I.-' '"-L Henry Wood 
 
I BOOK CARD II 
 
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 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 PR5842 
 .W8 
 
 P6 
 1899 
 
UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 00014726978 
 
 This book is due at the LOUIS R. WILSON LIBRARY on the 
 last date stamped under "Date Due." If not on hold it may be 
 renewed by bringing it to the library. 
 
 DATE njTT 
 
 DUE 
 
 DATE 1 
 DUE 1 
 
 NIAY 2 
 
 
 
 
 OCT 2 c 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CO C i ^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
/ 
 
POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
Digitized by 
 
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 littp://archive.org/details/pomeroyabbeyOOwood 
 
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 ^^^^ 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HENRY WOOD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "EAST T.YNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," "JOHNNY LUDLOW/' ETC. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 EICHAED BENTLEY AND SON, 
 ?3ublis|)ers tn ^rtn'narg to ^er l^ajestg tfjc ^\m\\. 
 1890. 
 
 (^All rights reserved.) 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 PAGR 
 
 T 
 
 X, 
 
 U UAiN XT UiVliliKv^ X ... ... ... ... 
 
 1 
 
 II. 
 
 At the White House 
 
 17 
 
 III. 
 
 The Keeper's Daughter ... 
 
 ... 29 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Death Flag 
 
 41 
 
 Y. 
 
 At the Stile 
 
 ... 52 
 
 VI. 
 
 Triumph 
 
 63 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Storm 
 
 ... 78 
 
 VIIT. 
 
 The Young Lady of Pomeroy 
 
 on 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Prediction ... 
 
 Wo 
 
 X. 
 
 The Quarrel 
 
 122 
 
 XI. 
 
 Folly 
 
 ... 139 
 
 XII. 
 
 In the Haunted Room 
 
 152 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The Climax 
 
 ... 162 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Escaped 
 
 168 
 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 
 I. 
 
 At the Duchess op St. Ives' 
 
 ... 183 
 
 , n. 
 
 Lady Anna ... 
 
 197 
 
 III. 
 
 GuY*s Child 
 
 ... 208 
 
 IV. 
 
 Startling Visitors ... 
 
 222 
 
vi 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 V. 
 
 A Warning 
 
 PAGE 
 
 235 
 
 VI. 
 
 Whispered News 
 
 244 
 
 VII. 
 
 In the Chapel ... 
 
 ... 254 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A Frail Blossom 
 
 265 
 
 IX. 
 
 Later on 
 
 271 
 
 X. 
 
 Mystery 
 
 279 
 
 XI. 
 
 Bridget's Tale ... 
 
 ... 298 
 
 XII. 
 
 Mrs. Wylde 
 
 ... 308 
 
 xm. 
 
 With Mr. Hildyard 
 
 318 
 
 XIV. 
 
 On the Seat by the Sea 
 
 330 
 
 XV. 
 
 Trouble and Terror 
 
 343 
 
 XVI. 
 
 In the Keep 
 
 357 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Laid to Best 
 
 ... 873 
 
 
 PART THE 
 
 > 
 
 THIRD. 
 
 I. 
 
 After Long Years 
 
 383 
 
 II. 
 
 Naomi's Bevelation . . . 
 
 394 
 
 III. 
 
 Annaline 
 
 407 
 
 IV. 
 
 Amidst the Boses 
 
 411 
 
 V 
 
 BuPERT AND Mary 
 
 417 
 
 VI. 
 
 With Mrs. Wylde ... 
 
 423 
 
 VII. 
 
 BlVALRY 
 
 433 
 
 VIIL 
 
 Coming Home 
 
 441 
 
PART THE FIRST. 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 
 
 1 
 
POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTEE L 
 
 JOAN POMEROY. 
 
 Never was there a more gloomy structure tlian that of the 
 old Abbey of Pomeroy, with its grey walls, overgrown in 
 places with lichen and other mosses, its narrow Gothic 
 casements, and its time-worn towers. It was in keeping 
 v/ith the scenery around. Situated on a wild part of the 
 coast of England, it was flanked by bleak and bold rocks on 
 the one side, and a dark forest on the other. Not that the 
 trees were very close to the abbey ; they were considerably 
 removed from it, forming, as it were, a background in the 
 distance. The abbey, looking towards the sea, faced the 
 east ; and from its front descended a gentle hill, where a 
 few houses, most of them very poor and humble, were 
 honoured with the title of the village, taking its name from 
 their site, " Abbeyland ; " for the houses were built on lands 
 belonging to the abbey. This hill wound round to the 
 right, and led onwards to the dark and gloomy forest. 
 
 In days gone by, in the tmie of the Norman kings, this 
 place had been the stronghold of the de Pomeroys, who 
 were noted warriors. Then, gradually, they seem to have 
 dwindled away and disappeared, and the abbey for a century 
 or two was the abode of a religious order of monks. After 
 that, it had come again into the hands of the Pomeroys, who 
 professed to be lineal descendants of the ancient family, and 
 who in fact were so. They retained their original faith, 
 that of the Church of Rome, but dropped the ^- de " before 
 
4 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 their name. The reigning chief of the abbey was called 
 the Lord of Pomeroy ; a privilege bestowed iij^on the family, 
 according to popular belief, by one of our Norman kings. 
 
 But the Pomeroys themselves accounted for it in a 
 different manner. Tradition ran — and they and others 
 believed it to be true — that the portion of land on which 
 the abbey and its demesnes were situated had once been an 
 island — the Island of Pomeroy. On this the Pomeroys had 
 held sway as its absolute lords ; and had hence derived their 
 title of the Lords of Pomeroy. Since then, ages ago, the 
 sea had retreated and the island became part of the main 
 land ; but they still retained their title, and were likely 
 to retain it. The reader understands that it was no title 
 conferred by law or monarch ; it was merely conceded in 
 courtesy, somewhat as a landed proprietor in Scotland is 
 styled the laird. Nothing could move their own faith that 
 they had as much right to it as has the premier peer of 
 England to his dukedom. 
 
 The abbey was built in the form of a quadrangle ; a solid 
 square stone building with a turret at each corner. The 
 massive iron entrance-gates stood in the middle of the 
 front or east pile. Entering these gates, and passing their 
 dark, S23acious archway, to the square opening or quadrangle 
 that lay in the centre of the building, we see how large it 
 is. Each side contains rooms sufficient for a numerous 
 household. Standing with our faces to the entrance, the 
 chief, or east pile lies before us, and its corner turret, to 
 our left as we stand, is called the East Tower. The 
 north and west v/ings lie betv/een their respective tov/ers ; 
 and the south wing, lying to our right between the west 
 and south towers, brings us again to the front and starting- 
 point. Of these various piles, or wings, only the front and 
 north are inhabited at present, though all (excepting the 
 west) are more or less furnished for occupation. 
 
 The rooms in the west wdng, and more particularly those 
 in the west tower, have the reputation of being haunted ; and 
 for long past no one has inhabited them. It should also 
 be said that this west wing, though apparently as large 
 as the other wings to us who stand in the open quadrangle 
 
JOAN POMEROY. 
 
 5 
 
 below, is deceptive. For it is not half the width of the 
 other wings ; and the rooms, instead of being numerous, are 
 few, and all of them look out upon the abbey itself, and the 
 quadrangle it encloses, there being no windows whatever at 
 the back. As to the quadrangle, with its grassy flooring, if 
 the term may be allowed, it looks exactly like a gloomy 
 graveyard enclosed by cloisters. All round the quadrangle, 
 between the abbey and the grass, lie roofed cloisters sup- 
 ported by pillars ; their casements are unglazed and open to 
 the quadrangle ; doors here and there lead from them into 
 the quadrangle, as they do from the cloisters into the house. 
 
 If there were a window looking out to the back in the 
 west wing, and we could take our stand at it, we should 
 gaze upon a wide expanse of wood and dale. To the right 
 lies the chapel, surmounted by its quaint cross, and the 
 graveyard beside it. Near the graveyard is the little 
 house inhabited by the priest. Father Andrew, who shrives 
 the abbey and the village and the neighbourhood in general, 
 for nearly every one is of the old faith. Beyond are the 
 stables and coach-houses. Some miles further off may be 
 seen the chimneys of a large building rising against the 
 horizon ; they belong to a convent. It has existed for 
 centuries, having been spared the destruction which so 
 many other religious communities underwent in troublous 
 times, though a portion of it once had to be rebuilt after a 
 fire. It is of a rigid order, and is an educational establish- 
 ment as well as a convent. A few houses nestling within 
 their own grounds may be observed, scattered here and 
 there in the distance : sundry good Eoman Catholic families 
 inhabit them, draAvn to the neighbourhood originally by the 
 convent, by the far-famed abbey and its strictly Eoman 
 Catholic owners. 
 
 Rather to our left, and very near the abbey, stands a 
 small, round stone building, grey and old; it is covered 
 with moss like the abbey, and is called the keep. A slope 
 of green grass descends from it somewhat abruptly to a low 
 level dell or hollow ; and then the ground gently rises 
 again to the abbey walls. At present this keep is vacant ; 
 but it has occasionally been inhabited by some faithful 
 
6 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 retainer of the family when he has grown too old for service. 
 It is said that the present lord intends his ovm man, Jerome, 
 to retire to it later. On this west side the abbey has no 
 entrance v/hatever. Neither has the south side any outer 
 entrance ; if you want to enter you must travel round to the 
 front-gates. On the north side lie the garden and grounds, 
 which are extensive. 
 
 Hugh, Lord of Pomeroy, the present head of the family, 
 had two daughters and four sons: Guy, Kupert, George, 
 and Leolin ; Guy of course being the heir. George, Captain 
 Pomeroy, was with his regiment in Ireland, though he had 
 recently been sojourning at the abbey ; in fact, as his father 
 told him, he seemed to be always getting leave of absence 
 and coming home, Leolin was on the continent, an attache 
 at one of our embassies. Guy and Rupert were at home; 
 neither had any profession or calling. Guy was the heir; 
 and Rupert had come into a fair fortune when he was of 
 age, bequeathed by his mother, because he was the second 
 son, though it wiis well known that her favourite son was 
 the third, George. The rest thought it unfair that Rupert 
 should have this money, Guy especially; but the Lady 
 of Pomeroy had so left it in her will, and nothing could 
 be changed after her death. It might have been just as 
 v/ell that Rupert had not inherited the bequest. He had 
 hastened to London, to Paris, and to other gay places, spend- 
 ing the money right and left. When it w^as all gone, and 
 more to it, for which he was in debt thick and threefold, 
 back he came to the abbey and there took up his abode. 
 That was a twelvemonth ago, and he was still here. 
 
 Guy and Rupert Pomeroy v/ere remarkably tall, fine men, 
 just of a height, nearly six feet three, and alike in figure. 
 They both possessed the high, handsome features of the 
 Pomeroys, the bright brown hair, and the deep-grey eyes ; 
 but there the resemblance apparently ended. Guy was of a 
 pale, almost ghastly complexion ; his features, as well formed 
 as Rupert's, were rendered plain by their exceedingly stern 
 expression, and by his possessing what is called a hare-lip, 
 all efforts to close which had failed in infancy. Rupert's 
 complexion was more fresh and beautiful than is often ovvned 
 
JOAN POMEROY. 
 
 7 
 
 by man, the expression of his face was winning, though 
 somewhat free, and his mouth was one of great sweetness. 
 In voice also they differed: Guy's being deep and harsh, 
 Rupert's pleasant as music. 
 
 It was a bright summer morning, and the breakfast-cloth 
 was laid in the usual room ; a small apartment on the first 
 floor, that looked towards the front of the abbey. Many 
 of the rooms on the ground-floor were given over to the 
 servants : and the windows of all were protected outside by 
 cross-bars of iron. Standing at the narrow open casement 
 of this breakfast-room, while waiting for her father and 
 brothers, was Miss Pomeroy, gazing out upon the old 
 familiar features, which she had not seen for so long : the 
 rocks, the straggling village, and a large white house nearly 
 hidden by trees, which lay half-way up the hill beyond. 
 She had returned home the previous evening from an absence 
 of eight months. Some years ago her sister Isabel had 
 married the Honourable Henry Capel, and had already 
 more children than she cared to count. Joan often went to 
 stay with her, but had never remained away so long before. 
 She had been named Joan after a certain Dame Joan do 
 Pomeroy, famous for her beauty in the reign of King John. 
 Poor Joan — this Joan — was plain, tall and angular, her hair 
 very dark, and her complexion nearly olive ; but her features 
 were good. She was twenty-nine this year; her sister 
 Isabel, the eldest of the family, being one year older. 
 Rupert entered. 
 
 " What are you looking at, Joan ? " 
 
 " Not at anything in particular. J ust then I was watch- 
 ing the smoke curling up from the White House. How do 
 you get on with its inmates, Rupert? Have you become 
 intimate with them ? " 
 Guy has." 
 
 ^^Guy!" 
 
 "He and the lord are there often. Indeed, I "began to 
 think that we were going to be presented, gratis, with a 
 lady-in-law " 
 
 " Rupert ! " interrupted Joan, in a tone of rebuke. 
 
 " Or step-lady — how runs it ? " continued the unmoved 
 
8 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Eupert. " Until I found that tlie play lay in a different 
 direction. The Lord and Mrs. Wylde were only courting 
 for their children." 
 
 Joan drew up her head. " As if papa would condescend 
 to anything of the kind, Rupert ! Tell me what you mean." 
 
 " The son-and-heir is to settle," cried Eupert ; " so runs 
 
 the programme ; and " 
 
 Guy cannot afford it. You have all been too extravagant 
 for him to think of marrying ; papa has often told him so. 
 Two households in the abbey would double the present 
 expenses." 
 
 " I should like to have a guinea for every superfluous 
 word you drop in a day, Joan," laughed Eupert Pomeroy, 
 who was the essence of good temj)er. " Guy will afford an 
 establishment — if he gets the young lady. She has five- 
 and-twenty thousand pounds — to bo paid down on her 
 wedding-day." 
 
 " Are you speaking of the mother or the daughter ? " 
 
 "Well done, Joan! The mother is double Guy's age — 
 or getting on for it. I said on the wedding-day." 
 
 " But — will — she, the daughter, have Guy ? " slowly and 
 doubtfully ejaculated Miss Pomeroy. 
 
 Eupert opened another of the narrow casements, and put 
 his head out. He whistled to one of his pointers, which 
 was frolicking below with the gamekeeper. Gaunt. 
 
 "Eupert! Eupert!" exclaimed his sister, petulantly, 
 " you know when I want to hear a thing I must hear it. I 
 say will Alice Wylde accept Guy ? " 
 
 Eupert drew in his head. " You had better ask that of 
 Guy himself" 
 
 " Is it true that she will have so large a sum ? " 
 
 "Quite true. Her father was in India: a nabob— or 
 rajah — or merchant — something they make fortunes at, out 
 there : and she inherits it. There will be another twenty- 
 five thousand when her mother dies : or more." 
 
 " She will never have Guy : she is too beautiful." 
 
 " Pretty women often marry ugly men, and Hush 1 " 
 
 broke off Eupert : " here he comes, the son-and-heir." 
 
 Guy Pomeroy was heard outside, talking. Plis temper had 
 
JOAN POMEROY. 
 
 9 
 
 made liim not loved by his brothers and sisters, over whom 
 he assumed too much authority. But the lord doted on 
 him. In Guy he saw his son-and-heir : and his constant 
 allusions to Guy's being so, had caused the rest to apply the 
 term to Guy derisively. Haughty, arrogant, and fearful 
 spendthrifts, the Pomeroys, from the lord downwards, had 
 outrun their income ; but this was not known to the world ; 
 and Guy, between whom and his father there existed entire 
 confidence, had reached the age of eight-and-twenty without 
 thought of marrying. " You must wait until I'm gone, 
 Guy," the lord sometimes said to him ; " you'll have the 
 whole then." Whilst things were in this state, the White 
 House changed its tenants, and became inhabited by the 
 rich widow and daughter of Mr. Wylde. 
 
 But not for the sake of her fortune did Guy Pomeroy 
 think of sacrificing his liberty : that the money may have 
 added weight to the inducement, was probable, but the fresh 
 beauty of Alice Wylde had caught his eye and heart. When 
 those cold-natured men, such as Guy, do love they love 
 passionately : and with an imjiassioned fervour that is not 
 often equalled had Guy Pomeroy learnt to love Alice Wylde. 
 Eupert did not explain this to his sister; he parried her 
 questions, and seemed to treat the whole as a joke to be 
 laughed at. 
 
 " I hear George has been at home again," she resumed. 
 
 " George ? Yes, he came soon after you left home, I 
 think ; he stayed for some months." 
 
 " I wonder he likes to idle away so much of his time — 
 and I wonder he gets the leave to do it," remarked Joan. 
 " He cannot find much amusement here, I should think. But 
 George was always idly inclined, and down here he is of 
 course relieved from duty." 
 
 As she spoke, Guy Pomeroy entered. Joan went up to 
 him and they kissed each other : they had not previously 
 met since her return. Guy took his seat at the breakfast- 
 table, and motioned to her to do the same. 
 
 " Guy," she began, as she obeyed him, with little regard 
 to his feelings or to her own good manners, " Eupert says 
 you wish to marry Miss Wylde. Will she have you ? " 
 
10 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 A hot flusli illumined Guy's white cheek; proving, of 
 itself, how very deep his love had gone. He drew himself 
 up haughtily. 
 
 "Let Eupert concern himself with his fishing and his 
 shooting, and his other — more questionable — sports : but 
 let him not concern himself with me." 
 
 He rang the bell as he spoke ; Rupert, still looking from 
 the casement, appeared not to hear. Jerome came in, the 
 lord's personal attendant ; a faithful serving-man over fifty 
 years old. 
 
 " The lord breakfasts in his room," said Guy. 
 "Yes, sir, I know it," replied Jerome. "He has slept 
 badly." 
 
 Joan was busy with the breakfast-table. She could not 
 domineer over Guy, as she did over Rupert : not that the 
 latter heeded her domineering, for he was good-tempered 
 and careless. Once, Y>^hen Guy had declined to tell her 
 something she v/ished to know, and she had teased him to 
 anger, he had struck her. She said no more now about 
 Alice Wylde, but let the conversation drift to general 
 subjects, and the breakfast passed in peace. 
 
 The meal over, she went up to her father. A grand, tall 
 old man, with a grey, handsome face, and grey hair. Now 
 that Joan saw him by daylight, she noticed how ill and 
 worn he looked. He was slowly eating his breakfast at a 
 small round table drawn to the fire in his own sitting-room. 
 
 " Papa, you don't look well." 
 
 " No. I can't get over that last attack of mine, child." 
 " And you have a fire ! It is a very warm day." 
 " I never feel warm now. There, let my ailments alone, 
 Joan. Talk of something else." 
 
 " Papa, is Guy to marry Alice Wylde ? " 
 
 The lord looked up. " Who has made you so wise ? " 
 
 " Rupert." 
 
 " It is no business of Rupert's." 
 
 " Papa, I do not suppose she would have Guy." 
 
 " Not have Guy ! I can tell you that an alliance with the 
 future Lord of Pomeroy is w^hat many a young lady, far 
 higher in position and lineage than she, would kneel for. 
 
JOAN POMEROY. 
 
 11 
 
 She and Mrs. Wylde see it in the right light, and are eager 
 for it. Do you think that so strange a thing, Joan ? " 
 
 " Well, papa, you know that Guy is stern of manner, and 
 not very much liked in general. And one so rich and 
 beautiful as Miss Wylde can choose as she will." 
 
 " But Guy will be Lord of Pomeroy. To be his wife is 
 what a daughter of the highest noble in the land might 
 covet. And Guy Vvill make a good husband — unless I am 
 mistaken. At any rate, Joan, the matter lies entirely with 
 himself and Miss Wylde : it is not seemly that you should 
 thus comment upon it." 
 
 "I'm sure, papa, I wish Guy every happiness," replied 
 Joan, her eyes filling at the reproof. " If he and Miss 
 Wylde like one another, I could desire nothing better." 
 
 " Guy likes her ; be very sure of that. And, if Mrs. Wylde 
 is to be believed, the daughter likes him. And now you 
 may leave me, my dear : I'm expecting Father Andrew." 
 
 As Joan went out of the room, she met the Father. He 
 wore his priestly garments, by which Joan knew that lie 
 was going in for some office of religion. Father Andrew's 
 face, a pleasant, rubicund face at all times, brightened at 
 the sight of her. He was a stout man of middle height, and 
 of some five-and-forty years. 
 
 " Welcome home, my child. We have been dull without 
 you." 
 
 "Father," she w^hispered, after responding to his greet- 
 ing, " do you think papa is seriously ill ? He looks so 
 changed." 
 
 " He is weaker than I like to see him. But the last fit of 
 gout was a sharp one, and tried him terribly." 
 " But that was three months ago." 
 
 " True. Still, he has never seemed quite the same since. 
 And he is not cautious enough as to v/hat he takes. Poor 
 living does not suit the taste of the Pomeroys. Howeverp 
 let us hope that he will get up his strength shortly." 
 
 Father Andrew passed into the lord's room, and J oan went 
 about her business in the abbey. Visiting the housekeeperj 
 Mrs. Eex, and other of the upper servants, and superintend- 
 ing the putting away of her own wardrobe — which she liked 
 
12 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 to do, ratlier than leave it entirely to her maid. What with 
 one thing and another, she was pretty busy until luncheon- 
 time. Early in the afternoon, she called Bridget — who was 
 the housekeeper's niece and a favourite servant. 
 
 " I want you to go as far as the lodge," she said. " Tell 
 Sybilla — tell Miss Gaunt that I am at home ; though I dare 
 say she has heard it. Give my love to her and ask her to 
 come up to see me." 
 
 Away went Bridget on her errand. She was soon back 
 again ; for the gamekeeper's lodge was only just beyond the 
 village. 
 
 " Miss Gaunt's kind love and duty to you, Miss Joan ; 
 but she has one of her bad headaches this afternoon, and is 
 not able to wait on you," was the message Bridget brought. 
 And Joan Pomeroy's usually placid features took a momen- 
 tarily cross expression — for she liked Sybilla Gaunt and was 
 fond of her occasional companionship. 
 
 The family dined alone. Not in the great dining-hall 
 below, but with all the usual state and ceremony appertain- 
 ing to the Pomeroys. The lord headed his table and Joan 
 faced him ; Guy and Rupert being on either side. To be 
 alone at dinner was rather an unusual circumstance ; for the 
 abbey was fond of guests, though it might be only Father 
 Andrew. But the lord was losing his energy, and of late 
 seemed not to care how much he was left in quiet. With 
 the removal of the cloth, Joan quitted the room. Rupert 
 followed her, and strolled out. Guy remained with his father. 
 
 Where have you been all the afternoon ? " demanded the 
 lord. " At the White House ? " 
 
 " I called there," replied Guy. 
 
 " Wlien do you mean to bring matters to a close ? It 
 seems to me that you are holding off unaccountably. Speak 
 to her off-hand, Guy, and don't be afraid. I never knew 
 that a Pomeroy could bo scared by a woman." 
 ' Guy Pomeroy's livid face turned scarlet ; a far deeper 
 scarlet than that called up by Joan's bold question in the 
 morning. If the proud old chief could only have known its 
 cause ! 
 
 " There is plenty of time," replied Guy, evasively. 
 
JOAN POMEROY. 
 
 13 
 
 " As you please, Guy. I thought your heart was set upon 
 the match. I'm sure I don't wish to urge it, if you don't." 
 
 " Time enough," muttered Guy. " Father, drink claret ; 
 so much port is not good for you." 
 
 " I hate claret," said the lord ; " not a drop should be on 
 my table, but for fashion's sake. I never could get used to 
 it as a young man, and I can't as an old one. In my day, 
 Guy, the creed was to despise everything French." 
 
 " But think of the gout, sir. Jerome is fearing another 
 attack." 
 
 Jerome would fear his own shadow," replied the Lord of 
 Pomeroy. 
 
 Meanwhile, Eupert strolled leisurely along, just as though 
 he had no object in life except to look about him ; but when 
 he was beyond view of the abbey, he mended his pace, and 
 went as if he were walking for a wager. It was a lovely 
 summer's evening, and the setting sun threw its golden light 
 athwart the heavy trees in the distance. Crossing some 
 fields, by a sheltered path, he emerged from them at the 
 back of the White House, and entered its garden by a small 
 door. 
 
 Not to the open part of it : no, Eupert Pomeroy dared not 
 do that, lest he should encounter the lynx eyes of Mrs. 
 Wyldc. He kept amidst the clump of shrubs that skirted 
 the wall, and peeped out beyond them to see what was to be 
 seen. 
 
 He saw a bright, radiant-looking girl, her dark brown 
 hair shining in the sunbeams, and her cheeks damask with 
 expectation. She was in an evening dress of white, and 
 wore a small thin gold chain round her neck, and similar 
 bracelets on her arms ; and she was flitting from bed to bed, 
 plucking a flower from one, stooping to inhale the scent of 
 another, and — drawing farther from the windows of the 
 house : drawing as if unconsciously, and without any ap- 
 parent design. Just in the same manner, you observe, that 
 Mr. Eupert Pomeroy had drawn away from the abbey. 
 
 Eupert Pomeroy, talking with his sister, had said the late 
 Mr. Wylde had been something in India — a nabob, or rajah, 
 or merchant — something at which people made fortunes. 
 
14 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 In point of fact, Mr. Wylde had not been any one of tlie 
 three; he had been a railway contractor. The greater 
 portion of his fortune was made at home ; though he did go 
 out to India and died there. Of his large fortune, twenty- 
 five thousand pounds were left to his daughter, to be paid to 
 her on her marriage; and the rest (which was something 
 like another twenty-five thousand doubled) would be hers 
 on the death of his wife. 
 
 Mrs. Wylde and Alice came home from India — having 
 accompanied Mr. Wylde thither — conscious of possessing 
 more riches than they well knew how to count. The con- 
 tractor had been a close man as to his means, and the wife 
 had never supposed that he was worth a tithe of what those 
 means turned out to be. Being so wealthy, it was of course 
 incumbent on the widow to set up her tent accordingly ; so 
 she looked out for some pleasant locality where Eoman 
 Catholics congregated — for the Wyldes were of that per- 
 suasion — and was directed to Abbeyland. Mrs. Wylde took 
 upon long lease the White House, which belonged to the 
 Pomeroys, and settled down in it. 
 
 They were very pleasant people, this widow and daughter ; 
 the latter was also lovely ; and Guy and Eupert Pomeroy 
 called upon and paid court to their new tenants. Eumours 
 of the girl's great Vv^ealth got about, and the Lord of Pomeroy 
 began to pay them attention himself. Guy's heart, hitherto 
 invulnerable, fell before the charms of the young lady ; the 
 lord read the signs, and favoured the project. He was a 
 proud old man, and the Wyldes were nobodies ; but money 
 was wanted at Pomeroy, and he put the riches against the 
 want of descent. "One can't have everything nowadays," 
 he remarked to Guy. 
 
 The lord, when speaking to Joan, had used the right term 
 with regard to Mrs. Wylde — she was " eager " for the match. 
 Mrs. Wylde's husband had not much to boast of in the way 
 of descent : she had as little ; was, in short, of no " descent," 
 whatever. As a matter of course — at least, it is a matter of 
 course with many such people — she was inordinately alive 
 to the advantages of rank. Her own turn was over; she 
 could not be other than she was; but to see Alice wed 
 
JOAN POMEROY. 
 
 15 
 
 into a noble family was her first earthly ambition : and when 
 the heir of Pomeroy permitted himself to show indication 
 that he was paying court to Alice, her exultation knew no 
 bounds. Once let Alice become his wife, and Mrs. Wylde 
 would fold her hands in contentment and rest upon her 
 laurels for life. 
 
 What though Guy Pomeroy was stern of mien and plain 
 of face ? — as Alice remonstrated. " Look at him from a 
 little distance," said Mrs. Wylde, "and where else would 
 you find so handsome a form, so noble a man? It was 
 only when you were close to him that you perceived his 
 lip had a little defect in it, and his face was somewhat 
 pale." 
 
 Yes," answered Alice again, "but wives do not look at 
 husbands from a distance; they pass their days close to 
 them." 
 
 However, she might have been tempted to take Guy, for 
 she was just as great a worshipper of rank as her mother, 
 and no doubt would have taken him, but for one unfor- 
 tunate circumstance — she had fallen in love with his brother 
 Eupert. 
 
 And Mrs. Wylde saw nothing of the mischief until it was 
 done. We rarely suspect the treason that goes on under 
 our very eyes. Eupert and Guy were alike equally welcomed 
 to the White House : metaphorically, Mrs, Wylde worshipped 
 any one 'bearing the name of Pomeroy. Eupert and Alice 
 had plenty of time and opj)ortunity given them to fall in 
 love with one another. 
 
 But suddenly, without the slightest warning, Mrs. Wylde 
 saw something one day, or thought she saw it, that she did 
 not approve of — something like a private understanding 
 between her daughter and Eupert: and a faint and very 
 disagreeable suspicion dawned upon her that Alice might be 
 getting to enjoy the society of the handsome Eupert more 
 than that of Guy. Alice made a joke of her mother's 
 " fancy," as she called it, denying it utterly ; and Mrs. 
 Wylde was fain to be appeased. But the incident taught 
 her caution : and from that hour Eupert Pomeroy's visits to 
 the house were discouraged. Call when he would, he could 
 
16 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 not obtain admittance : tlio ladies were out, or the ladies 
 were engaged. 
 
 Alice Wylde had not been well trained. Anything but 
 that. Whether she was by nature self-willed and deceitful, 
 or whether present circumstances were imparting those 
 qualities to her, cannot be known. Vain to a fault was she ; 
 passionately fond of admiration ; and, with it all, a perfect 
 coquette. 
 
 Nearly from the very first she had detected the Heir of 
 Pomeroy's serious feeling for her. It gratified her intensely. 
 She drew him on ; flirting, laughing, talking ; playing off her 
 pretty airs and graces upon him. It may be that she did 
 not know what she was doing —what drawing him on to ; it 
 may be that she deemed his feelings might be shallow as 
 her own — if, indeed, hers were shallow — and that if his 
 wings did get a little singed in the radiant light of her 
 presence, they would soon heal again. It may be, too, that 
 she changed her tactics in a degree as the love grew between 
 her and Eupert ; and that if she did not actually repress 
 Guy, she did not continue to give him encouragement. 
 
 The Lord of Pomeroy spoke a word of reproach to his son 
 Guy at the dinner-table, for not pursuing more ardently his 
 suit with Miss Wylde. Guy's face had flushed hot with 
 emotion, and Guy had turned the subject off. He had cause 
 to do both. 
 
 That very afternoon Guy Pomeroy had staked his die and 
 lost it: he had offered himself to Alice Wylde, and been 
 refused. 
 
 You must accept me ; you have led mo to think that 
 you would," pleaded Guy, in his terrible surprise. " I love 
 you too passionately to lose you." 
 
 But Alice only said he was mistaken, and rejected him 
 utterly. She gave him no hope whatever ; on the contrary, 
 she forbade him to think of hope, then or ever. And the 
 Heir of Pomeroy left the house a mortified and (so far as 
 his hopes went) a crushed man. 
 
( 17 ) 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Mrs. Wylde chanced to bo from liome during tlie visit of 
 Guy Pomeroy, just recorded, and knew nothing of what had 
 transpired ; neither was it disclosed to her, then or after- 
 wards. Her carriage drove in late, close upon the dinner- 
 hour ; she hastened to dress, and then joined her daughter 
 in the drawing-room. 
 
 " Does Mr. Pomeroy dine here ? " inquired Mrs. Wylde, 
 who was a little fair woman, with cold, light eyes and very 
 light hair, and wore this evening a maize-coloured net dress 
 with Indian ornaments. _ 
 
 " No, mamma." 
 
 " But I told you, Alice, to invite him if he called." 
 
 " I really forget whether I asked him or not," said Alice, 
 indifferently. " I fancy I did not." 
 
 " You appear to be growing very forgetful of late," re- 
 turned Mrs. Wjlde. " Dinner, Cannet ? That's right. I 
 am fearfully hungry." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde liked her dinner : there was always a good 
 one at the White House, whether on feast-days or fast- 
 days, and her vexation at Alice's indifference and at the 
 absence of Guy Pomeroy was soon forgotten. She began 
 talking of the law-business which had called her to the 
 distant county town. 
 
 Miss Pomeroy has come home," observed Alice. 
 
 " Has she ? When did she arrive '? " 
 
 " Last night, I think he said." 
 
 "Who said?" 
 
 " Mr. Pomeroy." 
 We will go over to-morrow and see her." 
 
 Dinner over, and dessert begun, Alice took a little fruit ; 
 and then, quitting the table without ceremony or apology, 
 passed out at the glass-doors, which stood open to the warm 
 air and setting sun. You have already seen her : for this 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 2 
 
IB 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 was mentioned before : in lier white dress, with the gold 
 circlets on her neck and arms, and the damask colour of 
 expectation on her cheeks. 
 
 " Alice," called Mrs. Wylde, " I wish you would put a 
 scarf over your shoulders, and take a parasol. You generally 
 choose this hour for loitering in the garden, when the sun 
 is full upon it." 
 
 " Mamma, I shall not take cold." 
 
 " I don't suppose you will. I was not thinking of cold : 
 but you will spoil your neck. The hot sun of summer 
 browns as much at setting as it does at mid-day." 
 
 Alice Wylde folded her lace pocket-handkerchief, and 
 threw it over her neck. 
 
 " You have not taken your wine," pursued Mrs. Wylde. 
 1 don't want it, mamma. I took some at dinner." 
 
 Alice buried her face in a rose-tree as she spoke, inhaling 
 its perfume. Mrs. Wylde took the glass of port wine which 
 the butler had poured out for Alice, and drank it herself. 
 Mrs. Wylde thought it wrong to waste good wine, and she 
 was fond of port : the cliief after-dinner wine of those days. 
 She liked to take two or three glasses of it after dinner, and 
 then to fall, when alone, into a comfortable doze. Thus, on 
 these favourable ojDportunities, as Alice considered them, on 
 these evenings when they were not on ceremony, Alice had 
 an hour to herself to linger in the garden, to look at the 
 rising moon, and listen to the nightingales. 
 
 Well for her — oh, more than well, had she seen and 
 listened to nothing else ! Strolling from flower to flower, 
 she drew gradually away from the house, turned the grove 
 of shrubs and trees, and was lost to sight. Mrs. Wylde had 
 forgotten her then, and was deep in rose-coloured visions of 
 that desirable time when she should ascend a few feet on 
 the world's pinnacle as the mother of the Lady of Pomeroy. 
 
 Amidst the friendly, sheltering trees stood Rupert. 
 Opening his arms he drew Alice to him. " My dearest ! " 
 
 " Oh, Eupert, I thought this evening would never come I 
 I have so wanted to see you, and — and— to tell you some- 
 thing. That is, if it vrould not be wrong to do it. I 
 hardly know." 
 
AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 19 
 
 " Wrong to teU me any tiling ! " lie returned. " What 
 can you know, Alice, that you may not share with me ? " 
 
 " I will tell you ; yes, I will : but you must never never 
 let it transpire that you clo know it. It would be cruel to 
 him." 
 
 "To whom?" 
 
 "Guy. He came this afternoon to ask me to be his 
 wife." 
 
 Eupert received the news with equanimity : perhaps the 
 young lady had thought he would be moved by it. " Well ? " 
 said he, " what was your answer ? " 
 
 " I told him I w*as sorry, but that I did not love him, and 
 it was of no use his asking me to do so." 
 
 Eupert laughed. His arm was round her waist. " What 
 • did Guy say to that ? " 
 
 " I hardly know what he said. My mind was in a whirl 
 and I did not catch his words ; only their meaning. He 
 said he loved me as no other man had loved woman, for his 
 passions were vehement within him, and it was I alone who 
 had ever called them forth." 
 
 " You might have told him that one other, at any rate, 
 loved you as passionately as he." 
 
 " He then spoke about being Guy Pomeroy of Pomeroy, 
 and — " 
 
 Eupert threw back his head. " That's Guy ail over. Of 
 course he is that : but he need not enlarge upon it. How 
 did it end ? " 
 
 "He would not take my refusal. He did not seem to 
 believe in it. He said young ladies rarely knew their own 
 minds ; that I had had no experience ; and that he should 
 never give me up w^hilst he had life. But I think, for all 
 that, he did believe me, Eupert." 
 
 "Of course he did. You must keep him at a distance 
 now." 
 
 " He said he should come to the W^hite House as usual, 
 and he hoped that I should in a few weeks grant him a 
 different answer." 
 
 " And pray what did you say to that ? 
 
 "Nothing. Except that if he did continue to come 
 
20 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 lie must consider himself entirely mamma's visitor, not 
 mine.'' 
 
 Rupert bent liis face until his cheek touched hers while 
 he whispered his sweet vows of love. She resisted not : for, 
 passionately as Guy Pomeroy loved Alice, did she in her 
 turn love Eupert. Whether Mr. Eupert's affection was very 
 ardent is doubtful: he had paid such vows many a time 
 before. Eupert Pomeroy was a general admirer of pretty 
 women ; and it often happens that those general admirers 
 are not capable of that one pure, ardent passion which can 
 stir man's heart but once. He loved Alice Wylde in his 
 own fashion ; quite sufficiently so to make her his wife. 
 He hoped she would be his wife ; though he did not sec his 
 way clear to making her so at present; for Mrs. Wylde 
 would be dead against him, and so would be the Lord of 
 Pomeroy. The lord favoured Guy's suit ; he would resent 
 his, Eupert's ; the lord wanted Guy to be happy and rich. 
 Guy, if he must marry, needed money with his wife : but 
 Guy did not need money half as much as did Eupert. 
 
 Eupert drew her arm within his, and they paced the 
 narrow sheltered walk. Alice took courage to ask Eupert 
 what his future prospects were. Eupert replied vaguely. 
 They did not appear to be at all tangible : but he was of a 
 sanguine spirit, and talked glowingly, as one does talk who 
 means to set the Thames on fire. Thus the time passed, all 
 too swiftly for them. Wrapt in the magic of each other's 
 presence, in the melody of love's golden chords, they saw 
 not how swiftly the light was fading ; and the sun had set, 
 and the evening star shone in the heavens, when Alice 
 awoke to reality. 
 
 " Oh, Eupert ! see how late it is ! What a long time wo 
 must have been walking here ! What will mamma say ? " 
 Nothing. Your mamma is yet in her after-dinner nap." 
 I don't know that. I have never stayed so late as this." 
 
 " You have had more to tell me than you ever had before." 
 
 " To tell you?" 
 
 " About Guy's presumption. Well, we must checkmate 
 him ; thougli it may take time to do it. Fare you v/ell for 
 to-night, my best and dearest." 
 
AT THE WHITE HOUSE, 
 
 21 
 
 Alice stole back to the liouse, not by tbe open lawn, but 
 by a side path, her heart living over again the stolon inter- 
 view, her cheeks crimson with the pressure of Eupert's lips. 
 
 " Tiresome old creature ! — he's always doing it." 
 
 Now the words, fretfully spoken, did not apply to him 
 who was filling her thoughts, Rupert Pomeroy, but to that 
 worthy man, Cannet, the butler. Alice had made her way 
 to a friendly side-door, and found it fastened. It chanced, 
 however, that Cannet was close by at the moment she tried 
 it ; he unbolted it and threw it open. 
 
 ''I never saw any one like you in my life, Cannet! — 
 bolting and barring the doors at this hour, as if you feared 
 we were going to be robbed ! An evening or two ago, in 
 the broad sunshine, I tried this door and found it locked." 
 
 " I'm very sorry. Miss Alice. But there's a lot of tramps 
 about ; there always is in hot weather, and it's right to be 
 cautious." 
 
 " As if tramps would come now ! They would let it grow 
 dark first." 
 
 Cannet knew that twilight was just the hour favoured 
 by tramps; but he did not say so. Alice went into the 
 drawing-room ; played softly for a minute or two, and 
 then crossed the hall to the dining-room — startling her 
 mother from her doze. The long drive had tired Mrs. 
 Wylde. 
 
 " Why, mamma, what a sleep you arc taking ! " 
 
 " Am I ! What's the time ? Dear me, why, it is getting 
 dusk. Why did you not w^ake me before, Alice ? Where 
 have you been ? " 
 
 " I came here from the piano — wondering what had 
 become of you." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde rang the bell, and then quitted the room 
 w^ith her daughter. Alice sat down again to the piano, and 
 the tea came in. 
 
 And poor Mrs. Wylde, stirring and tasting her tea, had 
 no more idea of the treason that had been enacted, than you, 
 my good reader, have that you are going to be made a duke 
 to-morrow. Ah, girls think themselves very clever, those 
 who can act thus ; but let them be assured that a day of 
 
22 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 reckoning must come. Alice Wylcle saw no liarm in 
 deceiving lier mother, or in tlie deceit itself — but that same 
 day of reckoning might bo laying up its vengeance even for 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Wylde, having attained a position in the great 
 world, of course deemed it necessary to borrow its manners 
 and customs. Time was, not so very long ago either, when 
 she saw no necessity for keeping a maid for her personal 
 service ; but now she kept two maids, one for herself, and 
 the other for her daughter. As Alice went into her room 
 this night, the latter was waiting for her as usual. She was 
 a respectable-looking, plainly-dressed woman of thirty ; her 
 hair, already slightly grey, was braided over her forehead ; 
 her face was thoughtful and sensible. In earlier days this 
 girl had been the housemaid. She was good and faithful ; 
 and of their own religion. Mrs. Wylde took her to India, 
 and afterwards she became Alice's attendant, of whom she 
 was very fond. 
 
 \ " What's the matter, Theresa ? " asked Alice : for the 
 servant had her cheek bent upon her hands. " Is your tooth 
 aching again ? Why don't you go to the town and have it 
 taken out ? " 
 
 " And so I would," said Theresa, " if I were sure it was 
 the tooth. I think it is — what's that fine new name? — 
 neuralgia." 
 
 Alice laughed. Neuralgia is as old as I am, Theresa." 
 
 " Well, miss, we have always said rheumatism. That was 
 fine enough for us. Shall I begin your hair. Miss Alice ? " 
 
 Alice was standing at the open window, gazing outwards. 
 The moon was riding in the sky, the few stars that were out 
 twinkled in their course : beneath, lay the grass-plat and 
 the sweet flowers, and beyond rose the grove that had 
 sheltered her and Eupert. Lost in memory, Alice stood on, 
 oblivious of there being any such duties as undressing. 
 Theresa waited, mentally debating whether she should speak 
 of a certain matter that was troubling her, or whether she 
 should not. 
 
 "Mamma's as tired as she can be," began Alice, her 
 thoughts wandering to her mother. "It's a long drive; 
 
AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 23 
 
 and she says slie felt quite weary with the deeds the Lawyer 
 had to read to her," 
 
 "It is a good long way to Owlstone, Miss Alice, — there 
 and back.'* 
 
 " Mamma slept till tea-time, and then was angry with me 
 for not awaking her. I was in the garden. What a stupid 
 thing that Cannet is ! — locking all the doors by daylight ! " 
 
 Now it seemed to Theresa, who was reflective, con- 
 scientious, and a little given to be swayed by signs and 
 symptoms — that her young mistress must have unconsciously 
 opened this very subject on purpose to afford her an excuse 
 for speaking : and she accepted it. Walking nearer to the 
 window, she began in a low tone. 
 
 " I saw you there. Miss Alice." 
 
 " Saw me — where ? " returned Alice, rather sharply. 
 
 " Out yonder, Miss Alice : down by the grove. Mr. 
 Eupert Pomeroy was with you." 
 
 Alice was silent. This avowal was very awkward. 
 
 " How could you have seen me ? " she presently asked, 
 the question occurring to her. " Where were you, Theresa ? " 
 
 " I went to the herb-bed : some of them downstairs said 
 that a fomentation of hot sage-leaves to my cheek would ease 
 the pain: and this," nodding at the broad gravel-path 
 beneath, " is the nearest way, so I took the liberty of taking 
 it. I saw you as I turned the corner. Miss Alice; you 
 stood with your backs to me, both you and Mr. Eupert. He 
 had his arm round your waist." 
 
 " Dear me, had he ? " — after a dismayed pause. " He is 
 very thoughtless. We were talking about something or 
 other, I suppose. But now, Theresa, don't go telling this 
 to mamma," 
 
 " Miss Alice," said the woman, gravely, " I came to your 
 papa's house when you were but a little girl, and there were 
 but two servants in all ; and I have watched you grow up, 
 and I have got fonder of you and prouder of you year by 
 year. But, oh, my dear young lady — and for the reason I 
 have just given, perhaps you'll let me say it — it is not right 
 to be so familiar with Mr. Eupert when you are to marry 
 Mr. Pomeroy." ^ - 
 
24 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 " You stupid thing, Theresa ; Who told you, pray, that 
 I was to marry Mr. Pomeroy ? " 
 " My mistress told me." 
 
 " Just like mamma ! — fancying a thing must come to pass . 
 because she wishes it ! Well, now, the truth is, Theresa — 
 and I don't mind telling you, but you must take care not to 
 repeat it again to mamma — that I am not going to marry 
 Mr. Pomeroy." 
 
 " Then, Miss Alice, why not tell j^our mamma so ? " 
 
 shall tell mamma in good time. But I'm sure you 
 know there'll bo no living in the house with her for a week 
 afterwards. She has set her mind upon Mr. Pomeroy ; and 
 she will be ready to box my ears when she finds I won't 
 have him." 
 
 " But, Miss Alice — you have encouraged Mr. Pomeroy," 
 debated Theresa, feeling less sure and less easy upon the 
 point that she chose to admit. " He comes often : he stayed 
 with you in the drawing-room for nearly an hour to-day." 
 
 "I can't help his staying or his coming. Mamma was 
 out, and I had to go to him. Don't be silly, Theresa. I 
 tell you I am not going to marry the Heir of Pomeroy. 
 And he knows that I am not." 
 
 " Trouble of this kind is more easy to get into than to get 
 out of," resumed Theresa, in low, persuasive tones. I 
 confess I like Mr. Eupert better than I like Mr. Pomeroy ; 
 though it's not for me to presume to speak of my likes or 
 dislikes. I would only just say this, my dear young lady : 
 do not deceive anybody, especially your mother. If you don't 
 like Mr. Pomeroy, and don't wish to have him, tell out the 
 truth at once. 'Tis the safest way in the long run." 
 
 " There, you can do my hair now, Theresa. And don't 
 worry your silly old head with what does not concern it. 
 Things will come all right in what you call the long run, 
 as you will find." 
 
 Leaving Alice to chatter to Theresa upon less embar- 
 rassing subjects, we will go after Rupert Pomeroy. 
 
 Passing through th^ side-gate to the lane on which it 
 opened, went he, gay as a lark, humming the bars of some 
 popular song. Rupert Pomeroy was of an essentially gay, 
 
AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 light, sanguine temperament : lie had never been grave in 
 his life for two minutes together. The branches of the 
 trees on either side the lane met overhead ; glancing up, 
 he saw the moonbeams flickering through them — a pleasant 
 sight ; and he broke out into his song again : 
 
 Oh, 'tis sweet when the moon is beaming 
 
 To roam through the shady grove : 
 Oh, 'tis sweet when the world is sleeping 
 , . . To list to the nightingale's song." 
 
 "Don't think that's quite right," broke ofl Rupert, 
 alluding to the words. " Think the nightingale goes with 
 the moonbeams. Wish she could have stayed out longer — 
 that ' sweet love o' mine.' " 
 
 Before quite reaching the village, he turned aside to the 
 left. Standing at some little distance from the road was an 
 exceedingly pretty dwelling-house, not much larger indeed 
 than a cottage : its rough stone walls were covered with 
 ivy ; jessamine and roses encircled its casements. You 
 might have been puzzled to guess to what social class its 
 inmates belonged ; in all, excepting its size, it might have 
 been the abode of a gentleman. Iron railings, covered with 
 clematis, enclosed a small garden, its grass-plat and flower- 
 beds not less well kept than w^ere those of Mrs. Wylde. 
 The gate was in the middle of the rails, a path leading 
 straight from it to the cottage porch. It was the dwelling 
 of Gaunt, the gamekee2)er, and it was called the Lodge. 
 J ohn Gaunt — w^ho was not an ordinary gamekeeper, and will 
 have to be spoken of later — lived in it with his only child, 
 a daughter. Leaning over the gate in the moonlight stood 
 the daughter now. Eupert had seen her and turned aside. 
 
 " I thought it must be you, Sybilla," spoke he, in his 
 ready, free way. " What in the w^orld have you got on ? " 
 
 She laughed slightly, and drew off the shawl in which her 
 head was enveloped. " I have a little cold," she answered, 
 " and my head has been aching all day." 
 
 " By the way — yes. Joan mentioned at dinner that she 
 had sent for you, and you were too ill to come," observed 
 Rupert, who remained on the outer side of the gate. " What 
 was the matter ? " 
 
POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 A hot flusli and a slight contraction of the brow, not 
 discernible in the moonlight, pased suddenly over her face, 
 apparently called up by Eupert's words. Sybilla Gaunt 
 was a magnificent girl, tall, dignified, upright, with a no 
 less magnificent face : her features regularly beautiful, her 
 hair of a purple black, and her large eyes of a deep, dark 
 violet. But, with all her natural beauty, her face looked 
 to-night strangely wan and haggard. 
 
 " My head pained me so much," she replied, slightly and 
 evasively. " How is the lord, Mr. Eupert ? " 
 
 " Oh, he is very well." 
 
 " My father thinks him much changed of late. He was 
 at the abbey yesterday morning — the lord had sent to him 
 about those preserves beyond the hill. He says he never 
 saw any one change so rapidly for the worse as the lord is 
 changing now.'* 
 
 " So Joan thinks — but she has not seen him for eight 
 months, you know. I hope ho will be all right again soon, 
 Sybilla. Where is your father to-night ? " 
 
 " He went up to Whittaker s. Do you want him ? " 
 ' Without giving any direct answer, Eupert Pomeroy 
 bent his head closer to Sybilla's over the gate, and began 
 talking to her in very low tones — just as if he feared 
 some eavesdropper might be hidden under the clematis. 
 As we cannot hear what he said, the conversation must 
 remain a secret. Sybilla gave an answering word, or a 
 nod, now and again ; the tears meanwhile gathering on 
 her eyelashes, and she half stealthily wiping them away 
 from time to time. 
 
 "Who's this?" suddenly cried Eupert, drawing away 
 from the gate, his ear having caught the sound of footsteps 
 close at hand. " Take courage, Sybilla." 
 
 They were the steps of Gaunt himself. A very tall and 
 noble-looking man, dressed in a velveteen coat and breeches 
 and dark leggings. His features were just as handsome as 
 his daughter's ; the two faces in fact were much alike ; the 
 same noble cast of countenance, the same open, straight- 
 forward expression. As he came into view, Sybilla nodded 
 to Eupert, and went in. 
 
AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 27 
 
 " Oh, is it you, Mr. Rupert ? Did you want nio ? " added 
 Gaunt. 
 
 " No ; I was only saying good-evening to Sybilla, seeing 
 her standing here as I was going by. She says you think 
 my father much changed." 
 
 " And so he is, Mr. Rupert ; there's no doubt about it. 
 Unless he gets to look better, I — I shall hardly know what 
 to fear. Will you walk in ? " 
 
 Not to-night. I say, Gaunt, what about dragging that 
 fish-pond?" 
 
 " The very thing I have just been up to Whittaker's 
 about," replied Gaunt. " We had decided to do it to- 
 morrow, but your brother sent me word this evening that 
 it must be put off until the next day." 
 
 " What for, I wonder ? " 
 
 " He is going out, I believe, to-morrow." 
 
 " What of that ? " 
 
 " W^ell, he says he wishes to be present when it's done." 
 
 " Oh, does he ? It will come, next, that no one must stir 
 hand or foot on the property without his leave. You'll see 
 that. Gaunt." 
 
 Gaunt slightly smiled. " He is the heir, you know, Mr. 
 Rupert." 
 
 " We all know that : he takes care we don't forget it. So 
 be it: I do not see that it matters much to us. It has 
 pleased my father to exalt Guy ever since his babyhood, and 
 of course he has grown domineering. Good-night to you, 
 Gaunt." 
 
 John Gaunt stood a moment after Rupert left, thinking 
 of his last words. He did not himself much like Guy 
 Pomeroy, and wondered how he should get on with him 
 when he came into power, and whether he should feel 
 inclined then to act as keeper. He and the lord had ever 
 been on the best of terms ; almost friends. 
 
 "Better not anticipate," thought Gaunt, as he turned 
 indoors. 
 
 Sybilla sat at the frugal supper-table, the shawl well 
 drawn about her shoulders. John Gaunt sat down and 
 helped himself. Sybilla took a little upon her plate, and 
 
28 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 pretended to cat: but it was evident that she had little 
 inclination for it. 
 
 " No appetite again, Sybilla ? " 
 
 Her face flushed. " The heat makes me feel languid, 
 father. And my head has ached to-day." 
 
 Nanny, the old serving-woman, came in to remove the 
 tray when they had finished. Gaunt rose and took down 
 one of his small stock of books. It was a volume of Yirgil 
 — for he was a man of education. 
 
 "I will say good-night, dear father," said Sybilla, ad- 
 vancing to him. " My head will get better in bed." 
 
 " Good-night, my dear one," he said, fondly kissing her. 
 " May the holy saints have you in their keeping ! " 
 
 The first thing Sybilla did upon entering her chamber — 
 a small, pretty room, whose casement looked towards the 
 White House — was to let the cumbersome shawl slip from 
 her shoulders, to fall upon her knees before the crucifix that 
 hung opposite her bed, and burst into tears. Tears ? Nay ; 
 that is scarcely the proper word. Sobs, rather. Passionate, 
 grievous sobs ; suppressed only lest they should be heard 
 below. 
 
 " It is getting more than I can bear," she wailed in piteous 
 tones. " Who will break it to him — who will break it to 
 him? My dear, loving, trusting father — who has ever 
 deemed that I and deceit were as far divided as " 
 
 A very j^aroxysm of grief interrupted the words. After a 
 few moments' yielding to it, Sybilla grew calmer. Folding 
 her hands together, she raised her eyes imploringly to the 
 crucifix, as if seeking for that comfort above, which, as it 
 seemed, she could not find here. 
 
 Meanwhile, Kupert Pomeroy, after calling in at Whit- 
 taker's — who was the keeper under Gaunt — and on sundry 
 other people, for he made himself at home in the village 
 with high and low, at length reached home. It was late. 
 Jerome met him. 
 
 All in bed ? " asked Rupert. 
 
 "All but Mr. Guv, sir. He has not gone to his room 
 yet." 
 
 " Where is he ? " 
 
THE KEEPER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ^' In tlie oak-room, walking about. I'm afraid something 
 has vexed liim." 
 
 " Why do you fear that ? " 
 
 " Just listen to his footsteps, Mr. Kupert. To walk like 
 that is not usual with Mr. Guy." 
 
 Eupert paused. Guy's heavy tread sounded from the oak- 
 room, unceasing and monotonous. 
 
 " He must be doing penance," remarked Rupert, with a 
 light laugh. 
 
 " He has been pacing there these two hours, sir, ever since 
 the lord retired. Just that same sharp, measured tread that 
 you hear now." 
 
 " Well, good-night to you, Jerome," returned Rupert, as 
 he went on to his chamber. And he smiled again to himself 
 as he entered it. 
 
 " You can't have quite everything your own way, Guy my 
 brother, although you are the son-and-heir," spoke Rupert, 
 mentally. " Alice Wylde is not for you — and you will do 
 well to make the best and worst of her refusal, and think 
 no more about it." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE keeper's daughter. 
 
 The state entrance of the abbey lies on the loft as you pass 
 under the great gateway. This admits you to a quaint, but, 
 in its way, magnificent hall, from which a fine old staircase 
 winds upwards. A similar entrance-door lies on the right 
 of the porte-cochere — if we may borrow a term from the 
 French — leading into a similar hall and to a similar stair- 
 case ; but at present this other entrance is kept locked, not 
 being in use. The Lords of Pomeroy generally use the one 
 first mentioned ; and just now there is no second household 
 at the abbey. 
 
 Ascending this first-mentioned staircase, which is lined 
 
30 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 with pictures, you reacli a wide corridor, whicli has a few 
 pictures also liung in it, between the many doors admitting 
 to the front and back chambers. At the end of the corridor 
 is the south tower : for these rooms are on the right of the 
 entrance-gates, looking eastward. It has been already said 
 tliat the abbey faces the east. As a rule, the rooms are not 
 large, but dark, ancient, and handsome. The present lord, 
 who keeps up a great deal of unnecessary state, and whose 
 retainers are numerous, occupies the whole of the front pile, 
 together with a portion of the north wing ; but the rooms 
 on the other side the entrance-gates have been little used 
 since the death of the Lady of Pomeroy some years ago, and 
 especially since the lord fell into poor health. 
 
 The bedrooms all face the quadrangle ; most of the sitting- 
 rooms face the sea and the open country : and in one of these 
 sitting-rooms, on the morning following the day already 
 mentioned, sits Miss Joan. It is the room next the south 
 tower, is called the purple room " from the colour of its 
 furniture and hangings, and is the particular sitting-room 
 of Joan. Joan has attended early mass in the cha]3el, has 
 written some letters, has gone her usual rounds connected 
 with the household, and is now preparing to sit down and 
 sew. Joan Pomeroy is great at embroidery, and she is 
 beginning to " work," as she calls it, a delicate cambric frock 
 for one of Mrs. Capel's children : or, strictly speaking, for 
 one exj^ected. She feels less anxious about her father's 
 health than she felt yesterday, for the lord rose to break- 
 fast this morning and looked better. 
 
 " Can it be twelve o'clock already ! " exclaimed Joan, as 
 the great clock of the quadrangle began to ring out mid- 
 day, and various other clocks in the abbey followed suit. 
 
 How I must have wasted my time this morning ! It was 
 those letters I wrote." 
 
 Bending her head, she regarded her work attentively. A 
 very little of it was as yet done. 
 
 " If I had not begun it, I would choose the other pattern," 
 she soliloquized. " It was less elaborate, and would not 
 have taken half the time to work. Suppose I should not get 
 this done in time — I who have always given tlio babies their 
 
THE KEEPER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 baptismal robe ? Perhaps Sybilla can help me. I will send 
 and ask her to spend the day " 
 
 " Mrs. and Miss Wylde," interrupted one of the footmen, 
 as he threv/ open the door. 
 
 Joan rose, full of dignity. Truth to say, she had not very 
 much liked either Mrs. or Miss Wylde when she made their 
 acquaintance before leaving home. Joan had a prejudice in 
 favour of birth— and these ladies possessed none of it. It 
 was not the want of that, however, but something in them- 
 selves she remembered to have disliked. On the other hand, 
 and Joan w^as candid enough to admit this, she had seen too 
 little of them to judge fairly. And, if the future lord was 
 to marry the young lady, Joan knew that she ought to dis- 
 miss all prejudice from her mind. 
 
 " Will Miss Pomeroy pardon this early visit ? " began 
 Mrs. Wylde, as she held out her hand. " Between near 
 neighbours — and in a remote country district — mid-day visits 
 are, I believe, permitted. I had, moreover, a special object 
 in coming thus early." 
 
 " I am very glad to see you ; it is not at all too carly,'^ 
 answered Joan, cordially, as she gave them her hand. 
 
 " What a lovely pattern ! " exclaimed Mrs. Wylde, her 
 eyes falling on the embroidery as she sat down. 
 
 "I am pleased to hear you say so. But I was rather 
 regretting that I had begun it : ' it is intricate, and Vv ill take 
 long." 
 
 " But it will bOvVery beautiful when done. It is for an 
 infant's robe ? " > 
 
 " For the little one that my sister, Mrs. Capel, is expecting." 
 What a long time you stayed away. Miss Pomeroy ! " 
 
 " My visits are generally pretty long when I go to her. 
 The children rlo not like to part with me. But I should 
 have returned before this had I thought papa was so ill." 
 
 " Is the lord ill ? " cried Mrs. Wylde, quickly. 
 
 " He does not acknowdedge it, but I am sure he must be. 
 His looks betray it. And it seems to me that he has no 
 spirit or energy left." 
 
 " I have observed that myself," said Mrs. Wylde. 
 
 *'He has not looked well since the last attack of gout," 
 
32 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEf . 
 
 remarked Alice, almost tlie first words slie had spoken. 
 " The Lord of Pomeroy has always been very kind to me, 
 and I hope he wdll soon grow strong again.'* 
 
 She spoke with earnestness. Joan smiled, pleased at tho 
 expression of feeling. With her dimpled cheeks, lier radiant 
 brown eyes, her bright and -pnve complexion, Alice w^as 
 indeed beautiful, and Joan did not wonder at Guy's in- 
 fatuation. 
 
 " But I have not explained the object of my coming at 
 this unseemly hour," resumed Mrs. Wylde. " I want to 
 take you back with me to the White House for the day, 
 Miss Pomeroy." 
 
 Oh, thank you ; but I — could not go," said Joan, quickly. 
 
 " But why ? " 
 
 " For one thing, papa is so poorly — at least, in appearance 
 ■ — that I do not like to leave him." 
 
 " Oh, I hope you will not disappoint us, dear Miss 
 Pomeroy ! Look at Alice : how eagerly she is awaiting 
 your consent ! " 
 
 The pretty blushing face w^as indeed full of hope as it 
 turned to Joan. It was so pretty that Joan could hardly 
 keep her eyes from it ; and she began to think that Alice 
 would be a very nice wife for Guy, and to wish to know 
 more of her. 
 
 "I will see what papa thinks," she said. "But I had 
 intended to send for Sybilla Gaunt to spend the day here 
 with me." 
 
 " Sybilla Gaunt ! " Mrs. Wylde was beginning, remon- 
 strance in her eye and on her lip — but Joan had already 
 disappeared. 
 
 Tho lord was in his own sitting-room ; the room next the 
 gateway. His desk stood open on the table before him, and 
 he looked up from his writing as Joan entered. 
 
 " Any message for either of the lads — George or Leolin ? '* 
 asked he, before Joan could speak. 
 
 " Are you w riting to them, papa ? " 
 
 " To both : giving them a lecture a-piece," he added, with 
 a half-smile. 
 
 *' Do they need it, papa ? " 
 
THE KEEPER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 33 
 
 "Oil, boys out in tlie world always need it. It never 
 comes amiss, Joan, be very sure. I am to give your love, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " My very dear love to both. Papa, Mrs. Wylde and lier 
 daughter are here. They wish me to go back with them for 
 the day." 
 
 " Then go. Go by all means, Joan." 
 " But I do not like to leave you." 
 
 " Not like to leave me ? What nonsense ! Why, yester- 
 day was the first day you were here for I can't tell how 
 many months : what did I do, do you suppose, without you 
 all that time ? Of course you can go. I should like you 
 to go. Guy would like it, I am sure. And you don't dine 
 with us, you know, this evening." 
 
 Joan returned to the purple room to say she would go. 
 The lord followed her, and stayed with the visitors whilst 
 Joan made herself ready. As they were departing, Mrs. 
 Wylde expressed a hope that the lord and Mr. Pomeroy 
 would honour her table by joining it at dinner. 
 
 " I don't feel quite up to dining from home," replied the 
 lord, shaking liis head. " In a day or two, perhaps, I shall 
 be better, and will dine with you then. As to Guy, he 
 goes over to the town to-day, and must be back in time 
 for our own table, for we are expecting a few gentlemen 
 to join it." 
 
 The county town, Owlstone, some nine miles distant, was 
 always referred to by Abbeyland as "the town." Mrs. 
 Wylde, full of regret that neither the lord nor Mr. Pomeroy 
 would honour her that evening, took her departure. 
 
 " What a lovely day ! " cried Joan, as they stepped out 
 from the large gates. 
 
 They began their walk through the village. Joan wore 
 a rich black silk, and (it must be confessed) a very ugly drab 
 bonnet ; she was addicted to a sober style of dress and to 
 grave colours. Alice wore white, blue ribbons round her 
 dainty straw hat. 
 
 In going along they saw Guy and Kupert in the distance, 
 talking with Gaunt. Guy, perhaps not seeing the ladies, 
 started across the path that led round to the stables ; walking 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 3 
 
34 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 q^uickly, as if he were in a hurry. Eupert came towards 
 them. Gaunt came on also with a slower step. 
 
 " What a noble-looking man he is ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Wylde involuntarily, alluding to Gaunt. " He would do 
 honour to an earl's coronet." 
 
 Joan smiled. " It is said they trace a nobler descent than 
 that — from John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. In those 
 days, possibly, whilst a Gaunt was a knight, the Pomeroy 
 was only his esquire. Our family fell for a time from its 
 high estate." 
 
 " How is it that the G aunts have so fallen ? " asked Mrs. 
 Wylde. 
 
 " We don't really know that they have fallen ; it may be 
 they were never anything but simple gentlepeople," lightly 
 remarked Miss Pomeroy. " None can deny, though, that 
 they ought to be something greater and grander if looks 
 could ensure it." 
 
 It was true that Gaunt believed himself to be descended 
 from John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, noted in the days 
 of the second Kichard : true that he certainly traced his 
 pedigree to very remote times. He was a gentleman by 
 recent descent — but was very poor, his income being little 
 more than a hundred pounds yearly. He was called in 
 the neighbourhood the " gentleman keeper," for although he 
 was to all intents and purposes head-gamekeeper to the 
 Lord of Pomeroy, and conscientiously performed its duties, 
 he accepted no remuneration for it. Excepting the cottage, 
 which he had rent free. And though admitted to very little 
 more equality with the Pomeroys than he would have been 
 were he a regular gamekeeper, he and the lord were very 
 friendly with one another. The Lord of Pomeroy respected 
 Gaunt and liked him ; both for himself, and also for his 
 alleged antecedents : when alone. Gaunt had occasionally 
 been bidden to lunch with him. But the sons, Guy and 
 Eupert, whilst showing themselves sufficiently friendly with 
 Gaunt, were given at times to treat him a little de haul en 
 has, forgetting perhaps that he was not an ordinary keeper, 
 Eupert especially. 
 
 Gaimt's w^ife had also been a gentlewoman, though poorer 
 
THE KEEPER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 35 
 
 even than himself. She died early, leaving to their only 
 child, Sybilla, the few hundred pounds that she possessed in 
 her ov/n right. Sybilla had been educated at the convent, 
 was an inmate of it for nearly ten years. She shared in all 
 its educational advantages, though of course the same terms 
 could not be paid with her that were paid with most of the 
 pupils — such, for example, as with the daughters of the Lord 
 of Pomeroy. Joan patronized Sybilla, who was. now three- 
 and-twenty, and really felt a great friendshij) for her, 
 
 Eupert, leaving Gaunt to follow at his leisure, came up 
 with a quick stej) and glowing face, shaking hands with 
 Mrs. and Miss Wylde in his gay \^'ay. Joan w^alked forward 
 to meet Gaunt. Mrs. Wylde stayed to protect her daughter 
 from the attractive wiles of Eupert, who was already chatter- 
 ing nonsense to her. 
 
 The gamekeeper took off his hat to Joan as an equal 
 might have done, not touching it as a gamekeeper. In his 
 heart he probably considered himself quite equal to the 
 Pomeroy s : superior in descent, if inferior in position. His 
 manners were good ; by nature he w^as proud, though he 
 rarely let it appear. Just as the Lord of Pomeroy lorded it 
 over his servants, so did Gaunt lord it over the two keepers 
 under him, so far as exacting strict obedience went. But 
 he was kind and considerate to them ; a good and a Christian 
 man. 
 
 How is Sybilla ? " asked Joan, when her greeting was 
 over. 
 
 " She is not well. Miss Pomeroy." 
 
 *' I am sorry. I heard she had a bad headache — but that 
 was yesterday." 
 
 1 cannot make her out," observed Gaunt. " She seems 
 to have lost her health and spirits for some weeks past. 
 Her face is quite drawn and thin." 
 
 " But what is the matter with her ? " questioned Joan. 
 
 " It is more than I can tell," replied the keeper, shaking 
 his head. " She thinks it is the heat that affects her, but 
 we have had many a summer as hot as this ; and even whilst 
 she says it, she is cold, and has to wrap herself up. Her 
 mother went off in a waste," he added, in a despairing kind 
 
36 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 of tone, " and I remember she was always cold, after it set 
 in. If Host Sybilla " 
 
 Gaunt stopped, overcome. All the sympathy in Joan's 
 nature — and she had a large share of it — was aroused. 
 
 "What does Mr. Norris say? Of course you have had 
 him to her." 
 
 "No, I have not. Miss Pomeroy. Not yet; Sybilla so 
 strongly objects to it. She says she is quite sure she shall 
 get better more quickly if let alone." 
 
 " I will call and see her,'' said Joan. " I may spare a few 
 minutes now, as we go by." 
 
 " I wish you would. Miss Joan. And perhaps you will 
 give me your opinion of her afterwards. If you think advice 
 is necessary, I will at once call in Mr. Norris — whether 
 Sybilla consents or not." 
 
 "I will. By the way — talking of illness," added Joan — 
 " what do you think of my father ? He seems to me to be 
 so much altered. Do you judge him to be ill ? " 
 
 " I am sure he is altered, Miss Pomeroy, but whether he 
 is seriously ill is another question. People do alter very 
 much as they grow in years." 
 
 " I know. But papa seems to have altered suddenly." 
 
 "No; not suddenly. At least not very suddenly. The 
 lord has never been the same since his illness in the 
 spring. I alluded to it a week or two ago ; I mean, to 
 the change in him ; but he passed the subject off with a 
 curt remark. He never likes to be questioned, you know, 
 Miss Joan." 
 
 Joan nodded a dismissal, seeing that Mrs. and Miss 
 Wylde were coming on, the former having at length suc- 
 ceeded in getting her daughter away from the light chattel; 
 of Kupert. Gaunt bowed, turned away, and put on his hat 
 which he had kept off during his conversation with Joan. 
 He raised it again in passing the other ladies ; who vouch- 
 safed him the merest nod in answer. Mrs. Wylde had never 
 been able to understand why Gaunt should be regarded as 
 above any ordinary gamekeeper. 
 
 They went on through the village, these three ladies, 
 Miss Pomeroy momentarily stopping now and then to greet 
 
THE KEEPEH'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 37 
 
 the cottagers who came out when they saw her. She was a 
 great favourite with all. 
 
 At the extremity of this straggling village, they came in 
 view of the gamekeeper's lodge. Very picturesque it looked 
 to-day, the sunshine flickering upon it through the waving 
 trees, the brilliant flowers clustering on the grass-plat. 
 
 " How hot it is ! " suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Wylde. 
 
 " Do you feel it so ? " returned Joan. " I was going to 
 ask you to sit down for an instant on the bench whilst I go 
 in to see Sybilla Gaunt. It is beautifully shady under 
 those trees ; and it will rest you.'* 
 
 She pointed to the bench in Gaunt's garden. It stood in 
 the shade on the green grass, and looked inviting enough. 
 Mrs. Wylde, however, started back as if she had been 
 electrified. 
 
 " To see Sybilla Gaunt ! My dear Miss Pomeroy ! '* 
 
 "I will not keep you two minutes," said Joan. "I am 
 anxious about her. Her father says she is ill." 
 
 " Miss Pomeroy," repeated Mrs. Wylde, in tones of strong 
 remonstrance, " you must not go in there ; to see her. You 
 have no mother, my dear, therefore you must excuse my 
 interposing, so far, in the light of one." 
 
 Joan Pomeroy, haughty and self-opinionated by nature 
 and by training, just as all the Pomeroys were, drew herself 
 up. She bad taken Mrs. Wylde's objection in a wrong 
 light. "You do not yet know Sybilla Gaunt, I see, or 
 you would scarcely speak disparagingly of her. She has 
 been exceedingly well brought up ; her education has been 
 altogether that of a gentlewoman." 
 
 " So I have heard. But no good ever comes of educating 
 girls in her sphere of life ; and so it has proved here. My 
 dear Miss Pomeroy, since you went away, the girl has turned 
 out to be — to be — in short, not respectable." 
 
 The two ladies stood looking at one another, Joan asking 
 the explanation with her eyes that her lips disdained to 
 utter. Alice traced characters on the dusty road with the 
 end of her parasol, and listened, rather amused at the dispute. 
 
 "What did you say?" demanded Joan, whose fiery 
 Pomeroy blood was rising. 
 
38 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 •^'My dear, there is no need to put yourself out," said 
 Mrs. Wylde. "It is an everyday affair with village 
 beauties ; always has been, and always will be. Sybilla 
 Gaunt is beautiful ; but she is no longer respectable, and 
 you must cease all communication with her." 
 
 Joan Pomeroy's eyes flashed: she could be almost as 
 passionate as her eldest brother, wdien greatly provoked. 
 " It is false, whoever says it," she declared. " How dare my 
 father and my brothers suffer tales to go about to the pre- 
 judice of Sybilla Gaunt ? They are the lords of the soil, 
 and they ought to have put a stop to them." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde gave a short, friendly laugh. " My dear, you 
 will have to abandon your favourable prejudices," she quietly 
 said. " Sybilla Gaunt is not respectable." 
 
 " Am I respectable ? " returned the angry Joan. " You 
 may as well say that I am not so. Sybilla is my friend ; 
 she is as much a gentlewoman by descent as I am. I pray 
 you wait for me : I shall go in to see her." 
 
 Allowing no further opposition. Miss Pomeroy walked to 
 the lodge-door, and entered without knocking. She was in 
 no frame of mind to wait upon the polite decorums of life : 
 indeed, they obtained little favour from her at the best of 
 times. The small, but pretty sitting-room seemed in a 
 litter, and Sybilla sat in it, her head bent on the table. A 
 shawl lay on the ground, and appeared to have slipped from 
 her shoulders. 
 
 How like she was to her father this day ! Tall and 
 stately ; with the same noble features, the same unconscious, 
 lofty air and manner. Certainly she looked a fit descendant 
 for the proud Duke of Lancaster. 
 
 With a faint exclamation of dismay, Sybilla sprang up 
 when she saw an intruder, and that it was Miss Pomeroy. 
 Her pale features — not naturally so, but pale, as it appeared, 
 from illness — grew flushed, and she picked up the shawl to 
 throw it on again. In her haste and confusion, she defeated 
 her own object, and the shawl somehow alighted on her 
 head. Joan Pomeroy gazed at her with a keen gaze ; and 
 Joan Pomeroy fell back against the inner door, and her 
 spirit turned faint within her. 
 
THE KEEPER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 39 
 
 Joan did not speak; she only looked at her. Sybilla's 
 trembling hands busied themselves in adjusting the shawl, 
 and the transient crimson of her face faded to a death-like 
 whiteness. 
 
 " What is this ? " asked Joan at length. 
 
 " What is — what ? " returned Sybilla, a terrible trouble 
 shining in the depths of her dark violet eyes. 
 
 " I met your father, and he told me you were ill," harshly 
 repeated Joan. " What is this illness, I ask ? " 
 
 " Don't frighten me, Miss Pomeroy," gasped Sybilla, who 
 looked ready to faint. 
 
 "Answer me, I say," repeated Joan, lier face as stern, at 
 that moment, as her brother Guy's. 
 
 Sybilla's breathing w^as so laboured that for a moment 
 she could not ansv/er : when she did speak, it was in a faint, 
 nervous tone, and in short, broken sentences. " The heat 
 this summer — has been great — it has made me ill — it has 
 overpowered me." 
 
 Joan Pomeroy heard her to an end, bending her stern, 
 searching eyes upon her. "It is the heat that overpowers 
 you ? The heat, you say ? Then why do you wear a shawl 
 to increase it ? " And Sybilla Gaunt only laid her hand upon 
 her heart, as if to still its beating, and made no reply, for she 
 had none to make. Miss Pomeroy stepped close up to her. 
 
 " Do you think you can deceive me ? No : though you 
 have succeeded, it would appear, in deceiving your father. 
 You have been mad, Sybilla Gaunt; mad. You have 
 degraded yourself " 
 
 " Do not say too much. Miss Pomeroy," interrupted 
 Sybilla, in a low tone. " You don't know all." 
 
 " I know and see sufficient. I know that the truth is 
 whispered outside, and that I was warned not to subject 
 myself to contact with you. Shame upon you ! You who 
 were the stay of your father! you who have boasted a 
 descent from the Plantagenets ! you who were reared a 
 gentlewoman ! Sybilla Gaunt, I would as soon have believed 
 ill of myself as of you." 
 
 Miss Pomeroy gathered up her petticoats, as if to guard 
 them against contamination with the door-sill, and swept 
 
40 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 out. It was her one great failing — hot, hasty passion: in 
 that she and Guy were alike : but she had rarely been so 
 excited as now. 
 
 Mrs. Wylde was resting on the bench, and Alice stood 
 outside in the road. Mrs. Wylde rose when she saw Miss 
 Pomeroy, and hastened into the road also, as if the very 
 grass-plat at Gaunt's burnt her feet. 
 
 " Come, Alice, what are you looking at ? Oh, I see : Mr, 
 Guy Pomeroy is there." 
 
 Joan turned her head. Guy was on horseback, branching 
 off towards Owlstone. Gaunt was now coming in the 
 direction of his cottage. 
 
 "Let us get on," muttered Joan. "I do not want to see him." 
 
 " Well, my dear Miss Pomeroy, are you satisfied ? " asked 
 Mrs. Wylde. 
 
 " Quite," returned Joan, her voice harsh in her bitter 
 distress. 
 
 " Of course ; there is no possibility of mistaking it. And 
 her father is a — in fact, an idiot." 
 
 " Who is it that has — has brought the trouble to the 
 house ? " interrupted Joan, in the same abrupt tone, telling 
 so surely of affliction. 
 
 " There I cannot enlighten you," replied Mrs. Wylde. 
 " She has always, I hear, held herself aloof from the village 
 rustics." 
 
 " Held herself aloof from the village rustics ! " echoed Joan 
 Pomeroy, with angry emphasis— angry, even then, that 
 Sybilla's position could be so mistaken. " I tell you, 
 Sybilla is a gentlewoman, with — hitherto — all a gentle- 
 woman's instincts." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde coughed. Alice broke into a sudden ex- 
 clamation, perhaps to drown its mocking sound. 
 
 " How very beautiful she is ! 
 
 "Who, child?" 
 
 " Sybilla Gaunt, mamma." 
 
 " Oh," said Mrs. Wylde, scornfully. " A homely saying 
 my old mother sometimes used is a very true one. ' Hand- 
 some is that handsome does.' Sybilla Gaunt had better have 
 been born ugly enough to frighten the crows." 
 
( 41 ) 
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 THE DEATH FLAG. 
 
 Deeper and deeper grew the twilight of the summer night. 
 The glow of the sunset had faded in the north-west, giving 
 place to the colour that has been likened to opal, but still 
 no summons arrived for Miss Pomeroy ; either in the shape 
 of carriage or servants. 
 
 At the open window of the large drawing-room of the 
 White House, Joan sat, wondering much that no one came 
 for her, and anxious to be gone. She had come forth to the 
 day's visit as a matter of duty rather than of pleasure, and 
 it had not proved agreeable to her. The instinctive dislike 
 to Mrs. Wylde and her daughter had made itself rather 
 obtrusively felt ; for, shocked and angry though J oan herself 
 was at the matter connected with the keeper's daughter, she 
 did not like or approve of the contemptuous tone assumed 
 by Mrs. "Wylde. Condemnation may be given without 
 scorn. Altogether her day's pleasure had been utterly 
 spoilt, though Joan suffered not that fact to appear. Silent 
 and preoccupied her entertainers had thought her, and 
 extremely absurd in regard to that Sybilla Gaunt. 
 
 "Ten o'clock!" exclaimed Joan, starting up as the hour 
 struck out from the gilt clock on the mantelpiece. " Indeed 
 I must go. You will allow one of your servants to see me 
 home, Mrs. Wylde." 
 
 " Only ten, my dear ; only ten o'clock. It is very early yet." 
 
 " I cannot imagine why I have not been sent for." 
 
 "But I can, my dear Miss Pomeroy. The lord has a 
 gentleman's dinner-party this evening, as you know : rely 
 upon it, your brother Guy intends to come for you himself: 
 he only waits to dismiss his guests, and be at liberty." 
 
 So spoke, so thought Mrs. Wylde. She knew nothing of 
 the dismissal given to Guy Pomeroy by her daughter the 
 day before. Alice sat silent and spiritless : she could not 
 this evening steal out to meet Eupert. 
 
42 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 So J oarij at the entreaty of Mrs. Wylde, consented to stay 
 a little longer. In truth, she thought the reason assigned 
 by that lady was probably the correct one, and that Guy 
 would arrive shortly. 
 
 Not a breath of air could be felt, though the windows 
 were thrown up to their utmost height ; not as much as a 
 flutter disturbed the wax lights. It was a very handsome 
 drawing-room, all gilding and mirrors, and beautiful modern 
 objects ; quite a contrast to the staid, sombre rooms of 
 Pomeroy. 
 
 " All nouvoaux riches, like themselves," thought Joan, 
 with little flattery. 
 
 A loud peal was heard at the hall-door. It proved to be 
 old Jerome. He brought bad news. The ladies, in their 
 anxiety, had him in the drawing-room to listen to it. 
 
 The Lord of Pomeroy had been taken ill at the dinner- 
 table. But he had sat out the repast bravely; alio wing- 
 nothing of his indisposition to be seen. At nine o'clock he 
 made an apology for retiring, putting it upon the score of 
 fatigue, leaving his eldest son to supply his place. Since 
 then he had become rapidly worse. 
 
 " Why did not Mr. Kupert come for me ? " demanded Miss 
 Pomeroy of old Jerome. " He might know that I should 
 naturally wish to be with papa." 
 
 "Mr. Eupert does not yet know the lord is ill, Miss 
 Joan," was the man's answer. " He went out with the 
 gentlemen Vv^hen they left. Mr. Pomeroy was going out also, 
 but I whispered him to stay behind — and then I told him. 
 He is with the lord now." 
 
 " Any way, J erome, I ought to have been sent for at 
 once." 
 
 "Miss Joan, I believe you were forgotten*; it's as true as 
 that I am here," added Jerome in his earnestness. " One 
 was running for Mr. Norris, one for Father Andrew, and the 
 house was all in confusion. Mrs. Eex suddenly thought of 
 you, and asked if any one had been sent to attend Miss 
 Pomeroy home. So I came myself." 
 
 "Yes, yes, quite right," murmured Joan. And she 
 departed with Jerome. 
 
THE DEATH FLAG. 
 
 43 
 
 In passing tlie short and shady turning that led to the 
 gamekeeper's ledge, Miss Pomeroy's eyes naturally turned 
 in that direction. Just at the same moment some one came 
 up the same turning with a fleet step : from the height and 
 figure Joan knew it to be one of her brothers, either Guy or 
 Rupert. It proved to be the latter. 
 
 " Why, Joan ! — out on foot with the night-birds ! " cried 
 he, in his ever-gay tones. 
 
 "Yes, out with the owls and the bats," she answered. 
 " Very polite of you, I must say, to leave me at the White 
 House until nov/ ! You might have come for me, Rupert." 
 
 " So I might. So I would, had I known. I should have 
 thought you were at home ages ago." 
 
 " Were you coming from Gaunt's, Rupert ? " 
 
 " Not T. I had been round to Bardel's." 
 
 Bardel was the junior keeper under Whittaker. Joan, 
 who had taken her brother's offered arm, paused in reflec- 
 tion. She much v/anted to speak to Rupert of what was 
 troubling her ; yet hardly liked to do so. But J oan 
 Pomeroy, straightforward to the last degree, never beat 
 long about the bush ; if she wished to say a thing, she 
 generally said it. 
 
 " Rupert," she began, choosing her words rather lamely, 
 "have you heard of — of— do you know of this dreadful — 
 dreadful misfortune, which has overtaken Sybilla Gaunt ? " 
 
 " Dreadful misfortune ? " repeated Rupert. 
 
 " Or — perhaps I should rather say — that she has brought 
 upon herself ? " 
 
 " Why, what has she gone and done ? " cried Rupert, 
 lightly. " Eaten chicken on fast-day ? " 
 
 " Rupert ! Do you often see Sybilla ? " continued Joan, 
 " Have you seen her lately ? " 
 
 " I saw her to-day." 
 
 "Well, then, does — does anything — peculiar — strike you 
 in her appearance ? " 
 " Not that I remember." 
 
 " Then, Rupert, you must be very unobservant — and — and 
 I think you are only laughing at me." 
 
 " I am sure I don't know what you are driving at, Joan. 
 
44 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 What is there in Sybilla*s appearance to strike me ? She 
 talks of the heat." 
 
 Joan considered. Young men were naturally unob- 
 servant : perhaps Eupert was so. 
 
 I — I am afraid Sybilla has — forgotten herself, Eupert," 
 she resumed in low, sad tones. " It will kill her father— 
 and I should think kill herself too." 
 
 " Forgotten herself! What on earth do you mean? " 
 
 " Well — she — she looks very sickly, and there must be a 
 cause for it." 
 
 " Poor girl, perhaps there is ! She may have gone and 
 swallowed the copper tea-kettle." 
 
 " I knew you would only turn what I said into ridicule ; 
 you always do," cried Joan, vexed and humbled. " All I 
 wished to ask you, Eupert, was, if you know whether any 
 stranger has been intimate at Gaunt's of late." 
 t " Let's see," said Eupert, making a show of putting on his 
 considering cap. " I run in at will ; the son-and-heir more 
 charily. Father Andrew goes in ; and I am not sure but 
 that the lord goes." 
 
 1 said any stranger repeated Joan emphatically. 
 I have not seen one. Joan, my dear, let me give you a 
 piece of advice — don't knock your head against a stone wall. 
 As to Sybilla, I do not consider that it is any business of 
 yours or mine to pry and peer into her affairs. Gaunt is 
 quite capable of seeing to his own daughter." 
 
 Joan, feeling very much dissatisfied with Eupert's manner, 
 she hardly knew why, dropped the subject, and told him of 
 their father's illness. Not that Joan felt particularly anxious 
 herself ; for the lord was subject to these sudden attacks of 
 sickness. 
 
 " I thought he was uneasy at the dinner-table," remarked 
 Eupert. " J erome," he called, turning to wait for the slower 
 steps of the old servant, " is it gout again ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Eupert. And a bad attack I know it will be." 
 
 " So you always say, Jerome." 
 
 " Well, sir, we shall see. I fear it will." 
 
 " It may do good instead of harm," observed Eupert to his 
 sister, whilst J erome fell behind again. " I sincerely hope 
 
THE DEATH FLAG. 
 
 45 
 
 it will. Tlie gout has been hanging about him ever since 
 the spring. A good sharp attack now may carry it away." 
 
 "Alice Wylde will marry Guy," whispered Joan to her 
 brother, as they were approaching the abbey gates. 
 
 Eupert whistled to a little dog that ran out of the quad- 
 rangle, not immediately replying. " You think so, do you, 
 Joan?" 
 
 " And you evidently do not, by your tone," she rejoined. 
 
 " Nay, I don't pretend to understand the business of the 
 world in general, as you do. Am not clever enough for it." 
 
 " Don't be silly, Eupert. I judge only by probabilities ; 
 what I see and hear. Mrs. Wylde was hinting at different 
 items in her own affairs to-day ; though why she should 
 have done so before me, I cannot tell, and it rather struck 
 me she was talking at Alice. Did you know that if Alice 
 marries without her mother's consent, she forfeits her 
 twenty-five thousand pounds ? " 
 
 " Yes, if she marries before she is four-and-twenty years 
 of age. After that, no restriction is laid upon her." 
 
 " Well, I did not know it until to-day. She does forfeit 
 it however, and Mrs. Wylde, should Alice be disobedient, 
 can will the money away to whom she pleases. Mrs. Wylde 
 is bent upon her marrying Guy : you can't mistake that : 
 and no girl in her senses would forfeit so large a fortune. 
 Therefore I judge that Alice will accept Guy." 
 
 " She may not like Guy. She may prefer to wait." 
 
 " I think not. And why should she not marry Guy ? 
 What an exalted position it would be for her ! " 
 
 " Next door to being up in the moon." 
 
 " Joke as you may, Eupert, I believe you will find I am 
 right. That Alice is looking forward to it she let slip 
 to-day. W"e had been talking about the abbey — it seems to 
 be Mrs. Wylde's favourite theme — of its vastness, its gloom, 
 and its need of restoration. ' I shall have it so renovated 
 that you won't know it for the same place,' Alice suddenly 
 cried, waking up out of a reverie ; ' I shall make it the 
 admiration of the whole county.' And when she saw us 
 looking at her, she recollected herself, blushed, and laughed, 
 * I mean,' she said, by way of correction or excuse, ' that I 
 
46 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 should do it \7ere I the Lord of Pomeroy.' Kely upon it, 
 Eupert, she means to be Lady of Pomeroy." 
 
 Kupert had resumed his whistling — to himself this time 
 and very softly, smiling much. Joan inquired why he 
 ^ laughed. 
 
 " To think of the changes that must take place ere she 
 could be Lady of Pomeroy. The deaths, for instance." 
 Only papa's, Kupert. Guy will be the lord then." 
 " True. Yes." 
 
 Lights gleamed from several of the front casements; 
 people seemed to be passing from room to room. Jerome, 
 full of apprehension, felt sure the lord was worse — and said 
 so. Eupert rebuked him. 
 
 " You are ever ready to anticipate evil, Jerome." 
 Well, sir, I fear this illness ; and that's the truth. 
 And," he added to Eupert in his agitation, " if ever I saw 
 coming death upon a face, I saw it this night upon my poor 
 master's." 
 
 A few days went on, full of grief and uncertainty as to 
 the Lord of Pomeroy. It was feared that the gout would 
 attack a vital part ; Mr. Norris, the local surgeon, was 
 freq[uently at the abbey. Dr. Eayner and Dr. Bill came once 
 a day from Owls tone. 
 
 One morning Joan, about to pass out of the purj^le room, 
 encountered Father Andrew, who had just then quitted the 
 sick-chamber. ' The lord was better, and the improvement 
 had put every one in spirits. Joan asked him to enter, and 
 they sat down. The renewed hope gave her leisure to revert 
 to other troubles : for the few past days the lord's state had 
 absorbed all anxieties. 
 
 " Father," she said, in low tones, ^' do you — do you know 
 that — that anything is wrong with Sybilla Gaunt ? " 
 
 The priest rose. A wasp had made its way in at the 
 open casement, and he took out his red silk handkerchief 
 to flirt it out again. 
 
 " Nasty things, those wasps ! " he cried. " One of them 
 gave me a rare sting in the neck last year. I had to sit for 
 half a day v>^ith a wet blue-bag ai)plied to the place." 
 
THE DEATH FLAG. 
 
 47 
 
 "But -did you hear what I asked you, father ? About 
 SybiUa?" 
 
 " Eh, child ? What about her ? " 
 
 Joan repeated the words, putting them somewhat differ- 
 ently. The wasp had been driven out, but Father Andrew 
 remained at the casement, as if to guard it. 
 
 " She seems rather poorly," he remarked, speaking with 
 his back to Joan. " Should she not grow better shortly, I 
 should recommend her to try change of air." 
 
 Joan paused. " But surely, father, you — you know what 
 is the matter with her ? " 
 
 The priest began shaking his handkerchief out at the 
 casement. "Don't like wasps," he repeated. And Miss 
 Pomeroy found a sudden question creeping up in her mind : 
 was he purposely avoiding the subject ? 
 
 " We have been almost as sisters, father ; I and Sybilla ; 
 and, night after night, as I lie down on my pillow, I think 
 of her as she was in the old days, and am ready to weep for 
 sorrow. If I could aid her in her trouble," added Joan, 
 lowering her voice to a whisper, " I should like to do it. It 
 would not be wrong, would it ? " 
 
 Certainly not : to aid the sick or afflicted is never wrong. 
 But," he added, turning from the casement to face Joan, " I 
 would advise you,, my daughter, not to attempt it in this 
 case. You could not do any good. Sybilla has entered upon 
 a new course ; and, it seems to me, that she should be left 
 to follow it." 
 
 He said good-day, and passed from the room. Just as 
 though it were the easiest way of ending the topic, thought 
 Joan in her surprise. But — though strictly obedient to her 
 spiritual adviser in every essential matter, both by training 
 and by inclination — Joan possessed her own share of the 
 Pomeroy v/ill ; and she did not see the necessity for 
 obedience in this. The good father no doubt wished to 
 spare her pain — perhaps to spare her from contact with an 
 erring woman. 
 
 And Miss Pomeroy, following out her opinion, put on her 
 bonnet there and then, and walked down to the gamekeeper's 
 lodge. 
 
48 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Sjbilla, looking more sickly than slie had looked before, 
 received Miss Pomeroy with less of emotion than then, and 
 soon recovered her equanimity. Joan spoke plainly, but 
 Sybilla would admit nothing. They sat together on the 
 little sofa : the sweet red roses, trailing over the open 
 casement, looking in upon them ; the serene blue sky above 
 seeming as a very type of heaven. 
 
 " We were girls together, Sybilla, though I was some years 
 the elder; we were firm friends at the convent school," 
 pleaded Joan. " If you, as seems to be only too apparent, 
 have fallen into trouble, let me help you. You have neither 
 mother nor sister ; no one, as it were, to protect you ; you 
 were confiding, unsuspicious ; but the world is evil, and 
 carries its evil ways into many an innocent retreat. Oli, 
 Sybilla, tell me all the truth, and let me help you ! " 
 
 The scalding tears rolled slowly down Sybilla's cheeks ; 
 her beautiful, deep-blue eyes were averted : but if ever a 
 clasp of the hand expressed intense gratitude, hers did as it 
 lay in Joan's. 
 
 " There is nothing that I can tell you ; nothing," she 
 faintly said. " But I thank you for your goodness, your 
 condescension, dear Miss Pomeroy ; I thank you from my 
 very heart. I shall ever remember it.'' 
 
 Joan's benevolence froze a little. The tone of Sybilla's 
 denial was unmistakably firm. 
 
 "I have come to you out of compassion, Sybilla, and 
 against advice. No one, as you know, would be less likely 
 to countenance wrong-doing than I ; it has cost me some- 
 thing to offer to condone it now." 
 
 " But you are mistaken," returned Sybilla, speaking 
 faintly again. " I have nothing to acknowledge, nothing to 
 confess. Indeed, Miss Pomeroy, you are mistaking me." 
 
 "Does your appearance belie you?" questioned Joan, 
 severely. " Do you deny that you are ill ? " 
 
 " I am ill ; that is true. Since the excessive heat came 
 iij, I have felt languid — without energy." 
 
 " Why do you muffle yourself in a shawl — -why do you 
 refuse to see Mr. Norris ? " abruptly asked Joan. 
 
 " In spite of the weather, I feel cold, am often shivering," 
 
THE DEATH FLAG. 
 
 49 
 
 replied Sybilla, shivering even as she spoke. As to Mr. 
 Norris, he could do me no good." 
 
 " What would our good Lady Abbess say to this ? What 
 would Sister Mildred say ? " 
 
 Sybilla was silent. 
 
 " Some days ago, when your father spoke to me about 
 your illness, I promised to tell him what I thought of you 
 — and now I dread to meet him. If you refuse me your 
 confidence now, Sybilla ; refuse to allow me to be your 
 friend ; you refuse for good, understand. It is the last time 
 I shall ever ask you." 
 
 " But, indeed, there is no confidence that I can give you," 
 persisted Sybilla, still in the same faint tone, her tears 
 dropping quickly. Bending her head, she suddenly kissed 
 Joan's hand. The latter rose. 
 
 " This is all then, Sybilla, that is to come of my ofi'er ? " 
 
 " May Heaven bless you, dear Miss Pomeroy. Think of 
 me — think of me as leniently as you can." 
 
 A burst of sobs had caused the break in the words. 
 Joan, annoyed and disappointed, uttered 3ome slighting 
 words. 
 
 " Our intercourse ceases from this hour, Sybilla. I wish 
 you well through your trouble ; but from henceforth we are 
 strangers." 
 
 She swept away with all her native dignity. Sybilla 
 closed the door, and flew up to her chamber in nn agony of 
 sobs and tears. 
 
 Better, they had deemed the lord that morning, little 
 thinking it was the last that would ever dawn for him. In 
 the course of the day it became known that he was dying. 
 Towards evening, when a sort of stupor had replaced the 
 commotion which the dire news had occasioned in the 
 household, and he was alone with his two sons, Joan, and 
 Father Andrew, he began to speak of the earthly interests 
 he was about to leave. 
 
 " Mind, Guy," he suddenly cried, after a rather prolonged 
 silence, "Jerome is to have the keep. He is getting in 
 years, and may not care to remain in your service. You, 
 also, with a young wife, may prefer a younger man at the 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 4 
 
50 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 head of your liousoliold. He can go to tlie keep at once, if 
 lie chooses ; I have told liim so ; or he may take service 
 with you a little longer first, as he and you may please. 
 He has saved sufficient from his wages, and I have left 
 him something more ; and it is my desire that the keep 
 shall be his to reside in, so long as he shall live. You 
 hear me, Guy." 
 
 " Yes, father, certainly.'* 
 
 " Give him the keep for his home, to have exclusive 
 control over, just as though it were his, absolutely ; at his 
 death, of course, it will be free again, and your own. Give 
 me your promise." 
 
 " I promise, father," said Guy, rather wondering at the 
 lord's seeming anxiety upon a matter that had virtually been 
 settled long ago. " I promise faithfully." 
 
 " Father, I also promise," added Kupert. 
 
 Guy looked at his brother, a stern expression curling his 
 imperfect lip at what he deemed Rupert's superfluous inter- 
 ference. " Why need you promise ? '* he asked, in a low 
 tone. " You will never be the abbey's ruler." 
 
 "I spoke in case it should lapse to me during Jerome's 
 lifetime," returned Rupert. 
 
 At which suggested possibility Guy's lip took a still 
 deeper curl. He was likely to live as long as Ruj)ert : 
 perhaps longer, for he took better care of himself. 
 
 The old man died ; died before the first glimmer of dawn. 
 And Guy was the Lord of Pomeroy, 
 
 The death of a Lord of Pomeroy involved a great deal of 
 ceremony and state. The very first thing to be done, 
 according to the usages of the family, was to hoist the 
 death flag. 
 
 A large, melancholy-looking flag, with the Pomeroy 
 escutcheon upon it. It was always kept at the keep, in its 
 appointed place. This flag, brought at once by two of the 
 upper servants, was hoisted half-mast high over the great 
 entrance-gates, to be left there as long as the corpse 
 remained above ground. The flag was white and the 
 escutcheon black ; and, altogether, as it waved about in the 
 
THE DEATH FLAG. 
 
 SI 
 
 wind, it put S2^ectators in mind of a death's head and cross- 
 bones. 
 
 i The dead Lord of Pomeroy was conveyed to the chapel, 
 there to lie in state until the day of interment — another of 
 the Pomeroy customs — and to be visited by as many visitors 
 as chose to attire themselves in decorous mourning. The 
 younger sons, George and Leolin, were written to ; only one 
 of them, George, was able to respond to the call ; and he but 
 briefly. Captain George Pomeroy had obtained a great deal 
 of absence lately for his own pleasure ; now that he required 
 it as a duty, it was charily accorded him. 
 
 Captain Pomeroy arrived in the afternoon of the day 
 previous to the funeral, considerably put out by the length 
 of the passage from Ireland. Had that not been contrary, 
 he might have stayed at home somewhat longer : as it was, 
 his stay must be confined to less than thirty hours. He was 
 a light-hearted, good-natured young man, his face pleasant 
 and fresh-coloured, with the fine Pomeroy features, but, in 
 other respects, bearing little resemblance to his elder 
 brothers, and he was much shorter and slighter than they 
 were. George Pomeroy was liked by all classes, high and 
 low, and he was Joan's favourite brother. The youngest of 
 them all, Leolin, was ill with fever and not able to come, to 
 his own and their regret. 
 
 It v/as a grand show, that funeral : always made so for a 
 Lord of Pomeroy. Priests, high in the Romish Church, 
 came from all quarters to celebrate the mass; people of 
 consideration flocked to it from far and near. He was buried 
 in the family vault underneath the chapel. Guy, Lord of 
 Pomeroy, followed first and alone as chief mourner ; it v/as 
 the custom of the lords to do so ; Rupert and George walked 
 after him together; and so on« Following the principal 
 guests was John Gaunt ; then came surgeons, lawyers, and 
 others ; and lastly the male servants, headed by Jerome. A 
 great funeral ; one to be talked of afterwards by the rustics 
 of Abbeyland. 
 
 And so, Hugh, Lord of Pomeroy, was left in his resting- 
 place ; and Guy, his son, entered upon his reign. 
 
52 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 AT THE STILE. 
 
 AnDj now that you have made up your mind to leave me, 
 Joan, may I ask what stay you intend to make ? Not as 
 long as the last, I hope." 
 
 The speaker was the Lord of Pomeroy. Joan looked 
 vaguely out in the distance, at the blue sky which rose 
 behind the far-off convent chimneys, and did not answer 
 immediately. It was a fair day towards the end of April. 
 The sun was warm, the sky nearly cloudless ; the trees and 
 hedgerows had put on their tender green, and the birds 
 v/ere singing. Joan Pomeroy had come into the garden to 
 enjoy it ; and was joined by her brother. In a few days 
 she was to dej)art on a visit to her sister, Mrs. Capel. 
 
 "I hardly know," she answered presently, in reply to 
 Guy's question. " Isabel will not part with me readily." 
 
 " It will rest with you, Joan ; not with Isabel." 
 
 " True. But you know what she wanted, Guy ? " 
 
 " I know that when your father died, she wrote us an 
 absurd proposal that you should make your home with her 
 in future." 
 
 " Why do you call it absurd ? " 
 
 " It was absurd. This is your home. It is right that it 
 should be. And I am your protector." 
 
 " You will not miss me, Guy." 
 
 " Not miss you ! Merci bien, mademoiselle." 
 
 " I mean if you marry. Your wife, your children will be 
 all in all to you, as they ought to be. You will not miss 
 me. 
 
 " And if I do not marry ? " 
 
 " In that case, I should always regard the abbey as my 
 home: though T should of course sometimes stay with 
 Isabel. But you will be marrying, will you not, Guy?" 
 she added, rather anxiously. 
 
 Guy Pomeroy, who had taken up his sister's black parasol; 
 
AT THE STILE. 
 
 63 
 
 which she had not raised, gently flicked the bed of rhododen- 
 drons with it, in passing. His face was not less pale than 
 of yore, but somewhat of its former sternness seemed lately 
 to have softened down. 
 
 "It does seem rather strange to me, Guy, if I may be 
 allowed for once to allude to the subject," she resumed, 
 " that you do not speak to Alice. For a long, long time 
 past I have thought you would ; I thought so, even before 
 poor papa died." 
 
 Joan Pomeroy was ignorant, you perceive, of the offer 
 made to Alice Wylde some months ago by the Heir of 
 Pomeroy — and her rejection of him. Guy was not likely to 
 disclose that. Joan believed that his whole heart was given 
 to Alice ; that every hope was bound up in her. 
 
 " You will marry her, will you not, Guy ? " 
 
 " Possibly." 
 
 "Well, then, don't you see, Guy, that you won't want 
 me? No, nor miss me — when Alice is installed here as 
 your wife." 
 
 "Miss you I always shall, Joan. And I desire — mark 
 me — I desire and exact that this shall ever be regarded as 
 your true home. Unless you marry." 
 
 " I shall not marry, Guy. Yes, I know what you would say 
 — that I am still somewhat young to say that at thirty ; but a 
 conviction, that I shall not, lies within me. I do assure you 
 that I have no wish to marry ; I never have had any, and I 
 believe my best happiness will lie in a single life. Perhaps," 
 she added, half laughing, "you and Isabel may come to 
 some compromise — eight months in the year with her, four 
 with you. Of course, the abbey does seem like my real 
 home ; I may say it always will in my own mind." 
 
 "Why eight months with her and four with me?" de- 
 manded Guy. " Do you call that an equable compromise ? " 
 
 " Isabel is my own sister, Guy. Alice will be only my 
 sister-in-law. Though I dare say we shall be very good 
 friends. Besides " 
 
 " Besides what ? " he questioned, for poor Joan had 
 stopped. 
 
 " Do you know, Guy, I shall be glad to get away from 
 
54 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 here," she added in low, unwilling tones. " For a time, at 
 least. The place is not the same to me since the — the dis- 
 appearance of Sybilla." 
 
 What nonsense ! " exclaimed Guy, sharply. 
 " Ah, but I was very fond of her ; I was indeed, Guy. 
 She was a grand, noble girl, one that I surely thought was 
 in fair training for heaven. And when — when she fell from 
 all that was good, it had more effect upon me than the world 
 saw." 
 
 The Lord of Pomeroy's brows had gathered into a dark 
 frown. It was evident that condemnation of some one or 
 something, probably of Sybilla herself, was just then making 
 itself heard strongly within him ; that the subject was alto- 
 gether distasteful to him. He vouchsafed no remark. 
 
 " Have you any idea where she is, Guy ? Do you think 
 lier father knows ? " 
 
 " The less you think about it the better," retorted Guy, 
 severely. " What have we to do with the miserable busi- 
 ness ? " 
 
 " Guy " — in the softest whisper — " do you think she is 
 with Eupert?" 
 
 Guy Pomeroy turned his dark face upon his sister, sur- 
 prise in the sharp movement. Hers was bent on the tulip- 
 bed. 
 
 " What can possibly induce you to ask that ? " 
 
 " I — gathered the notion that it might be so, Guy— though 
 I hardly know how," she faltered. "Enpert went away 
 about the same time that she did " 
 
 " Eupert came back again," was the sharp interruption. 
 
 " I know he did, for a time. One day Bridget said some- 
 thing in a laughing way, coupling their names together. I 
 checked her at once." 
 
 " As I must check you," retorted Guy, in his haughtiest 
 tones. " Put these fancies altogether from your mind, Joan ; 
 I command it. Forget Sybilla Gaunt; never allow the 
 subject to recur to you again." 
 
 He strode off towards the gardeners, working at a distance, 
 his tall, fine form raised to its greatest height — and there 
 never existed a finer form than that of Guy Pomeroy. Joan 
 
AT THE STILE. 
 
 55 
 
 left tlie garden, her head raised as proudly as his own. Miss 
 Pomeroy very much disliked being put down : no one but 
 Guy ever attempted to do it : and she was just a wee bit 
 vexed with herself for having spoken at all. 
 
 Few changes had taken place since the death of the old 
 Lord of Pomeroy. Guy reigned in his stead, and that was 
 about the only difference. All the retainers, numerous though 
 they were, had been kept on by Guy ; even old Jerome pre- 
 ferred active service to rest, and the keep for the present 
 remained untenanted. 
 
 Some six v/eeks after the death of the late lord, Sybilla 
 Gaunt w^as missing. She had disappeared. It was said 
 that Gaunt himself had driven her in a gig to the county 
 town, whence she took tlie train, and went out into the wide 
 world. But, whether there was any truth at all in this, 
 could not be ascertained. According to another report, 
 Sybilla had run away, abandoning her home and her father, 
 to his terrible consternation, and left not a word behind to 
 say whither she had gone. She did not return ; no news 
 was heard of her; it was believed that the gamekeeper 
 received letters from her occasionally, but they were not 
 sent to his house. He performed his duties as usual, just 
 as if no trouble had fallen upon him. No one dared to 
 speak to him of his loss. Gaunt was not a man to be 
 questioned : he could put down impertinence, whether from 
 rich or poor, with as high a hand as the old lord had done 
 in his haughtiest days. How it was, or vfhere SybiHa was, 
 no one knew. 
 
 Once only J oan had spoken to Gaunt of Sybilla. It was 
 about a month ago. In passing his lodge she had halted to 
 admire the spring flov/ers, so abundant, and kept in such 
 perfect order ; not perceiving that Gaunt himself was stoop- 
 ing down near the gate. He rose up and they stood face to 
 face. Joan began to speak lightly of the blossoming beds, 
 just as though nothing else could be in either of their 
 thoughts. But there w^as a sadness in the man's beautiful 
 features, in his fine deep violet eyes, that aroused all Joan's 
 sympathy, and involuntarily she put a question to him, 
 lowering her voice. 
 
66 
 
 POI\rEriOY ABBEY. 
 
 " Have you heard of Sybilla ? Is slie well ? " 
 " She is CLuite well. Thank you, Miss Pomeroy, for in- 
 quiring." 
 
 There was a strange earnestness in the man's manner as 
 he spoke his thanks ; there was not a look or tone that could 
 be construed into the smallest iota of shame or confusion ; 
 never had he given a more self-possessed, fearless answer. 
 Joan said good-morning. She admired the man's Spartan 
 courage, that would not allow it to be seen he felt the dis- 
 grace wliich had come home to him. And literally and 
 truly, tliat was all that had been heard of Sybilla. 
 
 Miss Pomeroy possessed her fortune, and could live where 
 she liked. Not a large fortune, it is true, but considerably 
 more than fell to the share of the three yoimger brothers, 
 for the old lord had chosen to leave it so. If she made her 
 residence at the abbey this fortune need not be touched, 
 except for dress and similar personal expenses : Guy would 
 have scorned to take money from his sister. If she re- 
 mained with Mrs. Capel, Joan would contribute her share 
 of the housekeeping, for the Capels were poor. 
 
 The small fortune inherited by the younger sons was paid 
 over to them a very few weeks after their father's death. 
 Eupert, who had only waited for it, being short of funds, 
 betook himself at once to London, ostensibly to look after 
 a government appointment of which he had received the 
 promise. Guy graciously intimated to his brother that he 
 was welcome to make the abbey his home until the appoint- 
 ment should be given ; but Eupert thought he had better be 
 on the spot to look the people up ; " at least, that was the 
 idea given in his answer. Guy susi^ectcd — nay, he knew — 
 tliat Eupert might have confessed to a more weighty motive 
 than that of " looking uj) " the government. He had debts, 
 poor fellow : the few thousands inherited from his father 
 would be nothing like enough to settle them, and it miglit 
 be just as convenient that his place of residence sliould be 
 a less conspicuous one than Pomeroy Abbey. That was 
 some months ago. Eupert had not received the appointment 
 yet ; but Guy had reason to know that he was adding to 
 his debts, instead of paying them* Eeady money, and tho 
 
AT THE STILE. 
 
 67 
 
 temptations of London ! an irresistible position for Rupert 
 the tlu'iftless. George Pomeroy v/as in India, his regiment 
 having been ordered there the previous autumn. 
 
 Another lovely spring day, still warmer than yesterday. 
 The hedges seemed to be clothed in a more luxuriant green, 
 the sky to be blue with an earnest of coming summer ; the 
 grass, growing long, was intermixed with oxlips, cowslips, 
 and bluebells, and the long deep-pink flowers that children 
 call cuckoos. Alice Wylde, rambling in the fields near her 
 house, had sat down upon a low stile amidst these homely 
 flowers, and thought pensively of the happy years of her 
 childhood, when the greatest of her simple delights had 
 been to go into the meadows and gather them — delights that 
 vrould never return. 
 
 She was deeply unhappy. Loving Rupert Pomeroy with 
 all the intensity of an impassioned and not well-disciplined 
 heart, this long absence from him had seemed like a separa- 
 tion of years. It was September when he went away ; it 
 was April now — almost May. All those months, and never 
 to see him, never to hear of him — excepting a word or so 
 dropped now and then by Miss Pomeroy or Guy. He had 
 not written to her : there might be danger in that : neither 
 did she know his address in London. In point of fact, 
 there was no engagement between them ; there never had 
 been any ; only love. 
 
 And Guy, the lord, was wooing her still; wooing her 
 silently. She gave him no encouragement whatever ; rather 
 tacitly repelled him. She did not do it openly, not caring 
 to invoke the displeasure of her mother. Joan had wondered 
 why her brother was so dilatory in asking the young lady 
 to be his wife, but Guy was only " biding his time." Dis- 
 couraged by her manner, he preferred to work his way with 
 her, rather than speak again too soon and provoke a second 
 refusal. But Guy was growing impatient, tired of the 
 delay ; and — Alice Wylde is sitting on the low field stile 
 there, looking at the flowers with eyes that see them 
 not. t 
 
 She steps off the stile and leans against it, for she hears 
 
58 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 footsteps approaching; and, thougli the hedge hides the 
 intruder, she knows them to be the Lord of Ponieroy's. 
 " Good-morning, Alice." 
 
 " Good-morning," she returned, preparing to move away. 
 
 " Stay," said Guy, putting his arm before her ; " I cannot 
 go on like this ; I cannot be shunned for ever, as you are 
 shunning me. If I come up with you out-of-doors, you 
 walk away ; if I call at the White House, you will not remain 
 in the room. I have been there now, talking to your mother ; 
 and she says, and I say, that matters should be brought to 
 an issue." 
 
 They were so brought long ago," replied Alice. " Only 
 you will not take my answer." 
 
 " No, I will never take that answer," returned Guy. " Oh, 
 Alice ! " he added, changing his tone to one of deep tender- 
 ness, " have compassion upon me ! my love for you is eating 
 away my heartstrings." 
 
 " I cannot love you," she replied, in a low tone. 
 
 " So you have said. I have asked you, as I ask you now, 
 Why?" 
 
 "Love is not a thing that can be called up at will. 
 It cannot be bought and sold ; as you would barter a 
 jewel." 
 
 " Sufficient of it will come at will ; if there be no bar. I 
 am ready to take you, and chance it. Is there a bar ? " he 
 continued meaningly. " Latterly I have grown to think it." 
 
 Alice Wylde hesitated. The persecution — for so she 
 looked upon it in her spirit of opposition — of Guy Pomeroy 
 had become intolerable to her : when she woke in the morn- 
 ing, the consciousness that she should meet him in the day, 
 j)ossibly be forced to listen to his love-making, to a second 
 edition of his offer, would rush over her with a feeling of 
 mingled doubt and despair. That this state of things could 
 not continue, common-sense told her. On her side, she was 
 growing angry and vexed with Eupert : but just at this 
 moment it seemed to her that she must get rid of Guy. 
 What if she told him there was a bar ? it might put an end 
 to his hopes and his tormentings. So she spoke out impul- 
 sively ; not weighing her words. 
 
AT THE STILE. 
 
 69 
 
 " If I were to impart to you that there is a bar, would it 
 convince you that your wish to address me cannot be carried 
 out?" 
 
 "What is the bar?" 
 
 She did not answer. A wave of something that looked 
 like terror passed over Guy's face. His voice became 
 strangely agitated. 
 
 " Not that of love ! — of love for another ! Oh, Alice, do 
 not say it ! " 
 
 " I must say it, if I am to speak the truth," she whispered. 
 " I do love another." 
 
 Guy's face took a darker expression. " Has another dared 
 to woo you ? " 
 
 "Dared?" 
 
 " Yes — dared. For it must have been done in secret — in 
 dishonour. Your mother knows nothing of this." 
 
 " I would ask the Lord of Pomeroy to spare me — to my 
 mother as to himself." 
 
 " Alice, this is no child's play. I have a right to inquire 
 into this matter, to be told the whole truth. Who is it that 
 has dared to come between us ? " 
 
 In her inmost heart Alice thought that the sentence might 
 have been changed ; that the one to " come between " was 
 Guy himself— between her and Rupert. 
 
 " If you will not accord me an explanation, Alice, I must 
 ask it of your mother. Oh, my dear, why won't you trust 
 me ? " he continued in softer tones. " Confide in me as in 
 your best friend : you have never a warmer one." 
 
 " It is your brother," she faltered, her voice falling to a 
 whisper. 
 
 " My brother ! '^ repeated Gny, looking at her in amaze- 
 ment. " Which brother ? " 
 " Rupert." 
 
 A minute elapsed before Guy took in the sense of the 
 words. So unconscious had he been of any such pretension 
 on Rupert's part that he thought even now he must have 
 misunderstood her. 
 
 " It cannot be," he said. " Rupert ? " 
 
 " Alas, yes ! He is my best-beloved." 
 
60 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Alice liad lieard of the passion that on occasion Guy 
 Pomeroy could fall into. It arose now. Bewildered, con- 
 fused, in his bitter disappointment, his dearest hopes thrown 
 back u]3on him, he hardly knew what he uttered. 
 
 " Eupert ! " he foamed. " Eupert ! the ill-doing spend- 
 thrift ! the disgrace to the name of Pomeroy ! who is now in 
 hiding, lesfc his reckless debts should be visited upon him ; 
 whose light conduct here in Abbeyland would be a byword 
 
 in men's mouths, but that he is a Pomeroy ! who Buf; 
 
 I do not believe you," suddenly broke off Guy, his passion 
 cooling down, as he revolved the past in the light of common 
 sense. He could not remember that Eupert and she had 
 been sufficiently intimate for love to ensue. It is a mis- 
 take, Alice. You never saw much of Eupert, or he of you." 
 
 Alice leaned against the top bar of the stile. She did not 
 reply ; but the rich flush of love, remembered love, mantled 
 her cheek, and her lips parted with a half-smile. It mad- 
 dened Guy. 
 
 " Do you wish to drive me wild ? " he asked, scorning 
 concealment. " Why don't you say that you never met him 
 — in love ; that you are asserting what is false, only to 
 deceive me ? " 
 
 " I have said what is true. And, as to not meeting, I 
 should be sorry to meet you in secret, as I have met 
 Eupert." 
 
 " You — a gentlewoman — and my promised wife — can stand 
 there and avow that you have met Eupert Pomeroy in 
 secret?" 
 
 " I am not your promised wife," retorted Alice, bent on 
 vexing him in her own sense of discomfort. "And there 
 was no other way in which we could meet, for you had 
 gained the ear of my mother. If we did meet in secret, 
 where was the harm ? do you think Eupert would permit 
 harm to come near me ? " 
 
 " He — made love to you ? " 
 
 " Yes ; he loved me. When you were imjing your 
 formal visits in the day, Eupert paid his in the evening. 
 We used to walk about in yonder grove — and oh, we were 
 so happy ! " 
 
AT THE STILE. 
 
 61 
 
 Tlie Lord of Pomeroy turned liis face from Alice, bending 
 it to the ground : it was well, perhaps, she did not see it 
 then. His love for her was indeed as a volcano raging 
 within him : he could not give her up ; far rather would he 
 have given up life and all its benefits. What could have 
 possessed her to meet him in this spirit of bravado ? Guy 
 was not one to bear it tamely, or to be cheated of his 
 revenge. As to Alice — she should be his, even if he died 
 for it. And death seemed, in his present mood, to be far 
 too good for his treacherous brother. 
 
 " Alice," he said, compelling his tone to an unnatural 
 calmness, " your love is worse than wasted, if it be given to 
 Eupert Pomeroy." 
 
 " Wasted ? " 
 
 " Yes, he had none to waste ; or to give to you." 
 
 Again the rich flush of remembrance dyed her cheeks, and 
 her lips were parted with the same sweet smile. Guy kept 
 down his temper. 
 
 " I say Eupert Pomeroy had no love to give to you. He 
 deceived you if he professed it ; he was only amusing 
 himself." 
 
 " You shall not traduce him to me," she interrupted, with 
 spirit. " I will not listen to it. You know the motive 
 which has obliged me to confide this to you — that you may 
 turn your hopes elsewhere. Keep my secret, Guy, and be 
 generous : perhaps I shall be your sister some time." 
 
 " Walk with me a little way, Alice," he suddenly ex- 
 claimed. " Not far." 
 
 Mechanically she obeyed, for his tone was im.perative. 
 Guy offered her his arm ; but she bowed a refusal. 
 
 " You would take Eupert's," he cried, with reproachful 
 scorn. And then chafed in spirit for having said it. 
 
 " It is not the custom for young ladies to walk arm-in- 
 arm in public, and I am quite alive to these exactions," she 
 added, throwing back her head. 
 
 " Custom ! " retorted Guy — " between a man and woman 
 who are to form the closest tie on earth ? " 
 
 " Did you speak of yourself, or of Eupert ? " she returned, 
 wilfully aggravating. And Guy Pomeroy, after a look 
 
62 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 that must have betrayed the bitterness of his heart, walked 
 by her side in silence. But all this only tended to augment 
 the resentment that was shaking his every fibre. If ever a 
 man had been desperately ill-used on earth, he believed that 
 it was himself. 
 
 The next field brought them within view of the game- 
 keeper's lodge. The windows were closed, the house seemed 
 deserted : it often looked so, now Sybilla was gone. Old 
 Nanny liked solitude. Guy stopped, laid his forefinger on 
 Alice's arm, and caused her to turn towards it, 
 
 " You see that place, Alice ? " 
 
 " Yes, what of it ? " 
 Look at it. Study it well." 
 
 " It is Gaunt's cottage," she exclaimed, wonderingly. 
 " V/hy am I to look at it ? " 
 
 " Because tliere was where Rupert's love was given." 
 
 She was slow in comprehending. No suspicion of the 
 sort had ever dawned upon her. Guy's words only called 
 up thoughts of the gamekeeper and the cottage : not of 
 Sybilla. Guy, saying no more for the moment, turned 
 homewards with her. Presently he spoke. 
 
 " There are certain topics, Alice, that we may not discuss 
 openly ; custom, which you profess to honour, does not 
 sanction it ; the proprieties of life would not sanction it ; 
 nevertheless, some of this reserve must be forgotten, even to 
 a young lady, when circumstances imperatively demand it." 
 
 Alice Wylde turned her wondering eyes upon him. 
 
 ''You know that Sybilla Gaunt has left the place," he 
 resumed, in low, deep tones : " you know, at least it is 
 probable that you do, why she was obliged to leave it." 
 
 "Well?" 
 She is with Rupert." 
 
 Silence ensued. Guy glanced around. Alice was walking 
 on, but he could not see her face. 
 
 The author of the disrepute that fell upon Sybilla Gaunt 
 was Rupert Pomeroy," continued Guy: "he v/ho ought to 
 have guarded her from it. Rupert — I tell it you fearlessly, 
 Alice, for it is the truth — is heartless as he is high. And 
 SO— he pretended that his whole love was yours ! " 
 
TRIUMPH. 
 
 63 
 
 « It was— i^m?" 
 
 " Yes ; lie is both base and false." 
 
 As a blast of lightning falls upon a tree, and shatters it, 
 so were these words falling upon Alice Wylde's brain. At 
 the end of the last field, which skirted Mrs. Wylde's garden, 
 Guy walked forward and held the gate open for her to pass 
 through. He could have broken again into passion, had he 
 been sure that her emotion arose from love of Rupert : her 
 countenance was white with agony. 
 
 " Is it true ? " she gasped. 
 
 " It is true as that you and I are here." 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 TRIUaiPH. 
 
 Walking slowly towards the open window of the dining- 
 room, the footsteps of the Lord of Pomeroy echoing in her 
 ears as he strode from the garden-gate, went Alice Wyldc, 
 feeling as if the best part of her life had been crushed out 
 of her. 
 
 Eemembrance was busy within her; events of the past 
 were rising up, trifles which had caused her no reflection at 
 the time. She remembered once to have made a slighting 
 remark to Eupert of Sybilla Gaunt, and Euperfc had abruptly 
 changed the theme. Again she remembered, in driving homo 
 with her mother from a dinner-party, one moonlight night, 
 at which they had met the lord and Guy, but not Eu2)ert, 
 who had sent an excuse, that she saw Eupert standing by 
 the trees at Gaunt's cottage ; and there was another un- 
 defined shadow near his: the gamekeeper's she had con- 
 cluded, and she had wondered why Eupert had gone down 
 there so late. Of course that shadow must have been 
 Sybilla's. 
 
 How was it that she had been blind ? Wlio but Eupert, 
 
64 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 witli his fascinating manners and his handsome form, with 
 his careless principles and indifference to consequences, was 
 likely to have turned the head of Sybilla? The lower 
 j^eople about her ? — Sybilla would have spurned them under 
 foot. Times and again she had wondered to herself with a 
 hazy sort of indifference who the recreant truant could be. 
 How could she have been so unsuspecting ? The very fact 
 of Sybilla's quitting the place with Rupert — or almost at 
 the same period — might have opened her eyes. 
 
 The revulsion of feeling to Alice was terrible : all her 
 love seemed to be thrown back upon herself, just as she in 
 her turn had been throwing back Guy's. She could have 
 wept tears of agony at the thought of how Eupert the false 
 must have laughed at her credulity. She, who had told him 
 of her rejection of Guy ; of her refusal to become the Lady 
 of Pomoroy for his sake. Together they had made fun of 
 the lord and of his hopes. Oh, blind, blind, blind ! 
 
 In her way, Alice AYylde was no less vindictive than Guy. 
 Already she began to wonder how she could be avenged on 
 Eupert. There was one way, if she could bring herself to 
 take it, that would at least show Eupert she did not care for 
 him : she could accept Guy. 
 
 The opening of the gate, as she stood still thinking these 
 thoughts, caused her to turn. Guy had come back again. 
 
 " Alice," he began, " when " 
 
 Say nothing to me now," she interrupted, her tone a 
 mixture of fierceness and despair, " or I shall be visiting the 
 hate upon you that I am beginning to feel for Eupert. If 
 
 he has thus trifled with me — if ho has a false heart " 
 
 He has a false one," said Guy. " He lives only to trifle. 
 You are not the first he has professed to love ; nor was 
 Sybilla, either. The village could tell you various tales." 
 
 The village could do so. Many a foolish escapade had 
 been laid, rightly or wrongly, at the door of the gay and 
 attractive Eupert. But the village held its peace, for was 
 he not a Pomeroy ? — and, amongst the simple around, it was 
 pretty generally held that the Pomeroys, like kings, could 
 do no wrong. 
 
 The Lord of Pomeroy spoke his farewell and departed : 
 
TRIUMPH. 
 
 65 
 
 Alice did not answer liim, but went on indoors. Not that 
 she intended any particular discourtesy towards him, but 
 her mind was in a tumult. " To come to me with his false 
 vows, from the company of that girl ! " she muttered to her- 
 self ; " to win my love ; to play upon my credulity ; to sport 
 with my heart's most sacred feelings ; and then return to 
 whence he came — to her ! Oh, mercy ! how shall I support 
 myself?" 
 
 A little voice came whispering to her, Is it true ? or is 
 Guy deceiving you ? She thought it was true ; the proba- 
 bilities, looking back, seemed to say that it was so. But she 
 went to her mother, who was on her dressing-room sofa, 
 deep in the pages of a fashionable novel, and asked a 
 question boldly. Little cared she, in her despair, for what 
 Guy had called the proprieties of life. 
 
 "Mother, who was it that led Sybilla Gaunt into the 
 wrong path ? 
 
 Now it happened that Mrs. Wylde was particularly alive 
 to the proprieties at that moment ; for the book before her 
 was of the most orthodox school : filled with holy little 
 village children and young clergymen with long (and very 
 unbecoming) black skirts, and who had never heard of 
 "wrong paths," much less come into contact with them. 
 Therefore Mrs. Wylde bent a severe brow on Alice. 
 
 " Young lady ! such topics are ignored in society. What 
 are you thinking of? " 
 
 " I want to know who it was that led Sybilla Gaunt into 
 sin," proceeded Alice, plunging deeper into the mire. 
 
 She stood before her mother with a pale face and eye of 
 dark misery, and it brought down Mrs. Wylde from her 
 stilts. 
 
 " Alice, what in the world is the matter ? What is Sybilla 
 
 Gaunt to you ? It was not Guy Pomeroy ; therefore " 
 
 " Was it Eupert ? " 
 
 " Child, I say, these subjects are better let alone. What 
 has come to you ? Of course it was Eupert : every one 
 knows that." 
 
 " Why did not the village shun him ? He was popular ; 
 he w^as courted up to the very hour he left it." 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 5 
 
66 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 " The village sliun a Pomeroy ! " derisively retorted Mrs. 
 Wylde. " If a Pomeroy chose to tell them they must sell 
 their souls to him, they would only kneel and do it. That 
 is enough, Alice ; the topic is not a suitable one for you." 
 
 But now Mrs. Wylde, in her zeal, or perhaps, it may be 
 said, in her animus against Eupert, spoke more surely than 
 she had grounds for. In talking one day with her own 
 maid, a flighty, gossiping damsel named Lettice, she had 
 introduced the subject of Sybilla and her misdoings. " Who 
 can have been her admirer ? " spoke Mrs. Wylde. " Oh, 
 ma'am, that's not known," said the girl, " but I'd lay some- 
 thing it's that good-looking Mr. Rupert Pomeroy." Not 
 another hint, excepting this, had Mrs. Wylde heard : and yet 
 she took upon herself to make this confident assertion to her 
 daughter. 
 
 It chanced, this same day, that Joan Pomeroy called at 
 the White House, with the information that she was about to 
 leave the abbey for a season. Left alone with Alice for a 
 moment, the latter approached her with an eager whisper. 
 
 " Miss Pomeroy, please tell me : was it known who — who 
 ran away with Sybilla Gaunt ? " 
 
 Miss Pomeroy looked surprised. She disdained to equivo- 
 cate, and therefore did not reply. " Are you ill, Alice ? " 
 she asked, noting the girl's paleness. 
 
 ^ I have heard that it was your brother Rupert," resumed 
 Alice, her eyes strained on Joan with a wild expectancy not 
 pleasant to look upon. 
 
 Joan Pomeroy bowed her head. " I do not know, myself." 
 But you cannot tell me it was not he ! 
 
 " No, I cannot. I ask, Alice, if you are ill ? " 
 
 " Oh no," she answered, with a hollow laugh : " I am very 
 well." 
 
 Meanwhile, Guy Pomeroy, smarting under the treatment 
 accorded him by one he loved so passionately, stung to the 
 heart at the deceit practised upon him by his brother, pro- 
 ceeded home with a step that had a sound of fury in it. 
 Only that very morning application had been made to him 
 on behalf of Rupert by Mr. Hildyard, their family solicitor 
 in London. Rupert had been arrested upon a " judgment " 
 
TRIUMPH. 
 
 67 
 
 that had been obtained against him, and unless the Lord of 
 Pomeroy came forward to extricate him, he must go to the 
 Queen's Bench prison. Guy had been wavering all the 
 morning as to whether he should respond to this appeal or 
 not. He had not too much cash to spare, and he quite 
 believed that if he extricated Eupert from this mess, he 
 would be in a similar one to-morrow ; but still Guy was not 
 altogether unbrotherly, and he did not care to hear of a 
 Pomeroy being sent to prison. The matter had been filling 
 his mind up to the hour of his visit at the White House, 
 argument for, answering argument against : but what he had 
 heard decided him now. 
 
 Opening his desk, he penned a sharp, brief note to the 
 solicitor. 
 
 "Dear Mr. Hildyard, 
 
 " The arrest of my brother Eupert is, no doubt, 
 only the precursor of many other similar arrests. In fact, 
 how he has been allowed to go scot-free so long, surprises 
 me. Nothing that you or he could say would induce me to 
 interfere ; and I desire that you will not appeal to me again, 
 now or later. With regard to the Queen's Bench, a sojourn 
 within its walls may do him good. This decision, so far as 
 I am concerned, is final. 
 
 "Pomeroy of Pomeroy." 
 
 This was the usual signature of the Lords of Pomeroy. 
 And thus, the appeal being unfavourable, Mr. Eupert 
 Pomeroy was escorted to prison. So far as appearances 
 might be trusted, his stay there would not be a short one. 
 
 In the course of the following afternoon, the Lord of 
 Pomeroy arrived at the W^hite House in all the state which it 
 pleased the Pomeroys to observe on occasions of importance, 
 and which was nothing unusual at that time : a gilded 
 carriage with his arms emblazoned on it, four prancing 
 horses, attendant servants in their sumptuous liveries of 
 purple velvet and silver. Tormented almost to madness, 
 Guy Pomeroy had determined to put his fate to the trial 
 without further delay, and to make his proposals in due form. 
 
68 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Oil, my goodness ! " cried Mrs. Wylde, running to the 
 window upon hearing the clatter below — " Alice, it is the 
 Lord of Pomeroy ! And he has come in state ! What can 
 it mean ? " 
 
 Alice, looking pale enough for a ghost, for she had passed 
 just such a restless, sleepless night as Guy, pushed her 
 pretty hair from her face in consternation, " He might 
 have given me another day or two," she murmured. 
 
 " Another what ? " cried Mrs. Wylde. 
 
 " Another day or two for thought," sighed Alice. " I 
 suppose he has come for — for my answer." 
 
 " Has he made you an offer ? " 
 
 " He has renewed it, mamma. He made it before the old 
 lord died." 
 
 " Oh, you crafty child ! Never to tell me ! " 
 
 " I refused him. I told him I would never, never have 
 him ; that he was never more to speak to me upon the subject. 
 But yesterday he spoke again." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 A message interrupted them : the Lord of Pomeroy waited 
 to see Mrs. Wylde. 
 
 " Now, Alice, what am I to say to the lord ? " asked the 
 mother.^ suppressed anger in her tone. 
 
 " I am sure I don't know," sighed Alice, looking the very 
 image of perplexity and despair. 
 
 " What do you mean by that, you wayward girl ? Not 
 know? You can do but one thing — accept him." 
 
 " There's so much to be said on both sides the question," 
 pleaded Alice. "I — do — not — like — him — you know; 
 but " 
 
 " I know ! " broke in Mrs. Wylde. " Don't bring my 
 name in like that, Alice. If you don't like him, you 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself ; that's all I know. You 
 have done your best to flirt with him. You have drawn 
 him on." 
 
 " Ah no, not lately, mamma ; not for many months now. 
 I did — perhaps — flirt with him a little for fun once ; but it 
 must be as much as a year ago." 
 
 You did more than flirt a little with him for fun ; you 
 
TRIUMPH. 
 
 69 
 
 did all you could to lead Mm on to love you,'' spoke the angry 
 lady impressively. "And you succeeded. If ever man 
 loved woman, Guy loves you — and your life with hira 
 will be as one long, happy daydream. The Lady of 
 Pomeroy ! " continued she in an ecstasy. " Mistress of 
 Pomeroy Abbey ! Why, for that position, Alice, half the 
 girls in the county are languishing ! And it is at your feet. 
 Surely you will not be so idiotic as to play with the lord 
 any longer ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know — I admit there is a great deal to be said on 
 both sides," assented Alice. 
 
 "Well, I must not keep him waiting. And, Alice, I 
 shall accept him." 
 
 " JSTo, don't do that," Alice replied, in quick fear. " If I 
 accept him, I will do it myself. But I must speak to him 
 in private first." 
 
 Guy had come to lay his formal proposals for her daughter's 
 hand before Mrs. Wylde; and he did so. Flattered, de- 
 lighted, the hopes and the doubts which had tormented her 
 laid to rest, Mrs. Wylde received them in the most gracious, 
 not to say gushing manner. Alice was shy, she told him ; 
 uncertain ; it was in the nature of maidens to be so ; but she 
 was sure she cared for the lord at heart, and would doubtless 
 accept the honour done her, and listen to his suit. The 
 lord, upon that, requested to see Alice ; and the mother 
 retired, to send her in. 
 
 " You know, Guy," Alice answered, when he held her 
 hands, and put the question to her almost as formally as ho 
 had put it to her mother, " that I have told you I cared for 
 Eupert " 
 
 " Yes, yes," he frowningly interrupted. 
 
 " And therefore I do not — in that way — care for you, for 
 we cannot care for two people at once ; it is impossible. It 
 was true — what you told me of him — about Sybilla Gaunt ? " 
 
 " It was true." 
 
 " Then I shall never, never care for him again, and I will 
 try never to think of him. From henceforth, my best 
 endeavours shall be to hate Eupert Pomeroy." 
 
 " And to love lae," he softly whispered. 
 
70 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " That will come in time." 
 
 " My darling, that is all I ask. And you will be my dear 
 wife ? 
 
 " I will : I promise. But you must please understand one 
 thing, Guy — that but for Kupert's having played me false, 
 I never could have married you. I mention it by way of 
 excuse for what you may have deemed my ill-conduct to you 
 all this while. Eupert " 
 
 " We may drop Eupert's name now," again interrupted 
 Guy, showing impatience even at the mention of his brother. 
 
 " Yes ; and drop it for ever," acquiesced Alice. " Traitor ! " 
 
 -s? * 
 
 The news went fortii to the local world. The Lord of 
 Pomeroy — the great man amidst its great men — had chosen 
 his consort ; he was to espouse the daughter of Mrs. Wylde, 
 whom he, as was shrewdly suspected, had been for some 
 time courting. The young lady was not of distinguished 
 descent ; of no descent at all, in fact ; but she had both 
 riches and beauty. 
 
 Gaily and swiftly went on the preparations for the 
 wedding ; both Mrs. Wylde and Guy urging a speedy day. 
 Perhaps neither of them, remembering the past, felt quite 
 sure that Alice, in her caprice, might not waver again. Joan 
 Pomeroy put off her visit ; and consented to remain at the 
 abbey for the ceremony. Her sister, Mrs. Capel, would come 
 for it, and they would depart together when the gaieties 
 were over. 
 
 The village of Abbeyland lay in a hollow. On its right, 
 looking towards the sea, rose the very long and gentle hill, 
 winding and turning until it reached the forest : the White 
 House being about midway between the forest and the abbey. 
 Sheltered within the skirts of this dark forest was an old 
 and lonely cottage, inhabited by an old woman named 
 Naomi Eex. 
 
 In the days gone by, there had been a rather large colony of 
 Eexes in Abbeyland — all close and staunch adherents of the 
 Lords of Pomeroy. Some had been in their personal service 
 — valets or house-stewards ; and one had held the post of head 
 gamekeeper before Gaunt. An ordinary keeper was he, re- 
 
TRIUMPH, 
 
 71 
 
 ceiving his wages ; not, as Gaunt was, a " gentleman keeper." 
 All the male Eexes had died out ; of the women there 
 remained three : Malvina Rex, who was housekeeper at the 
 abbey, and was called Mrs. Eex, though she had never married ; 
 Naomi Eex, who was the old widow of Anthony Eex, the 
 housekeeper's brother ; and Bridget Eex, who was daughter 
 to another deceased brother, and who lived at the abbey with 
 her aunt. Naomi Eex, the widow, lived in the cottage in 
 the forest, upon a small, comfortable income realized by her 
 late husband : the late Lord of Pomeroy having accorded 
 her the use of the cottage for life. These Eexes knew as 
 much about the traditions of the Pomeroy s, and about them- 
 selves too, as long-retained servants in a family generally 
 do know. The Eexes had always been respected by the 
 villagers ; treated by them with more consideration than 
 they showed to one another, in regard to their having been 
 confidential retainers of the lords of the soil. 
 
 It wanted about a week to the wedding, for which all 
 sorts of great preparations were agate, when Mrs. Wylde 
 chanced one hot morning to pass the cottage in the forest, 
 and saw Naomi. Naomi was popularly supposed to be falling 
 into her dotage. Like many imaginative persons, who, when 
 they get into years, are fonder of ruminating on the past 
 than of talking of the present, she would sit for hours on 
 the bench oustide her door in silence, her eyes fixed on the 
 landscape that rose before her, the most conspicuous feature 
 of which was the abbey, and her mind lost in the days that 
 had been. It was thus that Mrs. Wylde found her. That 
 lady, who had not felt well of late, and had moreover a 
 horrible fear upon her that she was growing frightfully 
 stout, was ordered by Mr. Norris to take as much walking 
 exercise as possible ; she often passed the cottage in her 
 walks, and had made acquaintance with its tenant. 
 
 " Good-morning, Naomi." 
 
 " Good-morning to you, madam," replied Naomi, roused 
 out of her reverie, and getting up to curtsy, with her 
 habitual respect, and to remain standing as long as Mrs. 
 Wylde chose to halt at her palings. The manners then 
 observed by the humbler classes towards their betters were 
 
72 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 very different from those obtaining in these degenerate days ; 
 moreover, Naomi Kex knew that Mrs. Wylde was the mother 
 of the future Lady of Pomeroy. It was the highest position 
 in the whole world, in poor Naomi's estimation : princes 
 were, no doubt, great and grand ; but the Pomeroys were 
 greater. 
 
 " Would you please to condescend to walk in and rest, 
 ma*am," asked Naomi, observing that her visitor's comely 
 face looked warm and tired. " It's shady in my little parlour." 
 
 " I don't mind if I do," said Mrs. Wylde. " One feels the 
 hill in this sultry weather. Stay ; no ; not indoors ; I should 
 prefer this bench," she added, sitting down on the bench 
 from which Naomi had risen. " How pleasant it is here ! " 
 
 " Ay, ma'am, it is. W"ould you please to note the sweep 
 o' landscape. The fair plain, the bold rocks, and yonder 
 sea ; the abbey right before one's eyes, and the blessed 
 convent in the distance, like a peaceful haven ! " 
 
 " It all looks peaceful to me, after that dreadful hill. But 
 you must sit down yourself, Mrs. Eex.'* 
 
 " Thank you, madam, no," curtsied the old lady. " I 
 would rather stand." 
 
 " Unless you take the very place from which I disturbed 
 you, I shall go away again," said Mrs. Wylde, firmly. And 
 Naomi, who knew proper manners, sat down at once. She 
 was a cleanly-looking old lady, with a pale, thin face, wearing 
 a big-bordered cap with black bows ; a short dark gown, and 
 a black-and-white print 'kerchief crossed upon her shoulders, 
 which partially hid the small, beautiful cross of gold and 
 blue enamel, that lay on her neck. 
 
 " I hope this day next week will be as fine as this one ! " 
 impulsively spoke Mrs. Wylde, following out her thoughts : 
 and they were rarely absent now from the approaching 
 ceremony. 
 
 " Tlie saints grant it ! " acquiesced Naomi. 
 
 Mrs. Wylde, recalled to the present, laughed. "You 
 know, then, what is to take place on that day ? " 
 
 " Know ! " exclaimed Naomi, surprised at the question. 
 "Ma'am, could I be off knowing aught that concerns a 
 Pomeroy? Especially so momentous an event as the 
 
TRIUMPH. 
 
 73 
 
 marriage of the lord ! I trust, to my lieart, the lord is 
 marrying for his happiness : and the sweet young lady too. 
 I trust that it is not in his day the prediction is to be 
 fulfilled." 
 
 Now, if Mrs. Wylde had just spoken on impulse, so most 
 assuredly had Naomi, in saying this. All the morning long, 
 one certain subject, this subject, had been haunting her 
 mind. Aware of the slip she had made, she was hasting 
 to speak of something else, but Mrs. Wylde caught her up 
 sharply. 
 
 " Prediction ! What do you mean ? Prediction of what ? " 
 
 " There used to be a prediction talked of in the Pomeroy 
 family, when the late lord was young," calmly answered 
 Naomi, silently crossing herself. " Hardly an ancient family 
 in the land, ma'am, but has its beliefs and its forecastings." 
 
 " Doubtless," assented Mrs. Wylde, with dignity, as if to 
 imply that she was of ancient family herself. " What was 
 the prediction about ? " 
 
 " It was just a verse of rhyme, ma'am ; four lines, maybe ; 
 though I don't call to mind, at this moment, how they run." 
 
 " And what did they predict ? " 
 
 " They tell of some ill-fortune that is to fall upon the 
 Pomeroys, after the marriage of one of the lords. But it's 
 a marriage that must be entered into with deceit and craft — 
 so it is not likely to fall in these days, for the Pomeroys are 
 honourable, and disdain a lie. I remember hearing the late 
 lord joke about it to his lady soon after their marriage, 
 saying that it could not fall in his time, since he had not 
 fulfilled its conditions." 
 
 " What nonsense it must be ! " cried Mrs. Wylde. " Who 
 made it up — who spoke it ? " 
 
 " No one knows that, madam. It is some generations ago 
 now." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde burst into laughter. It must be confessed 
 that she had little reverence for such superstitions, and 
 would as soon have believed in a ghost itself as in a " pre- 
 diction." 
 
 " Then I think the present lord has no need to fear. If 
 generation after generation has been passed over, surely his 
 
74 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 will not prove the exception. The Pomeroys are very 
 fanciful, are they not ? " added Mrs. Wylde, consigning the 
 subject to the oblivion it deserved. 
 
 " They have their opinions, ma'am, and their traditions. 
 All old families have." 
 
 "You have seen a great deal of the Pomeroys in your 
 time ? " 
 
 " Ay, ma'am, I have. I was a Rex, ma'am, you see, and 
 cousin to my late husband ; and the Eexes have always been 
 close servants of the Pomeroys. Old Jerome's mother, by 
 the way, was a Rex too, but only distantly related to us. 
 The late lady took a good deal of notice of me." 
 
 " You had no children, I think ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am, never. It sometimes falls out, I've remarked, 
 that when man and wife are cousins they don't have any." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde nodded. " I suppose you will go to see the 
 ceremony ? " 
 
 " Doubtless, ma'am. The lord himself bade my sister-in- 
 law, the housekeeper, invite me to the abbey for the day, 
 and they'll send for me betimes. It's but a slip of a walk 
 round to the chapel from thence, and I can manage that. I 
 would not be off seeing the wedding for a good deal." 
 
 " What sort of a young man is the youngest son ? " asked 
 Mrs. Wylde, who never lost an opportunity of learning in- 
 formation about the family she so reverenced. 
 
 " Charming young men, both the younger ones," exclaimed 
 Naomi Rex, warmly. " Not so grand in stature as the lord 
 and Mr. Rupert, but fresh and fair-looking as a summer's 
 day. Mr. Leolin is a bit haughty in manner like the lord ; 
 but Mr. George — Captain Pomeroy they call him now — is 
 just a favourite with everybody. He takes after his mother." 
 
 " I have seen him : he was here when we first settled at 
 the place," remarked Mrs. Wylde. " But I did not see him 
 when he came to the funeral." 
 
 " His stay was so short, ma'am. Short as it was, though, 
 he came up to see me between the lights — bless him ! He 
 was kept back two whole days by a hurricane in crossing 
 from Ireland — as maybe you heard at the time, ma'am." 
 
 " Oh, the sea is dreadful," remarked Mrs. Wylde. " We 
 
TRIUMPH. 
 
 75 
 
 had a three-days' gale off the Cape when I was coming from 
 India ; the waves rising mountains high and beating us back 
 every minute. I was never so frightened in my life. And 
 now I must go/' she added, beginning to arrange the strings 
 of her grey chip bonnet, which she had loosened ; " but I 
 must first ask you to give me a glass of water." 
 
 Naomi called to her little maid, Ann, and the water was 
 brought. Then Mrs. Wylde turned to pursue her way. 
 
 " What a beautiful cross ! " she exclaimed in admiration, 
 catching sight of the ornament as Naomi bent forward to 
 close the gate after her. 
 
 " It never leaves my neck, ma'am, night or day, save when 
 I want to renew the ribbon ; I look upon it as a charm," 
 spoke the old woman. 
 
 " Some relic, I suppose ? " 
 
 " A relic of the Pomeroys, madam. My late lady gave it 
 to me after Master Leolin was born. Her maid was ill at 
 the time, and the nurse was taken ill ; a sort of epidemic, I 
 suppose it was, and they sent for me. My lady liked me to 
 be about her ; and though the two young women soon got 
 well, she kept me for six weeks, and gave me this cross when 
 I left. Oh, she was a considerate, sweet-tempered lady — 
 and Master George is the very model of her. Good-day, 
 madam ; my service to you." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde walked slowly home, her thoughts running in 
 a desultory sort of way upon the interview. A lovely cross, 
 she said to herself, quite out of place upon that old woman's 
 wrinkled neck ; it was perfectly absurd to have given it to 
 her. If Captain George were as indiscriminate as his mother 
 in such matters, she should not say very much for his sense. 
 And what autocrats the Pomeroys seemed always to have 
 been! — and how proud this old creature was of having 
 served them ! Thus Mrs. Wylde's reflections ran on, from 
 one point to another — but never once did they recur to the 
 " Prediction." 
 
 The days sped quickly onward, and the eve of the 
 wedding arrived. Visitors, in the shape of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Capel, came to the abbey ; one or two to the White House : 
 but the guests would chiefly assemble on the day only. 
 
7G 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 In the afternoon Alice sat in her own room, her maid 
 Theresa busily packing. Only a small trunk of clothes 
 would be conveyed to the abbey that evening ; tlie rest 
 would follow later. The Lords of Pomeroy disdained to 
 follow the world's ordinary forms and customs, and Alice 
 w^ould on the morrow proceed direct to her new home. 
 
 Alice Wylde had borne up bravely. She would not allow 
 herself to recall the past ; she thought she was successfully 
 putting the recreant Rupert from her heart ; and she did her 
 best to like the Lord of Pomeroy, to look forward to a happy 
 life with him. Only, now and again, some slight incident 
 would arise that served to bring back to memory a scene of 
 happier days, and her whole frame would thrill with anguish. 
 One of these occurred now. 
 
 " Are these flowers to go in. Miss Alice ? " 
 
 " Flowers ? " repeated Alice, listlessly. " What flowers ? 
 flow you worry, Theresa ! " 
 
 " These, miss, that were between this tissue paper in your 
 little drawer," replied Theresa. "Here's a rose, and a — 
 what is it ? — a white geranium, I think, Miss Alice, but they 
 are dried up beyond knowing." 
 
 Alice turned to the flowers—she had overlooked them 
 when casting away others — and the tide of memory came 
 rushing over her. They were the last he had ever given 
 her, and too well she remembered hovj they were given ; his 
 words and his looks of love. She buried her face in her 
 hands, and gave vent to a groan of pain. 
 
 It was all over now ; he was false, and gone. Gone, 
 never to return. The last evening they had clandestinely 
 met, Rupert was late ; when he came he had these flowers 
 in his hand, a blush rose and a white geranium, and he put 
 them into hers. All that sweet romance was over ; hence- 
 forth her heart must content itself with the most prosaic 
 reality. 
 
 " Flowers ! " she cried, indifferently, turning to Theresa, 
 who was on her knees before the trunk. " Some old dried 
 things, I suppose, that have lain there and been forgotten. 
 Throw them down with the otiier rubbish, Theresa." 
 
 Theresa let the flowers fall upon the carpet amidst the 
 
TRIUMPH. 
 
 77 
 
 discarded odds and ends lying there. She was resuming 
 her packing, when her ear caught the sound of footsteps 
 through the open window, and she stretched up her head to 
 look below. 
 
 " Miss Alice, here's the Lord of Pomeroy." 
 
 He had come, had he ! — in spite of Mrs. Wylde's having 
 laughingly told him that, according to rules of etiquette, a 
 bridegroom must not see his bride on the eve of the wedding- 
 day. It was not " etiquette " that could keep Guy Pomeroy 
 from her he loved. 
 
 Alice knew she must go to him. And why should she 
 not ? Was he not to be her husband ere many hours had 
 passed ? But her thoughts had been turned to the events 
 which she had latterly striven to bury, and, as she went 
 down, an impulse arose — long afterwards she used to wonder 
 why it should so have arisen— to speak of them to Guy. 
 Have we not all been unaccountably swayed by such im- 
 pulses, without rhyme or reason ? 
 
 Entering the room where he stood alone, waiting for her, 
 she stopped his words of greeting and put away uncon- 
 sciously his hand. It was as though some instinct compelled 
 her to speak and as if she had not a moment left to do 
 it in. 
 
 " Guy, did you deceive me when you told me that — that 
 ill of Eupert ? " 
 
 The Lord of Pomeroy turned his eyes upon her. "Why 
 do you ask that now ? " 
 
 " Were I to find, later, that you had deceived me, it would 
 be bad for us both ; for you and for me," she dreamily said. 
 
 " Deceived you in what respect ? " 
 
 " About Sybilla Gaunt." 
 
 "The Lords of Pomeroy disdain deceit," was his reply. 
 " The fact of Eupert's remaining away so long might con- 
 vince you that he is with Jier^ or with some other equally 
 powerful attraction, without any further proof." 
 
 " True, true," she murmured. " Forgive me, Guy." 
 
 Guy Pomeroy bent towards her, and would have sealed 
 his forgiveness, but was met by a gesture of repression. 
 " Don't, please," she faintly said, as she drew away. 
 
78 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 A passing frown contracted Guy's face. When these little 
 episodes peeped out, showing how utterly she disliked him, 
 he felt at war with her, with Eupert, with the world, and 
 with Heaven. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 The month by the calendar was June ; the day, in the first 
 week of it : looking at the weather, it might have been pro- 
 nounced November ; rarely, indeed, has June seen such a 
 day. But, if the weather was bad, the inhabitants of 
 Abbeyland were unusually active and gay ; all, their best 
 attire donned, making the most of their holiday. Windows 
 and casements seemed alive with heads; groups gathered 
 under shelter in door-ways, in the shops, and in the black- 
 smith's forge, all watching the road in a flutter of expecta- 
 tion, for Guy, Lord of Pomeroy, was to pass with his 
 bride. 
 
 Twice already had the gazers been gratified. Once when 
 the string of carriages, containing the bride and her friends, 
 had gone forth to the chapel belonging to Pomeroy Abbey ; 
 and again at the conclusion of the ceremony, when they 
 went back to the White House to breakfast, the bride then 
 sitting by her lord in his new and handsome chariot. A 
 chariot emblazoned with the old arms and quarterings of the 
 Pomeroys, and drawn by four greys, splendidly caparisoned. 
 A goodly sight, indeed : but what a day ! 
 
 Fair and calm and lovely had tlie weather been through- 
 out the past month, and when Abbeyland's inhabitants went 
 to rest the previous evening it had appeared as settled as 
 fair. In the morning, when they rose, the sky was of a dark 
 leaden colour, gloomy and threatening clouds overspread the 
 earth like a pall, and a sighing wind swept along in mourn- 
 
THE STORM. 
 
 79 
 
 ful wails, now dropping into a low dirge, now meeting, as it 
 seemed, from all quarters, and battling in fury. No rain 
 fell as yet, no lightning came to terrify the timid, no thunder 
 to appal them : but if ever the elements were gathering for 
 warfare they were that morning. And in this threatening 
 weather the bride and her train went forth to the chapel at 
 mid-day. 
 
 A bride bright and beautiful was she : and so she looked 
 as she stood before the array of priests in her chaplet of 
 white roses and orange-blossoms, the veil thrown back from 
 her face, her eyes sparkling, and her cheeks flushed to 
 brilliancy. A sign of happiness, quoth the company around, 
 arrayed in their feathers and laces : they little suspected 
 that it was but the flush of excitement ; of misery if you 
 will ; or that she had disliked the Lord of Pomeroy, while 
 she passionately loved another. 
 
 How fortunate Alice Wylde was, they deemed, to have 
 gained that prize in the matrimonial lottery for which many 
 had striven! And she, flighty, vain, ill-trained, worse- 
 disciplined, disappointed in him whom she had loved, had 
 thought she could not do better than hasten to be somebody 
 else's wife, if only to be revenged on the false lover : and 
 when that somebody chanced to be the Lord of Pomeroy, to 
 be raised to whose position she might have counted the 
 world well lost, Alice Wylde had not hesitated. Some 
 right-minded girls might have shrunk from the indelicacy of 
 marrying one brother when they had loved the other. Not 
 so Alice Wylde. To be Lady of Pomeroy she would have 
 sacrificed more than any trifling reluctance that might haunt 
 her of that kind. 
 
 And there she knelt in the cha23el by the bridegroom's 
 side, promising to be to him ever a loving and faithful wife. 
 The lord's sisters, Isabel, the wife of the Honourable Mr. 
 Capel, and Joan Pomeroy, stood near her; Joan splendidly 
 attired for once ; and next to them was the bride's mother, 
 Mrs. Wylde, resplendent in laces and satins. The greater 
 portion of this gorgeous crowd were guests for the day only, 
 to be entertained at the White House ; where, according to 
 popular belief, feasting was to prevail all day ; and in the 
 
80 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 evening the bride and bridegroom would take up their abode 
 at the abbey. 
 
 That such a morning should have arisen, so unnatural in 
 the sweet month of June, struck all with dismay. We like 
 the sun to shine at festivals. During the ceremony in the 
 chapel, the darkness grew deeper, a darkness rarely ex- 
 perienced in the daytime. His Eminence the Cardinal, who 
 had travelled down to preside at the nuptial mass, had to 
 rub his spectacles. The old Gothic chapel, with its narrow 
 casements, in keeping with the Gothic abbey beside it, 
 became so obscure that one countenance could not bo dis- 
 tinguished from another, and when the bride was requested 
 to write her name in this book, she objected, saying that she 
 could not see. One of the tapers used in the ceremony was 
 brought near, and by its light she wrote what was required 
 of her. In this gloom, at the conclusion of the ceremony, 
 but still in no rain, the procession took its way back to the 
 White House, where the bridal entertainments were held. 
 
 And so the hours passed ; the spectators gathered in the 
 cottages in Abbeyland feasting a little on their own score, 
 and gossiping away the day until the last instalment of the 
 pageantry should pass and gladden their sight. 
 
 Evening came. And with it the jarring storm that had 
 strangely held off so long ; wind, rain, thunder, lightning : 
 in the midst of which Guy Pomeroy must bring forth his 
 bride to conduct her to the abbey. The Lords of Pomeroy 
 condescended not to the wedding-tour, a fashion introduced 
 of later years : the former lords had taken their brides 
 straight from their maiden to their wedded home, and the 
 modern lords disdained to adjure the custom. 
 
 " Why do they tarry ? uttered one good wife to a knot 
 of neighbours, who had collected within her dwelling-house. 
 It was that of Tom Whittaker, the second keeper, and just 
 in the middle of the village. Naomi Rex, from the forest, 
 made one of them. She had been at the abbey, and in the 
 chapel, and had now come to Whittaker's with her niece 
 Bridget. The old woman had white satin ribbons on her 
 cap, and Bridget was as smart as she dare be. Bridget was 
 outside just now, since a more extended view down the road 
 
THE STOEM. 
 
 81 
 
 could be obtained there. " Half-past seven o' tbe clock," 
 continued Kbode Wbittaker, " and tbey were to have come 
 forth on the stroke of the hour." 
 
 Why, they tarry for the weather, to be sure," spoke her 
 next neighbour. 
 
 " Nay, then they may put off their bridal garments, and 
 Madam Wylde may just have 'em for the night, instead of 
 the abbey," retorted Ehode Wbittaker, who liked nothing so 
 much as the sound of her own voice. " There's no chance 
 that this storm will slacken ; the lightning may, but the 
 rain and the wind won't ; and that the Lord of Pomeroy 
 may see for himself." 
 
 " At three o'clock, 'twas said the banquet was to be. They 
 have had time to eat it, and another to it : why don't they 
 come ? " 
 
 " Don't be impatient, you women," exclaimed Wbittaker 
 himself, who was standing at the open door, half in, half 
 out. " They'll come, all in time : trust the Lord of Pomeroy 
 for that. A bad day, sir," he added, touching his hat to 
 some one who was passing. 
 
 " Who's that you are speaking to, Tom ? " asked his wife. 
 
 " Mr. Gaunt." 
 
 " Mr. Gaunt ! Why, where's he going, in all this storm ? " 
 " To the abbey, I should say. He's taking that direc- 
 tion." 
 
 " Aunt Ehode," screamed out a girl of nineteen, " I 
 wouldn't be married on such a day as this, if I had to keep 
 single all my life. It bodes ill-luck." 
 
 " Hush-sh-sh ! " came the prolonged caution from several 
 lips. It was a bold tongue in Abbeyland that dared hint at 
 ill-luck for a Pomeroy. 
 
 " There's nobody here but ourselves," returned the girl, 
 in a subdued tone. " And I didn't send the storm. It's 
 come, and there can't be harm in saying that it is. To me 
 it seems to bode frightful luck." 
 
 " The same thing has been in my mind all day," whispered 
 Naomi Eex, from the arm-chair near the fire. "When I 
 got up this morning, and saw the dead, ghostly look of 
 things— yes, you may question it, but they had a bluo 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 6 
 
82 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 ghostly look, just as they had that day last year when the 
 heavens were darkened for the — what was it called ? — the 
 eclipse of the sun, and the cocks set on to crow at mid-day. 
 So it has looked all day since. Thought I to myself — if 
 ever there's ill-luck meant to be foreshadowed, it must be 
 this day, for the Lord and new Lady of Pomeroy. As Mary 
 Lamp says, we did not send the storm ; but as it is here, I 
 see not why it should not be spoken of — and the fear it 
 brings to thoughtful minds." 
 
 " And I just ask you all," returned the girl, delighted at 
 being upheld in her treason by so eminent an authority as 
 Naomi Kex, " did you ever see such lightning, or hear such 
 thunder? Aunt Khode knows it, though she snubs me. 
 Hark to that peal ! " 
 
 " Yes, Mary Lamp's right— it is a storm and a day alto- 
 gether out of the common," assented Naomi. " Hardly a 
 minute of this blessed day but my silent prayers have been 
 going up to heaven, that the ill this too surely seems to 
 portend may be averted." 
 
 Tom Whittaker put his head as far beyond the door as 
 it would go, to have his laugh out. He did not believe in 
 omens. 
 
 " Strange the lord didn't bring his brother, Mr. Eupert, to 
 the wedding," cried a woman who was mounted on a chair 
 to see the better. " Perhaps Mr. Eupert don't care for 
 w^eddings." 
 
 " He'd care for 'the feasting that is to come after it, 
 though. There's to be open house at the abbey for nine 
 days to come, and the lord and the lady are to head the 
 tables." 
 
 " I wish Mr. Eupert had been the heir," exclaimed Mary 
 Lamp, enthusiastically. He's a rare brave man to speak 
 to, with a merry eye : but the lord's as cold as a stone." 
 
 An unlucky remark : the girl was almost buffeted. The 
 gay Eupert was not held in the favour that the lord was, for 
 his faults were certainly not those of being cold or stony ; 
 and though the community did not praise him, it w^ould not 
 blame. Harsh tongues were let loose upon the girl. 
 
 " Thee'dst better not get within ken o' Mr. Eupert's merry 
 
THE STOEM. 
 
 83 
 
 eye, I can tell thee that, girl, or may be thee'dst find tliy 
 own the sadder for it," said an old man who sat in the 
 opposite chair to Naomi. 
 
 The girl looked as though she would like to rebel. " I 
 don't care," cried she : " you are all ready to lie down and 
 let the lord step over you as he walks, but he's not half the 
 pleasant lord that his father was, nor that Mr. Kupert would 
 have made. I said no more than that, and where's the ill of 
 it ? T'other day he was riding out of the bean-field, none 
 of the grooms after him, and I pulled the gate back for him 
 and held it wide. He rode through, as stiff as a log of 
 wood, never so much as saying thank ye, or turning his eye 
 to see who it was holding it." 
 
 " He is the Lord of Pomeroy, and Ave are his vassals," 
 replied Mrs. Whittaker : " and you had better not talk so 
 free, Mary Lamp. They say Miss Pomeroy leaves the abbey 
 for good when the nine days' feasting's over ; she has her 
 fortune, and can have her home where she likes." 
 
 " Nay, not for good," spoke up Naomi. She'll be 
 coming back again : she told me so t'other day, when we 
 were talking of Miss Isabel. You take queer fancies in 
 your head, Ehode Whittaker." 
 
 " I only takes the fancies that folks puts into it," resent- 
 fully retorted Mrs. Whittaker. " Holy Virgin ! did you see 
 that flash?" 
 
 " Here's something else to see," cried Whittaker, putting 
 his head round the door-post again. " They be coming at 
 last." 
 
 In spite of the wind and the pouring rain — in spite of the 
 forked lightning and the resounding thunder, out went the 
 younger women, leaving the windows for the aged. Out 
 they pressed from all parts and from all quarters, until the 
 road seemed lined, as by magic — to see those whom they had 
 seen hundreds of times before. 
 
 But not in their bridal attire : and that was worn now. 
 It had not been put off. The wreath of roses and orange- 
 blossoms were yet on the bride's head, and the flowing veil 
 still fell behind her; but her cheeks' crimson had gone. 
 The Lord of Pomeroy sat by her in his towering height ; 
 
84 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 she looked as a little girl beside him ; and his ever pale 
 complexion was not a whit less ghastly than usual, and his 
 hare-lip was only too conspicuous. But for that lip and the 
 unnaturally white skin, he would have been a very handsome 
 man : handsome in a degree he was now, for his features, 
 excepting the upper lip, were perfectly formed, his grey 
 eyes were beautiful, and his height and figure of noble 
 presence. 
 
 " She's pale now," cried one of the women ; " she don't 
 like the storm." 
 
 " I shouldn't," put in Mary Lamp. " Is J effs making his 
 horses go slow on purpose ? " 
 
 " What purpose ? " 
 
 " That we may see the better." 
 
 " Psha, child ! " rebuked a man who was standing next 
 her. " Don't you see that Jeffs is keeping his reins tight 
 over 'em — pulling them in ! If he let 'em get their heads, 
 they'd be off. Look how they pant! Dumb creatures be 
 more frightened at a storm like this than human people." 
 
 Jeffs, the coachman, sat on his box, seeming, indeed, to 
 have as much as he could manage in the four grey horses. 
 The Lords of Pomeroy always drove four-in-hand : they 
 held postillions, in those days much in fashion, in supreme 
 contempt : Jeffs did the same. The carriage had been 
 waiting at the White House at seven o'clock ; and the half- 
 hour after it had struck before the lord and his bride came 
 forth. 
 
 In that space of time the horses had become thoroughly 
 frightened by the storm, almost unmanageable ; and Jeffs, 
 keeping his own place on the hammercloth, was reduced to 
 the humiliation (very great to him) of ordering the two 
 footmen to hold the heads of the leaders. So that this 
 proud office, of which Jeffs had thought so much — that of 
 driving home his lord and his new lady — had partially col- 
 lapsed ; the glitter and glare had been taken from it. From 
 the time of starting from the White House, the storm seemed 
 to grow worse with every minute, the horses to become more 
 terrified, and Jeffs had had his hands full. 
 
 " Pray the patron saint of the Pomeroys to keep back that 
 
THE STORM. 
 
 85 
 
 lightning, or I shan't master 'em ! " ejaculated he to himself, 
 just as they were passing the dwelling of Whittaker. 
 
 The patron saint was deaf to poor Jeffs. In the very next 
 moment a flash came, more vivid than any preceding it. It 
 was followed by an awful crash of thunder ; the horses 
 reared, plunged, curvetted, and finally started away like 
 mad. The two footmen, standing up behind in purple and 
 silver, with their gold-headed canes, bent aside in dismay to 
 look beyond the chariot, to see whither they might be going. 
 
 " Holy Mary, help us ! " uttered Jeffs. " A pretty wedding- 
 day this is ! " 
 
 And, if they were frightened, these hardy men, what must 
 the young bride have been ? She uttered a faint scream as 
 the horses dashed onwards, started partially up, and seized 
 the handle of the carriage-door to open it. Guy drew her 
 down again. 
 
 "Alice, what are you thinking of? It would be certain 
 death.'' 
 
 She turned her white and terror-stricken face upon him. 
 " Better walk to the abbey, through the storm and the rain, 
 than be at the mercy of these wild horses." 
 
 "They are frightened, like you, my dearest. Jeffs can 
 manage them. See, they are slackening their speed." 
 
 " We had better walk — if we could only get out ! Oh, 
 Guy, let us walk ! " 
 
 He shook his head. It was a perilous situation, growing 
 more perilous with every flash : but their best chance, indeed? 
 their only chance, lay in keejiing quiet within the closed 
 carriage. 
 
 " Guy, what a day ! " bursting into tears of present terror ; 
 whilst a vague, undefined .feeling of dread pervaded her as 
 to the future. "I wish we had put it off till to-morrow. 
 Theresa suggested it when she saw what dreadful weather 
 it was — but mamma laughed at her." 
 
 Guy Pomeroy did not answer. He hastily turned her 
 face towards him, so that she could not see out, and held her 
 there, as if caressingly. The horses were at their worst. 
 Now galloping, now rearing, plunging, and stamping in 
 fury, and now galloping again, on they went. Guy satj 
 
86 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 upright and calm, and slie clung to him. The terrified foot- 
 men, putting life before etiquette, managed to get carefully 
 down and reach terra firma. One fell as he loosed his hold, 
 the other staggered : but they were in safety. They ran 
 after the carriage with their sticks, just as many of the 
 spectators, who had been standing to see it pass, were also 
 running. Jeffs had lost all command, and the horses were 
 as furies. 
 
 The Lord of Pomeroy put his head out at the front 
 window, and called aloud to his trusty coachman. " Jeffs, 
 take care : tighten the left rein, or they will pass the turn- 
 ing." And down he sat again, and shielded his bride's 
 face as before. She was shivering. 
 
 " Courage, my love," he whispered : " another minute or 
 two, and we shall be in the more sheltered drive, close to 
 the abbey." 
 
 Jeffs was skilful and experienced, and Jeffs " took care," 
 as his lord enjoined ; but skill and care are sometimes power- 
 less to arrest the career of animals frightened to madness. 
 The rein was tightened in vain ; the horses would not turn 
 on their proper path, but dashed blindly forward beyond it. 
 And those, following behind, uttered a shrill cry of despair 
 as the horses passed it and tore onwards, for they were 
 plunging on to a dangerous road — a road which on one side 
 had no protection. The lord saw his danger ; but he thought 
 far less of it than of keeping its sight from her. She 
 struggled her face free, in spite of him, and looked up. 
 
 " We are on the precipice ! " she shrieked. " Oh, Guy, we 
 are on the precipice ! " 
 
 "Hush, hush, child!" he implored with strained lips. 
 " If Jeffs can keep them on the road, we are safe ; they will 
 stop at the hill. Don't scream, Alice ; it may increase their 
 terror. I think the storm is somewhat abating." 
 
 Her voice died away, and she remained quiet as a lamb, 
 hiding her face upon his breast, and clasping him with a 
 tight, nervous clasp : in that strong form, although she did 
 not love it, there seemed to be protection : but she shook so 
 terribly, that she almost caused him to shake also ; betraying 
 how excessive was her alarm. The storm, that had seemed 
 
THE STOm 
 
 87 
 
 to lull for a moment, raged again in its fury, and tlie horses 
 raged in theirs; now kicking, now foaming, now rearing 
 themselves upright. Jeffs was flung from the box; and, 
 in a second more, horses, carriage, and inmates had rolled 
 down the precipice, on to the grass. 
 
 The fall had not been more than a few feet : had the horses 
 gone further on, it would have been much greater, for the hill 
 gradually ascended to a height, where it overlooked the sea. 
 The runners, their senseless shouts having died away into 
 horror-stricken silence, passed the dead body of Jeffs — dead 
 it looked — and gazed over the side. Carriage and horses 
 lay in an appalling mass ; the horses plunging, one of them 
 shrieking. Did you ever hear the shriek of a wounded and 
 frightened horse, reader ? It is not pleasant to listen to. 
 
 Gaunt, the gamekeeper, who had been near the abbey, and 
 had rushed forward to arrest, if possible, the horses, but was 
 not in time, came up first ; he took out his knife and cut 
 the traces. Two of the horses would never rise again ; the 
 other two dashed away in their freedom ; and then the 
 spectators climbed up and looked in at the carriage window, 
 for the carriage was lying on its side. 
 
 " Get me out," said the Lord of Pomeroy. 
 
 He was not dead, at any rate : he was bruised and shaken, 
 and there was a deep cut on his forehead: but his poor 
 young bride lay senseless. " She has fainted from terror," 
 said Guy, when she was extricated from the chariot ; and he 
 gently picked her up in his arms, her light weight being 
 but as a feather in his great strength. So would he have 
 borne her to fche abbey. 
 
 " The lord had better not," interposed Gaunt, sensibly. 
 " Should any bones be broken, it might do worse injury. 
 Let a mattress be brought." 
 
 Guy Pomeroy sat down on the wet grass until tlie mattress 
 should come, and held her to him. Water vv^as fetched, and 
 sprinkled over her face ; some one suggested that her hands 
 should be chafed ; and the gloves were drawn off. Guy took 
 the left hand in his. 
 
 " You don't rub hard enough, sir," said Gaunt. " That 
 gentle rubbing will do no good," 
 
88 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " I shall hurt her hand, with these rings on it." 
 " Take them off, sir." 
 
 It was not bad advice. Alice was wearing three or four. 
 Guy took them off, and dropped them into his waistcoat 
 pocket. 
 
 But the rubbing and the water did not restore her to 
 consciousness. The mattress was brought and she was borne 
 to the abbey ; and still she did not revive. Mr. Norris, the 
 surgeon, entered it as they did ; and he and Guy remained 
 alone with her. She was placed upon a table, and the 
 surgeon bent down his ear to her mouth and heart. A 
 frightful, terrible fear, stole suddenly into Guy's breast. 
 
 " She is not dead ? " he gasped, controlling his voice and 
 face to calmness. 
 
 " Oh no, she is not dead," was Mr. Norris's reply. " But 
 I fear there may be some slight concussion of the brain." 
 
 Meanwhile poor Jeffs had been brought into the abbey 
 and was now seated upon a couch ia the housekeeper's 
 parlour. His temporary insensibility had soon passed away, 
 and he had managed to walk up from the scene of the 
 accident with the help of one of the footmen. Beyond a 
 few bruises on the left side, the side on which he fell, and 
 sprained wrists and an aching shoulder, Jeffs had not sus- 
 tained damage. He sat there now, having been comforted 
 with a liberal suj)ply of some delicious cordial, and was 
 holding forth to such of the servants as could spare time 
 from the general confusion to gather around him. No 
 ignominy like this had ever fallen upon Jeffs. To have been 
 thrown from the box when he was driving the Lord and 
 Lady of Pomeroy home on their wedding-day, so that the 
 horses had obtained their fling and brought on the catastrophe 
 which had ensued, would be more than sufiicient humiliation 
 for his lifetime. 
 
 "I'd not ha' minded if they'd killed me, the brutes, so 
 that I'd brought the lord home all right first," he protested 
 earnestly, in a voice that had a sound of tears in it. " And 
 for two o' that matchless grey team to be done for, and me 
 spared ! " 
 
 " But doesn't your shoulder give you pain, Jeffs — and all 
 
THE STORM. 
 
 89 
 
 the rest of your injuries? " cried Bridget, who was sure to 
 be foremost in every gathering that afforded an opportunity 
 for gossip. 
 
 • "Drat my shoulder! — and my injuries!" retorted Jeffs, 
 with slight gallantry. " What's my injuries, put alongside 
 o' them there two sweet greys ? " 
 
 " Well, I didn't mean to offend you," said Bridget sooth- 
 ingly, for she was a well-meaning, good-tempered young 
 woman, who never quarrelled with any one. " I'm sure? 
 Jeffs, when I saw you pass with those horses all rearing and 
 prancing, my heart was in my mouth. You were pulling at 
 them, and no mistake." 
 
 " Pulling ! — look at my sprained wrists," cried Jeffs, hold- 
 ing out his unfortunate hands. " Did you ever see horses 
 in such a fright before ? " 
 
 " No," said Bridget, " and I never wish to see it again. 
 Tom Whittaker said they put him in mind of tigers." 
 
 " Tom Whittaker did, did he ! What right has he to call 
 my horses tigers ? " 
 
 " Well, Jeffs, I must say you are unreasonable — after all 
 the harm the horses have done " 
 
 " 'Twasn't their fault ; 'twas the fault o' the storm," put 
 in Jeffs. 
 
 " And I'm sure they were just as fierce as tigers," insisted 
 Bridget, who liked to have the last word. " But there, take 
 another sup, Jeffs, and comfort yourself ; you'll be better 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " My two greys won't be better," lamented Jeffs. " You'd 
 not match that team in all the county for perfection and 
 beauty. And for two of 'em to come to this untimely end ! 
 It will be a'most the end of me." 
 
 " It's Aunt Naomi that's concerned," resumed the young 
 woman. " She has been all day in the queerest state you 
 ever saw, Jeffs — and I left her sitting in Whittaker's hearth- 
 corner, taking no notice of anybody. The weather upset 
 her spirits, she says, and she thinks it bad for it to have 
 come on the wedding-day." 
 
 "Bad!" echoed Jeffs. "It's worse than bad; it's 
 atrocious. And if the wind had a neck of its own, he'd 
 
90 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 deserve to have it wrung for him. But nobody knows 
 where the wind comes from, nor what it is ; so he can't be 
 got at." 
 
 " Now, Jeffs, how can you be so profane ! " reproved 
 Bridget, passing over the confusion shown by the personal 
 pronouns. 
 
 " A blowing, and a roaring, and a driving round 'em like 
 mad, it was. It all but whistled my state cocked-hat off. A 
 fine coming home this has been ! " 
 
 Mr. Norris had good cause to remain with the Lady of 
 Pomeroy. They could not restore her to consciousness. 
 Throughout the whole night she did not revive ; as the 
 hours struck, one hour succeeding the other, each found her 
 in the same state. The doctor and the attendants waited 
 round her bed, and Guy paced the rooms of the abbey, one 
 room after another ; now stealing into the chamber and gazing 
 on her, and now departing on his restless walk again. 
 
 And that was the ending of the Lord of Pomeroy's wedding- 
 day. 
 
 CHAPTER YIIL 
 
 THE YOUNG LADY OF POMEROY. 
 
 A CONCUSSION of the brain it had proved to be, but not a 
 dangerous one. Sooner than might have been expected, 
 Mrs. Pomeroy grew better, was herself again, and progress- 
 ing towards recovery. 
 
 The news of the accident had caused a great deal of stir 
 and commotion in the county ; and the festivities that would 
 have taken place at the abbey were postponed. The guests 
 that were to fill it, and who had been bidden to it for the 
 day following the marriage, that being the Pomeroy custom, 
 had notice sent to them to prevent their starting. Mrs. 
 
TPIE YOUNG LADY OF POMEROY. 
 
 91 
 
 Capel, with her husband, went to visit some friends in the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 Cautious nurses were Mrs. Wylde and Joan ; could atten- 
 tion have cured Alice, she had been well forthwith. Guy- 
 had been excluded from the room. Guy rebelled : he 
 thought he could make as good a nurse as the best of them : 
 but he was assured that her life depended upon her enjoying 
 perfect tranquillity; and with such a stake in hand, Guy 
 would have kept out of her sight for a twelvemonth. Neither 
 would they allow Alice to speak, until she grew so much 
 better that she would be quiet no longer. 
 
 " How long have I lain here ? " at lengtli asked she of Mrs. 
 Wylde. 
 
 " Eight days, my dear." 
 
 " This is a strange room. Is it the abbey ? " 
 
 " Of course it is. It is your own room in it." 
 
 " I was married, was I not ? " continued Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 " Why, don't you remember ? " returned her mother. 
 
 " Yes, I remember. I lay and thought things over yester- 
 day, when you would not let me talk : and I remember the 
 awful day — and oh, mother," shuddering, "I remember the 
 drive home ! I remember the furious horses, and Guy hold- 
 ing me. Did we fall over the precipice ? " 
 
 " Only at the commencement of it. The accident was a 
 sad one," added Mrs. Wylde, " but do not recur to it now, 
 Alice ; no lives were lost. Jeffs was thought to be badly 
 hurt at the time ; but he is better. Quite well, indeed." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy raised herself in bed, sitting up and looking 
 eagerly at her mother. " Did it kill Guy ? " she asked, in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " Good gracious, no, child ! Don't frighten yourself with 
 these imaginative fancies. Lie down. The Lord of Pomeroy 
 was not hurt to speak of." Had it been to save her credit, 
 Mrs. Wylde could not have helped giving Guy this title upon 
 every possible occasion : the charm it bore for her ears was 
 beyond expression. She could never bring herself to call 
 him Mr. Pomeroy ; but that is what he was, in spite of the 
 title that was personally accorded him. Alice resumedo 
 
 " Oh— then—Guy is well ! " 
 
92 
 
 POMEKOY ABBEY. 
 
 " Quite well, Alice. Your beautiful dress is the worst off." 
 ^' How so ? " 
 
 " After the carriage was overturned, whilst your husband 
 held you, the skirts of your white dress lay in the wet and 
 muddy grass : I will leave you to judge of the state it was 
 in : though, indeed, I took only one glimpse at it. And the 
 wreath was crushed, and the veil torn. Now don't talk any 
 more." 
 
 There ensued a few minutes' pause, and then the invalid 
 began again. Her hands were raised before her, and she 
 appeared to be looking at them. " If I am married, where's 
 my wedding-ring ? " 
 
 " Now, Alice, how can you talk so nonsensically ? ' If I 
 am married ! ' You must be assuming this forgetfulnoss. 
 Don't you remember all about it ? " 
 
 " I suppose I do," sighed Alice. 
 
 " Then why need you pretend not to do so ? " 
 
 " Well, where is my wedding-ring ? " 
 
 " The Lord of Pomeroy has it." 
 
 «Dia Guy " 
 
 I will not have you talk any more," peremptorily inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Wylde. " This is the first day you have been 
 allowed to speak, and you are talking as if you were doing 
 it for a wager. Wait until you are stronger." 
 
 As the most effectual way of carrying out her mandate, 
 Mrs. Wylde quitted the room, leaving Alice alone. Com- 
 pelled to silence, she lay and thought ; her mind was very 
 busy. By-and-by Miss Pomeroy entered. 
 
 " Joan, come here," she said ; " sit down on the bed close 
 to me. What a shocking accident this has been ! " 
 
 " It has," replied Joan, not taking the place indicated, but 
 drawing a chair forward. " But you are getting bettor, 
 therefore " 
 
 "Joan, I want to ask you something— and now answer me 
 in truth ; what you think, and whether I am not right. It 
 was an awful day : such a day, I should think, as has never 
 been known, here or elsewhere ; and it was an awful accident : 
 and the days preceding it were calm and beautiful, and I 
 dare say the days following it have been so. Have they ? '* 
 
THE YOUNG LADY OF POMEROY. 
 
 93 
 
 Yes/' replied Joan, unsuspicious of her young sister-in- 
 law's drift. " The day following the accident rose bright 
 and lovely as the days before it had been ; showing no trace, 
 save in the wet ground and the damaged crops, of the angry 
 day that had intervened." 
 
 " Well, now, Joan, should you not say that it was an omen 
 of evil to me and Guy ? " 
 
 Joan would not answer : she would not refute the notion, 
 for she disdained equivocation. Given to superstition, as 
 were all the Pomeroys — the very abbey itself, with its tales 
 and its gloom, was enough to embue them with it — she had 
 been deducing evil augury to her brother and his wife from 
 the strange day and the accident it had led to ; but she had 
 kept the feeling within her own breast. Others were not so 
 silent ; and Guy had been nearly driven demented by the evil 
 prognostications whispered around him. 
 
 " You don't speak, Joan : you will not speak : and I know 
 what that means. Here's mamma again," she broke off, as 
 Mrs. Wylde entered. 
 
 " Alice, the Lord of Pomeroy is coming in to pay you a 
 visit." Alice rose up in her bed, startled ; and looked at 
 her mother. 
 
 " The Lord of Pomeroy ! Here ! " 
 
 " Yes. He is waiting now. He waylaid me in the cor- 
 ridor to say so." 
 
 Young Mrs. Pomeroy turned crimson to the roots of her 
 hair. " I cannot see him here ; in bed ! He must wait 
 until I am up and in my dressing-room ; that will be in a 
 day or two." 
 
 " Nonsense," returned Mrs. Wylde. " He is your husband, 
 remember. We will dress you up in a shawl and a pretty 
 cap for the visit. Don't be fastidious." 
 
 " I won't see him, then," said Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 " How very ridiculous ! he will not eat you. Why, he 
 wanted to make one of your nurses, Alice." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy looked red and very indignant. " I am 
 astonished at you, mamma ! " 
 
 " I am astonished at you," returned Mrs. Wylde. " Had 
 this accident happened before you were married, there would 
 
94 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 have been no impropriety, even then, in his seeing you ; and 
 so every one would say who has any pretensions to a grain 
 of common sense : but under existing circumstances he has 
 a right to see you, and he will exercise it. I can tell you, 
 'Alice, he is not pleased at having been kept out of your 
 room, like a stranger ; it has tried his temper and his feel- 
 ings ; but so much was said about your not being excited, 
 that he yielded, and contented himself with taking a peep 
 at you through the open door now and then." 
 " It is unreasonable," pouted Alice. 
 
 " You must be unreasonable yourself to say so," retorted 
 Mrs. Wylde. " But I will leave your husband to settle 
 that. To tell you the truth, I knew he was coming in 
 to-day, and that's why I did not want you to fatigue yourself 
 with talking beforehand." 
 
 Alice looked round at Joan. She was standing with com- 
 pressed lips and severe expression : displeased, at least so 
 Alice interpreted it, to hear this objection raised to a simple 
 and, what might be called, a ceremonious visit. Guy deter- 
 mined, her mother determined, and J oan angry ! — Alice 
 began to think she might as well give in. 
 
 The Lord of Pomeroy entered ; Mrs. Wylde and Joan re- 
 tired and closed the door upon him. Alice lay, well covered 
 up ; her pretty face in its pretty cap nearly buried in the 
 pillow. Guy bent down to kiss her — which was very natural . 
 
 " Oh, don't, please," cried Alice, putting him back with 
 her hand, and turning her face away ; " my head is not 
 strong yet, and must not be touched." But the Lord of 
 Pomeroy was her husband now, and chose to judge for him- 
 self : and he turned her face back again, and took the kiss ; 
 took another and another, but in all gentleness. He would 
 be far more careful of her than she was of herself. Then 
 ho sat down, spoke a little of the intense anxiety her illness 
 had caused him, and of his deep gratitude to Him, who is 
 the giver of all good, for her recovery, so far. In these 
 quiet moments, all the gentleness in his nature in full exer- 
 cise, none could help liking the Lord of Pomeroy. 
 
 Alice heard him pretty patiently. But he had hardly 
 finished when she began to speak somewhat eagerly. 
 
THE YOUNG LADY OF POMEROY. 95 
 
 Guy." 
 " What, ray dearest ? " 
 
 " I want you to listen to me ; I am going to say something 
 that I have been thinking of yesterday and to-day. I never 
 was superstitious, Guy ; but it is impossible to look upon 
 what has happened without some such feeling intruding 
 upon me." 
 
 " The accident will have no lasting consequences," inter- 
 rupted Guy Pomeroy, possibly doomed, as it appeared, to 
 hear reiterated by his bride the same song he had been 
 obliged to hear from others. 
 
 " The accident was awful," she rejoined, v/ith a shudder. 
 " Oh, Guy ! I never shall forget the terror I felt at the 
 snorting and flying horses. How could you maintain your 
 presence of mind ? " 
 
 " I had you with me." 
 
 " I look not so much at the accident itself, as at the 
 strange, wild day," she resumed. " The weather has never 
 been like that. We have had summer storms, terrific storms, 
 fatal to property and to life, but they have come on naturally, 
 Guy, and have cleared again after they had spent themselves. 
 But that strange day was unnatural." 
 
 " It was imcommon," said the Lord of Pomeroy. 
 
 " Guy, it was unnatural. It seemed to be sent as a warn- 
 ing to us. To us." 
 
 " A warning to us ? " 
 
 " Yes. Not to enter into our union : the very heavens 
 lowered their displeasure upon it." 
 
 " Alice ! " returned the lord, in a tone of vexation and 
 rebuke. "Who has been putting these notions into your 
 head?" 
 
 "Not any one," she answered. " Mamma and Joan have? 
 kept me silent, not allowing me to speak, or speaking to me. 
 I could not close my eyes to the weather, Guy. I told J oan, 
 just now, that it w^as a bad omen for you and for me. She 
 would not answer me." 
 
 "Joan was right." 
 
 "Perhaps so — but I know what she thinks. You are a 
 man, Guy, and therefore will pretend to despise these fears ; 
 
96 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 perhaps you do despise them : but, rely upon it, that strange 
 day was sent to portend ill to us, if ever ill was portended 
 
 yet." 
 
 " Then, my dear, we will ward off the ill together. I will 
 ward all ill from you. Heaven helping me." 
 
 " We can ward it off in one way," said Alice : " it is the 
 only way left to us." 
 
 " Well ? " returned Guy, smiling. 
 
 " By never being more to each other than we are now," she 
 whispered : " by getting the marriage annulled." 
 
 " What ! " uttered Guy, a frown of mingled pain and 
 astonishment displacing the smile upon his face. 
 
 " It could be done, Guy. And then we may laugh at the 
 past storm, and have no fears for the future." 
 
 " Your head must be still light from fever, Alice ! " 
 
 She put out her left hand and clasped his arm. " Do not 
 let us tempt Fate, Guy. That day was surely an omen 
 of ill upon our union ; as surely as anything can be an omen 
 in this world. And in what other light could the accident 
 to me be regarded, but as an awful veto upon my entering 
 the abbey as its mistress ? " 
 
 Guy was holding her hand between his, playing with her 
 fingers. " It should have come sooner, then, if that was its 
 intention," said he, gaily. " Do you see this ? " 
 
 He held up her hand, so that she»might look at it : he had 
 slipped on her wedding-ring. Alice strove to draw her 
 hand away. 
 
 " Had Fate— as you call it — wished to interpose her veto 
 upon your entering the abbey, she should have been rather 
 more prompt, and not have waited until you were my wife." 
 
 " To treat it in that mocking way, Guy, is — wicked." 
 
 " Nay, my dear, I say nothing but the truth. If Fate, 
 human or hobgoblin, owed us a grudge, and set herself to 
 scowl upon our marriage, she should not have been quite so 
 dilatory. The interposition should have come before you 
 quitted your mother s house and your mother's name." 
 
 " It is not too late, Guy : it may be managed. When I 
 am well enough to be moved, I can go back home with my 
 mother." 
 
THE YOUNG LADY OF POMEROY. 97 
 
 Guy did his best to keep his anger within bounds. " Alice, 
 you talk like a child. After having married me, come home 
 to me, stopped with me, you think you could go back from 
 it all, and become Alice Wylde again ! What would the 
 world say of you ? Nothing laudable, I ween." 
 
 " You are cruel," was her tearful response. " I thought 
 the Lord of Pomeroy deemed himself a gentleman." 
 
 " I hope he is one. But he is your husband." 
 
 " My days will be a long dread of undefined fear," she 
 continued in agitation. " Let the world say what it will, I 
 shall leave the abbey as I came into it." 
 
 " For shame, Alice ! " Guy's temper was rising. 
 
 " The marriage can be easily broken," she persisted, " for 
 the Pomeroy influence is great in Eome : and you know, 
 Guy, my heart never was in it. You shall wed a better 
 wife, and I will be Alice Wylde again." 
 
 One of the haughty Pomeroy scowls came over the lord's 
 face. " That you may seek, and wed, the renegade Eupert 
 — who won your heart with his false vows, and carried its 
 tales of credulity to amuse his real idol ! who — who — — " 
 
 Guy paused : his anger had overmastered him, but his 
 senses were returning : in a calmer moment he would have 
 bitten his tongue out, rather than have so taunted her, now 
 she was his wife. He had never thought to speak the name 
 of Eupert to her again : he wished it to be equally shunned 
 by the one as by the other. 
 
 " You are generous ! " she returned, speaking with scorn 
 to keep down the tears. " Were I free as air, and Eupert 
 Pomeroy came to me in his soul's repentance, pleading for 
 love and pardon, I would trample him under foot, rather 
 than listen to him. Had I a hope now to give to Eupert I 
 should never have consented to marry you." 
 
 The Lord of Pomeroy rose ; his passion had changed to 
 calmness. " I beg your pardon," he softly whispered : " in 
 this interview we have each something to forgive the other. 
 You should not so have spoken, Alice : my wife you have 
 been made by your own vows, and my wife you are. Any 
 one less ignorant of the ways of the world than you are, 
 would never have thought of such a thing as parting now." 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 7 
 
98 rOMEKOY ABBF.Y. 
 
 She burst into tears. " I am sure tliey all thinlv we shall 
 have a dreadful fate." 
 
 " Child, do not speak so ! Not if I can shield you 
 from it." 
 
 "Ask Joan. And Theresa conies in with a face as 
 gloomy as an owl's." 
 
 " Laugh at them. I certainly should have thought, Alice, 
 that you were above any such superstition. Dry your 
 tears." 
 
 " This excitement may make me worse again, Guy." 
 ' " I should grieve for that. I am going, and I will send 
 your mother to you. But when I come in again, my dearest, 
 meet me as a friend ; not as a foe." 
 
 He bent down and kissed her face, as he had done at 
 entering, and quitted the room. Mrs. Wylde came into it, 
 but Alice motioned her away, and said she would sleep : so 
 she was left alone. 
 
 Droll sleep it was : a prolonged fit of sobbing and tears. 
 But Guy had left upon her hand the wedding-ring : a sure 
 earnest that she could not go from him. 
 
 Mrs. Wylde caught just the two first syllables of the word 
 separation, and seriously believed her brain must be affected ; 
 she told her she deserved a good shaking for even imagining 
 so great a scandal. Let her say it again, and she and Miss 
 Pomeroy would quit the abbey, leaving no one to nurse her 
 but Guy. It appeared that Alice had no choice left her. 
 
 But, ignorant though Alice might be in the world's ways, 
 as her husband had just assumed, she was quite an adept in 
 many little petty wiles and ruses.: and she contrived to spin 
 out the " getting well " to a period that Guy thought inter- 
 minable. At length, Mrs. Wylde quitted the abbey, leaving 
 a good private scolding for Alice behind her. Joan Pomeroy 
 went to join her sister, Mrs. Capel, on the visit the latter 
 was paying — both of them to return to the abbey in a few 
 days ; and Alice, fully restored to health, even in her own 
 estimation, assumed her proper station as the abbey's 
 mistress. 
 
 And then Guy filled it with the guests that had been 
 waiting to come ever since the wedding. Feasting was the 
 
THE YOUNG LADY OF POMEPvOY. 
 
 99 
 
 order of the day : gaiety reigned ; dinners, drives, dressing, 
 and vanity. In the midst of this, all so dear to her pleasure- 
 loving heart, Alice was forgetting her fears of evil ; and if 
 she was not precisely in the seventh heaven of happiness as 
 the wife of Guy, she was certainly not by any means miser- 
 able. She loved gaiety ; and the deference paid to her, both 
 as a bride and as the Lady of Pomeroy, turned her head with 
 pleasure. The women envied, the men admired, Guy loved ; 
 and Alice Pomeroy's life was as a dream of indulged vanity. 
 
 " Which is best, Alice," Guy said to her one day, laugh- 
 ingly, " to reign here as mistress and my idolized wife, or 
 to have gone back home again to be Alice Wylde ? " 
 
 " I was ill and weak, dear Guy," she pleaded, " and the 
 storm had frightened me. I am glad to be here." 
 
 " You shall always be glad, my dearest, if it depend on 
 me," whispered Guy. And Alice turned to him with a 
 loving look and a loving word. She had resolutely dis- 
 ciplined herself to overcome the distaste she felt for him, 
 and she was succeeding. 
 
 "Joan," spoke the Honourable Mrs. Capel, one day when 
 the two sisters were together in the garden, " I do not like 
 our new sister-in-law." 
 
 " No ? " said Joan. 
 
 " Not at all. Do you ? " 
 
 The question was pointedly put. In her heart of hearts, 
 Joan did not like Alice Pomeroy, had never been able, in 
 spite of her efforts, to bring herself to like her when she 
 was Alice Wylde. But Joan was all for peace, for making 
 the best of things, and therefore felt very unwilling to con- 
 fess as much, even in confidence. 
 
 " And I wonder at Guy's infatuation," added Mrs. Capel. 
 
 " Do you, Isabel ? Alice is very pretty." 
 
 " Pretty ! " cried Mrs. Capel, slightly tossing her head. 
 " What of that ? So are 6ther people." 
 
 Possibly by " other people " she meant herself. Certainly 
 the two sisters presented a contrast. Isabel lively and 
 beautiful; Joan grave, stern-featured, and too tall for a 
 woman. The one liked dress ; the other avoided it. Look 
 
100 POMEKOY ABBEY. 
 
 « 
 
 at them to-day : Isabel wears a delicate silk that gleams 
 and changes in the sun ; J can has on some delectable thick 
 dull material of the sober colour she favours — dark purple. 
 
 " Guy might have chosen as pretty a girl as she is ; aye, 
 and prettier," continued Mrs. Capel. "For my part, I 
 don't think she is so very pretty ; I don't very much like 
 her face. But I suppose her fortune tempted him." 
 
 " Her fortune is of course a good thing. But I am sure 
 of this much, Isabel : that had she not possessed a penny in 
 the world, Guy would still have married her." 
 
 " In his infatuation, I dare say he would. When once a 
 man loves in the impassioned manner that Guy too evidently 
 loves, he rarely takes expediency into consideration." 
 
 " Why do you not like her, Isabel ? " 
 
 " Because I don't," laughed Mrs. Capel. " If that's not a 
 sufficient reason, Joan, I hardly know that I can give you 
 another. There's something about her that jars upon me : 
 something that tells me she is not truthful : and certainly 
 she is not a lady at heart. Do you remember that little girl 
 who used to come here from the convent, Joan ? " 
 
 " Which little girl ? Several have come here." 
 
 " Kosa Peters. Well, she had no beauty, had she ? — but 
 she had a gentle, genuine, honest face, the reflection of a 
 true and guileless heart. I should have liked Guy to choose 
 her: and at one time I thought he seemed inclined to 
 do so." 
 
 " Did you think so ? " cried Joan in surprise. " Kely 
 upon it Guy never thought of her in that way. I don't 
 believe he has ever given a thought to any one except Alice 
 Wylde. Eosa Peters was a very nice girl ; we rarely see 
 one so charming. Yes, I wish she could have been Guy's 
 wife. But, Isabel " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Alice is his wife : and though we may not like her as 
 well as we could wish, only one thing remains — to make the 
 best of it." 
 
 " Quite right — especially for you, who will see more of 
 her than I shall. My dear Joan, had he married an Indian 
 you would have said, Make the best of it." 
 
TPIE YOUNG LADY OF POMEROY. 
 
 101 
 
 "I dare say we shall like her in time, wlieu she has 
 shaken down into her place, and " 
 
 "Assumes less, you would say. Is that a right word? 
 Any way, you know what I mean. She is eaten up with 
 vanity : as her mother is with pretension. I don't believe 
 the woman has ever before mixed with decent people. But 
 you need not knit your brow, Joan : all the talking in the 
 world will not undo the marriage, so we will just leave it. 
 Guy has chosen this girl with his eyes open ; and I hope 
 with all my heart that she will make him happy. Do you 
 know whom I met this morning ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Gaunt. In coming home from matins, I walked round 
 the keep, taking a look at the old place, and Gaunt was 
 crossing the field on the other side. It is the first time I 
 have seen him since I came here." 
 
 " Did you speak to him ? Did you ask about Sybilla ? " 
 
 "I spoke of course. I did not like to ask about her. 
 But now, Joan, where is Sybilla ? " 
 
 Miss Pomeroy shook her head. She wished she knew. 
 
 " Can it be true that she lost her head ? " 
 
 " Yes. Unfortunately." 
 
 " Well, I don't believe it." 
 
 " Not believe it ? " 
 
 " No ; I cannot believe it of Sybilla Gaunt. I don't think 
 the Lady Abbess believes it. Or Sister Mildred, either. 
 When I was at the convent yesterday, I spoke of her." 
 
 " And what did they say ? " 
 
 " Nothing. They would not speak of her at all. But 
 when I said I could not and would not believe the dreadful 
 ill that was reported of her, they both looked as if they 
 approved my words." 
 
 " Yes, in their charity," said Joan, in low tones. " There 
 is no room for doubt, Isabel ; I tell it you ; and I would 
 almost as soon have had to tell it of myself." 
 
 " Where's Eupert ? " resumed Mrs. Capel sharply. 
 
 " In London — and in some trouble, I fear." 
 
 "Debt, of course. It will always be so with Rupert. 
 But — is it true that he and Sybilla left together ? " 
 
102 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 "No, that's not true. About the time that Sybilla left, 
 Eupert went somewhere, and was absent for a day or two ; 
 but he came back again." 
 
 " For a short time only, though. What does Guy say to 
 it all?" 
 
 " Nothing. He will not allow the subject to be mentioned. 
 I can see that, for some cause or other, his heart is waging 
 war with Eupert." 
 
 " I have no patience with Eupert. He is too thoughtless ; 
 he does not care Avhat scrapes he gets himself or others 
 into." 
 
 Joan sighed. They had wandered to the edge of the lake, 
 and Mrs. Capel was tossing crumbs of biscuit to the swans. 
 " Have you heard lately from India — from George ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Not very lately," replied Joan. " George was never a 
 good correspondent. I wish his regiment had not been 
 ordered to India ! I wish he could have been here at the 
 wedding ! Leolin could not come either. It did not seem 
 right for the Lord of Pomeroy to be unattended by any of 
 his brothers." 
 
 "Dear George ! I should so much like to see him once 
 again ! He is the best of them all, Joan." 
 
 Joan did not answer. She loved her brother George 
 dearly, and was grieved that he should have gone away, 
 perhaps for years. Her eyes had a far-off look in them, as 
 they gazed at the narrow strip of blue sky seen above the 
 high enclosing walls of the shrubbery, to which they had 
 walked back, just as though she could see India up there. 
 
 " Guy is cold and domineering, Eupert fonder of the 
 world than of home, Leolin just the least bit in the world 
 selfish," went on Mrs. Capel, summing up the virtues of her 
 brothers ; " but George is good and winning. And yet ho 
 is the one that must go from us to a distant land." 
 
 " It is ever thus, I think," said Joan. " Any pleasure we 
 particularly wish for in this life is sure to be marred. 
 George is the one brother we would have kept near us, and 
 therefore George is the one to go away." 
 
 On this same morning, it chanced that Alice Pomeroy 
 
THE YOUNG LADY OF POMEROY. 103 
 
 with two of her younger guests was in her own special 
 sitting-room ; one that Guy had re-decorated so charmingly 
 for his expected bride. Alice had informed him she did not 
 like dull and gloomy rooms ; so, to please her, he had made 
 this into a modern one. It was wonderfully pretty, no 
 doubt ; with its pink silk hangings, its mirrors and its nick- 
 nacks, and it pleased Alice's eye : but it was sadly out of 
 keeping with the grand and sombre old abbey. 
 
 Lady Lucy Hetley, a pretty girl, daughter of the Earl of 
 Essington, sat on the music-stool, talking and playing by 
 turns ; Miss Peters (she was cousin to the Eosa Peters men- 
 tioned by Mrs. Capel) was standing at the window, some 
 embroidery in her hand ; and Alice lay back at ease in a 
 luxurious arm-chair, slightly swaying one foot about and 
 doing nothing. 
 
 " And what became of the pattern ? " asked Lady Lucy of 
 Mary Peters, who was telling a tale of her convent life. 
 
 "We never knew what became of it," was the answer. 
 " It disappeared, and that was all that could be said. Sister 
 Mildred thought it so suspicious that she felt compelled to 
 carry the matter to the Lady Abbess. The good mother 
 came into the recreation-room and searched about for it 
 herself." 
 
 " Suspicious in what way ? " questioned Alice. 
 
 " Well, she thought one or other of the girls must have 
 hidden the pattern to avoid doing the work. Eight of us 
 were put to the task. It was the most elaborate lace pattern 
 I ever saw; quite half-a-yard in depth, and would have 
 taken us some months to finish." 
 
 Alice laughed. " And so one of you grew afraid of the 
 work and hid the pattern ! I think I should have done so 
 myself. Were you the culprit, Mary ? " 
 
 " I ! " cried Miss Peters, lifting her frank eyes in surprise. 
 " I would not do such a thing for the world. I was longing 
 to begin the work : there is nothing I like doing so much as 
 fine lace work." 
 
 "I began a piece once," said Lucy Hetley, "but never 
 came to the end of it. I think all fine work tedious — and it 
 ruins one's eyesight." 
 
104 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Not when tlie eyes are young," dissented Mary Peters. 
 "Well, the trick did not serve us — if it was a trick— for 
 the nuns produced a more intricate pattern even than the 
 first ; and we worked it. The Lady Abbess, who is always 
 so good and kind, thought that the one might have been 
 torn up inadvertently by the lay-sister who was in charge of 
 the room that week." 
 
 " What was the dress for ? The chapel ? " 
 
 "No, Lucy; not for the chapel. It was for Charlotte 
 Hornyacke's wedding-dress. She was a great favourite at 
 the convent. When we heard, soon after she left it, that she 
 was engaged to be married, the nuns thought that they 
 should like to make her some useful present — for the 
 Hornyackes are not rich, you know ; and they decided upon 
 a lace dress for the wedding. At first the Sisters meant to 
 work it themselves, but a few of us begged that we might 
 do it : so they worked the veil." 
 
 " How did the dress look ? " 
 
 " Oh, lovely. It was the most beautiful dress of the kind 
 I ever saw. What was your wedding-dress ? " added Lucy, 
 turning to Alice. For neither of these young ladies had 
 been present at the ceremony : indeed, Lucy Hetley had only 
 now been brought by some friends for a day or two. 
 
 "Mine? Oh, mine was rich white silk with lace and 
 flowers." 
 
 " Why don't you show it to us, Mrs. Pomeroy ? ^ 
 " I will do so if you like. Come into my dressing-room," 
 added Alice ; and they all went to it together. 
 
 " I suppose it must be somewhere here," remarked Alice, 
 opening drawers and wardrobes ; " but I declare I have 
 never thought of the dress since my wedding-day. I fancy 
 mamma said something about its having been injured by the 
 wet." 
 
 " No wonder you have not thought of it — with such a 
 termination to the day," said Mary Peters. "I think I 
 should have died of fright in the carriage." 
 
 " Oh, you can't imagine what it was ! " returned Alice, 
 slightly shuddering. " What with the dreadful storm and 
 the furious horses, I don't know how I lived through it. 
 
THE YOUNG LADY OF POMEKOY. 
 
 105 
 
 But for Guy I should have jumped out of the carriage. I 
 have often wondered since that he could have been so calm 
 himself." 
 
 " Was he calm ? " 
 
 " Perfectly so. I asked him one day how he could have 
 maintained it in so dreadful a scene, and he said it was 
 because he had me with him. But now — where can my 
 dress be ? I must ring for Theresa." 
 
 Theresa came in, quiet-looking as usual, in her close cap 
 and neat grey gown. When she was asked about the wed- 
 ding-dress, she seemed to be in almost as great a puzzle as 
 her mistress. 
 
 " I'm sure, madam, I don't know where it can be," she said, 
 looking round in reflection. " It must have been removed 
 after you were brought in, but I really do not know what 
 was done with it." 
 
 " Then you ought to know," cried Alice, in her quick way. 
 
 " I did not help to take it off, I was downstairs getting 
 things ready," pleaded Theresa. " I don't think I saw the 
 dress, or remembered to ask about it. We were all in so 
 much concern about you, madam, that perhaps my forgetful- 
 ness was excusable. I'll inquire of Mrs. Kex." 
 
 " Yes. Mrs. Eex knew. Mrs. Eex had helped Mr. Norris 
 and the lord to remove the dress, and then had, herself, 
 hung it up in the large wardrobe closet near the end of the 
 wing. At this news, away went the three young ladies to 
 the closet, and Mrs. Pomeroy threw open the door. 
 
 It was hanging just in front of them as they entered ; the 
 once beautiful dress of rich white silk, with its costly white 
 lace flounces, now shrunken, muddy, and yellow, with the 
 wet and dirt. The three ladies stood contemplating it with 
 dismayed faces. 
 
 " What a sad pity ! " breathed Miss Peters. 
 
 " But the flounces do not seem torn ; at least, they are not 
 so on this side," observed Lady Lucy. " They might be 
 restored." 
 
 She turned the skirt slightly, and bent forward to examine 
 it further. Something must have startled her, for she 
 dropped it suddenly and drew back with a faint scream. 
 
106 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " It is covered with blood," she shuddered, tnrniDg her pale 
 face towards Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 " With blood ! " 
 
 "A long stream all down it. I — I don't like to see 
 blood." 
 
 Curiosity, even for unpleasant sights, is irrepressible, and 
 both Mrs. Pomeroy and Mary Peters pressed forward. It 
 was as Lucy Hetley said : a long, dark, ugly stain. They 
 shut the closet-door in trepidation, almost as though they 
 were shutting in a ghost, turned the key, and hastened back 
 to the dressing-room. 
 
 " I can't account for it ; I don't know what should bring 
 that mark there ; I cannot understand it at all," spoke 
 Alice Pomeroy from the low chair on which she had sunk 
 down. 
 
 " You must have been wounded." 
 
 " But I was not wounded. Nothing was hurt but my 
 licad, and that did not bleed. It must have come on to the 
 dress in the closet." 
 
 This sounded so ghostly a suggestion, carrying them back 
 to the times of Mrs. Kadcliffe and all sorts of unearthly 
 thoughts, that the young ladies drew closely together, 
 although it was broad daylight. 
 
 " I should burn it," cried Lucy Hetley. " I should think 
 it ominous to see that stain on my wedding-dress." 
 
 What with facts and suggestions, the young Lady of 
 Pomeroy was feeling somewhat uncomfortable. Whilst her 
 mother was of a practical, unimaginative nature, she was the 
 opposite : dormant in her heart lay the seeds of a superstition 
 that might in time become formidable. 
 
 " Do you know anything about the stain on my dress, 
 Theresa ? " she lifted her head to ask. 
 
 "No, madam. When they carried you in, you were 
 covered with the red silk counterpane that had been taken 
 out with the mattress." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy impulsively went off in search of her 
 husband. He was alone in the library writing a letter. 
 Alice stood behind his chair, and laid her hand upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
THE YOUNG LADY OF POMEROY. 107 
 
 " Guy, how did that — that frightful stain come upon my 
 bridal dress ? Do you know ? " 
 
 Guy laid down his pen, and drew the hand to him with a 
 caressing movement. " What stain, my darling ? " 
 
 " Of blood," she whispered. " A long, frightful stain all 
 down it. The dress is quite spoiled." 
 
 " Won't it wash ? " 
 
 " Wash ! " she exclaimed, amazed at the ignorance of 
 mankind. " But we can't think how it came there, Guy. I 
 was not wounded." 
 
 "I was," replied Guy. He pushed aside the hair from 
 his right temple and exhibited a mark that he would retain 
 for life. 
 
 " That is where it came from, Alice. As I held you on the 
 bank, the blood ran down upon your dress without my 
 observing it." 
 
 She gave a sigh of relief. Oh yes, that's how it was, 
 then. We have been thinking it must have got on mys- 
 teriously in the closet. Such things have been heard of, you 
 know, Guy. The old story-books are full of them." 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know," said Guy, laughing. " Never 
 mind your spoiled dress, love : we will buy you another." 
 
 " Ah, Guy — you cannot buy me another wedding-dress," 
 she answered, a strange mournfulness in her tone. " It is a 
 great pity that that stain should have come upon it : and — 
 and all things together seem to point to ill-luck." 
 
 " You foolish girl : you silly child," he fondly uttered. 
 "My coat came off the worst. As to ill-luck — you are a 
 Pomeroy now. And ill-luck is a thing we Pomeroys never 
 think about." 
 
108 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 THE PREDICTION. 
 
 The marriage festivities came to an end ; tlie guests de- 
 parted, and Pomeroy Abbey returned to its usual state of 
 quietude. Joan Pomeroy had accompanied Mrs. Capel to 
 her home ; and the young Lady of Pomeroy was alone. 
 
 She did not like to be alone. She liked show and state 
 and glitter and excitement. The abbey had been filled with 
 these desirable acquisitions when she married Guy Pomeroy : 
 in fact, it may with justice be said that she married him to 
 obtain them. It was all very well to be Lady of Pomeroy ; 
 to be conscious that she filled that exalted position in the 
 county ; very gratifying to her vain heart ; but she craved 
 for something more. 
 
 According to the programme laid down before the marriage, 
 Guy was to have taken his wife to town, when the festivities 
 were over, that she might be presented at a drawing-room to 
 be held late in June. How eagerly Alice Wylde had antici- 
 pated this, how covetously she had looked forward to it, she 
 alone knew. To be presented at court seemed to her to be 
 one of the few great and hitherto unattainable ends of this 
 life ; for we are writing of many years ago, when it was not 
 the custom for every Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Jones and Mrs. 
 Brown to intrude themselves there. Of all the honours she 
 expected to come into by her marriage with the Lord of 
 Pomeroy, that was looked upon as the greatest ; and it was 
 the one she most ardently longed for. 
 
 But see how fate and fortune cheat us! Anything so 
 intensely desired as Alice desired that, is, all too often, 
 never realized. In this case it was frustrated by the illness 
 arising from the accident on the wedding-day. Long before 
 the guests had come and gone after her recovery, the Queen's 
 drawing-rooms were over. Alice would fain have gone to 
 London all the same ; but Guy laughed at her : his wife 
 could not make her appearance there at the end of the 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 109 
 
 season, he said ; and when half the world had already left it. 
 And so, Alice perforce remained where she was, and made 
 the best of Pomeroy Abbey. But, as day succeeded to day, 
 week to week, and month to month, she grew to think it 
 insufferably dull. 
 
 Take to-day as a specimen. It is a gloomy day late in 
 November, just on a par with the gloomy abbey itself, and 
 Alice feels bored to death. Guy went out shooting with 
 early morning ; he may come in to luncheon, or he may not ; 
 it is very uncertain ; and Alice sits at the window and looks 
 out on the dreary landscape — dreary it ever seems to her. 
 She is dressed to perfection : a gown of soft grey cashmere, 
 trimmed very much with pink silk, and a coquettish cap of 
 pink ribbon and white lace upon her pretty hair. But of 
 what use dressing to perfection when no admiring eyes are 
 near to see it ? The question rings through Alice's 
 thoughts only too often. She is not reading; she is not 
 working. The latter she detests ; the former also — unless, 
 indeed, it be an especially foolish novel, such as a mind of 
 ordinary intellect can scarcely tolerate. In dressing, flirting, 
 and vapid speech she was an adept ; but these will not carry 
 a woman happily through life. Alice's intellect was, in 
 truth, not of the highest order : but Guy had not yet found 
 it out. That he would discover it in time was to be supposed ; 
 for he was clever himself, and she could never be a com- 
 panion to him. Now and then he did already think her 
 rather silly. 
 
 " Why can't they address me as Lady Pomeroy ? " she 
 asked him one day in fractious tones, upon receiving a note 
 whose superscription did not please her. 
 
 "Because you are not Lady Pomeroy, Alice. You are 
 Mrs. Pomeroy." 
 
 " You are addressed as the Lord of Pomeroy ? '* 
 
 " I am generally so addressed in writing. You may bo 
 addressed as the Lady of Pomeroy, or as Mrs. Pomeroy — as 
 people please." 
 
 " I don't like to be addressed as Mrs. Pomeroy," pouted 
 Alice. " I ought to be Lady Pomeroy." 
 
 "Don't be silly, child," said Guy, slightly knitting his 
 
110 
 
 pom]^:roy abbey. 
 
 brow. " The title is accorded to me in courtesy and from 
 long-established usage ; the habit of past generations ; it 
 confers no distinction on those connected with me." 
 
 This was not a solitary instance of her childish folly — but 
 others need not be recorded. And we return to Alice, seated 
 in her drawing-room on the dark November day. 
 
 " Oh dear ! " she cried, with a prolonged yawn, " how dull 
 everything is ! " 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy was not feeling well, or fancied so, which 
 tended to increase her lassitude. Only yesterday she com- 
 plained to her mother, who told her she must be patient. 
 But there sits Alice to-day, feeling out of sorts, dreary, and 
 with nothing in the world to do. 
 
 " Theresa," she called out, as a footstep passed the half- 
 opened door. 
 
 But it was the housekeeper who looked in. It is not 
 Theresa," Mrs. Eex said. " Does madam require anything 
 that I can do for her ? " 
 
 " Where is Theresa ? " 
 
 " She is gone over to the White House, madam." 
 
 " What a long time she stays there ! She ought to have 
 been back ever so long ago. No, I don't want anything. 
 Send Theresa in when she does come." 
 
 Mrs. Bex met Theresa in the corridor. "Your lady is 
 asking for you," she said to her. " Go in at once, for she 
 seems impatient." 
 
 " My lady always is impatient now," thought Theresa. 
 " I suppose I may take off my bonnet first." 
 
 " Well, what news have you brought ? " began Alice 
 sharply, as the maid appeared. " How is mamma ? " 
 
 " She is quite well, madam, and sends her love to you. 
 As to news, I have not brought any." 
 
 " Did you bring the bracelet ? " 
 
 " No, madam, and they can't find it anywhere. Mrs. 
 Wylde thinks you must have dropped it in getting into the 
 carriage, or on getting out of it. She says she saw it on 
 your arm when the lord was putting on your opera cloak in 
 the hall." 
 
 The previous evening Alice and Guy had dined with 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Mrs. Wylcle. After returning home, when undressing, Alice 
 missed one of her bracelets. In was a band of filigree gold, 
 the clasp set with pearls. After breakfast this morning, she 
 had despatched Theresa to the White House, believing she 
 must have left it there. 
 
 " Mamma says she saw it on my arm when my cloak w^as 
 being put on ? No doubt I dropped it in the hall. I dare 
 say they have not half looked for it." 
 
 " Indeed, my lady, we looked well ; searched every crick 
 and corner. The lord said just now " 
 
 " Have you seen the lord ? " interrupted Alice. 
 
 " He was crossing the upper field with Mr. Gaunt and the 
 two keepers as I left the White House," explained Theresa. 
 " I told him that the bracelet was not found, and he said it 
 had occurred to his memory that, in coming home last 
 night, you put your arm out of the carriage window to feel 
 whether it still rained. He thinks it may have dropped off 
 then." 
 
 " Did I ? " said Alice ; " I'm sure I forget. If it dropped 
 off then, some thief may have picked it up." 
 
 " And the lord desired me to say that he should not be in 
 to luncheon, madam," added Theresa, as she withdrew. 
 " They were going to beat some of the upper covers." 
 
 The Lady of Pomeroy sat on again, yawning and sighing 
 and looking at the dreary landscape till luncheon time. 
 That meal, sat down to partly for form's sake, for her 
 appetite was not as good as it used to be, she returned to 
 her place in the morning-room, and yawned through the 
 afternoon, racked with ennui, at the w^ant of something to 
 do. She had no resources within herself; and seemed to 
 have no object to live for. 
 
 Towards dusk the lost bracelet was brought in. One of 
 the village labourers, going forth in the morning to his day's 
 work, had picked it up in the highway : dropped there no 
 doubt when she had put her arm out of the carriage the 
 previous evening. 
 
 And thus the time, the days and the ^veeks, interspersed 
 with a little receiving and visiting, contrived to pass for 
 Mrs. Pomeroy. The visiting might have been more exten- 
 
112 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 give, but that somehow or other she was not so popular as 
 she might have been. Whether it was that the old county 
 families resented her want of birth, and regarded her as 
 somewhat of an interloper ; or whether it was herself that 
 they did not like, certain it was, that Alice was less courted 
 than the Lord of Pomeroy's wife might have expected as a 
 right. 
 
 The winter passed, spring followed, and summer came 
 round again. There is little to record that could interest 
 the reader. Joan had continued with her sister Isabel. 
 
 Once more a grievous disappointment fell on Alice 
 Pomeroy. The delicate health, hinted at, had increased ; to so 
 great a degree that her intention of going to London, for her 
 presentation in the spring, was utterly out of the question, 
 and had again to be postponed. Visiting abroad and enter- 
 taining guests at home had to be given up by her, for she 
 could do nothing but nurse herself and her sickness. But 
 Guy was in a wondrous flow of spirits, for there was expected 
 an heir to Pomeroy. Thus the anniversary of their wedding- 
 day came round again. 
 
 One evening soon after this, when Guy was dining out, 
 Alice, after her own dinner, went into the oak-room, which 
 faced the quadrangle. The sun was setting in a sky of 
 crimson and gold : Alice could see the brightness over the 
 opposite side of the abbey — the haunted west wing. Mrs. 
 Pomeroy's thoughts wandered to the vast extent of the abbey 
 — what an army of servants it must have taken to fill it 
 when fully inhabited in the days gone by ! She remembered 
 a boast she had once made — that, should she ever be the 
 abbey's mistress, she would cause it to be renovated, so that 
 the county should not know it again. Opposite to her lay 
 the west wing and tower, with whose rooms superstition 
 made itself so busy. Those rooms she had never seen. A 
 sudden inclination came over her to look at them now, this 
 very evening. More than once she had asked Guy to take 
 her over those rooms ; he always answered that he would do 
 so on the first convenient opportunity — but somehow the 
 opportunity had never come. One grave request he had 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 115 
 
 ttiade to Ler; nay, it was a command — that she ivould not 
 attempt to go up icithout him. This came into her mind 
 now. 
 
 " As if it could matter," decided Alice at last, after pon- 
 dering the matter for a few minutes. " Guy's only afraid I 
 should hurt myself, traversing those narrow stairs without 
 him : I dare say they are narrow and awkward. Yes, I will 
 go ; and old Jerome must attend me with the keys." 
 
 Jerome, summoned by his lady to show her over the west 
 wing, appeared in a state of intense astonishment, holding 
 in his hand a huge bunch of keys. He was custodian of the 
 abbey. 
 
 " Had not the lady better defer her visit till the morrow ? " 
 asked Jerome. ''It Avill soon be dark." 
 
 " Not at all, Jerome : I am going now," answered Mrs. 
 Pomeroy. 
 
 They proceeded through the cloisters of the north wing, 
 to the north tower. Jerome fumbled over his keys; and, 
 unlocking the door, they ascended the narrow staircase of 
 the tower, Mrs. Pomeroy folding her skirts closely around 
 her, and from thence passed into the west wing. There was 
 no other mode of entrance to the west wing and the west 
 tower than this. 
 
 Peering about her in the dim light Mrs. Pomeroy saw, as 
 she and Jerome passed through these rooms, that they yet 
 had some scant remains of furniture, though the hangings 
 were dropping to pieces. When they came to the last room 
 — Jerome called it so— Mrs. Pomeroy detected a small door 
 at its end covered with tapestry. 
 
 " Jerome," she exclaimed, " this must lead into the west 
 tower." 
 
 The old man had turned to one of the windows, and was 
 looking steadfastly down into the court. Mrs. Pomeroy 
 repeated her remark. " This door, Jerome. Open it." 
 
 " That room is never entered," he replied. 
 
 " Never entered ! " returned Mrs. Pomeroy. Why not ? 
 I shall enter it." 
 
 " I have not the key," avowed Jerome. 
 
 "Where is it, then?" 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 8 
 
114 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Jerome hesitated. " Maybe the lord keeps it. That's the 
 haunted room, madam." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy had heard of the haunted room, both before 
 and since she had entered the abbey. Not being so much of 
 a believer in immaterial bodies as she was in weather-signs 
 and similar omens, she became possessed with a strong 
 desire to explore it. 
 
 " Has the lady never heard that apparitions have been 
 seen there ? " returned Jerome, in tones of awe. 
 
 " Apparitions don't appear before night sets in," promptly 
 replied the Lady of Pomeroy. " Go back, Jerome, and hunt 
 among all that heap of keys in that key-closet of yours, and 
 find the right one." 
 
 Jerome had no power to say he would not go. He turned 
 unwillingly, and attempted to take with him the bunch of 
 keys which hung in the lock of the room they were in. 
 No : try as he would, he could not take it out : the key, 
 that he had himself put into the lock, was fixed in it. 
 
 "I think this key will only come out when the door's 
 closed and locked," muttered Jerome, still trying in- 
 effectually. 
 
 He went away at length. Mrs. Pomeroy, as much to pass 
 the time as anything, touched the keys, and out they came. 
 " What a curious thing that Jerome could not do it ! " 
 thought she. " They seemed to fall into my hand. That 
 old man must be getting stupid." 
 
 She held them, and read their labels, which indicated the 
 particular room each key belonged to. On one, however, 
 was simply written " The Key.'' " The key ? " debated 
 Mrs. Pomeroy : " that must be the key of the haunted room, 
 I should think. I'll try it." 
 
 She drew aside the hangings, inserted it in the lock, and, 
 with a harsh, grating sound, the door flew open, the wind 
 and the dust blowing unpleasantly in the face of Mrs. 
 Pomeroy. 
 
 She shrank back. Her courage failed her. By daylight 
 or in darkness, it is not pleasant to a mind in which any 
 superstition exists to enter alone a " haunted " room. Mrs. 
 Pomeroy went back to the casement and stood looking into 
 
THE PHEDICTION. 
 
 115 
 
 the court. There she saw Bridget. Obeying an impulse, 
 she pulled open, with some trouble, the casement, trellised 
 with its small panes, and signed to her to come up. Bridget 
 was a native of Abbeyland, a daughter of one of the three 
 brothers Kex, who had all, when living, been faithful 
 followers of the late Lord of Pomeroy, and she knew all the 
 traditions relating to the family. She looked thunderstruck 
 at seeing her lady there, but obeyed the signal : came 
 through the north cloisters, ascended the stairs of the tower, 
 passed through the rooms, and joined her. 
 
 " Hold these hangings back for me," said Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 " They are nothing but a cloud of dust." 
 
 The woman obeyed, but with a wondering gesture. " Does 
 the Lady of Pomeroy know what this room is ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Pomeroy, passing in. " Come with me, 
 Bridget." 
 
 It was a small, circular room, panelled with dark oak. A 
 narrow casement faced the quadrangle ; but, like the other 
 rooms, there was no look-out to the opposite side, the open 
 country. The room was completely furnished with velvet 
 that had once been red, but was now dark with age ; chairs, 
 a broad couch or settee, and a centre table, all were covered 
 and hung with the velvet, which appeared to be dropping 
 away. Mrs. Pomeroy saw no signs of apparitions : all that 
 struck her was the smallness of the room. She remarked 
 upon it. 
 
 " The tower walls are thick, madam." 
 
 " What is that ? " she asked, as her eye became accustomed 
 to the dark walls. " Why, that is a cloth, a velvet cloth, 
 drawn over one of the panels." 
 
 " The picture is underneath," whispered Bridget. 
 
 " What picture is underneath ? " 
 
 " The nun's, madam : she who was said to haunt the 
 room. Would the lady like to look at it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy signified her assent. Bridget caught up 
 the velvet and held it aside, disclosing a half-length figure, 
 habited as a nun. The face was young, fair, and most 
 lovely ; but a strangely mournful and stern expression sat 
 in the dark blue eyes, which were fixed full on the spectator. 
 
116 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 The lips were slightly open, and one delicate hand was held 
 up in a warning attitude. 
 
 " She is saying ' Beware,' " whispered Bridget, who 
 appeared to be afraid of the picture hearing her. 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy laughed. " Fancy goes a great way. Be- 
 ware of what ? '* 
 
 " It is what she is supposed to be saying, madam, accord- 
 ing to the tradition. But Avhy, or to whom she is saying it, 
 has never been decided." 
 
 " What is her history ? " 
 
 " She lived in the reign of one of the Georges — the first 
 or second, I think," began Bridget, delighted at having to 
 tell the tale. " She was brought up in the convent and had 
 taken the veil, though only seventeen, when in some way 
 she fell in with him who was then Lord of Pomeroy. It 
 was said to be in the fire, for the convent was partly burnt 
 down and the nuns had to escape in the night." 
 
 " Was it this convent ? — our convent ? " interrupted Mrs. 
 Pomeroy. " That we can see from here ? " 
 
 " Yes, madam, this very convent. Though nigh upon a 
 hundred years must have elapsed, the sisters there will tell 
 you tales now that have come down to them of that trying 
 misfortune. This young nun forgot her vows, madam, and 
 ran away with the Lord of Pomeroy, to be his wife. He 
 married her in secret, and he brought her to these rooms, 
 this tower room being hers. The lord doted on her, it is 
 said, and he had this picture taken of her in her convent 
 dress, and hung up here: but, when it was too late, she 
 found out he had played her false, for he had a wife already, 
 that he was separated from. She went crazed, poor thing, 
 all in one night, and she threw herself out of this very 
 window, and was taken up dead in the court below." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy looked at the window. ^ She never could 
 get through that narrow half casement, Bridget. The other 
 half does not open." 
 
 " It is certain that she did, madam : she was young and 
 Blight : and perhaps the other half opened then. For years 
 afterwards, during that lord's lifetime, she was seen at this 
 same window on a moonlight night — the moon often shines 
 
THE PREDICTION. 117 
 
 full on these west tower windows ; the lady knows they face 
 the east — her light hair hanging over her neck, and wring- 
 ing her hands, as it is said she did wring them before she 
 leaped out. Some say she appears still : my old Aunt 
 Naomi for one." 
 
 "How is it you are so well acquainted with these his- 
 tories ? " questioned Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 "Why, madam, I have known them all my life — at least, 
 since I grew old enough to be trusted. We Rexes know as 
 much of the abbey's secrets and sayings as there is to be 
 known." 
 
 Perhaps Bridget was a little mistaken there. Mrs. 
 Pomeroy accepted it as truth. She was becoming greatly 
 interested in the story of the poor young nun. 
 
 "The prediction is here," resumed Bridget, pointing to 
 the picture. " But you can hardly see it, I think, madam : 
 not sufficiently to read it. This room's dark in the after 
 part of the day when the sun goes behind the tower. It 
 must have set now." 
 
 " The prediction ? " repeated Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 " It is the strangest part of the history," continued Bridget. 
 " On the morrow following the accident, when she was lying 
 dead, poor lady, in this very room, for they carried her up 
 here, the lord saw some lines on the picture, close to the 
 hand which she is holding up. It was never known who 
 had written them ; some people thought she had before she 
 took the leap ; but the lord knew that the characters were 
 not hers, and they came to be regarded as having been done 
 by supernatural agency. In the earlier part of a bright day 
 they can be read without a light. At the time, people sup- 
 posed they applied to what the lord had done, but it is 
 believed that they are to affect a later Pomeroy." 
 
 " And what are they ? " 
 
 " They betoken woe to the house," answered Bridget. 
 " It is to be hoped they will not be realized for many a 
 generation." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy had put her face and eyes close to the 
 picture, endeavouring to decipher the lines. But she could 
 only discern that some lines were there. 
 
118 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 " The late lord — the one who had done the wrong was his 
 grandfather — put little faith in all this, and I have heard 
 him laugh over it," re-commenced Bridget ; whose tongue, 
 once set going on these topics, would never have stoj)ped oi;' 
 its own accord. " He did not keep the wing always shuL 
 up ; any of the family could come in who liked, and we had 
 to dust and clean here once or twice a-year. He was a rare 
 one for disliking dust and dirt. But when " 
 
 " Stay a moment, Bridget. In saying the late lord, do 
 you mean him who died last ? " 
 
 "Surely yes, madam. But, as I was going to add, the 
 present lord had the whole wing shut up as soon as he came 
 into power. The Pomeroys are a proud race, the present 
 lord is proud especially, and they deem the picture a 
 memento of disgrace ; a blot on the scutcheon of their 
 ancestors." 
 
 "But," remarked Mrs. Pomeroy, "why not destroy the 
 picture, and have done with it?— and have the rooms 
 thrown open and embellished. I shall suggest it to the 
 lord.'" 
 
 Bridget shook her head. " Madam, not a Pomeroy dare 
 destroy that picture. An impression has passed down from 
 father to son, since the time of the sinning lord — that who- 
 ever does away with the picture must look out for the cost, 
 for that the fulfilment of the prediction will then be at 
 hand. Whether my lord puts faith in it, madam, I can't 
 say ; likely not, for he is one of the boldest of a bold race : 
 all the same, he takes care to keep the picture hidden so 
 that no harm can come to it." 
 
 " I wish I could see the prediction," cried curious Mrs. 
 Pomeroy, not feeling altogether pleased that Guy should 
 have kept her in the dark as to these matters , have with- 
 held this delightfully marvellous story from her. " Suppose 
 you fetch a candle, Bridget ? " 
 
 " Will the lady like to remain here alone ? " hesitated the 
 servant, halting at the threshold. 
 
 The Lady of Pomeroy settled that, by motioning the 
 woman to hold back the hangings, and stepping down into 
 the next room. There she took up her station at the open 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 119 
 
 window and leaned from it, that the outer air and the quad- 
 rangle below might keep her company. 
 
 In going down the stairs of the north tower Bridget met 
 Jerome. " Where do you spring from *? " he exclaimed in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " The Lady of Pomeroy called me, and I have been into 
 the west tower with her. She " 
 
 " Don't thee tell lies, girl," interrupted the old man, not 
 believing a word. 
 
 " You are polite to-night," returned Bridget : " I have 
 been into the west tower with my lady ; into the haunted 
 room. And now I am going to fetch a light that she may 
 see the lines on the nun's picture." 
 
 As Jerome slowly gathered in the sense of the words, his 
 mouth dropped, his hands were lifted. " In there ! " he 
 muttered to himself in consternation. " And the lord said 
 it was never to be opened to her — that she was too young 
 to be frighted with such tales. She found the key, then, 
 after all my excuses ! What possessed the other key, 1 
 wonder, that I could not get it away from the lock ? " 
 
 " Why, Jerome," exclaimed the Lady of Pomeroy, when 
 he appeared, " the key you wanted was on the bunch." 
 
 " As I find, madam. Pity I did not look more par- 
 ticularly." 
 
 Bridget came back with a light, and they all went into the 
 room. Mrs. Pomeroy took the candle from her hand, and 
 held it close to the lines on the picture. Bridget looked on 
 composedly, and Jerome in abstraction, while she slowly 
 read them. 
 
 " When the heir of Pomeroy goes forth a wife to win, 
 And the heir of Pomeroy goes forth in vain ; 
 When the Lord of Pomeroy by a lie doth gain, 
 Then woe to the de Pomeroys, twain and twain ! " 
 
 Barely had Mrs. Pomeroy read this when a shriek from 
 Bridget caused her to start back. She had inadvertently 
 held the wax-light too near, for the writing was faint, and 
 had set fire to the picture. 
 
 Bridget screamed on. What with the blaze and what 
 with the superstitious fancies connected with the picture, the 
 
120 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 ill anticipated upon its destruction, she really could not 
 contain herself. Of a calm, equable nature, she had never 
 in her life been so startled as now ; it may be said so un- 
 controllably terrified. Combined with the superstitious 
 dread came fears of the abbey's destruction by fire : and 
 whilst Jerome was quietly putting out the flames, and 
 scorching his poor hands in doing it, Bridget rushed into 
 the next room, flew to the open casement, put forth her head, 
 and shrieked, " Fire ! fire ! " 
 
 She was heard by one of the men, who happened to be in 
 the cloisters below. He, looking the very image of in- 
 credulous surprise, for he knew nothing of this expedition 
 of Mrs. Pomeroy's, alarmed his fellows, and a host of them 
 started to run up. Jerome had put out the flames by that 
 time, and was locking up the haunted room with the remains 
 of the picture within it. Mrs. Pomeroy had come forth and 
 was standing by the shaking and trembling Bridget. 
 
 " How stupid you are, Bridget ! " she irritably said : for 
 when vexed with ourselves, it is satisfactory to find a scape- 
 goat to fall upon : and the accident had considerably vexed 
 Mrs. Pomeroy. " It was startling for the moment, of course, 
 but there's no need for you to shiver and shake like that." 
 
 "Madam — I — I beg your pardon. I felt just as if I 
 should die." 
 
 The men came hastening through the west wing. Jerome, 
 trembling almost as much as Bridget, told them all was safe 
 now, and borrowed a couple of handkerchiefs to wrap round 
 his hands. 
 
 Making way for the Lady of Pomeroy, and bowing as she 
 passed onwards between them, the descent was made in dis- 
 mayed silence. Only Bridget, who could not possibly lose 
 much time in finding her tongue, lagged behind to exchange 
 whispers with Jerome. 
 
 She'll die in her confinement, Jerome." 
 
 What d'ye say?" returned Jerome, really not under- 
 standing. 
 
 I'm afraid she will ; our poor lady ! She has caused 
 the calamity, you see." 
 
 " I wish my old hands had been burnt right ofif first, 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 121 
 
 rather than they should have brought out the keys at all," 
 was Jerome's bitter answer. " But don't you go and set that 
 stupid notion agate. You are old enough to know better. 
 Just let the lord hear you say such a thing ! " 
 
 " I've said no harm : and I'm sure if prayers will ensure 
 her safety, she will have mine. But it's an awful thing to 
 have happened ! I thought she was holding the light very 
 close. And now you come into Aunt Kex's parlour, Jerome, 
 and let us see to your hands." 
 
 Barely had Mrs. Pomeroy gained her own rooms again, 
 when Guy entered. Anxious about his wife, not caring to 
 leave her longer than he could help, he had made a point of 
 returning early. In her heart of hearts, she was somewhat 
 afraid of her at times stern husband, and her courage failed 
 her as she prepared to tell her tale. Would he be fright- 
 fully angry with her ? 
 
 " Guy," she whispered, nestling to him as he took his seat 
 by her on the sofa, " something very unfortunate has 
 happened, and I want to tell you of it. I have had an 
 accident and done some mischief." 
 
 The thought, passing through Guy's mind at this, was that 
 she must have broken some one or other of the costly orna- 
 m,ents he had bought to adorn her sitting-room. Drawing 
 her closer to him, a smile parted his lips as he looked down 
 at her. All he could see was the parting of her bright 
 brown hair, for her face was hidden. 
 
 " Dreadful mischief, no doubt," he answered fondly. 
 
 " I want you to forgive me for it ; not to be too angry 
 with me." 
 
 " I will not be angry with you at all : and I forgive you 
 beforehand. What is it?" 
 
 In a voice that he could scarcely hear, and with her face 
 still hidden, she told her tale, holding one of his hands the 
 while between her OAvn. How that, sitting alone in the oak- 
 room, she had fiillen on the wish to see the west wing op2)o- 
 site, and had gone to it with Jerome ; and how that later, 
 wanting to see the picture better and the lines on it, she had 
 told Bridget to bring a candle ; and — and " — there she 
 broke into tears. 
 
122 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " And what ? " asked Guy in low, strange tones, that did 
 not sound like his own. 
 
 " Burnt it," she sobbed. " The flames of the candle caught 
 the picture as I held it, and it blazed up, and burnt." 
 
 Not a word spoke Guy. Not a symptom of anger did he 
 betray ; nothing could be gathered from his impassive silence. 
 Alice waited ; but there came no sound, and she lifted her 
 head. His thoughts seemed to have gone wool-gathering ; 
 his eyes had a far-away look in them. 
 
 " Won't you say you forgive me, Guy ? I am so sorry ; 
 so vexed." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he answered hastily ; " I said I forgave you 
 beforehand. It does not matter: it cannot be helped. 
 There, there, love ; don't cry. But you should not have 
 gone up without me." 
 
 " And what do you think the prediction meant, Guy ? — 
 something about the Heir of Pomeroy failing to get a bride, 
 and the lord winning one by a lie ? " 
 
 " I think nothing," replied Guy in sharper tones. " But 
 don't go climbing about the abbey again, my dear ; you 
 are not in a condition for it. As to the picture, it was a 
 memento of a deed which, if tradition may be trusted, was a 
 disgrace to the name of Pomeroy." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE QUARREL. 
 
 The round grey stone building, not large, but very old, 
 called The Keep, stood near to the back of the Abbey of 
 Pomeroy, its walls overgrown with moss. A gentle slope 
 of green grass descended from it, then came a level dell or 
 hollow, and then, on another gentle slope rose the west pile 
 of the abbey. This had neither entrance nor window ; no 
 outlook of any sort : you had to travel round to the front 
 before you could enter it. 
 
THE QUAEREL. 
 
 123 
 
 Sitting near the keep on the dry warm grass one hot day 
 in the beginning of October, was the lovely Lady of Pomeroy. 
 She had thrown herself there in listlessness : for the old 
 listlessness at times clung to her still. Pacing the dell 
 before her, was the nurse bearing the infant, now some ten 
 weeks old. The anticipated heir, so anxiously expected and 
 for whom great rejoicings had been planned, had turned out 
 to be a pretty little girl. The Lord of Pomeroy did not 
 appear to care for the disappointment. He loved the child 
 just as much as he would have loved the heir ; ay, and was 
 as proud of it. The rejoicings were to be held all the 
 same: they had been delayed until his wife should be 
 thoroughly restored to strength. Then the invitations went 
 out, and on the morrow the abbey would be filled with 
 guests. Guy had taken advantage of his last day of leisure 
 to ride to Owlstone : and his wife sat, as you see, on the 
 grass, before the old and uninhabited kee^). 
 
 " Bridget, is the baby sleeping ? " 
 
 " Just going off, madam." 
 
 " Then take her indoors." 
 
 Bridget moved towards the abbey with her charge. She 
 had been promoted to the office of nurse to the child, simply 
 because Mrs. Pomeroy had become fascinated with her tales 
 and her legends of the dead-and-gone Pomeroys, belonging 
 to the ajges as dead-and-gone as themselves. Bridget would 
 recount to her mistress marvellous legends of the Pomeroys' 
 grandeur and chivalry, varied with whispers of the Pomeroys' 
 less laudatory exploits. Mrs. Pomeroy took quite a liking 
 to the woman, and she assigned her the place of nurse to 
 the child. 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy sat on, her parasol held between her face 
 and the sun. It was pleasant to recline there at ease, en- 
 joying the warm and tranquil air. A great bleak place the 
 abbey looked, something like a prison ; this west pile before 
 her having neither window nor outlet; nothing but its 
 massive, unbroken, lichen-covered walls. 
 
 " Thank goodness this solitude will be over to-morrow ! " 
 ejaculated Mrs. Pomeroy. " I can wear my new dresses, and 
 there will be people to see them. I'm sure I was quite well 
 
124 
 
 POME ROY ABBEY. 
 
 enough for company a montli ago, only Guy is so stupidly 
 careful of me. How delightful it will be ! " 
 
 Lost in this charming prospect — and to Mrs. Pomeroy, 
 vain and frivolous, gaiety was always charming— she fell 
 into a train of thought ; from which she was aroused by the 
 sound of footsteps behind her, hastening down the slope of 
 
 the keep. She turned her head, and What was it that 
 
 dazzled her eyes, as if the glaring sun had suddenly flashed 
 upon them ? What was it that dazzled her mind to bewilder- 
 ment ? She rose up, little conscious of what she did. Her 
 cheek flushed and paled, paled and flushed, her hands 
 trembled, her heart grew sick and her head dizzy. Whose 
 form was it, that caused all this emotion ? 
 
 It was that of a noble-looking man, of the remarkable 
 height, the well-turned limbs, the fine make of her own 
 husband ; indeed just for a moment she thought it was Guy, 
 and wondered what had brought him there. But no, it was 
 not Guy: it was Eupert. Though much alike, Guy's 
 countenance could not boast the remarkable beauty of this 
 one, for Guy had his hare-lip, his stern look, and his un- 
 naturally pale complexion. Yes, it was Eupert, Eupert 
 whom she had not heard of, or seen, for two years. 
 
 Eupert Pomeroy drew a step back as she rose and turned 
 her face to him ; he had not observed her. She looked at 
 him, not speaking, but she could not conceal the agitation 
 which had taken possession of her whole frame : and he 
 halted and stood before her. Alas! though she had 
 resolutely thrust Eupert Pomeroy from her mind, and so 
 believed she had thrust him from her heart, this sudden 
 meeting served to show that the love had been only smoulder- 
 ing. She covered her emotion witii a look of scorn, for that 
 was the chief feeling kept uppermost since she believed that 
 he had wilfully played her false. Not less scornful, how- 
 ever, was the tone of Eupert. 
 
 " It is a surprise to meet the Lady of Pomeroy." 
 
 Again they stood gazing at each other, neither speaking, 
 Mrs. Pomeroy remembered her position as the wife of his 
 brother, and she struggled to maintain it as she ought. 
 
 " I believe I speak to Eupert Pomeroy," she coldly said. 
 
thp: quarrel. 
 
 125 
 
 " Am I so changed that you need doubt it ? " \yas his retort. 
 " I should have thought, by the circumstances attending our 
 last meeting, that you would only too well have remembered 
 me. Have you forgotten that last meeting ? " 
 
 She was thunderstruck at his audacity. " Do you know 
 who I am?" 
 
 " To my cost I do know it. Guy's wife. But in that last 
 meeting you swore to be mine. Alice," he continued, his 
 voice trembling, " I trusted you from my very soul." 
 
 She could not understand. She advanced a stejJ nearer to 
 him. 
 
 " Are you trying to play off some deceit u2)on me again 
 now, as you did then? To what end? You and I have 
 nothing now in common." 
 
 " Nothing?" 
 
 Nothing save hatred ; contempt. They are what T feel 
 for you." 
 
 He looked on her steadily, mockery in his eye and on his 
 lip. She was excessively agitated ; she could not understand 
 his looks, his words. Instead of sinking to the earth with 
 shame for his treachery, he appeared to throw blame and 
 scorn on her. 
 
 " You are my husband's brother," she resumed, " and I 
 will say to you what I would not stoop to say were I any 
 other man's wife. Though, it may be that you are utterly 
 callous to reproach. You came in secret to my mother's 
 home to win my love " 
 
 " And I thought I did win it. 
 
 " How dared you so come to befool me," she continued in 
 agitation, waving a^v^ay his interruption ; " dastardly pre- 
 tending that your love was mine ? " 
 
 " Dastardly ! " retorted Eupert, his eye flashing. " Was 
 it more dastardly in one brother to seek you, than in the 
 other? What though Guy was the heir? — had you wanted 
 position and riches, why did you not say so ? " 
 
 " I did not want them. You know I did not." 
 
 " You married them, at any rate, madam,** he slightingly 
 returned. " And you made pretty good haste to do so." 
 
 " This show of recrimination will not serve your purpose," 
 
126 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 resumed Mrs. Pomeroy. " I sliould like an answer before I 
 have done with the subject for ever. Once more I ask for 
 an explanation, and if you possess a grain of honour you 
 will give it — why you came, deceiving me with your false 
 vows ? " 
 
 " If you had aught about you as true as they were, you 
 would do. Lady of Pomeroy. Whatever ill I may have done, 
 I loved you faithfully : as I have never loved and never shall 
 love another." 
 
 " You may spare yourself the avowal, Rupert Pomeroy : 
 to what end, I ask, lie about it now ? I know who it was 
 you did love ; whom you were loving and visiting, whilst 
 you pretended to love me. But I am ashamed of myself 
 for thus alluding to anything so disgraceful." 
 
 " As you have alluded to it, you had better explain, 
 madam. I do not know what you are speaking of." 
 
 " You do know." 
 
 " On my word of honour I do not." 
 
 In Eupert's generally gay eyes there sat so earnest an 
 expression that Mrs. Pomeroy felt staggered. Did he in 
 truth not understand ? She hushed her voice. " Have you 
 forgotten that unhappy person who — who " 
 
 " Pray proceed." 
 
 " Whom you took away with you ? " 
 
 Eupert looked at her. " What person ? " 
 
 " I know all about it. I blush for myself that I should 
 deign to allude to it again — but I wish you to understand 
 that, though you succeeded in deceiving me for a space, the 
 enlightenment came. Therefore we stand on equal ground 
 for the future." 
 
 "I ask what person," he steadily repeated. "What do 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " Gaunt's daughter," replied Mrs. Pomeroy, in a whisper. 
 
 After a stare of surprise, Eupert burst into laughter. 
 Mrs. Pomeroy turned indignantly away. 
 
 He strode after her, and caught her by the arm. "Do 
 you mean what you say, Mrs. Pomeroy ? Is it possible that 
 you suspect me of having abducted Sybilla Gaunt ? " 
 
 " I do not suspect. I know it was you." 
 
THE QUARREL. 
 
 127 
 
 Her contemptuous manner had been telling upon him. 
 "Then, hear me," he said, almost as passionately as his 
 brother Guy could have spoken. " I never had an ill 
 thought towards Sybilla, I never liad a grain of love for 
 her ; I swear it. You are entirely mistaken." 
 
 There was truth in his eye and in his tone. Mrs. Pomeroy 
 turned pale. " Surely you knew that she fell into trouble." 
 
 " I knew that. I suppose you ladies call it trouble." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy frowned. But she was in a very tumult of 
 agitation, comprehending nothing, as it seemed, and could 
 only pursue her questions. 
 
 " Did you know who was the author of it ? " 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " Tell me, and I will believe all you say." 
 
 Rupert hesitated. " As to believing me, you must do as 
 you please. If I ever spoke a word of truth in my life, I 
 am speaking it now." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I do believe you. But you should not leave it 
 in this uncertainty ; you must tell me. Who was it ? " 
 
 Still Rupert hesitated. "There exists a reason why it 
 should not be known at Abbeyland," he said. " If I do tell 
 you will you undertake to keep it secret ? " 
 
 "I will." 
 
 " It was my brother George. Captain Pomeroy." 
 , "Captain Pomeroy," she repeated below her breath. 
 uDiahe " 
 
 " Ask me no questions," interrupted Rupert. " I can tell 
 you nothing but the bare fact that George was the — the 
 culprit. Who was it that put you on the wrong scent ? " 
 
 " Guy." 
 
 " Guy ! Then I shall have a score to settle with him." 
 
 " He believed it was you. The village believed it." 
 
 " Guy did not believe it — whatever the village may have 
 done. The village laid many a peccadillo on my back, 
 being a broad one, that had no legal right there. What did 
 I care ? — it made me none the sadder." 
 
 " Guy did not ? " dreamily repeated Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 " Guy knew better. He knew as much as I did." 
 
 " Joan thought it," she continued. " My mother thought it." 
 
128 
 
 FOMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Very likely. I have a broad back, I say, and always 
 have had one. Was this the reason that yon broke your 
 ' vows to me ? 
 
 " Yes," she answered, her pale lips quivering. " Guy 
 came to me again one day, pressing me to be his wife : to 
 get rid of his importunity, I confided to him that I loved 
 you, and had promised to wait and be yours ; and then ho 
 ridiculed my credulity, and told me that you were the cause 
 of all that had happened to Sybilla Gaunt. He said that 
 Sybilla had followed you."' 
 
 Rupert turned from her to give a few strong words to his 
 brother. " And then you married him ? " 
 
 "And then I married him. I was mad, Kupert: I did 
 not care what became of mc. He has played us both false." 
 
 " He has played us both false," echoed Rupert, " false as 
 his own false nature. And yet I never knew it was false 
 until now ; for, with all his sternness, I thought Guy to bo 
 the soul of honour. Let him look to himself! " 
 
 "But, Rupert, you never came, you never wrote," she 
 pleaded, the tears raining from her eyes. " Why did you 
 stay away in London all that time ? What was I to 
 think ? " 
 
 Rupert coughed : conscience told him that he could clear 
 himself less easily on this score than on the other. But 
 the best of us have excuses at hand. 
 
 " I stayed there hunting after that government post which 
 I expected. And, later, I got put into the Queen's Bench 
 Prison : that must have been not long before your marriage. 
 Do you know who put me tneio ? Guy." 
 
 " Guy!" 
 
 "He did. In so far as that he would not advance a 
 small, pitiful sum of a few hundreds to keep me out of it. 
 He wrote word to our lawyer that a little spell at the 
 Queen's Bench would do me good." 
 
 " Oh, Rupert ! It has been a black plot of treachery 
 against us both." 
 
 " It has ; and it succeeded. He won you by a lie ! Let 
 him look to himself." 
 
 Rupert spoke in a pointed manner. Mrs. Pomeroy had 
 
THE QUARREL. 
 
 129 
 
 little doubt to what he alluded, and she shuddered as with 
 a sudden fear. That wild prediction, bearing dread portent 
 for the Lords of Ponieroy, and implicitly believed in — when 
 one of them should win a wife by means of a lie — recurred 
 to her. 
 
 Eupert Pomeroy touched with his forefinger Mrs.Pomeroy's 
 arm. " You love me still," he dared to say. " Nay, no 
 denial, I see it." 
 
 "From my whole heart," she answered, for indignation 
 was strong within her ; and she had begun to hate her 
 treacherous husband with a deadly hatred. 
 
 Oh, foolish woman ! Ill-trained, ill-regulated, devoid of 
 conscience though she surely must be, how could she make 
 so dangerous and wicked an avowal ? The next moment 
 she repented of it herself, the little grace within her was 
 making itself heard, and some shame sat in her face as she 
 said a hasty farewell to Eupert. 
 
 " Wan by a lie," she muttered to herself ; " won by a lie ! " 
 
 Eupert told the truth. George Pom.eroy was the culprit, 
 not himself, and he had been in George's confidence 
 throughout : had done his best to aid in keej^ing the affair 
 a secret from John Gaunt. 
 
 This same morning, two or three hours before, as Gaunt 
 sat at his early breakfast, Eupert Pomeroy had walked in. 
 " Will you give me house-room, Gaunt, for a few days ? " he 
 asked, after greetings had passed. 
 
 " With pleasure ; you know that, Mr. Eupert," was the 
 warm answer of the unsuspicious keeper, with whom Eu2)ert 
 was a favourite. " But what has the abbey done to you ? " 
 
 "The abbey! do you think 1 would trouble that?" 
 returned Eupert. "Not after Guy's unbrotherly conduct 
 towards me." 
 
 " What has he done ! " 
 
 "He has let me languish in prison for I don't know how 
 long, when three or four hundreds at first would have saved 
 me from it. Yes, Guy might have saved me when I was 
 first arrested, and I should have taken pretty good care they 
 did not catch me again. Once in there, and the fact known, 
 all the liabilities I possessed came down upon me together, 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey- 9 
 
130 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 It was rather a jolly time, though, taking one thing with 
 another." 
 
 " And how have yon managed to escape now ? " 
 
 " Whitewashed," briefly rejoined Eupert : and Gaunt drew 
 in his lips with an expression of pain. "Yes, it is very 
 degrading to a Pomeroy," Eupert added, noting the look ; 
 '^but no one came to my aid, and I could not languish 
 there for life. Guy will about die of it, I expect, Eare 
 fun if he does." 
 
 Gaunt took the valise from Eupert's hand, and conducted 
 him to the little square guest-chamber that was so rarely 
 occupied. 
 
 The Lord of Pomeroy's business that day at Owlstone 
 was to take the chair at a county meeting, involving some 
 question connected with religion, Guy, energetic upon the 
 point, warm and earnest in supporting his own faith, stayed 
 to discuss the matter with some friends after the prolonged 
 meeting was over, and reached home late* Alice was at 
 dinner ; she had not chosen to wait for him. Guy ran up to 
 his dressing-room for a minute, and then sat down to table. 
 
 At dinner he told her about the meeting : what was said 
 at it, what done. But that he was so completely absorbed 
 in the topic himself, he might have noted that his wife 
 listened with callous indifference, scarcely deigning to make 
 any reply. 
 
 In point of fact, Mrs. Pomeroy was boiling over v/ith 
 wrath, burning to "have it out" with Guy, She fully 
 meant never to forgive her husband what he had done ; 
 never : she waited to tell him of the meeting vnth Eupert, 
 and all she had learnt at it. But the servants were present, 
 and she had to condemn herself to silence. 
 
 As the attendants quitted the room, leaving the dessert 
 and wine on the table, Guy drew forth a packet of letters — 
 three or four, tied together — from his pocket. Owlstone 
 had two posts a-day ; Abbeyland only one ; therefore when 
 any of the abbey people were at Owlstone in the afternoon, 
 they called at the post-office to see if any letters lay there. 
 As Guy had done to-day ; and found these. 
 
 He proceeded to open them. For Alice this was another 
 
THE QUABREL. 
 
 131 
 
 delay; he was always so absorbed in his letters, and she 
 wanted his undivided attention. But the waiting was 
 trying her ; the tension of her nerves became well-nigh 
 unbearable. Her breath was beginning to grov/ short ; her 
 throat to beat : she laid her hand upon her neck to still it. 
 i " Great Heavens ! " 
 
 The exclamation came from Guy : and it startled her. 
 Startled her because he, the usually calm man, was so 
 powerfully agitated. A dark flash of anger sat on his face, 
 his eyes glared. The letter in his hand was in Mr. Hildyard's 
 writing, their London solicitor; Alice could see so much. 
 Surely it had brought some terrible news ! 
 
 " He must have been mad ! " groaned Guy. " The de- 
 generate hound! — to have wrought this shameful disgrace 
 upon our name ! " 
 
 " Mr. Hildyard has ? ** questioned Alice, surprised into 
 asking the question, her own grievances giving momentary 
 place to her curiosity. 
 
 " Not Hildyard. That wicked brother of mine — Eupert." 
 
 The truth was, Mr. Hildyard, deeming himself compelled 
 to acquaint the head of the family with the crisis that had 
 taken place in the fortunes (or misfortunes) of one of its 
 members, had tardily sat down the previous evening to 
 accomplish it. And the letter on which Guy's eyes were 
 strained conveyed the same tidings which Eupert had him- 
 self so unceremoniously spoken in a single w^ord to Gaunt 
 — that he had been " whitewashed." Perhaps hardly any 
 other word or deed could have struck so humiliating a 
 cound upon the haughty Lord of Pomeroy. 
 
 " He is worse than a serpent ! " he raved : and Alice felt 
 daunted as she saw his threatening face. " He is worse 
 than — — " 
 
 " Mr. Eupert Pomeroy." 
 
 It was Jerome who threw wide the door and announced 
 him. Eupert came forward. Guy gazed at him as though 
 he were an apparition. 
 
 ^'I had thought you would be alone," spoke Eupert 
 lightly, addressing Guy. " You must have dined late." 
 
 The easy manner, the insolent words — insolent in Guy's 
 
132 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 ear — only added fuel to fire. Dark reproach sat on his 
 face, scorn on his tongue. Kupert recriminated on his own 
 score : and Mrs. Pomeroy, who stood her ground, and at 
 first was too terrified to do more than stand it in a remote 
 corner, at length joined in. 
 
 V/hat passed, none, apart from themselves, ever knew, but 
 the storm terrified those of the servants who heard it. 
 Jerome, almost out of his senses, remained in the ante- 
 room ; perhaps to keep others away. They gathered in the 
 corridors and on the stairs. It ended by the Lord of 
 Pomeroy's dashing open the door and ordering the servants 
 to thrust forth his brother. They would have done it ; they 
 dared not disobey the lord when he had that temper upon 
 him, or indeed at any other time ; but Eupert walked forth 
 of his own accord. Exaggerated tales of the interview went 
 out to the village. 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy passed swiftly from the dining-room in the 
 wake of Kupert, and went to her child in the nursery. It 
 was wailing a low wail of complaint or of pain. Mrs. 
 Pomeroy took it, but it would not be soothed ; there was 
 still the same low wail ; not a cry. 
 
 " I cannot think what's the matter with her," exclaimed 
 Bridget. " She has never cried like this. When she does 
 cry, it is like all other children, loud enough for half the 
 abbey to hear, but not this strange wail." 
 
 No ; Mrs. Pomeroy might try her best : the infant would 
 not be tranquillized. Was it wailing for the distress that 
 was coming on its home ? 
 
 Tired at length with her efi'orts to soothe it, for a little 
 thing soon tired Mrs. Pomeroy, she gave the child back to 
 Bridget, went to her room, and rang for her maid. Theresa 
 appeared almost in a state of collapse : she feared her lady 
 must have had something to do with the cause of the 
 quarrel. 
 
 " Which bed-chambers have been prepared for the guests 
 to-morrow ? " 
 
 "All that were available, I think, madam," answered 
 Theresa. " All on this floor, I am sure ; and some of those 
 above stairs." 
 
THE QUARREL. 
 
 133 
 
 " Is the small room at tlie side of the north corridor, next 
 to the blue room, ready ? " 
 
 "Yes, madam. I know it is, for I helped to take the 
 linen to the different rooms, and that was one of them." 
 
 " Carry my things there." 
 
 She had gradually (impressed, no doubt, with her own 
 exalted dignity as Lady of Pomeroy), been getting into a 
 habit of speaking imperiously to her servants, even to 
 Theresa, therefore this eurtness was no new thing. But 
 the woman doubted in what sense to take the words. 
 
 "Kemove all my things to that room, I say," repeated 
 Mrs. Pomeroy. " Now. Call some one to help you. It 
 will be mine from henceforth, instead of this." 
 
 Theresa w^as surprised. " And the lord's things also ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 "Mine, I said," was the sharp retort of Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 She went outside, passed into one of the transverse corridors, 
 and stood at its end window, apparently gazing into the 
 courtyard. In reality she was gazing within herself, at her 
 own outraged heart. Eupert's offence in " whitewashing " 
 himself might be very humiliating, but what was that to 
 her? — all her compassion was spent upon herself — all her 
 bitter rage was given to Guy for the false trick he had 
 played her. Her hands were clasped until the nails pressed 
 sharply : but what cared she then for bodily pain. 
 
 A short time, and she turned to make her way to the 
 dining-room, where she had left her husband. He was not 
 there. She found him in the saloon where they generally 
 sat after dinner ; that gorgeously fitted-up room which Guy 
 had made all gilding and beauty for her: a contrast to 
 their own dark spirits just now. The mirrors reflected their 
 countenances, and Mrs. Pomeroy's was scowling ; but she 
 had made a compact with herself to be cool and contemptuous, 
 rather than fierce. They had had enough of fierceness for 
 one evening. 
 
 Guy sat in one of her dainty chairs, calm, save that his 
 eye was restless. His wife w^ent up and stood in front 
 of him. She placed her hands before her, one over the 
 other, as a schoolgirl does when repeating a lesson to her 
 
134 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 governess, and began in measured tones, steadily looking at 
 him. 
 
 " Why did you bring this misery upon us ? " 
 
 His grey eye flashed. " I have brought no misery. You 
 will bring it upon yourself, if you behave as you behaved 
 to-night." 
 
 " You have brought a misery upon us that will never end 
 but with our lives. It never shall end." 
 " Speak for yourself," he rejoined. 
 
 " I do ; but I also speak for you, Lord of Pomeroy. You 
 shall go your way, and I will go mine : we are strangers 
 from this hour." 
 
 " Perhaps you would like to go your way with Eupert," 
 retorted the lord : thinking, though, in the plenitude of his 
 security that such a catastrophe could no more take place 
 than that the stars could shine at noonday. She and Eupert 
 had both provoked him that evening unjustifiably by their 
 incautious reproaches to him. 
 
 " No," she replied, catching her breath, and her face turn- 
 ing to crimson, " you have barred that for ever." 
 
 His lips parted, she thought to laugh, and closed again. 
 She was mistaken there ; nothing could be much further 
 from Guy Pomeroy's heart and lips that night than laughter. 
 Alice resumed. 
 
 " Why did you do so ? Why did you come to me with 
 that wicked tale — knowing it to be false ? " 
 
 " I had two motives," he coolly replied : " and all tales 
 are fair, you know, in love and war. I loved you ; I was 
 dying for you : and — I would save you from him. Allow 
 that he was not guilty in that one particular case, other 
 cases could have been told against him. Had you been 
 suffered to marry him, he would have toyed with your heart 
 for a month, and then have broken it." 
 
 "I was dying for Eupert," she returned, in low tones, 
 while the large tear-drops of regret filled her eyes. " Far 
 rather would I have been his wife for a month, though my 
 heart had then broken, than yours for eternity." 
 
 Guy suppressed his just indignation. No one, save him- 
 self, knew what it cost him to do it, or how bitterly she was 
 
THE QUAEREL. 
 
 135 
 
 trying him. " You shall not repeat such language to me, 
 Alice ; it is shameful of you to utter it." 
 
 " You have heard it before," was the agitated reply. " I 
 told you, in the very hour that you came forth to win me 
 with your falsehood, that I loved your brother with an all- 
 enduring love : I told you I should never love you. You 
 have not forgotten." 
 
 No, that he had not. Often enough he had winced at the 
 remembrance of the words. 
 
 " On the day before our v/edding a thought occurred — it 
 must have been some good spirit sent it to me — v/hat if you 
 were deceiving me : and I put the question deliberately to 
 you," she continued. " Do you remember your answer ? I 
 prayed you to tell me true ; I said that should it ever come 
 to light, later, that you were so deceiving me, it would be 
 bad for us both. It has come now." 
 
 Guy rose from his chair. " Let us have done with this, 
 Alice," he said, in a tone of conciliation* 
 
 " Done with it ? " she repeated. " Yes, presently, when I 
 have finished ; but its effects will never be done with. Guy 
 Pomeroy, I will no longer be your wife : never again ; 
 never, never." 
 
 He smiled. " Yes, you will." 
 
 "Never again," she murmured. "I would not do so 
 wickedly : for my whole love is Eupert's. I thought tliat 
 love was conquered ; I did, indeed ; but the sight of him 
 has shown me my mistake. The fact is, since I became 
 your wife I have striven to keep it under, to suppress his 
 image in my mind ; I would not suffer it to arise, I would 
 not dwell upon it. Henceforward I shall cherish it and 
 live upon it; so you see how impossible it is that I can 
 remain here to be your wife." 
 
 Guy's lips were turning livid. " Have you any sense of 
 shame left ? " he asked. And truly she could possess little, 
 thus boldly to beard her husband. 
 
 " You may obtain a separation ; a divorce ; anything you 
 please," she continued, trembling with passion. " The 
 sooner the better. And then you may bring home another 
 to be the Lady of Pomeroy." 
 
136 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 He caught lier by the arm. 
 
 " You cannot beat me," she said. " The chivalrous Lords 
 of Pomeroy do not beat women." 
 
 "You will tempt me to it, Alice, if you drive me to 
 desperation," returned Guy; who, considering his fiery 
 nature, was keeping his temper marvellously well. " Hold 
 your peace." 
 
 " When I have said what I wish to say. At present, until 
 these people who are expected shall have come and gone, 
 there must be an appearance of amity between us : after 
 that, I shall consider what to do : probably go home to my 
 mother. But whilst these gossi]3ing crowds are here, let us 
 play a part : all suavity when before them ; strangers when 
 not." 
 
 " You pretty little schemer ! " he laughed, a shade of con- 
 tempt in his tone. " The Lords of Pomeroy don't part with 
 their wives thus easily; although you seem so willing to 
 resign your baby." 
 
 She looked up with a startled glance. " I should take my 
 baby with me." 
 
 " Oh dear, no," replied the Lord of Pomeroy. " If you 
 leave my home for a whim, you do not take my child.*' 
 
 " The law would give it me." 
 
 " Alice, it would not'' And Guy was right. 
 
 " Do you know," she whispered, struggling to maintain 
 her assumed calmness, " that you are tempting me to hate 
 you with a double hatred. You have brought woe upon me 
 for ever. I disliked you, Guy, before we married. I hate 
 you now." 
 
 " You are bold, my lady." 
 
 "But for my own good name, and that the child may 
 grow up to call me mother, I would have quitted your roof 
 this night ; ay, though the step had flung me into the arms 
 of Eupert. There was a demon tempting me — had it been 
 only to take my revenge on you." 
 
 " If you do not cease, I will have you confined as a mad- 
 woman," cried Guy. " Surely you must be mad, to inflict 
 upon yourself this humiliation." 
 
 " I have nearly said my say. To-morrow, before my 
 
THE QUAREEL. 
 
 137 
 
 guests, you will find me all smiles and polite speeches again. 
 My things are being removed to the small room in the north 
 wing, and that will be mine as long as I remain at the 
 abbey." 
 
 He leaned towards her, hissing rather than speaking : the 
 haughty Pomeroy temper was being stung cruelly by these 
 insults. " If you attempt to leave your own apartments, I 
 will bar you up in them — and come and attend you as your 
 keeper. You are mad, Alice." 
 
 " You won me by a lie," she returned, greatly agitated ; 
 " and, now that I know it, I am not bound to obey you. If 
 a thief should steal a shilling, though he may get it into his 
 possession, it is not legally or morally his. Did you forget 
 the prediction ? — the woe it threatens ? " 
 
 Guy retorted with scorn. " Prediction ? Threatened 
 woe ? Tush ! — unless you choose to mar the peace of the 
 house and bring it." 
 
 " There was to be great woe when that picture was 
 destroyed," she said. 
 
 " Always remember one thing, Alice — that you visited the 
 west wing and the picture in direct disobedience to me. 
 But for that, the picture would not have been destroyed. I 
 must try to teach my wife better behaviour. But I wish to 
 do it in all kindness. You will order your things back to 
 your own room.** 
 
 " I will not," she steadily answered. " If you attempt to 
 force me to it, I will go this night to my mother. Pretty 
 scandal for the Lord of Pomeroy, when the guests shall 
 arrive to-morrow and find his lady fiown ! " 
 
 Alice called him rightly ; the Lord of Pomeroy : he was 
 both lord and master. She went to the room that had been 
 hers ; Guy followed and closed the door. Bridget, who was 
 near, was startled by the sounds that came from the room : 
 recriminating words from both, though she could not hear 
 their purport; very decisive and haughty ones from the 
 lord, sobs and wails from her mistress. Sudden silence 
 supervened. Bridget felt terrified, she hardly knew of 
 what, went to the door with an excuse, and knocked at it. 
 
 It was opened instantly by the lord : he appeared to have 
 
138 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 been standing near it, and her mistress sat by tbe table. 
 Bridget could not see ber face distinctly, for the room was 
 only lighted by the large lamp, which hung outside in the 
 court-yard. 
 
 " Did you call me, madam ? ^ she hastened to say. " I 
 thought you might want the baby, but she's asleep now." 
 " No one called," replied the lord. " Bridget." 
 " Sir." 
 
 '•Some orders of your mistress's have been misappre- 
 hended — her things have been carried to the north corridor. 
 Speak to Theresa and have them brought back again." 
 
 The things were carried back. Mrs. Pomeroy did not 
 gainsay it ; and the servants vv^hispered. Oppose the iron 
 will of Guy Pomeroy ? his Y\^ife need not have thought it. 
 
 When rest and silence fell upon the abbey, there appeared 
 to be rest and silence in the lady's chamber ; but, had any 
 been curious enough to listen, they might have heard the 
 monotonous step of the lord, pacing it through the better 
 part of the night. 
 
 It is an act of madness to pour spirit on a raging fire ; 
 little less so to control by angry force the fierce will of an 
 indignant woman. That Mrs. Pomeroy had not a well- 
 regulated mind has been previously pointed out, lest the 
 reader should not see it for himself : though perhaps none, 
 even of those who had been about her from childhood, 
 suspected Jiow ill-regulated it might become in a season of 
 temptation. The steps taken by Guy — in this the first 
 moment of her renev/ed fancy for Eupert and rage against 
 himself — were not judicious ones. Far better that he had 
 let her go to the lonely room, and sufi'ered her indignation 
 to spend itself there for a short time, a few days, and then 
 have tried conciliation. It might have answered — after a 
 little holding out ; for a woman, look you, talk as she may, 
 will think twice before she goes the length of actually 
 quitting her husband's home, or of in any way separating 
 herself from him. As it was, Alice Pomeroy was nursing 
 all sorts of reprisals in her revengeful heart. 
 
( 139 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 FOLLY. 
 
 In tliG state dining-room below, never used but on occasions 
 of large or extremely ceremonious dinners, sat the Lord and 
 Lady of Pomeroy, entertaining tbeir guests. A fine sight : 
 a goodly company. The handsome dishes of silver-gilt, 
 bearing their costly viands, crowded the board. Dinner a- 
 la-Eusse had not come in then ; and the more i3rodigal the 
 feast displayed on the table, the greater honour was 
 accounted to be rendered to the guests. 
 
 The vf ax-lighted chandeliers hung from the ceiling ; the 
 sideboard glittered with its array of glass and plate. 
 Numerous servants in their liveries of purple velvet and 
 silver waited, headed by Jerome in plain attire, who stood 
 behind his lord, and never served any one else. On the left 
 of Mrs. Pomeroy sat Father Andrew ; towards the middle of 
 the table sat Mrs. Wylde. The priest was all merriment 
 and good nature ; it did one good to look at his rubicund 
 face ; he could hardly control it to solemnity whilst he said 
 grace ; Mrs. Wylde was gorgeous as dress could make her, 
 but otherwise not much to be noticed : and as these two are 
 all v/e know amongst the guests, the others need not be 
 mentioned. 
 
 It was a grand old room ; and was supposed to have been 
 the chapel in bygone days, before the other chapel was 
 built. The oak panelings were in small divisions and 
 richly carved, each one having been formerly a monk's stall. 
 Three high windows of painted glass, representing scenes in 
 the time of the Crusaders, looked tovv^ards the quadrangle. 
 They gave the only light the room possessed, consequently 
 it was dark and sombre by day : but that fault could not at 
 present be charged upon it. On these state occasions the 
 painted windows were lighted up by means of lamps placed 
 behind them outside ; and they formed not the least of the 
 room's attractions, particularly for those who had the good 
 
140 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY, 
 
 fortune to sit opposite them, and so could be charmed at 
 will by their rich colours during the whole banquet. 
 
 Who so gay as Mrs. Pomeroy, heading her table in her 
 white robes of silk and lace, her favourite attire ; who so 
 calm, so equable, so courteous as her lord, facing her at the 
 end of the long table ? Of all the toilettes present, not one 
 was more beautiful than hers ; of all the faces, not one was 
 so lovely. Upon her white neck, her arms, nestling amidst 
 her hair, glittered the diamonds handed to her by Guy on 
 their wedding-day ; upon her cheeks shone the damask flush 
 of excitement. This set of diamonds, and they were of rare 
 beauty, belonged to the reigning Lady of Pomeroy, and to 
 her alone : when she ceased to reign, they went from her. 
 
 Dear, most dear, was this show and state to Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 Her heart was conscious of that. It was also conscious, for 
 a little latent voice kept rising within it to that effect, that 
 if she quitted the abbey, this show and state would, for her, 
 be over for ever : it was only as the Lord of Pomeroy's wife 
 that she could enjoy it. The homage rendered to her was 
 only rendered in the right of Guy : separate herself from 
 him, and she might return to the obscurity from which she 
 came ; obscurity, compared with the position she revelled 
 in now. Mrs. Wylde was rich, but her riches would not 
 gather about her an assemblage such as this : the guests of 
 rank second only to princes ; or the plate emblazoned with 
 the Lord of Pomeroy's arms, handed down from generation 
 to generation ; or the time-worn retainers, who looked as if 
 they could never belong to any but an ancient family. Yes ; 
 Alice Pomeroy had been raised to this supreme height, and 
 she would certainly think twice before she wilfully for- 
 feited it. 
 
 Ever and anon as she sat there, came a thought into her 
 mind : " I should not like to leave it ; I must do nothing 
 rashly." Until this evening, which was the day of the 
 guests' arrival, and the evening following the scene with 
 Guy, she had been keeping up the ball of indignation with 
 her own heart ; had been feeding her enmity against her 
 husband, saying to herself, " I will not live with him,^ But 
 now, with, all this glitter and glamour before her, she did 
 
FOLLY. 
 
 141 
 
 not feci so sure about it. Not a single word had they 
 6j)oken to one another since the unseemly recrimination ; 
 she in her resentment would not speak ; Guy deemed it best 
 to humour her mood and allow her a little time to come to 
 her senses. Amidst the guests were some who had never 
 seen her ; and Guy had performed the introduction with the 
 most perfect suavity. For all any one could see, they were 
 upon the pleasant terms that man and wife should ever be ; 
 she was lively, laughing, gay ; he, courteous and attentive 
 to all to the last degree. Ever and anon, as they sat opposite 
 to each other now, she caught Guy's eyes fixed upon her — 
 and turned away her own at once in resentment. He was 
 the finest-looking man in the room, towering above them 
 all ; some little warmth sat in his usually pallid face ; and, 
 though the unfortunate upper lip was undeniably ugly, the 
 well-carved Pomeroy features, and the dark-grey eyes were 
 very beautiful. 
 
 The lord had begun by entertaining his guests right 
 regally, as a Pomeroy loved to do ; he would so continue to 
 entertain them until the fortnight for which they were 
 invited came to an end. Excursions of pleasure abroad, 
 evening festivities at home, these were occasionally varied 
 with men's out-of-door sports. The grandest fete of all 
 would be that of the christening : for which Miss Pomeroy, 
 who was to be one of the god-mothers, would arrive. And 
 so, we leave them at the dinner-table. 
 
 The next morning the gentlemen went out shooting, Guy 
 giving orders for luncheon to be sent to them. Some of the 
 ladies proposed a drive to Ovvlstone, and carriages were 
 ordered round. Towards mid-day, Alice, making her baby 
 an excuse for absenting herself from the rest of her guests, 
 left her mother to entertain them, put on her bonnet, and 
 walked out. It was a most lovely day. October had 
 brought in a true ete de St. Michael, and this was the third 
 of the month. 
 
 Yes, she walked out deliberately, knowing that she 
 hazarded meeting Eupert Pomeroy : though indeed he 
 might already have left Abbeyland. In later years, when 
 she was bearing the burden of a life-long repentance; she 
 
142 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 would tell herself again and again that she did not wish to 
 meet him ; that she would not have gone out purposely to 
 do so. Most certainly she had no wrong thought in her 
 heart ; let us give her that due ; she did not forget that she 
 was his brother's wife. 
 
 Winding round to the south of the abbey, her beautiful 
 morning dress of a delicate lilac colour trailing on the hot 
 grass, she came upon Kupert. He was standing by the keep, 
 just in the sj)ot where they had met two days before. Kupert 
 raised his hat and held out his hand ; the colour rushed 
 vividly into her face as she put out her hand to answer it. 
 
 " Taking a walk, Mrs. Pomeroy ? You are lucky to find 
 time for it, with the house full of people." 
 
 " Most of them are out," she answered, " and mamma is 
 there. Oh, Eupert! I — I must tell you: we had such a 
 dreadful scene." 
 
 "Who had? When?" 
 
 " I and Guy. After you left." 
 
 And then, most imprudently and inexcusably, Mrs. Pomeroy 
 began to give Eupert the history of v/hat had passed between 
 herself and Guy. She was yearning for sympathy, and she 
 had no one else to tell it to ; and the sight and presence of 
 Eupert, whom she still passionately loved — though it is a 
 humiliation even to record it on paper — called up again all 
 her resentment, her ill-feeling towards Guy. One word, 
 one avowal led to another ; Alice did not spare her husband ; 
 all the bitter things she could say were heaped upon him. 
 Thovfact of Eupert being his brother justified this in her 
 own mind; to any other man she, with all her incaution, 
 would not have been so imprudent. And Eupert, far from 
 repressing, met her half-way, for had he not grievances on 
 his own score to settle with Guy, and abused him to her 
 heart's content. Thus, in close conversation, now one 
 speaking, and now the other, and pacing slowly round and 
 round the keep, they, chancing to lift their heads, saw a 
 company of sportsmen at a great distance. 
 
 " Oh, Eupert, Guy is with them ! she suddenly exclaimed : 
 and they are coming this way ! It will make him more 
 angry than ever to see me talking with you." 
 
FOLLY. 
 
 143 
 
 Without a word, Eupert touched one of her hands and 
 drew her to a small low door in the wall at the back of the 
 keep ; it flew open, and admitted them. 
 
 " You are safe here until they have passed," he whispered. 
 
 "But how did you get the door open?" she asked in 
 wonder. " I always understood that little door could not bo 
 opened from the outside." 
 
 "Neither can it be, except by me and the lord. Yes, 
 Jerome knows the secret; I forgot him. There is an 
 invisible spring." 
 
 " The lord ! " she uttered, in breathless agitation. " Sup- 
 pose he should take it into his head to enter now ? " 
 
 Kupert smiled, drew a strong iron bar across the door and 
 secured it. " Not a dozen lords combined could enter now." 
 
 " Suppose he were to come in by the front-door ? " fear 
 suggested again, 
 
 " My dear Alice, what should bring him with the great 
 key of the keep ? I don't suppose it has been taken from 
 Jerome's key-closet for years." 
 
 But Mrs. Pomeroy held her breath and trembled ; con- 
 science and fear were making a coward of her. And servo 
 her right — she had no business to conceal herself. That 
 was the first false step. 
 
 She took another within the next five minutes. She and 
 Eupert stood, straining their ears to listen for the voices 
 and footsteps of the sportsmen, but the walls w^ere thick, 
 for the door had admitted them to a room within the keep, 
 not to any court or yard without it. 
 
 " They must have passed by this time," said Eupert, at 
 length; "I will go up and see. Would you like to look 
 over the old keep, Alice ? " 
 
 " Oh dear, no," she hastily replied. " I am only anxious 
 to get out of it ; I tremble lest any untoward miracle should 
 bring Guy in." 
 
 Eupert laughed. Ascending the narrow stairs he made 
 his way to the front of the building, and peeped out at one 
 of the quaint loopholes. Yes, the sportsmen had come that 
 way. " They are down in the dell now, half-way to the 
 abbey," he said, returning. " All is safe." 
 
144 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Oh, tliank goodness ! Open the door for me." 
 
 " As soon as tliey are out of sight. You may finish what 
 you were telling me here, as well as outside. There is no 
 hurry." 
 
 " I dare not, Eupert," she said. " See how I am trembling. 
 I shall make haste to the abbey, before he can find that I 
 am out. They must be coming back to lunch, although he 
 ordered it taken to them." 
 
 " I don't see that you need be so afraid of him." 
 
 " But I am. It is his turn, just v/hile these people and 
 mamma are with us ; she takes his part in everything — and 
 he nearly frightened me to death that night. But my time 
 will come." 
 
 " Has Mrs. Wylde been told, then ? " 
 
 " No. But I know how she w^ould take it, if she were. I 
 am sure they must be out of sight now." 
 
 Eupert undid the door and they passed outside together ; 
 he closed it again after him. 
 
 " We cannot part for good like this, Alice, with your tale 
 half told," he said. For what with her elaboration in the 
 recital, and the interruption on both sides to abuse Guy, the 
 history was not ended. "Meet me here to-morrow and 
 finish it ; I may be far away the next day." 
 
 " Oh, Eupert, I am afraid.** 
 
 "If you mean afraid of me, you are more foolish than 
 I could have thought you," he rejoined. " You were not 
 afraid to meet me once, and I did not attempt to harm you : 
 I should certainly not be likely to attempt it now. If you 
 mean afraid of Guy, lie cannot see you inside here. I will 
 have the door open at this hour, and be waiting for you." 
 
 " I have no one in the world to tell my anger and grief to 
 but you, Eupert, and if I cannot tell them to some one they 
 will break my heart," cried the weak woman. 
 
 " Of course they will," laughed Eupert, gaily ; attaching 
 as much importance to the silly words as they deserved. 
 
 " If I thought it would not be WTong to come ! " 
 
 " Where would the wrong lie ? " 
 
 " After all, Guy's your brother." 
 
 " He is, and you are his wife. I am not likely to forget it." 
 
FOLLY. 
 
 145 
 
 " Of course you would not forget it ; neither do 1. Then 
 I will come, Eupert." 
 
 False step the second — and a very false one. 
 
 " Why, where have you been ? " cried Mrs. Wylde, chancing 
 to meet Alice in the corridor as she stole in. At least her 
 soft steps, and her gown upheld to still the sound of its 
 rustle, looked like stealing in. " I have been to your rooms, 
 but Bridget had not seen you — and there's the poor baby 
 crying for you." 
 
 " My head ached, mamma ; 1 went out for a little stroll," 
 briefly responded Alice, making the best of her way onwards. 
 
 Baby's all right." 
 
 " Ohj and Alice, the gentlemen have come back to 
 luncheon," Mrs. Wylde called after her. " The birds were 
 shy, and they grew tired." 
 
 " Nice sportsmen ! " muttered Alice, with a toss of the 
 head. 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy did not forget on the following day the 
 appointment she had made with Rupert ; be very sure of 
 that. Down deep in her heart there sat a latent conscious- 
 ness that she might be acting unwisely ; but she was 
 cherishing the revengeful feeling towards her husband with 
 the most inveterate obstinacyr Had all the saints in the 
 chapel warned her not to meet Rupert, she would not have 
 listened to them. 
 
 Leaving her visitors to occupy themselves as they best 
 might, or be entertained by her mother, Mrs. Pomeroy went 
 forth to the meeting, just as the little chaj)el clock was 
 ringing out its twelve strokes for mid-day. Guy was away 
 again, the sportsmen having gone to-day to a greater dis- 
 tance. She found Rupert waiting for her at the little door 
 of the keep, which stood open. 
 
 " Good-morning," said he. " 1 began to think you were 
 not coming." 
 
 It is only twelve o'clock." 
 
 " Only twelve ! I have been here these twenty minutes. 
 And you know the old Spanish proverb." 
 
 " No I don't. What is it ? " 
 
 " ' To expect one vdio does not come ; to lie in bed and 
 
 Tomeroy Abbey. 10 
 
146 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 not to sleep ; to serve and not to be advanced, are three 
 tilings enough to kill a man.' I don't say they would kill 
 me, but I never was famous for patience. "Will you come 
 in?" 
 
 " No ; I am not going inside to-day. We can walk about 
 whilst I finish the history of what Guy said and did ; and 
 then I must go back again." 
 
 " As you will," replied Kupert. And he was turning to 
 shut the door of the keep, when, somewhat to his surprise, 
 Alice whisked swiftly past him and went within of her own 
 accord. 
 
 " There's Father Andre vf," she whispered. 
 
 Eupert looked round. The priest had come out of the 
 chapel, and was halting at its entrance, as if uncertain 
 whither to bend his steps, this way, or round to his own 
 house beyond the graveyard. Eupert followed Mrs. Pomeroy, 
 and shut the door. 
 
 " I'm sure you need not be afraid of the priest," said he. 
 " What thougli he did see me walking with you ? Is it 
 treason ? " 
 
 " He might tell Guy," said Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 " And what if he did ! There's no harm in your doing so. 
 Guy would not eat you for it." 
 
 "He might — shake me. I declare, Eupert, I thought 
 that night, more than once, that he would have shaken me." 
 
 " How you must have provoked him ! " laughed Eupert. 
 
 " I did. I said everything I could to do it. He was 
 quite mad 1 " 
 
 Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute, you know. Once 
 within the keep, Mrs. Pomeroy seemed reconciled to the 
 situation, and made no move to go out again. In truth, she 
 was afraid of being seen. Other eyes might be about, as 
 well as Father Andrew's. She knew well enough that she 
 ought not to be with Eupert whilst he and Guy were at 
 variance with each other ; it was like " going over to the 
 enemy ; " least of all, ought she to meet him clandestinely. 
 He was her husband's brother, and, being so, on the face of 
 things, it seemed that there could be no harm in it ; but, 
 remembering the terms on which Guy and Eupert were, and 
 
FOLLY. 
 
 147 
 
 her own former love for Euperfc, even the elastic conscience 
 of Alice Pomeroy warned her that it was what she ought 
 not to do. As to Eupert, his conscience was elastic at all 
 times, but he had the high, honourable instincts of a Pomeroy 
 in all that related to the Pomeroys, and most assuredly he 
 would not have wronged a brother. Neither would he have 
 v/illingly brought Guy's wife under Guy's censure, bitterly 
 though he vv^as feeling towards himself. It v/as very pleasant 
 indeed to meet Alice, and join her in abusing Guy. 
 
 Kupert perched himself upon a high stone ledge projecting 
 from the wall ; Mrs. Pomeroy sat on the opposite side of the 
 room on a low stool creaky ydth age : and there they talked 
 away at Guy to their anger's content ; but it was all highly 
 wrong and foolish, and she, at any rate, ought to have 
 known better. 
 
 " I told him I would quit the abbey as soon as these 
 people went, Eupert," she observed, after bringing her 
 narrative of the quarrel between herself and Guy to a con- 
 clusion. " And I think I shall do so." 
 
 " Quit the abbey ? " questioned Eupert, not knowing in 
 what sense to take the words. " How do you mean ? " 
 Quit it for good. Quit Mm.'' 
 
 " That icould be wise ! " returned Eupert, in tones that 
 proved he thought the contrary. 
 
 " But there's baby, you see," debated Alice, as she leaned 
 forward, her elbow on her knee, her chin on her hand. " I 
 am afraid he would keep it. He said he would. He said 
 the law would give it him." 
 
 " I dare say it would. Do you v/ant my opinion ? " 
 
 " If you will give it," she answered with a half sob. 
 
 " That you could not take a more unwise step. It is one 
 you would probably repent all your life. Having adopted 
 the abbey for your home, there's nothing for it, that I see, 
 but to remain in it." 
 
 "I like it for some things," confessed Alice, thinking 
 of the show and the Si^lendour. "But I don't like 
 Guy." 
 
 " You should have thought of that before. It's too late 
 now." 
 
148 
 
 POMEBOY ABBEY. 
 
 " Will you please look at your watch ? " cried Alice, 
 thinking him not very complimentary this morning. 
 
 It was half-past twelve. Eupert jumped ojQ: his perch, 
 and Alice rose. In walking towards the door, a thought 
 struck her. 
 
 " You have not told me where you are staying, Eupert ? " 
 "At Gaunt's." 
 
 " At Gaunt's ! Oh, then you are friendly with him ! " 
 
 " Why should we not be friendly ? " 
 
 " Well — I thought about Captain Pomeroy, you know." 
 
 Just for the moment Eupert, who had his hand on the 
 spring of the door and his face turned back towards her, did 
 not seem to gather her meaning. " About Sybilla," she 
 added. 
 
 " It would be hard if the sins of one brother were to be 
 visited on the other," answered Eupert, a smile crossing his 
 lips. " Even if Gaunt were aware that George had injured 
 him — which he is not." 
 
 " I have fancied that. Sybilla must have shielded her 
 lover's name from exposure as jealously as though he were 
 gold. Where is she now ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell you." 
 
 " Do you think George " 
 
 " I do not think anything about the matter," interrupted 
 Eupert, in tones that admitted of no appeal. "My own 
 peccadilloes are enough for me to carry, without troubling 
 myself about those of my brothers. We Pomeroys do not 
 interfere with one another. The best thing you can do, 
 Alice, is to forget Sybilla Gaunt. Above all, remember — 
 remember always — that I have confided George's name to 
 you in strict confidence, as regards this affair. Never let it 
 escape your lips." 
 
 " You may trust me. Will you look out and see that the 
 coast is clear ? " 
 
 The coast was clear. It was a very lonely spot, rarely 
 frequented, and not a soul was in sight. For a few minutes 
 they paced about underneath the keep : and, when they 
 parted, another appointment was made for the morrow. 
 Eupert avowed that he was not going away from Abbeyland 
 
FOLLY. 
 
 149 
 
 just yet : he had formed no plans, and might as well stay a 
 few days longer as not. 
 
 And so, as the days went on, Mrs. Pomeroy suffered her- 
 self to fall into the habit of meeting Kupert : and the habit, 
 considering his reckless character and the temper she was at 
 present indulging, was not altogether a safe one. All the 
 old love was revived in the heart of each ; and that was not 
 altogether safe. Neither of them had any ill intention, not 
 a thought of wrong : had danger been mentioned to them, 
 each would alike have scorned the suggestion. 
 
 Not every day, but as often as she could safely accomplish 
 it, did Mrs. Pomeroy go forth to meet Eupert in the keep. 
 There was no more cause for their seeking the shelter of 
 the keep than for remaining in the open air, only that 
 within it they were safe from remark. No doubt it wore a 
 bad appearance, these secret meetings in that shut-up place ; 
 that is, it would have done so had there been eyes to observe 
 them. But the eyes would have seen nothing worse than 
 Eupert perched on his stone ledge, and Alice on the low 
 stool by the opposite wall, both talking away eagerly, the 
 theme generally being the treachery of the lord. That was 
 all ; but, as above remarked, it was altogether hazardous 
 and objectionable. 
 
 The guests had been at Pomeroy Abbey ten days, three- 
 fourths of the term they were invited for, when the day of 
 the christening dawned. It brought a disappointment. 
 Much wonder, some concern, had been excited the previous 
 evening in consequence of the non-arrival of Miss Pomeroy. 
 This morning Guy received a letter, saying they were not 
 to expect her. The indisposition of her sister's children — 
 which had delayed her coming — had culminated in scarlatina. 
 It was of a very mild type, she wrote, and would no doubt 
 soon be well over ; but she felt that she ought not to come 
 to the abbey and risk bringing the infection with her to 
 Guy's little baby, Guy was very sorry ; he thought much 
 of having his 'sister Joan at the service; but her decision 
 was of course a right one. 
 
 And, with much pomp and ceremony, the little girl, 
 adorned with her magnificent robes, was carried to the 
 
150 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 chapel, and tlicre received the solemn rite of baptism. The 
 names bestowed upon her were Mary Alice Joan. Mary 
 after the lord's mother, Alice after his wife, Joan after his 
 sister. In the evening there was a great banquet : at which 
 none shone so brightly or looked so gay as Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 The love of Eupert was filling her whole heart ; and the 
 daily meetings with him, innocent though in one sense they 
 were, had become ominously dear to her. I shall see him 
 to-day, was the one thought that would flash over her mind 
 when she woke in the morning : and in her gladness she 
 was even civil to her husband. 
 
 And Guy ? Guy was just trusting to time and to himself 
 to make it all right with his wife ; and he had no more 
 idea that she was keeping up the ball of abuse of him, or 
 treacherously meeting Eupert, than had the man in the 
 moon. 
 
 But, one evening, two days after the christening, when 
 Alice had gone to the nursery before dinner, Mrs. Wylde 
 came in. Alice looked rather surprised as her mother care- 
 fully shut the door and came forward. 
 
 " Is any one in the inner room, Alice ? " 
 
 " No. Bridget went downstairs for something or other. 
 Why?" 
 
 " What brought you to-day marching round the keep with 
 Eupert Pomeroy ? " proceeded Mrs. Wylde, without circum- 
 locution. 
 
 At that moment Alice's baby was lying on her lap, its 
 pretty little face turned upwards, its eyes closed in sleep. 
 She bent over the child, seemingly to do something to the 
 frill of its nightgown : in reality to gain time. For the 
 sudden question rather startled her. 
 
 " Who says I was there ? " she asked, her face flushing. 
 
 " Now, Alice, don't equivocate : it will not serve you. 
 You were there, and with him : and you were with him in 
 the same place one day last week also." 
 
 " And if I was ? " retorted Alice, resolving to meet 
 the matter boldly, and raising her head. "Is it high 
 treason ? 
 
 " It is high folly," returned Mrs. Wylde. " Very un- 
 
FOLLY. 
 
 151 
 
 justifiable, considering the bad terms that exist between 
 Rupert and the lord, and that he is forbidden the house." 
 
 "Eupert is not on bad terms with me. If we — if we 
 chance to meet, I may surely speak to him — and walk a few 
 steps by his side ? " 
 
 "Don't do anything so disloyal again, Alice. Eupert 
 Pomcroy has lowered the family with his debts and his evil 
 courses ; the lord feels it keenly ; and you, his wife, should 
 at least have the grace not to countenance him." 
 
 " And pray, mamma, who has brought tales to you of me 
 and my movements ? " 
 
 " Lettice chanced to see you, and mentioned it to me." 
 
 " ' Chanced ' to mention to you that she saw me last week, 
 and ' chanced ' to mention it to you to-day, I should call 
 Lettice a spy." 
 
 " ISTonsense, Alice ! Lettice is nothing of the sort. She 
 Lad no ill-intention in speaking to me. But, my dear, I 
 beg of you to be cautious. Do not be seen with Eupert 
 Pomeroy again : it would not be pleasant to your husband." 
 
 " Oh, of course lie must be studied ! " 
 
 " Well," concluded Mrs. Wylde, not altogether liking the 
 rebellion in her daughter's words and manner, "do not 
 forget, Alice, that I have icarned you.'' 
 
 Oh, that she had taken the hint ! Wilful, mistaken, 
 senseless woman! But for her folly the terrible tragedy 
 that ensued would never have occurred. 
 
 It was just as though her mother had spoken to the, winds. 
 Nay, the very speaking rendered her present mood only the 
 more resentful. She continued to meet Eupert; partly 
 because she liked to be with him, partly because she knew 
 how angry it would make Guy, and therefore was a sort of 
 revenge upon him. Moreover, as she told herself, she was 
 doing no real harm to any one : and it would soon be over, 
 for Eupert was going back to London. The post, promised 
 him so long ago, he intended now to look after in earnest. 
 And thus the days went on to the end. 
 
 For the end came : in more senses than one. 
 
152 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IN THE HAUNTED ROOM. 
 
 It was the day previous to that wliicli was to witness the 
 departure of the abbey guests, and close upon mid-day. Mrs. 
 Pomeroy had left them to their own devices, and was going 
 forth to another stolen interview, when on turning out of 
 the abbey gates she encountered Bridget and the baby. 
 
 " What are you here for ? " she began, in her imperious 
 way, " I ordered you to take the child through the village, 
 up towards the forest." 
 
 " I am going, madam. But," added Bridget, dropping 
 her voice, "I have just met Mr Eupert, and he sent me 
 back with this. He bade me lose no time in giving it into 
 your own hands." 
 
 It could scarcely be called a note that the girl held out. 
 It appeared to be a leaf taken from a pocket-book, folded, 
 and tied round with string : as though the writer had not 
 been able to find any better fastening. Mrs. Pomeroy took 
 it gingerly in her fingers, with a suitable show of surprise 
 and reluctance. 
 
 " Mr. Rupert sent you with this ! To me ! Why, what 
 is it, I wonder ? What can he want ? You need not wait, 
 Bridget." 
 
 Bridget turned away with her charge. Her mistress 
 untied the string, and saw a few words in pencil. 
 
 Don't come to-day. The keep is no longer safe ; and I 
 suspect that I am being w^atched. I will be in the w^st 
 tower to-night ; in the haunted room. Come up there for a 
 minute ; I will not keep you longer — just that I may explain. 
 You will find the doors open." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy tore the paper into minute bits, and 
 scattered them to the winds. Turning back to the abbey, 
 she shut herself into her chamber and sat down to think. 
 
 To say that the words puzzled her would be saying little 
 to express the utter astonishment that filled her mind. They 
 
IN THE HAUNTED ROOM. 
 
 153 
 
 also alarmed her. " ' I will be in the west tower to-night,' " 
 she soliloquized, repeating the words in the note : " he must 
 surely be out of his senses to say it. He could only get 
 there by passing through the abbey : and that he would not 
 dare attempt just now. What can it mean ? There must 
 be some mistake. And the keep no longer safe ! " ran on 
 her thoughts, herself slightly shivering. " Has Guy " 
 
 Mrs. Poraeroy stopped. Fright drowned the rest of the 
 words. If Guy had indeed found out that she held these 
 interviews in the old keep, he would be ready to kill her. 
 
 She remained all day in a state of agitation ; of suspense ; 
 of anxious curiosity to know the best and the worst. But 
 she had no means of satisfying herself ; for she dared not 
 walk out on the chance of meeting Eupert. Had he not 
 said he was watched ? Perhaps she was watched also ? 
 And what Eupert could have meant about the west tower 
 was beyond the bounds of imagination to divine. Mrs. 
 Pomeroy did not attempt to go to it. 
 
 The following morning witnessed the departure of the 
 guests. At least, of most of them. It was the seventeenth of 
 October : a day to be darkly noted henceforth in the annals 
 of the Pomeroys as the most terrible that had ever dawned for 
 them. Three or four of Guy's particular friends, men, would 
 remain a day or two longer : on the morrow a great onslaught 
 was to be made on the pheasants, and they stayed for it. 
 
 At one o'clock Bridget came in from her walk with the 
 baby, and Mrs. Pomeroy, an intensely fond mother, ran up- 
 stairs. She was taking the baby from Bridget when the 
 woman gave her another note. Mrs. Pomeroy opened it. 
 
 " Why did you not come ? I waited for you in the west 
 tower for three hours. I saw you open your chamber- window 
 and look out ; but the casement where I stood lay in deep 
 shadow, and I deemed it might be unwise to open it, or to 
 make any signal. I shall be there again this evening : come 
 for an instant, as I leave for good to-morrow. You will find 
 the doors open. I have chosen the west tower as being 
 perhaps the only place where I should never be looked for. 
 
154 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 So ran the note : and Mrs. Pomeroy, reading it a second 
 and a tliird time, thouglit surely magic must bo at work. 
 That Eupert was not deceiving her in saying he had waited 
 for her in the west tower, she felt sure — and, indeed, to 
 what end would he deceive her ? Yet — how could he have 
 ascended to it ? It was hardly possible that Eupert could 
 have passed through the abbey and taken Jerome's keys 
 without being seen by the servants. Could it be that he 
 had bribed the servants — had talked over old Jerome ? She 
 hardly thought it ; for they were all true, heart and soul, to 
 their reigning lord, and the dissension between him and 
 Eupert was no secret. At the best, it was dangerous. 
 Dangerous for Eupert to attempt anything of the kind; 
 dangerous for him to go up to the west tower. But it would 
 be far more dangerous for her to go — and that she was 
 resolving to do. Full of sinful dissimulation — dissimulation 
 in such a cause is nothing less than sin — she began scheming 
 how she could best contrive to get up to the west wing 
 unperceived. 
 
 She was not feeling well, she told her mother in the 
 afternoon. She told her husband so, making a merit of the 
 necessity of speaking to him, and speaking civilly. She 
 should get them to excuse her at the dinner-table : sick of 
 the continual feasting, weary after the exertion of playing 
 hostess to so many guests, she should take a cup of tea in 
 her own room in preference to dinner ; perhaps should go 
 to bed ; and her mother could head the table for once for 
 Guy and the two or three men who remained. No opposition 
 was made to this, either by her mother or the lord : and all 
 things seemed to go on smoothly for her scheme. 
 
 Evening came. Dinner was again laid in the state 
 banqueting-hall below, though so few would this time par- 
 take of it ; and v/hen they were seated safely at table, Mrs. 
 Wylde facing Guy, Alice's time was come. 
 
 Trembling, not so much at the deceit she was enacting as 
 at the thought of penetrating by dark — or rather by moon- 
 light, for the moon shone full and bright — to the west tower 
 and that haunted room in it, Mrs. Pomeroy prepared to set 
 forth. She had felt a horror of the room ever since the day 
 
IN THE HAUNTED KOOM. 
 
 155 
 
 of tlie accident to tlie picture, and a vexed feeling had rested 
 on her mind for having gone to it in the teeth of tlie ex- 
 pressed wishes of Guy ; but to meet Eupert' and say farewell 
 to him, she was ready to dare it now. 
 
 Quitting her apartments, watching her opportunities so 
 that she might escape the eyes of the servants, sheltering 
 herself now in this corner, now in that, Mrs. Pomeroy got 
 safely below into the cloisters, and thence into the north 
 wing. The north tower-door stood open for her, and she 
 ascended the stairs. Whether she would have had courage 
 to go through the rooms of the west wing alone remains 
 unsolved, for there, at the top of the stairs, stood Eupert. 
 
 " Where's Guy ? " he whispered, as he took her hand in 
 greeting ; and the anxious question proved that he was not 
 easy as to Guy. 
 
 "At dinner in the banqueting-hall. I told him I was ill, 
 and could not go down. He thinks, no doubt, that I am 
 sulky." 
 
 Eupert descended to lock the door, and make all secure ; 
 but as they went on into the next rooms, she shook so that 
 he was obliged to hold her. She was not at ease either. 
 
 " Eupert, this is what I ought not to do, and I would not 
 have come had I known how else to see you. But I am so 
 terribly anxious about the keep ; I have had no peace since 
 that first note of yours, and I wanted to ask you what had 
 happened. Oh dear ! must we go into that haunted 
 chamber ? " 
 
 " It will be pleasanter for you because you can sit down," 
 he answered, pushing open the door of the room. 
 
 The moonlight shone into the chamber, revealing its 
 ghastliness— and ghastly enough it looked by this light to 
 the imagination of Mrs. Pomeroy. It shone on the mysterious 
 picture, and on the defacure caused by the burn, when she 
 had accidentally held the candle too close to it. Whether the 
 canvas was damp, or whether it was in a degree fireproof, 
 or whether the spirit of the nun was present to protect her 
 own image and property, was uncertain ; but all the burn 
 had done was to smoulder away into smoke, destroying a 
 portion of the picture, leaving an ugly black stream stretch- 
 
156 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 ing upwards and across ; but, strangely enough, sparing 
 alike the face and the prediction. As Mrs. Pomeroy now 
 saw how little damage had been done, compared with the 
 wholesale destruction she had fancied, she thought old 
 Jerome must have been very awkward and clumsy to scorch 
 his hands so much. All things were as they had been left 
 that night. The lord had given no orders upon the matter, 
 and the servants had been only too content not to meddle of 
 their own accord. Perhaps in the subsequent commotion, 
 attendant upon the birth of the little girl, Guy had forgotten 
 all about it. Or, it might have been— it might just have 
 been — that Guy had taken care to assure himself of the 
 amount of the injury : and, finding that the chief features 
 of the picture remained, had concluded the destruction fore- 
 told was not yet accomplished, and therefore left it alone as 
 before. This would accuse him, however, of a belief in the 
 superstition. 
 
 The prediction was in Mrs. Pomeroy's mind as she stood 
 there in the moonlight, every line, every word; the lines 
 were ringing in her ears with an ominous sound. 
 
 " When the heir of Pomeroy goes forth a wife to win, 
 And the heir of Pomeroy goes forth in vain ; 
 When the Lord of Pomeroy by a lie doth gain, 
 Then woe to the de Pomeroys, twain and twain." 
 
 Ominous indeed ! More ominous than they had ever 
 sounded before. She heaved a deep sigh, and turned away 
 from the picture. Eupert crossed the room, and took up 
 his standing by the window. 
 
 " Why do you sigh ? " he asked. 
 
 "Why do I sigh? I have enough to make me sigh, 
 taking one thing with another. And I am in mortal dread 
 of Guy's finding out that I have met you. Have you been 
 dining out?" she added, suddenly noticing that he wore 
 evening clothes. 
 
 "Ay, at Knox's. I had to come away at the second 
 course." 
 
 " But how did you manage to get up here ? " she ex- 
 claimed, sitting down on the old velvet-covered couch, to be 
 more at her ease while she put her questions. "I feel 
 
IN THE HAUNTED ROOM. 
 
 157 
 
 bewildered: I cannot make it out. How many of the 
 servants saw you pass tlie corridors ? " 
 
 " Not one of them, either last night or to-night. I took 
 care." 
 
 But, Eupert, many of them are always round about 
 Jerome's key-closet." 
 
 " They did not see me ; and, if they had seen me, they 
 could not have known me. Look here." 
 
 He suddenly enveloped himself in a friar's grey cloak, 
 throwing the capuchin — or hood, as the English call it — 
 over his head, so as to effectually conceal his face : just as a 
 fair dame does when she goes out of heated rooms at night. 
 
 " And your hat ? " 
 
 "I wore none. I got Father Andrew to lend me this 
 cloak yesterday," he continued, turning himself round in 
 the moonlight for Mrs. Pomeroy's inspection. " He wanted 
 to know what midnight expedition I was bent upon. Sly 
 dogs, our priests," laughed Rupert ; " they know the use of 
 the capuchin themselves " 
 
 " Oh, Rupert ! " she interrupted, her tone savouring of 
 rebuke : " Father Andrew is as good as he can be." 
 
 "I believe he is. I was only joking. He likes a joke 
 himself," added Rupert, speaking out of the hood. " Had 
 any of the servants seen me in this attire, far from recog- 
 nizing me, they would have flown away scared, thinking the 
 nun there," pointing to the picture, "was abroad to-night." 
 
 He threw off the cloak as he spoke. Mrs. Pomeroy rose, 
 went to the window and peeped out. 
 
 " Caution, Alice. The moon is bright, and your face 
 might be discerned here from the house. Had she not been 
 under the dark clouds last night, you might have seen 
 mine." 
 
 " I thought it utterly impossible that you could be here : 
 I thought you must have made some great error in saying 
 you should come. How did you obtain the keys ? " 
 
 Rupert Pomeroy stole his lips towards lier ear. " Filched 
 them! Stepped aside to Jerome^s closet-sanctum, and 
 filched them." 
 
 " Filched them ! " echoed Mrs. Pomeroy. " Jerome keeps 
 
158 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 it locked — even if you contrived to escape meeting the 
 servants." 
 
 " It is not always locked ; and luck favoured rne : it often 
 has. I have had possession of the keys from last night to 
 this." 
 
 She thought his manner strange : lighter than usual when 
 with her. He appeared to speak in a laughing, insincere 
 sort of way, as though he were making game of her, or else 
 of his own assertions. Years and years afterwards she 
 remembered it. 
 
 " How very imprudent ! If Jerome had missed them to- 
 day the whole abbey might have been roused." 
 
 No fear," laughed Kupert again. " Jerome would not 
 miss them." 
 
 " Kupert ! " she suddenly exclaimed, a light breaking in 
 upon her, " Jerome has aided you to come here ! " 
 
 "No he has not. Not a soul has aided me, save Father 
 Andrew, in the loan of the capuchin ; little guessed he that 
 it was to steal a visit to the Lady of Pomeroy. Jerome has 
 aided me in another way, though — you do not ask about the 
 keep." 
 
 "I have been putting it off," she replied, sitting down 
 again on the couch. " The thought of it frightens me." 
 
 '• We have had a spy upon us, Alice, as sure as that we 
 are here. Whether the lord has found out anything for 
 himself, or whether he has been put on the scent by others, 
 I cannot say : I think it is the latter ; for, if he had 
 watched you to the keep, he would most certainly have 
 pounced in upon you." 
 
 " But how did you learn anything at all ? " she inter- 
 rupted, not allowing him to go on steadily. Rupert smiled 
 at her impatience. He was leaning against the wall beside 
 the casement, his arms folded. 
 
 " I learned it through Jerome. Yesterday he made his 
 appearance at Gaunt's, and began talking to me about the 
 keep in a whisper, though Gaunt, and his housekeeper, old 
 Nanny, were both abroad and I had the place to myself " 
 
 " What did he say ? What did he say ? " 
 
 " If you interrupt me in this way, we shall never get to 
 
IN THE HAUNTED ROOM. 
 
 159 
 
 the end of tlie story," laughed Eupert. And as the reader 
 may be saying the same, it may be as well to give it as it 
 occurred. 
 
 Jerome made his appearance at the gamekeeper's lodge 
 the previous morning, as you have now heard, voice, tread, 
 manner alike stealthy, just as a schoolboy's when he is at 
 some mischief. " Mr. Eupert," he began, " do you go at all 
 to the keep ? " 
 
 "Why?" asked Eupeit. 
 But do you, sir ? " 
 
 " I have been in there once or tv/ice." 
 
 " Ah, I was sure of it ! " cried old Jerome. " I wish 
 you'd go avv^ay from the village, sir, until matters are 
 smoother between you and the lord : ever since tliat quarrel 
 at the abbey the other night, a feeling has been upon me 
 that worse might come. This morning before breakfast the 
 lord came to me : ' To whom have you entrusted the key of 
 the keep ? ' he asked : and I saw that something was wrong. 
 ' It has not been out of my custody since the late lord died,' 
 I answered. ' You lie, Jerome,' he cried : ' You have lent it 
 to my brother, Eupert Pomeroy. Or else you have kept it 
 so carelessly, that some one has been able to get possession 
 of it for him.' Well, Mr. Eupert, with that we went on to 
 the key-closet, which I unlocked ; and in my flurry I looked 
 in the wrong niche for the key, and did not see it. The 
 lord stood by with folded arms. ' I thought you were 
 faithful,' he said, and it made my old eyes water, for faitli- 
 ful I am and have ever been to the Lords of Pomeroy — and 
 I am not the less so to you, Mr. Eupert, so far as I can be. 
 The lord saw my distress. 'Some one was in the keep 
 yesterday, Jerome,' he said in a kinder tone : ' I tried the 
 spring of the door, and could not get in, therefore some one 
 must have been there and had put the bar u]3.' ' Here's the 
 key, sir,' I said, showing it to him : ' in my haste I looked 
 in the wrong place. I have not given it to Mr. Eupert.' 
 ' Then,' said the lord, when he saw the key, ' the secret of 
 the spring must be known to some person — and the most 
 likely person is my brother Eupert : who else would dare 
 to meddle with the keep?' And so, Mr. Eupert," added 
 
160 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 the old man, 1 thought it my duty to come and tell you 
 this, for I conclude, sir, it was you who went into it." 
 
 Such was the story Kupert repeated to Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 Ere it was concluded, she rose in terror and grasped Rupert's 
 arm ; terror at the thought of what might have come of it, 
 had the door of the keep not been barred. It is true that 
 the worst the lord could have seen (and this has been said 
 before) was Eupert lodged on his high shelf, and Mrs. 
 Pomeroy swaying herself on the low stool opposite, abusing 
 himself confidentially : but that would be quite enough, as 
 we must all allow, to raise the ire of most husbands, more 
 especially one so fiery as the Lord of Pomeroy. 
 
 "Jerome added that Guy took possession of the key," 
 continued Rupert to Mrs. Pomeroy, " and reiterated his 
 warning to me not to enter the keep again. The foolish old 
 fellow actually had tears in his eyes. I fancy he knows you 
 were there with me." 
 
 " Oh ! " she screamed. 
 
 " I gathered it from a remark he made — that one of the 
 maids had seen you walking with me by the keep. Con- 
 found all women's tongues ! And now, Alice, you know 
 why I sent you that first note by Bridget " 
 
 " If she had shown it to any one ? " gasped Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 " Who ? Bridget ? No fear. She is one of those who 
 arc true to the Pomeroys, heart and soul. And I really was 
 unable to think of any safer place than this, where we could 
 meet for an explanation and say fiirewell. Guy is as sly as 
 a fox ■ and as keen as a fox once his doubts are aroused. 
 Of all places, he would never think of the haunted room." 
 
 " Do you really go to-morrow ? " 
 I go to-morrow. I should have left to-day had you 
 come last night. It may be better I should be away, as old 
 Jerome says. Badly though Guy has treated me, I don't 
 wish to sow dissension in his home : and my staying here 
 might result in that" 
 
 She was weeping silently. Rupert Pomeroy was very 
 dear to her, and she was about to lose sight of him, j^erhaps 
 for ever : but she, as silently, wi^^ed away the tears, so that 
 be should not see them. 
 
IN THE HAUNTED ROOM. 
 
 IGl 
 
 There is an expressive Italian proverb — I forget precisely 
 how it runs, but the sense is, that for the debtor's bond and 
 the stolen interview, time flies on wings. On wings, most 
 certainly, it appeared to fly for those in the haunted room. 
 Mrs. Pomeroy may have been unconscious of its flitting ; let 
 her answer it; but when the courtyard clock rang out ten, 
 she was still there. 
 
 With a faint cry of dismay she started up and approached 
 the Vv'indow. Was it indeed ten ? — or only nine ? She 
 strained her eyes on the clock, for it was above the entrance 
 archv/ay, and faced her; but, strain them as she vrould, she 
 could not distinguish the hands : the dial was too far off. 
 Rupert followed her, though little cared he what the hour 
 might be. 
 
 " Have you a watch, Paipert ? " 
 
 " No, I left mine at Gaunt's : the spring's broken." 
 
 '•I do fear it was ten that struck. And, what if Guy 
 should have been up, and missed me ? I must go at once ; 
 without delay." 
 
 As she turned from the window, accustomed now to the 
 faint light of the room, she distinguished a tall dark figure 
 standing up against the picture. Fascinated and terror- 
 stricken she gazed ; not with ghostly terror, but with terror 
 far more ominous and real — for too well did she discern the 
 outlines of that form, and knevr it to be no other than her 
 husband's. Rupert, whose sight was particularly good, was 
 peering at the opposite clock, when he found himself suddenly 
 and unexpectedly startled by his companion's seizing hold 
 of him and shrieking out in her agony of shame — Oh, 
 Rupert ! Rupert ! " For surely it v. as nothing else than 
 shame, to her, to be caught in this clandestine interview ! 
 
 The Lord of Pomeroy strode forward, his eyes glaring, 
 his v»'hite features terribly livid in the moonlight. How 
 stealthily he must have come up ! And — how long had he 
 been there ? 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 
 
 11 
 
162 
 
 POMEBOY ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XITI. 
 
 THE CLIMAX. 
 
 What a terrible situation it was ! The moonliglit streaming 
 in upon the haunted room, with all its ghostly associations, 
 and upon Guy Pomeroy standing against the picture : Guy, 
 who had come to interrupt the interview. His guilty wife 
 — guilty, at any rate, of mean duplicity tovv^ards him — 
 cowered in her terror. Eupert, turning sharply round from 
 the window at her cry, wondered what the matter could be. 
 
 Guy Pomeroy strode forward, his white features livid 
 in the moonlight. Thrusting his wife out of reach of 
 harm, spurning her with his foot, for in her dismay and fear 
 she had sunk to the ground, he drew a double-barrelled 
 pistol upon his brother. The ball missed him, entering the 
 dark wainscotting : and yet Guy Pomeroy had a sure hand 
 in general. Ere he could draw again, Eupert closed with 
 him, and they grappled for the weapon. Mrs. Pomeroy 
 heard the deadly scuffle, as she sped, moaning, from the 
 chamber, through the rooms of the west wing, and gained 
 the stairs of the north tower. In her haste and terror she 
 fell down these stairs against the door below : and just then 
 she thought she heard the report of the second barrel, but 
 of this she was not sure. 
 
 Up again in a moment. She seized the key which Eupert 
 had left in the door ; but whether she turned it, or whether 
 it was previously unlocked, she never knew. Probably the 
 lord had left it unlocked when he entered : though, how he 
 had contrived to enter, considering that Eupert had locked 
 the door on the inside and left the key in it, was a mystery. 
 Perhaps Eupert in his carelessness, his fancied security, had 
 not locked it. 
 
 The door, opening into the cloisters, stood ajar. Mrs. 
 Pomeroy flew out, sank down on one of the green benches 
 of the quadrangle, clasped its arm tightly, and hid her face 
 on it — ^just as we clasp the nearest support for protection 
 
THE CLIMAX, 
 
 163 
 
 on awaking from a terrific dream. Slie moaned under lier 
 breatli; not aloud, lest any one about should hear; she 
 stilled her sobs of remorse and agony: and then she cast 
 stealthy glances up to the window of the haunted room. 
 
 Trembling, moaning, cowering ; feeling that to die would 
 be a mercy : even the wainscotting, which had received the 
 ball, she could envy, and wish it had been her own bosom : 
 Mrs. Pomeroy sat there till the clock struck the quarter- 
 past ten. Her ear was stretched to listen for her husband's 
 footsteps, descending ; at their first distant echo, she would 
 have crept, like a worm, underneath the bench, in her sense 
 of shame. If he saw her there, would he come out and put 
 her to death ? 
 
 But the probability was that he would stalk straight 
 onwards through the cloisters. And Eupert ? — how would 
 he come ? 
 
 " Cannot I go into the lady's room yet ? " she heard one 
 of the servants say, who appeared to meet another in the 
 passage. " Getting on for eleven o'clock, and it's not put to 
 rights for the night." 
 
 " No," replied the voice of Theresa. " The lady said she 
 should try and sleep her headache off : I was not to go to 
 her room on any account, unless she rang. The door's fast." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy shuddered, and held the bench convulsively. 
 
 The minutes rolled by. almost killing her with their slow 
 protraction, and the clock chimed the half-hour. In that 
 one half-hour she seemed to have lived the agony of a whole 
 lifetime. Neither had come down ; neither Guy nor Eupert ; 
 of that she felt certain, for her ears were strung to a strange 
 fineness. She gazed up at the window ; an unbroken gaze 
 nov/. What was taking place there ? Were those two men, 
 meted in height and strength, perhaps in ferocity, struggling 
 on with each other until one or the other should be over- 
 come, struck to death? Which would conquer? In this 
 terrible suspense she continued, until the clock struck 
 eleven. A whole hour, and neither had appeared ! Were 
 both dead ? Her heart and throat were working, her ears 
 singing. 
 
 She could not bear it longer. It seemed that her brain 
 
164 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 was giving way. Slowly, cautiously, a step at a time, slie 
 stole througli the cloisters to the staircase door, put her 
 head up, and listened. There was not the slightest sound. 
 Up still, a stair at a time, and now another, went she ; and 
 again she stopped to listen. Nothing — nothing. And so 
 on, through the west wing to the last room in it, silently 
 and creepingly. She paused at the door of the west tower, 
 of the haunted room : little thought she of supernatural 
 visitants now, the earthly ones were filling every crevice of 
 her imagination. The door was not closed, only pushed to, 
 and the same silence reigned within — a silence that was 
 every moment becoming more awful. She would have given 
 half her life to hear one of Guy's oaths, or Eupert's sarcasms 
 Dead — were they ? — and for her ? 
 
 She pushed the door open, and then shrank back and 
 drew up against the wall, lest the movement should have 
 caused alarm ; but neither sound of alarm nor anything else 
 issued forth to indicate that the place was tenanted; so, 
 pulling back the drapery, she peeped in. She had come 
 out of the lighted quadrangle, and her eyes could see, as 
 yet, nothing in the room but darkness ; the moon, at that 
 moment, had gone under a cloud. No: still there was no 
 movement, no sound, and she ventured to enter the room. 
 She was stealing towards the window, a vague intention of 
 standing there- — whence she could look below and seem less 
 lonely until she should become accustomed to the darkness 
 — floating through her scarcely sane brain, when she fell 
 over something. Putting out her hand to save herself from 
 quite falling, it touched — either a hand or a face. It seemed 
 like the latter — and it was cold, with the coldness of death. 
 
 Her nerves could bear no more: this was the climax. 
 Uttering shriek upon shriek, and tearing along as if the 
 dead were following her, down she flew again in all the 
 terror of superstition. The noise penetrated to the abbey. 
 The servants came forth, bearing lights ; the guests, who 
 had then come to the quadrangle with their cigars, ran in 
 the same direction — all to meet Mrs. Pomeroy, her face 
 white ; her eyes strained. The servants caught her ; and 
 ghe lay, convulsed, in their arms. Mrs. Wylde came up. 
 
THE CLIMAX. 
 
 165 
 
 All crowded round Mrs. Pomeroy, one universal sense of 
 consternation prevailing. Emotion and fear had brought on 
 something like a fit, attended with hysterical sobbing. 
 Speak, she could not ; but she shudderingly pointed, now to 
 the stairs of the north tower, now to the windows of the 
 haunted room in the west one. What she could mean by 
 indicating the north tower no one was able to understand ; 
 for, that it should be open, was suspected by none. But 
 the other movement was more readily understood, and the 
 servants exclaimed simultaneously, " She has seen the ghost ! " 
 
 " Go, go," she gave utterance to at length ; " there" point- 
 ing to the haunted room. " Some one is lying dead." 
 
 That her words should be looked upon as the ravings of 
 a disturbed brain was natural ; nevertheless, old Jerome crept 
 away to his key-closet, and then to the north tower. Had 
 he discovered that his keys were missing? He came back 
 from the staircase with a face as apprehensive as his lady's. 
 
 " Who will go with me ? " he said, looking first at the 
 gentlemen and then at the men-servants. " If they are at 
 warfare, one man will be powerless to part them." 
 
 All were ready to go, none comprehending what they 
 w^ere to go for, or what there was to do : and they went in 
 a body towards the stairs, bearing several lights. One of 
 the guests, Lord Sones, drew Jerome apart. 
 What do you suspect? " he asked. 
 
 "I suspect — I suspect there may be a dispute," Jerome 
 slowly said. 
 
 " Between whom ? " 
 
 " Nay, my lord, but I know nothing. Do not detain me." 
 
 Jerome took a light from the hands of one of the servants, 
 walked quietly before them, and led the way up through the 
 west wing. At the door of the haunted room he halted, turn- 
 ing round to face those who w^ere following. 
 
 " I must go in first alone," said he, his tone one of assured 
 authority. " I am the oldest retainer in the family, in the 
 confidence of the Lords of Pomeroy, and I demand it." 
 
 He passed in and let fall the hangings, no one attempting 
 to dissent ; but in less than a minute he held them up and 
 spoke, his voice sounding like a wail. 
 
166 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Walk in now. Oh, woe ! woo ! " 
 
 Holding their breaths, the crowd pressed in. Woe ! woe ! 
 as Jerome had said: for there lay one of the combatants in 
 the arms of death. 
 
 " It is the Lord of Pomeroy ! cried the affrighted spec- 
 tators. 
 
 " It is the lord, and my dear master," wailed Jerome, with 
 a burst of tears : and he crossed himself and raised his hands 
 to heaven. 
 
 Still and motionless it lay, that fine form, its face turned 
 upwards ; the cold face that Alice had touched. 
 
 So Eupert had mastered : had obtained possession of the 
 pistol in their m.ortal struggle, and shot his unfortunate 
 brother ! — for tlie bullet was subsequently found in the head. 
 The lower part of the face was also bruised and battered, as 
 if by blows. 
 
 It must be remembered that those now gazing on him 
 possessed no clue whatever to the tragedy, its cause, or 
 action ; neither could they give the slightest guess as to the 
 perpetrator. J erome doubtless suspected, but he kept silence. 
 Horror-stricken, bewildered, sick, they began to look about 
 the room for a solution of the mystery, throwing the light 
 of their torches hither and thither. Who had done it — how 
 and why had it been done ? Nothing was to be seen except 
 the ordinary and dilapidated furniture, and the dust on the 
 floor, disturbed as by a scuffle, and the nun's damaged 
 picture resting so still in its frame. 
 
 " What's this ? " exclaimed one of the guests, snatching up 
 a dark grey cloak, and exhibiting it to their view. " This is 
 not the lord's. Ah, ha ! this will lead to a discovery." 
 
 "I know that!" interrupted a servant. "It is Father 
 Andrew's capuchin. He wears it sometimes when he comes 
 to the abbey on a winter's night." 
 
 " Father Andrew's ! " echoed the disbelieving assemblage ; 
 and they began to abuse the speaker. 
 
 " I could swear to it," doggedly persisted the man : " 1 
 know it by those two rents in the tail of the skirt. The 
 father said he got it caught in a gate one windy evening." 
 
 Father Andrew, a priest, and an unoffending man, attack 
 
THE CLIMAX. 
 
 167 
 
 the lord! — for of course the words bore that implication. 
 The thing was not probable ; it was inexplicable. Jerome, 
 who had sat down on the edge of the velvet settee, lifted his 
 sad face, and slightly shook his head in dissent. That the 
 motive had nothing to do with robbery was apparent ; the 
 lord's signet ring was on his finger, and his gold watch and 
 chain had not been touched. When his pockets came to be 
 examined afterwards, their contents were found intact : keys, 
 pocket-book, purse, and handkerchief with the great crest 
 and supporters, only used by the Lords of Pomeroy — the 
 younger son's using the simple crest. The clothes were 
 much torn, proving how severe had been the scuffle. But 
 Father Andrew ! what could have brought Mm in the fray, 
 even as a spectator — or his capuchin ? And where had he 
 got to ? — and where was the murderer ? 
 
 The question, as to the priest, was soon set at rest ; for, 
 into the room walked the reverend father himself, his form 
 as roundabout, his red face as merry as ever, presenting 
 quite an opposite appearance to all popular notions of a 
 midnight assassin. The terrified women below had sent for 
 him in haste. 
 
 " What's to do ? " cried he, in broad good humour. " Some 
 one seen the ghost ? " 
 
 They made way for him, and threw the light on the floor. 
 Father Andrew's countenance changed. He stepped back 
 awestruck. 
 
 The lord ! " whispered he. " Is he dead ? How was it 
 done?" 
 
 " It is the lord ; and he hag been attacked and murdered," 
 hastily spoke one of the upper servants. " Does your rever- 
 ence know this ? " added the speaker, picking up the cloak. 
 
 " That's mine," said the priest. 
 
 " How came it here, father ? " 
 
 A light, as of horror, seemed to break upon him. " I lent 
 that to — to — a friend," he stammered. 
 " To whom ? " 
 
 The priest was silent. He did not seem inclined to say. 
 Lord Sones took a step forward. He was not a Boman 
 Catholic. 
 
168 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Sir,'' said lie to Father Andrew, " it appears to mo, as it 
 no doubt appears to those who stand here with me — my fellow 
 guests at this house, and the old retainers of my poor friend, 
 lying there — that it is incumbent upon you to speak, and 
 say to whom you lent the cloak. A most foul deed has been 
 done : and that cloak is the only cluo we possess at present 
 to its apparent perpetrator. You must freely state to whom 
 you lent it." 
 
 "Rupert Pomeroy. He came to me yesterday and bor- 
 rowed it." 
 
 There was a pause of dismay : and poor Father Andrew, 
 who, in his allegiance to the Pomeroys, had spoken un- 
 willingly, and because there was no escaping it, gave vent 
 to a groan of pain. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ESCAPED. 
 
 The public commotion was without parallel. Nothing like 
 unto it had ever stirred up that remote and quiet district. 
 The Lord of Pomeroy had been murdered (it was thus people 
 put it) by his brother Rupert. 
 
 The police took the affair into their hands at once, and 
 collected details at will. Thus, while the death-flag waved 
 over the abbey-gateway, and the poor dead lord lay in state 
 in the chapel, according to the Pomeroy forms and customs, 
 a great deal became known of the few days preceding his 
 death, and of the movemencs of his false and foolish wife. 
 The secret visits paid by herself and Rupert to the old 
 keep were discovered and talked about. Not a single half- 
 hour, as it seemed, had siie lingered there, but it was now 
 declared. The servants, it appeared, had seen her enter it, 
 or leave it, Rupert with her, more often than was thought 
 for : and the police, metaphorically speaking, turned the 
 servants inside ont. And though these visits had been 
 
ESCAPED. 
 
 1G9 
 
 innocent, in one scnsfo of the word, as the reader knows, can 
 it be wondered at that they assumed a guilty aspect now, 
 regarded in the light of the tragedy that had ensued ? 
 
 Nearly the first thing the police did, on being called in, was 
 (after visiting the west wing, and locking it up), to search 
 thoroughly the inhabited parts of the abbey, particularly 
 the apartments specially occupied by the Lord of Pomeroy. 
 Not to find Rupert ; the intelligent reader will understand 
 that; but to come, if possible, upon some clue that would 
 throw light upon the meeting between the brothers, and its 
 deadly ending. During this search they found the second 
 note written by Eupert to Mrs. Pomeroy, asking her to come 
 to him in the west tower. The first note she had torn into 
 small pieces and scattered them to the winds, as may be 
 remembered ; pity, for her own good name, but she had also 
 torn the second. And how she came not to do it must 
 remain unaccounted for : unless it can be explained by that 
 fatality which so often attends the commission of folly and 
 sin. This note was taken possession of by the police. Its 
 delivery to Mrs. Pomeroy was traced, by dint of close 
 inquiry, to Bridget, who had to confess to her share in it, 
 and her having received it from Mr. Eupert. She had to 
 confess that it was the second note thus delivered : she had 
 to confess that she had more than once seen her mistress 
 and Mr. Euj)ert enter, or leave, the keep. Never had the 
 Pomeroy s a more faithful adherent than Bridget, but she 
 could not help speaking now. The result was not favourable 
 to Mrs. Pomeroy. The bare imprudence and folly of those 
 meetings would have been sufficient to condemn her ; and to 
 such matters the worst construction is generally given. 
 
 Alice Pomeroy's condition was pitiable. She lay in her 
 room in a semi-passive state; meanings, half- suppressed, 
 escaping her lips from morning till night, from night till 
 morning ; her anguish of mind more than pen can paint. It 
 was thought by the medical men that she would have lost 
 her reason. 
 
 The police could make nothing of her: she neither ad- 
 mitted nor denied anything. When questioned by the 
 coroner in the presence of the jury, she said little more. 
 
170 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Having been tlie only witness to the quarrel, slie had to be 
 questioned, otherwise they would have spared her. She lay, 
 wrapped in shawls, on the sofa in her bedroom when the 
 deputation was admitted, being really too weak and prostrate 
 to receive them otherwise. She had thought it no harm to 
 go to the west tower to say farewell to her husband's brother, 
 she murmured ; her husband came up ; he fired off a pistol, 
 which did no harm, and then there ensued a scuffle : she was 
 frightened, and ran away. No more did she say than that : 
 and, indeed, there was no more to say. The coroner, a 
 man of gentlemanly feeling, asked her no inconvenient or 
 personal questions. He retired with his jury; and they 
 brought in a verdict of wilful murder against Rupert 
 Pomeroy. 
 
 Rupert had escaped. How, or by what means, none could 
 tell. That he was still concealed somewhere in Abbeyland, 
 perhaps even in the abbey itself, was conjectured by the 
 police, and the search after him was keen. Not a house, 
 rich or poor, but found itself pounced upon by the police at 
 all sorts of unexpected and unreasonable hours, sometimes 
 when its inmates were in bed and asleep ; but without effect. 
 Suspicion was directed to the Knoll, the residence of Rupert's 
 great friend, Charles Knox : it was there that Rupert had 
 dined on the fatal evening. Mr. Knox threw his house open 
 to the search, but Rupert was not found. No person what- 
 ever, so far as could be learnt, had seen Rupert since the 
 fatal fray. Gaunt testified, and with truth, that he had not 
 returned to the lodge ; and the things belonging to Rupert 
 remained there unclaimed. Bills, headed " Murder," in 
 large letters, were posted about, offering a reward of two 
 hundred pounds for the apprehension of Rupert Pomeroy. 
 Mrs. Pomeroy would lie shivering in her bed, hoping, pray- 
 ing that he might not be taken. The life of one brother 
 was enough for her to have sacrificed, without the other. 
 
 She did not conceal from herself that it was from her 
 own folly, her sin — call it by which name you will — that the 
 terrible catastrophe had come. In these dread moments of 
 bitter remorse, the conscience does not play at hide-and-seek 
 with itself. Alice Pomeroy's very soul was wrung with 
 
ESCAPED. 
 
 171 
 
 anguisli. Over and over again she wished she had been 
 dead ere the calamity had fallen. 
 
 The great fear, that Eupert would be taken, lay ever upon 
 her. Never did her chamber-door open but it caused her a 
 shiver of dread, lest tidings were being brought that he was 
 found. How he had escaped from the west tower she could 
 not imagine : unless, indeed, he had followed her down 
 almost immediately, before her ears and heart got on the 
 rack, and so made good his stealthy exit. Now and again 
 she felt a dread that he might still be concealed in the west 
 wing ; but as day after day went on, this wore away. More- 
 over, the police had thoroughly searched there. Mrs. Wylde 
 remained at the abbey, a scared look for ever on her face, a 
 shrinking manner palpable to all. 
 
 Tidings of the fatal occurrence were despatched to Miss 
 Pomeroy, and she arrived at the abbey accompanied by her 
 brother-in-law, Henry Capel. Shocked, distressed, horrified, 
 Joan listened as she learnt the details of her brother's death, 
 and of the disgrace brought on the house by the woman he 
 had made his wife. Whether innocent of actual crime — as 
 she might be — or whether guilty of it, Alice Pomeroy had 
 assuredly been the originating cause of the calamity, had 
 directly led to it. This was Guy's reward! — for having 
 raised that inferior-born woman to his own rank, for having 
 loved her with a passionate love, and showered down daily 
 care upon her — this ! 
 
 In her bitter grief, her anguish, Joan reproached Alice. 
 Not loudly, not severely, but with stern truth. Alice shivered, 
 and answered nothing. Mrs. Wylde would have taken up 
 her daughter's defence, but she began in a lame, shame-faced 
 sort of manner, and Joan swept out of the chamber. Mrs. 
 Wylde could not soften facts ; she could not bring back to 
 life that unhappy man who had been hurled to death, and 
 died unshriven. So long as Joan should live, her heart would 
 ache for him, her most ill-fated brother. 
 
 And in the height of the commotion the place was in, 
 which had not one whit subsided, in the midst of the active 
 search for Rupert, the day fixed for the interment arrived. 
 A sad f uneral> a solemn ceremony ; that which attended to 
 
172 
 
 POMEEOY ABBF.Y. 
 
 his last resting-place Guy, Lord of Pomeroy ; made doubly 
 sad and solemn by the terrible circumstances of his death. 
 People came to it from far and near, as they had come to 
 that of the old lord ; ecclesiastics high in the Catholic church ; 
 nobles, friends, relatives, retainers. Leolin Pomeroy crossed 
 the channel, and officiated as chief mourner. 
 
 Up to the last hour Guy had lain in state in the chapel in 
 his coffin. Many a tear was dropped over him, many a sob 
 suppressed. Pomeroy would not know a better lord. Guy 
 might have been stern and cold of manner, but he was 
 generous of heart. He would have righted wrongs, but 
 never inflicted them ; he would have succoured, but not 
 oppressed. 
 
 And so, with all this state and ceremony, that was so need- 
 less, and that seemed so inappropriate under the circum- 
 stances, but that was deem^ed necessary by the family when 
 burying its lord, Guy was put into the cold chapel vault by 
 the side of his late father ; and the people went home, leaving 
 him there. And the death-flag, waving over the abbey gate- 
 way, was exchanged for the hatchment. And Joan, in her 
 superstitious heart, said that this had been the working out 
 of the prediction. Or, perhaps but its commencement ! 
 Who knew ? 
 
 It was on his return home after the funeral that Jerome 
 craved an interview with Joan. He came to ask permission 
 to retire at once from the abbey and take up his abode in 
 the keep — which place, as may be remembered, had been 
 bestowed upon him by the old lord for life, whenever he 
 should choose to retire to it. The calamity had sensibly 
 affected Jerome, this faithful attendant of the Pomeroys. 
 Since its occurrence he had worn a bewildered air ; his 
 manner, as he went about, was timid, as if he feared his own 
 shadow. His occupation at the abbey was gone, he told 
 Joan, when preferring his request, and the tears rolled down 
 his cheeks as he said it. Mrs. Pomeroy he declined to serve ; 
 and the new lord, George, was not there. For the renegade, 
 Eupert — now still being hunted for, that he might answer 
 at his country's bar for his crime — could not inherit, and 
 George was the Lord of Pomeroy. 
 
ESCAPED. 
 
 173 
 
 " Why ask my permission, Jerome ? " was Joan's sad re- 
 joinder. " What have I to do with it ? 
 
 " Nay, Miss Joan, who else is there to ask ? " replied 
 Jerome. " You are the only one left : Mr. Leolin, he will 
 be gone again to-morrow. I cannot stay here, Miss Joan; no, 
 not another night ; the abbey is too painful to me now : my 
 lord's gone ; and it's no longer the place for me. I should 
 like to be away from it, ay, before sunset.'* 
 
 As you will, Jerome," she answered. " It is painful to 
 others as well as to you. I leave it myself to-morrow. Stay 
 a moment," she added, as he was turning away after speak- 
 ing his thanks, "I want to put a few questions to you which 
 I have hitherto shrunk from. Things are not clear to me, 
 Jerome; not clear. Give me your own version of what 
 happened on that fatal night." 
 
 J erome pushed his grey hair from his brow, let his hand 
 rest on his right temple, and paused. Joan thought he was 
 recalling the facts to his memory. 
 
 " We all went up to the west tower together, Miss Joan, 
 the guests that were staying here and many of the men- 
 servants. I " 
 
 " Not that ; I understand all that," interrupted Joan. 
 " What I cannot quite fathom is, how he, my unhappy 
 brother, Eupert, got up to the west tower." 
 
 " It has been a mystery to us all, madam." 
 
 Joan dropped her voice to a whisper. " I cannot help 
 suspecting that you must have helped him, Jerome. Both 
 nights." 
 
 Before the holy saints that hear me " — and Jerome 
 crossed himself — "I did not. I declare to you, Miss Joan, 
 that I knew nothing of Mr. Eupert's having gone there 
 either night. I got to know of his visits to the keep through 
 the lord questioning me, and I had heard the maids talk of it 
 besides ; and, to confess the truth, ma'am, now all's over, I 
 took upon myself to warn Mr. Eupert not to go to the keep 
 again, and to ask him to leave Abbeyland until things should 
 be smoother between him and the lord. But I never knew 
 of his visits to the west tower : any such idea, as that he 
 would attempt to go to it — that he could go to it — did not 
 
174 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 enter my mind. Far from suspecting ho had gone up the 
 last night, I did not know but what he had left for London 
 — and I most devoutly hoped it." 
 
 Joan could not get rid of her puzzle. " J erome, it seems 
 next door to an impossibility that he could have gone to 
 your closet and taken the keys without being seen. Through 
 the cloisters and passages he might perhaps escape notice ; 
 but your key-closet is in the very heart of the inhabited 
 apartments." 
 
 Jerome looked ill at ease as he answered. Joan did not 
 now doubt him, but an idea stole over her that he might 
 suspect one of his fellow-servants. 
 
 " He must have managed to do it, Miss J oan. He was in 
 Father Andrew's capuchin, and might easily have been mis- 
 taken for him." 
 
 "Hardly," replied Joan; "the one is slender and very 
 tall ; the other short and stout." 
 
 " The servants were about elsewhere both nights," pleaded 
 Jerome, as if he would excuse their want of observation. 
 " When a state dinner's on in the banquet-hall, there's always 
 a great deal to do. Mr. Kupert must have known that, and 
 felt pretty safe in risking it." 
 
 " Do you suspect any of the servants of aiding him ? " she 
 pointedly asked. 
 
 " I do not," was Jerome's emphatic, and evidently truthful 
 reply. "Miss Joan, there's not one of them would dare to 
 touch the keys." 
 
 " Then you can tell me nothing more of that night than I 
 know, Jerome ? " 
 
 "Indeed T can't, madam," was the old man's faltering 
 reply : and the tears rose to his eyes again as he said it. 
 
 Joan sighed. She glanced at the door to make sure it 
 was closed, and then spoke again. 
 
 " Can you think, Jerome, where he can be ? " 
 
 But Jerome, instead of answering, gazed at her beseech- 
 ingly — as if silently imploring her to drop the subject. 
 Joan fancied that he looked a little bewildered. 
 
 " I speak of him, Jerome, that most unfortunate Eupert. 
 That he must have speedily followed Mrs. Pomeroy down- 
 
ESCAPED. 
 
 175 
 
 stairs, as is supposed, and made his escape from the abbey 
 in the general confusion, there can be but little doubt. 
 Have you any idea vvdiere he is ? " 
 " Alas, no," sighed the old man. 
 
 Joan wrung her hands. There were moments when the 
 misery that had fallen on their ill-fated house pressed more 
 heavily upon her than she knew how to bear. 
 
 Jerome bowed himself out from Miss Pomeroy's presence, 
 to take up his abode that night for good in the keep. A.n5 
 on the following morning Leolin Pomeroy, with his sisterj 
 and Henry Capel, quitted the abbey. 
 
 The days went on. No tidings were heard of the un- 
 happy Eupert. But, that he had not yet succeeded in 
 making good his escape from the neighbourhood, appeared 
 to be certain. At least, if the word of Cannet, the butler at 
 the White House, might be trusted. 
 
 Two or three nights subsequent to the lord's funeral, 
 Cannet, in returning home from the abbey, whither he had 
 gone on an errand to his mistress, met Eupert. It was in 
 the short, dark, narrow lane, dark from its overhanging 
 trees, that led from the high-road to the side of Mrs. 
 Wylde's house. They met face to face. But, before Cannet, 
 in his dismayed surprise, could take a second look, could 
 speak a word, could even as much as mechanically touch 
 his hat, Eupert turned short round, crushed himself through 
 a small gap in the hedge, and was gone. Cannet's hair stood 
 on end. A well-meaning man, but not overburdened with 
 sense at the best of times, he took a few moments to consider 
 what he ought to do, and then ran back to the abbey. Ask- 
 ing for Theresa, he told her of the encounter. Theresa 
 carried the news to Mrs. Wylde. That lady, much more 
 dismayed than Cannet — for she hoped v/ith her whole heart 
 Eupert would escape, to avert further consequences and the 
 scandal that must follow — enjoined them both to secrecy, 
 keeping it also herself. But the fact was suffered to ooze 
 out later. Therefore, unless Cannet's sight deceived him, 
 which was very unlikely, Eupert was then still at Abbey- 
 land. Perhaps — who knew ? — he was essaying to make his 
 escape from it that very night. 
 
176 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 It was as well, perhaps, that the search after him failed : 
 as, fail it did : for, if taken, he would hardly escape the 
 terrible death to which his country's laws must condemn 
 him. He had been cruel in his vengeance, beating his 
 unfortunate brother to death. The medical men thought 
 that the shot would not have killed immediately : the 
 beating did. Thus Eupert had justly passed out of the 
 succession, to give place to George. 
 
 When Mrs. Pomeroy grew sufficiently w^ell to be con- 
 versed with, her mother urgently begged of her to return to 
 the White House ; to make it her future abode, and never 
 to inhabit the abbey again. After what had happened, it 
 might be thought that it would have been the more seemly 
 course for Mrs. Pomeroy to adopt. She turned, however, 
 a deaf ear to the counsel : for her child's sake, if from 
 no other consideration, she should not quit the abbey. 
 So Mrs. Wylde returned to her house alone, leaving her 
 daughter to her loneliness and her miserable reflections. 
 
 Throughout the whole of the long winter, Alice Pomeroy 
 never quitted her rooms. Her mother she saw sometimes, 
 and Father Andrew : no one else w^as admitted to her, 
 excepting her own personal attendants. Theresa had a close 
 and anxious time of it. There Mrs. Pomeroy shut herself 
 up, nursing her remorse and her anguish. One lively terror 
 lay ever upon her — that Eupert would be taken. 
 
 As spring advanced, and the weather became genial, a 
 sad figure, veiled and draped in crape, might occasionally 
 be seen wandering in the more sheltered parts of the garden, 
 or seated under its gloomiest trees. Even her child she 
 seldom saw: it was left almost entirely to Bridget. She 
 now inhabited only a portion of the front pile of the abbey 
 • — that lying between the great entrance-gates and the south 
 tower — and her household was a small one. The rest of the 
 numerous servants remained, doing nothing ; they were the 
 lord's retainers, and awaited his coming home. 
 
 When news of the dire calamity, resulting in Guy's death 
 and his own succession, reached India and George Pomeroy, 
 he lost no time in writing back and appointing an agent, or 
 steward, to act for him until he should retui'm This was 
 
ESCAPED. 
 
 177 
 
 John Gaunt, the gentleman-keeper. Captain Pomcroy en- 
 dowed liim with absolute power and authority: in the 
 abbey and out of it he was to be the unquestioned master. 
 Gaunt, as time went on, proved to be a most courteous and 
 considerate one. 
 
 The new Lord of Pomeroy did not show himself in any 
 hurry to return and take up his honours. After the lapse 
 of twelve months, or so, Joan wrote to ask the reason why. 
 She did not like the abbey to be without its lord, Mrs. 
 Pomeroy acting as though she were its mistress. In reply 
 to his sister, George said that there were rumours of war in 
 India, and he did not care to quit the army at such a time. 
 This answer vexed the Pomeroys : Joan especially. She had 
 her own opinion about the matter. 
 
 " I know why he will not come : the true reason," she 
 remarked one day petulantly to Henry Capel. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " George was always chivalrously considerate to other 
 people's feelings. He stays away out of delicacy to the 
 poor wanderer, Eupert." 
 
 Mr. Capel could not understand. " What do you mean, 
 Joan ? " he asked. 
 
 '•In the ordinary course of things Eupert would have 
 inherited after Guy," she continued. " As it is, he was 
 passed over for George. George feels that ; and he will 
 not, in deference to Eupert's feelings, assume his rights as 
 Lord of Pomeroy." 
 
 Henry Capel drew in his lips. " Strange reasoning, Joan. 
 One would almost think you yourself w^ish to show deference 
 to that unhappy man." 
 
 " No. But you don't know George. The more miserable 
 a person is, the more cautious he would be not to tread upon 
 his feelings. He will stay where he is for a year or two." 
 
 And it seemed likely that George would do so, for the 
 " year or two " went by and brought no change. John 
 Gaunt remained in sole power, and never a word had any 
 one to say against him. Mrs. Pomeroy ho treated with the 
 utmost consideration and respect, deferring to her in all 
 matters that properly concerned her. The world had 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 12 
 
178 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 turned its cold shoulder upon lier, but Gaunt would not let 
 Ler know that he perceived it. Only once did her wishes 
 clash with his. She suddenly issued orders, some twelve 
 months after her husband's death, for throwing open, 
 cleansing, and renovating the west wing, and for barring-up 
 the west tower. The servants, as in duty-bound, carried the 
 orders to Mr. Gaunt, and he at once countermanded them. 
 He waited on Mrs. Pomoroy, and told her he was unable to 
 sanction the order without the consent of the lord. " Write 
 to him for it," said Mrs. Pomeroy, curtly, evidently not 
 pleased at the refusal. 
 
 Gaunt wrote. The answer was received from India as 
 speedily as mail could bring it. It forbade the west wing 
 to be meddled with in any way ; neither that nor the tower 
 was to be touched : and a peremptory command to Gaunt 
 was added — to keep the wing locked up, as he had hitherto 
 kept it, and not to permit it to be entered on any pretext 
 whatsoever. 
 
 " The new lord has all the Pomeroy superstition upon 
 him," quoth the gossips when they heard this. " He won't 
 have things, up in that wing, altered." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy was fain to accept the decision. No other 
 choice was left her. A shrewd suspicion lay upon her, she 
 hardly knew whence derived, that Gaunt possessed the 
 ^ower to turn her from the abbey if he saw it fitting to do 
 60 : surely, as her conscience told her, she had forfeited the 
 right to insist upon remaining in it if the family sliould 
 choose to put her forth. During all this time Eupert was 
 still free : he had not been found. A general belief existed 
 that he must have made good his escape to some remote 
 portion of the globe, and v/as there concealing himself. 
 
 The time continued to pass on v/ith little event to mark 
 its progress. George did not return ; Eupert made no sign. 
 A question would now and again arise in the minds of his 
 relatives — was Eupert dead? It could not be answered. 
 A report had reached Europe that George had married. It 
 was not confirmed ; and his own family scornfully re- 
 pudiated it, calling it gossip. The Lord of Pomeroy was 
 not one to marry privately, without sending proper ere- 
 
ESCAPED. 
 
 179 
 
 dentials liome ; a wife of his could not hide her head under 
 a bushel. 
 
 But George's non-return began seriously to vex his family. 
 Joan especially resented it. Never was such a thing heard 
 of yet, as for the Lord of Pomeroy to live away from his 
 own domains. To all the letters of remonstrance written to 
 him, George sent back the same good-humoured (and some- 
 what careless) answer — that they were certainly on the evo 
 of war in India, and he did not like to withdraw in the face 
 of it. 
 
 At length, when five years, and somewhat more, had 
 elapsed from the time of his accession, Joan grew downright 
 impatient : indignant, perhaps, might be the better word. 
 She wrote George a severe letter about the duty he owed to 
 Pomeroy, and the obligation that lay upon him to come 
 home without further delay and enter upon his inheritance. 
 
 Alas, George Pomeroy never did come home to enter 
 upon it. Before Joan's letter reached the shores of India, 
 v/ar had indeed broken out there, and George fell on the 
 battle-field. It was too true. Tidings of the sad event 
 arrived, bringing deep sorrow, for all the world had liked 
 George Pomeroy. Never had it been known for one of the 
 lords to die away from his own domains (as Joan had 
 remarked with reference to the living away), and the abbey 
 mourned that fact as freely as they mourned the dead. 
 Once more the death-flag waved over the entrance-gates ; 
 masses for the repose of the soul were said in the chapel. 
 
 And the youngest of the four sons, Leolin, succeeded as 
 Lord of Pomeroy. 
 
PART THE SECOND. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 AT THE DUCHESS OF ST. IVEs'. 
 
 It was the heiglit of tlie London season. Tlie niglit sky 
 above was studded with its stars, as the starry beauties of 
 this lower hemisphere were pressing into one of the greatest 
 and most exclusive houses of the day. 
 
 It was the town-house of the Duchess of St. Ives, a 
 w^ealthy widow, only two-and-forty yet, and still beautiful. 
 She had ruled the world long on her own account, and novv^ 
 she was ruling it in right of her son. It was the first season 
 he had spent in London since coming of age, and the world 
 was going mad after him. Mothers courted him openly, 
 daughters covertly : for young ladies in those days had not 
 learnt to enter upon courtship for themselves unblushingly : 
 a great thing it would be to be Duchess of St. Ives. 
 
 A well-appointed carriage dashed into the rank, and 
 struggled its way to the door. The Countess of Essington 
 descended from it with daughters three. Yes, the majestic 
 countess, as important in her own eyes, and daring in her 
 own actions, as the Duchess of St. Ives in hers, had brought 
 them all ; the Ladies Mabel, Geraldine, and Anna Hetley. 
 Mabel and Geraldine were like their mother, stately girls 
 with handsome features, but cold as though they h^d been 
 carved in Parian marble. Anna was different; she had 
 nothing of majesty or of marble about her : a fair, graceful 
 girl, with soft; merry blue eyes, that drooped beneath their 
 long lashes when gazed into, a dimpled, lovely face, and a 
 pretty mouth too much given to laughing, and displaying 
 unconsciously its set of white pearls. 
 
 A moment's respite after the reception, and the countess 
 and her daughters were but so many of the brilliant crowd 
 
184 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 that thronged the rooms. Lady Anna found herself seated 
 next to a young lady with whom they were on terms of 
 close intimacy. 
 
 " Have 7J0U come to-night, Anna ? Three of you ? What 
 an idea ! " 
 
 " There was no help for it," laughed Anna. " This is the 
 ball of the season, you know, and Mabel and Geraldine 
 would not give up their privilege as elders. I don't know 
 whether mamma would really have brought me, but the duke 
 called this afternoon, and began talking to me about to-night, 
 wanting to make me promise — oh, I don't know what — to 
 give him two dances to everybody else's one, and all that 
 sort of nonsense. You should have seen his face when I 
 told him I was not coming. Olf he went to mamma, and 
 
 said I did not listen, but the result is, that I am 
 
 here." 
 
 The young lady-listener sat playing with her drooping 
 bracelet. " Anna, there need not be any more heart-burn- 
 ings after the duke : we may all resign him at once with a 
 good grace, for we shall have to do it. You are in luck." 
 
 " In what way ? " cried Anna, quickly. 
 
 " To have gained him. You might be Duchess of St. 
 Ives to-morrow." 
 
 " Might I ? Nothing of the sort. I will turn him over 
 to you : or to Mabel." 
 
 You know you might be : and you know you will be. 
 Here he comes, true to his allegiance. And now it is good- 
 bye to you for the rest of the evening, I suppose." 
 
 Lady Anna glanced towards the Duke of St. Ives. He 
 was threading his way to her with difficulty, for he was 
 detained on all sides by the gentlewomen who were angling 
 for him with their subtle lines. " It will take him twenty 
 minutes to get here," laughed Anna. 
 
 What a lovely bouquet ! " suddenly exclaimed the young 
 lady, observing the flowers for the first time. "Who 
 supplied it ? " 
 
 " How can I tell ? '* returned Anna, with downcast eyes 
 and conscious cheek. " It was sent to me just before we 
 left home." 
 
AT THE DUCHESS OF ST. IVES'. 
 
 185 
 
 He lias taste in flowers, at any rate, if these were 
 arranged under his guidance." 
 " Who has taste ? " 
 
 " "Who ! You can afford this pretty affectation of uncon- 
 sciousness, now you are sure of him. St. Ives." 
 
 " But I am not sure of him," again laughed Anna. " And 
 I am not sure — indeed, I don't think — that he sent me the 
 bouquet. Another came, less beautiful : ' That charming one 
 is the duke's,' cried mamma. ' Take that one, Anna : ' and I 
 obeyed, saying nothing, but I fancied the other was his." 
 The duke would send only one ? " 
 Of course not." 
 
 " Who sent the other ? " 
 
 "How can I tell?" returned Lady Anna. "Is not all 
 the world dying to send bouquets to me ? " she added, with 
 pretty sauciness. Anna Hetley was in unusual spirits to- 
 night. 
 
 The Duke of St. Ives reached her at length, and took her 
 away with him. He was tall ; too tall and too slender ; 
 altogether very much like a maypole, with a fair complexion, 
 mild eyes, and a meek, inoffensive face. At -Eton he was 
 called " Milky," and had never lost the soubriquet. " St. 
 Ives is a milksop still, he has no devil in him," sneered 
 sometimes the fast young men, his friends, who had rather 
 too much of it in themselves. 
 
 The quadrille was walked through, a waltz was danced. 
 Other dances with other partners came, in their turn ; and, 
 just as Anna was enjoying a moment's respite in a sheltered 
 corner, another gentleman came up to her, who had only 
 then entered. Not above the middle height, he was yet a 
 distinguished-looking man, his hair of a dark brown shade, 
 his grey eyes clear, and his features very fine. 
 
 "Anna," he whispered, in a low, musical voice, whose 
 tones spoke love, if ever love was spoken — " Anna ! " 
 
 She started and blushed vividly, for she had not seen him 
 advan-cing. " Oh, Leolin ! " 
 
 " Did you think I was lost ? " 
 
 "I thought you were never coming. Why are you so 
 late ? " 
 
186 , POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " And I am only here now to tell you I cannot come — if 
 that is not Irish. Stanton — you know Stanton ? " 
 " Yes : a little." 
 
 " Well, poor fellow, he has met with an accident to-night, 
 through the bursting of a gun. I was starting to come hero 
 when they sent for me: he is in great pain, in shocking 
 spirits, and cannot bear me to leave him. I told him he 
 must give me half-an-hour — and I came here to tell you 
 about it." 
 
 I am so sorry. How Here comes St. Ives again," 
 
 she broke off, in a hurried whisper. " Say I am engaged 
 to you, Leolin." 
 
 The Duke of St. Ives received his answer, and the other 
 looked at his watch. " I must stay for this one waltz, 
 Anna : the temptation is not to be resisted." 
 
 She put her arm within his, and his eyes happened to fall 
 upon the flowers. "They are well arranged, Anna, are 
 they not ? "' 
 
 "I knew they came from you," she breathed softly. 
 " This bouquet and another were left. Mamma jumped to 
 the conclusion that the more beautiful one must be from the 
 duke, and ordered me to use it. His lies neglected on the 
 table at home." 
 
 " Anna, I shall begin to fear that the duke is dangerous," 
 he said, as he held her, somewhat closer than he need have 
 done, in the whirling waltz. 
 
 She smiled and half shook her head, but her shy, pretty 
 eyes were bent to the ground; otherwise he might have 
 seen how full of love they were. 
 
 "And now I must not linger another moment," he ex- 
 claimed, when the dance was over. " Poor Stanton ! 
 
 " Leolin, I don't believe you have spoken a single word 
 to any one else in the room ! " 
 
 " I don't think I have : St. Ives excepted. I looked for 
 liis mother when I came in, and could not see her." 
 
 ^' I was very nearly not coming, Leolin. We are three of 
 us, you know — and had Lucy not married she would have 
 made four. The duke called to-day and talked to mamma, 
 and made her promise to bring meJ' 
 
AT THE DUCHESS OF ST. IVES'. 
 
 187 
 
 "You should contrive to give the duke a hint. Good- 
 night, my dearest." 
 
 He left her sitting where she was, and quitted the room. 
 Anna's eyes followed him. She saw him step aside to greet 
 the duchess, saw him turn at the door to give herself a last 
 look. With his departure, the evening's happiness had gone 
 out for her. 
 
 " I never heard anything like it ! " uttered Lady Anna 
 Hetley, as she stood before her mother the next morning, 
 with flushed cheeks. " How stupid he must be ! " 
 
 " Stupid ? " echoed the countess. 
 
 " Was such a thing ever heard of, mamma? As if he 
 could not have waited till a proper time and season ! And 
 what in the world took papa there last night ? I don't 
 think he has troubled a ball for years." 
 
 " Is anything the matter with Anna ? " exclaimed Lady 
 Geraldine, who had entered whilst her sister was speaking. 
 
 " A piece of good fortune is the matter with her," returned 
 the countess. " St. Ives spoke to your papa last night 
 about her." 
 
 "Has he made her an offer?" breathlessly returned 
 Geraldine. 
 
 " Yes. I knev/ it was coming." 
 " And vrhat is she grumbling at ? " 
 
 " We always do things by the rules of contrary," cried 
 the countess, shrugging her shoulders. " The more happiness 
 is rained upon us, the more we grumble. Discontent is 
 indigenous to England." 
 
 "But think of the stupid way in which he went to 
 work," retorted Anna : " never to give me a hint of what he 
 was about to do, but to go blundering off to papa ! And to 
 speak to him in his own ball-room, at his own house ! I 
 wonder papa listened to him." 
 
 " What did it matter where he spoke to him ? " 
 
 " It matters this — that he ought to have told me first, and 
 not have broken it to papa without my knowledge." 
 
 " You must have seen what was coming " 
 
 " What is the matter ? " 
 
188 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 The interruption came from Lady Mabel. She and 
 Geraldine had lain in bed late, as in fact had Lady Essing- 
 ton, and so made their first appearance in a desultory manner 
 when the day was advanced. 
 
 "Only that Anna is an idiot," exclaimed Geraldine, in 
 answer to her sister's question. " Yes, Anna ; I repeat that 
 you must have known what was coming. He had flirted 
 enough with you." 
 
 " There's the evil of it," cried Anna. " Men are so much 
 given to flirting nowadays, that you cannot tell what is 
 flirting and wliat is reality : and woe to the feelings of any 
 girl who mistakes the false for the genuine. If the Duke 
 of St. Ives has flirted with me — though I hate the word, 
 and I have not encouraged him — others have flirted with 
 him. Some of you girls have been ready to pull him to 
 pieces in the contest." 
 
 " Mamma, just listen to her — she says she has not en- 
 couraged him ! " exclaimed Mabel, with a smile. 
 
 " I have not encouraged him more than I could help," 
 said Anna. " When he has talked to me, I have answered 
 him ; when ho has asked me to dance, I have not said No. 
 I like talking, and I like dancing. Was it my place to 
 assume that he v/as only paving the way to ask me to marry 
 him ? " 
 
 " You have vv^orked for it, though, in your quiet way," 
 retorted Mabel, who was saying all this out of sheer vexation 
 that the prize should have escaped herself. 
 
 " Indeed, I have not," spoke Anna, earnestly. " He has 
 always sought me, and I could not avoid that ; but I have 
 not encouraged him." 
 
 Mabel retorted. " Only last night you went to his house, 
 taking the flowers he left for you." 
 
 A smile crossed Anna's face. " Weil, it is done, and it 
 cannot be imdone," she rejoined ; but I must repeat, that 
 he has acted as — as only one gifted with as little brains as 
 the Duke of St. Ives could act." 
 
 What do you mean is done, and can't be undone ? " 
 
 " His speaking to papa. And I say he has no sense, to 
 have been so premature." 
 
AT THE DUCHESS OF ST. IVES'. 
 
 180 
 
 Lady Essington Hfted her hand in warning. " Take 
 care, young lady, that you don't show these airs before 
 him ; or he may think twice before completing the bargain. 
 And here he is — he said he should call early." 
 
 But the footsteps ascending the stairs were not the 
 duke's. They were those of the gentleman with whom 
 Anna had snatched a waltz the previous night, during the 
 brief period of his stay in the crowded rooms. The servant 
 threw wide the door : 
 
 " Mr. Pomeroy." 
 
 Mr. Pomeroy was not the Duke of St. Ives • and some 
 little disappointment may have been felt by Lady Essing- 
 ton. But if so, it was momentary, for Mr. Pomeroy was 
 also a favoured visitor. He told them of the painful 
 accident to his friend Stanton : a young man who was 
 attached like himself to one of the embassies abroad, and 
 was just now over here on leave. 
 
 Before he had quite finished the recital, the old Dowager 
 Faulcot came in with her two nieces ; intimate friends of 
 the Essingtons, who might call early or late. Lady Faulcot 
 began a tale of scandal, more interesting in its way than 
 the gun accident to Stanton. In the midst of it Anna 
 escaped to the conservatory, and was followed by Mr. 
 Pomeroy. 
 
 " Leolin, he has asked for me ! " she exclaimed, when 
 they were sheltered in that retreat, and beyond the ears in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 " St. Ives?" 
 
 " Oh yes. He spoke to papa last night — actually in his 
 own ball-rooms. If he had only spoken to me, I could have 
 given him an ansv/er quietly, and there would have been an 
 end to him, and no one need have been the wiser. I am not 
 sure that it is honourable to tell you this, Leolin ; but— but 
 — papa accepted him." 
 
 Leolin Pomeroy's brow flushed, for he loved her with a 
 passionate love : but the pride of his race rose within him. 
 Mr. Pomeroy, secure in his descent of untold generations, 
 afraid of the new Duke of St. Ives, whose ancestors, seventy 
 years ago, were of the people ! Anna glanced at him 
 
190 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 timidly, her lovely eyes full of tears. He drew her to him, 
 and bent down his face with a tender whisper. 
 
 "Which shall it be? — the Duke of St. Ives, or Leolin 
 Pomeroy ? " 
 
 " Oh, Leolin, why do you ask me ? You know." 
 
 " Is your father at home ? " he inquired between his 
 kisses. " Can he be seen ? " 
 
 " Would you ask him now, Leolin ! " 
 
 " Now. Before I leave the house. You must be my 
 promised wife this day, love, if you would not be his." 
 
 They drew apart hurriedly, for voices broke on their 
 ears, ominously near. Lady Essington and the dowager 
 and the rest came in view, perhaps to see what the young 
 people might be doing. They saw Anna seated on a large 
 flower-pot turned upside down, training the refractory 
 branches of a rare plant with a refractory name, and Mr. 
 Pomeroy ungallantly standing with his back to her, lost in 
 contemplation of the wonderful American aloe, which 
 blossomed but once in a century. 
 
 Lady Faulcot's sight was keen, and her imagination 
 lively. " You should have your eyes about you," cried she 
 confidentially to the countess. " Anna is just at the age 
 that she may have her head turned ; and he does not want 
 for attractions, that young Pomeroy." 
 
 My dear dowager, Anna is safe. She marries St. Ives," 
 Eh ? Who says so ? " ejaculated the dov/ager. 
 
 " He proposed for her to the earl yesterday. It is all 
 settled." 
 
 " Pity the rest of the girls, then 1 " cried Lady Faulcot. 
 *' What wdll they do ? — they are all dying to be her grace of 
 St. Ives. Is it true that young Stanton has shot his head off?" 
 continued she, passing further on between the plants, and 
 addressing Leolin Pomeroy. 
 
 " Not his head, madam. One of his ears and part of his 
 hand." 
 
 " What careless simpletons you young men are, to get 
 toying with guns ! I would rather play with a wild hyena, 
 for my part." 
 
 " There was a flaw in it," said Leolin. " Bishop " 
 
AT THE DUCHESS OF ST. IVES'. 191 
 
 "Oh, of course. That's sure to be tlie tale—Bisliop, 
 Bishop ! He's always in fault ; never your own awkward- 
 ness. Anna, we are to congratulate you, I hear. Take 
 care, child, that you don't receive a stray shot yourself. 
 When this news is known, there are some would give you 
 one if they dared." 
 
 " What news ? " asked Anna, unconsciously. 
 
 " That you have accepted St. Ives. All the girls wanted 
 him, you know." 
 
 " Is the earl at home ? " quietly demanded Leolin of 
 Lady Essington. 
 
 " I believe he is in his study. Do you want him ? " 
 
 " I will go to his study," said he. 
 
 The Dowager Lady Faulcot took her departure with her 
 train : but not before Anna had whispered a word to her 
 that her congratulations were premature — of which the old 
 lady believed as much as she chose. Not long after that, 
 Anna heard the study bell ring, and Mr. Pomeroy was 
 shown out. Then came a message to Lady Essington : the 
 earl wanted her in his study. Mabel and Geraldiuo followed 
 their mother out of the room, but not to the study ; and this 
 left Anna alone. 
 
 She was alone when the next caller was shown in — the 
 Duke of St. Ives. The young duke, seizing the favourable 
 opportunity, repeated in person the offer he had made to 
 her father the previous night. Anna, very much distresed 
 now that it had come to a point, refused him, kindly but 
 firmly. 
 
 *' This cannot be your final decision ! " exclaimed the 
 young man, displaying emotioua 
 " It is indeed." 
 
 " But vv^hy have you suffered me to hope ? " 
 
 " Nay," said Lady Anna, " I have not suffered it : at least, 
 not willingly. What have I done to encourage hope? 
 How could I have acted otherwise ? You have been pleased 
 to single me out, rather more perhaps than you have other 
 girls, but I shrank from your attentions instead of " 
 
 " It was that shrinking from me that won me," interrupted 
 the simple-hearted duke ; " it was indeed." 
 
192 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " I am very sorry : but I cannot see that I am to blame. { 
 I could not speak to you before you first spoke to me. I 
 could not dare to assume that you were about to propose to 
 me, without being sure of it." 
 
 The duke allowed that : but he grew hot and somewhat 
 incoherent in his disappointment. 
 
 " Anna, can you not say that you — will let it wait for a 
 time, and think of it ? " 
 
 "Ph no, I cannot ; it must not wait a day. I can never 
 say otherwise than I do now." 
 
 The duke nervously pulled his glove about. " I would 
 try to make you so happy : I would not have a will but 
 yours." 
 
 Anna was nervous also : it was her first attempt at a 
 refusal. She stammered out that he was very kind ; very 
 good. 
 
 " I'm sure I thought you liked me." 
 
 " And I do like you, very much indeed," she answered, in 
 the candour of her heart. " But not — not in that way. I 
 like you very much better than any of the other young men 
 we know. Except — except perhaps one or two," she lamely 
 added, with a blush. 
 
 " I fear you love some one else. Lady Anna." 
 
 The blush deepened. Her face was a picture of confusion. 
 I see how it is," he whispered. I have been indulging 
 a foolish hope — and it had no foundation. I trust you will 
 forgive me." 
 
 " We can be friends still," she answered earnestly, 
 glancing almost appealingly at him through her tears, for 
 few natures Avere more true and tender than Anna Hetley's. 
 
 Please believe that I would not willingly have deceived 
 you." 
 
 " I do ; I do believe you. It has been my fault — my 
 mistake." 
 
 " If you had only spoken one little word to me — but, as I 
 say, I could not speak to you," she timidly repeated, feeling^ 
 in her concern and sympathy, that she had unwittingly 
 inflicted some cruel woe upon him. The duke prepared to 
 leave. 
 
AT THE DUCHESS OF ST. IVES'. 
 
 193 
 
 " I shall never care for any one else, Anna." 
 
 He nervously put out his hand, then drew it back, then 
 put it out again. The young duke did not know what 
 might be the etiquette on these occasions. Anna knew as 
 little ; but she frankly put her hand into his — and pressed 
 it : some vague idea running through her mind that it 
 might soften the blow. 
 
 The duke sighed. " I think the next best thing to having 
 you — will be to have your sister," he observed, deliberating 
 with himself. *'If I cannot be your husband, it will be 
 something to be your brother. I don't love her, it's true ; 
 but I shall never love any one now." 
 
 The candid avowal, and the rueful tone it was made in, 
 changed the current of Anna's feelings. She almost 
 laughed. 
 
 " Oh yes ; that would be delightful, if you could only 
 fancy one of them. Which of them do you mean, Mabel or 
 Geraldine?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know," said the duke; "I have not 
 thought about it. I must talk to ray mother. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 Shaking her hand again, he quitted the room, and was 
 out of the house quickly. Anna, inexpressibly relieved in 
 more ways than one, hummed a merry waltz, and danced 
 round and round the room. 
 
 Lady Essington had found her husband waiting for her 
 in his study. A little man, wearing a black velvet cap on 
 the top of his head, and a flowery chintz dressing-gown: 
 a merry-hearted little man, who liked to take things 
 pleasantly. 
 
 Did you send Pomeroy to me ? " he asked. 
 
 " I told him you were here. Why ? " 
 
 " Then you don't know what he wants ? " 
 
 " How should I know ? To talk about Stanton, perhaps." 
 
 " He wants Anna." 
 
 The countess questioned with her eyes and lips. " Wants 
 her for what ? " 
 " To be his wife." 
 
 " What a donkey he must be ! " uttered the lady, irascibly. 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 13 
 
194 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Why, the old Dowager of Barham let it out to him that 
 she was going to marry St Ives." 
 
 " But is she going to marry St. Ives ? " 
 
 " What should prevent her ? " retorted the countess. 
 
 " She may like some one else better. Mr. Pomeroy says 
 she does." 
 
 " I wish Mr. Pomeroy had been buried in the Pomeroy 
 vaults before he had come upsetting things in this way ! " 
 was the intemperate rejoinder of Lady Essington. " There's 
 not such a match in all England as St. Ives ; if Anna were 
 to refuse him I would never forgive her. Besides, she can't 
 do so now : that prating old dowager is off to tell it to all 
 London." 
 
 The earl laughed : he enjoyed the joke. " You and the 
 dowager must settle it between you," said he. " I suppose 
 you told her first. But, if Anna has Mr. Pomeroy in her 
 head, she can't marry St. Ives." 
 
 Lady Essington scowled. "Would you let her marry 
 Pomeroy, with St. Ives in the way ? " 
 
 "I w^ould let her marry Pomeroy with St. Ives in the 
 way, or out of it," returned the good-natured earl. " When 
 young people take mutual likings, of what use standing out 
 against them. Had there been anything objectionable in 
 Pomeroy, any cause against his wooing her, why did you 
 suffer them to meet ? Here has he been continually in the 
 house, like a tame cat. Not that I complain of it : I like 
 the young fellow." 
 
 " I have allowed him to come in, like a tame cat, as you 
 elegantly express it, because I hoped he would take a fancy 
 to Geraldine," was the answer, sharply spoken. " I am sure 
 it is to Geraldine he has chiefly talked." 
 
 "When he has talked aloud," put in Lord Essington, 
 with another laugh. " I always thought it was Anna, and 
 so I tell you. They were for ever together when we were 
 abroad; you know that, Lucinda. I saw them last night, 
 whispering, and twirling about in that brainless dance, that's 
 only good for making the head reel and the heart faint." 
 
 " My daughters have been too properly reared to allow 
 themselves to become foolishly attached," said she loftily. 
 
AT THE DUCHESS OF ST. IVES\ 195 
 
 " But nature's nature," cried the earl. 
 
 " And training's training," retorted the countess. " What 
 if they did see each other sometimes abroad ? — he was 
 nothing but a yoimger son then, and had no more hope of 
 coming into the Pomeroy estates than I had." 
 
 " He says she loves him ; and he says he ardently loves 
 her," was the only answer the earl gave to this. " I believe 
 he does." 
 
 " Love ! " rejoined my hidy, scornfully, " Love must give 
 place to expediency. " Did he speak of the duke ? " 
 
 " Yes, he did," replied the earl, laughing. " He called 
 him names : the bran' new Brummagem duke ! " 
 
 Lady Essington's eyes flashed fire. " Shameful ! How 
 dared he ? " 
 
 " Dared ? Oh, come ! These men with long pedigrees (we 
 are not very old ourselves, you know, Lucinda) do hold new 
 people in contempt. In point of descent, the Duke of St. Ives 
 is not woiithy to buckle on the garter of Leolin Pomeroy." 
 
 Lady Essington's rejoinder was arrested. She heard the 
 duke's voice upon the stairs ; and, opening the door, saw 
 him passing along the hall. He was departing after his 
 interview with Anna. Lady Essington hastened to accost 
 him ; but the duke, ever so far on then, looked back with a 
 cold bow, and was gone. 
 
 "She has refused him ! " exclaimed the countess, sinking 
 into a chair. " I'd lay all I am worth, that she has refused 
 him. And I never knew he was here ! And that old 
 dowager will have gone round the town proclaiming the 
 engagement ! If Anna has been so great an idiot, I think I 
 shall lock her up ! " 
 
 She bent her angry and hasty steps to the drawing-room, 
 and caught my young Lady Anna in the midst of her 
 waltzing. Arresting her by the arm, she turned her round 
 the other way ; not very gently. 
 
 " What have you been doing to the Duke of St. Ives ? " 
 
 " Mamma ! how you startled me ! " 
 
 " What have you been doing to the Duke of St. Ives ? " 
 
 " Oh, please don't be angry ! " implored Anna. " I only 
 told the duke I could not marry him." 
 
198 
 
 rOMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 "You wicked girl! Not marry liim ! Not marry St. 
 Ives ! Mabel, come here," interrupted the countess, hearing 
 Lady Mabel enter the room ; " look at your sister there ! 
 She has been refusing St. Ives." 
 
 " You have not ? " debated Mabel, slowly, speaking to 
 Anna. " You are not quite a fool, au fond,^ 
 
 " Such a fuss ! " cried Anna, goaded into rebellion. 
 " Who's St. Ives ? Leolin Pomeroy calls him " 
 
 " Be still, you shameless child ! " interrupted the countess. 
 How dare you mention Pomeroy to my face ? — after send- 
 ing him to your papa with a tale that you had fallen in love 
 with him, and he with you ! " 
 
 Anna stood with blushing cheeks and fallen eyelids. 
 They might read in her face that it was no fable, the love 
 existing between her and Leolin. 
 
 " Mabel, he called St. Ives a bran' new Brummagem duke, 
 
 or some such vulgarism ; and — and " Lady Essington 
 
 hardly knew whether to subside into hysterics, or to shake 
 Anna — " your father takes his part ; says he shall have her." 
 
 " He is Leolin Pomeroy," observed Anna, in low tones. 
 " But for the Duke of St. Ives wanting me, mamma, you 
 v;ould never have thought of objecting to him." 
 
 " Eight, child," exclaimed the earl, who had come in now, 
 and was ready to burst with suppressed laughter. " I say 
 if they had not wanted you to have young Pomeroy, he 
 should not have been allowed to come here." 
 
 " Well, papa," cried Mabel, sharply, " I never thought 
 you would have upheld Anna in such conduct." 
 
 " What conduct ? " asked the earl. 
 
 "She has encouraged the duke shamefully; no one else 
 has had a chance with him ; and I do say that to turn round 
 upon him now is not good behaviour. Only last night, she 
 went parading his bouquet in his rooms." 
 
 Lord Essington, for all his good nature, had as keen a 
 sense of what was right and wrong as other people. His 
 face wore a displeased look as he turned to Anna. She bit 
 her lips to hide a smile. 
 
 " Two bouquets came for me, papa. The one was a 
 beauty, and mamma ordered me to use it." 
 
LADY ANNA. 
 
 197 
 
 " But you had no right to use it," screamed the countess, 
 " if you meant to reject the duke to-day." 
 
 " But it was not the duke's," returned Anna ; " the duke's 
 was the one we left at home. The one I took was sent to 
 me by Leolin Pomeroy." 
 
 A pause. They were taking in the sense of the treason. 
 
 " You deceitful little " began her mother. But the 
 
 earl burst into a hearty laugh, which drowned the rest of 
 the reproach. 
 
 Leolin Pomeroy, unlike his brother George, had lost no 
 time in assuming his new honours, as head of his house. 
 Eesigning his diplomatic post at once, he hastened to 
 London, made a flying visit to the abbey, and then went 
 back to London again, all within a week. His attraction 
 was the Lady Anna Hetley, whom he had met and seen a 
 great deal of abroad. He had not dared to hope for her 
 when he was a nameless, obscure attache : but he meant to 
 have her now that he reigned at Pomeroy. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 LADY ANNA. 
 
 " What slur is it that lies on the Pomeroy escutcheon ? I 
 am almost sure there is one." 
 
 The question was put by Lady Geraldine ; and her mother 
 at once began to ransack her memory. She fancied she had 
 heard of something disagreeable that happened in the family 
 a few years ago. The Essingtons had not been intimate 
 with the Pomeroy s : the eldest daughter, Lucy, had once, 
 when staying with some people in the same county, been 
 taken to the abbey on a short visit. Lucy was married now, 
 and lived in Ireland. Last year, during a stay the Essing- 
 tons had made on the Continent, they had seen a good deal 
 of the young attache. He was plain and poor Leolin 
 
198 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Pomeroy then. He was the reigning lord now : but it was 
 most unreasonable of him to come after Anna when the 
 Duke of St. Ives wanted her. Lady Essington was not a 
 v/oman to give up her way or her will without a fight for it. 
 She had set her heart upon marrying Anna to the duke, who 
 could hardly count his riches, and she did not choose to be 
 frustrated by the (comparatively speaking) poor Lord of 
 Pomeroy. This suggestion of Geraldine's was, therefore, 
 as welcome to her as gold ; for, if there was a hole in the 
 Pomeroy coat, it was clearly her duty to find it out. Should 
 it prove to be a large one, she might make it a pretext for 
 declining the alliance. 
 
 Down, on the spur of the moment, as soon as she had 
 swallowed her luncheon, went Lady Essington to Lincoln's 
 Inn, to the offices of that noted firm of solicitors, Hildyard 
 and Prael. Rather to the annoyance, it must be owned, of 
 her two elder daughters, who had wanted to secure the 
 carriage for some expedition of their own. Mr. Hildyard 
 chanced to be disengaged, and she was at once shown into 
 his private room. 
 
 It was not the first conference that Lady Essington had 
 held in that room : a small compartment softly carpeted, 
 with a largo light window, and walls that seemed to be 
 made of deed-boxes. Her husband had a great deal of 
 trouble with their only son, the spendthrift Viscount Cardine, 
 necessitating many consultations and much arrangement 
 with the lawyers, and her ladyshij) liked to have, herself, a 
 finger in the pie. Mr Hildyard was one of the wealthiest, 
 most upright, and renowned solicitors in London : quite a 
 gentleman of the old school, and a Eoman Catholic. As a 
 matter of course, his practice lay chiefly with those who 
 hold the same faith, amongst whom were the Essingtons 
 and the Pomeroys. 
 
 As Lady Essington entered, he rose from his seat: an 
 elderly, neat, silent man, dressed in black with a white 
 shirt-frill — a mode of attire not unusual for lawyers in 
 those days. His face was fair, his light eyes were calm, 
 and on the top of his head, getting bald now, lay a sprinkling 
 of powder. 
 
LADY ANNA. 
 
 190 
 
 " Well, and what can I do for you to-day ! " he asked, 
 when greetings had passed, and he had placed Lady Essing- 
 ton in a seat and resumed his own at his table. " Any fresh 
 complication for Lord Cardine ? " 
 
 " No, no, nothing of that sort," she impatiently interrupted, 
 waving her hand as if she would wave away the subject 
 his question touched upon, and the trouble it invariably 
 suggested. "I have come to ask what you know of the 
 Pomeroys of Pomeroy." 
 
 Mr. Hildyard did not immediately answer. He sat, as he 
 often did sit, with his right hand inside his waistcoat, lying 
 across the cambric frill of his shirt. 
 
 " I think there is some blot on their escutcheon," she con- 
 tinued. " I want to know what it is." 
 
 " There is no blot on their escutcheon, to my knowledge, 
 Lady Essington," spoke Mr. Hildyard now. " Unless you 
 allude to the fatal quarrel which took place between the lord 
 and his brother Eupert, resulting in the former's death." 
 
 " Tha fs it," spoke Lady Essington quickly. " I remember 
 now — and how disgracefully the young wife was mixed up 
 with it. One brother killed the other." 
 
 " Yes, they quarrelled, and — and there was a fatal 
 struggle." 
 
 " I wish you would relate the particulars." 
 
 Mr. Hildyard entered upon the recital — giving the heads 
 of the story briefly. He cast no blame on any one : lawyers 
 are cautious : not even upon the young Lady of Pomeroy. 
 But Lady Essington, her memory thus refreshed, was recall* 
 ing the details of the story as they recurred to her. The 
 lord's wife was said to favour his handsome brother Eupert, 
 and a quarrel took place : a scuffle, in which the elder was 
 killed : she remembered that now. Mr. Hildyard assented. 
 Yes, he said, a pistol went off and it shot the lord; and 
 Eupert had made good his escape. It was evident to Lady 
 Essington that the lawyer spoke very unwillingly indeed : 
 and but for her own shrewd questioning she would have 
 learnt next to nothing. 
 
 " The late lord, George, never came home to enter on 
 his inheritance," observed Mr. Hildyard, passing from the 
 
200 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 quarrel to a more legitimate portion of the subject. " He 
 would liave come shortly, had he uot died — as I have reason 
 to know from his letters to me." 
 
 " Yes, he died," assented Lady Essington : " and that 
 brought the attache, Leolin, Lord of Pomeroy. Well now, 
 should you not consider that that fatal quarrel reflects a 
 lasting disgrace on Leolin Pomeroy ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," said Mr. Hildyard, more warmly than he 
 generally spoke. " Leolin Pomeroy stands as pure from 
 disgrace, in my opinion, as poor Guy stood when he suc- 
 ceeded his father. It would be a cruel thing, madam, if one 
 brother must be held responsible for the ill-doing of another. 
 That is a creed which I hope will never obtain amongst 
 Englishmen." 
 
 " I didn't say he was to be held responsible ; I said the 
 matter reflected disgrace on him," retorted my lady. " And 
 so it does." 
 
 " And so it does not — as I think all just men would say. 
 Pardon me, Lady Essington : you asked my opinion, and I 
 have given it. Leolin Pomeroy stands as high as a young 
 man of noble character can stand." 
 
 " He has shown himself a very deceitful man in my house ; 
 I can tell you that. Downright wicked." 
 
 Mr. Hildyard opened his eyes. " Deceitful ? wicked ? " 
 
 " Why, yes : he has come and made love, under the rose, 
 to my daughter Anna. He wants to marry her." 
 
 A smile crossed the lawyer's lips. " I see," he observed. 
 " That is his ofl'ence, is it ? And — pardon me — why should 
 he not marry Lady Anna ? " 
 
 " Because I wish her to marry some one else." 
 
 " It is a good position — that of Lady of Pomeroy ; and 
 the rent-roll is now free. A position not to be despised 
 even by one of your daughters. Lady Essington." 
 
 "But he has fixed upon the wrong daughter, don't you 
 see : Anna might be Duchess of St. Ives to-morrow. Pome- 
 roy might have had either of the other two, and welcome." 
 
 '* And what does Lady Anna say ? " 
 
 " Say — ungrateful little monkey ! — says she'll have Pome- 
 roy and not St. Ives. Her father upholds her." 
 
LADY ANNA. 
 
 201 
 
 " Oh," responded Mr. Hildyard. " Well, I don't know 
 mucli of the duke, but he seems to me rather an empty- 
 headed young fellow. I should prefer Leolin Pomeroy 
 myself." 
 
 " Why, you are as bad as the earl ! What did he say to 
 my face this morning, that husband of mine ? — that the duke 
 was not fit to buckle on the garters of the Lords of Pomeroy." 
 
 " He spoke of their descent, I assume," observed Mr. 
 Hildyard shrewdly. " Descent goes for something, madam." 
 
 "I would rather have money," she retorted, candidly. 
 "But I suppose it is of no use taking up your time any 
 longer." 
 
 The lawyer rose. " I assure you. Lady Essington, that 
 I know nothing against the honour of Leolin Pomeroy. Or 
 against that of the Pomeroy family, if we except that fatal 
 quarrel." 
 
 But Lady Essington, as she drove back to Berkeley 
 Square, still thought there was something else, though she 
 was unable to recall what. The probability was, that 
 rumours of that old tale, touching the " wicked lord," had 
 at some time or other reached her ears and might be floating 
 indistinctly in her brain. 
 
 " You might have spared yourself the visit, mamma," 
 were the words Geraldine accosted her with as she entered. 
 " Old Mrs. Knox has been here and told us all about it. 
 The late Lord of Pomeroy killed his brother." 
 
 " The brother killed the late lord," corrected Lady 
 Essington. " And we must all have bad memories to forget 
 it. It was done in a scuffle." 
 
 " Mrs. Knox called it murder." 
 
 " Old Hildyard called it a scuffle. But he is as close as 
 wax. It was not the late lord, however, Geraldine. That 
 was George, who has recently died, and who never came 
 home at all." 
 
 " It was Guy : the one that Lucy knew : and what a 
 creature that wife of his must have been ! Mrs. Knox says 
 the inquest brought it in wilful murder, and the brother 
 who did it is being looked for still. Any way, whether 
 killing or murder, it was altogether disreputable." 
 
202 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 "Most disreputable," warmly assented Lady Essington. 
 " Where's Anna ? " 
 
 " Papa called her down to the study," crossly answered 
 Geraldine, who was often in a temper the reverse of amiable, 
 and was especially so to-day. She had had private hopes 
 herself of Leolin Pomeroy : and now he had cast upon her the 
 unpardonable slight of passing her over for her younger sister. 
 
 The countess hastened to the study to see what treason 
 might be hatching. Once that simple husband of hers, who 
 had as little notion of the social proprieties of life as an 
 owl, and that simple Anna, who had less, got plotting 
 together without herself to keep them in order, there was 
 no guessing at the result. 
 
 " Anna, are your affections fixed upon Leolin Pomeroy ? " 
 began the earl, in his simple, straightforward way, when he 
 had called her down to his study and closed the door. 
 
 Anna's cheeks grew crimson. She turned to the window, 
 which had an agreeable view of a small back yard, to screen 
 them. 
 
 " Or upon the Duke of St. Ives ? " 
 
 She glanced up at him now. " Oh, papa, no ! I don't 
 care for the duke. I only like him as a friend ; I could not 
 be his wife. And — and " 
 
 " And what ? Speak freely, my dear. This is a solemn 
 subject." 
 
 " I thought also that a union with the duke would not be 
 quite suitable for me. We are not of the same faith." 
 
 " True. But so many intermarriages take place now that 
 — at any rate, your mother sees no objection. We will pass 
 that question. I only wish to give you a word of advice, 
 Anna: before deciding irrevocably, make sure that you 
 know your own mind. The young men are both desirable ; 
 I like them much. Pomeroy has the advantage in lineage, 
 St. Ives in wealth : not but that, in my opinion, Pomeroy is 
 quite sufficiently rich. The wife of the Duke of St. Ives, let 
 him marry whom he may, will be mistress and master ; he 
 will make a kind, docile, obedient husband. The Lords of 
 Pomeroy, on the contrary, have the reputation of liking to 
 rule their wives with an imperative will." 
 
LADY ANNA. 
 
 203 
 
 Tears stood in her eyes as slie looked up. "Papa, I 
 could not respect or love a man who would yield his will to 
 mine in great things. I must be able to reverence my 
 husband, to find him one that I can obey : and I am certain 
 that Leolin will ever love me and be good to me." 
 
 " Be it so, then," said the earl, as he kissed her forehead. 
 " Long life and happiness to you, my dear, as the wife of 
 Leolin Pomeroy ! " 
 
 It was at this critical juncture that Lady Essington in- 
 terrupted them, her bonnet on, her shawl not unfastened, 
 just as she had come in from Mr. Hildyard's. When she 
 found that her husband had weakly given his promise to 
 Anna, her indignation was unbounded. 
 
 " Why, you must be out of your mind, Lord Essington ! 
 Think of the duke's wealth! " 
 
 " Wealth ! Oh, he has a good deal of that. More money 
 than brains." And my young Lady Anna, being so far 
 wanting in reverence as to laugh, her mother tapped her 
 arm sharj^^)ly. 
 
 " I have a great mind to shake you, you undutiful child. 
 Who IS he, that Leolin Pomeroy, beside the Duke of St. 
 Ives ? The other day he was only a miserable attache." 
 
 " But, mamma, he is owner of Pomeroy now." 
 
 " Owner of fiddlestick ! Have you reflected what it is to 
 be a duchess, and to be richer than Cilmost every other 
 woman in London ? " 
 
 " I should not know what to do with so much," said 
 Anna, simply. " Besides, the duke is not of our faith." 
 
 *' What of that ? He would not interfere with your faith, 
 or you with his. I dare say you might have the honour of 
 converting him in the first twelvemonth." 
 
 " I should not try to convert him," said Anna. " I am 
 not clever enough for that. And I think good people like 
 to keep to the faith in which they have been reared — if they 
 do their duty in it." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," spoke the countess, sarcastically, while the 
 earl nodded approval at Anna. " How highly ridiculous 
 you are ! You could let his faith alone if you chose." 
 
 " But I should not like it at all," pleaded Anna. " I 
 
204 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 should not like for my husband to worship in one church, 
 and I in another." 
 
 She seemed quite excited ; her fingers were interlaced, 
 tears were in her eyes. Lord Essington fondly laid his 
 hand upon her head to reassure her. 
 
 " And indeed, mamma, for these reasons and others, I 
 cannot marry the Duke of St. Ives. Papa has been so kind 
 as to say that he does not object to Leolin Pomeroy : if you 
 object, why, I must remain unmarried. I could never have 
 any one but Leolin." 
 
 " There, there," said the earl, soothingly. " I've said it, 
 and I'll stick to it. Leolin Pomeroy is quite rich enough 
 for you and me, Anna ; and your mother would have 
 thought him so, but for St. Ives. You be off upstairs, my 
 dear, and tell Pomeroy I say so. He has just gone up, I 
 fancy : I told him he might call for his answer this after- 
 noon." 
 
 " You have done a pretty thing ! " snapped my lady, as 
 Anna escaped. " Letting the best match in the world go 
 out of the family ! " 
 
 One can't be always wise," smiled the earl, good- 
 liumouredly. " I am not going to have my children made 
 unhappy for all the matches in Christendom." 
 
 " You'd rather see them old maids. I know that." 
 
 "I don't know but I'd as soon see them old maids, as 
 not," he avowed. "Marriage is all a lottery. But that's 
 not the present question. I don't myself understand how 
 Anna is to be an old maid if she marries Leolin Pomeroy." 
 
 " You always were aggravating, you know, Essington." 
 
 " I really don't know it : I did not think I was," he 
 answered, still smiling. " I confess, looking at the matier 
 with my eyes, Pomeroy seems to be an exceedingly suitable 
 match, ay, and a good match, for any of the girls. I say 
 you would have thought so yourself, Lucinda, but for getting 
 St. Ives on the brain." 
 
 " I have not got St. Ives on the brain." 
 
 " No ? Well, it looks like it." 
 
 " But for me, Essington, the girls might go altogether to 
 the dogs. Look at Lucy. Because she fell in love with 
 
LADY ANNA. 
 
 205 
 
 that foolish fellow. Captain Blake, and he with her, you 
 must needs let them marry ! Of course she has been buried 
 alive ever since at that bog-hole of a place of his, in Ireland, 
 living no doubt upon milk and potatoes." 
 
 Lord Essington's face lighted up with mirth. " It is a 
 very pretty place," he said. " I would ask nothing better 
 than to live there myself; and Blake's a good fellow, and 
 Lucy is as happy as the day's long. And his six thousand 
 a-year will give them something better than milk and 
 potatoes, I take it." 
 
 " Do you really mean to let her have him ? " 
 
 " Well, yes ; there's no help for it — and I expect she has 
 told Pomeroy so by this time. It is not my fault ; I did 
 not choose him : you must acknowledge that, Lucinda." 
 
 " They chose one another, it seems," snapped the countess. 
 
 " Quite so. And you, by allowing them to be always 
 together, winked at it. Pardon the word." 
 
 " But I thought he came for Gerald ine," said poor, mis- 
 taken Lady Essington, with F'^mething very like a sob. 
 " At least, we hoped it. I should have been the envy of 
 every house in London had we secured St. Ives." 
 
 The earl laughed. To his unsophisticated nature, these 
 anglings after settlements, so rife in the great world, were a 
 source of both wonder and amusement. 
 
 " I saw Winchester in the clerks' office as I came out ; 
 waiting to see Hildyard, I suppose," remarked Lady Essing- 
 ton, as she related her visit to the lawyer's and enlarged 
 upon the " slur " that lay on the Pomeroys. " He must be 
 in a mess again.** 
 
 " Hildyard is not their man of business." 
 
 " Perhaps their ovm man won't have anything more to do 
 with Winchester ; he may be trying to get Hildyard to take 
 him up," said the countess. " A fine time Lord Sones must 
 have of it ! " 
 
 " Ay," assented her husband, su]3pressing a sigh. Other 
 fathers had " fine times " with their sons as well as Earl 
 Sones. 
 
 Meanwhile, Anna, escaping to her own room, effaced the 
 marks of tears from her face and then went to the drawing- 
 
206 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 room. Leolin, waiting alone, uneasy, full of suspense, 
 turned when tlie door opened. She closed it, and halted 
 there. He walked towards her: his face grave, his voice 
 low, his hand outstretched. 
 
 " How is it to be, Anna ? " he began, with some emotion. 
 " Your father would not give me any answer this morning ; 
 he said I must come again." 
 
 But the tender light in her blue eyes, the soft blushes 
 that came and went, told him enough. With a faint cry of 
 pleasure, he caught her to him. 
 
 " My darling, I see it ! You are to be mine ? " 
 
 " Papa has left it to me, Leolin." 
 
 " And then — my darling will leave it to me. And I say 
 she must be mine without any unnecessary loss of time." 
 " Oh, but not yet, Leolin." 
 
 " Not yet ! Why so ? " he asked, taking a chair near 
 her. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. It is only just settled — only to- 
 day." 
 
 " But it is a great many to-days that we have loved each 
 other. Ah, Anna, what should we have done had I remained 
 a poor attache? What might be in your mind I did not 
 presume to ask then ; but I know that I v/as troubled and 
 tormented beyond measure, fearing that, poor as I was, and 
 with no position, I might not presume to ask for you. Now 
 and then it has crossed my mind to go out to India and beg 
 my good-natured brother George to give me an income. I 
 think he would have done it." 
 
 " Was he very good-natured ? " 
 
 "Very. Few natures are so generous as was that of 
 George Pomeroy. He was the least selfish man I ever 
 knew. He was not married, you know, had no children to 
 provide for ; and, I do believe that, had I gone to him and 
 told him about you, he would have made things easy for us. 
 What of the duke ? " 
 
 " I saw him after you left. I told him how impossible it 
 was that I should accept him — and, Leolin, I did say that 
 I had longed to give him a hint before, only that of course 
 I could not do so. He was very kind when he fully under- 
 
LADY ANNA. 
 
 207 
 
 stood how it was ; and I said I hoped we should always bo 
 good friends." 
 
 " To be sure. We will invite him down to Pomeroy. T 
 like St. Ives myself, and What a lovely child ! " 
 
 A little fairy, arrayed in white, with delicate features, 
 large, lustrous eyes of light brown, and silky curls, was 
 peeping into the room. Lady Anna held out her hand. 
 
 " Come in, Annaline." 
 
 The child advanced, modestly and timidly. Leolin drew 
 her towards him. 
 
 " What a sweet expression ! " lie said aside to Anna. 
 " Who is she ? " 
 
 " Tell your name to this gentleman, my dear,'' said Anna. 
 
 " Annaline Hetley," lisped the child. 
 
 " Annaline, does she say ? " repeated Leolin. " I never 
 heard the name before. It is a pretty one.'" 
 
 " She is the little daughter of Captain Hetley : his father 
 was papa's first cousin. Frank is a great ftivourite of 
 papa's," added Anna, changing her language to French, and 
 speaking freely in her open nature, " and deserves to bo 
 so. But he is very poor, and he v/as sadly improvident in 
 marrying early." 
 
 " As improvident, I suppose, as I should have been called 
 had I married you when I had nothing to marry upon," 
 laughed Leolin. 
 
 " That is just poor Frank's case," she said, her eyes light- 
 ing up. " I don't think he has much besides his pay. He 
 fell in love with the daughter of a brother-officer, and 
 married her." 
 
 " She was poor, also, I suj)pose ? " 
 Of course. And she was of no family, therefore I am 
 sorry to say that all our family despise her, except papa, and 
 treat her rather cavalierly. But oh, Leolin, she is one of 
 the best, most refined, and nicest of women. If any one 
 ever had a treasure in a wife, it is Frank. Papa fears, 
 though, he will have to sell out." 
 
 Before the day was over, Lady Essington had come round, 
 so far as to be gracious to Leolin. The fact truly was, that 
 she would have found no fault with the alliance — nay, 
 
208 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 would have rejoiced in it — had not the duke, with his riches 
 and his title, inopportunely stepped in. Mr. Pomeroy was 
 rich, but the Duke of St. Ives was richer ; and the more we 
 liave, you know, the more we covet. 
 
 " Did Guy Pomeroy leave any children ? " inquired Lady 
 Geraldine that evening of her mother, when the family sat 
 alone. 
 
 A girl. No heir." 
 
 " I should not care to go to a home already occupied," she 
 continued, for she had not got over her resentment. " I hear 
 the widow lives there : and a nice woman she must be ! " 
 
 " She is welcome to live there," interposed Anna, her 
 sweet voice a very antidote for all ills of temper. " The 
 abbey is large enough for more than one household." 
 
 "When Anna becomes Mrs. Pomeroy the widow will 
 subside into her proper place," spoke Lady Essington. 
 
 " It is usual for the widows of the Lords of Pomeroy to 
 have their own apartments at the abbey," observed Anna. 
 " Leolin has told me a great deal about the Pomeroy 
 customs." 
 
 " Oh, the Pomeroys own to all sorts of old customs and 
 traditions, and they think they must obey them : Mrs. Knox 
 was saying so to-day," returned Geraldine. "Even to 
 calling themselves Lords of Pomeroy, which Leolin has 
 wisely dropped. But they were always a peculiar race," 
 she concluded, " and very superstitious." 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 guy's child. 
 
 Once more, as in the days gone by, Pomeroy Abbey was 
 raising its proud head, conscious of the presence of its chief. 
 Leolin had come down to see that things should be in readi- 
 ness for his bride. Six years now, and no chief had been in 
 residence. 
 
GUY'S CHILD. 
 
 209 
 
 Since the death of Guy, his widow had lived in that part 
 of the abbey which stood between the gateway and the south 
 tower. Leolin, wishing to show courtesy to her as his 
 brother's widow (though he would never be able to show her 
 cordiality), decided to leave her in it undisturbed. He 
 would reside in the other part of the front portion, and in 
 the north wing, which adjoined it. How Mrs. Pomeroy 
 would like to be deposed from her state and authority— for 
 no other had supplanted her — was another question. She 
 lived a retired life. Stories had gone about to her prejudice 
 at the time of Guy's death, but time had softened down the 
 feeling against her, and formal visits were paid her. The 
 ardent longing for personal liomage and for gaiety, which 
 had been amongst her besetting sins, seemed entirely to 
 have left her. That fatal night had turned the current of 
 her life. She was now reserved, cold, proud ; and had 
 become, as the French happily term it, a devote. Yet 
 how young she was still — wanting yet some few years of 
 thirty. 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy had not been quite without suitors during 
 these six years. Perhaps we ought to say would-be suitors, 
 for only one had ventured to bring matters to a climax. 
 That was Charles Knox, of the Knoll: a man of good 
 property, and a relative of old Mrs. Knox, who knew the 
 Essingtons. Whether it w^as Alice Pomeroy's fortune, or 
 her beauty, or her position, that made the attraction, certain 
 it was that several men desired to marry her. Mr. Knox 
 was the first to try his fate ; and he received his answ^er — 
 an answer which surprised him. Had he presented himself 
 to Mrs. Pomeroy Avith a proposition to poison her, he could 
 not have been met with greater indignation. She looked 
 ready to strike him — " and, egad, I thought she'd have done 
 it," he said, later, when telling the tale to a friend. Mrs. 
 Pomeroy ordered him out of the abbey and the doors to be 
 closed against him, after telling him that his proposal was 
 an insult and himself a madman for making it, and asking 
 him, with an intensity of scorn that has rarely been equalled, 
 whether he supposed she would marry hiin after having been 
 the wife of the Lord of Pomeroy. The report of this got 
 romeroy Abbey. 14 
 
210 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 wind someliow ; it served to deter other aspirants, and Mrs. 
 Pomeroy was left unmolested. 
 
 In the business room below, which had shelves and 
 account-books and tin boxes and desks in it, and which 
 adjoined another and larger business room that was called 
 the audience chamber, sat Leolin Pomeroy, and Gaunt, the 
 exgentleman-keeper. For Gaunt was not the keeper now. 
 He had given up that post when he took upon himself the 
 control of the property, in compliance with the wishes of 
 the late lord, George. 
 
 J ohn Gaunt, looking noble as ever, but worn and thin, sat 
 before the large desk, which he always used. It was in fact 
 the lord's desk— when any reigning lord chose to meddle 
 with his own affairs and keep his own accounts. Leolin had 
 drawn a chair near to it. They were going over the receipts 
 and expenditure of the last six years ; the years that had 
 elapsed since Guy died and George succeeded. Leolin, chief 
 now, thought he had a right to inquire into these items ; 
 and Gaunt, courteous ever, afforded him all the information 
 he asked for. 
 
 " How well the estate has righted itself," observed Leolin 
 in grateful admiration. '^You have been an excellent 
 manager." 
 
 " 1 have done my best," replied Gaunt. 
 And were all the net revenues, except the portion paid 
 to Mrs. Pomeroy, transmitted to my brother George ?" 
 
 " Yes. All." 
 
 " You transmitted them yourself? " 
 
 " No : I have paid them over to Mr. Hildyard. It was he 
 who transmitted them to your brother." 
 
 " I wonder what George did with the money ? " cried 
 Leolin musingly, leaning back in his chair and thrusting 
 his hands into his pockets. " He could not spend it ; it's 
 not likely he would, out there. I hope he has left a will ! " 
 
 " Oh yes, he is sure to have done that." 
 
 " Not at all sure. Gaunt. George was always careless in 
 money-matters — thinking of all the world before himself. 
 And his death was unexpected, remember. If he has not 
 l^t a will, v>ho — I wonder — would come in for the money? " 
 
GUY'S CHILD, 
 
 211 
 
 " His wife and child," spoke Gaunt, wlio seemed just then 
 to have gone into a reverie on his own score. 
 
 " Wife and child ! You are dreaming, Gaunt," laughed 
 Leolin. " Were you thinking of poor Guy ? " 
 
 "Perhaps I was," said Gaunt, rousing himself, and 
 plunging into the books again. 
 
 " I should have a share, I suppose ; and Joan, and Isabel ; 
 and — would she ? " 
 
 " Who, sir?" 
 
 " Mrs. Pomeroy." 
 
 " I should fancy not.'* 
 
 " I suppose the servants have behaved well. Gaunt ? " 
 
 " Very well indeed. They have not had too much to do," 
 added Gaunt, with a smile. 
 
 Leolin threw back his head. " No, indeed! The whole 
 lot of them basking in idleness here, just because they were 
 George's servants, whilst I had to work like a horse over 
 yonder " 
 
 Gaunt answered nothing. His head was bent over his 
 figures again. In half-an-hour their task was finished, and 
 Gaunt rose, after locking up the desk 
 
 " Then, in a week's time we shall see you here again,** he 
 casually remarked to Leolin ; who was returning to London 
 on the morrow- 
 
 "In a week's time you will see me here again, all being 
 well, and my wife with me, And then," added Leolin, " I 
 shall ask you to resign your trusteeship, Gaunt, and give 
 you many thanks for your faithful stewai^lship. I mean to 
 go in for work myself." 
 
 " I should like to keep it on a little longer," said Gaunt 
 (juietly. 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " It may be better that I should do so." 
 
 " You are- not ready with the accounts, I suppose." 
 
 " Ready at any moment, as far as the accounts go," replied 
 Gaunt. " But — I am not quite ready on other scores." 
 
 They stood looking at one another Gaunt, calm, noble, 
 towering in his great height nearly a head above Leolin, 
 who was himself only of middle height. Leolin thought 
 
212 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Gaunt's manner peculiar ; and he was suddenly struck with 
 his look of illness. 
 
 " Are you not well, Gaunt ? " 
 
 " Not very." 
 
 "You are frightfully thin. Why don't you speak to 
 Norris ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't think it is anything serious," was the careless 
 answer. 
 
 "How do you do, Uncle Leolin?" demanded a young 
 lady of some six years old, who came running into the room. 
 It was Mary Pomeroy, Guy's child. She was very pretty ; 
 with the large grey Pomeroy eyes, and well-formed features. 
 Her complexion was of that rather dark tinge that some- 
 times accompanies grey eyes, and the colour on her cheeks 
 was more vermilion than rose. She carried her little head 
 proudly, her fair curls falling on her neck, and walked with 
 the air of a queen. 
 
 " Is it you, Mary ? Come and give me a kiss." 
 
 " No, Uncle Leolin," was the defiant answer. 
 
 " No ! And why ? " 
 
 " Because you turned me out of the garden yesterday. 
 You made Bridget take me indoors." 
 
 " But it rained. You were getting wet — and you had thin 
 shoes on." 
 
 " They were my dancing shoes : I had been taking my 
 lesson. But I won't kiss you. Uncle Leolin. I like the 
 rain, and I always have my own way when you are not 
 here." 
 
 " Do you ? Then it is as well that I should be here, 
 Miss Mary." 
 
 " Do you know that old J erome is outside in the corridor ? 
 He is waiting to see you." 
 
 " Is he ? " cried Leolin, quickly. " Tell him to come in, 
 there's a little fairy." 
 
 " You may tell him yourself. Uncle Leolin. If you are 
 not good to me, I shall not be good to you." 
 
 Anything more commanding than the air of this little 
 lady, as she stood, still and resolute, was never seen. She 
 had inherited the stern, indomitable spirit of her fatlicr, 
 
GUY'S CHILD. 
 
 213 
 
 and she had been the indulged plaything of the abbey — in 
 fact, its little mistress — so that all the obstinate self-will 
 had been fostered, not repressed. A daring child was Mary 
 Pomeroy; and she had one of those remarkably sensible, 
 precocious minds that are sometimes looked upon with awe. 
 She would say things more suited to a girl of sixteen than 
 one of six. Leolin laughed ; and Gaunt, who was departing, 
 sent in Jerome. 
 
 " How is it you have not been to see me before, Jerome ? " 
 asked Leolin, shaking hands with the old man. " I have 
 been here these three days." 
 
 Jerome made the best of his excuse. It was only yester- 
 day he heard that Mr. Leolin had arrived. 
 
 " Well, I went to the keep yesterday to see you, Jerome, 
 as you did not come to see me, and I could not get in," 
 said Leolin. " I rang three or four times at that tinkling 
 old bell of yours, which must have been cast in the year 
 One." 
 
 " I ask your pardon, sir. I must have stepped out." 
 
 " You must be lonely in that silent keep, J erome ! Will 
 you come back to the abbey ? " 
 
 " Many thanks, Mr. Leolin, but I could not," returned 
 the old man, with almost trembling eagerness. " I'm used 
 to my keep now, sir, and I could not leave it again." 
 
 "As you will. Look here, Jerome— is Gaunt a little 
 touched ? " 
 
 " A little what, sir ? " 
 
 " Touched in the head," explained Leolin, tapping his 
 forehead. Jerome looked surprised. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Leolin, he has one of the strongest of heads, 
 has Gaunt." 
 
 " His manner was certainly queer this morning, and he 
 looks ill. When I told him I should take the accounts into 
 my own hands, thanking him for his faithful stewardship, 
 he intimated that he could not give them up. The accounts 
 were ready, he said, but he was not." 
 
 "Anything that Gaunt says, he must have his reasons 
 for ; be sure of that, Mr. Leolin." 
 
 " I like Gaunt," struck in Mary Pomeroy, defiantly, as if 
 
214 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 it behoved her to take up his championship. " He is 
 kinder than you, Uncle Leolin. When I was little, he 
 made me a present of a beautiful grey donkey, and taught 
 me to ride." 
 
 Leolin laughed as ho took the young lady's hand. I 
 am going to pay a visit to your mother : will you conduct 
 me," said he, playfully. And Miss Mary walked up the 
 grand staircase full of importance. She liked patronage of 
 all kinds. 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy was seated in the sombre oak chamber, 
 which faced the quadrangle. Handsome though its carved 
 paneling was, it looked dull and dark. Only she herself 
 could know what her feelings were, as she gazed on that 
 fatal west tower that faced her, what her repentance for 
 the foolish part she had played. 
 
 Some work of fine silken embroidery was in her hand, 
 which she put down as Leolin entered. She wore rich black 
 silk ; on her bright hair some black lace rested and fell, 
 somewhat after the fashion of the mantilla worn by a 
 Spanish woman. It was Mrs. Pomeroy 's custom to wear 
 this now. Her mother sometimes scolded her for making 
 herself " into an old woman," but she adhered to it. 
 
 How thin she was — thin, worn, and anxious looking ! 
 But her face retained its old beauty, and a soft bright 
 colour flushed her cheeks as she rose to greet Leolin 
 Pomeroy. He had paid her one formal visit on his arrival ; 
 he was now paying her a second, preparatory to his de- 
 parture. 
 
 "1 must thank you for allowing me to retain these 
 rooms," she said, and there was a harshness in her tones, as 
 there always had been, which grated on Leolin, who liked a 
 low sweet voice, that "most excellent thing in woman." 
 "I believe that I ought, according to former custom, to 
 have removed into the south wing: but I have grown to 
 love these rooms and should have been sorry to quit them. 
 I thank you for your courtesy." 
 
 " I am glad that you should retain them : I should not 
 think of wishing you to leave them," spoke Leolin, in his 
 natural good feeling. He did not like Mrs. Pomeroy j but 
 
GUY'S CHILD. 
 
 215 
 
 she was his brother's widow, and he accorded her personal 
 deference. 
 
 "And I hope," ho continued, "that you and my wife, 
 Lady Anna, will be good friends. I am sure you will like 
 her." 
 
 " I shall be glad to make Lady Anna's acquaintance," 
 replied Mrs. Pomeroy, coldly. And she took up her work 
 again. 
 
 Conversation flagged. Leolin had to make it ; she 
 answered him in monosyllables, apparently without interest. 
 He rose to terminate his visit. 
 
 " I forgot to ask you one thing," she interposed. " Have 
 you heard any further particulars of your brother George's 
 death?" 
 
 " Nothing more than we heard at first," he answered : 
 " that poor George died in action. He went forth in the 
 morning, bright, well, and in high spirits ; and at night he 
 was lying dead in a tent on the battle-field." 
 
 " It was very sad," sighed Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 " His confidential servant, Moore, is on his way home, I 
 believe. He will bring all details, with George's personal 
 effects and papers. We thought Moore would have landed 
 ere this," added Leolin, as he formally shook hands with 
 Mrs. Pomeroy, and quitted the room. Mary was in the 
 corridor with her skipping-rope. 
 
 " Did mamma tell you I was naughty. Uncle Leolin ? " 
 
 " Well — I dare say she might have told me, had I asked 
 her if you were so." 
 
 " I would not do my lessons this morning. Miss Lorne 
 has the toothache ; and mamma wanted to hear them instead, 
 and I ran away. But I don't call that being very naughty, 
 Uncle Leolin." 
 
 The old Abbey of Pomeroy stood out, its walls grey and 
 gloomy in the dim twilight of the August evening. Its 
 windows, however, were in contrast to the walls, many of 
 them being as gay as light could make them, and its 
 retainers bustled about in their preparations ; for Leolin 
 Pomeroy was bringing home his bride. 
 
216 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 The marriage liad taken place in London the previous 
 day. Leolin would fain have reached the abbey the same 
 night ; but it was too far, so they made a halt on the road. 
 Now, in the twilight of the second day, they were nearing 
 it ; and Lady Anna leaned forward in the carriage to look 
 for the first time upon her future home. The huge pile 
 rose, high and mighty, in front of her. 
 
 " What a large place, Leolin ! " 
 
 " It is, my dearest." 
 
 " And there is a real ghost that haunts it, they say." 
 
 Leolin laughed. " I fear the ghost has been dead and 
 gone this many a year : however disappointing it may be to 
 your love of romance." 
 
 " Which are Mrs. Pomeroy's rooms ? " 
 
 " Those to the right of the entrance, facing us. The 
 reigning lord has always occupied the whole of the front, 
 but I would not turn Mrs. Pomeroy out. We shall occupy 
 the rooms on this side the entrance and the north wing 
 which adjoins it." 
 
 " It must take an army of servants to keep it up ; only 
 this front pile is immense. Will there be two households, 
 Leolin ? Our own and Mrs. Pomeroy's ? " 
 
 " Certainly. We shall have nothing to do with Mrs. 
 Pomeroy, or she with us : she has her own servants and 
 household, and we have ours. You and she need not meet 
 once in a twelvemonth, unless you both please to do so." 
 
 " But, Leolin, I think it will be pleasant to meet : I 
 am glad she is there. What sort of a person is she ? 
 Young ? " 
 
 " Seven or eight-and-twenty, I fancy, and still beautiful. 
 I have only known her lately, have seen her only three 
 times in all ; but she strikes me as being the very saddest 
 being I ever came across — proud, reserved, and sorrowful ; 
 and they say that formerly, before that dreadful catastrophe, 
 she was all life and merriment. She moves about with a 
 softened footstep, sees little, if any, society, and seems to 
 take no interest in life ; scarcely even in her child, though 
 I believe she is passionately fond of her." 
 
 Tlie carriage rolled in at the large gateway, and drew up 
 
GUY'S CHILD. 
 
 217 
 
 at the entrance — that on the right. The servants stood 
 within the hall on either side, bowing to their lord and 
 their new lady. Old Jerome had come from the keep to 
 take his place at their head. Lady Anna spoke a few timid 
 Avords to them : but there was kindness in her tone, gentle- 
 ness in her face and manner. The servants knew at once 
 that their future mistress was one to be loved. 
 
 Lady Anna was pleased with all she saw. The rooms 
 were so numerous it would take her a week to know her 
 way about them, she laughingly said. Some of them had 
 been decorated for her, under John G aunt's superintendence ; 
 modernized, he called it ; and were of almost regal splen- 
 dour ; but the greater portion remained quaint, sombre, and 
 ancient. 
 
 "Do you think you shall be happy here?" whispered 
 Leolin, as he went to her dressing-room to take her away 
 for dinner. " Do you regret St. Ives ? " 
 
 Eegret? A husband she loved, and a princely home, 
 compared with what might have been — the simple Duke of 
 St. Ives and his domineering mother! She clasped her 
 hands as she dwelt on the suggested contrast. 
 
 In the morning Leolin showed her over their own portion 
 of the abbey, telling her much of the past history of the 
 Pomeroys. Anna was deeply interested in all she heard : 
 especially in the tale of the nun's picture and the prediction. 
 That inveterate gossip, old Mrs. Knox, had given Anna her 
 version of it in London, but she heard the truth now. 
 Leolin, at least, was not superstitious ; contact with the 
 world had rubbed childish impressions out of him; but 
 Anna had rather a love for the marvellous. 
 
 The afternoon was passing when they strolled into the 
 garden — the large enclosure stretching out at the north 
 side of the abbey. Gaunt had taken care that it should be 
 well kept up. 
 
 " I could lose myself here as well as in the abbey, Leolin. 
 What sheltering trees — what beautiful flowers— -what wind- 
 ing walks and shady groves! But— Leolin— who is 
 that ? " 
 
 Leolin followed the direction of her eyes, and saw a lady 
 
218 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 who had just come into view round the bend by the cascade, 
 a child by her side. 
 
 " That is Mrs. Pomeroy, Anna. I will bring her hero 
 and introduce you to one another." 
 
 But Mrs. Pomeroy, the instant she caught sight of them, 
 had turned sharply away towards the shrubbery, which 
 would take her to the entrance-gate ; seizing the child's 
 hand as she went. Miss Mary drew her hand away again 
 and ran towards Leolin. 
 
 " Mary, stay here," quickly exclaimed Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 " It is Uncle Leolin, mamma. I am going to him," replied 
 Miss Mary, exercising as usual her own indomitable will. 
 And she continued her way to Leolin in defiance of her mother. 
 
 " Have you come back to the abbey, Uncle Leolin ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered he, stooping to kiss her. ''Go and 
 speak to that lady, Mary." 
 
 " Who is she ? " returned the child. 
 
 " She is Lady Anna Pomeroy, and my wife. You must 
 be great friends." 
 
 Walking quickly forward, he overtook Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 She coldly shook him by the hand. 
 
 " My wife is there," he said. " Will you come now, and 
 be introduced to her ? " 
 
 " Would it be agreeable ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ; she wishes to make your acquaintance. We 
 arrived home last night ; as I dare say you heard." 
 
 Meanwhile Mary had drawn towards Lady Anna with a 
 slow but fearless step, her grey eyes — the keen Pomeroy 
 eyes — scanning her closely. Anna held out her hand that 
 she might come quicker ; but the child, instead of respond- 
 ing to the welcome, halted at a few yards' distance. 
 
 " Uncle Leolin says you are his wife." 
 
 " I believe I am," smiled Anna. " Tell me your name, my 
 dear." 
 
 "Mary Alice Joan Pomeroy. Papa was Guy, Lord of 
 Pomeroy. Uncle Leolin's the lord now.'' 
 " Yes, I know he is " 
 
 " And mamma used to be the lady," she said, defiantly. 
 Were you ever at the abbey before ? " 
 
GUY'S CHILD. 
 
 219 
 
 "No." 
 
 " That's the east tower, and that's the north tower," said 
 the child, gravely doing the honours of her paternal home. 
 "And that queer place, over there, is the keep. Jerome 
 lives in it." 
 
 Anna looked in the direction of the keep, and saw a round 
 structure of grey stone, covered with moss like the abbey, 
 a small narrow window here and there discernible. 
 
 " Who is Jerome ? " she asked. " Stay — I remember, I 
 saw him last night." 
 
 " Jerome was the confidential attendant on the Lords of 
 Pomeroy. Do you know what that means ? " 
 
 " Yes," laughed Anna. 
 
 " He was grandpapa's attendant : and when grandpapa 
 died, he became papa's ; and when papa died, he would not 
 stay in the abbey any longer, but went to the keep. I w^as 
 a baby then, but Bridget tells me about it. I go to see 
 Jerome sometimes." 
 
 " The keep belongs to the abbey then ; to the Pomeroys ? " 
 continued Anna, thinking her a singularly intelligent child 
 for her age. 
 
 " It belongs to them, of course. It was Uncle George's 
 while he lived, and now it is Uncle Leolin's. Did you know 
 that Uncle George never came home, though he was the lord? " 
 
 " I have heard so." 
 
 " But the keep is Jeix)me's to live in for his life : the old 
 lord gave it him when he was dying. That w^as my grand- 
 papa : we call him the old lord." 
 
 " Who has made you so wise — and told you all this ? " 
 
 " They all tell me. Bridget tells me, and Jerome tells 
 me, and Aunt Joan tells me when she com.es here, and 
 Gaunt tells me. Gaunt used to be the gentleman- game- 
 keeper. The men under him were the real keepers, you 
 know, though Gaunt was called so ; but Gaunt w^as really 
 a gentleman, and traces his descent far back, as we do. I 
 hear nothing but tales of the Pomeroys. We are descended 
 from kings, so there are many things to tell of us ; Vv^e are 
 not like common people. You should hear old Naomi Eex 
 talk about us.'* 
 
220 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Who is Naomi Eex ? " 
 
 " She is Bridget's aunt, and lives in the forest — and when 
 I rode up there on my pretty donkey that Gaunt gave me, 
 she used to come out and feed it with stuff from her garden. 
 You don't know how angry I used to make Bridget, because 
 I would gallop the donkey, and Bridget could not run fast 
 enough to keep up wdth me. That was when I was little. 
 T have a pony now." 
 
 " And does Bridget still run beside you ? " 
 
 "No: we borrow Jeffs." 
 
 " Jeffs ? " 
 
 "Jeffs is the lord's coachman, not mamma's; ours is 
 Croft; but mamma likes best to trust me to Jeffs because 
 he is old and steady. Jeffs rides one of the old horses that 
 won't go faster than my pony. I asked Jeffs at first why he 
 would not be mamma's coachman, and he said he should 
 have been hers, only I was a girl and not a boy. We go up 
 to old Naomi's, and she tells me tales of the Pomeroys — how 
 great and good they were. Mamma will not let me repeat 
 the tales to her ; she says she has heard too much of them. 
 But then, you see, mamma is not a true Pomeroy." 
 
 " You are a strange child ! " involuntarily exclaimed Lady 
 Anna. 
 
 " That's because I am a Pomeroy," returned the young 
 lady. " If I want to make mamma angry, I tell her that I 
 am a Pomeroy and she is not. She whipped me once for 
 saying it and banished me to the nursery for two days. I 
 did not care : I have the Pomeroy spirit." 
 
 " How can they have brought the child up like this ? " 
 thought Anna, feeling quite dismayed. " And I am sure 
 she would be a charming child, properly trained." 
 
 As the thought passed through Anna's mind, Leolin came 
 up with Mrs. Pomeroy, who had lingered unnecessarily. He 
 introduced them to each other. 
 
 " Mrs. Pomeroy," he briefly said. " And this," he added, 
 " is my wife. Lady Anna." 
 
 Anna blushed, and put out her hand cordially — as between 
 connections. Mrs. Pomeroy wore the same attire that we 
 last saw her in : rich black silk, made tight to the throat ; 
 
GUY'S CHILD. 
 
 221 
 
 a black lace mantilla on her head. Anna was in light silk ; 
 her fair hair, worn without ornament, gleaming in the sun- 
 light every time she moved her parasol. It was a very hot 
 day, and neither of them wore a bonnet. They were quite 
 a contrast : the one looking so gay and bright ; the other so 
 dark and sombre : even her parasol was black. 
 
 Anna, blushing, had put out her hand, hoping for an 
 answering welcome. To this sensitive girl, the coming to 
 Pomeroy Abbey to supplant Mrs. Pomeroy, had seemed a 
 formidable thing, and she yearned for a few words of sym- 
 pathy. But Mrs. Pomeroy curtsied distantly, and would not 
 meet the hand ; would not appear to see it. 
 
 They stood in silence. An unpleasant silence, resulting 
 from Mrs. Pomeroy's marked discourtesy. Therefore, when 
 a dusty travelling-carriage, drawn by four post-horses, came 
 into view, as it did at the moment, the diversion served 
 to soften the awkward feeling. From this part of the 
 garden the approach to the abbey was visible; and this 
 travelling-carriage, its blinds down, had turned off the high- 
 road and was sweeping up it. A man-servant, wearing 
 mourning, sat on the box, and a coat-of-arms was emblazoned 
 on the panels. The eyes of Mary were quick ; she was the 
 first to speak. 
 
 " The Pomeroy arms ! Why, it must be Aunt Joan ! " 
 
 But the eyes of Leolin had expanded with amazement as he 
 gazed. They were the arms of the reigning lords of Pomeroy, 
 and he alone had a right to use them. Mrs. Pomeroy 
 strained her gaze, and her face became white as death. 
 
 " It can never be Eupert ! " burst from the compressed 
 lips of Leolin, his thoughts flying to the one who ought to 
 have been lord, and was not so." 
 
 Mary Pomeroy laid hold of her uncle. " Look at mamma," 
 she said in a frightened whisper. 
 
 He turned, as did his wife ; and they hastened to support 
 Mrs. Pomeroy. Her hands had dropped, her features were 
 drawn and ghastly. The mention of Eupert had frightened 
 her to agony: was he in truth coming home to brave his 
 fate ? No one in the world would dare to use those arms, 
 excepting Eupert. 
 
222 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 STARTLING VISITORS. 
 
 The carriage, tliat was causing so much paiiiful speculation, 
 drove in at tlie large archway, and stopped. A lady, attired 
 in deep mourning — a tall, handsome, regal-looking woman 
 — descended from it, followed by a female attendant and a 
 sick child, a boy of some seven or eight years old. She 
 inquired for Mrs. Pomeroy, and was ushered up the grand 
 staircase. 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy, sitting on a garden-bench and still faint, 
 received the message from one of her servants — which 
 message Leolin pressed forward to hear. How greatly both 
 felt relieved it were superfluous to tell. Only a lady : a 
 traveller apparently, who had come to crave speech of her. 
 But where on eariih had she obtained the carriage ? 
 
 Alice proceeded to her reception-rooms. The first thing 
 she saw was the child lying on a sofa, his attendant standing 
 near him. The lady rose from her chair at Mrs. Pomeroy's 
 entrance, threw back her crape veil, and they stood face to 
 face. 
 
 Do you know me ? the stranger inquired. 
 
 Eemembrance was dawning over Alice Pomeroy. Surely 
 it was Sybilla Gaunt, the daughter of Gaunt, the gentleman- 
 keeper ; she who had left the village nearly eight years 
 before, and with whose good name rumour had made free. 
 There was no mistaking her ; those noble features, once seen, 
 could not be forgotten. 
 
 You are Sybilla Gaunt 1 " 
 
 " I was Sybilla Gaunt, years ago. I am Sybilla Pomeroy." 
 . Mrs. Pomeroy froze at once. " What may be the j^urport 
 of your visit ? " she coldly asked. 
 
 " I requested to see you privately, as in courtesy bound : 
 and to explain to you why I must from henceforth assume 
 my rights : however sorry I shall be," slie added with a bow, 
 
 to displace the Lady of Pomeroy." 
 
STARTLING VISITORS. 
 
 223 
 
 '^I am not the Lady of Pomeroy," sLarj^ly interrupted 
 Alice. 
 
 " Not in point of fact : I am aware of that : but you have 
 held sway here." 
 
 " I do not hold it now," interposed Alice, her voice sound- 
 ing harsher than usual. " It is not I who am Lady of 
 Pomeroy." 
 
 " Then wdio is ? — if you will allow me to ask." 
 " The Lady Anna, the wife of Leolin. " Leolin is Lord 
 of Pomeroy." 
 
 ^ Leolin ! Surely it is not possible that Leolin has as- 
 sumed " 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy would not allow her to go on. Once more 
 came her harsh voice in interruption. 
 
 " Leolin is the Lord of Pomeroy by right," she haughtily 
 said. He has no need to assume to be so." 
 
 The visitor approached the sofa. Taking her child by 
 the hand, she whispered to him : Kupert, my dear, can 
 you walk a few steps ? Yes, I think you can. I want you 
 to see this lady." 
 
 She lovingly lifted him down, and led him up to Mrs. 
 Pomeroy. A graceful, aristocratic child, though now fear- 
 fully pale and thin. His features were beautiful : he had 
 his mother's expressive violet eyes, with the long, dark 
 lashes : but there was no mistaking that his sire had been a 
 Pomeroy. The visitor held him before her. 
 
 " This child," she said, " is Lord of Pomeroy." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy, taken by surprise, could neither assent nor 
 refute : but a sudden thought prompted her to speak. " Is 
 it well," haughtily pointing to the servant, " that family 
 discussions should be carried on before a menial ? " 
 
 She is French, and does not understand a word of our 
 language. Mrs. Pomeroy, Leolin is not lord, and never has 
 been. TLe moment the breath w'ent out of my husband's 
 body, his son, this child, became Lord of Pomeroy." 
 
 It is easy to assert a thing," scornfully laughed Mrs. 
 Pomeroy. " George Pomeroy may have made you a tardy 
 reparation — I know not : you will doubtless say so— but 
 this child is seven years old, if he is a day." 
 
224 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " You may have heard of the Gaunt blood," spoke Sybilla 
 calmly ; " my father would tell you that it is not less pure 
 than fiery. Can you look at me, and believe that I have 
 ever disgraced it ? " 
 
 " You left the village to follow George Pomeroy." 
 
 " Yes ; but, many months before that, I had become 
 George Pomeroy's wife. We were married here. Here, in 
 the chapel attached to the abbey." 
 
 " Can this be true ? " murmured Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 " I will not reiterate the assertion," was the proud retort. 
 " It will be as easily proved as your own marriage." 
 
 " It was performed in secret ? " 
 
 " It had to be performed in secret for certain reasons of 
 my husband's. It was known to none, excepting the 2)riest 
 who married ns, good Father Andrew, and Eupert." 
 
 " Oh ! Known to Eupert ! " 
 
 Disbelief, almost bordering upon scorn, marked the tone 
 of the last words. Sybilla quietly corrected it. 
 
 " Certainly to Eupert. He was present at the marriage. 
 Later, when George came over to the old lord's funeral, he 
 disclosed the truth to my father and to Guy ; and he made 
 all necessary arrangements for my quitting Abbeyland, but 
 I wished to remain in it as long as I could, for my father's 
 sake. "When I did leave, Eupert took me as far as Holy- 
 head, and George received me on the other side. A little 
 later, my boy was born." 
 
 " In Ireland ? " 
 
 " In Ireland. George was quartered there. He after- 
 wards started for India with the regiment. I followed him 
 when I was strong enough, taking my child and its nurse. 
 The Indian climate did not agree with the child, and he 
 has not been very strong,-" she added, glancing fondly at 
 Eupert, who had returned to the distant sofa. " He is 
 nearly eight years old now." 
 
 " He is veritably and truly Lord of Pomeroy ? " uttered 
 Mrs. Pomeroy, unable to take in the fact, though she no 
 longer doubted the truth of the story. 
 
 " He is as truly Lord of Pomeroy as any one can be, save 
 — save — him who is yet a fugitive. He is the veritable 
 
STARTLING VISITORS. 
 
 225 
 
 Lord of Pomeroy, and will be to liis life's end, although ho 
 is debarred from enjoying his rights." 
 
 "I think he must be dead," whispered Mrs. Pomeroy, 
 with quivering lips. 
 
 " No, he is not dead," Sybilla was beginning. But she 
 broke off suddenly, her tone changing to coldness. " Let 
 the subject, if you please, be a barred one between us, Mrs, 
 Pomeroy. It is one you may not care to dwell u23on ; and 
 I will not." 
 
 Alice Pomeroy's face deepened to crimson : the next 
 minute it was left paler than before. Her lips trembled. 
 
 " I see. You have no more pity for me than others have 
 had. You judge me harshly, as they did. No one stood 
 by me in my bitter trial. In common humanity you must 
 finish the sentence you began. Is he living ? " 
 
 " Yes. At least he was a short time ago. My husband 
 used to have communications from him now and then." 
 
 " From himself ! By letter ! He may be coming back 
 here," added Mrs. Pomeroy in agitation. " He may, not 
 understanding his danger, be wishing to endeavour to assume 
 his rights as Lord of Pomeroy." 
 
 " He will never do that," replied Sybilla, her voice in- 
 expressibly sad. " He recognized George as the fitting lord, 
 under the circumstances, and this child as his heir." 
 
 That Sybilla in her heart condoned the unhapjDy Eupert's 
 sins, there appeared to be little room to doubt. Mrs. 
 Pomeroy began to shiver. She often did when the past was 
 brought unexpectedly before her : and she did not at all 
 forgive Sybilla for bringing it up now. 
 
 " With what object have you returned here ? " she resumed 
 pettishly. 
 
 " Need you ask — now that you know who I am ? " re- 
 turned Sybilla, with quiet dignity. ^' To bring up my child 
 in the home of his inheritance ; and to reside in it of my 
 own right." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy mused. "How will Leolin receive this? 
 — and his wife, Lady Anna ? They w^ere married only two 
 days ago." 
 
 " I cannot understand it. Notice was sent to Mr. Hild- ' 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 15 
 
226 
 
 POMEKOY ABBEY. 
 
 yard that George left a son — wlio liad of course become the 
 inheritoro And my father knew it all along. How they 
 Dan have suffered poor Leolin to assume the inheritance is 
 inexplicable." 
 
 " Why did you not come over at once ? " 
 
 " I came as soon as I was able ; as soon as little Eupert's 
 health permitted me. George's own man attended us, 
 bringing all his papers and effects. We came by the 
 overland route. In Paris Eupert was again taken ill, and 
 that detained us yet further. But I saw nq reason for any 
 particular haste, knowing of the instructions sent to Mr. 
 Hildyard," concluded Sybilla. 
 
 " It will be a blow for Leolin." 
 
 " I am very, very sorry to inflict it — but I have no choice. 
 I would not willingly have come to sow discord : if Leolin 
 will be reasonable, I will be so. They may have sway still, 
 in all that does not concern my boy," added Sybilla. 
 Had you any other children ? " 
 
 " Three," she sighed. " They died in India." 
 
 " I know who this one is like," said Mrs. Pomeroy — " like 
 him he is named after. Oh, why did you name him Eupert ? " 
 she continued, in a tone of pain. 
 
 " We liked the name : and George was always fond of his 
 brother Eupert. Eupert joined us in Ireland, and was at 
 the child's christening. But I must see Leolin." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy sent a messenger to request Leolin's 
 presence. Strange, perhaps, to say, this astounding news 
 was not unwelcome to her, now that she came to revolve it. 
 She disliked Leolin : he had not been sparing of his scorn 
 of herself and her deeds when he came over at Guy's death, 
 and some good-natured listener had repeated the words to 
 her. She had never forgiven Leolin. It would not be too 
 much to say that she hated him : and she would rather 
 Sybilla reigned than he. 
 
 Leolin, still lingering in the garden with his wife, came 
 up in answer to Mrs. Pomeroy's message, unconscious of 
 the trouble that awaited him. It chanced that the French 
 maid was leading the little boy from the room as he 
 approached it, and they met in the corridor. His notice 
 
STAETLINCx VISITORS. 
 
 227 
 
 fell on the cliild ; so sickly-looking, so handsome, so like- 
 it struck Leolin at once — his brother Rupert. Aye, and 
 like George, also. 
 
 Passing onwards, he entered the drawing-room, and gazed 
 with amazement at Sybilla, whom he instantly recognized. 
 
 " Why, Sybilla ! is it you ? " he exclaimed. " Have you 
 come back again ? " 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy glided up to them. " Leolin, she is the 
 Lady of Pomeroy." 
 
 Leolin looked from one to the other with a darkening 
 brow. " The Lady of — what do you say ? " 
 
 But it was Sybilla hei*self who interposed. " Leolin, I 
 am indeed Lady of Pomeroy ; and have been, ever since 
 the fatal night that deprived the abbey of Guy. It w^as 
 George, you know, who succeeded him : Eupert could not 
 do so." 
 
 " Well ? " quoth Leolin, wonderingiy. 
 " Well — I was George's wife." 
 " Wife ! " sneered Leolin. 
 
 " I was George's wife long before your father died." 
 
 " 1 heard a tale of Sybilla Gaunt's flying from the village 
 with a Pomeroy — after she could no longer remain in 
 it," Bcoffed Leolin. " But Rupert was indicated as the 
 gallant." 
 
 The Lady of Pomeroy confronted him, not giving way to 
 anger, as might have been natural. I was married to 
 George in the chapel here," she calmly said ; " Guy and 
 Rupert became the confidants of the secret, for my husband 
 thought it well to impart it to them ; Rupert at the time, 
 Guy later. I did remain here for many months afterwards ; 
 and then I joined my husband in L'eland, w^here the child 
 was born. Rupert came to us there, and was godfather to 
 the boy." 
 
 " It is a forged " 
 
 ''Stay," she interrupted, arresting what was about to 
 follow. " Are the Gaunts capable of falsehood ? Though 
 my father's patrimony and position have been dwindling 
 down for generations, did you ever know him guilty of a 
 dishonourable word or action ? He has yielded obedience 
 
228 
 
 POMEROY ABBPTY. 
 
 to the Lords of Pomeroy, but he is still tlic descendant of 
 the noblest of the land, and I am his daughter. You Imow 
 that I would tell you nothing but truth. If you choose to 
 assume that it is not true, send for Father Andrew to con- 
 firm what I say. He married us." 
 
 Leolin stood confounded : ho had no words of denial at 
 hand. 
 
 "I am George's widow," she quietly repeated, "and his 
 child, Kupert, is his heir. I have come back to my father- 
 land to enter upon my own rights ; I have come to the 
 abbey to inhabit it. If I chose to assume my full rights, I 
 should not live in it as the late lord's widow, but as the 
 reigning lady. It can own no other lady than myself, as 
 long as my child shall be unmarried. You may perceive 
 that no choice is left me ; that for my child's sake I must 
 
 do this. But, Leolin, I have said to Mrs. Pomeroy 
 
 Where is she ? " 
 
 Sybilla turned, and Leolin turned. Mrs. Pomeroy, who 
 was at their side a moment before, was no longer to be seen. 
 She had silently left the room, though they had not noticed 
 her departure. 
 
 " I have not come, Leolin, to raise up a whirlwind. I 
 shall not care to fulfil one part of the Lady of Pomeroy's 
 duties — that of receiving guests and visiting in return. I 
 shall require a very small space of the abbey ; but — you 
 understand me — I must ba its recognized mistress : I am 
 content to live in it quietly, superintending the education 
 and watching the health of my son. Therefore, though you 
 are not, and cannot be, the lord, I should yet wish that ycu 
 would live in it at j)resent as his representative. I should 
 wish that you and your wife — whom I hear you have newly 
 married — should live in it and do its honours, and enjoy a 
 part of its revenues, which I will take care that you receive : 
 that, in fact, you should be chief in everything but name. 
 You will not guess the feeling that jn'ompts me to say 
 this." 
 
 He did not ask her to enlighten him ; he stood, as before, 
 with compressed lii)S. 
 
 " I will tell you," she said, subduing her voice to a 
 
STARTLING VISITORS. 
 
 229 
 
 whisper. "So long as he lives, he is the true Lord of 
 Pomeroy. Though by one wild action, committed in the, 
 heat of passion, he may have forfeited the right to reign, he 
 is the true inheritor. In spite of his being compelled to 
 live in exile, poverty, he is yet the chief of Pomeroy. Nor 
 George, nor our child, nor you, had, or can have, any real 
 title to these advantages whilst he lives " 
 
 " How can you give utterance to so absurd a theory ? " 
 cried Leolin, with anger. 
 
 " I speak as I feel," she quietly said. I feel that, in 
 spite of what happened, he is the only legitimate chief of 
 Pomeroy. Had it been premeditated murder, then, I grant 
 you, exile, death, would be too good for him : but, you 
 know what it was — a quarrel; a scuffle. Thus I feel that 
 not one of us has more right to enjoy these advantages than 
 another ; nay, that you, as the last of the brothers excepting 
 him, have perhaps the most. It was this feeling, as much 
 as his disinclination to leave the army on the eve of war, 
 that prevented my husband from coming home to Pomeroy : 
 he felt that the right was a false one, whilst his unhappy 
 brother lived. My child does and must inherit, for we 
 cannot avert the laws of succession : but, Leolin, you and 
 your wife must remain in the abbey, and keep up its 
 splendour and its gaiety." 
 
 Still there came no reply. 
 
 " Another thing," she went on, in a changed tone. " A 
 voice seems to whisper to me that should I assume my full 
 rights here, it might only be to resign them to you on the 
 death of my child. I do not think he will live. He was 
 never strong in India, and just before his father died ho 
 had fever upon fever, and he has never recovered from it. 
 Should he die, as I often fear he will, then you are again 
 Lord of Pomeroy." 
 
 "I must repeat that your feeling towards Eupert is 
 unjustifiable ; absurdly high-flown." 
 
 " It is my feeling," she answered, the blood mantling in 
 lier cheeks, " and it was my husband's before me. When 
 he dies, that poor wanderer and exile, then I may wish to 
 take rather more upon myself liere than I shall take now. 
 
230 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 I may perhaps require Mrs. Pomeroy to resign these state 
 apartments, which she has continued to occupy. But there 
 is one thing I shall never do, Leolin — and that is, displace 
 you and your wife." 
 
 " The poor exile, as you call him — I should rather say 
 the wicked exile — must be dead long ago." 
 
 " He is not dead, Leolin." 
 
 " How do you know it ? " 
 
 " Because George heard from him just before his own 
 death." 
 
 " Where is he ? What is he doing ? " asked Leolin, with 
 emotion. ; 
 
 "I cannot tell you wlierc he is ; I do not know. So far 
 as George and I could gather, he moved about from one 
 desert place to another, avoiding those frequented by 
 civilized man. Once he wrote to us from the depths of 
 some unknown prairie in the Pacific ; once from a desert 
 wild in Africa. His whole life is spent in endeavouring 
 to hide from his fellow-men. It must so be spent unto the 
 end." 
 
 Leolin sighed. He and Kupert had been reared together ; 
 they had shared the same chamber in infancy, the same 
 studies in boyhood, the same sports as young men : in 
 spite of what had happened they were still brothers ; and 
 there were moments when Leolin felt for him most deeply. 
 
 " We have been thinking him dead," he said. " He has 
 never given us the slightest token that he w^as living, all 
 these years." 
 
 " How could he give it, Leolin ? How did he know but 
 that some of you, in your anger, might wish to bring him 
 to justice ? He bound George to secrecy : I hardly know 
 whether I am justified now in speaking." 
 
 " Absurd ! We should not be likely to do that." 
 
 " Tou would not. But you cannot answer for Mrs. 
 Pomeroy. Leolin, shall it be peace between us ? " 
 
 " I don't know what it shall be," roughly replied Leolin, 
 as he turned from the room. 
 
 How bitter this blow was to him, he alone knew. In 
 Leolin Pomeroy there had always existed a strong element 
 
STAETLING VISITORS. 
 
 231 
 
 of selfishness. He was ambitious ; fond of state, of position, 
 and of power ; fond of money : not for the money itself, but 
 for the good things it brought. To all this he had attained : 
 and to have it dashed from him, at one fell blow, was almost 
 more than human nature could bear. Is it surprising that 
 a strong feeling of resentment against this new Lady of 
 Pomeroy, and against her child — who seemed to have 
 sprung from the other end of the earth or out of the depths 
 of the sea — should have taken possession of him ? 
 
 In this mood he chanced to meet Father Andrew. The 
 good priest, jolly and equable as ever, was walking about in 
 the sunshine, on the greensward that skirted the approach to 
 the abbey, thinking of nothing in the world but what 
 Marget was providing for his early supper that night, and 
 hoping it would be a dish of beans and bacon, to which 
 choice delicacy he was particularly partial. During these 
 agreeable anticipations he found himself suddenly pounced 
 upon by Leolin Pomeroy ; who had an awful frown on his 
 face, and laid a fierce grasp on his arm. 
 
 " That daughter of John Gaunt — Sybilla. Do you mind 
 me, father?" 
 
 " Surely I do," spoke the father. 
 
 " She has come back here with a tale that you married 
 her to my brother George." 
 
 " It is a true tale," re2)lied the priest. " I did marry 
 them." 
 
 " Did it lie in your line of duty. Father Andrew, to unite 
 Sybilla Gaunt to a Pomeroy ? " demanded Leolin in severe 
 tones. 
 
 Nothing put out the good-humoured priest : severity fell 
 harmless upon him. He opened his snuif-box and leisurely 
 helped himself to a pinch. 
 
 " You know what the Pomeroy will is : George Pomeroy, 
 good-hearted and gentle though he was, possessed it equally 
 with the rest of you. He did not say to me. Will you marry 
 me ? he said, Do it. The licence, and all else, was in order, 
 and I had no choice but to obey." 
 
 " Without the sanction of friends on either side ! " was 
 Leolin's scornful reproach. " Without witnesses ? " 
 
232 
 
 rOMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Had there been no witness at all, I might have cle- 
 muiTed. Not that any end Avould have been gained by it. 
 George would only have taken her off to the next town and 
 married her there. But there was a witness — his brother 
 Eupert. Eupert was present ; and, to judge by his manner, 
 heartily sanctioned it. And so she has returned, has 
 she ? " 
 
 Leolin looked the scorn he did not speak. " Do you know 
 that there is a child ? — a boy ? She has brought the boy 
 with her to supplant me." 
 
 " I knew there was a boy : born eleven or twelve months 
 after the marriage. Since poor George's death and your 
 accession. Gaunt and I have sometimes talked over the 
 possible complication " 
 
 " Complication ! " wrathfully echoed Leolin. " Was it 
 well, I ask you, father, to conceal so weighty a matter 
 from me ? — to let me believe that George had left no 
 child?" 
 
 " Listen," said the priest, pleasantly. We knew about 
 the boy, of course ; and that he was George's heir ; but he 
 was always so delicate, and of late so ill, that we deemed it 
 probable he would not live to trouble you. Upon George's 
 unexpected death, Sybilla wrote a line to her father ; it was 
 little more than a line, in her distress ; she said that the 
 child was then as ill as he could be, there remained little 
 hope of him ; but that all due instructions should be for- 
 Avarded to Mr. Hildyard. Well, we thought, naturally 
 thought, that Mr. Hildyard, upon receiving these instructions, 
 would ac(][uaint you at once with the fact that there was a 
 little lad who came in as Lord of Pomeroy. Finding that 
 he did not do so, but, on the contrary, suftered you to enter 
 on the succession, we supposed Hildyard must have received 
 news that the boy was dead. There is the whole matter 
 lying in a nutshell." 
 
 " Whether he was dead or living, I ought not to have 
 been kept in this complete ignorance. You and Gaunt 
 have both behaved ill to me, father." 
 
 " Nay, nay, my son, not intentionally. In the uncer- 
 tainty, as to whether the child was alive or dead, we did 
 
STARTLING VISITORS. 
 
 233 
 
 not care to speak to you ; preferring, rather, to leave it 
 until Sybilla's return, v/hich has been long expected." 
 
 " As to Gaunt's conduct throughout the whole business, I 
 cannot find words to express my detestation of it. He has 
 played his cards well ! It is explained now why he hesitated 
 to give up the stewardship." 
 
 " If you mean that he was a party to the marriage, you 
 are mistaken," said the priest. " Gaunt knew no more of it, 
 or of what was agate, than you did. Your father knew of it 
 before Gaunt knew." 
 
 " My father ! " exclaimed Leolin. 
 
 " Ay. I told your father of it on his death-bed. It was, 
 I think, the very day he died. We were talking con- 
 fidentially, he and I, chiefly about you all, and I saw reason 
 to inform him that I had married George some months 
 before to Sybilla Gaunt. The subject was, in fact, led 
 up to." 
 
 " Did my father, dying though he was, explode with 
 anger ? " 
 
 " Your father sent his blessing to them. With four sons 
 to marry, he said, one of them might as well choose Sybilla, 
 as not. She was a pure, good girl." 
 
 " Did he say so ? " 
 
 "They were the old lord's words: Sybilla was a pure, 
 good girl ; of good descent too ; he had always liked her, 
 and she would make George an excellent wife. George had 
 once told him, it seemed, that he should like to choose 
 Sybilla, and the lord had sanctioned the wish. So George 
 was not guilty even of tacit disobedience, you perceive, 
 though he did not at the time disclose the marriage ; in 
 fact, George was about the only one of you who, I am sure, 
 could not be guilty of it." 
 
 " And, with all this approbation — which sounds as though 
 it came out of a romance — will you tell me why it was 
 needful to continue to make a secret of the marriage?" 
 sarcastically asked Leolin. " They might have declared it, 
 as it seems to me." 
 
 " I will tell you why they did not," returned the priest. 
 " Your brother George had paid rather too mucli attention 
 
234 
 
 POMEROY xVBBEY. 
 
 to his colonel's daughter, or she to him : George declared it 
 was the latter, and I think it likely ; he was a handsome 
 fellow, you know. He found, to his consternation, that she 
 expected him to ask for her in marriage : but he cared a 
 great deal too much for Sybilla to do that. Ho told me that 
 he had hastened his marriage with Sybilla, out of sheer fear 
 that Miss Dillon would extract a promise from him in some 
 weak moment, and he should find himself compelled to marry 
 her. That's why he kept his marriage a secret — lest it 
 should reach the colonel's ears — for a man, you see, likes to 
 stand well with his colonel. Miss Dillon went with her 
 father to India, obliging George — as he considered — still to 
 keep the secret : or at any rate not to declare it publicly. 
 Most of his brother-officers knew it." 
 
 " George was always a coward in some things," remarked 
 Leolin. 
 
 " In what things was he a coward '? " rather warmly asked 
 the priest. " George was as brave and good a fellow as ever 
 bent knee to shrine." 
 
 " In the matter of hurting other people's feelings. I've 
 known him walk four miles round, rather than pass the 
 cottage of some ill-doing serf here, whom he had been 
 obliged to blow up. And, witness his never coming home, 
 out of consideration to that miserable wanderer, Eupert." 
 
 " Ah," said the priest, musingly, a far-off look in his eyes. 
 *'But if there were more men like George Pomeroy, the 
 world would be better than it is. I have never known any 
 one so unselfish." 
 
 Leolin turned back to the house. Father Andrew, solacing 
 himself with another liberal portion of snuff, continued his 
 w^alk, the far-off look of speculation still in his genial eyes. 
 Which speculation might either concern the Pomeroy family, 
 or the problematical feast of beans and bacon. 
 
( 235 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE y. 
 
 A WARNING. 
 
 Leolin Pomeroy shut himself up in his library, there to 
 brood over the startling news that the day had brought him. 
 It was a most unpleasant position to be placed in. Had 
 he been single, he might possibly have felt it less : though 
 to be suddenly cut down from his honour and dignity was a 
 mortification of which he could not yet realize the full 
 bitterness. His mind was in a chaos : he could not tell 
 what course to pursue, or how best to neutralize the blow. 
 Could he deny the marriage? — affect to ignore it as a thing 
 that had never taken place ? No ; that might not be pos- 
 sible : any hope of that kind might prove vain. Could he 
 get it annulled ? His eye lighted, and his heart warmed 
 within him at the thought : for he knew how great was the 
 
 Pomeroy influence at the court of the Vatican. And he 
 
 But what vain fancy was he revelling in ? Leolin Pomeroy, 
 with a sharp word and a groan, bent his head on the table * 
 in gloomy discontent. 
 
 He knew not how long he remained thus. A gentle hand 
 stole round his neck and aroused him. It was his wife. 
 
 " Leolin, my dearest, why need you care ? " she whispered. 
 I am only thankful that it did not happen before, or they 
 might have separated us." 
 
 His face flushed. " Anna— what are you speaking of? 
 what have you heard ? " 
 
 " I have heard all. That you are not the inheritor, and 
 that the abbey is not our own home " 
 
 "No," he interrupted. "Enemies are trying to* turn us 
 from it." 
 
 " But, Leolin, we may laugh at them : they cannot part us." 
 " How did you learn the news ? " 
 " Mrs. Pomeroy came to the garden and told me." 
 Leolin very nearly swore at Mrs. Pomeroy. " My dear 
 wife ! it is for your sake that I could curse the tidings." 
 
236 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 She kissed away tlie words, her shy eyes drooping. " Oh, 
 Leolin, they may take everything from me, so they leave me 
 only you." 
 
 " I don't believe they can take it from us," spoke Leolin. 
 " There must be some mistake— some flaw in the matter. I 
 am sure of it." 
 
 " Flaw in what ? " she asked. " In the marriage of this 
 lady who has just come here ? Do you mean that, Leolin ? " 
 
 " I do. And I will take very good care to search it out 
 and prove it." 
 
 " Oh, Leolin, you will not do anything harsh or unjust," 
 she pleaded. " If this little boy is heir by right, you must 
 not try to displace him. It would not bring happiness to 
 you or to me." 
 
 ''You don't understand the case, Anna," said Leolin, some 
 annoyance in his tone. 
 
 " No, dear, I dare say not ; I am not wise. I only under- 
 stand — that the wealth and the grandeur we thought were 
 our own, are not so. But we can be quite as hap^^y in a 
 cottage as in this great abbey — if you can only think so." 
 
 " But I can't think so, Anna." 
 
 " Will you try, Leolin ? And please let us be just to this 
 little lad and his mother ; and generous as well as just. I 
 am quite sure," she added, shyly, " that as we act by others, 
 so shall we ourselves be dealt by in return : that is one of 
 the unalterable decrees of Heaven. Papa has ever taught 
 me so." 
 
 Leolin ended the conversation. His wife's ideas upon 
 the matter seemed hardly worth refuting. Leolin Pomeroy 
 meant to act ; not argue. 
 
 Meanwhile he found himself temporarily obliged to submit 
 to adverse fate. Upon no plea could he declare that the 
 marriage had been illegal, and for the present this new Lady 
 of Pomeroy must remain at the abbey. Were he to attempt 
 to put her forth she might call in the powers of the law, and 
 Leolin would certainly be worsted. 
 
 " Alice, what is the truth of this strange report that I 
 hear?" demanded a short, stout woman, plunging uncere- 
 
A WARNING. 
 
 237 
 
 moniously that self-same evening into the drawing-room of 
 Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 Alice rose. Mrs. Wylde sank into a chair — and it was 
 Mrs. Wylde, though the reader may fail at this first moment 
 to recognize her. For Mrs. Wylde has been growing stouter 
 and stouter all these years, and shorter in proportion, until 
 she now looks like nothing but a round dumpling. And her 
 face grows red, and she seems ever in a flurry ; but her attire 
 is not less gay than of yore, and as she sits down now she 
 unties her white satin bonnet-strings, and begins fanning 
 herself with a painted fan that has real pearls embedded in 
 its handle. At the other end of the room, playing at fox- 
 and-goose on a little ivory board, sat Mary Pomeroy and 
 her governess, Miss Lorne. 
 
 Alice explained. It appeared that Leolin had never really 
 come into the inheritance. The true lord was a little fellow 
 of nearly eight years old, George's son. And his mother 
 was Sybilla Gaunt, against whom so much had been said in 
 the days gone by. 
 
 Mrs. Wylde lifted her head quickly, causing the white 
 plumes to vibrate. She could be very indignant when she 
 liked ; and she was so nx)w. " Sybilla Gaunt ! " 
 
 So Mrs. Pomeroy explained further. That had all been 
 a mistake. Sybilla was the Lady of Pomeroy. She had 
 been George Pomeroy's wife from the first — and some of the 
 Pomeroys had known it at the time, and the old lord had 
 sanctioned it. 
 
 Mrs. Wylde could find no words to express her feelings. 
 Fanning herself violently, the feathers shook again. In the 
 midst of the stormy silence, Miss Mary Pomeroy, having lost 
 the game at fox-and-goose, upset the dainty board with a 
 crash, and sprang forward. 
 
 " Why have you come here so late as this, grandmamma ? " 
 
 " I came to see your mamma. And I think it high time 
 that little girls should be in bed." 
 
 " I am not ready to go to bed," said Mary. " Miss Lorne 
 promised me two games at fox-and-goose to-night, and we 
 have only had one. Grandmamma, do you know that Uncle 
 Leolin is not the Lord of Pomeroy ? " 
 
238 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 ^' Only to hear of siicli a thing is sufficiently exasperating," 
 said Mrs. Wylde. 
 
 " It is Uncle Leolin who is exasperated," returned the 
 child in her wise fashion ; and, in truth, she sometimes made 
 remarks that seemed wonderful. " My cousin Eupert is the 
 young lord, and his mother is to be the new lady. Mamma 
 says she likes her better than Lady Anna. I like her too : 
 and I like Eupert." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde felt very much tempted to declare her opinion 
 of the young lord, and especially of his mother, but the 
 young lady's presence prevented her from doing so. She sat 
 on and fanned her red face violently, growing more and 
 more angry and indignant. 
 
 Households were organized at the abbey. Mrs. Pomeroy 
 retained her own rooms ; Leolin and his wife retained theirs ; 
 Sybilla established herself in the south wing. Until, as she 
 had intimated, tidings should reach them of the true lord's 
 death : when she might feel it incumbent to make a change. 
 Anything more absurd than this chivalrous feeling towards 
 Eupert had never, Leolin thought, been entertained by 
 woman. 
 
 Seated in one of the rooms of the south wing was the 
 Lady of Pomeroy in her gossamer widow's cap ; and with 
 her her sister-in-law, Joan. Tidings of the strange com- 
 plications which had arisen, in the appearance of this little 
 lad, Eupert, were written by Leolin to his sister Joan, who 
 was then staying on the Continent with Mr. and Mrs. Capel. 
 As soon as she could conveniently do so, Joan returned to 
 England and came on to the abbey. She was looking older 
 than her years justified: Guy's dreadful death, the stain 
 upon the Pomeroy name, which that death and the circum- 
 stances conducing to it entailed, had told upon Joan. It 
 was an ever-present trouble which could not be lifted. 
 
 Twice, during the intervening years, had Joan Pomeroy 
 sojourned at the abbey ; not with Mrs. Pomeroy, but visiting, 
 if it may be said, the absent lord ; occupying his apartments, 
 waited on by his servants. Her chief motive, in coming, 
 was to see Guy's child, of whom she was very fond. This 
 
A WARNING. 
 
 time, she stayed witli Sybilla. Unlike Leolin, slie warmly 
 embraced tlie new changes at once : welcomed Sybilla as a 
 sister; loved at first sight the little Eupert. For a long 
 time past, Joan had felt convinced, that whatever might be 
 the mystery attending the disappearance of Sybilla, no 
 disgrace could attach to her. 
 
 " But I still maintain that you acted unwisely, Sybilla," 
 she was saying to-day, when they were conversing on the 
 past. " I now understand George's motives for secrecy ; it 
 was right to respect them ; but to his own family and to your 
 father he might have declared the truth. As he did not do 
 this, you ought to have done so — for your own sake." 
 
 " It would have put George all wrong with his colonel," 
 replied Sybilla. " Over and over again, during that trying 
 period when I was waiting here to join my husband, have I 
 felt tempted to speak. Next to deceiving my dear father, 
 the greatest trouble I had to bear was that you could think 
 ill of me." 
 
 You might have made your father an exception ; have 
 told him of the intended marriage." 
 
 Sybilla shook her head. " In his devotion to your family, 
 he might have deemed it his duty to sto]3 it : in his love 
 for me, he might have insisted that I should be married 
 openly, or not at all. George and I talked it over anxiously, 
 and he decided that it would not be prudent to speak. 
 All the arrangements were George's ; I fell in with them ; 
 but I did beg him to at least tell you, and he would not 
 do so." 
 
 " You cared for George very much, I suppose ? " 
 
 A deep blush stole to Sybilla's beautiful face. " No one, 
 except himself, knew how much, or ever will know, Joan. 
 As to George, I believe he had loved me from the time I 
 was a girl of fifteen or sixteen ; and his frequent visits here, 
 after he joined the army, were made for my sake. The 
 marriage was not kept an absolute secret, Joan : as soon as 
 my father knew of it, he insisted upon its being disclosed in 
 confidence to the Lady Abbess and to Sister Mildred. Father 
 Andrew went over and told them about it." 
 
 Joan Pomeroy threw her thoughts back to the past. 
 
240 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 "They always seemed to take your part at tlie convent, 
 Sybilla. I remarked that." 
 
 " They had known me for a modest maiden, who strove to 
 do her duty humbly before Heaven ; and they could not 
 believe, even before they were enlightened, that I should 
 suddenly become unworthy," spoke Sybilla earnestly, but 
 half-laughing and wholly blushing. " Well, it w^as hard 
 to bear, I say, the world's condemnation ; but I would go 
 through all again for my dear husband's sake." 
 
 " If George did not choose to disclose it to us at the time, 
 I wonder he did not do so later. It must have been known 
 ia India that you were his wife — to his brother-officers and 
 to many friends." 
 
 " Assuredly it was. We both thought, he and I, that it 
 would be time enough to declare it when we came over to 
 England. To tell you the truth, Joan, I feared that the 
 avowal, if it preceded ourselves, might make it somewhat 
 unpleasant for my father." 
 
 " I saw Mr. Hildyard as I came through London," Joan 
 resumed, passing from the subject. 
 
 " And the lost letter from India — has he received it yet ? " 
 asked Sybilla, eagerly. 
 
 " No ; he says he has neither had it, nor heard of it." 
 
 "I cannot understand how that can be." 
 Mr. Hildyard is thoroughly truthful, Sybilla." 
 
 " Oh yes ; I know that. Only it seems so strange tliat 
 that most important letter should have miscarried, when the 
 letter to my father, posted with it, arrived safely." 
 You are sure they were posted together ? " 
 
 " Quite sure. Major Barkley posted them himself: Moore 
 was with him." 
 
 " Major Barkley ? George's great friend — was he not ? " 
 
 " The greatest friend he had in the world. It, was Major 
 Barkley who wrote the letter — which was full of confidential 
 details— to Mr. Hildyard. A short note, written by George 
 in his dying hour, was also enclosed in it." 
 
 " Letters do get lost unaccountably, sometimes," observed 
 Joan. " It was an unfortunate thing in this instance, on 
 account of Leolin." 
 
A WARNING. 
 
 241 
 
 " Very, very unfortunate," murmured Sybilla. " His 
 feeling towards me is not a kindly one. And he lias never 
 seen my father since my return." 
 
 " He will get over that," said Joan, calmly. " Disap- 
 pointments of that nature require time to soften them. But, 
 Sybilla, speaking of your father — what is it I hear about his 
 illness ? " 
 
 Close upon the arrival of Sybilla, John Gaunt was taken 
 seriously ill. He had been unwell for some time previously? 
 but had not paid much attention to it. Upon getting worse, 
 he sent for Mr. Norris. The doctor was concerned at the 
 symptoms displayed : they were most ominous. Since tlien 
 • Gaunt had been in bed, slowly dying. Dr. Bill came every 
 other day from Ovvlstone, and Sybilla passed much of her 
 time at the lodge. 
 
 " Does he himself fear that it may terminate fatally ? " 
 breathed Joan. 
 
 " He knows it, Joan ; fear it, I am sure he does not. He 
 said to me yesterday, ' It seems, my dear, as if God had only 
 spared me to see you return with your little son ! ' And, 
 when I burst into tears, he bade me remember that our true 
 home was not here, but in that heaven to which we arc all 
 hastening." 
 
 " I should like to see him," said Joan, gently. You 
 must let me go with you this afternoon." 
 
 But, ere the afternoon had well set in, the abbey was 
 disturbed by a message from the keeper^s lodge. Gaunt 
 was dying. It was the doctor who brought it. He first of 
 all apprised the Lady of Pomeroy, and then made his way 
 to Leolin. The latter, lingering moodily at one of the 
 front- windows, had watched the doctor's approach to the 
 abbey. 
 
 " What a pace you came at, Norris ! " was his greeting. 
 " Were you walking for a wager ? " 
 
 " John Gaunt is dying ; he will not, I fear, live through 
 the day," was the surgeon's grave answer. " He wishes you 
 to go and see him." 
 
 " I will not go," replied Leolin. 
 
 In the course of the day Leolin had another appeal — this 
 
 Pomeroy Abbe}'. 16 
 
242 
 
 pomp:koy abbey. 
 
 time from Father Andrew. For once in his life the priest's 
 good-humoured face was as serious as a judge's. 
 
 " Don't let Gaunt die, my son, asking for you in vain. 
 He is most anxious to see you. The wishes of the dying 
 should be held sacred. What has Gaunt done to you ? " 
 
 "What has he not done?" retorted Leolin. "He has 
 helped in a conspiracy to wrest my lawful inheritance 
 from me." 
 
 " That is just your erroneous way of looking at matters. 
 Your brother George's marriage and the birth of this son 
 wrests, as you term it, the inheritance from you. Gaunt 
 knew nothing of the marriage." 
 
 " Surely, Father Andrew, you need not take Gaunt's part 
 to my face ? " 
 
 "I take the part of common sense. Gaunt's behaviour 
 throughout has been admirable — yes, Leolin, I repeat it, 
 admirable. Look how some men, knowing, all these years? 
 that their daughter was Lady of Pomeroy, would have pre- 
 sumed upon it. But has Gaunt ever presumed ? Has he 
 not been modest, retiring, reticent ? No, Leolin, Gaunt has 
 never injured you, or sought to do so." 
 
 " I ivon't see him,'' said Leolin. " That's the second denial 
 I have sent him to-day. Let him content himself with his 
 grandson." 
 
 " A brave little fellow, if they can only get some flesh on 
 his bones," remarked the priest, opening his snuff-box, as he 
 retired and left Leolin to his obstinacy. 
 
 But, at the twilight hour, when softness unconsciously 
 steals over us, Leolin repented of his obduracy, and set out 
 for the lodge. He had already reached the turning to it 
 when he saw the priest come forth. 
 
 " Is he worse, father ? " 
 
 " Only in that he is weaker — and, my son, I am glad to 
 see you here. He will not last out the night : and I am on 
 my way to prepare and bring him the last sacraments." 
 
 John Gaunt, soon to be no more, lay on his bed, the dew- 
 drops of coming death already rising on his once noble face 
 — a face sadly worn and weakened now. A lively expres- 
 sion of gratitude, of welcome, illumined it as Leolin entered, 
 
A WARNING. 
 
 243 
 
 The young lord leaned on the bed by his grandfather*s side, 
 half in fear, half in curiosity ; Sybilla sat at a little distance ; 
 Joan was in the next room. 
 
 " I could not die without seeing you/' began Gaunt, hold- 
 ing out both his hands to Leolin. " This late estrangement 
 on your part has been very painful to me, I feel that I 
 have not deserved it. No one has been more grieved than I 
 that the child should supplant you — but it lies not in my 
 power, or in any one's power, to alter it." 
 
 Leolin muttered something that was inaudible, and drew 
 away his hand. 
 
 " You are the only brother left of the four," spoke Gaunt 
 again, after recovering his breath. " You will protect my 
 daughter and her child — George's child." 
 
 " I will not recognize the child as the chief of Pomeroy." 
 deliberately replied Leolin. 
 
 " He is chief of Pomeroy, whether you recognize him or 
 not," panted Gaunt. " I was not speaking of their rights ; 
 they are beyond your power to disturb ; I was thinking of 
 kindness. George is dead ; by to-morrow I shall be dead ; 
 and none will be near them to afford protection, or to whisper 
 a word of comfort, excepting yourself." 
 
 " The boy would take my inheritance from me," sullenly 
 repeated Leolin, who in truth thought no man had ever been 
 so wronged as he. "I tell you openly — for I disdain to 
 work in secret — that I do not consider my brother George's 
 marriage was right or legal ; I will do what I can to get it 
 annulled." 
 
 Gaunt, struggling with his weakness, and with a feeling 
 of aversion to the sentiments, of almost horror that they 
 should be avowed by any man pretending to be a Christian, 
 lifted his head from the pillow and supported himself on his 
 elbow. He solemnly raised his hand in a Avarning attitude, 
 and spoke in tones that thrilled those who listened to him. 
 
 " Beware, Leolin Pomeroy. For your own sake, I pray 
 you, beware. You cannot sin deliberately before Heaven, 
 and remain unvisited for it. One sad judgment has already 
 fallen on your family ; do not you act so as to provoke 
 another. As you deal hj this child, so may you prosper in 
 
244 
 
 rOMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 your oion children I — and take heed how you despise the 
 warning of a dying man." 
 
 He fell back exhausted. Sybilla rose to administer some 
 medicine ; and Leolin Pomeroy, frightfully disturbed, went 
 forth into the night-air. 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 WHISPERED NEWS. 
 
 Cold weather was coming in early. It could scarcely be 
 called autumn yet, for September was only passing ; but a 
 fire burnt in the breakfast-room at Lord Essington's, in 
 Berkeley Square : a small back-room that somehow looked 
 dull even in sunshine. The earl would have preferred to 
 breakfast in a lighter and pleasanter room, but his wife 
 decreed otherwise ; and in most things she was master and 
 mistress also. 
 
 On a footstool close to the fender, roasting one side of her 
 pretty and delicate face, sat a child of some four years old, 
 simply dressed in a cotton frock and white pinafore. Her 
 small feet, encased in their shoes and socks, were stretched 
 out on the hearthrug, her bright curls were kept back with 
 blue ribbon, and her light-brown eyes, large, lustrous, and 
 singularly soft, were bent over the wax doll upon her lap. 
 A large wax doll, with fair flowing curls and turquoise eyes, 
 that had been the gift of Leolin Pomeroy. You have not 
 forgotten little Annaline Hetley. Things were anything 
 but flourishing at her home, so far as Captain Hetley's 
 finances were concerned ; and the good-natured earl had 
 kept the child on, rather to the discomfiture of his wife and 
 daughters. Quiet though she was, never putting herself in 
 their way, they considered her presence a trouble. 
 
 Footsteps, descending the stairs, caught the child's ear. 
 Running to deposit the doll on a chair behind the window 
 curtain, Annaline ran back and disappeared with the foot-. 
 
WHISPERED NEWS. 
 
 245 
 
 stool under tlie table. Lady Geraldine oioened the door at 
 the moment, and advanced to the fire. The child's curls 
 came peeping out from under the breakfast-cloth, as Geraldine 
 crossed the rug, causing her to start back to avoid treading 
 on her. 
 
 " You tiresome little — toad ! " cried Geraldine. " How 
 dare you hide yourself to frighten people ? " 
 
 " I was only putting the stool for Lady Essington," 
 pleaded the child in her imperfect tongue. " She likes to 
 have it, you know." 
 
 " Well, don't do it again," retorted Geraldine. 
 
 The next to come in was the earl. He lifted the child on 
 his knee and kissed her. He would have kept the child 
 always ; but they were purposing to go from London on the 
 morrow, and she was to be sent home to her father and 
 mother. The illness of his son, Lord Cardine, had detained 
 them at home since Anna's marriage. 
 
 " Is my little girl ready to go back to mamma ? " asked 
 the earl, keeping her fresh cheek close to his own withered 
 one. 
 
 " Oh, please let me : " she answered, putting her hand 
 round his neck by way of enhancing the petition. " And 
 you will come too ! " 
 
 " Wish I could," cried the earl : and he rose to seat her 
 in the chair that was placed beside his own. 
 
 "Your last breakfast here, Annaline," remarked the 
 countess, grimly, when all were seated, and the meal was 
 beginning. " I hope you feel grateful for the very long and 
 pleasant visit you have been allowed to make here." 
 
 " Yes," said the child, very imperfectly understanding : 
 or probably not understanding at all. " Franky shall " 
 
 " Halloa ! " broke in the earl. He had opened the letter 
 that lay beside his plate, and was reading the contents — 
 only a line or two. " Pomeroy and Anna are coming up 
 to-day." 
 
 " Lnpossible ! " cried Lady Essington. 
 
 But Leolin wrote that he had to visit London for a day 
 or two on business ; must see Mr. Hildyard ; and should bring 
 Anna with him. They should break the journey by sleeping 
 
246 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 a night at Henry Capel's house, which was within an hour 
 of London by rail, and arrive early on Wednesday morning. 
 
 " I must say it is tiresome ! " cried the countess. " And 
 most of our things packed ! When are we to get away, I 
 wonder." 
 
 " Tiresome ! " cried the earl. It is the most pleasant 
 surprise we could have had. Never mind about getting 
 away. If I did as I liked, I should stay here and not go 
 away at all." 
 
 " Don't you think, papa, that we might as well settle down 
 here for the winter ? " put in Geraldine, in as sarcastic a 
 tone as she dared use to her father. " It's just like Anna ; 
 no consideration for any one but herself." 
 
 " If you were half as considerate for others as Anna is, 
 it would be better for you, Geraldine," said the earl, smiling 
 at her good-naturedly. 
 
 Geraldine did not answer. She had been lately in a 
 chronic state of ill-temper. The Duke of St. Ives had not 
 come forward for her, or even for Mabel ; no other eligible 
 man, duke or commoner, had done so ; and this was 
 Geraldine's third or fourth season. 
 
 Before breakfast was digested, Leolin and his wife arrived. 
 Shut up with the earl in his study, Leolin disclosed that his 
 business was to consult with Mr. Hildyard as to the steps to 
 be taken to dissolve the marriage contracted by his brother 
 George, and displace the young child Rupert. 
 
 About a fortnight had elapsed since Gaunt's death. 
 Sybilla had now appointed another agent, or steward, to 
 manage the property ; one James Knox. He was distantly 
 related to Charles Knox of the Knoll, who had aspired to 
 the hand of Mrs. Pomeroy, but was in a humbler condition of 
 life. Gaunt, knowing his capability, and his sterling in- 
 tegrity, had recommended him to Sybilla before his death. 
 Sybilla appointed him, and gave him the lodge, her father's 
 old dwelling, to live in. All this, so demonstrative of 
 Sybilla's power, of her right, only fanned the flame of resent- 
 ment nourished by Leolin. His sense of injury grew almost 
 unbearable; he intended to move heaven 'and earth, rather 
 than not dispossess Kupert. 
 
WHISPERED NEWS. 
 
 247 
 
 Lord Essington listened in silence to wliat Leolin had to 
 say. In fact, the latter was so vehement in enlarging upon 
 his wrongs, that the earl had no chance of speaking. 
 
 " Don't doit,'' he said at length, as Leolin came to a pause, 
 after promising that he should at once move the Vatican. 
 " Don't attempt it. So far as I have been able to gather, 
 this marriage was a just and proper marriage, certainly- 
 legal, and the child is as much master of Pomeroy as his 
 father Vas before him. Unfair dealing never answers, 
 Leolin ; it seldom answers in this world, and it will not 
 avail us in the next. Had I ever oppressed a poor or a weak 
 man for my own benefit, I could not die in peace." 
 
 " But if you had been wronged, sir ? " cried Leolin. " If 
 you had had your estates wrested from you by a usurper, 
 would you not do all you could to win them back again ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but the cases are not parallel, Leolin. Your own 
 succession was a mistake. Had you known of this child, 
 you would not have assumed the honours. You could not 
 have done so." 
 
 Leolin was silent. He hardy knew what he should have 
 done. 
 
 " Put the case fairly to yourself," pursued Lord Essington, 
 who was pacing the room as he talked, while Leolin sat 
 back in an easy-chair. " Were you chief of Pomeroy, and 
 left a son behind you, how should you like for a younger 
 brother of yours to usurp title and estate, and displace your 
 child ? What would you think of it ? " 
 
 " About my son there could, I hope, be no such discus- 
 sion," haughtily spoke Leolin. 
 
 " Your brother George may have said the same during his 
 lifetime. But you are shirking the question. Would you 
 not say the brother who wanted to put himself in before 
 jour son was the usurper? " 
 
 " I don't know," declared Leolin. " But do you not see to 
 what this reduces us ? " he added, with a flushed face. " I 
 am no better off than I was as an attache. I can return to 
 that at any time ; and with advanced prospects, I dare say : 
 
 Lord C was pleased to say, when I left, that he knew 
 
 my value ; but what of tliat ? I have a wife now." 
 
248 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Happiness does not lie in riclies." 
 
 " I had hoped that you would join me in appealing to 
 Rome, that the marriage might be annulled." 
 
 " That I never will," said Lord Essington, decidedly, a 
 slight frown on his brow. " Neither will you, I hope. 
 There would be no more justice in your seeking to annul 
 that marriage, than in some one else's seeking to annul yours. 
 But now as to the future, Leolin. You have two courses 
 open to you in this dilemma," remarked Lord Essington. 
 " The one is, to return to diplomacy ; the other, to remain 
 at the abbey — as the new Lady of Pomeroy wishes you to 
 do. I should counsel the former course " 
 
 "No," interrupted Leolin. "For the present I shall 
 remain at Pomeroy, so that my time may be my own." 
 
 " As you please. You will go back to diplomacy, I dare 
 say, when you grow tired of being idle. Your income, yours 
 and Anna's combined, amounts to very little more than a 
 thousand a-year, I believe." 
 
 " About that," assented Leolin. 
 
 " Well, in trouble of this kind, brought about by no fault 
 of yours, it is the duty of friends and relatives to help when 
 they can. I cannot do much ; you know how extravagant 
 my son is : but I will allow you a thousand a-year until 
 your fortunes mend. Only — not a word of this to any living 
 mortal, except Anna. Mind that. You must not chatter to 
 my wife." 
 
 " How good you are ! " exclaimed Leolin, deeply touched 
 by the earl's generosity. "I hope we shall soon cease to 
 need your help." 
 
 " That will make your income two thousand a-year : some- 
 what more. And, while you stay at the abbey, you will, at 
 any rate, live rent-free ; if you take up diplomacy again, you 
 will be paid for it. And now, you had better submit to the 
 inevitable with a good grace, Leolin," concluded the earl, 
 rising, and bringing the interview to a close. 
 
 But Leolin had not the least intention of following this 
 advice, though he did not say so. Taking his hat, he went 
 forth to the offices of Hildyard and Prael. 
 
 Anna, meanwhile, was with her mother in the breakfast- 
 
WHISPERED NEWS. 
 
 249 
 
 room, conversing upon this same all-engrossing to2)ic — tiie 
 unhappy change of circumstances at Pomeroy. Not that 
 Anna looked unhappy : her face was fresh, her smile bright. 
 Lord Essington entered the room. 
 
 " What is this new Lady of Pomeroy like, Anna ? " he 
 asked. « 
 
 " She is very nice and charming, papa," was Anna's 
 answer. " Quite a regal-looking woman, with a beautiful 
 and refined face." 
 
 " Is she educated ? " 
 
 " Oh yes. Her education was the same as that of the 
 Miss Pomeroy s. She was brought up at the same convent." 
 " And she is well descended ? " 
 
 " Quite so. In that respect, I am told, quite the equal of 
 the Pomeroys." 
 
 " Then what in the world is your husband making all 
 this fuss for? Saying he shall try to get her marriage 
 annulled ? " 
 
 " The Gaunts were poor, you see, papa, and inferior in 
 position. John Gaunt was gamekeeper to the old Lord of 
 Pomeroy. In the village he was called the ' gentleman- 
 keeper,' because he did not accept pay for his office. His 
 daughter was of course not equal in position to George 
 Pomeroy." 
 
 " George Pomeroy might have made a worse marriage, I 
 take it." 
 
 " By a great deal. She is so good and kind, so considerate 
 in all she does. I think she is quite as sorry as we are that 
 Leolin should be displaced — but what, as she says, can she 
 do, except maintain the rights of her son ? Leolin will 
 remain for the present at the abbey ; he has more right to 
 it, he thinks, than she has. But he will not touch any of 
 the revenues, as she wishes him to do. He says he will 
 have all or none." 
 
 " Quite right ; it shows his spirit," put in Lady 
 Essington." 
 
 " Quite wrong," dissented the earl. " He has no more 
 right to the revenues of Pomeroy, or to the abbey now, than 
 I have. Tou must see that, Anna ? " 
 
250 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " I have seen it from the first," replied Anna. " To dis- 
 possess this child would be a cruel wrong. • I trust that 
 Leolin will soon see it in the same light also ; but my 
 speaking only vexes him." 
 
 In the fleetest cab that Leolin could find, he made his 
 way to Lincoln's Inn. Hardly giving Mr. Hildyard time to 
 greet him, he plunged into the point he had at heart. 
 
 " This wretched marriage, of my brother George's, that 
 has come to light. The Court of Kome must be appealed to 
 to annul it, Hildyard." 
 
 The lawyer looked at him, and paused. Upon what 
 plea ? " 
 
 " What plea ! — every plea," chafed Leolin. " A low 
 marriage of that nature, solemnized in secret, ought not to 
 be allowed to stand." 
 
 " Pardon me. I hear that the lady, now Lady of Pomeroy, 
 is in every respect worthy of her position: in beauty, 
 intellect, and goodness." 
 
 " How did you hear that ? " 
 
 " From your sister. Miss Joan Pomeroy." 
 
 " Oh, Joan ! J oan was always fascinated by Sybilla 
 Gaunt. Any way, you will have to take my instructions in 
 the matter, Hildyard." 
 
 " I still fail to see upon what plea you would proceed." 
 
 " No plea is needed ; pur Church can make its own pleas, 
 you know. Will you take my instructions, or will you not ? 
 
 " As you please. If I decline, you will only carry them 
 elsewhere, I suppose. But it is an unjust thing to do, Mr. 
 Leolin." 
 
 " Unjust ! Is it just, think you, to allow a stray child, 
 never before heard of, to crop up, and oust me out of home 
 and fortune ? " 
 
 Mr. Hildyard sighed. " It has been most unfortunate 
 altogether, and I have felt it almost as keenly as you. Had 
 the same mail that brought tidings of your brother's death 
 brought also the news that he had left a son, you would not 
 have been subjected to this disappointment. But to have 
 assumed the honours and the jDroperty, and to have married 
 
WHISPERED NEWS. 
 
 251 
 
 tliiuking tliem yours, and tlien to find that all must be taken 
 from you, is indeed a blow hard to bear." 
 
 " What became of that letter that they say was written to 
 you?" 
 
 " I wish I knew. All I do know is, that it never reached 
 me. Better that the other had been lost that was posted 
 with it — the one announcing George's death." 
 
 " George made a will, I believe," continued Leolin. " Do 
 you know what its provisions were ? " 
 
 "Yes. His wife takes all, excepting a legacy to his 
 servant, Moore, and to one or two other people. The all is 
 not much. It is under four thousand pounds." 
 
 " Under four thousand pounds ! " echoed Leolin, in 
 astonishment. " Was that all George had saved ? " 
 
 " It appears to be all he had to leave." 
 
 " Then what became of the money ? He could not have 
 spent a tithe of his income since he came into Pomeroy. 
 They lived in the quietest and most retired manner possible 
 over there, as I am given to imderstand." 
 
 " I fancy they did so." 
 
 " What did George do with his money, I ask ? " 
 
 " It is more than I can tell you. I only know that his 
 revenues were transmitted to him duly and regularly." 
 
 " He ought to have died worth— oh, something like twenty 
 or thirty thousand pounds, spending so little as I hear they 
 did spend." 
 
 Mr. Hildyard shook his head. The question had more 
 than once occurred to himself, and he had felt a little 
 puzzled over it. " That is all your brother left behind 
 him," he observed aloud. " What he did with the rest, I 
 know not." 
 
 Leolin took out his watch. He had not come to waste his 
 interview in desultory gossip; and Mr. Hildyard, much 
 against his will, had to listen to instructions and suggestions 
 on the scheme of annulling the marriage. 
 
 " There is one thing I wish to mention to you," observed 
 Mr. Hildyard, in lowered tones, when Leolin was preparing 
 to depart. " But, first of all, let me ask whether you have 
 heard anything lately of your brother ? " 
 
252 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Whicli brother ? " 
 
 " There is only one left now — Eupert." 
 
 " Nothing. Except that George's widow says he is not 
 dead. It seems that George used to receive a letter from 
 him now and then. She thinks he hides himself in desert 
 places unfrequented by man." 
 
 " I fear he is in England." 
 
 " In England ! " cried Leolin, turning cold with dread. 
 
 " I do fear so. And, oh, how imprudent it is ! But 
 Rupert was always careless. Were he discovered, the con- 
 sequences might be — terrible." 
 
 Leolin could not speak. His heart felt faint within him. 
 How do you know ? " he presently asked. " What do you 
 know ? " 
 
 " I will tell you. A confidential clerk of mine, Collins — 
 you must remember him, by the way ; a thin tall man in 
 spectacles, middle-aged " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know Collins," impatiently interrupted Leolin. 
 
 "He was in Spain lately, on some private business of 
 mine. Coming back he, for certain reasons, took passage 
 on board a small Spanish trader, which he expected to find 
 untenanted — except by the Spanish crew. However, when 
 he had been a day at sea, he found that she carried another 
 passenger : a sick gentleman, he was told, who kept himself 
 shut up in his private cabin. One night, shortly before 
 reaching Falmouth, to which port they were bound, the 
 vessel came in contact with a steamer ; she was thought to 
 be sinking ; and, in the confusion, this passenger came leap- 
 ing up on deck. It was Eupert." 
 
 " Heaven help him ! " cried Leolin. 
 
 " Collins knew him at once. He wore no hat ; and the 
 moon, very bright that night, shone full upon his face. It 
 was worn and pale ; but it was Eupert 's. Catching sight 
 of Collins, he seemed to recognize him, and instantly dived 
 down again to his cabin. The vessel reached Falmouth in 
 safety, and there Collins left it." 
 
 " And Eupert landed ? " 
 
 "Little doubt of that. Why else should he have made 
 
 the passage ? " 
 
WHISPERED NEWS. 253 
 
 I wonder if his troubles have turned his brain ? Only 
 a madman would attempt to come here under the circum- 
 stances. Why, Collins might have taken him there and 
 then. Is he to be trusted ? " added Leolin. 
 
 " Who ? — Collins ? As you would trust myself. Collins 
 confided the matter to me ; but he will never sj^eak of it 
 elsewhere." 
 
 " How long is this ago ? " 
 
 " Not above ten days." 
 
 Leolin lifted his hands in alarm. " Why — he may be in 
 England now ! Can I see Collins ? " 
 " If you like. I will call him in." 
 
 The clerk appeared. A grave, composed man, who took 
 off his spectacles while he spoke. 
 
 " Don't you think you may have been mistaken ? " urged 
 Leolin, when a few words had passed between them, his tone 
 one of intense pain. " I cannot believe it was my brother 
 Rupert. Eash though he was by nature, he could scarcely 
 have been rash enough for that." 
 
 " It was certainly he, and no other," affirmed the clerk, 
 his whisper impressive. " I could not be mistaken in Mr. 
 Eupert Pomeroy." 
 
 " You were well acquainted with him ? " 
 
 " Quite well, sir. We had a good deal of business to do 
 for him when he got into the Queen's Bench, and I knew 
 him as well as it is possible to know any one. I recognized 
 him the moment he came on deck." 
 
 " You may trust Collins in all ways," observed Mr. Hild- 
 yard, as the clerk withdrew. "Eest assured it was your 
 brother Eupert. I thought it right to inform you of this, 
 Mr. Leolin. What his object can be in coming here and 
 running into danger, I know not." 
 
 Leolin Pomeroy went back to Berkeley Square in a state 
 of mental confusion. If his unhappy brother should be 
 taken, what on earth would become of their good name ? — to 
 what disgrace might it not be brought ! 
 
254 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN THE CHAPEL. 
 
 In the small round room of the south tower, appropriated to 
 the studies of the young Kupert Pomeroy, sat that little 
 gentleman himself, with his governess, one fine morning in 
 November. Short though the period of his stay hitherto had 
 been at Pomeroy — only three months in all — Rupert seemed 
 to have improved wonderfully. The sickly look had left his 
 face : health and strength were returning to him. It seemed 
 that the child had only needed European air to restore him : 
 and the fears expressed by his mother to Leolin, that he 
 would not be long here, were rapidly passing away. 
 
 When Rupert began to grow better, one of the first acts 
 of Sybilla had been to inquire after a governess. In India 
 she had taught him herself. The governess was soon found : 
 a Miss Haberdale. A staid lady of some five-and-thirty 
 years, great in modern languages and accomplishments, had 
 also Latin and Greek at her finger's ends ; just the governess 
 for the young Lord. Rupert soon grew fond of her : he was 
 affectionate, docile, and clever. He and his mother had 
 settled down in the south wing and tower. Mrs. Pomeroy 
 remained in one portion of the front pile ; and Leolin 
 Pomeroy with his wife occupied the other portion and the 
 north wing. But this, I think, has already been stated. 
 
 Leolin could not keep up the state he would have 
 observed had he been the lord, but he was almost so re- 
 garded. He and Lady Anna were much visited, and visited 
 in return. Sybilla was glad that it should be so. Whilst 
 she wore deep widow's weeds, and whilst her son was so 
 young and delicate, she declined visiting on her own 
 account. As to Leolin, when he was not out shooting, or 
 fishing, or dining, he was busy in his library over his 
 favourite scheme of dispossessing his nephew. It appeared 
 to have taken absolute hold upon him ; to have become, in 
 fact, little short of a mania. In the one thing of not accept- 
 
IN THE CHAPEL. 
 
 255 
 
 ing any of the Pomeroy revenues Leolin was honourable. 
 Whilst he was plotting against Sybilla and her son, he 
 would not receive her favours. 
 
 Nothing more had come of that startling communication 
 made to Leolin by Mr. Hildyard — the arrival of Eupert 
 Pomeroy in the Spanish barque. Whether Eupert had sunk 
 into the earth on landing on British ground, whether he had 
 vanished into air, or whether — as was probable — he had 
 thought better of the rash act he was perpetrating, and had 
 hidden himself within the vessel again, and sailed away with 
 her when she departed, certain it was that no sign or news 
 came from him or of him. The terrible uneasiness it had 
 brought to Leolin was gradually subsiding. He did begin 
 to hope that this most reckless and criminal brother had 
 again made his escape for good. There were moments when 
 Leolin thought what a mercy it would be to hear of Eupert's 
 death. 
 
 Miss Haberdale, a small, fair woman, her light hair 
 braided back from her quiet face, her dress as neat as her- 
 self, sat at the head of the small square table ; Eupert was 
 opposite to her, " doing dictation." Just now it was English 
 dictation. The child was very thin still; but anything 
 more beautiful than his refined face as he lifted it, and the 
 intelligence in his violet eyes, could not be seen. He wore 
 a black velvet tunic, a white cambric collar with a plaited 
 frill. 
 
 " In the field we saw a hare," read Miss Haberdale ; and 
 Eupert repeated the words after her as he wrote them. " The 
 hare was " 
 
 An interruption. The room-door opened, and in rushed 
 Miss Mary Pomeroy. 
 
 " Now ! " exclaimed the governess, displeased, " how often 
 have I told you, Mary, that you are not to come to these 
 rooms during lesson time ? I cannot allow it." - 
 
 Miss Haberdale had cause to speak. Mary Pomeroy was 
 a great deal fonder of being in the Lady of Pomeroy's wing 
 than of remaining in her own. But for the influence on 
 both sides, she would have been there always. 
 
 " I have nothing to do, so I have come here," announced 
 
256 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Mary, defiantly. " I liave come for the whole day. Mamma 
 called after me, but I did not listen." 
 
 "Miss Lome is following to take you back again, I 
 hope." 
 
 " Miss Lome's gone," said Mary triumphantly. " Her 
 father's very ill ; she had a letter to say so ; and she is gone 
 home for a week to nurse him. Croft is driving her to 
 Ovvlstone. I shall stay here wdth Eupert all the time that I 
 have no lessons to do." 
 
 " I think then, as Miss Lome is away, that you had better 
 bring your books and do your lessons with me." 
 
 " I think not,'' dissented the young lady. " You are not 
 my governess, Miss Haberdale, and I want a holiday." 
 
 "Very well. Then I must beg of you to leave the 
 room." 
 
 Miss Haberdale had a way of exacting obedience, and 
 Mary knew it. But she was very unwilling to go ; she 
 liked her own will and way. 
 
 " No," dissented Miss Haberdale, decisively. " Not unless 
 you get your slate and do dictation with us. If you are 
 good, perhaps I may ask you to dine with Eupert." 
 
 It ended in the young lady's bringing her slate. The 
 prospect of dining with Eupert was too powerful to be 
 resisted. 
 
 In the afternoon the two children went out together 
 attended by Bridget. The day, so bright in the morning, 
 had become overcast. The skies were leaden ; but the air 
 was still and mild, almost warm. The day was already 
 declining. 
 
 Eunning down the stairs, they crossed the cloisters to the 
 quadrangle, the way of entrance to the south wing ; passed 
 through the abbey gates, and turned to the right. " I am 
 going to see old Jerome," announced Mary, in her authorita- 
 tive manner. 
 
 Away flew the children towards the keep, Bridget after 
 them. Bridget, passionately fond of Miss Mary Pomeroy, 
 gave in to most of her whims without a murmur, and 
 suffered herself to be led anywhere. Arrived before the 
 door of the keep, Mary seized the bell-handle and rang a 
 
IN THE CHAPEL. 
 
 257 
 
 prolonged peal; her usual mode of announcing herself. 
 Old Jerome, looking sadder and greyer than of yore, opened 
 the door. 
 
 It admitted them into a small recess, and thence to the 
 lower room : the same room where that foolish Lady of 
 Pomeroy, Mary's mother, had used to sit on the stone ledge, 
 talking to Eupert. The room was furnished now, and was 
 Jerome's kitchen. He placed chairs for the children, he and 
 Bridget remaining standing. 
 
 " My governess has gone away for a week, Jerome. Are 
 you glad ? " 
 
 " Very glad, Miss Mary, if you are. And how, sir, is the 
 lady to-day?" 
 
 " Oh, she's very well," said Mary, giving Eupert no time 
 to answer. I dined there to-day. Jerome, we can see 
 your keep if we put our heads out at the windows of the 
 south wing." 
 
 " Ay, I know that. Miss Mary. Knew it before you were 
 born." 
 
 " How old you must be ! " exclaimed the young lady. 
 And, Jerome, did you like the large piece of plum-pudding 
 I made Bridget bring you yesterday ? " 
 
 It was rare and good. Miss Mary. Bless your little 
 heart for thinking of your father's old servant ! " 
 
 " You were my grandpapa's servant," corrected Miss 
 Mary. 
 
 " Ay, and your papa's, my dear. I am your papa's servant 
 ever — faithful to his memory." 
 
 " I am going upstairs," proclaimed Mary ; and, without 
 waiting for permission, she darted to the door that opened 
 upon the narrow staircase. 
 
 The children ascended the winding stone stairs. A door 
 on the right led them into a room that Jerome called his 
 parlour. It was tolerably well furnished, with a carpet, 
 some books, and other things for comfort. The deep 
 window, not much more than a loophole, looked towards the 
 abbey, and had a distant view of the sea. Above this were 
 two other rooms, in the smaller of which Jerome slept. He 
 seldom used the parlour, contenting himself with the lower 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 17 
 
258 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 room, the narrow casement of which gave him a view of the 
 open country and the pine forest in the distanca 
 
 Eestlessly anxious to be moving, Mary led the way down, 
 said good-bye to Jerome, and left the keep. Her quick eye 
 caught sight of something unusual at the door of the 
 chapel. 
 
 " Look, Kupert, at that truck. What are they going to 
 do ? I shall run and see." 
 
 A small marble tablet was about to bo placed on the 
 south wall inside the chapel, to the memory of George 
 Pomeroy. Sybilla had given orders for it when she returned, 
 and it was now ready to be fixed. The men, charged with 
 the business, had brought a truck full of articles that would 
 be required for the work on the morrow, and had left it at 
 the door. 
 
 The children entered the chapel, Eupert reverently 
 doffing his straw hat, and both crossing themselves with the 
 holy water. Their further progress was arrested by Bridget, 
 who caught Mary by the arm. 
 
 " You can't want anything in this gloomy chapel. Miss 
 Mary. I don't like it when it's empty. And we shall have 
 no walk. Master Kupert, please to come back." 
 
 Mary's only answer was to break from Bridget and pull 
 Eupert forward. Down deep, underneath the principal 
 aisle, lay the remains of Mary's father. The children trod 
 reverently, and halted when they came to the stone that 
 covered him ; a flat stone let in smoothly to the flags, the 
 initials of his name, and the date of his death alone cut into it. 
 
 But on the wall to the right, between the white marble 
 tablet that recorded the death of the old lord and the spot 
 where the one to the memory of George was about to be 
 placed, rested the tablet to Guy. Mary read it aloud. 
 Rupert, holding her hand, was gazing about him with awe 
 — that awe of all things sacred, to which his mother had 
 trained him— but he cast his eyes up at the gilded letters as 
 soon as she began to read. The inscription was in Latin ; 
 but the child read it correctly and understood it as well as 
 Father Andrew himself. Translated it would have read 
 as follows : — 
 
IN THE CHAPEL. 
 
 259 
 
 " Sacred to the memory of Guy, Lord of Pomeroy ; wlio 
 met with a sudden and violent death on the evening of the 
 seventeenth of Octoher, 18 — , in the thirty-first year of his 
 age ; and whose mortal remains lie in the vault beneath 
 this chapel. R. I. P." After that, a few lines, expressive 
 of the virtues of the deceased, were added, and of the sorrow 
 of the friends that mourned him. 
 
 The shades of evening seemed to be gathering quickly 
 over the chapel, never light in the brightest of days. The 
 sun could not penetrate through its stained windows, some 
 of which represented scenes from the crucifixion. Bridget, 
 standing in the doorway, did her best to recall the children. 
 When the chapel was lighted up with candles; and full of 
 worshippers, Bridget had no objection to making one amongst 
 them, or even to going there periodically to confession, sup- 
 ported by three or four other penitents ; but to be in this 
 place, as now, at the close of a gloomy afternoon, where the 
 dead lay at rest— or not at rest — and no one about but these 
 two children, did not please her at all. 
 
 If one element was more prevalent within the mind of 
 Bridget Eex than another, it was superstition : and since an 
 unpleasant story had reached her ears a year or two ago, she 
 had not liked the chapel. It seemed to her now to grow 
 more gloomy with every moment. 
 
 " But we must go," observed Eupert at length, his quick 
 eyes detecting the signs of uneasiness on the woman's face. 
 That sensitive consideration for the feelings of others, which 
 had characterized George Pomeroy, was possessed by his 
 little son. " I shall go, Mary ; Bridget looks as if she were 
 going to cry." 
 
 " She's only afraid of the ghost," replied Miss Mary with 
 equanimity. 
 
 " What ghost ? " 
 
 " One they talk about. Bridget saw it once, and if she 
 saw it again she would die ; I heard her say so to Mary 
 Lamp." 
 
 " But where is the ghost ? " persisted Rupert, who was 
 undoubtedly less learned on the subject of ghosts than the 
 young lady herself, " Is it in the chapel here ? " 
 
260 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Ifc is in many places, I think. It is not the nun's that 
 used to haunt the west tower, but another. It must have 
 been a man once, for Bridget calls him ' he ; ' but she won't 
 tell me about it." 
 
 " And would you like to hear ? " 
 
 " Of course I should. I like to hear about ghosts. They 
 don't frighten me." 
 
 Probably because there was nothing more she cared to 
 see or read in the chapel, Mary walked back to Bridget. 
 Glad to get them at any price, Bridget did not scold ; but 
 whisked them both as quickly as she could through the 
 inner door. And there they met two workmen coming in. 
 
 " Just like you ! " ejaculated Bridget to the men. " Going 
 off in the midst of your work ! Why can't you stay here 
 and attend to it ? " 
 
 For, if these men had been about, to impart a little life to 
 the place and courage to herself, Bridget's uneasiness would 
 not have arisen. 
 
 Mary announced her intention of going up to see Naomi 
 Kex, and turned off towards the forest. Bridget told her it 
 M^ould be too far ; the hour was too late. To which remon- 
 strance she turned a deaf ear. 
 
 Past the keep, and the field beyond it, down into the 
 hollow where stood sundry haystacks, went the children, 
 Bridget following them. Bridget did not like that hollow 
 any more than she liked the chapel ; and she took hold of 
 Kupert's hand for company, and held it fast until they were 
 well up towards the hill that would take them past Mrs. 
 Wylde's. 
 
 Nothing has hitherto been said of a very unpleasant 
 matter that for some time past had been disturbing the 
 equanimity of Pomeroy. But the reader must now hear of 
 it, unwilling though he may be to give ear to a tale of 
 superstition. The Pomeroy household believed that their 
 ill-fated master, Guy, did not rest in his grave. 
 
 The retainers at the abbey, and the village in general, 
 given over to sufficient superstition before, were made ten 
 times more timid by the tragical scene in the west tower 
 which had ended the life of Guy. Therefore when dark 
 
IN THE CHAPEL. 
 
 201 
 
 rumours arose, and they did arise immediately, that Guy's 
 spirit could not rest, but came abroad to terrify the world, 
 people were only too well prepared to believe it. 
 
 Half-a-dozen times, perhaps, in all, and at different 
 periods since his death, had Guy, Lord of Pomeroy, ap- 
 peared to the living. Such, at least, was their undoubted 
 belief. Singularly to say, the first person to see this ap- 
 parition was Bridget — unfortunately for her own peace 
 of mind. It was on the night of his funeral : a very 
 few hours after he had been laid in his grave under the 
 chapel. She was passing along this same lonely field-road 
 that she and the children were now traversing, and in the 
 hollow by the hayricks, she saw, or fancied she saw, the 
 dead man. Frightened out of all self-control, Bridget 
 alarmed the neighbourhood with her cries, and declared 
 the cause of her terror. The dead lord had appeared to 
 her. 
 
 The commotion that this caused amidst the numerous 
 retainers of the abbey, outdoor and indoor ; the uneasiness 
 that took possession of them ; the impetus it gave to the 
 superstitious dread, innate in every heart, could not be 
 described. Within a day or two, another servant had seen 
 the same appearance, and in very nearly the same spot; 
 and then the under-keeper, Bardel, a coward in regard to 
 ghosts, was nearly thrown into fits by the same sight. 
 Once or twice since then the apparition had again been seen ; 
 the last time being in the chapel, some two years ago. 
 
 A respectable man named Cox, who had been head of the 
 servants and custodian of the keys since Jerome resigned, 
 was taking a message to Father Andrew from Miss Pomeroy, 
 then staying at the abbey. It was the seventeenth ol 
 October, the fourth anniversary of Guy's death. This man, 
 it should be said, thought nothing of passing along un- 
 canny places at night, and laughed at the credulity of his 
 fellow-servants. Cox reached the priest's, and found he 
 was not at home ; old Marget, his housekeeper, thought 
 he might be in the chapel, saying another mass to the many 
 masses that had been said that day, and she bade Cox take 
 the key, if he liked, and let himself in at the front-door. 
 
262 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Father Andrew generally entered by his own little door 
 opening to the vestry, and had his own key to it. Thinking 
 nothing, Cox took the key and walked round to the front- 
 entrance ; it was a bright night, and the stars were shining. 
 He unlocked the door, and entered. 
 
 The chapel was in darkness; no signs were there oi 
 Father Andrew ; no mass was being said. All in a moment, 
 as Cox stood just inside, hesitating whether to stumble his 
 way up to the little sacristy, where the priest possibly 
 might be, or to retreat altogether, a faint light dawned in 
 the middle of the chapel, and he saw Guy, the dead Lord 
 of Pomeroy, standing on his own grave. How Cox, in spite 
 of his bravery, got out of the chapel and back to the abbey, 
 he did not say. After all. Father Andrew was at the other 
 end of the village, having gone to the White House to visit 
 a sick servant of Mrs. Wylde's. 
 
 These superstitions were troubling the household of 
 Pomeroy ; and if a word was now and again allowed to 
 drop in the hearing of quick Miss Mary, perhaps it was 
 somewhat excusable. To Mrs. Pomeroy nothing had been 
 said, and the spirit of her dead husband did not, so far as 
 was known, appear to her ; to Leolin no one dared to 
 speak ; he would have visited any nonsense of the sort 
 severely ; but Joan knew of it, and was as implicit a believer 
 in it as Bridget herself. Was it to be wondered at, poor 
 Joan would wail out in pain to. her own heart, that Guy 
 could not rest, dying that miserable death, and unshriven? 
 
 The children soon reached the pine forest and the cottage 
 of Naomi Eex lying on its outskirts. Naomi, looking little 
 older than when we last saw her, was taking her tea in the 
 twilight. The children seated themselves at the table. Miss 
 Mary uninvited, and were soon regaling themselves with 
 brown bread and butter. 
 
 " You've come up late, my dears," she said. 
 
 " A great deal too late," interposed Bridget. " It was 
 Miss Mary's fault, aunt — staying so long in that gloomy 
 chapel." 
 
 " I like the chapel," said Mary. " Bridget's only afraid 
 of seeing the ghost. Where's Ann ? " 
 
IN THE CHAPEL. 
 
 263 
 
 Ann was in tlie little glade close by, picking up sticks, 
 slie was told. And away went the restless child to find 
 Ann, bidding Eupert follow her. 
 
 " Wlio lias been talking to the cbild about tlie gliost ? " 
 abruptly demanded Mrs. Kex, as they disappeared. 
 
 " Nobody," confidently asserted Bridget. " She just hears 
 ii word, and then makes up the rest in her own mind. 
 She's the quickest and sharpest child you ever knew, Aunt 
 Naomi." 
 
 " All the more reason for being careful before her. Don't 
 mention the topic. Never let a child be frightened in its 
 early years." 
 
 " It v/ould take a great deal to frighten her," retorted 
 Bridget. " She is as brave as a little lion. As to not 
 speaking of the ghost, we are not likely to do so. We 
 would rather avoid it, esj)ecially after the set-down Mr. 
 Leolin gave us." 
 
 " What was that ? " 
 
 " Well, Theresa was going to the White House the other 
 night, with some hurried message from Mrs. Pomeroy ; she 
 met me in the cloisters and asked me to go with her. Miss 
 Mary was in bed, and I said I would. ' But not if you take 
 the way through the hollow,' I said to her, unconscious that 
 Mr. Leolin was sitting on a bench in the quadrangle close 
 by, smoking his cigar; 'I dare not go by that place at 
 night for fear of seeing the ghost again ; ' and we went on 
 talking a bit, so that Mr. Leolin could not fail to hear that 
 it was his brother Guy's ghost, and that it was in the habit 
 of appearing. My word ! He spoke to us in his haughty 
 way, calling us no better than children and cowards, and 
 peremptorily forbidding us to believe such absurdity, or 
 ever to speak of it again. After living in the great world — ■ 
 France, and those places — men soon forget what they've 
 been taught. Some of them get to be atheists, it's said." 
 
 Mrs. Eex, a staunch believer herself in all the ghosts 
 ever seen or heard of, anxious though she was to keep such 
 topics from children, nodded her head slowly by way of 
 acquiescence. 
 
 " The Pomeroys were brought up in superstition, as it's 
 
264 
 
 PO]^IEr.OY ABBEY. 
 
 named, Bridget ; took it in with their mother's milk — how 
 could it be otherwise, with the family's experiences ? Mr. 
 Leolin may have lost somewhat of it in the world — but 
 it will come back to him ; ay, surely. As to the late 
 lord, poor Mr. Guy, that he does not rest in his grave, I 
 can testify: though why he should come again, or what 
 he wants, is more than 1 can tell you. I saw him with my 
 own eyes, Bridget." 
 
 Next to encountering a ghost one's self, the most dreary 
 of all experiences is to sit in the twilight, and hear a 
 friend assert that he has seen one. Bridget thrilled from 
 head to foot. 
 
 " Yes, I saw him," resumed Naomi, her eyes taking a 
 far-off look through the window in the gathering darkness, 
 " and I've never betrayed it yet, Bridget, until now. 'Twas 
 a couple of years, or so, after he died, and I w^as coming 
 home late one evening from vespers. I could manage to 
 get down to afternoon vespers then, though I can't now. 
 Afterwards, Marget, at Father Andrew's, had asked me 
 in to tea with her, so it made me late. In that narrow 
 glen, just off the lane by Mrs. Wylde's — which I took 
 because it cut off a few yards of the w^ay — I saw him. 
 'Twas a beautiful light night, and I sat myself down on the 
 stump of a tree for a minute's rest. My head w^as full of 
 that trouble about your sister's illness ; fearing she'd never 
 get better — as it proved, you know — and I'm sure I was no 
 more thinking of Mr. Guy, or of any of the Pomeroys, 
 than if there had never been such people. All at once as 
 I sat there, silent and still, a tall form sprang up from 
 I know not where, and was close upon me. The moonlight 
 fell on the face ; a dead face, Bridget ; and I knew it for 
 that of the late lord." 
 
 Bridget held her breath. 
 
 " Even as I looked, he seemed to vanish. Oh, how fearful 
 it was, that dead face of his ! I crawled on here, hardly 
 knowing whether I was dead or alive. Ann wanted to 
 know what had scared me." 
 
 " Did you tell her ? " 
 
 " Tell her ? That young girl ? I never, till now, told 
 
A FBAIL BLOSSOM. 
 
 265 
 
 any one. The air was getting cool, and had chilled me, 
 was all I answered her. She got down the bottle of elder 
 wine, and warmed a little : and my teeth chattered as I 
 drank it." 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 A FRAIL BLOSSOM. 
 
 " Must you go in to-day, Leolin ? " 
 
 " My dear, I am anxious for letters." 
 
 " But you go in nearly every afternoon, and are so seldom 
 rewarded by finding any letters there. They generally 
 come to you in the morning." 
 
 " Some may be there, Anna, I tell you I am anxious." 
 
 Anna sighed. She sat in her favourite sitting-room, 
 which was opposite her bed-chamber, her three-weeks'-old 
 baby upon her knee. The little girl was born in July, 
 somewhat less than a year from the period of Anna's 
 marriage. Anna had got through her illness very well, 
 and would have been supremely happy could she have seen 
 Leolin so. 
 
 Bending down to his wife's gentle face, he kissed it 
 fondly, stroked the hand of the sleeping baby, and quitted 
 the room. Anna carried her child to the window, and 
 gazed from it to watch him mount his horse, which was 
 waiting. As Leolin rode away, his groom following, he 
 looked up to her, nodded, and raised his hat with a gay 
 smile. 
 
 Leolin was going to Owlstone, his chief pilgrimage in 
 an afternoon. His object was to see whether any letters, 
 brought down by the day-mail, waited for him at the post- 
 office : for Abbeyland only had its morning delivery, as of 
 old. You may remember that poor Guy would now and 
 then make the same journey for the same purpose. 
 
 Leolin's mania had increased with time. He was in 
 
26G 
 
 POxMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 frequent correspondence with Eome. One of the cardinals, 
 who had known and liked Leolin in the days gone by, had 
 been so won upon by his representations that he took up 
 the cause warmly. And the information as to the English 
 laws, incessantly demanded by letter of Mr. Hildyard, by 
 this same cardinal, or by a man of business representing 
 him, nearly drove the lawyer out of all patience with 
 Leolin. 
 
 But Leolin was finding more trouble than he expected in 
 the matter. Other people about the court of the Vatican, 
 quite as influential as this cardinal, were opposed to the 
 scheme. It appeared to be nothing but plot and counter- 
 plot ; representations and misrepresentations ; if the one 
 side made a successful move, the other side had it repressed. 
 Altogether, Leolin did not prosper : at least, success had 
 not yet come to him. What perhaps added to the difficulties 
 of the case, was the fact that it was being worked out in 
 secret. Correspondence was marked " private and con- 
 fidential ; " letters even came over in cipher, to which Leolin 
 alone possessed the key. The world in general, whether at 
 home or abroad, knew not that Leolin Pomeroy was striving 
 to put aside the young lord in his own favour. That he 
 would eventually triumph, Leolin as fully believed as that 
 the sun shone : and, strange to say, he v/as persuaded of the 
 justice of his cause. So does self-interest blind us. 
 
 He would expound his views to his wife by the hour 
 together, making Anna thoroughly uncomfortable. The 
 more he talked, the clearer grew her sense of the injury he 
 was contemplating, and its terrible injustice. Anna had 
 left off trying to persuade him to see the matter in the 
 right light and to leave George's little son in peace : had 
 she continued to argue, unpleasantness between herself and 
 her husband would have resulted. So silent had she been 
 of late, so passive when Leolin enlarged upon his wrongs, 
 that he thought she was being won over to his cause. 
 
 A semblance of civility was kept up between themselves 
 and the Lady of Pomeroy. The two ladies exchanged a 
 formal visit on state occasions. Anna would willingly have 
 been more cordial and intimate, for she very much liked 
 
A FRAIL BLOSSOM. 
 
 267 
 
 and respected Sybilla. Mrs. Pomeroy was tolerably sociable 
 with both : as sociable as she had been with any one since 
 Guy's dreadful death. The happiest times were those when 
 Joan was at the abbey; family meetings became more 
 frequent and less formal. Joan had openly declared her 
 sentiments to Leolin, telling him that he ought to be 
 ashamed of himself, and that whilst she was with them she 
 should take care he did not arrest the cordiality that ought 
 to reign between his wife and Sybilla; and that would 
 reign, but for him. One cannot be always wise : Leolin 
 gave in to his sister's freak, and was blind to the tea- 
 drinkings in his own rooms and Sybilla's. 
 
 The j)roblem that had puzzled Leolin, as to what became 
 of the money his brother George must have saved, was a 
 problem still. Once he had gone so far as to ask Sybilla. 
 This occurred on an occasion when he went to her, at her 
 own request, about some matter connected with the abbey, 
 on which she wished to have his opinion. 
 
 " What did George do with his income ? " abruptly de- 
 manded Leolin, w^hen their conference was over. " It is 
 not possible that he could have spent it. At least, I 
 imagine not, as he lived so quietly." 
 
 " I think he did spend it," calmly replied Sybilla. I 
 believe he did." 
 
 "What in ? " asked Leolin, after a pause. 
 
 " Indeed I do not know. George did not give an account 
 to me of all he spent." 
 
 " Did he put by any of it ? " 
 
 " Very little, I think." 
 
 "But it is inconceivable," persisted Leolin. "He 
 received all the revenues, and left no more behind him than 
 that paltry sum. I cannot understand it." 
 
 " And I cannot enlighten you," concluded Sybilla. " The 
 sum left to me was all the money George had to leave — so 
 far as I know." 
 
 Of course Leolin could only abandon the question. But 
 it still remained on his mind as a mystery. That she had 
 done something or other with the money herself, he fully 
 believed. But to return to the present. 
 
268 
 
 POMEROY ABBF.Y. 
 
 Anna, standing at the front-window, with her sleeping 
 infant, watched her husband ride down the gentle slope and 
 branch off on the road to Owlstone. A sad look lay in her 
 eyes : she was wishing, oh, how earnestly, that Leolin's 
 better nature would return to him ; and that he would 
 leave the young lord at peace. 
 
 " Aunt Anna, wo have come to see the baby," interrupted 
 Mary Pomeroy, running into the room, as Anna sat down 
 again. "Eupert did not want to come, and I made him. 
 He is afraid of Uncle Leolin, you know ; but we saw him 
 ride off towards Owlstone." 
 
 "You must not be afraid of Uncle Leolin," said Anna, 
 smiling to assure the lad, and taking his hand to encourage 
 him. What a gentle refined boy it was, she could not helj) 
 thinking ; what a slender, graceful form ; what a good face, 
 with its beautiful features, and its now healthy, transparent 
 complexion. " Uncle Leolin will not harm you." 
 
 " He would like to, though," interposed Mary, who was 
 bold as Eupert was reticent. " Uncle Leolin hates him 
 because he is Lord of Pomeroy. He would like to beat 
 him." 
 
 " Hush, Mary," said Lady Anna. " See, you are waking 
 baby. You talk too much." 
 
 Eupert bent over the child : a fair little thing, resembling 
 its mother, with her candid and expressive blue eyes. 
 
 " How pretty it is ! " said Eupert. " May I kiss her ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course you may," said Anna. 
 
 " What is her name going to be ? " asked Mary. 
 
 " I am not sure. I should like it to be Isabel : but your 
 uncle Leolin wants it to be Anna." 
 
 They were interrupted by the entrance of Leolin's groom 
 of the chambers. The Lady of Pomeroy was below, he 
 announced, inquiring whether she might then pay a visit to 
 the Lady Anna. 
 
 Of course Anna assented, gladly. An eager glance of 
 welcome sat in her eyes as she rose to greet Sybilla. The 
 Lady of Pomeroy, looking the regal woman that she was, in 
 her rich trailing black silk, met the welcoming glance, and 
 the hand-clasp, with as fond a look, as firm a pressure. 
 
A FRAIL BLOSSO:\r. 
 
 269 
 
 They were very liappy that afternoon. Sybilla, Anna, 
 the two children, and the quiet baby. The latter so quiet 
 that Sybilla mentally wondered whether it could be well. 
 Anna ordered tea and they partook of it together. How 
 thankful Anna would be to live ever in this familiar inter- 
 course, and how warmly Sybilla w^ould have reciprocated it, 
 each was conscious of in her own heart. 
 
 "Thank you for this pleasant visit," Anna whispered, 
 clasping the Lady of Pomeroy's hand when they were about 
 to part. " You and your dear little son so rarely come into 
 the north wing." 
 
 " It is so rarely that I may venture to come," whispered 
 Sybilla. 
 
 Anna understood, and a painful blush suffused her face. 
 " It will come right in time ; I am sure of it," she eagerly 
 rejoined. " It was a great disajipointment to him, you 
 know." 
 
 I do know it," replied Sybilla. " And therefore I make 
 every excuse for him. Yes, it will come right in time." 
 
 " What glorious news ! " almost shouted Leolin. 
 
 He sat at the breakfast-table, reading a letter just delivered. 
 It was the morning following his ride to Owlstone, a ride 
 that had not borne fruit, for the post-office had held no 
 letters for the abbey. The letter, that he was now hastily 
 scanning, was from his friend the cardinal. 
 
 " What glorious news ! " repeated Leolin, rising to seek 
 his wife, letter in hand. For Anna was scarcely strong 
 enough yet to breakfast with him. 
 
 " Such news, Anna ! " was his triumphant greeting, when 
 he found her. " Here's a letter from my good friend the 
 cardinal. The Papal Court has decided to pronounce tho 
 marriage null and void." 
 
 Anna, wrapped in a white morning-gown, was bending 
 over the infant's crib in the night-nursery. She turned her 
 face towards him. Its expression of sadness somewhat 
 checked Leolin's high spirits. 
 
 " Come and look at baby, Leolin. Nurse does not think 
 she is welL See how quiet she lies, her eyes half open«" 
 
270 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Teeth, perhaps," suggested Leolin, not in the least 
 knowing 'whether an infant of three weeks ought to cut 
 teeth or not. "Send for JSTorris, if you don't think her 
 well. But is this not good news, Anna ? " 
 
 He went back to his breakfast, and to indulge in all kinds 
 of delightful anticipations of what he would do when he 
 was once more Lord of Pomeroy, the child's indisposition 
 passing quite out of his mind. 
 
 But ere mid-day struck out from the great clock in the 
 quadrangle, there was commotion in the abbey. The infant 
 was in convulsions. Mr. Norris gave faint hopes of its life. 
 Father Andrew was summoned in haste, and baptized it in 
 the name of Isabel. 
 
 A few hours more of life : and, as the dusk of evening 
 was passing into darkness, the young and feeble spirit quitted 
 its earthly tenement and returned to Him who gave it. 
 
 Anna's grief was great. Leolin mourned the child, but 
 not as his wife did: which perhaps was only natural. 
 Condolences came in to Lady Anna from the other parts 
 of the abbey: the lady's were expressed in a feeling and 
 affectionate letter ; Mrs. Pomeroy more formally sent her 
 card witb a few words written on it. 
 
 But, on the day after the death, when Leolin had gone 
 round to the chapel with Father Andrew to see about the 
 place of interment, Rupert stole to the front-entrance, 
 Leolin's entrance, rang gently, and asked whether he might 
 see Lady Anna. He had a white flower in his hand. 
 
 " I don't think my lady will see you now, sir," said Cox, 
 who had met the boy at the door. " She is in great grief, 
 you know." 
 
 " Yes, I know ; but if I might see her ? " urged Rupert. 
 " Would you mind just asking her, Cox ? " 
 
 Leaving Rupert where he was, Cox had the message 
 taken to Lady Anna. And Anna said he was to be admitted. 
 
 The tears stood in her eyes as he went in. Anna kissed 
 him in silence. 
 
 " I wanted to tell you how sorry I am," began Rupert. 
 " But please don't cry too mucb : mamma says she is gonq 
 up to heaven." 
 
LATER ON. 
 
 271 
 
 "Oh yes, I know," answered Anna, bursting into tears 
 forthwith. " If it had only pleased God to spare her to us 
 a little while ! " 
 
 " And I have brought this for her," added Eupert, timidly 
 offering the flower. "Would you mind putting it in her 
 hand ? It is quite white : and mamma says she is in white 
 noAV, with the angels." 
 
 Anna took the flower almost with reverence. Clasping 
 the gentle child to her, she wept upon his neck. And she 
 thought what a beautiful nature had this little Kupert 
 Pomeroy. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LATER ON. 
 
 The lichen-covered walls of Pomeroy Abbey stood out, 
 gloomy and grand, under the bright rays of the October 
 moon, now riding in the cloudless sky and nearing the full. 
 A stormy day had given place to a calm evening. The 
 pine forest rose, dark and sombre, on yonder hill; the 
 distant sea gleamed and sparkled in the moonlight. 
 
 Listlessly pacing about between the keep and the front 
 of the abbey, enjoying his after-dinner cigar, was Leolin 
 Pomeroy. But, though his walk might be listless, his mind 
 was almost preternaturally occupied. Above him were the 
 windows of the south wing : some of them lighted up, others 
 dark and shadowy. By the frown upon Leolin's face as he 
 glanced up at them, one might gather that his thoughts were 
 not agreeable ones. 
 
 Time has elapsed since the events recorded in the last 
 chapter : but Pomeroy Abbey and those connected with it 
 stand very much now as they stood then. 
 
 It may be remembered that Leolin was in high glee at the 
 favourable news received from Eome. But the news turned 
 out to be premature. Whether the cardinal, in his zeal for 
 
272 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 tiie cause, had been over sanguine, or whether his eminence 
 was himself deceived, it matters not to inquire ; all Leolin 
 knew was, that the decree had not been pronounced. The 
 cardinal was as much Leolin's friend as ever, but he could 
 not obtain the decree of annulment. It was not yet pro- 
 nounced : and the marriage of George Pomeroy still held 
 good in law. 
 
 Only the greater reason, argued Leolin, for redoubling his 
 efforts. The cause seemed to him to grow more righteous 
 day by day, his own wrongs more glaring. During this 
 interlude a second girl was born to him, but it had died as 
 had the first. There was now another infant, a few months 
 o]d; a son, who had been named Hugh after the old lord. 
 Since his birth, Lady Anna had been suffering from low 
 fever ; but she was growing stronger now. In Leolin's own 
 heart he regarded this little son as the heir of Pomeroy ; 
 and he hated the young lad, Eupert, more than ever, for 
 usurping what ought to be his. 
 
 But this was not the trouble exercising Leolin's mind 
 to-night. The immediate perplexity, filling his thoughts 
 and darkening his brow, was one that many of us have, more 
 or less, suffered from : want of money. A secret suit cannot 
 be carried on for nothing. Leolin's income was a small one, 
 as the reader knows. Very small indeed for a man in his 
 position ; though he had the free use of the abbey and its 
 servants. Lord Essington continued his allowance to him ; 
 besides slipping, now and again, a ten or twenty-pound note 
 into his daughter's hand, whenever they were sojourning 
 together; but it all seemed as a drop in the ocean, with 
 Leolin's ways and means for throwing it away on this un- 
 lucky and unjust suit. No wonder he had grown embarrassed. 
 
 This embarrassment was the matter lying on his hcnrt 
 to-night, bringing wrath in its train. To think th iL she, 
 inhabiting that south wing above him, the Lady of Pomeroy, 
 should possess so much, and he so little ! The income 
 offered to him by Sybilla he persisted in declining haughtily 
 and ungraciously ; nevertheless he coveted the means that 
 were hers. And what on earth she did with her money, he 
 could not imagine. 
 
LATEH ON. 
 
 273 
 
 The latter question had long puzzled him. That Sybilla 
 lived in less state than the reigning widow of any Lord of 
 Pomeroy had lived yet, was evident to the world. Scarcely 
 a tithe, certainly not a fourth, had she spent of her revenues ; 
 or, strictly speaking, of her son's revenues ; but George 
 Pomeroy had left her in sole control of them. The super- 
 fluous yearly thousands, what became of them ? 
 
 The knowledge came to him incidentally, through a banker 
 with whom Leolin was conversing one day when he was up 
 in town. The Lady of Pomeroy was putting by large sums 
 yearly ; not in her own name, or in that of her son, but in 
 the name of one Thomas Barkley. 
 
 It took Leolin not very long to decide that this Thomas 
 Barkley must be the Major Barkley who had been George's 
 great friend in India. His name was Thomas. Major 
 Barkley had retired from service after George's death : had 
 since spent some of his time in foreign travel : twice he had 
 travelled down to Pomeroy on a visit to Sybilla and her 
 little son. During these visits Leolin had condescended to 
 accept the lady's occasional invitations to meet him at her 
 table, and he had been certainly impressed in Major Barkley 's 
 favour, for he appeared to possess good sense and to be a man 
 of rectitude and a thorough gentleman. But why should 
 this man be enriched by the Pomeroy revenues ? What did 
 it mean? Pacing about under the abbey walls, with the 
 fair moon shining full upon him, and the murmur of the sea 
 sounding faintly in his ears in the silence of the night, 
 Leolin Pomeroy was weaving to himself a pretty little 
 nightmare of romantic doubt. 
 
 " She must be in Barkley's power — deceitful woman ! 
 that seems certain," spoke he to himself, thus politely 
 alluding to Sybilla. " I wonder if her agent, Knox, knows 
 anything of this ? I've a great mind to ask him. What a 
 shame it is that I should be in such need of money, while 
 she is lavishing Ah ! good-evening to you, father ! " 
 
 " Is it you or your ghost ? " cried Father Andrew, merry 
 as usual, and stouter and redder than of yore. Coming from 
 the direction of the chapel with a fleet step, he had overtaken 
 Leolin. I thought you were in London." 
 
 Pumeroy Abb^y. 18 
 
274 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 "I returned home an hour ago," said Leolin, throwing 
 away the end of his cigar. 
 
 " I have been into the chapel : seeing that the black 
 draperies were up, and all things in readiness for to-morrow," 
 remarked the priest. And the words brought to Leolin's 
 mind what perhaps he had momentarily forgotten — that the 
 morrow would be a solemn day with the Pomeroys ; the 
 anniversary of the death of Guy. 
 
 " A nice night," remarked Leolin. 
 
 "At present. But I don't like those clouds over the 
 forest: they mean stormy weather of some kind. I am going 
 on to Lamp's," added the priest ; " his mother's worse. How 
 do you find Lady Anna looking ? " 
 
 " Bravely. She tells me she walked out to-day." 
 
 They strolled side by side to the front of the abbey, talk- 
 ing, when the priest continued his way and Leolin stood 
 still to light another cigar. Puffing away at it, he resumed 
 the train of thought which Father Andrew had interrupted. 
 
 " I shall speak to Knox. Don't know that it will be of 
 any ,use : he never shows himself too communicative on his 
 
 mistress's affairs — by her orders, I suppose. And if 
 
 Why, who's this? Knox himself? What does he want 
 jiere at this hour ? " 
 
 James Knox was approaching the abbey gateway with a 
 quick step. He soon disappeared within it. Leolin followed 
 him to the business room, and found him rummaging amidst 
 some papers on his large desk by the light of a solitary 
 candle. 
 
 You work late," was Leolin's greeting. 
 
 James Knox laughed. He was a pleasant man, and a 
 gentleman by birth, though he had become the agent, or 
 steward, to the Lady of Pomeroy. A little dark man with 
 bright dark eyes. In early days he and the young Pomeroys 
 had played together. 
 
 " I am not at work," he answered. " I took home in my 
 pocket, as I thought^ a list of accounts that I meant to go 
 over leisurely to-night; but when I arrived there I could 
 not find it. One does not like to lose things, Mr. Leolin, 
 and I have come to look for it»" 
 
LATER ON. 
 
 275 
 
 Leolin sat down near the desk. In the same seat where 
 the reader once saw him sitting whilst talking to John 
 Gaunt, when Leolin, poor fellow, thought himself Lord of 
 Pomeroy. Knox was turning over papers and pigeon-holes 
 with a rapid hand. 
 
 " Now what can I have done with that list ? " cried he. 
 It is not here. Hope no light fingers filched it out of my 
 pocket, going home in the twilight." 
 
 " Is it anything of consequence ? " 
 
 " Well, no. But I shall have the trouble of making out 
 another. It was a list of the rents and moneys paid in this 
 last year." 
 
 " Talking of rents, the revenues of this estate must be 
 improving, I fancy," carelessly observed Leolin. 
 
 " They are. But it righted itself in your brother George's 
 time. Gaunt did wonders for it." 
 
 " Ay : he knew who he was working for," was Leolin's 
 reply, given in anything but gracious tones. "But now, 
 with all these large revenues coming in — and l^hey are large 
 — what does my brother George's widow do with them ? " 
 
 James Knox turned his eyes, honest eyes they were, full 
 upon Leolin. " I don't know," he answered ; " she does not 
 tell me. * She does not spend them." 
 
 " vShe does not spend a tithe of them, you mean," retorted 
 Leolin. " But you must know how she employs them, Knox 
 — in your position as steward." 
 
 " I assure you I do not know. The moneys are paid in 
 by me to the Owlstone Bank, and that's all I have to do 
 with them. The Lady of Pomeroy no doubt transmits them 
 to Mr. Hildyard." 
 
 " For investment ? " 
 
 " Naturally. She would not keep them lying idle." 
 
 " Well, then, Knox, I can tell you that nothing is trans- 
 mitted to Mr. Hildyard. Hildyard is as much in the dark 
 as I am. He was good enough for my father, and for my 
 brothers, poor Guy and George ; but it seems he is not so 
 for the lady at present reigning here. Some one else must 
 act for her in regard to money matters : Hildyard does not 
 do so." 
 
276 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Mr. Knox shook his bead. This was no concern of his ; 
 he did not want to make it his, or to speak of it. He began 
 searching for his lost list again. 
 
 " Has that Barkley anything to do with business matters 
 here ? " resumed Leolin. 
 
 " Barkley ? What Barkley ? " 
 
 "Major Barkley — formerly my brother George's friend. 
 You must remember him, Knox." 
 
 " Oh yes — I remember now — Major Barkley : he has stayed 
 at the abbey once or twice. Certainly he has not anything 
 to do with our business here. Why should he have — and 
 how ? He is abroad.'* 
 
 Leolin did not choose to say what he had heard. Knox, 
 giving up his list as hopeless, prepared to lock up the desk. 
 
 " You are sure he has not ? " persisted Leolin. 
 
 " Has not what ? " 
 
 " Anything to do with the Pomeroy hoards ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. So far as I know and believe.'' 
 
 " He was left executor, you know, to George's will," 
 added Leolin, as if seeking to account for his questions. 
 
 " But his business, in connection with that, was over and 
 done with long ago," was the agent's answer : and he took 
 his departure. 
 
 Standing in the gateway to finish his cigar, Leolin saw 
 a chariot approaching. Jeffs was on the box, by which 
 Laolin knew the carriage must be that of the Lady of 
 Pomeroy, and no doubt contained his sister Joan, who had 
 been staying at the convent on a visit to the Lady Abbess. 
 She was now coming for the morrow's services and to 
 remain the guest of Sybilla. 
 
 Leolin waited to receive his sister. And then, their 
 greeting over, he turned away to his solitary walk again, 
 the perplexity, touching Major Thomas Barkley, running 
 riot in his brain. 
 
 Autumn had been genial that year : the sun bright, the 
 air warm up to the middle of October. But to-day wintry 
 weather had come in. The skies were gloomy ; the wind 
 rose in mournful strains, now rushing along in terrific 
 
LATER ON. 
 
 277 
 
 gusts, and now gently shaking the trees with a sound of 
 lamentation. Thus it had been since early morning. 
 
 Twilight was drawing on apace. In one of the rooms of 
 the south tower sat the Lady of Pomeroy and her sister-in- 
 law, Joan, both habited in the deepest mourning, their 
 custom on this particular day. This apartment, one of 
 elegance and refinement, but small, looked out on the court- 
 yard. 
 
 How the wind howls ! " exclaimed Miss Pomeroy, 
 shivering as the blast seemed to shake the tower. " Sybilla, 
 I wonder you prefer this tower sitting-room on these windy 
 nights." 
 
 " It is more cheerful, Joan. The drawing-rooms in the 
 wing are large and dreary, for they look out upon the forest 
 over the hill, with its dark trees bowing down. I think 
 trees are the most melancholy objects possible when the 
 wind has this peculiar sound. In this room we look out 
 upon the court, with its lights and signs of life." 
 
 " I have observed that on this day the wdnd always does 
 come up in these blasts," returned Joan, in whispers that 
 seemed to shrink from their own echo. " It is as if the 
 dead were abroad." 
 
 " What now, Joan ? What do you mean by * this day ' ? " 
 (juickly asked the Lady of Pomeroy. 
 
 " It is the seventeenth of October," replied Miss Pomeroy, 
 as she crossed herself. 
 
 " Do I not know it ? Have we not attended the services 
 in the chapel? kept it as the most solemn we can ever 
 know ? But, J oan, do not speak of the dead being abroad : 
 you should shake off the Pomeroy superstition." 
 
 " It is now nine years since the fatal night ; four of its 
 anniversaries I have passed in the abbey, and each time it 
 has been one of these howling, gloomy days. They are 
 enough to call up feelings of superstition, in themselves 
 alone." 
 
 " Not so, J oan : save to a mind too prone to indulge in it. 
 But you seemed to connect your idea of the ' dead being 
 abroad ' with this particular day." 
 As I do," answered Joan. 
 
278 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 That that day nine years ago had been a memorable one 
 for the Pomeroys none can deny. In that room of the west 
 tower, exactly opposite to the one they now sat in, a room 
 shunned for long, long years before as being the haunt 
 of a departed spirit, wronged in life, Guy met his dreadful 
 death by Eupert's hand— and Eupert had ever since been 
 an exile. 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy rose, with a quick movement, almost as 
 though her thoughts were too much for her, and drew aside 
 the window-curtain. There she stood, looking down on the 
 quadrangle. The rooms in the north wing, inhabited by 
 Leolin's household, were gay with many lights : and it may 
 be that Joan felt cheered by the silent companionship. 
 Light fleecy clouds scudded along the otherwise clear sky ; 
 the moonlight shone full on the west wing and tower. 
 
 " It has turned out a bright night," she observed, return- 
 ing to the table and taking up her work ; " I never saw a 
 brighter. By the way, I don't think I gave you Sister 
 Mildred's message, Sybilla. She asked me to tell you that 
 the poor little orphan-girl, whom you have placed in the 
 convent, is a sweet child, clever, and will do credit to the 
 sisters." 
 
 " I am glad of that ; I thought she would. But — about 
 Sister Mildred herself? Does it strike you, Joan, that she 
 is getting to look old ? She has seemed to me to be very 
 poorly of late." 
 
 " She has been so worried, you see, by that business con- 
 nected with the Hildyards. Indeed, it has worried the 
 whole community. As the ladies say, it has brought them 
 all into disrepute." 
 
 " I do not see that," dissented Sybilla. " They were not 
 to blame; neither is blame attached to them. It was a 
 grievous thing." 
 
 "It was a shameful thing," amended Joan. "Nothing 
 like it had ever occurred in the convent before. It is killing 
 Mr. Hildyard." 
 
 " It must have been a terrible blow to him. When did 
 you see him last ? " 
 
 " Shortly before I came down here. Henry Capel had 
 
MYSTERY. 
 
 279 
 
 to consult him when we were in London, and I went with 
 him to Lincoln's Inn. You cannot think how he is 
 changed, poor man ; worn, and grey, and sad ; heart and 
 spirit seem to be alike broken. I fear he is not long for 
 this world.'' 
 
 " Oh, I can feel for him," earnestly spoke Sybilla. 
 " There is no trouble tells home like that brought by a 
 rebellious child. I trust he will rally : matters, in regard 
 to Frances, may not be so dark as they appear on the 
 surface." 
 
 " I can't see much hope of that. There is just a chance, 
 of course. I asked him," continued Joan, lowering her 
 voice, " whether anything had been since heard or seen of 
 Eupert." 
 
 Lost in other thoughts, Sybilla looked up in surprise. 
 
 Oh yes," — catching Joan's meaning—" since the clerk, 
 Collins, saw him on board the Spanish ship. What did Mr. 
 Hildyard say ? " she added after a pause. 
 
 " That nothing, so far as he knows, has been seen or heard 
 of Eupert since then. I hope and pray it will not be. 
 That is a long time ago. If we could only hear that he was 
 dead ! " 
 
 " Don't, Joan." 
 
 " I know it seems a fearful thing to say of a brother," 
 wailed Joan. " But I speak for his own sake, as well as for 
 ours, Sybilla ; for what a bitter fate his must be — what a 
 life of dread ! Poor misguided Eupert ! " 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 MYSTERY. 
 
 On this same evening, Alice, widow of Guy Pomeroy, sat in 
 her dressing-room, its windows facing the west wing and 
 tower. This anniversary, coming round year after year, 
 could not be pleasant for her. Pleasant ? say, rather, most 
 
280 
 
 rO^ilEROY ABBEY. 
 
 miserable. She liacl attencletl, witli the rest of the abbey, 
 the services in the chapel : at the conclusion of vespers 
 she had shut herself in her rooms, closing them against 
 intruders. 
 
 On the anniversary of the death of any one of the Lords 
 of Pomeroy, it was customary to celebrate a mass year after 
 year in the chapel, for the repose of his soul. But the 
 death of Guy had been terrible ; and he had passed away 
 unshriven ; so that his anniversary, the seventeenth of Octo- 
 ber, was made doubly solemn in its religious observances, and 
 kept as a strict fast until sunset. Now that the services 
 were over, Mrs. Pomeroy sat in her solitary room, her 
 hands listlessly clasped upon her black dress, remembrance 
 her sole companion. 
 
 Her eyes fixed on the windows of the haunted room, the 
 terrible room which had been so fatal to her, there she sat, 
 and indulged her reflections. What could those reflections 
 be ? We cannot penetrate them ; cannot well realize the re- 
 morse that must have been her portion. For it was she who 
 had brought about the terrible calamity ; she, and she alone. 
 What though no absolute guilt stained her memory, there 
 remained her folly, her sinful folly : and, be very sure, 
 of that folly she had long ago repented with bitter sighs 
 and tears. Through her and her folly Guy had died, and 
 Eupert was an exile. But she had never condoned the fact 
 that Guy won her by a lie ; and her feeling towards him 
 was still one of dislike, rather than of love. 
 
 The mental distress in which she lived had been recently 
 added to by her becoming acquainted with that hazardous 
 visit of Rupert's to England in the Spanish barque : which 
 fact had previously been kej)t from her. She learnt it 
 through inadvertence. During Joan's late sojourn at the 
 convent, she drove to Pomeroy one day unexpectedly, and 
 found only Mrs. Pomeroy visible. Sybilla had gone wdth 
 the two children to Owlstone, Lady Anna was lying down, 
 Leolin was in London. Though not choosing to accept 
 Mrs. Pomeroy's hospitality in a general way, Joan could 
 not in courtesy refuse it now, and she partook of luncheon. 
 During the meal, Mrs. Pomeroy, in her sad, subdued way, 
 
MYSTERY. 
 
 281 
 
 spoke a few words concerning an unhaj^py w^anderer, an 
 acquaintance, who had been obliged to fly his country. 
 Joan thought she referred to Eupert, and replied that he 
 had not been heard of since that dangerous visit. The next 
 moment Joan saw her error : she had forgotten that the 
 matter had never been disclosed to Mrs. Pomeroy, and she 
 dropped the subject abruptly. Eut the alarm and distress 
 depicted on Alice's face were so great, her petition to be 
 enlightened so pitiful, that Joan had no resource but to 
 briefly disclose the facts ; and she went away haughtily 
 dissatisfied with herself for having been betrayed into allud- 
 ing to it. It was the first time, all these nine years, that 
 the name of Kupert had been breathed by her to Mrs. 
 Pomeroy. 
 
 Since then, it was not a week ago, Alice Pomeroy had 
 lived in the most intense dread. The aftair had taken quite 
 an exaggerated hold upon her mind. In every shadowy 
 nook she saw the ill-fated Eupert, cowering and shivering 
 and hiding himself from the law : and she saw, in imagina- 
 tion, the dread officers of that same law pouncing uj)on 
 him. 
 
 Did he often venture into this dangerous kingdom ? — 
 was he in England now? From fearing that he might be, 
 she grew to believing that he was : and an active terror 
 stirred her. 
 
 All through these dreary years her heart had ached with 
 its suppressed pain. Many a time she had longed, with 
 a yearning, irrepressible longing, to behold Eupert once 
 again— that she might tell him how she deplored the past, 
 and the bitter consequences it had entailed upon him. If 
 he suffered, she suffered. She had never — let it be repeated 
 — forgiven the part acted towards herself and Eupert by 
 Guy; she still felt it keenly and resentfully; she would 
 picture to herself the miserable life of Eupert ; suspense 
 had racked her as to whether he was dead or living. This 
 revelation of Miss Pomeroy's, although it referred to some 
 three or four years back, seemed to prove to her that he yet 
 lived — and that they might meet again. 
 
 The moon had risen high as Mrs. Pomeroy sat, and its 
 
282 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 rays fell full on tlie banntecl cliamber : so had they fallen 
 on the ever-to-be-remembered night, when she was within 
 it with Eupert. She raised her hands to her still young 
 and beautiful face, and, pressing its temples, spoke aloud in 
 her abandonment of remembrance and sorrow. 
 
 " Will he dare to venture back again ? — will he dare to 
 come to Pomeroy ? Oh, that he would, that I might v/arn 
 him ! I would ask but one brief interview with him, that 
 I might tell him his visits to England were known and 
 watched for — as I make no doubt they are ; that treachery 
 is abroad, and that he must hasten to put the seas between 
 himself and his enemies. We might speak just one word of 
 comfort to each other's worn and weary heart, to strengthen 
 ourselves in bearing up on our lone and miserable way." 
 
 A half-moan, wrung from her distress, and Mrs. Pomeroy 
 flung her hands over her eyes, as if she would shut out the 
 sight of that fatal west tower. Presently her hands dropped 
 on her gown, and she spoke again. 
 
 "He might have come back at first, and have assumed 
 his rights. He ought to have assumed them at the time — 
 have stayed to battle the affair out, instead of running 
 away. I have always thought so. Had he possessed one 
 proper friend to smooth the way for him, he might have 
 stayed. He surely might. Let them talk as they will, 
 punishment could not have fallen upon him. Though he 
 might perhaps have had to stand his trial, he would never 
 have been punished. It was no murder ; it was a scuffle — 
 am not I here to testify to it ? Guy drew his pistol upon 
 him, and then they closed with each other, and Eupert 
 turned the pistol back in self-defence. I know it must 
 have been so. He is the true lord; even Sybilla says it, 
 though it would dispossess her son; and he ought to be 
 reigning here. It is too late now for this ; his very absence 
 seems to the world to testify to his sense of guilt. No one 
 is for him ; even Joan condemns him ; and the law would 
 only take him if he ventured here. So there is no help for 
 it ; no end to the pain of his unhappy life. Oh, Eupert ! if 
 the past might only be re-lived ! If I might only see you 
 once again ! If— — " 
 
MYSTERY. 
 
 283 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy's voice died suddenly, but her moutli re- 
 mained open in dread amazement. If ever she saw the 
 figure of Rupert Pomeroy, she thought she saw it then, in 
 the haunted room. In spite of the wild wish she had just 
 expressed, she gazed in dismay, striving to peer beyond the 
 panes of the window in the west tower on which the moon- 
 light fell, striving to still her beating heart. 
 
 The longer she gazed, the more terrified she grew. That 
 some one was moving about, within that room, was certain. 
 It appeared to be a man's figure of remarkable height, 
 as Eupert's was. Yes, surely it was Eupert ! He came 
 forward more than once, and she distinctly saw his head 
 bent against the panes of the window : and, even as she 
 looked, a light for one brief moment appeared in the room, 
 so that she discerned the outlines of his form and face. A 
 strange thrill ran through her : it was undoubtedly Eupert 
 Pomeroy. But the light — what was that for ? It appeared 
 as though a match had been struck and as instantly ex- 
 tinguished. 
 
 Curious fancies come into a woman's mind, and into a 
 man's also, sometimes. Mrs. Pomeroy arrived at the con- 
 clusion, by a process of reasoning which had little of 
 reason in it, that Eupert had struck the flash of light to 
 give token of his presence. The flash must have been as 
 visible to other windows as to hers ; wondering eyes might 
 likewise be at them ; and a terrible dread took possession 
 of her. 
 
 What could he want — and in that place ? she asked herself 
 Could he be aware that his liberty and life lay in peril in 
 this his native land ; and that an incautious word dropped 
 by a servant might spread the news far and wide, and bring 
 that peril down upon him ? Oh, she must contrive to warn 
 him of his danger ; it seemed to be almost as a sacred duty 
 laid upon her — for had it not been she who helped to bring 
 the trouble upon him ? It might be that, in Heaven's mercy, 
 no one but herself, had discerned the flash of light, or seen 
 that any one was in the tower. Surely Heaven, looking 
 down upon his misery all these long years, must, and would, 
 be merciful to him now. 
 
284 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 In the excitement that possessed her, sl>e lost sight of the 
 dread journey that would be hers, in going to the west tower. 
 There might be no time to lose ; for in that room he surely 
 would not linger ; but that he had contrived to get to it to 
 make known his presence, and to signal some one from the 
 abbey to him, she could not doubt. 
 
 Throwing a black lace shawl over her head to ward off 
 recognition, Mrs. Pomeroy stole downstairs to the cloisters, 
 as she had once stolen years before, and gained the north 
 tower. But its door was locked. How then could Kupert 
 have gained admittance to the west wing? She drew into a 
 corner to solve the mystery. 
 
 She could not do it. Gliding back, she entered a passage 
 that took her to the window of the key-closet, in which a 
 light burned. Peering in, she saw the bunch of keys 
 belonging to the closed room hanging in its respective niche. 
 What a mystery it all was — now, as then ! But she must 
 gain admittance for Eupert's sake. Plad he kept false keys 
 by him all these years ? 
 
 Speeding back, she entered the day-nursery. Bridget was 
 kneeling down in the dark, her face just above the sill of 
 the window, and as close to its glass as Mrs. Pomeroy's had 
 just been to that of the key-closet. She started up with a 
 cry of surprise at the entrance of h^r mistress. 
 
 Why are you in darkness ? " sharply demanded Mrs. 
 Pomeroy. " What are you looking at ? " 
 
 Bridget made no reply. She opened the store cupboard 
 to take out her candle and box of matches; but before 
 lighting it she turned to draw down the blind. 
 
 I ask you, Bridget, what you were looking at, thus glued 
 to the window ! Let the blind alone ; and tell me." 
 
 " I will tell you, madam, if you please, but I do not know 
 Vv^hether it would be well to do so," replied Bridget, speak- 
 ing readily, now that she had broken the silence. 
 
 " Are you to constitute yourself a judge of what may or 
 may not be told to me ? " haughtily returned Mrs. Pomej-oy. 
 Speak instantly." 
 
 Bridget drew away from the faint light that came in 
 at the window ; the moon did not shine on these rooms 
 
MYSTERY. 
 
 285 
 
 as it did on those opposite ; and her voice dropped to a 
 whisper. 
 
 " Madam, Mr. Eupert has come back at last." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy's heart fluttered. Her fears were confirmed. 
 
 "How do you know it, Bridget? Have you seen him?" 
 she inquired, and her imperious tone had changed to one of 
 dread. 
 
 " I have seen him every night for a week in the haunted 
 room opposite," replied Bridget. " I saw him to-night, a 
 quarter-of-an-hour ago, and I was watching for him again, 
 madam, when you came in." 
 
 " You have seen him for a week past ! " repeated Mrs. 
 Pomeroy, in utter amazement. 
 
 "Just one week ago this night, madam, was the first time. 
 It was a deal later than this, and a dark night. Miss Mary 
 was restless ; she had gone to bed in anger with mademoi- 
 selle, and she could not sleep, and called to me to go in and 
 tell her some tales. Well, madam, I did so, and sat till she 
 was asleep, and then I came back here. I stood a few 
 minutes at the window before relighting my candle, which 
 I had put out, and was watching the servants' lights in the 
 north wing — there were plenty of them visible, for if you 
 remember, madam, Mr. Leolin had a gentleman's dinner 
 party that night : it was the night before he went to 
 London. I was looking at them, when all in a moment I 
 saw a flash of ]ight in the haunted room ; it went out- again, 
 but not before I had caught sight of some form that looked 
 like Mr. Rupert's. I was struck with fright. I thought 
 what will become of him if he lets himself be seen. I 
 watched the best part of the night, but I saw no more, and 
 I have watched every night since, and seen him in it : never 
 for above a moment until last night. Last evening, madam, 
 he stood for a good five minutes at the window in the moon- 
 light." 
 
 " It must be madness," gasped Mrs. Pomeroy. " Have 
 you mentioned this, Bridget ? " 
 
 " No, madam, not to a single soul," replied the woman, 
 warmly. " I know the danger of that too well." 
 
 " Is he much altered ? " faintly asked Mre. Pomeroy. 
 
28G 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 % " Nay, madam, but how could I toll from tliis distance ? 
 
 One must get near to liim to judge of that." 
 
 " Bridget " — and Mrs. Pomeroy's voice trembled with its 
 emotion — "are you sure you are not mistaken? Is it 
 veritably Mr. Eupert ? " 
 
 " Was tliere ever a tall, noble form like his, madam — save 
 the lord's, and he has been under the sod these nine years ? 
 No, madam, I cannot mistake the form or the turn of the 
 head of Mr. Eupert Pomeroy." 
 
 I thought I saw him myself this evening," whispered 
 Mrs. Pomeroy. " You are sure you have not told of this ? " 
 she added, remembering the girl's inveterate propensity for 
 gossip. 
 
 " Surely not," answered Bridget : " it is not I that would 
 bring trouble upon a Pomeroy. But I wish he could be 
 warned of the hazard he runs : others may see him, and 
 might haste to spread the news abroad. I misdoubt me that 
 he must have taken up his abode in those rooms for safety. 
 But how can he get his food ? " 
 
 Mrs, Pomeroy leaned against the window-frame, and 
 thought. Her project of penetrating to the west tower was 
 growing more feasible. 
 
 " Bridget," she said, arousing herself with a start, " we 
 cannot let Mr. Eupert stay there unwarned. You must 
 go into the north wing and get me the keys. I will go up 
 myself." 
 
 Bridget could scarcely answer in her surprise. " I get 
 the keys, madam! Cox would never trust me with the 
 keys!" 
 
 " You can take them without his knowledge. Use your 
 cunning. The keys are hanging there, for I have just seen 
 them. Go at once : every moment increases Mr. Eupert's 
 peril, and he must be warned away. I will await you in 
 the cloisters." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy waited, as it seemed to her, an interminable 
 time. Bridget came at last, and began boasting of the 
 stratagem by which she had obtained possession of the 
 keys ; but Mrs. Pomeroy cut the tale short, and desired her 
 to go indoors. 
 
MYSTERY. 
 
 287 
 
 " Madam — shall you like to go up alone ? " whispered 
 the woman. 
 
 " I will do it, whether I like it or not," was the valiant 
 reply of Mrs. Pomeroy. " Were two persons to go up, their 
 movements might attract attention. Go back to the nursery, 
 Bridget, and be silent as the grave." 
 
 Her heart beating strangely, Mrs. Pomeroy went up the 
 stairs of the north tower, and into the rooms of the west 
 wing, unlocking each door as she came to it. The windows 
 of all these rooms, as may be remembered, faced the court- 
 yard, and the moonlight streamed in, affording her sufficient 
 light to read the labels on the keys. Trembling and sick, 
 not only at the thought of meeting Kupert, but with the 
 dread of passing through these dismal rooms alone, about 
 which such ghostly tales were told, she swept swiftly on 
 and gained the haunted room in the west tower, the wind 
 shrieking ominously in her ears. She marvelled at her 
 own courage : but that so much was at stake, and that she 
 was hastening to his sheltering presence, he so strong, so 
 able in that sense, to protect, she could never have dared it. 
 
 Did she remember in that moment how she had last stolen 
 into that room, nine years ago? Did she remember her 
 second visit to it on that same fatal night ? How she had 
 crept in with steps of dread to discover the effects of the 
 fearful scuffle from which she had flown, and fallen over 
 her husband, dead upon the ground ? And now she was 
 creeping into it again, to find — what? Nothing pleasant, 
 she might be sure. Though this time she was at least 
 actuated by a sense of duty. 
 
 Pushing aside the hangings of the haunted room, she 
 stepped into it, expecting to see Eupert. But the room 
 was empty. The bright moonlight, shining in, very bright 
 indeed that night, enabled her to see every part of it. The 
 room looked just as it had looked that former night ; 
 nothing seemed to have been touched, nothing changed. 
 The old red velvet furniture was there, the nun's picture, 
 with the burn partly defacing it, hung in its place behind 
 the velvet curtain. 
 
 But where was Rupert ? What was this mystery ? The 
 
288 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 rooms all locked, and this one empty! She began to 
 shiver. 
 
 " Kupert ! " she called out, faintly at first, but desperation 
 gave her courage, and her frightened voice echoed through 
 the silent rooms. " Rupert, Rupert ! " 
 
 It echoed with a weird, ghostly sound, blending with the 
 wind that howled and laboured without. Mrs. Pomeroy sat 
 down on the broad old velvet settle : her superstitious 
 fancies, suppressed in the moment of need, were coming 
 back to her. What if the nun's ghost — so often seen in 
 that room in years gone by, if people were to be believed — 
 should appear to her? What if — if— the ghost of her 
 murdered husband should aj^pear to her? She gave a 
 smothered shriek at the supposition, and hid her face in her 
 hands and bent it down on her knees. 
 
 What had become of Rupert she knew not ; but for his 
 sake, that she might speak to him just one word of warning, 
 she stayed on, hoping he would return. She strove to put 
 away the superstitious dread that was attacking her ; she 
 strove to think the wind did not moan like a troubled 
 spirit ; she strove to forget the tales which had been 
 prevalent after the murder, that Guy " came again." Did 
 you ever so strive, fiiint-heartod reader ? But possibly you 
 never were in a haunted room at dead of night, far removed 
 from human ear. If you have undergone the ordeal, did 
 you succeed in reassuring yourself to calmness?— or did 
 not, rather, the awful, unearthly dread, the feeling, which 
 can neither be experienced nor told of in the broad daylight, 
 
 in human companionship, did it not increase until • 
 
 But let it pass : you do not like to be reminded of these 
 cowardly moments, though you would not live them over 
 again to have years added to your life. What then must it 
 have been for Alice Pomeroy, with her unhappy remem- 
 brance and her burdened conscience ? 
 
 She strove. She battled with the haunted atmosphere^ 
 with the moaning wind, with the consciousness that that 
 evening was the ominous anniversary of Guy's death : she 
 stirred neither hand nor foot, she scarcely dared to breathe, 
 she could not have looked up for the wealth of worlds. 
 
MYSTERY. 
 
 289 
 
 Just as a timid child hides its face in the dark, and dares 
 not raise it, lest its eyes should encounter some fabulous 
 monster, so was it with Mrs. Pomeroy. She began to ask 
 herself how she could get back again, how escape from the 
 haunted tower, through the rooms and down the stairs. 
 Should she ever dare to go ? Must she sit where she was 
 until the dawn ? 
 
 Some talking below in the court-yard gave her a gleam 
 of fresh courage, and she glanced up again. She must 
 make an effort to get away; but not until she had once 
 more tried to apprise Eupert that she was there. 
 
 " Eupert, where are you ? " she called out with desperate 
 effort. Oh ! Eupert, why don't you come to me ? Only 
 for one moment ! I have ventured here for your sake." 
 
 Hark ! What was that ? A sigh ? — a groan ? — it 
 sounded like it. But where did it come from ? It was 
 not the wind ; it was a totally different sound. It seemed 
 to be in the walls — or was it only in her own imagination ? 
 A more lively terror than before fell upon Mrs. Pomeroy, 
 and once more she hid her face. How long it was before 
 she looked up again, she knew not ; for ghostly terrors had 
 full hold of her now. She would have forfeited half her 
 remaining life to be back in her home again. 
 
 Well had it been for her peace of mind that she never 
 had looked up : for there, against the nun's picture, stand- 
 ing as he had stood that night, not many minutes before his 
 death, when he had burst in upon their wretched and foolish 
 interview, that in truth had been partly passed in abusing 
 him, there was his apparition — that of her husband, Guy. 
 The moonlight shone upon his ghastly face, upon his hare- 
 lip, red once, but livid now ; and his dull eyes were bent 
 upon her in mingled sadness and anger, just as she had 
 seen them bent in life. He seemed to be dressed as he 
 was dressed the night of his death, in a plain suit of black, 
 and the one arm was raised, as if in anger at the loving 
 words which had escaped her ; raised just in the menacing 
 way that the nun's arm was in the picture. 
 
 How Mrs. Pomeroy left the couch and reached the 
 window, she never afterwards remembered: some instinct 
 
 i'omeroy Abbey. 19 
 
290 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 prompted lier there. She moved sideways: she could not 
 turn her eyes from that aiv ful figure, standing there with its 
 face of reproach ; it was fascinating her like the gaze of the 
 basilisk. But now it seemed to be changing its position, to 
 be gliding towards her ; and, with a low, suffocating sob, 
 that sounded like no human voice, Mrs. Pomeroy turned to 
 the window, dashed both her hands through it, shrieked out 
 for succour in her terrible agony and fell senseless to the 
 ground. 
 
 The crash of glass was heard, and the shriek for aid ; the 
 hands, wringing wildly, were seen. Bridget, possessing 
 sufficient curiosity for any ten women, had returned to her 
 room, and opening the window, thrust her head out to see 
 anything there might be to be seen opposite. To do her 
 justice, she had also a better motive — her mistress might be 
 seized with fright up there, and signal for her. So Bridget's 
 eyes watched the west tower keenly as a cat watches a 
 mouse, and Bridget was at length rewarded by seeing and 
 hearing more than she had bargained for — the hands flung 
 out, and the cry for help, as from some poor creature in its 
 last agony. 
 
 Bridget was thunderstruck. Were the hands and the cry 
 Mrs. Pomeroy's? Bred up in the Pomeroy superstitions, 
 Bridget came to the conclusion that Mrs. Pomeroy must 
 have seen the ghost ; meaning, of course, that of the nun. 
 In her astonishment and fear, Bridget stood where she was, 
 giving no alarm, hastening with no aid, simply staring at 
 the ominous window. As she gazed, a figure seemed to 
 grow in it ; the same towering figure which she had 
 attributed to Eupert ; but now its face was brought close 
 and full to the panes, and Bridget recognized it in the 
 bright moonlight — the ghastly face of the dead Lord of 
 Pomeroy. With a smothered howl, not unlike the cry 
 which had escaped from Mrs. Pomeroy, Bridget turned from 
 the room and tore away in her fright ; she cared not much 
 whither, so that she reached human companionship. She 
 flew out to the great gateway of the abbey, and, crossing it, 
 entered the noble hall, belonging to the part occupied by 
 Leolin, A servant confronted her. 
 
MYSTERY. 
 
 291 
 
 " Are you out of your mind, Bridget ? " he asked, noting 
 her wild looks. 
 
 Ignoring ceremony, waiting for nothing, Bridget went on 
 to the state apartments. In one of them sat Leolin and 
 Father Andrew, playing at chess. She made a hasty 
 reverence to the priest, who, as confessor to the household, 
 periodically became the depositary of Bridget's peccadilloes ; 
 but her wits were too utterly scared away to allow of much 
 reverence just now. 
 
 " May all the saints have mercy upon Pomeroy ! " uttered 
 she, very nearly crazed with terror, grasping the back of a 
 chair to steady herself. " The lord's come again." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " demanded Leolin, amazed at her 
 extraordinary proceedings. " What lord is come again ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir, forgive me, but I'm just terrified to death. 
 Your poor brother, sir, is in the west tower." 
 
 Leolin thought she meant Eupert, and uttered the name 
 involuntarily, as he rose from his seat in consternation little 
 less than hers. Father Andrew took a pinch of snuff while 
 he stared at her. 
 
 " Ah, no, sir ; not Mr. Eupert. Not but what at first I 
 thought it was he ; but it's the poor dead lord, Guy. Ah, 
 you'll believe me now, sir. I told it, years ago, that the 
 lord's ghost appeared to me the very night of his burying, 
 and I was bade hold my nonsense. I told you, father, and 
 you only mocked at me — craving your pardon — and made 
 fun of my eyesight. You may both believe me now." 
 
 " What are you saying ? " repeated Leolin, his fears 
 relieved on the score of Eupert, but unable to comprehend 
 a syllable, and wondering whether Bridget was suddenly 
 attacked with insanity. 
 
 " There's the dead Lord of Pomeroy in the haunted room 
 at this blessed moment, sir," she whispered : " I have seen him 
 with my own eyes. It is said a troubled soul always comes 
 out of purgatory on the anniversary of its doom, though it 
 be for ages and ages after ; and it is nine years ago to-night ; 
 you know it, sir." 
 
 Leolin Pomeroy, man of the world though he was, had 
 been reared in superstition, and he rose from his seat in 
 
292 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 some discomfort. The father, on the contrary, looked very 
 much inclined to laugh : perhaps he felt at home with 
 ghosts and dead people. 
 
 " You must be out of your mind," spoke Lcolin, haughtily, 
 to the trembling Bridget. 
 
 " Ah, no, sir. I have seen some one in the haunted room 
 this week past, and I thought only that it was Mr. Kupert 
 come home from his wanderings. I thought he might bo 
 hiding there. Of course it was too far off. and the light too 
 dim for me to see the features, and I took it to be Mr. 
 Eupert. To-night, my mistress, sitting alone in her room, 
 saw it too ; she, like me, feared it was Mr. Eupert. She 
 said he ought to be warned of the risk he ran, and she 
 would go up and do it ; she w^as full of apprehension for 
 him, poor lady, just as I w\as. I got the keys for her, 
 dodging Cox, who was near his key-closet at first ; and she 
 went up there, and " 
 
 " Mrs. Pomeroy ! — gone up to the west wing ! " interrupted 
 Leolin. 
 
 " Into the west tower, sir. She would go alone, fearing 
 that two of us might be seen. I stood at my nursery 
 and watched. Suddenly I saw two hands thrust through 
 the glass of the casement, and I heard a shriek of terror. 
 Before I had recovered enough to move, or do anything, 
 the same tall figure rose close to the window in the moon- 
 light. Ah, sir, it was not Mr. Eupert — Father Andrew, 
 don't look so at me ! — it was the spirit of the Lord of 
 Pomeroy." 
 
 Father Andrew rapped his snuff-box. " You have good 
 eyesight, Bridget, woman, to know a dead man's features all 
 that way." 
 
 Bridget, between anger, fear, and excitement, broke into 
 tears. " The moon shone full u^Don its face : don't you see, 
 father, the night is almost as bright as day. Look at that 
 curtainless window ; you might see to read small print 
 at it." 
 
 " There's not a soul throughout the abbey, of you old 
 retainers, but will let your superstitious nonsense get the 
 upper hand of your discretion on the seventeenth of October. 
 
MYSTERY. 
 
 293 
 
 What should bring his spirit back again after all the masses 
 said for its repose ? " 
 
 " May I never be shriven when I am dying, if I did not 
 see it tonight!" burst forth Bridget, in her haste and 
 distress. " The peculiar lip was as plain to be seen as it 
 ever was in life. And — you can't mistake a dead face, 
 father. I am not the only one who has seen the lord since 
 he died." 
 
 Leolin did not check her, as he certainly would at any 
 other time. He was in a reverie : scared, if the truth must 
 be told, just as much as was Bridget. Not, though, with 
 ghostly fancies. How greatly he had all along hated these 
 rumours of his brother's " coming again " he alone knew. 
 Perhaps he could not have analyzed the feeling prompting 
 this aversion, for he certainly put no faith in the tales. 
 No ; what was stirring Leolin now, scaring him out of his 
 presence of mind, was a very tangible and real fear — he 
 believed that it must be Bujpert who was in the west tower. 
 
 At this juncture, the room-door softly opened ; and Lady 
 Anna Pomeroy came timidly in, her infant in her arms. 
 She looked frightened ; partaking, it seemed, of the general 
 discomfort. Her face was pale ; her eyes, wandering around, 
 rested on Bridget, in surprise at seeing her there. His 
 wife's entrance served to break Leolin's unpleasant thoughts. 
 
 " What is it, Anna?" 
 
 " There's something in the haunted room," she began in 
 a whisper : for Lady Anna, having her abode amidst these 
 superstitious people, had not escaped infection herself ; and, 
 to call it the "haunted room," had become, to her, quite 
 natural. " I happened to be alone with baby, and was 
 standing with him at the window, when I heard the crash 
 of glass opposite, and I saw what looked like two hands 
 thrust out at the casement of the west tower. I was not 
 alarmed : I only wondered who it was that could have had 
 the courage to go there at night, and this night of all others. 
 In another minute I saw the outlines of some one inside, but 
 I could not distinguish much, and then the room was lighted 
 up with a pale flame, and a tall figure rose before the window. 
 It looked — it looked like some one dead," she shivered. 
 
294 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Anna ! " re23roaclifully nttered Leolin. 
 
 " The face looked too white to be living," she resumed. 
 
 The pale flame, flashing out for a moment or two, lighted 
 it up distinctly." 
 
 " That clear flame used to light up the room when the 
 nun appeared," exclaimed Bridget. " I saw it myself once, 
 my lady." 
 
 Leolin Pomeroy frowned angrily upon her, and made a 
 gesture for silence. He drew his wife to his side to re-assure 
 her, keeping his hand upon her waist. " It must have been 
 one of the servants, Anna." 
 
 "It was not one of the servants. I saw the face dis- 
 tinctly : it was like no one I ever knew ; there seemed 
 something strange about its lip," Anna added, sinking her 
 voice. " It was a white, death-like face : I say that I do 
 not think it belonged to any one living." 
 
 " No, my lady, that it did not," cried the undaunted 
 Bridget. " But oh, sir, should not Mrs. Pomeroy be seen 
 after ? " she added to Leolin. " We are losing time, and 
 she may just be dying of terror." 
 
 "But — Mrs. Pomeroy is surely not there now?" cried 
 Leolin ; whose own perplexity had partly obscured his 
 understanding. 
 
 " Oh, sir, yes ; that's why I presumed to come to you ; I 
 did not choose to speak of this to the servants. It was she 
 who shrieked ; it was her hands that were flung out." 
 
 Of course Mrs. Pomeroy must be seen after at once. But, 
 full of fears for his misguided brother Eupert, Leolin 
 hesitated yet an instant. It would never do to betray his 
 presence there. 
 
 " Will you go up with me, father ? " he said in low tones 
 to the priest. " We had better go alone." 
 
 Father Andrew nodded a cheerful assent. Ghosts had no 
 terrors for him. He was by far too fat and jolly : and the 
 other fear, touching Eupert, had not rested with him. He 
 believed that the whole thing had its rise in imaginings 
 only, and that Mrs. Pomeroy must have become scared by 
 the loneliness, when she found herself in the ill-omened 
 room. 
 
MYSTERY. 
 
 295 
 
 Carrying a light, he and Leolin proceeded alone to the 
 haunted room, and were unmolested by sight or sound. 
 Mrs. Pomeroy was lying as she had fallen, beneath the 
 window, in a dead faint. Eaising her between them, they 
 laid her on the old velvet couch ; and the movement served 
 to bring her to her senses. She seized them both as they 
 stood over her; her wounded hands clasping theirs as 
 though she would never release them again. 
 
 " Don't leave me, for the love of Heaven ! " 
 
 " No, no," said Leolin, speaking softly in his compassion. 
 " Have you been ill ? What has alarmed you ? " 
 
 " Is it gone ? " she shuddered, glancing round. " In that 
 spot — there," she continued faintly, pointing to the nun's 
 picture, but not daring to raise her eyes to it, " stood the 
 apparition of my husband. I would rather die than see it 
 again ; than be in this room with it alone." 
 
 " Daughter, your fears must have deceived you." 
 
 "Father Andrew, do you think I have forgotten him? 
 Can I forget his features — his peculiar lip ? He was little 
 altered ; his eyes were dull, and his face wore the hue of 
 the grave." 
 
 Did you truly see the hare-lip ? " doubtingly spoke 
 Leolin. I think that must have been fancy." 
 
 t saw it as truly and perfectly as ever I saw it in life. 
 There were whispers at the time," she shuddered, " that he 
 came again. There have been whispers since." 
 
 "It's a rare night for ghosts," cried the father, in his 
 good-natured mockery, for he deemed it best not to treat 
 it seriously. " The wind whirls round the abbey as if it 
 owed it a grudge." 
 
 Leolin held the light so that its rays fell on every part of 
 the small room. There was no possibility of any one being 
 concealed in it ; neither was there a sign that any one had 
 been in it, save Mrs. Pomeroy and her imagination. He 
 flashed it under the couch; he drew aside the old velvet 
 curtain that was before the picture, and the lovely features 
 of the ill-fated nun stood out to view, with her upturned 
 finger, and the lines of the dark prophecy. Leolin had 
 wondered why Guy, during his lifetime, did not destroy that 
 
296 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 picture ; he had wondered still more that Mrs. Pomeroy did 
 not destroy it, with its miserable associations, when she 
 reigned at the abbey after her husband's death : he was not 
 aware that his brother George had chosen to let the west 
 tower alone, and that his orders on that point were peremptory. 
 Leolin himself had intended to consign the picture to the 
 flames when he came into power, to put the west wing in 
 habitable order, and do away with the superstition if possible ; 
 he had planned many other innovations and improvements, 
 to be effected as soon as he should be residing at the abbey. 
 Alas, at the very outset of his arrival, he was dispossessed. 
 And it had pleased Sybilla to leave things as they were. 
 
 Leolin let the curtain fall into its place again over the 
 face. He carried the light to the next room and looked 
 about ; but there was neither sign nor symptom of any 
 one's presence, dead or living. 
 
 " Imagination, and nothing else," he whispered in the car 
 of Father Andrew. And he most sincerely hoped himself 
 that it was imagination ; that Eupert was not there. 
 
 They assisted Mrs. Pomeroy forward. She leaned heavily 
 upon them ; all strength seemed to have left her. A gust 
 came in at the broken window and extinguished the light. 
 She shrieked and shuddered. 
 
 " We can find our way in the moonlight," said the priest 
 to her. " Make an effort to rally your strength. Do you 
 Ivnow that your hands are bleeding, and must be attended to?" 
 
 Meanwhile, the news had spread : the very thing Leolin 
 wished to avoid took place — the servants had become 
 acquainted with the trouble. Three of the maids were 
 lingering in the quadrangle for a gossip — for in truth, so 
 numerous were the domestics at Pomeroy, they could only 
 indulge in continual gossip to while away the time — when 
 the light in the west tower struck upon their astonished 
 eyes ; the light carried by Leolin Pomeroy. They saw it 
 being flashed about, to this side and that; they saw two 
 figures moving within, and recognized one, round and jolly, 
 for that of Father Andrew. It is not in human nature to 
 keep marvels to one's self. I'his was indeed a marvel ; and 
 the women ran about in excitement, calling to their fellow- 
 
MYSTERY. 
 
 297 
 
 servants in covert whispers, and pointing out the light in 
 the haunted casement. Bridget, not to be outdone, explained 
 it — the lord's ghost was there to-night. She had seen it, 
 and her mistress had seen it; and her mistress, all so 
 bravely, had gone up to — to — get speech of it, but had been, 
 no doubt, overpowered with fright. Bridget, while she 
 thought it was Eupert, would have been silent to martyrdom : 
 but the ghost of the dead lord was legitimate property. 
 
 " That we — that I could have been so deceived, madam ! " 
 murmured Bridget, as she bathed Mrs. Pomeroy's temples 
 with Cologne water, when the latter had been conveyed to 
 her room, laid upon her bed, and her hands attended to. 
 
 " Deceived ? " repeated Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 In thinking it was poor Mr. Kupert up there. As if he 
 would venture home again ! " And Alice Pomeroy only 
 answered by a moan of pain. 
 
 " But their figures were as like as twin peas, when living, 
 and the outline of their features too," pursued Bridget, 
 who could have talked of the won. Irons theme till morning. 
 " Madam," she went on, sinking her voice, " I saw his lip all 
 this way off." 
 
 Terror had left Mrs. Pomeroy in a sadly low and subdued 
 state, but the words somewhat aroused her. How was she 
 to know that any one but herself had seen the startling 
 sight ? Bridget explained. 
 
 " It rose up, as from the floor, and stood right before the 
 window in the moonlight. At the same time the room was 
 momentarily lighted from the inside, rendering him distinct 
 and clear. Lady Anna saw it also, madam, and it frightened 
 her sadly." 
 
 I wonder I did not die," gasped Mrs. Pomeroy. " I 
 would rather die than see it again — and be alone with it. 
 Bridget, I should like to be left for a few minutes with 
 Father Andrew. Send to him." 
 
 Bridget was turning away in search of the priest, when a 
 cry from her mistress called her back again. 
 
 " You are not going to leave me ! " uttered Mrs, Pomeroy 
 imploringly, grasping Bridget's arm and sleeve. " Send, I 
 said. Can I ever, think you, be left alone again ? " 
 
298 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 bkidget's tale. 
 
 Meanwhile, during all this commotion, the Lady of Pome- 
 roy and her sister-in-law, Joan, remained unconscious of it. 
 Shut up in their room in the south tower, they neither saw 
 nor heard aught to disturb them ; nor, as yet, was any word 
 brought to alarm them. The tea-tray had been brought in, 
 and they prepared to enjoy the simj)le refreshment after 
 their day of fasting. 
 
 It was while Joan was busying herself with the cups that 
 they heard a sound as of the breaking of glass. Sybilla 
 smiled. The conversation had been of the gloomiest, and 
 she was glad to seize on any little pretext to enliven it. 
 
 " One of them has dropped a glass of some kind," she 
 said, alluding to the servants. " In carrying it through the 
 cloisters, the wind may " 
 
 " Hush, Sybilla ! Listen.'' 
 
 Sybilla looked up, slightly surprised at Joan's movements. 
 The tea-pot she was lifting remained suspended over the 
 tray ; her head was raised, her ear turned in the act of 
 listening. 
 
 « What is it, Joan?" 
 
 For answer. Miss Pomeroy made a quick movement to 
 enjoin silence. And for some moments both ladies listened 
 attentively, one of them not knowing why or wherefore. 
 
 " I thought I heard a shriek," observed Joan, beginning 
 to pour out the tea. " A prolonged shriek, as from one in 
 pain or terror." 
 
 "It must have been the wind, Joan." 
 
 " I don't think it was the wind. It sounded like a real, 
 intense cry of pain. Go on with your story, Sybilla. What 
 did you and George do when you saw that it was indeed 
 one of those venomous snakes ? I should not like to live in 
 India," added Joan. "In the matter of snakes, and such 
 things, I should be a great coward." 
 
BRIDGET'S TALE. 
 
 290 
 
 Sybilla conclucled the reminiscence she was relating ; and 
 they continued to converse quietly until tea was over. Joan 
 then left the room to pay a promised visit to Lady Anna. 
 
 The wind whistled and shrieked as she went through the 
 passages, almost as if it would shake the very foundations 
 of the abbey. In the lower corridor she disturbed a group 
 of excited and frightened housemaids, and caught the theme 
 of their conversation — the wonderful event of the night. 
 Confused, dismayed, Joan's very blood seemed to freeze in 
 her veins, as she listened. She made her way at once into 
 the presence of Leolin. 
 
 Leolin had only then come in from his wife's chamber. 
 Anna wanted reassuring as much as any one. The chess- 
 board stood on the small table under the silver lamp, the 
 men were just in the position that Leolin and Father 
 Andrew had left them, the game remained unfinished. 
 
 "What is this horror that is running through the 
 abbey?" whispered Joan, her dark face colourless. " What 
 is it they are saying now ? " 
 
 " That Guy is not at rest ; that his spirit is abroad to- 
 night," gloomily replied Leolin, who was not in the best of 
 humours. " That is what they say^ 
 
 "Has — he — appeared?" questioned Joan, her tone one 
 that at another time Leolin might have laughed at. " To 
 whom ? " 
 
 " Ilo Mrs. Pomeroy. She went into the wesi tower, and 
 saw it standing against the picture ; we found her senseless. 
 Anna saw it from her rooms ; it was at the casement then ; 
 and Bridget also. I tell you, Joan, I am only repeating 
 what they say." 
 
 " They could not mistake it — Bridget and Mrs. Pome- 
 roy?" 
 
 " Hardly — if they did see it. Other faces may be mis- 
 taken, but not Guy's." 
 
 Joan Pomeroy clasped her hands upon her chest in pain. 
 "Leolin — I have felt — I have felt — that Guy was not at 
 rest. Even this very evening, when the wind was wailing 
 and sighing round the abbey, it seemed to whisper that the 
 dead were abroad ; I remarked it to Sybilla. And I thought 
 
300 
 
 PO:\IEROY ABBEY. 
 
 of Guy, of poor Guy, as I said it. They were too true, the 
 tales that were told of his appearing after his death." 
 
 " Nonsense, J oan. You are old enough to have lived 
 down that superstition of yours. I confess there's some- 
 thing in the affair to-night that I don't understand : but, a 
 ghost ! — nonsense ! " 
 
 Joan had drawn one of the green velvet chairs, the 
 carving of its dark frame so old and beautiful, nearer her 
 brother. She sat looking at him. 
 
 "I wish Father Andrew were here!" she mechanically 
 said, following out her own troubled thoughts. 
 
 " Father Andrew is with Mrs. Pomeroy. He intended to 
 remain with her until Norris came — who could not be found 
 at once. Her hands are cut badly, I fancy." 
 
 " Leolin, you speak in riddles," cried Miss Pomeroy, who 
 in her perplexity had not taken in all Leolin had said. 
 " What has she done to her hands ? " 
 
 "Don't you know? She flung them, in her terror, 
 through the panes in the haunted room ; to attract attention 
 and bring help." 
 
 " It's a riddle still. What could have taken her — her — 
 to the haunted room ? " 
 
 " Bridget offered a curious explanation — that movements 
 had been seen in the west tower ; and they concluded, both 
 she and her mistress, that it was Eupert." 
 
 " Why, Eupert is ia bed and asleep," returned Joan, 
 imperfectly comprehending yet. " What did she think 
 would take him to the west tower ? And why should Mrs. 
 Pomeroy be looking after Eupert ? " 
 
 " Joan ! Not the boy. Eupert the wanderer." 
 
 Joan Pomeroy gazed at her brother, a darker shade 
 passing over her face when she realized the sense of the 
 words. A lively fear seized upon her. 
 
 " It could not be Eupert. Could it, Leolin ? " 
 
 " No, no ; he would not be so mad. Besides, how could 
 lie get up to the west wing ? The keys were in their places. 
 Bridget fetched them for Mrs. Pomeroy, that she might 
 go up." 
 
 Joan threw back her head in haughty displeasure. 
 
BRIDGET'S TALE. 
 
 301 
 
 " She went up ! What induced her to go ? Had she not 
 done evil enough, and entailed evil enough, by stealthily 
 creeping up nine years ago ? Why did she do it, Leolin ? " 
 
 You have not understood me, J oan. She saw, or fancied 
 she saw, some one moving within the room, and she feared 
 it might be Eupert ; Bridget no doubt confirming her in 
 the thought ; and she went up to warn him of the risk he 
 was running. I believe her motive for once was a good 
 one." 
 
 " And ? Go on, please." 
 
 " She found no sign of Eupert ; but she saw, as she says, 
 Guy, Frightened beyond control, she dashed her hands 
 through the casement, and screamed to attract notice from 
 below. Bridget was on the watch ; she came here to me 
 with the tale, and I went up with Father Andrew." 
 
 " And — did you see anything ? " shivered Joan. 
 
 "Yes. We saw Mrs. Pomeroy lying in a fainting-fit 
 under the broken casement, her hands bleeding." 
 
 " I mean anything else, Leolin ? " 
 
 " There could have been nothing else to see." 
 
 But matters could not remain, even for the night, as they 
 were. The terrified servants must be appeased if possible, 
 the west wing must be locked up again. Joan passed on to 
 Lady Anna, Leolin went below to the servants, who were 
 hanging about. He bade them accompany him into tho 
 west wing to examine the rooms, previously to shutting 
 them up. But the superstitious crew hung back, each one 
 thinking that he would not be of the expedition. Leolin 
 was angered. 
 
 " There are enough of you," cried he, sarcastically — " are 
 you afraid to venture in numbers ? Are you afraid, Jeffs ? 
 — an old man, like you ! " 
 
 " No, no, sir, I'll go for one," replied Jeffs. " It shan't 
 be said that the oldest retainer of the family, Jerome 
 excepted, was afraid of the lord he served, living or dead." 
 
 But Jeffs did not speak with the greatest possible amount 
 of courage. He had been coachman to the Pomeroys for 
 three generations. First to the old lord ; then to the ill- 
 fated Guy, at whose marriage he nearly lost his life ; then, 
 
302 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 during his brief reign, to Leolin ; and now to the young 
 child, Kupert. But this did not render Jeffs any the more 
 brave to-night. Jeffs was sixty years old, if he was a day, 
 therefore it was altogether unreasonable of J effs to be afraid 
 of ghosts. Perhaps Jeffs felt it so, for he put on a careless 
 manner, took a light to lead the way, went a few paces with 
 a jaunty step, and then turned and asked who was coming 
 with him. 
 
 Example is contagious. Several of them now pressed 
 after Jeffs, Bridget and two or three of the other maids 
 amid them. Cox came bustling up : he had been to his 
 key- closet. 
 
 " The keys of the west wing are not there, sir," ho 
 observed to Leolin. 
 
 " No. And, by the way, I wonder where the keys are ? " 
 added Leolin. " Whether Mrs. Pomeroy brought them down 
 with her ? Go you up and wait for me in the first room : I 
 will inquire of Mrs. Pomeroy." 
 
 They moved forward, bearing several lights, huddling 
 together, and talking in undertones. Passing through the 
 north tower, they came to a halt in the first room of the 
 west wing, as ordered. Jeffs threw his light around, to 
 make sure nothing uncanny was there. The wind howled 
 dismally, shaking the casements. 
 
 " I say, Jeffs, does Mr. Leolin think anybody's concealed 
 in these rooms ? " asked Markham, one of the footmen. 
 
 The blessed patron saint of the Pomeroys only knows," 
 responded Jeffs. " He may fear somebody's been playing a 
 trick upon Mrs. Pomeroy." 
 
 " Such nonsense ! — as if he could think that ! " dissented 
 Bridget. " As if any mortal body could get through rooms 
 that have been locked up for years ? " 
 Bridget, what did it look like ? " 
 
 " Why, it looked — exactly as the lord used to look when 
 he was among us : you may just think back upon him alF 
 any time that your memory serves. Just so his spirit 
 looked to-night — save that his face was whiter and more 
 ghastly. I was the first to see him, you know," added 
 Bridget, proud of being able to say as much. It was the 
 
BBIDGET'S TALE. 
 
 303 
 
 very night lie was buried ; not many hours after the funeral. 
 He looked then as he looked to-night." 
 
 " Not with the shattered face ? " shuddered a questioner. 
 " What a face it was ! None of us women dared lift the 
 cloth to look, as he lay dead." 
 
 Bridget shook her head. " Spirits don't reappear with 
 the marks of what sends them out of the world, but as they 
 were when they moved about in it. Witness the poor nun. 
 When was she ever seen but in the full beauty of her face 
 and form — and was she not picked up out of the courtyard 
 a dreadful sight to look upon, and so put into her grave ? 
 But her spirit came back perfect : and so it is with the Lord 
 of Pomeroy." 
 
 " Tell us that tale again, Bridget — about your seeing him 
 the night of the funeral." 
 
 "It was thus," said Bridget, nothing loth. "You will 
 remember when the lord lay in state, how the people came 
 from miles around to see him, and then to attend his funeral. 
 Not a soul, poor or rich, ill or well, missed it, or would miss 
 it, except my sister, poor A vice, who died not so very long 
 after. She was ill then, and near her time besides, and she 
 didn't want to come ; her husband didn't want her to come ; 
 she said that if she saw the lord in that shattered state, she 
 should never get him out of her mind. Sick folk are 
 fanciful, you know." 
 
 " She would not have seen anything amiss. She need not 
 have looked at the face." 
 
 " Well, she was afraid ; and come she wouldn't. But she 
 made me promise to go to her when the funeral was over, 
 and tell her about it, that she might appear as wise as her 
 neighbours — for she didn't mean to let it be known abroad 
 that she did not go." 
 
 " It was a brave funeral." 
 
 " Never a braver. More crowded even than the old lord's 
 had been : the death was unusual, you see, and it brought 
 the people from far and wide. You couldn't get into the 
 chapel for the throng ; half of them had to kneel outside. 
 And the priests ! such a number ! Father Andrew was 
 ucbody amongst 'em. Well, I did not forget my promise to 
 
304 
 
 POMEROY ABBF.Y. 
 
 Avice ; and at dusk I started. It was a squally, gloomy 
 night : I wrapped my black shawl well round me, and put 
 my best foot first, to get back soon and relieve the lady's- 
 maid, Theresa, who had taken charge to watch the baby for 
 me while she slept — little Miss Mary ; and I chose the 
 field way, simpleton that I was, because it was a bit nearer. 
 You know those haystacks in the hollow ? " 
 
 Bridget had paused before the last few words, and changed 
 her tone to one of awe. Her listeners gathered more closely 
 round her, their lights flaring on the dark wainscoting of 
 the room. 
 
 " Some rain began to fall just as I reached the haystacks 
 — there were fewer of them that year than this; and I 
 looked up at the sky all round, wondering whether it was 
 going to be a heavy shower, for I did not want to spoil my 
 new mourning. As I turned my face forward again, I saw a 
 figure close to me : where it had come from, unless it rose 
 
 up out of the earth, I could not tell : it was — it was 
 
 Hark ! what's that ? " shrieked Bridget. 
 
 They crossed themselves and shuddered; one and all. 
 Some sort of hollow noise was certainly heard from the 
 direction of the west tower. 
 
 " It was nothing but the wind," cried Cox, who despised 
 the extreme superstition of his fellow-servants. "How 
 fanciful you are ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes, it was the wind," added Jeffs. " Perhaps a 
 door slammed. Go on with your tale, Bridget." For this 
 same tale had its fascinations for the audience, though most 
 of them had heard it many a time before. 
 
 " Where was I ? " commented Bridget. " Oh — just where 
 the figure had risen up before me. It was that of the poor 
 dead lord, whom we had just been putting into his grave. I 
 saw him plainly. I saw his dead-looking eyes and his hare- 
 lip, and then I seized hold of the haystack and pushed my 
 face into it, scratching it all over, and screamed out ten 
 thousand murders. Brill heard me in his cottage, a field 
 and a half off, and came to me." 
 
 " And the apparition. Where did it go ? " 
 
 *' How can I tell ? It vanished as it came. Brill got me 
 
BlUDGET'S TALE. 
 
 305 
 
 home to the abbey — aud it was all hushed u}). I have never 
 gone by those haystacks at dark since by myself, and I hope 
 I never shall go.'* 
 
 " One of the keeper's boys saw him too," interposed Jeffs, in 
 a whisper. " I think it was that same night. The boy was 
 coming through the hollow, and there stood the lord against 
 the field-gate. The dog would not go past. Dumb animals 
 have a mortal dread of aj^paritions ; worse than we have. 
 Other people saw him too." 
 
 " Ay, ay," put in Bridget again, " the lord has never been 
 at rest. And he never will be until — but I am afraid to 
 say it." 
 
 ^' To say Avhat ? There's nobody here but ourselves, 
 Bridget." 
 
 " Well, then, as long as he, who sent him out of the 
 world, lives in it. When Mr. Rupert's gone to join him, 
 then the lord's poor troubled spirit will be laid." 
 
 A strange and startling interruption ensued. Jeifs, not 
 feeling altogether reassured as to the noise they had heard, 
 had kept his face turned to the rooms whence it came, the 
 doors of which stood open, when he saw, or thought he saw, 
 a figure moving towards them. The man's heart leaped into 
 Iiis mouth ; his hair rose on end. Jeffs did not speak, but 
 he touched some of the rest and pointed. 
 
 Through the moon's rays that fell slanting on the floors, 
 it was gliding towards them, a tall, ghastly figure of tower- 
 ing height, with a glazed, livid face. Terrified, tongue-tied, 
 they stood there, gazing in horror, heart and impulse alike 
 frozen ; when the only open door now intervening between 
 it and them suddenly and violently closed. 
 
 Helter-skelter, pele-mele, downstairs they rushed, the 
 brave Jefts and his torch foremost in the company, and 
 Bridget in their midst. Father Andrew met them in the 
 cloisters. Mrs. Pomeroy could not tell what she had done 
 with the keys. 
 
 The priest rated them soundly. He told Jeffs he ought 
 to be ashamed of himself for an old simj)leton, and he 
 insisted upon their returning to lock the doors and bring 
 away the keys, which must be somewhere up there. 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 20 
 
806 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 No, uot for a thousand worlds! Not even in obedience 
 to his reverence, would they again encounter the ghost of 
 the Lord of Ponieroy. 
 
 The priest saw he must go himself, if anything was to bo 
 done. Snatching the light from Jeffs, he went on rapidly, 
 bidding them follow him. Of course it is well known that 
 a ghost dare not venture near a priest, especially one who 
 keeps a sacred relic in his pocket, as it was supposed the 
 father kept, and they scrambled after him. Bridget, her 
 sunerstitious curiosity overpowering her fears, did not 
 remain behind. Say what you will, there is a fascination 
 in ghosts, and no one can deny it. 
 
 " You muffs ! You geese ! " reproachfully spoke the Either, 
 striding on, and throwing the light of the torch round the 
 several rooms as he passed through them, disclosing nothing 
 but tranquillity and emptiness. " What is there to be 
 afraid of? I would not have these poltroons of brains of 
 yours, to be made a cardinal to-morrow." 
 
 "Father" — and you may be sure it was Bridget who 
 spoke, for a woman's tongue is always ready — " if there was 
 nothing here, what has shut all the doors ? They were 
 02)en before." 
 
 " What ? Why, the wind." 
 
 " Oh, but just think, father — if the wind slams one door, 
 it would not slam a dozen in succession," objected the per- 
 sistent Bridget. 
 
 On went the f\ither with as quick a step as his size 
 allowed ; very scornful was he over their folly. The rooms 
 were perfectly empty ; the haunted room, when they gained 
 it, looked as though it had not been disturbed for ages — 
 save that tlie keys were lying on the faded velvet settee. 
 
 " Now then," cried the priest, swaying his light about, 
 " are you convinced there's nothing here ; and that there 
 has been nothing ? The lord's ghost indeed ! Just as much 
 as yours ; and you have not become ghosts yet." 
 
 Jeff shook his obstinate old head and spoke uj). " All 
 the same, your reverence, I mio it. The rest saw it." 
 
 " Saw a moonbeam," scoffed the priest. 
 
 He marshalled them before him, locking every door in 
 
BRIDGET'S TALE. 
 
 307 
 
 succession with liis own hand ; locking up the north tower 
 last of all. With an admonition not to be so silly again, 
 the priest then dismissed the servants their several ways, 
 and proceeded to the room where he had been disturbed at 
 chess. Leolin entered at the same moment. 
 
 " Shall we finish our game ? " asked the father equably, 
 moving to the chess-table. 
 
 " Father, what is this trouble that is disturbing the peace 
 of the abbey ? " cried Leolin passionately, ignoring the 
 priest's proposal. 
 
 " Moonshine," quietly replied Father Andrew. " There 
 never was such an ignorant, superstitious set of servants as 
 yours. Their folly would upset the gravity of a colony of 
 saints." 
 
 " I know it has upset me," remarked Leolin, wiping his 
 brow. 
 
 Father Andrew looked at him in surprise, hardly knowing 
 how to take the avowal. 
 
 " Upset you, my son ! " he repeated, suj)pressing a laugh. 
 " Has the ghost story infected you ? " 
 
 " Ghost ! " retorted Leolin, with pain, " it is not that. 
 Did you not understand, father ? I thought it was Bupert 
 there : that he had come back again. I surely thought it. 
 I am not altogether at ease yet." 
 But that's not likely." 
 
 "It would not be the first time he has ventured to 
 England, you know. Good Heavens, what will be done ? " 
 
 " Nov\^ look here," said the priest : " you are tormenting 
 yourself unnecessarily. There's neither rhyme nor reason 
 in such a fancy as that. There can't be. For my part, I 
 would sooner believe in the ghost than the other notion ; I 
 would — of the two ; it's too improbable. Kupert Pomeroy 
 would no more dare to venture here ; here, to the abbey ; 
 than he would put himself voluntarily into a lion's mouth. 
 Rest assured of that, my son." 
 
 Leolin drew a sigh of relief. It was only at moments 
 that the fear recurred to him : with the priest, his common 
 sense told him that it was well-nigh impossible. 
 
 " And here are the keys," said the priest, depositing the 
 
308 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 bunch u^on a black marble console. " I have locked up all 
 the rooms securely." 
 
 Leolin took the keys in his hand. He intended to keep 
 them himself for the future, instead of returning them to 
 Cox the custodian. 
 
 CHAPTEK XIL 
 
 MRS. WYLDE. 
 
 Bowling along to Pomeroy Abbey, on the day following the 
 commotion, went Mrs. Wylde in her well-appointed chariot 
 attended by her servants. The high wind had gone down ; 
 the October day was calm and faiv. 
 
 As with Father Andrew, Mrs. Wylde's bulk increased with 
 years. She was now a very large lady indeed ; and her fate 
 in this respect appeared to be so indisj)utable that she was 
 fain to accept it and cease to struggle against it. Mrs. 
 Wylde was not less addicted to fine plumage than of old. 
 Her attire this morning was a judicious mixture of violet 
 and white satin; the gown violet, the bonnet white. Her 
 comely face, shaded within its array of lace and feathers, 
 was somewhat less comely than usual. At any rate, less at 
 case ; for it wore an expression of anxious perplexity. 
 
 In distress or trouble, a young woman naturally turns to 
 her mother ; for sympathy, if not always for refuge. Mrs. 
 Pomeroy had passed a most wretched night. Her maid, 
 Theresa, had slept on a sofa in the same apartment, for she 
 dreaded to be alone. Her hands gave her some pain ; her 
 mental discomfort gave her more ; and when breakfast was 
 over, she despatched Bridget to the White House to ask her 
 mother to come to her. 
 
 Be very sure Bridget did not fiiil to make use of tbo 
 opportunity. Five minutes after she entered, Mrs. Wylde 
 was in possession of the whole story: the dead Lord of 
 Pomeroy had " come again," and was terrifying the whole 
 abbey out of its propriety. 
 
MRS. WYLDH 
 
 309 
 
 "I thought nothing less at first, ma'am, but that it was 
 Mr. Rupert," confessed Bridget, dropping her voice, knowing 
 that to her mistress's mother she was safe in whispering the 
 dangerous suspicion : " and a fine fright it put me into, lest 
 he should be seen. For we all know what might come of 
 that:' 
 
 " You had seen — this same appearance— for a week past ? " 
 returned Mrs. Wylde, that one avowal having made a strong 
 impression upon her. 
 
 " Every blessed night since yesterday was a week, ma'am, 
 had I seen some stir in the haunted room. Now and again 
 I caught a glimpse of a tall figure ; and I could only believe 
 it to be Mr. Eupert. It never occurred to me to think of 
 the dead lord." 
 
 " Are my daughter's hands badly cut ? " resumed Mrs. 
 Wylde, after a pause. 
 
 "Well, yes, ma'am, rather so. But Mr. Norris says it 
 might have been worse. I left him dressing them this 
 morning." 
 
 Dismissing the woman with a message that she would be 
 at the abbey in the course of the morning, Mrs. Wylde sat 
 on revolving the news. And the conclusion she came to 
 was not agreeable. 
 
 Supernatural appearances held no place in Mrs. Wylde's 
 belief. That Guy, Lord of Pomeroy, should return to 
 trouble the earth after having been decently buried, she 
 held to be most unreasonable. But she did fear very 
 much, just as did Leolin, that it might be Rupert the 
 wanderer. 
 
 " And how frightfully imprudent of Alice, believing this, 
 to go up after Rupert to the west tower ! Nothing pleasant 
 could come of that. Alice did it with a good motive of 
 course ; to warn him, as Bridget says ; and it was kind of 
 her to risk it — but if the news got abroad what would the 
 neighbourhood say ? Better, a great deal better, that Alice 
 should have seen her husband's ghost than met Rupert — 
 that is, fancied it ; it could have been nothing but fancy. 
 But if it was in truth Rupert up there — and he were to be 
 discovered, and taken — what a dreadful catastrophe it would 
 
310 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 be ! Not only for himself and the Pomeroys, but for Alice ; 
 for it would recall to the public mind the almost forgotten' 
 scandal of nine years ago." 
 
 These were the reflections that were running through Mrs. 
 Wylde's mind and clouding her face as she drove to Pomeroy. 
 She found Alice lying on a sofa in one of the front rooms, 
 Theresa sitting at work at the window. 
 
 " I dare not be alone, mamma, after the horrors of last 
 night," murmured Alice, as she sent the maid away. " You 
 have heard, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes, child ; Bridget has told me. But it is very ridi- 
 culous of you to be frightened. Let me look at your 
 hands." 
 
 " They are badly cut. Mr. Norris said the bandages were 
 not to be touched." 
 
 " Quite right, I dare say. And now, tell me, Alice, how 
 you could be so imprudent as to go up to that west 
 tower." 
 
 " I did it under a misapprehension," said Alice, lowering 
 her voice. " I thought that it was Rupert come back again. 
 Bridget said it was he." 
 
 " And if it had been Rupert ! — all the more reason for 
 your keeping away," spoke Mrs. Wylde, unable to keep 
 severity out of her tone. 
 
 " I went to warn him to escape, nothing more ; I should 
 not have stayed a minute. His being there — if it had been 
 he — was so frightfully hazardous." 
 
 " All the same, you should not have gone. You might 
 have sent Bridget. You had had enough, one would think, 
 of going up to the west tower nine years ago." 
 
 Alice burst into tears. " It is generous of you, mamma, 
 to bring up that to me ! " 
 
 ''Because you are so very incautious, Alice. You and 
 Rupert Pomeroy ought to be as far divided as the poles — 
 and one would suppose your own good feeling would teach 
 you that " 
 
 " I did it for the best," urged Alice. " There was no one 
 else to go ; no one but me. As to Bridget, she would not 
 have gone alone to the west tower to save her life. Think 
 
MRS. WYLDE. 
 
 311 
 
 v/liat it would be for us all, as well as for himself, if he were 
 taken." 
 
 " Well, it is a good thing that nothing worse has come of 
 it. I hoj)e you are now oouvinced that it was not Eupert 
 Pomeroy." 
 
 " Ay, indeed. It was foolish of me to admit the idea — ^ 
 and of Bridget too. He would not be likely to venture here. 
 And he could not have got into the rooms." 
 
 "Don't take up any fancy again so wildly ridiculous," 
 spoke Mrs. Wylde sharply : for she had no intention of 
 allowing her daughter to know what she suspected — that it 
 must really be Eupert who was in the west tower. 
 
 " But oh, mamma, when I saw — what I did see, I — I 
 
 I cannot talk of it," she added, breaking off with a shudder. 
 " You know — you have lieard — that my husband appeared 
 to me." 
 
 " I know that you must have been in a highly excited and 
 nervous state, to imagine anything of the sort," corrected 
 Mrs. Wylde. " No wonder : you had been in the chapel the 
 best part of the long day, and made a fast-day of it into the 
 bargain. When the brain is highly wrought from want and 
 weariness, it is apt to play us strange tricks." 
 
 " Mother, it was no delusion. That I saw my husband 
 last night," she solemnly added, " I will stake my souL" 
 
 " Hush ! " said Mrs. Wylde. 
 
 " He appeared to me in the spirit," added Alice, lifting 
 one of her damaged hands in her earnestness, and letting it 
 rest on the arm of Mrs. Wylde. " I wonder I did not die, 
 there and then. Were I ever to see it again when alone, I 
 should die. It was only my fainting away that saved me." 
 
 "Are you a child, Alice, that you should fitncy these 
 things ? " 
 
 " Not to me only did he appear, but to others," went on 
 Alice. " Bridget saw him at the west window ; Lady Anna 
 saw him there. And when the servants went up afterwards 
 to lock up the rooms — you have heard in what way they 
 were startled, mamma, by seeing an awful figure bearing 
 down upon them ? " 
 
 " I have heard that they say so." 
 
POMEPvOY ABBEY. 
 
 " What figure could that have been but his ? " 
 
 Mrs. Wyldo did not answer this time. In her own mind 
 she believed it to be another's. A living figure, not a dead 
 one. 
 
 "Jeffs declares he recognized the lord; he saw all his 
 features — including the lip. No one who knew him well 
 could be mistaken in his appearance, mother. And surely 
 you are no stranger to the reports that have been whispered 
 ever since his death ! The peace of the abbey has been 
 marred by them." 
 
 " Well, Alice, have it your own way." 
 
 " I wish there was any other way ; but you must know 
 there is not," sighed Alice. 
 
 Mrs. Wylde fell into a fit of musing : she w^as naturally a 
 shrewd, fiir-seeing woman. That nothing she could urge 
 ^vould shake her daughter's faith in this supernatural 
 appearance, was evident : and she began to reflect that, of 
 the two evils, it was better to let her rest in the belief; ay, 
 in spite of the fear and torment it induced ; than that she 
 should have her doubts directed to the only feasible explana- 
 tion — Eupert. 
 
 " Alice," she resumed, " I have never seen a ghost myself, 
 and that makes me sceptical. I have heard that some people 
 do see such things ; that they are so constituted ; and so — 
 we will drop the subject. I came here intending to take 
 you home with me. Will you come ? " 
 
 " What, with these hands ! I could not go out to-day, 
 mamma." 
 
 " It will be better for you to come to me altogether, 
 Alice." 
 
 Altogether ! Why, mamma, what do you mean ? " 
 " Listen, Alice. This old abbey is a hotbed of supersti- 
 tion. It was always noted for it, and it has grown worse of 
 late years. The very atmosphere teems with superstition ; 
 the servants are given over to it. My opinion is, that they 
 employ their leisure hours in inventing marvels, and then 
 frighten themselves into the belief that they are real. It is 
 no longer a desirable home for you — you shall come back 
 to me." 
 
MRS. WYLDE. 
 
 313 
 
 Alice shook her head. " You are very kind, mamma ; you 
 mean well : but nothing would induce me to leave the abbey. 
 My interests lie within it." 
 What interests ? " 
 
 " Mary's interests : and hers are mine. There are people 
 living who would be capable of destroying those interests ; I 
 must be here to protect them." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde scarcely understood ; and Alice continued. 
 
 " Mary shall sometime be Lady of Pomeroy ; I have made 
 my mind up to that. Her father was lord, she shall in her 
 turn be lady." 
 
 " By what means would you make her so ? " 
 
 " By her marriage with young Eupert." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde positively shrank at the words. She had had 
 enough of scheming, herself, when she schemed to make 
 this, her own daughter. Lady of Pomeroy by her marriage 
 with Guy. What had come of it ! 
 
 " Oh, Alice, don't plan ! " she urged, her voice taking 
 quite a wailing tone. " Don't, don't ! Be content to leave 
 things to the good care of Heaven. And they are both 
 children yet." 
 
 " Of course : we cannot act against Heaven," returned 
 Alice, more pointed indifference in her manner than her 
 mother liked to see. "But — to return to the question. 
 This is my home, mamma, and I assure you I have no 
 intention of quitting it." 
 
 " Only for two or three weeks, then ; for two or three 
 weeks, Alice. Until this excitement shall have worn 
 away." 
 
 Alice rather wondered at her mother's persistency — she 
 seemed quite agitated. " Thank you, mamma, but it cannot 
 be. When my hands are better, I will bring Mary, and 
 spend a long day with you." 
 
 Upon taking her departure, Mrs. Wylde saw the French 
 governess in the study, and stepped in. Mademoiselle de 
 Garonne seized the opportunity to speak of the previous 
 night's disturbance, confessing that it had made her uncom- 
 fortable. She did not like " revenants." 
 
 " But I don't believe a word of it," cried Mrs. Wylde. 
 
314 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Servants are so ignorant on tliese subjects, so superstitious 
 and fanciful. You must know tliat, mademoiselle." 
 
 " As a rule, they are," admitted mademoiselle, S2)eaking 
 in English for tlie benefit of Mrs. AVylde, wlio did not 
 understand Frencli. " But this that was seen last night — 
 it was not only the servants who saw it, but Mrs. Pomeroy 
 and Lady Anna. I admit that I never saw a revenant 
 myself; I confess that I hardly know w^hether to believe in 
 such appearances or not : but, I must say, that to live 
 where one may be subjected to seeing one is rather un- 
 pleasant." 
 
 Pat yourself at ease, ma'mselle ; don't think at all 
 about it,'* advised Mrs. Wylde, in reassuring tones. " 1 
 would stake this pearl brooch of mine that nothing will 
 appear to you." 
 
 " Thank you ; indeed I hope not. But, to pass myself 
 out of the question," continued the governess, " it is not well 
 that Miss Mary should hear of these things ; not well. The 
 impressionable mind of a child should be guarded from such 
 ideas." 
 
 " I fully agree with you in that, ma'mselle." 
 
 " We had hardly begun tlie devoirs this morning when 
 Miss Mary interrupted them to ask whether I had seen 
 the revenant. Madame Wylde, this ought not to be. In 
 spite of all my care she may grow up a very model of 
 superstition." 
 
 That shall not be if I can hinder it," concluded Mrs. 
 Wylde. " Good-morning to you, my dear ma'mselle." 
 
 Passing down the stairs and out of the gateway, Mrs. 
 Wylde made a sign to her carriage not to follow her, and 
 walked round the abbey towards Father Andrew's. His 
 little house was at the far side of the chapel. Old Marget 
 said her master was at home, and unceremoniously ushered 
 the visitor into the little sitting-room, where sat the priest 
 at his early dinner. 
 
 "Beans and bacon, my favourite dish," said he in his 
 hospitable manner. "Will you take some, Mrs. Wylde? 
 It's not often she gives it me." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde thanked him and declined. She entered at 
 
MRS. WYLDE. 
 
 315 
 
 once upon tlie errand that had brought her, the priest 
 turning from the table to listen. 
 
 " I want you to use your influence with my daughter to 
 come to my house for a time," said Mrs. Wylde, after some 
 little conversation, chiefly touching the previous night, had 
 passed. "One might as well try to shake that abbey 
 down" — pointing her delicately-gloved hand towards the 
 window — " as shake her belief in the fancy that her husband 
 appeared to her. It is pitiable to see her — casting her 
 terrified eyes into every corner. She woukl be §o much 
 better at my house, father." 
 
 So she would," assented the priest. 
 
 "But she won't come ; she won't listen to me : nothing 
 will induce her, she says, to quit the abbey. Do you think 
 you could prevail upon her ? " 
 
 " 111 try," said the priest. " But — once Mrs. Pomeroy 
 takes a notion into her head, you can't get it out again. 
 She is fond of her own will, you see : she's like a Pomeroy 
 for that." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde lowered her voice, looking round to make 
 sure that the door was closed against Marget's ears : though, 
 indeed, the old woman could be heard clattering about in 
 the kitchen. 
 
 ''She ought to come, Father Andrew; she ought not to 
 remain at the abbey just now. Should it in truth be 
 Eupert Pomeroy up in those west rooms, hiding there for 
 refuge, it is better that she should not find it out. There is 
 no knowing what chivalrous thing she might be attempting 
 by way of aiding him. Nothing unseemly ; no, of course 
 not ; I do not mean that ; no one could fear that for her 
 now : but, give only the slightest loophole for gossip, and 
 all the old scandal, that I am sure, poor thing, she has 
 been trying her best to live down, would be raked up 
 again." 
 
 " But what can induce you to surmise that it is Eupert ? " 
 objected the priest. " It is no more Eupert than it is 
 me. With all his want of caution, he would not put his 
 head into jeopardy. I said as much to Leolin Pomeroy last 
 night." 
 
316 
 
 POME ROY x\BBEY. 
 
 " Does he fear it is Eupert ? " 
 
 " He did. Against all the laws of common sense." 
 
 " Then what do you think it was that they did see ? 
 Guy's ghost ? " 
 
 "It could have been nothing but the wind," said the 
 father, after a moment's pause. "Nothing but the wind. 
 Why, I feared my roof, here, would have been blown off. 
 The wind startled them to begin with, and they conjured 
 up the rest. They are always ready primed for seeing 
 ghosts on the seventeenth of October." 
 
 " And what an improper place the abbey is just now for 
 the child ! " resumed Mrs. Wylde — " all these ghostly tales 
 floating about it. Mademoiselle de Garonne has just spoken 
 to me : Mary has been asking her if she saw the revernon 
 last night — or whatever the French name for ghost is. For 
 the child's sake, Alice ought not to keep her there." 
 . Father Andrew nodded assent. " Have you suggested that 
 phase of the matter to your daughter ? " 
 
 " No ; to say the truth, it had not then occurred to me. 
 But I will suggest it. The child knows all about last night, 
 mademoiselle says : she is just one of those children that 
 you cannot keep things from. You must talk to Mrs. 
 Pomeroy yourself, father." 
 
 " I will," said the priest. " I'll see her to-day." 
 
 Back started Mrs. Wylde for the abbey, leaving the 
 good priest to his beans and bacon. Old Jerome was 
 standing at the keep-door as she passed. She stopped to 
 speak to him. 
 
 " Have you heard this nonsense that they are talking — 
 about last night ? " she presently asked. And the old man's 
 lips turned white as he answered that he had heard it. 
 
 " He is as full of superstition as the rest," thought Mrs. 
 Wylde. And she continued her way to the abbey, and re- 
 opened the conference wdth her daugliter. 
 
 But no. Mrs. Pomeroy, to use her mother's words, was 
 harder than adamant. She perfectly recognized the justice 
 of the representation as regarded Mary, and said she would 
 send the child to the convent to be out of the way ; but she 
 would not stir from the abbey herself. 
 
:\IRS. WYLDP]. 
 
 317 
 
 As Mrs. Wylde, vexed and disappointed, was finally 
 passing out to her carriage, she saw Leolin Pomeroy coming 
 round from the j^ath that led to the rocks. On the impulse 
 of the moment she turned aside and spoke to him. 
 
 "What a disagreeable affair this is, Mr. Pomeroy, that 
 they are saying has happened — about your poor brother 
 Guy ! He could not have been seen, could he ? The thing 
 does not stand to reason." 
 
 Every haughty line in Leolin's face grew more haughty 
 at the abrupt address. He had never taken cordially to 
 Mrs. Wylde, any more than he had to her daughter : that 
 she should presume to speak of this to him tried his 
 temper. 
 
 " There's Alice nearly out of her mind with it," continued 
 Mrs. Wylde, hardly waiting for his answer. " It is so very 
 absurd ! I fear w^e must look to a more tangible fear than 
 that of ghosts." 
 
 " What do you mean, madam ? " asked Leolin. 
 
 " What I fear is, that it must be Eupert," spoke Mrs. 
 Wylde, her voice sinking to the veriest whisj^er. " Father 
 Andrew says no ; but I cannot come to any other con- 
 clusion." 
 
 In any dread that may be privately haunting us, how 
 greatly that dread may be augmented by a single word of 
 confirmation, spoken by another, we all know too well. 
 Leolin despised Mrs. Wylde, deemed it little less than a 
 l)iece of insolence for her to have mentioned the subject to 
 him at all : nevertheless her opinion painfully impressed 
 him, strengthening the fear which he had been striving all 
 the morning to drive away. He would not let this be seen ; 
 he turned the subject off with almost a jest, changing his 
 tone to one of civility as he walked with her to hand her 
 into her carriage. 
 
 She drove off, nodding to him. Leolin lifted his hat with 
 a smile, and then put it on to cover a brow of perplexity and 
 pain. 
 
818 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII 
 
 WITH MR. HILDYARD. 
 
 In one of the most exclusive of our v/est-end clubs, amidst 
 its brilliant gas-liglits, tbe warmth of its fires, and its 
 sociability, sat Leolin Pomeroy. He bad arrived in London 
 some two hours before, had dined at his hotel ; and now, 
 though the night was getting on, had come to " take a look 
 in " at his club before going to rest. Very few members 
 were there : as a rule, the great world is out of town in 
 October. 
 
 " Going to make anything of a stay ? " asked one of the 
 friends he was talking to, the Duke of St. Ives. 
 "A day or so." 
 
 " Your visits are always flying ones, Pomeroy. How is 
 your wife ? Better ? " 
 
 " Yes, much bettor. How did you know she was ill ? " 
 Essington told me so the other day when he dropped in 
 here." 
 
 " But Essington is not in town, is he ? " 
 They are all in town. Halting here for a week before 
 they go on to Germany. Cardine's in trouble again, I 
 fancy." 
 
 " No doubt : Cardine's seldom out of it," remarked Leolin. 
 " It must try his father." 
 
 "Yes. Were I Lord Essington, I should make short 
 work of it — leave him to his own devices." 
 
 The Duke of St. Ives, good-hearted as ever, shook his 
 head to this. " A great many fathers are tried in the same 
 way, I fear. One can't help feeling for one's own son, you 
 see, Pomeroy. Look at Winchester." 
 
 " Scamp ! " briefly ejaculated Leolin. " Has he been 
 heard of lately?" 
 
 " Not that I know of. By the way, yes. Grane, coming 
 home through Paris the other day, met him there." 
 
 But these items of gossip do not concern us, and we must 
 hasten on. 
 
WITH MR. HILDYARD. 
 
 319 
 
 Leolin Pomeroy had remained so deeply imbued with 
 the impression that it was Eiipert who had been seen in 
 the west wing, as to become intolerably uneasy. The whole 
 day, after his brief interview with Mrs. Wylde, he had 
 brooded over the fear, striving in vain to discard it; at 
 evening, calling Father Andrew to be his companion, ho 
 went into the west wing, and searched the rooms : but they 
 found nothing. After a night of torment, Leolin started 
 for London to put the matter before Mr. Hildyard and get 
 his opinion — which opinion seemed, judging by the frequency 
 of these visits, to be to Leolin the panacea for all his ills. 
 
 Breakfast over in the morning, Leolin went to Lincoln's 
 Inn, and asked for Mr. Hildyard. But it was the partner, 
 Mr. Prael, who came to him. 
 
 " I am too early, I suppose," remarked Leolin. " Hild- 
 yard's not here yet ? " 
 
 " He has not been here for three or four days now, Mr. 
 Pomeroy," was the lawyer's answer. " I doubt whether he 
 will ever be able to come again." 
 
 " Is he worse ? " 
 
 " He has grown rapidly worse. I do fear we may not 
 long have him with us. Can I do anything for you ? " 
 
 " I am sorry : I am truly sorry ! " lamented Leolin. 
 " He looked very ill when I last saw him — and that's not 
 a week ago ; but I had no idea it was so serious as this. 
 Thank you ; no, I don't think you can : you do not under- 
 stand our affairs, I fancy. I wonder whether Mr. Hildyard 
 w^ould be able to see me ? " 
 
 " I dare say he would. I was with him yesterday for a 
 couple of hours, talking over business matters. You can 
 but try." 
 
 Leolin could not intrude thus early upon one who was 
 ill; but at twelve o'clock ho made his way to Eussell 
 Square, sent in his card, and was admitted. At his desk, 
 in a small study lined with books, apparently sorting old 
 letters, sat Mr. Hildyard, worn, grey, and shrunken. He 
 silently took the hand held out by Leolin, and kept it for 
 ^ome moments. 
 
 I am so very sorry to see you like this," spoke Leolin, 
 
320 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 whose heart was achii;g. Never, in all his life, had he seeu 
 any one so changed in a space of time that might bo 
 counted by hours. 
 
 " Ay. When the end sets in with a will, it makes quick 
 work with some of us," was the answer. " But I am some- 
 what better to-day. What has brought you up again so soon ? " 
 
 Leolin drew a chair near, bent forward, and entered upon 
 his tale. The lawyer listened in silence, his elbow on the 
 table, his hand partly shading his face. A smile crossed his 
 lips when Leolin spoke of what had been seen in the west 
 tower, and what it was supposed to be. 
 
 "A ghost! Your brother Guy's ghost? How silly 
 people are ! " 
 
 " Ever since Guy died, there has been uneasiness amongst 
 tlie servants on that same score," spoke Leolin — who had 
 never disclosed so much before. 
 
 " Uneasiness on what score ? " 
 
 " What they maintain — what they say is, that Guy * comes 
 again.' Joan, I am sorry to say, puts absolute faith in it." 
 
 " The Pomeroys were always given to superstition, more 
 or less," remarked Mr. Hildyard. " But, to let it run the 
 length of seeing a ghost in the west tower! How could 
 fiincy so mislead them ? It was the wind, I suppose, playing 
 upon the panes." 
 
 " Not altogether. Something must have been there, I 
 take it : some person, I mean. A horrible fear, of whom it 
 perhaps was, has lain upon me ever since." 
 
 "But who is that?" said Mr. Hildyard, not failing to 
 perceive that Leolin was greatly moved. 
 
 " Eupert." 
 
 A long, silent pause. Ill though Mr. Hildyard was, the 
 avowal startled him. He was the first to speak, after 
 running over probabilities in his mind. 
 
 " I think you must be mistaken. Of all places on the 
 habitable world, Eupert would surely shun Pomeroy. He 
 would never dare to venture there." 
 
 " He ventured to England once, you know." 
 
 " And that once must have sufficed to show him his 
 folly." 
 
WITH ME. IIILDYARD. 
 
 321 
 
 *'We cannot know it. Bridget's idea was, that lie had 
 taken refuge in the west tower as the safest place ; the place 
 where he would be the least liable to be looked for. The 
 woman has shrewd sense. You remember her ? " 
 
 " Quite well. But, look here : putting aside the extreme 
 unlikelihood that Eupert would be guilty of such im- 
 prudence, every probability tells against it. How could 
 he get uj) to the west wing ? You say the keys were safe." 
 
 " It is a mystery to me altogether, and a very unpleasant 
 one," said Leolin. " Since that woman, Bridget, suggested 
 the thought to me, ten times an hour I say to myself, Is it 
 possible? and I say that it may be. Eupert may have 
 ventured a second time to these shores ; and, driven to 
 extremity, hunted from lair to lair in his fear of pursuit, 
 may have pitched upon that refuge as being the one almost 
 certain not to be suspected and searched." 
 
 *' But you have searched — and found no one." 
 
 " Yes, but it was at night. And there may be nooks and 
 corners that the light did not penetrate, or we see into. 
 Any way, the fear, that he is hiding there, haunts me. 
 Who knows but some secret closet may exist there ? " 
 
 " How could he be fed ? " 
 
 "I know not. Unless he has had Cox in his pay. I 
 might suspect old Jerome were he at the abbey ; but he is 
 not. Jerome would run his very neck into a noose to serve 
 or save a Pomeroy." 
 
 " Has Jerome got him shut up in the keep ? " went on 
 Mr. Hildyard. But he made the remark in simple pleasantry, 
 his mind refusing to admit the possibility that Eupert could 
 be at Pomeroy. And this Leolin detected. Eupert was in 
 the west tower, if anywhere ; not at the keep. 
 
 " And what is it that yon wish me to do for you ? — or, 
 rather, Prael ; for it must be he in future." 
 
 " I don't know what it is," confessed Leolin ; " I don't 
 know that anything can be done. The fact is, I am too 
 uneasy to be at rest ; and I came up to put the case before 
 you and ask your opinion upon it; more especially to 
 ask whether you have gained any clue latterly as to where 
 Eupert is." 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 21 
 
322 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 "Not the slightest," promptly replied Mr. Hilclyard. 
 " We have never heard of him at all since Collins left him 
 on board the Spanish boat. Does the Lady of Pomeroy 
 never hear from him ? — her husband, George, used to." 
 
 Leolin shook his head. " We are not great friends, she 
 and I, but she would be sure not to keep from me so grave 
 a thing as any communication from Eupert. I would 
 almost give up my birthright to set the question at rest ; 
 to be assured of where Eupert is at this present moment," 
 passionately added Leolin. 
 
 Mr. Hildyard understood perfectly what he meant by his 
 " birthright : " the heirship to Pomeroy. He was beginning 
 to look upon Leolin, in regard to that point, as partly 
 demented. 
 
 " Have you any further news from Eome ? " resumed the 
 lawyer, following out his own thoughts. 
 
 " None. Eome is given to being dilatory." 
 • " It always was, and always will be, when the Vatican 
 itself is set against a thing." 
 
 " The Vatican is not set against this thing of mine," hotly 
 spoke Leolin. " One or two of its people may use their 
 influence against it ; nothing more." 
 
 " Just so ; it comes to the same." 
 
 Leolin rose. " I cannot take up your time longer — and 
 to no purpose," he remarked. "I wish you could have 
 advised me — or suggested some little ray of light." 
 
 " I think, were I you," slowly spoke Mr. Hildyard, " I 
 should at once throw open that west wing. Open all the 
 rooms one after another, doors and windows too, and let 
 them remain open day and night." 
 
 But there might be objections to this plan ; even as the 
 lawyer spoke, they passed through Leolin's mind. If 
 Eupert were indeed there, it might be fatal to him ; might 
 lead to his discovery: moreover, control in these matters 
 was not vested in Leolin, but in Sybilla. So long as she 
 ostensibly reigned, her will was law when she chose to exert 
 it. And she had all along shown herself resolute in keeping 
 the west wing unmolested. 
 
 " I trust I shall soon hear better news of you," said 
 
WITH MR. HILDYARD. 
 
 323 
 
 Leoiin, some slight tremor in his voice, as he gazed upon 
 that fading face. 
 
 "There will be no * better' for me in this world," was 
 the lawyer's answer ; " I feel that I now see you for the last 
 time. Mr. Leoiin, we have been good friends for many 
 years, as client and advocate. I have served the Pomeroy 
 family faithfully " 
 
 "You have, you have," impulsively interrupted Leoiin, 
 pressing the hands that clasped his. " Never a more faith- 
 ful friend than you." 
 
 " Then, will you pardon me if I presume upon that long 
 friendship, those years of service, by giving to you a last 
 word of advice ? I do it as a dying man. Prevail upon 
 yourself to let the contest ivith Borne drop — or, rather, the 
 contest with the rights of the young child. You know what 
 I have always said — that the cause is not a righteous one. 
 I feel sure, I seem to see clearly, that Heaven does not and 
 will not prosper it. Cease the vexatious strife, and thereby 
 ensure peace to your conscience. You may need the comfort 
 when you come to be as I am. It is for your own sake I 
 advise this." 
 
 "I am sure it is, and I thank you," returned Leoiin, 
 warmly. " I thank you just as much as though I could take 
 the advice. From your point of view it is only kind of you 
 to give it. Oh — by the way — to go to another subject: I 
 hear our people, the Essingfcons, are in town." 
 
 " For a few days. Lord Essington was here, with Prael, 
 yesterday." 
 
 " Prael did not tell me that this morning. He is rather 
 close, I fancy ; we shall not like him as well as we liked 
 you. Cardine is all abroad again, I suppose." 
 
 " Abroad in more senses than one, this time. He has 
 gone to Germany to be out of the way, leaving his father to 
 settle up for him. Lord Essington has need of patience." 
 
 " Ay. Well, good-bye ; good-bye, dear Mr. Hildyard. I 
 wish I could hear of your getting better ! I wonder what it 
 is that has induced this grave illness." 
 
 The last words were spoken in that light tone we are all 
 apt to use now and then in social converse, for Leoiin 
 
324 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Pomeroy did know what had induced the illness. At least, 
 he guessed. Mr. Hildjard was dying of that not very 
 uncommon malady, a broken heart. 
 
 " Now, shall I go to Berkeley Square, or shall I not ? " 
 debated Leolin. " If I could make sure Essington was out, 
 I would. I think I'll chance it." 
 
 For Leolin Pomeroy no longer cared to meet his father- 
 in-law too often. For some time now, a coolness had 
 existed between them. There had been no quarrel; but 
 the older Lord Essington grew, the more strongly did 
 he disapprove of Leolin's policy, to dispossess Kupert 
 Poraeroy : and as the earl was open-natured and very much 
 given to saying what he thought, Leolin kept out of his 
 way. 
 
 Fortune favoured him. Lady Essington and Geraldine 
 were at home, but not his lordship. Leolin sat down to 
 luncheon with them. 
 
 They could converse unrestrainedly at the meal, as it 
 was not their custom to have servants in attendance Mabel 
 was married ; married well : but not to the Duke of St. 
 Ives, who had never come forward again after Anna's re- 
 jection. 
 
 " And what of your wife ? " asked Lady Essington. Is 
 she really growing strong ? '* 
 
 "I think so; I hope so," replied Leolin. "She had a 
 very slight attack of ague a night or two ago — but some- 
 thing had occurred to put her out." 
 
 " What had occurred ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing particular. A little matter startled her." 
 
 " Grew frightened about her baby, I expect, poor girl : 
 I'm sure I hope this one will live. It is very sad Anna 
 should have had this nervous fever," added the countess. 
 
 " It was not a nervous fever." 
 
 " Bordering upon it." 
 
 " It was intermittent fever," contended Leolin, incipient 
 resentment in his tone. 
 
 " They are much alike. "We have spoken of it here as 
 nervous fever all along. Her father thinks it was one." 
 
 " But I assure you it was not," persisted Leolin. 
 
WITH MR. HILDYAHD. 
 
 325 
 
 " Well, it is liis opinion. He says ho wonders Anna has 
 not been worried into one before." 
 
 Leolin laid down his knife and fork, deeply offended. 
 " What can you possibly mean by saying that ? " 
 
 " It is her father who says it : I don't say it. I am sure 
 he has Anna a great deal upon his mind. He thinks that 
 this constant scheming, which goes on, tries her and tells 
 upon her.'* 
 
 " What scheming ! " 
 
 "With Kome, you know. To dispossess that little 
 Pomeroy and put yourself in his place." 
 
 " It is by right my place," said Leolin. 
 
 "Of course you think so. I think with you, for that 
 matter," avowed the countess. "But Anna and her father 
 both look at it in the opposite light, you know ; and he 
 feels sure that Anna grows frightened at what the con- 
 sequences may be ; that she never has a truly happy moment. 
 And he says if you don't mind, you'll lose her." 
 
 "I am extremely obliged to him," stiffly spoke Leolin. 
 " I hope I can take better care of my wife than that. Per- 
 haps you will tell him so, Lady Essington ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I will not. What would be the use ? Talking 
 of trouble, here's Cardine in a plight again." 
 
 " Cardine is never out of a plight, is he ? " returned Leolin, 
 his good-humour not restored. 
 
 " When his father gets him out of it ; never otherwise. 
 We shall have to sell Hawk's Eest, I expect, this time. 
 And now poor Hildyard must go and break up! As my 
 husband says, it is one trouble upon another." 
 
 " I have just come from Hildyard ; from Russell Square. 
 How ill he looks ! Dying, it seems to me." 
 
 " Ay. He received his death-blow when Lord Winchester 
 ran off with Frances. There's another nice young man for 
 you ! Winchester and Cardine might have been running a 
 race together to try which could get the deeper into debt. 
 But I don't think Cardine would turn villain and break an 
 old man's heart. Is Miss Pomeroy at the abbey now ? " 
 
 " Yes : she came a few days ago. How is that pretty 
 little friend of mine ? " added Leolin, turning the con- 
 
326 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 versation from the subject of the abbey. For it was not 
 by any means his intention to disclose anything of the 
 commotion just now agitating it, and he did not wish to 
 be too closely questioned. 
 
 " Which little friend ? 
 
 " Annaline Hetley." 
 
 " Oh, poor little thing, she's at Naples, with her father 
 and mother and the rest of them. Frank Hetley has suc- 
 ceeded in getting some small diplomatic post there. By 
 the way, I think you helped him to it. It brings him in a 
 trifle, and he has a trifle of his own, and I have no doubt 
 Lord Essington makes up the rest. I tell my husband the 
 world would not know what to do without him ; he goes out 
 of his way to help so many people." 
 
 Leolin privately wondered whether she knew that he was 
 one of the helped ; and, if so, to what extent. But no ; he 
 thought not. Open though the earl was, he could keep his 
 own counsel. 
 
 " And when are you going back to Pomeroy, Leolin ? " 
 asked Lady Geraldine, who had in vain tried to get in a 
 word before. 
 
 " To-night." 
 
 " And came up only yesterday ! A short stay. You 
 seem to be always running up and down." 
 
 "Yes, a short stay this time. I only wanted to say a 
 word or two to Hildyard. And I am glad I came; for I 
 suppose I shall never see him again." 
 
 And so, luncheon concluded, the day wore on. And by 
 the night train Leolin travelled down to Pomeroy. 
 
 He found the place in a worse commotion than when he 
 had left it. During each of the two nights of his absence, 
 the shade of Guy Pomeroy had again been seen in the west 
 tower. Amongst others, Norris the surgeon, cold, keen, and 
 sceptical upon the subject of ghosts in general, had seen and 
 recognized it. 
 
 Leolin knew not what to think, what to be at. Maintain- 
 ing an outward appearance of haughty disbelief, inwardly he 
 was tormented with fear. Not the same fear that agitated 
 bis retainers, but the more tangible fear of its being really 
 
WITH Mil. HILDYARD. 
 
 327 
 
 Eujiert. That some one, or some tiling, wo.s positively 
 haunting the west tower, he could not well disbelieve ; the 
 testimony to that eflfect was too general. Whilst telling his 
 dependents that folly was running away with their senses, 
 while visiting on them the severest displeasure that reproofs 
 could convey, his own mind, as the days passed on, was 
 kept in a state of intolerable torment. Every now and 
 again, also, would a whisper be brought to Leolin that 
 Eupert had been undoubtedly seen : but this was hushed up 
 so far as it could be. 
 
 The days, I say, passed on. Far from any improvement 
 setting in at Pomeroy, matters became more complicated. 
 The peace of the abbey was gone. It was only too evident, 
 to all who chose to exercise their sight, that the spirit of 
 the unhappy Lord of Pomeroy did indeed haunt the spot 
 where he had met his terrible death ; that he could not rest 
 in his grave. Night after night that figure was seen in the 
 rooms; sometimes close to the window, the moon shining 
 upon it; on darker nights, the watchers would see it sur- 
 rounded by a faint light. Eestless, ever restless was the 
 spirit. Father Andrew had himself locked the doors, as he 
 assured them with his own lips ; but what of that ? in every 
 one of the rooms of the west wing would it appear in suc- 
 cession, gliding through them as only spirits can be supposed 
 to glide. 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy was wearing to a shadow. Terrified and 
 awe-stricken though she was, she yet could not resist the 
 fascination of the sight, but would sit at her window through- 
 out the early part of the night, watching for it. When the 
 form appeared, she would seize upon Bridget, who was 
 generally her companion, and hide her face on the woman's 
 arm, and sob and shiver in agony. " If this goes on, sir, it 
 will kill her," whispered Bridget one day to Leolin. And 
 he would have been too glad to stop it, had he known how 
 to do so. 
 
 One evening Leolin took up his station in the haunted 
 room, with Father Andrew and Cox the custodian : Cox 
 being chosen not because he was the head of the retainers, 
 but because he possessed more common sense than the 
 
328 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 others, and was less affected by fears. Moreover, liad 
 Kupert appeared, Cox was to be trusted. Until dawn 
 they watched, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Entirely 
 unmolested by sight or sound they remained. 
 
 That was not all. When the sun had risen, glinting the 
 tops of the casements, and throwing out the angles and 
 corners of the rooms into broad daylight, they made a 
 thorough search ; not a nook escaped them : but no signs 
 could be discovered of any person or thing, supernatural or 
 human; not a trace was there of the appearance so often 
 seen, not the faintest clue as to what it might be. And 
 Leolin and the priest both convinced themselves, minutely 
 examining the aspect and extent of the walls, that no hiding- 
 place could be concealed within them. Leolin locked up 
 the rooms again, his brain more exercised than ever. 
 
 Perhaps the only inhabitant of the abbey who absolutely 
 refused credence to these superstitious fancies, was the Lady 
 of Pomeroy. But, as Joan remarked, Sybilla had always 
 been of strong mind. Her father, John Gaunt, could never 
 be brought to put faith in the supernatural, and Sybilla was 
 like him. She, making a half jest of it, recommended her 
 domestics to keep their eyes at night off the west wing and 
 tower, and no doubt the " ghost " would soon go away as he 
 had come. 
 
 Easier said than done. Far rather would the servants 
 have gone without their supper, one and all, than have kept 
 their eyes from that sight, whose very dread made its 
 fascination. Behind the pillars of the cloisters, at the 
 windows of the upper corridors, in the dark corners of the 
 quadrangle, stood they: and when the apparition showed 
 itself, many a one among them recognized its face, all too 
 unmistakable, to be that of the dead Lord of Pomeroy. 
 
 For, in spite of the night's vigil that Leolin, the priest, 
 and Cox had kept, in spite of their earnest testimony, that 
 no one was or could be in the west wing, and therefore that 
 no trick was being played (as had been lately suggested), 
 the shadowy form was seen afterwards just as frequently as 
 before, and trouble and discomfort prevailed. 
 
 In the depth of the tribulation, a suggestion came from 
 
WITH MR. HILDYARD. 
 
 329 
 
 Joan Pomeroy. Poor Joan, more full of anguish perhaps 
 than any one else, and at the same time more religiously 
 bound to the superstition, had never yet prevailed upon 
 herself to look at the apparition. She sat in a front-room 
 in the evening ; the curtains of her bed-chamber were 
 closely drawn before daylight had departed. But though 
 Joan would not see, she heard all there was to hear; it 
 shook her terribly, and undermined her peace. 
 
 From her came first the suggestion that Father Andrew 
 should " lay the ghost. That could not fail to be efficacious, 
 as faithful Joan believed. The idea was eagerly seized upon 
 by the abbey, and the priest was applied to. 
 
 At first Father Andrew positively refused to do anything 
 of the kind. The priest had never given in to the theory : 
 from him had emanated the suggestion that it might be a 
 trick. However, for peace' sake ; or, rather hoping that it 
 might induce peace, he consented. 
 
 " I will do it/' he said, " as you are all so urgent ; but I 
 protest against it. There is no ghost to lay, and never has 
 been any." 
 
 Fifty tales, testifying to the presence of the ghost, were 
 offered the father in refutation of this opinion ; but they 
 made no impression on him. One slight stumbling-block, 
 existing in his mind, may have lain in the fact that he did 
 not know how it was to be done. Never having been asked 
 to lay a ghost before, he was to be excused if he felt a little 
 uncertain in what manner to set about it. 
 
 At the appointed hour the west wing was thrown open, 
 and the priest, arrayed in his sacred vestments, went in. 
 He sprinkled the rooms with holy water as he passed 
 through them, and in that of the west tower, the haunted 
 room, he read a prayer for the repose of the spirit of Guy 
 Pomeroy. No irreverence could lie in that, whether the 
 spirit did wander or whether it did not. ' 
 
 Alas, nothing came of it ! What can come of supplica- 
 tions offered up without heartfelt faith ? And, in spite of 
 the prayer and the holy water, the apparition wandered 
 more than ever. 
 
830 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ON THE SEAT BY THE SEA. 
 
 It was the first Sunday in November ; the day, a bright one, 
 was fading into night. All Saints' Day and the day follow- 
 ing it, All Souls' Day — or, as the French more expressively 
 term it, the Day of the Dead — had been duly observed at 
 Pomeroy, the one with grandeur, the other with appropriate 
 gloom, according to Pomeroy usage. The weather since the 
 middle of October had been beautiful : let it continue so 
 another week, and they would this year have a true ete de 
 St. Martin. 
 
 Standing talking together at the door of the lodge, in the 
 gathering twilight, were Charles Knox, of the Knoll, and 
 James Knox, the agent. Mr. Knox chose to take a friendly 
 notice of his poorer kinsman once in a way. He had walked 
 over to see him this afternoon : had taken tea with him, and 
 was now preparing to say good-night. But their discourse 
 had turned upon old family reminiscences; and Charles 
 Knox lingered yet. 
 
 It might be said that night had fairly set in when he 
 shook hands and finally took his departure. He was a little 
 man, of impetuous movements and temper, good-hearted and 
 honest, his face chronically red, his nose sharp. Mrs. 
 Pomeroy's imperious rejection of him had not affected his 
 heart ; since then he had wooed and won a charming girl, 
 who had now just presented him with a son and heir. 
 
 Considering that there was no moon, the night was re- 
 markably light. Charles Knox noted the fact as he strolled 
 leisurely through the village. A white haze seemed to per- 
 vade the atmosphere and to light up the sea : he could see 
 the water as plainly as though it were only twilight. He 
 was in no particular hurry to get home, and looked leisurely 
 about him. 
 
 Leaving Pomeroy Abbey to the left, he continued the 
 
ON THE SEAT BY THE SEA. 
 
 331 
 
 gentle ascent of the liigh-road ; in twenty minutes, or so, it 
 would take liim to bis own gates. If he chose to strike off 
 to the left beyond the abbey gardens, and pursue the field 
 way, he would shorten his route by some five minutes. Mr. 
 Knox was deliberating within himself in an indifferent sort 
 of way whether he should do this, w^hen a blue flame, 
 suddenly darting up from a ship at sea, turned the current 
 of his thoughts. 
 
 " What does the vessel want ? he exclaimed to himself, 
 standing still to gaze. Or, are the sailors simply amusing 
 ' themselves ? " 
 
 Turning off the road, he descended some steps cut in the 
 rock and gained the beach. This small strip of beach, in 
 length but a few yards, belonged exclusively to the Pomeroys, 
 and was called the abbey beach ; other people did not intrude 
 upon it. There the young Pomeroys used to moor their 
 pleasure-boats; from there, when lads, they would jump 
 into the sea and bathe. The rocks jutted out in a point at 
 each end, and partially enclosed it : at the end nearest the 
 village a natural seat in the rocks was formed. Mr. Knox 
 remembered this seat, and went towards it, intending to take 
 up his station there for a short time, and watch. If the ship 
 was in distress, he might be able to give the alarm. 
 
 But, when half-way to the seat, he suddenly halted. It 
 was occupied. Some man sat there. A man who, disturbed 
 no doubt by his footsteps, turned his head and face sharply 
 round to scan the intruder. And when the eyes of Knox of 
 the Knoll rested on that face, his heart gave a wild leap 
 within him. 
 
 " It is Rupert Pomeroy ! " gasped he. 
 
 Drawing up a short dark cloak, that seemed to have been 
 allowed to fall from his shoulders as he sat, drawing down 
 his cap until it concealed his face, the poor exile and 
 wanderer leaped up the rocks behind him: a short but 
 dangerous ascent. 
 
 " Eupert ! Eupert ! " cried Charles Knox in a loud 
 whisper. "Wait. I am your friend — Knox of the Knoll. 
 I'll do v/hat I can for you.'' 
 
 But the only answer to this was the continued ascent of 
 
332 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Eupert, aud the muffled sound of a human voice, that seemed 
 to come from the air above. " Back, Knox ; back." 
 
 Mr. Knox had not scaled those rocks since he was a boy. 
 He did not care to try the feat now, for he knew how easy 
 it would be to slip backwards: he ran to the steps and 
 hastened up them. The tali, thin, cloaked figure was 
 striding across the road and the greensward beyond it, 
 making direct for the abbey gardens. Charles Knox strode 
 after him. 
 
 But to no purpose. A small door stood here in the midst 
 of the wall. The fugitive gained it, opened it, and disap- 
 peared within the gardens. Mr. Knox ran up at the utmost 
 speed of his little legs, to find the door locked against him. 
 
 " What a dreadful thing ! " he exclaimed : meaning of 
 course that Eupert should be at Pomeroy " What a 
 frightful hazard ! " 
 
 Standing as one bewildered, he had still his hand on the 
 door when some one else came in view. Norris the surgeon : 
 who had, in fact, been to the Knoll to pay his evening visit 
 to Mrs. Knox. The doctor recognized him and left the road 
 to cross the greensward. Mr. Knox crossed it also, and met 
 him half-way. 
 
 " I was never so startled in all my life," cried Knox ; and 
 in the confusion and perplexity of the moment, he disclosed 
 to the doctor what had just happened. Mr. Norris, an 
 equable man at all times and seasons, took the news calmly. 
 
 " I suspected Eupert must be here," was his reply. " Some 
 people afiirm that they have seen him." 
 
 " But what culpable imprudence ! " exclaimed Mr. Knox. 
 " I think I had better tell Leolin Pomeroy." 
 
 He walked by the doctor's side to the abbey. They both 
 entered it together. The one to pay a professional visit to 
 Lady Anna; the other to seek an interview with her 
 husband. 
 
 Leolin was sitting at the open window, without lights, 
 when Mr. Knox was shown in. He had seen the blue light 
 thrown up from the ship, and was watching for it again. 
 Charles Knox sat down ; and, in low, covert tones, imparted 
 to Leolin what had taken place. 
 
ON THE SEAT BY THE SEA. 
 
 333 
 
 Every pulse within him coursing on to fever heat, every 
 wild apprehension that imagination could suggest rising up 
 in his heart, Leolin in his fear and distress yet made a feint 
 of doubting the words. " It could not be," he breathed : 
 " your eyesight must have deceived you." 
 
 " Could not be ! " retorted peppery Mr. Knox. "Do you 
 think I have forgotten your brother? I say that it was 
 Rupert ; Rupert himself. And I have come here to tell you." 
 
 Not long did Leolin hold out. His heart was sinking 
 with despair. Clasping the friendly hands that were so 
 Avilling to meet his, he confessed that the very thing he had 
 been dreading for two or three weeks past was this — that 
 Rupert was lying concealed at Pomeroy. 
 
 " We must find him — and get him away from it," cried 
 Charles Knox. " I'll stand by you ; 111 do what I can for 
 hira. People would say it is compounding a — felony, I 
 expect ; but I'd risk that for Rupert, He was a good friend 
 of mine once, poor fellow. I always liked him. Who could 
 help liking him ? Ah, never shall I forget that last dinner 
 he had with me. My aunt. Lady Millichip, was staying at 
 the Knoll — you know her ; silly old coquette — going on and 
 flirting, as she did, with Rupert at the table. When he got 
 up in the middle of dinner, saying that he was obliged to 
 leave for a short time, but would come back again and finish 
 the evening, she turned crusty. An hour or two later we 
 heard the dreadful news : that a quarrel had taken place 
 between him and his brother, and that Guy was dead." 
 
 "It was not with you he took refuge at that time, was 
 it ? " exclaimed Leolin, the thought suggesting itself. 
 
 " Certainly not. He never came to the Knoll again. It 
 would not have been safe if he had come. No : from the 
 time he left my dinner-table that night, I never saw him 
 until now." 
 
 " Through the door into the garden ? " mused Leolin. 
 " But the gardeners keep that door locked." 
 
 " He must have a key that opens it." 
 And what can he want in the gardens — and where can 
 he be hiding ? " 
 
 " Had we not better go there ? " suggested Charles Knox. 
 
334 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Downstairs at once went they, passed along the cloisters, 
 and thence to the gardens by the proper entrance. The 
 ship and her blue lights were forgotten now. Hither and 
 thither through the grounds they stole. Once or twice, 
 Leolin called out his brother's name in a half-whisper — 
 "Eupert! Eupert!" 
 
 All in vain. The gardens were, or appeared to be, 
 deserted. Of course there was every opportunity for Eupert, 
 if indeed he was still in them, to escape detection; to 
 make his silent way to one part whilst they were searching 
 another. The small door in front of the sea was locked : 
 no sign existed of any one's having passed its portals. At 
 the opposite end of the garden, near the aviary, was a tool- 
 house, and in this there was another door of exit — which 
 they found locked — as was usual. Of course Eupert could 
 have left the garden by this door, provided he had a key 
 to it — as it appeared he had to the other. Where was he ? 
 — where could he be ? At last, when something like an 
 hour-and-a-half had elapsed, they had to give up the quest 
 as fruitless. 
 
 "Whatever happens, rely upon me," whispered Charles 
 Knox, pressing Leolin's hand in parting. 
 
 He hastened home to his wife — who probably was won- 
 dering whether he had run away from her. And Leolin sat 
 on at the open window again, gazing at the sea ; too uneasy 
 to go to bed, too sick at heart to remember how the night 
 was passing. With Guy hovering about in the spirit, and 
 Eupert in the body, Leolin knew not what to be at, what 
 quarter to turn to for comfort. 
 
 Monday dawned. A bright sunshiny morning. In front 
 of the abbey gateway. Miss Mary Pomeroy's pony, saddled 
 and bridled, was being led about ; Jeffs, already mounted, 
 waited in the rear. The usual attendant on Miss Mary 
 during her rides was an elderly man named Lamp, who 
 had been one of the grooms in the old lord's time. The 
 eupernatural atmosphere just now pervading the abbey had 
 so upset Lamp as to make him ill : at least, he put his 
 indisposition down to that score, and had obtained leave 
 of absence. So Jeffs had been borrowed, as the young lady 
 
ON THE SEAT BY THE SEA. 335 
 
 once expressed it to Lady Anna, for temporary attendance 
 on her. 
 
 For once Mrs. Pomeroy had taken advice. Herself im- 
 pressed with the conviction that the abbey in its present 
 state of excitement was not a desirable residence for her 
 little daughter, she had lost no time in placing Mary at the 
 convent. In spite of the child's opposition, Mrs. Pomeroy 
 carried her point : and a fortnight ago Mary had entered. 
 But some concession had to be made : without it, perhaps, 
 the fate of the battle would have been doubtful, for Mrs. 
 Pomeroy had to do with a will stronger by nature than her 
 own. She promised the child that she should always come 
 home from Saturday to Monday ; that is, Mary was to bo 
 a weekly boarder. Upon this Mary yielded, and went with 
 a tolerably good grace. 
 
 On the previous Monday morning, a week ago, she had 
 made no objection to going back. This morning they were 
 waiting for her to come out, a groom holding the pony, 
 Jeffs ready to escort her. 
 
 Presently the young lady appeared in an ordinary walk- 
 ing dress and straw hat ; a grey skirt being fastened on for 
 riding. Eupert Pomeroy was with her — looking very tall 
 for his eleven years, slender, gentlemanly, beautiful as ever 
 — and Mademoiselle de Garonne. Mademoiselle retained 
 her post at the abbey, and looked after Mary during her 
 sojourn in it. Bridget, and others of the servants, camo 
 running out to see the child depart : they were all very 
 fond of her, though she tyrannized over them. 
 
 Eupert put her on her pony. When seated, she remained 
 still, talking with one and another. 
 
 " And mind, Miss Mary," cried Bridget, " that you bring 
 home next Saturday the beautiful strip of embroidery you 
 have begun. We want to see it." 
 
 " I don't know that I shall. When a good piece of it is 
 finished then I may. There's only a flower and a scallop 
 done yet. And they are going to pick that out, because it's 
 done iDadly. Sister Agnes said so." 
 
 " My dear," interposed mademoiselle, " shall you not bo 
 late ? " 
 
336 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Very likely. Jeffs," coolly added the young lady, 
 turning her head to the coachman, " I am not going 
 back to the convent this morning. I shall take a ride 
 instead." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Garonne, Bridget, the maids, old Jeffs 
 himself, all lifted their hands and voices in reproof of the 
 heresy. Mrs. Pomeroy, standing at an open uj)per window- 
 to see Mary start, heard, and came down. 
 
 " You will go straight to the convent, Mary," she said, 
 
 turning neither to the right nor the left. Jeffs, do you 
 hear ? Miss Mary must go straight back." 
 
 " It is not as J effs pleases, mamma ; it is as I please." 
 
 " It is as I please," corrected Mrs. Pomeroy. " You are 
 late now. It will be ten o'clock before you get there." 
 
 " It is a beautiful morning ; I should like a ride, and I 
 shall take it, mamma. I mean to pay a visit to grand- 
 mamma, and to Naomi Kex. If I feel inclined, I shall ride 
 about all day, and get to the convent at bed- time." 
 
 With perfect calmness, but with the utmost display of 
 will, the young lady asserted this. Mrs. Pomeroy broke 
 out into scolding, her voice raised more than it need have 
 been. In the midst of it Leolin appeared. 
 
 " What is the disturbance ? " he asked. " Is anything 
 amiss, Mrs. Pomeroy ? Won't go back to school properly ? 
 I am surprised at you, Mary." 
 
 " I shall go back when I please. Uncle Leolin. And if 
 it were not that I like being wdth the little girls there, I 
 should not go back at all. Papa did what j)leased him 
 always, and I shall do what pleases me." 
 
 " And w^ere I your papa, my young lady, I should carry 
 you back to the convent myself, and not let you see the 
 ' outside of it for six months." 
 
 " But you are not my papa ; you are only Uncle Leolin," 
 retorted Mary, keeping herself and her temper perfectly 
 under command. 
 
 " Mary, I insist upon your riding off at once," interposed 
 her mother. " There. Good-bye. Be a good child, and 
 present my regards to the ladies." 
 
 Apparently, Mary prepared to obey, for she urged the 
 
ON THE SEAT BY THE SEA. 
 
 337 
 
 pony a few steps forward. Then slie halted again, opposite 
 Eupert. 
 
 " I shall not say good-bye to yon, Rupert : and I don't 
 know that I shall speak to you when I next come home. 
 You are very wicked this morning. You might have come 
 with me if you would. Good-bye, mamma. Good-bye, all. 
 I am off now, Jeffs. To grandmamma's first." 
 
 And the young lady, riding off at a canter, deliberately 
 took the road to Mrs. Wylde's, not as much as looking at 
 that which led to the convent. 
 
 " Eupert, run ! " gasped Mrs. Pomeroy in half-angry, half- 
 despairing accents, for how to manage this wilful child, she 
 knew not. " Eun round to the stables, get on your pony 
 as quickly as you can, and ride after her. You are the 
 only one in the world who has influence with her, and can 
 persuade her. Show her that she must go back to the con- 
 vent at once. Make haste ! What will the ladies think ? " 
 
 Three minutes, and Eupert was galloping after her. 
 They saw him join her : saw him put his hand on Mary's 
 rein, and talk to her in his earnest way. He did not quite 
 prevail ; but the young rebel consented to a compromise. 
 She paid the visit to her grandmamma at the White House, 
 and then returned to the convent. 
 
 The group at the abbey gates, after watching as much of 
 this as they could see, went indoors, Leolin alone remaining. 
 His time seemed to hang on hand, his days passed listlessly. 
 When a great trouble, especially if it be accompanied by 
 suspense, lies within the breast, time seems to move on 
 leaden wings. Leolin had no heart for anything. Shooting, 
 boating, all sports had lost their zest. 
 
 Take, for instance, this morning. There he stood, the 
 sun shining on his good-looking face, utterly at a loss what 
 to do with himself. Should he ride out as the children had 
 just done ; should he stroll through the village ; should he 
 go off and sit on the rocks and gaze at the monotonous sea, 
 as his unwelcome brother Eupert had sat the previous night, 
 and strive for the five hundredth time to think out his per- 
 plexities ? Should he take his gun, and " 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Pomeroy." 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 22 
 
338 
 
 POMEROY ABBP^Y. 
 
 " All, good-mormng,"" answered Leolin, wlieeliug round to 
 see James Knox, the agent, who was coming up to his daily 
 business. " A fine day." 
 Very," said James Knox. 
 
 Purely from want of something to do, Leolin turned and 
 walked by his side to the business chamber. James Knox, 
 who was very busy just then with the Michaelmas rents, 
 privately wished Leolin and his desultory chat elsewhere. 
 Something was said about the flourishing state of the 
 revenues, and the increased income that must accrue to the 
 Lady of Pomeroy; it reminded Leolin of Major Barkley, 
 and he mentioned his name. 
 
 " I was talking to him on Saturday," carelessly replied 
 the agent : and Leolin started at the words. 
 
 " Talking to him on Saturday. To Barkley ? Where is 
 he, then ? " 
 
 He is staying at Owlstone ; but I fancy he is coming 
 here on a visit to the lady. He was here on Saturday. She 
 brought him into this room and introduced me to him." 
 
 ^' Seems to make himself at home ! " exclaimed Leolin, his 
 ire excited at the bare mention of the man : and he remem- 
 bered that on Saturday he had, for a wwder, taken a w^hole 
 day's shooting, thereby escaping the sight ot Major Barkley 
 and the knowledge of his visit. 
 
 " Quite so," observed Knox, innocently acquiescing in the 
 remark. "He went to see old Jerome during the after- 
 noon." 
 
 " What did he want with Jerome ? " cried Leolin, 
 haughtily. 
 
 " Nothing particular, I suppose. I saw him coming out 
 of t]ie keep." 
 
 Whether rightly or wrongly, as circumstances might 
 hereafter decide, Leolin was cherishing a strong prejudice 
 against this Major Barkley. If it pleased Sybilla to have 
 him at the abbey and make much of him, no one had the 
 power to say her nay ; but what right had the fellow to 
 intrude himself into the keep ? Jerome was the servant of 
 the Pomeroys — he had never been Sybilla's. No underhand 
 work should go on, if he, Leolin, could prevent it. 
 
ON THE SEAT BY THE SEA. 
 
 339 
 
 Quitting tlie room at ouce, Leolin stalked round to tlie 
 keep, and rang a peal on the bell that miglit have startled 
 old Jerome if he heard it. It was to be inferred that 
 he did not hear it, as it remained unanswered. Leolin 
 rang on. 
 
 " He must be out, I suppose. Where can he have gone to 
 at this early hour ? 
 
 As the words left Leolin's lips and he was about to give 
 it up, the door was slowly opened by Jerome. Scared and 
 pale, the old man stood staring, very much as though Leolin 
 had been the ghost come round from the haunted room. 
 
 " What do you mean, J erome, by keeping me ringing 
 like this ? Are you deaf, that you could not hear it ? " 
 
 "I was upstairs, sir," was Jerome's tremulous answer, his 
 shaking hands drawing forth a chair for his master. " I 
 hope you'll please to pardon me, Mr. Leolin. I had gone up 
 to look for a last winter's coat that I can't put my hands on ; 
 and I thought nothing more but that it was the baker's boy 
 with my loaf." 
 
 " Did you have a visit from a Major Barkley on Saturday ? " 
 began Leolin. 
 
 " Oh, sir ! Why do you ask that ? " 
 
 " Why do I ash that ? " retorted Leolin ; suspicions, he 
 knew not of what, cropping up in his mind. " I have a 
 right to ask it ; and to have it answered. What did Major 
 Barkley want with you ? " 
 
 " He wanted nothing with me, sir ; nothing that could 
 anger you. The gentleman was good enough to call and 
 ask how I was, just as he did the other times he has stayed 
 here. He heard of old Jerome from Mr. George, sir; and 
 he, being a kindly gentleman, came to tell me so ; and he 
 has slipped a crown piece into my hand each time." 
 
 Leolin knitted his brow : had he been making a mountain 
 of a molehill ? The old man was shaking and shivering. 
 
 " What are you trembling at, Jerome ? " 
 
 "Trembling, sir? I'm old now, Mr. Leolin, and these 
 stories that are being told about the abbey, and what's seen 
 there, upset me. Never a ring sharper than ordinary comes 
 to the door, but it puts me in a twitter." 
 
340 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " You have not got my brother concealed here in the keep, 
 have you ? " cried Leolin, after a pause. And Jerome stared 
 at the questioner like a dazed man, never answering. 
 
 " I speak of poor Kupert," explained Leolin. " Is he 
 here ? 
 
 "The good Lord forbid!" ejaculated Jerome, crossing 
 himself: and his terrified dismay at the bare idea was too 
 genuine not to assure Leolin, had he needed assurance, that 
 wheresoever Eupert might be sheltering himself, it was not 
 at the keep. Though indeed he had only spoken idly, the 
 remark of Mr. Hildyard chancing to occur to him. 
 
 " Look here, Jerome — you are a faithful adherent of the 
 Pomeroys, and I will mention to you a fear which has been 
 haunting me. This apparition— that the servants talk of; 
 that is scaring their wits away — I hold a theory that it may 
 be Eupert." 
 
 Jerome, trembling still, looked all at sea. He evidently 
 failed to comprehend. 
 
 " What I think, what I have reason to fear is, that Eupert 
 has found his way back here in secret : that it is he himself 
 they are taking for a ghost in the west tower." 
 
 " Mercy be good to us," uttered J erome. " Mr. Eupert's 
 ghost, sir ? " 
 
 " His ghost, no ! Himself. He is not dead. Driven to 
 bay, he may have sought shelter in the west tower." 
 
 " Ah, no, Mr. Leolin," said the old man mournfully, fully 
 understanding now. " It is not, it cannot be Mr. Eupert. 
 It's the Lord of Pomeroy, sir : he has never been able to lie 
 quiet in his grave. And, sir, I think it is nothing short of 
 presumptuous heresy for the servants, and others, to go 
 ferreting into that west tower. Better let it be. Spirits 
 that come again should not be tampered with." 
 
 To argue on the subject of supernatural appearances with 
 Jerome would have been a hopeless task; and Leolin took 
 his departure. 
 
 A little more time passed on, uncomfortably. Guy 
 Pomeroy was seen now and again ; rumours arose that 
 Eupert was also. Tiie abbey might be said to exist in a 
 state of continual dread • even Leolin, though he ridiculed 
 
ON THE SEAT BY THE SEA. 341 
 
 the superstitious fears witli his lips, hardly knew whether 
 he was not becoming a half convert to them in his heart. 
 Continual dropping, we are told, will wear away a stone. 
 
 Major Barkley stiU made Owlstone his head-quarters, 
 though why he should do so Leolin could not conceive. 
 Unless it was to enjoy the society of the Lady of Pomeroy, 
 for he made occasional trips over, staying at the abbey for 
 two or three days togetlier. Leolin avoided him as much as 
 he decently could, and yet keep up some show of civility, 
 urging his wife's delicate health as a plea for refusing most 
 of Sybilla's invitations to join them at dinner. Joan was 
 sometimes at the abbey, sometimes at the convent. The 
 abbey tried her nerves, and she was often glad to run away 
 from it. 
 
 Matters were in this state when a terrible incident occurred. 
 One afternoon Joan and Leolin went to call upon some 
 friends who lived near, and sat with them until dark. 
 Dark, however, it was not : for the moon, once more high in 
 the sky, gave her light fitfully ; now hiding herself under a 
 cloud, now shining out, clear and brilliant. Their nearest 
 way back lay across the fields, past the chapel. Under the 
 yew hedge that skirted the small graveyard they met Father 
 Andrew. He was going home, but turned to walk with 
 them. 
 
 " I have just been with Mrs. Pomeroy," the priest ob- 
 served. " My opinion is, that if we cannot get this wretched 
 belief in the apparition out of her mind, it will kill her. 
 She protests to me that she saw it more plainly last night 
 than she has done at all, except the first time in the haunted 
 chamber." 
 
 " She told me of it this morning," sighed Joan. " She 
 says that strange, pale light, that they talk of, was shining 
 about it ; that it stood at the window for two or three 
 minutes, and then seemed to sink through the floor." 
 
 " It is so truly absurd ! " exclaimed Father Andrew, more 
 irascibly than the good-natured priest often spoke. " Mrs. 
 Pomeroy has a mania upon her ; it will go on to insanity, if 
 she does not take care." 
 
 " It is no mania, father," said Joan, 
 
342 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 The priest took her c[uickly up. "Have you seen the 
 ghost?" 
 
 " No. I have kept myself from the sight. I trust I never 
 shall see it." 
 
 " Neither has any one seen it, excepting Mrs. Pomeroy 
 and the servants. We all know what to understand when 
 servants profess such a belief : and Mrs. Pomeroy, as I say, 
 has a mania upon her." 
 
 " You forget Lady Anna — and Norris," interposed Leolin. 
 He was in a fractious mood, no extraordinary case lately ; to 
 contradict even the father seemed a relief to him. 
 
 " Their eyes must have deceived them ; I insist upon it 
 that they must. And as to your family — why, you know 
 how superstitious you have all been from your cradles." 
 
 " Some of us, you should say." 
 
 " You have all a taint of it, every one of you. It would 
 not surprise me any morning to find you coming to me with 
 a tale that you had seen it." 
 
 " Possibly the day may dawn, father, when you will see it 
 and believe in it," returned Joan. 
 
 The father took a solacing pinch of snuff. " When I do 
 see it, I'll believe in it," quoth he ; " not before." 
 
 " We shall never agree upon this subject, father." 
 
 " Never, my daughter. So we will drop it, and I'll say 
 good-evening." 
 
 " You may as well come on and dine with me," said Leolin 
 to him. 
 
 " Thank you ; I don't care if I do," replied the ever- 
 sociable priest, who liked only one thing better than a good 
 chat, and that was a good dinner. "I should find but a 
 poor supper at home, I expect. This is cleaning day ; and 
 Marget says cooking interferes with cleaning." 
 
 " I should not put up with Marget's whims," said Leolin. 
 
 " I sometimes tell her I won't. But she's too old to be 
 sent adrift, poor creature. Don't believe she is far short of 
 eighty." 
 
 A temporary silence ensued. In passing the keep, the 
 moon, sailing majestically from behind a cloud, threw her 
 light upon them ; and upon — what '? 
 
TROUBLE AND TERROR. 
 
 343 
 
 Eiglit in front of them, in the path they must tread, stood 
 the spirit of Guy, Lord of Pomeroy. As if to confute the 
 disbelief of the priest, there it was, as ghostly, as high, as 
 shadowy as it had ever appeared, its dull eyes fixed upon 
 them in reproach, and its hare-lip conspicuous on its livid 
 face. 
 
 The priest, a little in advance, stepped back, crossed him- 
 self, and began mechanically a paternoster; Joan, with a 
 suppressed wail of terror and pain, turned and clung to 
 Leolin. The next moment, when they looked up, it had 
 vanished. Vanished whither? In truth they knew not. 
 The massive stone walls of the keep, tho mother €arth : 
 which — what had received it ? 
 
 " Father Andrew ! " uttered Leolin, surprised for the 
 moment into solemnity, " did you see it ? " 
 
 " Oh, mercy be good to us, yes ! " confessed the priest, 
 wiping his brow. That was Guy Pomeroy. No mistake 
 about it.'* 
 
 " Can the poor spirit have been wandering all these nine 
 years without cessation ? " bewailed Joan, in her agony of 
 distress, Oh^ Father Andrew ! if it could only be laid to 
 rest r' 
 
 OHAPTEE XV. 
 
 TROUBLE AND TERROR. ♦ 
 
 Strange commotion was in the Abbey of Pomeroy. A 
 young child was dying. Children die every day, are 
 mourned and forgotten : but the circumstances attending 
 this child's anticipated death were deemed to be strange. 
 It was the third infant of Lady Anna Pomeroy's that had 
 thus been prematurely cut off, and all unexpectedly. The 
 other two had been girls ; this was a boy, little Hugh, and 
 valued accordingly : a strong, beautiful child, a few months 
 old. Some slight ailment, common to infancy, had attacked 
 
344 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 him a week ago ; lie was thought to be recovering ; all day 
 long he had seemed as well as possible ; and now, when 
 evening had set in, he was suddenly seized with convulsions. 
 Precisely had it been so with the two former children, now 
 mouldering in the Pomeroy vaults : would this child follow 
 them ? 
 
 So well had he seemed this very morning : almost con- 
 valescent. Leolin Pomeroy had stood over the cradle 
 laughing and talking, as he discussed with his wife some 
 joyful news. The dream of his later life appeared to be 
 close upon fruition. That for which Leolin had been 
 working for years in semi-secrecy: now all but grasping 
 success, now falling into despair at the many crosses and 
 delays that for ever threw him back : had never looked so 
 bright, so certain, as now. For a messenger had travelled 
 direct to Pomeroy from the Court of Eome, bringing glad 
 tidings to Leolin. 
 
 He needed them. He needed some ray of sunshine to 
 temper the gloom and horror in which the abbey was 
 steeped. That atmosphere of superstition, which had for 
 some two months reigned within it, for it was now Decem- 
 ber, had not cleared itself one whit. Guy, Lord of Pomeroy, 
 so long dead, haunted it, and would be seen at times by the 
 affrighted inhabitants. 
 
 Even Leolin did not quite know what to make of it. 
 Whilst ridiculing the fears which he never ceased to call 
 foolish, he had, himself, seen the apparition ; and Guy's was 
 a face that could not be mistaken. Mrs. Pomeroy was 
 growing absolutely ill with the dread. Joan passed her 
 days in a continual horror. The Lady of Pomeroy main- 
 tained, as ever, her assertion that they were all mistaken, 
 shook her head in kindly ridicule at their fears, kept plenty 
 of lights burning in the abbey, and was never tired of going 
 about it with her cheering presence and words. Major 
 Barkley, the close friend of her late husband, still remained 
 on his visit to her: Leolin haughtily wondered what he 
 wanted there, and whether he meant to stay on for ever. 
 
 This brings us to the last day of the child's life. It was 
 the first day of the week— Monday. Another week set in of 
 
TROUBLE AND TEHROR. 
 
 unhappy discomfort, of ghostly fears ! another week of in- 
 tolerable suspense to Leolin, as to whether his cherished 
 scheme would prosper eventually, or perish. One and 
 twenty days to-day since a word, good or bad, had reached 
 him from Kome. Leolin took his breakfast in moody 
 silence. The star of Pomeroy did not seem to be in the 
 ascendant. 
 
 But how one short hour may change things ! Barely had 
 Leolin quitted the breakfast-room for the library, when — 
 with all the state and ceremony observed on important 
 occasions at Pomeroy— a messenger direct from Eome was 
 shown in : an Italian gentleman, charged to confer with 
 Leolin. 
 
 The conference lasted two hours and a half. And then 
 Leolin, snatching a moment whilst refreshments were being 
 served, made his way to his wife, his mien radiant, his 
 manner genial as it used to be before these troubles of later 
 years set in. Anna — who had recovered from the fever, but 
 was not yet strong — stood over her baby, as he lay in his 
 cradle, laughing and crowing. 
 
 " If he keeps as well as this, he shall go out to-morrow, 
 Christine," she observed joyfully to the nurse. " The 
 weather is still mild." But at this moment Leolin walked 
 in, and motioned the nurse away. 
 
 " At last, Anna ! " he exclaimed. " I shall soon once more 
 hail you as Lady of Pomeroy." 
 
 " Have they dissolved the marriage, then ? " returned 
 Anna, in a quiet voice, as though the news were a matter 
 of indifference to her. 
 
 " No ; and I am not sure that they will dissolve it. 
 Signor Gallino has come here all the way from Kome to 
 confer with me. Gallino says the marriage will have to 
 stand good, once and for all. But the Vatican will refuse 
 to recognize any as Lord of Pomeroy save my brother 
 Eupert, the poor wanderer ; and it will recognize me as lord 
 during Rupert's absence." 
 
 " Has the Court of Eome pronounced this ? " 
 
 " It is on the eve of doing so." 
 
 ^* But— the English law? " debated Anna, that important 
 
346 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 point striking her at once. "If Sybilla should refuse to 
 yield obedience to this — should call the law to her aid ? '* 
 
 " Would she dare to do it, do you imagine ? — dare to 
 oppose any decree pronounced by Eome ? You must know 
 she would not, Anna. Whatever may be Sybilla's short- 
 comings in other respects, she is faithful and obedient to 
 her church. Eupert can never return, openly, at least ; so I 
 reign for life." 
 
 "Leolin, darling, it is not just. Do not think of it. 
 Eupert is the heir, failing the other Eupert ; let him reign. 
 How can we be happier than we are ? " added Anna, looking 
 up with a smile. " Baby is almost well : what more need 
 we care for ? " 
 
 Leolin Pomeroy bent over the cradle, and dropped the 
 subject. He had long known how useless it was to impress 
 these, his own notions on his wife. The baby smiled at 
 him, and closed his little fist round the forefinger Leolin 
 placed within it. " You young Turk ! you'd like to keep me 
 a prisoner, would you ? He will be quite well in a day or 
 two, Anna," 
 
 " Oh, quite, Leolin," she continued, in an impassioned 
 whisper. " I think if this child had followed the other two, 
 I should almost have died." 
 
 Leolin brought his face up from his boy's and bent it on 
 his wife's. " Forget his danger, Anna, love, he is well 
 again ; and therefore the more reason exists for my assuming 
 my right. Our child must succeed me in it." 
 
 Anna shook her head. " There may be logic in what you 
 say, Leolin, but there certainly is not reason. Your brother 
 Eupert is older than you ; and his life, I should fancy, is 
 not likely to be very much prolonged — think what it must 
 be for him ! At his death the young Eupert must be Lord 
 of Pomeroy without dispute." 
 
 " We don't know that," said Leolin, significantly. " Let 
 me once get into power here — it will be strange if I caanot 
 make things turn out as I will. Will you come in to 
 luncheon, and see Gallino ? " 
 
 " I think not, Leolin. I do not know him ; and I hardly 
 care to leave baby." 
 
TROUBLE AND TERROR. 
 
 347 
 
 Leolin v/ent back to his guest. And, when the hasty 
 meal was over, drove him to Owlstone to catch a London 
 train. Signer Gallino had come charged with other missions 
 from Eome, as well as that to Leolin. 
 
 Leolin returned home just in time to dress for dinner. In 
 the drawing-room he found his wife, standing over the fire. 
 Her face was a subdued face this evening ; it was generally 
 so now ; her eyes carried with them a faint suspicion of 
 recent tears. Leolin could but notice this demeanour : it 
 contrasted so strongly with his own joyous mood. 
 
 " You look sombre as your gown, Anna," said he, laugh- 
 ingly, alluding to the black silk she was wearing ; and since 
 her illness she had not yet ventured on dresses made in the 
 fashion for evening, " What's amiss ? Baby is not worse, 
 is he ? " 
 
 " Nothing is amiss, Leolin ; nothing," she gently answered, 
 slipping her hand into his ; " and baby has been quite well 
 all day, and as good as gold. I don't feel strong myself, 
 that is all ; and I began thinking, as I sat between the 
 lights, that — perhaps — I should never bo strong again. 
 And so " 
 
 " And so you made a goose of yourself," put in Leolin, 
 drawing her to him. " But you know you have promised 
 me, times and again, not to indulge in these low spirits, 
 Anna." 
 
 " I cannot always help it," she sighed. " And, what with 
 one thing and another, the abbey, as you know, is very 
 dreary just now." 
 
 " I wish I could take you out of it ! " he impulsively ex- 
 claimed. " I would, but for one thing." 
 
 " What is that thing ? " 
 
 " That I cannot well absent myself from it." 
 
 " Dinner, my lady," announced one of the servants, throw- 
 ing wide the door. 
 
 Leolin took his wife's hand, led her in, and they sat down 
 to table. He was gay and talkative. His mood this even- 
 ing was really a joyous one : moreover he generally deemed it 
 well to show himself tolerably so before his depressed and 
 frightened servants. The last course was on the table when 
 
348 
 
 rOMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Christine, tlie nurse, came swiftly into tlie room without 
 any ceremony whatever, her eyes wild. The baby was in 
 convulsions. 
 
 With a stifled cry, Anna flew to the chamber. Leolin 
 followed. It was too true. The child's life was ebbing 
 fast. 
 
 All was now confusion. One attendant ran hither, 
 another thither; Mr. Norris came upon the wings of the 
 wind. Father Andrew was sent for. Leolin drew his weej)- 
 ing wife away from the scene to a quieter chamber ; he 
 essayed to speak a few soothing words. Hardly listening to 
 their import, Anna lifted her white ince to her husband 
 from the crimson velvet chair where he had seated her. 
 Her countenance was full of deep meaning, of dread ; she 
 spoke in a whisper, and shivered as she sat. A fear crossed 
 him that the ague was coming back to her. 
 
 " There is some strange fate upon us, Leolin, and you 
 provoke it. Three times have you been on the point, or 
 seemed to be, of dispossessing that little boy, Sybilla's child, 
 and each time our child's life has paid for it. When the 
 news first came, three years ago, that Eome w^ould aid you 
 to dispossess the young lord, our baby sickened and died 
 ere the day was over. She had been very well until then. 
 Again, when news came the second time that Eome ^vould 
 certainly aid you to dispossess the boy, our second baby 
 died. Now you have had tidings to-day to the same effect, 
 and this, our last darling, is dying. And yet — Leolin ! — 
 you are not a whit nearer your ambition than you were, for 
 the young Kupert is the lord still." 
 
 Sheer surprise had kept Leolin silent. Was his wife 
 losing her senses ? — had trouble scared them aw^ay ? He 
 did not feel sure it was not so. 
 
 " I am astonished at you, Anna ! " he cried. " At any 
 other moment, I should reprove you. They have been mere 
 ordinary coincidences, such as occur in every one's life. 
 Put away fancies so ridiculous, my dearest." 
 
 "I wish I could put away my baby's danger," she re- 
 turned, in w^ailing tones. " Oh, Leolin ! I tell you I think 
 I shall go with him, if he is to die. Heaven is disj)leasedj 
 
TROUBLE AND TERROR. 
 
 349 
 
 it IS tissuredly working against us. No, do not keep me ; 
 pray do not keep me ! Let me see tlie last of him I 
 
 What could Leolin do, in answer to this piteous appeal, 
 but let her return to the sick-chamber ? He looked in at 
 the door himself, but that was all. Men do not like such 
 scenes ; and, what with doctor and servants, there was no 
 room for him. He was ardently attached to the child, and 
 he felt that he would almost give his own life to save that 
 frail one flitting away. 
 
 Putting on his hat he went down to the cloisters, and 
 began slowly to pace them, his heart full of resentment and 
 of bitterness. Eesentment against what, or whom? He 
 could not have told. It was an indisputable fact, that each 
 of the times which had seemed to bring his ambitious dreams 
 especially near their fulfilment, had witnessed the death of 
 one of his children : his eldest child first, then the second. 
 And now, when for the third time the prospect of speedy 
 realization was brought close to him, the third child was 
 smitten. Was an ill fate pursuing him ? Leolin, gathering 
 up a thread of his wife's suj)erstition, asked himself the 
 question. 
 
 It was a cold night, the stars and the moon shining 
 brightly. The mildness of the day had given place to a 
 sharp frost — and it was always cold in those windy cloisters. 
 Leolin wore no over-coat over his evening dress. He did 
 not feel the need of it : his inward fever kept his blood 
 warm. Another matter, which had troubled him lately, lay 
 sharply on his mind to-night: and that was his wife's 
 health. That she was weak in body, sorrowful in spirits, 
 he could not fail to see. The words, spoken to him by 
 Lady Essington, lay on his conscience more than he would 
 have cared to tell. " It is distress of mind that worries 
 Anna and makes her ill, and if you do not take care you 
 will lose her." That the worry arose from his ambitious 
 scheming he could not conceal from himself. If he lost his 
 wife— and what effect this last child's death might have 
 upon her, he shrank from contemplating — why then the 
 world to him would be worthless. 
 
 'leolin!" 
 
350 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 So lost was he in these unwelcome thoughts, that he half 
 started at the call. His sister had approached him, her 
 dark face stern in its distress. 
 
 " Leolin, what is amiss with the child ? 
 Convulsions," was the short reply. " He is dying." 
 
 "Dying! Is there no hope?" continued Joan, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " I am sure there is none. I gathered it from Norris's 
 face, and from a word he said to me." 
 
 " Alas, poor child ! Poor Anna ! The third infant ! 
 All of them so healthy and lovely; and yet —you cannot 
 keep them ! " 
 
 She had turned to pace the cloisters with him, and they 
 walked side by side in silence. Presently Joan spoke again, 
 in low tones. 
 
 " Why do you bring it upon yourself, Leolin ? " 
 
 " Bring it upon myself! " echoed Leolin, defiantly. " Bring 
 what?" 
 
 Joan laid her hand upon his arm soothingly, its very 
 clasp bespeaking peace. 
 
 "You bring it upon yourself," she calmly repeated. 
 " And, as it seems to me, things have now come to a pass 
 when it would be worse than folly if we made pretence to 
 shut our eyes to it. This plotting of yours, underlying all 
 your hopes and actions, this perpetual working and striving 
 to deprive Sybilla's child of his rights — wliy do you persist 
 in it?" 
 
 " Because he is Sybilla's child," was the answer. 
 
 "He is George's. And George was Lord of Pomeroy. 
 You cannot prevail against fate, Leolin ; but fate can 
 prevail against you. Have you forgotten the scene of 
 Gaunt's death-bed?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " It is known abroad, Leolin. I speak of Gaunt's words. 
 They might have proved to you either a blessing or a curse, 
 as you took them up; hitherto you have made them the 
 latter " 
 
 " Joan ! " 
 
 " Well, then, I will say provoked it, ^As you deal hy tins 
 
TROUBLE AND TERKOE. 
 
 351 
 
 child 80 may you prosper in your oimi children.' Tlicy were 
 Gaunt's words to you, Leolin. And how have you dealt by 
 the child? and how have you prospered in your own 
 children ? Be wise in time ; do away with your animosity 
 and your plots against Eupert, and then perhaps you may 
 be happy in children of your own." 
 
 " We are called a superstitious race, I know," sarcastically 
 rejoined Leolin, "but I have yet to learn that importance 
 can be attached to the prejudiced ravings of a dying man." 
 
 "What did Gaunt himself tell you?" quickly returned 
 Joan — "to take heed how you despised the warning of a 
 dying man. Leolin, there are things in earth that we 
 cannot explain or account for ; the solution of which we 
 may not dream of in our philosophy. Why is it that the 
 words of one, dying to this world, are so often found to be 
 warnings, true as if they came from Heaven? — and that 
 such has been the case, you cannot deny. Is it that, at that 
 moment, the spirit has caught a portion of the divine 
 knowledge it is hastening to, and can discern the future ? 
 I know not ; you know not ; but we both do know that 
 these death-bed admonitions are sometimes strangely worked 
 out; we both know that Gaunt's warning to you has so 
 been." 
 
 " You are dreaming yourself, Joan." 
 
 " A good thing if we had all been dreaming of late years," 
 was the reply. " You received fresh news from Rome this 
 morning. Was it good ? " 
 
 "Very good. The new cardinal is for me. They will 
 not annul the marriage ; that question is set at rest. But 
 they will recognize Rupert the wanderer as the lord, and me 
 as his sole representative." 
 
 " What end will that answer ? " mournfully asked Joan. 
 "Eupert will not live for ever; he cannot; and then the 
 boy is chief of Pomeroy again : the true, reigning chief, to 
 be dispossessed by none." 
 
 "That time may be far off, further than your life or 
 mine, for we may never hear of Eupert's death. And until 
 we do hear of it, I shall reign at .Pomeroy." 
 
 " You never will, Leolin. I tell yon that you cannot act 
 
352 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 against fate. I see not liow you will be prevented, but you 
 will be ; ay, in spite of what Rome may say or do, for fato 
 has been working against you ever since Gaunt's deatb. 
 Leolin, are the eyes of your understanding closed, that you 
 cannot see it all? Often does my heart sink within mo 
 when I see how surely and cruelly the prediction is fulfilling 
 itself." 
 
 "Joan, you were born a few centuries too late; you 
 should have lived when astrologers and witches flourished." 
 
 " When the heir of Pomeroy goes forth a wife to win, 
 And the heir of Pomeroy goes forth in vain ; 
 When the Lord of Pomeroy by a lie doth gain, 
 Then woe to the de Pomeroys, twain and twain ! " 
 
 Quite solemnly did Joan recite the lines aloud : that she 
 put faith in them was very evident. Leolin's face was 
 immovable. 
 
 " That poor Guy did win Alice by a lie, is too true, 
 I fear," continued Joan. "And what has the result been? 
 — what sad fate has it brought upon you all ; you fou.v 
 brothers ! But for the resentment that took possession 
 of her when she discovered the fraud, even Alice, unstable 
 though she was, would not have acted as she did : for I 
 have learnt to believe that it was chiefly to spite Guy slie 
 allowed herself to meet Rujiert. What has followed? Guy 
 was murdered ; Rupert is an exile ; George is dead ; and 
 you — you are an imhaj)py and troubled man, Leolin. It 
 has indeed been woe to you all, twain and twain." 
 
 " I cannot see what good it does to recall these things — 
 or to discuss them." 
 
 Leolin's tone was hard ; made so perhaps to conceal his 
 2}ain. Joan's good feeling resented it. She had always 
 been inclined to be dictatorial to her younger brothers. 
 
 " You must take your own course, Leolin. But your lino 
 of conduct does not tend to bring you honour." 
 
 " What conduct ? " 
 
 " To the boy. Y^ou often insult him ; and the account (.f 
 it is whispered throughout the abbey." 
 " So he carries talcs, does he ? " 
 " No. But Mary does. You know what she is." 
 
TROUBLE AND TERROR. 
 
 353 
 
 " I know that she has an insolent spirit, and tliat it ought 
 to be taken out of her — for her own sake." 
 
 " She has Guy's spirit : but Mary has her good points. 
 Mrs. Pomeroy has not repressed her will, as she ought to 
 have done, and now it has obtained the mastery. Mary is a 
 truthful child and the soul of honour." 
 
 "And is allowed to insult her elders with impunity. 
 If Joan, what is the matter ? " 
 
 They were then in front of the west tower. Joan had 
 halted, and stood gazing upwards as if turned to stone. 
 She clasped Leolin, and pointed to the window of the 
 haunted room, the glass of which had never been repaired. 
 " Leolin — see — there ! " 
 
 Glaring down upon them with its ghastly face, Guy's 
 face, was the figure that had lately been frightening the 
 inmates of the abbey to sickness, almost to death. Never 
 had it looked more shadowy, more ghostly, than it looked 
 now. 
 
 Joan bowed her head, and trembled. The figure vanished. 
 And, before a word had been spoken by either brother or 
 sister, Mrs. Pomeroy came swiftly up. 
 
 " Leolin, I can bear it no longer," she sobbed forth, every 
 pulse within her quivering with horror. "It is killing me. 
 Something must be done ; something devised. Theresa 
 said you and Joan were walking here, so I came to you." 
 
 " Devised ? " repeated Leolin. 
 
 " I would rather die than bear the life I am leading. It 
 is in that room now — Guy. It has a dreadful look of 
 reproach in its face." 
 
 "A reproach that tells home to her," thought Leolin, 
 though he felt full of compassion for her distress. " Why 
 do you sit where you can see the west rooms, Mrs. 
 Pomeroy ? " 
 
 " I must do so ; I must. Some power that I cannot resist 
 fascinates me to it. Let me be where I will — at Lady 
 Anna's, at Sybilla's, out in the grounds, away in the village, 
 praying in the chapel — as soon as dusk creeps on, I feel 
 compelled to go where I can see the haunted rooms. It is 
 as if a spell drew me ; I cannot resist it : and there I sit and 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 23 
 
 / 
 
354 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 watch — and watcli — and sliiver until the apparition shows 
 itself, when I scream aloud for help, or I faint away. If it 
 does not come, I am ill with expectancy, and watch through 
 the live-long night, feverishly yearning for what I dread to 
 see. It is killing me." 
 
 " You should leave the abbey for a time," said Leolin, 
 deep pity in his tone. 
 
 " It would follow me." 
 
 " Indeed I know not what remedy can be devised, save 
 that of quitting the abbey. Your mother " 
 
 Leolin's voice died av/ay. Christine was approaching 
 them, her countenance mournful, her step heavy. 
 
 " She brings news of your child, Leolin," whispered Joan. 
 
 "Well?" cried Leolin, turning to the woman, a pang 
 seizing his heart. 
 
 " It is all over, sir. And my lady is lying senseless." 
 
 Yes, the little child was dead. And the first thing to be 
 done, as a preliminary to other forms and ceremonies, was 
 to hoist the death-flag over the abbey gateway : the large 
 melancholy flag, its white ground and black devices looking 
 like nothing so much as a skull and cross-bones. 
 
 The flag was at the keep : to keep it in the abbey would 
 have been a violation of the old Pomeroy customs : conse- 
 quently, as soon after the child was gone as the abbey could 
 collect itself — which certainly was not very speedily, Jeffs 
 and Markham, two of the elder servants, started to fetch the 
 flag. They left the abbey together. On their way, in 
 turning down the grassy hollow near the keep, they en- 
 countered a woman, coming along at full speed. No other 
 than Bridget. 
 
 " Thee'rt back soon," cried J effs, who was fond of adopt- 
 ing this familiar mode of speech. 
 
 " Ay," answered Bridget. " Tooms is off to Owlstone, of 
 all nights in the year ; so, there being nobody to walk home 
 with me, I thought the sooner I came back the better. One 
 doesn't care to be about here at night, you know. AThere 
 are you two going ? " 
 
 To fetch the death-flag. The young child's gone." 
 
TROUBLE AND TERROR. 
 
 355 
 
 Bridget pushed back her bonnet. " I was afraid it wouhl 
 be so. I couldn't get him out of my head, poor little soul, 
 and I felt as restless as could be. Lady Anna seems to have 
 no luck with her children." 
 
 " The lord has been seen again to-night," continued Jeffs, 
 solemnly crossing himself. 
 
 Bridget's voice dropped. " No ! " 
 
 "It's true," said Jeffs. "He appeared at the tower 
 window, ghastlier than ever ; it is said that Mr. Leolin and 
 Miss Joan both saw him there. Any way, they were in the 
 cloisters at the time." 
 
 " He was here to-night," whispered Markham ; " here, in 
 this very hollow, not many minutes ago. Brill saw him, 
 and came rushing into the abbey without any sense left." 
 
 Bridget shivered. Not daring to go on alone now, she 
 turned back with the two men, walking between them. 
 Suddenly, some person or thing was indistinctly seen swdftly 
 passing along at a short distance. They supposed it to be 
 the ghost. Bridget caught hold of her companions with a 
 shriek ; the men's hair rose on end. 
 
 How they dragged Bridget to the keep, and how they 
 reached it, and thundered at its door till Jerome came, was 
 best known to themselves. 
 
 " The saints be good to us ! " shrieked Bridget. " The 
 dead lord is in the hollow." 
 
 " I saw him with my own eyes this blessed night," wailed 
 Jerome. " What have you all come here for ? " 
 
 " The death-flag," answered Jeffs. " Lady Anna's child's 
 gone." 
 
 The old man lifted his hands. " How many more of the 
 Pomeroys are to go, ere death shall be satisfied ? " 
 
 " One more," whispered Bridget ; " Mr. Eupert : and then 
 the poor wandering spirit will be laid to rest. I have said 
 it from the first." 
 
 They were returning home, the two men bearing between 
 them the furled flag, for it was large and heavy, and Bridget 
 walking with her head down, when an extraordinary incident 
 occurred. Walking towards them in the cold winter's night, 
 in her evening dress of black velvet, with its rich white lace, 
 
356 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY, 
 
 her head bare, no covering on her neck and arms, came Mary 
 Pomeroy. 
 
 " They are saying in the abbey that papa is walking here 
 to-night," said the young lady, as they stopped in their 
 astonishment. " I have never seen him at the hannted 
 windows. I want to see what he is like." 
 
 " She is out of her mind ! " ejaculated Bridget, in a half- 
 whisper. 
 
 " You are out of your mind for saying it," retorted Miss 
 Mary. " Is it so strange that I should want to see papa, 
 with all this commotion about him in the abbey ? Brill came 
 in just now, and said he had met the lord in the hollow ; 
 they had to give him some brandy, for he was prostrate with 
 fright. And I have come out to see him. I will see him if 
 he is to be seen." 
 
 " And you have no fear ? " uttered Bridget, aghast. 
 
 " Fear ! " returned Mary. " No. I possess the Pomeroy 
 spirit, but not the Pomeroy superstition." 
 
 " You will catch your death, Miss Mary," returned Bridget 
 again, whilst the two men stood uncovered in the child's 
 presence. " Could you have put nothing on, if you must 
 have come ? " 
 
 " Of course I could not ; had they known I was coming, 
 they would have stopped me. Have you seen anything of 
 papa ? " 
 
 " What has come over her ? " Bridget whispered to Jeffs : 
 " it is against human nature to be so devoid of fear. We 
 shall see nothing. Miss Mary," she added, aloud ; " a looked- 
 for ghost never comes." 
 
 As if to confute the woman's words, a sound, as of rustling 
 garments, was heard, and a shadowy figure passed them. Its 
 dull eyes were strained on the child, and the child's were 
 strained on it — the spirit of her father. Mary Pomeroy, 
 brave though she had professed herself to be, gave forth a 
 cry, as she watched it gliding away in tlie moonlight. 
 Bridget fell on her knees : the men, appalled, dropped the 
 flag. To increase the solemnity of the scene, the death-bell 
 tolled out at that moment from the abbey chapel, for the 
 soul of the infant, just departed. 
 
( 357 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IN THE KEEP. 
 
 The Lady of Pomeroy sat in her drawing-room, when a 
 servant entered and said that Jerome had come up from the 
 keep and craved speech of her. Nearly a fortnight had 
 elapsed since the burial of the infant, but Lady Anna 
 Pomeroy's life had since then hung upon a thread ; she was 
 beginning now to recover, and all in the abbey rejoiced. 
 There was another fact at which perhaps they rejoiced more 
 — the ghost had not been seen during these two weeks. 
 
 Jerome came in, his white haii flowing on his shoulders. 
 Of late years he had acquired a sad look of care. " I would 
 speak with the lady alone," he said, bending his head to 
 Sybilla with reverence. And the servants closed the door. 
 
 " Madam," said Jerome, drawing near, " the closing scene 
 is certainly at hand." 
 
 " You think so, Jerome ? " 
 
 " Nay, it is no thought ; it is all too sure." 
 
 " Major Barkley has feared the end was near. I will come 
 at once, Jerome. And bring — whom ? " 
 
 "None at present but Mr. Leolin. The lord asked, 
 madam, but for you and for him." 
 
 "Jerome, you have had a trying time. If it be in my 
 power to recompense your fidelity in any way " 
 
 " The lady is very kind," interrupted Jerome. " I have 
 seen the Pomeroys dwindle away, one after another ; the old 
 lord first, and then his sons ; all now are gone save Mr. 
 Leolin : nothing is left for old Jerome but to hope soon to 
 follow them." 
 
 "Nay, but I trust you will live many years, Jerome. 
 These dark days will pass away, and there may be comfort 
 in store for you yet. You would be faithful to my 
 child?" 
 
 " Faithful to your child, madam ? Ay, that would I. Is 
 he not a Pomeroy ? and was not his sire, Mr, George, with 
 
358 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 liis loving heart and merry spirit, clearer to me than some 
 of the rest ? " 
 
 Jerome backed out as he spoke, and Sjbilla hastened to 
 attire herself. 
 
 Leolin Pomeroy was in his wife's chamber. She lay on a 
 sofa by the fire, well covered up ; Leolin sat in front of the 
 sofa, looking at her. How dear his wife was to him, this 
 last illness, when he had nearly lost her, had shown ; and if 
 thankfulness had never pervaded his heart before, it filled 
 its every crevice now. Decidedly Leolin was not having a 
 good time of it, as the children say. In addition to the 
 discomfort in the abbey, to the recent loss of his child, to 
 the peril of his wife — in addition to all this, he was no 
 nearer becoming chief of Pomeroy than he had been. Eather 
 further off, in fact. For, within a day or two ill news had 
 come to him from his old and firm friend the cardinal, to 
 the effect that the hopes lately given to Leolin had again 
 faded, as all previous hopes h'dd faded, however near their 
 realization they might have appeared to be, and his eminence 
 began to think the matter would have to be given up. 
 
 Anna opened her eyes. " I did not know you were here, 
 Leolin," — holding out her hand. " Have you been here 
 long?'' 
 
 " Not very long, love," he answered, imprisoning the 
 attenuated fingers between his own warm ones. " I think 
 you look a little better, Anna. Do you feel so ? " he added, 
 anxiously. 
 
 Anna sighed. She felt her recovery was yet doubtful, in 
 spite of Leolin's sanguine belief. 
 
 " When the winter has passed, I shall take you to a more 
 genial climate," he resumed. " To the south of France, or 
 to Italy — some one of those happy places." 
 
 " Oh, Leolin, if you would only go there for good ! " she 
 impulsively returned, tears of possible hope rising to her 
 dim eyes. " If you would only leave this dreary abbey to 
 itself, and forget your scheming, and let the little Rupert 
 be at peace ! " 
 
 " I know you have not liked the scheming — as you call 
 it," he rejoined, " And your father has liked it less. Ho 
 
IN THE KEEP. 
 
 350 
 
 has gone the length of saying that it worried you into that 
 intermittent fever last autumn." 
 
 "Leolin," she murmured, her restless fingers nervously 
 entwining themselves with his, " I think I will speak now — 
 if I ever am to speak — and say what that scheming is to me. 
 I think — I fear — that you will have to choose between it 
 and me. It has taken such a sad hold upon me, it so dis- 
 tresses me and terrifies me, that I cannot get well. By 
 day it saddens me, by night it torments me ; and I seem to 
 see that it will in the end be too much for me ; that I shall 
 not live." 
 
 " You think," answered Leolin, in a dreamy kind of way, 
 " that I shall have to choose between it and you. That, if 
 I am to keep you, I must abandon that." 
 
 "I cannot help it," she said, tears beginning to trickle 
 slowly down her cheeks. 
 
 " Suppose I say that I will give it up ? That my wife is 
 dearer to me even than ambition ? " 
 
 In her long-tried mind she thought this was too 
 good to be real, and only kept the restless fingers still a 
 moment that they might press his the closer. Leolin 
 knelt down ; he put his arm round her, his face very near 
 to hers. 
 
 " I promise it you," he whispered. " It seems, as some of 
 you have told me, that I cannot war with fate — and that 
 appears to have arrayed itself against me for good and all. 
 Henceforth, Anna, the strife shall cease: George's child 
 shall be at peace, for me." 
 
 A faint cry, and Anna Pomeroy feebly drew his face down 
 to hers. 
 
 A few minutes, and she seemed to have fallen into a 
 tranquil sleep. Leolin stood by the fire, thinking of the 
 promise he had just made, regretting it perhaps in his 
 inmost heart, or, rather, its necessity, but certainly never 
 intending to retract it. A servant appeared. 
 
 " The Lady of Pomeroy is here, sir. She wishes to see 
 you." 
 
 " The Lady of Pomeroy ! Here ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. She waits in the red room." 
 
360 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Visits from tlie lady to him were so rare that Leolin 
 could only feel surprised as he went to her. Sybilla was 
 attired for walking. 
 
 "I have had a summons to the keep, Leolin," she 
 began, " and am come to ask you to accompany me. It is 
 urgent." 
 
 "A summons to old Jerome," he returned, half sar- 
 castically. 
 
 " Jerome brought it me. One is lying there, at the point 
 of death, who would see both you and me." 
 
 Leolin felt somewhat staggered. " Lying at the keep ! " 
 he exclaimed. " Who is lying there ? " And Sybilla 
 dropped her voice to a whisper. 
 
 " The Lord of Pomeroy." 
 
 Leolin did not comprehend. He stared at her in amaze- 
 ment and confusion. Her countenance was sad, her manner 
 solemn. 
 
 " He who has been an exile and wanderer for these nine 
 years, Leolin; my brother-in-law and your brother. He is 
 come back again, the true and only Lord of Pomeroy ; and 
 he is under Jerome's care at the keep — dying." 
 
 Leolin, waiting to mentally take in the facts, drew a deep 
 breath. " Then we were not mistaken — we knew Kupert 
 was here, but thought he must have gone again. Oh, how 
 imprudent he is ! " continued Leolin : " how can he have 
 managed to escape detection ? " 
 
 Altogether bewildered, he caught up his hat, and walked 
 with Sybilla to the keep in the aj)proaching twilight of the 
 winter afternoon. Joan had gone to the convent for the 
 day, but would be home later. In passing along the hollow 
 ground, Leolin turned his head from side to side, looking 
 perhaps for the apparition that had a trick of showing itself 
 there. Sybilla interpreted it. 
 
 " Ah, Leolin, it is not here to-night. It will soon be laid 
 to rest." 
 
 " With Kupert's death. That is what some of them have 
 said, I hear. When did Eupert come? — and how can he 
 have continued to conceal himself? It must be nearly two 
 mouths since Knox saw hiiu.'* 
 
IN THE KEEP. 
 
 361 
 
 " Since Knox saw him ? " eclioed Sybilla. 
 Knox of the Knoll. He found Rupert one night sitting 
 on that seat on the beach." 
 
 "Speak of him as the lord, Leolin. I told you, years 
 ago, that none else had any right to the title." And Leolin 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Jerome awaited them at the keej). Leading the way 
 upstairs, he held the door of a chamber open for them to 
 pass in. Leolin approached the bed : and, very much to his 
 surprise. Major Barkley rose from a chair by its side and 
 quitted the room. The windows were but narrow loopholes 
 set in the deep wall, the daylight, besides, was growing dim, 
 so that Leolin had to bend over the bed to discern the 
 features of him who lay upon it. 
 
 " Eupert," he gently said, for one cannot speak angrily to 
 a dying man, " Eupert " 
 
 With a cry that sounded too wild in its astonishment and 
 terror for any human cry, Leolin started back. He saw not 
 the handsome Eupert lying there ; but the white face, the 
 already half- dulled eyes, and the imperfect, never-to-be- 
 forgotten lips of Guy, Lord of Pomeroy. 
 
 Sybilla laid her gently-detaining hand on Leolin to re- 
 assure him. " It is indeed Guy," she whispered. " Guy 
 himself ; not Eupert." 
 
 Utterly confounded, startled, Leolin sank down on the 
 chair from which Major Barkley had risen. In a moment 
 such as this, even a strong man cannot at once collect 
 himself. He was doubting whether he was in a dream : he 
 was doubting what was true around him, what false : he 
 was doubting whether that, on the bed, was Guy in the 
 spirit, or Eupert in the body, with the semblance of Guy's 
 face. In short, he knew not what was, what was not. Guy 
 slowly turned on the pillow, and spoke — and the voice was 
 Guy's, not Eupert's. 
 
 " Leolin, my brother ! " But Leolin did not answer. 
 
 "Leolin, you will recognize Guy as the true Lord of 
 Pomeroy," spoke Sybilla, perhaps mistaking the motive of 
 his silence. " Whatever may have happened, he is such as 
 long as he lives," 
 
362 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Oh yes, yes ! meclianically replied Leolin. " Who 
 wonld dispute Gut/s right ? " 
 
 " Well, Leolin, he has never forfeited it. It was Eupert 
 who was killed, not Guy." 
 
 " I cannot understand," uttered Leolin, certain contra- 
 dictions presenting themselves to his bewildered mind. 
 
 " In that scuffle in the haunted room, the one killed was 
 Eupert," she resumed. "It was supposed to be the lord, 
 and he was buried as the lord ; but it was really Eupert. 
 The lord escaped." 
 
 " Yes, I escaped," put in Guy, holding out to Leolin his 
 feeble hand. " And I have since been a wanderer and an 
 exile." 
 
 "I seem — to be all at sea,'' cried Leolin, affectionately 
 clasping the hand between his strong palms, as he had but 
 just now clasped his wife's. Buj^ert killed! — and not 
 yourself! Then why, Guy, did you go away ? " 
 
 " Ah, it was a mistake," answered Guy, shaking his 
 head ; " I have had time to learn it since, and to repent 
 of it. Better that I had stood my ground and declared 
 all. It was too late to come haclc and do it. When passion 
 clouds the judgment, one is apt to commit acts that can 
 never be redeemed ; to enter upon courses that cannot bo 
 retraced." 
 
 " And— you killed Eupert ? " 
 
 " Yes. I thought I had good cause. In one sense of the 
 word I had rich cause, for how dare a man, above all, a 
 brother, come between husband and wife ? Eupert was 
 your brother and mine, Leolin, the son of our father and 
 mother : nevertheless, I only gave him what he merited, I 
 judged so then ; I judge so now that I am on my dying bed. 
 Let it pass." 
 
 " Yes, yes," acquiesced Leolin, the tears standing in his 
 eyes. " Let it pass." 
 
 But the lord's excitement was rising, and he, despite his 
 own words, pursued the topic. Sybilla went round the bed 
 and wiped the dew-drops from his brow. 
 
 " Did any young wife of honour ever serve a husband as 
 mine served me ? And I loved her so ! She was as the 
 
IN THE KEEP. 
 
 3G3 
 
 very apple of my eye. Eupert must i^eecls thrust himself 
 between us. He must come down to the place and whisper 
 tales to her and set her against me. Was it pleasant, think 
 yon, to hear that they met in their stolen walks almost 
 daily ; that they shut themselves into the keep to avoid my 
 eyes ? Those shameful facts became known to me. Then 
 I went to John Gaunt and questioned him — your good 
 father, Sybilla, and our ever faithful friend. I asked him 
 why he harboured Rupert, who was showing himself to be 
 my bitter enemy. Gaunt, in his straightforward way, 
 avowed that Rupert had come to him unexpectedly, craving 
 hospitality for a day or two, and that he had given him a 
 hearty welcome, unaware of any reason why he should not 
 do so. He added that Rupert had stayed longer than was 
 expected, but that he believed he was going away that very 
 evening. Will you give me that ? " broke off Guy, pointing 
 to a wine-glass that stood at hand ; and Sybilla held it to 
 his lips. 
 
 " I charged Gaunt not to say I had spoken to him," con- 
 tinued Guy. " And I watched. If I found him mooning 
 after my wife again, I meant to give him the heartiest 
 thrashing one man can give another. I watched ; watched 
 all that day and saw nothing : slie^ so far as I could make 
 out, did not leave the house. At night, she excused herself 
 from the dinner-table, and we sat down without her. At 
 first I thought nothing; but, as the dinner went on, a 
 notion crept into my mind that she might have stayed away 
 to meet Rupert. Leaving my guests, I went to her rooms 
 and could not find her ; I went to the keep, but she was not 
 there. Finally, suspicion and rage growing stronger and 
 stronger with every minute, I came ^upon them both in the 
 west tower. What sort of a moment do you suppose that 
 was for me ? " 
 
 Neither of his auditors answered. Sybilla had heard all 
 this before. 
 
 " How 1 controlled myself, I know not, but I did ; and 
 I stood there, and watched, and listened. The moonlight 
 streamed into the chamber ; it was quite light. They were 
 sitting side by side on the old velvet settle, abusing me. 
 
304 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 For every taunting word that Rupert said of me, slie had a 
 worse. She was shedding tears, and openly lamenting that 
 Eupert had to go away. He sat holding both her hands ; 
 presently he bent forward and kissed her. As I am a dying 
 man, it is true, Leolin ; kissed her on the cheek." 
 Leolin drew in his condemning lips. 
 
 " I nearly cried aloud in my agony of passion ; I was 
 feeling for my double-barrelled pistol — for I had it with 
 me— when the clock in the quadrangle struck out ten. She 
 started to the casement, saying something about the lateness 
 of the hour, and Eupert followed her. I could not fire 
 then ; I meant to do it, Leolin ; for I might have shot her 
 instead of him, and in that moment, as I stood waiting, she 
 turned and saw me. You know the rest." 
 
 " I — yes — I know that one was killed," hesitated Leolin, 
 feeling that he very imperfectly knew anything. ''We 
 thought it was you." 
 
 " The first ball touched him not ; before I could fire 
 again, he had sprung upon me, and we had a deadly 
 struggle. In this struggle the pistol went off by accident ; 
 not of intent, for I could not get my hand free to act ; and 
 to this moment I do not know whether it was any movement 
 on my part or on his that caused it to go off. Eupert fell. 
 I was mad with rage, blind with passion, and I assure you 
 I have not too clear a recollection of what was done, or how 
 it was done. You know what my fits of rage would be on 
 occasion, Leolin : I was in the worst then that had ever 
 fallen upon me ; mad, I say to you ; mad with jealousy, 
 with my uncontrollable sense of wrong. I beat him on 
 the face with the end of the pistol. I killed him — killed 
 him." 
 
 A pause. There was a great deal yet that staggered 
 Leolin. " Of course I can understand," he said, " how easy 
 it was to mistake Eupert for you after death, as you were in 
 so many respects so much alike, and the lower part of his 
 face was unrecognizable ; but he wore your clothes. And it 
 was by the clothes people judged." 
 
 " Not my clothes, Leolin ; he wore his own. It chanced 
 that he was in evening-dress that night, as I was ; he had 
 
IN THE KEEP. 
 
 S06 
 
 been dining at Knox's: and black suits, yon know, are 
 alike. His skirt, you are going to say, bore the name and 
 coronet of Guy Pomeroy. True. But when he was last 
 staying at the abbey our linen had got mixed, through 
 some carelessness of the women ; Eupert took some of mine 
 with him to London, leaving some of his with me : and — 
 was it chance again ? — that evening he was wearing mine. 
 How did I know it, you ask. I did not know it — how could 
 I have known it ? I learnt all these details in the days that 
 succeeded." 
 
 " But he wore your watch and chain, Guy ; your signet 
 ring; your " 
 
 "Yes, yes," interrupted Guy. "As I looked down on 
 Eupert lying in the moonlight, knowing he was dead, a 
 revulsion of feeling came over me. Not of sorrow for him ; 
 no ; but of thought for the consequences. For the first time 
 in my life, I went into a panic of fear. Would they hang 
 me for this? — the thought, that they might do so, took 
 possession of me. How could I escape, I asked myself; 
 what could I do ? There flashed through my brain a con- 
 viction — and no doubt a true one — that had it been Eupert 
 to survive, he would have got away to safety much better 
 than I ; the Lord of Pomeroy was a man of more mark than 
 his younger brother in more respects than one, and would 
 be more minutely sought after. Then I thought — looking 
 upon him — no one can tell now which of us it is, and it 
 shall be supposed that it is I who died. Taking off my 
 watch and chain, my ring, I put them upon him ; emptying 
 my pockets of their contents, I thrust them into his pockets, 
 transferring what he had in his to mine. And then I made 
 my escape." 
 
 " To — where ? " asked Leolin, breathlessly. 
 
 " To the keep." 
 
 " But how did you get to the keep ? How " 
 
 " Stay, Leolin ; you shall hear that later. I made my 
 escape to the keep by the same way that I had come from 
 it ; Jerome came to me as speedily as he was able, knowing 
 I must be there. Or, as he thought, Eupert, for he fully 
 believed that the dead man he had seen, lying on the floor 
 
POMEROY ABBP]Y. 
 
 of tlie west tower, was myself. Whilst tlie abbey was yet 
 in its state of commotion, consequent on finding its lord 
 lying dead in tlie haunted room, J erome, I say, came to mc. 
 He brought me food that night ; he brought me food and 
 clothes during the few days that followed ; and the evening 
 of the funeral, my funeral, he quitted the abbey for good, 
 and took up his abode here at the keep. A week or two 
 later, when the pursuit after the escaped man — Eupert the 
 murderer, as he was being called — was slackening, I ventured 
 on my own escape, and got away." 
 "Unaided?" 
 
 " No. Aided by John Gaunt." 
 
 Leolin, glancing at Sybilla, looked the surprise he felt. 
 
 " Sitting over our fire here, the doors barred, the narrow 
 windows darkened against intruders — though, indeed, little 
 can look in save the stars in the sky — I and Jerome held 
 frequent consultation " 
 
 " Guy, Guy ! " interrupted Leolin, with painful vehemence, 
 " why did you not declare yourself then ? It was not too 
 late." 
 
 " I thought it was. Then I should have had to stand my 
 trial ; there is no doubt of it ; which I might not have had 
 to do had I boldly declared myself at first. I did not relish 
 a trial; I would not risk it. Besides I was still in that 
 state of mind, between rage and misery, that I really did 
 not care what became of me ; and a life of travel in remote 
 lands seemed more tolerable to me than one of stagnation, 
 even though I could have reigned again unmolested. Could 
 I have taken her to my heart again ? No, never." 
 
 " I see. Go on, Guy." 
 
 " Poor J erome was worse than I ; more timid. Distress 
 at the turn things had taken, suspense, anxiety for my safety, 
 seemed to be wearing him to a shadow. Equally afraid of 
 my essaying to escape, and of my staying where I was, Jerome 
 w^as not to be envied. ' You can never attempt to go of 
 yourself, sir,' he would say to me, * and I am but a poor 
 weak old man, and of what use can I be to you ? ' ' There 
 is a man who could be of use,' I answered one day, ' and 
 that's John Gaunt; and I think I'll trust him.' We did 
 
IN THE KEEP. 
 
 367 
 
 trust him, Leolin : that he would be faithful I knew well, 
 whether or not he might be able or willing to aid me : and 
 Jerome fetched Gaunt the same night to the keep. You 
 may imagine his surprise." 
 " He did aid you ? " 
 
 " With his whole energies. It was Gaunt who arranged 
 everything : lent me money, took a passage for me in a ship 
 going to China — for I chose that place first, of all others — 
 and drove me away one evening at dusk in his gig, I attired 
 in rough clothes, as an under-keeper, with a red woollen 
 cravat bound about my throat and mouth." 
 
 Leolin drew a deep breath of relief. He seemed to see as 
 in a picture the peril and the escape. " And you arrived 
 safely there, Guy ? " 
 
 Safely there, to Canton ; unmolested and unsuspected. 
 I went as a steerage passenger ; we thought it best ; calling 
 myself John Cook, and passing as a man who was seeking 
 relatives that had settled in China. From Canton I em- 
 barked again, and made my way to George and his wife in 
 India. You remember it, Sybilla ? — the night I came, and 
 how I startled you ? " 
 
 " Ah, Guy, shall I ever forget it ? " exclaimed Sybilla, in 
 answer to the appeal. When the news of the fatal affray 
 here came out to us, that Guy had been killed by Eupert, 
 and that Eupert had flown from justice, and could never 
 succeed," she added to Leolin, " my husband had no scruple 
 in assuming his right, as Lord of Pomeroy. George intended 
 to sell out and come home ; but, before he made his arrange- 
 ments for doing so, the regiment was ordered to a remote, 
 uncivilized district that was in a state of disturbance, where 
 we found no proper accommodation of any kind. Neverthe- 
 less, I was glad of the change for myself and the two 
 children — we had two then. One evening when Captain 
 Barkley, as he was then, was sitting with us in our confined 
 quarters, Moore entered, and told George that a man wished 
 to see him — wished it very particularly. ' Who is he, and 
 what is his name?' said George; so Moore went back to 
 ask the name, and brought word it was John Cook. We 
 had been inquiring for a man to do work about the house. 
 
868 
 
 POMEKOY ABBEY. 
 
 and concluded it was one come after the place. I said I 
 would go and see what he was like — as he was to be my 
 servant more than George's. There he stood in the twilight ; 
 Bupert, as I thought at first. I was not in very strong 
 health then, and T sank down on a chair, half fainting at his 
 imprudence, and wondering whether we should be able to 
 shield him. ' How could you come here, Eupert ? — how 
 shall we succeed in concealing you ? ' I whispered. * It is 
 not Eupert ? ' he answered, as he unwound the handkerchief 
 from his chin, and I knew the voice for Guy's and saw the 
 face. A feeling of bewilderment came over me. I screamed, 
 and it brought in George and Captain Barkley." 
 " Go on ; tell him all," said Guy. 
 
 " We took him into the sitting-room," she resumed to 
 Leolin, " and there Guy told his tale, Captain Barkley of 
 necessity becoming a confidant. Guy told us all. How 
 our hearts ached for him ! Thomas Barkley took up the 
 wrong warmly, and clasped Guy's hands, and said that 
 henceforth he should be dear to him as a brother." 
 
 " And a true brother he has been to me to this hour," 
 added Guy: upon which Leolin began to feel somewhat 
 small, as he remembered the animosity he had been cherish- 
 ing towards that gentleman. 
 
 " Captain Barkley took Guy that night to his own 
 quarters," continued Sybilla, " passing him ofi* as a servant 
 of his mother's, despatched out to him on a confidential 
 mission; in private treating him with the deference and 
 consideration due to the unfortunate Lord of Pomeroy. We 
 did not intend to keep Guy with us long, neither would he 
 have stayed : it was too hazardous ; but he caught an attack 
 of fever. We nursed him through it, and then he departed 
 again, to be a wanderer, as he expressed it, on the face of the 
 earth. He and George made all their necessary confidential 
 arrangements ; George remaining osteuvsibly the chief of 
 Pomeroy. Guy wanted him to accept all the revenues, 
 excepting a mere pittance for his own support — I think you 
 and he nearly quarrelled over that point, did you not, Guy ? " 
 
 " Something like it," answered Guy, a faint smile for the 
 first time parting his lips. 
 
IN THE KEEP. 
 
 3.9 
 
 "It ended in George's accepting a fourth — I think it was 
 — for our own use : the rest, though regularly transmitted 
 to George, was invested by Major Barkley for Guy. Since 
 George's death, I have retained only the same sum — a fourth. 
 You have wondered, I know, at my living so quietly, Leolin," 
 she added, her eyes seeking his ; " you did not know, and I 
 dared not tell you, that the rest went to Guy." 
 
 No, Leolin had not known it ; could not have suspected it. 
 He was taking shame to himself for the hard thoughts he 
 had given to Sybilla. 
 
 " And this accumulation of money will now pass to you, 
 Leolin," put in Guy. " Barkley has done all that is neces- 
 sary in readiness for the transfer. I always intended it for 
 you : as soon as my death takes place it is yours." 
 
 "You are too generous," murmured Leolin, again sup- 
 l)ressing the ready tears. " But surely I have no claim 
 to it?" 
 
 " Who else has a better ? My own child is amply pro- 
 vided for ; Sybilla will take the whole of the revenues now : 
 she and her little son. I went again to India not long before 
 George's death." 
 
 " Again ! " 
 
 " Ay. Ever restless : flying continually from one place 
 to another, never remaining long anywhere, ever yearning 
 for the home and the relatives that were never to be mine : 
 my feet turned, of themselves, once more to India and to 
 George." 
 
 " I— I — cannot quite see yet," burst forth Leolin, to whom 
 a remembrance suddenly suggested itself: and, in truth, one 
 puzzle after another crowded so rapidly through his mind 
 as to utterly bewilder him. " If Eupert died, as you say, 
 Guy, how could he have come over here from Spain in a 
 barque ? Hildyard's head-clerk made the passage with 
 him." 
 
 " It was I who came, not Eupert," answered Guy. " I have 
 heard of that from Sybilla. Collins mistook me for Eupert. 
 It was easy for him to make the mistake, natural that he 
 should do so. He knew Eupert well ; he did not know me, 
 for he had never seen me ; moreover, he believed me dead. 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 24 
 
370 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 The resemblance deceived him, and he fully thought he saw 
 Eupert. Charles Knox fell into the same error a few weeks 
 ago. He saw me on the beach, and spoke to me for Eupert. 
 Mrs. Wylde's man, Cannet, met me one night before I had 
 made my escape at all, and mistook me for Eupert. Don't 
 you perceive how natural it was that they should all make 
 the mistake, believing it was Eupert who was living and I 
 who was dead ?" added Guy. 
 
 " I do ; I see," mused Leolin. " Did you land from the 
 Spanish barque ? " 
 
 " Of course I did, and made my way here, to Pomeroy. 
 Not for the first time or the last, Leolin. Is it any wonder 
 that I should so yearn after this, my home, that I could not 
 keep altogether away from it ? Four or five times since my 
 death have I come here." 
 
 " It was a risk, Guy." 
 
 " It was. But I disguised myself cautiously, and chanced 
 the peril. Old Jerome was always on the look-out for me, 
 I believe, not knowing when I might appear : wearing the 
 flesh off his bones with terror when I was here : inventing 
 excuses to keep people out of the keep. Do you remember 
 his excuse to you, Leolin, not long ago, when you came here 
 before ten o'clock one morning, and nearly pulled the bell 
 down ? I was in bed at the time, and had to dress hastily 
 and conceal myself — who knew but you might take a fancy 
 to walk upstairs here. You asked Jerome what he trembled 
 at : he was trembling for me. Poor faithful old man ! His 
 has not been a path of roses." 
 
 " And so this ghost, that has so terrified the abbey from 
 time to time, has been yourself. And you knew this," Leolin 
 added, turning to Sybilla. 
 
 "Certainly I knew it," she replied. "Stay, Leolin! I 
 see what that reproachful look means : you think I ought to 
 have told you. But I could not : I had given a solemn 
 pledge of secrecy to Guy. Once or twice I thought you 
 must have suspected the truth, when I insisted upon it that 
 the lord was the lord still. You could not expect me to 
 call the erring Eupert Lord of Pomeroy. At least, you 
 ought ttot to have expected it." 
 
IN THE KEEP. 
 
 371 
 
 "How could sucli a supposition occur to me," returned 
 Leolin. " I bad seen Guy buried witb my own eyes ; otbers, 
 as we were led to believe, bad seen Eupert since, living : tbe 
 very wildest stretcb of imagination could never bave pictured 
 tbe trutb. Guy, wby did you sbow yourself in tbat manner 
 to terrify us ? " 
 
 "Do you fancy I did it for pleasure? — or to frigbten 
 people ? " asked Guy. " No, no. Could mortal man, in fair 
 bealtb, accustomed to activity, immure bimself witbin tbe 
 walls of tbis confined keep every bour of tbe four-and- 
 twenty ? I could not. I was obliged to steal out in tbe 
 dusk and darkness to stretcb my limbs, to walk tbe con- 
 suming fever out of my frame : and, can you wonder tbat I 
 bave frequented tbat west- tower, wbence I could look down 
 upon wbat was once mybappybome ; upon tbe servants tbat 
 were once mine — upon, now and again — my child ? " 
 
 " You bave frigbtened some of tbem nearly to deatb, Guy." 
 
 " People do not die of frigbt," be answered. " Tbe 
 mystery will sbortly be cleared for tbem, for I am only 
 waiting for deatb. Tbey can make tbe gbost a jest for tbe 
 future, Leolin." 
 
 Leolin bent over bis brotber, bis voice taking a tenderly 
 anxious tone. " You talk of dying, Guy, but I know not 
 wbat disease is upon you. Is it curable ? " 
 
 " Quite incurable. It is an inward complaint, induced by 
 anxiety, mortification, and grief ; and it is sometimes linger- 
 ing in its process, as it bas been in my case." 
 
 " But you sbould bave advice for it." 
 
 " I bave bad tbat. Wben tbe symptoms became unmis- 
 takable, I was in Canada, Barkley witb me as usual " 
 
 "Barkley seems to bave been a true friend to you," 
 impulsively spoke Leolin, tbe entrance of Jerome affording 
 opportunity for tbe interruption. 
 
 " Tbere is a ' friend,' you know, ' tbat sticketb closer tban 
 a brotber.' Barkley bas been tbat friend to me. Only for 
 sbort intervals bas be left me, since be sold out at George's 
 deatb. He bas gone about witb me from place to place, at 
 bome and abroad, sbielding me in all ways, looking out for 
 any danger tbat migbt be abead. Wben I bave been bere, 
 
372 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Barkley was not far off. Sybilla is giving him house-room 
 now, for my sake. But, about my illness. I was in Canada 
 when the symptoms grew too serious to be neglected ; not 
 thinking much of the doctors over there, we came home. 
 Barkley took a small furnished house in an obscure part of 
 London, and called in the best medical aid to be had, repre- 
 senting me as a friend from Australia. My fiat — speedy 
 death — was soon pronounced, Leolin : there was no hope." 
 " No hope ! " 
 
 " None. Alleviation there might be, but not cure. Wo 
 stayed there many weeks, indeed months ; everything being 
 done for me that could be done ; the disease, meanwhile, 
 advancing slowly and surely. When it had pretty nearly 
 spent itself, when a few weeks, as the doctor thought, would 
 bring the end, then I came down here to the keep and 
 Jerome — for I should not like to die away from Pomeroy. 
 See what it has made of me," he concluded, holding up his 
 wasted arm. " No ghost was ever thinner than I am. And 
 I think now you have all the explanation, Leolin." 
 
 " Not quite," answered Leolin, running over various items 
 in his mind. " I have yet to learn how you could get into 
 the west wing at will." 
 
 The lord looked up at his old servant. " Shall we tell 
 him the secret, Jerome? In strict usage, according to 
 tradition, it ought to be known only to the reigning Lord of 
 Pomeroy." 
 
 " Ah, sir, what matters it ? " answered Jerome, not per- 
 ceiving that his master had spoken only in jest. "The 
 future Lords of Pomeroy will have less cause for secrets, 
 maybe, than some of the past have had. And Mr. Eupert 
 knew of it." 
 
 " To his cost and mine," sighed the lord. " There is a 
 subterranean passage, Leolin, from this place, the keep, to 
 the west tower, whence a staircase in the wall ascends to the 
 haunted room. The entrance is behind the nun's picture ; 
 the panel turns noiselessly. That was how Eupert entered 
 that fatal night ; it was how I entered — then, and since. 
 There is a set of duplicate keys to all the locks in the west 
 wing : the bunch hangs in the underground passage." 
 
LAID TO REST. 
 
 373 
 
 Leolin turned to Jerome. "You knew of tliis secret 
 communication between the keep and tlie abbey ? " 
 
 " Before you were born, sir. My late master, tlie old 
 lord, was anxious for this reason that I should live at the 
 keep. He did not care that others should find the passage 
 out. On that fatal evening, when the disturbance called us 
 to the west tower, I, seeing that my own keys were safe in 
 the key-closet, knew that whoever might be up there had 
 entered by the secret passage. Until then I was not aware 
 tliat Mr. Kupert knew of it. But oh ! " added the old man, 
 lifting his hands in appeal, first to Leolin, then to Sybilla, 
 " won't you please leave the lord now ? This talking and 
 excitement may kill him before his time." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 LAID TO REST. 
 
 It was Friday and fast-day. Father Andrew sat at his 
 frugal dinner : two eggs, the loaf and butter, and a potato 
 salacl. He was cutting a huge slice of bread when old 
 Marget came in, her cotton gown pinned up round her, her 
 bonnet tilted. She often made a cleaning day of fast-day, 
 and that was her ordinary cleaning costume. 
 
 "Here's Jerome come across from the keep, sir," she 
 began : " he wants to have speech of you. I was on my 
 hands and knees, stoning the passage flags, with the lower 
 half-door bolted to keep folks out, when Jerome puts his 
 head over the door and says he must see you this moment, 
 whether or no. He's a shaking at the door now — ^just as if 
 'twere a matter o' life or death." 
 
 " Let him come in," said the priest. 
 
 Jerome appeared ; some cause of emotion evidently 
 troubling him. His face had never looked so haggard or 
 his eyes so anxious. 
 
374 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 "Fatlier Andrew, you must come with me to tlie keep. 
 There is no time to lose." 
 
 " What's up ? " asked the father, ready to joke as usual. 
 " Have you a goose for dinner, and want me to help you eat 
 it ? I should like to be at your service — but it's fast-day, 
 Jerome." 
 
 Jerome's low voice took a more solemn tone. " Father, it 
 is to shrive a dead man." 
 
 " To shrive — what do you say ? " wondered the priest, who 
 had never known Jerome jest before. 
 
 " To shrive the erring soul of a dead man, father : a man 
 who has been dead to the world for more than nine years. 
 I bid you come in the name of the Lords of Pomeroy." 
 
 Father Andrew made short work of his dinner, and de- 
 parted for the keep with Jerome. On the way, he listened 
 to the brief relation of what he thought was the most singular 
 history life had ever furnished. 
 
 " I thought how much it could bo a ghost," was the first 
 comment he made. "Bless and save us all! The lord 
 alive, and Rupert dead ! " 
 
 " Ay," said Jerome ; " it's a grim and droll thing to look 
 back upon, sir. While the country, that time, was being 
 scoured for Mr. Rupert, he lay mouldering away under- 
 ground in the Pomeroy vaults ; and the lord was hiding at 
 the keep with me." 
 
 " And walked out of it at night to terrify the men and 
 maids! A wrong thing, Jerome. I could have supposed 
 Rupert acting so in his mischievousness, but not the lord ; 
 the one was gay, the other grave." 
 
 " It was that frightened me more than all — the walking 
 out," wailed poor J erome. " But, oh, father, I believe from 
 my heart he could not help it : he had to walk about, in his 
 terrible restlessness. No wonder he was taken for a ghost ; 
 ever since that fatal night he has been growing more like a 
 shadow day by day. Every time he came back there seemed 
 to be less left of him. What he has suffered these nine 
 years, he alone can tell." 
 
 " Sorrow and grief will change the best of ns," remarked 
 the priest. " Especially if remorse be added. Poor Guy ! " 
 
LAID TO REST. 
 
 375 
 
 " Blame him not, fatlier," entreated the old man, lifting 
 his careworn face. " True, it was not right to kill his 
 brother ; wretchedly wrong : but it may be 
 
 " May be what ? " cried the priest, as Jerome hesitated. 
 
 " That what happened at that time could not be gone 
 aside from by him or by her — the lord and his wife. The 
 prediction had to be worked out. Her light and foolish 
 conduct, and his revenge upon it, might have been but just a 
 part of it — of the fate that was hanging over them both — 
 over all the Pomeroys.'' 
 
 " Don't talk such nonsense, old Jerome," rebuked Father 
 Andrew. 
 
 Down by the bedside, her eyes streaming bitter tears, her 
 liand locked in her dying brother's, knelt Joan Pomeroy. 
 It was the day following the one told of in the last chapter, 
 and the lord's last day of life. That only a few short hours 
 of that life remained to him now, was only too apparent. 
 
 "To have hidden yourself from us to the last, Guy!" 
 reproachfully sobbed his sister, in her bitter grief. "To 
 have allowed others — Sybilla — and Major Barkley — and 
 Jerome, strangers by blood — to know that you were in life, 
 even to see you at will, and to keep it from us I " 
 
 " They knew it before, Joan ; I could not help myself," 
 murmured Guy, " It was too dangerous a secret to be dis- 
 closed." 
 
 That had passed when J oan was first brought in earlier in 
 the morning : but she had never risen from her knees, her 
 scalding tears had not ceased to flow. Leolin was there, 
 also Sybilla ; and now appeared Father Andrew, more filled 
 with wonder than he had ever been before. Major Barkley 
 stood at the foot of the bed. 
 
 A question had arisen in some of their minds during the 
 night. Leolin put it to his brother. 
 
 " Guy, is it to be made known — the fact that it was you 
 who lived — that Rupert died ? Would you like it made 
 known ? " 
 
 Something like a smile actually flitted over the lord's face. 
 " By to-morrow morning I shall be dead as Rupert — what 
 then can it matter to me f It must be made known for the 
 
376 
 
 POMEPtOY ABBF.Y. 
 
 sake of tlie young Eupert's rights. They will now be in- 
 disputable. A few hours more, and he will be the legitimate 
 master of Pomeroy. Leolin, your opposition to him must 
 cease." 
 
 "I thought Eupert was living, you see," stammered 
 Leolin, feeling a great and sudden shame, he could hardly 
 tell why, for his ^persecution of the child. 
 
 " And what though he had been ? " retorted Guy, with a 
 touch of his old sternness. " You did wrong, Leolin — and 
 it has not served you. However, the past is ended. Sybilla, 
 Eupert is a brave boy. He will make a more worthy lord 
 than some of the Pomeroys made, if all tales told of them 
 arc true." 
 
 " Heaven grant him grace to be all he ought to bo ! " 
 fervently aspirated Sybilla. "It is the one great aim of my 
 life, under God and the Church, to make him so." 
 
 " Ay ; I saw that in India. I loved him, too, the brave, 
 right-hearted little lad. Tell him that poor John Cook, to 
 whose bed he used to bring his pretty picture-books, during 
 that fever time, and his pretty loving prattle, was his uncle 
 Guy. He will be a good and true-hearted man: a noble 
 chieftain : J erome here has sung his praises to me. Sybilla, 
 is it true that he and my child are attached to each other ? " 
 
 " Very much indeed," she answered, after a moment's 
 pause of surprise. "But, Guy — if I, pardon me, catch 
 rightly the drift of your thoughts — I would remind you that 
 because they are attached as children, it does not follow that 
 they will be so as man and woman." 
 
 " I know that," he faintly replied, for his artificial 
 strength, called forth by excitement, was failing : " I was 
 but glancing at a remote contingency. Should the childish 
 love, now existing between them, grow into reality later on, 
 you will not set your face against my child, Sybilla, from 
 remembrance of her mother's sin ? " 
 
 " Oh, Guy, how could you think there was need to ask it ? 
 Indeed you have my hearty promise. I love Mary." 
 
 " It was only folly in your wdfe, Guy," pleaded Joan, lift- 
 ing her tear-stained face, in excuse for Alice. 
 
 " And what, but sin, is such folly as that ? " w\as Guy's 
 
LAID TO HEST. 
 
 377 
 
 stern reproof. " It was sin to me ; sin in her ; for, in regard 
 to our wives, you knew, and she knew, a Pomeroy had ever 
 been held as sans peur et sans reproche : and it led to sinj 
 and crime, and misery. Do not excuse her to me, Joan." 
 
 " You will see your wife, Guy ? " again pleaded Joan, who 
 was always for peace. 
 
 " You may bring her to see me when I am dead. I wish 
 her no ill : let her convince herself that the ghost was 
 myself, and so her terror will subside. No more argument, 
 Joan ; I will not hear it." 
 
 " Only just to speak your forgiveness," implored Joan. 
 " It will be a comfort to her." 
 
 " She has my forgiveness ; tell her that. To meet would 
 bring only pain to us both ; I think I can safely say so ; and, 
 what end would it answer ? I will not see my wife — as you 
 call her — again in life. I saw her the other night, you 
 know, in the haunted room ; looked at her well by the 
 matches I lighted ; ay, and touched the hands which she had 
 just sent through the window. Even then, she only came up 
 because she thought it was Kupert." 
 
 " To warn him, Guy." 
 
 " Just so ; to warn him ; I think nothing else. No, she 
 and I will not meet ; and, remember, that she must know 
 nothing until I am dead. Then give her my forgiveness. 
 Neither will I have my child brought here ; better not, for 
 her sake." 
 
 " Oh, Guy ! would you deprive yourself of giving Mary a 
 last embrace ? " 
 
 Guy's breast heaved. " Better not, Joan. See what an 
 object I am now. I should only startle her. No : I have 
 borne a great deal of late years, and I can bear that. I 
 have left a long letter for her. Tell her that her father 
 loved her always ; that he has had nothing else to love, save 
 her, for years and years. And now— if you please— I would 
 — be left — with Father Andrew. I am growing faint." 
 
 " Leolin, shall it not be peace between us at last ? " 
 whispered Sybilla, as they went out, her sweet eyes seek- 
 ing his. And Leolin's answer was to put his hand frankly 
 into hers. 
 
378 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " It is of no use striving against fate, Sybilla," lie said. 
 " Your child must be the undisputed lord now ; no wish of 
 mine and no scheming can alter it. But I no longer have 
 the wish. Last evening, before I heard the startling fact of 
 Guy's return, I had promised my wife never again to take 
 act or part against Eupert. I may love the boy yet. I 
 might have loved him before, but that I steeled my heart 
 against him." 
 
 " And I may be truly, really friendly with your wife ? " 
 
 " I hope you will be. Come with me and see her now. 
 Sybilla," he added with emotion, "knowing w^hat I now 
 know, I can only apologize to you for the past, and I do so 
 with all my heart. Every moment's reflection brings to me 
 a greater sense of shame for the part I have acted.'* 
 
 " Leolin, say no more — in my mind I have ever excused 
 you," was Sybilla's generous answer. 
 
 " And when your son is older, T shall express my con- 
 trition to him." 
 
 With the grey light of morning, Mrs. Pomeroy, in much 
 wonder and dread, was taken by Joan and Sybilla to the 
 keep. Guy, Lord of Pomeroy, lay there, dead now. Sybilla, 
 with her woman's heart, had prepared Alice as gently as she 
 knew how for what she was to see : nevertheless, when 
 brought face to face with him who had once been her 
 husband, she started back, as Leolin had done, with a cry of 
 terror. 
 
 " There is no reason for fear," spoke Sybilla. " He is at 
 rest at last — gone to rest and peace. He bade us say that 
 you have his full forgiveness for the past, his good wishes 
 for the future." 
 
 " And — he — has only died now ? " gasped Mrs. Pomeroy, 
 who could not at once realize the stupendous facts. 
 
 "Only now. He died at dawn this morning. It was 
 Rupert who died on that fatal night ; not Guy." 
 
 " And he has been still Lord of Pomeroy ; " breathed 
 Alice ; her mind confused. " None other had a right to be 
 so. And I might have continued to be the Lady." 
 
 No one answered this. Even Father Andrew, Vvho had 
 
LAID TO REST. 
 
 379 
 
 generally a kind word for all, stood with folded arms and 
 Lent brow. Poor thing, she had probably meant nothing by 
 the remark. 
 
 " Why did you bring me here ? " she asked, with a burst 
 of tears. 
 
 " To see him," compassionately spoke Sybilla. " To show 
 you that what has startled you — and others — so much of 
 late, was himself, not his spirit. He wished you to be con- 
 vinced of that." 
 
 "Better touch him, madam," put in superstitious old 
 Jerome, when she was at length turning away from the 
 sight, her sobs almost choking her. "It is said that if 
 w^e touch the dead Wc do not dream of them : better just 
 touch him." 
 
 Alice Pomeroy put out her hand and laid it upon poor 
 Guy's cold forehead. But she could not bring him back to 
 life, or restore the happiness of which she had deprived him ; 
 she could not hear him speak the forgiveness she had un- 
 consciously yearned for. 
 
 What a commotion it was that set in at Abbey land. The 
 inhabitants ran up in excited groups to gaze at the gloomy 
 ensign hoisted half-mast high at the abbey, and to listen to 
 the marvellous news that it floated for Guy, Lord of Pomeroy. 
 Surely never was so wonderful a romance enacted in history. 
 
 They saw him as well as heard of him. Guy lay in state 
 in the chapel from the day of his death until his interment, 
 and all the world went to look at him. The poor battered 
 face, his supposed face, had been covered up that other time, 
 the cloth only lifted at will : now it was open to view ; the 
 well-remembered, never-to-be-forgotten face of Guy of 
 Pomeroy. 
 
 The funeral ensued. Once more, and in one sense for the 
 second time, Guy Pomeroy was consigned to the vaults of 
 his forefathers; not with the former honours, the stately 
 grandeur given to him before — or rather, in reality, to 
 Eupert. This ceremony was of the simplest. But the 
 crowds assembled to witness it were almost beyond pre- 
 cedent, for the wonder had been made known everywhere. 
 
380 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 The circumstances attending that other time were miracu- 
 lously great, but these were greater. 
 
 It took place on New Year's Day. A bright clay, as 
 regarded the weather, for the inauguration of the coming 
 year. The ground was glistening with a sprinkling of snow 
 that had fallen in the early morning, the sun shone in the 
 clear and cold blue sky. A contrast to it all looked that 
 dark procession winding out of the abbey, bearing in its 
 midst the velvet-covered bier. Following close upon it, in 
 right of his position as head of the house, walked the young 
 Lord of Pomeroy ; behind him came Mary, led by her uncle 
 Leolin ; then Major Barkley. Jerome, weeping bitter tears, 
 headed the attendants. 
 
 And the death-flag, for the last time in this history, waved 
 over the gates of Pomeroy. 
 
 I 
 
PART THE THIRD. 
 
CHAPTEE I. 
 
 AFTER LONG YEARS. 
 
 It is the height of the London season, and a beautiful day 
 in early summer. 
 
 Carriages are setting down their well-dressed freights at 
 the house of Lord Essington, in Berkeley Square : not a 
 crowd of carriages ; one now and again, at intervals. It is 
 Thursday ; and on Thursday afternoons Lady Essington is 
 always " at home : " and those friends of hers in the great 
 world who remember this, and have time to call, come and 
 do so. 
 
 Lady Essington — looking quite an elderly woman now, 
 for many years have elapsed since you saw her last, reader 
 — sits on a sofa in the drawing-room, underneath one of the 
 windows. She wears black silk and crape, and a widow's 
 cap. For alas, the good-natured earl, her husband, so kind 
 to all the world, high and low, so genial and so unpretend- 
 ing, has been dead more than twelve months now, and his 
 only son, the Viscount Cardine, is the present earl. The 
 new earl is not married; therefore his mother looks upon 
 his house as her own still ; she has made no attempt to 
 move out of it : it has never occurred to the mind of Lord 
 Essington, her son, to suggest that she should do so. Ho 
 is easy and careless ; indifferent to most things, excepting 
 his own pursuits. 
 
 Lady Geraldine Hetley stands near the door, welcoming 
 with effusion three middle-aged sisters just coming in, for 
 they have an old bachelor brother who is very rich ; and 
 poor Geraldine, though approaching forty, has not yet given 
 up all hope of being asked to share somebody's name and 
 fortune. Her hair is thin, her face has acquired a per- 
 
384 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 manently cross expression : the result of indulging in 
 habitual ill-temper. 
 
 In a corner of the room stands the tea-table ; a white 
 cloth, cups and saucers, biscuits and cake upon it. Behind 
 the table, ready to dispense its favours, sits a graceful girl 
 of middle height, her face one of the sweetest ever looked 
 upon. Her dress is simple : a white muslin with small 
 lilac sprigs upon it, worked in tambour stitch ; ribbons of 
 the same colour fall back from her soft brown hair. Ker 
 eyes are brown and soft also ; earnest eyes that all the 
 world might trust. Her features, clearly cut, are of the 
 highest type of beauty ; the delicate colour on her cheeks is 
 of a soft damask rose. 
 
 "What are you about?" asks Geraldine, approaching her 
 with a cross whisper. "Why don't you pour out some 
 tea?" 
 
 " I am waiting for four o'clock to strike," was the gentle 
 answer. " Lady Essington said I was not to begin before." 
 
 " Nonsense," sharply responded Geraldine. " People will 
 be glad of it." 
 
 A momentary lull in the room, which was filling now, 
 and the groom of the chambers opened the door to make a 
 fresh announcement. 
 
 " Miss Pomeroy." 
 
 Greeting Geraldine on her way, Joan spoke a little with 
 Lady Essington, and then found a seat beyond the tea-table. 
 Joan looked taller and sterner and darker than of yore : 
 years seldom soften plain women into pretty ones. Joan 
 was passing through London on her way to Pomeroy, and 
 had come by invitation to remain this afternoon and to dine. 
 She had leisure, sitting in that quiet corner, to look about 
 her, and was doing so when she found herself addressed. 
 
 " Will you take some tea ? " 
 
 It was the sweetest voice Joan had ever heard. Looking 
 at the speaker, standing before her, the tea held out, she 
 thought it the sweetest face she had ever seen. Mechani- 
 cally Joan took the cup, a little lost in surprise. 
 
 "Not any cake, thank you. You — you are not Lucy 
 Blake?" 
 
AFTER LONG YEARS. 
 
 385 
 
 " Oh no," was the smiling answer. "But I think Lucy 
 will be here presently; Lady Lucy said she should come 
 herself, and bring her." 
 
 Joan wondered who she could be — this most lovely girl, 
 who seemed to be domiciled with the Essingtons. When 
 Geraldine sat down by her, to take some tea on her own 
 account, it gave Joan the opportunity of asking. 
 
 " Would you not like to take your bonnet off at once, 
 Miss Pomeroy ? " 
 
 " Thank you ; presently. Who is that beautiful girl ? " 
 
 Geraldine looked round the room, anywhere but at the 
 tea-table. " Which girl ? " she asked. 
 
 " Here : close by. Handing some tea, just now, to that 
 French count." 
 
 " Oh — she," slightingly spoke Geraldine. " It is Frank 
 Hetley's eldest girl — Annaline." 
 
 " To be sure ; I might have known it," cried Joan, with 
 sudden remembrance. " She has the same sweet face that 
 she had as a child. Is she staying with you ? " 
 
 " I am sorry to say she is. Mamma ivoiild bring her back 
 with us from Florence, though I told her how it would be 
 — that we should want to get rid of her when we could not 
 do so. She thought Annaline might be useful to us during 
 the season. Of course we make her that; but mamma 
 would like to get her out of the house now, and we don't 
 know how to manage it." 
 
 " Why do you wish it ? " 
 
 " She has turned out the most crafty, deceitful, designing 
 girl, possible : will be the ruin of the family if we don't 
 take care. She is steadily plotting for it." 
 
 Fresh arrivals carried Geraldine away to her duties, 
 leaving Miss Pomeroy somewhat puzzled. If she was a 
 reader of countenances, the young lady in question was 
 anything but crafty or deceitful. A few minutes more, and 
 quite incidentally, she received a little enlightenment from 
 Lady Essington, upon whose sofa Joan had then found 
 room. It came through Joan's asking after the earl. 
 
 " Edmund ? — oh, he is very well," responded Lady Essing- 
 ton, in a tart tone, as though the mention of her son's name 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 25 
 
386 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 displeased her. " I wonder he is not here this afternoon, 
 I'm sure. Wherever we may be now, he is certain to be in 
 our wake." 
 
 " And does that displease you? " asked Joan, remembering 
 that in the days gone by the young man had erred on the 
 side of roaming. 
 
 " Not when he is attracted by a pretentious upstart, who 
 would like to draw him into an engagement," said the 
 countess. " Oh, I dare say you can guess that I am speaking 
 of Annaline Hetley. I brought her home from Florence 
 quite out of compassion, for her father and mother are poorer 
 than ever, can hardly manage to exist, now my husband and 
 his foolish help are gone. They were glad to let her come. 
 I made a half promise that I would present her, and stand 
 the cost of a dress for it. Will I, though ! " 
 
 " What has she done ? " 
 
 "What has she not done ?— cajoling Edmund by every 
 means in her power — practising her wiles upon him morn- 
 ing, noon, and night," retorted the angry countess. " I 
 declare that we are beginning to fear Edmund may forget 
 himself, and take a step that never could be redeemed. 
 Fancy what our feelings would be at seeing lier his wife. I 
 suppose you don't happen to know of any friend about to 
 travel to Florence, Miss Pomeroy ? I wish I could hear of 
 some one going who would take charge of her. I should be 
 thankful to send her off to-day." 
 
 "Mamma, you are so engrossed with your wrongs that 
 you cannot see and hear me," cried a pretty, laughing 
 woman, who had been waiting to speak. J oan shook hands 
 with her warmly. It was Lady Lucy Blake, once Lucy 
 Hetley. The reader may remember her as having been 
 with the young Lady of Pomeroy when they discovered the 
 stains of blood on the wedding-dress. By her side stood 
 her daughter Lucy, who had been presented only two days 
 ago. 
 
 " What treason has mamma been whispering to you about 
 that poor child Annaline ? " asked Lady Lucy, taking the 
 seat which her mother quitted to pay attention elsewhere. 
 " That she is designing and wary and wicked, I suppose ? 
 
AFTER LONG YEARS. 
 
 387 
 
 Do not believe a word of it. Miss Pomeroy. The girl is as 
 simple-minded, true-hearted a girl as ever lived. She 
 always was, and she always will be." 
 
 " I confess she looks so," remarked Joan. 
 
 " She is so. It is too bad of mamma and Geraldine. 
 Very wrong indeed of them. Because Edmund has fallen 
 in love with Annaline, and persecutes her with his atten- 
 tions; they blame her. I don't believe she likes him — or 
 would have him. I and Colonel Blake go to Ireland next 
 week, and I declare I would take her with me out of it all, 
 only that the children have had a slight attack of scarlatina. 
 You are going down to Pomeroy, I hear ? " 
 
 " Yes ; to-morrow," said J oan. 
 
 " How is Mrs. Pomeroy ? Is she still at the abbey ? " 
 
 " Oh yes. She is quite well, I believe." 
 
 "Do they still see ghosts there?" laughingly rejoined 
 Lady Lucy. But she repented the thoughtless jest when she 
 sav/ the flush of pain it brought to Joan's pale face. 
 
 '^TJiey were laid with my poor brother Guy," Joan 
 answered gravely. " The superstition was buried with 
 him." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," frankly spoke Lady Lucy, putting 
 her hand affectionately upon Joan's. 
 
 " Go with Miss Pomeroy upstairs, Annaline," imperiously 
 spoke Geraldine later, when she seemed no longer needed at 
 the tea-table. " She would like to take her bonnet off." 
 
 In her unobtrusive, gentle way, Annaline helped Joan to 
 make her brief toilette. It was quite evident that her life 
 had been spent in being useful to other people. 
 
 " Thank you, my dear," said Joan, taking her hand when 
 it was over. "I am sure you have a good and kind 
 heart." 
 
 Annaline blushed. It was not often that praise was 
 accorded to her, 
 
 " Are you happy here ? " 
 
 The tears rose with the suddenness of the question. 
 
 " I should like you to tell me all, as you would tell it to 
 your mother, my child. Perhaps I may be of some use to 
 you. Things are not very smooth for you here, I gather." 
 
388 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Not very," answered Annaline, her voice unsteady. 
 
 "Lord Essington loves you, does lie not ?" pursued Joan, 
 going to tlie root of the matter at once, in her straightfor- 
 ward way. " Do you love him ? " 
 
 " I do not even like him," said Annaline. " I could not 
 love him ; I could not marry him. I have tried to let him 
 see this, and have kept out of his way when possible. Lady 
 Essington must have seen it, and yet— they are so angry 
 "with me." 
 
 She broke down with a burst of tears. That every word 
 -was true, Joan could see. 
 
 " Lord Essington spoke to me this morning ; he took the 
 opportunity when they were upstairs with the dressmaker. 
 I told him then it was quite impossible, and begged him to 
 let me alone in future." 
 
 Did he ask you to be his wife ? " 
 
 " Yes," faltered Annaline. 
 
 " Well, my dear, it would be a very good marriage for 
 you. And I think Lord Essington might make a good 
 husband, wild though he has been in his day. It is time he 
 settled doAvn." 
 
 " Quite time, if he is to settle at all ; he is forty years 
 old," acquiesced Annaline. " But I would not be his wife 
 for the world." 
 
 " Perhaps you like some one else ? " 
 
 And evidently, though Joan had only spoken carelessly, 
 Annaline did like some one else. She turned away in her 
 confusion. 
 
 " Who is it, my dear ? Are you likely to marry him ? " 
 Oh, it is no one ; no, no, indeed. Miss Pomeroy," she 
 earnestly said, the blushes dying away in tears. " I do 
 assure you I am not likely to marry ; perhaps I never shall 
 marry. There's no chance of it. I — I wish," she continued, 
 in a timid, deprecating tone, " that I could hear of some- 
 thing to do." 
 
 " Something to do ? " 
 
 " I cannot remain here ; it is most uncomfortable, and 
 they want me away. And poor mamma can do without me 
 at home ; she has Mary and Clarice. If I could do some- 
 
AFTER LONG YEAES. 
 
 389 
 
 thing for myself! Be a governess — or anything of that 
 sort." 
 
 Joan paused. " To relieve them at home, you mean ? " 
 
 " Yes. We are so many : three girls and four boys ; 
 besides Frank, who has got his commission, and is away. 
 The boys are the youngest ; and they all have to be edu- 
 cated, you know, Miss Pomeroy. And papa has so little to 
 do it with. My education has been very complete. Surely 
 there would be no harm in making use of it." 
 
 " That would be for your parents' consideration, my 
 dear." 
 
 " I think they would be glad," whisjpered Annaline. " At 
 least, mamma would ; she and I have talked of it sometimes. 
 Grandpapa, her father, was not at all rich, and she might 
 have had to go out as governess herself, had she not married. 
 Indeed I cannot remain in this house. I think it would 
 soon give me nervous fever." 
 
 " Miss Hetley is wanted in the drawing-room," said a 
 woman-servant, putting in her head at this juncture. " My 
 lady wishes to know what she means by absenting herself." 
 
 " Miss Hetley has been detained by me," spoke Joan, in 
 her haughtiest manner. " Have the goodness to tell your 
 lady that I, Miss Pomeroy, say so." 
 
 Lord Essington came home to dinner : a talkative man, 
 with fat cheeks, a light moustache, and a bald head. He 
 sought occasional opportunities to whisper to Annaline 
 during the evening, and Joan felt sure he had not accepted 
 his refusal. 
 
 Not less picturesque than of yore, with its Gothic case- 
 ments and grey walls, looked the old Abbey of Pomeroy, as 
 Joan approached it in the twilight of the summer's evening. 
 She generally visited it once a-year, often remaining for 
 several months, for she and the Lady of Pomeroy were 
 closer friends than ever. 
 
 Many years had elapsed since the death of Guy. They 
 had been curiously uneventful, compared with the troubled 
 years of excitement that had preceded them. Excepting for 
 the increasing growth of the two children — the young lord 
 
390 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 and Mary — tlie time appeared to have had nothing to mark 
 its passing. The noble lad of those past days, the self- 
 willed, precocious little girl, were now man and woman. 
 
 Upon the death of Guy, which cleared up all the mystery, 
 set straight what had been crooked, things were re-organized 
 in their proper order. The young lord was the indisputable 
 cMef from henceforth, and his mother assumed her proper 
 state and duties. She retained the south wing, in which she 
 had previously dwelt, but she also occupied, in addition, the 
 whole of the front pile, and took upon herself the household 
 hitherto deemed essential to the Lords of Pomeroy. Mrs. 
 Pomeroy and her daughter moved into the north wing : it 
 had been their abode ever since. But Mary had continued 
 to make herself at home in the abbey, just as if the whole 
 of it were her especial property. Leolin had at once applied 
 for re-admittance into the diplomatic service of his country ; 
 he was appointed to a post on the continent, and there took 
 up his abode with his wife. 
 
 One change the Lady of Pomeroy had hastened to make, 
 and that was connected with the west wing. " Do it as soon 
 as I am gone, Sybilla," Guy had said to her in dying ; " let 
 the haunted rooms be restored, and made into cheerful, 
 useful habitations." The nun's ghost itself would not have 
 known that west wing now. The subterranean passage 
 from the keep had been blocked up at either end with bricks 
 and mortar. No more ghostly surprises should occur if 
 Sybilla could hinder them. A handsome entrance to the west 
 wing was made from the quadrangle, and a smaller one from 
 the south wing. Windows, looking to the open country, 
 were inserted into the dull dead walls that once had been, 
 and the rooms they lighted were made bright with modern 
 decorations. The lady judged rightly, no doubt, in making 
 that tabooed wing the most cheerful of all. When her son 
 married, that should be his children's nursery, she said. 
 
 Least of all would you have recognized the haunted tower. 
 It was converted into an observatory for Rupert, the young 
 lord having shown a strong propensity for star-gazing. 
 And Miss Pomeroy had begged that the nun's picture 
 (should not be destroyed, but placed it in her own bed- 
 
AFTER LONG YEAES. 
 
 391 
 
 chamber, the one which had always been hers at the abbey 
 and always would be. Poor Joan perforce felt compelled 
 to give up many of the superstitions which had been so 
 dear to her heart; but she liked to recall the past stories 
 and to retain their mementos. All these changes and 
 renovations were long past ; the abbey had almost forgotten 
 that the west wing was ever gloomy, ever dreaded. 
 
 The carriage, containing Joan, drew up at the gateway, 
 and she found the Lady of Pomeroy standing in the hall to 
 receive her. Time had worn better with Sybilla than with 
 Joan: she was still the same noble, the same beautiful 
 woman that she had ever been. No one throughout the 
 county was more respected than she ; more sought after and 
 beloved. 
 
 " I am glad to have you again, J oan ! But I began to 
 think you were lost.'' 
 
 " We arrived an hour-and-a-half behind time," said Joan, 
 as they entered the lady's favourite sitting-room. "Some 
 accident had occurred to a train on the line, and we could 
 not get on. I hope you have not waited dinner." 
 
 " Of course I have. Do you think I " 
 
 " How do you do. Aunt Joan ? " 
 
 With very much the same self-assertion that had charac- 
 terized her childhood, Mary Pomeroy entered. She was 
 one-and- twenty now, and a beautiful girl, upright and 
 stately, but not tall. Very beautiful she looks this evening 
 in her low dress of pale blue silk, a gold chain and cross 
 lying on lier neck. She is not much like Guy, except that 
 she has his eyes : not much like her mother. Her hair is 
 of a light brown shade, her features are faultless, and the 
 colour on her cheeks may be likened to a delicate tint of 
 vermilion, rather than of rose. Mary had been educated at 
 the convent, only leaving it when she was nineteen, and 
 then with reluctance. She was wont to say, in her peculiarly 
 open fashion, that, had fate not marked her out to be Lady 
 of Pomeroy, she should have liked to remain at the convent 
 for life. Last year she had gone to London to make her 
 curtsey at Court, and had remained a few weeks with her 
 aunt, Mrs. Capel, who presented her. Mary and her mother 
 
392 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 did not get on very well together : the girl was too daringly 
 independent, too fond of her own will, as she had been when 
 a child. Mrs. Pomeroy led a most retired life, and that did 
 not suit Mary. She had become what the French call 
 devote, was fond of chapel, penances, prayers, and fastings. 
 Mary did not like this at all ; there was too much of it, she 
 boldly told her mother ; and she escaped frequently to her 
 aunt Sybilla, by whom she was taken about on visits. 
 
 " I have come to dine with you, Aunt Sybilla." 
 
 " Surely, my love. I wished to persuade your mother to 
 come also." 
 
 " You could not do that ! This is one of mamma's self- 
 imposed fasts. Aunt Joan. You know what a devote she 
 has become." 
 
 "But that is what you ought not to say, Mary," ad- 
 monished Joan, who by no means always approved of Miss 
 Mary. " I fear you try your mamma." 
 
 " Mamma tries me," corrected the young lady. " Yon 
 don't know what it is, Aunt Joan, or how fearfully dull the 
 life I have to lead. I have no companion, not a soul to 
 speak to but Aunt Sybilla. I am not sure but it would be 
 best to run away." 
 
 " Where should you run to ? " grimly asked Joan. 
 
 " Anywhere. I shall run away too — unless Rupert speedily 
 comes home." 
 
 " What news have' you from Rupert ? " questioned Joan 
 of the lady. " Is he still abroad ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Sybilla with a suppressed sigh. " The 
 last letter I had from him was dated Vienna. But, Joan, 
 you had better prepare for dinner." 
 
 The young Lord of Pomeroy had been away from home 
 for six years now, on and off: paying only flying visits to 
 it occasionally. At first, in pursuance of his college 
 education; later, for his own i)leasure. When he became 
 of age he stayed for a month or two in London, was presented 
 at Court, and made acquaintance with people of his own 
 rank, old friends of the Pomeroys. Afterwards he had 
 gone abroad on a visit to his uncle Leolin and Lady Anna : 
 and he was abroad stilh 
 
AFTER LONG YEAHS. 
 
 393 
 
 ' Sybilla had expected him back long ago. On the return 
 of each Christmas-tide, she had thought that he would cer- 
 tainly spend it with her : and she found herself mistaken. 
 Rupert wrote frequently, most affectionate letters, in nearly 
 all of which he spoke of coming home. But he did not come. 
 The lady felt aggrieved, Mary angry; and Mrs. Pomeroy 
 was uneasy lest the golden dreams, which she still cherished 
 for her daughter, should be imperilled. 
 
 " Mary is wilful as ever, I find," observed Joan the next 
 day, when speaking with Mrs. Pomeroy. 
 
 " She is more so," sighed Mrs. Pomeroy. " I know not 
 what to do with her; I am perpetually haunted by fears 
 that she will outrage custom and propriety by some in- 
 tolerable act. She will gallop off to the convent alone, 
 "without even a groom behind her, and gallop back again 
 after dark. Sister Mildred — now the Lady Abbess, as no 
 doubt you have heard — is perfectly scandalized ; but all she 
 can say to Mary makes no impression upon her." 
 
 " Mary complains that she is dull here," observed Joan. 
 
 " She is so. How can I help that ? Her aunt takes her 
 out, but she does not visit very much during this absence of 
 Rupert's — an absence which appears to me, Joan, curiously 
 prolonged. I can see that Mary resents it in her heart ; it 
 makes her more restless than she would otherwise be." 
 
 "Mary always seemed to think the world was made for 
 her own gratification. Why should she allow Rupert's 
 movements to trouble her ? " 
 
 " Why should she not ? " retorted Mrs. Pomeroy, but her 
 low voice was not raised or her subdued manner rufiled. 
 " She is to be his wife, I suppose." 
 
 " Are you cherishing that idea ? " 
 
 "Certainly. Have you anything to urge against it, 
 Joan?" 
 
 " I have not. I should like to see her, poor Guy's child, 
 Lady of Pomeroy. A dispensation would have to be sought, 
 I suppose ; they are cousins " 
 
 " That is easily obtained." 
 
 " But," continued Joan, unmindful of the interruption, " I 
 cannot help remembering that another may object to it, 
 
394 
 
 .POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 whose will in the matter is of more consequence than mine 
 — Eupert himself. When yonng men go out into the world, 
 they sometimes forget home ties." 
 
 The very thought that was beginning to render Mrs. 
 Pomeroy uneasy. " It has occurred to me lately that I 
 might take a companion for Mary," she resumed, quitting 
 the subject : " a young gentlewoman of her own age, who 
 would share her pursuits. I feel almost sure it would 
 answer. What do you think of it ? I wish I knew where 
 to look* for one who would be in every way eligible." 
 
 A companion— a young gentlewoman of Mary's own age. 
 Over Joan's mind came rushing the image of Annaline 
 Hetley. She might serve both the girls by bringing her to 
 the abbey. 
 
 " I know of one," she answered, rather impulsively, " and 
 I do think that it would be a good thing for Mary. Yes : 
 if you approve, Mrs. Pomeroy, we will write for her to-day." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Naomi's revelation. 
 
 The two young ladies stood gazing at each other. Mary, 
 all impulse, had eagerly adopted the idea presented to her 
 of a companion; and Annaline Hetley had come down 
 without delay. The young stranger stood before Mrs. 
 Pomeroy, her sweet face blushing. 
 
 " I shall like you very much," cried Mary, in her impul- 
 sive way. " Aunt Joan said you were pretty and nice ; but 
 I did not picture you so pretty and nice as this. Will you 
 stay v/ith me always ? " 
 
 " Yes — if you wish it— if you can let me be of use to 
 you," answered Annaline, grateful almost to tears at the 
 warmth of her welcome. 
 
 Impulsive, warm-hearted, proud, self-asserting, generous : 
 Mary had all these and other contradictory qualities. On 
 
NAOMI'S REVELATION. 
 
 395 
 
 this, the first day of Annaline's arrival, she could not make 
 enough of her. They played duets together, they sat side 
 by side at dinner, they wandered in the garden in the even- 
 ing sunset, they talked of their past experiences: Mary 
 freely, Annaline as far as she dared, for she did not yet feel 
 at home at Pomeroy. Annaline's past appeared to have lain 
 in close study, in useful sewing, in helping her mother with 
 the younger children, in patiently sitting by any one's side 
 who was ill. Mary's experiences seemed to lie in exercising 
 her own will and pleasure, in having swayed the world 
 around her; in small power of all kinds, in revelling in 
 indulgence. 
 
 " But you could not have quite your own way in the 
 convent," thoughtfully observed Annaline, as they resumed 
 the conversation the following day. 
 
 " I had it very much — more than the other girls would 
 have thought of hoping for," said Mary. And she was 
 right. The convent had begun by petting, loving, and 
 indulging the self-willed little girl, and the convent found 
 it had to continue to do it. The Pomeroys were the chief 
 patrons and benefactors of the convent, and this pretty 
 plaything was the child of one of the lords. 
 
 " You were there eight years, only coming to the abbey 
 for Sundays and sometimes for the holidays," repeated 
 Annaline. " It must have become like a home to you. 
 Were you not sorry to leave it ? " 
 
 " I never should have left it but that I am to be Lady of 
 Pomeroy," said Mary. 
 
 The colour suddenly rose and fell on Annaline's trans- 
 parent cheeks. Some emotion stirred her. Mary went on, 
 not having observed it. 
 
 " When the time came for me to leave the convent, and I 
 found how much it would cost me, and saw how truly happy 
 I had been there, I hesitated. I think I was the best part 
 of an hour making up my mind whether I should remain, or 
 not. But, though it cost me something to give it up, it 
 would have cost me more to give up Rupert Pomeroj^ As 
 his wife, you know, I shall rule the world : as much of it as 
 lies around us." 
 
396 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY. 
 
 " Yes," replied Annaline, in faint tones, feeling that a 
 reply was expected from her. 
 
 " I will drive you to the convent this afternoon," added 
 Mary. " Grandmamma will think I should take you first 
 of all to her ; but she must wait. We shall have to be back 
 in time for dinner at seven. We dine with Aunt Sybilla, 
 you know. I think she invited us because it is one of 
 mamma's fast days." 
 
 Accordingly, in the afternoon, the young ladies started 
 for the convent in Mary's pony-carriage. They were back 
 about six, and hastened to dress. Both came down in white 
 silk. Mary's was new and costly ; Annaline's a turned gown 
 that had been given her by Lady Anna : but it looked fresh 
 and dainty, and the girls themselves were beautiful. 
 
 " How lovely you look ! " said Mary, regarding her 
 critically. " You shall be my best friend always, Annaline : 
 my sister." 
 
 Passing through the cloisters, they gained the archway 
 and entered the fine old hall. Very much to Mary's surprise 
 there stood in the liall the Lady of Pomeroy, Joan by her 
 side, and behind them a formidable array of servants ; all 
 wearing an aspect of expectation. 
 
 " What does it mean ? " cried Mary. " Are you assembled 
 here to welcome ws. Aunt Sybilla ? Very attentive of you, 
 I must say." 
 
 " Hush, Mary ; it is Kupert that we are about to welcome. 
 His carriage is now coming up the sweep. Listen ! " 
 
 It was oven so. After his long absence, Rupert was 
 returning with no more notice than this. Half-an-hour ago 
 a messenger had arrived from Owlstone to say that he was 
 on his way. 
 
 The carriage thundered in at the gateway. Cox, the 
 custodian and chief retainer of the abbey, threw wide the 
 entrance, and the next moment Rupert had sprung out and 
 stood before them. Right noble looked he ; stately as any 
 Lord of Pomeroy that ever preceded him ; with the high, 
 finely-carved features of his ancestors, with his own wonder- 
 ful violet eyes and their sweet expression. 
 
 He turned to his mother first ; then to his aunt Joan, 
 
NAOMI'S REVELATION. 
 
 397 
 
 Then, half-dazzled by the sea of faces, he saw Mary, and 
 was advancing to her, when his eye suddenly caught the 
 blushing face of Annaline Hetley. 
 
 As if some joyous sight had unexpectedly opened upon 
 him, Kupert turned to her, neglecting Mary, his countenance 
 overspread with a sudden radiance, his hands outstretched. 
 He took both her hands in his, and spoke in a soft glad 
 whisper. 
 
 " Annaline ! I did not expect to see you here. This is 
 indeed a surprise." 
 
 Her own face had turned white as a lily. She withdrew 
 her hands from his, shrinking from the notice they were 
 attracting, and fell into the background. Kupert appeared 
 to recollect himself, and looked round at others. 
 
 " You have forgotten me ! " 
 
 The words, spoken in haughty tones of pain, came from 
 Mary Pomeroy. Kupert gazed at her for half a second, and 
 then took her hands as he had taken Annaline's. 
 
 "Is it really you, Mary! With so many dear faces of 
 welcome, I feel bewildered." 
 
 The servants came next ; and then Kupert conducted his 
 mother upstairs. Later they came down again to the 
 banquet. A grand banquet to-night, held in the state 
 banqueting-hall, hastily made in honour of his arrival. 
 Father Andrew, jovial as ever in his increasing years, said 
 grace, but Mrs. Pomeroy declined to appear. She never 
 allowed any pleasure, no matter what the temptation, to 
 interfere with these, her days of penance. 
 
 " You have come to remain ? " asked Father Andrew of 
 the lord. 
 
 " T hoj)e so. For good." 
 
 " That's well. The lady has missed you sadly." 
 
 " I am sure she has," replied Rupert, with a loving glance 
 at his mother. " But," he added, as if in apology, " it was 
 better to get all my rovings over, than to come back un- 
 satisfied. I shall not care to leave home again." 
 
 " I retract the words I spoke to you. And I am ashamed 
 for having been beguiled into speaking them to one so 
 
398 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 deceitful. I would rather make a friend of a serpent than 
 of you ! " 
 
 With all the repelling scorn that the Pomeroys could put 
 on at will, stood Mary Pomeroy as she spoke the above to 
 Aunaline. It was the morning of the day following Eupert's 
 arrival, and Annaline was seated quietly in the red-room, 
 copying music, when Mary Pomeroy entered, and began thus 
 to reproach her. 
 
 " Indeed, I am not deceitful," pleaded Annaline, tears of 
 dismay filling her eyes as she rose from her seat. " I try 
 to be true always." 
 
 "Very true^ was it not, to pretend you did not know 
 Eupert Pomeroy," rejoined Mary, " when you and he met 
 each other yesterday as if you were on terms of intimacy ! 
 If there be one vice we Pomeroys despise above all other 
 vices, it is deceit." 
 
 " Oh, pray forgive me ! — pray remember ! " shivered 
 Annaline. " I pretended nothing. I said nothing. I never 
 mentioned Eupert Pomeroy." 
 
 " I mentioned him," flashed Mary. " I spoke of him a 
 hundred times yesterday, and you did not respond. You 
 appeared not to know him ; tacitly allowed me to think that 
 he was a stranger to you. If you do not call that deceit, 
 what do you call it ? Pray, when and where did you meet 
 Eupert Pomeroy ? " 
 
 "Last year, at Leolin Pomeroy's," explained Annaline, 
 " Lady Anna invited me to Vienna, and I was staying with 
 them when he came there. Afterwards, when I was at 
 home again, he came to Florence." 
 
 " Did he remain long ? " 
 
 " Yes, for he fell into some trouble, and " 
 
 Mary's dark grey eyes were shooting forth their anger. 
 
 " Fell into trouble ? How dare you presume to traduce 
 
 him ? " 
 
 " It is true," meekly urged Annaline. " It v/as not 
 wicked trouble, only political. Some friends of his were 
 staying in Florence, and he was drawn into it by them. 
 The authorities wanted to proceed against him : ]3apa had to 
 exercise all his diplomacy to prevent it. It took a great 
 
NAOMI'S REVELATION. 
 
 399 
 
 deal of time, and of money, too, to put it right : money of 
 Rupert's.'' 
 
 "And your people were intimate with him during the 
 process ? " 
 
 " Yes. For a fortnight of the time he was in our house. 
 Papa would not let him go out : he might have been taken. 
 That would have complicated the matter : perhaps have 
 taken it altogether out of papa's hands." 
 
 " I should like to hear what this great bug-bear was from 
 Eupert himself. And to you, I presume, was assigned the 
 task of entertaining him ? " 
 
 Not throughout the interview had so disagreeable a tone 
 been assumed by Mary as now. A swift look of pain, at 
 what it seemed to imply, swept over Annaline's face. 
 
 " It was mamma who entertained him, I suppose — if he 
 required special entertainment. I was not at home." 
 
 « Oh ! " 
 
 " Our house at Florence is small. To accommodate 
 Eupert Pomeroy, I and Mary had to give up our room : so 
 we went for those two weeks to visit some friends who live 
 at Leghorn." 
 
 "All the same, you have been well acquainted with 
 Eupert Pomeroy. And you could come here to his home, to 
 his own family, and not acknowledge it. Very honourable 
 conduct, indeed. Miss Hetley." 
 
 Mary swept from the room. Annaline sighed as she sat 
 down to her copying again. Of what use to reiterate her 
 assertion that she had neither intended nor thought of 
 deceit ? In truth, she had been too timid, too shy to avow 
 acquaintanceship with the Lord of Pomeroy, unless special 
 opportunity had been afforded her for it : and that had not 
 occurred. Annaline had been kept in the background all 
 her life, and during her stay at Lady Essington's she had 
 been so put down, that she could not possibly assert herself. 
 Any information asked for she freely gave, but she could 
 offer none. 
 
 Her tears falling, her fingers busy with their task, she 
 was interrupted by Eupert Pomeroy, who had com© in to 
 pay a visit to the north wing. 
 
400 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Where are they all ? " he cried, gaily. 
 
 "Mrs. Pomeroy is not yet home from chapel, I think," 
 replied Annaline, surreptitiously wiping away the tears. 
 
 " What are you crying for, Annaline ? " he asked, coming 
 forward and seating himself at the opposite side of the 
 table. 
 
 " Not much," she answered. " It is nothing." 
 
 " Thinking of home, I suppose. How came you to leave 
 Berkeley Square so suddenly ? " 
 
 " I was not very happy there. And when Miss Pomeroy 
 wrote to say I might come here as companion, I was glad to 
 start at once." 
 
 " JSTo one is happy at Lady Essington's that I ever heard 
 of," remarked Rupert. " I was surprised, though, Annaline, 
 when I called there on Tuesday night and found you gone." 
 
 " Did they tell you I was here ? " 
 
 " No. Geraldine would not tell me anything — except that 
 you had been very wicked indeed in Berkeley Square, and 
 Aunt Joan had come to the rescue by sending you some- 
 where else. I thought the shortest way would be to come 
 down and ask Aunt Joan where the ' somewhere else ' was, 
 little thinking what my reward would be." 
 
 " Did you want to know ? " she asked, bending her face 
 over the copying. " Why should you ? " 
 
 " I did want to know. Though I don't think I can tell 
 you ' why ' to-day. About this wickedness of yours ? " added 
 Eupert, a smile lighting his eyes. " What was it ? Did 
 you steal one of Geraldine's ancient lovers from her ? It 
 must have been something of the kind, judging by her sharp 
 tones. Lady Essington had gone to bed with a cold, or I 
 should have got it all out of her." 
 
 Annaline was carefully scratching out a false note that 
 her pen had made, and did not answer. 
 
 " Had Essington anything to do with it ? Come, confess 
 to me 1 " 
 
 A startled glance went up from her eyes. His tone was 
 significant. Had Geraldine betrayed that ? 
 
 " Have you seen papa and mamma lately ? " she asked, 
 rather hurriedly. 
 
NAOMFS REVELATION. 
 
 401 
 
 " I saw them all, for I took Florence on my way home. 
 And I have some news for you." 
 ''Yes?" 
 
 " Mary is going to reward the constancy of that young 
 attache who has been dying for her so long." 
 
 " Oh 1 " exclaimed Annalinc. " You must mean Charles 
 Seymour. I am very glad ; Mary likes him very much." 
 
 " Seymour ? Yes, that's his name. A tall, thin, near- 
 sighted fellow." 
 
 " And papa has consented ? " 
 
 "So far as not to forbid it. He had had to live upon 
 bread-and-cheese himself, he told Seymour, through marry- 
 ing when he and his wife had nothing to marry upon : if he 
 and Mary chose to be so foolish as to do the same, they might 
 marry." 
 
 " Dear papa ! But Charles may get promotion." 
 
 " He may. I suppose Uncle Leolin will have to look 
 after him. What are you coj)ying so industriously ? " 
 
 " One of my manuscript songs. Miss Pomeroy wished 
 me to copy it for her." 
 
 " And now tell me what you are doing, here, at 
 Pomeroy." 
 
 " I came to be companion to Mary Pomeroy. If — if she 
 will only put up with my poor abilities, my wish to please 
 her, and let me see what she wants and how best to servo 
 her, I dare say I shall get on here. It is far j)leasanter 
 than being a governess." 
 
 " Does the alternative lie between the two ? " 
 
 " Yes, I fear so. I must be brave, and do my best. Wc 
 are so many at home, you know, and so much has to be spent 
 on the boys." 
 
 " I see," said he gravely ; nevertheless there was a smile 
 in his eyes. "And now, as you must have done enough 
 work for one morning, suppose you come with me into the 
 grounds. I should like to show you. all the dangerous 
 places : the rocks down which you might fall, and the lake 
 in which you might be drowned." 
 
 " I don't know whether I majj go," replied Annaline, 
 her heart beating with delight at the prospect. "Mary 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 2G 
 
402 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Pomeroy miglit not care to go — and I do not know where 
 she is." 
 
 And when Mrs. Pomeroy returned from her prolonged 
 devotions, she found Annaline copying still, and the Lord of 
 Pomeroy talking to her. 
 
 That Mary, the proud, exclusive girl, who believed that 
 all the world was made for her, including Eupert, should 
 have looked on with flashing eye when she saw another 
 made more of by him than she was, will readily be believed 
 and excused. Annaline Hetley was but her companion, 
 beneath her in position, a stranger at best : and for the Lord 
 of Pomeroy, at his home-coming, to turn from her to pay 
 his first devoirs to this girl, savoured to her mind almost of 
 gratuitous insult. No wonder Mary took it to heart, and 
 spoke out her scorn when she found the offender alone the 
 following morning. Smarting under the blow, nothing could 
 have then convinced her that Miss Hetley was not a perfect 
 embodiment of duplicity. 
 
 She had projected a charming ride the previous day, and 
 described to Annaline the horse she should ride and that 
 should be kept as her own exclusive property ; a horse as 
 pretty as the favourite one she herself rode. Of course that 
 was at an end now. So, upon bringing her reproaches to 
 Miss Hetley to a conclusion, Mary rode forth alone. In her 
 independent fashion, she said nothing to any one ; asked no 
 one's leave to go. 
 
 The first thing she noticed, when about to mount, was that 
 Jeffs, the lord's coachman, was there to attend her, taking 
 the place of Lamp, her own groom. It did not please her. 
 She liked Jeffs the better of the two, but she was in a mood 
 to show temper at anything and everything. 
 
 " Why are you here, Jefts ? Where's Lamp ? " 
 
 " Lamp is bad with rheumatism this morning. Miss Mary. 
 He couldn't venture to ride a horse. In fact, Miss Mary, 
 he's almost past his work," added Jeffs. 
 
 " Old ! I don't believe Lamp's as old as you are." 
 
 " He wants just two years of my age. Miss Mary : but he's 
 a good twenty years older in lack of strength. I be one of 
 the wi'ry ones ; shall last out brave to a hundred, I think 
 
NAOMI'S REVELATION. 
 
 403 
 
 sometimes. Lamp's all aches and pains ; been a martyr to 
 'em/' 
 
 That Lamp, with his " aches and pains/' could be of no 
 use to her this morning, appeared evident. Mary mounted 
 without saying more, and cantered off, followed by J effs. 
 
 She allowed her horse almost to take its OYm course. It 
 was a hot morning, but Mary heeded it not ; the slight breeze 
 fanned her face as she made for the common. Onwards 
 towards the pine forest now rode Mary. The cottage of 
 Naomi Eex came into view : an impulse took the young lady 
 that she would call and ask after her. Whence do they 
 arise, these impulses ? Sometimes they are weightily fraught, 
 either for good or for evil. 
 
 . Mary reined in her horse at the gate. Bridget heard, and 
 came out smiling. For some months past Naomi had been 
 ailing : no particular disorder, Mr. Norris said ; it was the 
 weakness of old age. She was between eighty and ninety. 
 Her mind was partially gone ; that is, she was childish at 
 times ; though clear enough at intervals. Naomi's little 
 maid, Ann, had grown up and gone the vv^ay of other young 
 women — had married : and Mrs. Pomeroy had spared Bridget 
 for a time to take care of Naomi. Or, rather, Mary had 
 done so : for she had proposed and settled it. 
 " How is she to-day, Bridget ? " 
 
 " Just the same, Miss Mary. I have but nov/ got her -up. 
 "Would you not like to come in and see her ? " 
 "I think I win. Jeffs." 
 
 " She has been rambling like anything this morning," 
 observed Bridget, as Jeffs took the horse, and Mary went 
 into the house. " Something's been troubling her about the 
 late lord, your poor papa. Miss Mary. I can't help fancying 
 that she has dreams at night, and gets moithered about them 
 the next day." 
 
 Naomi was sitting at the open window, her dim eyes 
 wandering out to the landscape beyond : the blue sea on tho 
 right, lying still and beautiful under the clear sky, the 
 convent chimneys rising to the left, the grand old abbey 
 in front. At the first moment the old woman recognized 
 Mary, and strove to rise to drop her humble curtsey; but 
 
404 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Mary gently puslied her into her seat again and sat down 
 by her. 
 
 " If s very good of our young lady, aunt, to come np and 
 see you this hot morning." 
 
 "Very good, very good," vaguely assented Naomi, her 
 eyes wandering again — and perhaps her mind also. Bridget, 
 having thus settled them, whisked out to hold a gossip with 
 Jeffs. It had been beyond Bridget's philosophy to forego 
 the opportunity. 
 
 "What do you see particularly in the abbey, Naomi?" 
 questioned Mary, perceiving that the old lady was regarding 
 it most attentively. 
 
 " I was looking for him to come safely back," answered 
 Naomi, in a whisper. " He rode forth just now. Hark ! 
 perhaps we shall hear his horse's hoofs." 
 
 " Who rode forth?" 
 
 " The lord." 
 
 Just at first, Mary thought she alluded to the present lord, 
 and had seen Eupert ride out. But the next moment's 
 reflection showed her the fallacy of that idea. Even quick 
 and young eyes could scarcely have discerned a horseman 
 at that distance. And she knew that Naomi had relapsed 
 into one of her mental wanderings. 
 
 " What good sight you must have, Naomi ! " she said, 
 laughing pleasantly " I should not know the lord from 
 here." 
 
 Naomi placed her finger upon Mary's sleeve, speaking 
 solemnly. It became evident that she thought she was 
 addressing Joan. 
 
 " He rode forth just now. Miss Joan ~, I saw him. He has 
 gone to ask that false woman to be his wife. He couldn't 
 go from his fate, you know, in the teeth of the Prediction. 
 She and her mother came here and took the White House of 
 you Pomeroys, and so — he met it. No ; Guy Pomeroy could 
 not escape from his fate." 
 
 "' It is pajm her poor old head is running upon, not 
 Eupert," thought Mary. 
 
 It is said, you know, Miss Joan, that he won her by a 
 lie; but we've never imderstood it, for all the lords of 
 
NAOMI'S REVELATION. 405 
 
 Porneroy that I have known have been true and honourable. 
 Any way, be it as it would, that was no just cause for her to 
 turn upon him and disgrace herself. It disgraced you all. 
 Miss Joan ; it entailed a life-long stain on her child, sweet 
 little Miss Mary, for the shame of her mother's folly must 
 cling to her as long as her life shall last." 
 
 What does she mean ! " thought Mary, her face growing 
 painfully warm. 
 
 And it led him to murder Eupert, you know. Miss Joan. 
 While v/e took it, all those years, to bo the lord that had 
 died, and mourned for him, and put up masses for his soul, 
 it was Eupert. The poor lord was an exile, wasting away 
 his days in pain and sorrow, never as much as once looking 
 on the face of his only child." 
 
 Wild though the words were, there seemed " method in 
 them." Some of the things she spoke of Mary knew to bo 
 facts her father's su]3posed death, for instance, when it had 
 been Eupert's. 
 
 " Naomi," she said, her voice more timid than it had ever 
 been, as if she dreaded the answer : why do you imagine 
 such things ? Mamma never did anything wrong " 
 
 Naomi looked puzzled — her thought was checked for the 
 moment. She put her hand to her brow and gazed full in 
 Mary's face. 
 
 "Your mamma, Miss Joan? — no, I don't think she did: 
 I never heard it. Any way, she was gone before Guy's wife 
 brought the disgrace on him. How dared she play off her 
 pranks with Mr Eupert to shame the lord before us all ? " 
 added the old woman with startling vehemence. " Was it 
 not honour enough for her that she had been made the lord's 
 wife ? Shouldn't that have contented her, without making 
 their name a by-word ?" 
 
 " What on earth are you chattering about. Aunt Naomi? " 
 broke in ^Bridget, who had returned to hear this treason, 
 and halted at the door in surprise and dismay. "Miss 
 Mary, don't heed her ; when she sets off on her rambles, she 
 invents the most outrageous stories it is possible to imagine." 
 
 " What wrong was it that mamma did, Bridget ? " 
 questioned Mary, standing up before the servant. 
 
406 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 "Wrong tliat she did? Well, now! — if ever I heard 
 the like of that ! " retorted Bridget, attempting to pass the 
 question off in a show of astonishment. But, to Mary's 
 watchful senses, the faint pause the woman had made, and 
 the evasive tone, were clearly perceptible. 
 
 " What was it, I ask you, Bridget ? " 
 ' " It was nothing, Miss Mary," spoke the woman, resolutely. 
 " There. I'm sure I don't know what aunt's head runs on 
 half her time. Only a day or two ago, she fancied Father 
 Andrew and Mr. Norris were up here card-playing; she 
 did, if you'll believe me." 
 
 Mary said no more. She bade Naomi good-morning, and 
 went out with Bridget, mounted her horse, and rode slowly 
 away. Bridget returned to read her aunt a lecture on the 
 expediency of not allowing her tongue to run on these past 
 matters before Miss Mary Pomeroy. " But, there, where's 
 the good of warning you," concluded Bridget, " when you've 
 no more sense left than a baby." 
 
 With all the latitude in the matter of ghost stories, the 
 indulgence of every foolish whim and wish, accorded to 
 Miss Mary Pomeroy during childhood, one disagreeable 
 remembrance had been sedulously kept from her — the folly 
 wrought by Guy's wife. Not a word had ever been breathed 
 in her ear that could tarnish her mother's fair fame. Had 
 any one but a poor imbecile woman, past the age of reason, 
 hinted at it now, Mary would have flo\fn into a passion of 
 indignation. She could not do this with poor Naomi, and 
 the calmness maintained had tended to keep her judgment 
 clear. But something in the very words had startled her ; 
 Bridget's manner also startled her ; and she rode away with 
 the dismayed conviction lying on her heart that there existed 
 some unhappy secret which had been kept from her. 
 
 "Jeffs," she said, speaking as she often did on impulse, 
 checking her horse for the old man to ride up, " did you 
 know the particulars of that — that trouble — years ago, 
 between papa and mamma, and my uncle Eupert ? " 
 
 "Woe's me, I did. Miss Mary. 'Twas known to all the 
 v/orld, worse luck." 
 
 " What was it about ? What was it ? " 
 
ANNALINE. 
 
 407 
 
 "Eh?" cried the old coachman, his caution coming back 
 to him all at once — for her calm address, and its mattor-of- 
 fact tone, had thrown him off his guard. " I can't tell you 
 about that. Miss Mary." 
 
 "Nonsense. How dare you say you can't tell me any- 
 thing, old Jeffs?" 
 
 Jeffs shook his old head. " There be some things we dare 
 not speak of even at your bidding, Miss Mary, and that's 
 one on 'em. If I was capable of talking to you of that, 
 I should expect the late lord, your good father, to come 
 back out of his grave and haunt me for it — ^just as we used 
 to fancy he came out of it to haunt us while he was alive." 
 
 Jeffs backed his horse, as much as to intimate that the 
 colloquy had better cease, and rode soberly home after his 
 young mistress, unconscious that his words had only 
 strengthened her impression that some dark secret had 
 been kept from her. Just as oil, poured upon a fire, serves 
 only to feed the flame. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ANNALINE. 
 
 A SOMEWHAT unpleasant atmosphere was setting in at 
 Pomeroy. It had its rise in the presence there of Annaline 
 Hetley. 
 
 That Eupert Pomeroy especially favoured her, was evident 
 to all, most evident to the jealous observation of Mary. 
 She had always been first and foremost with Eupert: she 
 expected to be so still : and to find him dividing his atten- 
 tions between her and this other pretty girl, mortified her 
 to the last degree. It was wrong in every way, she con- 
 sidered ; she, the future Lady of Pomeroy, ought not to be 
 subjected to a rival near the throne, although that rival 
 might be regarded by Eupert as nothing more than a 
 pastime. 
 
408 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy's eyes were also open to the danger. What 
 if it should imperil the marriage of her daughter with 
 Rupert ? Once let Eupert become enthralled by the charms 
 of this young girl, and trouble might arise. Mrs. Pomeroy 
 did not forget that since Rupert had arrived at years of 
 discretion, he had never once given the slightest indication 
 that he meant to carry out the childish talk of former days, 
 and make Mary his wife. Mary, in her straightforward way, 
 alluded to it without scruple, but Rupert himself had never 
 confirmed it by so much as a word. And to Mary, at any 
 rate, the fear that it could or would be imperilled, had not 
 yet presented itself; the feeling, stirring her heart, was 
 only that general dislike which one young girl experiences 
 Vv^hen seeing another usurping those favours which she has 
 hitherto looked upon as exclusively hers. 
 
 Another, who had maintained silence as to this future 
 prospect, was the Lady of Pomeroy. Now and again some 
 allusion had been made to it in her presence; a random 
 word dropped by Mary, or (a more designed allusion) by 
 her mother. The lady had never responded to it. Sybilla 
 was one of those sensible and good women who are content 
 to leave these weighty matters in the hands of God. If 
 these two young people chose each other, she would earnestly 
 give them her consent and blessing : but she would not do 
 anything to forward the scheme ; and she most certainly 
 did not and would not encourage the hopes that were con- 
 tinually entertained by Mrs. Pomeroy and her daughter. 
 This they could not fail to see and understand. The 
 decision would lie with Rupert, and with him alone. But 
 Mary never glanced at the possibility of his rejecting her. 
 
 She had grown uj) to the idea that she was to be the 
 Lady of Pomeroy ; that, as the daughter of Guy, she had in 
 some way a right to cherish the prospect as a certainty. 
 But she would never have worked or schemed for it, or 
 gained it by intrigue or coquetry ; she was of far too open 
 and honourable a nature for anything of the sort ; and when 
 she went to her mother and told her that she would not 
 have Annaline Hetley in the abbey any longer, she was not 
 prompted to the decision by any jealous fear, but simply by 
 
ANNALTNE. 
 
 409 
 
 the dislike she had taken to her. Thereupon, Mrs. Pomeroy, 
 by no means reluctantly, went in search of the young lady, 
 and intimated to her that her sojourn at the abbey must 
 terminate. Mary had changed her mind and no longer 
 wished for a companion. 
 
 Annaline Hetley sat in her bedroom, whose window looked 
 on to a pleasant prospect; for, in this north wing, the 
 chambers did not all face the quadrangle. The extensive 
 gardens lay underneath ; up the coast rose the rocks, with 
 the sea shimmering beyond them. 
 
 At last. A whole week had elapsed since Annaline had 
 anxiously looked for a letter, and here it was at last. Upon 
 Mrs. Pomeroy's telling her, civilly and courteously, that her 
 engagement must terminate, Annaline had written to the 
 only refuge she knew of in England — Lady Essington's 
 house in Berkeley Square. She wrote a very proper letter 
 to the countess, saying she was not needed at Pomeroy, and 
 asking to be allowed to return there for a very short time, 
 until she could hear of somewhere else to go to. 
 
 For six days Lady Essington did not answer. On the 
 seventh, this letter had come. It was written by Geraidine, 
 and was not an amiable one. They declined to receive 
 Annaline again. 
 
 " We have no room for you," wrote Geraidine ; " for we 
 have visitors. Miss Pomeroy took you (rather arbitrarily, 
 we thought) out of our hands, and to Joan Pomeroy you 
 must look in your present dilemma. Some friends started 
 for the Continent last week ; they would have taken charge 
 of you to Florence : that opportunity has been lost, and I 
 don't know when we shall hear of another. I must add that 
 we think it very strange you should have received this 
 summary dismissal from Mrs. Pomeroy. We hope that you 
 have not been flirting with Eupert Pomeroy as you did with 
 my brother." 
 
 With a swelling ol the heart, than which ^nothing could 
 be more painful, Annaline gazed at the concluding lines. 
 For once in her gentle life, she went into something like 
 anger, and tore the letter into fragments. 
 
410 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 In point of fact, far from " flirting " with Eupert Pomeroy, 
 Annaline did all she could to keep out of his way, just as 
 she had tried to keep out of Lord Essington's — but not from 
 the same motive. After Mary's attack upon her the morning 
 after Eupert's arrival, she, one of the most modest and right- 
 minded girls in existence, would not be likely to offend on 
 that score. 
 
 " But what is to be done ? " she presently asked herself, 
 recurring to the more practical part of Lady Geraldine's 
 letter. If I cannot go there, where am I to go ? " 
 
 Where indeed ? Joan Pomeroy was not at hand to be 
 appealed to, even had Annaline liked to appeal to her : 
 which she did not. Joan was little more than a stranger 
 to her, and Joan was at a distance, paying visits. The 
 Essingtons were the only friends she possessed in England. 
 She could not start for Florence alone ; and, if she could, 
 she did not possess money for the journey. 
 
 A tap at her room-door, and Mrs. Pomeroy came gliding 
 in. She was a sad-looking woman now, though her face 
 retained much of its former beauty ; and she wore sombre 
 robes of black silk, and close bonnets. Ah ! what a con- 
 trast ! — between what she was now, and the gay young lady 
 who had been Guy's wife. Mrs. Pomeroy might have sown 
 tares, but she had surely reaped them in all their bitterness. 
 Annaline rose as Mrs. Pomeroy advanced. 
 
 " You have read the letter I sent you in, Miss Hetley ? " 
 she began in her subdued voice. " I recognized Lady 
 Geraldine's crabbed handwriting : I have often seen it when 
 Lady Anna lived here. Does she appoint a day for your 
 departure ? " 
 
 What a question it was for the sensitive girl to have to 
 answer ! Her colour came and went ; her fingers inter- 
 twined themselves painfully. Mrs. Pomeroy, looking fixedly 
 at her in her apathetical way, wondered at the agitation. 
 
 " I don't know what to do," began Annaline, her voice 
 low with emotion. " Geraldine says — says they have visitors 
 and cannot make room for me. I am very sorry." 
 
 " Is there nowhere else you can go ? Have you no other 
 friends?" 
 
AMIDST THE ROSES. 
 
 411 
 
 '•None. The Essingtons are all the friends I have in 
 England. I wish I could relieve you of my presence ! I 
 wish I knew what I could do ! " 
 
 What with pain, uncertainty, and distress, she broke 
 down. Mrs. Pomeroy saw the dilemma she was in — that is, 
 that she herself was in, in having at present to keep Anna- 
 line. She rapidly ran through the situation in her mind, 
 and decided that it might have been worse. 
 
 For she had just learnt that Eupert Pomeroy was about 
 to quit the abbey that morning upon an indefinite visit. 
 Annaline could not do any harm during his absence. 
 
 " Never mind," she said, kindly enough. " It cannot be 
 helped. Visitors, have they ? — well, I suppose the visitors 
 will not remain long, and then you can go up to them. 
 Meanwhile, though Mary has changed her mind, you must 
 try and be happy with us as long as you remain at the 
 abbey." And Mrs. Pomeroy languidly left the room and 
 returned to the gloom and retirement of her own apartments, 
 leaving Annaline in a state of unhappiness difficult to be 
 described. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 AMIDST THE ROSES. 
 
 At the foot of the miniature rocks, the waving trees over- 
 head, the plash of the cascade murmuring in her ear, the 
 roses throwing out their perfume, sat Annaline Hetley, 
 sketching. An opposite opening afforded a lovely scene, 
 with the gleam of the sea in the distance. She had often 
 wished to sketch it, and had come out now to do so, believing 
 that she had chosen a moment when she should be free from 
 intruders. 
 
 Not so. Almost in a line with her, on the same rocks, 
 sat the Lord of Pomeroy, who had come up unexpectedly. 
 Leaning forward, his eyes fixed on Annaline, he was talking 
 
412 
 
 POMEEOY ABBEY, 
 
 earnestly. To look at the man and not admire his beauty 
 was impossible. He had the exquisite features of the 
 Pomeroys, the violet eyes of his mother ; and, though 
 slender, his form promised in time to be every whit as noble 
 as that of his grandfather, John Gaunt. 
 
 1 had no idea you were back again," observed Annaline, 
 whose fingers, as they held the pencil, were trembling 
 ominously for the sketch. 
 
 "I returned last night. Don't you think I have been 
 away long enough, Annaline ? " 
 
 " It is not for me to think at all about it." 
 
 " No ? Ten days since I left the abbey. I have hungered 
 for the sight of you." 
 
 " Yes," acquiesced Annaline, purposely misunderstanding 
 him. " We all long to see home again when we are away 
 from it." 
 
 " It was not of home that I spoke. Do you remember 
 those days at Vienna ? " he abruptly asked. 
 
 She remembered them all too well. Kupert watched the 
 bright colour go and come with the retrospect. 
 
 "What's this I hear about your wishing to leave the 
 abbey, Annaline ? '^ 
 
 She scarcely knew how to answer him. 
 
 " Is it your wish ? Or Mary's ? " 
 
 " It was only an experiment, their having me at all," she 
 said, in low tones. " And Mrs. Pomeroy finds it does not 
 answer. Mary does not care for a companion." 
 
 " Is it true that you are going back to Berkeley Square ? " 
 
 " No ; they cannot have me," she answered simply. 
 " Geraldine wrote and said so. I — I am in the greatest 
 dilemma," she continued, giving way to her agitation. 
 " Indeed, I would not intrude longer if I knew where to go. 
 If I could hear of any one going over to Florence, I " 
 
 The most unqualified surprise was shining forth from 
 Eupert's violet eyes. " But what is it ? " he interrupted : 
 " wliat do you mean ? " 
 
 She made no answer: Rupert did not understand. The 
 flush of emotion in her face was fading to paleness. 
 
 " Do you know, Annaline, that so far as I am concerned I 
 
AMIDST THE ROSES, 
 
 413 
 
 should like you to stay here always ? " he whispered, his voice 
 low and tender, his eyes gazing into hers. And surely, if 
 love ever sat in eyes, it sat now in his. 
 
 " But — you must not say such things to mo — you ought 
 not," she replied with emotion. And she was beginning to 
 put up her pencils to depart, when Mary Pomeroy appeared 
 on the scene : Mary, with flashing condemnation and haughty 
 brow. 
 
 "Are you Jiere^ Eupert! I have been looking for you 
 everywhere. Do you know how late it is ? We shall have 
 no walk." 
 
 " Do you care to walk this morning ? " he rejoined. " It 
 is too hot, Mary." 
 
 " Yes, because you have allowed the time to go on. Well, 
 we will sit here instead," conceded Mary : " it is pleasanter. 
 Are you getting on with your sketch. Miss Hetley ? Not 
 very quickly, I see." 
 
 Annaline settled to her work again : it might look more 
 pointed to go than to stay. She had not been out long, she 
 said in answer to Mary, And there they sat, inhaling the 
 scent of the roses that grew around. 
 
 Rupert talked and laughed ; Mary, recovering her good- 
 humour, did the same * she was even gracious to Miss Hetley ; 
 and so the minutes flew by on golden wings. 
 
 Presently Annaline quietly put up her sketching, and 
 went indoors, leaving Eupert and Mary to the brilliant 
 morning and the roses and the fair sea in the distance. 
 
 Nothing more had been heard from the Essingtons during 
 the ten days of Eupert's absence. During that absence her 
 stay at the abbey had been tolerated, but she felt that it 
 must now come to an end. Where was she to go ? What 
 was she to do ? 
 
 An idea had once or twice dawned upon her — that in her 
 extremity she should appeal to the convent, asking it to 
 afford her a home for the present, to be repaid by her services 
 as a teacher. She had not altogether cared to do this ; but 
 it appeared to be the one resource left to her. Opening her 
 little desk, she wrote a note to the Lady Abbess, formerly 
 Sister Mildred, and despatched it. 
 
414 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 It clianced tliat Kupert, tlie following morning, received 
 a letter from Frank Hetley. Annaline liad let lier mother 
 know that she was not required at Pomeroy ; but, not earing 
 to pain lier mother, who had innumerable troubles, and 
 seemed to have had nothing else all her life, she had made 
 light of the affair ; perhaps rather more so than she had 
 intended. It v/as that letter that had called forth this from 
 her father to Eupert Pomeroy. 
 
 A gossiping letter, speaking of general matters, of Florence, 
 and of the people Eupert knew there ; a letter that Eupert 
 had pleasure in reading. Towards the end these words 
 occurred : " Annaline tells her mother that her services are 
 not required at Pomeroy, and she is in doubt where to go : 
 so I conclude the Essingtons are away again. Will you 
 pardon my presuming upon your kindness, and put up with 
 her at the abbey a little longer — until we can make arrange- 
 ments for her to return to us. Present my apologies to your 
 mother for my thus venturing to trespass upon her hospi- 
 tality — but I cannot let the child travel alone. We heard 
 yesterday that Leolin Pomeroy had leave of absence, and 
 was going to England with his wife : they can bring Annaline 
 back with them." 
 
 It was apparent that Frank Hetley confused the house- 
 holds at Pomeroy : or he would not have asked the favour of 
 either Eupert or his mother, but of Mrs. Pomeroy. Letter 
 in hand, Eupert went into the breakfast-room. His mother 
 v/as already seated at the table, waiting for him. She was 
 reading her own letters. 
 
 " You are late," she said, as he kissed her. 
 
 " Nay, mother, I think it is you who are early," he fondly 
 answered. Few sons loved a mother as Eupert loved his. 
 
 " The people are all coming," she observed, as she began 
 to pour out the coffee. 
 
 " What people ? " 
 
 " To dinner. It will be the first state dinner I have given, 
 Eupert, since you went away. I wish you were married," 
 she added laughingly ; " your wife would take all this 
 trouble from me." 
 
 Eupert began his breakfast, forgetting the letter beside 
 
AMIDST THE ROSES. 
 
 415 
 
 him. As yet lie deemed the affair of very little consequence : 
 as a matter of course, Annaline ivould remain at the abbey. 
 
 " Who is your letter from ? " she asked presently. 
 
 " It is from Florence — from Mr. Hetley. You can read 
 it when you are disengaged. He s-eems to be under the 
 impression that Annaline is about to leave the abbey. I 
 don't know what she can have written to him.'' 
 
 Sybilla looked down at her plate. Mrs. Pomeroy has 
 been expecting her to leave," she observed. 
 
 " To leave some time, I suppose ; but there cannot be any 
 necessity for haste. Can there ? " he added, struck with the 
 look on his mother's face. 
 
 " Well, Eupert, I fancy they think the sooner she leaves, 
 the better : they want her away." 
 
 A look of surprise, mixed with a touch of anger, crossed 
 Rupert's face. But it vanished quickly. 
 
 Why should they want her away, mother ? " 
 
 If the Lady of Pomeroy knew why, she did not say. Pos- 
 sibly some suspicion of the true motive had been gathered 
 by her clear discernment. 
 
 " Do you know why ? " 
 
 "I believe neither Mrs. Pomeroy nor Mary likes her. 
 Especially Mary." 
 
 " Not like her ! " The suggestion aj^peared to Eupert so 
 impossible that he simj)ly stared at his mother. She smiled 
 slightly. 
 
 " Yesterday evening, when you were at Father Andrew's, 
 I paid a short visit to the north wing. Mrs. Pomeroy said 
 a little on the subject to me. Enough to show me that the 
 presence here of Miss Hetley was not desired. She virtually 
 received her dismissal a week or two ago, Eupert, and they 
 expect her to leave." 
 
 " I never heard of so arbitrary a thing," flashed Eupert. 
 "It is most unjustifiable. Then, mother, you will ask her 
 to come to us." 
 
 The Lady of Pomeroy slightly shook her head. It implied 
 a negative. 
 
 "Don't you like her?" questioned Eupert in a tone of 
 pain. 
 
416 
 
 POMEKOY ABBEY. 
 
 " I like her very mucli indeed. Better than any young 
 girl I ever met." 
 
 " Then why do you refuse " 
 
 " Listen, Eupert," she interrupted, her voice changing to 
 seriousness. " Nothing would give more pleasure to myself 
 personally than to invite this young girl. But I do not see 
 my way to doing so. It would be opposing Mrs. Pomeroy's 
 expressed wishes — in a marked degree, and I cannot bring 
 myself to venture on it. I have always, as you know, paid 
 especial deference to Mrs. Pomeroy's wishes ; I have always 
 treated her with the utmost respect, because I would not 
 have her see, or think, that I blamed her for the past. It 
 has been rather a difficult course to steer, but I have 
 managed it." 
 
 " I can understand all that. But — stay, will you first of 
 all read Mr. Hetley's letter ? " 
 
 Sybilla ran her eyes over it, and laid it down without 
 comment. Rupert resumed. 
 
 "You see — it is an obligation laid on us, mother. If 
 Mrs. Pomeroy dismisses Annaline, we must receive her. It 
 would have to be done were it even the case of a stranger ; 
 but the Hetleys are my friends — and you little know 
 what a true friend he once proved himself to me. One 
 might almost call them relatives, through Uncle Leolin's 
 wife." 
 
 The lady placed her hand on Eupert's shoulder. They 
 were standing side by side at the window now, for breakfast 
 was over. Abbeyland lay beneath them with its signs and 
 sounds of village life. Beyond rolled the blue sea, bearing 
 its freight of small vessels, the sun glancing upon their 
 white sails. 
 
 " And you have learned to like this young girl ? " she 
 said, in a whisper. " Have you any especial liking for her, 
 Eupert ? " 
 
 A moment's startled pause ; a rush of colour to his 
 usually pale face. 
 
 "Were T to tell you that I luul, would you object, 
 mother ? " 
 
 " No. " ■ 
 
RUPERT AND MARY. 
 
 417 
 
 A day or two went on. And then it became known tliat 
 Miss Hetley had applied to the convent to admit her as 
 teacher, that the convent had consented, and that she would 
 quit the abbey on the morrow to enter it. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 RUPERT AND MARY. 
 
 " I TELL you, Annaline, it cannot be allowed. How could 
 you possibly have entertained so absurd an idea ? " 
 
 Rupert Pomeroy spoke with a slightly raised tone and a 
 flash of his deep blue eyes. The news, just heard, had 
 aroused him strangely : on the impulse of the moment he 
 walked straight to the north wing to forbid the contemplated 
 step. There he found Annaline alone : Mrs. Pomeroy was 
 at chapel ; Mary seemed to be nowhere. 
 
 " What else could I do ? " pleaded Annaline. 
 
 " You must remain at the abbey." 
 
 "No; I cannot do that," she said, her cheek slightly 
 flushing in perplexity. " Mrs. Pomeroy expects me to leave. 
 It has been very good of her to allow me to stay so long." 
 
 " Has it ? " retorted Rupert. " Annaline, we are re- 
 sponsible for you, and I tell you that you will remain here 
 for the present." 
 
 " Indeed, I cannot," she urged, almost with tears. 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " I — the abbey does not want me. My staying here would 
 disturb its peace." 
 
 " The abbey does want you, and you do not disturb its 
 peace. What has come to you, Annaline ? " 
 
 " I shall be very happy at the convent. And mamma has 
 no objection to my teaching." 
 
 " Once for all, Annaline, it cannot be allowed. In this 
 abbey you shall remain until an escort to Florence can be 
 provided for you." 
 
 Pomeroy Abbey. 27 
 
418 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 "But 
 
 "My dear girl, this contention is cliild's play. Under- 
 stand one tiling: I am master here, and I will not allow 
 you to leave. And," he continued, his voice taking a more 
 tender tone, " if you only knew how welcome you are, how 
 doubly v/elcome to me, you would never think of leaving." 
 
 What Annaline would have rejoined, in her deep per- 
 plexity, she alone knew — for Mrs. Pomeroy glided into 
 the room, devotion book in hand. This soft, gliding step 
 and noiseless motion she had acquired of late years : it 
 seemed to be born of her intense sadness, her subdued spirit. 
 Annaline escaped. 
 
 " Mrs. Pomeroy, I have come round to see you," began 
 Eupert. " I heard only five minutes ago, that Miss Hetley 
 was entertaining some extraordinary intention of leaving 
 your roof for the convent." 
 
 " Yes," quietly replied Mrs. Pomeroy, untying her black 
 silk bonnet-strings. 
 
 " This cannot be allowed." 
 
 " By whom ? I think it rather a nice thing for her." 
 
 " By me : though I must ask you to pardon me for saying 
 so. Mr. Hetley " 
 
 " What is the dispute ? " gaily demanded Mary, interrupt- 
 ing them, her white morning dress and blue ribbons con- 
 trasting curiously with her mother's sombre garments. 
 " How stern you look, Eupert ! " 
 
 " Mr. Hetley has written to me," continued Eupert, un- 
 gallantly taking no notice of Mary, beyond a nod, " placing 
 his daughter under my mother's charge. He evidently 
 thinks, either that you are Lady of Pomeroy, or that it is 
 with my mother Annaline is staying. He has requested 
 that she may remain here until he can make arrangements 
 for her return to Italy. Mr. Hetley is my good friend, and 
 I must see that this is done." 
 
 " In that case her stay might be prolonged to an indefinite 
 period, and that, to me, would not be quite agreeable — I 
 have not been accustomed to visitors of late, you know," 
 objected Mrs. Pomeroy, whilst a frown gathered on Mary's 
 fair brow. " The convent is a suitable and ]3roper place for 
 
\ 
 
 RUPERT AND MARY. 
 
 419 
 
 her, and I am glad tlie Lady Abbess has been good enough 
 to admit her to it." 
 
 " It is not, under the circumstances. And, that she should 
 teach is neither proper nor suitable — nor is it necessary." 
 
 " We need not go into this," replied Mrs. Pomeroy, whose 
 subdued voice and unmoved exterior presented rather a 
 striking contrast to the feeling displayed by Eupert. "I 
 am sorry you think it necessary to interfere in this 
 trifling matter, and am certainly at a loss to know what 
 can render the convent unsuitable as a temporary residence : 
 it cannot be for long she will need to trouble it. Unless, 
 indeed " 
 
 " Long or short, Mr. Hetley's daughter cannot be allowed 
 to enter it," interposed Eupert, " or thus to quit the abbey. 
 My mother will no doubt receive her." 
 
 " Oh — if you make so great a point of it as that," resumed 
 Mrs. Pomeroy, after a momentary pause, given to revolving 
 matters as comprised in his concluding sentence : " if you 
 really consider that her father would object, it is my duty 
 to retain the young lady here. I did not suggest the con- 
 vent : I should not have thought of it ; the idea emanated 
 from herself, and I was surprised when she informed me of 
 what she had done. She shall remain with us." 
 
 " Thank you," said Eupert. " Then I will now write to 
 Mr. Hetley." 
 
 He was passing through the cloisters with a light step, 
 when he heard a lighter step hastening after him : that of 
 Mary Pomeroy. She put her arm within his in the free and 
 careless manner that she used to do when a child, and drew 
 him into the quadrangle. 
 
 " What is the matter with you, Eupert? " 
 
 " The matter ? " he answered in pleasant tones. 
 Nothing." 
 
 " But there is. I never saw any one so changed." 
 
 " If you mean changed from what I was years ago, no 
 doubt I am. It is only natural I should be. One cannot 
 always remain a boy." 
 
 " And not changed for the better," frankly went on Mary, 
 " Never, when you were a boy, would you have attempted to 
 
420 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 call in question mamma's private arrangements, as you did 
 this morning." 
 
 " I don't know that. If they jarred against the rules of 
 hospitality, I should have rebelled then as I rebel now. 
 Only, as a boy, I might have carried the trouble to my 
 mother, and left it with her. I feel bound to interfere in 
 this matter, reluctant though I am to do it : and I trust 
 your mamma's good sense will see the thing in the proper 
 light. Is it right, Mary, that Mr. Hetley's daughter should 
 be rudely sent from our walls for a caprice ? — and when he 
 has especially commended her to our care? You cannot 
 think so." 
 
 " A caprice ? " 
 
 "What else is it? You, as I am given to understand, 
 felt yourself in want of some young lady to reside here 
 as your friend and companion. Aunt Joan sent for Miss 
 Hetley. She came ; appeared to be just what pleased 
 you, and was warmly welcomed. But, ere she was well 
 installed, a caprice takes you the other way : you don't want 
 her, you are tired of her ; and you contrive to let this be so 
 apparent, that in her distress at intruding longer upon you, 
 she absolutely offers herself to the convent as a teacher. I 
 declare, Mary, I can scarcely control my anger when I think 
 of it." 
 
 " I don't see what business it is of yours." 
 
 " It is mine. I feel responsible for what takes place in 
 the abbey. Most certainly no rude discourtesy shall be 
 allowed within its walls, if I can prevent it." 
 
 " Annaline Hetley is nothing to you." 
 
 " She is this much to me — that her father is my most 
 esteemed and valued friend. Be very sure that for his sake 
 alone, if for no other, I shall protect his daughter." 
 
 Mary had released his arm, and seated herself on one of 
 the iron benches, several of which stood round the large 
 quadrangle. Rupert, standing by, took Mr. Hetley's letter 
 from his pocket, and ran his eyes over its contents. 
 
 " Would you like to see what he says, Mary ? " 
 
 "No, thank you," making her rejection very pointed. 
 " The Hetleys and their concerns are nothing to me." 
 
KUPERT AND MARY. 
 
 421 
 
 Eiipert slightly knitted his brow, but smoothed it instantly. 
 A smile lay in the depths of his eyes as he turned them full 
 on his cousin. 
 
 "It is a pity you should turn angry over this matter, 
 Mary. To me it seems the simplest in the world — but yet 
 one of undoubted obligation." 
 
 Mary Pomeroy threw up her head, something very like 
 defiance in her face. 
 
 "And so, you intend from henceforth to be lord and 
 master here ? " 
 
 " I did not say so." 
 
 "Superintend all the internal arrangements, and look 
 into all the domestic affairs." 
 
 " Hardly that," said Rupert, maintaining his gravity. 
 "My wife — when I have one —might think I was intrench- 
 ing on her department." 
 
 " Are we going to quarrel, Rupert ? " 
 
 " I hope not. It certainly will not be my fault if we do." 
 
 " Why do you provoke me ? " 
 
 " I do not vQsli to provoke you," he replied with earnest- 
 ness. " I think, Mary — pardon me for saying it —you are 
 this morning provoking yourself." 
 
 " We used to be the best of friends." 
 
 " And can be so still. Why not ? " 
 
 " You — know — what — I — was to be ! " she slowly resumed, 
 the colour deepening on her cheeks, her large grey eyes 
 strained up to his. 
 
 " What were you to be ? " returned Rupert, not suspecting 
 her drift. 
 
 " Lady of Pomeroy." 
 
 A rush of red dyed Rupert's face. He did not answer. 
 " You have promised it often enough. Do you re- 
 member ? " 
 
 " I remember w^e used to say so, Mary," he rejoined w-ith 
 an effort, his tone that of a man ill at ease ; " but we were 
 children then. You could only become lady here by — 
 by " 
 
 " I know," put in Mary, as if to relieve his hesitation. 
 There ensued a pause; no doubt one of discomfort to 
 
422 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 both. Perha^^s Mary expected him to speak ; icaiicd for it. 
 If so, she found herself disappointed. 
 
 " Don't you care for me, Rupert ? " she asked at length. 
 
 "Very much. I always shall care for you. We have 
 been like brother and sister, you know, Mary. Let us 
 continue to be so : it is my earnest wish." 
 
 " As brother and sister," she mechanically answered, dis- 
 playing no emotion whatever. 
 
 " And I am sure you have ruled here a great deal more 
 than I have," added Eupcrt, laughing. 
 
 " Yes : because I ruled you. I should like to rule here 
 still, Rupert," she continued — " if it might be. I have been 
 brought up to expect it." 
 
 " But, Mary, you know that we Pomeroys like to rule on 
 our own score," returned Rupert, laughing still, evidently 
 bent on showing that he wished to treat the conversation as 
 jest, rather than earnest. 
 
 " I see — yes, I see," emphatically remarked Mary, pain in 
 her tone and in her eyes. And she rose and disappeared within 
 doors, perhaps not observing that the Lady of Pomeroy had 
 come into the quadrangle and was approaching them. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked Sybilla, " AYhy does Mary 
 run away ? " 
 
 All the lightness had gone out of Rupert's face. He had 
 come to a sudden resolve — that of putting a question to his 
 mother: one he had long vnshed to ask. But he scarcely 
 knew how to frame it. 
 
 " Mother, I — I somehow picked up an impression when I 
 was a little lad — children invariably hear what is not meant 
 for them, you know — that — that " 
 
 "Yes, Rupert," she said, surprised at his hesitation. 
 " Go on." 
 
 " Well, it is better that I should speak out," he resumed, 
 as if to himself, " and set the matter at rest one way or the 
 other. I gathered when I was a boy, as I tell you, mother, 
 that when Uncle Guy lay dying in the keep, the future — 
 my future and Mary's — was alluded to between him and 
 you. Did you make a promise that Mary should become — 
 my wife ? " 
 
WITH MRS. WYLDE. 
 
 423 
 
 " Certainly not, Kiipert," was tlie prompt answer. " Poor 
 Guy naturally wished his daughter to become Lady of 
 Pomeroy, provided circumstances favoured it ivlien she and, 
 you came to rijper years: meaning if you fell in love with 
 each other, and wished it. I promised, should that prove 
 to be the case, to make no objection to your union. That 
 was the only promise, Eupert ; and that, you perceive, was 
 a conditional one." 
 
 Eupert drew a deep breath of relief. 
 
 "Then I am not bound by any one's promise to wed 
 Mary ? I am not bound in honour to remain single if I do 
 not choose to wed her ? " 
 
 "Assuredly not. How can you have imagined such a 
 thing ? Were you and Mary speaking of this ? " 
 
 " Slightly — just an allusion. Mary would like to be 
 Lady of Pomeroy." 
 
 " And you would not like it. Be at ease, Eupert : not a 
 shadow of obligation rests upon you." 
 
 "No," he said, in low tones. "I like Mary as a sister, 
 just as I used to like her ; but my love is not hers.'' 
 
 Sybilla smiled. The arch look in her face told Euj)ert 
 that she knew pretty surely where his love was given ; and 
 Eupert flushed to the roots of his hair. 
 
 " She is the sweetest girl in the world, mother : she will 
 be a loving and dutiful daughter to you," he whispered. 
 
 " So be it, Eupert. My blessing shall attend you both." 
 
 CHAPTEE VL 
 
 WITH MRS. WYLDE. 
 
 In her large and handsome bedroom at the White House, 
 lay Mrs. Wylde, a- dying. Not dying to-day, or expecting 
 to die to-morrow ; but slowly dying of an incurable com- 
 plaint that might be long yet in its progress. She knew 
 her fate ; had known it for some time now : knew that the 
 
424 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 fiat, which would transplant her from this world to a hotter, 
 had gone forth, and could neither he checked nor resisted. 
 
 The once stout woman had become thin almost as a 
 skeleton ; the comely face was pinched. Some days she 
 exchanged her bed for the sofa. Theresa, her former faithful 
 servant, had come back to nurse her. Mrs. Pomeroy, dutiful 
 now, whatever she had been in her thoughtless girlhood, as 
 anxiously affectionate as her cold and subdued nature allowed, 
 would have spared more to a mother than the services of a 
 faithful maid. 
 
 When attacked by sickness of this prolonged kind, know- 
 ing that death stands looming at the end of it, we have 
 leisure to think of our past life ; to perfect our repentance 
 for its many mistakes and sins : poor Mrs. Wylde seemed 
 to live in fruitless wishes that some of hers could be recalled. 
 
 " The one great mistake of my life, Alice, was that of 
 forcing you on Guy Pomeroy," she observed to her daughter 
 on the afternoon of the day spoken of in the last chapter : 
 for Mrs. Wylde was prone to enlarge on these past delin- 
 quencies, particularly after a visit from Father Andrew — 
 and the good priest had just gone out. " It brought nothing 
 but trouble in its train; trouble, and mortification, and 
 misery." 
 
 " How often have I begged you to remember, mamma, 
 that nothing can be more useless than to recall what is past 
 and over ! " remonstrated Mrs. Pomeroy. " It makes me 
 uncomfortable, and it must make you so." 
 
 Child, it does me good to recall it ; to express aloud my 
 bitter remorse. Heaven knows how sincere it is ; how 
 differently I would act were my time to come over again." 
 
 " Mamma, I came here to-day to speak of the present, not 
 of the past," said Mrs. Pomeroy. " I wanted to tell you 
 that I fear Mary's chance of being Lady of Pomeroy is in 
 peril. Rupert is taking a most extraordinary interest in 
 that young person, Annaline Hetley." 
 
 ^'Let him take it," said Mrs. Wylde. "Leave all to 
 Heaven." 
 
 But the latter recommendation fell rather too tamely on 
 Mrs. Pomeroy, considering her devotion. Ambition for her 
 
WITH MRS. WYLDE. 
 
 425 
 
 daughter was just as rife in lier heart as it had been in Mrs. 
 Wylde's heart in the days she was deploring, now long gone 
 by. In fact it was precisely the mother's case over again. 
 
 " Annaline Hetley had made an agreement with the con- 
 vent to take her," resumed Mrs. Pomeroy. " She was to 
 teach — and a very proper arrangement it would have been. 
 Eupert, however, has chosen to interfere — taking care to 
 intimate that his will in the abbey is law. I did not like 
 his tone when speaking of the girl ; it betrayed an unusual 
 interest in her. But that it might excite comment, I would 
 despatch her to Florence under a special escort." 
 
 Mrs. Wylde lifted her wasted hand in warning. " Don't. 
 Alice ; don't think of it. If there is anything between these 
 two young people it is not by separating them that you can 
 thwart it. They may be destined for one another by Heaven 
 — and then neither sea nor land will keep them asunder." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy felt annoyed. " Can you know what you 
 are saying, mamma ? They destined for one another ! It 
 would ill befit Eupert Pomeroy to wed a penniless girl; 
 little less than a sin." 
 
 Ah, my child, time was when I thought as you think — 
 that Heaven must look upon our dreams of ambition as we 
 look, and should be expected to forward them. But I have 
 lived to see the fallacy of that, to shrink from its error. 
 Leave Eupert Pomeroy and this young girl alone. Scheme 
 not against them. For my part I have never much thought 
 that Eupert would make Mary his wife. At the very best 
 I have said to myself perhaps he will do so. But I have 
 doubted. You know the Pomeroy boast, child — that the 
 wife of the lord must be sans peur et sans reproche. Eupert 
 might not deem that your daughter is so." 
 
 Mrs. Pomeroy said no more ; she perfectly understood, 
 and drew on her gloves to depart. Bending down to kiss 
 the poor white face that lay on the not whiter pillow, she 
 found herself detained by her mother's whisper. 
 
 " There is only one thing that will bring us peace when 
 we come to lie as I am lying, Alice : a clear conscience. Oh, 
 my dear, try and live so that it may be yours. Submit all 
 things to Heaven in simple trust, and let it guide you." 
 
426 
 
 POMEROY ABBPIY. 
 
 Lying witli her eyes closed, listening to tlie rumble of the 
 carriage wheels as they rolled away in the distance, Mrs. 
 Wylde crossed herself, folded her hands meekly on the 
 counterpane, and began an inward prayer. Tears were 
 slowly coursing down her wasted cheeks. 
 
 " Good-afternoon, grandmamma ! " interrupted Mary 
 Pomeroy, who had come up to one entrance of the White 
 House in time to see her mother drive away from another. 
 " What are you crying about ? " 
 
 " Not much, my dear : only my own thoughts. I cry 
 sometimes when I dwell on the past." 
 
 Mary took off her hat and sat down by Mrs. Wyldc. " I 
 fult dull at home, so walked up to see you, grandmamma. I 
 did not know mamma had been here." 
 
 " She did not stay long, dear. We got talking of a matter 
 on which we do not think quite alike. It was about you." 
 
 " About me ? About me and Eupert ? " continued Mary 
 with a subtle instinct. " What about us? " 
 
 Not for a minute or so did Mrs. Wylde answer. But she 
 saw no reason why she should not talk to Mary on this 
 subject : indeed, she thought it might be better to do so. 
 
 " Your mother says that the union projected between you 
 and Rupert in your childhood is being imperilled — and it 
 vexes her." 
 
 " Mamma says that, does she ? " quietly replied Mary. 
 "For all we know, grandmamma, Rupert has never meant 
 to carry it out." 
 
 " True. I have always had my doubts." 
 
 "Always? Why?" 
 
 " Because," said Mrs. Wylde, slowly, as if desirous to 
 -weigh her words, " because, I thought Rupert might discover 
 reason against it. A man judges differently from a boy, 
 Mary. Rupert is charming; one in a thousand. Never- 
 theless he has grown up to all the pride of the Pomeroys ; 
 nothing less could be expected ; and he may wish to take a 
 wife with no stain upon her. I have just said so to your 
 mother." 
 
 The girl drew up her head proudly. " What stain have 
 I about me, grandmamma ? " 
 
WITH MRS. WYLDE. 
 
 427 
 
 " In yourself and of yourself, none, my dear. Like Eupert, 
 you are as good as gold. The stain came from your 
 parents." 
 
 Mary Pomeroy's hands lay clasped upon her lap ; the 
 colour went and came in her fair young face. She was 
 of an intensely reflective nature, strong to resolve and 
 to achieve. That revelation made to her by Naomi Rex 
 in her second childishness, had scarcely left Mary's mind 
 since the hour it was s]3oken. By dint of questioning old 
 Jeffs, of remarks extracted from others, she had arrived at 
 the assurance that an unpleasant secret — a stain on her 
 father, or her mother, or both — existed. And she resolved 
 now to learn the truth. 
 
 " Grandmamma," she said quietly, placing her hand on 
 Mrs. Wylde's, as it lay outside the grey silk counterpane, 
 " I do not know all the particulars of that trouble. Will 
 you tell them to me ? " 
 
 " Do you know about it at all ? " 
 
 " Yes. It was something between papa and mamma and 
 Uncle Rupert. I know that much. It Avas a frightful 
 calamity : and it led to papa's death and to Uncle Rupert's 
 escape. That is what was thought at the time ; but it was 
 Uncle Rupert who died, and papa who escaped. I am a 
 woman now, and I ought to be made acquainted with all. 
 It is not right that what is known to the world should be 
 kej)t from me." 
 
 "Perhaps not, child — but I can hardly judge. I wish 
 Father Andrew was here." 
 
 " Don't you see, grandmamma, that this half knowledge is 
 tating away all my peace ? I am ever dwelling upon it ; 
 ever picturing it to myself as — probably — being worse than 
 it was. Better that I should hear the facts from you than 
 from a stranger ; and I must hear them some time. It is 
 my due : and my knowing them cannot make the past either 
 better or worse." 
 
 Without another word of dissent, won over completely by 
 the reasoning, Mrs. Wylde entered upon the history of the 
 past : she told it delicately, but without reservation. Mary 
 sat still as a statue, and listened. She heard all. Her 
 
428 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 mother had loved Eupert, but flirted with Guy, the heir. 
 Guy became lord, and won her with a lie— an old prediction 
 foretold it all. He represented Eupert as very unworthy. 
 Unworthy he might have been, on the whole, but he was not 
 so in that one matter : the lie was Guy's. Mrs. Wylde did 
 not spare herself in the recital : she had urged on the 
 marriage as eagerly as Guy ; Alice, too, dazzled with the 
 lord's rank and position, with the Pomeroy show and state, 
 was less averse to it than she might have been. They were 
 married, and were happy, and she, Mary, was born. Then 
 Eupert re-appeared upon the scene, and Guy's treachery 
 came out, and it turned his wife's heart against him. She 
 fell into the habit of secretly meeting Eupert ; in the walks : 
 ^in the keep : anywhere. They met for the last time in the 
 haunted room of the west tower. Guy found them there — 
 and, in his passion, or perhaps partly in the struggle between 
 the brothers, he killed Eupert. 
 
 " But — surely — my mother was incapable of real wrong- 
 doing ! " breathed Mary, from between her bloodless lips. 
 " She could not have been guilty of it ? " 
 
 "No, no, child, she was not. But, don't you perceive 
 how it was ? You know what the Pomeroys are. In their 
 pride — especially as regards their wives, for the Pomeroy 
 women have ever been honourable — they looked upon her 
 conduct, in permitting those meetings, as being just as bad 
 as guilt. At first, the truth was not known, for she — in her 
 own pride, I suppose — would deny nothing and confess 
 nothing: and people judged her as they pleased. The 
 worst feature in it all was her treachery to Guy, in becoming 
 a partisan with his brother against him. It was done in 
 the indulgence of her temper: nothing more. I cannot 
 excuse her, Mary. Though she was my daughter, I never 
 did that : and she knows it." 
 
 "Yes, I perceive," murmured Mary. "Papa was 
 treacherous first, out of love for her ; he won her by 
 treachery ; and mamma was treacherous later, out of anger. 
 And it ended in a dreadful tragedy that has entailed a last- 
 ing scandal on the Pomeroys, and a stain upon me. Grand- 
 mamma, I understand it all now." 
 
WITH MRS. WYLDE. 
 
 429 
 
 Mrs. Wylde lay with lier eyes shut, holding Mary's hand. 
 The girl had leisure to reflect in the silence. So long did 
 it last that one might have supposed Mrs. Wylde to be 
 asleep. Not so, however. She suddenly carried the young 
 hand to her lips and kissed it. 
 
 "And that is why Eupert does not consider me fitting 
 to be his wife ! " exclaimed Mary then, starting out of her 
 reverie. " Well, it is sufficient cause : I, a Pomeroy, 
 say it." 
 
 " I do not know whether Eupert does or does not think 
 so : the doubt has often crossed me, that's all. But oh, 
 child, believe me ! " added the invalid, earnestly, " I have 
 been taught by experience that those women are the happiest 
 who keep from marriage." < 
 As the nuns do," dreamily remarked Mary. 
 
 "Ay, as the nuns do. But I was not thinking of 
 nuns : rather of women who are in the world, but not of it, 
 who are not ensnared by its deceits. Such a woman, for 
 instance, as your aunt Joan. J oan had many offers ; I can 
 tell you that, Mary ; but she chose the safer path." 
 
 Mary made no comment. Her thoughtful eyes were fixed 
 on the blue sky through the open window, as if she might 
 read a solution of some doubt there. 
 
 " But these self-denying women have their reward. Look 
 at your aunt Joan. See how tranquil her days are ! It is 
 only other people's sorrows that trouble her ; she lives to 
 do what good she can for all, in her unobtrusive way. 
 Joan's fate is to be envied in comparison with that of many 
 married women. None, save themselves, know how great 
 their trials often are ; how solemn their responsibilities." 
 
 " But I am not like Aunt Joan," dissented Mary, in her 
 straightforwardness. " If I am in the world, as you have 
 just remarked, I must be of it. Do you understand, grand- 
 mamma ? " 
 
 " Quite, Mary." 
 
 "I could not live the self-denying life that Aunt Joan 
 lives. Give me the world, and all that is in it: wealth, 
 power, gaiety, social ties, and — yes — marriage ; for why 
 should I be left when other girls are chosen ? or else take 
 
430 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 me quite out of it, and give me tlie secluded life of the nun, 
 witli its tranquillity. It must be tlie one or the other for 
 me^ grandmamma." 
 
 " Very likely, child," carelessly replied Mrs. Wylde, whose 
 strength was completely worn out ; and she lay back and 
 closed her eyes. Mary felt glad of the silence : her mind 
 was preoccupied. Theresa brought in tea, and disturbed 
 them. 
 
 Tlie sun was drawing towards the west when Mary walked 
 home, deep in thought, and sat down in her chamber. It 
 was not yet quite time to dress. Her eyes fell upon a 
 group of people in the garden below : her mother, the Lady 
 of Pomeroy, and — yes — Joan. Joan must have returned 
 this afternoon, then. At a little distance stood Annaline 
 and Eupert. Eupert's head was bent as if his tones were 
 whispered ; her cheeks mantled with blushes as she listened, 
 her eyes were cast down. 
 
 " I see it all," murmured Mary, her heart aching with its 
 pain ; " in this one day I have lived years. He will chose 
 lier^ and make her his wife ; and what is left for me ? " 
 
 They were strolling towards the lake now. Mary's jealous 
 eyes followed them, and took in all the features of the scene. 
 The lowering sun flashed upon the water ; the white swans 
 sailed majestically about the green island that rose in the 
 lake. Eupert seemed to be pointing out some feature of 
 the landscape to her. 
 
 " Does he love her ? " Mary went on, after a pause. " Or 
 is he merely choosing her because he must needs marry as 
 his forefathers have done ? Would he have chosen me but 
 for — that which I have heard to-day ? Yes, I think so. He 
 has learnt all about the great trouble, and deems me un- 
 worthy to be his wife." 
 
 Never, perhaps, during her whole life had such an ex- 
 pression of pain crossed Mary Pomeroy's face as sat on it 
 now. Her eyes w^ere closed, her hands pressed her temples. 
 
 " Yes," she said, looking up, as if deciding some mental 
 debate, " I will go back to the convent and take the veil. 
 Nothing else remains for me. And I shall be happy there 
 — more so, perhaps, than I should be in the bustling world. 
 
WITH MRS. WYLDE. 
 
 431 
 
 How liapj)y I was wlien I lived at the convent ! liow lotli to 
 quit it. There will be opposition here, no douLt ; but I 
 shall have my owq way." 
 
 They were coming back now, the lovers ; the ladies had 
 apparently called to them: Kupert bending towards her, 
 her conscious face half turned from his. 
 
 " Yes, yes, all is clear to me," concluded Mary Pomeroy, 
 in the tone of one whose resolution is taken. " It is neither 
 Kupert's fault nor mine. Children must suffer for the sin 
 of their parents : that is one of God's primary laws : I must 
 suffer for the sin of mine. I will devote myself to God, and 
 strive to follow Him in all ways, to live only for Him — and, 
 perhaps, that may in some measure atone for their sin." 
 
 Rupert Pomeroy gave a state dinner that evening; his 
 first ; and the loiterers by the lake had been called to, with 
 an intimation that it was time to dress. But, no sooner 
 were the three ladies beyond the door of the garden, than 
 Rupert suddenly put Annaline's arm within his own and 
 marched her into the shady lime avenue. She timidly 
 resisted, saying she must not stay. All the same to Rupert. 
 
 " I have wanted to talk to you since the morning, Anna- 
 line, and have found no opportunity. You know, I presume, 
 that that convent scheme of yours is at an end ; that you 
 remain for the present as Mrs. Pomeroy's guest ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Pomeroy told me," was the reply : " it is very 
 good of her. But oh, I wish you had allowed me to go. I 
 am an intruder here ; I do not like to remain." 
 
 Rupert smiled. The lime trees threw out a delicious 
 scent : their leaves were of a more tender green than they 
 would take later in the year ; a nightingale suddenly sang 
 out in one of the boughs. 
 
 " Do you remember, Annaline, one evening that you and 
 I were together in the gardens at Florence and contrived to 
 lose ourselves to the rest of our party ? " he asked. " We 
 were talking, amongst other subjects, of the song of the 
 nightingale : you had never heard it, and I told you it was 
 often heard at Pomeroy." 
 
 " I remember," she answered,, in low tones. 
 
432 • POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Do you like the song — now that you hear it ? " 
 
 " I could listen to it for ever." 
 
 " And yet you want to run away from it." 
 
 " Not from that. I wish to run away because I am not 
 wanted ; I am only an interloper here." 
 
 " I told you recently that I was lord and master here, and 
 my will was law," continued Kupert. " What if I say that 
 you must not run away at all? — must remain here for 
 life?" 
 
 Annaline trembled and would have turned, " No," she 
 answered, " you must not say that. Pray, pray do not ! " 
 
 " But I do say it," repeated Rupert, his voice changing to 
 the deepest tenderness. " You know, you must know, how 
 I have loved you, Annaline. I believe that we have loved 
 each other." 
 
 She burst into tears, greatly agitated. " Rupert, it will 
 never do ; pray do not think of it. What would your 
 mother say if she heard you ? " 
 
 " My mother says she wants to give up her rule here to 
 another. She says that she would rather welcome Annaline 
 Hetley to her heart than any other girl in the wide world." 
 
 A light of joyful surprise shone in her glorious brown 
 eyes, lifted for a moment to Rupert's ; a brighter blush dyed 
 her cheeks. 
 
 " Did she really say that ? " she whispered. " But " — the 
 blush fading — " you forget Mary. She says she is to be 
 Lady of Pomeroy." 
 
 " Mary is fond of joking," said Rupert, lightly. " Mary 
 does not care for me ; nor do I for her. We are only 
 cousins." 
 
 " But Mary does care for you ? " 
 
 " Not in that way. Believe that, Annaline." 
 
 " Will you let me go in, Rupert ? I have to dress ? " 
 I cannot help that. You have not given me an answer. 
 My darling, I wait for it. Will you be my wife ? " 
 
 She turned her face upon the arm that sheltered her, and 
 gently wept out her emotion. Rupert needed no assurance in 
 words: he saw, perhaps he had long seen, how she loved 
 him. 
 
RIVALRY. 
 
 433 
 
 " Will you grant me one little boon, Rupert ? " she 
 prayed in the midst of his caresses and her happy tears. 
 " Do not make it known whilst I remain here. It might 
 annoy Mrs. Pomeroy. I fear she does not like me." 
 
 "I would rather it were not known just now, except to 
 my mother and yours," avowed Rupert, thinking of Mary 
 and her wasted hopes. " So be it, Annaline." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 RIVALilY, 
 
 In the banquet-hall sat a goodly company. Some such a 
 com^^any as you saw in it many years before, reader, only 
 that that assembly was more numerous than this. Guy, 
 Lord of Pomeroy, had sat at the table with his vain and 
 pretty wife ; both of them unconscious of the terrible 
 tragedy that was so soon to fall. Another lord headed the 
 table now, his mother, Sybilla, facing him. The illuminated 
 windows were beautiful as of yore ; the wax-lights gleamed 
 on the silver, on the rare flowers that decked the table, on 
 the dresses of the ladies and their sjjarkling jewels. To 
 the right of Rupert sat a stately marchioness ; to the left, 
 the dowager-mother of the Earl Sones, who had been so 
 great a scapegrace in his young days, when he was Viscount 
 Winchester. Very near to Rupert was Annaline Hetley; 
 her sweet face all too lovely in its consciousness of what 
 the afternoon had brought forth ; her white muslin dress 
 pure and simple as herself; much too simple for this occa- 
 sion. Mary Pomeroy, little less beautiful than her successful 
 rival, but with a thoughtful sadness in her deep grey eyes, 
 was attired in costly white silk and lace. Joan wore satin 
 of her favourite purple ; Mrs. Pomeroy's sombre black was 
 relieved this evening with white lace ; and Sybilla, at whose 
 side sat Father Andrew, rubicund and jolly, wore a robe of 
 ruby velvet. 
 
 Pomeroy Abbej. 2S 
 
434 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 In due time the dinner came to an end, and Eupert bowed 
 the ladies from the door as they swept away. 
 
 " I did not think it would be like this," whispered Anna- 
 lino to him late in the evening, when he found her in a 
 remote room. 
 
 " Like what?" 
 
 " All this grandeur. I never saw such beautiful dresses. 
 Will it be often so at Pomeroy ? " 
 
 "Not often. Generally we can be at our ease. I can 
 wear a loose coat, and you last year's morning-gown." 
 
 " You are laughing, Kupert. I fear you feel ashamed of 
 my gown to-night." 
 
 " Very much indeed," gravely assented Eupert. 
 
 " I do. It has made me feel uncomfortable. Not for 
 myself," she added, raising her ingenuous eyes to his. " I 
 have not been used to anything better. But " 
 
 " But what ? " 
 
 She did not continue. She could not say that it was in 
 his eyes she wished to look well, not so very different from 
 others. As she stood in silence, her face held down, her 
 fingers opening and shutting her simple fan, and Eupert 
 was gazing at her with a strange tenderness, Mary came 
 up. Annaline looked up with a start. 
 
 " Did you want me ? " she hurriedly asked. 
 
 " I do not want you ; " and, for the life of her, Mary could 
 not keep all contempt out of her tone, for her heart was sore. 
 " Aunt Joan has been looking for you." 
 
 Away went Annaline. Mary, toying with her own costly 
 fiin, turned to Eupert. 
 
 " Tell me, Eupert. Are you going to make her Lady of 
 Pomeroy ? " 
 
 Eupert hesitated. It v/as an awkward question. 
 
 " Do not think I wish to annoy you ; to recall what might 
 /lave been," she hastily resumed, her eyes flashing. "I 
 speak to you only as a friend, a sister — and the truth is 
 always best." 
 
 " Mary, you know how I esteem you," he answered, meet- 
 ing her words frankly. "I love you as truly as brother 
 ever loved sister But — you must be aware that even ha(J 
 
RIVALRY. 
 
 435 
 
 other circumstances beon favourable, we should not suit one 
 another." 
 
 " Be honest " flashed Mary. " Tell the truth. It is not 
 for that you reject me : but for that — that trouble connected 
 with my father and mother ; and which has left its stain 
 upon me." 
 
 • " No ! On my sacred word of honour, it is not ! " he 
 replied, gathering some of her OAvn excitement. Believe 
 me, that never did, or could weigh with me." 
 
 " Then," she slowly said, all the pride of her race rising 
 to her countenance, " it is the girl herself who has cast her 
 coils around you. Rupert, I am not thinking of myself ; 
 my lot in life is now chosen. It is of you I am thinking ; 
 for you I am pained." 
 
 " I do not understand, Mary." 
 . " That you should for a moment think to throw yourself 
 away ux)on this girl. A mesalliance— — " 
 
 " That will do, Mary. The Hetleys are not inferior to 
 ourselves ; Annaline's training and education have been 
 equal to your own : are you wilfully blind, that you do not 
 see it ? Let the topic cease. Shall I take you back again ? " 
 —offering his arm. But she drew a step away, facing him 
 as before, and talking rapidly. 
 
 " Do you consider what her father is — and has been ? A 
 man always in debt — who would hardly have existed at all 
 but for the generosity of Lord Essington ; who was saved 
 from coming quite to grief by Uncle Leolin's getting him 
 that post at Florence. As mamma has remarked, Francis 
 Hetley is next door to an adventurer." 
 
 " Francis Hetley is a good and honourable man ; one of 
 nature's noblemen : let me tell you that, Mary. Poor ? Yes, 
 he is poor. It is his only failing." 
 
 u " All the same, a daughter of his can never be a fit- 
 ting wife for you. Go out into the world, and choose a 
 better." 
 
 Condescending to accept his arm with the last retort, she 
 walked with him through the rooms. A goodly pair ! — and 
 many an admiring eye thought so. 
 
 Half hidden by the curtain of an open window stood 
 
436 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 Annaline. Eupert did not see her. Mary did ; and cast a 
 look of haughty condemnation upon her as she swept past. 
 She was quite honest in her contempt. Putting herself out 
 of the question, she, looking on with the distorted eyes of 
 pride and prejudice, considered Annaline Hetley an unsuit- 
 able wife for the Lord of Pomeroy. Reared in wealth, in 
 almost exaggerated consciousness of the state and station of 
 the Pomeroys, Mary could only despise the shifts and slights 
 that poor Francis Hetley had all his life encountered, and 
 regard him and his children as entirely different from her 
 own order. That such a marriage would be fatal to Eupert, 
 and that he ought, if possible, to be saved from it, she 
 heartily believed. Annaline caught the look of scorn given 
 to her. She shivered with pain ; her heart turned sick. 
 Eupert, instinct too surely whispered to her, would never be 
 allowed to fulfil his engagement with one so despised by his 
 family. 
 
 " Will you dance a quadrille with me, Annaline ? " 
 
 She started from her reverie to see his fiice bending over 
 her, to hear his low-breathed tones, so full of music. A 
 quadrille had been proposed by the younger people, not 
 many of whom were present. Eupert, as host, had been 
 doing ceremonious duty all the evening ; he considered that 
 he might be allowed to satisfy himself in the matter of 
 choosing a partner. 
 
 " I cannot dance to-night," said Annaline, shivering 
 slightly. 
 
 "Not wdth me?" he softly whispered, persuasion in his 
 face and tones. And Annaline yielded. 
 
 That one quadrille over, the guests departed, one set after 
 another. The Dow^ager-Lady Sones remained last: her 
 servants were tardy. But the carriage was soon announced, 
 and Eupert took her down to it. 
 
 " The most delightful evening the abbey has known since 
 the old, old days," she said, as he placed her in it. " Thank 
 you for your civility to an old woman. You will make a 
 true chief of Pomeroy. 
 
 Eupert laughed, shook hands, and the carriage drove out 
 of the gateway. 
 
RIVALBY. 
 
 437 
 
 At the same moment he heard the soimd of a carriage 
 approaching it. Somewhat surprised, he stepped outside. 
 
 Yes, it was so. Nay, unless the moonlight deceived him, 
 two carriages were in view. Eupert mentally wondered who 
 the advancing guests could be. 
 
 " Have they mistaken the hour, and are coming to dinner 
 at midnight ? " he lightly remarked to Father Andrew, who 
 was by his side, about to say good-night. 
 
 Up rolled the vehicles ; two post-carriages from the Crown 
 Hotel at Owlstone, laden with people within and luggage 
 without ; and stopped. Leolin Pomeroy, Lady Anna, their 
 three children, and some attendants. 
 
 " Can you take us in, Eupert ? " asked Leolin, stepping 
 out. 
 
 " I should think so ; heartily glad to do it," warmly 
 responded Eupert, as he shook his uncle's hand. " But, have 
 you dropped from the moon ? " 
 
 " We have dropped to-day from London," said Leolin, in 
 low tones. I'll tell you about it presently." 
 
 Eupert gave his arm to Lady Anna ; she looked fatigued, 
 subdued. The two little girls and their brother seemed 
 more quiet than children generally are. 
 
 " Is anything the matter ? " involuntarily asked Eupert. 
 But just then his mother came forward to welcome her un- 
 expected guests, and the question fell unheeded. 
 
 Leolin soon explained, Lady Anna having gone to prepare 
 for a hastily arranged meal. Upon arriving this morning in 
 the metropolis, for they had crossed by the night mail from 
 Calais, they drove to Berkeley Square, where they were 
 expected on a visit. There they found sad tidings, and the 
 house in commotion. Lord Essington had died the previous 
 evening of the epidemic then raging : his mother and sister 
 had flown from it in distress and alarm. 
 
 " The news half stunned us," continued Leolin, who stood 
 the centre of the curious and commiserating group : Mrs. 
 Pomeroy, Joan, Annaline, Eupert and his mother. "What 
 to do in the emergency, I hardly knew. The housQ in w^hich 
 poor Essington lay dead might not be safe for my wife and 
 children ; neither might London itself be. One is apt to be 
 
438 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 careless about these epidemics ; but when tliey are brought 
 home to our own doors we realize their danger. I told 
 Anna we had better come straight on here ; you would excuse 
 our taking you by storm under the circumstances ; and we 
 drove off to the station hotel for breakfast. But we missed 
 the train, and had to travel by a later one. Anna said we 
 ought to remain at Owlstone for the night, as it was so 
 late " 
 
 "Oh no," interrupted Rupert. "It was better to come 
 here, Uncle Leolin." 
 
 "So I thought, Rupert. She is terribly cut up about 
 her brother. It is not only his death, you see, but its 
 suddenness. Poor Essington! It must be a sad blow to 
 his mother. 
 
 Then for the first time he turned and recognized Annaline. 
 
 " Is it you, child ! " he cried, bending to kiss her. " Great 
 scandals we have been hearing of you, little runaway — pro- 
 posing to convert yourself into a governess! Your father 
 did not quite like the idea of it. Wanted some pocket- 
 money, I suppose. Well, you won't have to teach for that 
 now." 
 
 " Not have to- ? " stammered Annaline, in dismay, 
 
 believing that Rupert's proposal must have become known 
 in some untoward manner. 
 
 " Surely not," returned Leolin, looking at her. " It 
 would have been slightly out of place, I take it, for Miss 
 Hetley to be teaching ; yet more so for the Lady Annaline." 
 
 A pause. Annaline's lips parted; her colour went and 
 came. Joan was the first to recover her memory. 
 
 "Why, yes," she said. "Your father succeeds to the 
 title, Annaline, as Lord Essington leaves no son." 
 
 " Of course he does," added Leolin. " Frank Hetley 
 is now Earl of Essington. He was telegraphed for at 
 once." 
 
 Rupert glanced at Mary from between his half-closed 
 eyelids. It was as much as to say — How needless were your 
 taunts : what of her position now ? 
 
 So Mary understood it. Crossing over to him, she drew 
 him aside. 
 
RIVALRY. 
 
 439 
 
 " Heaven is with you — and with her/' she said. " There 
 is no mistaking it." 
 
 " I trust so," answered Rupert. But," taking her hand 
 in his, " my mind cannot be at peace as long as you are at 
 war with me. Oh, Mary, let us be the friends we used to 
 be ! There is no reason why we should not be. Our 
 affection for one another remains just the same, and may 
 remain the same for ever: that of true friendship. There 
 never was love on either side. Your own heart must tell 
 you so." 
 
 " I never said there was — or thought it. Had there been 
 love on mine, I could not liave abused you so freely," 
 shrewdly added Mary. " In that case, I might rather have 
 — how does Shakespeare put it ? — have let ' concealment 
 feed upon my damask cheek.' The cheek is less damask 
 than hers, Eupert." 
 
 Her tone had changed to a light one, with a touch of 
 humour in it ; and Eupert felt thankful. Though perfectly 
 well aware that Mary was not in love with him, that she 
 never had been, for he knew the signs of love too well to 
 fear that, the mood she had been indulging had brought him 
 the greatest discomfort, also some self-reproach. Eeproach 
 that he could not love her, and did love another. 
 
 " I was brought up to think of myself as the future Lady 
 of Pomeroy : and I should have liked to rule," she freely 
 avowed. " But we might not have got on well, altogether, 
 Eupert : so perhaps things have happened for the best. I 
 should have wanted my own way too much." 
 
 " And I should have wanted mine," laughed Eupert, his 
 countenance bright with the change this long-standing per- 
 plexity had taken. 
 
 " Yes : you will exercise power, just as your ancestors 
 exercised it, unless I am mistaken. And that's why you 
 have chosen that inane girl," added Mary, who could never 
 help speaking out exactly what she thought. " You think 
 she won't have a word to say for herself on any matter in 
 which her opinion may not chance to agree with yours. 
 And I quite believe you are right." 
 
 She was turning away to greet Lady Anna : who had 
 
440 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 entered, and was sitting down to the refreshment she had 
 chosen — tea. But Eupert held her hand. 
 
 " Then it is with ns as it used to be, Mary ? The 
 same confidence between us ; the same brotherly and 
 sisterly affection ; the same pleasant intercourse ? Let it 
 be so ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Mary — " for a short time. You and I will be 
 the happy friends of yore, and I will find fault with you and 
 rule you to my heart's content." 
 
 " Why for a ' short ' time ? " 
 
 " Ah, I cannot tell you that now, Eupert. Leave it to the 
 future." 
 
 " Three goodly children ! " observed Father Andrew, who . 
 had been making friends with the young people — as he was 
 sure to do with all children, and now stood behind the tea- 
 table talking with Leolin and his wife. " And you have 
 given them the old family names — Leolin, Mary, and 
 Anna." 
 
 " Ay," said Leolin, " we leave grandiloquent names to our 
 waiting-maids now." 
 
 " Three goodly faces ! " repeated the priest, looking at the 
 children, glowing with the hue of health. " Vienna seems 
 to be more favourable to your offspring than Pomeroy was, 
 Lady Anna." 
 
 Lady Anna lifted her eyes to his : a great thankfulness in 
 their depths replacing for the moment the recent sadness 
 which her brother's death had brought. 
 
 " All things are more favourable to my children now, 
 father, than they were in the days at Pomeroy. I praise 
 Heaven for it every hour of my life." 
 
 The priest knew perfectly well what she was recalling — 
 the old trouble which Leolin had worked, touching the 
 succession : or, rather, which he had attempted to work. 
 But that mistake was over and done with long ago : and the 
 later years of Leolin Pomeroy's gentle wife had been full of 
 sunshine. 
 
 Shall I murmur at my lot ? " asked Mary Pomeroy of 
 herself as she laid her head upon her pillow that night, and 
 
COMING HOME. 
 
 441 
 
 thought of the turn affairs had taken. "Surely not. I 
 believe what grandmamma says — that our destinies here are 
 marked out for us. All the events of life, great and small, 
 even those we regard as the most trivial, are ordered by 
 God. It is not decreed that I should be Eupert's wife — and 
 if I rebel at the decree, it is not for himself, but for the 
 place and power that would have been mine. We have been 
 only brother and sister ; no other feeling has ever swayed 
 either of us ; therefore, to marry would have been wrong. 
 Esteem, friendship, plenty of that between us, but no love. 
 No : it simply could not he. 
 
 "She will make him a better wife than I should have 
 made," she went on, after a pause. " She is meek and yield- 
 ing, and will not have a wish of her own apart from his. I 
 . should have followed my own will, and taken my own way ; 
 for I am a true Pomeroy, just as Eupert is ; and there might 
 have been a constant struggle for the mastery. Or, if 
 Eupert, in his chivalry, had yielded to me, he would not 
 have been happy. No, it would never have done for two 
 Pomeroy s to come together, and Heaven has been wiser 
 than we were — that Heaven which I shall hereafter alone 
 serve, and which will most assuredly give me the blessing 
 of peace." 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 COMING HOME. 
 
 Had Abbey land ever been so gay before ? Not in our 
 recollection. The once gloomy windows of the abbey were 
 thrown open to the sunshine ; troupes of servitors waited in 
 the gateway. Old Jerome, his white locks scanty with age, 
 had hobbled round from the keep to head them. Bridget^ 
 chattering to him as usual, had put off her black, v/hich she 
 was wearing for old Naomi Eex, who had died a month 
 
442 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 before, and looked resplendent in green and violet. All 
 Abbeyland was astir. For Eupert, Lord of Pomeroy, was 
 bringing home bis bride. 
 
 What a contrast, if only in tbe matter of weather, v/ith 
 that day, not far short of a quarter of a century before, when 
 Guy, Lord of Pomeroy, had brought home his ! You cannot 
 have forgotten it ; or how the elements seemed to make war 
 with one another, as if they would thunder forth denuncia- 
 tions on the marriage. To-day, all was peace and sunshino. 
 The calm blue sky was without a cloud ; the blue sea looked 
 as though it could never be treacherous. Certainly if the 
 terrific storms of that day were taken as an augury of evil 
 for the bridegroom and bride, the brightness of this might 
 be looked upon as a harbinger of good. 
 
 But this was not the day of the marriage. The ceremony 
 had taken place in London some ten days ago. The world 
 was growing older, if not wiser, and Eupert did not think it 
 absolutely necessary to keep up all the Pomeroy customs to 
 the letter, or to make an inconvenient rush to the abbey the 
 moment the nuptial ceremony was over. 
 
 Annaline was married from the old house in Berkeley 
 Square — her father's now. It was a quiet wedding ; made 
 chiefly so on account of the recent death of Lord Essington. 
 The present earl, modest, kind-hearted, and as little self- 
 asserting as he had ever been when Frank Hetley, had 
 absolutely offered to give up the use of that house to the 
 late earl's mother ; neither he nor his equally unselfish wife 
 liking to take it from her. But old Lady Essington returned 
 a haughty refusal, very bare of thanks. She and Geraldine 
 were amazed, mortified at the unexpected turn affairs had 
 taken, and despised Frank Hetley as they had never despised 
 him yet. As if poor Frank could have helped his cousin's 
 death, or could help being next in succession. Leolin 
 Pomeroy remarked that Lady Essington's refusal had been 
 made " in temper ; " she and Geraldine must have repented 
 of it ever since ; and he only hoped they would not be in a 
 hurry to swoop down on Berkeley Square with professions 
 of friendship, and worry the new earl and countess out of 
 their tranquillity. 
 
COMING HOME. 
 
 443 
 
 Guests had gone up with Rupert to be present at the 
 marriage ceremony : the Lady of Pomeroy — lady for the 
 last day of her life ; Joan, Leolin, and Father Andre v/. 
 Father Andrew had never been in London but once, in his 
 early life ; he enjoyed the sight all the more now, and 
 would be sure to talk of its wonders as long as he could 
 talk of anything. " I married the lord's father and mother," 
 proudly observed the priest at the wedding-breakfast: "it 
 would have seemed hard had he not asked me to help to 
 marry himself." Major Barkley had come many miles to 
 be present. 
 
 Eupert carried away his bride, and the others returned to 
 Pomeroy. Ten days had gone by, and now the bride and 
 bridegroom were expected home. 
 
 During this slight interval, certain changes had taken 
 place in the interior economy of the abbey. Mrs. Pomeroy 
 had left it for ever ; and Sybilla had returned to her former 
 abode in the south wing. Poor Mrs. Wylde, drawing very 
 near her end now, had made one final appeal to her daughter 
 to go home to her that she might be with her at the last. 
 Rather, perhaps, to her surprise, all former appeals having 
 been so peremptorily rejected, Mrs. Pomeroy ac(][uiesced 
 without a murmur. 
 
 "I was going to propose it to you, mamma," she said. 
 " I shall be glad to quit the hateful abbey, in which I never 
 had anything but trouble and sorrow, and make your house 
 my home for the future." 
 
 " Child, this is glad news," spoke Mrs. Wylde, a gleam 
 of pleasure lighting up her worn face. "And what of 
 Mary?" 
 
 " I know not — and care not," — and Mrs. Pomeroy's voice 
 and face were as hard as a very subdued woman's can 
 become. "But for Mary's sake I should have quitted the 
 abbey long ago ; it was in her interest alone I remained. I 
 might have spared my pains." 
 
 " You speak as if you were grieved, Alice ? " 
 
 " Grieved ? Grieved is not the word for it, mother. I 
 have not been very grateful to you in many ways and at 
 many times; but I never showed to you the ingratitude 
 
444 
 
 POMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 that my child is showing me. She wants to take the 
 veil." 
 
 " Ay, she has told me so," said the dying grandmother, l. 
 " Told i/ou ! " 
 
 " Yes ; and I have talked to her. Her duty at present is 
 with you, Alice ; but to the convent she seems determined 
 to go ; her happiness lies in it, she says. Possibly a middle 
 course may be found. And later, when you have reconciled 
 yourself to the idea, or, perhaps, when you are no longer 
 here to need her, she may fully retire to it and dedicate 
 herself wholly to God. Leave all things in His hands, 
 child." 
 
 But this has been a digression — and yonder come the 
 bride and bridegroom. 
 
 Who so elated as old Jeffs, the state coachman to so many 
 of the Pomeroy lords ! He sits his box proudly, his four 
 greys well in hand : though old, he is a good whip yet. No 
 failure to-day. The fine horses are in the best of tempers ; 
 the skies are bright and the roads are smooth. Jupiter, 
 seated on Olympus, receiving the homage of his court, never 
 felt more self-consequent than Jeff's, perched on his box-seat 
 to-day. 
 
 " Do you see them, my darling ? " asks Rupert, bending 
 his head to the blushing face beside him, as he directs 
 attention to the villagers on either side the road, eagerly 
 saluting the carriage. " See how glad they are ; how true 
 their welcome ! It is an earnest of what our future shall 
 be — theirs and ours. We must never cease to promote the 
 welfare of these poor people." 
 
 " Never, Eupert." 
 
 But Jeff's is taking the carriage swiftly up the approach ; 
 and, here they are at the great gateway, lined with expectant 
 servitors. Rupert alights and hands out his wife ; she 
 wears blue silk and the prettiest white bonnet ever seen. 
 The maids throw down their flowers for her to walk upon. 
 Old Jerome advances a step ; his white locks flowing, his 
 hands raised as if in benediction ; tears of joy run down his 
 furrowed cheeks, his voice is tremulous as he speaks his 
 welcome. 
 
COxMING HOME. 
 
 445 
 
 Eupert thanks him and shakes his hand. He shakes 
 other hands that are held out. There stands Bridget, all 
 green and violet ; Mrs. Eex the housekeeper, old now, in 
 stiff grey brocade ; Cox, the custodian ; they are all there. 
 Father Andrew comes forward in full bloom. Annalino, 
 shyly blushing, follows her husband's example, and timidly 
 puts out her hand. 
 
 Then Rupert leads her upstairs into the midst of the 
 family gathered there in greeting: Sybilla, Joan, Mary; 
 and Leolin and his wife, whose stay is drawing to a 
 close. 
 
 " Mother, why did you do this ? " asks Eupert in pained 
 tones, when he discovers the changes she has made. " Wh^' 
 did you go back to the south wing ? " 
 
 " Because I like it, and feel most at home in it, Eupert , 
 and because it is now my proper abode." 
 
 "Annaline and I have been hoping to keep you with 
 us." 
 
 " And you will keep me : shall I not be under the same 
 roof? No, my children," she added, affectionately taking 
 their hands in hers, " we must not be quite together : you 
 must have your household, and I mine. Joan has taken so 
 great a fancy to you both that she intends to be with me 
 very often — and you will have to take care that you do not 
 get too much of our company." 
 
 " And how is it, Mary, that you have left the abbey — you 
 and your mother?" questioned Eupert: as he stood with 
 Mary Pomeroy later at the open window. 
 
 " Mamma wished it. Grandmamma wants her." 
 
 "And what is this rumour that I hear about yourself? " 
 he resumed, bending his concerned eyes upon her. " Surely 
 you are not thinking of giving up the world ? " 
 
 " How did you hear about it ? " returned Mary. 
 
 "Lady Anna spoke of it in a letter to Annaline. It 
 cannot be true." 
 
 " It is true, Eupert. I must be in the world and of the 
 world, or I must be out of it : and I have chosen the latter. 
 I am beginning to think it is my true vocation." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
446 
 
 FOMEROY ABBEY. 
 
 " Because I believe that I sliall find my best happiness in 
 it. I never was go happy in my life as when I was in the 
 convent ; no, not even when I was a wilful girl, ruling you 
 and the abbey," she added, laughingly. " I never left any 
 place with so much 'regret. I am going to it to-morrow. I 
 only waited to see you and Annaline." 
 
 Turning, she held out her hand. Lady Annaline came to 
 her at once in answer. 
 
 " I have been telling your husband that I am going into 
 the convent," said Mary, passing her arm round Annaline's 
 Avaist. " But I am not there yet ; I waited to say a word of 
 welcome to you both, to wish you both all the happiness the 
 world can give. Daily I pray that Heaven's blessings may 
 rest upon you." 
 
 There ensued a pause of emotion. Eupert broke it. 
 
 " I never expected to hear this news, Mary. Though I 
 have gained a wife, it seems I am to lose a sister." 
 
 " Don't make too sure of losing me," returned Mary, with 
 a touch of her old sauciness. " It is not to be yet. Mamma 
 was so angry at what she calls my ingratitude, and grand- 
 mamma read me so severe a lecture about the duty children 
 owe their parents, that I came to a compromise. The con- 
 vent will be my home ; but at present I shall not take any 
 vows, and can come out when I choose. The White House 
 will see me every day: and you now and then at the 
 abbey." 
 
 Annaline clasped her hands in pleasure. "I was 
 afraid " 
 
 " You were afraid of all sorts of silly things," said Mary, 
 smiling at her, " and especially afraid of me. There is no 
 need to be, Annaline." 
 
 Leaning across Kupert, Mary kissed her. " It is just as I 
 hoped," whispered Eupert. 
 
 " For a little time," answered Mary ; " how long or how 
 short a time, I know not. And then I shall bid you and 
 the world adieu for ever." 
 
 " Do not anticipate it. It may never come." 
 
 " Do not attempt to dissuade me, Eupert ; it would be 
 nothing less than a sin," she said, correcting him. " You 
 
COMING HOME, 
 
 447 
 
 and your wife will find your duty and happiness in the 
 world, and it is right that you should do so ; I, in serving 
 Heaven. "Whatever may be our particular vocation here, 
 may we all prove ourselves so faithful in it as to meet there 
 hereafter ! " 
 
 " Amen," answered Eupert Pomeroy. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BV WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. 
 
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