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THE
SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL
AND OTHER STORIES
BY
ANNIE THOMAS
(Mrs. PENDER CUDL1P)
AUTHOR OF "DENIS DONNE,  THEO LEIGH, "PLAYED OUT,
 LOVE'S A TYRANT, ETC., ETC.
LONDON
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO.
PATERNOSTER. SQUARE
1890
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Shall you Call ? 1
An Hour's Shopping, „. ... 35
The Sloane Square Scandal, 66
The Vicar's Wife, ... 95
Her First Ball, 119
The Curate's Temptation, 157
That Woman, 196
Cold Starlight, 253
Mrs. Calmady of Clawn, 298
Second Love, ... ... ... ... ... 338
Telling of Hopes gone wrong, 376
By Parcel Post, 416
"SHALL YOU CALL?
 IT ALL you call ? The question is asked in
every variety of intonation of which the
human voice is capable within the limits of those
notes on which the words fall. For it is a
burning question, which is inflaming the whole
social mind of Cheepeston and its environs. And
the social mind of Cheepeston is as curious,
narrow, suspicious, and prejudiced as—well, as
it is the nature of the purely local mind
to be.
Cheepeston-on-the-Cheepe is not, on the first
cursory glance, the place that either the votary of
pleasure or the lover of his kind would select as
1
2 "SIIALL YOU CALL?
a permanent residence. The shadow of a dense
dulness that may be felt hangs over its irregular,
unpicturesque street. The awkward stiffness which
is the characteristic of country-nurtured people,
whose social experiences are strictly confined to
the limited country life, marks the manner of its
gentry of the softer sex. And the stranger within
its gates is made to feel, or rather given to
understand, that, in the estimation of the Cheepe-
stonites, all beyond Cheepeston and the county side
around it is as much beneath their notice as it
is outside their knowledge.
The bleak winds of March are eddying round
every corner and through every crevice on this
day, making the traditional king's ransom a
stinging scourge to all who meet it. But wind
and dust are respectively less cutting and stinging
than are some of the suggestive remarks and
innuendoes which are freely exchanged between
some of the self-styled  upper ten ladies of
"SHALL YOU CALL ?  3
Cheepeston who meet in the course of their morn-
ing's marketing and shopping.
"Do tell me what you have heard about this
new-comer, Mrs. Powis ?  a tall woman, with pierc-
ing black eyes, and a quick, shrill voice, asks of a
large matronly, amiable-faced lady, whose chief
anxiety in life is to steer clear of cliques and
cabals in the parish of which her husband is vicar.
"I have only heard that Mrs. Hereford has
taken Hill Cottage for a year.
 Shall you call ? Mrs. Warren interrupts in
severe interrogatory tones, and Mrs. Powis shrugs
her shoulders resignedly, as if she would remind
all and sundry that "uneasy lies the head that
wears a crown, as she replies suavely,
 She was at church yesterday. Mr. Powis and
I make it a rule to call on every one who attends
the services regularly, whatever their social posi-
tion, or want of it, unless there is something—
really, you know ?
4 "shall you call?
 The Grant-Digbys have called, and they have
come to the conclusion that there is something,
something that we shall hear more about before
long, Mrs. Warren snaps out, and Mrs. Powis
opens her large eyes to their widest extent.
 Nothing against her moral character, I hope ?
she sighs out, in fond expectation of having her
hope partially blighted.
 Oh! I'm not going to say or hint anything
libellous. I'm a lawyer's daughter, and know the
danger of even whispering words of truth, you
know. But as I have grown-up girls, I am bound
to be very careful. That's all I shall say. I don't
fancy, whatever she may be in herself, that she
would be any very great acquisition to Cheepe-
ston. She can't be well off to have taken Hill
Cottage, and when the Grant-Digbys asked her to
their ' at home ' next Thursday afternoon, she said
she ' found she had no time to go out by daylight
for anything but air and exercise.'
'' SHALL YOU CALL? 5
"Oh! she evidently hasn't been accustomed to
society. I don't think I shall take the trouble
to call. Good-bye, Mrs. Powis says, smiling
sweetly, and congratulating herself on having got
off without either having been led into saying
anything detrimental to Mrs. Hereford, the
stranger, or exasperating to Mrs. Warren, the
influential parishioner, who subscribes liberally to
all church needs and parochial charities, and is
a very good Christian in the main. But the
vicar's wife's smile loses something of its serenity
in a few moments, as in wrestling with rude
Boreas at a corner, she finds herself confronted
in the middle of the street, in the face of the
whole congregation, as it were, by Mrs. Hereford,
the still dubious outsider.
It rushes back upon Mrs. Powis's mind like a
wintry wind, that she has been introduced already
to this (possibly) detrimental woman. In an un-
toward moment yesterday, when she had unadvisedly
6 "shall you call?
waited for her husband after matins, he had intro-
duced her to Mrs. Hereford. She "cannot cut
Mrs. Hereford now, and "to speak to her she is
afraid, for two or three members of the local aris-
tocracy of Cheepeston are looming.
So she bobs her head with a convulsive mixture
of anguish and affability. The anguish is expressed
for the benefit of the looming local aristocracy.
They are to understand by it that it is simply
in her position as clergywoman of Cheepeston
that she is recognising (under protest) the
existence among them of this unauthenticated
woman. The affability is designed to express to
Mrs. Hereford, that in her vicar's wife she may
find a tower of strength, if she seeks to inhabit
it in the right way.
Unfortunately Mrs. Hereford does not read this
expression aright, does not, in fact, read it at all,
She has come out from the post-office with her
hands full of letters, which have arrived by that
"SHALL YOU CALL? 7
beneficent  two-two train, which does bring a
bit of the light of London in upon the darkness
of west-country life in the form of journals and
letters diurnally. With some of these letters and
journals in her hands, Mrs. Hereford is bent upon
hurrying home as fast as she can. On their
contents it will depeud whether or not she enjoys
her ride on her handsome chestnut mare this
afternoon. Still, for all her haste, the unconscious
suave courtesy of a society woman never deserts
her, and she bows to Mrs. Powis in this crude
little town-village street with just exactly the
same graciousness with which she would bow to
any other lady whom she knew slightly in the
Row or in a London drawing-room.
But Mrs. Powis is too thoroughly imbued with
the local mind to understand this.
 Bowing so impressively, she evidently wants
to use me as a cork-jacket to float her into
society, the vicar's wife thinks; and as she
8 "SHALL YOU CALL?
thinks it she partially swells with a sense of her
own importance, and partially shrivels under the
blighting conviction that some of the best people,
 members of one of the oldest families in the
neighbourhood, have witnessed Mrs. Hereford's
assumption of familiarity.
While she is explaining matters to these
important factors in the building up of the
harmonious structure of that social supremacy for
which she (Mrs. Powis) yearns, Mrs. Hereford may
be followed  without fear or reproach.
As she walks down the dull little street towards
that home which she has made for herself
temporarily for a sufficiently noble aim, hei
thoughts are busy with aspirations and amid
scenes that take her altogether out of the actual
surroundings of the moment. In imagination again
she is in the midst of one of the most brilliant
coteries in London, a coterie in which the
aristocracy of blood and the aristocracy of brains
"shall you call? 9
meet and mingle upon terms of easy equality.
In imagination again she, a sensitive and highly
gifted woman, is having it brought home to her
by subtle personal compliment and flattery from
the majority, that her gifts are gratefully, gladly
accepted and acknowledged by the public. In
fact, though Cheepeston has heard, and heard
with a smile of contempt, that  Mrs. Hereford
is a woman who writes! the Cheepeston mind
is so far  out of it as not to be aware
that Mrs. Hereford is a woman who holds an
unassailable position in that society which is really
society (and not a hole-in-the-corner, illiterate
clique), even if it were not powerfully supplemented
by her facile pen.
Her mind is full to overflowing of these and
kindred thoughts to-day as she walks through
Cheepeston, and bows too familiarly to the vicar's
wife, and  too distantly to somebody else, who
conceives that the vicar's wife is disposed "to give
10 "shall you call?
herself airs to, and "to hold herself aloof from,
that somebody. Poor little woman! Her imagin-
ing may not waft her back to an atmosphere in
which one may breathe a "nobler air, but assur-
edly it does take her back to one where the air
inhaled is more mentally stimulating, and the
horizon healthily wider. She longs, in fact, as she
prepares to open the letters which may bring her
much joy, or crown her queen of sorrows, for a
sympathetic friend. And there is none such near.
As she gets herself into an armchair by the fire
in the tiny little room which she has made essen-
tially her own, at Hill Cottage, some rays from the
cold March sun struggle in through the window
and fall upon her, touching the smooth brown-
haired head to bronze on the one side, while it
remains in cold deep shadow on the other.
She looks a singularly quiet, uneventful sort of
person as she sits there reading her letters.
Slight and not very tall, her figure does not
"SHALL YOU CALL? 11
show to the best advantage in the rough, loose-
fronted grey ulster. But the most casual observer
could not fail to notice the extreme and delicate
beauty of her slender little hands and feet. And
there is a look in the deep-set grey eyes which
might win pardon for the least carnal-minded
man if he took to  watching and pursuing  it.
There is more firmness than sweetness about
the lines of her mouth; still these can relax into
a most winning smile, as may be seen presently,
when she reads from a letter on foreign paper:—
"You are too good to sacrifice your prospects
and your pleasure in the way you are doing.
I can only hope that as you are such a sociable
little woman, the people about- you will make your
self-imposed exile agreeable to you, in which case
I shall not feel such an absolute brute as I feel
now in expending your hard-earned gains on my
unworthy self. But, however it may be with you
I can only repeat you are too good—far too
12 "shall you call?
good to me; and what will your husband say to
it all when he comes back from South Africa,
and finds that all your substance has been wasted
on me, wretch that I am ?
To these follow several more words of self-abase-
ment and gratitude, and the signature of the
writer, which signature, together with the address
at the top of the letter, Jessie Hereford tears off,
and deposits for safety in the side-pocket of her
purse. The rest of the letter, after her ordinary
careless custom, she leaves floating about on the
top of her waste-paper basket. Then she orders
the one luxury she has retained in her life—the
chestnut mare Guinevere—to be brought round,
and presently Cheepeston sees her riding through
its street, looking quite ignorant of the established
fact that either a groom ought to be in
attendance on, or a friend escorting, a lady.
"Would-be-fast, "not at all ladylike, and
 really not at all the sort of person I shall care
 SHALL YOU CALL ?  13
to see anj'thing of, is the verdict recorded against
Mrs. Hereford before she has been in Cheepeston
a fortnight. And all the while she is quite
unconscious that rumour is busy about her.
Happily or unhappily—which is it ?—she is so
entirely absorbed in her own affairs as neither to
be cognisant of her neighbours nor aware that
they are sending her to Coventry.
In answer to the inquiries of two or three
ladies, about whose husbands she is not one whit
curious, she has said that  Mr. Hereford has gone
to take duty at a church near the Diamond
Fields for twelve months, but this explanation
of his absence has not given entire satisfaction;
indeed, it has not given any satisfaction at all.
She cannot avow him to be either the Bishop of
Maritzburg or the rector of Kimberley. And
shocked heads are wagged over the depravity of a
woman who can send her husband to the Diamond
Fields in any other capacity.
14 "shall you call?
 We shall find either that he is not in Orders
at all, or that he is a black sheep, Miss Colton,
the highest Churchwoman in Cheepeston, whispers,
as she swings along on her way to the fourth
service she has had the privilege of attending on
this vigil of a Holy day, and the one to whom
she whispers the charitable supposition replies in
an even more complacent tone,
 I shall be most agreeably surprised if we
find that she has any husband at all. She
has been writing to Lord Warlock to-day; and
Lord Warlock, though he's the dearest man
on the face of the earth, does not bear the
most spotless character where women like that are
concerned.
 Since when have you known so much about
Lord Warlock ? Miss Colton gasps, halting in the
porch to do it. Then she remembers where she
is, and why she is there, and she adds • hurriedly,
 We ought not to be thinking of such things
"shall you call? 15
uow, much less speaking about them. I will see
you after the service.
But the lady whom she addresses takes care
not to be ready in humble waiting on Miss
Colton's pleasure "after service. On the contrary
she is careering round Cheepeston disseminating
her disloyal views respecting Miss Colton with
the fervour and force that proverbially only belong
to newly-estranged partizans.
 Jenny Colton and I have been very good
friends for many years, this lady says to sundry
of her other  very good friends,  but her arro-
gance is really past all endurance. She snapped
out at me just how because I mentioned Lord
Warlock, as if she were the only person in
Cheepeston who knew anything about him. And
after all, when the earl and countess did visit
Cheepeston, I received quite as much attention
from them as Jenny Colton did.
To which vindication of her social status the
16 "shall you call?
friends whom she addresses nod their heads in
willing assent, and in turn go away and remark
to their own respective familiar friends,
"Poor Miss Desborough is getting more touchy
than ever about her claims to consideration on
account of her family. She is turned huffy now
with her dear friend Miss Colton (who, by the
way, never was quite in our set, you know, only
Miss Desborough would make so much of her).
And now Miss Colton has been laughing at
Caroline Desborough's affecting an intimacy with
Lord and Lady Warlock. Not that she is
intimate with them, I know that; only it would
be quite natural if she were, for her ancestors
owned all the land south of the Cheepe for miles,
generations before Miss Colton's father came to
settle as a mere little country gentleman in the
neighbourhood.
 Oh! I am so sorry they should get wrong;
they are such dear women, both of them.
"SHALL YOU CALL?
Mrs. Powis, to whom this remark is made,
says fervently,  What can it be ? Something
very trifling, of course ?
And then Mrs. Powis hears that the trifle over
which these two admirable ladies have stumbled
and nearly smashed up their friendship, is the
new-comer, Mrs. Hereford. And her original sin
is—that she, a stranger, about whom none of the
speakers know anything, but of whom they are
ready to imagine anything evil, should have
written to Lord Warlock.
 Hill Cottage is not his, therefore she can't
have written to him as a tenant, says one.
u She does not interest herself in parish work,
therefore she can't have written to him for sub-
scriptions to any parochial charity, says another.
 Evidently she has heard what a loose fish
he has become since he had to divorce that
wretched wife of his. What that dreadful woman
has to answer for, to be sure! Until she went
2
18 "shall you call?
astray Lord Warlock was a model, quite a
model! says a third, and then a mere insignifi-
cant fourth, who is scarcely heeded at all puts in
a word.
 Poor Lady Warlock! Did she go so very
much astray, I wonder ? If a thievish maid, to
whom she refused a character, hadn't turned
malignant and garbled facts, and thrown a guilty
shade over what might have been the most
innocent actions, Lady Warlock would have been
a happy wife and an honoured woman at
Cheepeston still, I am thinking.
The little gossiping coterie are just about to
disperse, when they catch sight of Mrs. Hereford
returning from her ride, and the sight of her
gives a fresh impetus to the conversation, which
had flagged.
 Depend upon it, that woman has come down
and settled herself at the Cheepeston gates in
order to try and catch Lord Warlock. They say
"shall you call? 19
he's coming down for his little boy's birthday,
the 30th of March.
 But she has a husband of her own !
 So she says.
 Have you heard that she hasn't ? Oh, do tell
us!
"No, no! I've heard nothing; at least, nothing
that I care to repeat. Only you know what
a long tongue my parlour-maid has. I cannot
keep her from chattering, and though I told her
I never listened to gossip, she would jabber on
about a letter on foreign paper from some man
who is evidently being supported by Mrs. Hereford
unknown to her husband. The housemaid Mrs.
Hereford has taken (so wrong of any one to take
a servant without a character; I could have told
Mrs. Hereford what a prying, wicked, deceitful
woman that Jane of hers is) saw a bit of the
letter to Lord Warlock, too, on her mistress's
open blotting-book. There was something about
20 "shall you call?
1 hoping to see him soon,' and hoping he ' would
be merciful, as he hoped for mercy himself.'
Evidently an adventuress. I only trust she won't
be made Lady Warlock.
The lady who utters this hope sails away as
she finishes speaking, and her friends who stay
behind look at one another and laugh.
 She really needn't trouble herself very much
about what Lord Warlock does, as she only sees
him once a year at the tenants' ball, they
remark laughingly. And then again the vexed
question arises,  Shall they call ? on this lady,
who has not proclaimed from the housetops her
motive for coming among them.
Days pass on, and active preparations are being
made at Cheepeston for the usual annual festivites,
wherewith little Lord Rockmoor's birthday is
celebrated. For the last three years, ever since
that divorce which took every one by surprise
indeed, Lord Warlock has not entertained the
"SHALL YOU CALL? 21
county, nor shown himself in it very often.
But once a year, in March, he comes down to
Cheepeston, and sees his own people make merry
on the birthday of his little son.
These days are days of bitterness and humilia-
tion to Lord Warlock, for at Cheepeston the
happiest years of his happy married life had been
spent, and the memory of those days rises up in
maddening reproach to him whenever he comes to
Cheepeston now alone. Moreover, year by year,
Rockmoor grows more and more like the gravely
sweet, gentle mother who has been hurled from
her throne. There are moments when Lord
Warlock cannot look his child in the face, for
the boy's eyes have exactly that plaintively
reproachful look in them which were in his
mother's eyes when she heard her character lied
away in the witness-box. Still, bitter and hu-
miliating as are the sensations he experiences at
Cheeoeston, Lord Warlock always comes down
22 "shall you call?
for his son's birthday, and does the little man
all the honour he can.
The last week in March has come. All the
gardens are full of crocuses, tulips, and hyacinths,
in spite of the prevalence of a peculiarly rasping
wind. The tenants' ball at Cheepeston is to be
a grand affair as usual. Still no entertainment
is to be offered to the county. Lord Warlock is
in "residence, as the flag which flies from the
tower proclaims. But none of his own order are
invited to partake of his hospitality. Twice or
thrice he has ridden or driven through Cheepeston,
bestowing his most engaging smiles on every one
he knows by sight with exasperating impartiality.
The blood of the well-descended Grant-Digbys
curdles in their veins as they perceive him
saluting and speaking to Mrs. Powis with pre-
cisely the same amount of friendly empvessement
which he has but a moment before displayed
towards themselves. And in turn Mrs. Powis
"shall you call? 23
loses hold of Christian charity for a minute or
two as she hears him taking the same well-
sustained interest in the health of Mr. and Mrs
Warren as he has just so feelingly expressed in
that of the esteemed vicar and herself.
But divided as the Cheepestonites are about
one another, they are one and all united in
their sentiments concerning a social atrocity which
is presently perpetrated in their midst. Pen may
not write the suggestions which are made by the
puckered eyebrows and shrugged shoulders, the
checked utterances and mysterious half-hints of
the kindly dames and demoiselles of respectable
Cheepeston when the rumour undulates like a
snake through the place that  Lord Warlock has
called on that woman at Hill Cottage ! 
"It is monstrous! "incredible! but "true!
Accordingly, in spite of the monstrosity of his
action, several people, who have got the lesson of
the parable of the unjust steward by heart,
24 "shall you call?
follow his example. To their disappointment Mrs.
Hereford is so evidently hard-worked, tired, and
pre-occupied as to be incompetent to grasp the
full magnitude of the tardy honour they have
done her. And when they let the tepid soft-
water of their conversational tap play encouragingly
upon the subject of Lord Warlock she turns
from the topic with impatience, almost with
repugnance.
To tell the truth, nothing had transpired in
the course of his visit upon which she could
look back with satisfaction, much less with self-
congratulation. He had been announced, and
ushered into her little writing den when she was
in the midst of a chapter that was giving her
a great deal of trouble. And when she looked
up to give him a friendly greeting she had been
chilled and a little bit hurt by his gloomy visage.
 I didn't expect to see you, Warlock, she
began.
"shall you call? 25
"Well, on my word, 1 hardly know why I've
come Jessie; for I suppose I shall hear nothing
but the old story, reproaches and so forth.
 Indeed you shall not, she says briskly.
"Sit down, and rest assured that I won't bully
you at my own fireside now that I've chosen
to light my fire close to your lair. The fact is,
believe me, as I wrote to you. When I heard
of this little place I did not associate ' Cheepeston'
with ' Cheepestowe;' perhaps if I had I shouldn't
have come.
 What whim has brought you here ?
"The whimsical necessity for economising; be
sides, I wanted to see Rockmoor.
 You wanted to give—some one information
about the boy ?
"I did.
"You have given the information, I suppose?
* I have.
Lord Warlock sighs, and then is silent for a
26 "shall you call?
moment. During this pause Mrs. Hereford diverts
herself by drawing little devils on her blotting
paper, and Lord Warlock wishes that she were in
South Africa with her husband.
Presently, as she seems quite content to be
speechless, he says,
 What made Dick go off to Kimberley without
you ?
 He had the offer of a remunerative charge.
He wanted a sea voyage because his health had
broken down; he has always had a great
curiosity to see the Diamond Fields, and a strong
conviction that he would like to work out there.
"All good reasons for his going; but why didn't
you go with him ? 
 I had to stay at home and work too.
"You have always told me you couldn't work
half as well in the country as in London.
 Nor can I.
 Then why come here to work ?
 SHALL YOU CALL ?  27
"Necessity knows no law. I was out of funds
Life in this region is cheaper.
 You must have been very extravagant, Jessie,
or there must be a leakage of which I know
nothing, he said gravely, and Mrs. Hereford's
face flushed angrily as she answered,
 I will not be baited and questioned. I wrote
to warn you I was here, to tell you you had
better not call here, or seem to know me. I wish
you'd go!
 Oh, certainly, he says stiffly, and he says
good-bye, and makes his exit with such celerity
that Jane, the housemaid, has barely time to
wrench her eye from the keyhole, and jerk her
person out of sight before the door opens, and
Lord Warlock comes out.
Jane has an evening out that night.
One of those delightful reunions where soul
meets soul over tea and thin bread and butter,
faint scandal and feeble music, yclept an "after-
28 "shall you call?
noon at home, is in full swing at one of
the oldest, best, and most comfortable houses
in Cheepeston. The blighting March wind has
sent every woman into the well-warmed room
with her skin either paralysed into pallor, or
in such a state of inflammation, that under
the influence of that cup which dismally fails
to cheer, she speedily resembles a lobster or
a peony, according as she be either fair or
dark. Lord Warlock has been invited, of
course! Hoped for, of course! Wildly and
fondly expected, of course! But he has not
come. So with the broad sense of justice which
distinguishes an assemblage of women in nearly
every quarter of the civilised world, they  cry
havoc and let loose the dogs of war upon Mrs.
Hereford.
 No wonder he is too poor to keep up
Cheepestowe. They say that woman's extravagance
is something fearful. He gave it to her well
"shall you call? 29
about it the other day when he went there.
And her influence must be waning, let us hope,
for he has only called there that once.
 But who knows that he rated her for her
extravagance if he hasn't told any one, and she
hasn't told any one, and only he and she were
present ? some argumentative person asks, and
then there is a chorus of—
 Oh, such things always get known! Murder
will out, you know; and, for my part, I'm not
at all surprised.
 1 think it would be just as well to let this
Mrs. Hereford understand that she is unmasked,
and that after this she cannot expect to be
received by any of us, some one suggests. And
then by mutual consent they tell off the agree-
able task of conveying this information to the
delinquent to Mrs. Powis.
 As the vicar's wife, there can be no doubt
about its being your duty, they say, hoisting
30 "SHALL YOU CALL?
her into the highest place with touching un-
anirnity as soon as the ground there discovers
itself as "disagreeable, not to say "dangerous.
But Mrs. Powis is quite equal to the occasion.
 I make a point of never putting myself for-
ward, she says confidentially;  it is for others,
older residents in the place, to take the initiative
about Mrs. Hereford. Just now it happens that
I am so much engaged, that if she were my
own sister I could not pay her any attention.
Good-bye, and so many thanks for the delightful
afternoon we have had. Your eldest daughter's
singing is really quite a treat, and I only wish
that Mr. Powis's parochial duties had permitted
him to be present.
So she bows and hand shakes herself out of
the room, and on her way home she stops her
own gardener, and squares Lord Warlock, as she
thinks, by directing that some of her best
camellias, gard enias, waxen Roman hyacinths,
"shall you call? 31
arid other hothouse and conservatory flowers,
may be cut and sent to Mrs. Hereford this same
evening.
It is the evening of little Lord Rockmoor's
birthday ball, and many pairs of curious eyes
are watching the absorbed manner with which
Mrs. Hereford is awaiting the arrival of the evening
train. By this time that  many-headed monster
thing rumour has accredited her with being very
much mixed up with all that is least worthy in
Lord Warlock's past. It is disappointing when the
train stops to see that the one for whom she has
been waiting is a woman !
Two hours after this Mrs. Hereford and her
recently-arrived friend are peeping in through the
side window, which is neither shuttered nor cur-
tained, upon the birthday function. Lord Warlock,
with his son of five years old upon his shoulder
is returning thanks for the enthusiastic way in
which that son's, the heir's, health has been drunk.
32 "SHALL YOU CALL?
As he concludes his speech deafening cheers from
his tenantry and employes drown—almost drown—
the sad, wailing cry of a woman outside. But
though the others are deaf to it Lord Warlock is
not, and in another minute he is outside helping
Mrs. Hereford to carry a fainting woman to the
carriage which is waiting for them.
 What brought you here, Jessie, and who is
this? he mutters, as he steps back from the
carriage. And Mrs. Hereford pushes him aside
as she answers,
"She was your wife. I believe this has killed
her. What brought you out from your honoured
place, with your child, her child, by your side ?
Why didn't you leave us alone out in the dark,
where you have thrust her ? 
"Let me go home with you, Jessie. Let me
speak 
"You sha'n't; I won't listen, Mrs. Hereford
cries, sweeping him aside, and springing in to
"SHALL YOU CALL? 33
tli3 aid of the still insensible woman, who is
huddled up in the carriage.
 Violet, she cries, shaking her as they drive off,
"rouse yourself; and don't be a dumb ass when
he comes to jrnu, as he surely will to-morrow.
He carried you as tenderly as—as he felt, my dear,
before I told him who you were. And when I
told him, he wanted to come home with us; do
you hear ? 
A few days after this Lord Warlock and his
divorced wife are re-married at a quiet church in
London, and when they next visit Cheepestowe it is
understood that they will be accompanied by
Mrs. Hereford, the wife of Lord Warlock's favourite
first cousin, the woman whom of all his relations
is the one dearest to his lordship, for by her brains
and bravery, her hard work and self-denial, she
kept Lady Warlock from giant despair and gaunt
want when she (Lady Warlock) was thrust into
outer darkness.
3
3-i "SHALL YOU CALL?
All Cheepeston is anxious to do courteous honour
to Mrs. Hereford now! But the current question
is,  Will she respond ? not  Shall you call ?
In short they no longer feel themselves called
upon to make her tremble and shiver under their
March-like bitter civilities, or acid withholding
of the same.
AN HOUR'S SHOPPING.
MIGHT almost as well be back in the
dull old house in Hillingdon, young Mrs.
Bouverie grumbles, as she cranes her neck to
catch a glimpse from her drawing-room window
of Hyde Park, the name of which she feels,
confers a distinction on her address.
Her house is in one of the most ultra-respect-
able of the Bayswater squares. But, novice as
she is, she has learnt to  wince, like any other
fashionable "galled jade, because her good situa-
tion is not a better one. If it were only Ken-
sington instead of Bayswater in which she felt
dull and lonely on this dreary February day, she
36 an hour's shopping.
could the better string herself up to the pitch
of more heroica! and stoical endurance of the
dismalness of it all. As it is, she frets and
pulls against the curb of circumstance, like the
untrained, un- way wise colt of a girl she still
is.
 I had ten times rather be back in that hole
of a Hillingdon, where I could go out when I
pleased, and had some one to speak to, she goes
on grumbling, as she turns from the window,
after having been enlivened by the sight of a
footman, an organ-grinder, and an anxious-faced,
/ o o 7
graceful young teacher of music, who is arriving,
panting, to give her daily lessons next door, under
the ghastly burden of the conviction that she is
ten minutes late.
"I'd almost rather be a teacher of anything I
could teach, that took me out, and gave me
something to think about, Mrs. Bouverie solilo-
quises, discontentedly.
AN HOUR'S SHOPPING. 37
Listlessly and aimlessly she wanders back to
the prettily draped fireplace, and makes faces at
herself in the bevelled glass, that is let into
tawny plush, and surrounded by Capo di Monte
and Old Shvres. The discontented, puckered-up
countenance that meets her view is so entirely
unlike the fair and smiling one that she sees
generally, that, in surprise, she smiles, so it is a
bright and beautiful face that is turned towards
the door as a visitor is announced.
The visitor is such a mass of plush and blue
fox, that for a few moments Mrs. Bouverie fails to
recognise her. Then, with a cry of delight, she
springs forward to meet her old schoolfellow, Julia
Fullarton, a young lady of metal and means,
of freedom and fashion; "out of work just at
present, by reason of being bored to satiety by
all the world can give her of amusement.
 You dear little country mouse, she begins, in
high-strained tones, "so you've actually had the
38 AN HO UK's SHOPPING.
audacity to marry Clement Bouverie! When I
saw your marriage in the Morning Post I had
a fit! You too charming and lucky girl, how did
you do it ?
 In the usual way—at church, Mrs. Bouverie
answers, rather stiltedly. She has no intention of
being petted and patted and condescended to now
that she is a married woman, in the way she
permitted Julia to pet and pat and condescend
to her when they were girls together at Miss
Waugh's establishment for young ladies in Oxford
Terrace. Julia laughs loudly and not unmusically
at this. Then she asks less patronisingly,
"But where did you meet him first?
 My uncle is their doctor when they are at
Holt Manor. And Clement had a sprained ankle
this autumn, and uncle attended him; and when
he o;ot all ris:ht he came to call at our house to
O O
thank uncle for his attention, and uncle was out,
and I had to entertain him, and so 
an hour's shopping. S9
 So you nabbed Sir Geoffrey Bouverie's eldest
son. And .low you're married, and going to be
the happiest little woman in London, I hope,
Julia Fullarton goes on kindly, fixing her lustrous
seal-brown velvet eyes on the forget-me-not blue
ones of her friend.
 I adore Clement! Mrs Bouverie says tenta-
tively.
"Naturally! we all adore Clement, Julia Ful-
larton laughs out, "and of course he adores you,
or he wouldn't have gone to Hillingdon to un-
earth you. But how about papa and mamma
Bouverie ? Have you developed dutiful adoration
for them yet ? Sir Geoff is rather a hard nut
for a woman of delicacy to crack, but Lady
Bouverie is a good old thing, dull and decorous,
but not disagreeable—at least, I never found her
so.
 Then you know them ?
 I do; don't you ?
40 AN HOUli's fcHOtriNG.
"Not yet, Mrs. Bouverie admits, rather unwill-
ingly; and Julia checks all exhibition of the
surprise she feels at the admission, and answers
carelessly,
"Oh yes, I know them slightly; but they're
very little in London; they have to level down
t o much to please them, I fancy, when they're
up here; they prefer being the big bosses of the
region round Holt Manor. What are you going
to do with yourself now, Lily ?
"Now? do you mean to-day?
"Yes, now, for the next two or three
hours.
"Oh, nothing till Clement comes home.
 Good gracious! fancy stajnng in for one's
own husband! I hope I shall never come to
that. Well, Clement—Mr. Bouverie, I mean —
won't be home till he comes in to dress for
dinner, I suppose, so you may as well come
out for an hour with me.
an houk's shopping. 41
 Clement doesn't wish me to be seen about
till Lady Bouverie comes up and takes me
out.
 Bless his selfishness! Don't you give in to
it. Why doesn't he take you out himself?
"He says—I mean we both think, that as ours
was such a quiet marriage, none of his family or
friends present, you know, that it will look better
if I am first seen about with his mother.
 Poor girl! Julia thought, but she only said,
 But as you're not legibly marked ' Mrs.
Bouverie' no one will know you, and you look
as if you wanted fresh air. Come out for a
drive with me.
"Not in the park; Clement begged that I
wouldn't go into the -park on any account till
Lady Bouverie took me there.
Julia's lip curled.
"Not in the park, unless you change your
mind, you dear Griselda, but for an hour's
42 an hour's shopping.
shopping. You must do something to amuse
yourself. Come! Mr. Bouverie won't expect such
implicit boedience; and if he does, it will do
him good to find that you're not disposed to
render it. It's a mere whim, a mere fad of his,
to keep you mewed up till his mother sees fit
to come up and show you about.
 But, Julia, he really was rather impressive
about it. 'Don't go out on any account, anywhere,
without me, till my mother comes up and knows
you/ he said only this morning, just before he
went out.
 Why did he go out and leave you ?
 Oh, business, of course. He asked me if my
'own house' wouldn't amuse me for a few days,
and I said ' Yes.' But, Ju, I was finding it
ghastly dull when you came. I quite long to go
out and look at the shops.
 Selfish beast! and he in the Row all the
morning on the neatest stepper out, and with a
an hour's shopping. 4-3
button-hole as perfect as his own air of debonnaire
irresponsibility, while his poor little innocent, igno-
rant wife is kept a prisoner, Julia Fullarton
thinks indignantly, and the honest blood rushes
to her forehead in an angry flush. Then she says
aloud, impetuously,
 I'll take all the blame of your disobedience
on myself. Mr. Bouverie and I are old friends
in a certain sense, and he won't quarrel with
me.
 How funny that he should never have men-
tioned you to me, says Lily.
 Have you ever mentioned me to him ? 
"Well, no; now I come to think of it, I
haven't, Mrs. Bouverie laughs. And as she runs
off to put on her furs and feathers for the drive,
Julia Fullarton falls into a brown study, and rakes
over the nearly burnt-out embers of an old love
affair.
 Dear little Lily! She shall never know that
44 AN HOUR'S SHOPPING.
I should have been Mrs. Clement Bouverie about
this time last year if it hadn't been for my lucky
discovery in time of his thraldom to that horrible
woman; and she's the cause, I fi 1 sure, of
Clement deeming this sweet wife of his ' unfit for
publication' yet. What a fool he is! and what
a scamp! but I hope Lily will never find him
out to be either.
Miss Fullarton comes out of her unwonted mood
of meditation with a smile that effectually conceals,
or rather banishes, the uneasy expression as Mrs.
Bouverie comes skipping back into the room. The
wife of a month's standing has not taken up the
matronly manner or the graver gait yet; indeed
she is rather apt to forget that she is not still
Lily Brandon sometimes; an excusable lapse of
memory enough when it is remembered that,
during the whole fortnight she has lived in her
own house as mistress of it, her husband has
only brought a few men to call upon her, and
an hour's shopping. 45
it is to women visitors that the young married
woman's earliest matronly airs and graces are
displayed.
 You look very nice, Lily, Miss Fullarton says
critically. "Lady Bouverie will be very proud of
taking her new daughter out, I am sure.
"If Clement is proud that will be enough for
me, Lily says lightly, as she steps into her
friend's Victoria; and together they drive off to
Bond Street, where Julia Fullarton has some brief
business to transact at a jeweller's.
Several times as they are driving along the
streets Julia Fullarton grows distraite and em-
barrassed,—for this reason. They meet many of
Clement Bouverie's intimate friends, and these
accord smiling recognitions and gracious bows to
her, and at the same time utterly ignore the
lady by her side, Clement Bouverie's wife. A
desperate fear assails her that in some way or
other her old friend has been tricked and de-
46 an hour's shopping.
ceived by her (Julia's) own old lover. It is
with an unwonted quiver of her lip that she
asks,
 All Hillingdon turned out to see you married,
I'm sure ?
"No, indeed; it was the quietest affair. Clement
came over in a hansom, and I walked down to
church in my travelling dress, with uncle alone;
and we were married, and came off from the
church door. It was rather a different wedding
from the one I used to sketch out for myself
at Miss Waugh's, wasn't it, Ju?
 Rather. And none of the Holt people were
there ?
 None of them, the bonnie bride says, throw-
ing up her brown-haired head in affectedly con-
temptuous disregard of the presence or the absence
of the  Holt people.  Clement wished it to be
quiet, uncle was glad to avoid the expense of a
show-wedding, and I didn't care what happened
an hour's shopping. 47
so long as Clement and I were married and
together.
They go into the jeweller's shop; and while
Miss Fullarton is giving instructions for the re-
setting of a diamond and opal bracelet, Mrs.
Bouverie looks about her with openly portrayed
surprise and admiration. To the country-bred girl,
whose experience of London life had been limited
to the narrow boundary-line of a well-regulated
establishment for young ladies, this vision of the
interior of a home of well-cut and polished gems
is simply bewildciing. It seems almost an act of
reckless extravagance to look at the dazzling,
bright, hard things as they lie at brilliant ease
in their velvet and satin-lined cases; and the
audacity of one or two women who come in and
handle the sparkling temptations, and then go
away without giving an order, almost paralyses
her.
But presently a woman comes in, a.nd walks
48 AN HOUR'S SHOPPING.
up to the side of keenly perceptive young Mrs.
Bouverie, who does more than touch and toss
about.
She is a pretty, or, rather, an attractive and
interesting woman who does this. She has grey-
blue eyes, and very dark hair, and her face is
pale, but not unhealthily so. Her figure is slight
and graceful, but its lines are concealed by a
long-sleeved cloak of brown plush. Her hands
and feet, the poise of her head, the way in
which she walks, all have the distinguishing
stamp of "breeding upon them. Both the master
of the shop and his assistant turn to attend
to her commands obsequiously; and as Mrs.
Bouverie's eyes wander from the lady to the
splendidly-horsed and appointed carriage at the
door from which the lady has swept down upon
them, the country-bred girl concludes that it is a
countess at least whom she is contemplating.
Bit th^ ladv speaks, and undeceives her.
AN HOUR'S SHOPPING. 49
 That opal and diamond ring I ordered a month
ago, it has not been sent, for what reason I
should like to know ? 
The master of the shop applies for information
to his assistant, who in turn hurries away to
the extreme end of the shop to take counsel
with some one else. He comes back with an
explanation, which he is about to make, when
Julia Fullarton looks round at the lady for the
first time, and with some confusion of manner
proposes to Mrs. Bouverie that they  shall go
at once.
But a detaining question is asked of Miss
Fullarton by the jeweller, and, as she pauses to
answer it, Mrs. Bouverie hears the shopman say
to the possible Countess,
"Mr. Bouverie has closed his account with us.
 Impossible! ridiculous ! the lady interposes
imperiously.  When did you hear from him ?
 A month ago, from Holt Manor, the man
4
50 an hour's shopping.
replies, while Mrs. Bouverie listens spell-bound,
shocked and speechless.
 The ring is to be sent to we—Mrs. Clement
Bouverie, No.—, Avenue Road, St. Johns Wood,
—and the bill to Mr. Clement Bouverie, at the
old address, the strange lady orders. Then, before
poor Lily can recover her breath, the one who
has boldly assumed her name, sweeps out of the
shop.
As Mrs. Bouverie settles herself in her friend's
Victoria and they drive away from the jeweller's
door, Julia Fullarton, in desperation and pity for
the dumb anguish that is distorting every line of
Lily's lovely face, says contemptuously,
 Don't take that woman's bold assertion to
heart, Lily; she's probably an impostor.
"Yet you seemed shocked at seeing her, even
before she called herself by my name, Mrs.
Bouverie manages to control her voice sufficiently
to argue. "You evidently recognised her! Oh!
AN houk's shopping. 51
Julia, tell me, who is she, arid what is she to
my husband ?
"Nothing, I firmly believe, nothing.
 Then what has she been to him ?
 A snare at one time; but that time's past
and he has escaped her and found a haven of
refuge from all her syren wiles in your love and
trust, Lily.
Mrs. Bouverie laughs bitterly.
 My love has had a rude blow to-day, my
trust is utterly shattered, she is saying when, as
they are turning into Regent Street, there comes
a check by reason of a block, and the Victoria
is forced to remain stationary, just abreast of
that other woman's carriage.
She is looking easily and unconcernedly about,
acknowledging with little nods and smiles the
salutations of several men who pass, while the
two ladies are looking horribly ill at ease and
unhappy. Unluckily, at this juncture, one of the
52 an hour's shopping.
few of his friends whom Clement Bouverie has
introduced W his wife strolls up, and, recognising
both Mrs. Bouverie and Julia Fullarton, pauses to
speak to them. He is an old friend of Clement
Bouverie's, an honoured and true friend, from
whom Clement has deemed it expedient to con-
ceal several of his worst escapades.
 Ah ! Mrs. Bouverie! he begins,  I am glad
Clement has relaxed his rule that you shouldn't
appear till Lady Bouverie comes up.
As he says this the lady in the carriage by
their side turns her head and looks at Mrs.
Bouverie, with wide-open astonished eyes, and, in
turn, Lily looks at her, haughtily, condemningly,
antagonistically, while Julia Fullarton answers for
her friend.
"I lured Mrs. Bouverie out to-day; her mother-
in-law will engross her so when she comes up
that I had to improve the shining hour of Lady
Bouverie's absence.
AN HOUR'S SHOPriNGr. 53
Then they move on, and the basilisk glance
each woman has been giving the oilier is per-
force withdrawn.
"Don't take it to heart; all men have their
wild or weak moments, and Clement Bouverie's
was a very brief madness after all, Julia says,
soothingly, when she is about to part with Mrs.
Bouverie.
"Still, even you admit he has been wild and
weak, the poor young wife murmurs, as she re-
enters the house from which she had started so
happily an hour ago.
It is a relief, an absolute relief, to her that
her husband has not returned. She has formed a
desperate plan, and his presence in the house
would interfere with her carrying it out at once,
as she feels she must. To meet him in love, or
even in friendship, after what she has discovered,
would be impossible. To go home to Hillingdon
in the character of an outraged wife, so soon after
54 AN houk's shopping.
her marriage, would be too humiliating. So she
packs up a few necessaries, meaning to send for
the rest of her clothes at her convenience, and
has herself driven to Miss Waugh's school, where
she prays to be allowed to remain till she can
map out a means of maintaining herself.
 I am a cruelly deceived and wronged woman,
but I am just as good and honourable as I
was when I left school, she pleads with her
old governess.  I won't tell you what has
happened; you must trust me and keep me,
and work me so hard that I sha'n't have time
to think.
 I believe nothing but good of you, and I
trust you to any extent, Lily; but a woman
who deserts her husband and her home, no matter
what the provocation she has received, puts herself
in the wrong place.
 I can never be in my right place again,
sobs Lily hopelessly, and a feeling half of re-
an hour's shopping. 55
sentment against her false husband, half of resent-
ment against herself for believing him false, and
condemning him unheard, sweeps over her soul,
and subdues it with sorrow.
 I won't ask what the offence against you is,
my dear, and I won't urge you to pocket your
grievance against your husband and go back to
him—yet; but I shall do both soon, and you'll
be grateful to me for doing so, one day, says
Miss Waugh, as she makes out a list of light but
engrossing duties, wherewith she hopes to employ
Lily to the exclusion of bitter, self-pitying
thought, for a short time.
Meanwhile Clement Bouverie has been doing a
painful piece of duty manfully. He has gone
home to find that Lily has left him! and a
little sealed note which her maid delivers to him
tells him why.
At least it tells him enough to enable him to
guess that she has heard and seen something that
56 an hour's shopping.
has shocked her away from him for a time eer-
tainly—for ever, perhaps 1
 Against your wishes I went out for a drive
to-day with Julia Fullarton, her note begins,
 and in a shop I heard a woman speak of her-
self and you as no woman on earth excepting
your wife has a right to speak. Now I know
why you have kept me away from every one
as if you were ashamed of me ! Oh, Clement! if
I was not worth owning, why did you marry
me ? But I won't hamper you. While she dares
to call herself by my name, I will never take
my place as your wife. Your unhappy, desolate
wife,
 Lily Bouverie.
 By all that's pernicious, I might as well have
been the rascal my poor girl thinks me, he
mutters, as he reads the last words. "What
an houk's shopping. 57
shop is it, I wonder, in which that ghastly
woman used my name and pledged my credit ?
Speculations on this subject being useless he
sends for a hansom and has himself driven to
that address in Avenue Road which Lily had
heard given in the jeweller's shop, and presently
he finds himself in the presence of the ghastly
woman for the first time for twelve months.
The room in which she is sitting is fresh and
fragrant with the sweet breath of many of our
floral February friends. Hyacinths, and narcissus
at the remote end of the apartment behind a
glass screen which suppresses a good deal of what
would be otherwise their overpowering fragrance;
white azaleas and Neapolitan violets diffusing their
more subtly delicate odours nearer to the centre
point of interest in the picture—the cool, graceful
woman, than whom the flowers themselves are not
fresher, sweeter, or purer in appearance.
 Clement! she rises, and goes to meet him
58 an hour's shopping.
with outstretched hands, and with a light ol
triumph in her eyes that would not be there il
she knew the motive of his mission. "Clement J
you have come back to me ? ''
He avoids meeting her hands, but he meets her
eyes steadily.
 You know I haven't come back to you in
the way you mean, Blanch; but you're so false
through and through that you pretend to think
it to embarrass me. How can you look me in
the face, knowing as you do that you've broken
your promise, your oath, and called yourself by
my name to-day in order to get some of the
gauds for which you're ready to sell your soul ?
 How do you know I've done this ? she
asks, easily reseating herself.  Ah! but I know
without troubling you to tell me. Your wife
heard me give my order and the name you once
promised I should bear, Clement.
 She did! and the hearing it has driven
an hour's shopping. 59
her from her home, and seared her heart, I
fear.
 Oh ! nonsense! she'll come back; these frantic
jealous fits pass over very soon. I indulged in
them once, as you may remember. What is it
you want, Clement; why have you come here now ? 
"To tell you that you have destroyed my
happiness, and to ask you to do a generous thing,
and win my wife back to me by telling her all
the truth!
She turns away from him to lean on the
mantelpiece.
 You have given me a hard task, Clement;
and not a hard one only, but a bitterly humiliating
one.
 Will you undertake it ? will you promise to
carry it out ? he asks eagerly.
The tears rush into her eyes.
 Have you no feeling for me ? Have you
quite forgotten that you loved me once ?
60 an hour's shopping.
He struggles to suppress all outward expressions
of the impatience he feels, but she knows him
too well not to detect the contempt, the aversion
almost, with which he regards her.
 My wife is my first consideration. I have
sacrificed myself for you too long.
 Ah ! she sobs miserably,  you taunt me with
my reckless folly. Clement, I will prove that it
was love, real love, for you that made me act as
I did. I will go to your wife and tell her what
a fool, what a worse than fool, I have been, and
what a Knight of Purity you are. Clement, 1
will do this, for I am not as bad as you think
me, I am grateful to you, wretched woman that
I am.
* Thank you, Blanch, he says more kindly,
 when I can find my wife, I will claim the
fulfilment of your promise. And with that
he leaves her, and goes to call on Julia
Fullarton.
an houb's shopping. 61
She hears his story, a part of it at least, and
then she says,
"I can guess where Lily has gone, and I will
tell you if you can assure me that your"—she
hesitates for a moment, and then with a bright
blush, goes on boldly, "your relations with Mrs.
Arbuthnot are at an end.
 I never had any relations with her, he says
calmly.  Some day Lily will hear the true ver-
sion of that sad story and she will tell it to
you. My lips are sealed, but Mrs. Arbuthnot
has promised to-day that she will clear my
character to my wife.
 Every one said you ran away with Mrs.
Arbuthnot.
"Then every one lied.
 Then I beg your pardon, Clement Bouverie,
for I, for one, believed the lies, she says, giving
him a hearty shake of the hand that does hira
good,  and to prove that I am penitent, I'll tell
62 an hour's shopping.
you where I think you will find Lily—with Miss
Waugh at our old school.
Early the next morning while Lily Bouverie is
struggling through a task which is repugnant to
her, with a pupil who has been carefully selected
by Miss Waugh for her intense stupidity, a card
is brought to her. She reads the name of her
visitor without recognising it—"Mrs. Arbuthnot,
and comes to the conclusion that it is some one
whom Miss Waugh wants her to interview on
business for the school. Her impulse when she
enters the drawing-room and recognises her rival
is to run away. But Mrs. Arbuthnot arrests her
with a word— Stop !
"Why have you come here to insult and per-
secute me ? Mrs. Bouverie cries, shivering with
wrath and anguish. "Wasn't it enough that you
blighted my life yesterday ?
 I have come to bless it to-day, the other
woman interrupts.  I have come to proclaim
an hour's shopping. 63
myself not only a fool, but a scorned and slighted
one. When I ran away from my husband it was
not with yours.
"Not!
"Not—distinctly not. I left the brute to whom
I was married because my life was unendurable
to me. I threw away home, character, the com-
panionship of good women, in a fit of reckless
fury, and the man on whose mercy I threw my-
self, because I mistakenly thought my love for
him would wake love in his heart for me in
return, would not have me. That man was your
husband. He repulsed me, he left London within
an hour after my going to him, and he has
never spoken to me since, till last night, when
he came and asked me to tell you the truth.
Don't come near me, she adds thrillingly as Lily
outstretches her hands in pity and relief,  I was
a selfish wretch, and let it be supposed that he
was my lover. I used his name; I ran up bills
64 an hour's shopping.
and had them sent in to him. Over and over
again he has forgiven the injuries I have done
him. Over and over has he counselled me by
letter to give up my evil courses and lead a new
life; but I have been wicked and wilful, and
now my punishment is that I have injured him
with the one woman in the world whom he loves,
the one to whom he has been loyal, the one
whom to win back he has made me grovel in
the dust.
 That one will always be grateful, Mrs. Ar-
buthnot, Lily sobs brokenly;  how I pity you,
how I will help you if you'll let me. If I.
Clement Bouverie's wife, hold out my hand to
you, the slander against you and him will be
ended.
But Mrs. Arbuthnot knows that the slander is
no slander where other men are concerned, and so
the two women part for ever!
But when Lily Bouverie is happily reinstated
an hour's shopping. 65
in her own home; when her husband's mother
has come up and presented her, and Clement is
making up to her, by the pride he displays in
her public appearance, for the enforced seclusion
of her earliest married days, she often gives a
thought of kindness to the faulty woman whose
one generous action surely was atonement for a
portion of her sin.
h
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
From Salthouse-in-the-Broads to Sloane Square is
a far cry in reality. To Mrs. Seright—a bride who
came straight from the marshy joys of a vicarage
on the bleak Norfolk coast to the sumptuously
furnished house on the sunny side of the old-
fashioned square, it seemed as if her childhood's
home had receded thousands of miles away into
the years that have perished.
Up to the previous day Kate Savory's experiences
of life and society had been limited to secluded
Salthouse and its rural environs. But on this day
she had been married with all the pomp and circum-
stance her father's limited income could command
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL. G7
to Hubert Seright, a man who had come down for
the duck-shooting just a month before.
The sporting sojourner at the village inn and the
sporting vicar of the parish had speedily become
intimate during the long watches of the nights
they spent together, lurking in furze-bushes, or
pursuing the wily mallard and teal in their flat-
bottomed duck-boat. Mr. Seright had been intro-
duced to the vicar's family, and won the heart
of the vicar's eldest daughter, with almost southern
ardour and celerity! At the end of a fortnight
they were engaged, and at the end of a month
they were married by her father in his own church,
where the girl had been baptised, and within
whose walls she had worshipped for twenty
years.
The wooing and the wedding had been conducted
with such dash and celerity that the Savorys knew
little more about their new son-in-law when he
married Kate, than they had done when he first
68 THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
made his distinguished-looking appearance among
them. They saw that he was good-looking, well-
dressed, and that his mannei was that of a man
who mixes freely and familiarly with such of his
fellow-creatures as are well placed upon the earth.
They also gathered that money was no object to
him in a moderate way that was not alarming; for
he settled two hundred a year on Kate, and was
liberal in his views as to the allowance he should
make her for housekeeping. Of his calling in life
he spoke vaguely.
 I'm a mere city man, he said in answer to Mr.
Savory's inquiries on that subject; "but there's no
need to go into details about that. The house will
always keep us well afloat, and I don't mean Kate
to know anything or be bothered in any way about
the business side of my life.
He was so frank and smiling, so gay and debonair
in his manner of declaring his intention of observing
reticence, not to say secrecy, about his business
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL. 69
pursuits, that they all, with one accord, avowed
themselves satisfied. But Kate made a mental re-
servatioo.
 It's all very well now, she said to herself;
"but when I'm his wife, it will be my duty to
interest myself in all his concerns. Dear Hubert
shall find me a real helpmate.
Dear Hubert, meanwhile, little reckoning that
under that gentle, guileless, girlish exterior lay con-
cealed a remarkable fixity of purpose, went on his
way rejoicing through the marriage ceremony that
made Kate his very own, for weal and woe.
 We'll be unconventional and settle about our
wedding-trip after the event, he had said to Kate;
and smiling, dark-eyed, sweet-mouthed Kate had
assented affably. Every place beyond that Norfolk
coast would be new ground to her! Wherever
Hubert liked to take lier, she would be enchanted
to go.
Accordingly Hubert took her straight up to
70 THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
the home he had prepared for her in Sloane
Square.
The girl was very well contented with the
arrangement. Her fingers were tingling with im-
patience to take up the reins of household manage-
ment, and there were limitless possibilities of en-
joyment and excitement in the prospect of her
London life, as it stretched before her, sketched out
by his eloquent fancy. Theatres, concerts, and ex-
hibitions, and trips up the river in the evening
by-and-bye, when the weather was warmer. All
these things had the golden charm of untrodden
ground to the country girl, and she revelled grate-
fully in the thought of indulging in them.
Besides, in addition to this dazzling vista of
pleasure, there was her home life in the dear old
red brick house of which she was mistress, and the
frequent society of her husband with whom she was
very prettily in love.
For a fortnight she had not a minute wherein to
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL. 71
ponder on the perplexing circumstance that he had
brought neither family nor friends to see her. She
lived in her pretty rooms like an enchanted prin-
cess, waited upon by well-trained servants, but
absolutely without social intercourse of any sort.
No guests ever broke the harmonious monotony at
their well-appointed board. No caller ever relieved
the tedium of a winter afternoon, while Hubert
Seright was away in the city. It came upon her
like a flash of lurid light one day, that she and
her husband were absolutely alone in London, and
that it was very queer.
She was a very young wife still, and she was
not at all sure of how far her privileges extended.
Home experience had taught her that a wife might
always inquire with safety as to her husband's
whereabouts. Her father, in fact, was apt to be
a little bit touchy if her mother could not refresh
his memory at the end of the week as to the
number of parochial visitations he had made in the
72 THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
course of it. Like a dutiful daughter, she would
follow her mother's example, arid take an inquiring
interest in her husband's calling, as became a duti-
ful wife.
 Hubert dear, she began, carelessly one night,
when he came in and sat down with her in the
dying light of a December afternoon,  I've been
thinking to-day that we ought to be arranging
for Christmas Day.
 Christmas Day will arrange itself, without any
interference on our part, my Poppet, he laughed;
but she moved her smooth, dark-haired head from,
under his caressing hand impatiently, as she
answered—
 That's nonsense, Hu; I mean who will dine
with us on Christmas Day ? My own people can't
come up because of father's services; can any of
yours ?
He laughed uneasily this time, not carelessly, as
he replied—
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL. 73
"I am a very lonely man, Katie; you must be
content with me alone. I have no people; the
few relations I have are scattered.
"No relations! she mused; "haven't you any
friends ?
 None that I would ask to spend Christmas
Day with me here.
 Oh, how flat it will be!  she said pettishly '
* I wish we could go home to Salthouse. The boys
will be back from school, and we're so happy on
Christmas Day. Father forgets his parish troubles,
and mother forgets her worries, and everything is
so jolly, so very jolly.
He took her chin in his "hand, and turned her
face towards him, and looked lovingly into lier
eyes,
 Why shouldn't you spend Christmas with them
at home, darling, if you wish it ?
 If you come, too, it will be too, too, too heavenly,
she cried.
74 THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
"Ah, there's the rub! My business won't let
me out of town, 
 What is your business, Hubert ?
"Daughter of Eve, he said playfully, "I have
said that no sordid details connected with money-
making shall come near you. It's enough for you
to know that my name is good in the city, and
that your little ladyship may gratify every taste
and desire of your heart.
 Excepting the chief one — the desire to know
what you really are, Hubert, she coaxed ; and as
he kissed her he pushed her gently away, saying
to himself—
"Anything but that! God forbid she should ever
know that.
 I shall not go back to Norfolk without him,
and I shall look out what he is in a city-directory.
she told herself. But her search was vain. The
name of  Hubert Seright was not inscribed in
the recording volume, and Hubert Seright's wife
THE KLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL. 75
had to evolve some other plan of  finding him
out, out of her own consciousness.
 And I shall have plenty of time to do it while
Hubert's away on that tiresome £ business' that's to
take him to Manchester from to-morrow till next
Wednesday, the young wife thought, and in her
heart she girded against the engrossing nature of
those mercantile pursuits, which made a man ready
and willing to leave his wife, the chosen partner
of his joys and sorrows, alone so often.
But hers was not a repining nature. She had
her pretty home in the Old World Square to order
and direct; and she had plenty of  shopping-
money in addition to the housekeeping fund. So
this being Friday, she promised herself a long
morning's shopping on the following day in that
precinct of Oxford Street, which was still almost
sacred on account of its novelty to her.
Meanwhile another married woman, in a far more
splendidly appointed house than that of which poor
76 THE SLOANE SQUAHE SCANDAL.
Kate was mistress, was vexing her soul with vain
conjectures as to why her lord's chariot-wheels
tarried so long on their way to her.
 Mr. Chetwynd's business engagements keep him
in thraldom, in odious, unceasing thraldom, fair,
graceful Mrs. Chetw}7nd said petulantly to her
children's governess as she got up from the
children's dinner-table, at which she had taken her
own luncheon.  He has to be flying all over the
country about these wretched contracts! I never
know  She paused abruptly as a servant
brought in a telegram, and presently read the
welcome message from her husband—
 Home to-night eight o'clock dinner; prepare to
run over to Pairs to-morrow.
In a burst of relief and satisfaction, the delighted
woman kissed her children, rapturously promising
the eldest—a boy of six—that he should "sit up to
see papa to-night. Then she ordered her carriage
and started to pay a vhit to Madame McClanie, a
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL. 77
Bond Street enchantress, whose robes and modes
made all conditions of feminine flesh and figure
fascinating.
The Chetwynds' house was in Portland Place,
and the Chetwynd menage was a perfect one.
Handsome Mrs. Chetwynd had a light and liberal,
but very firm hand with her servants; and as
during her husband's frequent and prolonged ab-
sences from home these faithful creatures never saw
anything that put her in their power when they
peeped through key-holes or steamed open her
letters, she felt able to retain or dismiss them at
her pleasure. Her present head housemaid had been
falling short of that perfection which was required
of all the members of Mrs. Chetwynd's admirably-
conducted establishment. She had been developing
fliglitiness, so it was rumoured; and flightiness
was a fault, a crime almost, for which Hugh
Chetwynd had no toleration. So to-day Mrs.
Chetwynd resolved to go to a servants' registry-
78 THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
office, and look out for some one really trust-
worthy.
She went to a well-reputed one, and stated her
requirements concisely.
"I want one without spot or blemish, both as
a housemaid and a woman, she said.  I give
high wages, and I expect a perfect servant. Mr.
Chetwynd demands this of all his servants, that
they shall be absolutely above suspicion.
The mistress of the office turned over her books
thoughtfully.
 I have the very thing for you, madam, she
said at last. "Here's the address, No. —, Sloane
Square; leaving because the lady keeps no com-
pany, and a house-parlour maid is wanted to
undertake the place. Her mistress gives her a
character—' sober, steady, clean, industrious, active,
early-rising, conscientious, competent, healthy, and
a total abstainer.'
 Give me the address and her mistress's name,
THE SLOANE SQUA11E SCANDAL. 79
and I'll go and secure the treasure at once, before
Mr. Chetwynd comes back to-night, cries Mrs.
Chetwynd, and she is presently driven to Mrs.
Seright's happy home in Sloane Square.
Hubert Seright happened to be packing up his
Gladstone in his dressing-room as the Chetwynd
carriage pulled up at his door. He looked out
from the window, and, recognising the turn-out, felt
his blood rush with velocity to his heart, while
his face quivered and his limbs trembled. But
presently he pulled himself together, and made his
way, bag in hand, to a little enclosed space on the
staircase, which was used as a cloak-room.
He heard Mrs. Chetwynd announced. Through
a chink in the doorway he saw this stately, fair
woman pass up the stairs, and enter the drawing-
room, where his gentle, quiet, pretty, guileless Kate
awaited her first visitor. Then in a paroxysm of
terror and vain remorse he waited a minute or
two, dreading each moment that he would be
SO THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
summoned to an interview the outcome of which
would be ruinous to all who assisted at it.
But no summons came; and so presently he took
his courage in both hands, descended the stairs,
and peeped through the dining-room window. The
Chetwynd carriage had been driven at a foot's
pace to tl) end of the square. In a minute, after
ascertaining this fact, Mr. Seright had slipped out
of his own house, like a rat out of its hole, and
made his safe exit from the square at the further
end from that portion of it which was being glori-
tied by the Chetwynd carriage.
As he swiftly turned the corner out of sight, the
footman lazily turned his head, and catching sight of
the rapidly-retreating figure remarked languidly—
"Blowed if master ain't cutting round; he's on
one of his little esplanades, you bet.
 Master! not a bit of it! Catch him in such a
resputable 'ole as this. If 'twas out St. John's
"Wood way now; but not 'e 'ere.
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL. 81
The interview between the two ladies meanwhile
had been progressing satisfactorily. Mrs. Seright
had none but good words to say of her departing
parlourmaid, though she ingenuously confessed
that her experience in such matters was but
slight.
"I have only been married a month, she said,
blushing freely,  and my husband is away from
home so often, and we keep no company at all,
so that really I hardly know how to employ my
servants; that is why Sanders is leaving me; she
wants a place with more life in it, she says.
 Have you many friends in London ?  Mrs. Chet-
wynd asked, pitying the lonety life which the other
one indicated that she led.
 Not a single friend; I know no one.
 Oh, you poor little woman, Mrs. Chetwynd
cried sympathetically.  You must ask your hus-
band to let you come and see me. Everyone
knows my husband by name. Mr. Seright will not
6
82 THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
object to your visiting Hugh Clietwynd's wife, I
am sure.
But to this proposition Kate Seright shook her
head in negative.
 My husband dislikes society, and I won't go
out without him, she said with decision. And in
her heart Mrs. Chetwynd thought Mr. Seright must
be a bit of a brute, and pitied his girlish merry-
looking wife still more profoundly.
True to his telegram Mr. Chetwjmd turned up to
dinner at home that night, and his wife, after the
manner of wise women, forbore to bore him about
the projected change in the household. She had
engaged Sanders, and arranged with her that she
(Sanders) should be installed in her new home and
new duties in No. —, Portland Place, on the return
of her master and mistress from Paris. This matter
being settled, Mrs. Chetwynd dismissed the subject
from her mind, and in entertaining her husband
according to her brilliant habit with an account of
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL. 83
what she had been doing during his absence,
she omitted all. mention of her visit to Sloane
Square.
It struck her, therefore, as being an odd, but not
a suspicious coincidence when he said to her—
 By - the - way, Laura, you haven't taken to
' slumming,' have you ? 
 Decidedly not; but why do you ask, Hugh ?
1 haven't been near the East End since I first
joined the Kyrle, and went to paint the mantel-
piece and doors of a mechanics' institute somewhere
out beyond everything — Tottenham Court Road
way.
"That was before we were married?
 Oh ! ages before.
 Well, be careful where you drive, Lolly, there's
a good deal of illness, fever, and one kind of thing
or another about just now; a fellow was saying in
the train to-day that about Chelsea and Sloane
Square 
84 THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
 Oh, Hugh, what ? I've been to Sloane Square
to-day.
 Have you, by Jove ? What on earth took you
there ? Any new names on your visiting list, eh ?
"No; not in that direction at least. Then she
told him why she had gone, and where she had
been.
"I daresay it will be all right; but don't go
there again, and give the woman a month's wages
not to come. I'm rather a nervous fellow about
illness, you know, not for myself, but the children.
 Dear Hugh! she murmured affectionately.
But all the same she thought nervousness ridicu-
lous, and resolved to have Sanders under another
name.
The following morning Mr. and Mrs. Chetwynd
went off to Paris for ten days' or a fortnight's
fling, while Kate Seright stayed at home and
wished that her beloved Hubert would give her
more of his companionship in the present, and
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL. 85
think less of accumulating a fortune for her in
the future.
That his business must he of a very engrossing
nature she felt sure, for he scarcely ever wrote to
her; and when he did his letters were queer little
stereotyped expressions of hopes that she was well
and missed him, and regrets that he could not he
with her. The address he gave her was the Rail-
way Hotel, Manchester, and to this address she
wrote regularly.
Meantime Sanders had left her, and under the
name of  Johnson, which Mrs. Chetwynd re-
quested her to assume, had been installed as upper
housemaid in the Portland Place establishment.
The Chetwynds were home from Paris, and
Hubert Seright was home from Manchester.
Letters were awaiting Mr. Chetwynd, which he
declared with much chagrin necessitated his jour-
neying  up north  immediately. Indeed, he only
stayed in his own house about an hour, and had
86 THE SLOAN E SQUARE SCANDAL.
to go off to catch a night train at King's Cross
before dinner.
Mrs. Seright was more fortunate. Her husband
reached home about six o'clock, and announced his
happy intention of staying at home for a week at
least.
 Where's Sanders ? he asked, as he caught
sight of a new parlourmaid.
 Oh! I forgot to tell you. The very day you
left home so suddenly a lady called about Sanders,
and she's gone there as upper housemaid 
 Gone ! the devil she has 
 Hubert, his wife interrupted in pious indig-
nation, "don't swear, about such a trifle, too.
Papa would be horrified, and 1 
 There, then, child, don't bother, he said
roughly; but she saw that he had turned very
pale, and was looking desperately distressed.
 The lady was called Chetwynd; she said if
I mentioned her husband's name you'd be sure
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL 87
to know it, she seemed to be very proud ot
him.
 Aye!
 Why shouldn't Sanders have gone there ? Kate
persisted.
 Why! oh, only that I hate changing servants,
and loathe new faces.
"Hubert dear, you quite agreed the other day
that she should go.
 But not there.
 Why not there as well as anywhere else ?
 Because I ordered ; but it's no use arguing
with you, women are never reasonable, and nevei
know when they are well off.
 You never gave me a single order about her,
Kate said with spirit.  I won't bear blame quietly
that I don't deserve.
 Kate, I'm bothered, he said miserably.  Chet-
wynd is a fellow who—a man I've no—oh, it's
useless trying to explain ; you wouldn't understand.
88 TilE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
 Yes, I should if you told me.':
 Well, the long and short of it is that if it
comes out in Chetwynd's house that I'm married
to you I'm ruined.
 But why ? How ?  the poor child questioned,
half choking with vague fears and wounded self-
esteem. "Mrs. Chetwynd didn't even seem to
know your name.
 Probably not; she never heard of it, he said,
smiling bitterly.
About this same hour the new head-housemaid
Johnson was having a friendly chat with some of
her fellows in the servants' hall. Their topic was
the master and mistress just returned from Paris—
the mistress with the loveliest dresses and bonnets
her own maid had ever seen, the master in his
usual hurry to get away from his own home the
minute he came back to it.
 Has he always been so ? Johnson asked.
 Lor' bless vour heart, no •. only since last
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL. 89
November, when he went away shooting somewhere
down the eastern counties way; he got hold of
some fresh business then, and it do take him up
so that he's not like the same man.
"Well, go where he will he won't see a prettier
woman than his wife. Will he, Johnson?
 That's hard to say; Mrs. Chetwynd is stately
and has beautiful skin, but for looks give me my
old mistress that I've just left; she's the prettiest
I've seen in all my life, I think, and her husband
matched her well.
 The master here is a fine figure of a man, but
that stern and particular, I've heard say, that he
won't let missus so much as look at anyone, man
or woman, who flirt or carry on. And as for
divorced people, he won't know them himself.
 It wouldn't do either for him. A gentleman of
his standing, said the butler; and then Johnson
had to take up the nursery suppei.
By-and-bye she came down flushed and agitated.
90 THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
 Miss Laura got showing me her photograph
album, she said. And then, with some confusion,
she asked,  Can any of you tell me if that is a
photograph of her papa on the front page ?
 Yes, several of them assured her that it
was.
"It might have been taken for my late master,'*
she said; "but perhaps Miss Laura changes the
photographs sometimes, and Mr. Chetwynd and Mr.
Seright may know each other, both being city
gentlemen.
"I can show you a splendid portrait of master
in the dining-room, a great oil-painting, cost three
figures, and none on 'em oughts, said the butler.
 It speaks almost, painted by Herkomer. Come
along.
So Johnson went along, and was presently staring
with round shocked eyes at the life-like portrait of
—Mr. Seright.
"Least said, soonest mended, thought the astute
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL. 91
woman. Accordingly she suppressed all signs of
surprise and recognition, was reticent with her
criticism, and made an excuse for speedily getting
away from the servants' hall. By the morning
they would have forgotten her remarks about the
resemblance the photograph of Mr. Chetwynd bore
to Mr. Seright. By the morning she would have
settled how best to work the rich vein of golden
scandal which she had struck. The next day she
made herself acquainted with Mr. Chetwynd's city
address, and then waited quietly till it was
rumoured that master was coming home. The
ball was at her feet, she could afford to wait. But
she did not know that while sbe was waiting, Mr.
Chetwynd was almost insisting in his letters upon
her dismissal. She had something that savoured
of levity about her, he said, and such a woman
should not remain under his roof.
So, unwillingly, for  Johnson was an excellent
servant, Mrs. Chetwynd gave her notice, and offered
1)2 THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
her a month's wages to go a day or two before
Mr. Chetwynd's return.
Johnson or Sanders accepted the wages and
notice respectfully. And the same day, hearing
that the master had sent a telegram from his office
in the city, she packed up her trunk, said "good-
bye to her fellow-servants, walked to the Oxford
Street Circus, got into a 'bus, and reached the
business house just as Mr. Chetwynd was nibbling
a biscuit and sipping a glass of sherry for
luncheon.
She sent up her name, and, to the surprise of
all the clerks, the answer came down the tube at
once—ct Show her up.
What passed at that interview need not be
narrated. It is enough to say that Sanders, called
 Mrs. Sanders from that day forth, lives in a
very comfortable house of her own in Upper
Westbourne Place, where she lets handsomely-
furnished lodgings to gentlemen, nearly all of
THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL. 93
whom are recommended to her capital quarters by
that 'excellent fellow Chetwynd, about whom there
hangs such a reassuring halo of perfect integrity
and high principle. Mrs. Chetwynd has not a wish
ungratified, for she has got in the highest social
latitudes, where she holds a distinguished place,
backed up by her husband's irreproachable character
as much as by his inexhaustible wealth.
But life is rather dull at times for Kate Seright*
though Hubert does spend much more of his time
with her than of old. For she has grown into a
very staid and quiet little woman. Her habit of
seclusion has become second nature to her, and she
is quite innocent of the fact that some people in
and around Sloane Square speak of her as "The
Scandal of it.
Sometimes Hubert Seright shudders when he
thinks how nearly lie was found out on that
memorable occasion when Sanders went to live in
Portland PJace; as does Mr. Chetwynd occasionally,
94 THE SLOANE SQUARE SCANDAL.
when he thinks what a narrow escape he had
when Sanders came to them from Sloane Square.
Fortunately, Sanders is completely squared now,
and there is no fear of her ever being inimical to
the peace of mind of the man through whose liber-
ality she is always handsomely dressed, and has
servants of her own to wait upon her.
Bigamy is an ugly word. No wonder that Hugh
Chetwynd in his new mansion at Hyde Park Gate
and Hubert Seright in the retired house in Sloane
Square, which is now a home of perfect taste, alike
shrink from the sound of it. It is almost a matter
of surprise indeed that they can bear the sight ot
green bay trees; for are not the wicked said  to
flourish like them '2
THE VICAR'S WIFE.
HEN Mrs. Dorrington caught the first
glimpse of the site on which her future
home was to be erected, her heart went down to
doleful depths, and she recited the words, "Oh!
the dreary, dreary moorland, with more perfect
understanding and deeper expression than she had
ever bestowed on them before.
In truth it did seem a dreary and barren pros-
pect, both literally and socially, which was stretch-
ing away before the actual and mental vision of
one of the brightest-hearted women in the world.
The wife of the new vicar of Lecmoor had never
contemplated such grand isolation with nature, and,
96 the vicar's wife.
apart from her own kind, as she was now com-
pelled to accept. But she bore the revelation with
outward bravery, and made no sign of the dismal
disappointment she felt.
"This, my dear, is the site that the Beltow
family have so kindly given for our future home,
Mr. Dorrington said blithely, indicating with his
umbrella, as he spoke, a turnip field that slanted
away from where they stood up towards the wild moor.
"It's nice and open! was all Mrs. Dorrington
could think of saying by way of reply. But she
said it cheerfully, and her husband was fully satisfied
that she sympathised with his enthusiasm in the
contemplation of the place where they should soon
see their own home rising under their own eyes
and auspices.
"I can fancy nothing more delightful than build-
ing a house after our own hearts, the vicar went
on heartily, disregarding the rasping force with
which an east wind was raging round them.
THE VICAR'S WIFE. 97
 Have they given you money enough to build a
house after our own hearts ? his wife inquired.
 Oh, ample, ample ! The Ecclesiastical Commis-
sioners have allowed an ample sum for building a
cosy, charming house.
"Anything like those that I'm in love with in
FitzJohn's Avenue? the lady asked hopefully.
"Certainly, I should say, her husband assured
her confidently.
 Oh, Edward, how charming! And a stable ?
Shall We have a stable ? We must have a pony
for you to get all over your parish, as it spreads
so far out.
"And a stable unquestionably. Now, Molly,
don't you begin to feel glad that we've done with
the London life ? but as he said this the vicar's
face fell and his voice lost its happy ring, as he
thought of some hundreds of the people in the
purlieus of that London parish where he had
laboured for so many years, where he had been so
7
98 THE vicar's wife.
well loved, and was so deeply regretted. She was
quick to feel his transient depression.
 There'll be plenty of work for you here, Ned,
and you'll soon win the people's hearts. Now shall
we go back to the lodgings ? One great charm,
of this situation is that our house will be close
to the church. Shall we plan out the garden
this evening? After all, I am glad that we shall
be able to make our new home altogether ourselves.
It will be stamped with our own individuality
much more strongly than any old vicarage in which
other people had lived would have been.
And when she said that the vicar knew that
his wife was resolving within herself to make the
best of things.
He was right. It had teen borne in upon her
as they stood there looking over the dark moor
that, barren and bleak as it all looked to her, she
was resigning little in coming here; whereas he
was leaving a sphere of work where his usefulness
the vicar's wife. 99
had been deeply, widely felt, and generously ac-
knowledged. The utmost he could ever do in little
Lecmoor would seem as nothing to that broad
sphere of labour in which he had delighted and
nearly worn himself out. Should she be the one
to discourage him because the outlook at present
was dreary and tedious merely for herself? Un-
doubtedly not. Her province was to cheer and
stimulate, and she could do neither one nor the
other she knew until he believed her happy.
So happy she determined to be—a,y, and useful
too.
It was often weary work for social-minded,
brilliant Mrs. Dorrington in the dull months that
ensued before the new vicarage was ready for
them. Life in country lodgings in a remote hamlet
is not a sparkling thing at the best of times.
But in the sad, damp, or boisterously stormy
winter months, it is the abomination of desolation
to lovers of their kind.
100 THE VICAR'S WIFE.
However, Time never stays his flight; and when
the early spring days came, Mrs. Dorrington burst
through the iron bonds of the bitter cold which
had kept her a prisoner to the house all the winter
as bravely as the snowdrops did through the iron-
bound earth.
Naturally she made her way to the "site first
of all.
It was really very encouraging. Bricklayers had
done their work, and given place to carpenters
and glaziers, and these latter were putting the
finishing strokes to a perfectly unique house, that
was a quaint, picturesque combination of what has
been termed the "Queen Antic-y and "Reformed
Victorian. An oak porch and a cathedral-like
entrance door, transom lights filled with octagon-
panes of shaded glass above all the windows in
the south front, rooms of various sizes and several
shapes, carved wood mantelpieces, that seemed
specially designed to hold all her more precious
THE VICAR'S WIFE. 101
"bits of old china,—all these combined to make
the house unlike any she had ever seen inhabited
by other people, and to make the little woman's
heart leap with delight.
"The garden shall be a little paradise, to match
the house, Ned, she said; "and I'll keep all my
old friends in town supplied with flowers and
fruit and vegetables. The garden shall be my
care.
"I'm afraid you'll find it rather a costly one if
you conduct it on those liberal principles, the vicar
said cautiously. Before his eyes that dreaded "Bill
of Extras was already looming—that bill which
is invariably such a  mere bagatelle at starting,
according to the builder, and which equally invari-
ably assumes such Brobdingnagian proportions at
the bitter end.
However, about this Mrs. Dorrington had no
forebodings. Many a time and oft during her
married life had her house-keeping heart grown
102 THE VICAR S WIFE.
heavy at the lightness of her purse, but this was
in the days when the family and appearances and
charities had to be kept up on a curate's stipend.
"Those days were over now, thank God, she
said heartily. Their children were educated, and
one girl, the doated-upon eldest daughter, was
coming home for good, and to help her mother
at midsummer.
 And so, Mrs. Dorrington went on eagerly,
 when Violet comes I shall have time to do—oh!
heaps and heaps of work in the garden, for I shall
relegate the house-keeping to her. And after the
garden is once in order, the 'useful man' that we
must have can keep it up, under my guidance,
very well; and after the first year I shall save all
my own vegetable and flower seed, so it will be
no further expense, and I shall be able to well
afford to send hampersful away every week 'to
old friends."'
So she intended and planned in her generous
THE VICAR'S WIFE. 103
heart, and towards this liberal end she worked
unceasingly with head and hands till about the
beginning of June,—when, joyful day ! they
migrated into the now completed vicarage.
"I really don't believe there's a single cloud on
my horizon, Ned, she said to her husband the
next morning, as she seated herself opposite the
coffee-pot, and glanced over the letters that were
by the side of her plate. "The furniture has come
down from the warehouse looking quite rejuvenated
from its long rest, and it fits the house as if it
had been made for it. I am so glad you went
in for all those little extra nooks and corners;
aren't you ?
The Rev. Edward Dorrington answered hesi-
tatingly that he "was not quite sure about that.
"Oh! but, Ned, 'think for a moment,' as you're
so fond of saying in your sermons. If you hadn't
made all those clever suggestions about utilising
several spaces that were left unemployed, how much
104 THE YICAR'S WIFE.
room we should have lost! The house would have
looked just the same, of course, hut think of the
additional real comfort we've gained!
"The architect advised me strongly not to
suggest any alterations, Mr. Dorrington said
dubiously.
"But the builder assured you that the alterations
you have suggested would be a mere bagatelle,
his wife replied encouragingly. Then she read her
letters, and presently burst out into fresh expres-
sions of delight and enthusiasm.
"A letter from Violet, Ned! Just hear what the
dear child says: 'I shall make that little room you
tell me of, opening out of my bedroom, my studio;
Shan't I be proud when I set up my easel there,
and begin to paint and make money for myself.
Meantime, until I do this, you must please to
furnish my studio very artistically for me—
please, mother dear! You must have the
floor stained and polished, and lay down Oriental
THE VICAR'S WIFE. 105
rugs on it, that harmonise with the colouring of the
room.
 She doesn't realise that the walls are not
papered or painted yet, you see, Ned, the happy
mother interrupted herself to remark; "but I shall
make the white plaster walls as cheerful as possible.
I have some good old engravings, you know, and
I'll have them framed, and with a lot of old blue
china, and a few Oriental rugs on the floor 
"I am afraid we must defer the furnishing of
that room for a time, Molly, he interrupted, and
his voice was so tremulous that she looked at him
in questioning anxiety.
 Surely you won't grudge spending a little
money on Violet's pleasure, Edward ? she asked
reproachfully,  The child has always been so
good and contented, though we never could gratify
her artistic love of beauty in her own immediate
surroundings; but now that we are so much better
off 
106 THE VICAK'S WIFE.
She paused abruptly as she saw the expression
of gloom which had been on Mr. Dorrington's face
from the moment he had grasped his morning's
correspondence deepen perceptibly.
"I am afraid we are worse off than we have
ever been before, Molly, he said compassionately,
for he hated to crush out her motherly and house-
wifely pride in the power she believed she had of
making her home prettier for her daughter. "The
Bill of Extras has come in, and it has nearly
paralysed me; nearly the whole of our income
for the first year will be swallowed up in paying
it. It is for three hundred pounds!
He felt better the moment he had made the
announcement, for Molly, though she fully realised
the extent of the grinding poverty that would be
their portion for some time, straightened herself,
and held her head well up to meet the blow.
When she spoke it was to say, "What a pity
it is that I can't do anything remunerative! If I
THE VICAR'S WIFE. 107
could only paint, or teach music, or something,
now I should be a real helpmate to you, Ned.
As it is, I know but matters of the house.
Still, if it were not for Violet, I shouldn't care a
bit.
"Violet will be the greatest comfort to us both;
we must eschew society for a year, at least, and
live on the little bit of income that will be honour-
ably left to us. If you will bear up bravely, my
dearest wife, you may rely upon it that your
daughter will follow your lead. So! I throw the
anxiety off; for though the bill is a heavy one, we
can pay it ! 
"And so I throw off all trouble about it too,
Ned, she cried cheerfully. "We can pay it, and
we have the garden; you had forgotten that.
"The garden won't be much help to us, I
fear.
"I don't fear a bit, for I'm sure it will. Look
at those rows upon rows of peas and beans, and
108 THE VICAB's WIFE.
those beds of broccoli and every kind of cabbage
that can be named! My guinea's worth of seeds
has been a splendid investment. This morning I
got up early and packed a large hamper of vege-
tables, meaning to send it off to the Evanses, Now,
instead of doing that, I'll take the hamper to a
greengrocer in Grey bridge, and sell them.
"You can't do it, Molly, it wouldn't do; you
can't turn yourself into a market-gardener.v
But Mrs. Dorrington judged differently, and
presently the vicar, looking out of his study win-
dew, saw his wife driving away in their little dog-
cart with a huge hamper of vegetables sitting on
the back seat.
She had packed her hamper cleverly, wrapping
up her long silvery-green cucumbers in protecting
coats of almost transparent paper, and trimming oil
all the ragged leaves from the cauliflowers and
cabbages. The peas and French beans were as
fine as might be expected from good seed in rich
THE VICAR'S WIFE. 109
new ground. Her bunches of bright orange-
coloured carrots looked well in close juxtaposition
to endive and cos lettuces. And the long sticks
of giant rose-pink rhubarb "would have seemed
cheap to me at ninepence a bundle in London
she told herself, as she counted a dozen bundles of
it with satisfied pride.
Surely the greengrocer would only be too glad to
get such a well-arranged quantity of perfectly fresh
vegetables! In imagination she made an arrange-
ment to supply him with from ten to fifteen
shillings' worth a week.  And when my roses
begin to flower freely, I shall be able to sell the
La France and Mar^chal Niel at sixpence a piece,
at the least, and I may count on cutting four
dozen a week from all those trees for three or
four weeks.
 We have an over-supply of vegetables in our
garden, and wish to sell some of them, she ex-
plained to the greengrocer whom she had selected
110 the vicar's wife.
to honour with her surplus fruits of the earth:  will
you take them of us ?
He regarded the lady first with such intensity
that she felt herself blushing with annoyance; then
he inspected the contents of the hamper in a
casual kind of way that was irritating.
 I don't mind obliging you, ma'am, he began
leisurely, "but we get all we want and more from
the regular trade. What d'ye want for this lot ?
 What will you offer me ?
"I don't mind five shillings.
Mrs. Dorrington felt that there had been plea-
santer moments in her life than this present one.
But she made no sign of discomfiture.
"Put the hamper back into the dog-cart; I came
to sell them, not to give them away, she said
with perfect self-possession and good temper.
He put his hands on the handles, then paused.
"They're a nice fresh lot, well picked, too, he
said meditatively. A.nd then he began counting up
THE VICAK'S WIFE. Ill
what each kind would be worth, and finally came
to the conclusion that, without doing himself irre-
parable injustice, he could offer her  twelve shillings
for the lot.
It was the first transaction of the kind she had
ever been engaged in, and she went home elated at
the successful way in which she had carried it
through. But she meant to do better.
From this day, whenever it was fine, Mrs.
Dorrington might be seen working in her garden.
She cut and picked all the vegetables herself, and
derived a double benefit from this proceeding. In
the first place, she had no time to feel dull, or to
miss that social life which had once been so dear
to her. And in the second place, everything she
gathered was so daintily free from grit, decay, and
slugs, that they always commanded the first sale
in the obliging greengrocer's shop.
And then Violet came home, and as soon as the
pretty fresh young girl's first burst of ecstasy of
112 THE VICAR'S WIFE.
delight in  being in her very own home at last
was over, her mother told her how things were
with them.
 We have just one hundred pounds certain for
this year, Violet; only that to live upon.
 Is it little ? Violet asked.
 For the clergyman of a parish whose family
must live like gentlepeople, and whose hand must
be opened to those who are needier than himself, it
is a poor pittance, Vio'; but you and I must
make it go as far as it will. And then she told
her daughter about the garden.
 You actually pick peas and sell them ? Oh
mother ! how good you are!
 If that's the way yon take it, I shall pick them
henceforth with ever so much more spirit and
speed.
Mrs. Dorrington laughed. "And you shall gather
the roses, and arrange buttonholes. As soon as the
garden brings me in a pound a week, I shall have
THE VICAR'S WIFE. 113
a hot-bed made; one can't do much without
glass.
"If we had a lean-to greenhouse we might grow
peaches, said Violet; and the idea came into her
head as she spoke, that she would make a
sketch and paint a picture of some one of
the many picturesque places around and try to
sell it.
So while the girl painted and dreamed of a fair
artist life, the mother pruned and picked the
fruit and vegetables, and courageously carried her
hampers to market in her little dog-cart twice a
week. Mrs. Dorrington had grown beyond the
Greybridge greengrocer now. She went straight
to the big Hillmouth market, and after the first
week or two there was a good deal of competition
for the contents of her hampers, and the pound a
week she had hoped to make soon found its way
regularly into her pocket, and supplied the vicarage
with all that they deemed necessary to live upon
8
114 THE VICAR'S "WIFE.
beyond that which they got from their best friend,
the garden.
At the end of the twelvemonths, when the Bill
of Extras was paid, and the income their own
again, they were rather astonished to find what
very trifling inconvenience they had endured during
that year of privation. The garden was already
a glory to the parish, running over with abun-
dance, out of which, over and above what they sold,
they could liberally supply themselves and others.
The greenhouse was soon an accomplished fact, for
Violet's first picture had brought her in more orders
than she could execute for two or three years to
come, and her first ten pounds was spent on a glass
structure, whose wall was clothed with peach trees,
and as the peaches followed the peas to market
at the rate of sixpence and fourpence apiece, Mrs.
Dorrington's garden purse grew heavy.
"And it all grew out of that one guinea's worth
of vegetable and flower seeds that I invested in
THE VICAK'S WIFE. 115
before I knew anything about either gardening or
bills of extras, she said one day as the useful
man drove off in the large square cart which had
superseded the dog-cart as the vehicle which con-
veyed the produce of the vicarage garden to the
voracious consumers in Hillmouth.
"That Bill of Extras has been a real blessing,
Ned, his wife said to the vicar one day, three or
four years after. "It taught us to be vegetarians
in the widest sense of t*he word; we grow and
eat them freely, and never one is wasted. I sell
my cabbages at a penny apiece all the year round,
and they alone pay our milk bill, and Violet's
greenhouse flowers dress her entirely, so that she
hasn't to touch the money she makes by her
pictures. But I shouldn't like to have my first
experience of trading with a greengrocer over
again. He made me feel—well, very much as the
onions that I had pulled that morning did when
they came too close to my eyes. Oh dear! what
116 THE VICAR'S WIFE.
a little hamper that was after all ; but I had
packed it myself, and was very proud of it.
Almost as proud as I am of the vegetable soups
that my inability to get butcher's meat very often
compelled me to make.
 If we could only get our poorer neighbours
to make and like vegetable soups, what a boon
we should be conferring on them! Mr. Dorrington
sighed as he thought of two or three cases of
cottage extravagance combined with want in the
parish.
"Yes, they don't realise that it's the pepper
arid salt aud the judicious onion that gives the
flavour; they like greasy thick stuff that would
make us sick, and in turn their gorges would rise
if we put a plate of spinach purde before them,
or stewed haricot beans.
"Why not get up a cookery class, and demon-
strate to our people that they can almost live out
of their gardens if they go to work properly ?
THE VICAR'S WIFE. 117
"So I will, cried the vicar's wife, and so she
did,—giving it in her own kitchen, where she
never used any but the commonest saucepans and
frying-pans; going through the whole process they
would have to do, from cutting and cleaning her
vegetables to thoroughly stewing and seasoning
and beating them up to the proper consistency
with either scalded milk or gravy made from a
bone or two.
And so it is that after a time Lecmoor became
famous for its prolific cottage gardens, and for the
health and prosperity of its people. For the soups
and stews she taught them to make were  savoury 
they found, in spite of the infinitely small element
of animal meat that entered into them. For they
found that it was the frying-pan. and the pepper,
salt, and onion that takes the tameness out of a
vegetable diet.
 Brown your carrots, onions, and cabbage in the
frying-pan first, before you make them into soups
118 THE VICAR'S WIFE.
and stews, and half the people who smell and eat
them will think that the British bullock has a
share in the result.
HER FIRST BALL.
 r | THE world may be full of folly and sin, of
disappointment, cark, and care, of spleen
and envy, of ingratitude and dead-sea fruits that
tempt the eye and turn to ashes on the lips. Never-
theless it is a glorious thing to be just eighteen,
to be just recently emancipated from school, to
feel certain that one is distinctly rather pretty
than the reverse, and to have one's first ball in
the immediate future.
Such are some of the thoughts that dance and
tumble through Florence Merrion's mind and brain
as she stands before her glass in the glistening
120 HER FIRST BALL.
light of an April morning. The pleasures of and-
cipation are being vividly enjoyed by her. In
imagination she sees herself whirling through the
boundless space of an assembly room, decorously
but firmly supported by the manly arms of all the
best dancers in the several regiments that are
quartered at Darchester. The vision she has is
of a sylph,—a pale-faced, dark-haired, supple svellt,
graceful, grey-eyed sylph, arrayed in something
ethereally filmy and whitely delicate. And—
u Shan't I look nice! she thinks with pardon-
able vanity. "But I will keep one waltz for poor
Ned, though his black coat will look very tame
among the red ones.
"Poor Ned is the son of her father's partner,
and is himself a clerk in a legal firm in London,—
a clerk in a position of great responsibility and
honourable trust, such a position, in fact, as justifies
him in looking forward with joyful hope and con-
fidence to that blissful and not too far distant
HER FIRST BALL. 121
day when he may be taken into partnership, and
ask Florence Merrion to marry him.
But Florence knows nothing of these day-dreams
of his. To her he is simply "poor Ned still, a
dear, handsome, high-spirited boy, not the man
destined to first wake her heart to thoughts of
love.
 Flo Merrion is a lucky girl, all her young
girl-friends say enviously, when they hear that her
aunt, Mrs. Gaylard, the estimable but close-fisted
spouse of the equally estimable and close-fisted
Admiral Gaylard, who has just hoisted his flag at
Darchester, has asked the girl to be her (Mrs.
Gaylard's) guest for a series of civic as well as
naval and military festivities.
 Of course, staying with the port-admiral's wife
will give Flo such a swing-off", that she will be
able to dance every bar of dance music that's
played in Darchester for the next fortnight, says
one.
122 HER FIRST BALL.
 They're all married men on board the flag-shq
now, that's one comfort, says another spitefully,
 otherwise Miss Flo would come back and pretend
to be sorry that it was supposed all the officers
had fallen in love with her.
 Little flirt; I hope Ned will have nothing more
to do with her after this, says "poor Ned's
sister.  Here, he's home for a holiday, just ten
days' holiday, and Flo, who has always pretended
to be fond of him when there was no one else by,
goes off to Darchester with all her colours flying.
"Your brother deserves, and will have, a better
fate than Miss Florence Merrion, my dear Miss
Villars, a matronly lady observes prophetically.
Her own two anything-but-fair daughters have
vigorously  Ned-hunted for the last two years.
But this is a detail. On grounds of etiquette and
decorum, to say nothing of morality, she objects
to the hunted man turning hunter in the direction
of another girl than her own.
HER ilRST BALL. 123
li Well, it will do her a world of good if she
finds herself out of it at the assembly, or only able
to dance with Admiral Gaylard's married officers,
a young lady who loves Ned Yillars and hates
Florence Merrion says piously.
"Yes; they never introduce at the Darchester
assemblies, and the men are sure to be ' full up'
before they go into the room, another girl puts in
eagerly.
 Flo needn't have looked so ridiculously happy
as she did when she started this morning, Grace
Villars snaps out; "and there was Ned tamely
tucking the rug round her feet, and heartily hoping
she'd enjoy herself, and begging her to remember
that she had promised to keep ' one waltz for him,'
as humbly as if she were a royal princess.
 She's more than a royal princess to him, she's
the queen of his soul, a girl laughs out merrily;
 and you may gird against it, and jeer about it,
from early morn till dewy eve, Grace, but you
124 HER FIRST BALL.
won't alter the facts, or make your brother Ned
think less of Flo Merrion.
The last speaker is the only daughter of the
house in which afternoon tea is stimulating the
conversation here recorded. She is Miss Dunster,
of the Bridge House, Bridgeway, and she is as
popular as a pretty, good-natured young heiress,
who is well inclined to pleasure, deserves to be.
Of all the girls in Bridgeway she is the only one
who can bring herself to speak tolerantly of
handsome Ned Villars's fatuous devotion to Florence
Merrion,—devotion which the girl accepts simply
as a matter of course, and yet does not seem to
think that her acceptance of it binds her to any-
thing like the obligation to return it.
Nevertheless though Eve Dunster justifies Ned's
infatuation for Florence, and vindicates Florence's
irresponsible manner of absorbing the same, she
(Eve) is the one girl in Bridgeway who has prayed
for Ned's welfare, watched and rejoiced over his
HER FIRST BALL. 125
success, and held his image sacred to her heart,
undisturbed even for an hour by a thought of any
other name since they were boy and girl together,
and he first made her his confidante about his love
for Florence Merrion.
Eve Dunster is a tall, slender, dark-haired girl,
with such a handsome little head, and such a long,
slender, white neck, that she invariably commands
attention and admiration from all men who are
blest with eyes and understanding. But by all of
them she is regarded as cold, not to say heartless.
And Ned Villars congratulates himself sometimes that
his heart has gone out to dear impressionable little
Flo, instead of to  that beautiful statue, Eve Dunster.
 I suppose you'll go the ' Assembly,' Eve ?
some one asks her presently.
 Mother says she means to take me; but I don't
care much about it. I fancy I am getting stale
bread at the Darchester assemblies. I ought to stay
away and make room for the young ones.
126 HER FIRST BALL.
She can afford to make these self-depreciatory
remarks. For, for more reasons than need be
mentioned here, Eve Dunster has never sat out
a dance for lack of a partner in her life, and as
she is not twenty-one yet, her juniors have no
reason to complain of her for staying in their
way overlong.
Magnanimous, unselfish, generous as she is, it
is a hard pill to swallow, this of going to the
Darchester assembly this night. With all her honest
heart she wishes Florence Merrion to enjoy herself;
but, at the same time, she knows that Florence
Merrion's perfect enjoyment will mean no small
amount of pain and humiliation to Ned Villars.
Accordingly, whatever happens short of the miracle
of Florence suddenly arriving at a just appreciation
of Ned, Eve Dunster feels that she will have to be
sorry for the one or sad for the other.
However, there is no appeal against the maternal
fiat. Eve must "show herself at the assembly,
HER FIRST BALL. 127
for young Lord Bridge way, eldest son of the Earl
of Darchester, will be there to make his bow in
public social life for the first time since he has
attained his majority.
"Really, mother, your suggestion makes me feel
like the embodiment of April. I've a smile on my
lips, and a tear in my eyes, when you speak of my
showing myself because Lord Bridgeway will be
there. He probably won't s^e me in the first place;
and, if he does, he won't know me, and won't
look at me; and if he did, what then ? I'd rather
not go.
"You're better worth looking at than Florence
Merrion; and I know that Mrs. Gay lard will try
her best to make him see Flo. You shall go,
my dear, and while you dance I shall have what
I haven't had for months—a good rubber.
So Eve goes.
Meantime Florence has been having rather a
rough time of it with her excellent aunt.
128 HER FIRST BALL.
In the first place, after her long drive in an
open dogcart into Darchester, the girl is whole-
somely hungry. But Mrs. Gaylard has no sympathy
with this ill-regulated phase of feeling. There will
be a handsome dinner, as she calls it, at half-past
seven, when the admiral and some of his staff will
be there to enjoy it. But her soul revolts at the
idea of a substantial midday meal.
"A nice piece of light cake and a glass of milk
will be the very best thing for you, Flo dearer
after your drive. Dr. Randolph is quite opposed to
heavy food in the middle of the day; in spring
it overheats the blood and produces pimples,
she says festively to her young and starving
niece.
"Oh, aunt dear, I'm afraid I shall eat all your
cake if I have nothing else; I'm ravenous. Might
I have some cold meat ?
 I always set my face against meat luncheons
for ladies; what do we want of them ? I regard
HER FIRST BALL. 129
them quite as superfluities, Florence; but if you
must have something substantal—as a doctor, I'm
surprised at your father not having taught you to
shrink from animal food at such an unreasonable
hour—still, if you must have it, perhaps you had
better have a nice hot chop at the confectioner's.
Tabbage shall go with you and order it, and stand
behind your chair while you eat it.
"Very well, aunt, says Florence demurely; but
she makes up her mind that as Tabbage is not
commissioned to pay for the chop she (Flo) will
dispense with that worthy woman's services as soon
as she gets outside her aunt's door.
For Florence is still young enough to take tremb-
ling pleasure in the fact of being quite alone in
Darchester, free to go into any shop she pleases,
free to flatten her nose against shop windows which
attract her, free to stop and speak to any nice
acquaintance she may chance to meet. And nono
of these things would be Dermissible were she
9
130 BER FIRST BALL.
accompanied either by Mrs. Gay lard or that lady s
trusty lieutenant, Tabbage.
But a little finesse is requisite.
"What a 'eavenly breeze there must be on the
Broad this morning, miss, Tabbage says, sniffing
in the direction of the sea walk she mentions,
and inhaling nothing save the odours of the ser-
vants' dinners as they come fuming up from the
various areas near.
 Indeed, yes. What a pity you don't go
and enjoy it, Tabbage, while I have my
luncheon.
 I might as well, miss; but Mrs. Gaylard does
stand up for hetiquette so, tho' your own ma' lets
you come in alone to Darchester, as why shouldn't
she? Your aunt must make a fuss about you if it
costs her nothing.
 Go and take your walk on the Broad, and
don't speak about your mistress, Tabbage, Florence
says sharply.  Go; if aunt hears of it, and is
HER FIRST BALL. 131
angry, I'll take the blame. Go at once before this
next shower comes on.
Now, a walk on the Broad has a charm at any
time for Tabbage, for a thriving fishmonger has a
shop hard by the entrance gate, and to him and
his flourishing business does the wary Tabbage
seriously incline. From one till two o'clock the
fishmonger leads the life of an independent gentle-
man. That is to say, his conscience does not rebuke
him if he leaves his sloppy marble slab and the
fish with glittering scales, which are his stock-
in-trade and business in life, for that hour to the
vigilant care of his boy. For during that hour the
Darchester housekeepers and cooks are busily re-
freshing their own inner women; and  the boy 
may be trusted to deal with the ignoble rural few
who come in from the neighbouring country to
shop at this untimely hour.
Tabbage accepts Miss Merrion's rebuke, accom-
panied as it is by permission to walk on the Broad,
132 HER FIRST BALL.
submissively. And in a few minutes Florence finds
herself alone, free to act as she pleases in Darchester.
She is young, healthy, and hungry. Neverthe-
less she does not hie her to the confectioner's at
once. She slips away to the market, and there
at a flower stall buys every violet she sees, for
"Ned likes violets best, and I shan't have much
chance of pleasing him in any other way to-night,
poor boy, she thinks compassionately, burying her
nose in the flowers as she walks along demurely,
stately, but keenly observant, towards the pastry-
cook's.
Two men strolling along behind her are at-
tracted by her graceful figure and well-hung
draperies. They hasten their steps, pass her, and
contrive to catch a glimpse of her face as they
do so.
 What a pretty girl! Do you know who she
is? asks one.
 Old Gaylard's niece, a Miss Merrion; father's
HER FIRST BALL. 133
a country sawbones or apothecary, or something of
the sort, the other one mutters in reply.
 No money, eh ?
"Not a brass farthing.
 A deuced pretty face and good style altogether.
Will the admiral do anything for her ?
"Give her his blessing and lend some bunting to
decorate the village street when she marries; I
know the ropes pretty well, and I can tell you
that's about all he'll do.
They turn into the confectioner's shop as they
say this. And presently Florence coming in finds
them seated at a table that commands the entrance
door, discussing chops that have just come steaming
hot, and reeking with ruddy gravy, from the silver
grill.
That is to say, she sees one of them; for her
eyes falling on him at first see nothing else, though
she averts them hurriedly.
To her he appears to be the realisation of what
134 HER FIRST BALL.
she now feels sure her ideal of manhood has always
been. Beautiful violet eyes and handsome features,
such as are owned by Ned Villars, are at a dis-
count with her directly she has looked her first
look into the plain, powerful face, and been mag-
netised by the searching critical eyes of Mr.
Laurence Hope, late war correspondent in the
Soudan for the Daily Detailer.
The girl does not even think that she has fallen
in love with this stranger. There is a great deal
of refinement about the country surgeon's daughter,
and it would shock her to declare herself  smitten,
or ready to be "smitten, with this man whom she
has never seen before, and of whose name, character,
position, and antecedents she is absolutely ignorant.
But she has the feeling that there is "more in life
than she had ever imagined there could be here-
tofore.
Nevertheless, in spite of this feeling, she eats her
chop demurely, never giving so much as a second
HER FIRST BALL. 135
glance at the man, a mere passing glimpse of
whom has widened her horizon.
Bat though she gives no second glance at him,
he gives many a one at her. And by-and-bye,
when his companion has left him, and Florence
has slipped quietly away, he saunters down to the
quarters of a man he knows in the South Warwick
Regiment, and manages to turn the conversation
upon naval topics, when a naval man drops in.
 Gaylard's time's nearly up, isn't it ? He used
to be a very good fellow when he was on the
Mediterranean station in the Viper. I was at Malta
for a few months, and saw something of him. I
think I shall leave my card at 'Admiralty House.'
 He's all right when he's afloat away from his
missus, but she's a beastly screw, and she makes
him as bad as herself when he's ashore, the other
man, a lieutenant on board the admiral's ship
grumbled.  She makes him go in for temperance,
and gives a fellow a glass of home-made lemonade
136 HER FIRST BALL.
instead of sherry at luncheon. I shouldn't drop a
card if I were you; it's not good enough.
 If someone would only garotte Mrs. G. the
admiral would be an excellent old boy; but she's
the sort of woman who likes to do her hospitalities
and her charities cheap,—tinned meats and home-
made lemonade when she exercises the former,
and boiled-down paving stones and decayed vege-
table matter when she concocts soup for the poor,
the other man chimed in.
 Saving for her children probably ? Hope
suggests.
"Has none.
 Who's the girl that's with her now then ?
he asks daringly, and the man from the admiral's
ship answers eagerly—
 Is there a girl with her now ? It must be
Florence Merrion, a niece of hers, an awfully nice,
pretty little girl, not out yet.
 You bet she's coming out to-night at the As-
HER FIRST BALL. 137
sembly if she's in Darchester to-day. Mrs. Gaylard
is one of the lady patronesses. I shall go for the
chance of a talk with Florence Merrion. Will you
come, Hope ?
 I have been intending to go all along, Hope
says mendaciously.  You'll introduce me to Miss
Merrion, eh, Archer ? 
 That I will, when I've secured one waltz for
myself; but I'll do more than that for you, Hope;
I'll introduce you to Miss Dunster, of Bridge
House; she's a splendid girl with lots of tin, but
she never looks at a fellow, being of the icicle
persuasion, I fancy. They say her mother means
her for Lord Bridgeway; her money would come
in conveniently there.
"Thanks, I won't interfere with Lord Bridgeway.
I shall only dance with Miss Merrion, Hope says,
as he rises up, and nodding farewell to the other
two men, saunters out of the room.
 What a fellow Hope is for a new face! 
138 HER FIRST BALL.
And,
 I wonder what's become of that girl he was
to have married in Malta! the men say to one
another when he is out of earshot.
 He was lucky to slip out of that; those native
Maltese girls hang on pretty tight to a fellow
when once they get hold of him. I suppose her
father found out that Hope hadn't much tin.
Then they both avow that Hope is one of the
best fellows going, and so he drops out of their
thoughts and conversation.
Meantime Florence, having had her luncheon,
has gone home, and loyally kept the secret of
Tabbage's having been off guard, and Tabbage, in
grateful recognition of this reticence, spends the
rest of the afternoon in trimming Miss Merrion's
filmy tulle skirt with violets in a way she has
learnt from a French costumier.
As Florence enters the ball-room that night in
the wake of her aunt, whose full-dress appearance
HER FIRST BALL. lijy
is suggestive of the Queen of Sheba, her eyes rove
restlessly all round in search of someone. Someone
watching her from a corner sees with delight that
the starlike eyes, which have been all the light he
has sought for j-ears, are not attracted for a
moment by any of the uniforms, and draws a
hopeful conclusion from this fact. She is evidently
looking for him, he tells himself. Poor fellow I
the delusion lasts for a moment; then Ned Yillars
sees her face sparkle with a radiance he has never
been able to call into it, as a stranger stands bowing
before her, introduced to her by a perfidious
friend of his (Ned's) own.
With a sickening, indignant sensation of jealousy
,and helplessness, he sees the stranger writing down
his name for two or three dances. And the next
moment Florence swims past him, listening with a
lovely smile of supreme content to the murmured
utterances of the man whom Ned hears presently is
 Laurence Hope, the famous war correspondent.
140 HER FIRST BALL.
Mr. Hope flatters the girl, subtly not crudely.
He gives her to understand that it was the sight
of her that morning which has chained him to
Darchester for one more day, and brought him to
the ball to-night. He gives her to understand
this—at least Florence does understand it, but he
does not tell her so in so many words. Strangely
enough, the words that flatter and flutter her most
are, at the first hearing, uncomplimentary.
"I wish I had never seen you, Miss Merrion,
he says as the waltz comes to an end and they
walk off to a seat in a well-curtained and far-off
corridor.
 Don't say that! I am so glad to have seen
you, she says ingenuously.
"Really?
"Yes, really! she says, flushing, but looking at
him steadily and honestly.  I wondered about you
this morning when I saw you in the confectioner's
shop, and when you were introduced to me just
HER FIRST BALL. 141
now I did feel so pleased that you were Laurence
Hope.
"Used you to read my letters in the Daily
Detailer f 
"To tell the truth, no, she says, with a little
pleading air of penitence;  but I've heard my
father and uncle talk about them, and I know
everyone called them 4 brilliant.' But I always
thought you were old. I thought everyone who
wrote like you do must be old. That's why I was
so delighted to find you what you are.
 Come and have another turn, he cries, jumping up.
"This isn't our waltz. I am half promised
to 
"Never mind, dance it with me, he says im-
periously, and Florence thrills with delight—with
dangerous delight—at the authoritative tone.
"After this one waltz I'll go and leave you to
the one you're promised to, Miss Merrion, and I'll
try never to think about you again.
142 HER FIRST BALL.
"That will be easy for you, she says coldly
and then he whispers fervently—
"No, it will be the hardest task duty has ever
set me; and when he says this he looks down
into her face with a sad, hungry look that makes
her feel sorry for the coldness she has just shown.
As he whirls her round into a corner for a
minute's rest, she sees Ned Yillars for the first
time. He is close to her, and by his side is Eve
Dunster, and to these two intimate old friends
Florence, to her great chagrin, is obliged to speak.
For has not Hope said that after this dance is
over he will go away and try to forget her ? And
are not every word and look of hers wasted which
are not given to him in these precious last
minutes ?
 You forgot that you belonged to me for the
second waltz, Flo, Ned says reproachfully, and
Florence answers truthfully—
"No, I didn't forget it.
HER FIRST BALL. 143
 One more turn, Hope murmurs, and away
they go, Ned Villars following them jealously with
his eyes.
 Florence looks lovely to-night, Eve compels
herself to say.
 So that fellow seems to think, Ned mutters
savagely.
 So any ' fellowwith • eyes in his head must
think, Miss Dunster says cheerfully. Then she
tries to pour a little balm into the spirit of the
jealous lover by saying,  How proud you must feel
of her, Ned.
"Not at this moment, Ned confesses. "I don't
like to see that she prefers a stranger to me, and
I don't like to see that the stranger prefers her
to everybody in the room.
"Don't pretend to think she prefers him to you,
don't put the idea in her head, Miss Dunster
counsels sagely, but in her heart she knows that
poor Ned's jealous premonitions are well founded.
144 HER FIRST BALL.
The band clangs out the last bars, then ceases
suddenly. Hope and his partner are at the far end
of the room, away from her chaperon, away from
Ned Villars. He stands by her side thoughtfully
silent, while she vainly hopes that he will propose
they shall go and resume their seat in the far-off
corridor. But when he does speak it is to say—
"I must be off now, Miss Merrion; and I'm
cowardly enough to hope that you'll feel a little
sorry.
"Must you go? She asks it eagerly, with a
pathetic pitifulness that makes his blood , tingle and
his brow grow hot.
 I must. I ought not to have come. I am
a slave; the mere creature of odious circumstances,
and, being that, I ought not to have let you see
how much I like you.
Involuntarily her hand tightens its hold on his
arm.
 Must you go ? she repeats piteously.
HER FIRST BALL. 145
 Oh, little girl, you make me feel what a fool
I've been, what a blackguard I am, he says
desperately. "My goings and comings must be of
no interest to you. I am not worth one of your
pure thoughts for a moment. I dare not even
hope that you will remember me kindly.
 I shall never, never, never forget you. All
my life I shall he glad I've met you, she says
steadily; but he sees she has grown very pale,
and there are tears in her eyes.
He presses her hand passionately, then hurriedly
takes her back to where her aunt is sitting in
the most convenient spot for frequent adjournments
to the supper-room, bows, and leaves her.
It is the end. She knows it is the end, not
only of her pleasure for this night, but of her
happiness for life. As she sees his figure disappear
through the doorway, so she feels all the joy, all
the sunshine vanish out of her existence.
There is no hope in her heart that she may ever
10
146 HER FIRST BALL,
meet him. The way he had looked at her when
she had said she should  never, never, never forget
him forbade that. There had been real agony,
real hopelessness in the man's face when he said,
 I am a slave.
 I suppose you'll want to stay till the very last
dance, Flo ? her aunt says, breaking in upon her
meditations.
 Indeed no, aunt, Florence replies hurriedly, as
she sees Ned Villars making towards her. "I feel
ill, as if I had caught a chill. I should be thankful
to go home.
 We'll have a bit of supper presently, and then
we'll go as soon as you like, my dear. No, don't
try and persuade her to dance, Mr. Villars; she
has got a chill, and we're going home very
soon.
"One, only one turn, Flo! he whispers. "Don't
throw me over altogether.
"I cant dance, Ned, she answers impatiently;  I
HEK FIRST BALL. 147
am giddy; the room seems spinning round. Do let
me go home, aunt.
 My dear, I'm giddy and faint myself for want
of a little bit of supper, and that is probably the
case with you. Come with us, Mr. Villars; there's
some excellent lobster mayonnaise, and if Florence
can be persuaded to take a bit of something sub-
stantial 
But Florence sinks back on the chaperons' bench
white and powerless, and with true love's cruelly
keen perception Ned Villars sees that her ailment
is mental, not physical.
 Take her home, Mrs. Gay lard, he says sadly,
and then he bends down over the half-fainting girl
and whispers—
 Don't grieve, Flo. You'll see him again, I feel
sure. Go home and hope.
There is such real distress in the girl's face and
manner that Mrs. Gaylard magnanimously gives up
the mayonnaise, and goes home with her charge,
148 HEB FIRST BALL.
whom she insists upon treating for undeveloped
typhoid fever. Linen cloths steeped in disinfect-
ants are hung about the girl's room and person,
and a nauseous cooling-draught is prepared for her
to drink. And Florence resigns herself to these
useless remedies gratefully, thankful only that the
real cause of her suffering is .unsuspected by every-
one, excepting honourable and sympathetic Ned
Villars.
While she is weeping and sleeping off the first
keenest pangs of the wretched heart-disease by
which she has been suddenly struck, Ned is work-
ing (as he believes) in her service.
He knows the man with whom Laurence Hope
is most intimate in Darchester, and rightly judges
that he will find him at that man's quarters. So
he goes down to them, and invites himself to
smoke a cigar and get a general warming before
encountering the cold air of early dawn on his
homeward drive.
HER FIRST BALL. 149
Hope is there, moody and miserable apparently,
but he wakes and shows vivid and earnest interest
when Ned says—
"I didn't get a dance with the nicest girl in the
room,—Miss Merrion. She was taken ill, and her
aunt had to take her home.
 Miss Merrion taken ill ? Hope asks sharply.
 Yes; just after you left. I think she fainted.
Any way she looked like a corpse, and she could
neither stand nor speak. Mrs. Gaylard mercifully
took her home.
He looks steadily at Laurence Hope as he saya
this, and he sees that Hope is pained and per-
plexed. Presently the latter says abruptly—
 I shan't go by the early train. I shall stop
and call at the Gaylards' to-morrow, and inquire
for their niece.
And then poor Ned, who has worked for this
end, feels his own heart sink down to hopeless
depths.
150 HER FIRST BALL.
Three days after this Laurence Hope and Florence
Merrion are sitting on a seat, sheltered by a high
cliff on the Broad. Happiness is making her
radiantly pretty, for Laurence Hope has lingered
on at l)archester, obviously for the purpose of seeing
and winning her. And this morning he has asked
her to love him and engage herself to him.
There is only one drawback to her absolute
felicity: her joy will be a source of anguish to good,
generous Ned. But she cannot grieve much over
his disappointment. The happy realisation of her
sudden rash love-dream forbids her grieving much
about anything.
"You must come out and see father and mother
to-day, Laurence; how surprised they'll be, and
how proud that you should have chosen me. Aunt
said just now that she would give the wedding-
breakfast and the wedding-dress and 
"Oh! we'll have no breakfast and no fuss, he
interrupts; "to please me, darling, let it be quiet.
HER FIRST BALL. 151
He loots so annoyed and distressed at the idea
of publicity, that the ghastly thought  he is
ashamed of me flits for one wild moment through
©
Florence's brain. But the demon of distrust is
exorcised when he adds, looking at her rapturously—
 My darling Flo, I should like to set you
upon a throne and call the whole world to come
and admire you. As I can't compass the throne
and the universal admiration, I'll keep you entirely
to myself. Do you think you can stand a life
led with me quite alone, little woman ?
 Stand it! Why, it's the only life worth lead-
ing, it seems to me, she murmurs. And then he
tells her of lovely, lonely haunts in various parts
of the civilised and uncivilised globe to which he
will take her in those years to come, during which
they mutually agree to be all in all to each
other.
There is great excitement and much talk m
Bridgeway that afternoon when they drive out
152 HER FIRST BALL.
with Mrs. Gaylard. The parents read in Florence's
face at the first glance that they have lost their
child. But her happiness is so supreme that it is
real April weather in their hearts—tears and smiles
are blended, but the sunshine streams through the
rain.
Ned Villars reads the truth, too, when he hears
that Mr. Laurence Hope has come out with
Florence, and is going to stay the night at the
doctor's house. But no sunshine gleams through
the mist that envelops his eyes and soul as he
takes the bitter truth to heart.
Eve Dunster reads the truth when she turns
in to welcome Florence back after "her first ball,
and while she kisses and congratulates the girl
her heart bleeds for "poor Ned.
The engagement is to be a short one. Mr.
Laurence Hope wills it so, and already his will
is paramount in the Merrion family. The engage-
ment is to be a short one, and the wedding quiet
HER FIRST BALL. 153
and Laurence Hope stipulates that it shall not be
announced in the papers.
 I'll come out in a hansom, and you will be married
in your travelling dress, he orders, and Florence
accedes willingly. True, she has indulged in joyous
dreams of  a pretty wedding, but she wakes from
them all contentedly enough at his request.
"And perhaps it is better after all that I should
go off quietly, without beat of drum, Florence
admits to herself and Eve Dunster, and they both
think of poor Ned Villars as she says it. The less
parade there is about the wedding the better; the
less talk there is about it the better for
Ned.
Everything goes on smoothly for a few weeks,
and the wedding-day is fixed for the 1st of May.
Many of Florence Merrion's friends take offence
and are annoyed because they are not invited.
But Eve Dunster invites herself, and is neither
annoyed nor offended when Florence says
154 HER FIRST BALL.
Don't say anything to anybody. Laurence
wants it to be quite quiet.
"I have promised to let Ned know the day.
Poor Ned; I must keep my promise to him, says
Eve Dunster, and Florence responds—
 Oh, yes! and send him my love, my hind
love, and tell him how I bless him for having
brought Laurence back to me. If Ned hadn't said
that I broke down after Laurence left the ball-room
that night, Laurence would never have come back
to me.
 I'll convey your thanks to Ned for cutting his
own throat, Eve answers.  Dear Flo, Mr.
Laurence Hope is a splendid fellow and all that,
but I think Ned's unselfish devotion is your greatest
glory.
It is the day before the wedding, and Ned
Yillars finds himself at a very Bohemian club,
when Laurence Hope's name crops up. There are
rumours of wars about, and it is said that Laurence
HER FIRST BALL. 155
Hope is to be bought off the Daily Detailer and
engaged as  special correspondent by the biggest
journal.
 Poor fellow; it's rough on him, for he's to
be married to-morrow to the sweetest girl in the
world, Ned Villars says; and the one whom he
addresses replies—
 Married! Why, he's been married to a native
Maltese woman for several years. She's larking
about Southsea now, spending poor Hope's money
freely enough in a very shady set.
How he does it he never knows, but Ned
telegraphs to Eve Dunster,  Stop the marriage!
He is a married man.
The bridegroom, driving out from Darchester in
the hansom he has preferred to a wedding-coach
is met by the heiress of Bridge House with the
telegram, which she hands to him.
He takes it, reads it, and stands paralysed by
grief and rage and shame for a few moments.
156 HER FIRST BALL.
Then he says— It is true. You go to Florence,
and ask her to forgive me.
 Caught a chill at ' her first ball/ poor child,
and hadn't the stamina to resist it, Mrs. Gaylard
tells her friends a month afterwards, as she pre-
pares to drive out to Florence Merrion's funeral.
Eve Dunster and Ned Villars attend the funeral
too, and find consolation in each other's society.
But there is one who comes to the grave when
darkness sets in for whom there will be no more
comfort in this world, and to whom the memory
of Florence Merrion's "first ball will always be
a bitterly humiliating reproach.
THE CURATE'S TEMPTATION.
HEN "bad health—the result of incessant
physical labour combined with an over-
taxed brain and an under-fed body—compelled
the Rev. Henry Armitage to resign the senior
curacy of St. Simon's-in-the-Slums, he felt in
bitterness of spirit for a while that his  work was
finished and his course run.
But this feeble condition of mind was speedily
conquered when he got away into pure country
air and the society of an old Oxford friend. The
experience of the latter, who was vicar of an
abnormally ill-conditioned parish near Manchester,
158 the curate's temptation.
proved to Henry Armitage, that the paganism and
profligacy, the sin and squalor and suffering, with
which he had wrestled and sympathised en masse
for so man}7 years, was not confined to the great
city. It existed and flourished, he found, in the
fairest rural districts. Work as good, as needful,
and as unpleasant was to be done among broad
meadow-lands, by the sides of brawling streams,
in and about smiling rose-covered cottages, and
peaceful, prosperous farm-houses, as well as in the
crowded streets, the reeking gutters, and the detest-
able dens that are illumined by the lights o'
London.
To grasp this fact, to be influenced by it in
the right manly way, and to seek to serve his
Maker by striving to save his fellow-men, were the
tonics he prescribed for himself within a month
after his enforced resignation of his London
curacy. Numerous and unattractive applications
answered his advertisement, and in absolute faith
the curate's tkmptation. 15(J
that by so doing he was obeying the will of God,
and aiding a brother priest, he accepted a locum
tenency, which offered the largest congregation
and the smallest salary of all that had been put
at his disposal.
It required a great effort of will to go with a
good grace from the vicarage near Manchester
where his  tone  had been so successfully restored
to him. For not only was Hugh Waldron, his old
Oxford friend, one of the best and most genial oi
good fellows, but Annette Waldron, the vicar's
sister, was the only girl in the world that he felt
he could ever make his wife.
Their love had been of rapid development, but
for all that it was a strong, vigorous plant, healthy
and full of promise. They were both young still,
not as mere boy and girl, but he a man of thirtys
and she a graceful, sensible, charming-faced woman
of twenty-five. Still young enough to wait hope-
fully and cheerfully for the dawning of that better
160 the curate's temptation.
(lay which should bring them the means of
marrying.
"I'm delighted to give it, Harry, Mr. Waldron
said when Armitage asked for his consent to the
engagement, "and I hope something will turn up
soon that will enable Annette and you to marry.
A long engagement takes the brightness out of
a girl. I shall be delighted to have you for a
brother-in-law, you understand; but you must bestir
yourself to get something that will enable you to
marry soon; for I shall not counsel my sister to
waste all her youth in waiting.
**nd supposing I bestir myself in vain?
Then, I am afraid, I shall have to ask Annette
to relinquish the engagement. You see, Harry,
marriage on a hundred and fifty pounds a year is
an impossibility for gentlepeople in these days.
You know that as well as I do; so, though I am
delighted to give my consent to the engagement,
it is on condition that it ends in marriage within
the curate's temptation. 161
eighteen months from now, or is broken off. You
must think that I am right as Annette's guardian
and brother.
"I think you're right, but it's very hard lines.
"Bestir yourself, push what interest you have,
and in eighteen months I feel sure I shall be
giving my sister over to your care, the vicar said
heartily. Then he went about his parish with the
pleasant conviction that he had done his duty both
to his sister and his friend, by putting things on
a sound footing. And Mr. Armitage went to Annette
and preached the virtues of "hope and patience.
"Even if it's broken off nominally, Harry, I
shall go on waiting for you all my life, she
whispered to him, when he was about to leave
them to enter on his new sphere of labour; and
these words of promise put sunshine into his
journey, though the day was dark.
He reached his new parish after a drive of eight
miles from the railway station, about seven o'clock
162 THE CURATE'S TEMPTATION.
on a night in February. It was dark as he was
driven through a short avenue, and up to the front
of a large many-gabled house, which he found was
the rectory of St. Gwithyan's. But he saw the
forms of lofty trees and big shrubs looming through
the darkness, and heard the rush of a rapid river
that apparently wound through the grounds close
to the house. Judging from these sights and
sounds that his lines were cast in a picturesque
place, near a trout stream possibly, he went into
the house in a brighter mood than had been his
since parting with Annette.
A decent elderly female servant came forward
to meet him, with the remark that her "master
had left orders that Mr. Armitage was to use the
house, the wine in the cellar, and the two servants
left in charge as his own.  My husband will
'tend to the garden, cow, and pony, and I'm to
cook and to wait on you, sir, and supper's ready
any moment you are ready for it.
the curate's temptation. 163
Then she lighted him to the bedroom that had been
prepared for him, handed him a letter from her master
that was lying on his dressing-table, and left him.
The letter he opened eagerly, hoping it would
contain some instructions for his guidance in the
working of the parish. To his surprise it contained
merely these lines:—
 Dear Mr. Armitage,—I trust you will be
more comfortable than I have been in St.
Gwithyan's rectory. My cook, Mrs. Turner, and
her husband are good, honest folk, who will do
their best to please and serve you. Pray use
everything you may find in the house as jrour
own, and long may you continue to enjoy it all.
I am going to take charge of a large district in
Australia, where I hope in free air and unceasing
work to find a respite from the misery and annoy-
ances I have endured at St. Gwithyan's.
"Your faithful brother and friend,
"Thomas Tainbrook.
1g4 the curate's temptation.
 Probably he's a good Churchman, and there's a
good deal of dissent and dead-heartedness among
the people here, Armitage thought. And then he
promised himself that he would wake them
from their apathy, and stir them from their
sloth, and win them back to the faith of their
fathers.
But his conjectures were rudely dispersed that
same night by a remark from Mrs. Turner when
she brought him in his bedroom candle.
a You'll find the people here very true and
homely-like, sir, only just now they're grieving so
at losing master, that they may seem a little
strange with you at first.
 Mr. Tainbrook is much liked by his par-
ishioners ?  he questioned.
"Liked! You'd have said that if you could only
have seen them waiting about just to catch a last
look at him, or maybe have a last word from
him the morning he went away. If ever a parson
the curate's temptation. 165
was loved in his parish, master was. Bat I've no
doubt they'll soon feel friendly-like with you, sir,
she added civilly.
 The place didn't agree with Mr. Tainbrook, I
suppose ?
 I never saw a gentleman have finer health, sir;
out in all weathers as he was too, for neither
wind, snow, nor rain ever kept him at home if
there was sickness or sorrow to visit. But nothing
seemed to hurt him. I often say a good parson as
does his duty is like a good doctor, he bears a
charmed life.
 What made him leave St. Gwithyan's ? Mr.
Armitage felt impelled to ask, though he despised
himself for betraying so much curiosity.
 That I can't rightly tell, sir, Mrs. Turner
answered quietly.
u Do you mean that you don't know, or that you
think you ought not to tell me?
 I mean that I don't rightly know, and 1
166 THE CURATE'S TEMPTATION.
ought not to tell you what I only think, sir.
Good night, sir; I hope you'll rest well.
 Good night, Mrs. Turner, Mr. Armitage said
heartily; and then he added to himself,  She's
quite right, the good Collie-minded creature; I had
no right to pry into Mr. Tainbrook's reasons for
quitting his parish for a time.
His first few days in St. Gwithyan's were un-
deniably pleasant ones. He had no aggrieved
parishioners to vex his soul, and he had plenty
of work both in church and parish to occupy his
days and evenings up to about nine o'clock, for
on off-service nights he had classes to instruct.
But after nine o'clock, unless the lawyer or the
doctor lured him to their domestic hearths, or paid
him a visit at his solitary one, he found himself
brooding sadly over the dreary prospect that
stretched out before Annette and himself.
 I was rash and selfish to ask her to bind
herself to me, he often told himself reproachfully.
the curate's temptation. 167
 She's not a girl to take back her promise. I am
afraid I've laid waste her life. Hugh would have
been wiser to have forbidden it altogether.
It was no waning affection for Annette which
made him tell himself these truths. On the con-
trary, his love for her was a flame that burnt very
steadily, partly because it was kept alight by a
sense of honour, and partly because the more he
thought about her in his solitude, the more he
realised how efficaciously her womanly brightness
and clever household ways would have enlivened
the same. The lively remembrance he had of her
personal appearance, too, was alternately a pleasure
and a pain to him. It was a pleasure to recall
her good, gracious, frank face and the strong,
upright grace of her perfectly proportioned figure.
For without being a beauty, Annette Waldron was
very pleasant to look upon. And so in turn it
was pain to remember that perhaps before he could
make her his wife and place her in his own home
168 the curate's temptation.
years might have worn the freshness off the face,
and spoilt the symmetry of the figure. The clear,
happy eyes might have grown careworn, the light
step heavier; in fact, though her heart no doubt
would always remain as beautiful a thing as it
was now, the form that contained it would inevit-
ably no longer be the same.
So, earnest good fellow as he was, absorbed by
duty as he was all the day, he did permit himself
to brood drearily over these possibilities in the
hours that he spent alone when in Mr. Tainbrook's
comfortable study at night. And the habit indulged
in strengthened and grew out of all proportion,
until at last it had absolute possession of hirn, and
the desire to obtain a competence that would
enable him to marry Annette before she merged
into merely a nice middle-aged woman became the
paramount one in his mind, engrossing him to an
extent that would make the temptation of riches
dangerous to him probably.
the curate's temptation. 169
Meanwhile, as far as he was individually con-
cerned, to just such an extent as he could isolate
himself and detach his hopes and interests from
Annette, his happiness and comfort in his new
work and home were perfect of their kind.
Mrs. Turner catered economically, but with deli-
cate and admirable daintiness for him, and took
care that the wine he so seldom cared to drink
should always be present on his table. Bright
flowers from either the conservator}7 which opened
from the drawing-room, or from the garden (which
her husband kept up in as perfect order as if his
master were at home) bloomed unceasingly on his
breakfast and dinner-table. His spacious oak-
panelled bedroom was a very head-centre of warmth
and comfort. Indeed, it always seemed to him a
superfluous attention on Mrs. Turner's part, when
each morning, with an air of suppressed anxiety, the
good woman asked him,  How he had slept ? or
expressed a hope  that he had not been disturbed.
170 THE cukate's temptation.
For how could a man fail to sleep well on a bed
that was soft, springy, and warm; and what dis-
turbance could reach him in a room with a shel-
tered aspect, in a thick walled house in one of the
quietest villages in England.
One night he had sat up brooding over the usual
subject, thinking more and more tenderly of Annette
as she was, and of Annette as she would be pro-
bably in that distant by-and-bye when he would
be justified in claiming her. And as he brooded
his heart and all the instincts of his manhood rose
in passionate revolt against the unjust way in
which Fortune metes out her favours.
A letter he had that day received from Annette
Waldron had given a fresh impetus to his strong
desire to take her to himself.
"We have taken it for granted for so long that
dear Hugh was a confirmed old bachelor that we
are all rather unreasonably surprised at his having
become engaged to Miss Hatherly, of West Hill.
THE CURATE'S TEMPTATION. 171
They are to be married in May, and will live at
West Hill; so the rectory will be let furnished,
and I shall have to look out for another home.
Both my brother and Grace Hatherly are very
kind, and want me to make my home with them.
But this I am sure I am right in deciding not
to do.
When he read these words he felt both humili-
ated and enraged that his poverty should render
him powerless to offer her a home with himself
at once.
 Better for her, poor girl, that she had never
met me, he said bitterly; "if it were not for her
love for me, some better fellow, not such a pauper
as myself, would have given her a home of her
own before now.
It was long past midnight when he got himself
up to bed. But still sleep would not visit him, and
after many a restless turn and toss, he resolved to
go down to the study and fetch a book. As he
172 the curate's temptation.
was lighting his candle a sound, as if two people
were struggling violently in the long passage out-
side his bedroom door, fell upon his ears. Before
he could fly to the door and fling it open under
the impression that it was Turner wrestling with
a burglar, a woman's voice, raised high in piteous
appeal, rang out. But as Armitage sprang forward,
holding the candle high and throwing its light all
over the passage, there was no one to be seen, and
no sign of the struggle he had heard.
Perplexed and alarmed, but not for an instant
thinking of anything supernatural, he went with
hasty steps along the landing-place, opening each
bedroom as he passed expecting to find the late
belligerents in hiding. But his search was vain.
After looking under every bed and behind every
large piece of furniture, he came to the conclusion
that some gamesome rats must have caused his
alarm, and his imagination have magnified the
squeak of one of them into a woman's cry.
the curate's temptation. 173
Thinking this, or rather trying to think it, he
went on his way to the study and as he was
midway down the stairs he became conscious that
someone or something was following him closely.
Turning his head with an effort, for a feeling of
dreadful undefinable horror was beginning to possess
him, he felt the creature pause on the stair above
him, but still he could see nothing. In another
moment the horror grew, for he distinctly felt
some large heavy body press past him slowly.
Involuntarily he followed what he felt, though
could not see, was before him, and as he came
close to the study door another and lighter but
also invisible form flitted by him, and again close
before him was re-enacted the unseen struggle
which had first disturbed him. Blows fiercely
dealt, and met with despairing cries for mercy,
sounded close to him. Then something fell at his
feet, and as the sickening odour of freshly spilt
blood diffused itself around him, he rushed wildly
174 THE CURATE'S TEMPTATION.
upstairs, maddened nearly by the awfulness of the
invisible tragedy.
The rest of that night he passed in a state ot
almost frenzied expectation of a recurrence of the
horror. But this he was spared. Nevertheless his
appearance was so haggard, when he went down
to breakfast the following morning, that Mrs.
Turner had no need to ask her usual question. In
place of it she said,
"I can see by }7our looks, sir, that it has come
to you. I hoped you'd have been left alone.
 What is it ? he asked;  what devil's work
has been done in this house ? Is this the ghastly
reason of Mr. Tainbrook's leaving his parish ?
"Yes, it is, sir, the woman said mournfully.
 Master bore it, like the brave Christian gentle-
man he is, for years. But of late, they've followed
him to his bedroom, and the woman's cries foi
' help' that he couldn't render, nearly broke hk
heart.
THE CURATE'S TEMPTATION. 175
"What is the story?
The story is that about eighty years ago, the
rector of this parish, a Mr. Endell killed his wife,
because she found out, by following him unbe-
known, where he kept a large treasure of money
that he had hidden somewhere in the house. She
was found dead in the morning by her servants
close by the study-door, and the story her husband
told was that she was a sleep-walker, and had got
up while he was asleep, and fallen down and in-
jured herself so that she died of that and the
shock of waking with violence. But 'tis told that
the servants said they heard fierce work in the
night going on between husband and wife. And
'tis said that if he hadn't been a clergyman, he
would have been hung. However that may be, he
gave up this living, and went away. And 'twas
not till twenty years after that it got known he
had turned Boman Catholic and gone into a mon-
astery. So the money he hid was never no good
176 THE CURATE'S TEMPTATION.
to him, and, from that day to this, it has never
been found.
"Is it supposed to be hidden here still?
 Yes, sir, and folks say that those poor spirits
will never rest till the money that caused all this
misery is found and put to some good purpose.
 It would go to their heirs naturally ?
"They have none. They had no family, and very
few relations, and now all these are gone too.
Mrs. Endell was born and brought up in St.
Gwithyan's, and a rare pretty woman, and fine
high-spirited one she was too, so I have heard tell.
But he was a hard miserly kind of man, didn't
give her money enough to keep her house up
properly, and she was proud of her house and
wanted many a thing to make it pretty that she
had to go without. My grandmother used to tell
me many a tale about Mrs. Endell, and how she'd
sit up working her pretty white fingers to the
bone, to make curtains and covers for the chairs
the curate's temptation. 177
herself, so as to have things look bright and nice.
But he was near, and money-loving, and he stinted
her. And lor, poor thing! whether he killed her or
not, in rage because she found out where he kept
his money, who can say now ?
"Has your master searched for the money!
 Well, not persistent like, sir. On and off like,
master have looked about for it. But in an old
house like this, full of corners and cupboards and
cracks, one might spend all one's days searching
and never come across it. The noise always begins
in the passage outside your bedroom, and ends by
the study door. I hope, sir, "she continued re-
spectfully,  that you're not going to be drove away
by it.
"No! I shall stay! he said absently.
"If you took a pupil, sir, now don't you think
you'd feel it less lonesome by day, and less horrible
by night? she urged.
"No. indeed! I wouldn't bring a young life into
12
178 the curate's temptation.
such, an appallingly unnatural atmosphere! he
said gloomily. Then he added more brightly, "No,
Mrs. Turner, I must live through this alone. God
only knows whether or not I shall come unscathed
through this unnatural trial. But I set myself the
task of finding the hidden treasure, and of giving
peace to the wicked and weary souls of the man
who hid it, and the woman who coveted it.
His courage was not taxed for many weeks after
this. It seemed as if Mr. and Mrs. Endell had
settled their disputes and elected to leave the rec-
tory and its inhabitants in peace. But all through
this period of peace or lethargy on their pa\ bs,
Armitage searched the house unremittingly in all
his off hours of leisure, and found—nothing!
At length he came to the conclusion, that there
was nothing to find! The story of the hidden
wealth was a mere old woman's story !—the
chimera of some village brain! He determined to
give up the quest and think no more about it.
THE CURATE'S TEMPTATION. 179
Long immunity from ghostly disturbance had
made him very brave, and as he went whistling
upstairs, on the night on which he had made his
resolve to "give it all up, he almost laughed at
himself for having been in such a panic on that
guesome night. But even as he laughed, his
muscles stiffened. Then came upon him the same
sense of someone passing close to him whom he
could not see; then the sound of angry blows; the
sensation of an awful struggle taking place, close
to him, and then—oh, then! worse than all, that
horrorstricken cry, from a woman in deadly fear!
Moved by some impulse which he could not
resist Mr. Armitage turned round and ran down-
stairs, the awful "something, which he could feel
and not see preceding him. At the study door
there was a confused medley of sounds. Blows
were given, a woman's voice rose in the death-
agony! the sickening smell of recently spilt blood
rose up into his nostrils !—a rush as of some
180 the curate's temptation.
heavy body fleeing in haste past him—and that
was all!
One moment more of the horror he was feeling
would turn his brain, he knew. So he fell upon
his knees and prayed the first prayer that came
to his lips. And as the words "Our Father
formed themselves, he felt that he was safe.
Kneeling then, and praying truly, he felt his
brain clearing, his mind quickening in a marvellous
manner. Fear seemed to have left him, and when
he rose from his knees, it was to listen anxiously,
not tremblingly. He had not to wait long. Again,
"something, soft and warm, fell at his feet with
a long despairing wail! Again  something
brushed by him in haste. Again!—ah no! this
was a new experience—a woman's hand, fine,
smooth, soft woman's hand grasped his, and led
him on—on through this study-door, on to a book-
case in the farther wall. Then his hand was
dropped, and, as a sorrowful sob filled the silence,
THE CURATES TEMPTATION. 181
Mr. Armitage sank down into a cbair, nearly, but
not quite, insensible.
Then as in a dream, he saw a strange sight. A
spare old man, clad in a grey duffle dressing-gown
and slippers, stood before him, with uplifted candle
in one hand, and with the other cautiously feeling
along the boards of the well-filled book-case. Pre-
sently he paused as if satisfied, took out three or four
volumes, put in his hand, pressed a spring, and
Mr. Armitage saw no more, for he had fainted.
When the morning dawned, he recovered from
what at first he believed to be a hideous dream.
But finding himself in the study he began to realise
that the vision he had seen, had been seen by
him in his waking senses, and was no slumbrous
delusion.
His first impulse was to make for the book-
shelves. They were as they had been ever since
his residence at the rectory. Not a volume out
of place—not a space unfilled.
182 the curate's temptation.
Which was the exact spot on which the old man
in a grey duffle dies,sing-gown had stood when he
touched and took out the volumes that were
straight in front of him ? Armitage's memory re-
fused for some time to serve him here. But at
length he recalled that he had noticed with that
clearsightedness for the merest details which is
given to us sometimes in supreme moments, that
there had been a dark stain on the back of the
volume on which the wearer of the grey duffle
dressing-gown had first placed his hand. Searching
along the line of books, he came to a stained one,
and on hurriedly taking it down and* opening it.
he found the name of "William Endell written
in it.
Half reluctantly, as one who feels that he is on
the brink of making some discovery which will
influence the whole of his after life, he dislodged
' o
its immediate fellows on either side, and pressed
his hand firmly against the dusty solid oak back
the curate's temptation. 183
of the case. Carefully, with nervous strength, he
manipulated every inch that he had laid bare, and,
just as he was about to relinquish the search, the
wood with a good deal of creaking slid back and
revealed an opening in the wall. An opening that
was nearly filled by a rusty steel box!
To drag this box out on to the study floor was
the work of a moment. Then hastily rearranging
the books on the shelf, he sat down, the damp
of mingled hope, fear, and excitement standing
thickly on his brow! Should he open the box
and master its contents secretly; or should he
summon Mrs. Turner to witness his proceedings!
He had the authority of the owner of the house to
 use everything he found in the house as his
own. He had the authority of Mrs. Turner for
believing that none of either Mr. or Mrs. Endell's
relatives could justly claim the whole or even
part of the inheritance which he, Mr. Armitage,
doubted not for a moment he had found ! What it
184 THE CUEATE'S TEMPTATION.
it should turn out to be such wealth as would
enable him to marry Annette soon, at once! long
before the expiration of those eighteen months to
which her brother had limited the engagement ?
He could bear the suspense no longer, so, cautiously
locking the study-door, he wrenched off the rusty
padlock with a pair of pincers, and lilted the
cover.
A folded letter, yellow with age, was the first
thing he saw. But as he took this up the glitter
of many gold pieces beneath it caught his eye, and
set his heart beating wildly. He would not touch
anything, though, till he had read the letter, and
made himself acquainted with the wishes of the
one who placed it there. So he opened it with
shaking hands, and read as follows:—
 To the one, whoever he or she may be, who
finds the money hidden here that has been the
greatest joy, and the greatest trouble of my life.
"Use it as you please. Squander it, live
the curate's temptation. 185
riotously with it, or hide it and make it useless
as I have done. Do as you will with it, it will
never bring you a blessing. The stain of blood
is on it, the blood of the foolish woman who
set her wits against mine, and pried into my
secret hoard, meaning to spend the gold I had
saved. Sinner that I am now, it was her curiosity
and my dread of her extravagance that drove
me to sin, and now, in expiation of that sin, I
shall leave the world, and spend the rest of my
sad life in prayer for the peace I shall never know
on earth again.
 My treasured gold will be found some day
by a stranger. I charge the one who finds it
never to let any of it benefit one of Mrs. Endell's
blood who may be left in the world. I have
vowed that none of her kith or kin shall handle
the money she coveted and married me for.
 This is my will. Signed, William Endell,
Ret-tor of St. Gwithyan's, in this year of grace 1800.
186 THE CITRATE'S TEMPTATION.
 I am justified, justified in keeping it by his
own will, Mr. Armitage cried joyfully. But some-
how or other his exultation was very brief. He
could not bring himself to feel quiet in con-
science. What if any of Mrs. Endell's relations
still lived and were in want ? Was he justified by
the will of the old miscreant, who had murdered
her, in keeping the money from them? Then he
thought of Annette, of the bright possibility of a
speedy marriage, and in another moment he was
revelling in the sight of packets of bank-notes, and
piles of golden guineas and sovereigns.
His hands shook so that he was a long time
counting it all out. At last he had arranged and
© ©
calculated it, and found that it amounted to a sum
of ten thousand pounds (notes and gold) altogether.
Carefully re-counting it into the strong box, he
carried the latter up to his bedroom and locked
it away in an old bureau, and fell to thinking of
the power of doing good which this oddly acquii'ed
the curate's temptation. 187
wealth would give him. With Annette by his side
always, and plenty of money at command, how
much more capable he would he of benefiting those
fellow-creatures of his who were less well placed
than himself. Old Endell's money should do good
in spite of himself.
He could not rest until he had told the good
news to Annette; so after telegraphing to her to
expect him, he started in a fever of impatience and
agitation. He could hardly understand his own
frame of mind. At one moment he would be in a
state of generous exaltation, full of beneficent and
useful schemes; at another he would be full of un-
definable nervous doubts. And again a third phase
of feeling was that he would have some difficulty
in explaining matters to Annette.
At last the long journey was over, and, some-
what quieted and composed by the length and
monotony of it, he found himself in the presence of
his affianced wife and her brother. She looking
188 THE CURATE'S TEMPTATION.
sweeter than ever, he thought, but with an
anxious line or two on her clear, broad brow
that made him burn to set her heart and mind at
rest.
 Any prospect of preferment, Harry ? Mr.
Waldron asked, as the three sat together after
dinner. And then Mr. Armitage told the story of
the haunted rectory, the hidden treasure, and the
supernatural guidance he had had towards the dis-
covery of the latter. Lastly he showed them old
Mr. Endell's will, as contained in the letter ad-
dressed to the chance finder of his wealth.
 There will be nothing to stand in the way of
our marriage now, he said.
"I'll leave you and Annette to settle that ques-
tion, Mr. Waldron replied, as he got up and went
out of the room.
Then there was a long silence, during which
Annette gazed steadily at her lover, while he in
turn gazed steadily at the fire.
the curate's temptation. 189
At length the silence became oppressive, and
he said in somewhat a hurt tone,
"I expected that you would have been as re-
joiced as I am. Your heart is not set on our
marriage as mine is.
"Don't say that, Harry. Just listen. I have
overcome all Hugh's objections, he is more sym-
pathetic now that he is going to be so happy
himself. He says if I don't shrink from the wear
and tear of life as a poor man's wife, he will
not interpose his influence, or stand in our way,
and I don't shrink from the prospect, Harry.
She smiled at him gloriously as she said this,
and he loved her more than ever.
 But, my darling, you will not be a poor man's
wife. You forget this ten thousand pounds. I
can give my wife a good home, and the means of
making others happy now. Old Endeil's money
will do good at last.
 When you have found out for certain, Harry
190 the curate's temptation.
that there is not a single blood relation of Mrs.
Endell's left in the world, or when you have found
one and handed the ten thousand pounds over to
that person, I'll marry you the next day if you
like.
When she said that, he knew the reason why
he had been alternately exultant and depressed on
his journey up. Now he was torn to tatters by
conflicting desires and impulses.
 You are assuming that I am not justified in
my determination to keep it myself, he said
stiffly, and Annette had tears both in her eyes
and voice as she answered,
"Ah, dear, you reproach me. I will say no
more. Judge for yourself
Within the limits of a page or two it is im-
possible to tell all that took place outwardly in
Mr. Armitage's career, and inwardly in his soul
during the ensuing six or eight months. He
wrote to Mr. Tainbrook telling him of his di-covery
THE CURATE'S TEMPTATION. 191
of the consequent cessation of the ghostly uproar.
And he received from that gentleman unqualified
approval of his course of action.
 Unquestionably old Endell's money belongs to
you, the finder, Mr. Tainbrook wrote;  though
there is, I believe, a great-niece of the poor murdered
lady's extant somewhere. At least some few years
ago I married a girl called Priscilla Garland—Mrs.
Endell's maiden name—to a young naval officer of
the name of Humphrey Thwaites. The Navy List
will tell you where he hangs out, if you want to
find them; but you are in no wise bound to search
for them. You may honourably retain old Endell's
money.
The blood all seemed to desert Armitage's heart
for a few moments. Then it began to flow more
temperately through his veins as he resolved—
"At any rate I will find out Mrs. Humphrey
Thwaites.
Rooms in a doleful lodging house in Portsmouth,
192 the curate's temptation.
that had apparently seen many generations of
impecunious inhabitants, were occupied about this
period by a family whose fortunes seemed at the
lowest ebb. A father, "an officer, and a gentle-
man by birth, a delicate, sensitive mother, and six
bold, fine, healthy, handsome boys and girls, were
engaged in solving the everlasting problem of how
to keep appearances upon little better than nothing
—namely, the pay of a lieutenant in the Royal
Navy.
Humphrey Thwaites had just received orders to
join his ship, going to the South American station
for three years, as first lieutenant. This involved
a new kit. Mrs. Humphrey Thwaites had broken
down under the combined effects of the commg
separation, an attack of bronchitis, the knowledge
that she was unable to pay for her clever boys'
schooling, or for new dresses for her ragged pretty
little girls; when into their midst came  Mr. Armi
tage, a stranger, to call and inquire about her family
THE CURATE'S TEMPTATION. 1&3
Yes, he heard she was the great-niece of the
poor lady who had come to an untimely end at
the west country rectory. And she had often heard
from village gossip of the mythical wealth that was
supposed to have been such a sore temptation to
Mr. Endell and his wife, but she had never believed
in the story, never. No such luck as its being
there to be found would ever befall herself or her
dear children, and as she spoke of them she broke
down coughing hardly, and crying too.
When she could speak again she said gently,
 Pray forgive me for breaking down in this
way, but may you never know the trial of seeing
your children—such children, perhaps, as those
darlings of mine—want food, and clothes, and edu-
cation, and she waved her hand towards the
handsome, shabbily-dressed group who were playing
in the far-off corner of the room.
Then all the manhood asserted itself in him.
His ordeal was over.
13
194 the cuiiate's temptation.
 Listen, Mrs. Thwaites, and take heart, The
wealth was not mythical, its temptations are over,
thank God. I have found it, and I have come to
give it to you.
Then he gave her the letter, and took her
husband and herself back with him' to the St.
Gwithyan's rectory, where he handed over the box
and all its contents intact to them. And somehow
or other when he had done this, his head was
held more erect and his heart beat more lightly
in his breast, though the riches that might have
been his had gone from him.
His temptation had been a strong one, but he
had resisted it.
No miracle occurred to make him a rich rector
or a comfortable vicar, so he married on bis curacy;
and though times are often tight with him and
his wife Annette, they never regret that he dis-
regarded old Endell's vindictive will, and brought
sunshine into the life of at least one blood relation
the cukate's temptation. 195
of the unfortunate wife who had fallen a victim
to old Endell's spirit of hate and greed. As for
the turbulent ghosts, they have never since dis-
turbed the peace of St. Gwithyan's rectory.
"THAT WOMAN!
CHAPTER I.
 J REPEAT I am entirely in your hands; you
shall go where you like, stay as long as you
like, have any or all of your own friends with you
as often as you like! Can I say more than this ?
The speaker was a slender but well-built young
man, of middle height, with a fair clear-cut face,
and penetrating slate-coloured eyes. The scene was
a first-class railway carriage, strewn all over with
a luxurious litter of rugs, travelling-bags, news-
papers, and new novels. The only other occupant
of the carriage was a young, stately, handsome
"THAT WOMAN! 107
blonde, who was now shivering and shrinking in
her grey velvet and silver-fox travelling dress, as if
she were rather chilled than warmed by the beams
of the bright March sun that streamed in through
the window.
 And I repeat that you can do nothing—nothing
to make my intolerable lot more tolerable than it
is, she answered, with suppressed passion.
"That's a nice speech for a bride of two days'
standing to make to her loving lord, he said
sneeringly. "Now listen to me: don't be idiotic
enough to let yourself drift into apathetic despair
because I've confided to you that I am not the
admirable young man you have been taught to
believe me; rouse yourself, my good girl, or, by
Jove! I'll find some means of rousing you. Up
to the present moment I'm wax, to receive any
impression you may see fit to make upon me, and
swear I'll be marble to retain it! Now, Lady
Slade, exert yourself to make up your mind—if
198 "that woman!
you have any. Come out of your silly sulks, and
make yourself as agreeable as you can, and I in
return will accord you the most absolute liberty.
What more can I do that a (presumably) reasonable
woman could ask ? 
She put her beautifully-shaped white hands over
her face to shut out the sight of him, but through
her fingers he could see her whole countenance
trembling and working in a paroxysm of pain.
"You can't do anything now, she said hoarsely;
"you can't give me back my heart, or my trust
and pride in you ; you've destroyed them all for
ever.
 Because I've been honest enough to confide
to you the story of my having once run away
with a lady who was ready enough to run away
with me ! I'm no better than my fellows in most
things, but in making a clean breast of my
escapade to you I really flatter myself I soared!
Now I find that I only grovelled in vain. Don't
"that woman! 199
look so confoundedly miserable, or I'll change into
a smoking-carriage at the next station.
 Do, do! she said, eagerly removing her hands ;
"it's the best thing to do for both of us.
 You mean you hate the sight of me ?
"I do—God help me! she wailed, and for a
moment his pale face blanched to the hue of, and
worked as nervously as, her own. Only for a
moment. Then he recovered his habitual sang
froid, and said,—
 I told you I was in your hands entirely,
Gwendoline. It shall be as you propose and desire.
I'll get out at the next station and go—the devil
knows where! You, meanwhile, can go wherever
your virtuous will leads you. You will find five
thousand a year placed to your account at my
banker's, and—if it should ever seem needful to
you that you should communicate with me, you
will hear of me through them.
 You cruel, callous wretch! she cried, shud-
200 "that woman!
dering with rage now. "You part with me as
readily as you parted with the other poor fool
who trusted you and loved you, and she was free
from you the moment you left her, and I am your
wife, and never can be free.
The train pulled up jerkily now, and tickets
had to be searched for and given. He made the
performance of this labour the excuse for not
answering her last words. Then they slid along the
platform and stopped, and the next moment he was
out of the carriage walking away collectedly.
"Take my traps out; her ladyship goes on
alone, he said to his attentive servant, who fad
leapt out of a second-class carriage to meet him.
"Her la'ship goes on alone! Yes, Sir Harold.
"And we go back to town by the next train,
and to Folkestone by the night one, Sir Harold
Slade explained coolly. Then he sauntered away
to a bookstall, where he remained till the train
bearing his wife slipped out of the station.
tf THAT WOMAN !  201
 So much for my marriage with the beauty of
the season! What will she be up to, I wonder?
Those women with the unruffled placid exteriors
have no end of white fire underneath it all. How
heartily my calm pure-minded Gwendoline can hate.
The other one whose cause she pretended to
espouse never gave me a cold look or a cruel word.
God bless her !
He went back to town, but remained in the
seclusion of rooms at a hitherto unknown hotel,
because he dared not face the questions and
conjectures which would have assailed him at his
club. Two days before, his marriage at St. Peter's,
Eaton Square, had been the theme of the reporters
of weddings for the fashionable papers, and now,
after two happy days at a lovely cottage, belong-
ing to his bride's uncle at Maidenhead, this was
the end of it! His wife had  rounded on him!
worse still, had revolted at him—on his some-
what conceited confession of what he had hitherto
202  THAT WOMAN ! 
regarded as "a mere escapade! a "peccadillo of
the order that the world is kindly apt to exonerate
in a man, without asking any awkward questions
as W the future of the  wretched woman who
was the cause of the man forgetting himself. He
had hoped great things for himself from his marriage
with the tall and stately young beauty, who had
never given so much as the tips of her fingers
encouragingly to any man till she had shyly assent-
ed in faint accents to his ardent entreaty that she
would be his wife. He had anticipated that the
very memory of the faults and follies of his thought-
less immoral past would fall away from him, and
leave him free and buoyant in spirit and conscience
to lead a better and more manly life. He had
pictured long years of prosperity, sweetened and
vitalized by domestic happiness in the society of
his beautiful Gwendoline in his beautiful home at
Saxinglea, the home wherein his father and mother
had lived happily (save for his escapade), and died
 THAT WOMAN !  203
full of years and honours. And now, this was the
end ! He had given his full confidence—given it
flippantly and unfeelingly, but still given it—to
his wife, and she had turned upon him like an
avenging spirit, had been implacable, cruel, sternly
unforgiving, in a way that was as astounding as
it was grievous to him.
He had not thought for a moment that she
would take him at his word, when in his wrath
at her condemnation of him he had proposed that
he should go his way and she hers; he had ex-
pected reproaches, retrospective regrets, tears, lamen-
tations, and—a reconciliation that should be well
over before they reached Saxinglea, and fell under
the eagle eyes of the faithful domestics. Instead
of this she had recoiled from and revolted at him,
and had eagerly seized the offer of utter separa-
tion which he had made in idleness. It was alto-
gether horrible and incomprehensible to him, and
after passing a sleepless night, lie came to the
204  THAT WOMAN ! 
resolution that, instead of fleeing like a coward
or a criminal to the Continent, he would go down
to Saxinglea, and so appeal to her womanliness
that—leaving wifely duty out of the matter al-
together—she could not fail to condone his past
offences, and take him back to the proud pure
heart whose pride and purity had been so
grievously outraged by his disclosure.
He never doubted she had gone straight on to
Saxinglea. Where else should she have gone in
fact, she a girl who had never been called upon
to take the responsibility of forming a plan for
herself into her own hands, surrounded as she had
always been by parents and married sisters ? The
tickets for herself and her two maids had been
taken for Saxinglea Road station. His own
carriages and people had been appointed to meet
them there, and painful and embarrassing as she
must have felt it when she arrived there without
him to encounter the curious gaze, and feel the
 THAT WOMAN !  205
more curious conjectures, of the domestics there, he
felt convinced he should find her.
It was annoying and unfortunate—more than
annoying and unfortunate in fact—that it should
have occurred. But he took credit to himself for
the unruffled demeanour he had maintained since
the parting, and mentally defied <c his fellow to
have made much out of his, Sir Harold's, conduct
about the affair. Doubtless, Gwendoline had been
equally self-contained. Her power of repose under
exciting circumstances had been one of her chief
charms to him. He would go at once to Saxinglea,
abase himself as much as her whim willed that he
should, and perhaps—nay, probably—by the follow-
ing day be in the position to look back upon this
episode as "a hideous dream.
In his impatience he sent for a hansom and
started off for the Great Western station, long
before the departure of the first fast train that
stopped at Saxinglea. Leaving his man to bustle
206  THAT WOMAN !'
about with the luggage, take the tickets, and secure
a comfortable carriage, Sir Harold strove to get rid
of the intervening time by sauntering about outside
the station and watching the arrivals. For the
sake of keeping thought of himself, and of the
unpleasant position he must necessarily occupy
for some time with regard to his wife, at bay,
he attempted to get up a fictitious interest in the
stream of eager, expectant passengers who were
pouring past him. Presently a plainly but perfectly
dressed woman stepped out of a hansom that
had dashed passed, and pulled up about five or
six yards from him, and while a faint remem-
brance of  someone built very much like her
flickered through his mind, the lady turned to
walk into the station after paying her cabman,
faced him fully in staggered silence for a moment,
and the next gasped out,—
"Harold! Harold! Won't you even spealc to
me?
"that woman! 207
She was the cause and the companion of that
period of sinful folly which he was bitterly regret-
ting just now because it had parted—no, not that!
but temporarily separated him from Gwendoline.
She had lost her charm for him long before he
had met with his wife, partly because there had
been little but beauty to bind any man to her,
and partly because she had bored him by her
incessant entreaties that he would keep his promise
and marry her. Now he felt that he almost hated
her, and doubted that he could ever have loved her;
but she had placed her hand on his sleeve appeal-
ingly, and he could not tell her so and fling
her off.
"Let me say good morning, as I would say it
to any other lady I knew who was hurrying to
catch a train, he said, nervously lifting his hat and
trying to walk on, but the opposition roused her.
 What a coward you are to be afraid of con-
tamination from me, the thing you first defiled!
208  THAT WOMAN ! 
she said bitterly. "Oh! I know all about it—
you're married, and respectable and happy now.
I read the account of your wedding, and the list
of presents made to you and your bride by all your
kind and virtuous acquaintances; and as I read
it, Harold, I prayed that you and your wife might
be happy—I did! I prayed that you might forget
me enough to be happy; I did it for the sake of
our little child, who's dead, and I only stopped
you to tell you this.
She was clinging to the sleeve of his coat, palpi-
tating and crying, making quite a  little scene,
a thing that nearly toppled over the nicely-balanced
social mind of the man she was appealing to and
harassing. Still some finer chord in his being was
touched by her last words.
 Is the child dead ? Poor girl! Poor Sal—
poor thing 
 Why won't you call me Sallie as of old ? Oh
I don't mean that! I know nothing is as of old,
"that woman! 209
but you needn't hate me, and seem vexed and
miserable at my speaking to you; don't you even
care to know what I am doing—how I am living ?
she asked pleadingly, anxiously, in such beseeching
accents that he conquered his nervous aversion to
speaking to her, and asked with an affectation
of interest,—
"Yes, tell me how and where; no, never mind
where, but tell me that it's in a place you like,
and that you are happy.
 Happy !
There was such doleful scorn in her way of
speaking that one word, that he felt a pang of real
remorse for the part he had played in the drama
of her life.
 Look here, Sallie, we can't unlive or improve
the past, hut we can blot it out 
"We can't, she put in piteously, "but we may
perhaps do something to redeem it. Don't think
that 1 spoke to you now in the hope of re-awaken -
li
210 "that woman!
ing any love you may ever have had for me; that
hope left me long before you owed it all to
another. But do think that I spoke in the hope
of making you understand that I wish and pray
for your happiness, and also that you might have
the comfort of knowing that I am trying to lead
a good useful life, and I find happiness in the
attempt.
 I provided—there is no need for you to work!
he said deprecatingly.
"You will find that the account you placed to
my credit at your banker's has been untouched
since the day our child died. The last money of
yours that I took put up a cross to her memory.
I am working for and supporting myself comfort-
ably, thank you; if I had been your paid-off toy
I should not have dared to stop you against your
will to-day.
"Train's just going to start, Sir Harold, his
man looked up to say, and at the same moment
u THAT WOMAN I 211
a lady stepped out of a brougham, dispensing
around her an atmosphere of orris-root, and giving
casual beholders a general impression of sheen and
shimmer and radiance, as the light fell upon and
was reflected by her lustrous velvets, her sparkling
blue eyes, and her fluffy golden hair. Giving
casual beholders this impression. Givijg Sir Harold
Slade the impression that he was being suddenly
confronted by the wraith of his absent wife—
grown skittish!
It is needless to say that this was only his
impression for one instant. In a second he was
aware that she was his wife's sister, Mrs. Harman,
a bright creature (known among her familiars, and
their name was legion, as the Gleam), who had
greatly helped on the affair with Gwendoline.
"You here, by all that's bewilderingly lucky!
she cried, dashing at him with extended hands,
and merely glancing askance at the pretty tearful
woman who started from him at her approach.
212  THAT WOMAN ! 
"I'm going to Saxinglea to see Gwen and you,
but perhaps Gwen is up here with you?
 No, she isn't; I'll explain—we shall lose our
train, he cried, hurrying her off. But before she
passed through into the station she looked back,
and there stood that woman looking after her
brother-in-law still.
She was an airy woman of the world, this Mrs.
Harman, and not an ill-natured or suspicious one
as women of the world go, but she was Gwendo-
line's sister, and Gwendoline had only been married
three days to this man, who had just abruptly
parted with a tearful woman in a state of unex-
plained emotion. She made an effort to speak
indifferently, but the very effort accentuated the
curiosity in her tone.
"I suppose, like myself, you were in a hurry to
catch this train, and your important acquaintance
nearly made you lose it, she said, as she sank into
her seat just as the engine gave its preliminary puff.
 THAT WOMAN !  213
"Oh, no! she only came up the moment before
you did; let me tell you at once, Mrs. Harman,
that I'd rather have exchanged debilitating twaddle
with every bore of my acquaintance than have
met that lady! You know I don't like being bored,
therefore you'll credit me with having been un-
commonly sorry to have seen her this morning.
Perhaps the less we say about it the better, only
you do believe that I only met her by accident,
and that she only spoke to me for a moment or
two, don't you ? 
"How serious you are about a chance rencontre
she laughed; but at the same time she thought—
"Was it chance? She looked as if she had been
tearing a passion to tatters, and he as if he had
been witnessing the massacre, and that's not a
matter of a minute or two's accidental meeting at
a railway station. I see what it is! she's the
'she' of his past, and he has unwarily trusted
himself to take final farewell of her. Poor Gwen
214 K Til at woman!
lucky for her she doesn't know, and lucky for
him I won't tell.
"I suppose she's some old country friend, isn't
she, Harold ? she went on carelessly aloud.  She
looked quite the model young country-town or big
village matron, the rising doctor's or lawyer's wife;
does she hail from Saxinglea ?
"I can't tell you anything more about her than
that she came up the minute before you did, and
that I wish I'd never seen her, he said, with testy
inconsistency.
 What brought you up to town ? she asked
carelessly, as if she had banished the image of that
tearful woman, and all concerning her, from her
mind.
 A foolish affair; you'll set it right, I know!
A tiff with Gwendoline.
"No! not already? she asked, partly with
amusement, partly with vexation. "Poor dear
Gwen! As her sister I'm bound to presuppose
 THAT WOMAN !  215
you're the guilty party, ■ but I'll admit to you
that I know Gwendoline has a temper of her own,
for all her stately saintliness, and she hasn't learnt
to be lenient to any faults that may be com-
mitted by anybody save herself. Now tell me.
Then he told her as much as it has been needful
to tell the reader.
"How silly you've both been! she said, with
a bright smile of relief when he had finished;
"but Gwen must have been punished enough for
her already. I can fancy the agonies of embarrass-
ment and dread the poor child must have suffered
on arriving at Saxinglea last evening—a forlorn,
deserted bride. Really, Harold, you were inexcusable
to have let her go on alone, poor child—poor head-
strong, heartbroken child! But you're going pre-
pared to make the amende now, aren't you?
Acknowledge that her rage was rather .justifiable,
and I'll stand your friend and say nothing about
what I saw at the station.
216  THAT WOMAN ! 
"You can't imagine for a moment 
 Oh, hush! hush! it was unfortunate to the
last degree that I should have entered when I did
upon the scene, I feel keenly that I blundered;
but if no one else saw you, you are all right
with me. I'll believe you against the evidence
of my own eyes.
 I swear to you 
"No, don't, don't, she interrupted, "you couldn't
help yourself, I'm sure of that, you looked as if
you couldn't, but don't pretend that it was chance;
but I'm sure it is all over, from the look at that
poor thing's face when I looked back; do prepare
yourself to be patient and humble with Gwendoline,
for indeed, Harold, you've treated her worse since
you parted yesterday than she will ever suspect,
I hope.
Other people got into the carriage then, and
rendered hopeless his already difficult task of per-
suading her that the meeting she witnessed was
 THAT WOMAN 1  217
purely accidental By the time they reached the
Saxinglea Road station they were talking and
thinking more of Gwendoline's surprise at seeing
them arrive together than of anything else, and
so the subject dropped, and his innocence in this
latest act of the drama remained unproven to her.
"You will help me to make it all right with
my dear girl, won't you ? he asked anxiously, as
they drove up to the house in one of the station
flys, and he squeezed Mrs. Harman's hand as he
spoke, and looked so gravely earnest, and such a
worthy suppliant, that she promised unconditionally.
"It will be great fun, she said, while her eyes
danced with amusement,  to hear how poor
Gwen has managed to maintain her dignity, and
act as mistress of the house, under the untoward
circumstance of arriving as a bride without her
bridegroom at her husband's home. Really, Harold,
you'll have to get up a good explanation of it for
people in town. Some one's sure to have seen you,
218  that woman ! 
3tou know, and you'll both get awfully laughed
at.
 Gwendoline and I will compose an explanatory
sentence for you to deliver to all enquiring friends,
he said blithely, for they were driving close up
to the entrance-door now, and in another minute he
would see the bride for whom he had more than
the ordinary  fondness which he professed, and
jf whose beauty he was extraordinarily and extra-
vagantly proud.
No long description of Saxinglea is needed here.
It has no prominent place on the canvas whereon
the incidents of this portion of the lives of Sir
Harold and Lady Slade are depicted veraciously.
In answer to Sir Harold's eager and Mrs. Harman's
interjectionary enquiries, the servant said that hei
 ladyship had not yet arrived; the carriages that
had been ordered for the previous day had gone
at the time appointed to meet the train; as you
and her lad}'ship were not there, Sir Harold, 'twas
"that woman! 219
thought hest by the coachman to come hack and
wait for further orders.
 She'll have gone home to mamma; she has
averted a scandal by not coming here, Mrs. Harman
whispered consolingly. But her words held little
consolation for the husband, who now felt that
the end had come indeed, that his wife's acceptance
of his proposal to part had been genuine and final,
and that his desertion of and separation from Sallie
was not more complete than was Gwendoline's
from him.
CHAPTER II.
~|~T is almost needless to tell the experienced reader
that Lady Slade had not gone  back to mamma,
as her sister had hopefully suggested. Had she
sagaciously done so, this story would not have
been written, for the portion of it which still
remains to be told would not have been enacted.
220 "that woman!
Lady Slade's mother, being a sensible woman, whose
originally strong feelings had been most thoroughly
toend down by expediency and an indifferent hus-
band, would have counselled her daughter to  cling
to her home at any rate, whatever she might feel
disposed to do about her husband.
This advice, which Gwendoline's prophetic soul
had told her would be surely offered, being about
the most unpalatable that could be imagined in her
present state of mind, she resolved to avoid. Ac-
cordingly, when she found herself back at the Pad-
dington station with her astonished maids and
her luggage, she came to the hasty resolution of
getting as far away from the maternal home and
haunts as her limited knowledge of London
localities would permit her to do.
"Besides, she thought,  mamma would vindicate
his heartless, horrid conduct, and try to put . me
in the wrong; I'll live the wretched remnant of
my life out alone. Grief and despair will soon kill
"tiiat woman! 221
me.' Even as she thought it, her young, pure,
healthy blood was leaping through her veins, and
her vigorous physique was refusing to sympathise
with her soul's weariness and fatigue. Still, after
the manner of newly disappointed untried girlhood,
she set up the idea of an early death, and tried
to cherish it.
Presently she had herself and her belongings
packed away in a couple of cabs, and driven away
to Hampstead, a spot which she fondly hoped to
find tenanted solely by donkeys and respectable
lodging-house keepers. After many an untoward
delay she finally settled herself and her maids in
four rooms in a. house in the Church Row, and as
soon as she had done this she remembered that
the maids would be an incubus, not to say an un-
justifiable extravagance, under the sad circumstances
of her altered lot.
But before night fell she had screwed her failing
courage up to the point of not only giving them
222 "THAT woman 1
notice to leave her the next day (she softened the
rough edges of the abruptness of this by giving
them double the sum they could have legally
demanded), but by an effort she had nerved herself
to the humiliating task of beseeching them to keep
the secret of her whereabouts from Sir Harold, and
all her own family.  I have done nothing wrong,
I hope you feel that, she said, with head held
proudly erect but quivering lips, "but I want to
hide myself from all my friends till I've learnt to
•
bear a heavy trouble that has come upon me more
bravely than I'm bearing it now. Do you under-
stand ? 
Yes, they understood perfectly, they told her,
and they promised all she required. But they
were quite ready to gossip about her and betray her
whereabouts to Sir Harold himself if they had
met him.
Perhaps it was the feeling that this would be
the case that made her anxious to put even a
 THAT WOMAN !  223
greater distance between the haunts and habita-
tions of her people and herself, and made her in a
day or two look further afield for lodgings. She
saw, too, "a refined home in the house of a lady
living at Shepherd's Bush, advertised. 'And Shep-
herd's Bush striking her as being a very remote
portion of the globe, she went over to see it, and
was fascinated by the appearance and manner of
the lady into taking the refinement and comforts
on trust, and inducting herself into the home
without delay.
She had taken off her wedding-ring, and given
her name as  Miss Smith on her first visit of
negotiation, and she saw no reason to make any
change or offer any further explanation concerning
herself. Mrs. Alford, the mistress of the house, was
more communicative. Before Gwendoline had been
many hours in the house she knew that her new
friend and hostess was a still heartsorc widow, and
that additional sorrow had fallen upon her since
224  THAT WOMAN! 
she lost her husband in the death of her only
child.
She was a pretty woman, this Mrs. Alford, of
the tender, pleading type. Still young and fair, she
looked as if she had passed through the mill of
sorrow. There was a shade of it left on her delicate
oval face, in her deep grey eyes, and in the
tremulous quiver of her mobile mouth at times. A
pathetic atmosphere seemed to hang around her,
and Gwendoline caught herself half envying her new
friend the sweet, loving, happy experience which
must have been her portion in her married life for
such regret to last.
If only Harold had not hurled himself from
the high pedestal on which she had placed him!
If only he had been the knight without reproach
whom she had believed him to be during all the
sweet time when he was wooing her, and for two
dear days after her wedding! Then she could
have borne to be separated from him had cruel
 THAT WOMAN !  225
fate willed it so. Then she would have had the
image of Sir Galahad left in her mind and heart
to worship I But now 1 Now, in exact proportion
as she had idolized, trusted, and worshipped him
while she believed him to have been her own true
hero, did she feel wrath, and bitter disappointment,
and shame in the very thought of him, now that
she knew he had been a false hero to another con-
tiding woman as well as herself.
Brought up in a worldly atmosphere, Gwendoline
was still sufficiently unworldly to shrink from and
blush at stories of lax living and immorality, how-
ever gracefully or brilliantly these stories might be
told. And now one had been brought to her and
poured into her outraged ears by the being she
loved best in the world. Worse still, as he had
told her of how he had broken the law of God
and man, of how he had degraded himself and
soiled the white soul of a woman who was probably
as young and fair, and before that as pure, as
15
226  THAT WOMAN ! 
herself, he had not seemed to regard that which he
recorded as a crime, and himself as a criminal.
He had been even lenient in his self-judgment of
himself, declaring himself to have ''been no worse
than other men ! If he was accurate in this state-
ment, Gwendoline prayed that she might be kept
from ever knowing another man.
She exercised herself greatly too about the
woman, her predecessor.
What had she been like, and how had she been
brought up ? Sir Harold had glossed over his
description of her with the words "She was a
lady, and a charming one, that must be my excuse
for my temporary infatuation. But how could she
have fallen from her heights ? Gwendoline ques-
tioned; and what had been her excuse for her
awful sins ?
Sometimes, as they sat together in Mrs. Alford's
cosy, peaceful little drawing-room, surrounded by
numerous evidences of culture and refinement, which
 THAT WOMAN ! 227
refined and cultivated women contrive to <rather
about them under all circumstances, her longing to
speculate aloud about "that woman, and to confide
the whole dismal story to Mrs. Afford, became
almost ungovernable. But she repressed it, out of
loyalty to the husband who had been disloyal to
the higher nobler nature with which she had
accredited him, and possessed her soul in patient
silence and reserve in a way that roused quite a
pathetic interest in Mrs. Alford's breast.
In her ignorance of what was customary on such
occasions, Gwendoline had not thought it strange
that the lady with whom she had proposed to lodge
and board had not asked for any references. The
fact is, Mrs. Alford, being nearly a stranger in
these regions, had none save her butcher, baker, and
grocer to offer on her own side. So Lady Slade
slipped into her new home as "Miss Smith without
question. No letters ever came for Miss Smith
no friends called to see her. She walked out but
228  THAT WOMAN ! 
rarely, and shrank from every suggestion her
kindly hostess made as to going to theatre or
concert. The very names of the Park or Rotten
Row seemed to stab her; but she took in several
daily and. weekly papers and read them all
eagerly.
There were many reasons, Mrs. Alford was well
aware, why a woman, however young, should be
seemingly quite alone in the world. Accordingly
she never strove to lift the veil behind which her
beautiful, sad-faced, impenetrable young friend
chose to shroud herself. Whatever Mrs. Alford's
faults, that of prying into matters that did not
concern her was not one of them. So for several
weeks, until indeed March winds were replaced by
June flowers, the two women whom the merest
whim of chance had thrown together lived their
peaceful, uneventful lives undisturbed.
It seemed that Mrs. Alford did not rely entirely
upon boarders for the maintenance of her small,
"that woman! 229
charmingly-appointed house. She was an artist
of no mean ability, and the most indomitable in-
dustry and perseverance. She had contended sue
cessfully in several instances for the prizes, offered
by Messrs. Minton and other great art pottery and
porcelain houses, for terra-cotta and china painting,
and she had also designed a Christmas card which
had won the two hundred guinea prize. It seemed
to Gwendoline that the angels, children, and flowers,
designed and coloured by Mrs. Alford's delicate
pencil and brush, were the outward efforts of a
spirit that had never been tainted by even so much
as the sound of the story of a sin ! of such a sin,
for instance, as that appalling one of which Sir
Harold had macb her—his own wife!—cognizant,
and in which he had played the chief part. No, it
 would always be impossible for her to pollute
Mrs. Alford's ears with such a subject, poor soli fa rv
Gwendoline felt.
But after a time Mrs. Afford, though she betrayed
230  THAT WOMAN ! 
110 curiosity in words, began to watcb her young
companion with curiously sympathetic eyes. Lady
Slade had spent a good many hours in her own
room in unpicking the word  Slade wherever it
was marked in red ingrain cotton on her linen, but
she had not had the heart to destroy the dainty
white embroidered monogram which occupied a
corner in several dozens of her pocket-handker-
< hiefs.
One day Mrs. Alford picked up one of these
delicate bits of needlework, and, examining it with
the eve of an artist, said,—
*/ } 3
 What an exquisite embroiderer you are, Miss
Smith; if the time should ever come when you
care to make a little extra money, I could get
you plenty of work, and work that would be well
paid for if it was like this.
 I'm a wretched worker, these were part of my
trousseau, Gwendoline answered, forgetting herself
for a moment. The next moment her face flushed
"that woman! 231
scarlet, and she added falteringly,  A trousseau
I have never wanted, as you see ?
Mrs. Alford's soft, sweetly solemn grev eyes
grew misty beneath their long dark lashes as she
looked long and pityingly at Gwendoline.
 Poor child! she sighed at last, and there
was such a wealth of sympathy in the tone more
than in the words that Gwendoline's over-tried
nerves broke down, and sinking on her knees before
Mrs. Alford, she buried her face in the arms that
were extended to her and sobbed piteously.
Presently, as the intervals between the sobs grew
longer, and the convulsive movements which had
agitated her whole body ceased, Gwendoline lifted
her young pain-drawn face and said,—
"I have tried to live alone with my trouble and
sorrows; I have deceived you; I have deceived
myself into thinking for a time that I could put
my past away from me, and that no sign of it
would remain to stab and pain me; but I cannot
232 "that woman !
"We none of us can do that, Mrs. Alford re-
joined mournfully.
 Ah! but yours, though a sorrowful, is a
beautiful, holy past 
She checked herself as the woman she addressed
started up from her seat, and turned away sobbing
—sobbing more bitterly, more hopelessly even than
Gwendoline herself had done a minute before.
"God be merciful to me a sinner! Make me
humble and penitent enough to tell the truth which
Thou knowest, O God, to this fellow-creature who
cares for me, and believes me to be a good woman,
she moaned hysterically; and then and there she
would have revealed her story to Gwendoline, if
the latter had not cried out faintly,—
"Am I dying? I can't see, or—or 
She was not dying, but she was fainting with
a deadly faintness that would not allow itself to be
combated successfully. And when she came out o-
her fit of insensibility, and was ljing on a sofa
 THAT WOMAN !  233
looking white and wan, hut strangely peaceful and
happy, Mrs. Alford bent over her and whispered,—
"My dear, whatever your sorrows and troubles
may be, you will have to bear them bravely now—
for the sake of one more helpless than yourself.
Perhaps your sorrow would melt into the air if
you faced it, and spoke about it. Tell it to me!
"It would involve the telling of the shame and
sin of others, Gwendoline said, in a low pitiful
voice.  And perhaps I have been too harsh and
severe—but I can't bring myself to feel anything
but rage against my husband, and horror of his 
"Your husband! You are married V
 What should I be ? What should you think
I could be, after what you yourself have now dis-
covered and told me ? Gwendoline asked proudly.
Then she drew out her wedding ring from the place
in her bosom where it had been lying all these
months, put it on, and said,—
"I will tell you all my history, everything
234  THAT WOMAN ! 
but my married name, and you shall judge for me
whether I am not a deeply injured woman.
Then brokenly, with tears sometimes of anger
oftener of love and jealousy, she told her story,
and as she told it Mrs. Alford drew herself further
apart and began to paint assiduously.
When Gwendoline had finished, she waited for a
few moments for Mrs. Alford to make some com-
ment on the story. None being made, the narrator
of it asked impatiently,—
 Have you nothing to say ? no remark to make ?
no sympathy to offer me ? 
 If you don't forgive your husband, and go back
to him, as heavy a sin will lie at your door as at
that of the one you contemptuously speak of as
' that woman'!  Mrs. Alford said gravely.
 You say that to me! and I've been afraid to
shock you by even alluding to that—to her share
in the story, Gwendoline cried, angered and half
disposed to be indignant.
"that woman! 235
"And another thing, I will tell you frankly, my
poor dear young friend, you are acting as no woman
with a heart in its right place could act towards
your mother and the rest of your family, as well
as towards your husbapd. But your heart has
moved into a realm where nothing but vindictive-
ness and hate and jealousy reign. You are being
cruel as death in not letting those who love you
know where you are.
 I've no doubt he has consoled himself with
' that woman,' Gwendoline gasped.  I am only
his legal slave! he told me I could go where I
liked and do what I liked with my life.
"Perhaps—how can you tell, 'that woman' may
be praying that for his wife's innocent sake his
past guilty life may be forgiven, Mrs. Alford said,
with such a sympathetic quaver in her voice that
Gwendoline almost forgave her the adverse opinions
she had been expressing.
 Ah! I see you little understand that class ot
236
 THAT WOMAN ! 
women—almost as little as I do myself, Gwendoline
said patronisingly,  but do understand this, that
I mean to stay here and bear all my sorrows and
trials alone—save for you. My husband told me to
take my life into my own hands, and I'll obey
him in that at least. Ah! Mrs. Alford, after all
what is your trouble to mine ? Your husband was
good, and you loved him to the last. While mine
oh! how could he have been so cruel as to take
my love when he knew what he did about himself
and 'that woman'?
cious sister had not only not gone back to her
mother, Mrs. Folliott, but had sent no tidings of
herself to what Mrs. Harman called her own tidy
little quarters in Hill Street, the latter young
matron became seriously alarmed.
CHAPTER III.
Mrs. Harman discovered that her injudi-
 THAT WOMAN !  237
She took her brother-in-law, Sir Harold, back
with her after her futile visit to the maternal nest,
to be generally comforted with sympathy and sug-
gestions. The form the sympathy took, of afternoon
tea, followed by a recherche little dinner at eight,
did not appeal to Sir Harold. For his appetite
had fled with Gwendoline, and he was really as
unhappy as a man sound in mind and limb
can be.
To her husband, Christopher Harman, a jolly
gentleman whose father might have been either a
royal prince, a Yorkshire squire, or a railway
porter, to judge from the son's development of the
power of enjoyment and his colossal bulk, Mrs.
Harman gave all the information on the subject of
Gwen's folly that she had to give. But to other
people, including all her uncles and aunts and
cousins, she intended to say "nothing about
Gwen, she declared.
 How can you avert questions ? and how in the
238  THAT WOMAN !
world can you avoid answering them ? Sir Harold
asked generously.
"That's my affair. Now, Harold, be wise for
once in your life, be guided by her. You seem to
resign yourself to Gwendoline's loss, and to the pro-
spect of a prolonged separation from her.
 A final and complete separation, you mean, he
interrupted gloomily;  that's what it is, nothing
else, Mr. Harman, and it's useless your trying to
put it to me euphemistically. I've lost Gwendoline
for ever.
 Nonsense, man; a clever detective will unearth
her in a few days, and then you'll be as jolly as
sandboys together, Gwendoline and you, Mr.
Harman struck in cheerily; but Sir Harold declined
to derive any satisfaction from the prospect of
enjoyment held out to him by Mr. Harman.
"You can't suppose for a moment that after
what passed between us, after the free permission
to go where she liked and do as she pleased which
<c THAT WOMAN !  239
I accorded her, that I should attempt to coerce Lady
Slade ?  he said stiffly; and Mrs. Harman, under
pretence of a hit of affectionate bear's play with
her husband, managed to whisper to him,— You
dear old blunderbore, let me tackle him! Then
aloud she said to her brother-in-law,—
 I know my sister well enough to be able to
assure you of this—nothing but the deepest,
strongest love for you would have wrought her up
to the pitch of behaving in the unconventional
way she has! Gwen has a horror of anything
out-of-the-way : it has always been her creed that
the people who do unusual things are rather impro-
per, and very much to be avoided. She'll see her
folly very soon if you leave her to herself.
 I shall not dream of interfering with Lady
Slade, he interrupted, with an attempt at cool
unconcern; but the attempt was such a miserable
failure that his sister-in-law pitied and forgave him.
"And I won't ask you to do it, she said good-
240  THAT WOMAN ! 
humouredly.  But I will ask you to do this: hold
yourself in readiness to come to me at any moment
I may send for you, that is if you wish to be
happy, and have Gwendoline again.
 I shall hold myself in readiness to obey your
commands at any time; that is all that is neces-
sary for me to say, he answered. And his sister-
in-law, fathoming how deeply he must be wounded
and how sorely he must be smarting, refrained
from pressing for a definite declaration of eagerness,
or even willingness, to be restored to his wife.
But though Mrs. Harman soon managed to
establish communication with one of the maids
whom Lady Slade had dismissed so summarily,
and through her to obtain the address of the
Hampstead lodgings to which her ladyship had
first betaken herself, it was long before she was
able to report to Sir Harold that she had even so
much as a clue to her sister's whereabouts. Natur-
ally the Hampstead landlady had forgotten the
 THAT WOMAN !  241
number of the cabman who had driven the lady
away, who had only stayed three days with her
early in March. He was not a Hampstead cabman,
but a casual picked up by good chance in the High
Street. So for a time Mrs. Harman's good intent
was baffled.
The weeks rolled slowly and uneventfully, but
still not unhappily, over the heads of the little
household out at Shepherd's Bush. No further
confidences had been exchanged between the two
women thus strangely thrown together, yet for
all this reserve the friendship and kindly feeling
between them seemed a genuine and well-established
thing.
For many months Lady Slade, or "Mrs. Smith,
as she now permitted herself to be called, found
that the banknotes and ready money which she
had in her dressing-case when she parted so
abruptly with her husband was sufficient for all
her requirements. In her inexperience she had at
l(i
242  that woman !
first thought the sum inexhaustible, and had lavished
it freely in the indulgence of such graceful and
feminine tastes as she could still gratify without
exciting remark. She filled the windowsills with
artistic flower-boxes, and had these constantly
replenished with flowers in full bloom, that lasted
on an average twenty-four hours. Hothouse flowers
and ferns flooded every room in the house with
fragrance. A good deal of money slipped away in
paying for the large supply of current literature
which she demanded. Additionally she was very
fond of making presents, and as Mrs. Alford was
the only person on whom she could now gratify
this taste, she was perpetually offering costly
little gifts to that lady, which the latter found it
hard to refuse without being ungracious. In this
way her money melted faster than she had fancied
possible, and at last, when the approach of winter
suggested the necessity of her getting a number of
hings for which she had not the wherewithal to
"that woman! 243
pay, she remembered what her husband had said
about her account at his banker's.
That she must draw upon this now was certain.
By economising, and going into cheaper lodgings,
she might perhaps have rubbed on for a time,
but the thought of leaving the companionship
of the sorrowful-eyed, sweet-mannered woman who
tended her with the loving devotion of a mother
to its child, was painful to her. At any cost, even
at the cost of revealing her real name to Mrs.
Alford, Gwendoline felt that in the coming bitter-
ness, the unknown, unmeasured sorrow and anguish
that was coming upon her, she must remain with
this tender, sympathetic woman, who humoured
her in everything, save in the rebellion against her
vowed allegiance to her husband.
"Forgive him and return to him, that the sin
of the woman who shared his guilt before he knew
you may weigh less heavily upon her soul, poor
creature! Mrs. Alford would plead with piteous
244  THAT WOMAN ! 
earnestness to the headstrong, unhappy, still stern
young wife. And Gwendoline would reply,—
 Your life, and your husband's life, must have
been so good that you can't grasp the idea of the
sin and shame from which I recoiled, and for which
I am suffering innocently.
While Lady Slade was hovering between her
disinclination to give in one jot, and her growing
sense of the need she would soon have of someone
besides herself to rely upon, the time rolled on,
and her physical weakness and depression increased
a^rmingly, the mental excitement to which she
was subjecting herself aggravating every bodily
bad symptom.
She was in fact nearly beaten, by much tribula-
tion of body and mind, into being a better, more
generous, and forgiving woman. But still she
struggled obstinately to hold out.
 Perhaps I shall die, she would think gloomily,
and as a preparation for this possible event she
''that woman! 245
wrote a severe letter to her husband, sealed it
carefully, and delivered it in an unaddressed enve-
lope into Mrs. Alford's safe keeping.
 Open that if I die, and send on the enclosed
letter to the person it's addressed to, she said
to Mrs. Alford;  then the child, if it lives, will
be taken care of.
"Bend your heart, and write to that person
before your hour of peril, Mrs. Alford pleaded
but Gwendoline turned from the subject with the
querulous impatience of an invalid.
"I am sick and weary, she said, "and fruit is
the only thing I care for; do, like a dear thing,
go up to Covent Garden and get me some; there's
none fit to be looked at in this wretched region.
Bananas now! how the heavenly velvet of their
texture appeals to me in imagination; do get me
some, if you love me !
 I wish I could do something more than that to
show you how I love you, dear, the elder woman
246  Til AT WOMAN ! 
said. Soon, with her heart beating happily with
the pleasure she felt in doing something, however
small, for this poor self-torturing "Mrs. Smith,
Mrs. Alford was on her way to Bayswater, for she
remembered a shop in Westbourne Grove where
bananas as worthy in every way as those that
flourished in Covent Garden were to be found. As
the omnibus in which she sat rumbled along, she
found herself speculating as to what manner of man
this could have been whose infidelity in the past
in which she was unknown to him, had such
powers to wring Mrs. Smith's soul.
"Very likely he is the kind of man one never
thinks of twice, unless one jostled against him
continually,—not like him, not like my Lancelot,
the poor woman went on thinking, with a sigh
drawn from that fathomless well of bitterness which
her love and sin had dug for her.  Still, il
I can ever restore that glorious creature who's
breaking her heart over the separation she made
 THAT WoMAN !  247
herself, I'll do it—cost me what trouble and vexa-
tion it may. People generally burn their fingers if
they interfere in other people's affairs, but I'd risk
and endure a good scorching for her sake, the
innocent darling.
The omnibus drew up, and Mrs. Alford had to
descend from it, and lay aside her plans for restor-
ing  Mrs. Smith to domestic bliss for the
moment. Whiteley's windows claimed her for a few
moments, but she steadily withstood their invitation
to enter till she had made her way to the shop
on the opposite side of the Grove, where the un-
shrivelled, well-developed bananas dwelt.
As she paused to look in at the artistically
decorated windows before passing through the door,
a lady came out, her hands full of rare flowers,
her eyes roving round rapidly in search of her
brougham, which had driven round the corner out
of the draught. Suddenly her gaze fell upon Mrs.
Alford, and before the latter had time to perfectly
248  THAT WOMAN ! 
recall the recollection of "having seen this lady
before, she was being asked, in a voice that was
strangely familiar to her,—
"Pardon me, pray pardon me, but can you give
me any information as to where Sir Harold Slade
is now ? 
 Madam !
"Oh! don't be indignant and all that, Mrs.
Harman (for it was Gwendoline's sister) put in
earnestly;  I know I'm wrong from every point
of view in stopping you and questioning you; but
I saw you with Sir Harold at the Great Western
Station the very day my sister, Lady Slade, dis-
appeared, and now he has disappeared too, aud the
family mystery bids fair to be a public scandal.
Mrs. Alford put her hand to her forehead for
a moment, then withdrew it, and looked with
truthful, desperately sad eyes at her interrogator.
"First believe that I have never seen Sir Harold
Slade from that day to this.
 THAT WOMAN ! 249
 Nor heard from him ? 
"Nor heard from him. But come where we
can speak quietly; do you say your sister Lady
Slade has disappeared ?
"Come to my brougham, Mrs. Harman said im-
pulsively, and as soon as they were within the
shelter of that little vehicle she added peremp-
torily,—
 Now go on.
So ordered, Mrs. Alford told how  Miss Smith
had come to lodge and board with her, and how
circumstances over which no one had any control
now had compelled her to develop into  Mrs.
Smith.
 She must be your sister, Lady Slade, she said ;
 and she must never know that I am ' that
woman.' She must never see me again; it would
break her heart to know she has given liking to
me, and I love to her.
 It seems heartless to accept your decision, Mrs.
250  THAT WOMAN I
Harman said, hesitatingly;  if my brother-in-law
could be got at, it would simplify matters.
 How long since you have lost sight of him.
"Only a week or two. To tell the truth, I've
hardly missed him, but I've taken it for granted
he had gone back to ' that woman'—I mean, when
I saw you I thought I had better let you know
that I understood you might have something to do
with his absence, being a friend of his, you see.
 What matter what you thought ? Mrs. Alford
exclaimed, with sudden passion; "act now! Help
me to obliterate myself; aid me in my resolution
never again to see the one creature who has loved
and trusted and believed in me. For her own sake
spare your sister knowledge that I am the woman
she despises and loathes, for she loves me.
"How can I account to Gwendoline—to Lady
Slade—for finding her through you? Mrs. Harman
inquired.
"Easily; you are sufficiently like Lady Slade for
 THAT WOMAN! 251
me to have been struck by the likeness as you
came out of that shop just now, even before you
spoke to me. Tell her I saw the likeness, and as
she knows how eager I've been for her to communi-
cate with her friends, the rest will be easy to
explain. Account for my not going back by saying
I've been called into the country. I shall go into
the country. I shall never live in that house
again.
 It will be much better for Lady Slade that all
trace of you should be lost at once, Mrs. Harman
said, with gentle authority.  I am sure that all will
go well with my brother-in-law and sister now
if once they are re-united; but, you see, there must
be no more of you for either of them.
"There shall be no more of me lor either of
them, said  that woman.
Some weeks after this, Mrs. Alford in her little
wind-freshened new home on the sea-side of a huge
*252  THAT WOMAN ! 
North Cornish beacon was reading in her three
days' old London paper:—
"There have been great rejoicings at Saxinglea,
the beautiful country seat of Sir Harold Slade, Bart.,
on the birth of a son and heir. Sir Harold and
Lady Slade, who have been great travellers since
their marriage in the spring, have resolved, we are
glad to hear, to reside for the future on their
country estate.
"Thank God! said "that woman.
COLD STARLIGHT
~|~N the year 1876 women, if they had pretty
figures, were able to display them to much
better advantage than they can in these days ot
exaggerated dress-improvers. A slender waist was
not made ridiculous by an awkardly huge de-
velopment immediately beneath it. Proportion was
respected, and as a natural consequence a higher
degree of grace was attained more frequently
then than now.
A number of fair women and remarkably nice-
looking men were dotted about a drawing-room
that looked out upon a lawn which sloped away
254 COLD STARLIGHT
to the Thames at one of its prettiest stretches.
Huge oases of mignonette, roses, and heliotrope
stood on either side of each of the three French
windows that opened into a young Crystal
Palace, from whence the perfume of tuberoses,
gardenias, stephanotis, and other sweet-scented
flowers and shrubs was freely wafted into the
room. Graceful statues and statuettes were in
corners and on brackets; good pictures adorned
the walls; sumptuous chairs and sofas offered
their fat depths invitingly; the carpet felt like
moss beneath the feet that trod on it. A
glimpse of the garden through the open con-
servatory door to the right showed a vista oi
mathematically-ordered foliage and flowers. Every-
thing, in fact, looked what it was—wealthy and
well kept, and perfectly untarnished, untouched,
untoned by Time!
Perhaps it was this appearance of absolute new-
ness which infused a certain air of stiffness—
COLD STARLIGHT. 255
hardly that, but a certain want of perfect ease,
into the company assembled there. Or perhaps it
was that they were merely suffering from the
depression which is inseparable from the wait-
before-dinner atmosphere. At any rate the silence
had been unbroken for at least five seconds when
the host said—
 I think we must give my brother up; and
as he spoke he touched a bell, and offered his
arm to Mrs. Tempest.
The couples had all been told off to each
other previous to this. But now, when the pro-
gress began to the dining-room, it was seen that
one lady, and she the youngest and fairest of
them all, had no partner.
"My brother Jack's remissness is the more un-
accountable since he knew he was to have the
honour of taking you in to dinner, Miss Tempest,
Mr. Mordaunt said as he was passing her. Then
he paused, hesitated, and added—
256 COLD STARLIGHT.
 I can't leave you to come in by yourself.
Put up with a share of me, and 
 No, indeed, Mr. Mordaunt; that would involve
the disarrangement of your table, the girl said
hastily. But at a light frown from her mother
she accepted the outstretched right arm of her
host, and eventually found herself planted next
to him at dinner.
Her face was pale, her eyes were heavy with
disappointment; yet even under these clouds it
was a lovely face—lovely more from its bright
changefulness of expression and from its sensitive
mobility than from any perfection either of
colouring or feature. Her nose was rather a long,
out-sloping one; decidedly not Grecian, and yet
not a snub or pug. Her mouth was splendidly
shaped, and exquisitely white teeth glittered
through her lips when they were parted; but it
was a large mouth—a rose, not a rosebud. The
shape of her low, wide forehead was good, so
COLD STARLIGHT. 257
was that of her oval cheeks. Her hair was
silky and very dark, hut quite straight; there
was no suggestion of ringlet or wave about it.
Her eyes were long black-lashed grey eyes—
steady, earnest eyes, that almost belied the
nervous excitability that sometimes betrayed itself
in the flexible lines of her mouth. And he
figure was delicious!
So Mr. Mordaunt thought as he looked at her
sitting there, even in her depression the sweetest
ornament of his magnificently ordered table. Her
dress of soft silk, of the colour of mother-o'-pearl,
tight and plain, showing her beautiful shape,
and leaving her smooth white young neck and
arms bare, had an air of distinction about it
that the dress ot every other woman and girl in
the room lacked, he thought. Yet, greatly as he
admired it, he longed to see it adorned and en-
riched by jewels of his giving. For the wealthy
merchant, who had just bought and decorated
17
258 COLD STARLIGHT.
this little riverside palace, had come to the
conclusion within the last day or two that it
would be a barren wilderness to him unless
Kathleen Tempest would consent to turn it into
a land flowing with domestic and social milk
and honey by consenting to come to it as
his wife.
Absorbed man of business as he was supposed
to be by all his friends, his brother Jack in-
eluded, Mr. Mordaunt had a keen eye for beauty
in women; and the beauty he most prized was
that of "form. The face of a Venus on either
an awkward or insignificant figure would have
held no charm for him.  So many inches of
beauty were no compensation for so many feet
of ugliness, he was wont to say. Now Kathleen's
figure was without reproach and above suspicion.
And this brings us back to the statement with
which this story opens—namely, that women with
pretty figures had a better chance of displaying
COLD STARLIGHT. 259
them to advantage in 1876 than they have in
this year of grace.
Mr. Mordaunt had only known the Tempests
—mother and daughter—for a week or ten days.
His invitation that they should come to his in-
auguration dinner at The Alders had surprised
Mrs. Tempest not a little. But Kathleen had
been more delighted than surprised; and she had
shown her delight very openly, though she had
kept her reasons for feeling it to herself. So it
annoyed her mother doubly now that, without
sufficient cause, Kathleen should put herself at
her worst by looking downcast and absent after
her unrestrained expressions of pleasure when they
received Mr. Mordaunt's invitation.
It never occurred to Mrs. Tempest, though she
was a clever woman and an affectionate mother,
to connect her daughter's downcast looks with
the absence of Jack Mordaunt, the brother of
their host. Jack was a colleague of her son
260 COLD STARLIGHT.
Arthur's in the War Office, and several times he
had come home to dine with them, and once or
twice he had gone with them on the river. But
so had other young men who were friends of
Arthur Tempest's, and to all of them Kathleen
showed the same frank, friendly front. Accord-
ingly she, being neither a match-making woman
nor a suspiciously watchful mother, was ignorant
of the subtle change that had come over her
daughter's spirit since Jack Mordaunt had loomed
on her horizon. And as Jack had not spoken
definitely to Kathleen yet, so Kathleen refrained
from even hinting at her happy hopes to hex
mother.
But the girl had suffered herself to anticipate
great things from this invitation to The Alders.
Jack had often spoken to them of his wealthy
bachelor brother; of that brother's goodness and
generosity to himself; and he had sometimes
added—
COLD STARLIGHT. 261
 Old Richard is as good an old chap as ever
stepped—more like a father to me than a brother.
If I cried for the moon he would try to get it
for me, I believe.
This he said in public, that is, before her
mother and her brother Arthur. But he had
taken an opportunity of telling her privately
that he believed nothing on earth would gratify
dear old Richard so much as his (Jack's) marrying
and taking his wife home to The Alders as
mistress of it.  For the dear old boy likes
womankind about him; and as he'll never have
a wife of his own, why, the next best thing
will be a wife of mine to look after him and
do the honours.
These words Jack Mordaunt had said to her
with sweet meaning in them, and to these
words of sweet meaning she had listened with
sympathetic understanding. How, then, did it
come to pass that she should be "n honoured
262 GOLD STARLIGHT.
guest in that all-powerful elder brother's house
when Jack (who had been invited, she knew)
was not there to meet her?
She perplexed herself by asking and trying to
answer this question all the evening, and failed
to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. Her
perplexity made her very thoughtful and quiet,
and as Mr. Mordaunt admired repose of manner
in women as much as he did beauty of shape,
she pleased him more than her mother imagined,
and far more than she herself desired.
She pleased him to this degree, that he, being
unconscious of his brother's unspoken claims upon
her, began to wish to have "just such a girl as
she was for a wife. This is the way he spoke
of her to himself this night. Before the week
was over he had spoken even more definitely to
her mother.
 I'm not a young man, Mrs. Tempest, he said
with honest abruptness, before the widow had
COLD STARLIGHT. 263
recovered her surprise at his calling on them at
all,  but my heart is young enough to love
your daughter. I am going to ask her to be
my wife; have I your good wishes ?
 Certainly you have, she said, with hearty
cordiality. She was not mercenary, but she was
a poor woman, and it was more than desirable
that Kathleen in marrying should be where
money was.
 Her affections are not already engaged, • I
trust ? the prudent lover questioned, and Mrs.
Tempest answered unhesitatingly.
"I think I can conscientiously assure you that
Kathleen is heart-free; my daughter and I are
excellent friends. She would not have kept such
a secret from me.
This is a form of delusion to which many
admirable women are subject. Mrs. Tempest and
her daughter were excellent friends certainly. But
Kathleen had a very dear secret from her mother,
264 COLD STARLIGHT.
and it was that she and Jack Mordaunt loved
one another very dearly.
Only the day before Jack had been definite
in his declaration of affection for her, though still
very indefinite as to his plans for providing
for her.
"It's clear that we can't marry on my salary,
he told her, "and old Dick seems to think that
I ought not to think of a wife till I have an
income to support one. He has grown stingy, or
else he has fallen in love himself; I can't quite
make out which.
"Have you told him about me? Kathleen
asked.  He seemed very kind the other night
when we dined at The Alders—the night you
didn't come, Master Jack. And now you shall
tell me why you didn't come ?
Jack's handsome face flushed with vexation.
 I can't tell you, Kathleen; it was not for
pleasure that I stayed away. I have been in a
COLD STARLIGHT. 265
coil, but I've got out of it now. No, I have
never mentioned you to old Dick. I only told
him that I wanted to marry the sweetest girl in
the world, and he advised me "to give up all
my extravagant habits, and work to maintain her.
 I am not afraid of poverty, Kathleen said
stoutly.
"Well I confess I am for you, the young
man said tenderly,  but I don't despair of
Dick's relenting. Don't say anything about it
yet to any one, not even to your mother, for
Dick is annoyed with me just now. He believes
something to my discredit—something of which I
am not guilty 
 What is it, Jack ? You ought to tell me
everything now.
"This is a thing I can't tell you, my darling.
"Oh! I—I am sorry.
"So am I, he said sadly, as he saw her
turn away from him with an indescribable air
266 COLD STARLIGHT.
of chilliness about her. "I am more than sorry
to have a secret from you, but I must ask you
to believe me when I tell you that I am not to
blame.
"I hate secrets, she said quickly. "I hate
myself for agreeing to have one from mamma.
This conversation had taken place between the
dances at a party at which they had met on
the evening previous to Mr. Mordaunt's proposal.
Kathleen was still feeling sore and rebellious and
uncertain about Jack when her mother came and
told her of Mr. Mordaunt's offer; and when she
had done so she added.
 If you feel at all doubtful about yourself,
Kathleen, don't see him to-day; give yourself
time. He is a good, open, honest man; treat him
fairly. Think over all the advantages he can
offer you, and if you can love him well enough
to marry him, you will be a happy woman.
f< I can never ' love' him, Kathleen said
COLD STARLIGHT. 2G7
hastily, "at least not in that way. Besides, there
is 
"Not some one else? Kathleen, I have assured
him there is no one else. Poor man, I wish
you could incline towards him favourably. He
tells me he is much distressed about his brother
—Arthur's friend Jack.
 Our friend too, mother.
 Well, well, our acquaintance we will say, for
1 fear Jack Mordaunt is no fit friend for a good
woman.
 What do you know about him, mother ? Tell
me; I have the right to know, the girl sobbed;
and, in order to avert a scene, her mother told
her the story of Jack's delinquencies as she had
gathered it from Mr. Mordaunt.
As told by Mrs. Tempest, it was a common-
place, ugly story enough. Jack had idled his
time away in the country during the previous
autumn, and got entangled in the meshes of a
268 COLD STARLIGHT.
sly village coquette, who had more lovers than
was good for her. She was now an openly
disgraced girl, a mother before she was a wife,
and she charged Jack with being her fellow-
sinner.
 The one gleam of beautiful light in this
dark story is Mr. Mordaunt's conduct, Mrs. Tem-
pest wound up rapturously,  He has settled a
sum of money upon the woman, sufficient to
maintain her in quiet respectability, and will
provide for the education of the child. He is
one in a thousand.
 He is, mother. I will see him to-day, and
marry him to-morrow if he likes, Kathleen in-
terrupted, with eyes and cheeks blazing with
outraged love and pride.  Don't ask him a
single question. I have been a fool, but I have
recovered my senses now. I will see Mr. Mordaunt
now—at once if you like,
That night the two brothers dined together
COLD STARLIGHT. 269
alone at The Alders. After their dinner Mr.
Mordaunt said hesitatingly,—
"I have taken a serious step to-day, Jack. I
have asked a very sweet young lady to be my
wife.
Jack opened his eyes, but said nothing.
 She has accepted me, and you will soon have
a sister, Jack. But before I enlarge selfishly
upon my own scheme of happiness, I will tell
you something else. I have settled a hundred a
year on that girl Lucy Baker, and a thousand
pounds upon the child 
"The woman is nothing to me, and the child
is not mine, Jack interrupted in accents of ex-
asperation. "Do an altogether out-of-the-way
humane and generous thing by all means if it
pleases you, but pray believe my reiterated state-
ment. I am innocent of that woman's fall.
Mr. Mordaunt frowned.
"I wish to close the subject at once and fo
270 COLD STARLIGHT.
ever, Jack,' he said quietly.  You no doubt look
upon yourself as quite as much sinned against
as sinning in the matter; but her brother told
me to-day 
 Her brother! Jack thundered, starting to his
feet. "Don't quote the ruffian to me. He's at
the bottom of the plant against me; if I had
William Baker here I'd break every bone in his
cursed body.
"Yet last autumn you had nothing but good
words to say of the man, and would have him
with you half as servant half as friend.
"That's his version of it, is it? Jack said
carelessly. "Well, now listen to something pleas-
anter than the Baker scandal. I want you to
be liberal, as is your wont to me, old fellow. I,
too, have proposed to a charming girl, and been
accepted by her.
"Matrimony is out of the question for you for
a time, Mr. Mordaunt interrupted authoritatively.
COLD STARLIGHT. 271
"Not a word more on the subject to me, if you
please. If you are steady for a year, and under
the influence of your new sister-in-law I hope
and trust you will become so, I'll do what I
can to help you; but you must wait a year.
Jack laughed.
 The girl I am engaged to will talk to you
about that; but as you won't hear about my
fiancee, tell me about your own, old fellow.
What is her name ? Where does she live ? and
is she pretty ?
 I think you know her slightly already.
Mr. Mordaunt paused, looked pleased and con-
scious in an elderly-gentleman, respectable way
that was very amusing to his younger brother,
and, then, as Jack strolled leisurely towards the
open window to pick a pale golden rosebud, the
elder brother added pompously,
 Her name, you will be surprised and de-
lighted to hear, is Kathleen Tempest
272 COLD STARLIGHT.
Perhaps it was delight that kept Jack silent
for a minute, his face still to the window, his
back to his brother. He employed that minute
in carefully fastening the Marechal Niel bud
into his coat! How intensely its delicate, de-
licious perfume permeated the atmosphere! How
vividly its exquisite colour impressed itself upon
him! It seemed unnatural that at the moment
when the most crushing, deadening blow that
had ever been dealt at him was falling with
stunning force from his brother's hand—it seemed
unnatural, hideously unnatural, that he should be
so keenly alive to the perfume and beauty of a
mere flower.
At the end of a minute he had gained control
over himself. He could speak without betraying
Kathleen Tempest. That was his first thought.
Still with his back to his brother it super-
seded him so miraculously that unintentionally
he spoxe in cool, steady tones.
COLD STARLIGHT. 273
u Miss Tempest is the lady, is she ? Her
brother and I are in the same office, you know.
You will have a charming wife, old fellow, and
with all my heart I hope you will both be
happy.
"And at the expiration of the year of pro-
bation, I trust I may be able to offer you and
the girl you love the same good wishes, with
the well-founded expectation of their being ful-
filled, Mr. Mordaunt said encouragingly, as he
rose and joined his brother at the window.
 Meantime, he went on,  take my advice; see
as little of the lady as possible, just once for an
explanation, and then devote yourself to the
task of winning her worthily. I promise you,
Jack, if you are steady for twelvemonths I'll
make up your income to six hundred at the
end of it. But you must give up racecourses
and cards, and (excuse me) low company.
 I renounce them all, Jack answered, with a
18
274 COLD STARLIGHT.
curious look in his blue eyes.  I renounce
everything connected with my past life, even the
young lady I thought I was going to marry.
I'll take your advice, dear old Dick; 111 see
her once, and have an explanation, and then—
good-bye to her
"I don't want you to break it off. I only urge
you to wait—— Mr. Mordaunt was beginning.
But Jack had gone out of the room, leaving
the sentence unfinished on his brother's lips.
 I don't like the look of things at all, Mr.
Mordaunt said to himself. "In spite of his re-
peated protestations to the contrary, I am afraid
Jack is guilty of that poor girl's ruin, and now
his conscience won't allow him to keep to his
engagement with the young lady he has fallen
in love with. Poor boy, poor boy! I hope
Kathleen will be kind to him.
Jack was quite his most composed self when
the brothers met late in the evening.
COLD STARLIGHT.
275
 I've been on the river for an hour, and now
I find I've only just time to catch the 10.30
train, Jack exclaimed hurriedly, coming in
through the open window.  Say all that ought
to be said for me to Miss Tempest.
"You shall say the right things for yourself.
I'll take you there to-morrow.
"To-morrow my chief wants to see me about
a dockyard appointment.
 Why, this is something quite new to me,
Jack.
"Yes; I forgot it till now. Well, good-bye,
I'm off.
A few days after this Mr. Mordaunt received
a few lines from his brother. They were as
follows :—
"The dockyard appointment has fallen through, and I'm dis-
gusted with the Civil Service. Consequently I have chucked up
my berth, and accepted a clerkship in a Calcutta House. Sail
to-day. God bless you, old boy.
 Yours ever,
* Jack.
276 COLD STARLIGHT.
It was a great blow to Mr. Mordaunt, for it
savoured of misery and recklessness on Jack's
part, he feared. But he soon recovered from the
blow, and was evidently happy in the society of
his grave, thoughtful, beautiful young wife. It
vexed him a little sometimes that she took no
manner of interest in his prodigal brother. "But
still, he considerately argued with himself,  what
could he expect ? Jack was nearly a stranger to
her.
From Jack himself he only heard at rare
intervals. But he gathered from these letters
that Jack was moderately prosperous and con-
tented, though he never referred to the subject
of matrimony, or made any mention of the girl
he had loved. Apparently his love dream was
over and had not left a trace behind.
So four years passed away, and then Mr.
Mordaunt died,—died in blissful ignorance of ever
having had a rival in the heart of his wife.
COLD STAKLIGHT. 277
"Be kind to Jack if ever he comes back,
he whispered to her when he was dying,  be a
true sister to him. I have always loved him
dearly. Stand by Jack, and help to make him
happy if you can.
And she whispered in reply, "I promise.
It was not a hard matter for her to promise
this now, for both she and her husband had
learnt that poor Jack had in truth been innocent
of that offence against morality with which
William Baker had charged him. And in grasp-
ing this she had grasped something better still
Jack had not been false to her.
There was nothing in her life to make her
repent herself of the hasty step she had taken.
She was a happy, honoured wife, a wealthy,
well-satistied woman! Nevertheless, it was good
to feel that he had been true to her and that
it had been her hand and not his which had
severed the chain that bound them together.
278 COLD STARLIGHT.
After a while, when the first days of her
widowhood and mourning were past, she began
to realise that Jack would be a good brother to
have near her, a good uncle for her little Dick.
And so after a good deal of common-place,
friendly correspondence Jack came home, a well-
to-do man, and a good, healthy fraternal feeling
sprang up between these two.
But though each was satisfied that it should
be so, though the present was accepted grate-
fully by them both as a good and wholesome
thing, the woman never forgot that she owed
much to Jack's loyalty and forbearance. And
Jack never forgot that he owed much to
William Baker's lying tongue and perfidy. And
each vowed solemnly to pay these debts
one day.
It was summer-time again, five years after
that evening on which. Mr. Mordaunt had an-
nounced his engagement, and Jack had stood at
COLD STARLIGHT. 279
the window steeped in an atmosphere of misery
and the odour of a Mardchal Niel rosebud. He
had been spending four or five days at The
Alders, with his sister-in-law and her mother,
finding the old home life under new conditions
very soothing and pleasant. His nephew, little
Dick, was a source of ever-fresh delight to the
man who had always so loyally loved little
Dick's father and mother. And in addition there
was something restful and promising in the
society of a girl friend of Mrs. Mordaunt's, who
was a fellow-guest. A dear young girl this Alice
Holland, rich in everything but money,—liberally
endowed with good 1 oks, brains, and the power
of enjoyment, but condemned by the exigencies
of fate to earn her daily bread as a governess.
She was spending her summer holidays with
Kathleen Mordaunt, and the latter, without
exhibiting too marked an intention, was doing
her best to put Alice in the way of repaying
280 COLD STARLIGHT.
Jack for all she, Kathleen, herself had made
liim suffer in years gone by.
 I am not a match-maker, Mrs. Mordaunt
would often observe, "but if. I could see Jack
married to a dear friend of my own, I should
be so happy.
And the dear friend to whom this was said
would reply,
 I don't know any one half good enough for
your brother Jack, Kathleen. I don't wonder
that little Dick adores him.
To Jack, Mrs. Mordaunt casually remarked
that it broke her heart to think of Alice toiling
the best years of her life away in teaching
 If I could only see the darling married to a
good fellow something like you, Jack, I should
be happy.
"Do you think I'm good enough for her?
"Oh, Jack!
 Well, I must settle sooner or later, and
COLD STARLIGHT. 281
Alice is, as you say, a darling girl. Can you
promise me she won't snub me ?
 Dear Jack, you have made me so happy!
She shall be married from here, and I'll provide
the trousseau
"Don't make too many plans till we're certain
of the lady, he laughed, and she answered fer-
vently,
 Nothing can, nothing shall come between you
two, Jack.
It really seemed as if this new programme
would be fulfilled. Jack soon took an opportunity
of coming to an understanding with Alice, and
as there were no friends on either side, excepting
Kathleen, to consult, it was arranged that the
marriage should take place as soon as the
dresses could be made, and a house taken and
furnished.
The house was to be a little way out of town,
and the establishment a small one,—a useful
282 COLD STARLIGHT.
man to do the stable work and garden, a cook
and housemaid.
The list of applicants for the useful man's
place was a short one. It began and ended with
William Baker.
Jack showed the letter of application to his
sister-in-law with a laugh that had no mirth
in it.
 That sneaking hound ear-wigged Dick and
turned the poor old chap against me, and
blighted my life for several years. I should like
to punish him in the only way he could feel,
with a stout-lashed whip.
 Oh, Jack! you'd not soil your hands by
touching him? Mrs. Mordaunt said, with an
unaffected shudder. "Don't let him come; don't
answer his letter.
 He's safe to come, he's sure to want money,
and probably he thinks that I shall be fool
enough to give him some in order to stop
COLD STARLIGHT. 283
"him from bursting out with a fresh batch
of lies.
 But no one will believe them now, Jack,
she said softly, and there was a blush of honest
shame on her fair young matronly face, * as she
remembered how she had believed them once.
"Smooth-tongued brute! Jack went on, work-
ing himself into a passion as he remembered all
he had suffered through the slanderous tongue
of Mr. William Baker; "smooth-tongued, oily-
faced brute! It's difficult to realise now how
that fellow managed to cover me with obloquy,
and shame, and disgrace. Ignorant wretch as he
was, he was an adept in the art of uttering
damnatory half-truths; he couldn't spell, but he
could suggest as intricate a piece of villainy as
Mephisto himself. When I remember that he
made Dick and you distrust and despise me, I
feel—that he had better not come near me even
now.
284 COLD STARLIGHT.
"The past was very painful to us both, Jack,
she said in a lew, serious tone, in which there
was no taint of retrospective coquetry;  but it
is past, thank God, and now we know—you and
I know—that we are firmer friends than ever,
for between us there is the bond of the love we
both bear to the good true man who was my
husband and your brother. And the present
holds a beautiful hope for you. Jack. Think of
Alice, and acknowledge that you ought to be a
grateful, happy, and therefore forgiving man.
"I am grateful, supremely grateful and happy,
but I can't forgive the bold reptile who dares
to force himself upon me again after having
stung me nearly to death once. The poison of
asps is under his tongue. What if he should
dare to threaten me that he will let that tongue
wag against me to Alice ?
O O
"His wicked words would be wasted on her.
 You believed them once. Why should you
COLD STARLIGHT. 285
expect Alice to be stronger than you were your-
self? 
"Don't refer to my past weakness; you and I
have such good reason to bless the present that
we can well afford to let the past alone. As for
Alice ; all I know is that she is stronger than I
am, less exacting and less egotistic than I was.
My dear brother Jack, in the face of all the
happiness that is in store for us all, I hope,
don't wilfully turn your head aside to look at
ugly bygones and possible disagreeables.
"I will try not to, he promised her, but she
fancied he promised it hesitatingly, and she felt
sorry that the memory rankled still of those
blighted other days, when he had smarted and
suffered, and made no sign that could injure her
in the eyes of his brother. As Jack had fore-
told, William Baker came and insisted on a
personal interview with Mr. Mordaunt, even after
the receipt of the latter's letter of refusal to
286 COLD STAELiGHT.
avail himself of the man's proffered services.
His insistance was disregarded by Kathleen's
advice. Jack refused to see his untrustworthy
old servant.
 That's a bad-looking chap, one of The
Alders' servants remarked to the others, when he
came back from seeing Baker out through the
side door;  there's a nasty glance in his little
black eyes, and his face looks like suet. His
clothes were the wrong sort, black cloth, but not
the kind that gentlefolk wear, and yet too good
for a working man; he's a sly 'un, I'm sure, by
the sleek rway he said that he'd known Mr. Jack
years ago, when he'd have thought twice before
he turned an old chum from the door.
 Like his cheek, the taller-faced, stooping, flat-
footed lodger, to speak of Mr. Jack as his chum,
and to presoom to think himself fit for service
in a family like ours, a loyal old cook put in
indignantly. "I mind the time when Mr. Jack
COLD STARLIGHT. 287
vrent away and master was married. This Baker
fellow was always loafing about here then, hint-
ing, and threatening, and trying to frighten
folks.
"He won't show his face here again, after
the straight words I gave him from Mr. Jack
just now, the footman replied. And then they
began to speak about the wedding that was soon
to be, and the festivities consequent thereon.
In the drawing-room they were a very happy
company that night. As the privileged brother
of one lady, and the adored future husband of
the other, Jack had it very much his own way
with them both. They sang the songs he liked,
they read bits from the evening paper that were
most interesting to him, they made his cigarettes,
and generally contrived to make him feel that
he was the central point of interest around which
all their thoughts revolved.
And Jack levelled in the consciousness of these
288 COLD STARLIGHT.
soothing conditions, and almost for the first time
in his life felt blissfully happy in the present,
and buoyantly hopeful in the future.
 You two darling women are making my life
a heaven upon earth, he said gratefully, when
they bade him good-night presently, and Kathleen
smiled happily as she answered,
 And in order to make his paradise com-
plete, what a purgatorial period of slavery to
milliners and dressmakers we're going through,
aren't we, Alice ? However, we would do more
than this for you, Jack.
"I know that, he said, becoming grave sud-
denly; and a chord of solemnity was struck that
seemed out of place, and was embarrassing.
 What cold starlight, Mrs. Mordaunt said,
stepping to a still open window.  Look out
for a moment, Alice. Lovely as it is, it's so
chilly that it makes one long for the sunrise.
Then the servant came in to close the shutters
COLD STARLIGHT. 289
for the night, and after a few more words with
Jack the two ladies went to bed.
It was still early—only just eleven o'clock—
when Mrs. Mordaunt turned out the gas in her
bedroom, and got into bed by the cold light of
the stars. Perfect contentment—the sense of being
in some degree the means by which Jack was
being made happy at last—had a soothing in-
fluence upon her, and before she had been in
bed ten minutes she was asleep.
How long she slept she never knew. What
followed on her waking forbade all possibility of
taking note of time.
She was roused by a sound at her door. Some
one was trying to turn the handle; and in an
agony of fear lest anything should be the matter
with her little Dick, she sprang from the bed
and opened the door without hesitation. What
she saw frightened her horribly, but instinctively
she became very still and quiet.
19
290 COLD STARLIGHT.
Jack was standing there, his face the colour
of wood-ashes, every fibre in his body trembling,
and a look of such anguished fear in his eyes
as rent her heart-strings.
 Jack, she whispered,  are you ill ? Tell me.
Let me help you, whatever it is.
She could never tell what feeling it was that
prompted her to say the last words. She only
felt that he must be made to understand that
he might rely upon her.
 Give me some brandy—the key of the side-
board! I am ill—a heart attack! He forced
these words from his lips—his quivering, trem-
bling, pallid lips—disjointedly. His head kept
turning towards the staircase; he seemed to be
listening.
 I'll put on my dressing-gown and come and
get you some brandy; or shall I call up Prout
(Prout was the old butler), "for you are ill I
can see, Jack?
COLD STAIiLIGHT. 201
 For heaven's sake neither come nor call
Prout, he gasped out.  Give me the brandy—
quick, Kathleen—give it to me.
She turned back into her room, and in a
minute was out again in dressing-gown and
slippers, a lighted candle in her hand.
 Stay here while I run down and get you
some  she was beginning, when he stumbled
past, and barred her progress.
"Don't come down, he begged hoarsely; "give
me the key. Go back to your room, Kathleen,
or it will kill me.
He took the key from her unresisting hand,
motioned her to go back, and sprang down the
stairs. Then she, feeling that she must be pre-
pared for something more than his fainting or
swooning, went back to her room and hurriedly
dressed herself, and in five minutes followed him
down to see  what was the matter.
A gleam of light streamed out from under the
292 COLD STARLIGHT.
study door. She pushed it open and went in.
There, outstretched before her, the body of a
man was lying; and, with a sob and a stifled
cry of  Jack! she fell on her knees beside it.
As she did so she saw that it was not Jack
who was stretched there, for Jack was standing
by her, trying to lift her, beseeching her to be
quiet and go away.
 Who is  her tongue curled, and would
not form the words; but he understood what
she would have asked, and answered at once.
 It's that man Baker. He forced his way in
after you had gone to bed, and insulted me
beyond endurance. I ordered him out, and then
he struck me, and said something that was too
vile—too vile! Then I gave him a blow that
has stunned him, I suj>poso.
 Stunned him 1 Oh, Jack, Jack, Jack! He is
more than stunned, he is 
She was down on her knees by the prostrate
COLD STARLIGHT. 293
man again as she spoke, lifting the lifeless head,
striving to pour a drop of brandy between the
lips that would be silent for evermore. How
awful the man was now! How terrible! How
overwhelming the mysterious po Ter with which
he had become imbued!
 Dead! Do you say he is dead ?
She rose again, groaning in her anguish.
 Oh, why did he come here to die ? she
wailed. "It can't be that you did it; but you
will be troubled. And how shall we bear the
light ? You will be questioned. Think!—oh,
Jack, think! You won't accuse yourself falsely;
you didn't strike him—he died! 
 After I had struck him, Jack said dully.
The first agony of terror and remorse was
passing away, and in its place was springing up
a maddening dread of detection. As Kathleen
slowly dragged herself to the door, muttering
that she  would call the servants, and caution
204 COLD STARLIGHT.
them not to disturb Alice, his benumbed faculties
tingled with anguish into activity.
 Are you mad ? he asked almost roughly.
"Call the servants with that lying there! Then
he fell on his knees before her, sobbing
brokenly, and beseeching her to save him, to
help him.
She lifted up her clasped hands, wringing
them in an agony of pity and helplessness.
"Why—why did he come here to die? We
were so happy, and now it will never be the
same again, she whispered. And this identifica-
tion of herself with his sin and suffering touched
him to the quick.
"No, God help us! we shall never be the
same again. But I won't burden such a golden
heart as yours with a leaden secret for me,
Kathleen. I'll call the servants up myself, and
tell the truth, and—bear whatever has to be
borne, Kathleen.
COLD STARLIGHT. 295
Then he crept upstairs and called the old
butler and cook, and when these two had come
down he conquered his repugnance to the task,
and went near to try and assist them to lift
the dead man from the floor.
But as he did so, the cook, who had been
stooping over the body, waved him back, and
put her own on the dead man's hand.
 Don't come nigh, not one of you; and send
for a doctor and a constable, ma'am, at once.
There's a small bottle clasped in his hand, poor
fellow! and a faint smell that tells me it's
poison, and not Master Jack, what has made an
end of him. Take missus away, sir, and we'll
lock the door till the doctor comes; and bless
you, Master Jack, we won't none of us fear the
light.
Incoherently murmuring something—he was not
clear whether it was the bottle or the cook who
discovered it that he blessed—Jack picked up his
296 COLD STARLIGHT.
half-fainting sister-in-law and carried her out into
the garden. And as he did, the dawn began to
break, and he raised his head unguiltily to meet
the coming day. Mardchal Niel roses were
clustering thickly round the broken window
through which Baker had forced his way in the
dark night that was past, and overhead a thrush
was ringing out a peal of joy and peace.
The rest is soon told. Medical analysis proved
that Baker had died from the effect of a deadly
poison, which he had probably swallowed in
despair when he found that his threats and
insults were powerless to extort money from Jack
Mordaunt; and as his own dishonesty, perfidy,
and treachery had closed every path—bad and
good alike—which he had ever trodden against
him, he had rid the world of himself under cir-
cumstances that might have proved fatal to the
master whom he had served unfaithfully, and
swindled successfully long ago. Indeed, the uglv
COLD STARLIGHT. 297
appearance of things would probably have con-
victed poor Jack had the latter obeyed his first
impulse, and striven either to have hidden him-
self or the dead man from the eyes of men; for
under the faint cold starlight it is more than
probable that he would have overlooked the tiny
bottle which had contained the instrument of that
death of which he had been so ready to accuse
himself.
But if Kathleen had flinched from following
him that night, influenced either by feminine
fear or falsely delicate scruples, Jack would have
gone through life believing himself to be a
murderer indeed, though not in intention. On
the whole, Mrs. Mordaunt was justified in feeling
that she at last had fully recompensed him for
the blight her too-ready belief in his folly and
frailty had brought upon his earlier years.
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWK
' ^ immaterial to me at what hour the
ceremony is, only I mean to catch the 1.15
train at Elmtree Road station.
The speaker is Mr. Calmady of Clawn, a north-
country squire of ancient lineage and vast posses-
sions. The one whom he addresses, and who listens
to him with some slight evidence of suppressed fury
being somewhere about in the atmosphere, is Mrs.
Hampden, his future mother-in-law.
"You will give my daughter time to change her
wedding for her travelling dress, I suppose, Mr,
Calmady? and she must have some breakfast and
cut the cake 
MRS. CALMAD Y OF CLAWN. 299
"I wish she would cut the breakfast instead of
the cake, he interrupts with an exasperating laugh;
"she knows how much I dislike show and fuss of
any kind. However, you have pleased yourselves
in the matter, I hope, for you certainly haven't
pleased me; and now all I ask is that I may get
away in time to catch the 1.15 train at Elmtree
Road station.
"You must surely think it only natural on
Violet's part that she should wish to wear a pretty
dress and have her friends about her pleasantly on
her wedding-day, Mrs. Hampden says deprecatingly.
"I am not prepared to admit anything of the
kind about the dress. A gown that she could have
travelled in comfortably would have been more to
my mind. And as for the friends! there's not one
of those eight bridesmaids—to whom, by-the-way,
I have to make some ridiculous present—who isn't
ready to cut Violet's throat because I have chosen
her instead of one of them.
300 MRS. CALMADY OR CLAVVN.
 You have done Violet great honour, of course,
by your choice; but I think you misjudge the other
girls. Still, to please you, the wedding shall be at
half-past ten instead of eleven, and you shall start
in good time for the 1.15 train.
Mr. Calmady rose from his chair and walked to
the window, out of which he gazed upon the pretty
park-like paddock and brilliantly kept  carpet
gardening, which was such a noticeable feature in
Mrs. Hampden's little demesne at Wey bridge.
Presently he turns round to say,
 Where is Violet ? She doesn't give me too much
of her society.
 My dear Mr. Calmady, she was not aware you
were coming to-day, or she would have stayed at
home. As it is, most unfortunately she has gone
to spend the day with the Freemans.
"The Freemans are those plump little girls who
always call her ' dearest Via,' aren't they ?
Mrs. Hampden expresses by a slight move-
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. SOI
ment of the head that his description of them
is graphic.
"Have they any brothers?
He asks the question in a casual way, but Mrs.
Hampden hesitates for a moment before she answers
it. That moment's hesitation is not lost on Mr.
Calmady. He regards her with glum suspicion as
she replies,
 Yes, there are two brothers, very nice boys;
they are both away just now. Come and have
some luncheon, she adds rather hastily, as a pro-
vidential bell rings,  and then I'll show you the
lovely presents that have come for Yiolet and you
since you were here last.
He follows her into the dining-room in silence,
and as the gracious matron moves along she feels
rather than sees that an ominous black cloud has
settled over his heavy florid face.
"Has a temper of his own, I'm afraid, she
thinks; and she shivers as she thinks of her fiery-
302 mrs. calmady of clawn.
petted Violet condemned to live in a far-off county
with this irascible gentleman. Then she remembers
that he has nine thousand a year, and is Calmady
of Clawn, and that Violet has been  out for ten
years. At eighteen she would not have looked at
Mr. Calmady. At eight and twenty she may think
herself "very well off to be woo'd and married
and a'  by a man who will make his wife a great
county lady.  And she must learn to humour the
fads of the man who puts her in such a splendid
place, the mother thinks as she sits down to
luncheon alone with her rather uninteresting future
son-in-law.
 Are none of the girls at home ? he asks,
presently.
 T wo of them are gone with Violet, and Sybil
has gone Where has Miss Sybil gone? she
asks helplessly, of a servant who enters at the
moment.
"Up to the florist's to order the bridesmaids'
MRS. CALMADY OF CLA.WN. 303
posies, ma'am, the man replies, with a subdued
smirk.
At this Mr. Calmady glowers again, and there
is an awkward silence. When the servant leaves
the room Mr. Calmady makes his benignant hostess
almost hate him by saying,
"Mrs. Hampden, may I ask if you let Violet
ramble about without your knowing where she has
gone, or who is with her ? because that doesn't suit
me or my ideas of decorum at all.
"Perhaps we had better not discuss the subject,
she says sweetly, but with an air of decision that
he involuntarily respects.  My girls have been
brought up according to my ideas of propriety and
decorum! They cannot fail to satisfy any reasonable
person. Will you take anything more? No? Then
shall we go back to the drawing-room ?
Mr. Calmady, when regarded as an individual and
not as the owner of Clawn, is not impressive. A
large, heavy-looking man, with little hair on the
o04 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
top of his head, and a great deal arranged mutton-
chop shape on his cheek. Not bad-looking by any
means, but with an uneducated face, and a certain
gauche air that is infinitely worse than mere ugli-
ness. Good in the saddle; all there with the reins
of a spirited team in his hands; but not the type
of man in himself to attract the fancy or engage the
heart of a beautiful, much admired, fastidious, cul-
tivated and clever society young woman like
Violet Hampden.
This would be the conclusion arrived at probably
by the casual and uncalculating observer who re-
garded him as a mere man! This undoubtedly
would have been the conclusion to which Violet
Hampden and her family would have come had
they not tacitly agreed among themselves to regard
him as the owner of Clawn only.
 If I can't be proud of him I shall be of the
place, and in the country I shan't notice the clow-
nishness so much as I do when I contrast him
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 305
with guardsmen, his bride-elect often tells herself
reassuringly. And so it had come to pass that the
country gentleman, whose education had been of the
most rudimentary description, was accepted, when
he lost his head and proposed to her, by a fashion-
able beauty with brains.
"How dull and stupid he is, Mrs. Hampden
thinks, as he stands looking stolidly and unappre-
ciatively at the hundred and one presents of beauty
and value that his and her friends have conspired
to load them with.  And what a temper! Luckily
Violet has plenty of spirit; she won't be a timid
slave, but she'll find him rather heavy work, I'm
afraid, if they're much alone.
As she is thinking this Mr. Calmady asks, with
laborious unpremeditation,
"Did you say both the young Freemans were
away ?
 They are both away.
 H'm ! They won't be at the wedding then ? 
20
306 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
 No. One of them, the eldest, is in India with
his regiment/'
"And the other, the one they call 'Archie,'
where is he?
"Out of town. I really can't tell you where,
she answers with some asperity, for it strikes her
that as he knew there was a young Freeman
called 'Archie' his question as to whether the phimp
girls had any brothers was superfluous.
"Deal fairly with me, Mrs. Hampden, he says
abruptly.  Is it true that this man has been
carrying on with Violet more than seemed good,
even to you, since her engagement to me?
She resents those words, "even to you, so
veracious as she is generally, she answers,
 It is not true. I am astonished at your conde-
scending to ask me such a question.
He is compelled to appear satisfied with this.
-But the subject rankles in his mind perniciously, for
gossip has been rife with the names of Archie
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 307
Freeman, the handsome guardsman, and Violet
Hampden, the popular beauty with the golden-hazel
hair and eyes that match it. Some of this gossip
has reached him by accident, but more of it by
design, for his own section of the world is not much
in favour of his marriage with a penniless beauty
who has a pronounced predilection for the frivolities
of a London life.
Nevertheless, in spite of all the gossip, Edgar
Calmady and Violet Hampden are made man and
wife in the preseuce of at least a hundred of their
respective friends and relatives. Mrs. Hampden
heaves a deep sigh of relief when the ring is fairly
on, for Violet has offended him once or twice by
letting him see that he is not essential to her
happiness.  It might have been off at any moment,
and now nothing can prevent her being the mistress
of Clawn! What a relief.
Mrs. Calmady walks out of church with her
hand on her husband's arm without a particle of
308 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
that conscious triumph which is inflating hei
mother's heart. She has swallowed her pill, and
compassed her great end, she is Mrs. Calmady of
Clawn; but she has a memory, and she has a
fastidious taste, and a heart, and these all combine
to sting her now.
"Her diamonds are superb, and how proud you
must feel, dear Mrs. Hampden! I hear Clawn is
really a magnificent place! I suppose you'll soon
pay the happy pair a visit ?
This from one of Mrs. Hampden's dearest friends,
whose own daughters' "good matches, have been
eclipsed by the one Violet Hampden has made.
Fortunately this dearest friend does not hear Mr.
Calmacly's parting speech to his mother-in-law, as
he is about to bear his now bitterly weeping bride
away.
 You mustn't expect to see anything of Violet
for the next twelve months, Mrs. Hampden. She
belongs to Clawn now, and I shan't be able to spare
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 300
her to come to you for a year. Clawn has been
a good deal neglected since my mother died.
Wants a mistress, you know. By-and-bye I've no
doubt we shall be able to ask you up there.
Mrs. Hampden is too much aghast to utter a
word. But the bride will not permit herself to
be placed at a disadvantage without a struggle
She chokes back her tears, and says good-tern-
peredly,
 Mr. Calmady is too considerate for me, mother
dear. I shall have plenty of time to welcome you
and my sisters without disregarding the claims of
Clawn in any way 
"If you waste any more time we shall lose the
train; as it is we shall have to drive hard and
press the horses, he interrupts gruflfy, and then
he hurries his bride into the carriage, and dashes
away after the one which precedes them with Mrs.
Calmady's maid and the luggage.
As he throws himself back in the comer and
310 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
ejaculates, "Thank the Lord that's all over, Violet
turns her head slightly and looks at him.
 Are you speaking of the wedding, or of the
parting with my family? she asks. (How unat-
tractive his loutish face and figure look !)
 Of both! Now look here, Violet, you know
I'm awfully fond of you; shouldn't have gone out
of my way to marry you if I hadn't been, for
I gain nothing by the match, and many a girl
would have jumped at me up in my own part.
But your people don't suit me. Understand that,
they don't suit me. Your mother thinks me a
cross between a bear and a fool, but I'm not fool
enough to be taken in by her. She has married
you to Clawn, not to me. She's ambitious and
worldly, and—and the less I see of her in my
house the better I shall be pleased.
 Is my pleasure to be disregarded alto-
gether ?
"No, no. Certainly not, certainly not; you shall
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 311
have everything you wish for that I can get you.
But I want to have you to myself till you've got
accustomed to my ways, and prefer them to the
ways of those you've left. I'm an obstinate man,
and a jealous man, Mrs. Calmady, and I mean to
have my wife respect my prejudices and submit
herself to my will. It's as well to have these
things clear at starting.
o o
Her silence he takes for consent, so it is just as
well that he does not see the expression of the
face that is turned towards the window. White
as a lily, with bitter, bitter regret stamped upon
it, that wretched beautiful face is turned in the
direction of a house that stands out brightly under
the spring-tide sun on the side of a wooded hill.
The golden-hazel eyes are swimming in tears. Oh !
memory! oh, agonizing recollection of days gone
by, and of that half-hour in church this morning
with this man !
"Whose house is that? he asks.
312 MRS. CALM AD V OF CLAWN.
"That on the hill? The Freemans'; pretty
place, isn't it.
 Pretty ? Well I suppose it's that, but I like
something bolder and older—something like I'll
show you up in the north. I like a place that
looks as if a man had ancestors at his back 
"I like to see a man look as if he had ancestors
at his back, too, she puts in scornfully.
"A place that looks as if people had lived and
died and been happy and suffered in it for 
"People suffer sometimes in modern houses that
are merely pretty, she says, and she is thinking
of a crisp-curled handsome head that is bowed by
suffering on this her wedding-day in that very
house on the hill. Then they pull up at the
station, greatly to the relief of the north-country
squire, who feels somehow that his grip on his
wife is anything but a firm one while they remain
in smiling Surrey.
The family discuss Mr. Calmady and Violet's
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 313
chances of happiness with him, with beautiful
candour when the bridal pair have driven off.
 How could she ? says one sister.  When I
looked at him, and thought of Archie, I felt sick.
"She must look at Clawn and never think of
Archie, her mother says, seriously.
"If Clawn falls short of Violet's expectations,
he'll never make up for the disappointment.
"Fifty Clawns wouldn't make up to Violet for
the pill she's had to swallow; he looked just like a
common farmer when he came into church to-
day. I'm not a bit proud of my brother-in-law,
Calmady of Clawn, mamma. I only wish it had
been poor Archie.
"Hush, Sylvia; never a word on that subject
again. Violet couldn't have married him, and had
O '
sense enough to recognise this fact; she wanted
what she has got, a splendid place, and magnificent
diamonds, and a position in the county second to
none. Violet has done well. I began to think she
314 MRS. CALMADY OB CLAWN.
had over-stored her market like the Maids of Lee,
but now she has got everything, everything, and a
most worthy man into the bargain.
 Only she'll be ashamed of him whenever he
opens his mouth! I don't believe he has ever
been taught anything besides the points of a horse
or a dog.
 And I know he has got a nasty temper. 1
wouldn't have taken him.
"You are nineteen, your sister Violet will be nine-
and-twenty soon, her mother says, sententiously.
"You girls never seem to remember that womanly
charms don't improve by keeping, like wine.
 Neither do manly ones. Mr. Calmady could
never have been fascinating in his first youth.
Now he is revolting; a mere clodhopping
yokel.
"The head of one of the oldest families, the
owner of one of the grandest properties in the
wealthy north, Mrs. Hampden says, proudly.
MRS. CALMADT OF CLAWN. 315
 Your sister Violet is too sensible not to recognise
all the solid advantages of her lot.
Then the Hampden family prepare to receive the
guests who are coming to the dinner and dance
which are to celebrate the happy event, and they
talk to their numerous flatteringly curious friends
of  the Calmadys  and of  Clawn.
The honeymoon is over. Mrs. Calmady has got
through it, and is now about to enter into possession
of the fulness of that high station for which she
has bartered her beauty, grace, and culture. The
honeymoon has been rather hard to endure. It
has lasted three weeks, and at the end of these
weeks Violet feels as if she had lived several years
since leaving the bright home at Weybridge. Mr.
Calmady has economical views now and again, and
these he gratifies by accepting the loan of a
bachelor friend's establishment in a remote part
of Cornwall. The place has only one merit in the
bride's eyes. It is sufficiently roomy for her to be
316 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
able to get out of eye-shot and ear-shot of her
lord!
Wealthy as he is, Mr. Calmady, though "not
much inclined to pleasure, unquestionably has
"a frugal mind. Saving in small things is a passion
with him. So is the habit of keeping accounts in
such deliberate detail that he loses much time and
temper over them. The only books he ever opens
are account-books, and Violet loathes the sight of
figures. As they have not a single topic of mutual
interest, and they are compelled by the exigencies
of the situation to spend many hours of every day
together, she longs for Clawn as ardently as he
does.
And Clawn, when she reaches it, exceeds, far
exceeds, her wildest expectations. It makes her feel
that there must be something "grand, which she
has not grasped yet, in a man whose ancestors
have held such a place for centuries.
"How dearly, dearly you must love it, and how
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 317
happy I'll try to make you here, Edgar, she says
to him, softly, as they ramble about its corridors,
and turrets, and galleries, and splendid suite of
saloons on the evening of their return. They have
been drawn home by the tenantry from the station,
and Mrs. Calmady's nerves have scarcely recovered
the shock of being jerked over the ground by
enthusiastic men instead of gracefully gliding over
it behind perfectly stepping horses. Nevertheless
she steadies her nerves sufficiently to be able to
graciously and gracefully express her sense of the
honour Mr. Calmady has done her in making her
the mistress of such a house as this is.
 We've always thought a good deal of Clawn,
and a Calmady hasn't parted with an acre of it
for four generations, he says, with a satisfied air;
"but I mean to do more than that, I mean to add
to the property. I mean to leave to my son, if
we have one, a bigger thing than I got from my
father. So we'll start by living very quietly,
318 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
Violet. I can be very happy here without seeing
any company.
"You don't mean to say I am to live here with-
out any society? she falters, thoroughly aghast
at the prospect which is opening before her in
this splendid prison-house.
 You'll have mine, that ought to he enough
for you; and you'll have the comfort and well-
being of those who are set under you to consider;
and you'll have horses to carry you all over one
of the finest countries in the world. And by-and-
bye, please God, you'll have children to occupy all
your time: till they come you shall help me to
save for them.
 Oh, Edgar! What an outlook! she exclaims;
 suppose they never come ? or even supposing they
do, why, when we have so much already, sacrifice
all social life and its civilising influences for the
sake of adding to wealth that is already sufficient,
and more than sufficient?
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 319
"Much you know about that, he interrupts;
"there are others besides you, madam; Mrs.
Calmady of Clawn is not the only person who
has a claim on the property.
 Who are the others ? Your mother is dead,
your sisters are well married you have told me ?
Who has a claim on Clawn besides ourselves ?
She asked the question eagerly, her curiosity
was roused merely; but he thought her suspicious
of evil, and answered accordingly.
 I dislike inquisitive people, Mrs. Calmady, and
I am not going to gratify your idle curiosity about
matters that don't concern you. You will have
ample means at your command to gratify every
reasonable wish, and, if we have a son, his mother will
naturally wish to save for him. Now ! that's enough.
"Quite enough, she says, despondently, and her
heart gives a great throb of indignation and regret
as sne realises that the power and position for
which she has bartered herself are both nominal.
320 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
For the county is not quick to seek to do honour
to Mrs. Calmady of Clawn. People call upon her
and invite them to dinner, but no one seems to
wish to be friendly, or rather intimate, with her.
And she soon makes the discovery that her husband,
though he is a J.P. and a M.F.H., is not a popular
man.
"It is because he is such an illiterate boor, she
tells herself, with tears in her eyes. "That I, I
should be tied to a man who is as provincial and
rough as one of his own grooms!
After a time she finds herself in failing health,
and unable any longer to take those invigorating
gallops over the breezy moors which had at first
strengthened her sufficiently to enable her to bear
the burden and heat of the evenings alone with
him. And so it comes to pass that gradually all
of air and exercise which she gets is taken in
driving about in a little pony carriage within the
spacious park walls.
MRS. CLAMADY OF CLAWN. 321
The drives are numerous. The avenues superb.
The herds of deer give an air of proud importance
to the place, and sometimes she forgets the present
weary miserable dulness, and remembers exultantly
that she will be the mother of the heir! At such
times her heart invariably softens towards her hus-
band, and it is after one of these soothing recollec-
tions that she makes her first attempt to  culti-
vate  him.
 Edgar, she begins one evening when he saunters
into her splendid drawing-room after dinner,  I
shall be kept at home for many weeks to come, the
doctor says; will you begin reading something with
me ? Something that will interest us both ? 
 I don't care much for your trumpery novels,
he replies.
 Shall we read one of Shakespeare's plays ? You
couldn't help feeling interested in 
 Oh ! couldn't I ? he interrupts;  plays are
harder than novels to listen to.
21
322 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
 Let me begin to read one of Scott's novels
to-night, and then we'll take it in turns. I am
shamefully ignorant of Scott, and it will do us
both good, give us something to talk about besides
the meet and the few neighbours.
 I don't mind, he assents, and so Violet reads
pages of  The Monastery till her throat is raw.
Then she looks up and has the satisfaction of
seeing that Edgar is sound asleep.
Still she determines to persist in her endeavour
to cultivate him! Her mood is altogether softer
now. Let him be what he may he is at least the
father of the child who will soon be born. So
on the morning following she says to him as he
rises from the breakfast-table,
"Come for a stroll in the park with me, Edgar.
I have never done anything but drive about it,
and some of the footpaths look very fascinating.
 If you take my advice you'll keep to the
drives, he says, coldly.
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 323
■' But why ? 
 Why ? because the drives are safer.
 Surely any place within our own park walls
would be safe for me I she says, proudly.
 Don't you be too sure of that. You might
meet with annoyance when you least expect it.
Tramps get in, and—and the deer are not too
quiet at times.
"I am not afraid of tramps, and if you're with
me I think the deer won't molest me.
 Well, take my advice, and unless I am with
you keep to the drives. There's nothing to see in
the footpaths.
 Surely they lead to somewhere, she laughs;
 I saw smoke curling up at the end of one the
other day. Is there a cottage or anything there ?
 There are the three lodges.
"I know them. I mean, is there a cottage
besides ? I fancied there might be a wood-cutter's
cottage perhaps.
324 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
Well, I tell you there is no wood-cutter's
cottage, he says, angrily, "and you'd better not
go prowling about the park. I don't want to
have you frightened out of your life, and you
would be that if either a tramp or a deer attacked
you. Keep to the drives.
But she determines that she will not keep to
the drives, as she has a fancy for exploring the
footpaths. These latter will soon be carpeted with
primroses and dog-violets, and Mrs. Calmady
promises herself many a pleasant hour alternately
picking the flowers and reading one of the many
serials which serve to enliven her solitude in her
grand home.
The weeks roll on, as they have a habit of
doing whether one is miserable or the reverse.
Some of the country neighbours grow distinctly
kinder and more encouraging. But still Mr. Calmady
will not give her her heart's desire and let her
ask her mother or sisters to Clawn.
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 325
 The twelve months are not up yet, Violet;
when they are, if you still wish your mother to
come, she may.
One day she wakes with the glad feeling that
we surely all know so well, that spring has come!
There is something in the soft air that creeps in
through her half-opened window and plays softly
about the room, just stirring the muslin curtains
and the fronds of a hanging maiden-hair fern that
bids her get up and rejoice in the sunshine as the
birds and flowers are doing. Lovely roses are
brought in to her breakfast-table from the green-
houses, but she feels that the day is drawing her
out to seek something simpler and wilder.  It
must be the primroses, she thinks. So about noon
she sets out alone through one of the forbidden
footpaths to gather them.
They cluster thickly round the roots of every
tree; they spring up in seductive profusion on
every inch of the edge of the path as far as she
326 MKS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
can see. What a lovely path it is! With turf,
like velvet, for its carpet, and a border of star-like
primroses on either side. What a wonderful path
for a wild one !
Presently it widens. Garden flowers begin to
take the place of primroses in the well-kept border,
and on rounding a corner a cottage comes into the
picture. Such a pretty little cottage. Something
like the model of a Swiss one which she has at
home, at Weybridge.
"Variegated ivy covers one-half of the porch,
monthly roses and honeysuckle are clambering
over every portion of the pretty house, which
looks like a large toy. Violet pauses, wrapt in
admiration, yet feeling half annoyed at the same
time that her husband should never have shown
her, or at any rate told her of the existence of,
this little arcadia.
As she stands watching the blue smoke curling
out from the flower-wreathed chimney, a little
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 327
child comes toddling out, laughing and shouting
back in answer to some one who is calling to
him from the interior of the cottage. Violet has
no special liking for strange children, but this
little fellow attracts her. He looks so bold and
fearless, and he is so prettily dressed in a French
blouse of brown holland with a crimson silk sash
round his waist. So Mrs. Calmady advances a few
steps and calls to the boy, who toddles forward
unhesitatingly to meet her.
He is not a pretty boy, but he has a healthy,
rosy, clean face, and nice little gracious manners,
and so Mrs. Calmady takes him in her arms, and
asks him his name.
 Eggar, he says in his baby lisp, and then
he struggles out of Mrs. Calmady's arms as he sees
his  mammy come to the door of the cottage.
"Come back, Edgar, this latter cries in a full,
clear voice, "how often have I told you that you're
not to speak to strangers? Papa will be vexed.
328 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
She is a fine, handsome young woman who
speaks, and Mrs. Calmady recognises at once that
she is in appearance, dress, and manner superior
to the class out of which wood-cutters' wives are
chosen. Simultaneously she recognises something
else, namely, that the stranger is regarding her
(Mrs. Calmady) with glances of undisguised hostility.
So Yiolet steps forward graciously and says,
"Forgive your little boy. No one on my hus-
band's estate ought to regard me as a stranger.
I am Mrs. Calmady.
For answer the handsome young woman catches
up her little son, glares at Yiolet for a moment,
then hastily retreats into her cottage, shutting the
door of it in the face of Mrs. Calmady of Clawn!
 What an insolent young woman! the lady of
the land thinks, as she retraces her steps through
the primrose path which somehow or other has
lost its fascination for her.  Mr. Calmady must
find a new tenant for that sweet cottage, or that
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 329
insolent woman must be taught to behave herself.
Then suddenly a sensation of  doubt of she
knows not what, of  distrust of she knows not
whom, assails her, and she gets herself home as
rapidly as she can.
As it turns out the excitement and the hurry
have a bad effect on her. By night she is very ill,
and when her husband comes home to dinner he
finds her feverish and agitated. Tumultuously she
begins to tell him her story of the ramble through
the primrose footpath, and the untoward rencontre
to which it led. He looks flushed and annoyed
as he listens, and when she has concluded her
narrative, he says gruffly,
 I told you that you had better keep to the
drives; it serves you right that you've met with
annoyance as you chose to disobey me.
She lifts her beautiful head up high, and looks
at him till he turns from red to purple.
"I tell you that woman's manner was insolent,
S30 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
she says quietly;  she must treat me with respect
or leave that cottage.
"Nonsense! he says, rudely. "You are my
wife, and you'll have to put up with her being
there if I choose that she shall stay.
"I am the mistress of Clawn if you are the
master of it, she says, hotly, as that high spirit
of hers, which is so close akin to quick temper,
gets the better of her; "and I say that no woman
shall live in our grounds who cannot treat me
with respect, or at least with civility. That woman
must be a savage. I was petting her child 
 That's what riled her probably. You take my
advice, Violet, let her alone; keep out of her way
and she won't trouble you.
 Who is she ?
"The granddaughter of an old gamekeeper who
was killed in a poaching fray in my father's time.
 But who is her husband ?
Mr. Calmady laughs.
MilS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 331
"I should advise you not to ask her that ques-
tion, he answers; "she's not too fond of giving
information about herself.
•"Do you know? Mrs. Calmady asks, looking
at him steadily as the same feeling of doubt and
distrust which had assailed her in the wood assails
her again.
"Blow the woman! I'm not going to gossip
all night about her, he says roughly, and then
he goes out of her room and slams the door. And
Violet's head falls back upon the end of the couch
on which she is lying, burning with shame and
indignation.
 From to-day I will be Mrs. Calmady of Clawn
only, his 'wife' no longer, she resolves. "So it
is for her and her child that the economies which
keep me out of my proper place in the county are
practised. I am cramped and kept short of money
in order that his mistress and her bastard may
be provided for.
332 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
The consideration of this subject goads her to
madness nearly. Feverish symptoms set in, and
rapidly strengthen and develop into alarming ones.
In the absence of their master, who has gone for
a stroll in the park, the servants send for a doctor
fortunately, for by midnight Mrs. Calmady is the
mother of a dead son.
Meanwhile Mr. Calmady has been striving to
 square the handsome infuriated tigress whose
lair had been discovered by Mrs. Calmady that
morning.
He had gone to the Swiss cottage directly after
dinner, intending to administer a sharp rebuke to
the woman, in whose thrall he had been for so
many years, for her insolence to his wife. But she
met him with such a storm of revilings and
reproaches that he had been glad to soothe and
quiet her on any terms.
 I'll not live in your grounds like a servant
another week, she cried; "that wife of yours
MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 333
shan't come patronising me and my child as if
we was dirt beneath her feet. I'll have a house
3uch as a lady should have, and your son shall
have servants to wait on him, and go to the best
3chool in York. And if you don't give me your
written word to-night that you'll leave him to share
equal with her son if she has one, I'll never open
my lips to you again, Edgar Calmady.
"You know I am saving for the boy and you,
Bessie, he says, cringingly.
 And my Edgar shall be known as a Calmady
as well as hers? Bessie insists.
 Yes, yes; anything you like; give me a kiss
and be quiet.
 That I won't till you've writ it, and more
too : if that wife of yours dies or runs away from
you you'll marry me, write that.
"Yes, he doesn't mind writing that, he says
with a sneering laugh. He knows, he feels sure
that Violet is much too pure to run away from
334 MKS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
him, and he believes that she is too strong and
healthy to die. So to please his virago he writes
the promise she demands, signs, and gives it to
her.
 And I'll see about a house for you to-morrow,
Bessie, he tells her as he takes his leave; "and
look here, old girl, don't treat me to any more
temper. I don't expect Mrs. Calmady will make
my life very agreeable after this.
The news that greets him when he returns home
drives him nearly distraught. Yerily consequences
are pitiless! The sin of his youth has found him
out. The discovery by -his wife, to whom he has
really been faithful, of his former mistress and
his bastard son, has cost him his legitimate heir!
In his agony and grief he kneels and prays to
Violet to forgive him, to trust him once more. But
Violet is deaf to all entreaties. Her mind is
wandering, her thoughts have gone back to the
old days before she knew him. When she uses
MBS. CALMADY OF CLAWN. 335
endearing words they are addressed to the lover
she left because he had no money in his purse-
When she laughs it is the mirth of mania. Before
twenty-four hours have passed, Mr. Calmady of
Clawn is in a position to he able to redeem his
written promise to Bessie the old gamekeeper's
handsome granddaughter.
Two years after this Mr. Calmady with another
wife and a little son of six or seven years old is
sitting in the breakfast-room at Clawn, and the
lady is enunciating her views as to social life.
 The people are so stuck up about here,
Edgar, she says complainingly.
 You can't expect ladies to visit you. Not
many came here in poor Violet's time because I
was such a bear, and they thought me a biack
sheep as well.
"What, about me?
He nods assent.
336 MRS. CALMADY OF CLAWN.
 Ah, well! she should have plucked up spirit
and had her own friends about her, and given
dinners and dances and parties, and taken no
notice of your glum ways. That's what 1 mean
to do. I'll get plenty of gay company into the
house, and if you don't like it you can stay in
your smoking-room or go to bed. I'll give the best
suppers that can be had for money, and get the
best band that can be danced to, and I'll let
everyone see that I know how to spend money
freely. Your first wife was too sensitive-like for
such as you, Edgar. You want a woman to tell
you what you're to do, and what she means to do.
The first one, poor thing, went out like the snuff
of a candle, 'cos she couldn't bear that anyone
belonging to her should be blown upon. I'm
different to that! No slights or cold shoulders
daunts me now that I am Mrs. Calmady of Clawn.
She laughs and rolls about in her florid tawny
plush morning'-robe, at the head of the heavily-
MBS. CALMADY OF CLAVVN. 337
decorated breakfast-table. And her husband half
admires, and is half quelled by her spirit. This
was the woman to suit him all along! Still, boor
as he is, he can't help wishing that the son to
succeed him at the grand old place should have
been the son of the lady rather than of her who
is now Mrs. Calmady of Clawn.
SECOND LOYE.
M RS. Heriot was in the most difficult dilemma
of a life that had been singularly full of
difficult, not to say painful, dilemmas. And her
confusion and anxiety of mind were further accen-
tuated by the knowledge she had that, take which
course she would, she must inevitably deeply hurt
one or other of the three persons who were dearest
to her in the world.
The one who stood first in the affections and
nearest to the warm true heart of the still pretty
and attractive widow was without doubt her charm-
ing seventeen-year-old only daughter, Yalentia ; the
second-was her only brother, the Rev. John Masters,
SECOND LOVE. 339
rector of Irvington; and the third (a good and
well-placed  third too) was Guy Dunstan, a
lieutenant in the navy.
Now he was the present source of all her trouble;
for he had fallen in love with Yalentia, and, worse
still, had told her so.
As a woman Mrs. Heriot could not be blind to
the many attractions of the handsome, gallant
young officer, who wore some laurels he had
recently won in the East so gracefully. But as a
mother she shrank from the thought of giving her
child—such a lovely, delicately nurtured child, too
as Yalentia was—to a man whose career would
compel him to be absent from her for long periods
for some years to come, and whose income was
only the slender one he derived from his profession.
Still, she would have probably cast prudence to
the winds, and have sanctioned the engagement,
had it not been for the sensible, practical represen-
tations of her brother the rector.
340 SECOND LOVE.
 Yal can't count the cost, he said;  it's there-
fore clearly your duty to do it for her. When he
goes to sea again, what would become of her ?
She couldn't live on the fraction he could allow
her of his pay.
 I thought her home would still be with me
—with us, the mother stammered; and her brother
took her hand very kindly, and subdued the tones
of his voice to extra gentleness as he answered,—
 No, no, my dear Mary; our girl must not owe
a home to any man but her husband when she
marries. While she remains Yalentia Heriot she
will have a place only second to your own in my
house. But I will not encourage the young people
to rush into poverty by promising them such poor
temporary help as you suggest. Dunstan must go
away, and Yal must forget him.
"He is good and handsome. How can we expect
the poor child to forget such a man? Mrs. Heriot
sighed.
SECOND LOVE. 341
u I am afraid he is rather selfish and incon-
siderate. He must know that the chief burden of
the poverty would fall on Yal if she became his
wife, and he must see that the child is ill fitted
to bear it. I am sorry for her, but I should be
more sorry for her a year or two hence if I gave
you different counsel now.
 It will be a sad task to say no to Guy; I've
got so fond of him myself.
 Then let me say it for you. Send Yal out for
a long ride—I'll give her a note to take to Hawkes-
bury—and give Dunstan your decision in her
absence. It will only be a summer cloud in her
life, instead of the lifelong heavy weather it would
be if she married him.
 It seems the only thing to dp, Mrs. Heriot
reluctantly assented. So Yalentia, who little recked
that her fate was in the balance this day, was sent
off with a note by Mr. Masters to a brother
clergyman seven miles distant.
342 SECOND LOVE.
While she was away Guy Dunstan came eagerly
for his answer. His beautiful purple eyes—the
eyes that were the theme of many an unspoken
poem in many a girl's heart, and that had wrought
havoc in Yal Heriot's—grew almost black with
wrath and disappointment when her mother met
his passionate protest and appeal with her gentle
but decided  Nay.
 I love her better than my life! Without her
my life will be valueless, my career blighted ! Mrs.
Heriot, why have you let it come to this? Why
did you not send me away a month ago when
you saw it growing 
 Could I send you away from Mr. Yane's
house? she interrupted; "besides, Yal seems such
a child still to me, that I believed the common
rumour which gave you to Kate Yane. Don't blame
me, Guy; I am miserable enough without that.
It's bitter to think of the pain my decision costs
yon; but, besides that, I have to think of Yal.
SECOND LOVE. 343
 Will she care much ? or does the fear of a little
temporary poverty outbalance her love ? No, I
can't believe it! It was only last night my
darling told me she loved me, and would come to
me and stick to me through thick and thin; your
prudent counsels can't have changed her already.
 Her uncle won't hear of it, and he stands in
the relation of a father almost to my child. Oh,
money, money! how precious a little of it would be
to us now, and how thoughtlessly fools waste it!
Mrs. Heriot spoke almost despairingly. She was
a woman of cultured taste as well as of warm
affections, and both her taste and her affections
were wounded now at being compelled to resign
the chance of having Guy for a son-in-law.  How
proud I should be of him, thought the mother
who had never had a son of her own; "it seems
wicked to separate such a pair. Nature and
Providence designed them for one another, and the
world's dictum divides them.
344 SECOND LOVE.
 Yes, poor Guy assented moodily,  fools do
waste it, and no mistake. When I see a girl like
Kate Yane giving two hundred for a hunter and
fifty guineas for a ball-dress, in order that she may
cut down her dear friend Mrs. Filgallan in the
field and cut her out in the ball-room, it's rather
maddening to a fellow who is losing the girl he
loves for lack of just that sum to spend on her
in a whole year.
 Would that I could order things otherwise for
you and my child, Guy! would that I dared say
wait and hope!
 Let us wait and hope, Guy cut in impetuously.
 Let me be engaged to Val; let me feel that I
have the right to be thinking of her perpetually.
Promotion will surely come in the course of a few
years, and then 
 Yal and you may both have changed your
minds by that time, Mr. Dunstan, another voice
struck in, and the rector came rather slowly and
SECOND LOVE. 345
sadly towards them.  My dear boy, I sympathise
with and grieve for you, hut this is final: my
niece must be left free! You must try and forget
her, or only remember her to pray that she may
be happy without you.
 I shall love her all my life, and remember her
constantly. There is cruelty in your worldly wisdom,
sir. You may teach Yal to forget me, but in doing
so you will teach her to forget and be false to her
finest instincts, her truest feelings. As for me—
well, it matters little what becomes of me!
 If you don't do well in your profession and
distinguish yourself, I shall feel guilty all my life,
Guy! Mrs. Heriot sobbed. "Oh! why, why am I
driven to do this ? 
"Why? because you are Yalentia's mother, and
a sensible and unselfish woman, Mary, the rector
put in sternly.  Come, Dunstan, it is useless pro-
longing this painful conversation. My duty to my
sister and her fatherless child compels me to seem
346 SECOND LOVE.
harder than I feel. Show yourself to be the good,
brave fellow I know you to be; make Mrs. Heriot's
painful part easier for her to play. Leave us
before my niece returns.
 While I hear she is free I shall cherish the
hope of winning her. If I can come back in five
years and place her in a position that will satisfy
you I shall come; I feel we have not seen the last
of each other, Mrs. Heriot.
 Good-bye. I can't ask you to be faithful to a
forlorn hope, Guy, the soft-hearted woman sobbed,
"nor can I ask you to treat your love for my child
as a passing fancy. I can only ask you to try
and be happy, and to forgive the share I have
had in your present pain.
Then he went away, and Mr. Masters got him-
self out into the more remote borders of his parish
before his niece returned.
She came in flushed with exercise, radiant with
hope; for had not Guy told her the night before,
SECOND LOVE. 347
during their last waltz at a carpet dance at the
Vanes', that he was going to ask her mother to give
her to him the next day ? And he was such an
ideal lover, and she was such a lucky, proud, and
happy girl to have won him away from even rich,
brilliant Kate Vane.
Her sweet, charming face peeped round the door
of her mother's room, a shy smile quivering over
it, a light of joyous expectancy in her deep-grey
eyes. A mere slender slip of a girl still in figure,
but a woman already in expression, as she stands
longing to hear the love-tale that she knows has
been told in her absence.
What she saw in that moment of poising at the
half-opened door changed and chilled her in a
moment. Her mother thrown back in her chair,
sobbing softly, her hands pressed to her eyes, the
tears- trickling down her fingers. Tears rarely
dimmed the pretty widow's eyes in these latter
days of peace and plenty in her brother's house.
348 SECOND LOVE.
"Mother, darling mother, what is it? She
sprang to her mother's side, forgetting her lover in
an instant, all a loving child's sympathy with a
loved parent chasing all other considerations aside.
"Oh, mother, I did hope all your bothers and
worries were over. Dear mother, just as I am so
happy it's awful you should be miserable. Why
didn't you keep Guy to comfort you till I came ?
I know he has been here.
Then, as well as she could, Mrs. Heriot told
Val what they had done  in her interests and
"for her good.
"And so he has let me go without one word
from me direct ? He has let me go after all ? Oh,
mother ! mother! 
She cowered down at her mother's side, burying
her bright, fair-haired head in the folds of her
mother's dress, suffering such agony as only the
young can suffer when they think their love and
pride and faith have been lightly won and lightly
SECOND LOVE. 349
lost,—quivering and trembling with a new pain,
crushed with a new sensation of helplessness, sick
with a new nausea. And as she was lying there
the mother's love was as powerless to comfort her
as the mother's reasoning was to convince her. It
was a new experience for them both, and the
passing through it nearly killed them.
 Is there nothing I can do to get him back ?
Yal cried at last, starting up.  Mother, I can't
stay here quietly and let him go like this. I'll go
to him. I don't care what the Yanes say or think;
he's more than all the world to me. I'll go to
him.
"But, Val, my own poor child, he has agreed,
he has given you up; in seeking him you would
be assuming the part that can only be played by
him.
"Tell me how.
"A woman who runs after a man who has relin-
quished her is held to degrade herself.
350 SECOND LOVE.
"Degrade! She rose up shocked and startled,
and her mother's heart bled for the shame and
suffering she was forced to inflict on her pure, proud
child.  No, mother, I won't go after him since
it would be ' degrading' to do it; but I can't
unlove him: I must bear the pain. Oh! why must
I bear the pain ?
 I cried out in the same unreasoning agony in
my youth, Val; yet I lived to be very happy.
The pain will pass.
 How can you know ? You married papa.
 Yes, Mrs. Heriot assented hesitatingly. She
could hardly explain to her daughter that in marry-
ing the late lamented Mr. Heriot she had not
united herself to the lover of her youth,—the lover
at whose loss she  had cried out in the same
unreasoning agony which was making her child
smart now.
"You married papa, and you had me when he
died; and oh! mother, why can't I be happy in
SECOND LOVE. 351
the same way ? Papa and you weren't rich, but
you were happy for you were together. If only I
could be with Guy I'd not change places with a
queen, or Kate Vane.
Mrs. Heriot grasped at an idea suggested to her
by this remark, and sought to improve the occasion.
 Yet how often you sigh for the amusements and
excitements, the luxury and change of Kate's life,
even now in this happy, comfortable home, Val.
Think what you would feel if you were in poverty-
stricken lodgings alone, with little money and fewer
friends, when Guy was away in danger at sea.
You could not bear it, my darling.
"I could. I should have thoughts of him as my
very own to comfort me.
"It's too late for argument on either side. Even
if we, your uncle and I, gave way now, Guy is
crone; we cannot call him back.
o '
 Is is too late, mother ? The girl clasped her
hands in pathetic appeal as she spoke; a moment
352 SECOND LOVE.
after her mood changed, as her mother shook her
head in weary negative.
 I won't trouble you about it again, mother dear,
she said with decision.  I will never say any-
thing about him from this day forth. What I
think and feel will be to myself only. I won't
trouble you if I can help it; but I wish I could
be very old, past feeling, and fit to die all in a
minute!
It was only the cry of an unreasoning, passionate
young heart; and her mother knew this, and told
herself that the pain would pass, and Yal would
be all her own bright self, all her loving, happy
child again.
•' We will give her all the change and amuse-
ment we can for a few weeks, the rector said to
his sister that same night, when they were dis-
cussing ways and means of weaning Yal from her
sorrow.  I am glad that Dunstan has gone off
without trying to see her again; it shows me he
SECOND LOVE. 353
means to stick to the spirit of his promise as well
as the letter. Kate Vane tells me he had a telegram
from the Admiralty; she supposes it was offering
him an appointment, but he didn't say; at any
rate she says he went off in high spirits.
Now it was not pleasant to Mrs. Heriot to hear
that her daughter's rejected lover had gone off in
high spirits; but it was less pleasant still to hear
that Kate Vane was at the trouble to account for
him. Kate was supposed to be Val's best and
fastest friend. "And Kate must have seen how it
has been with Guy and Val, she thought; "it is
less kind than I hoped she would be to my girl
to say that of him to my brother.
However, when Val heard of the high spirits in
which Mr. Dunstan had departed to take up the
appointment which the Admiralty telegram was
supposed to have conveyed to him, she made no
sign of either pain, resentment, or even surprise.
All Kate Vane's surmises and innuendoes seemed
23
354? SECOND LOVE.
to glance by without touching her; and as Kate
really knew nothing of the last act in the little
drama—of his having proposed and being refused,
that is—she soon let the name and subject of Mr.
Dunstan and his abrupt departure pass into the
limbo of unmentioned and forgotten things.
The round of daily life at the Irvington rectory
ran on to all seeming just the same as it had done
before Guy Dunstan came as a guest to the
Vanes at the Grange. Mr. Masters was as genially
hospitable to all and sundry of his fellow-creatures
of good status ; Mrs. Heriot received her brother's
guests with as graciously graceful an air as the
lightest hearted of her matron compeers ; the old
coachman came daily to the dining-room door when
the family were at breakfast to take orders for the
carriage and Miss Val's pony, as of old; and, as
of old, Miss Val's pony was in constant requisi-
tion, for the girl was the altered member of the
household. She had grown uncontrollably restless;
SECOND LOVE. 355
and whether this restlessness was caused by the
volatile spirit of youth craving for variety and
excitement only, or by a sore and wounded spirit
that could find no peace in repose and calm, her
mother could not determine.
 Our Val grows prettier and prettier every day,
her uncle would remark, probably when Val had
been the centre of attraction at some tennis tourna-
ment or small-and-early.  Sbe was only a sweet
little girl when that young fellow Dunstan wanted
to carry her off; she has developed into a beautiful
one now.
 Yes; but it seems to me she has lost some-
thing that was sweeter than her beauty, her
mother sighed.
 Nonsense, nonsense, Mary! You women are
never satisfied; her ways have been ordered well
for her by a higher Power than ours, Mr. Masters
replied, in pious rebuke. "By this time, if she
had been suffered to marry that nice but improvi-
356 SECOND LOVE.
dent young man slie would have lost her fresh
bloom, and acquired the worn, ' look ahead expres-
sion that dims so many a once radiant face. Lodg-
ings in Portsmouth or Plymouth at a pound a
week, badly cooked food, and ill-fitting dresses of
cheap material, wouldn't have suited our Yal.
"I hope her fate won't be worse than the one
you have so forcibly painted, John; but I fear it
sometimes,—I do, indeed; I dread it! 
 Dread what ?
 That Yal has not by any means forgotten Guy
Dunstan, though she never mentions him, and that
she means to condemn herself to an arid life of
old maidenhood.
 Pooh! nonsense! her second love will be a
much more sensible affair than the first, you will
see; meantime, be satisfied, as I am, that she is
contented to decorate our home. Let me see, it's
just about three years ago that Dunstan went
away, isn't it ?
SECOND LOVE. 357
Mrs. Heriot nodded.  And Kate Vane told me
this morning that she sees his name among the list
of passengers homeward bound from Malta in the
Jumna.
"What's the meaning of his coming home before
his ship ? the rector asked pettishly. He was a
good man, resigned to the inevitable as a rule,
but it did annoy him that the handsome, im-
pecunious young naval officer should come home,
tread the same soil, breathe the same foggy atmos-
phere, perhaps even visit the same people as his
still free niece, Val Heriot.
 Perhaps he may be invalided,—I don't know;
but it's possible his health may have given way,
John, Mrs. Heriot timidly ventured. But her
brother scoffed at the idea, and soundly rated the
absent Guy for the lack of real service spirit,
which he declared was to be detected in this home-
coming before his ship was ordered back to be
paid off.
358 SECOND LOVE.
 You remember Guy Dunstan who was staying
here about three years ago, don't you, Yal ?
The speaker was Kate Vane; the scene was a
boudoir, profusely decorated with her favourite
books, the  brushes that had been accorded her
by a chivalrous hunt, and some of her own bold
water-colour sketches of the surrounding scenery.
Miss Yane herself—a magnificent, clear, brown-
skinned girl, with glorious hazel eyes and hair—
was stepping up and down the room with light
active steps, unintentionally displaying a well-cut
hunting habit to the best advantage. Her com-
panion, Yalentia Heriot, was stretched at luxurious,
long-drawn-out ease in a low lounge by the fire,
which in these early October days was a precious
element in the room.
"Yes, I remember Mr. Dunstan, she said un-
concernedly :  what of him ? 
 Only this, my dear: he found something in the
place or some one in the neighbourhood so attrac-
SECOND LOVE. 359
tive that he has written to papa to propose him-
self as a guest at the Grange again.
"Has he? Yal asked, in cool level tones; and
Kate, who was watching her narrowly, could not
detect the slightest touch of an increase of colour
in her sparkling brilliant, smiling face.
 Can she have forgotten him ? or was there
nothing in it after all,—nothing but my jealous
fears ? Kate thought; and in a rush of relief she
went on to tell herself,  Oh, Guy, if she had loved
you I'd never have given another thought to you ;
but as it is, can it be me you are coming to see ?
I pray that it may be; I've loved you so
long.
And all the while Yal's heart was beating' itself
out of her breast nearly in such a tumultuous
rush of hopes and fears, as became almost un-
manageable after a few moments. So when Kate,
who could not keep her tongue from the topic,
began again,—
360 SECOND LOVE.
 And papa, who has always liked and thought
very highly of Guy, is quite delighted to have
him again, so we expect him down to-morrow.
All you rectory people must come and dine here
to-morrow night.
 Has he done any doughty deeds that you pur-
pose making a show of him ? Yal asked, laughing
lightly. Then, resolving that she would never
 degrade  (how the memory of the sound of that
word still rankled!) herself by moving a finger in
his direction till he had sought and entreated her
again to do so, she went on,—
 I shall not be able to come and do homage to
the conquering hero to-morrow night, for I am
going to the Mashams' for a few days.
 I thought you didn't like the Mashams well
enough to stay with them ?
 Time was, time is, my dear Kate.
 Oh, Yal, the other girl interrupted,  you're
not growing mercenary, and worldly, and calcu-
SECOND LOVE. 361
lating, and all sorts of things that girls only ought
to be when they're old women ?
"Your reasoning and reproaches are on a level
with your grammar, Kate, Val laughed.  Why
the questions ?—though, badly worded as they are,
I'll condescend to answer them.
"Well, to be lucid and plainspoken, ere you
going to the Mashams' because Frank has come
into his uncle's property ? 
 Shall I condescend to answer ' No,' and shall
I declare to you that I hadn't heard the news ?'
Yal asked satirically.  Don't bother your head as
to my motives, Kate; I'm going to the Mashams',
—that's all I'm going to say.
 Frank may have twenty thousand a year, as
they say, but he'll never be worthy of you, Yal,
Kate cried; but Yal was stuffing her fingers in
her ears, and refusing to listen, arguing to her-
self the while that, as Kate could misunderstand
her so grossly, it was not worth expending
3C2 SECOND LOVE.
words and thoughts in an attempt at expla-
nation.
Presently she went home, and found Mrs. Heriot
in that state of mingled irritability and agitation
which is apt to be the portion of affectionate
mothers who have been persuaded to adopt a
course which seems unkind to their children. With
Guy Dunstan in England  there was no safety for
Yal, the rector had assured his sister, "save in
an engagement to Frank Masham,"—an admirable
"parti, well qualified for the post of successful suitor
by the two circumstances of his having sown his
wild oats and quite recently inherited a large
property. The expediency and beauty of the plan
were perfectly apparent to Mrs. Heriot, but how
to propound it to Yal she did not know.
Happily for her Yal saved her the trouble.
 Mother, she began, tossing her hat and gloves
on the table and flinging herself down on a chair
as if the walk home from the Grange had tired
SECOND LOVE. 363
her,  I'll accept Mrs. Masham's invitation, I
think.
Mrs. Heriot's circulation, which had been faint
and languid previously from deep depression,
quickened agreeably.
 My dear Yal, I am so delighted! Your uncle
was saying to me just now how desirable the
Mashams are in every way, and Frank is turning
out so well, that if you could 
 Mother dear, stop! I'm only pledging myself
to accept the Masham invitation for three days;
after that, who knows what may happen ? Who
knows but that I may find a happy prince waiting
for me at home ? 
The girl got up and whirled out of the room
to a waltz tune as she finished speaking, and her
mother was unable to decide in her own mind
whether "Yal was so near hitting the mark with
intelligence or merely instinct. At any rate she
was going to the Mashams'; and in her absence, if
364 SECOND LOVE.
Guy Dunstan came, he could be disposed ol without
Val's knowing anything about it.
On the evening following this day Guy Dunstan
found himself a guest at the Grange again, his
heart brimful of hope and happiness, his imagina-
tion charged with memories of Val as she had
looked on that last evening when he had asked
for her love and offered her his own.
It was no flaw in his loyalty that presently
at dinner—that dinner to which Yal had been
asked and wouldn't come—his eyes rested admir-
ingly on Miss Yane, his young hostess. What a
glorious girl she had grown in these three years;
and surely it was on Yal's account that she was
so deliciously kind and courteous to him. Of
course it was; and he would have a talk about
Yal with her in the course of the evening.
After dinner Mr. Yane had his customary nap;
and while he was taking it Guy slipped off to
SECOND LOVE. 365
the drawing-room. Kate was standing in a moon-
lighted bay-window at the end of the room, looking
pretty and prosperous, picturesque and pleasant,
as a man likes to see a woman look.
He made his way to her at once, and they
looked at the moon together. Her white shoulders
gleamed out through the shrouding black lace
bodice. Some late salmon-coloured roses that were
nestling at her throat shed their delicious perfume
around her. She was beautiful, sweet, kind.
Above all, she was Yal's friend; and his heart
was yearning to hear of Val. So it came to pass
that his voice lowered to the tenderest tones, and
his purple eyes looked a great deal more than
they meant as he bent his head and whispered,—
"If you could only know how I've longed for
this hour to hear you tell me—to tell you, I mean
—all that I have had to keep silence about for
three years.
He was on the point of adding something
366 second love.
about Val,—something that would have sealed
Kate's honourable, womanly lips about herself
for ever; but at the moment an interruption
came.
u A. note from the Kectory, miss; and, if you
please, is there an answer ?
As the servant stood aside for Kate to pass into
the lamplight to read her note, Guy Dunstan pulled
himself together.  I'll wait a bit, he thought,
 and see how the land lies with the old people
before I tell even Kate that I've come back a
baronet, with a good rent-roll, to ask for my
darling.
So he waited; while Kate read:—•
"Dear Kate,—I hope you are being well enter-
tained by your guest from foreign parts. I'm just
off to the Mashams'. Frank and I play The Happy
Pair to-morrow night. When I come home, if
you and Mr. Guy Dunstan can spare the time,
second love. 367
you will find a hearty welcome waiting you at
five o'clock tea.
"From your affectionate friend,
 Val.
 No answer, said Kate, as she finished reading
the note, and turned back towards the window;
then she added in explanation,  The fact is, Val
will be gone by the time her messenger gets back.
She's off to the Mashams' for a few days; just
read her note.
Concealing his chagrin as best he could, Sir Guy
Dunstan took the note and turned to the table to
read it.
 Who is Frank ? he asked rather stiffly.
"Well, he was only Frank Masham, a sort of
ne'er-do-well young man of whom we none of us
thought much, a few weeks ago. Now he is the
owner of a big property, and 
"Val is going to play The Happy Pair with
368 SECOND LOYE.
him, I see. I suppose the acting is only the fore-
runner of the reality: is it so?
 I think it will be so, Kate said carelessly.
Yal's prospects at the moment were not nearly
so interesting to her as her own.
 How long has it been going on ?
 Oh, Frank Masham proposed to her six months
ago, but she refused him then. However 
 That was before he had come into the big
property, I gather ?
"Yes, it was. But Frank said he should try
again, quoted the hackneyed proverb about 'faint
heart,' etc. I shall be just one little bit sorry to
see Val married to him, but both her uncle and
mother will be delighted, and I've no doubt she
will be happy.
 I hope she will. Come and take a stroll on the
lawn, Miss Yane; I feel the house oppressive after
a long course of sea air.
They went out together; and by-and-bye he
SECOND LOVE. 369
took her hand and placed it on his arm as they
sauntered along. Looking down at her brilliant
beauty, softened as it was by the moon's tender
light, he resolved that the world should not be
barren to him because Val, his first true love, had
been faithless. But he would woo Kate as the
poor man she still believed him to be; he would
be taken, if taken he was, for himself only.
"Are you as glad to have me here, I wonder, as
I am to be with you ? he asked softly; and Kate
answered bravely,—
 I am; you need not doubt it.
 I will confess that I came here with a great
hope in my heart, Kate,—a hope that has been
killed ; but another hope as bright and strong as
the dead one has sprung up in its place. The new,
living hope is that you will love me.
 I do already ; but I half thought, half feared 
 Don't tell me what you thought and feared,
he put in hastily,— only tell me you will be my
24
370 SECOND LOVE.
wife. Think well, Kate. You ought to do better
than marry a poor lieutenant in the navy, whose
chances of promotion are now nil.'
 Thank God I've enough for us both! she
cried.  Gfuy, I never rejoiced in my money
before; now I do. It enables you to take me.
Then they sealed their betrothal with a kiss;
and after a time they went in and found Mr. Yane
awake; and then puzzled, happy Kate learnt that
her future husband could offer her equal wealth
and higher rank than her own.  But I can't love
you a bit more for either, she told him.
Two or three more days passed, and Yal, having
heroically stayed out the term of her invitation,
was home again. In answer to her mother's ques-
tions about Frank Masham, she said that  he had
started for South America, and she really didn't
know when he was coming home again. And
this she said in such a tone as forbade any further
SECOND LOVE. 371
interrogation from Mrs. Heriot. But her uncle put
it to her plainly.
 Did young Masham renew his offer, Val ?
 He offered me a rose to wear at dinner the
night I arrived, and as it didn't suit my dress I
refused it.
 Don't be evasive, please. Did he renew his
offer of marriage to you ?
"He did.
 And you accepted him, I trust ?
"I refused him, and told him my reason.
 And that is ? 
 That I mean to marry my own dear Guy. I
knew he had come back for me; and to-day I've
had a note from Kate Vane, saying that he is
coming to see us to-morrow with her. Don't be
unkind, uncle; nothing shall come between us now.
 I shall not countenance an improvident mar-
riage; but if, as I hear, the young man's prospects
have improved, I'll withdraw my opposition, the
372 SECOND LOYE.
rector said; and Val kissed her uncle, and laughingly
assured him that she meant to have her own way
at last.
 I'll make the house a bower in honour of his
coming, she said to herself the next morning; u he
used to like to see a lot of those basket-ferns in
a room. I'll go to Hanger Wood for them. And
I'll wear my blue cloth dress and my sailor hat, and
look as like the ' girl he left behind him' as I can.'
She was struggling with the roots of an especially
fine fern in a glade in Hanger Wood, her slim,
strong little hands grasping it firmty, her foot, well
booted, planted well forward, her whole little figure
fraught with grace and energy, when Guy—out for
a stroll with a cigar—turned a corner round a
beech tree, and saw her,—saw her looking prettier
than she had looked even when she first won his
heart—saw her in that instant more entirely his
own; for, dropping the fern, with a bound and a
glad cry, she was close to him.
SECOND LOVE. 373
 Guy! Guy! is it real, is it true ? I shall die
of joy! she cried; and her arms were r^unl his
neck, and her sweet, pure lips pressed to his before
he could repulse her.
 Oh, my love, I have borne it so long, and told
no one; but now I see you, and can speak! Guy,
what is it ? Guy, I am Val! your own 
He held her off from him; but the misery in
his eyes as he did so saved her from feeling that
he scorned her love.
 Do you mean that you are free still ? he
asked.
 Free! no: fettered by my love for you.
"For God's sake stop! he moaned. "I heard
—at least I fancied that you were going to marry
some fellow called Masham. I saw your note to
Kate Vane. I thought you and he were to be 'a
happy pair' in reality.
 It's mean to tell, but I've refused him twice,
Guy, she said, clasping his hand, and raising it to
374 SECOND LOVE.
her lips. "Oh, Gay, leave off looking at me
like that, and tell me you're as happy as I
am!
As she spoke she held her winsome face up to
him again; but this time he drew back, and almost
with a groan he said,—
 I had better tell you quickly. I am engaged
to Kate Vane; we are to be married. Val, forgive
me.
She staggered back against the trunk of a tree
and pressed her hands to her forehead.
"There is nothing to forgive, there is nothing
to be said! Only tell me this,—the truth, the real
truth ! I will bear it and bless you for telling me.
You are engaged to Kate ; you must marry her;
but did you come back for me ?
"I did.
 Thank you. One more question: do you love
her now as much as you did love me ?
Very humbly he hung his head, very reluctantly
SECOND LOVE. 375
he spoke ; but he was on his honour to tell the
truth, and he said,—
 My love for you was strong, but circumstance
and accident have killed it; my second love will
be a lifelong one, thank God, for Kate will be my
wife.
 Thank you, she said simply;  I am happier
now, and I can dare to tell you that I shall
honour as well as love you all my life. My first
and my last love, good-bye!
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG!
"J3HOTOGRAPHY was Miss Archer's latest craze,
and she was pursuing it, as she did every-
thing that fired her enthusiasm, vigorously. Spas-
modic energy was the young lady's chief charac-
teristic and her friends were apt to breathe
unconscious prayers of thanksgiving for the fact
that it had never been perniciously misdirected as
yet.
For though the girl was a good girl, kind-hearted,
and generous, and always well inclined to do a
fellow-creature a good turn if the doing it did not
involve any disagreeable exertion or sacrifice on
her own part, she was not a remarkably sagacious
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG1. 377
one. Her little head was prettily shaped, and well
covered with sunny silky brown hair, but it held
very few brains. She had been moderately well
educated, but was not the least ambitious of
scholastic distinction. She "got along very well
without knowing half the things they had tried
to cram into her she said, and she was perfectly
regardless of the pity her ignorance excited in the
breasts of some of her girl friends.
For six years she had sat at the head of her
father's table, and managed his household for him
after a fashion. Provided she was ready dressed
to sit down to the seven o'clock dinner, Mr. Archer
never troubled himself to inquire where the rest
of her day had been spent. He had a sort of
general notion that she was busy with household
matters in the morning, and went to a great many
tennis parties in the summer afternoons.  And
now she has a new hobby, dear child, he told his
greatest friend, Miss Mannering: "she has really
378 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG!
done some remarkably good photographs of some
of the prettiest bits in the surrounding scenery.
"I know she takes a great many views of the
church! Hardly a morning passes but I see Mr.
Greene and your daughter focussing the church or
the schools, Miss Mannering told the unsuspicious
father.
 Ah! that Greene is a very decent fellow, I
understand ?
"I've no doubt he's a very worthy young man,
Mr. Archer, but he hasn't a penny besides his
curacy; he has told me so much himself. I think
it would be wiser on Frances' } art not to get
herself talked about with him.
 Oh, she wouldn't think of him in the way you
suggest for a moment! Mr. Archer said confidently.
 Oh dear no! not for a moment! Why—ha!
ha!—the idea is really almost as absurd as if any
one suggested that you and I—eh ?
He stopped suddenly, for Miss Mannering, a tall
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG ! 379
and angular lady, with a very large and powerful
nose, and a good deal of steady determination in
her voice and manner, had alarmed him by
ejaculating,—
"What?
 I mean, he presently resumed, with less assur-
ance, "that as no one would think of attributing
any other motive for my constant visits to you
than friendship 
"You are mistaken, Mr. Archer! Every one,
myself included, puts a different construction on
your visits to me ! 
 God bless my heart! cried the astounded
gentleman.  y dear Miss Mnnnering, you don't
mean to tell me that you'd marry an old fellow
like me?
 Willingly, willingly! gladly, dear Richard!
the practical lady exclaimed, clutching at his
words, and twisting them into an offer, which he
had not meant to make. Then, before he could
S80 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG !
explain himself, for he was slow of thought, and
slower of speech, precise, proper, pious Miss
Mannering had risen from her seat, crossed the
room with promptitude, and imprinted a chaste hub
rather long kiss on that portion of plump counten-
ance which was nearest to he
 I never thought of this! he began, aghast.
"I never for a moment 
 Ah, dear Richard! I have seen how your
timidity has struggled with your affection, she
said playfully, and her playfulness reminded him
of a sportive camelopard he had met in the East.
For Mr. Archer had spent many years of his life
and accumulated his fortune in the Orient, where
he had represented a great English house. And
little he had recked in those halcyon days that
he would ever fall a victim to the matrimonial
wiles of a large-boned, middle-aged, English spinster
of narrow means.
But he had always been a feeble man when
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG ! 381
women were concerned, and this was a remarkably
determined woman. Her strong self-will, unfailing
self-possession, and dogged manner of going on her
way undaunted by local criticism, had been the
qualities which had drawn him to her in friend-
ship. For years he had never failed to stroll
down to her cottage from his mansion, after read-
ing the newspaper, every morning about noon;
and had delighted in the opposition she offered to
his views on all subjects of current interest, social,
political, and religious. Now these very qualities
which he had admired were turned to his own
destruction. The baseness of it all nearly over-
whelmed him. But she was a woman; so he spared
her the expression of his verbal opinion, and for
the expression of his face she cared nothing.
 It is a misunderstanding, a misunderstanding
for which I am doubtless to blame  he was
beginning, but again she cut him short.
 My dearest Richard, now that you have spoken
382 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG!
at last, why waste words in apologising for the
delay ? The assurance of your love repays me for
everything. And again she bent down to salute
him; but this time she put a muscular arm round
his neck, and gave him a hearty hug that spoke
forcibly of her resolve to cling to him for better
for worse.
He couldn't shake her off; for he was a little
man, short and stout, while she was a tall, powerful
woman. And it was useless to attempt any expla-
nation; for she wouldn't let him speak uninter-
ruptedly, and the slightest interruption always dis-
turbed the flow of his ideas. So he sat still and
permitted her to hug him, detesting the situation,
and despising himself.
But, oddly enough, not disliking her! He was
essentially a just man; and he argued with himself
that, as his manner and conduct had led her into
error, it behoved him as a gentleman not to punish
her for it. If she had mistaken his friendship for
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG! 383
love (she said that she had done so, and he was
too much of a gentleman to doubt her word), it
behoyed him to let her feel the consequences of her
mistake as little as possible. Then the thought
of Frances, and of Frances' rooted and frequently
expressed distaste to the genus stepmother, came
across his mind, and the prospect of marrying Miss
Mannering was more distasteful to him than ever.
However, he controlled himself; and after begging
7 7 OO O
her to  calm herself, he felt ridiculously like Mr.
Pickwick supporting the fainting Widow Bardell.
As he said it he rose to the situation, and remarked
that they had  better look at the matter from a
business point of view without delay.
To this proposition Miss Mannering promptly
acquiesced. She was not a mercenary woman, but
she had been a poor one all her life, and it is
certain that though she liked Mr. Archer as a man,
she liked him no less because he was a man of
means. The prospect of exchanging her hand-to-
384 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG !
band struggle for life on two hundred and fifty
pounds a year, in an inconveniently small cottage,
for the position of mistress of Holmleigh, was un-
deniably an attractive one. Moreover, she had come
to that age when a carriage and pair of perfect
steppers was a more agreeable locomotive power
than either the village omnibus or her own legs.
So she said at once that for her own part the
sooner business matters were openly discussed be-
tween them the better she should be pleased.
 You know, of course, that what I have is
merely an allowance from my uncle ? she began
frankly;  and though he is a wealthy man, he has
a large family of his own; so probably that will
cease on my marriage.
"That is rather a serious consideration, Mr.
Archer replied. And for the first time the pang
assailed her that Mr. Archer  might be rather
mean.
But this pang soon passed when he explained to
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG! 385
her that, by the conditions of his late wife's mar-
riage, settlement, the fortune she had brought him
would pass away from him and into his daughter's
uncontrolled possession when she attained the age
of twenty-five, whether she were married or not.
"And you'd hardly think it to look at her, he
added,  but she's twenty-four this month.
"But until she marries her home would be with
you—us, I mean. And she would naturally bear a
share of the expenses of the household, she urged.
And then they talked that matter over, and Mr.
Archer ended by promising that he  would speak
to his daughter that evening.
 Meantime, say nothing about our engagement
to any one, he asked; but Miss Mannering shook
her head at this.
 I cannot consent to be guilty of concealment
towards my uncle for a single day, Mr. Archer.
To-day's post will carry the news of our engagement
to him.
25
386 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG!
 Then, perhaps, when you tell him that I shall
lose more than half my present income in twelve
months, he'll continue your allowance as pin-
money.
 I shall not tax his generosity by suggesting
anything of the kind : I shall be perfectly content
to live on half your present income; and the
steadiness of her voice and gaze as she said this
convinced him that he might just as well resign
himself to her guidance.
While the father's love affair was being arranged
for him, the daughter was arranging her own.
Down at the end of the village an ivied bridge
crossed the sparkling, winding river, and on this
bridge Frances Archer, her photographic apparatus,
and the Rev. Harold Greene had been planted for
more than an hour. They were sitting on the low
wall, doing nothing now, saying very little, but
looking ridiculously happy.
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG ! 387
He was a line-grown man of about thirty, clean
shaven and clear eyed, looking a gentleman every
inch of him, though his coat and soft felt hat had
both gone rusty from age and hard wear.
"All your friends will blame me for not having
waited till I had something better to offer you
than life on a curate's stipend, Frances, he said
presently; and the girl answered quickly, with
generous warmth,—
 Don't think of money. I shall have plenty
by-and-bye. I've never thought much about it
because I've never had to think of it, you see;
but now I am glad to tell you that I shall have
plenty when I'm twenty-five.
 Then I am afraid all your friends will think
that you ought to have done better than marry
me.
 That I couldn't have done, Harold. And as for
my 'friends.' papa is my only friend, and he's sure
to approve of whatever I do. He'll be the gainer
388 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG!
in every way; for, of course, we shall live at
Holmleigh.
Harold Greene shook his head in the negative.
 I would rather live on in my lodgings and be
the master of them, thank you, Frances; besides,
supposing your father brought in a stepmother to
reign over us.
 He will never, never, never be silly enough to
do that! Frances cried, colouring with annoy-
ance; "he would never be so unjust, after I've
been mistress of Holmleigh all these years.
 Your father has as much right to please him-
self as you have to please yourself, dear.
 But he's quite an old man, Miss Archer
pouted.
 Not old—elderly, say. I don't think Miss
Mannering would say him ' nay ' if he went court-
ing in her direction.
"Nasty old maid! I really believe she had her
eye on you, Harold, when you came here. She
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG ! 389
was much more constant in her attendance at
church, I can tell you, than she had been for years
before. And she was so careful to impress upon
us all that you had an ' e' at the end of your
name, that I'm sure she hoped to trick you into
making her Mrs. Greene.
"Now you are ill-natured, Frances, he said
coolly, and Frances' eyes opened their widest at the
rebuke. He was a little too judicial for an ardent
lover, she thought, and not half enough inclined
to fall at her feet as at the feet of a goddess who
had descended from a pedestal to win him.
And while she was thinking this of him, he
was feeling himself to be a very weather-cock,
unworthy of the name of man.
For only a year ago he had been in love—really
in love!—with a girl who was worth the love he
had given her: he felt sure of that, even now that
the glamour was over. A clever, bright, pretty
young creature, with a heart full of feeling and a
390 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG!
head full of fun. A dear, sunny-haired child of
eighteen, to whom imprudently he had laid siege,
simply because the manly impulse within him to
show forth in his manner what he deemed to be
the fairest, and sweetest, and dearest thing of all
things on earth was not to be resisted.
So, after the manner of men, he had surrendered
to his impulses, and she had surrendered to his
siege. The result was that the good-looking young
man and the pretty girl plighted their troth to
one another, and then bethought them of asking
her father's consent.
 Can you maintain my daughter ? was the
practical question asked by Mr. Beauchamp; and
Harold Greene, being above all things truthful, had
to answer,—
"No, sir; but—I hope—I rely on your genero-
sity and your love for your daughter to enable
me to do it.
"In fact, you want me to help my daughter to
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG! 391
maintain you ? that's the plain English of it. Now,
Mr. Greene, my idea is that when a man asks a
woman to marry him, he should be prepared to
support her; he shouldn't expect her to become a
beggar to her father to give her the means of
supporting him!
This was a hard truth hardly worded. Still
it was a truth, and Harold Greene was obliged to
admit that it was one, and to swallow it and his
dismissal as best he could. But before he was
banished from the Beauchamp family circle, he
was allowed to have a parting interview with
Dorothy.
These parting interviews generally undo all the
good and wise work that parents and guardians
have previously done for young people. This was
no exception to the rule. When their time was up
Dollie Beauchamp had declared that she  would
never give him up till she heard that he was
married to some one else; and he had avowed that
392 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG!
 come what would in the way of the temptation
of beauty and riches, he would always remain
faithful to his Dolly.
Now all this had happened only one little year
ago. Yet here he was now, solemnly engaged to
Frances Archer—a girl whose only charm for him
had been the pertinacity with which she had
pursued him—and her money!
In fact, excellent youug man as he was, gentle-
manly, "thoroughly nice, as women said, and ex-
ceedingly good-looking, he was not cast in the
heroic mould which Dolly believed him to have
been cast in. About him there was a touch—a faint
one, but still a touch—of instability. He looked
down from the ivy-bound bridge at the running
stream beneath, and knew that he was as "unstable
as water, as little likely, therefore, to excel. The
thought came across him curiously, "Would Dolly
be magnanimous enough to understand the peculiar
nature of the temptation which had led to his
TELLING OP HOPES GONE WRONG! 393
fall? Yes, he called it "a fall already to him-
self, though Frances was by his side in all her
glory.
Then he reminded himself that Mr. Beauchamp
had been very decided about the matter. Definitely
he had declared that the "folly, as he termed it,
must be put to a definite end. "After that, Mr.
Greene now reasoned with himself, "it would be
encouraging Dolly in a direct act of disobedience
to act as if there were any engagement between
them. In short, after looking at the subject for
five minutes from the point of view which Frances
sedulously put before him, he came to the con-
elusion that he had acted in a way that was not
only best for himself, but "best for her"—the
 her  being Dolly !
While he was following out this train of thought,
he had not exactly closely followed Frances Archer's
line of argument, but his attention was recalled
with a jerk by the words,—
394 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG!
 Papa and I have no secrets from each other.
I shall tell him at luncheon that we're engaged,
and you had better come and dine with us to-
night and settle everything.
She had risen from her seat on the wall of the
bridge as she spoke, and now stood neat and trim
and reassuringly self-possessed and satisfied before
him.
"I shall call on your father this afternoon. As
to dining at Holmleigh to-night, I can't dine there
till he asks me.
 Don't wait for papa's invitation, the young
lady laughed, tipping her sailor hat well forward
over her eyes as she spoke.  I always have to
remind him where he owes a dinner. When I've
told him we're engaged, at luncheon, I shall say,
' Hadn't you better ask Mr. Greene to dinner to-
night, papa, and talk it over comfortably ?' And
he'll say, 'Yes, certainly, Frances. Express (in my
name) the pleasure I shall have in seeing him to
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG! 395
dinner to-night at seven, without ceremony. Be
sure you say "without ceremony, Frances, or he
will think I have no understanding of, or appre-
ciation for, a good cuisine !that's what papa
always says when I want him to have people to
dinner in a hurry.
She had got her things together as she spoke,
and now she looked expectantly at him, and he
carried them for her to the gate of Holmleigh,
where they met Mr. Archer looking hot, and ex-
hausted, and uncomfortable.
Feeling guiltily conscious of his own indiscretion,
Mr. Archer was peculiarly alive this morning to the
appearance of it in his daughter's conduct. Ac-
cordingly he met Mr. Greene's friendly advance
with a direct snub.
 I think you ought to distribute your attentions
a little more equally among your parishioners, Mr.
Greene. I am sorry to hear on good authority that,
like my daughter, you're wasting a good deal of
396 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG.'
time in photography just now. Give it up, sir;
give it up ! It's sheer waste of time, I can assure
you.
 Mr. Greene knows that I don't think it a waste
of time, and my opinion on this matter is the one
he values most, papa, Frances said quickly—
"pertly, Mr. Greene thought. Then before either
man could speak she went on, "I hate anything
that is underhand, so we'll tell you at once, papa,
that we got engaged this morning, and we feel sure
that you'll be much happier with me married
than not, and to the curate of the parish too,
because you'll have the comfort of our society
still 
She pulled herself up here, for the expression
on his face was one of such absolute relief, that
she, as a daughter who believed herself indispensable
to her father's happiness, felt rather hurt at it.
"Why, you look almost glad to lose me, papa,
she said reproachfully.
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG! 397
"Not that, not that, my dear: but glad that
you have disposed of yourself so conveniently
before I—that is, before Miss Mannering mar-
lies.
'' What has Miss Mannering to do with me,
papa ?
 Nothing, my dear, absolutely nothing as matters
are arranged. Mr. Greene, let me shake hands
with you and wish you joy, every possible joy,
with my daughter.
There was something about Mr. Archer that his
daughter did not understand. Her sense of sole
proprietorship in him set in strongly, and made
her wish to get him to herself, undisturbed by the
presence of another, even though that other was
her lover.
 I think we had better say good-bye till dinner-
time to Harold, papa. You and I will want a long
quiet talk by ourselves. Don't forget the hour—
seven, Harold; and if you do happen to be calling
398 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG!
on Miss Mannering this afternoon, tell the spiteful
old maid that our marriage is arranged.
To her sui'prise as she said these words she saw
big drops of perspiration start out on her papa's
ample brow.
 I think that I would rather be the one to
convey that information to Miss Mannering.
"Just as you like, papa—only it's just as well
that she should know at once that it's no use her
moving heaven and earth, and attending all the
early services, to get Harold any more, Frances
said, flushing up half in contemptuous indignation
at the idea of Miss Mannering's audacity, half in
contempt of herself for entertaining the idea of
such rivalship. Then in a moment all her previous
ideas and sentiments were revolutionised by her
father saying timidly,—
 Calm yourself, my dear child—calm yourself.
Have no fear of Miss Mannering's attractions on
this excellent fellow, who will, I'm sure, be true
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WEONG! 399
as steel to you, and would be even if Miss
Mannering did not exist—or did not exist as the
future Mrs. Archer ! 
The murder was out!
 Oh, papa! has she caught you ? the daughter
said mournfully.  Poor papa! poor papa! And
I thought she was such a safe, bony-nosed, ugly
old thing !
"For mercy's sake, let her nose alone! Mr.
Archer groaned. It was the nose that would con-
front him at breakfast, luncheon, and dinner hence-
forth so long as they both did live, and he did
desire not to be set against it. "Rather congratulate
me on not being left alone now you are going to
leave me, Frances, he went on pleadingly; and
then he mendaciously added something to the effect
of its having been his conviction that things were
tending towards this climax between Frances and
Mr. Greene which had caused him to precipitate
matters between himself and Miss Mannering.
400 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG!
The father and daughter had walked up the
little drive, bordered by beds in the best style of
carpet-gardening, during this conversation, and now
when they reached the hall door -they discovered
for the first time that they were alone.
 Harold must have left you the minute I gave
him leave !  Miss Archer ejaculated.  I don't think
he stayed to hear what a fool you've made of
yourself, papa.
 The whole place will know it before nightfall,
Frances ; Miss Mannering will take care of that—
the whole place will know it before nightfall! and.
Mr. Archer chuckled as he spoke with complacent
self-conceit.  Miss Mannering, at least, will pay
me the compliment of behaving as if she felt I had
not made a fool of myself! She will be proud to
let the whole place know it!
 That's just it, papa, Frances said sorrowfully;
 she has as much cunning and audacity as a fox.
Having caught you in a weak moment, she'll take
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG! 401
care to compromise you into keeping the engage-
ment by proclaiming it to every one. I have no
patience with women who make up to men,
especially old ones !
 I think you're allowing your annoyance to get
the better of your judgment, Frances, Mr. Archer
said mildly.  As you are going to be married
yourself, a stepmother will interfere very little with
you.
"That I shall lake very good care of, papa; but,
all the same, I am sorry that mercenary woman
has got hold of you. It really makes my blood
run cold to think of her reigning at Holmleigh.
 I don't think she's mercenary. She knows
that I shall lose more than half my present income
when you're five-and-twenty, he humbly reminded
his daughter. But Frances was implacable. In
spite of what Harold Greene had said, she had
made up her mind to go on living at Holmleigh
after her marriage; and she had no tolerance for
26
402 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG I
the intruder who was coming in to upset her
arrangements.
By that same day's post Miss Mannering wrote
to her uncle, who promptly replied with hearty
congratulations. As she had anticipated, he an-
nounced his intention of ceasing to make her any
further allowance when she should become the
wife of a man of such good property as Mr.
Archer.
 I shall transfer the allowance I have hitherto
made you to my daughter Dolly, he wrote.  A
year ago I had to enact the part of stern parent,
and put a stop to her engagement to a young man
to whom she is very much attached. However,
now that I can, without injustice to my other
children, allow Dolly two hundred and fifty a
37ear, they may renew it and marry as soon as
they like.
On the same day that Miss Mannering received
TELLING OE HOPES GONE WRONG! 403
this letter from her uncle, Harold Greene had one
from Dolly.
 My own dear Harold, she wrote:  I may
call you that now. My father—my dear, generous
father is going to give me the two hundred and
fifty a year which he has allowed my old cousin,
Jane Mannering, for years. She is going to marry
a rich old man called Archer. My father says you
are to come here as soon as you like, and we may
be married at once. Oh, joy! I hardly know
what I am doing! Such happiness after these
months of misery ! Isn't it funny ?—Jane Mannering
lives in your village: do you know her ? Your
own Dolly.
That day, much against her inclination, Frances
was taken by her father to make a state call on
Miss Mannering. The two ladies met each other
with a guarded constraint that did not augur well
for their relations in the future. By way of melting
404 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG!
their reserve, Mr. Archer, with forced hilarity, told
his affianced bride of his daughter's engagement.
"I think I may leave you to guess the gentle-
man's name, he said, chuckling a little, and play-
fully winking at Frances, who said, rather sulkily,—
"Don't make a silly mystery of it, papa.
"No, I can't guess at all, Miss Mannering struck
in. "A few days ago I should have guessed Mr.
Greene; but I hear from my uncle to-day that
that gentleman has been engaged to my little
cousin, Dolly Beauchamp, for some time; and now
they'll soon marry, as my uncle is going to allow
Dolly what he has hitherto allowed me.
 It can't  Frances began ; but words failed
her, and a deadly sickness seemed to pervade her
whole being.
 There must be a mistake! Mr. Greene it is
who is engaged to my daughter! Mr. Archer
gasped.  There must be a mistake !
So Harold Greene thought when he received a
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG! 405
curt dismissal from Frances Archer presently. The
terms in which it was couched stung him, but
still he felt infinitely relieved; he was now free to
go to Dolly.
But when he arrived at Mr. Beauchamp's house,
his reception staggered him. Dolly had gone
abroad with her mother, he was told; and when
he stammered out a demand for an explanation, it
was given him in these words,—
"My niece, Miss Mannering, writes us word that
we have to congratulate you on your approaching
marriage with Miss Archer.
"It's broken off! Mr. Greene interrupted.
"Dolly will forgive me and take me back, won't
she ?
 "Women are fools enough for anything, her
father said drily,  so I shall not give you the
opportunity of putting her folly to the test. Try
Miss Archer again; she may be more complaisant.
Good-morning, sir.
406 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WHONG!
It was a bitter humiliation to Mr. Greene to
go back rejected and rebuffed; but the vein of
real manliness that was in him compelled him to
take his courage in both hands and face Miss
Archer with a full explanation.
 I have been a vacillating coward, he said to
her,  and my cowardice and inconstancy have
received their right reward. Miss Beauchamp will
have nothing more to do with me, and her father
almost turned me out of the house. After all, my
offence against her was less contemptible than
the one against you. I allowed you to think me
a free man, while all the time I was fettered by
the terms of m}^ parting understanding with Dolly.
 And you have made my position at home almost
unbearable, Frances said reproachfully.  My father's
new wife behaves as if I were the one to blame
about the whole business. I am sure I did all
I could: I gave you up the minute I heard about
Miss Beauchamp.
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG ! 407
"You behaved splendidly, he said, so despon-
dently that Frances Archer's heart melted within
her, and her desire to make him an excellent wife
and become independent of the Holmleigh life
strengthened.
"I bear no malice, though you have made me
look very ridiculous in the place, and no one, no
one will ever be the same to me as you have
been, Harold !
 I fervently hope not, he said heartily;  for
I am afraid I have been the cause of a great deal
of unhappiness to you.
 I always have been of a forgiving spirit, she
said plaintively, and then the blood tingled up
into her face, as she made a crowning effort to
smooth his path to her favour again.
 In fact, I can't think how Miss Beauchamp
can be so resentful; if she truly loved you, she
wouldn't part with you so lightly.
"You are all that is kind and generous, he said
408 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG !
sadly, "but Miss Beauchamp is right. A man who
has swerved from the straightforward path before
marriage is unworthy of a girl's love and con-
fidence.
 I shouldn't judge you so harshly, Harold: I
should have no fear; but I suppose you will
always hanker after the one you can't get ?
 Yes, he said frankly,  I shall always think
more about Dolly than about any other woman
in the world; and while that is the case I'll be
honest enough to remain single.
Frances Archer heaved a sigh as she listened
to this resolve.
 I suppose you won't help me any more about
my photography ? she said gently.
 I will help you about anything. You have
been so generous and kind that I shall always be
at your service, Miss Archer.
"And you're not afraid that people will think
there is more in our friendship than meets the eye ? 
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG ! 409
 You are the one to consider that; I owe it to
you to place the regulating of our intercourse
entirely in your hands.
And with this resolution on her part Frances
Archer had to content herself. For it had come to
this pass now with the hitherto unimpressionable,
rather selfish young woman—the craving for this
man's companionship had become the strongest
feeling in her nature.
As time went on, and the hope of reawakening
love or the semblance of it in Harold Greene faded
out of Frances Archer's heart, another hope entered
in.
Her own youth was a thing of the past. At
thirty years of age she looked a pleasant enough
woman of middle age; but romance, or the possi-
bility of romance, was over for her, while Harold
Greene still looked what the village people called
"a rare, goodly gentleman, fit to win any lady's
heart.
410 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG !
Miss Archer was but a commonplace woman,
gifted with neither wit nor grace. Her youthful
maturity had been soured by her disappointment,
and the dull monotony of her irresponsible life at
Holmleigh had not tended to brighten or enliven
her. But though brain and mind had been lying
to a certain extent fallow, her heart had expanded
and beautified itself; and on the day she was
thirty she asked of this heart to show her the way
to do some really good thing for the man she
loved.
During all these years there had been a quiet
sort of armed neutrality observed between herself
and her stepmother; but on this day she not only
hung out a flag of truce, but she sent a dove with
a luxuriant olive branch well into the enemy's
camp.
 Have you ever thought of asking your cousin,
Dolly Beauchamp, to pay you a visit, Mrs. Archer ?''
she asked, going straight to Mrs. Archer's sanctum,
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG! 411
and good-temperedly ignoring that lady's glum
reception of her.
 You forget that your friend Harold Greene is
in the way of that, Mrs. Archer replied;  and,
for the matter of that, I don't think Dolly would
care to be in the same house with you. If you
had shown your sense of the young man's mis-
conduct by curbing him, Dolly might have met you
friendly enough. But as it is—well, all the parish
can see that you've been doing your best to get
him back to you all these years, and I've no doubt
but that you'll succeed at last, but I sha'n't wish
you joy of him.
Frances smiled rather sadly.  I hope to have
'joy of' my old friend Mr. Greene still, Mrs. Archer,
but not in the way you think. Then she told
the substance of that conversation which she had
held with Harold Greene when he first came back
six years ago rebuffed by the Beauchamps.
•'Get your cousin here, she said finally, "and
412 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG!
leave her to manage the rest—only ask Dolly not
to treat me as a foe.
All that afternoon she passed with her lawyer,
and in the evening she told her father and his
wife that she had made her will. The whole of
her property she had bequeathed to Harold Greene
at her death; the half of it was to become his
during her life from the day he married Dorothy
Beau champ!
 Now you know why I want her to come here,
she added.  If they meet they must love one
another again, and all will be made smooth for
them.
Dolly's answer was awaited by them all with
vivid interest. Would she come ? and would she
come willing to be wooed ? The first question
was speedily answered. Dolly accepted the invi-
tation!
The day of her arrival Frances Archer told her
old friend what her intentions and hopes concerning
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WKONG! 413
him were, and begged him to be brave and lose
no time with Dolly.
 Think of the long blank years that have passed
since you met, and waste no more time, she
pleaded eagerly; and he promised that as soon as
Miss Beauchamp had recovered her breath after her
journey he would try his fate.
Dolly came. A prettier Dolly than ever, for to
her youthful beauty was added now the charm of
womanly thoughtfulness and feeling. But it was a
blow to Frances to see when Harold Greene's name
was mentioned that Dolly turned a careless ear to it.
 Is he living in this place still ? How funny ! 
she said carelessly; and then she asked,  Is he
married ? I shall like to see him and his wife so
much.
 You will see him to-morrow; but he has no
wife; he never will have one unless you 
Frances was beginning eagerly, when Dolly stopped
her with a serene, sweet smile.
414 TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG !
"I am so glad I shall see him again; and now,
after all, it's just in time. I've always thought I
should like him to marry me and I can ask him
now!
 Ash him to marry you ? Miss Archer gasped.
"Yes. Percy Fielding and I have often spoken
of it; we neither of us have any clerical relations.
And Mr. Greene and I were such friends, you know;
why, when I was almost a child we were half
engaged! Can you believe it ? I am so glad that
we shall meet again!
So this was the end ! This was the reward of
those long years of remorseful humiliation and
fidelity. Frances Archer's heart bled for him more
tenderly than ever. And it is a fact that she felt
his disappointment more bitterly than he felt it
himself.
 It nearly breaks my heart, she said to him.
' I have made you my heir; but what's the good
TELLING OF HOPES GONE WRONG ! 415
of money? It won't get you a sweet home with
the woman you love, poor Harold! 
But Harold Greene thought by this time that a
sweet home with the woman who loved him so un-
selfishly would be no bad substitute for the other
unattainable and doubtful blessing.
BY PARCELS POST.
~\^TERE LORRIMER was in a difficulty. This
was not in itself anything unusual, for poor
Vere couldn't remember the day when she had not
been in a difficulty of some sort or another. But
this present one was the worst she had ever had
to tackle. Two men, one of whom she loathed,
while she loved the other, had whispered, as they
gave her the respective final whirls in their respec-
tive final waltzes at this afternoon dance,—
 Give me your answer to-morrow at Lord's;
and one had added, "Wear what I send you, Yere;
and I shall know I'm all right.
Now the one who added this was Charlie
BY PARCELS POST. 41?
Lowther,—Charlie Lowther, whom she had known
ever since she was seven years old, and she was
now twenty; Charlie Lowther, with whom she
had fought and quarrelled in their childhood, at
whom she had laughed in his hobbledehoy-hood,
and with whom now, in his manhood, she was
desperately in love; Charlie Lowther, the good-
looking young army doctor, whose mother had been
like a mother to Yere all through the girl's school-
days, while her own clever, impressionable, erratic
mother was away in the country, making bricks
without straw in the unremunerative Egyptian
labour-field of light literature; Charlie Lowther, of
whom Yere had been thinking the last thing at
night and the first thing in the morning entirely,
and to whom she stood pledged to say  yes or
"no to the question "if she would become his
wife at Lord's to-morrow ?
Poor little Yere was in a difficulty. Charlie
Lowther had added to his request that she would
27
418 BY PARCELS POST.
give him an answer at Lord's another, whicn was
that she would wear what he sent her, so that he
might know he was all right. The "other man
had murmured, "I hope a trifle I shall send you
will find favour enough in your eyes, Miss Lorrimer.
If it does, will you honour me by letting it grace
your hand to-morrow at Lord's ? 
And now this morning two presents had reached
her, without so much as a line or a card accom-
panying either of them to show from whom they
came. One was a ring, a really splendid pearl
ring, that must have cost—well, a sum that would,
if deducted from it, make Charlie's yearly pay look
small. The other was a bouquet of forget-me-nots
and pale pink roses,—a bouquet that was perfect
in its delicate half-tones of colour, and in its care-
lessly graceful arrangement,—a bouquet that suited
to perfection the pale blue-and-pink costume she
was to wear at the Eton and Harrow this day, and
which she had chosen with special reference to
BY PARCELS POST. 419
Charlie Lowther's frequently avowed predilection for
the Madonna colours.
The ring was consigned to her dressing-case, and
the flowers were lying with her gloves and parasol
on the table ready to be taken up the moment she
should be summoned to take her place on the drag
which was to take her hostess and herself to Lord's.
Her brief difficulty was over. There could be no
doubt but that Charlie had sent the flowers, while
the costly ring was the gift of the man whom all
her friends wanted her to marry, Mr. Barker, a
wealthy widower, the brother-in-law of her hostess,
an enterprising, bustling, practical woman who loved
ease and comfort, and shrewdly surmised that very
little of either can be found in alliance with limited
incomes.
This lady had been doing her best for Vere
Lorrimer this summer. She had  dug Vere out
from a remote country village quite early in the
season, and given her countless opportunities. This
420 BY PABCELS POST.
she had done partly out of liking for the girl her-
self, and partly out of a desire she had to give her
husband a plausible reason for her own insatiable
pursuit of pleasure through the usages of society.
And now in these latter days it was often in her
mind that Richard Barker, her husband's rich, unin-
teresting, vain old brother, could not do better than
marry the pretty, penniless young girl who would
make such a conveniently acquiescent sister-in-law
for Mrs. Barker herself.
Moreover, she had another reason for favouring
Richard Barker's suit. For more years than she
cared to count Mrs. Lowther, Charlie's mother,
had been the crumple in Mrs. * Barker's rose-leaf
existence. It was hard to say why these two
women, both of them excellent women in their
respective ways, should have felt considerably less
than kind towards one another. But the fact
remains. They did leel so, though they lived in
the same square, patronised the same dressmaker,
BY PARCELS POST. 421
visited in the same set, and subscribed to the same
charities.
It was as the gall of bitterness, therefore, to
Mrs. Barker when she found that the son of the
woman who disturbed her ease and self-satisfied
social serenity was the idol of her pet Vere
Lorrimer's imagination. It was no part of Mrs.
Barker's tactics to try to rudely separate the
young people, or to say aught that was not good
of the presumptuous young man. On the contrary,
she invited Charlie to dinner, and openly expressed
a warm hope that his "prospects would improve
before many years were over his head. At the
same time, she privately bewailed to Vere that
Charlie Lowther's extravagant habits would keep
him a needy man all his life, unless he could
manage to fulfil his ambitious mother's hopes, and
marry a girl with money.
"I don't believe Mrs. Lowther is a bit ambitious
for him in that way, and I'm quite sure Charlie
422 BY PARCELS POST.
will never be mercenary, though he may be a
little extravagant, vexed Vere would reply. But
though she defended her old friend and her old
friend's son from these aspersions, the memory of
them rankled and often made the girl unhappy.
However, the end, the happy end that would
justify her in pointing to herself as bright clear
evidence that Charlie was not mercenary, was near
at hand now. She was to give him an answer
to his question to-day at Lord's, and to wear his
present as a sign, before she spoke, that her answer
would be in the affirmative.
It was rather a drawback to her current pleasure
to find Mr. Richard Barker hovering round the
drag as soon as it reached the ground. But she
contrived to avoid meeting his protruding eyes,
and to shelter herself from their bold, admiring
glances for a time behind the matronly charms cj
Mrs. Barker. She also contrived, on some pretext
or other, to take off the left-hand glove, in order
BY PARCELS POST. 423
to let him see that she was not wearing that aggres-
sively expensive pearl ring! And at the same
time she raised her flowers to her face, sniffed at
the roses, and let her lips touch the forget-me-
nots persistently—for might not Charlie already
be watching her from afar?
For some time the girl felt light-hearted pleasure
in watching the game. But after a while, as Mr.
Richard Barker, in his tight boots and clothes of
a revoltingly juvenile cut, hovered and fluttered
nearer and nearer to her, and no Charlie made
his appearance, Yere's heart went down with a
dull thud, and her answers grew vague and dis-
jointed, while her eyes roved restlessly around.
Suddenly her whole face grew radiant. Mrs.
Lowther, the sweet-faced, gentle friend whom she
had known and loved all her life,—before she
thought of her only as "Charlie's mother, in fact—
was approaching, walking round to look at the
different drags. Yere leant forward waving her
424 BY PARCELS POST.
flowers (Charlie should have been here to tell his
mother he had sent them), and calling Mrs.
Lowther softly by name. Then all at once the
radiance died out of Vere's face, and the gladness
out of her heart, for Mrs. Lowther looked up
quickly, glanced coldly at her former pet, slightly
bowed her head, and passed on with her com-
panions without a word! As she was doing this
Mr. Richard Barker poised himself on the wheel
close to Yere's elbow unheeded, and consequently
unsnubbed.
All the sun went out of the heavens for Yere,
all her interest fled from the scene before her.
What could it mean—to be passed by with slight-
ing scorn, with scantiest courtesy by Mrs. Lowther,
Charlie's mother, her own tried, true friend ? It
must be some hideous mistake, which she would
rectify on the spot.  Please help me down, she
said, lifting a lovely pair of starlike hazel eyes to
Mr. Richard Barker's red goggle-eyed visage in
BY PARCELS POST. 425
pathetic appeal;  I want to run after Mrs. Lowther,
she added, in explanation to her chaperon.  I
don't think she quite knew me just now as she
passed.
As Vere faltered out these sentences Mrs. Barker
took in the situation at a glance, and resolved to
make the most of it. She knew all about the
gifts which had come to Vere by Parcels Post
that morning. She had been in the secret, when
the flowers that matched Vere's dress were chosen,
and she guessed the reason why pure, proud Mrs.
Lowther looked coldly on a young girl who seemed
so ready to give herself to the highest bidder. So
now, in answer to Vere's ardent appeal, Mrs.
Barker merely laughed lightly as she put a detain-
ing hand on the girl's arm, and then said,—
 Don't go and spoil sport, Vere. Mrs. Lowther
has got Tiny Norton with her to-day. The mother
is on duty—don't you see ?—till the son comes.
Now Tiny Norton was a young lady with more
426 BY PARCELS POST.
than a touch of the tar-brush about her, but with
a fortune that made that same tint of tar odorous
in the nostrils of the worldly-minded. But on the
other hand, Mrs. Lowther did not belong to the
section of the worldly-minded; at least, Yere
Lorrimer could not believe that she did, therefore
the suggestion that Mrs. Lowther was on duty
with dusky Tiny, until Charlie appeared on the
scene to relieve his mother and to do his love-
making for himself, was singularly distasteful to
the poor little heroine of this story.
Still, though she had absolute reliance on the
fidelity of her old friend, the girl hesitated. It
would be awful, she felt, to go up to the group
of which Tiny Norton was the centre, and get a
rebuke for her forwardness. It would be worse still
to see Charlie slip into the post of duty in his
mother's place. Acquiescence and silence was her
only safety, in fact. Presently Charlie would come,
would see her wearing his flowers, would rush to
BY PAECELS POST. 427
her side, and hear from her own lips the repetition
of the story the flowers had told him already,
 And then with Charlie I'll go and ask his mother
what has vexed her; and it will all be right,
poor Yere thought hopefully.
Meantime Mr. Richard Barker was fussing about
her, and fidgeting other people by the wild display
of devotion towards her which he made. But
Yere was oblivious of everything, save the prospect
of sunning herself presently in Charlie's loving and
Mrs. Lowther's friendly glances, and while she was
possessing her soul in patience, and merely enduring
elderly, uninteresting Richard Barker, she was being
misjudged by her best friend, and her true lover,
as it is and ever has been, and ever will be the
habit of best friends and true lovers to misjudge
girls who are in a false position through no fault
of their own.
For Charlie Lowther was on the ground, though
poor unconsciously offending Yere did not see him.
428 BY PARCELS POST.
He was on the ground, and he had been near
enough to the drag on which Yere had a place
to see that she held a bouquet of forget-me-nots
and pale pink roses in her hand, and that her left
hand, which she had ungloved, ostentatiously it
seemed, was not adorned by a pearl ring! And
seeing these things, Charlie Lowther fell forthwith
into error and jealous wrath, which seemed to be
fortified by the demonstration Mr. Richard Barker
was making.
While he was wandering restlessly about trying
to avoid every one he knew, he came accidentally
upon his mother and Tiny Norton, and reading
something like pity in his mother's eyes, he fell
into the further error of feigning light-hearted care-
lessness as to Yere and her goings on. If she could
throw him over for an old money-pot such as
Richard Barker, he would show her that he also
could find metal more attractive than her fair, false,
mercenary self. Accordingly he devoted himself
BY PARCELS POST. 429
openly to Tiny in a way that made Vere (who was
watching him) ache with a conviction of his fickle-
ness, and burn with indignation at having been
weak enough to pander to his vanity in the matter
of wearing his flowers.
Presently his mother found an opportunity of
saying to him,—
"Have you spoken to Vere? I wish she had
come with me instead of with those Barkers.
 Why, don't you see, she will soon be one of
them ? he answered, laughing bitterly.  She is
wearing his flowers, and giving him all her atten-
tion, as she will soon be in duty bound to do.
 His ? whose ? 
"Why, old Richard Barker's, to be sure. Don't
pretend not to see how it is, mother. Your
favourite Vere is a mercenary little cat, and—I
wish I had never been ass enough to think she was
anything else.
 Oh, Charlie! it can't be that, his mother said in
430 BY PARCELS POST.
unfeigned distress. "I felt annoyed at seeing her
here with Mrs. Barker; she is not a woman with
whom our Yere ought to be seen 
 Don't call her ' our' Yere any more, mother.
She'll marry old Barker, and be a common flirting,
frisky matron, like her precious sister-in-law. I see
it all. Then he turned away from his mother,
and bent his handsome head down low, and seemed
to be whispering soft nonsense to dusky, rich
little Miss Norton.
His conduct did not escape the notice of Vere's
friends on the drag.
"Do you see young Lowther with the West
Indian heiress ? Mrs. Barker said lightly to her
brother-in-law, and the latter winked with an eye
full of appalling mischievous satisfaction, Yere
thought, as he answered,—
 Oh yes, I know all about that. I advised him
to look out in that quarter. His professional income
won't keep him in coats if he goes to a decent
BY PARCELS POST. 431
tailor; he must marry money; and Tiny Norton
is one of the nicest girls going.
To this Vere listened in agony. Mr. Richard
Barker's remarks only corroborated her own fears
and suspicions; at the same time they were odious
to her,—as corroborative remarks usually are on a
disagreeable subject,—and in her agony of fear and
suspicion she leant forward a little, looked wist-
fully towards Charlie, and lifted her forget-me-
nots and pale pink roses to her lips in a pro-
nounced manner, that  would surely bring him
to his senses, and her side, she thought.
But he was blinded by the mists of misconcep-
tion that had arisen in his mind, and by jealousy,
and so the pathetic floral signal that she made
was not responded to.
 Kissing the flowers that old beast has given
her! Doing it under my nose, too ! It's ghastly;
it's not like Vere, the young fellow said to
himself, and as he said it he whispered again to
432 BY PARCELS POST.
Tiny Norton, and tried to look as if he liked
her.
There could be no doubt about it. Yere was
going to be false to her life's love, and sacrifice
herself to Mr. Richard Barker for filthy lucre's sake;
so he, Charlie Lowther, would show her that if
she undervalued him, he was not going to break
his heart about it. Instead of wasting in despair, he
would take the goods the gods gave him in the
shape of Tiny Norton and her fortune. He did
not expect to be happy, of course; happiness and
he had parted company for ever. But he would
be kind to Tiny, and the money would have a
certain power of compensation.
As soon as he made this resolution he became
impatient to act upon it. If he had not felt that
the abruptness of the proceeding might startle her,
he would have made Tiny an offer on the spot.
As it was, he refrained from doing this, but he made
her heart flutter with delight by his air of devotion
BYPARCELS POST. 433
and his pronounced attentions, all of which were
clearly visible to miserable Vere, who was ex-
periencing, to the fullest extent, the excruciatingly
painful sensations of the woman scorned.
Why had Charlie sent her the flowers, and asked
her to wear them? It could only have been to
humble her, to lead her on to show herself ready
to be lightly won by him. She grew distracted
when this idea suggested itself to her, and longed
to let him see that she was not anxious to throw
herself at his head in such an ignominious way
He had tricked and deceived, and was probably
now laughing at her, with that odious Tiny
Norton! Vere felt as if all that she had been
accustomed to rely upon had suddenly proved un-
trustworthy, as she looked at Mrs. Lowther's
averted face and Charlie's frivolous flirtation.
One wise resolution she made in the midst of
her distress and bewilderment, and this was that
she would go to Mrs. Lowther's the following
434 BY PARCELS POST.
morning, and ask for an explanation of her coldness,
at least, though her "proper pride would not allow
her to demand one from the faithless Charlie.
But this resolution she was not permitted to keep,
for when the diversion at Lord's came to an end,
Mr. Richard Barker had a plan to propose which
quite met with his pleasure-loving sister-in-law's
approbation.
 Come down to my little place at Weybridge
and dine, and stay the night, and to-morrow I'll
take Miss Lorrimer on the river, he said; and
disregarding Vere's blank look of aversion to the
scheme, Mrs. Barker eagerly accepted the invitation.
It was terrible to the girl to go out of town
with the Barkers before clearing the atmosphere
between herself and the Lowthers. But Mrs. Barker
permitted no appeal to be made against her decision.
Accordingly they went down to Mr. Richard Barker's
little place on the river at Weybridge, and stayed
there for three or four days.
BY PAKCELS POST. 435
On the last morning of their visit Mrs. Barker
went early into Vere's bedroom, brimming with the
delicious consciousness of having painful news to
impart.
 I've had a letter from Melanie, she began
speaking of the dressmaker with a French name
and a Cockney accent, who made costumes both
for Mrs. Lowther and Mrs. Barker.  And what
do you think she gives as a reason why I cant
have my heliotrope satin this week ?
"A mourning order, I suppose, Yere said lan-
guidly.  They always say it's mourning when
they mean to throw one over for some one else.
"No, indeed, it's a wedding order she plead,
as her excuse for disappointing me; and whose
wedding is it, do you think?
"I don't think about it.
"Well, my dear, I'm delighted to be able to tell
you, for I think the young man has done very
wisely. It's Tiny Norton 
436 BY PARCELS POST.
 Tiny Norton ! Vere grew very pale; the chill
and shadow of a coming sorrow was upon her
already.
"Yes, Tiny Norton is going to be married almost
directly to Mr. Charles Lowther, and I think him a
most fortunate young man. Now, Vere, he plucky
I am glad you hear it down here for if you will he
guided hy me you'll go back to town engaged to
Richard, and no one will suspect that you've been
almost jilted.
Vere strove to be plucky, and made a fair show
of being so, but her heart was aching horribly. How-
ever, false pride made her listen favourably to Mr
Richard Barker's ardently-pressed suit, and she
went back engaged to him.
When Mrs. Lowther heard of the engagement
she held herself sternly aloof from the girl whom
she had once hoped would be her daughter, and so
the mists of misapprehension were not cleared away
while there was yet time.
BY PARCELS POST. 437
But one day, when she had been Mrs. Richard
Barker for some time, and when the dull unhappi-
ness of her life had aroused all the old love in Mrs.
Lowther's heart for her again, they spoke of that
dreadful day at the Eton and Harrow match.
"I have kept those flowers, and I shall have
them buried with me, Vere said, with a wintry
smile. "Mrs. Charles Lowther won't know, and so
won't be jealous. Your son sent them to me by
parcels post that morning. He had asked me the
night before to wear his present as a sign that I
would accept his offer of marriage. I did as he
asked me—but he had repented, and so 
 Oh, Vere! my poor Vere! and poor Charlie,
too, his mother cried;  he sent you a pearl ring, not
the flowers at all. They came from your husband!
 It would have been better never to know,
Vere said bitterly.  The flowers will not be buried
with me now. It would have been better never
to know!
By the same Author,
LOVE'S JL TLnEL-A-LTT,
($, Qonef.
Picture Boards, 2/-; Cloth, 3/6.
OPINIONS OP THE PRESS.
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Tyrant,' and that is Olivia Gwynne, the warm-hearted daughter of
a penniless Irish peer."—Guardian.
 As far as style is concerned, this new novel is equal to ' Denis
Donne.'"—Literary World.
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story is interesting and sympathetic, the plot well worked out, and
all the characters living, breathing human beings."—Academy.
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