD SEA FEU-T.
16. RALPH THE BAILIFF.
19. FENTON'S QUEST.
2~ LOVELS OF ARDEN.
31. ROBERT AINSLEIGH, jg
22. THE BITTER END.
23. MILLY DARRELL.
24. STRANGERS AND PILGRIMS. ||1
25. LUQIUS DAVOREN.
36. TAKEN AT THE FLOOD.
37. LOST FOR LOVE.
28. A STRANGE WORLD. *
29. HOSTAGES TO FORTUNE.
30. DEAD MEN'S SHOES. \\
V- JOSHUA HAGGARD,
32. WEAVERS AND WEFT.
33- AN OPEN VERDICT.
34. VIXEN. . ; j5
3?. THE CLOVEN FOOT. I)
36. THE STORY OF BARBARA.
3;. JUST AS I AM.
38. ASPHODEL, j{
39- MOUNT ROYAL
Sfiti BnuLloa't ath*r NovtU witi fifo- ft* dm
LONDON: T. A R. MAXWELL, MILTON HOUSE, SHOE LANE, E.C.