THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Lirs. George Papashvily 
 
THE DUCHESS. 
 
 By " THE DUCHESS," 
 
 Author of "Molly r> awn," "Airy Fairy Lilian," "Mrs. Geoffrey" 
 ''Dick's Sweetheart," "FJiyllis," etc., etc. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 A. L. BUET, PUBLISHER. 
 
GIFT 
 
THE DUCHESS. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 " Except wind stands as never it stood. 
 It is an ill wind turns none to good." 
 
 *' But who is it, dad?" asks she, leaning her elbows on 
 the breakfast-table and smiling at him over the tea-pot. 
 " Who is the writer of that voluminous letter? As a rule 
 they don't take so much ink to ask for their just dues." 
 
 " Who should it be but your own first cousin, my dear, 
 Denis Delaney, my only brother's son, and the head of 
 all the family?" 
 
 " Bless me I What titles to honor!" says the girl with a 
 soft, low laugh. '* And what may our distinguished rela- 
 tive have to say for himself in these four closely written 
 pages? Judging -by your face" — saucily — "nothing 
 pleasant. I quite thought it was a bill." 
 
 " 'Tis worse!" says the squire, solemnly. In his heat he 
 leans toward her from his seat at the foot of the table, and 
 as the latter is small, their faces nearly meet. " He's com- 
 ing here to stay some days!" he whispers with fine im- 
 pressiveness. 
 
 *'What! To stay some — oh, nonsense! Give me the let- 
 ter," says Miss Delaney, rising with much characteristic 
 
 OIG 
 
t IHE DUCHE6&. 
 
 force from her seat; bnt her father waves her back, i»< 
 
 ploringly. 
 
 *' Now, can't yon be. patient, my dear? Can't you, 
 BOW? You know if you flurry me. Duchess, I'll never b8 
 able to explain. AVait till I read it to yon. "Where is it 
 now?" glancing again at the letter he holds, with its big 
 crimson crest and its bold, handsome handwriting. 
 *' H'm! hah! * To see you after all these years.' ' Make 
 acquaintance with you and my cousin.* Hah I ' Am on 
 my way here.* Norah," says the squire, laying down the 
 letter and regarding his daughter with a tragic air, " that 
 means that he'll be here in about two hoursi" 
 
 " Two hours? Oh, dad, no!" says the Duchess, lifting 
 her lovely face and gazing at her father with undisguised 
 dismay. All the admirable spirit that had distinguished 
 her a moment since is gone, and abject fear has taken its 
 place. 
 
 " Well, my dear, that's jnst how I feel** says Mr. De- 
 laney with open sympathy. " I keep on saying it, but 
 here I'm convinced he's coming all the same," with a 
 rather depressed glance round the large, poorly furnished, 
 comfortless room. *' He says he's on his way, and I've no 
 doubt he'll finish his journey. And why shouldn't he, 
 too?'* with quite a startling change of front and a re- 
 proachful glance at his daughter. ''Who should be wel- 
 come here, I'd like to know, if it wasn't our own kith and 
 kin? Tut! I'm astonished at you now, Duchess, to be so 
 inhospitable — and your own first cousin, too, my dear." 
 
 '^ Is he very rich, dad?" asks the Duchess, in a rather 
 forlorn tone, though she has shown no surprise at all at 
 
THE DUCHESS. 7 
 
 the sharp alteration of his sentiments. Perhaps she ia 
 
 used to it. 
 
 "As Croesus!" with all the noble air of one determined 
 to face the worst whatever the consequences. " My poor 
 brother. The Delauey (a proud title, Norah, as good as 
 any juke's) — well, never mind; but my poor brother (as 
 fine a man, my dear, as ever stepped in shoe leather, 
 though I dare say it isn't modest of me to say so, consider- 
 ing, ahem! we were considered much alike) — ^however, as 
 I was saying — " 
 
 '* I wonder you never told me all this before." 
 
 " Well, my dear, he died a great many years ago, more 
 than you can remember, and 'tis hard to talk to the young 
 of those who are past and gone; but before be died he 
 married an English girl with a pot of money and jewels 
 without number." (Jools I'm afraid the dear old squire 
 called those precious gems.) " Poor Terence, your uncle, 
 had a very handsome property of his own, and he hadn't 
 been married to madame three years when she fell in for 
 two large fortunes, left her by some kinsfolk in her own 
 country over the water. And all this has come already, or 
 at least will come, to Denis." 
 
 " It will be dreadful!" says the girl^ looking round the 
 room in her turn; her voice is low and melancholy. " Is 
 he young?" she asks presently. 
 
 " About twenty-seven, I should say, though Fm not 
 much at a guess. He was very young indeed when my 
 poor brother died; quite a little chap in breeches. 
 Though, indeed, for the matter of that," says the squire, 
 thoughtfully, bent as it were on wrestling with the truth 
 
8 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 and forcing it to the front at all hazards, *' he was out of 
 them when that unhappy event happened, as Terence died 
 at midnight, so the child must have been in bed." 
 
 *' What is his mother like?" asks the Duchess, still mel- 
 ancholy. 
 
 " Very handsome she was then and very charming. 
 Bong tong, you know, and all that, and a good soul, too/' 
 says the squire, relapsing into a less fashionable manner. 
 " For she nearly broke her heart when Terence died. She 
 took the boy away then. Carried him off to England and 
 had him educated there, and in fact has kept him there 
 ever since, except on such occasions as he has gone 
 abroad." 
 
 " flas he gone much?" asks Norah, timidly — already 
 she is desperately afraid of this half-English cousin. 
 
 " I believe so. I hear he has seen a great deal of the 
 world in his time. The last we heard of him he was in 
 Pekin. You remember that now, don't you, Norah?" 
 
 " 1 don't. I don't believe I ever gave him a thought," 
 says Norah, petulantly. " But 1 expect I'll have to give 
 him several now," with a little pout. " Dad," anxiously, 
 " how long do you think he will stay?" 
 
 " Let's see," says the squire. Once again he adjusts his 
 spectacles upon his rather pronounced nose and takes up 
 the bomb-shell that politeness calls a letter. " Ahl here it 
 is: ' I hope to stay a day or two.* Now, Duchess, don't 
 you be taken in by that," says the squire, looking at her 
 knowingly over the sheet he holds. " He'll stay a week to 
 a moral!" 
 
 " I shouldn't be surprised at anything he'd do," dis- 
 
THE DUCHESS. 9 
 
 gustedly. ** It's as good to say a month when you're 
 about it. But no!" with a sudden pang of remembrance, 
 " a day in our menage will, 1 dare say, more than suffice 
 for him. " 
 
 " Nonsense, now, Norah; your cousin isn't that sort, I 
 should hope," says the squire. "But, indeed, I agree 
 with you; I'm afraid he'll find it — er — a bit rough." 
 
 " He'll hate it," says Norah. 
 
 " I wouldn't care if I was sure of the dinner," says the 
 squire, nervously. " But what the jeuce will we do if that 
 butcher of ours doesn't give us meat fit to eat? His mut- 
 ton, 1 allow you, is all very well, but his beef," says the 
 squire, with profound dejection, " his beef is the very — " 
 
 *' Quite so; I entirely agree with you," says Norah, with 
 admirable promptitude. " But never mind," conscious 
 pride in her tone. " I have fowls in the yard as fat as fat 
 can be, and as to the beef, I think I'll go to Miciiey myself 
 and tell him it's a matter of life and death, and that he 
 must give it iis good for once in his life." 
 
 " Do!" with enthusiastic belief in her plan. " There's 
 nothing like a woman's tongue for bringing a man to rea- 
 son, and as for yours, I know by experience that you 
 could — " 
 
 " Oh! daddy, now! Come! Am 1 such a shrew?" 
 
 " Coax the birds off the bushes, my dear, I was going 
 to say. Ha! ha! I had you there," laughs the squire. 
 
 " Turncoat,"' says she, shrugging her pretty shoulders 
 at him. " Well, don't get into mischief whilst I'm away, 
 for I'm off to the village this instant to secure a loin of 
 mutton and warn him about the beef. " 
 
10 THE DUCHES8. 
 
 ** I say, Norah. I say. Duchess, darling, don't go ofl 
 at a tangent like that," says the squire, making an in- 
 effectual grab at her gown as she passes him on her way to 
 the door. "I've a great deal to say to you yet. Thi^ 
 young man will be expecting tilings grander, no doubt, 
 than we can have them. We can't help that, of course; 
 but I'd — I'd like him to see us as well as we can be, eh?" 
 He colors a little as he says this and glances deprecatingly 
 at his daughter. " Flowers, now," diffidently, " flowers 
 on a dinner-table give it quite a little air, eh? And 
 there's some of the old silver locked up, isn't there, in the 
 oak chest? And if you have a white gown, sweetheart, 
 just put it on you for dinner, won't you, now? I wouldn't 
 have him think we didn't know about things, even though 
 we can't have them, eh?" 
 
 "Just so!" says Norah, taking fire at once from the 
 brilliant scene he has just conjured up. " I'm quite 
 clever at arranging flowers, and I'll give the old silver a 
 rub myself this afternoon while you take him out for a 
 walk. Make it a long one, daddy. And — you think a loin 
 of mutton best — don't you? A leg sits up so high, and 
 there's so much of it, and of course," with a sigh, " he's 
 dainty; and — and do you think — but no," despondently, 
 " I — I don't think I am much of a hand at soup." 
 
 " You are excellent, my dear, excellent," protests her 
 father (may Heaven forgive liim). " But I don't think 
 we'll mind the soup. Just a loin and a pudding. Tiiat 
 was a glorious pudding you gave us last Sunday." 
 
 " Custard? Very good. And I can make him a jam 
 roll for the next day— and for the day after that— oh, but 
 
THE DUCHESS. 11 
 
 I hope he will go away the day after that. That is, of 
 course/' mindful of her hospitality, "if he wants to. 
 He's " (hopefully) " sure to want to." 
 
 '*I trust," says the squire, anxiously, "that Bridget 
 won't be drunk." 
 
 " Certainly that habit of hers is a great drawback. At 
 all events —if she does have one of her— attacks, 1 hope it 
 won't be a noisy one. Last time— you remember, dad?— 
 she was so abusive that Mary went into hysterics on the 
 kitchen stairs, and said she couldn't attend the table." 
 
 "Yes, yes. Mary's a very poor creature," says the 
 squire, with the utmost gentleness. His manner is ab- 
 stracted; it is plain his fertile brain is running on some 
 other matter far remote from Mary. ''Now where the 
 dickens are they, I wonder?" he says at last. 
 
 ** What, dear?" asks the Duchess, at once interested. 
 
 " The waistcoat I can lay my hand on at once, becanse 
 I wore it the last time Lord Kilgarriff called, not being 
 able just then to find my Sunday one, and I know the coat 
 Is hanging up behind my door; but where on earth are the 
 trousers?" 
 
 " Is it your evening suit you are thinking of? Do yon 
 mean to say you are going to dress for dinner every day?" 
 She is so overcome by the magnitude of this thought that 
 she sinks into the nearest chair. 
 
 •*0f course," says the squire, with great dignity. 
 "D'ye think I'd let him believe we weren't up to so 
 much? Tut, Norab, you haven't a spark of gening." 
 
 " You'll be miseiable," declares she, eying him witii 
 deep commiseration; " they are so dreadfully tight** 
 
1% fHB DU0HBS8. 
 
 *• Pride feela no pain/ ' conrageonsly. •* And if I Boflbi 
 It will be ill a good cause. And mind you. Duchess, din- 
 ner not a minute before seven.'* 
 
 ** Seven I "Why, Bridget will be hopeless by that time, 
 and Mary will think it is supper- ** 
 
 *' It can't be helped,** says the squire, drawing himself 
 np with quite a superb air. " It is absolutely necessary 
 that we should hold up our heads now, and let him see 
 that wo, too, are conversant with the niceties of fashion- 
 able life!" 
 
 This last is too much for the Duchess. Crushed by it, 
 she walks with a depressed air to the door and beats a 
 hasty retreat 
 
 OHAI»TER II. 
 
 •' A proper man as one shotild see in a summer's day." 
 
 Her interview with the butcher must have been stormy 
 and prolonged, because she is late for the important arrival 
 of the head of all the Delaneys. That young man, en- 
 tirely ignorant of the sensation his coming has provoked, 
 drives up to the door about half past eleven to bo wel- 
 comed by the squire solus. 
 
 The squire! who had been fussing and fuming all the 
 morning and leading the hysterical Mary a horrible life; 
 insisting on the threadbare carpets being brushed over and 
 over again, marchiiig in upon them with muddy boots to 
 enforce this command, and deaf to Mary's whimper that 
 much more brushing will leave nothing but the jQoor be- 
 neath. It is indeed a reprieve to the long-suffering maid 
 
THE DUCHESa. 13 
 
 ▼lien wheels are heard crunching upon the gravel outside, 
 and the squire, forgetful now of all but the approaching 
 guest, rushes forth to greet him. 
 
 The guest seems very willing to be greeted. He springs 
 off the outside car and comes quickly up to this unknown 
 uncle, a pleasant smile upon his face. As for the squire, 
 after the first glance all is forgotten — the meagerness of 
 his household, the fear of discomfort for the stranger — 
 there is only left the desire to make heartily at home thia 
 young man who is so like the dead brother and who is so 
 tall, so aristocratic in bearing, so- well set up and so — 
 which always comes first to an Irish eye — handsome. 
 
 ** My dear boy, I'm delighted to see you. *Tis new life 
 to me. Well, well, but you*re like your poor father. My 
 dear fellow, 'tis very good of you to think of coming to see 
 an old man like me. '^ 
 
 His own handsome old head is well thrown up, and he 
 tfmiles an almost tender welcome on his nephew, who, 
 though a good six feet, is yet half an inch below him in 
 height. 
 
 *• Come in, come in," says he; " and as for you, Larry 
 Finn,'* addressing the driver of the outsider, who is well 
 known to him, as indeed is every soul in the county, " go 
 round to the kitchen and wait for your dinner. My dear 
 Denis," leading the way up the stone steps and into the 
 large, bare, comfortless apartment called by courtesy the 
 drawing-room at Ballyhinch, " what years have rolled by 
 since last I saw you! A little fellow yon were then, bm 
 not BO nnlike either. And how is madame? How's yonr 
 wotfcerr* 
 
14 THE DU0HE8S. 
 
 ** Qaite well, thank yon. She sent the very kindest re* 
 membrances to you aud my cousin, and desired me to say she 
 hopes, now we have agreed to stay in Ireland for some time, 
 that we shall uo longer continue strangers to each other. ** 
 
 ** She was always charming," says the squire, with a 
 rather old-fashioned but very admirable air. **And 
 you?" laying his hands upon the younger man's shoulders 
 and surveying him with affectionate scrutiny. *' How old 
 are yoa now, eh? I should know, I suppose, but, faith, 
 things slip me. Twenty-seven, ehf** 
 
 ** Not so bad a guess, and a flattering one into the bar- 
 gain, as I happen to be twenty-eight. At that age one 
 begins to wish a year off rather than a year on.*' 
 
 ** TutI What's twenty-eight? When I was that age I 
 called myself a boy — and the broth of a boy, too," says 
 the squire, with his jolly laugh, than which there was 
 nothing more musical in the next four parishes. " But 
 you must be thoroughly done, my dear boy, and hungry, 
 too, of course. If " — looking rather helplessly round him 
 — '* if one only knew where the Duchess — er — Noddlekins 
 — that is — Korah, your cousin, I mean," floundering hope- 
 lessly over the many loving sobriquets belonging to his 
 darling, " was, we might — " 
 
 *' Nothing for me," says Denis, quickly. ** Nothing at 
 all, thank yon. I slept in Cork and breakfasted there 
 about an hour ago, as it seems to me. It is really nothing 
 of a journey here from there. I feel as fresh as a daisy 
 and as fit as a fiddle. A walk to stretch my legs I should 
 like after the train work — that is, if you are thinking of 
 going out." 
 
THE DUCHESS. 15 
 
 *' Well, I generally do take a look round me about thie 
 hour to see that the men are keeping up to their work/' 
 says the squire, hazily. " Desperately lazy fellows most of 
 them, and if you would really like to join me — but posi- 
 tively you must have something first; a brandy and soda, 
 now — " 
 
 '' No, thank you,'' says Denis, laughing and tucking hi* 
 arm into his uncle's and leading him toward the open win- 
 dow, through which it is but a simple thing to drop on to 
 the grass below. At this moment it is borne in upon him 
 that it is a possible thing to feel very intimate with the 
 squire in the space of five minutes or so. 
 
 Outside there is a blaze of yellow sunshine, and the wild 
 sweet singing of innumerable birds. A meadow with long 
 grass, still standing — because of the heavy rains that had 
 deluged the earth in the early summer — although it is now 
 mid- July, is making gentle obeisance to the soft wind that 
 rushes over it. 
 
 The short grass on which they are walking widens pres- 
 ently into a garden rather lower down, protected on one 
 side by a high beech hedge, Not an every-day garden, 
 trim and ribbon-bordered, but a gay, delicious mass of all 
 flowers, old and new, jumbled up together in a delicate 
 confusion — one harmonious whole — thus forming " a very 
 wilderness of sweets." 
 
 " What an exquisite bit!" says Denis, standing still and 
 honestly admiring. "You have a gardener with a fint 
 sense of taste." 
 
 The squire laughs aloud. 
 
 '* Say that to the Duchess," cries he, ** and you'll make 
 
16 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 her your friend for life. Gardener there is none; all you 
 see there is her own work. No hand but hers sows or 
 reaps in that little garden. I tell her the flowers must 
 know and love her or they would not bloom so; that she 
 must breathe some cunning spell upon them to make them 
 flourish as they do. *' 
 
 " What! Does she do it all herself?" 
 
 ** Every scrap/' says the squire, with loving pride. 
 
 *' A muscular young woman with a vengeance," thinks 
 Delaney, and pictures to himself with a sliudder the tall, 
 large-boned girl with (in all probability) fiery locks with 
 whom he will have to claim cousinship presently. With 
 many fears, too, he calls to mind the errand on which he 
 has been sent by his mother, to caj)ture and bring back to 
 her for a long visit this young Amazon. He thinks of his 
 mother's patient despair over the entertainment of such a 
 guest, and of Katherine's cultured stare and educated lift- 
 ing of the brows. 
 
 " She has talent,'' he says, politely stifling a sigh. 
 
 Striking across the fields and getting beyond the trees, a 
 larger view is given to the eyes. The stretching jjlains, 
 now ripening to their death; the yellowing corn, the wav- 
 ing barley falling wave on wave, the cloud-flecked sky, and 
 beyond all the silent, glittering ocean, on which the sun's 
 hottest rays are falling, all blend together to form a scene 
 the beauty of which enters into the very soul of the new% 
 comer. 
 
 He is indeed somewhat lost in contemplation of it when 
 the wild barking of a whole kennel, as it seems to him, 
 breaks in upon his tranquil reverie. Barkings they are of 
 
THE DUCHESS. 17 
 
 the most agonized description, suggestive of a desire for 
 Buicide on the parts of the performers. 
 
 " By Jove! the dogs. I've forgotten them and they\e 
 found out I've started," says the squire, conscience- 
 stricken. Then a smile irradiates his jovial countenance. 
 "Aren't they clever!" says he, with a sort of possessive 
 admiration. " The deuce wouldn't be up to them! My 
 dear boy, if you'll go on I'll go back, and I'll catch you 
 up in no time. But perhaps they'll be reasonable. ^Sh!" 
 
 Here the howlings break forth again with renewed vigor, 
 and the squire with a remorseful face gives in. 
 
 *' You see! I must go back for them — the creatures!" 
 he says, distractedly. '* And if just you'll walk straight 
 up on that hill before you you'll find as fine a view as ever 
 you saw in your life, and I'll be after you before you can 
 say Jack Robinson. " 
 
 Away he sails, coat-tails flying behind him, as light and 
 active as any school-boy in spite of his fifty years; and 
 Denis, with an amused smile, continues his walk alone. 
 
 lie is half-way up the hill pointed out to him, gazing 
 idly from side to side at the clumps of golden furze that 
 deck the hill in isolated patches here and there, when 
 something on top of a high stone wall that stands on his 
 left catches. and keeps his eye. 
 
 It is a little slender brown ha&dl 
 
TU.K DLUlliiSB, 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 " Is she not passing fair?" 
 
 He has scarcely time to wonder at that before a face fol- 
 lows it I Such a face! And then there is a swift pressure- 
 of the hands on the stone wall, and with a movement full 
 of youth and strength and grace a slight figure sj^rings into 
 the sunlight and runs eagerly up and down the top of the 
 wall, as if in nervous haste and anxious to find some easy 
 spot from which to jump to Mother Earth beneath. 
 
 A slender childish figure, gowned in a simple cotton 
 frock that beyond all question has seen the wash-tub many 
 a time and oft; but yet a gown that is fresh and crisp, and 
 can not, in spite of the eccentricities of the village dress- 
 maker, altogether hide the grace of the form it covers. 
 Just as little can the rough country-made shoes conceal the 
 beauty of the small, highly arched, patrician feet they 
 hold. 
 
 To Delaney this latter knowledge comes further on. 
 Just now he is blind to all save her face. 
 
 Were ever eyes so clear, so gray, so deep? With what a 
 delicate touch the jsurple shadows (those alluring supple- 
 ments to all true Irish eyes) lie beneath them! How long 
 the curling lashes grow! The rippling chestnut hair, 
 showing beneath the huge poke bonnet, hardly hides the 
 wide, low, capable brow, or the pretty cheeks flushed like 
 the wild rose. But above and beyond all, the exquisite 
 sweetness of her mouth reigns queen; so riante, tender, 
 
THE DUCHESS. VJ 
 
 loving, all iu one; so arch, too, and so soft, and red as 
 roses in fair June. 
 
 All this picture is caught, as it were, in a breath ; the 
 breathing time it has taken her to decide on where she 
 shall jump. Now she bends forward at a rather impossi- 
 ble place, it seems to Denis, who has had very little to do 
 with any except town-bred girls, and pauses as if about to 
 spring. 
 
 A sharp exclamation breaks from him, 
 
 " Don't attempt it! It is far higher than it looks!'* 
 
 She starts violently. His voice, coming suddenly from 
 nowhere, as it seems to her, has nearly the effect of mak- 
 ing her lose her balance. Turning her bead quickly in his 
 direction she meets his eyes, and stares at him for a full 
 minute as if fascinated. Who is he? and what has 
 brought him here? For the time she has forgotten the 
 expected cousin, but even as she looks at him she remem- 
 bers. 
 
 Slowly, very slowly, a rich crimson blush rises and dyes 
 her cheeks. Is this tall, handsome, kindly young man the 
 cousin she has so dreaded? Impulsively she bends toward 
 him, a smile quivering on her lovely lips. 
 
 " You are Denis," she says, in a voice very clear, very 
 low, perhaps a little plaintive; at all events, whatever it is, 
 it is a voice that suits her. 
 
 " A creditable inspiration,*' laughing and looking up at 
 her to where she stands on her very superior ground. He 
 has lifted his hat, and it occurs to her even at this im- 
 mature stage that he is, if possible, better to look at with- 
 out than with it. 
 
20 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 ** I knew it/* says she, shyl}', if triumphantly, ** I aaw 
 it at once. You — ^}'ou are like dad — only so very differ- 
 ent. '' 
 
 This lucid description she delivers with a charming 
 smile. 
 
 *' You didn^t know me, though," she goes on, nodding 
 her head reproachfully at him. " I am — " 
 
 "Her Grace of Ballyhinch!" interposes he. "You 
 wronged me! Am I so lacking in intelligence that I could 
 not see that at a glance?'' 
 
 "But how — how?*' eagerly. "Of course there are 
 many reasons why I should guess at you successfully. The 
 fact that you were expected; that there isn't a young man 
 in the county except the doctor's apprentice and the 
 organist; and your likeness to dad. But how did you 
 know me?" 
 
 " Am I a mere mole, then, that I should be blind to the 
 natural diguity that distinguishes you? Are duchesses so 
 numerous that one need^ — " 
 
 " Oh, nonsense!" interrupts she, with a little indignant 
 side glance. " If you won't tell — " 
 
 " Well, I expect I knew you because you first knew 
 me," confesses he, smiling. 
 
 "Ah! Was that it? I'm sorry now I spoke,* ' says she, 
 mischievously, her lovely eyes full of an innocent coquetrj'. 
 " I could have led you such a dance!" She seems to pine 
 over this lost opportunity. 
 
 ** You couldn't have led it up there," says he. " There 
 isn't room." 
 
 "That reminds me I'' growing earnest again. *' Dad 
 
THE DUCHESS, 21 
 
 must be wondering where I am. There, stand out of my 
 way until I jump." 
 
 " Pray don't try to take that wall/' entreats he, anx- 
 iously. " Let me help you. Come — " going nearer and 
 resting one foot on a projecting stone that lifts him closer 
 to her. " Trust yourself to me and I will take you 
 down. " 
 
 " Am I china that I should break?'' making him a lit- 
 tle mouL " Well, if you will/' shrugging her shoulders. 
 " Let me place my hands upon your arms, so — and that 
 will perhaps save me from a sudden and terrible death. 
 Now, are you ready?" 
 
 The charming eyes are smiling with a mocking gayety 
 into his without the smallest touch of embarrassment, 
 although the two faces are very close together; and then 
 there is the lightest pressure possible on his arms, and the 
 next moment she is beside him on the soft turf. 
 
 ' ' No bones broken after all, " she says, saucily glancing 
 at him from under the bonnet. Then all at once, as 
 though suddenly recollecting something, she grows grave 
 and extends him her hand. 
 
 " Welcome!" she says, sweetly; and again, very im- 
 pressively, " Do you know that I am very, very glad you 
 have come?" 
 
 "Thank you," pleasantly, though indeed he is a little 
 
 surprised at her earnestness. " That is the very kindest 
 
 thing you could say to me. I have been so afraid I should 
 
 bore you, or — " 
 
 " Oh, no!" 
 
 '* Do you mean," says he, still puzzled by her manner, 
 
SS THE DUCHESS. 
 
 which has something behind it, " that you, yourself, art 
 glad of my coming?*' 
 
 " More than I can say/' promptly, and with quite a 
 serious smile at him. 
 
 This exceeding frankness almost overpowers him. Does 
 «he mean it: Is she really so enraptured as her words 
 imply at having him here? This charming, pretty, fasci- 
 nating child, who — 
 
 " For dad's sake," says she, softly, knocking all his fine 
 sentiment to pieces in an instant. " He has always been 
 so longing to see again some of his own people, and you 
 especially, the only son of his only brother." She is silent 
 awhile, and then looking at him intently, '* What brought 
 you?" she asks, gently. 
 
 " A longing to see him, I suppose," returns he, smiling. 
 *' I should have come before, but, as you doubtless know, 
 ever since my father's death my mother and I have lived 
 in England, and of later years I have traveled a good deal. 
 Three months ago, however, hearing that affairs in Ireland 
 were going with a steady briskness to the bad, I threw up 
 my intention of going to the East again and came over 
 here instead/' 
 
 ** Troubles with your tenants?" 
 
 *' Yes. Or rather with my agents. Same thing. Ever 
 since that terrible tragedy — when poor Meredith was shot 
 — the last agent but two, you remember — I have had no 
 peace. " 
 
 " I remember it as though it were but yesterday. It 
 was an awful murder. He resisted so long — so bravely — 
 Wid " — she turns white — " thev battered in his — oh, it 
 
THE DUCHESS. 26 
 
 was horrible! And for you/* glancing at him, " worse 
 than for any one.'' 
 
 " I sha'n't forget it to them, you may be sure," says 
 he, betweeu his teeth. " Weil, the man after him — 
 Strong — either lost his nerve or could not manage the peo- 
 ple, and after a month or two resigned the post. I don't 
 blame him really. It must be nasty waiting to be mur- 
 dered like that. The last man, Monroe, gave in, tooj so, 
 as I saw no prospect of keeping an agent longer than six 
 weeks at a stretch, I thought I'd take the post myself — 
 with an assistant, of course — and come over and try what 
 I could dOo " 
 
 "Kerry is such a shocking place,*' says the Duchess, 
 with a sigh for that degenerate spot. 
 
 " If it could get a good ducking in the sea and have its 
 inhabitants well washed off the face of it, I dare say it 
 would do it good," replies he, lightly. "In the mean- 
 time, as I said before, I'll see what I can do with my par- 
 ticular bit of it. The mother was rather against giving up 
 her town house and coming here in the height of the sea- 
 son, but I persuaded her; got the Castle put into livable 
 order, and now that she has been here a month she seems 
 to have quite taken to it. Of course the moment I found 
 a few days I could call my own both she and I thought of 
 you and my uncle." 
 
 "It was kind of you,*' says she, softly. She has been 
 regarding him nervously for the past five minutes, even 
 whilst he has been speaking to her. Truly he is very far 
 apart from all the other young men of her acquaintance. 
 Even Kilgarriff, who is quite a traveled person for his 
 
24 THE DUCHES8. 
 
 years, and should be well up in the little delicate touchet 
 that distinguish the well-bred society man from the well- 
 bred country gentleman, does not seem to her to come 
 quite up to the mark of this new-fouud cousin. 
 
 Something in his voice, in the unconscious charm of his 
 manner, pleases while it disturbs her. There is an air 
 about him as of one accustomed always to the soft jjlaces of 
 the earth, and how will he take Ballyhinch and all its 
 shortcomings? Serious reflection! 
 
 Her mind flies on to the dinner and back again to her 
 just consummated visit to the butcher. There seems to 
 her now something sinister in the fact that he had so per- 
 sistently, so insidiously i3ut aside in the bland Irish way 
 that belongs to him her request to see the loin she had 
 ordered before leaving. Good heavens! can it be possible 
 that that loin is still alive, that as yet its primal owner is 
 free of knife or thrust? 
 
 She grows cold with horror as this fear presents itself, 
 and she sees laid out before her mind's eye the tough joint 
 that, should her fears prove true, will adorn the dinner- 
 table to-night. 
 
 Her cousin is still talking, and she is saying '* yes " and 
 *' no *' in a distracted fashion, her mind running always 
 on the treacherous butcher, and the shame that his treach- 
 ery will bring her, when something is said that requires a 
 fuller answer. It is a mere nothing, bw^- it serves. It 
 rouses her. 
 
 " You don't find it slow here, then?" 
 
 " Slow? Stupid you mean? Oh, no. There is always 
 a great deal to be done, aYid not so very much time in 
 
THK DUCHESS. JJA 
 
 which to do it. There are the usual things to battle with 
 every day, and often a startling surprise just to wake us 
 up a little. To-day,'^ with a lovely, gracious glance at 
 him, '' the surprise has been a very happy onCo'* 
 
 He makes her no immediate, at least no spoken, answer; 
 but his eyes say as much as need be said — perhaps, indeed, 
 more. 
 
 ''Now that I see you,*' she says, falteringly, as she 
 thinks of the mutton, " I know that you are not what I 
 thought you would be; you are another person altogether, 
 as it were.'* 
 
 '' Yet the moment your eyes fell on me they knew me/* 
 
 " Yes, that was flattering, I admit,** laughing. 
 
 " Oh, was it.^** says he, laughing too. " Thank you. 
 Then the ideal you had conjured up was of a being very 
 superior to me. Am I to understand that?** 
 
 " I*m not going to explain oi refute anything,** de- 
 clares she, with a charming touch of mutiny about her 
 mouth. " I think your instant recognition by me should 
 suffice you. ** 
 
 " You gave a very sorry reason for that. It showed 
 you held me — something better than the organist and a 
 little dearer than the doctor's apprentice.*' 
 
 " I don*t remember saying that you were * dearer * than 
 anything,** replies she, calmly. 
 
 There is a suspicion of coming battle in her tone. It 
 lends an additional color to her cheek, an added luster to 
 her eyes. Providentially for Delaney the house at; this mo- 
 ment comes into view, and with it the isi^uire, breathless, 
 
.-,'«j THK j)lciij:s.s. 
 
 but beaming, a dozen dogs of every age and descriptioa 
 clustering at his heels. 
 
 " So you've met her/' he cries, cheerily, whilst yet a 
 long way off. '' That's all right. She," evidently indi- 
 catftig the Duchess, though his indications are vague, " is 
 worth a dozen of me. I hurried all I knew, but one of 
 those fellows from the Kingston Farm — ^you know 'em, 
 Norah — caught me, and his tongue, once he gets an open- 
 ing, is as long as the lane that has no turning. " 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "As merry as the day is long." 
 
 It is several hours later. They have lunched, and art 
 now sitting out on the bit of lawn that overlooks the gar- 
 den, j)lacidly smoking. That is, the two men are; JSTorah, 
 or the Duchess, is absent, on hospitable thoughts intent, 
 no doubt. 
 
 The squire has taken up his parable again, and is in- 
 veighing against Ireland and the Irish in brisk and un- 
 measured language. " Were there ever such people? 
 "Were there ever such scoundrels? Were there ever such 
 fools? Led like sheep to the slaughter, without knowing 
 for why or for wherefore! Seduced from their allegiance 
 by a set of demagogues who used them to till their own 
 purses, and didn't care afterward whether they sunk or 
 swam." 
 
 "But they are pretty quiet round here, aren't they?*' 
 asks Denis, presently, when he has a second in which to 
 
THE DUCHESS. 27 
 
 eilge in a word, the squire being attacked with a fit of 
 sneezing. " We have rather a high opinion of the County 
 Cork people where I live. They are all a steady-going lot, 
 «h? Paying their rents and that?" 
 
 "Rents, indeed!" says the squire, with an indignant 
 snort. " Why, what do you take 'em for? Rents, is it? 
 Faith, they would not pay their priest, it's my belief, if 
 they weren't afraid of having to die without him, which 
 would mean purgatory with a vengeance for quite an end- 
 less number of centuries. Eh? Is that you. Noddle- 
 kins?" as the Duchess steps out from the window on to the 
 lawn, and standing behind his chair, leans on the back of 
 it. ** Norah will tell you about them. " 
 
 " They are very poor," says Norah, with a sigh. 
 ''Never mind that," says the squire, hastily, as if 
 afraid of being softened. " What I'm telling your cousin 
 now is that they have no sense of honesty. To pay their 
 just dues is the last thing that would ever occur to them. 
 Honesty! Why, they've forgotten how to spell the word. 
 They've sponged it out of their dictionaries! Look at uie. 
 Not a penny have I got this Gale! Of all the da — h'm — 
 h'm — Norah, my soul, go and get me my other pipe; this 
 won't draw. You'll find it in — er — if you look for it." 
 
 Norah, with an irrepressible little glance at her cousin, 
 retires discreetly^ 
 
 " I hate swearing before a girl, though it*s a great relief 
 at times," sajrs the squire, mildly, '' especially when one 
 gets on the subject of one's tenants. They are such a 
 truculent lot and so entirely without reason; they hate rea- 
 son. Once let them see that you have the beet of the 
 
38 THE DUCHE88. 
 
 argument and nothing wonld indnce them to lleten on- 
 other second. And then thoir grievances! They'd fill the 
 pit of Tophetl*' 
 
 " I suppose they have some/* eays the joimg man, 
 thoughfiully. The remembrance of a little flower-like 
 face and sweet, grave lips and a gentle voice that h&d 
 taken their part a moment, since is still with him. 
 
 ** Pish!'* says the squire wrathfully, who in reality is the 
 kindliest soul alive, and, as a rule, shamefully imposed 
 upon by every peasant in the neighborhood. *' That's all 
 you know about it. Such a feeble remark comes of your 
 having Saxon blood in your veins; you don't understand 
 'em. Like the rest of your countrymen, you either run 
 us up too high or run us down too low." 
 
 " Don't mistake me there," says Delaney, hastily. 
 " I'm Irish all through. Any English blood I may have 
 has become Irish long ago. I'm a Paddy, heart and soul!" 
 
 " Well done, lad! I like to hear you," says his uncle, 
 giving him a mighty slap on the shoulder. " In spite of 
 all our faults, and I grant you they're not few, and in spite 
 of those rascals who are disgracing us in the House of 
 Commons, I would not be anything else myself. One 
 loyal Irishman is as good as two Englishmen." 
 
 " As good as one, certainly," says Denis, laughing. 
 
 '' No— two, man — two; and better!" says the squire, 
 with determination. He is sitting up very straight, look- 
 ing as though he defies the other to contradict him; and 
 his hair, which is as thick on his head now as when he was 
 a boy, has risen in the heat of the argument and is erect 
 and bristhug. It is this assumption of authority, with itjj 
 
THE DUCHESS. 29 
 
 accompanying touch of would-be asperity — the very lamest 
 touch — that has earned for him from his laughter-loving 
 neighbors the title of "squire/* which, as we all know, 
 is not an Irish one. " I^m afraid you haven't learned 
 your lessons,'* he goes on, laughing. " You'll have to go 
 down, sir, if you don't bluster a bit these times. Norah! 
 I say. Duchess! Where on earth has that child gone? 
 She's forever disappearing just when I want her." 
 
 " I think you sent her away that time when you wanted 
 to swear," says Denis, mildly, knocking the ash off his 
 cigar. 
 
 "So I did. I remember now. There you are, my 
 Duchess/' as Norah once more comes lingeringiy up to 
 them. " And without that other pipe. Never mind, here 
 it is in my pocket, after all! But you might have brought 
 your cousin one." 
 
 " My cousin knows better than to smoke pipes,*' says 
 the girl, bending over her father and daintily ruffling his 
 hair. *' *Tis only a vieux mustache like you who can do 
 that nowadays. " 
 
 "Is it so?" said the squire, sharply, turning suddenly 
 on Denis, and for the first time becoming aware that he is 
 smoking a cigar. " Bless me, the fools you boys are! 
 Why you don't know what's good for you; you'll go to 
 your grave, I dare say, without learning the company there 
 is in a pipe. Why, it's twice as good as that weed of yours 
 and twice the comfort." 
 
 Replacing his comfort in his mouth he leans back in his 
 chair and contemplates the surrounding landscape with an 
 air of perfect conteut that mi^jht also be termed superb, 
 
80 THE i>UCHE»a. 
 
 From where they eifc a glimpse of the ocean may be canght, 
 
 as r: lies serene and placid basking in the rays of the now 
 setting sun. To their right rise mountains, high, wooded, 
 and tinged now by the purple flames of a dying day; 
 whilst to their left lies, silent and solitary, as ** illigant " a 
 bog as the heart of an Irishman could desire. So large it 
 is, so swampy; so suggestive of fevers and agues — and 
 snipe! 
 
 "D'ye see that?" demands the squire, after a prolonged 
 survey of it. He has removed his pipe from his mouth, 
 and now points with it majestically to the bog in question. 
 " That's mine!" 
 
 " Lot of waste ground," says his nephew, lazily, who, 
 after all, has been a long time off his native heath. 
 
 ** Waste?" echoes the squire, indignantly. " What do 
 you mean? Why it's the finest snipe bog in Ireland! 
 Waste, is it? Wait till you come here at Ohristmas-time 
 and you'll see how much waste there is about it." 
 
 " Oh! looking at it in that light!" says the young man 
 hastily, who indeed is a splendid shot and very devoted to 
 sports of all kinds. " If that is an invitation, my dear 
 uncle, you may expect me next Christmas." 
 
 " I'll hold you to your word. I'm sorry, however, 
 there's nothing for you now save rabbits. But you have 
 brought your gun?" 
 
 " No," regretfully. 
 
 "Oh! you ought, man! You should never travel with- 
 out your gun and your tooth-pick, as my poor father used 
 to say; and faith he might have added a brace of loaded 
 revolvers if he had lived in these days. However, don't 
 
THE DUCHESS. 31 
 
 forget it at Christmas when you come, and I promise you 
 we'll have many a good day of it in that same ' waste ' bit 
 of ground!'* 
 
 It is evident that he has taken the word hardly. 
 
 "I tell you," warming to the subject, "the snij^e 
 swarm there like bees. Why, there was one winter here — 
 was it last winter, now?" meditatively. " Norah, what 
 winter was it that the snipe were so plentiful round here?" 
 
 '* It was five winters ago," says the Duchess, with a 
 little nod. 
 
 " Five? Was it now? Well, there's nothing so deceiv- 
 ing as time! Anyhow,''' turning again to Denis, " what- 
 ever winter it was, they were as thick as peas, and so tame 
 you could sweep them off the hall doorsteps in the morn- 
 ing!" 
 
 This astounding announcement is given without a blush. 
 Denis, who is evidently delighted with it, and the teller of 
 it, laughs out loud. 
 
 " Ah! you may laugh if you like; but we know, don't 
 we, Korah?" giving his daughter's ear a loving pinch. 
 Norah remains discreetly silent. 
 
 " She doesn't," says Denis, mischievously, looking at 
 her with such persistency that he gains his point, and 
 compels those sweet, expressive eyes to seek his own. 
 
 ''What! Duchess! Turning traitor?" cries the squire, 
 catching her hand and pulling her forward. " Why, don't 
 you know yet, after all I have taught you, that when your 
 father tells a tarra-diddle, it is your duty to back him up? 
 Alas! the hours I've wasted on your education! You 
 must excuse her, sir," turning to Denis with an irresistible 
 
99 THE J)LUi:liiSS. 
 
 air of apology. *' She is still sadly deficient in many little 
 wayel*' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " And grace that won who saw to wish her stay." 
 
 Last niglifc some rain had fallen, short and youthful 
 showers, leaving small ruin in their track and lending a 
 deeper brilliancy to branch and bough and waving grasses, 
 that all look the fresher for their midnight bath. 
 
 " Green grow the rushes, 01" 
 
 Merrily, blithely, skim the swallows through the velvet 
 air! Coo! Coo! sigh the wood-doves from the dark en- 
 trances to the plantations beyond; and through all and 
 above it comes the swish-swish of the waves as they break 
 upon the beach far down bialow. 
 
 A heavy bunch of creamy roses, wet still with glistening 
 rain-drops, is flung by a small but unerring hand at the 
 casement of Delaney's room. It is as yet early morning, 
 and Denis, coming to the window in answer to this per- 
 fumed command, stands revealed in his shirt sleeves and 
 armed with two brushes that have as yet hardly succeeded 
 in reducing his hair to order. 
 
 " Come out! Come out!" cries a fresh, sweet voice. 
 " What! not dressed yet? Why, what do you think I 
 have already done? I've been down to the beach. I have 
 had a swim. I have come back again and am now re- 
 gowned! Oh! what a lazy boy you are!** 
 
THE DUCHESS. 33 
 
 Indeed it may all very well be true. So sweet a picture 
 she makes, looking up at him with her pretty head thrown 
 back and her face, fresh as the morning and as a lily fain 
 ** 1*11 be out in a moment,*' says he, not without a 
 thought of his present rather unorthodox costume; but 
 such thought he allows after a swift glance at her is a 
 cruel waste of time. There is no mock modesty about her; 
 no mcmvaise Jionte anywhere. Is he not her cousin, and 
 is not a cousin a sort of half-brother? / 
 
 " You should have been out an hour ago. The air then 
 was delicious. Hurry now, do, and put on your coat and 
 we'll have a run before breakfast. Here," flinging him a 
 rosebud, ** put that in your button-hole, and hurry, hurry, 
 hurry 1" 
 
 There is scarcely need for such injunction. Never in 
 his life before did he hurry through his toilet in such fran- 
 tic haste; and presently he has his reward. Long, long 
 years afterward he can recall to mind the strange, wild, 
 happy sense of utter enjoyment that clung round that 
 morning hour spent with her, ere the dew was lifted from 
 the flowers or the heart of the day was opened. 
 
 Then comes breakfast — a merry meal — as neither the 
 squire nor his daughter can refrain from giving way to a* 
 spontaneous gayety that affects one sympathetically and 
 draws one into the swift current of its own sprightliness. 
 And after breakfast there is half an hour with the squire, 
 who insists upon his guest following him round the ex- 
 tremely untidy farm-yard and giving his opinion upon this 
 and that. And then there is the Duchess to cope with for 
 the rest of the delicious, lazy, sultry afternoon. 
 
84 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 '* You play tennis?" asks Denis, idly, when they have 
 sauntered through the old-world garden, and gathered 
 themselves in a desultory fashion a very ideal bouquet. 
 
 ** Yes I Oh I yes,*' with a brightening eye. 
 
 ** You have a court?" 
 
 The Duchess colors. 
 
 *'A — a sort of one,** she confesses. ''I" — ^hanging 
 her head, *' I'm afraid it isn't the kind of one to which 
 you have been accustomed." 
 
 That this is highly probable a second's reflection assures 
 Denis, but he refrains from saying so. 
 
 *' Lead on!" he says instead, with a severe glance. 
 *' You are evidently trying to shirk the contest, and I am 
 bent (I warn you) on giving you a beating that will last 
 your life-time. " 
 
 *^Ah! So!'* cried the Duchess, her Irish blood taking 
 fire at once, forgetful of her late fears. " Come on, then!" 
 
 The court, when he comes to it — half reluctantly led 
 thereto by the Duchess, whose desire for battle had cooled 
 again as the march commenced, knowing what the in- 
 tended field looked like — is of so unusual an appearance 
 that it needs all his self-command and good breeding to 
 keep him from evincing his surprise. It is indeed meant 
 for a court because it is portioned off by an extremely 
 rustic railing from the field beyond — a stubby field — yet 
 but for the railing it might have belonged — been part and 
 parcel of the stubby field. In fact it was — last month! 
 
 *' It is horrid; you won't like to play on it!" says the 
 poor little Duchess, plaintively, who has been enduring 
 
THE DUCHESS. 35 
 
 agonies of shame on the way hither. There is indeed such 
 a wealth of misery in her expression as would have made a 
 worse man swear he would play in it or die. 
 
 " Is that your plan of getting out of your beating?'* says 
 Denis, scornfully, waving his racket on high. " If so it's 
 a vain one, my good child; you'll got it in spite of all your 
 efforts to the contrary. Come! let's begin. I thirst for 
 the fray!" 
 
 If this indeed be the truth his thirst is considerably 
 quenched after the first draught. The ground may be bad 
 — nay, it is inconceivably so; the balls abominable; but 
 the Duchess, at all events, is an unconquerable foe! Now 
 here, now there she darts, swift as a flash of lightning, 
 taking his hardest balls as though they were child's play to 
 her; giving him balls impossible — in effect " taking the 
 shine out of him " altogether, as they say down here. 
 
 Is she a spirit, or an imp, or a girl? Was there ever so 
 light-footed a creature, or one so sure of her stroke? And 
 was there ever one who at the end of a set (won literally 
 off her own bat) could look so cool, so lovely, so little tri- 
 umphant? 
 
 " You're a swindle!" says Denis, who is as hot as she is 
 cool, as crimson as she is pale. " You are," changing hi?, 
 tune, " a marvelous creaturel" He says this in a panting 
 tone, from where he has flung himself exhausted on the 
 grass. It is no joke, you see, playing a single game on a 
 hot day in July. ** Why don't you look surprised?" he 
 goes on. ** You might, if only for generosity's sake. 
 Why don't you jeer at me? Are you not proud of your 
 self?" 
 
36 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 ** Well, no," says the Duchess, mildly. *' To tell yon 
 
 the truth, I generally beat everybody f*' 
 
 Denis, as if amused by this naive remark, which is rich 
 in truth, gives way to sudden laughter. 
 
 '* You'll bring them down a peg or two at the Castle,*' 
 he says, inadvertently. Then — *' Don't sit so far away 
 from me over there; you might as well be in the next 
 eouut3^ Come over here and enjoy with me the shade of 
 this hospitable tree. I'd go to you, only you have knocked 
 me up so completely." 
 
 *' Poor thing!** says the Duchess, with deep compassion. 
 She comes to him at once and slips down on the grass be- 
 side him, and generously pulls out a corner of her gown 
 that he may rest his head upon it. 
 
 *' Who taught you to play tenuis in that masterly 
 style?*' asks he, when he has settled himself comfortably, 
 and as close to her as circumstances will permit. *' I 
 thought you told me you had no neighbors?'* 
 
 " What a melancholy thought! We are not quite so des- 
 titute as all that. I think what 1 said to you was, that 
 there were no young men here; but there are plenty of 
 girls. That,** with a little laugh, "is bad enough, isn't 
 it, without adding to it?'* 
 
 ''I don't think girls could teach you to play as you 
 do." 
 
 " Well, there are some old men, too. Dad can take 
 most balls, and the recior is no mean foe. And Lord 
 Kilgarriff, when he is at home, gives me lessons; vut he is 
 so often away.** 
 
THE DUCHESS. 37 
 
 "Lord Kilgarriff," turning lazily on his elbow to look 
 at her; ** who is he? Another old neighbor?" 
 
 '' The oldest we have. I remember him quite as long 
 as I can remember anything.'* 
 
 (" Old fogy evidently/* thinks the young man, with an 
 unconscious pleasure in thus thinking.) "Where is he 
 now?" aloud. 
 
 *' Abroad. Somewhere in Germany. I forget the name 
 of the town. There was a professor of sometliing or other 
 there whom he wished to see. " 
 
 (" Musty old pedant beyond doubt/' decides Delaney, 
 still carrying out that first satisfactory train of thought. ) 
 *' Book- worm, I suppose/' he says, civilly, if supercilious- 
 ly. " That sort is generally a bore, don't you think? One 
 can hardly fancy an old fellow devoted to his ' Aldines, 
 Bodonis, Elzevirs,' wielding the frivolous racket. By the 
 bye, how old is he? Old enough to be your grandfather — 
 eh?" 
 
 " Well — hardly, perhaps," with a treacherous uncer- 
 tainty of tone. "Let me see. On his last birthday he 
 was, I am almost sure — " 
 
 "Ninety-nine!" 
 
 " N— 0. Twenty-five!" 
 
 " What!" says her cousin, sitting upright and coloring 
 warmly. Then, as though the absurdity of his extreme 
 astonishment strikes him, he sinks back again into his 
 former position and alters the expression of his face. " I 
 fancied him a modern Methusaleh. I scarcely know why," 
 he says, indifferently. " A friend of my uncle's rathei 
 than yours. " 
 
38 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 ** His father was dad's greatest chum down here. They 
 were at college together, and when he died a year ago dad 
 fretted after him very much. Otho is now the earl." 
 
 Otho! Somehow the word, so sweetly uttered, so plain- 
 ly familiar, grates upon liis ear. 
 
 "He is abroad," he says, abruptly. " For long?*' 
 
 *' No, he returns next week.*' 
 
 ** How do you know?** 
 
 " He told me so in his last letter,** replies she, simply. 
 
 Silence follows this ordinary answer. Denis, lying back 
 with his hands clasj^ed behind his head is, to all appear- 
 ance, gazing with rapt attention at the pale white clouds 
 floating in the dazzling blue of the sky overhead: and yet 
 —and yet — what is this curious sense of dissatisfaction, 
 this contraction of the heart, that is almost a pain? It is 
 sharp enough at all events to rouse him to a clear under- 
 standing of his own position, and with the rush of memory 
 comes the knowledge that he of all men has no right to 
 feel anything but unconcern about the girl's affairs — this 
 lovely child, who, whilst he is working out the right and 
 wrong of it all, is employing her little idle brown fingers 
 upon the adornment of his head. 
 
 Surely it is true that 
 
 " Satan finds some mischief stDl for idle hands to do." 
 
 Through and through the few short hairs that his barber 
 has left him she is threading pieces of grass, pulling them 
 out again and rearranging them as fancy dictates, care- 
 lessly, dreamily. 
 
 Denis, with this new strange fear at his heart, lifts his 
 
THE nrcHESS. 39 
 
 own hand, and, taking hers from his head, puts it away 
 from him with a Spartan determination. 
 
 " Do you know,^' he says, sharply, with a rather forced 
 smile, ' ' that — that the eilect of your fingers going in and 
 out like that — is — is maddening?*' 
 
 " Don't you like it?" asks she, genuine surprise in her 
 tone. She stoops over him and gazes into his half-averted 
 face as if to assure herself that he really can mean it. 
 " Why, Otho loves it! He says it is as soothing as a 
 cigarette. " 
 
 " I am not Otho. It does not soothe me,'* says Denis, 
 still with that unnatural assumption of pleasantry. " So 
 far from it that I believe a continuance of it would be dan- 
 gerous — for me — not for you," smiling. 
 
 As though to place temptation beyond his reach, he 
 seizes upon his hitherto discarded hat, and with quite a 
 heroic air crushes it down upon his head, lol even to his 
 brow. 
 
 " Oh! you needn't lecture me about it," says the Duch- 
 ess, with a little offended glance from under her long 
 lashes; " aiid 3'^ou needn't put on your hat like that. I am 
 not going to touch you. I don't want to stick straws in' 
 your hair, believe me. I was merely doing it to please 
 you because Otho says — " 
 
 "Oh! confound Otho!" interposes her cousin, impul- 
 sively; and a second later is covered with confusion. What 
 in Heaven's name is the matter with him this morning.'' 
 What must she think of him? The enormity of his mis- 
 demeanor is clear to him; but it is not so clear as to how 
 lie shall apologize for it; how exphiin away his unreasona- 
 
40 Tlli; DICUESS. 
 
 ble burst of irritation about what has, or at all eventi 
 
 should have, no element of annoyance about it? Whilst, 
 stricken with remorse, he is casting about him for some 
 decent excuse to offer for his conduct, the Duchess, strik- 
 ing boldly into the situation, makes an end of it. 
 
 '* You are cross," she says, calmly, regarding him with 
 a judicial eye. " You are indeed," with severe meaning, 
 ** extremely queer altogether. Do you think the sun is 
 too hot for you, or the flies too troublesome? If you think 
 you are going to have a sunstroke or — or anything of that 
 sort, I should be glad if you would give me timely warn- 
 ing.'' It is evident that she is rather disgusted with 
 him. 
 
 *' I fling myself upon your grace's mercy,** returns he 
 with a smile that is very imploring in spite of the lightness 
 of his tone. " If you will believe me I don't know what 
 is the matter with me!" This is strictly true. " I have, 
 I suppose, a wretched temper, and I lost it, and — '* 
 
 "And a very good thing, too!'* cries she, gayly. "If 
 it is so wretched as you say you may be congratulated on 
 your loss. There, don't look so miserable. I forgive 
 you." 
 
 "It is more than I deserve then. By and by," tak- 
 ing the little hand he had so rudely repulsed and tenderly 
 smoothing it, " you will remember me only as an ill-tem- 
 pered fellow who — *' 
 
 " No! No, indeed!" sweetly. *' You must not think 
 that. Shall I tell you something?" bending down and 
 looking at him with such a lovely, earnest gaze. *' I like 
 you already — already, mind you — much better than any 
 
TH7^. DtTHEfiS. 41 
 
 one I have ever yet met. Always excepting dad, of 
 course. ** 
 
 *' What! Better than Kilgarriff?" asks he, nnable to 
 refrain from this question. 
 
 " A thousand times better!** frankly. " Though, in- 
 deed,* * with sudden contrition, " yoa must understand 
 that I am very fond of Otho, too.** 
 
 Delaney, who is watching her with eager eyes, sighs im- 
 patiently. Oh! that she were a little less frank, a little 
 more reserv^ed. He would that he could have seen some 
 faint hesitation in her tone, the lightest suspicion of a 
 blush upon her pretty cheek. But there is none — noth- 
 ing. 
 
 And then once again there comes the rush of memory, 
 and with it the new fear and the angry self-contempt. 
 
 Why should he wish her less frank? What should be 
 hoped from any new-born shyness? Has he forgotten 
 honor, everything, in two short days and part of a third? 
 
 It is all a mere touch of folly, a veritable midsummer 
 madness. He will fling the thought of it far from him. 
 
 But alas! alas! this is easier said than done. 
 
 And in the silent watches of the sleepless night, when 
 most things are laid bare to us, he knows that at last fair 
 love has caught him in its toils, and that for weal or woe 
 -^nay, woe, for a certainty — ^he is a slave for evermore. 
 At the feet of her who but a few days ago was as nothing 
 to him his heart lies wonnded— stricken — hopelesbt 
 
4S THE I>UGfi£0«. 
 
 OHAPrER VL 
 
 " Mf valor is certainly goiDgl it is sneaking off." 
 
 " HistI Norahl" says the sqaire in a subdued tone, 
 putting his head cautiously outside the door of his own 
 favorite deu and beckoning her to come in, great mystery 
 in all his bearing. Drawing her in he closes the door care- 
 fully behind him and regards her with an anxious eye. 
 
 It is the next morning and there is much sign of an em- 
 barrassed mind about the squire. He looks puzzled, 
 "perplexed in the extreme/' and his hair has taken that 
 pronounced stage generally caused by the running through 
 it of nervous fingers. 
 
 " He'll stay the week!" he says at last, getting it out 
 with rather a Jerk. " The whole week, to a moral. I 
 told you how 'twould be." 
 
 A little thrill of pleasure rushes through Norah. 
 
 "Well! You aren't sorry, are you?" she asks, re- 
 proachfully. " Remember all you said about the duties of 
 hospitality and the — " 
 
 " Nonsense, now, Norah! What way is that to speak? 
 Sorry, is it? Why, it's delighted I am! I wish he could 
 stay a month, only — Why, I never met a nicer fellow — 
 never. Did you, now?" 
 
 " Never," says Norah, sincerely. 
 
 "'Tisn't that at all— but— but, Noddlekins," sinking 
 his voice to a whisper, " do you think they will hold out?" 
 
THE DUCHESS. 43 
 
 "What?'' startled. "The chickens — the mutton? 
 Even if they don't we can get — '* 
 
 " Oh, bother take the chickens and the mutton/' cries 
 the squire in a frenzied tone. " Who's thinking of them? 
 'Tisn't the dinner that's troubling me. Duchess — 'tis the 
 clothes!" Here he grows almost apoplectic in his en- 
 deavors to whisper and still give to his words the emphasis 
 they deserve. " Oh, Norah, darling, last night I thought 
 I'd have died in 'em. Specially the coat! I felt burst- 
 ing!" 
 
 " That's how you looked, too," says the Duchess, with 
 deep sympathy. " Why not leave them off, dad, darling? 
 I'm sure you look ever so nice in your Sunday ones. 
 Quite lovely, indeed, when your hair is cut. " 
 
 " Never!'* says the squire, heroically. " I've begun and 
 I'll finish in 'em, though they be the death of me. D'ye 
 think I'd let him go back to the Castle, to madame, my 
 own sister-in-law, and say I dined in fustian?" 
 
 " He wouldn't," says Norah, indignantly, " What do 
 you take him for?" 
 
 " It might come out all the same, and then we'd be dis- 
 graced for life. But what I was thinking is this," regarding 
 her anxiously. '* If I were to ease them a bit! Eh? To 
 give a little snip to the stitching under the arms, you 
 know. It would be a great relief to me — and— and he'd 
 never see it. Eh, now?" 
 
 "Not for the world!" declares Norah, vehemently. 
 "Cut one stitch and the whole thing will go. Why, dad, 
 think of their age! They were made before I was bora 
 They must be twenty years old at least." 
 
44 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 " Thirty, my love, I think," says the poor squire, mt)i 
 much dejection. It is a great blow to him that that 
 "snip ''has been forbidden. "And you really thin ii I 
 couldn't ease them? It's great agony, Norah. I assure 
 you, my dear, there was a moment last night when I felt 
 as if I was going to sneeze. I'll never forget it. If I had, 
 all would have been over with me! Not a seam, not a 
 button, would have been left! I thought I should have 
 died of fright! It really makes me very anxious, my dear; 
 and it's a thing that may occur again. I'm rather given 
 to sneezing." 
 
 " You are. It is a great misfortune," says Norah, sad- 
 ly. " I wish you could cure yourself." 
 
 *' I assure you I can't even laugh comfortably," goes on 
 the scjuire, with a sigh; " and that's a great loss to me. 
 'Tis a thing I'm not accustomed to. I don't believe they'll 
 stand a week of it, Norah. I don't indeed; and if they do 
 give I sha'n't be able to hold up my head again." 
 
 " I'll get a good strong bit of housewife's thread and 
 sew the seams on the inside wherever they look strained, 
 and then you can laugh," says his daughter, giving him 
 an encouraging pat on his broad back, 
 
 " If you do, I'm thinking you'll sew the suit," says he, 
 still melancholy. "There isn't a seam in it that you 
 couldn't burst with a decent sigh." 
 
 He looks at her as if defying her to deny this, and then, 
 all suddenl}^, without so much as a second's warning, he 
 bursts out into an irresistible peal of laughter. His laugh 
 and Norah's are just the same — musical, hearty, com- 
 pelling. To hear them is to join in them, nolens volens. 
 
THE DUCHESS. 45 
 
 Long aud loud he laughed, Norah keeping hina company, 
 without exactly knowing why; but youth, especially Irish 
 youth, is prone to laughter, and is always thankful for a 
 chance of giving way to it. 
 
 "Speak! Speak!" cries she, at last. "I can't laugh 
 forever without a reason for it. It*s an unsatisfactory kind 
 of mirth.'* 
 
 *' I was thinking," says he, still choking, " that if I did 
 burst those clothes what a row there would be. Such an 
 explosion! Just think of his face and yours! and your 
 poor old dad at the head of the table — ha! ha! ha! — with 
 vacancies in his raiment aud — Oh, my! oh, my!'* 
 
 The tears of mirth are running down his cheeks as he 
 pictures to himself the scene that a moment before had re- 
 duced him to despair. Ii^orah, too, is laughing with all 
 her heart, when Denis, opening the door, thrusts in his 
 laead. 
 
 ** It does one good to hear you," he says. " May I 
 know what it is all about?" 
 
 " No; it isn't good enough," says the Duchess, hastily. 
 " It is too ancient; a perfectly threadbare joke." 
 
 " Good for you. Duchess!" cries the squire, beginning 
 to explode again. '' Faith, the subject of it is threadbare 
 enough in all conscience and ancient to a fault. " 
 
 " Never mind, dad. You have come to tell us some- 
 thing," says Norah, addressing her cousin pointedly, as if 
 to turn his atteation from the squire, who is in quite a 
 dangerous mood. " That letter in your hand — " 
 
 " Is from my mother, asking me whea I intend retoro* 
 ing.' 
 
4(J THE DUCHESS. 
 
 ** My dear boyi Why, you have only just come!** ex* 
 claims tlie squire, forgetful now of the joke, the fragility 
 of the evening clothes, everything. 
 
 *' Nevertheless she says she can't do without me. The 
 house is full of people, and it appears the task of keeping 
 them in a good temper is beyond her. Norah, she also 
 wants to know if you are coming back with me.'* 
 
 ** Back with you? To the Castle? Ob, no! Certainly 
 not!" says the Duchess, in a tone of horror. All tlie 
 laughter is gone now, giving place to nervous astonish- 
 ment. Involuntarily she steps backward until she reaches 
 the wall behind her, as if desirous of getting as far from 
 the Castle in question as possible. No words could be as 
 eloquent as this movement. 
 
 " But why?*' asks the young man, reproachfully. " My 
 mother is so anxious to make your acquaintance that she 
 will take your refusal hardly. As you know, she can not 
 well come to you at present, but if you will go to her — '* 
 
 '* I haven't thought of it. I didn't know she wished — " 
 
 " I told your father. You didn't tell her?" looking 
 at the squire, who is now the picture of guilt. 
 
 " I recollect something about it. I believe you did say 
 that madame would like to see her," says he, temporizing 
 disgracefully, the fact being that he had remembered, but 
 had decided from the first that Norah could never get on 
 without him or he without Norah. 
 
 " More than that, I gave you my mother's invitation. 
 I hope, Norah," regarding her earnestly, " that you will 
 accept it. You will like my mother, I know, and as there 
 
THE DUCHESS. 47 
 
 are bo many people staying there at present yoa won't feel 
 dull." 
 
 " Oh! That's jasfc it," miserably. 
 
 " What?" 
 
 ** All those people!" growing quite pale. 
 
 " Nonsense!" laughing. ** Not one of them will eat 
 you, and some may amuse you. I am quite sure you will 
 enjoy it. " 
 
 " I shouldn't, indeed. Dad," indignantly, ** why don't 
 you speak? Why don't you say I should be wretched away 
 from your^' 
 
 " She would. She would indeed, I assure you," says 
 the squire, waking to an enthusiastic defense of the posi- 
 tion because of that indignant glance. *' I assure you, my 
 dear Denis, she would be the most melancholy creature 
 alive if deprived of my society even for a day!" 
 
 He says it in such perfect good faith and with such an 
 open desire to help her in her extremity that he is irresisti- 
 ble. Even Norah gives way to laughter. 
 
 " It is true, though," she says to Denis, a little defiant- 
 ly. " We have never been separated, never. Even for 
 the three years I was at school in France he came over and 
 lived there with me." 
 
 "Then I wish you would change your mind and come 
 to Ventry, too," says Denis. 
 
 "I wish I could," says the squire, who indeed would 
 have desired nothing better; ^'but I'm tied by the heels 
 just now. You know what a worry the tenants are?" 
 
 He refrains from mention of the evening suit anil tiit 
 utter mability to order a new one. 
 
48 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 " Norah," says her cousiu, suddenly, " come out and 
 Iwt us talkit 07ur.'' 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 " Oh, the little more, and how much it isl" 
 
 Outside, the world is so fair, so fresh, so joyous, that it 
 is scarcely to be woudered ab if Denis trusted to it to help 
 him with his pletidiug. Who could prove unkind with 
 such a sun gilding such fleecy clouds; who be obdurate 
 with all Nature's richest treasures spread on every side of 
 one with such a lavish hand? 
 
 It rather upsets his theory, however, when on glancing 
 downward at his cousin he finds her as hard-hearted as 
 ever. 
 
 " Well," she says, with a little vexed laugh, catching 
 his expression, " what did you expect? I have come out 
 here with you as you seemed to imagine great things would 
 come of such a move; but I warn you it will not do a bit 
 of good." 
 
 " I wonder why you have so determinedly set your face 
 against coming to us,'* says he, a little offended. 
 
 *' It isn't that," hastily. *' Don't think it for a mo- 
 ment. If it were only you and your mother; but — the 
 fact is," speaking reluctantly and coloring warmly,**! — 
 I'm afraid!" 
 
 *' Afraid of what?" incredulously. 
 
 "Of all those strangers. When I think of being alone 
 there — amongst so many people unknown to me — without 
 
THE DUCHESS. 49 
 
 dad — I feel — oh!** — ^laying her hand upon her boeom — 
 "dreadfoll" 
 
 ** But you wouldn't be alone. I shall be there!" says 
 Delaney, the very slightest suspicion of a grievance in his 
 tone. 
 
 " Why, so you would/* says she, slowly, as if suddenly 
 Hwakening to a hitherto forgotten fact. " I never thought 
 of that; but still you are not dad, you know.^' 
 
 This is indisputable. Beyond all doubt she has taken 
 up an unassailable position. Acknowledging this fact, De- 
 laney gives up argument. 
 
 " I won't listen to another objection," cries he, gayly. 
 " Not one. I insist on carrying you off bodily and intro- 
 ducing you to the lot of them, whether you will or not. I 
 have set my heart on the doing of this, and I know you 
 will not have the heart to thwart me. What! Do you 
 think I would readily relinquish the triumph of showing 
 you off to them — of exhibiting my captive? My very own 
 discovery, too!** 
 
 He is thinking of the sensation her beauty will create 
 even among- the throng of pretty women with whom his 
 mother ever delights to surround herself. What one of 
 that gay crowd could dare to compare with her? Already, 
 in his fond fancy, he can see her dancing through the 
 grand old rooms at Ventry, or walking sedately through 
 its gardens, the sweetest flower among all those myriad 
 blossoms. 
 
 The charm of this vision, however, it being a mere men- 
 tal vagary, being naturally withheld from the Duchess, it 
 80 happens that his words fall with a meaning little in- 
 
00 THE DUCHE88. 
 
 tended upon her ears. Far from seeing anything compK- 
 mentary in them, she sees something fatally the reverse. 
 Could so lovely a thing as her face be ever guilty of show- 
 ing wrath undisguised, now is the time. 
 
 "Show me off!'* she repeats, in a voice that positively 
 electrifies the ill-fated Denis. " Exhibit me! Am I 
 then a South Sea Islander? Am I to understand that I 
 really differ so entirely from the rest of your acquaint- 
 ances?'' 
 
 " As light from darkness," replies he, with promptitude, 
 though considerably puzzled by her tone and expression. 
 
 " Oh!" says the Duchess. 
 
 Great meaning may be thrown into this apparently 
 harmless monosyllable. Miss Delaney makes it so elo- 
 quent that her cousin turns sharply to look at her. What 
 can be the matter with her? For an instant their eyes 
 meet; time long enough to let him see that tears are stand- 
 ing thickly in hers. 
 
 " Norah! what is it?" he exclaims, stopping short. 
 ** Does this visit to my mother make you really so un- 
 happy? If I thought so — '* 
 
 "It has nothing to do with it, and you know it!" re- 
 turns she, resentfully. This time the tears are very plain 
 to him, as she lifts two indignant eyes to his. Large and 
 brilliant they hang upon her lashes, trembling to their 
 fall. *' But to be told that one is ' different!' Of course,'* 
 with a baleful glance at him, '* I know I am not as those 
 others — those fashionable friends of yours, who have been 
 everywhere and seen everything, and heard all there is to 
 he»r — ftnd I dare say "— wiUa tearful contempt — " a good 
 
THE J)L(.llKr;.S. 61 
 
 deal more! I know I am not like them, and '* — passion- 
 ately — '* I don't want to be, either. But one may be 
 different from the people without liking to hear it said. 
 One may be absurd and old-fashioned without wanting to 
 hear it put into words!'* 
 
 This terrible speech is poured forth with a startling 
 fluency that reduces Denis to a state bordering on coma. 
 Eecovering himself by an effort, " ^orah! is it possible 
 you could so misjudge me?" he saj^s, flushing hotly. 
 " My dar — er — h'm — '* seeking wildly for a compromise 
 — '' my dearest girl! can it be that you don't see what I 
 really meant, where the true difference lies? That you 
 are the light— the rest of them the darkness. Oh! Norah, 
 look at me! Say you believe me!" 
 
 '* I won't! I don't!" keeping her gaze studiously avert- 
 ed; and now the two large tears detach themselves at last 
 from the lashes and roll slowly, pitifully down her cheeks, 
 "I'm sure you are saying all that just to please and com- 
 fort me." A little sob breaks from her. 
 
 It is by a mighty effort alone that Delaney controls the 
 eager longing that now almost overpowers him to catch 
 her in his arms and press that sad, angry little face 
 against his own. Was ever thing created fairer than this 
 child? Oh, that he were free to woo — perchance to win 
 her! Oh, that he had never seen her! — and yet— not that! 
 He could not wish that. With what a strange suddenness 
 she had fallen into his life (and alas! how much too late), 
 killing for him the serenity in which he had believed he 
 should live and die, not knowing then the greatest good o' 
 all-^nor having tasted of love's draught— that bitter s^ye^tf 
 
52 THE DUCHESSJ 
 
 Now, all that is over; serenity is dead, and peace has 
 flown; and here a galling chain binds him secure, and 
 there stands love, uncrowned, waiting, it might have been, 
 for him. A love so sweet, an eager, gracious thing; care- 
 less as yet, with songs on her lips and laughter in her eyes, 
 and no knowledge (as it seems to him) of the cruel fret 
 and fever of the pain that men call passion. 
 
 All this, or a vague sense of it, runs through him as he 
 stands there looking on her tears, but when he speaks his 
 voice, though low, is calm. 
 
 " Not I," he says. " 1*11 swear it to you if you will, 
 though my word is as good as my bond. Why, you silly 
 baby, do you think if I did entertain such a heresy that I 
 should have had the pluck to say it?'* 
 
 This appears to be an excellent bit of reasoning and very 
 convincing. The Duchess smiles, and earth grows bright 
 again. She even draws a little nearer to him, as if about 
 to speak, and then, as if overcome by a little access of shy- 
 ness, stops short, and taking hold of one of the buttons of 
 his coat between a slender finger and thumb twists it round 
 and round again without any apparent reason. 
 
 ** Well?" questions Denis, stifling a sigh. It is very 
 hard for any one, under an anchorite, to have the chosen 
 of his heart so very close to him and feel that he mustn't 
 encourage her to come closer still. *'Wel]f" 
 
 " Denis, tell me this," with the sweetest blush imagin- 
 able. *' Eeally, now mind — honestly, do you think mo 
 pretty?" 
 
 "It is too poor a word!" says the miserable Denis, so 
 far forgetting the stern r61e allotted to him as to take the 
 
THE DUCHESS. 53 
 
 little thin fingers from the long-suffering button and press 
 them to his lips. " If yon will say ' lovely ' I can answer 
 you.'' 
 
 " Oh, now!" with a little pleased laugh, " that is going 
 too far. They tell me my mother was beautiful, but that 
 I do not resemble her much; that 1 am like dad's people. 
 Like,'' thoughtfully, " your people. You, perhaps? How 
 strange that would be! Am I like your" 
 
 "I dare say I have frequently flattered myself," says 
 Denis, laughing. " We all do it; but I think I can hon- 
 estly say never to that extent.** 
 
 '* Well," persists the Duchess, positively, " now that it 
 has occurred to me, I am. sure I reminded myself of some- 
 body this morning when I was doing my hair before the 
 glass. It must have been you. Come over here,** slip- 
 ping her hand iuto his and drawing him to where a deep 
 pool lies basking drowsily in the sunshine, encompassed by 
 ferns and mosses. 
 
 Over this she bends, scrutinizing the faint, imperfect re- 
 flection of her charms it throws up to her. Delicate, 
 vague, unsatisfactory it is, yet sweet withal. Denis, 
 standing behind her and gazing over her shoulder, can see 
 the quivering image that so maligns her pure and perfect 
 beauty, and turns with impatience to the living original 
 beside him. She is still absorbed in tracing a likeness that 
 does not exist, and a sudden desire to play upon her an old 
 school-boy trick, and so disturb her thoughts, takes posses- 
 sion of him. 
 
 Passing his hands round her waist from the back he 
 pushes her well over the brink of the pool, holding her 
 
4^ THE DUCHESS. 
 
 thus for an instiuit and then drawing her back to terrn 
 firma. 
 
 ** There! only for me you would have been in,'* he saye 
 Taiugloriously. 
 
 *' Oh, Denis!*' cries she, genuinely startled. Then she 
 laughs, aud with his arms still eucircliiig her looks back at 
 him over her shoulder with parted lips and brightened 
 eyes. Her attitude brings her head almost to his shoulder. 
 She was never yet so near to his heart. Was she ever yet 
 so lovely? His pulses are beginning to beat madly, hia 
 eyes grow warm. The laugh is still fresh upon her lips. 
 
 " My love, whose lips are softer far 
 Than droAvsy poppy petals are. 
 And sweeter tlian the violet." 
 
 But the smile has died from his. There is a quick, irre- 
 pressible movement. He bends over her — nearer — nearer 
 still; and then he loosens his hold of her and stands back, 
 a frown upon his brow, his face a little pale. 
 
 "Are you frightened?" asks she, lightly. "Did you 
 think I was really going to fall in? Ha! Did punish- 
 ment then overtake you? But you should know that I am 
 sure-footed as a goat; that I seldom catch myself tripping. *' 
 
 She is evidently puzzled a good deal by the change in 
 his manner, which has gone from *' grave to gay, from 
 lively to severe *' without a second's warning, and would 
 perhaps have subjected him to a rather embarrassing 
 cross-examination, but that at this moment the appearance 
 of a woman at the lower end of the path attracts theii 
 attention. 
 
THR DUCHESS. 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 " To mortal men great loads allotted be, 
 But of all packs no pack like poverty." 
 
 She is a woman, withered, and slightly bent, and 
 wretchedly dressed, as are all poor Irish peasants. Her 
 petticoat, made of a thick blue flannel, is short, and 
 patched liberally here and there. No stockings cover her 
 legs, no boots her feet, which, though wonderfully small, 
 are hard as the path itself and roughened by work and ex- 
 posure. An old jacket, worn at the elbows and very 
 much the worse for wear, covers her body, and over her 
 shoulders a dingy little red and black shawl is thrown. 
 
 Clothing enough certainly for a hot day in July, but 
 alas! terribly insufficient for the frosts and snows of win- 
 ter; and when they come there will be nothing extra to 
 cover that poor, frail body. Poverty has no diversity of 
 costumes wherewith to meet the exigencies of each coming 
 season. 
 
 Seeing Norah, the woman quickened her footsteps, 
 already marvelously agile for a \;\oman well past fifty. 
 
 "Ah! Biddy, is that you?" says Norah, asking the 
 Buperfluous but kindly question with a smile. 
 
 *' Good-morning, your honor, my lady,'"" returns the 
 woman, this being a very usual greeting in the South of 
 Ireland to those known to be of ''dacent blood." There 
 is no such ardent admirer of aristocracy as the Irish peas- 
 
ffO THE DUCHESS. 
 
 aiit. " Are yoa in a hurry, miss? Might I have a word 
 witl ye. Miss Norah?*' 
 
 '* What is it, now, Biddy?" asks the Duchess, anxioug- 
 \y. " Nothing wrong with little l^arry?" 
 
 " No, miss, glory be to God, he's betther an' betther 
 every day. But tell me, alanua, 'tis the masther I want 
 to see. Is he up above?" meaning Ballyhiuch, not 
 heaven. 
 
 " I left him there about half an hour ago. ** It is im- 
 possible for Denis, who is standing by, not to become con- 
 scious that she has indeed found time in his society to run 
 wonderfully swift. '* What do yoa want from him now, 
 Biddy?" 
 
 " Faix, miss, a bit of a sthick, no more. I thought as 
 how he'd give me wan out of the wood beyant to keep u]) 
 the house. The rafthers is givin* way like, but if I could 
 get somethin' to prop 'em up wid they'd hould together if 
 only for a year itself. One o' thim young threes, miss, 
 out of the plantation would do. The masther, God bless 
 him! is good to all, an* if ye think, miss, he'd give it — " 
 
 " 1 know he will. Hurry up, Biddy, because he may be 
 going out. By the bye," detaining her, " how's Dan? 
 When did you hear from him?" 
 
 " Sure that was partly what was bringin* me up to the 
 house. But,'* shyly, " when I saw ye wid the gintle- 
 man,** with a sly glance at Denis. ** Anyhow, miss, 'twas 
 this mornin* a letter came. I've got it here wid me," pull- 
 ing it out of her bosom. " May be ye'd like to read it?" 
 
 "Of coarse I should," says the Duchess, heartily. 
 " Dear me, what a eood boy he always was I*' 
 
THE nrCH'ESS. 6? 
 
 *' Thrue for ye, miss/' intensely gratified. " God blesa 
 ye! Ye have the good word always for rich an' poor. 
 D'ye see, alanna,'' pointing to the letter with ungovernable 
 pride, " 'tis all the way from Chany it has come. Glory 
 be to the Blessed Mother I but isn't it a sight of the world 
 he is seein', an' him the biggest blackguard whin he was 
 at home! Isn't it wonderful. Miss Norah, now? A spal- 
 peen that I was forever leatherin', he was sich a divil all 
 out, wid his pranks an' his tricks, savin' your presence, 
 miss. Even Father Jerry himself wasn't safe from him; 
 an' there he is now as grand as the best of 'em, servin' 
 aboard a man-o'-war." 
 
 " Well, why shouldn't he?" says Norah. " Where's 
 the sailor that's better than an Irish sailor?" 
 
 " Pegs, an' that's thrue, too," acknowledges the grati- 
 fied mother. *' He sint me a three-pound note, miss, 
 along wid the letther. There's for ye now? Faix, yes! 
 He'd never forget his old mammy, he says. D'ye know. 
 Miss Norah, I'm dead sorry now as ever I bate that boy!" 
 
 " Don't," says Norah, laughing. " Perhaps it was 
 those beatings that has made him the burning, shining 
 light he now is. " 
 
 "'Tisn't, darlin'; I don't believe in bastin' nohow. 
 When ye're married. Miss Norah, never bate your own 
 gossoons." 
 
 The Duchess laughs again. 
 
 " I'll remember," she says, moving on a step or tfvo 
 with a friendly nod as farewell. 
 
 " Will your father give that tree?" asks Deuis, curious* 
 iy, when they are out of hearing. 
 
58 TDK inCHESS. 
 
 " Why, yes. Of course." 
 
 ** But I thought, from what he said, that he was rather 
 indignant with the people round here; rather inclined to 
 be hard on them, and — and that.** 
 
 The Duchess turns upon him a glance filled with fine 
 contempt. 
 
 " And have you lived with dad for four days and don*t 
 you know him yet?'* she says. " You haven't found him 
 out. Why, he can't say ' No ' to one of them. He is as 
 good as a father to them. He abuses both the tenants and 
 laborers from morning till night like a pickpocket, but he 
 treats them like a friend. Of course she'll get that tree; 
 and if the men are all employed he will in all probability 
 go out and cut it down for her himself. '* 
 
 " I see," says Denis, thoughtfully. Then: " What did 
 she want her ' stick ' for?" 
 
 '' Did not you hear? To prop up her roof, which is 
 falling in. She does not demand the restoration of the 
 roof, as you may notice, but simply begs a prop for it. 
 Dad will see to the proper mending of it before the winter, 
 no doubt, if — if he has the money; but there are so many 
 roofs and all out of repair. ** 
 
 She sighs. 
 
 *' How you take things to heart!" says he, looking at 
 her with some speculation in his gaze. 
 
 "Oh! these poor creatures, what they suffer!'* cries 
 she, suddenly, with a little touch of passion in her tone. 
 " No one knows it save those who live amongst them, and 
 they not always. Why should I not take it to heart? Am 
 I not flesh and blood as they are? Must I not feel, for 
 
THE DUCHESS. 59 
 
 them? And every day, every hour, one is compelled t» 
 take them to heart. Why, only last winter a man came 
 to dad — a laborer — begging for work; and he told us that 
 the cabin in which he lived had such holes in the roof that 
 the rain came pattering in on them even when they were 
 in bed, he and his wife and three little children. Often, 
 he told dad, when he had to get up at six o'clock on a 
 winter's morning to go to his work, he was so frozen in 
 bed that it was a relief to him to get out of it. " 
 
 " Good heavens, what a melancholy story!" says De- 
 laney, perhaps only half believing it. He spent little of 
 his time in his native land. 
 
 " Why, that is nothing. Hear the rest of it. First one 
 little child died. Then it was he came to dad beseeching 
 him to give him any cabin he could and work on Bally- 
 hinch. We are wretchedly poor ourselves," says the 
 Duchess, tears rising to her eyes, " but we managed the 
 cabin for him; a miserable little hole, comfortless enough, 
 but at all events the rain could not come into it. He came 
 and took possession, but a week after his wife died — died 
 from exposure and cold in that other dreadful house!" 
 
 " But the owner of that other house — what of him? 
 Did he escape scot free?" asks Denis, with some indigna- 
 tion. " What right has any landlord to give his laborer 
 such a miserable hut to live in? Call such a fellow as that 
 a gentleman?'' 
 
 "I didn't," reasons the Duchess, mildly. "I didn't 
 call him anything; and it wasn't a landlord either — it 
 wasn't a gentleman — it was a farmer. The farmers are 
 always the worst. No landlord would have treated a 
 
(JO THE DUCHESS. 
 
 laborer bo, at least not one that I know of. You think 
 this a solita-y instance, but iudeed they are always so poor 
 and so patient that my heart bleeds for them; and nothing 
 is done for them — nothing. If I was Queen Victoria — " 
 
 " What a little rebel you arel" 
 
 " I am not, indeed. You mistake me. I quite hate 
 and detest all those wicked men who incite the people to 
 rebellion and to murder. I heartily condemn all these 
 Leagues and this iniquitous ' Plan of Campaign/ which 
 will help only to pauperize the already moneyless nation. 
 Indeed,'* looking at him with large earnest eyes, " I think 
 of nothing, I dwell on nothing, but only how best to im- 
 prove the miserable condition of the laborers and their 
 wives. ** 
 
 " They do seem in want of help, I must say; but — ** 
 
 " "Was there ever so mild, so cheerful, so gracious a peo- 
 ple? Always a smile :for one and a civil word! A gentle, 
 loving, domesticated people, who want so little, so little, 
 so little to make them happy. Day after day they toil, 
 and what are the wages? One shilling and sixpence a day, 
 nine shillings a week. And out of that they must clothe 
 and feed wife and children, sometimes so many children! 
 And rent besides, because those laborers who get a house 
 and a quarter of an acre of ground free only get six shil- 
 lings a week! To me it is a marvelous thing how all this 
 IS done. Nine shillings a week! What a little sum, and 
 yet all you English people (ah! Denis, I am afraid you are 
 only half a Paddy!) accuse these poor creatures of being 
 thriftless, careless, extravagant! Extravagant on nine 
 shillings a week!" 
 
THE DUCHESS. 6| 
 
 " I don't believe I ever said it,'* says Delaney, pensive- 
 ly, " and I must protest against being Anglicized in this 
 sort of way. •" 
 
 But she will not listen to him. 
 
 " They never save, you cry. Save! with scarcely 
 enough pennies to keep body and soul together; and yet 
 they do, poor souls. They scrape together coin after coin 
 until they have enough to buy their pig, and then it, too, 
 must be fed.'' 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't look at me like that," says 
 Denis. " I feel as if I should like to cry. It's rather 
 mean of you, I think, to bring me to this lonely spot, 
 where I am beyond succor, and then ill-treat me as you are 
 doing. " 
 
 "Oh! I am not thinking of you," says she, scornfully. 
 " I am only thinking of the poor around me, and I want 
 to make you and every one think of them. In spite of all 
 that can be laid to their charge I believe them to be the 
 most enduring, the most long-sufPering race on earth. Do 
 you know that they (I am talking of the poorer class, the 
 laborers, the large class, remember) never taste meat? It 
 is not that they don't have it often, that they have it only 
 perhaps on high days and holidays — it is that they have it 
 never! From year's end to year's end they n«ver see it 
 Yet how small has been their complaining! To me it all 
 seems dreadful. I do not wonder at this hateful agitation. 
 I am only surprised that they have borne with their pov- 
 erty so long without open expression of discontent. Why, 
 one good gown that a womaii would buy for a ball would 
 keep an entire family comfortable for a year, " 
 
a THK DUCHESS. 
 
 " My dear child, if you were to go into that! Why, 
 what a terrible little Communist you are!" 
 
 " Don't call me names," says she, laughing, though 
 tears are not far from her. " And, indeed, my views are 
 not so sweeping as you would make them out to be. 1 
 know quite well that the ball dresses must be bought, and 
 that the poor we must have always with us. But it sug- 
 gests itself to me that they, the poor, can not see the neces- 
 sity for it, and that the injustice of ifc, alone, must strike 
 them. Why should not they be the ones to buy ball 
 dresses, and we to starve and endure, if only for awhile? 
 Turn about would seem to them, I dare say, only the most 
 meager fair play. " 
 
 " They are not so miserable as you picture them. You 
 forget they are a happy-go-lucky lot if they are anything, 
 and that they never think. " 
 
 " So you believe. I don't. And at all events they are 
 being made to think now by these demagogues who are 
 going about stirring up their evil passions. I am always 
 sorry when I read the sneers about our poor people in the 
 papers. Crimes indeed are being committed — heinous, 
 unpardonable crimes; but let them rest on the heads of 
 those who have incited these foolish, wild, impetuous, pas- 
 sionate creatures to the performance of them. *' 
 
 " They are, at all events, happy in having found an ad- 
 vocate as impetuous and as passionate as themselves. May 
 I say as disloyal?'* asks Denis. 
 
 " Disloyal! Oh! you do not understand them if you 
 okU them th^t," 
 
THE DUCHESS. 63 
 
 *' I confess I do — and therefore I don't — which thing is 
 an enigma. " 
 
 "I have always said, I always will say, that they are at 
 neart a very loyal race; a people who would glory in rally- 
 ing round their sovereign if — just a little civility was shown 
 them. If their queen — *' 
 "Oh! come now, Norah — " 
 
 " Well, I won't then,'' smiHng faintly. " I don't wish 
 to be disloyal in any way, but it does seem such a pity that 
 so little courtesy is ever shown to Ireland. Every now and 
 then a hand might be held out to it; but England is 
 favored, and Scotland is rich in its sovereign's love, and 
 Ireland is left out in the cold. It would be such a little 
 thing to humor them now and again. It might be man- 
 aged at so small a cost, and it would, I firmly believe, 
 have prevented all this present misery. Besides," throw- 
 ing up her pretty head with a little proud gesture, " if I 
 were a queen I should think it my duty to be good to all 
 my subjects, and I should remember, too, how many 
 splendid soldiers, how many illustrious statesmen, had 
 given me their hearts, and arms, and brains, out of this 
 despised land!" 
 
 " Well, you must confess they have given room for con- 
 tempt of late. " 
 
 " They are an impressionable people, and, alas! too 
 easily led; but if the right people had led them — how 
 then? Well, never mind! Out of every great evil some 
 good arises, and perhaps — who knows? — the very poor 
 will at last gain some benefit from this agitation." 
 '* It will not help their cause to assist in maiming inno* 
 
a THE DUCHESS. 
 
 cent cattle, and beating or tb rowing tar over defenseleet 
 girls," says Denis, witb a frown. 
 
 '* Everything is wrong now, I know," gadly. *' J3ut you 
 ;;onilemn all because of the few. These peo2)le round here, 
 how patient, how cheerful they are, and how deplorably 
 poor I Oh I if dad and I were rich we would do something 
 for them; but," with a melancholy little nod, " we haven't 
 a penny between us." 
 
 " Yet this seems a good property,'' says Denis, looking 
 round him. 
 
 " I dare say; but there is nothing to work it. It 
 enables us to live, no more." Here she laughs involun- 
 tarily. " I'm hardly a cheerful companion, am I?" she 
 says, with a swift, sweet glance full of apology. 
 
 " The best I know, at all events," returns Denis, ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 Her late fervor has been a revelation to him. The 
 eager, upturned face, the impassioned tone, the speaking 
 eye, have given him a new insight into the infinite variety 
 of her nature. 
 
 " Tell me, Norah," says he, presently, moved by some 
 impulse he could not have explained, " were you ever — 
 <.hat is — did any one ever ask 3^ou to marry him?" 
 
 To some this would have been an embarrassing ques- 
 tion, to others a rather impertinent one. To the Duchess 
 it is a question pure and simple, nothing more. 
 
 "Never!" she responds, promptly. ''And I'm just 
 nineteen. Isn't it disgraceful?" There is, perhaps, a 
 touch of indignation in her tone. Why should she have 
 been thus sli^-hted abov* her fellows? " And there's Lily 
 
THE DUCHESS. 65 
 
 French, ghe is younger than I am, yet there she is in India 
 now/' throwing out her hand as though India lies in the 
 recess of the near bit of wood, *' with a husband a year 
 old!'' 
 
 Delaney laughs. 
 
 " A youthful groom," says he. 
 
 "Oh!" airily, "you know what I mean. But as for 
 me! Perhaps, after all,'' regarding him anxiously, "I'm 
 not that sort of girl, eh?" 
 
 " What sort of girl?" 
 
 '* Attractive, for example. Do you think it likely— I 
 mean — that some time or other some one will ask me to 
 marry him?" 
 
 *' I think it probable," dryly. 
 
 "Well," dejectedly, "unless it is the butcher or the 
 baker or the candlestick-maker, I don't see who else it can 
 be down here. " 
 
 " Do you want to be married?" asks he, sharply, a 
 most unwarrantable feeling of anger against her rising in 
 his breast. 
 
 " I certainly don't want to be an old maid!" naively. 
 " She's a very poor creature, in my estimation. I don't 
 believe in the * could-an-she-would ' theory at all. An 
 old maid, to my mind, is a person whom nobody wanted. 
 I shouldn't like to feel so abject as that. Dad says I 
 needn't be frightened, because it isn't in the breed, and I 
 couldn't catch it. There never was an old maid in th© 
 family, he Bays, and he can remember down to his great- 
 aunts and a whole tribe of cousins, from a first to a thirtj«> 
 first** 
 
B(j THE DUCHESS. 
 
 *' That gives a man experience, I must say; and musk 
 be a great support to you. " 
 
 "Yes," with doubt; "but still it isn't convincing. 
 Every crime must have a beginning, and I feel as if I were 
 going to commit this one; as if I were going to be the old 
 maid of the Delaneys. It's a real grievance in my case, as 
 I sha'nH ever have the traditioual nephews and nieces 
 upon whom to lavish my rejected aifeccions. That's un- 
 fair, ian't it? I think if I am to be thus degraded Nature 
 should have supplied me with marrying brothers and sis- 
 ters." 
 
 At tliis they both laugh, though Delaney's mirth is de- 
 cidedly half-hearted. 
 
 '*' At Ventry," says he, slowly, as if impelled to it 
 against his will, " you will see others besides the butoher 
 and baker. You can there make your choice.'* 
 
 " Y'es, when I go," doubtfully. 
 
 " And you will, Norah?" detaining her on the hall door- 
 steps as they are now about to re-enter the house. 
 
 *' Oh, I don't know! I must think about it," says she, 
 petulantly, running away from him. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 " The frank young smile, 
 And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold." 
 
 Whether she does or not is another matter. One 
 would say " not " for choice, taking note of the extremely 
 insouciant expression that marks her face. But if she has 
 
THE DUCHESS. 67 
 
 disdained to give the matter thought, not so the squire. 
 Long and deep have been his breedings, and as a result of 
 them he pounces upon her toward the evening, and draw- 
 ing her into the dining-room proceeds to unburden his 
 mind. 
 
 " Noddlekins, I've been thinking,'^ begins he, solemn- 
 ly, seating himself gingerly on the arm of an exceedingly 
 ancient chair. 
 
 " No!" exclaims his daughter, with irreverent meaning. 
 
 " I have — about this visit, and I think you ought to go. 
 I do indeed, my dear," seeing disapprobation in her 
 glance. " It is only right we should consider your future 
 and cease to be selfish. I know it will be a tug for us both 
 to part; but your aunt^s an influential woman, and she 
 can bring you out and show you off a bit; and I dare say 
 marry yon well. Denis seems to think," slowly, " that 
 you ought to marry a rich man. " 
 
 " Does he, indeed?^' says the Duchess, with a tilt of 
 her lovely chin, expressive of anger. " I wonder you 
 would let him sjjeak like that, dad. And — and I sha^'n't 
 go, either.' I can't bear strangers.'' 
 
 " Tut! Yon would get used to them in no time." 
 
 " I dare say; by the time I was half dead from studying 
 them. Their ways would not be my ways, and if I 
 thought them tiresome they would probably think me odd; 
 and — and if I were to find anyone laughing at me " — ^ 
 tears rising to her eyes — " I should kill them." 
 
 " And quite right, too," says the squire, pugnaciously, 
 giving her the warmest support. "I'd like to see the one 
 that would dare do it. Just send him to me, that's all!" 
 
G8 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 " It wouldn't be a he/* says the Duchess, with a pro- 
 phetic sigh. " It would be a she.'* 
 
 ** Nonsense, my sweetheart, I'd buck you against the lot 
 of *eni. Don't you be down-hearted. Norah," turning 
 to her with sudden anxiety, *' can you dance?" 
 
 " Like an angel I" declares the Duchess, modestly, 
 springing to her feet. " Do you think there will be dan- 
 cing there, dad? I'm all right so far, because Otho used to 
 waltz with me all last winter, every afternoon that was 
 wet, in the big hall; don't you remember? Yes, I can 
 dance, I know!" 
 
 *' You inherit it," says the squire, standing up himself, 
 and beaming with pleasurable remembrance. " I was a 
 beautiful dancer myself in my own time. There wasn't 
 one in the county could hold a caudle to me. Not a ball 
 or a rout I wasn't at this side of Cork, to say nothing of a 
 run up to Dublin now and then, to show myself at the 
 levees and that. Sometimes I'd be up every night for a 
 whole month at a stretch, dancing till morning peeped in 
 at us; and after that came the drive home with one's 
 favorite partner through the lovely dawn. And then up 
 again betimes, and away with the hoimds may be, and 
 back with a rush to dress once more to meet the Macgilli- 
 cuddy girls at a ball somewhere. Such laughing, such 
 tearing as there was, and now and again a duel thrown in, 
 just to give a fillip to it. Oh! 'tis those were the devil's 
 own times!" says the squire, now bursting with joy over 
 his recollections, and altogether forgetful of his manners. 
 The Duchess is evidently bent on encouraging him, to 
 quite a shameful extent. 
 
THE DUCHESS. 69 
 
 ** Oh! dad, dad!'* says she, shaking a slender forefioger 
 nthim. "I doubt you were a regular Mohawk in your 
 day; a right down rollicking blade!" 
 
 " Only for a year or two, my love, no more — no more, I 
 assure you,'' says the squire, impressively. " Then I met 
 your mother at a ball at the MeKenzies' and fell in love 
 with her, and we were married in a fortnight. Ah! 'twas 
 she was the lovely woman!" 
 
 *' That goes without saying," remarks her grace, 
 saucily, holding out her skirts with both hands and dan- 
 cing up to an old-fasliioned mirror that laughs back at her 
 in answer to her own glance. " Via I'effci," she says, 
 making a charming little moue at her own image, whilst 
 slowly tripping it to and fro before the glass. 
 
 " Come, dad," she cries, casting a glance back at him, 
 *' you can't have forgotten it all yet. Let's have ' up the 
 middle and down again,' if only to warm our blood." 
 
 She places her arms akimbo and skips up to him, a most 
 entrancing invitation in her eyes. The squire is not proof 
 against it. He instantly takes fire and in another moment 
 he, too, is footing it gallantly with might and main up 
 and down the well waxed floor. Indeed, both father and 
 daughter are in the middle of a very finished performance 
 when Denis opens the door and walks in, to find Norah 
 flushed, panting, laughing, altogether lovely, and the 
 squire as the boy he really is at heart. 
 
 *' Wait a moment, my dear fellow; we have just one 
 figure more," cries he, unwilling to cut short his dance. 
 *' Oh, No rah, you rogue, how fast 3'ou trip it! You'll be 
 the death of your dad. Now for a wind-up. There? 
 
70 THE DUCHESSo 
 
 There's for you! Did you ever see anything that could 
 beat that, Denis? How does she dance, eh?" pointing to 
 Norah with fatherly pride. " Will that do for madanie, 
 eh?" 
 
 "Nonsense, dad," laughing. *'But I can assure you, 
 sir,'' dropping a gay little courtesy to Denis, " that I can 
 dance you something better than a country dance. A 
 waltz, now, an you wish it; or oven a quadrille, at a pitch, 
 though I confess I care not for such foolish measures." 
 
 **You will come to Ventry then?" cries the young 
 man, heedless of all save that hoije. " You have made 
 up your mind to come back with me." 
 
 " OhI not so fast as that," says she, shrugging her 
 shoulders. *' I must get — There are things that must 
 be seen to before I can go; if " — with a hesitation cruelly 
 prolonged — " go I do. " 
 
 " Do not throw another doubt on it. Come now, give 
 me your word you will accept my mother's invitation." 
 
 " Well, I suppose so," sighing. 
 
 "And when? 'Now/' turning to his uncle, "that I 
 have obtained her consent, I think I had better run home 
 and lift the mother out of her Slough of Despond. Then 
 I can come back again for Norah. When, Norah? In a 
 week?" 
 
 " Three weeks. Not a minute sooner." 
 
 " That will take us well into August. So be it, then. 
 Let us say on the fifteenth I shall return here for you, and 
 you will bo ready then to start with me for Ventry on the 
 following day. " 
 
 "As you will," says the Duchess, in a resigned tone. 
 
THE DUCHESS. 71 
 
 ** If you both think it necessary that I should see the 
 world, I succumb to superior force. Though how," look- 
 ing with growing melancholy at her father, " you are ever 
 going to get on without me is a dark mystery. *' 
 
 " I sha'n^t get on, my love,^' says the squire, prophetic 
 ally. " Don't hope for it. I shall remain where I am— 
 stock still — until you come back to mel" 
 
 CHAPTER X, 
 "And truth and hope are sunlight in your eyes." 
 
 Time, that runs ever with a swift foot and light, such 
 hours as we are haj^piest, seems to the Duchess to crawl 
 with a slow and sullen step for the next three weeks. This 
 she will not acknowledge, even to herself; yet never in all 
 her young life did the days hang so heavily upon her 
 hands; never did the daily accustomed tasks show them- 
 selves so devoid of interest. But all things end, and tan- 
 talizing Time is at last conquered, and here dawns the day 
 that brings Denis back again to Ballyhinch. 
 
 The Duchess, gowned in a charming cambric of palest 
 pink, a quite new gown, selected from amongst those she 
 had been making for her visit to Mme. Delaney, is looking 
 very sweet, very lovely, if a little paler than usual. There 
 is a touch of restlessness about her all the morning, that 
 she strives, but vainly, to conceal, and which betrays itself 
 most frequently in a wild desire to prove that the clocks 
 are wrong. 
 
 What ails them? Why don't they go fasterP Has any 
 
T2 THE DUCHESST 
 
 one been meddling with them? She is growing positively 
 care-worn in expression by the time the ancient eight-day 
 clock in the hall strikes two, proclaiming the hour when 
 he should arrive. 
 
 Suppose he isn't coming at all — that something has kept 
 him at home? Her large e^'es grow pathetic, her mouth 
 takes a mournful curve. Melancholy marks her for its 
 own. But what is this? Wheels! Surely the sound of 
 •wheels! Instantly, as if by magic, the cloud is swept from 
 her face; a brilliant color springs into her cheek, her eyes 
 grow bright, her stej) buoyant. Down the hall like a 
 small whirlwind she rushes, j)ulls open the door, races 
 down the steps, to find herself face to face with him. 
 
 Yes, there he is, before her. For a moment she hesi- 
 tates. There might jDcrhaps be hidden down somewhere 
 in her mind the memory of a dark saying aneut the im- 
 propriety of embracing young men as a general rule, but 
 if so it escapes her now. Her lips part in a lovely smile, 
 and flinging everything to the winds, forgetful indeed of 
 everything save the one dear fact that he has come back 
 again to fill her days with gladness, she throws her arms 
 around his neck and presses her velvet cheek to his. 
 
 " You've come!*' she says, crying aloud this self-evi' 
 dent delightful truth as though the very utterance of it is 
 a joy to her. "Oh! come in. Come quickly. Dad will 
 be just as pleased as I am. How nice you look!'' draw- 
 ing back from him, though with her hands still clasped in 
 his, the better to see him. " Those are new clothes, 
 aren't they, you extravagant boy? Well, so are mine! 
 How do you like this dress? Do I look well in it? Ohl 
 
THE DUCHESS. 73 
 
 IVe been so lonely without you. Oh, dear!" with a little 
 sigh of utter content, and a loving smile. " How good it 
 is to see you again!" 
 
 The openness of her heartfelt joy, the innocence of her 
 lovely eyes, the almost childish fervor of her manner, all 
 betray the fact that if she does love him it is a love of 
 which she herself is ignorant. He is her cousin, her dear 
 friend, her " chum,'' as it were; but as a lover she had 
 not once thought of him. To Denis this eager greeting, 
 devoid as it is of shyness, or consciousness of any sort, 
 seems to speak only of a heart quite free. To that greet- 
 ing he had made no answer. It seems to him as though 
 speech is beyond him. After that first wild thrill of pas- 
 sionate delight that had been his when his arm closed 
 round her there had come a sense of despair sufficiently 
 keen to render him silent. It is with a pale, unsmiling 
 face he now follows her into the hall. 
 
 " Why,'' says she, stopping short and gazing at him, 
 *' I don't believe you are a bit glad to see me. How pale, 
 how miserable you look! Is it possible," changing color, 
 " that you are sorry to come back?" 
 
 *' No. That would be of all things the least possible," 
 replied he, making an effort to smile. " But — I have got 
 a headache — that is all." 
 
 " And bad enough, too," says she, shaking her head 
 sympathetically. ** Go into the study; you will find dad 
 there; and I will go and get you something after your 
 journey. By and by, if your head is better, I'll take you 
 for a nice cool walk, and that will make you all right 
 again." 
 
74 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 She runs lightly away, and Denis, opening the studj 
 door, is soon receiving a hearty welcome from his uncle. 
 
 "I've something to tell you," says the squire, about 
 half an hour later, leaning forward and assuming an air of 
 deepest mystery. " Such a thing as has happened since 
 last you were here; just about a week after you left. 'Tis 
 about the Duchess.** 
 
 *' Yes?** says Dem's, regarding him fixedly. 
 
 ** She*s had a Proposal!'* says the squire, making the 
 capital quite enormous. " Think of that now! And the 
 child she is!'* 
 
 " Well?'* says Denis, a terrible tightening at his heart 
 warning him that he had better brace himself to receive 
 the deadly news he anticipates, lest he let his secret escape 
 him. He feels the blood is forsaking his face; so, getting 
 up from his seat with what carelessness he can muster, he 
 goes over to the window and stands there gazing with un- 
 seeing eyes upon her garden beneath. " Who is it?** he 
 
 " Lord Kilgarriff ! No less. They've been a good deal 
 together all their lives up to this, and he evidently thought 
 it a desirable thing to make such arrangements as would 
 keep them together for the remainder of them, and faith I 
 don*t wonder at it,** says the squire, mildly. "It's the 
 biggest grain of sense he ever showed. ** 
 
 *' It will be an excellent match,** says Delaney in rather 
 a stifled tone. 
 
 " That's what I'm saying. The best match he's evei 
 likely to get " 
 
THE duchess". 75 
 
 ** Well — and for her too — ia a more worldly point of 
 view.** 
 
 '* I dare say it would. Yes, no doubt it would,** re- 
 turns the squire, thoughtfully, scraping his chin with his 
 hand in a meditative way. 
 
 "It would!*' Denis wheels round from the window. 
 *' Why, what does that mean? Are you going to tell me 
 that she has — has — ** 
 
 "Refused him! That's Just it!'* says the squire, tran- 
 quilly. '* He was well enough as a friend, it appears; but 
 as anything closer — no, thank you! She said all that in 
 her own little pretty way, of course. She'd be sure to let 
 even her worst enemy (if she could have one, bless her!) 
 down easy. So it's off. I pitied the poor boy with all my 
 heart; but he is of that stuff wherein wounds cure quick- 
 ly. Well, that's my story. A good one, eh? Oh! by the 
 bye, how d'ye think that bay colt sold? I took him to — ** 
 " But, my dear sir — my dear uncle — do you know what 
 she has refused?" says Denis, able to discuss the matter 
 now she has refused it. " Four thousand a year and a 
 title ! The money is small to keep up a title, certainly; 
 but still four thousand a year is something.*' 
 
 *' Well, yes. It sounds a pity, doesn't it?" says the 
 squire, knocking the ashes out of his pipe in a lazy but 
 careful fashion. " But if she didn't like him — why, that's 
 all about it, you see. *' 
 
 "But did you say nothing to— to influence her — to in- 
 duce her to think of it?" asks Delaney, studying his uncle 
 as though he were a new specimen — which perhaps he is. 
 *' Divil a word I" stolidly. Then, after a reflective draw 
 
76 THE DUCHE88. 
 
 or two from the pipe: *' What for? To indue© her to 
 marry a man for whom ahe doesn't care two straws? 
 Surely that would be a queer thing to do. No, no, my 
 lad; bad work comes of that always, I'm young enough 
 still to believe in that blessing called love; and old enough, 
 too, for the matter of that. For with age comes wisdom, 
 or at all events it should. My little Duchess shall marry 
 just whom she pleases, always provided he is a gentleman 
 in the fullest sense of the word; or she sha'n't marry at 
 all, just as she pleases, too." 
 
 "But such a chance to fling away," persists Denis, 
 curious now to read the other's mind on this subject 
 thoroughly. 
 
 " Did you ever hear such a fellow? What ails the boy?" 
 says the squire, regarding him with a humorous and rather 
 puzzled eye. " Why, where is the good of forty thousand 
 a year if you hate the very bread you break with the 
 owner of it? D'ye think I'd see the h'ght die out of her 
 pretty eyes and her lips grow smileless, all for the sake of 
 making her a fine madame? Would I watch for her steps 
 to become less joyous and listen in vain for her laughter? 
 I tell you no, man, not for all the money this world holds! 
 And besides, what would it all do for her, my bonnie bird? 
 Shall I tell you? It would kill her; and that would kill 
 mel Tut," says the squire, contemptuously, throwing 
 himself back in his chair, and putting his pipe once more 
 between his lips, " what folly it all is!" 
 
 Denis, coming over from the window, lays his hand 
 lightly on his shoulder. The touch, light as it is, is in a 
 sense a caress, and for a moment the two men look at eacli 
 
THE DUCHESS. 77 
 
 other steadily, the squire with a gentle wonderment but a 
 great friendliness in his handsome eyes. 
 
 " Well, I take great pride in the thought that I am your 
 nephew,'' says Denis, simply. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 "Oh, how the spring of love resembleth 
 The uncertain glory of an April dayl" 
 
 It is drawing toward evening, and though the sun still 
 rides triumphant in the heavens long shadows are stretch- 
 ing themselves here and there, and the voices of the birds 
 are growing faint and ever fainter. A little wind has 
 arisen that the languid morning had not known, and now 
 sighs through the trees and rustles the leaves as it rushes 
 through them. There is a great calm everywhere, and a 
 sense of tranquillity, vague but strong, that has evidently 
 communicated itself to the breasts of the two now walking 
 silently through the scented wood. 
 
 Side by side they move, but with closed lips, the first 
 mild attempts at conversation having fallen away from 
 them beneath the languorous influence of the dying noon. 
 All the sweet wild life of nature seems indeed to be drop- 
 ping asleep, and scarcely a sound disturbs the mystical 
 ^uiet of the early evening. 
 
 " Only the pattering aspen 
 
 Made a sound of growing rain. 
 That fell ever faster and faster, 
 Then faltered to silence again." 
 
78 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 The entrance into a broad bit of green open, across which 
 the tremulous sunbeams are btill wandering, restores the 
 Duchess to a desire for speech — a desire never far from her. 
 
 " I wonder how I shall feel this time to-morrow?" she 
 Bays, with a little nervous laugh that shows where her 
 thoughts have been roaming. *' We shall be at the Cas- 
 tle then, eh?'' 
 
 " Yes. About five or five-fifteen. Did you get my 
 mother's last letter?" 
 
 " I had one this morning. Such a kind letter; with so 
 many sweet messages in it for dad that it took my heart 
 captive. As for dad, it has quite turned his head. There 
 is no managing him ever since. Do you know," glancing 
 at him, " that I am going to stay with you for a very long 
 visit? Months! Well, instead of dad's lamenting his fate 
 over this last move — which will leave him of course by 
 himself for a very much longer time than he first antici- 
 pated — now what do you think is the new role he haa 
 arranged for himself?" 
 
 '* How could I think?" laughing at the pretended look 
 of disgust on the pretty, piquant face. 
 
 " To be delighted, then; charmed at the prospect of be- 
 ing left solitary until Christmas! Do you believe him? 
 I don't! I am certain now that he is a dark schemer and 
 that there is more in this than we can yet see! He declares 
 that it is all for my good; that now at last an opening has 
 been made for me, and that I am very likely to make 
 what he calls ' a good match.* " 
 
 *' You might do that without stirring, perhaps/' says 
 Delaney, slowly. 
 
THE DUCHESS. 79 
 
 Has she forgotten all about that late proposal? Has 
 that unfortunate youag man's misery (of course he is 
 miserable) passed from her mind? Yet she had un- 
 doubtedly led him to his doom. It had all come, in his 
 (Delaney's) opinion, from sticking straws in his hair until 
 he was as mad as Ophelia. Yet now here she was, appar- 
 ently oblivious of any straws, any broken-spirited wooer. 
 
 The Duchess, indeed, has evidently for a moment for- 
 gotten the Kilgarriff affair altogether in her desire to 
 analyze her father's motives. 
 
 " There is something I don't like about his manner," 
 she goes on. " One would think he wanted to get rid of 
 me. Of me, mind you! But if any such wild dream as 
 the hope of shaking me off has entered his head I can tell 
 him he is making a grand mistake; that's all. If ever I 
 do marry I shall carry him along with me wherever I go, 
 be it to the Sandwich Islands or the very middle of Central 
 Africa. " 
 
 ** Let us hope, for * dad's * sake, that your future hus- 
 band will have no business on either of those delightful 
 spots," says Denis, rather heavily. 
 
 " I don't believe he'll have business anywhere," says the 
 Duchess, in an aggrieved tone. *'I don't believe he ex- 
 ists; or that I shall ever get as far as even a possible hus- 
 band." 
 
 " How can you say that?" exclaims he, almost roughly. 
 " Have you already forgotten Kilgarriff?" 
 
 *' OhI" coloring hotly from chin to brow. " You mean 
 Othol Did dad tell you about that? Very mean of him, 
 IcaUit" 
 
80 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 ** Yoa forget it was only in mc lie confided. I am 
 nothing. A cousin would naturally be told anything of 
 that sort, and the news could not, of course, concern or 
 hurt me in any way. '* 
 
 '* No; of course not,'* slowly. 
 
 ** Well, at Ventry, as you say, or rather as your father 
 says, you will perhaps find some one who — '* 
 
 " At Ventry," with a little frown, "you won't know 
 me. I certainly shall not be attractive." 
 
 " But why?" impatiently. 
 
 ' ' For one thing I shall be afraid to speak. I shall, " 
 recovering herself a little — sufficiently to allow an irre- 
 pressible laugh to fall from her lips — *' be lost in a desire 
 to conduct myself with propriety. I shall be lonely, too," 
 with a touch of prospective misery. "No one will call 
 me Norah there. Not a soul will think of me as ' the 
 Ducliess. ' I shall be Miss Delaney. Oh, how unfriendly 
 it sounds." 
 
 *' Not worse than Miss anything else." 
 
 " Far worse to me. But I know what I shall do," 
 brightening. " The very instant I begin to know any one 
 a little better I shall entreat him to call me Norah. *' 
 
 " I hope you won't!" hastily turning to her a face full 
 of an angry fear. 
 
 "Hope in vain, then,*' gayly. "I shall, indeed. I 
 shall never feel at home until every one calls me by my 
 first name." 
 
 " And is that your idea of conducting yourself with pro- 
 priety?" with ill-suppressed wrath. '* If you persist in 
 that course, Norah — if you permit every man yoa meet to 
 
THE DUCHESS. 81 
 
 call you, after a — a few days* acquaintance, by your Chris- 
 tian name, it is my duty to warn you that there is yet an- 
 other name by which you will infallibly be called. '* 
 
 There is perhaps rather too much vehemence in his 
 manner. 
 
 " And what?" questions she, in a tone that should have 
 warned him that she is making ready for battle. 
 
 " A flirt! a coquette I" 
 
 He has grown very pale, and there is a frown upon his 
 brow. A frown, however, that sinks into insignificance 
 beside the one that she now makes him a present of. 
 
 "A flirt! a coquette!*' Not all the italics or notes ot 
 admiration in the printer's power could give an adequate 
 idea of the concentrated indignation she throws into her 
 repetition. "I! Well, I must say you haven't improved 
 in your manners since last I saw you! So that is what you 
 call me!" The flagrant injustice of this accusation is evi- 
 dently apparent even to herself, because she hurries on as 
 if to forbid the protestation he vainly attempts. *' At all 
 events," contemptuously, "you have nothing to complain 
 of on that score. I have never flirted or coquetted with 
 you!" 
 
 ■' Certainly not," angrily. ** You forget I am your 
 cousin " — he clings to this fact with a melancholy 
 strength, as though desirous of receiving moral backbone 
 from it — " and a cousin, we all know, is quite the same 
 as—" 
 
 ** No, it isn't. It isn't the least bit in the world like a 
 brother," interrupts the Duchess truculently. ** I know 
 
83 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 all about that. There was Kitty French — Lily*s Sister— 
 and she had a cousin who came down here and called him- 
 self her brother, and made violent love to her notwith- 
 standing, and when he went away at last they found out he 
 had been engaged to another girl all the time, and he 
 married her, and Kitty was quite broken-hearted for 
 months and months afterward. So cousins aren't broth- 
 ers, you see; and therefore they have no right to be rude 
 and — and interfering." 
 
 There is much righteous anger in her tone, and the glance 
 she deigns to cast at him is full of triumph. As for Denis, 
 it seems to him as though a small, cold, remorseless hand 
 has fastened on his heart. How that story had come home 
 to him! But in his case the tables are indeed turned. He 
 is the one who will suffer, not his clear-eyed, impetuous 
 child. Suffer, not for months and mouths only, but for- 
 ever. Well, thank Heaven, the pain will be all on hia 
 side, and — no one the wiser. 
 
 They have come to a wide stream, shallow in parts, but 
 always deep enough to give the unlucky crosser who should 
 miss the stepping-stones a severe wetting. These stones 
 lie across the bed of the river at very unequal distances, 
 and are for the most jjarty wobbly and abominably unre- 
 liable. Denis, planting a foot firmly on the first of them, 
 holds out his hand in dignified silence to the Duchess. 
 
 Her grace, however, rejects his advances with a scorn 
 unbounded. 
 
 ** No, thank you,*' says she, picking up her pink skirts 
 and preparing to do or die. " I can get across quite 
 well by myself. I feel sure/' with a terrible glance, ** it 
 
THE duchess: 85 
 
 woaid be more than any one could expect of you that you 
 ghould give a helping hand to a — coquette I" 
 
 *' I didn't call you that!" indignantly. 
 
 *' No? I quite thought I heard you use the word. 
 Well, at all events, to look at you *' — severely — "it is 
 easy to see that at this very instant you are calling me all 
 sorts of names — secretly. Pray cross over, Denis. Don't 
 mind me!" 
 
 " As you will,** says Delaney, shrugging his shoulders; 
 and stepping briskly from stone to stone he soon reaches 
 the opposite bank. There he stands, whistling something 
 from " Ruddygore,'' and apparently oblivious to the fact 
 that a young lady is somewhere within view, attempting 
 with light but nervous steps to cross that primitive bridge. 
 
 An "Oh!" however, faint, but frightened, coming to his 
 ears, he turns quickly to see that Norah is standing on the 
 middle stone, a wicked, wily stone — and that her face is by 
 no means so devoid of fear as she fondly believes it to be. 
 Not fear of a desperate character, a merely carnal fear 
 about the well-being of her dainty cambric gown. 
 
 " Shall I help your** demands he, coldly, though in 
 reality he is fairly dying to go to her assistance. 
 
 " Certainly not!** icily. " Eather than accept your as- 
 sistance rd a thousand times rather fall in and be 
 drowned.** 
 
 As the water could not possibly come up to the bald 
 crown of an infant there is no immediate danger of this. 
 
 " Please yourself, of course,** says Delaney, calmly. 
 
 If annoyed, he still keeps, however, an eye upon her, 
 «nd at the very last stepping- stone, seeing her lose her 
 
Si THE DUCHESeC 
 
 balance and stagger dangerously, be rushes forward, only 
 barely in time to save that charming gown from destruc- 
 tion. 
 
 He has his arm around her; he has drawn her on to the 
 high and dry bank. She is now, indeed, in perfect safety, 
 but still his arm is round her. It is not always easy to 
 remember (not alwaj's), when the face we love is so near 
 our own — the little idolized form lying contentedly in our 
 embrace. 
 
 " My darling! you are not hurt?'* w^hispers he in an im- 
 passioned tone, holding her still closer to him. All his 
 heart's yearning, all his unhappy love, speaks in those 
 words. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 " With white feet bruised from no deliglitful way, 
 Througli darkness and the disenclianted air. 
 Lost Love went weeping half a winter's day," 
 
 A second's silence and then — 
 
 *'Hurt? No. Ob, nor 
 
 Her voice is a mere sigh. In the charming face uplifted 
 to his what is it that he sees? Such a swift, sweet, shy 
 glance as she gives him; such a tender light there is in the 
 lovely eyes; such a famt, happy trembling of the perfect 
 lips! What does it all say? 
 
 With a feeling of misery as yet unknown to him the 
 young man slowly loosens his arm around her and lets her 
 go. Puts her from him, as it were, that innocent tempfc 
 res8> 
 
THE DUCHESS. 85 
 
 She knows nothing, however, of the thoughts that sting 
 and torment him. She has recovered herself quickly, and 
 with a girFs first instinct seeks to hide the tenderness that 
 had for an instant flashed into being, startling her ahuost 
 as keenly as it had shocked him. She flings it all from 
 her by a supreme effort. She is laughing. The tender 
 smile has died; he might almost indeed believe that that 
 strange sweet light had never shone within her eyes. 
 
 " Eow that you have rescued me from a watery grave,'* 
 says she, gayly, " I suppose I am bound in common grati- 
 tude to forgive you. But you were cross. Come and sit 
 down here, Denis, and tell me all about the people I am 
 going to meet to-morrow. First, your mother.'' 
 
 Except that her eyes do not meet his as freely as of old, 
 he could bring himself to think that that revelation of a 
 minute since was but part of a cruel dream. But he had 
 seen; he can not forget. He knows! And with the wild 
 mad joy the knowledge brings him there is also a sense of 
 despair and of dishonor. One thought haunts him. He 
 should have told her. 
 
 " What is your mother like?" asks the Duchess, giving 
 him a little push with her hand to '* wake him up," as she 
 says. He has flung himself on the grass at her feet. 
 
 " She is tall, fair, handsome." 
 
 ** Not like you, then?" with some disappointment. 
 
 ** No," says Denis, unable to refrain from a short laugh 
 at this naive rejoinder. 
 
 " Do you think," anxiously, ** that I shall get on with 
 ter?" 
 
 **SpJiire yourself speculation on that score," says ho. 
 
86 THE DU0HE8S. 
 
 quickly. ** Every one gets on with my mother; and yoa 
 are sure to love her, because she will love you. She is 
 griiciousness itself. She is beloved by all. She is the 
 sweetest woman in the world,'* says her son, not with en- 
 thusiasm, but with a settled conviction that is clearly the 
 growth of many years, and is not possible to shake. 
 
 " How you love her!" says the Duchess, looking with 
 approval at him. "Just the same way that I love dad. 
 "Well, go on, tell me about the others.*' 
 
 *' Better wait till you see them.** 
 
 " No. I should like a portrait or two beforehand. 
 They help one. What of that cousin who stays with you 
 so much. Katherine, is it not?" 
 
 " Katherine, certainly. With a K, mind.** 
 
 *' Does that mean that she is an austere person? Is a 
 Catherine with a C more pliable? I can't take in such 
 frivolous descriptions. Tell me more of her. She inter- 
 ests me in some strange way. Some way that is not pleas- 
 ant, I think. Well, what is she like?** 
 
 " She is English. The most English person in England 
 —or out of it, I*m positive. ** 
 
 " I don't mean that, though I knew she would be of the 
 precise and frigid order. What I mean is — is she pretty?'* 
 
 "She is a 'daughter of the gods, divinely tall, and 
 most* — confoundedly fair,** says Delaney, with a mourn- 
 ful glance of admiration at the dark, brilliant, loving eyes 
 and chestnut locks of the girl beside him. " She is perfect 
 at all points. You could not find a flaw in her, and you 
 could not ruffle her or take her aback to save your life. 
 She always knows exactly what to say, and as a rule she 
 
THE DUCHESS. 87 
 
 says it, whether you like it or not; and she's a very good 
 girl, you know," says he, pulling himself up somewhat 
 shortly, as if a little ashamed of his treatment of the case 
 iu question. 
 
 " Does she live at Ventry?'' 
 
 " N — 0. Not exactly. She has heaps of money, and 
 can therefore go where she j)leases; but generally it pleases 
 her to go wherever my mother chances to be; and, at all 
 events, she makes our place her head-quarters. '* 
 
 "Why?" asks the Duchess suddenly. She is looking 
 him fair in the eyes, a little increased brilliancy in her 
 own. Is there something in his manner, halting, uncer- 
 tain, reluctant, that conveys to her a vague suspicion of the 
 truth? 
 
 *' Why?'' she says again, leaning forward as though to 
 read his face, and he, as if unable to meet at this crisis the 
 gaze of Ihose earnest, honest eyes, turns over on his face 
 and begins to pull up absently the blades of grass before 
 him. 
 
 *' Why?" repeats she, with gentle persistence; yet there 
 is something in her tone that warns him she will be an- 
 swered. 
 
 " Because, for one thing, she is my mother's niece, and 
 because " — unsteadily — " some day I am going to marry 
 her!" 
 
 Dead silence! Delaney goes on mechanically plucking 
 up the grasses, while the Duchess sits with her small brown 
 hands tightly folded in her lap, gazing fixedly at the beech 
 hedge opposite. She does not see it, however. There is a 
 
88 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 little mist before her eyes — a sickening feeling at her heart 
 — a wild craving to be alone; but above and beyond all a 
 sense of shame! Only a few minutes since she had learned 
 the great secret of her life — the sweetest secret the world 
 could ever tell her, as then she dreamed; and now — 
 already — it is a source of disgrace to her, an ignominy, an 
 ever-living reproach. One grain of comfort indeed she 
 has, and to this she clings with a desiderata strength. He 
 does not know! He can not, and he never shall! 
 
 He is talking now, and in a dull sort of way she is awar< 
 that his voice is very unlike the joyous one that has be^ 
 come to her so fatally dear. 
 
 " It began when we were boy and girl together,'* he ia 
 saying, in a rather monotonous way, like one repeating an 
 abhorred lesson. "It — I don't know how it began! We 
 drifted into it, I suppose, because we were cousins; good 
 friends, if you will, but — nothing more!" 
 
 " Do you think she would like you to discuss her with — 
 with a stranger?" says the Duchess, gently; but oh! what 
 is the matter with the fresh, glad, young voice? " If —if 
 I were engaged to any one I don't think I should like the 
 man I was going to marry to talk so of me to — but — oh! 
 I forgot," with a determined but most mournful smile, 
 " a cousin, according to you, is as a brother, and of course 
 one's brother may say and do what he pleases; and if he 
 can not make a confidante of his sister — vhy — " 
 
 "No rah!" He has risen to his feet and she can see 
 that he is deadly pale. 
 
 " And why " — hurriedly and with a little unmirthful 
 laugh—*' why do you call her Katherine? Kitty, now! 
 
THE DUCHESS. 89 
 
 Kitty is a sweeter, a more loving name. Ah! you should 
 mend your manners." 
 
 " Norah, don't speaii to me like that. If you would 
 only let me — " 
 
 " I knew a girl once called Kitty/' interrupting him 
 feverishly. " Such a pretty girl as she was! She died. 
 Many people die; but your Kitty won't die, I hope." 
 
 "No! She won't!" shortly. 
 
 " With what a certainty you say that! And yet — don't 
 3^ou know it is always those whom we love best — who — 
 but," wearily, and with a last flickering smile, '* what a 
 bird of ill omen I am! Do not mind me." 
 
 " If it comes to talking of her whom I love best," begins 
 he, recklessly, "you must know that—" 
 
 *' Take care!" says she, in a tone so low but of such ex- 
 treme hauteur that it startles him. Can it be the childish 
 creature standing before him who has given utterance to it. 
 Her lips are white, but her eyes are flashing. A minute 
 later she speaks again in her ordinary tone. " Come 
 home," she says, very naturally — the slight touch of pas- 
 sion has evidently restored in a measure her mental bal= 
 ance. " I'm tired, I think, and dad will be wanting me." 
 
 She stops, as if struck by some thought, and then goes 
 on again. " That is a good thing to remember," she 
 says, " that dad will always be wanting me.'* 
 
no THE DUCHESS. 
 
 CHAPTER Xm, 
 
 " I am sure care's an enemy to life." 
 
 The great clock in the western tow'er is giving out five 
 resounding strokes as the carriage draws up at the hall 
 door of Castle Ventry. The shades of evening are already 
 descending, and a soft mellow glow diffuses itself over the 
 sloping lawns and the gay i3leasance that lies on the 
 right-hand side of the magnificent old house. Peacocks 
 are strutting up and down upon the stone terraces and a 
 perfume fragrant and drowsy steals up from the gardens. 
 
 The Duchess, stepping to the ground, looks around her 
 with an appreciative eye. She is very pale, either from 
 the long journey or an uncertainty about her next move, 
 but she is perhaps a little upheld by the charming hat she 
 is wearing, a new one, and one quite unprecedented hither- 
 to in the annals of her wardrobe. A hat rejoicing in deli- 
 cate j)lumes and of as dainty a nature altogether as any 
 young woman ever born in the purple could desire. It is 
 a present from dad, who had drawn upon his very lean re- 
 sources to get it for her, and who had sent for it all the 
 way to Dublin. 
 
 She follows Denis into the spacious hall, where he would 
 fain have said some word of welcome to her, but the 
 words refuse to come, and turning abruptly aside he opens 
 the door of a room on his right. 
 
 There is a curtain beyond it, and from beyond that again 
 
THE DTJCHESS. 91 
 
 comes to the tired little traveler the gay sounds of many 
 Yoices — a laugh or two— the cheerful tinkle of cups and 
 spoons. Denis has pushed aside the curtain, and as he 
 looks into the room all eyes there see him. 
 
 "You have come? Well?" cries a gay, rather saucy 
 voice — a voice the Duchess likes. 
 
 And then — 
 
 "So you have escaped with your life for the second 
 timer'* says another voice, low and sweet, and trainante, 
 but with a little delicate sneer running through it. A 
 voice that drives the blood with a rush to Norah's cheeks, 
 "And have you impounded the little Aborigine? Have 
 you brought her intact? None of the feathers wanting? 
 The war paint all there? The—'' 
 
 Denis, with a vehement haste, steps back into the hall, 
 closing the door behind him. He has flushed painfully, a 
 dark red, and as he looks nervously at Norah she sees an 
 expression round his mouth that is new to her. It is hard, 
 almost revengeful. 
 
 " The room is full," he says, hurriedly. " You will not 
 perhaps like to go in and see them all until you have rested 
 a little while. My mother is not there, but she will come 
 to you. " 
 
 " Pray do not be so unhappy about it," says the Duch- 
 ess, with a little faint smile. " I do not mind it at all. 
 People will jest, you know. Was it Katherine?" 
 " Miss Cazalet might have been there. I—" 
 " No, do not say it. Is it worth it?" interrupts she, 
 coldly. "You need not invent anything. There is ne 
 
9)8 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 necessity for it, as I shaVl know for myself by and by. Be 
 sure I shall remember that voice always." 
 
 " I regret that this rudeness — '* he is beginning 
 moodily, when he stops short. What is it he would say? 
 "What is the matter with him? Why can he not speak to 
 her as he used to do in those first glad, sweet old days, 
 when this shadow that now rests ever between them was 
 unknown? He is still struggling with his effort to say 
 something to her in a more natural manner when a foot- 
 step near startles them both. 
 
 It is Mme. Delaney. She comes quickly up to Norah 
 and, laying both her hands on her shoulders, looks at her 
 long and earnestly. Something of sorrow deepens her gaze 
 after a moment or two. There is that in the girFs beauti- 
 ful face that reminds her of the husband of her youth, lost 
 such a long time ago, but never forgotten. 
 
 " My dear, dear child, '^ she says, with a soft, long sigh, 
 and, placing her arms around her, kisses her with a linger- 
 ing tenderness. It is plain that the little Duchess has in 
 her first moment found a warm corner in that gentle 
 heart. 
 
 With the embrace just received a sense of rest, of sup- 
 port, enters into Norah. There is something in the calm, 
 handsome face of madame to inspire instant confidence in 
 the beholder, and Korah gives herself up to her without a 
 fear. She may be English (and just of late Norah has be- 
 gun to hate all English women), she may be Scotch, Welsh, 
 a Hottentot, if you will, but she could not possibly feel 
 more at home with her all at once if she had been an Irish- 
 woman born and bred. 
 
THE DUCHESS. 93 
 
 " You are tired, darlinrij. You will come up to your 
 room with me," said madame, fondly stroking the girl's 
 little slim, trembling hand. 
 
 " Thank you, Aunt Maud." 
 
 *' No; not that!*' says madame, laughing. " Katherine 
 and many others call me Aunt Maud, and now I should 
 like a change. That is only natural, eh, Denis? You 
 shall call me auntie — if you don't mind?" with the 
 sweetest glance. " I have so pined to be addressed by that 
 name all my life by my numerous English nieces and 
 nephews, but they would none of it. Said I was of too 
 imposing a build, too majestic for such familiarities; but I 
 think my little Irish niece will not fail me." 
 
 " No — no, indeed!" says Norah, shyly; and then more 
 shyly still, but with an adorable smile — " No — indeed, 
 auntie!" 
 
 *' She is a witch — a siren!" cries madame, greatly 
 pleased, appealing to Denis for sympathy. Poor Denis! 
 "And what a little thing she is! Come upstairs, dar- 
 ling, and let me take off your things at once. My maid 
 shall be yours after to-day; but just now I should like to 
 have you for half an hour all to myself." 
 
 She is Denis's mother, and she has lost the first slender 
 symmetrical curves and outlines, yet there is still an 
 honest youthf ulness about her singularly attractive. Her 
 mouth is large and loving, her eyes blue; and the soft lace 
 cap that rests upon her head hides hair that is as soft and 
 silky as a girl's, and without a thread of gray in it. 
 
 ** Denis told me so much about you," says she, wheij 
 she has helped the Duchess to take off her things, " that I 
 
94. THE DUCHESS. 
 
 feel as if I knew^ you. But with you, of course, it is differ- 
 ent. I must be more or less an utter stranger to you.'* 
 
 " Oh, no! If Denis talked of me to you he must, 1 
 think, have talked even more of you to me; and all he said 
 was of such a sort that I knew if 1 did not love you it 
 would be my own fault. " 
 
 " Did he? Did he really so describe me?'* says madame, 
 a delicate color rushing to her cheek. " Oh! Norah! if I 
 could tell you what a son he is!" Her gentle face is in- 
 deed alight with a lovely gratification. *' But you are 
 tired, dear child. You must take a glass of wine." 
 
 She fusses over the girl in a mild kindly way for a little 
 while; taking very evident pleasure in her, and presently, 
 sitting down, takes one of her hands between her own. 
 
 "I am glad you have come back to Ireland,** says 
 Norah, after awhile. " Selfishly glad, 1 mean. Your 
 coming has made you known to me." 
 
 " A pretty compliment,** smiling. " Yes, and I am 
 glad, too, for certain reasons; but for the rest — I confess I 
 am a coward, ISTorah, where Denis is concerned, and I 
 dread the results of this visit. ** 
 
 *' But why? The peoj)le round here — are they so dis- 
 affected toward their landlord?** 
 
 *' What a superfluous question in disloj'al Kerry! Have 
 you forgotten the tragic event that occurred within the past 
 two years on this estate? Are you ignorant of the daily, 
 hourly crimes that are being committed throughout the 
 country? When Denis decided on coming over and super- 
 intending affairs himself I felt I dared not try to influ- 
 ence him against the decrees of his conscience, but I felt 
 
THE DUCHESS.. 95 
 
 »/so that he carried his h'fe in his hands, and that I should 
 never know a happy moment spent amongst these blood- 
 thirsty creatures. " 
 
 "Still they may respect Denis when they would not a 
 paid agent/' 
 
 " A vain hope. They have not respected him. Already 
 he has had two threatening letters, and last week twenty- 
 five poor, dumb, defenseless beasts — cows of his — were 
 most brutally mutilated. It sickens me to think of it/' 
 says niadame, who has grown rather pale. " And if they 
 will not spare innocent creatures that can not thwart or 
 harm them, how will it be with those who — " She stops 
 abruetly, and a strong shudder runs through her frame. 
 ** I assure you I dwell always on the worst side of it,'' she 
 says. 
 
 " But if Denis were to try to conciliate them?" hazards 
 Korah. 
 
 '* That is not to be hoped for. You have seen only 
 Denis's happiest moods, those he keeps for his mother," 
 with a very loving smile, " and the few he really likes, as 
 he likes you, child; but he can be terribly determined at 
 times, and the death of that poor young man, his agent, 
 Btill rankles in his mind. There are mutterings in the 
 very air we breathe, warnings in every breeze. It is in ter- 
 ror I seek my bed at night; I scarcely know what it is I 
 dread, yet fear overwhelms me now and then, and I feel 
 certain at least of this, that revenge will be attemjDted." 
 
 " But revenge for what?" asks Norah, growing anxious. 
 ** How has Denis exasperated the people?" 
 
 " For one thing he has refused to accept their terms 
 
96 THE PUCHESS. 
 
 (very iniquitous ones) with regard to payment of rents that 
 are now, some of them, over tliree years due. lie will give 
 no quarter, he says, to those who gave no quarter to his mur- 
 dered agent. He will mete out measure for measure, full 
 and perfect. He is wrong perhaps?'* questions the anxious 
 mother, looking at Korah, as if for contradiction. 
 
 " One can hardly blame him,'* replies she, with a sigh. 
 
 *' Not I, for one; but yet I fear his uncompromising at- 
 titude may — may — Dear Norah!" rising to her feet and 
 beginning rapidly to pace the room, *' I can not put my 
 fears into words, but I know and anticipate only evil from 
 our sojourn here. Well, well,'' making an effort to overcome 
 her agitation, ** I have no right to press my troubles ujjon 
 you in this the first hour of our meeting, and indeed you 
 must be a witch to drag them from me thus, for I confess 
 to you, Norah, I have never yet hinted of them to living 
 soul save you, lest it should come to Denis's ears and dis- 
 hearten him by making him think I was unhappy here." 
 
 ** You would not leave?" uncertainly. 
 
 '* Oh, no! I may be unhappy now for him, but to be 
 away from him when danger threatened would be more 
 than I could endure. You see I tell you all," smiling. 
 " There must be some subtle sympathy between us to 
 make me tlius confide in you." 
 
 She sighs and again presses the girPs thin little hand 
 lingeringly between both her own soft, white palms. 
 
 " I am glad you like me," says the Duchess, slowly. 
 
 " It is more than that, I think," says madame, in her 
 gentle, earnest way. She is looking with a strange, fixed 
 expression at Norah. Again she sees in the girl's beauti- 
 
THE DUCHESS. 97 
 
 lul face that vivid likeness to her dead, to the lover-hus- 
 band of her youth. 
 
 " Do you know," she says, leaning toward her, " I am 
 going to make believe you are my little daughter whilst 
 you are with me. I have often wished I had one really. 
 Not that Denis " — quickly, as if fearful of doing injustice 
 to her beloved son — " ever left me much to wish for; but, 
 still, you know, a daughter must be a precious gift." 
 
 " You have Katheriue," says the Duchess, looking at 
 her strangely. 
 
 *' Yes; yes. And she is a very dear girl, too. Yes; of 
 course." There is a slight suspicion of strain, as it seems 
 to Norah, in madame^s kindly manner. "And Denis, 
 darling, what did you think of him? He is not like me, 
 eh?" 
 
 " Oh, yes; very," exclaims the Duchess, warmly. 
 ** In spite of your blue eyes and fair hair he is marvelous- 
 ly like you.** 
 
 " So people say," with a pleased air. *' More like me 
 than like his father. You," with a sharp indrawing of 
 her breath, " are like him! Well, and so you are to be 
 my daughter for awhile; and being so anxious a mother I 
 have ordered some pretty gowns for my little girl to be 
 ready for her home-coming." 
 
 It is impossible to describe the sweetness with which she 
 breaks this intention of hers to Norah. Who could resent 
 it when that sweet smile accompanies the words? 
 
 *' Oh, auntie," says the Duchess, flushing crimson. 
 And then — *' But," in a low tone, '' if dad should not like 
 it. Your giving me clothes, I mean. " 
 
 4 
 
98 TI3E DUCHESS. 
 
 " Tut, my dear; Neil will like me to do my best for 
 yon, be sure of that. lie will wish me to care for you as 
 though you were indeed my very own. " 
 
 " Neil!" Uow strange it sounds! To the Duchess it is 
 so inconceivably odd to hear her father thus alluded to by 
 his Christian name that involuntarily she smiles. Some- 
 how it i^leases her; it seems so friendly toward her dear 
 dad, now so far away, and all at once her heart seems to 
 open still further to her new-found friend. 
 
 " Of course I coukl not manage about the exact fit," 
 says madame; " but my maid is an invaluable jicrson, a j^er- 
 fect treasure, and as good a dress-maker as I know. Now, 
 will you come down-stairs with me and be introduced to 
 the others, or — " 
 
 "I'll go down, I think." 
 
 *' That is right, dear. Better get the awkwardness over 
 at once; and besides you will be able to make a choice as 
 to your partner at dinner later on. Don't trouble to talk. 
 You are fatigued by your journey; that will excuse a little 
 taciturnity. I suppose you would like Denis to take you 
 in to dinner, but—" 
 
 "Oh! no!'' 
 
 So sharply do the words fall from her that madame 
 turns her glance more directly upon her. 
 
 " You and he are good friends:" she says, somewhat of 
 question in her tone. 
 
 " Yes; friends," says the Duchess, faintly. 
 
 Madame's kindly, keen blue eyes are still searching her 
 face. 
 
 " Every one likes him," says the latter, after a minutt 
 
THE DUCHESS, 99 
 
 or two, carelessly, though there is a touch of uneasiness in 
 her manner. " He is very popular. What I myself 
 shall do without him by and by, when — when he — " 
 
 " When he is married to Miss Cazalet you mean?" puts 
 in the Duchess, divining the uneasiness and determined 
 to combat it to the death, if only for her own pride's 
 sake. 
 
 " Yes, when he marries Katherine," says madame, re- 
 lieved in part, but still vaguely troubled as she looks at 
 the proud, cold little face before her that has grown so 
 unmistakably pale. " Come down with me, and let us 
 see if we can yet rescue a cup of tea," she says, rising and 
 drawing the girl's arm within her own. Almost as they 
 reach the door of the library she turns to whisper softly: 
 *' By the bye, I had forgotten, darling. There is a friend 
 of yours here. Quite a new arrival. He came yesterday. 
 Lord Kilgarriff. " 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Ojs'CE again that soft, low, trained laughter falls on 
 Norah's ears; the perfume of many flowers stirs the air; 
 the room seems wrajjped in a rich subdued glow, out of 
 which one face alone looks clearly. His face! Denis! 
 After one rapid glance the cruel pain of her heart grows 
 easier, as instinct tells her it is not Katherine to whom he 
 is speaking in that calm smiling fashion. 
 
 Meantime, madame has led her up to a couch drawn 
 somewhat apart, on which a pretty, aristocratic-looking 
 
young woman is sitting, with two or three men hoverinn 
 round her. Her face is the most innocent thing imagina- 
 ble, immobile almost, but for the eyes, which are specially 
 brilliant when you can see them — which is not often. 
 Long lashes, falling from the upper lids and lying on the 
 cheeks, are educated to be a cover for these charming tell- 
 tales. 
 
 " Sophie, this is my niece,'* says madame, standing be- 
 fore her. " Norah, let me make you known to Lady 
 Glandore.'^ 
 
 *' Ah!'^ says the pretty young woman. She sits up quite 
 straight and lets those bashful eyes of hers study the Duch- 
 ess for just a second or two. Then she holds out her hand 
 with a wonderfully friendly smile. 
 
 " We have been expecting you," she says, in a peculiar- 
 ly slow, sweet voice; " but — we did not quite expect all 
 this!'' Then she drags her eyes away from the girl's 
 fresh loveliness and looks at madame with a sense of re- 
 proach in her manner. "Oh! madame, this is very hard 
 on us," she says, plaintively. 
 
 Madame laughs and leads the Duchess a step or two 
 further to where a lively looking brunette is engaged in a 
 seemingly warm argument with a young man who is laugh- 
 ing a good deal. With a quick knowledge that she is glad 
 of his presence, Norah sees that it is Kilgarriff. He is a 
 slight man, about five feet ten in height, with a pale face, 
 extremely dark eyes and a black mustache, rather Italian 
 in appearance, but with something homely about him that 
 forbids the idea of foreign parentage. 
 
 The pretty brunette had given way in the lively discoa* 
 
THE DUCUESS. lOI 
 
 sion, and had centered her attention on the approaching 
 madame and her companion. She now makes a step for- 
 ward. 
 
 " It is — " she says, hesitating, and smiling at the Duch- 
 ess. 
 
 ** Norah," replies madame, smiling too. Then looking 
 at her niece, *' Norah, this is Nancy Blake; I hope you 
 and she will be good friends.*' 
 
 " Madame 's hopes are our laws/' says the Hon. 
 Nancy, smiling still at Norah, who resppnds to the smile 
 and then looks past her to where Kilgarriff is standing be- 
 hind her. That young man has had time to gain a very 
 brilliant color and lose it again, in a rather remarkable de- 
 gree, whilst the Duchess has been making her way up the 
 room. She herself grows faintly pink now as she speaks 
 to him. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Otho?" says she, rather demurely. 
 
 Lord KilgarrifP accepts the hand she holds out, rather 
 nervously. 
 
 " This is an unexpected meeting," he stammers, some- 
 what baldly. 
 
 " An unexpected pleasure, you might have said," sug- 
 gests Miss Blake, with mischievous reproach in her tone. 
 
 " How is it you are here?" asks Norah, who is very little 
 embarrassed. " You never told me that you knew my 
 aunt." 
 
 *'I think it arose more from the fact of my knowing 
 her," says Miss Blake, with a little shrug. " I met Lord 
 Kilgarriff on the Riviera some weeks ago, and," calmly, 
 **took quite a fancy to him." Kilgarriff laughed. '^ I 
 
102 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 happened to mention his name to Madame Delancy on my 
 return, and she instantly remembered that his father, or 
 great-grand sire, or somebody belonging to him, had once 
 been the bosom fiiend of her jjeople; so she asked him 
 here, and out of the goodness of his heart he accepted the 
 invitation. Via tout." 
 
 Kilgarriff makes some rather rambling return to this 
 half -mocking speech, and the Duchess, slipping into a 
 chair near Miss Blake, begins to look with curiosity around 
 her. She passes over most of the women present until her 
 eyes fall upon a low lounging-chair of saffron velvet, in 
 which, she feels, sits the one for whom she has been uncon- 
 sciously seeking ever since her entrance into the room. 
 
 It is beyond doubt a very handsome picture on which 
 she is now gazing. Miss Oazalet is lying back in the low 
 chair, trifling indolently with a tiny black-aud-tan terrier 
 that lies crouching in her lap, her eyes turned lightly up- 
 ward to the man who is leaning over the back of her 
 lounge. Those eyes are large and lustrous, if a rather 
 light blue, swept by lashes that are extremely dark and 
 curl daintily upward Her nose is pure Greek, her mouth 
 perfect. The rippling hair that is drawn back so softly 
 from her broad low brow is of a pure and very rare gold 
 color. One can see that she is tall and slender, and that 
 she is possessed of an ease and elegance not to be rivaled. 
 Her voice, as it comes faintly to Norah, who is watching 
 her, spell-bound and sick at lieart, sounds soft and low as 
 distant music. It would be indeed a most degenerate 
 man, one lost to all grace, who could dare to find a. fault 
 in that faultless form. 
 
THE DUCHESS. 103 
 
 The man conversing wifch her now does not at all events 
 come under this head, us his devotion is sufficient!}' 
 marked to be seen by all who will. He is a middle-aged 
 gentleman; stout, and somewhat scant of breath, with the 
 commencement of a very respectable tonsure on the top of 
 his head. He is, however, bending over Miss Cazalet in a 
 semi-lover-like attitude and is apparently addressing her 
 with all the ardor of youth. 
 
 " Sir Brandrum Boileau," says Miss Blake, seeing where 
 Norah's eyes are riveted. " You know Katherine Caza- 
 let, of course. She is considered the handsomest blonde 
 in the kingdom. Sticky, I call her; but then I'm a here- 
 tic and don't love those heaux yeux of hers, in spite of 
 their saintliness. Last season she was staying with the St. 
 Lawrences in Park Lane, and went about a good deal with 
 them, and after a bit she became known as the ' Virgin 
 Mary.* She is so seraphic! But if she is an angel I con- 
 fess I like the other sort best, the demons. I'm a demon!" 
 concludes she, pouncing, as it were, upon Kilgarriff, with 
 quite a tragic note in her voice. 
 
 "Oh!, no!'* says he, with a violent start and in a 
 deprecatory tone. She laughs. 
 
 " Kow, shall I tell you about the others?" she says to 
 Norah. " They are not of the least consequence, taking 
 them as a whole; but I suppose I had better put you up 
 about them. That little wizened-looking man over there 
 is an author; he is all brain, no body. They say he sold 
 himself to the devil half a century ago, consenting to let 
 his body go if his brains might live forever, and he has 
 been calmly dwindling ever since." 
 
"Half a century! He does it with care,'* says thfe 
 Duchess. Miss Bhike looks at her with appreciation. 
 
 " I begin to have quite a respect for you/* she says to 
 Kilgarriif, sotto voce, and as that young man of course 
 fails to understand her she gives him a gentle but scornful 
 push and tells him to bring Lady Glandore to her aid, as 
 Miss Delaney is proving too much for her. 
 
 " He is such a muffl** says she, when he, obedient, has 
 departed. " After all, I dare say you were right. " 
 
 "Eight, how?" 
 
 " In refusing him." 
 
 "Oh! But how do you know that?" says the Duchess, 
 a little shocked. 
 
 " "Why, he told me, of course," says Miss Blake, with 
 charming unconcern. " *Sh! now; here he comes. Ah! 
 Bless me, what an awkward creature it is. " 
 
 For Kilgarriff, in his eager haste to return, stumbles 
 helplessly over a little milking-stool in the way, and all 
 but measures his length on the ground. 
 
 "What's the good of your steaming up the room at 
 twenty knots an hour?" demands the Honorable Nancy, 
 half laughing. " Where does the hurry come in? Tlie 
 day is always unconscionably long, spread it out as much 
 as you can. " 
 
 Lady Glandore, who has come up to them, sinks 
 laughing into her seat. 
 
 " Those little stools are the most treacherous things 
 imaginable," she says, "specially when they're black. 
 One can hardly see them; and really of what wonderfuj 
 
THE DUCHESS. 105 
 
 use are they after all that we should keep them at the risk 
 of endangering life and limb?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know; they hnve their use, you know," 
 says Kilgarriff, regarding with a nobly forgiving glance 
 the black and perilous stool in question. " They give you 
 the free use of both your hands. It was awful, long ago, 
 having to hold your cup and your cake both. Now you 
 can put your cup down and eat your cake, or you can put 
 your cake down and eat your cup — or — ah! — that is — " 
 
 " Oh, never mind!" says Miss Blake. 
 
 "Is Nancy letting you into a few of the mysteries?" 
 asks Lady Glandore, in her soft, low, rather drawling 
 voice, turning to Norah. " She is very good at that sort 
 of thing; but I think Mr. Wylding is even better. He is 
 the absurd-looking person with sandy hair at the end of 
 the room, and that little tub of a woman on our right is 
 his wife, but she doesn't count. At least he won't let 
 her." 
 
 *' No, poor little soul! I often wonder why she married 
 him," says a man with a dark, clean-shaven face, who has 
 just sauntered up — Sir Philip Glandore, as the Duchess 
 afterward discovers. " I rather like her in spite of her 
 many defects. ** 
 
 " Why, yes," says Miss Blake. " She is better than 
 some. I suppose he had money. By the bye, who is he?" 
 
 " It doesn't matter in the least, my good child, who 
 anybody is nowadays; it is what he has. He may be a 
 button man or a vender of bricks so long as he can pay hia 
 bills and entertain the world at large. Talking of that 
 what has Wylding?*' 
 
lOfl THE DUCHESS. 
 
 ** Fifteen hnndred a year and an infernal temper/* says 
 Sir Philip, placidly. " That's his whole stock in trade.*' 
 
 " Bad for his wife and not mncb for any one else. If it 
 6e true what you say, what a fraud the man is I He seems 
 so specially sociable and good-tempered, so exceedingly 
 light in hand. Ahl there is Denis. How severe he 
 looks!" 
 
 " Well, I always think I should like Denis better if I 
 weren't the least bit afraid of him," says Miss Blake, who 
 never yet saw living thing she feared. " How did yon get 
 on with him?" turning suddenly to Norah. 
 
 Thus addressed, the blood seems to fly to Norah's heart. 
 She makes a little faint attempt as if to answer, but no 
 words come. Miss Blake, after a sharp glance at her, 
 steps to the rescue. 
 
 *' I see. He kept you in order as he does the rest of us, 
 and you don't like to say so. A cousin, like a brother, is 
 the true tonic; unpleasant but wholesome. Correctives, 
 yon know, are always nasty. Dear Denis, it is a shame 
 for me to say a word against him. It is a sin against my 
 conscience, as I know no one I so sincerely like. " 
 
 The Duchess involuntarily lifts her eyes to hers— a world 
 of sad gratitude in their depths. If Miss Blake had 
 wanted confirmation of her suspicions, she has it now in full. 
 A touch of genuine regret darkens her piquant face for a 
 moment, and in that moment is born a very honest friend- 
 liness toward the slander creature by her side. Instinctive- 
 ly she lifts her gaze and turns it on Delaney, who is stand- 
 ing partly within the recess of a window. Thus situated 
 he is- rather hidden from the general eye, and Miss Blake's 
 
THE DUCHESS. 107 
 
 direct glance falls upon him without disturbing the direc- 
 tion of his own. 
 
 Was ever despair more keenly expressed than in those 
 dark eyes that are fixed with such a mournful yet impas- 
 sioned intensity upon the Duchess? They tell their tale to 
 the attentive watcher — there is no need for further specu- 
 lation. That Denis loves this little dark new-comer as he 
 has never loved the handsome blonde — as he has never yet 
 loved any one — as he will never love again — is as plain to 
 Miss Blake as if his own lips had said it. 
 
 And now he starts. His melancholy day-dream is 
 broken in upon by the approach of his mother, who comes 
 up to him with a radiant smile. 
 
 " She is charming. Quite a picture. Not one word too 
 much did you say," declares she with soft enthusiasm. 
 " Was there ever such a mouth, such eyes? — and her 
 pretty little hands! I must manage somehow to take her 
 to town next season and have her presented. She will be 
 quite the fashion at once, her coloring is so very original, 
 and her manners so fresh. In fact, I predict all sorts of 
 good things, for her. She ought, in my opinion, to make a 
 very excellent marriage." 
 
 Delaney bites his lips. 
 
 "How you run away with things," he says, in a tone 
 more impatient than he had ever used with his idolized 
 mother. "Hereto-day — and— already married! Lethe" 
 breathe a moment or two, poor child.** 
 
 " Ah, well, we shall see," says madanie, vaguely. The 
 impatience, the touch of pain in his forced smile, have not 
 gone unnoticed by her. " As you say, she is but a child." 
 
108 THE DF0HB88. 
 
 Then she passes on qnickly to greet another gnest who ha| 
 just arrived, and Delaney goes back to his unhappy con- 
 templation of her he loves. 
 
 He has made a slight movement as his mother went by, 
 and through it his position has become more known to 
 those immediately within his view. Two cold blue eyes, 
 uplifting themselves from the black-and-tan terrier, grow 
 very earnest in their expression, and watch him with a 
 studied scrutiny that denies the power to cheat them. 
 When she has witnessed his absorption for quite a minute 
 a fine cold smile parts Miss Cazalet's lips. Lifting the 
 tiny creature on her lap, she drops him deliberately, and 
 rather cruelly, with a certain force upon the ground. A 
 squeal is the result of this maneuver, and Denis, starting, 
 looks in its direction, and straight into Miss Cazalet's eyes. 
 Something in them chills him, but he has hardly time to 
 decide what it was when she rises and moves slowly to 
 where the Duchess is sitting, close to Nancy Blake, and 
 talking to a young man, rather stout and very closely 
 cropped, who rejoices in an eyeglass and the shortest coat 
 that decency will permit, and who seems gifted with quite 
 a fund of light and airy converse. 
 
 Miss Cazalet having demanded very prettily, and ob- 
 tained an introduction to the Duchess, stands by, listening 
 to the idle shafts of talk that every now and then reach 
 her ear. 
 
 "I've run down for a week," the stout young man 
 with an inch or two of coat is saying, with a beaming 
 Bmile. ** Madame wrote me word there was a garden- 
 party on for next week, so I knew I was safe to meet Mrs, 
 
THE DUCHESS. 1^^ 
 
 O'Shaughnessy, and as she is at present the light of my 
 eyes and all the rest of it, I'd thought I'd come.' 
 '* What a name!'* says Miss Cazalet. 
 " Fine old Irish name, I give you my word. There's a 
 good deal of it, I allow, but you can't have too much of a 
 good thing. She says she is descended from a king, or a 
 queen, or several kings and queens-I really forget. At 
 all events, she is the one woman upon whom my ailections 
 are at present set." 
 
 -Don't be too cruel! What on earth wUl become of 
 the others?" says Sir Philip. 
 
 ''Well, that's it, you see! What is a fellow to do?'- 
 says the stout young man— Mr. Greene. 
 
 - I hate garden-parties-paltry things," says Miss Blake. 
 « I have fixed my fondest hopes upon the fancy dress ball 
 to come off later on. Which would you prefer?" turning 
 with a little friendly air to Norah. 
 
 "The ball, I think," says she, half shyly. It is an 
 adorable shyness, that brings Mr. Greene to her feet in no 
 
 time. 
 
 " Trust the Duchess for that," says Kilgarriff, with a 
 lingering glance at his old friend and playfellow. 
 
 '"' The Duchess!" repeats Miss Cazalet in her clear sweet 
 voice. " Is that how they call you?" 
 
 " Dad does," says Norah, with a rather painful blush— 
 her voice about a whisper. 
 
 "The Duchess! A rather - er — pronounced sort of 
 sobriquet, don't you think? But of course very appropri- 
 ate/ ' with a polite smile, but in a tone that says plamly 
 
110 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 that the Duchess in question is in her 02)inion of very in* 
 ferior quality indeed. 
 
 " And a right good Duchess, too/' says Kilgarriff, re- 
 sentful of this tone. 
 
 " No doubt," says Miss Cazalet with a steady smile. 
 
 " Has your grace any vacant place in your retinue that 
 you might offer to a deserving valet?'* demands Mr. 
 Greene, humbly. " If so, here he stands. Any post, 
 however low, would be gladly accepted. Scullion — turn- 
 spit — anything to serve you!" 
 
 *' But that your rank precludes the idea, you should feel 
 honored," says Miss Cazalet, fixing the girl's nervous 
 shrinking eyes with her own cold mocking gaze. There is 
 a sense of keen pleasure to her in the agony of shyness 
 that has overtaken the poor little Duchess at thus finding 
 herself the central object of this unknown circle. " Do 
 you know," Miss Cazalet is just beginning afresh, some 
 subtle cruelty upon her lips, when there is a little stir be- 
 hind her, and Denis, pale and stern, presents himself. 
 He looks alone at !N"orah. 
 
 " My mother wants you," he says, curtly, and, drawing 
 her hand within his arm, carries her away. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " The human heart, at whatever age, opens only to the heart that 
 opens in return." 
 
 However, the end of the week brings too the end of 
 Norah's shyness; several things helped her to conquer this 
 very natural mauvaise honte that had overtaken her on 
 
THE DUCHESS. Ill 
 
 finding herself brought so suddenly in contact with such a 
 number of strangers; Miss Cazalet's subdued but i^erfectly 
 unmistakable hostility for one thing — expressed by small 
 impertinences and smiling sneers — and for another, De- 
 laney's evident determination to protect her from it. 
 
 This last touched her pride most nearly. His protec- 
 tion she would not have — she would accept no help from 
 him of any kind; therefore it behooved her to arouse her 
 self and win a way for herself out of her troubles. Very 
 small, very silly troubles, no doubt, but often very cruel. 
 She had plenty of spirit to bring to her own aid, and a 
 stout little heart, and very soon, too, she made to herself 
 friends of Lady Glandore, who was amused by her, and of 
 Nancy Blake, who honestly liked her. These two friend- 
 shii^s greatly strengthened her hand — s^iecially in the mat- 
 ter of Miss Blake, who was always only too eager to scent 
 battle in the breeze where Katherine Cazalet was concerned. 
 " A word with you. Duchess," says this young lady, 
 seating herself in the deep window recess of the room 
 where Norali is scribbling a letter to her dad. " WeVe 
 sworn a friendship, you and I — and if Fm nothing else I 
 am at least faithful to my bonds. Now, as to Kilgarriff : 
 have you quite done with him?" 
 
 '•' What?" coloring furiously. '^ I — I don't think I 
 understand." 
 
 " Then why are you growing so dreadfully red?" asks 
 Miss Blake, with a i3racticalness that does her honor. 
 " However, if you want an explana — " 
 
 " No, no," iuterupts the Duchess, in horrified haste. 
 ** Only — how did you know?" 
 
112 Tlii; ULlHESS. 
 
 ** Wliy, he told me himself. Last summer — a month or 
 two ago, wheu I met him abroad. If," laughing, "you 
 could only know how I once execrated your name! It 
 used to ring in my wretched ears morning, noon and 
 night. Young men in that stage ought to be locked up 
 until the paroxysm is over, or else given over to the tor- 
 uicntors. I did my little best in that last role. But — er 
 — if you are sure you have quite finished with that little 
 affair—" 
 
 "It was never an affair of that sort — never. I have 
 known him all my life. I'm fond of him as a sister might 
 be, but—'' 
 
 " I know. That sisterly touch is always fatal. To his 
 hopes, however, not mine. Well, I'm going to be fond of 
 him, too;" she leans back in her chair and laughs softly 
 but heartily. "Infant in all but years though he be. 
 Was there ever so absurd a boy? It is a defect in my nat- 
 ure, no doubt, but I know tliis; I couldn't endure a mas- 
 ter. They say women like to be domineered over — kept 
 down; that they find their real happiness in being gov- 
 erned by a spirit stronger than their own. If it be so, be- 
 hold in me the glorious exception to that rule!" 
 
 " Yes. But about Otho?" slightly puzzled. " What is 
 it you mean to do about him?" 
 
 " Marry him," promptly. '* As you assure me, you, 
 my friend, have no tmdresse in that quarter. And now 
 haste thee, haste thee, good maiden. Have you forgotten 
 it is the day of madame's garden-party, and that already 
 the county arriveth? Come, let me put you into youi 
 gown." 
 
THE DUCHESS. 113 
 
 It is a day as beautiful as though it were " bespoke/' to 
 quote the peasants round about here. Queen's weather of 
 a verity, with a gleaming yellow sunshine that scorns to 
 think of autumn, though ah-eady one begins to talk of 
 golden September as though it was indeed here, so short a 
 shrift has August now before it drops into the greedy past. 
 The Duchess, very lovely in a soft white Indian silk, one 
 of madame's gifts, glides into the long drawing-room in 
 her pretty girlish way, though with her charming head 
 well up; and, becoming at once conscious that some stran- 
 gers are present, grows faintly pink and hesitates, until 
 madame calls to her in the tone she has learned to love. 
 " Come here, darling, just for one moment. The others 
 • are for the most part outside, but I want to introduce you 
 to a very old friend of your father's — of mine. " 
 
 Sitting near her is an old lady whom !N"orah had not 
 until now seen — a stout old lady with the orthodox cork- 
 screw ringlets and a large, fat, most benevolent face. She 
 seems, indeed, beaming with good-nature, and as the 
 Duchess draws near rises and, laying both her hands on 
 her shoulders, kisses her warmly. 
 
 " So this is the little niece," she says. ** A veritable 
 and a very charming breath from the old days. You are 
 like your mother, my dear — a little — and she was a lovely 
 woman; but your eyes, your mouUi— Ah! my dear," 
 turning to madame, *' have you noticed it? She is so very 
 like your husband." 
 
 " Yes, I see it," says madame, in a low constrained 
 tone. Even now, after all these years that have passed, 
 that one unapproachable grief does not bear talking about. 
 
114 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 " I suppose your father, Neil Delaney — I suppose he 
 never tokl you about me," says the old lady, still holding 
 Norah's Land very kindly, and smiling at her as though 
 pleased by what she sees. "It is years ago of course. 
 One may well be forgotten. He did not speak to you of 
 Mrs. O'Shaughnessy?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! Yes,, indeed!" says the Duchess, eagerly. 
 "Often. I think*' — with an adorable blush and a soft, 
 shy movement of her eyelids — " he used to call you Bes- 
 sie."" 
 
 ^ " And so he did," says Mrs. 'Shaughnessy, jDlainly en- 
 chanted by this touch. "And so he still remembers me? 
 That's nice now amongst old friends, and you must tell 
 him from me — when writing, mind " — with a soft squeeze 
 of her hand, " that I remember him, too, as well as when 
 I was Bessie MacGillicuddy. God bless you, my dear! you 
 are a very sweet child. And now sit here by me for a 
 minute or two. I'd have called on you long ago, but I'm 
 only just back from Italy — ^yesterday, indeed — and — " 
 
 At this instant somebody from behind lays his hands 
 over Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's eyes and surprises her into 
 silence. The same somebody still further adds to his 
 offense by bestowing a hearty salute upon her plump cheek. 
 
 " Now, Denis! And that's yourself, of course. Not 
 another one would have the audacity. Worse luck!" cried 
 Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, gayly disengaging herself. " Pity it 
 is the colonel isn't here to see. "Well, and even if I was 
 twenty years younger I dare say I wouldn't say no to that 
 kiss, even though I might pretend to. Come, tell me 
 •verytliing; it seems like years since I saw one of you. 
 
THE DUCHESS. 115 
 
 When is the weddmg to be, eh? I'm young enough to 
 dance yet, I can tell you. I'm not betraying secrets, eh?" 
 smiling at Xorah. " You know, of course, of this 
 cousin's " — laying her hand on Denis's arm — " engage- 
 ment?" 
 
 " Yes, I know," says Norah, steadily. She has grown 
 very white. Delaney has turned away to the window, and 
 is apparently lost in contemplation of the exquisite view 
 ontside. What dreadful things is this kindly old lady 
 going to say next, who would have bitten out her tongue 
 rather tha^i say anything — had she only known. 
 
 " We're getting quite impatient for a wedding, I must 
 tell you," she rattles on merrily. "We haven't had so 
 much as a ghost of one in the parish for the last two 3'ears. 
 You should come to the rescue, Denis. Come, now, when 
 is it to be?" 
 
 "Is it a time for talking of marrying and giving in 
 marriage," replies he, facing round again and speaking 
 with really a marvelous nonchalance, " with wars and 
 rumors of wars afloat? Why, the very air is thick with 
 the odor of rebellion. Never has Kerry been in such a 
 disaffected state." 
 
 ".Kerry? Say Ireland and be done with it," says Mrs. 
 O'Shaughnessy. 
 
 " Well, whose fault is it?" says the Duchess, suddenly, 
 a little fierily waking into life. " Who cares for Ireland, 
 whether she swims or sinks? Not England. She is a 
 worry, a nuisance—no more. If honorably she could be 
 got rid of there wouldn't be a second's delay about the dis* 
 posing of her. She is an incubus, a thing at which to 
 
1T6 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 siiiug the shoulder. But has she ever been shown fair 
 play? You know/' looking at Denis, " I have always said 
 that poor Ireland has been slighted — kept at a distance, 
 as it were — whilst the rest of Great Britain, Scotland not- 
 ably, has been petted ad nauseam. And yet I am sure a 
 little, a very little love, would have made her loyal to thp 
 backbone." 
 
 ''There's a rebel for you!'' says Delaney, laughing, 
 glad to an absurd degree that anything has led het to 
 spontaneously address him again. 
 
 " Faith, there's a deal of sense, though, in what she 
 says," declares Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, shaking her ringlets 
 vigorously; " a rare good smattering of reason. Only the 
 day is too hot to follow it up. Let us come out and see 
 what our friends in the open air are doing." 
 
 CHAPTEE XVL 
 
 " Just wlien I seemed about to learn, 
 Where is the thread now? Off again! 
 
 The old trick! Only I discern 
 Infinite passion, and the pain 
 
 Of finite hearts that yearn.' 
 
 Not very much, when all is told. The day is too warm 
 for that. A good deal of tennis, a little sauntering 
 amongst the late roses, a tremendous amount of loungingj 
 and flirtation at will The afternoon flies by almost be- 
 fore one remembers it has begun, and now everybody is 
 lying about, rather exhausted from doing nothing, an^ 
 
THE DUCHESS. 117 
 
 drinking tea, and champagne, and divers cups with an 
 unfeigned appreciation of their merits. 
 
 Colonel O'Sliaughnessy, a large, florid, well-bred-look- 
 ing man, with a dictatorial manner and the kindest heart 
 in the world, is telling an old and thrilling Indian tale 
 (born of his years in Hyderabad) to a select companj^ 
 His wife, at a few yards' distance, is giving all the local 
 gossip, collected since her return yesterday, to a pale little 
 woman, who seems rather upset by it. Some of our other 
 friends are scattered around, and Mr. Greene, who makes 
 no secret of his adoration, is lying prone at the feet of the 
 Duchess. The colonel, having brought his tale to a pitch 
 that is positively appalling, winds it up suddenly with all 
 the knowledge of a clever raconteur, and is rewarded by a 
 silence that is half hysterical on the part of his female 
 
 audience. 
 
 Suddenly says some one — the rector's wife, I think — the 
 
 little pale woman — 
 
 " Does any one know how Mrs. Brady is to-day? I 
 
 heard she was ill, but — " 
 
 " Yes. I called there this morning," shouts Colonel 
 
 O'Shaughnessy — he always shouts more or less. ** She's 
 
 far from well. They told me she had been confined — " 
 
 Here a most inopportune fit of coughing overtakes him. 
 " Confined? What are you talking about, colonel?" 
 
 cries the wife in condemnation. " Why, they have only 
 
 been mar — " 
 
 Providentially at this moment her cup slips along its 
 
 saucer in the nasty, treacherous way cups will at times, 
 
 and Mrs. O'Shaughnessv makes a grab at it, forgetful in 
 
lis THE DUCHESS. 
 
 her fear for the prune silk of the astonishmeut and horror 
 that possesses her. 
 
 "Confined to her bed with a bad cold/' roars the 
 colonel, in a voice suggestive of murder and with a com- 
 plexion positively apoplectic. 
 
 There is a dead pause; then somebody whispers some- 
 thing into Mrs. O'Siiaughnessy's ear who appears bewil- 
 dered, and somebody else gives an indignant kick to Mr. 
 Greene's recumbent form, who is plainly on the verge of 
 hysterics. 
 
 "A bad cold," persists the colonel, wildly. "Called 
 there — saw her! Nothing worse than that, I give you my 
 honor. " 
 
 The " nothing worse than that " is the last straw, and 
 finishes Mr. Greene, who explodes with laughter and then 
 rolls over and bites the daisies in a last vain endeavor to 
 restrain his ungodly enjoyment. But Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, 
 who has at last mastered the real meaning of tbe thing, 
 evidently sees no reason for restraining anytliing, and lean- 
 ing back in her chair gives way to mirth. 
 
 "And is that it?" she says. "Bless me, what a mis- 
 take I made!" And off she goes into an unlimited num- 
 ber of cackles, until she shakes again. Then Miss Cazalet 
 is seen to draw gently near, and as mirth has a trick of 
 dying out in her presence once more a decorous tranquillity 
 holds sway. Mr. Wylding, the author, is with her. 
 
 " One can see I scribble," he is saying, in his delight- 
 fully soft voice. " Yet when people look at me they some- 
 times hesitate (it is a compliment, I assure you); I am 
 always charmed with it, and I can almost hear them say; 
 
THE DUCHESS. 119 
 
 ' He IS like it, of course, but he is not so spiritual as I im- 
 agined. And yet — ' You can read the rest for yourself. 
 Is it uot? It is all in my uose, I think,'' with a delicious 
 frankness, " which is of a goodly length, and in my upi)er 
 lip — have you noticed my upper lip — which is distinctly en 
 suite." 
 
 Miss Cazalet murmurs some inanity or other, quite un- 
 worthy of her, her mind being with her eyes, which are far 
 away across the shaven lawn, where stands Delaney. He 
 is conversing with some one — she can not see whom — but 
 some one in white. Presently he moves a little, and her 
 pulses grow more even as she sees that the woman in white 
 is not — Norah! 
 
 A voice at her elbow makes her start. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you. Duchess?** The voice is 
 Lord Kilgarriff's, and Miss Cazalet, looking abruptly 
 round, finds that Norah is sitting almost exactly behind 
 her. 
 
 "Eh? what?" says the Duchess, with a rather absent 
 air, turning to Kilgarriff. It is plain the tone, not the 
 words, have reached her ears. 
 
 "Miss Delaney — why this abstraction?" says Mr. 
 Greene, in accents mildly reproachful. *' Are all we noth- 
 ing to you, that you thus wander into realms of fantasy? 
 Come back, come back, I entreat you, to solid earth and 
 us and cease to tread in spirit immaterial space." 
 
 Norah, thus importuned, turns upon him a smiling face. 
 
 *' I have been thinking," she says, " that I should like 
 to play one set-*'" 
 
120 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 " With me?" exclaims he, rapturously, scrambling te 
 his feet. " Consider it done. Now to find two others on 
 playful thoughts intent." 
 
 "I was just wishing for a game myself," says Miss 
 Cazalet, amiably. " What do you say? You and Miss 
 Delaney against Mr. AVylding and me?" 
 
 *' I should be so charmed — so delighted,*' says Wyld- 
 ing, " but there is this one trifling obstacle to my bliss — ^I 
 don't play. " 
 
 " If I might aspire — " simpers Sir Brand rum, turning 
 a languishing eye upon the blonde beauty. 
 
 " To what?" asiis Greene, innocently. 
 
 " To — er — to be Miss Cazalet's partner in this projected 
 game of tennis," replies the baronet, stiffly; and then in a 
 lower tone, addressed to the tall, fair goddess at his side, 
 "Oh! that I dared aspire to more — to all." 
 
 Miss Cazalet sweeps her cold eyes across his face with an 
 insolence indescribable. This man — this old man — to 
 presume to hope that she will throw over Ventry and 
 Denis for him! 
 
 " Well, is it a match?" says Greene, looking at her with 
 a dry twinkle in his eye. 
 
 " If you will," returns Miss Cazalet, indifferently, ignor- 
 ing his evident meaning; " Sir Brandrum, as you know, is 
 an excellent — indeed " — with a slow glance at the unfortu- 
 nate baronet from under her half-closed lids, " we might 
 safely say an old hand at it, and I — " 
 
 " You are indeed an enemy to fear," says Greene, with 
 a bow — Miss Cazalet being the acknowledged head of the 
 
THE DUCHESS. Ivi 
 
 women players in tlie county. " Still if you will deign to 
 give us a beating, I think Miss Delaney and I would like 
 to receive it.*' 
 
 Norah, catching his eye, laughs a little. As it hapjjens, 
 Katherine and she have never yet played one against the 
 other, and though comments on the excellence of Miss 
 Delaney's performances on the tennis courts have reached 
 Katherine's ears she had treated such praise as a pitiful 
 truckling to the beauty that even she confessed to see. 
 
 When, therefore, the sets came to an end, leaving the 
 Duchess flushed delicately and undeniably victress, there 
 comes a light into Miss Cazalet^s pale-blue eyes hardly to 
 be admired. She has been overthrown in public favor by 
 this her foe. 
 
 " You have triumphed to-day in this matter, '' she says, 
 in a soft under-tone, looking with a smile into Norah's 
 large dark eyes. " It is a sign, you think, an indication 
 that you will triumph always! But I tell you no. " 
 
 The delicate flush dies out of Norah's cheeks. She 
 grows very pale. It is impossible to misunderstand what 
 has been said, what has been meant. Has this girl — who 
 towers above her like her evil genius, white and fair 
 though she be — can she have guessed her cruel secret? has 
 she pierced into her soul and read there the love that was 
 reared in pain, and yet thrives with a vigor that defies all 
 hope of death? This sudden fear blanches her cheek, but 
 through it all there runs a horror of the coarseness that 
 has permitted such words to be spoken. 
 
 " Always to triumph? No," she says, coldly, and with 
 admirable self-possession. " That is given to few — to 
 
122 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 none perhaps. And there are days, I confess, when my 
 serving is a very himentable faihire.'' 
 
 ** Miss Cazalet, I think Madame Delaney wants you — if 
 I might be permitted?'* says Sir Braudrum at this instant, 
 who generally spoke in half sentences. 
 
 Katheriue moves away with him, that curious light still 
 within her eyes, and Norali, feeling tired, dispirited, heart- 
 sick, turns round and walks aimlessly in the other direc- 
 tion. 
 
 In the center of the path she has chosen she sees Denis, 
 and as he moves a little to one side to let her pass he looks 
 full at her with a kindly smile. If she sees it she makes 
 no response to it, and only acknowledges his presence there 
 by a little faint bow. Then she has passed him. And 
 then a second later she knows he is beside her, bending 
 down a little as if trying to look into her face. 
 
 " May we not be friends, my little cousin?" asks he, 
 gently. She can see that he is pale, and that there is a 
 great weariness in his miserable eyes. 
 
 " Friends! Why, that we are, surely,'* replies she, her 
 glance upon the ground, after that one swift upward look 
 that is now hurting him so fiercely. 
 
 " I think not. I fear not. Everything," sadly, '' is so 
 changed. At home, there, in Ballyliinch, where first we 
 met, you were so different." 
 
 " Ah, there I was in my father's house,'* with a desper- 
 ate effort at serenity. " Then it behooved me to be civil 
 to my father's guest.** The words fall from her like 
 atones. Oh, why must they be said? What evil fate has 
 
THE DUCHE3S. 123. 
 
 thrust this burden on her? But pride, pride— what is it a 
 woman will not sacrifice for that! 
 
 " What do you wish me to understand?" asks he, grow- 
 ing, if possible, a shade paler. " That all those sweet days 
 there were a mere wearying of the flesh to you? That you 
 suffered me, indeed, but that no honest feeling of friend- 
 ship toward me — that feeling,"' hotly, " to which I would 
 have sworn — ever existed in your breast? Norah! Is that 
 the truth? Is that your meaning?" 
 
 " Take it as you will/' says she, icily, although her lips 
 are trembling. "You should not have asked the ques- 
 tion." 
 
 They had stopped in the center of a grass j^lot, rather 
 deserted at the moment, and now she looks restlessly past 
 him, and from side to side, as if seeking mutely a way of 
 escape. 
 
 " I trouble you. You would leave me," he says, unut- 
 terable despair in his tone. As he speaks he moves a 
 little to one side, as though to let her pass. 
 
 " No, no. You must not think that," murmurs she, 
 faintly. She lifts her gaze to his, and he can see that, all 
 at once as it were, the combative look has gone from her 
 eyes. Riven as he is with counter emotions he can see 
 that. 
 
 " Norahl" he exclaims, in a low piercing tone, catching 
 her hand. 
 
 And then it is all over, and nothing is left him but the 
 remembrance of the frown — the passionately contemptu- 
 ous glance of those gray eyes — the haughty curl of the lips. 
 She is half-way across the lawn now, moving quickly, as if 
 
124 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 a little frightened, to where Kilgarriff is standing. There 
 is something in her whole air that seems to Delaney — 
 standing there white, angry, stricken — suggestive of a de- 
 sire for help, for protection! To protect her from him! 
 In that lies the sting — the bitterness of it. And to go to 
 Kilgarriff, of all men! What, after all, if that old friend- 
 ship was ripening into something warmer, if— even as she 
 had refused him — the divine si^ark that lies in every heart 
 had broken into flame? How often does a foolish child, 
 frightened, puzzled, by some strange, new experience, an- 
 swer at random, scarce knowing its own mind! 
 
 And yet— and yet — how could he forget? Once again 
 she stands upon the stepping-stones — once again she sways 
 and trembles — and once again — alas! alas! for the mourn- 
 ful sweetness of a past moment never to be known again — 
 she is within his arms. She lies upon his breast; willing- 
 ly, he feels and knows; against his heart her heart beats. 
 And then the pretty head thrown back, the eyes — such eyes 
 — looking with that swift, shy rapture into his. It is a 
 momentary glance indeed — a flash. But, oh! what a 
 world of tender love it holds! 
 
 Yes, she loves him. That one sweet glance had be- 
 trayed her. Though twenty thousand demons yelled the 
 contrary in his ear he would not believe it. So fair a 
 building could hold within it no blot, no falsity. A thrill 
 of passionate joyousness strikes him, as memory holds him 
 captive at her will; and then all at once she releases him, 
 and the present stands cold and bleak before him, without 
 hope or chance of escape from the thralldom into which 
 he has sold himself, not knowing; there is Norah a little 
 
THE DL'CHESS. J 25 
 
 way off, smiling into Kilgarriff's face, a touch of positive 
 relief on her lovely face. He feels stunned, inanimate. 
 How can he go on like this? How live out the long life 
 bBfore him? He rouses himself angrily, but fails to shake 
 off the dread depression that has seized upon him. It is 
 absurd, ridiculous, he knows; yet somehow he feels fright- 
 ened at the length of days stretching out before his mental 
 view; days colorless, verdureless, void of dew or any other 
 gracious visitation. What is it — what has happened to 
 him? 
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 The last guest has departed; only the house-party is left 
 to enjoy the glory of the dying sunset. Lounging about 
 on the shaven grass, or else cozily nestling down in the 
 garden-chairs, they seem one and all loath to leave the 
 sweetness of the evening to go in-doors and dress for dinner. 
 
 There is almost an unwonted stillness over everything; 
 a calm that bodes well for the peaceful night, that already 
 shows signs of descending upon them. A little tired, a 
 little languid, they are sitting voiceless — a sense of such 
 pleasurable laziness upon them as forbids the desire for 
 speech — when suddenly, from some unknown distance, 
 sound reaches them; sound that ever gathers in volume, 
 and at last disperses rudely the delicious touch of rest in 
 which they had been indulging. Nearer and nearer comes 
 this unpardonable break upon their tranquillity, resolving 
 itself presently into the measured tread of many feet and 
 the dull muttering of sullen voices. Madame starts per- 
 
126 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 ceptibly and grows a little pale, and one swift glance she 
 gives at Denis, as round the curve of the avenue an un- 
 couth crowd of half-frighteueLl, hulf-angrj' peasants, comes 
 with a rush as if pushed on by those behind. 
 
 It is one of the very frequent scenes of which some of us 
 have been eye-witnesses, and of which we all have read in 
 the daily papers, -the monthlies and the magazines. A 
 band of sullen, ill-looking men, headed by their parish 
 priest, in this instance a well-meaning man, though that 
 can not be said of others, with no honest entreaty on their 
 lips, but rather a demand for a still further reduction of 
 the rents that already have been most generously reduced. 
 
 Delaney seeing them — and that they have come to a halt 
 on a central part of the graveled sweep before the hall 
 door, that had full command of that part of the lawn on 
 which he and his guests are seated, moves right from his 
 lounging position on the grass and goes forward to meet 
 them. The Duchess, as he passes her, can see that he has 
 changed color, and a cold, hard expression has settled 
 round his lips. 
 
 *' Well?" he says, icily, addressing himself exclusively to 
 the priest, and treating the others as though they were out- 
 side his vision. His tone is uncompromising, his whole air 
 studiously contemptuous. 
 
 And then the priest begins his speech, already prepared, 
 and which it would be useless to reproduce here. The peo- 
 ple's wants and wrongs, set forth in florid language, and 
 yet with a keen edge of heartfelt, eloquent compassion to 
 it that touches Norah, but leaves Delaney as stern and un- 
 moved as before. The demand for redress; the speakar-'s 
 
THE DUCHESS. 127 
 
 eonyiction that they, his parishioners, have it not in their 
 power to pay the money said by the law to be due, but 
 which in the sight of Heaven and man is an unjust taxa- 
 tion. And so on — and on. 
 
 It is a strange scene, full of incongruities. On one side 
 extreme poverty and general demoralization; on the other 
 riches and all the little refinements that go to make up a 
 well-to-do, self-satisfied society. There, the ill-dressed 
 (although each man in it is wearing his Sunday^s best) ill- 
 looking crowd, shuffling together in a nervous, treacherous 
 fashion, half uneasy, wholly vindictive. Before them, 
 their spokesman as it were, their lean, ascetic parish j)riest> 
 Father Doolin, a slight, emaciated man with dark piercing 
 eyes, that now are aglow with fervid eloquence. Facing 
 him, the tall, handsome, 3'oung man, faultlessly attired, 
 with head well up, and stern, finely cut mouth, and aris- 
 tocrat written on every line of him; and behind all, the 
 fashionably dressed few, gazing with well-bred amazement 
 at the picture of which they make a part= 
 
 Father Doolin has brought his speech to a rather abru5)t 
 termination. It is difficult to be diffuse or explanatory or 
 persuasive with those handsome, unsympathetic eyes fixed 
 upon one, as though compelling a speedy finish to one's 
 harangue; and now that it has reached its end Delaney 
 throws out his hand with an openly aggressive gesture. 
 
 ** It is useless," he says, taking advantage of this unex- 
 pected break in Father Dooliti's appeal, " your coming tc 
 me on this errand. To those," turning cold, angry e3'es 
 upon the crowd, " who have shown no mercy, no mercy 
 will I show. ** 
 
/23 tHE DUCHESS. 
 
 ** Take care, sir/* says the priest, in a sort of sharp, 
 involuntary way, as if a little frightened. 
 
 ** Do you threaten me, sir?" asks Delaney, turning upon 
 him fiercel}'. " Nay, then, threaten as you 'Aill. What I 
 have said remains. These people,** with a light and scorn- 
 ful wave of his hand in their direction, "have chosen to 
 defy me, even to the extent of killing my trusted agent; 
 let them abide by that choice. I shall not abate one frac- 
 tion more of my just dues. I have said this before, pub- 
 licly. I say it again. Twenty per cent, has been offered 
 and refused. No other offer shall be made. And I may 
 as well say now, too, as the opportunity presents itself, 
 that it was against my better judgment, my sense of jus- 
 tice, that such grace was ever shown.*' 
 
 An angry growl rises from the crowd, and the Duchess 
 blanches a little and makes a quick movement, as though 
 8he would rise from her seat. 
 
 Then a tall man steps from the crowd and stands in 
 front of it, as though he feels himself to be their leader — 
 though perhaps an unacknowledged one. 
 
 He is a great powerful fellow, with a rather brutal ap- 
 pearance. A heavy bull-like neck, a lowering brow and a 
 type- of feature that suggests strongly that of the go- 
 rilla. 
 
 *' Say forty per cent, an* we might be listenin* to ye,*' 
 says this giant with a threatening air. 
 
 " Stand back, Moloney,** says Father Doolin, with a 
 frown. 
 
 ^' Why would I, thin? Why shouldn*t he hear the truth 
 
THE DUCHESSo 129 
 
 for wanst in his life? If you won't sjoake ifc I will. Why 
 shouldn't I tell him what we all think of him an' his come- 
 rades?'' 
 
 " Why not, indeed?" says Delaney, with a curious 
 laugh. " There is, however, something even more than 
 that that you might tell me." He goes a step nearer to 
 Moloney and fixes his gaze on him. " The name of him 
 who murdered Mr. Meredith I" 
 
 A. convulsive shudder seems to run through the ragged 
 crowd. Many angry faces show themselves there; many 
 carefully expressionless. 
 
 "Ha! That allusion troubles you," cries Denis, with 
 ill-suppressed passion. " That went straight home. Does 
 there stand one innocent man amongst you, I wonder; one 
 who did not know of or connive at that devilish deed? 
 Until the murderer is given up to me I sha'n't believe it. 
 I sent that kind, good man amongst you, that lenient, 
 loyal gentleman, my own best friend — who had, I swear it 
 to you " — with growing vehemence — " your interests most 
 honestly at heart. He came — he accepted you as his 
 friends. Oh! if you could have seen his letters to me, 
 how he trusted, how he believed in you, how his heart was 
 wrapjjed up in a scheme that was to do you and yours a 
 life-long good! And you — you, for reward, most foully, 
 most brutally destroyed him!*' He draws a long breath; 
 his eyes are aflame. *' His blood," he says, in a low tone, 
 " his blood forever cries to me for vengeance. I declare 
 to you," throwing one hand heavenward, ^' I shall never 
 test until I bring his murderer to the scaffold." 
 
 "Sirl Think^ Cousiderl'* says the priest, hastily. 
 
 6 
 
130 THK DUCHESS. 
 
 •' Can you not leftve him to time — to his own conscience, 
 for revenge?" 
 
 " His conscience?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. His, surely. Be it soon or be it late, be as- 
 sured that the memory of that awful crime will some time 
 seize upon that man and burn into his soul like a red-liot 
 iron. Sir, I entreat you, be content with that certainty, 
 and do not punish the innocent for the guilty.** 
 
 " No. I shall be content only with a justice that I 
 shall see,*' replies Delaney, grimly. " A life for a life is 
 but meager satisfaction in this case, for what dozen lives 
 amongst that sordid crew '* — indicating the peasants by a 
 gesture full of withering contempt — '' could compensate 
 for the life they took. '* 
 
 " Each man, Mr. Delaney,*' says the priest solemnly, re- 
 provingly, " has his own soul. That is as precious to the 
 lowest as to the highest. And you — are you just? Is it 
 justice you seek or only vengeance? Is it right ** — with 
 agitation — " to punish the many for the few? I beg you 
 to hear me, sir, in a kindlier spirit; I entreat you to be- 
 lieve that they are anxious to be reconciled to you — to — ** 
 
 " I respect you, Mr. Doolin,** says Delaney, interrupt- 
 ing him gently, but deliberately. " I honor yeu indeed, 
 because I know you to be a good man, who is wiastiug his 
 life in a vain endeavor to reform a lio|)elessly vicious peo- 
 ple—" 
 
 " Not vain, I hope, sir,** protests the priest, in a tone 
 of deep distress. 
 
 "So I at least believe,'* with a slight bow, "and ye*: 
 you would ask me to regard these people as being desirous 
 
THE DUCHE88. 187 
 
 of returning to their ullegiance, to a sense of their duty 
 toward me, their hmdlord, when you must know what 
 happened at that farm at Grillagh only last week. Was 
 the brutal mutilation of a number of helpless cattle a sign 
 of their desire to be on good terras with me? I confess it 
 looked to me more like a declaration of war. 1 really be- 
 lieve/' raising his voice so as to be heard by all, " it was 
 meant for a threat. But threats to me," with a short, in- 
 solent laugh, '* are, I assure you," addressing himself with 
 an aggravating air to the people, " idle as the wind.'' 
 
 Again that angry murmur rises from the heart of the 
 crowd. 
 
 ** The wind isn't always idle. It has overthrown many 
 a strong man before now," says Moloney, ominously, a vil- 
 lainous scowl upon his brow. 
 
 "If, sir, you would make some further abatement,** 
 goes on the priest, hurriedly, as if trying to drown this 
 mutinous speech; " anything — say thirty, even twenty-five 
 per cent." 
 
 " Not a penny,** briefly, " as matters now stand. One 
 hope, however, I still hold out. Let them deliver into my 
 hand the man who assassinated Mr. Meredith, and I may 
 — I do not promise, remember— but I then might be in- 
 duced to listen to their complaints; until then, nothing. 
 You hear, all of you," speaking in a clear, cold, steady 
 voice; " and I give you notice that you have from this 
 until November, only, to settle your rents; after that I 
 shall evict the non-payers, man by man." 
 
 There is somotliing about his manner that precludes the 
 idea of change. What he has said that he will surely do. 
 
133 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 There is no appeal from that sternly delivered fiat. A hoarse 
 cry runs through the crowd from mouth to mouth, partly 
 fear, partly hatred. There is something at once so sav- 
 age, yet so thrilling in it that mvoluntarily one or two of 
 the men lounging on the lawn get up hastily, and a mag- 
 nificent old hound that lies stretched at Delaney's feet 
 springs from the ground with a growl and stands trem- 
 bling as if waiting for the word to spring upon the foe. 
 
 At this Moloney makes a fierce gesture, and the dog, 
 losing all control over its awakened temper, with a bound 
 reaches him. With hair bristling and lips drawn back, 
 showing the fangs within, he looks a more formidable 
 enemy than he really is, and Moloney, yielding to a vile 
 impulse and a longing for revenge, lifts his heavy foot and 
 gives the poor old brute a cruel kick. 
 
 With a sharp yell the hound rolls over on the gravel, his 
 leg broken. 
 
 " Damn you! you scoundrel!^* cries Delaney, forgetful 
 of everything in his mad rage as he sees the dog lying in 
 mortal pain before him. It is his favorite dog, old now, 
 but a faithful creature who has had a good share of his 
 master's heart for many a long day. In a second Denis 
 has flung himself upon Moloney, and seizing him by the 
 collar, in spite of his powerful struggle, shakes him to and 
 fro as a terrier might a rat, and then dashes him heavilj to 
 tiie ground. 
 
 For a minute or two he lies there stunned; Delaney 
 looking down upon him, pale, panting more with passion 
 than fatigue. Then he recovers himself and rises slowly 
 to his feet. One dark malignant glance he c^sts at O^* 
 
THB DUCHESS. 183 
 
 Umey, one bitter curse escapes his lips, and then he movea 
 away, followed by the crowd, now grown strangely silent. 
 
 Only the old priest remains, and turns in an agitated 
 fashion to madame, who, with some of the others, has hur- 
 ried up, looking pale and horrified. 
 
 ** I wish he had not done that, madame," said Father 
 Dooliu in a trembling voice. " It was most unfortunate. 
 They are already much incensed against him; and — I wish 
 he had not done that. " 
 
 " I wish he bad not, indeed,'' eays madame, who is very 
 white. 
 
 ** And I wish he had done more, ** cried Miss Blake, 
 looking up with flashing eyes from where she and the 
 Duchess, with Delaney, are kneeling over the injured dog. 
 *' I wish he had killed the cowardly wretch who dealt that 
 blow to this poor brute. " 
 
 Tears are standing thickly in her eyes, and seeing them, 
 Kilgarriff, who is never proof against beauty in distress, 
 goes up to her. The Duchess, sitting on the gravel, has 
 got the dog*s head in her lap; warm drops are falling from 
 her eyes on his handsome old head. The poor brute, more 
 hurt than they at first had thought, is dying; even as 
 Denis calls to him, in the hope of cheering him, and Sir 
 Philip, who is a clever man about dogs, is examining tiie 
 broken leg, he gives a groan or two, and with a last vain 
 effort to struggle to his feet and go to his master, drops 
 back dead. 
 
 It is after all only a very small affair; the death of a dog 
 only. A mere trifle beside the bloody deeds that, night by 
 night and day by day ^e enacted in all parts of ill-famed 
 
184 THE DUCHE88. 
 
 Kerry, whilst our English protectors talk and talk and 
 talk at the other and safe side of the water and do noth- 
 ing. The death of a dog, and the knocking down of his 
 elayer. Yet, insigniQcant as all this sounds, it beftf» in 
 the future bitter fruitl 
 
 CHAPTER XVin. 
 
 " Let it be now level All my soul breaks forth. 
 How I do love youl Give my love its wayJ 
 
 Grant me my heaven now." 
 
 ** NoRAH, may I have the pleasure of this dance?*' says 
 Denis, gravely, looking down at his cousin. The old 
 familiar " Duchess " has long been laid aside. 
 
 Madame's calico ball has come off at last in spite of 
 many delays. It is now October, warm and bright on its 
 pet day, lowering and dark enough on the others. To- 
 night, however, is beyond expectation, lovely and mild 
 as though a last breath of the dead summer had been 
 wafted to it by spirit hands. All the gardens are aglow 
 with colored lamps, poor counterfeits of the myriad stars 
 that deck the firmament above, where, too, Diana sails in 
 perfect splendor. It is an ideal night, balmy, and calm as 
 death itself, with no sound save the whispering of the lime- 
 trees under the tender moonlight and the far-off breaking 
 of the waves upon the pebbly shore. 
 
 "With pleasure," responds the Duchess, coldly, not 
 
THE DUCHESS. 135 
 
 iooking at him. She is staring past him, with unseeing 
 eyes, however, very pale, but lovely as a dream, in the 
 quaint costume she wears. She is a very exquisite '' Miss 
 Muffiet '* in her short-waisted gown of highly assthetic 
 saffron tint, a very big mob cap, and long soft gloves that 
 reach up to her white shoulder, and then gently wrinkle 
 all the way down again from that to her wrist. A more 
 admirable picture than she makes it would be impossible 
 to conceive. 
 
 She is without doubt the belle of the evening, though 
 Katherine Cazalet, who is supremely lovely as " Queen of 
 Hearts, '^ in long trailing skirts of white and gold, runs her 
 hard. Miss Blake, too, as" My Pretty Maid,*' is charm- 
 ing; and Lady Glandore a thing of beauty as " Mistress 
 Mary.*' 
 
 The Duchess, indeed, seems quite transformed. A brill- 
 iant fire has lit itself in each of her great gray eyes, and 
 though her cheeks have turned strangely white within the 
 last few minutes her lips still are crimson. 
 
 " But to dance!" she says, still not looking at him. *' I 
 am tired of dancing. Is there no place to be found for 
 the sole of one's tired foot this evening?" 
 
 By intuition he knows that she will not suffer his arm 
 round her waist, and a bitter pain beats within his heart; 
 pain mingled with an anger as bitter. 
 
 ** If you are tired we can sit down in one of the conserva- 
 tories, or, better still, in one of the gardens,*' he says, as 
 calmly as he can. " Will that suit you, or shall I give up 
 my place to another?" 
 
 " That is a very rude sneech, isn't it?" says the Duch- 
 
136 THE DUCHESa 
 
 em, at last tnrning her eyes on his. ** And might almost 
 jead me to believe—** 
 
 **No** — interrupting her with a sternness that yet ia 
 agitated — '* you coujd never believe that!" tie draws her 
 hand with a touch of determination within his arm, and 
 moves toward a door on his left. This leads to a con- 
 servatory. Entering it, they come to an open glass door 
 beyond, that opens ou to a veranda. Three or four steps 
 lead from this to the terrace beneath, which in turn gives 
 access to the gardens glowing in the moonlight. 
 
 '* "What a lovely night!" says the Duchess, looking 
 round her, evidently with a view to making conversation. 
 There is a slight touch of nervousness in her manner, a 
 soupgon of uneasiness. 
 
 *' Yes. I am glad it has turned out fine. Such a mere 
 chance as it was. You are enjoying yourself?" with a 
 steady glance at her. 
 
 " So much!" with enthusiasm. ** I hardly thought it 
 possible that one could compress such an amount of 
 thorough enjoyment into one short evening. Oh, yes. I 
 am feeling absurdly happy. " 
 
 " You should,** bitterly. '* The right is all your own. 
 You have the world at your feet.*' 
 
 " The world! A large statement.** 
 
 " Not so large as it sounds. Each of us has a world of 
 his own in which to know grief or joy; your world is a 
 most submissive one; it owns itself captive to your will.'* 
 
 *' Does it?'* with a little unmirthful laugh. " And who 
 are my captives?" 
 
 ** The question is not like you,** says he, bitterly. *' But 
 
THE DUCHESS. 137 
 
 you are so changed, so different from the cousin I once 
 knew, that — Is it to gratify your vanity you ask it? 
 Shall I speak of Greene — of Kilgarriff — of — " 
 
 '* Pray don't, if you want to make yourself interesting; 
 I know quite as much of them as I wish to know/' 
 
 '' Is that true, Norah? Is that slighting tone honest? 
 Am I really to believe that — they all — that Kilgarriff is of 
 no account in your eyes?" 
 
 " Why should you seek to believe anything of that 
 sort?" demands she, coldly, lifting large resentful eyes to 
 his. " Are you my guardian, my — my brother, that you 
 thus speak?" 
 
 "You do not deny, then," exclaims he, recklessly, 
 " that there is now, at all events, something between you 
 and Kilgarriff. " There is such passionate anguish in his 
 tone that had her own heart been free from care she must 
 have condoned his words. 
 
 " This is an examination to which I refuse to be subject- 
 ed," says she, lightly enough, but with an angry glance. 
 Her heart is beating wildly, painfully; a fear of his next 
 words is oppressing her, with that a vehement indignation 
 that he— engaged to and doubtless in love with another 
 woman, as he is — should, dare to thus take her to task. 
 
 " It is true — I have no right to speak/' says Delaney, 
 controlling himself by a visible effort. " But you are very 
 young, and much as you may dislike the idea I am in a 
 sense your guardian whilst you remain here." 
 
 " You are not my guardian, here or elsewhere. You," 
 with a cold, steady glance, " are nothing to me. Piease 
 understand that at once. I am under my aunt's care, not 
 
138 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 yours. If I thought otherwise I should not remain an 
 hour longer under this roof. I can not permit you to in- 
 terfere with me in any way.'' 
 
 *' Not even for — " 
 
 '* Not in any way," haughtily. " Now/' with a slight 
 curl of her lip, " if you have quite finished your im- 
 promptu lecture, I should be glad to return to the house." 
 
 " I have not finished," breaks he out fiercely, goaded to 
 quicker wrath by that last unfriendly glance. ' ' I have 
 still to ask you by what right you treat me as you do. 
 What have I done that I should be placed beneath a ban — 
 that 1 should receive from you none but uncourteous words 
 and looks? Not so many weeks ago — " 
 
 " Hush," says she in a low but peremptory tone. 
 
 " No. You shall hear me. Why should I be silent?" 
 
 " I warn you," says she, in the same intense way, speak- 
 ing almost under her breath. 
 
 " And I refuse to listen. I tell you I can not live this 
 thing out; I must end it one way or the other. You know 
 — ^you must — that if you will say but one word — one — I — '' 
 
 " Are you mad, that you speak to me like tliis?" ex- 
 claims she, recoiling from him. There is horror and con- 
 demnation and — something else — in her glance. Is it de- 
 spair? She leans heavily against the trunk of a tree, and 
 puts back both her arms as if to hold and cling to it. " I 
 don't pretend to misunderstand you," she goes on pres- 
 ently, " but what I really fail to see is why I should say 
 that word. Do you know?" with a faint and most unkind 
 gmile. " Can you tell me?" 
 
 "Norah!" 
 
THE DUCHESS. 139 
 
 " Na}^, hear me out. Now, once for all. It seems to 
 me that you are laboring under a delusion that I would 
 gladly dispel. Is it indeed the matter of life and death 
 with me, the speaking of ' this word,' that you," with a 
 chilling emphasis, " seem to think? Am I so madly de- 
 sirous to see you free that I — Oh!" breaking off sud- 
 denly, as if suffocating, and making a passionate movement 
 with her lovely naked arm, as if flinging from her some 
 hateful thing. " It is insufferable!" 
 
 " Don't go too far!'* says Denis, in a curiously com- 
 pressed tone. 
 
 " I could not!" vehemently. " To say enough, that is 
 the difficulty. But who could find words sufficient for 
 such a cause. Has my manner, the manner of which you 
 so sadly complain, not taught you that — that — " 
 
 " What?" catching her wrist. 
 
 " That I hate and detest you!" cries she with a sudden 
 burst of indignation, wrenching herself free. Her eyes are 
 aflame, her lips quivering. Never, even in her loveliest 
 moments, has she looked so beautiful. 
 
 "So!" says he, bitterly. Her beauty is lost to him 
 just then, though in a sense he sees it, and afterward re- 
 members and recalls every charm; but now such wild rage 
 governs his heart that only the keen hatred that is always 
 so near allied to a keen love surges within his breast. 
 
 " Has it never occurred to you," says he, his own eyes 
 flashing, " that you might teach me to return that feel- 
 ing?" 
 
 ' ' Eeturn it as heartily as you will. The more heartily 
 the better I shall be pleased." 
 
140 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 " It has come to this, then. It is to be open war be» 
 tween us. " 
 
 " I don't know about the coming, the newness of it. I 
 have thought of you for a long time as I think now.'' 
 
 " In the old days at Bally hincli?" His tone has again 
 softened; there is even eager ajipeal now in the eyes he 
 turns on her. Both the appeal and the altered tone only 
 serve to madden her. Alas, alas, for those old dead 
 days! 
 
 " At Ballyhinch," sa^'s she, growing deadly white, but 
 still regarding him with an unwavering gaze, ''you be- 
 lieved I was in love with you! Is not that so? You 
 thought" — with a little, low laugh — "that you were a 
 hero, a being from another — a fashionable, world — in the 
 eyes of the little, simple country girl, with whom it pleased 
 you to while away the tedious hours. Come " — standing 
 back from him with her arms still clasped behind her and 
 a mocking smile upon her lips that hides from him the 
 misery of her eyes — " confess you did not know me then — 
 that I was a silly country baby, if you will — but that, at 
 all events, I was not foolish enough to bow down and wor- 
 ship you. " 
 
 Oh, the self -contempt that awakes witiiiu her as she 
 says this! The burning pain at her*iieart! Had she not 
 bowed down and worshiped — and given, unasked, all the 
 first sweet love of her life into his keeping? Her breath is . 
 coming quickly through her red, ripe lips; her eyes are 
 blazing with an unnatural brilliance; the moonbeams fall- 
 ing on her light up each separate charm, clinging softly to 
 her as though loath to let her lips from their embrace — as 
 
THE DUCHESS. 141 
 
 though well aware that never yet did goodlier sight stand 
 here revealed in this old, time-honored garden. 
 
 The insolence, the beauty of her, rouses in Delaney an 
 anger uncontrollable, but with a passion more uncontrolla- 
 ble still. As she stands thus before him, defiant, lovely, 
 he makes a sudden step forward and catches her in his 
 arms. There is a second^s almost deadly pause — heart 
 beating against heart — a last touch of remorse — and then 
 he kisses her as he has never yet kissed any woman, as he 
 will never kiss another. 
 
 He loosens his arms — too late! A sense of his own act, 
 a knowledge that he has sinned beyond redemption, so 
 overpowers him that he can find no words in which to ex- 
 cuse himself. As he stands silent, stricken with regret, a 
 low, sobbing breath falls upon his ear. 
 
 " Oh! that I could kill you!" exclaims the Duchess, in 
 a tone so intense as to be almost inaudible. 
 
 They are thus standing, facing each other — she trem- 
 bling, unnerved; he silent, remorseful — when a light foot- 
 step sounds upon her right. Involuntarily — both raise 
 their heads and move a little further apart as Miss Cazalet 
 comes, with her usual slow, undulating step, from the 
 shadows that lie thickly on the eastern walk. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " Hopes and fears — belief and disbelieving." 
 
 "Is it a rehearsal?'^ asks she, sweetly, smiling upon 
 Denis. "If so, it hardly needs a repetition, I think. It 
 
142 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 will bring down any house. You are both, so far as I am 
 a judge, perfect in your parts." 
 
 The Duchess, pale as death, stands motionless. How 
 much does she know? ATliat has she seen? 
 
 " Don't be frightened. I shall not betray you,'' says 
 Miss Cazalet, staring straight at her with an abominable 
 little laugh. "It is a secret as yet, I suppose, this very 
 lively entertainment of yours, and I shall take care not to 
 mention it unless — You have kept it quite to yourselves 
 so far, have you not? How clever of you." 
 
 *' Katherine!" begins Delaney. 
 
 " No, not a word. What should there be to explain to 
 me? Secrecy is the principal thing in a matter of this 
 kind, is not it? It is always more amusing so, eh? At 
 least, so I have been told. It adds a piquancy to the 
 affair." It is impossible to describe the smiling insolence 
 of her whole manner. 
 
 "You had better hear me," says Delaney, coming a 
 step or two forward, a look of eager excitement on his face 
 — nay, more — an intense hope! " If you think — " 
 
 " I don't, I am sure," interrupts she with a clever 
 haste. " But if you wish to insinuate that the extremely 
 animated scene I just now witnessed was not acting, I fear 
 it must mean a very serious quarrel between you and your 
 cousin." She looks quite concerned. "May I act as 
 mediator?" She fixes her gaze on Norah, who breathes a 
 little more freely. Is that all, then? Had she only heard 
 those last angry words of hers, only seen the indignation of 
 her look and gesture? Is she entirely ignorant of what 
 gave rise to them? 
 
THE DL'C'HKSS. 143 
 
 " I think not. As I begin so must I tinish my feuds for 
 myself/' she says, sententiously. Then, "Have you no 
 one with you?'' peering into the darkness behind, where 
 Miss Cazalet is standing just on the moonbeam's edge. 
 
 " No," a little taken off her guard by this prompt ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "Ah! Then you can take Denis off my hands," says 
 the Duchess, with a swift movement that at once separates 
 her from the other two. She steps lightly past them, and 
 a second later is swallowed up by the shadows. AVith her 
 goes Miss Oazalet's assumed indifference and smiling un- 
 concern. 
 
 " You and your cousin are better friends than I have 
 been led to believe," she says, turning a searching, a 
 rather contemptuous glance on Denis. 
 
 " My cousin hates me," replies he, gloomily. 
 
 " You say that! Well, I should not have thought it. " 
 
 " You of all others should!" retorts he, hotly. " You 
 saw more than you pretend, Katherine; you saw all. 
 And—" 
 
 " All! Oh, no!" says she, with an inexplicable smile. 
 
 " You saw enough at least to prove to you that Norah 
 was in nowise to blame to-night, that I — I only" — he 
 stops as though it were impossible for him to proceed, and 
 a heavy sigh breaks from him. " I behaved abominably 
 to her," he bursts out at last. 
 
 " I am not thinking of her — of the injury done to her 
 fine feelings," coldly. " I am thinking of myself. " 
 
 " I know J I understand that you have much to com- 
 
144 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 2>]ain of. I can quite see that after this you will wish to 
 l)ut an end to — " 
 
 " I shall put an end to nothing," steadily. " Do you 
 think," with a glance supposed to be fond, and that makes 
 his heart die within him, *' that I could not forgive you so 
 much, and that I have not formed my own opinion of this 
 unpleasant matter? I believe the truth to be that you 
 were led into it by a consummate coquette, a heartless, 
 unprincipled flirt!** The words seem to come from be- 
 tween her clinched teeth. Her eyes grow vindictive. 
 
 " One word, Katheriue!" says Delaney, sternly. " You 
 shall say no slanderous thing of my cousin. Remember 
 that. It is impossible, having seen Norah, that you should 
 think so of her." 
 
 " T have my own views, as T told you before,** with a 
 curl of her thin lips, " and I leave it to time to prove me 
 right. Meanwhile,'* coldly, *' it would be in better taste, 
 I think, if you were to refrain from defending her in my 
 presence. However, I have no intention of quarreling 
 with you on such worthless grounds. Come. Let us re- 
 turn to the house. ** 
 
 *' "Well, I don't know that I ever enjoyed myself more,** 
 says Lady Glandore, in her languid way, alluding to the 
 joy of the past night. It is now once more a new day, and 
 some of them are wandering aimlessly down tlie pathways 
 that lead to the shrubbery, discussing the good and evil of 
 ine dead dance. 
 
 *' I am sure I didn't/* says Mr. Greene, who in as usu^ 
 
THE DUCHESS. 145 
 
 Norah's shadow. " But Miss Delaney is ominously silent. 
 What cloud lies on your brain. Miss Delaney?" 
 
 " Norah? Nonsense!'* says Lady Glandore, coming 
 good-naturedly to the girFs rescue. *' Don't believe her 
 if she pretends to melancholy. To my certain knowledge 
 she danced holes in her stockings. What could any well 
 regulated girl desire more.'* 
 
 ** Unless it might be stockings impervious to holes, I 
 don't know/' responds Mr. Greene, meekl}'. 
 
 "Oh! one might desire more than that," says Miss 
 Cazalet, with a little subdued smile. 
 
 " As for Nancy Blake — " Lady Glandore is beginning, 
 when suddenly the two in advance cry ' Hush ' simul- 
 taneously and come to a dead stop; their eyes are riveted 
 upon a little blank space in the laurel hedge before them, 
 through which a back can be distinctly seen. Surely it is 
 the back of Nancy Blake herself, and surely, too, that 
 other back so close to her belongs to Lord Kilgarriff. All 
 this might be as nothing; but what is that obscures the 
 dainty roundness of Miss Blake's waist? 
 
 AYith one consent the advancing army right about face 
 and turn and flee — Lady Glandore, who is specially de- 
 lighted by this little glimpse into her friend's preoccupa- 
 tions, laughing immoderately all the way. The Duchess, 
 perhaps, is in a degree surprised. It is always a surprise 
 to a woman to find that a man can see any charms in 
 another, having once seen charms in her. 
 
 ''Isn't Nancy delicious?" says Lady Glandore. ** So 
 exquisitely simple, I call it." 
 
 ^' So do I," says Mr. Greene, innocently misunderstand- 
 
14G THE JJLtilKbo. 
 
 ing. ** I've always Baid lie was the dearest and simplest 
 fellow I know/* 
 
 "I didn't mean that/' says Lady Glandore, a little 
 warmly, who can make fun of a friend herself, but won't 
 hear others do it; " what I said was — " 
 
 " That Nancy was ' delicious,' " puts in Sir Philip. 
 " And who shall gainsay you? She is one of the few 
 charming people still left upon the earth. " 
 
 '* Is she so charming?" questions Miss Cazalet, with a 
 delicate lifting of her brows. " I suppose she must be, 
 but I confess it is always a matter of wonder to me what it 
 is you all see about her." 
 
 "It can't be a wonder this time, at all events," says 
 Mr. Greene, mildly. " You saw it yourself." 
 
 "What?" sharply. 
 
 " Why, Kilgarriff's arm. That was about her, wasn't 
 it?" 
 
 Whilst Miss Cazalet is betraying her very natural con- 
 tempt for this mean joke, Delaney, going up to Norah, 
 touches her lightly on the arm. 
 
 " Come this way; I want to speak to you. I must," he 
 says, pointing to a side walk that leads to the right. 
 Something in his whole air induces her to accede to his re- 
 quest, and turning aside she goes with him down the 
 shaded unfrequented pathway he had indicated to her. A 
 sudden turn in it effectually conceals them from the others 
 on the upper walk, who by this time have swept on beyond 
 hearing. 
 
 " Well?" asks she, coldly, stopping short and looking 
 at him. What she sees sends a sharp pang to her heart. 
 
THE DUCHESS. 147 
 
 He i; pale, haggard and wretched looking. Dark shadows 
 lying under his eyes tell of a night passed without sleep, 
 and his face is drawn and dejected. 
 
 *' Norah, forgive me," he says, eagerly, trying to take 
 her hand. " Is my sin so unpardonable a one that I dare 
 not ask for mercy? Think— have pity on me. To you 
 who do not care all this is as nothing, but to me — to me 
 who love you so madly, so miserably, your anger is as 
 death. Say you forgive me!'' 
 
 "' No, it is impossible,*' says the Duchess, slowly. The 
 color has faded from her cheek and she has turned her 
 eyes upon the ground. She can not bear to look at him. 
 And yet it is true; forgiveness she can not grant him. 
 
 " Do not say that," entreats he, gently, but with a fierce 
 undercurrent of agitation. " You should weigh well your 
 words before saying such a cruel thing as that. See, I am 
 going away this afternoon — in an hour or so — and I sha'n't 
 be back until to-morrow; do not send me from you with 
 this horrible weight upon my heart. Do not, I beseech 
 you. I have been so many hours — so many sleepless hours 
 —brooding on this thing that," with a heavy sigh, ''I 
 would entreat you to give me a kindly word, to lighten my 
 remorse somewhat." 
 
 '* A word— what can I say?" 
 
 " That you forgive me. It is a great deal to ask, I 
 know, but — " 
 
 " I will not; I can not,'' exclaims she, hurriedly, her 
 eyes always on the ground. 
 
 " Well, so be it," says he, wearily. He moves away 
 from her, and then as suddenly comes back again, and, 
 
148 THE DLCIIESS. 
 
 raising her face with one hand, compels her to return his 
 regard. 
 
 " What a face!" he says. " All love and tenderness 
 and sweetness, yet how hartl, how unforgiving you can bel 
 Are you flesh and blood, that you thus coldly renounce 
 nie? A moment since I said all this was nothing to you, 
 because you did not care; but, " passionately, "I spoke 
 against my better judgment then — I believe against every- 
 thing — that you do care. You were my friend once; you 
 can not be so altogether changed/' 
 
 "And yet I am. I,'* with a little quick frown, as 
 though something has hurt her, " I hardly know myself 
 since I came here. Call me capricious, what you will, but 
 only believe,'' eagerly, " that the girl you knew at Bally- 
 hinch is not the girl you know now. All my tastes are 
 altered. What I liked then I think worthless now; what 
 then contented me seems now of the poorest value. Per- 
 haps this may exiDlain the change in me of which you com- 
 plain; it must, it should/' with a vehement desire to con- 
 vince, " because there is no other reason, not one, for the 
 — the dislike that now I feel for you." 
 
 She has said this rapidly, with a nervous haste; and as 
 she finishes looks almost on the point of fainting. Delaney, 
 who has been watching her, whilst listening with a curious 
 light in his eyes, now draws back a step or two as if 
 to go. 
 
 " I must accept your explanation, of course. There is 
 nothing else left to me. Well, good-bye," says he, raising 
 his hat. 
 
 " You are not going to this theatrical entertainment to- 
 
THE DUCHESS. 149 
 
 night, then, at the Barracks?" says she, with an evident 
 effort at ordinary conversation. 
 
 '* No. I am going to nothing pleasant — not even to the 
 devil," says he with a short laugh. " Some fellows in my 
 case might find it poor consolation in taking that road, 
 but to me even such paltry comfort is denied. Will you 
 come back to the house or will you joia the others?" 
 
 " Neither. I should like to remain here alone,^^ replies 
 she, turning rather impatiently away from him. 
 
 To be alone, however, is denied her. The last sound of 
 Delaney's departing footsteps is still upon the air, when 
 Norah, glancing apprehensively to her right, sees Miss 
 Cazalet advancing toward her from the upper walk. 
 
 "How fortunate!" says Katherine, seeing from a dis- 
 tance a desire on Norah's part to escape, and thus cutting 
 it short. " I had no idea you were here, and I wanted so 
 much to see you. There is something," with a peculiarly 
 unpleasant smile, " I wish to say to you." 
 
 " Yes?" says the Duchess, faintly, instinct warning her 
 that her hour is come. 
 
 " When next," begins Miss Gazalet, in her clear, cutting 
 tones, standing opposite to the girl and fixing her with her 
 light, pitiless eyes, " when next you want to kiss a young 
 man do not choose the shrubberies as the scene of action, 
 and— do not choose Denis!'* 
 
 " You can not— you can not know what you are say- 
 ing," gasps the Duchess, turning ghastly pale. The poor 
 child is trembling in every limb— too horrified, too fright- 
 ened, to make any further protest. 
 
150 THF Drf'HESS. 
 
 ** I do, perfectly. I always know what I am saying," 
 Ba3's Miss Cazalet, calmly. "I saw you last night with 
 Denis; I saw him — " she panses and casts a glance of 
 vivid hatred upon the shrinking girl before her. " Would 
 you have me repeat it?" she says, contemptuously. 
 
 " Do not speak to me like that," says the Duchess, in a 
 tone so low as to be almost inaudible. " If — if indeed you 
 were there last night you must have seen that I did not — 
 that," stammering painfully, " I was not in fault — that I 
 did not do this thing of which you so cruelly accuse me. 
 "I," with a sudden unlifting of her tone, " I could not. 
 He — the affianced husband of another woman — oh, no, 
 no," covering her eyes with her hands, " it is not like me. 
 It would not be me if I could do such a thing. You must 
 know that." 
 
 Her breath is coming heavily from between her parted 
 lips. All her natural honest courage has forsaken her. 
 She has fixed her eyes, which have grown large and wild, 
 upon Katherine, and even as the latter watches her two 
 heart-broken tears roll down her cheeks. 
 
 " You must know it," she says again, absolute entreaty 
 in her tone. 
 
 " I know only what I see and hear," returns Miss Caza- 
 let, unmoved. " And — I saw you in his embrace. Your 
 pretended anger afterward did not deceive me in the least. 
 It was a mere part of a well arranged whole. However," 
 carelessly, " there is really no reason why we should dwell 
 on such a rather vulgar episode. I only spoke of it at all 
 to warn you to — " repeating her words with cold meaning 
 emphasis — " warn you to avoid Denis in the future," 
 
THE DUCHESS. 151 
 
 " To warn me!" says the Duchess, recovering her cour- 
 age at this insult, and flushing haughtily. 
 
 "Quite so/' calmly. "If you interfere with me and 
 Denis again, I tell you openly that I shall inform every 
 one here of what I saw last night." 
 
 " No one here would believe your version of it — no 
 one!'' passionately. 
 
 " Still," with an unpleasant smile, " such stories dam- 
 age! And besides, I hardly think you would care for me 
 to make the experiment." 
 
 The Duchess makes a slight gesture with her little trem- 
 bling hand. She can not speak. A sensation of positive 
 sickness is overpowering her. Oh ! to get away from this 
 horrible woman; anywhere, only away. 
 
 "You undei'stand," says Miss Cazalet, remorselessly, 
 enjoying with an only half-concealed amusement the girl's 
 agony of shame. 
 
 " There is no reason why you should speak to me like 
 this," says the Duchess, making a supreme effort to be 
 calm. " Denis is nothing to me — nothing — and I am less 
 to him. You mistake altogether. " 
 
 " And last night — did I mistake then, too?*' 
 
 " Denis was in fault then, I admit,'* pressing one hand 
 tightly over the other as a help to sustain the difficult 
 calm. " I told him so — just now." 
 
 " I know," says Miss Cazalet, with a peculiar glance. 
 
 " But you should remember," with a foolish, generous 
 desire to exonerate him in part, " that it was only a mo- 
 ment's folly — a passing temptation. " 
 
 " Were you the temptation?" with a short laugh. Then 
 
152 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 all at once n touch of passion breaks up her icy composure. 
 " See! Once for all," she says, coming a step nearer, 
 *' don't imagine that you can ever impose upon me. Act 
 your part to the others, blind them if you will, but don't 
 hope to take me in. From the very first moment my 
 eyes lit on you I have seen through you. Your pretended 
 avoidance of .Denis, your carefully assumed coldness to- 
 ward him, your clever little role of petulant dislike; all 
 has been clear to me, and beneath it— what? Do you 
 think," insolently, " I could not read your eyes? And 
 what eyes you have!'' with a gust of bitter hatred; " they 
 tell for you what you dare not put into words; they woo 
 silently the man you know to be in honor bound to an- 
 other; they say such shameless things as you are afraid to 
 utter. Do you think," vehemently, " that, watching you 
 daily, hourly, as I have ddne, I have not read your secret 
 ill them? Yes, cower away from me as you will, you shall 
 hear what I have learned — that you — love him." Norah 
 puts out her hand as if to ward off a blow. "Hah! Does 
 that make you shrink? does that hurt you? I," vindict- 
 ively, " am glad of it. Now go! And — remember!" 
 
 The insolence of thie dismissal rouses in the Duchess a 
 feeling of intolerable indignation. 
 
 '' I shall remember you — forever," she says, breathless- 
 ly — childishly, perhaps, yet with a withering contempt 
 that cuts deep into the haughty woman before her, *' as 
 the most ill-bred person I have ever met." 
 
 ***** v * 
 
 Heart-sick and wearied by this addition to the secret 
 grie' she always carries, and crushed by a sense of bitter 
 
THE DUCHESS. 153 
 
 humiliation, it is because of no feigned headache that the 
 Duchess declares her inability to accompany the others to 
 the military theatricals at Clonbree, that take place this 
 evening. 
 
 " What has Katherine been doing to you?'' asks shrewd 
 Miss Blake, looking down upon a very pale little Norah, 
 who is sitting languidly in a huge arm-chair in the library, 
 where they have all assembled, whilst waiting for the car- 
 riages. She is dressed in a pretty white gown made high 
 to the neck, but with no sleeves, and her face is as white 
 as her frock. 
 
 "Katherine? Why should you think that?" growing 
 crimson. " I am not well; my head aches, but—'' 
 
 " Never mind. I'll let you off the rest. Fibbing isn't 
 much in your line," says Miss Blake, with a sapient nod. 
 " I can wait and get it all out of you to-morrow." 
 
 She moves away with a little provoking glance over her 
 shoulder at Norah, as she sees Mme. Delaney approach- 
 ing with a rather anxious expression on her face. 
 
 " I hope you won't feel lonely, darling," she says, ten- 
 derly, bending over Norah. 
 
 " Oh, no. I am too tired," with a smile, " to feel any- 
 thing." 
 
 " The carriage is waiting, aunt," says Miss Cazalet, in 
 measured tones, sweeping up to them in an exquisite gown 
 of black and gold. 
 
 "Very well, my dear," placidly. "Now, Norah," 
 turning again with a fond glance to her other niece, " you 
 will promise me, won't you, dearest, to go to bed at once. " 
 
154 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 "An easy promise to give. I wish I was in it this mo« 
 ment. " 
 
 Madame laughs. 
 
 " To confess a terrible truth to you/' she says, " I wish 
 with all my heart that I too was in mine.'' 
 
 She kisses the girl affectionately, and soon afterward 
 they have all gone out of the room; there is the last sound 
 of their footsteps in the hall; a faint far-off laugh— that 
 was Nancy — and now even the roll of the carriages up the 
 avenue has ceased upon the air. 
 
 : What a curious sense of loneliness has fallen upon the 
 house, almost it seems as though the very servants had left 
 it. There is certainly nothing to sit up for, and yet in 
 spite of that promise given so readily to Madame, Norah can 
 not bring herself to go to bed. The spirit of restlessness 
 has taken possession of her, and rising from her chair she 
 wanders in an aimless fashion about the library, touching 
 a book here, trifling with a set of rare prints there, now 
 stirring the already glowing fire, now staring idly at the 
 large well-filled book-cases, but always and in every case 
 without interest. 
 
 One of the servants brings her presently a cup of tea, 
 which she accepts gladly, yet after all forgets to drink, and 
 after that no one comes to disturb her solitude, which is 
 perhaps the worst thing that could have happened to her. 
 Left thus, entirely alone with her thoughts, they turn to, 
 and dwell with a most unhappy perastency upon, the events 
 of to-day and the past night, painting them in their 
 blackest colors, until finally, worn out with grief and misery, 
 she sinks upon a low lounge and bursts into bitter weeping. 
 
THE DUCHESS. 1^^ 
 
 And then, wearied by her emotion, her head droops 
 heavily upon the soft cushion of the lounge, and rests there 
 gratefully, with a vague but happy sense of relief; and 
 after awhile that sense of rehef changes to kindly sleep, 
 which, growing on her, she draws up, half unconsciously, 
 her feet to this welcome restful couch, and with a few 
 faint, lingering sobs falls into a profound slumber. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " Now all is hush'd as Nature were retired, 
 And the perpetual motion standing still." 
 
 The night is dark and moist and windy. Low, thun- 
 derous sounds come up from the shores below, and are 
 swept inland by the heavy force of the wind. 
 
 Now and again the moon bursts forth from behind the 
 leaden clouds that almost overweight the sky, giving a 
 brilliant if evanescent glory to the shivering earth beneath. 
 For the most part, however, it lies hidden behind this 
 pall of dense watery cloud that hes across the heavens, and 
 only a general darkness draws everything into one nni- 
 
 versal net. , • i • 
 
 Sometimes a star or two peeps forth through a chmk m 
 the black wall, breaking the inky dullness; but a more 
 sure and certain irradiation comes from the light-house, 
 the lamp of which shmes out every other moment with a 
 fervid power-to disappear, certainly, but then as cer- 
 tainly to appear again. 
 
 To the solitary horseman riding along the road that 
 
156 THE nrciiEss. 
 
 stretches like a gray ribbon on the right the coming of this 
 light-house star brings a sense of comfort — foretelhng as it 
 does the nearness of his home. The road is a narrow one, 
 hedged in on either side by thick warm masses of yellow 
 furze, still aglow with its golden bloom, though the season 
 is so far advanced. Delaney, breathing the fragrant per- 
 fume of its flower, thinks with a feeling of rather fatigued 
 satisfaction that he is now close upon his journey's end. 
 
 It is long past midnight, and cold, with a deadly chill, 
 has grown the air. Now once again the moon bursts its 
 bonds and lights up the surging, glittering waves away 
 over there, that dance and heave and roar in the moon- 
 light, whilst on this side it shows up the gray misty vapors 
 that rise from the bog. 
 
 Gray and cold and colorless as bis own life is bound to 
 be, so Delaney tells himself, gazing with heavy eyes upon 
 the impure vapor; gray as the melancholy thoughts that 
 have been his during his twenty-mile ride; thoughts not 
 altogether devoid of self-contempt, for had he not declared 
 his intention of not returning to Ventry until the morrow 
 — that is already to-day. 
 
 He had fully intended not to return when setting forth 
 upon his journey, but time had destroyed that resolution. 
 To stay away from her he found would be impossible to 
 him. He could not. He must return — to see her, to 
 plead with her afresh for the pardon she had so cruelly 
 denied. He thought, he honestly believed, that if she had 
 forgiven him he could have stayed away, but she had re- 
 fused him absolution, and always that pale, small, sorrow- 
 ful^ unforgiving face was before him. 
 
THE DUCHESS. 157 
 
 He could not rest. It was madness, no doubt, but she 
 drew him to her with a force he could not resist. 
 
 There was no train to be had at that late hour when he 
 had felt that overpowering desire to see her again grow 
 upon him, with a strength not to be conquered; so he had 
 borrowed a horse from his host, urging instant business as 
 an excuse, and had set out upon his long ride to Ventry 
 with a feverish impatience that rendered liim impervious 
 to cold or rain or fatigue. 
 
 Now, at last, as the miles grow fewer, he confesses to 
 nimself that he is in a degree tired; two nights without 
 sleep will tell on most men, be they never so happy, but 
 with a gnawing pain forever at the heart the loss of those 
 precious hours of forgetf ulness is sometimes worse than 
 death itself. 
 
 Everything seems to recur to him with a startling vivid- 
 ness as he rides on his silent way, everything coimected 
 with his ill-advised engagement to Katherine Cazalet. His 
 first meeting with her years ago, when she had come, a 
 tall, slender, wonderfully self-possessed orphan, to share 
 her aunt's home till she should be of age. He remembers 
 now, with a rather idle wonder, how lovely he then had 
 thought her; he, a very young man at that time, a mere 
 stripling, only one or two years her senior. Then there 
 was the cousinly relation between them, that ever seemed 
 to draw them closer together, and the natural pleasure he 
 had felt when it dawned upon him that she was warm and 
 tender in her manner to him alone whilst cold to all the 
 rest of the world. And after that there was the insensible 
 drifting into that closer tie — the knowledge, vaguely but 
 
158 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 certainly conveyed to him (how, or by whom he hardly 
 knew then), that a marriage between the cousins was a 
 matter widely discussed and looked forward to by the 
 world at large. To draw back now would be to bring 
 down on Katherine the sneers of their many friends, to 
 subject her to much unpleasantness, nay, to leave himself 
 open to a charge that touched his honor. 
 
 There was but one thiug to be done, and he had done it 
 with a sufficiently good grace. It seemed to be the most 
 natural thing in the world, Katherine so evidently had ex- 
 pected it — and so had his mother. There was no chance 
 for withdrawal, and besides it had really seemed a very 
 usual finish to a long friendship; so the engagement was 
 speedily made public, with a rapidity indeed that had 
 astonished him at the time, and things had arranged 
 themselves, and everything had settled down into the usual 
 and good commonplaceness of an orthodox betrothal. 
 And then — came Norah! 
 
 How loud the wind roars; what a sullen cry uprises from 
 the sea! Delaney, who is more worn out in body, and 
 specially in soul, than he at all believes, reels a little in his 
 saddle, and then pulls himself together again, with a 
 fierce, vain wish that it might all end now, here, this mo- 
 ment! Life! what a worry, a turmoil it is! So much 
 labor of spirit, so little rest; little! none, it seems to 
 him. 
 
 What a flash was that, so blue, so vivid; yet no thunder! 
 There is strong promise of rain for the morrow, to come 
 out of those lowering clouds. Delaney hardly heeds the 
 tempestuous signs of coming storm, riding ever onward in 
 
THE DUCHESS. 159 
 
 a half-dazed fashion, and conscious only of a passionate 
 longing to see Norah once again. 
 
 The moon again! How clear, how wildly brilliant it 
 makes all things seem! To his disordered fancy it lights 
 the dark and gloomy earth with a radiance almost super- 
 natural; and somehow too at this time he can not help 
 thinking that something is running by his side! Brrt 
 what? 
 
 He looks down involuntarily, and — it is absurd of course 
 — he almost laughs aloud at this fantastic trick his eyes 
 are playing him — but is it a little child that is clinging to 
 his stirrup leather? A little dead child! with white up- 
 lifted face, and wide unseeing eyesJ 
 
 The moon goes out again, leaving the world once more 
 to its darkness, but still Delaney has seen that little form, 
 and feels certain it is there, running with him, always 
 with the tiny stiff fingers entangled in the stirrup leather, 
 and always with the little dead face uplifted. 
 
 And now at last he reaches the gates of Ventry, and 
 passes through them down the long avenue, the dead child 
 entering, too, and clinging to him. 
 
 All at once a horrible certainty smites upon him, a cer- 
 tainty that it, the sad corpse face, is like Norah. Norah! 
 What madness! He can reason still, yet a strong shudder 
 shakes him as the thought declares itself. It follows him 
 all the way round to the stables, where he dismounts, and, 
 with that wild fancy still strong upon him, actually in the 
 darkness brushes down that side of the saddle where the 
 small stiff hand had seemed to be — to find, of course, 
 nothing. 
 
160 THE DLCUESS. 
 
 He breathes rather more freely after that, and presses 
 kis hand to his foi-ehead, which is throbbing to an agoniz- 
 ing degree. The whole thing was ridiculous, he tells him- 
 self as he tiiugs the rclnh io a sleepy groom^ and yet it was 
 a powerful bit of imagination, like a presentiment — a pre- 
 sentiment of death. But death to whom? A hideous fear 
 thrills him. Yes, the face — he is sure now — resembled 
 Nor all's. 
 
 Entering the house by a small side door, heavily clamped 
 with iron, of which he has the key, he goes softly up the 
 staircase that leads to the hall above. If anything should 
 have happened to Norah ! Perhaps even now, as he stands 
 here useless, some accident may be taking place. Oh, to 
 be certain that she is safe at Clonbree with the others I He 
 has opened the door of the library and is standing just in- 
 side it, his mind full of one thought only, one longing, to 
 see Norah again, alive, safe. 
 
 His eyes wander carelessly round the room, and then all 
 at once he starts convulsively. What is that lying over 
 there? 
 
 Almost it seems to him it must be Norah's lifeless body 
 — the realization of his fears and his presentiments — so 
 still, so death-like is her repose. But a second later what 
 a wild rush of relief is that that overwhelms him! She is 
 only sleeping, and with that blessed certainty all his 
 fatigue vanishes, with that curious dullness of the brain 
 that ha.l been troubling him, and his senses grow bright 
 again and a great wave of joy breaks over him. 
 
 Bending over her, he watches the soft breath coming 
 :';oni between her parted lips. Unevenly it comes, with 
 
THE DUCRE88. 191 
 
 8Terj now and then a little eobbing sound that tells of 
 tears but lately shed, the traces of which are even now 
 lying sadly upon the long silken lashes that sweep her 
 cheek. 
 
 How fragile, how white she looks! Almost as one might 
 sickening for death. Her right hand drooping a little 
 with the soft pink palm uppermost, and half unclosed in 
 the languor of slumber, touches him with a sense of help- 
 lessness. Stooping, he presses his lips to it, very softly, 
 lest he shall awaken her. A great longing to kiss her— 
 her cheek, her lips — possesses him; but she looks so tran- 
 quil, BO child-like, so unconscious, that such a deed would 
 be impossible. So calm she lies, she might almost be 
 dead, and therefore sacred. 
 
 Even as he gazes on her, roused perhaps by that gentle 
 caress upon her hand, she wakes; the white lids unclose, 
 and the large dark eyes look up at him, filled with a soft 
 wonderment. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 " He looked at her as a lover can; 
 She looked at him as one who awakes. 
 The past was sleep, and her life began." 
 
 KoT coldy, not scornfully, now do Norah's eyes meet 
 Delaney's, but with a tender welcome in them. Softly sho 
 turns to him, with a little loving gesture, and with her lipc 
 parted by a happy smile. She has forgotten everything in 
 this supreme moment, save those old sweet days when first 
 they met, and, still half wrapped in the tender dream that 
 
ISfl THB DUCHESS. 
 
 had carried her back to them, she whispers fondly, sleepily, 
 as a child, " Denia." 
 
 It is all so unexpected, so terrible, because of the hope- 
 lessness that must follow it, that Denis stands beside her 
 AB one stricken dumb. All his being had rushed to her aa 
 the sound of that loved voice calling on him fell upon his 
 ear; and it is by a superhuman effort alone that he now 
 stands beside her, irresponsive, motionless; oh I the sweet- 
 ness of those parted lips! The love-light in the deep gray 
 eyes I Once again it is the old Norah who 18 with him — his 
 darling — his Duchess. 
 
 And then there is an end of it. He drops her hand and 
 turns away, and, leaning his arms upon the chimney-piece, 
 lets his face fall forward upon them. 
 
 *' You here!" says the Duchess, now in a tone thafc 
 trembles. She has sprung to her feet, and is wide awake 
 staring at his back with astonishment that is half fear shin- 
 ing in her eyes. *' I thought you were in Bandon?*' 
 
 " I could not stay there. I could not rest.** 
 
 ** But at this hour!'* glancing at the clock, which points 
 to two. " There was no train?** 
 
 "No. I rode.** 
 
 " Twenty miles in the middle of the night. What mad- 
 ness!** cries she, angrily. " Well, you must be tired, in- 
 deed, 80 I will wish you good-night.*' 
 
 *' Stay one moment," exclaims he, turning his haggard 
 face to her. " You know what brought me back. You 
 know why I could not rest. Your ordinary coldness was 
 bad enough to bear, but to feel that I had angered you, 
 wounded you past foi-giveuess — that you had actually 
 
IBIS DUCHESS. 163 
 
 denied me pardon — was intolerable. I have come back to 
 ask you again, entreat you to put your hand in mine and 
 try to forget what I have done." 
 
 " Let it be as you wish thea," says she, with a sad cold 
 little glance, and with a touch of weariness in her tone. 
 *' I shall try to forget. But " — turning suddenly up to hia 
 large mournful eyes, " if only I might go homel*' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 ** You are unhappy here?" asks he, at last. 
 
 " I am. I confess it. I," with a desperate attempt at 
 an e very-day manner, *' miss dad, I think. I want him, 
 oh, so badly!" with a sharp burst of grief. 
 
 '* Well, you shall go, Norah. "We have no right to keep 
 you. But you know your father is coming here the day 
 after to-morrow, and after a little while you can returo 
 with him. " 
 
 ''That will all take too long," cries she, feverishly. 
 ** I don't want him to come; I want to go home to him — 
 to be alone with him. ** 
 
 ** But,'* questioningly, " must it be at once?" 
 
 ** As soon as possible. At once, yes; I mean — to-mor- 
 row," in a nervous, uncertain way, trifling absently with 
 an ornament on the table near her. 
 
 ' "Not to-morrow, I'm afraid," coldly. "You musfc 
 try," with a rush of reproachful anger, " to curb your 
 mad haste to be rid of us for a day or two. I can tele- 
 graph to your father in the morning to expect you, but 
 there are one or two things I must see to before I caa take 
 you back to Ballyhinch." 
 
I9i THF DUCHESi. 
 
 "You take me! You I Oh, no; you must notj yon 
 shall not/' vehemently. ** I can go back alone." 
 
 " Certainly you can not,** decidedly. ** I brought you 
 here, and I am responsible for your safe return. I shall 
 most undoubtedly accompauy you. 
 
 " I tell you you shall not," in sore distress. The cruel 
 meaning in Katherine Cazalet's face recurs to her like a 
 stab at this moment. ** Do not insist on this, Denis. Un- 
 derstand me when I say," going nearer to him and speaking 
 in a low voice but with intense excitement, " that rather 
 than have you as my escort home I would even prefer to 
 remain here." 
 
 ** Even! I thank you for both my mother and myself,'* 
 says he, with a bitter laugh. " "We may, indeed, congratu- 
 late ourselves on the success of our efforts to make your 
 stay a happy one.** 
 
 " Do not say such things to me,** says she, her eyes fill- 
 ing with tears. *'You know well howl love your moth- 
 er.'* 
 
 She is standing close to him, looking upward with a 
 grieved expression on her charming face. Her pretty, 
 naked, rounded arms hang loosely before her, the fingers 
 interlaced; her eyes, still large and heavy, and drowsy with 
 sleep, are full of unshed tears; and the hair upon her brow 
 is a little ruffled, as if from slumber. Her white gown 
 clings to her lissom form. Never has she looked so 
 lovely. 
 
 *' I hardly know what to say,'* says Delaney. " Some- 
 times I am mad, I think; I know that — ** Suddenly he 
 falls on his knees before her and buries his face in her 
 
THE DUCHESS. 165 
 
 gown. " My dadingi My belovedl" he breathes passioii- 
 itely. 
 
 " Oh, remember! Oh, shamel" cries she, iu a low, 
 thriUiug tone. 
 
 *' I do remember; all — everything! Do yon think I 
 could forget?" He has caught her haudw now, and is kiss- 
 ing them feverishly. " I know what you wonld remind 
 me of — my engagement, the hour, the fact that we are 
 alone. But," recklessly, *' I don't care. I will speak!" 
 Then, seeing how pale she grows, and how she draws back 
 from him, " My love, my sweetheart, forgive me. All I 
 would say is that I will break this engagement with Kathe- 
 rine, and — " confusedly, " perhaps, then — " 
 
 ** Why will you break it? What will you gain by so do- 
 ing? It seems to me that you have too quickly believed 
 that I — I '* — putting up her slender, trembling hand to 
 her throat, " love you. What cause have I given you to 
 think that? Oh, dad I Oh, to be with you; to be near 
 you!" 
 
 " 'WTiy, none," says he, dejectedly. ** And yet,** with 
 sudden fire, " there have been moments for which I would 
 barter all that I possess — when — ** 
 
 ''When you were vain enough to imagine otherwise," 
 interrupting him hurriedly and with a painful flush. 
 ** Well — ^you were wrong — wrong.** 
 
 She is telling her lie with such a miserable passion that 
 he does not dare openly to disbelieve her, but yet he knows. 
 Those large, sad, honest eyes can not withhold the truth, 
 whatever the cruel lips may do. 
 
 "Still, I shall break with Katherine,' * says he, af ter a 
 
166 THE DUCHE88. 
 
 pause. He had risen to his feet some time ago, and is 
 
 Btaiidiug before her watching her gravely. *' And then, 
 perhaps," very humbly, ** in time you might let me tell 
 you all that is in my heart to-night." 
 
 " Never, never. I shall not listen. WhatI do you 
 think I have no pride? Do I want another woman's lover? 
 Would I have one who had sworn allegiance here and 
 there? No, no.'' 
 
 ** So bo it. I shall end this farce between Katherine 
 and myself, nevertheless,'* replies he, steadfastly. 
 
 "That must be as you will. Good-night," says she, 
 holding out to him a slim little hand that trembles. Her 
 eyes are downcast, but even as he looks at her two large 
 tears fall from beneath her lids and travel slowly down her 
 cheeks. In a moment his arms are around her, he can 
 feel the quick beating of her heart on him; for a cruelly 
 short time she lies passive in his embrace, as though tired 
 and beaten, and then she rouses herself, and with slender 
 palms pushes him from her, and without word or glance 
 leaves the room. 
 
 Swiftly she goes upstairs and locks herself into her room. 
 That one moment of weakness — of indecision — has fright- 
 ened her. She had lain in his arms without protest of any 
 sort. Nay, more — she dares not deny it to herself— she 
 had been happy there. She had been glad to have them 
 round her. Even now, when released from the influence 
 of his presence, she knows that she feels no anger toward 
 him. Anger! Where is there place for it in the warm, 
 loving, miserable heart that is beatrng so wildly in hei 
 breast? But w'hat is to be the end of ii all? She must ga 
 
THE DUCHESS. 167 
 
 She must leave him. Never, never, never can ne be any- 
 thing to her save worse than a stranger Oh! that he were 
 indeed a stranger. Oh! that she could tear him from her 
 heart! But it is too late for that. All her long miserable 
 life he must lie there, cherished secretly, wept over in pri- 
 vate, loved with a fervor grown strong from sad thoughts 
 indulged when no one can see her. 
 
 No, she could not listen to that proposal of his to end 
 his engagement with Katherine. And yet had she done so 
 would it not have been for the welfare of all, even of 
 Katherine; for wherem lies the good to be derived from a 
 loveless union? She covers her face with her hands and 
 walks swiftly up and down the silent chamber. 
 
 But no hope comes to her. His face rises before her, 
 sad, reproachful, passionate, entreating. He is hers, hers 
 only, by all lovers laws, and yet she must thrust him from 
 her with all her might. Oh! how miserably ill he looijed. 
 Oh, Denis! Oh, darling, darling! Oh, Denis! 
 
 She has thrown herself on her knees beside the bed and 
 buried her face out of sight. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 •• But now the hand of fate is on the curtain, 
 
 And gives the scene to light." 
 
 Im" the morning that tiresome headache is V7orse thau 
 ever. Norah manages to get down to breakfast, but only 
 to play with her toast and to refuse with a glance of dia» 
 taste anything offered her. 
 
 *' How ill you look, darling!^' says raadame, some boura 
 
108 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 later, meeting her in one of the anterooms, equipped fo^ 
 walking. '* Like a little pretty gliost. I am so distressed 
 about it, and your father coming to-morrow, too! It ia 
 dreadful; he will say I have not taken any care of you." 
 
 " Who could have taken more?" says the Duchess, 
 sweetly, slipping au arm around her neck. ** You have 
 made me feel always that you love me.*' 
 
 "Have I?'* very pleased. "That is as it should be, 
 then, and only the barest truth. Every mother should 
 love her own little daughter." She smiles and kisses the 
 girl with a lingering fondness and smooths back the soft 
 ruffled locks from her hot brow. 
 
 " You are quite feverish, darling. Do you know I am 
 growing really uneasy about you." 
 
 " It is this headache.'* 
 
 *' But what a persistent one. Will you see Doctor Mor- 
 gan?** 
 
 " No, no, indeed,** laughing. ** What nonsense, 
 auntie. I'll tell you, though, what I think of doing. Of 
 going out and staying out for quite ever so long. Make 
 no excuse for me at luncheon, and don't expect me again 
 until you see me. I feel as if a good dose of the strong 
 wild wind outside is the one thing that can blow those cob- 
 webs out of my brain. *' 
 
 *' Then go, by all means, dearest. Try your own medi- 
 cine first, mine afterward,** says madame. *' But before 
 you go — a biscuit and a glass of Madeira. Come, now, I 
 insist, and for reward 1*11 tell any pretty fib you like about 
 you at luncheon.*' 
 
 The dull and cheerless sun that all day long has bees 
 
THE DUCHESS. 169 
 
 making so poor a pretense at jollity has at last sunk behind 
 the liills. Already daylight wanes, and the heavy gusts of 
 wind that, rushing through the fir-tops, stirred the wide 
 air since early dawn have now gained in strength and are 
 roaring sullenly with a subdued force that speaks of a vio- 
 lent outburst later on. One or two heavy drops of rain 
 fall with a quick, soft sound at Norah's feet. 
 
 They rouse her from the reverie in which she has almost 
 lost herself; rouse her, too, to a knowledge of the fact that 
 day is nearly dead, and that the air is full of signs of the 
 coming storm. 
 
 So busy have been her thoughts during her long, swift 
 ramble through the woods and over hills, and thence into 
 unknown woods again, that to her it seems as though it is 
 but a little while since she walked from the broad stone 
 steps that lead to the entrance door at Castle Ventry, and 
 yet, in reahty, how long has it been? 
 
 She pauses to look round her to notice for the first time 
 how swiftly the darkness is beginning to fall; to see, too, 
 with a vague yet sharp touch of fear that the place wherein 
 she now stands is strange, unknown to her. Whither have 
 her restless feet carried her? All the landmarks by which 
 she had been used to guide herself are now behind he*:, lost 
 to her, unless she can retrace her steps to some spot 
 familiar. 
 
 A huge black" cloud has gathered overhead and is cover- 
 ing all the heavens. A little, fine, white mist begins to 
 fall, a shadowy sort of shower^ that presently declares 
 itself more openly and becomes an honest downpour. 
 Larger and larger grow the droDS, darker and darker the 
 
170 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 atmosphere, and now that first mild sense of fear gather* 
 in force and becomes uncomfortably definite. 
 
 Turning, she begins to walk briskly in the way she be- 
 lieves she has come, but which in reality is only taking 
 her the more decidedly from Ventry. When she has 
 walked in this direction about twenty minutes she 
 pauses and looks around her, only to find herself hope- 
 lessly astray. 
 
 Blacker grows the leaden sky above, as seen in irregular 
 patches through the arching branches over her head. 
 Slowly, steadily rises the storm; already the wind begins 
 to rush past her with a fierceness that makes her limbs 
 tremble. Standing still, with her arm round a sapling oak 
 for support and feeling a very natural thrill of terror as 
 she acknowledges to herself that she scarcely knows where 
 to turn, she happens to lift her head, and there on her 
 right she sees an old broken-down cottage, or hut rather, 
 close to a tall fir-tree that appears to bend over it as if 
 offering protection. 
 
 It will give shelter at least. Running toward it she 
 steps quickly, thankfully, into the miserable one bare 
 room of which it can boast. Dead leaves, blown in by 
 many winds, strew the earthen floor. A wide open chim- 
 ney holds on its hearth the gray ashes of dead fires old and 
 gone. 
 
 The Duchess, with a sense of rather uncanny lonelmess, 
 looks with ungrateful backward glances at this spot that 
 Bione has held out to her the arms of pity. How long has 
 it stood here a prey to ghosts? Kot so long, apparently. 
 fn oae coruer stands a pile of rotten fire logs, and near it 
 
IHB DTTCHESa 171 
 
 t bundle of twigs, or *'kippen8," as the peasants call 
 them, that suggest a desire on the part of the late tenants 
 to light one more fire before they should leave this dilapi- 
 dated home forever. 
 
 Through two large holes in the thatched roof the rain is 
 falling with a quick, steady drip, and Norah, avoiding it 
 as best she may, leans disconsolate against the open door- 
 way and gazes with many misgivings on the dismal scene 
 without. It must be now about five o'clock, according to 
 her calculation — ^in reality it is considerably later — and 
 they will all be now in the library, some gathered round 
 the welcome tea-tray, others lounging in pretty tea-gowns 
 in the softest chairs to be found. 
 
 Denis, too, will have come in long ago from his shooting, 
 and perhaps — perhaps will now be thinking of her and 
 wondering where she is. A little uneasy, too, it may be. 
 She can almost see his handsome, rather melancholy face 
 of late, with the eyes turning so constantly to the door. 
 
 Well, well; why think of it? He may wonder and 
 watch, and long for her coming; but of what avail will it 
 all be? There is no end to it but one. She will not dwell 
 upon it. Let her rather turn her thoughts to the fact that 
 she is imprisoned here until the storm shall cease, and that 
 even after that she will not know what direction to take to 
 reach Ventry. 
 
 How dark it grows! Blacker and blacker frown the 
 heavens. The dimmest twilight is all that is left of the 
 day just done. What will they think of her at the Castle? 
 With what a contemptuous sneer Katherine will hint at 
 the barbarous bad taste of those who can plunge so unrea« 
 
I7t THE DUCHESS, 
 
 BOnably a whole household into a static of apprehension foi 
 the sake of their own idle whiinsi And besides — 
 
 Great Heaven ! what is that? 
 
 Only the report of a gun. But coming through the 
 gathering darkness of the descending night it strikes with 
 a cold terror at her heart. And then all at once, she 
 scarcely knows why, that past scene upon the gravel sweep 
 stands out before her mental gaze once more. Once again 
 the dog's yelp of agony sounds on the air; once again 
 Moloney is felled to the ground; she sees him rise, and 
 mark again the deadly threat of vengeance in his eyes. 
 
 A fear, born of nothing, as true fears sometimes are, be- 
 comes strong within her. Her heart beats fast, her hands 
 grow cold, her cheek pales. How if that murderous 
 though silent threat has been even now fulfilled! if even 
 now he, her soul's beloved lies powerless, dead, with the 
 heavy cruel pattering rain falling, falling always on the 
 dull insensate body. 
 
 It is but a little thing after this to picture the white, 
 ghastly, upturned face, with the dead staring eyes, the 
 parted lips showing the gleaming teeth just a little. Oh, 
 Heaven! Oh, no! Oh! no, no, no! 
 
 She shudders violently, and flings out her hands as 
 though to ward ofl: the awful sight; and, as she thus stands 
 trembling all over, again that sharp sound rings through 
 the darkness. She clutches the door- way, and with dilated 
 eyes stares outward, straining sight and hearing. 
 
 Again — close at hand it now sounds — rings out the sharp 
 crack of a, revolver, and following on it the bang of a 
 hreech-loader. To her unpracticed ear both sounds are 
 
THE DUCHESa. 178 
 
 alike, but for all that instinct is alert within her, and holds 
 up a warning hand, and not for one moment is she deluded 
 bj the reasonable solution of tlie problem tliat Denis on 
 his homeward way has just knocked over a brace of cock. 
 
 Conquering a sickening sensation that comes very near 
 to fainting, she rushes impetuously out of the house and 
 through the blinding rain makes her way to the spot from 
 whence the sounds have come. To her surprise a very 
 short run brings her to a rise in the ground that betrays to 
 her the fact of a road that lies just below where she is 
 standing. A high bank, topped by furze bushes, hides 
 that part of the wood where she now stands from the pub- 
 lic way, though a dilapidated gate-way lower down permits 
 her to see wliere the road runs. As she draws nearer to ifc 
 she becomes conscious that broken sounds are beginning to 
 fall upon her ears; panting breaths, muttered curses, the 
 swaying movements of feet. In this moment she knows 
 as well as tliough she can already see hiui that Denis is on 
 the road, close to that broken gate-way, and that he is 
 fighting fiercely for dear life. 
 
 All at once her faintness leaves her. A cold chill 
 rushes throngli her, hardening every nerve. Springing to 
 the top of the high bank she looks through the forae 
 bushes down on the road beneath^ and &qq% — 
 
174 XBE DUCHESS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXm. 
 
 "Courage is a sort of armor to the mind, and keeps an un^rol 
 fiome impression from driving too deep into perception." 
 
 It is Denis she sees first. He is facing her; whilst hig 
 opponent — who has grasped him by the throat with a sav- 
 age grip, and is straining every muscle to bring him to the 
 ground— has his back to her. He is a powerful-looking 
 man, and even as Norah looks on, frozen by horror, he 
 makes an effort to bring down the handle of the revolver 
 he carries upon Delaney's head, with the intent to hammer 
 out his brains. 
 
 It is evidently a struggle that can not last long. De- 
 laney's face is already death - like, rendered the more 
 ghastly because of the heavy drops of blood that are run- 
 ning down it from a wound in the forehead, and his coat is 
 torn away from one arm that hangs helplessly by his side. 
 With the other arm he still holds his would-be murderer, 
 and with the tenacity of his race is still holding his own, 
 when another would be lying spent and insensible. 
 
 To Norah — who is of his own blood, and who can see for 
 herself that unless succor is prompt the end is very near — 
 this sight gives fresh courage. Her spirit rises within her; 
 she sets her teeth and looks swiftly, keenly around her. A 
 short, heavy stake, part of the broken gate- way, catches 
 her eye; she loses no time; she moves quickly toward it; 
 to seize it noiselessly, to spring once again to that high 
 part of the bank that brings her right over the assassin's 
 
THE DUCHESS. 175 
 
 h&ad and within a foot of him, takes her but a minute, 
 and then I 
 
 With all the strength of her strong young arms she lifta 
 the heavy piece of wood well above her shoulder, and 
 brings it down again with unerring precision right upon 
 the scoundrel's pate! 
 
 Like a stone he drops, half dragging Denis with him, 
 but the girl, jumping into the road, catches him as he 
 falls, and holds him upright still with loving arms. Even 
 now, as at last insensibility overpowers him, as deadly 
 stupor benumbs his every sense, he knows her. 
 
 " My beloved! My own little girl!" he breathes faint- 
 ly, with but a poor attempt indeed at the old fond smile, 
 yet with love unspeakable in his fast-closing eyes. He 
 makes a vain effort to hold out his hands to her, and then 
 falls inertly against the bank. 
 
 And now it comes to Norah to do what she never after- 
 ward can remember doing, or understand how she had the 
 power to accomplish it. But 
 
 " The God of love, alij benedice, 
 How mighty and how great a Lord is Hel" 
 
 Surely He helps her now. Looking at him, lying there in 
 that awful swoon, it seems to her that she dare not leave 
 him alone with the murderer beside him whilst she runs 
 for help. "What if the man were to recover whilst she was 
 away? What if he be not dead? Pooi*, little, tender- 
 hearted Duchess! Let her not be thought unwomanly if 
 in this supreme moment she hopes passionately that she 
 has killed the man who would have slain her lover, and 
 only fears that she has not done so. 
 
170 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 WTiat if he should rise and finish his ghastly work whilat 
 bIio ran blindly along an miknown road to gain that assist- 
 ance she miglit never meet! Moisture rises to her brow aa 
 she thinks it all out, and then all at once she abandons 
 that idea of gaining help, and with one quick in-drawn 
 breath steadies herself for the work she is determined to 
 do this night or die in the attempt. 
 
 Stooping, she encircles Denis with her arms, and pres- 
 ently has drawn him, first toward the broken gate- way, then 
 through it; through the blessed opening that permits her 
 to drag him out of view of that cruel figure on the ground 
 into the safer shelter of the woods beyond. 
 
 Yard by yard — sobbing, panting, Avith her fear and her 
 fatigue pressing sorely on her, yet never discouraged — she 
 slowly and ever more slowly, as the willing arms grow so 
 deadly weary, drags him to the protection of that lonely 
 hut, close to the fir-tree. 
 
 Even when she has got him in and laid him softly down* 
 ward, with the poor broken arm as comfortably-settled aa 
 she can manage it, her zeal for his welfare does not relax. 
 Off her own tender body she strips her sealskin coat, a 
 present from her auntie, to make a pillow for his head, 
 and then, not thinking it high enough — careless of cold, of 
 discomfort, nay, dead to tliem — she slips off her flannel 
 petticoat and adds that to the coat. 
 
 Not until she has done all this does she permit herself to 
 kneel beside him and look into his face! 
 
 Is it his face, that calm, still, motionless mask, all 
 streaked and dyed with blood, blood still flowing? She 
 has been so engrossed hitherto with her terrible task of 
 
THE DUCHESS. 177 
 
 bringing him here that the idea that her labor might be in 
 vain — that death might ah-eady have robbed her of what 
 she most values upon earth — has not suggested itself; but 
 now it comes, and a very agony of despair takes possession 
 of her. Nearer she leans over him, still nearer, her miser- 
 able eyes clinging to his death-like face. What a horrible 
 pallor is that upon his cheek! how sunken are the eyes 
 within their sockets, how cruelly calm the mouth! Is — is 
 be dead? 
 
 Oh! no, no, no! Not dead! Hurt, hurt nigh unto 
 death, if it must be, but oh ! not dead, indeed ! Her very 
 soul uplifts itself in supplication. Maimed, suffering, 
 broken let him be — but grant that life still lingers within 
 his bruised body. 
 
 " Oh! Thou loving LordI by whom all prayers are 
 heard; hear mine.*' 
 
 Softly, tremulously, she entreats; and now with nervous 
 fingers she loosens his coat and feels for the heart that 
 should beat beneath. And after a minute (who shall say 
 what ages lie in itr) a faint pulsation rewards her. He 
 lives! As yet, at least, the vital spark is in him. 
 
 But how to keep it there? Deftly she tears first her 
 own handkerchief and then his into strips and binds them 
 round his brow. The search for his handkerchief has 
 brought to light a small flask which, to her joy, contains 
 brandy; but though she tries, even with her fingers, to get 
 some between his lips, she fails to make him swallow it. 
 
 And now again terror drives her almost wild. Can she 
 do nothing? AVill no one ever come to her aid? She runs 
 to the door- way with a vehement determination to rush 
 
178 TEE DUCHESS. 
 
 through all the blinding storm in search of help. But as 
 she crosses the threshold she looks back and, seeing him 
 lying there so quiet, to all appearance so lifeless, her heart 
 grows weak within her and her courage fails. Alas I too, 
 even if she were to venture forth, whither could she go? 
 The place is strange to her; she would not know which 
 way to turn, and if she were to wander too far in this gath- 
 ering darkness and fail to make her way back again, what 
 might not happen to him before morn in her absence, 
 alone, unattended, deserted? Oh, no, she can not leave 
 him. 
 
 A vague hope that they will be rescued later on by mes- 
 sengers from Ventry gives her some wavering comfort, but 
 in truth her jsresent fears are so many that comfort in the 
 future is quickly ousted. It is so cold, too — so bitterly 
 chill. She looks longingly p,t the dry sticks lying on the 
 hearth, but even though she knows that by the aid of the 
 vestas she has found in his pocket when looking for tho 
 flask she can set fire to them, she shrinks from doing so, a 
 nervous horror lest the smoke shall betray his resting-place 
 to the enemy restraining her. 
 
 She takes one of his hands in hers and feels it is cold as 
 ice — his very lips, as she lays her fingers on them, seem 
 frozen. She draws off her sole remaining petticoat and 
 wraps it round him, with despair fast gathering at her 
 heart. Oh, to light that fire! 
 
 And now a determination enters into her that is only 
 part of the great courage that has all through supported 
 her. Silently she leaves the cabin, and cautiously, with 
 her heart in her throat, steals down to that high bank that 
 
THE DUCHESS. 179 
 
 overlooks the road. Some faint light shows beyond the 
 depth of the wood, and cautiously she peers through the 
 furze bushes to that spot whereon the man had lain. It 
 was Moloney, she knew, at that first awful moment, but 
 now she looks for his stalwart frame in vain. No man is 
 here! She casts her eyes quickly up and down the road 
 for many yards — as far, indeed, as her eyes can pierce the 
 gloom — only to find that it is empty. 
 
 It is plain then that she had not killed him! He had 
 evidently recovered sufficiently to enable him to make his 
 way home, and, terrified by the thought that succor in 
 some unaccountable fashion had come to his victim, had 
 hidden himself away as far from the spot of his attempted 
 crime as possible. 
 
 With a lightened heart Norah runs back to the cabin, 
 and seizing the matches sets fire to some dry leav^es, that, 
 easily igniting, presently coax the large bimdle of sticks 
 into a flame. Cheerily they blaze, throwing out a delicious 
 glow that warms whatever it touches. She draws Denis as 
 close up to it as prudence will permit, and once again tries 
 to force the brandy between his lips — this time with some 
 success. And at last, at last, he moves a little and sighs 
 and finally opens his eyes. 
 
 *' You, my love,'^ he says very low, with a faint smile, 
 and as though not at all surprised. So near to the gates 
 of death has he been brought that all emotions, save the 
 one absorbing passion of his life, are forgotten by him; 
 and indeed so weak is he that almost as she believes she 
 has gained him back again from the portals we all dread 
 for those we love — even as she tries to answer him — he 
 
L80 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 faints again, leaving her once more to watch out the long 
 dark liours of nisht alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 " I felt a tightness grasp my throat; 
 As it would strangle me." 
 
 It is now far past midnight, and still the storm rages 
 overhead. Heavy bursts of thunderous rain dash against 
 the walls of the cabin, and through the open door-way the 
 inky blackness of the night looks in upon her as she sits 
 cowering, shivering by the hearth, her eyes ever fixed upon 
 the motionless figure beside her. 
 
 Every now and then she rises to chafe the uninjured 
 hand, to listen for the faint breathing, to wash away the 
 marks of blood upon the wan face. Little by little she has 
 made him swallow most of the brandy the flask contained, 
 and now with a sad heart she sits watching for the dawn. 
 
 Will be last till then? And even then is she sure she 
 can make her way home in a hurry? And — and — when 
 she gets there what will her welcome be — what will she say 
 —how give an account of herself? How is she to tell 
 them that she has spent the night — the long, long, terrible 
 night — alone with him in this hut? Katherine's face rises 
 before her once again — the bitter scorn of it — the cruol 
 contempt — the wicked meaning. 
 
 A thousand times she assures herself that no one can 
 dare say a word to her prejudice when the truth, in 
 Denis's shattered person, lies before them; and yet for all 
 that she knows that unkind commeut will be made, aod 
 
THE DUCHESS, 181 
 
 dirinks from the thought of it with a rather undue horror 
 In this dark liour slie remembers how Katherine is mis- 
 tress of her secret; remembers, too, little meaning, kindly 
 smiles and innuendoes from Nancy and Lady Glandore, 
 and knows full well that her unhappy aSection for her 
 cousin, if not shouted, has at least been whispered on the 
 house-tops. 
 
 Yes, it is all over. This melancholy night spent here in 
 this desolate cabin will never be forgotten by her world — • 
 never! It seems to her, in the morbid state into which she 
 now has fallen, that for the future she will be a sort of 
 outcast, an Irish pariah, as it were, amongst her tribe. 
 One little drop of comfort falls into her cup of misery. 
 To-morrow — nay, to-day — her dad is coming to Ventry. 
 To this thought, which is the very sweetest imaginable to 
 her sorely troubled spirit, she clings eagerly; in it she has 
 indeed " great store of bliss " — for when did her dad ever 
 thiuk evil "where no evil was? — and if all the world were 
 against her would not that be to him one reason the more 
 for declaring himself more openly upon her side — dear, 
 darhngdad? 
 
 A heavy sigh falls from her, and moving uneasily upon 
 her seat — a heap of sticks — she suddenly becomes aware 
 that Denis has his eyes open and is looking at her. 
 
 " Is that you. Duchess?" 
 
 The voice is low, so faint indeed as to be half inaudible, 
 but ''lovers' ears are sharp to hear,^* and Norah, rising, 
 bends eagerly over him. 
 
 "Yes. I am here," she whispers, tenderly. She 
 kneels upon the ground beside him, and softly, lovingly, 
 
189 TBB DUOHESa. 
 
 lays her cool hand upon his forehead. It Is throbbing vio* 
 
 lenily; but the wet bandage has evidently been of some 
 use, as the blood has ceased to flow. Feebly lifting the 
 uninjured arm, he draws down the little comforting hand 
 until it touches his lips. 
 
 *' My beloved, this is a bad thing for you,'* he whispers 
 with difficulty. " Can you not go home? You are giv- 
 ing up too much for me." 
 
 " Not so much as you imagine," whispers she back, 
 smiling. "I have lost my way, do you know? I can't 
 go; so you see I am not doing very much for you after 
 all.'' 
 
 " I know better than that," the words come slowly, dis- 
 connectedly, and as if the utterance of them hurts him. 
 "But I shall explain. I'll make them understand if I 
 last till then — if — " He breaks off with a heavy sigh that 
 is almost a groan, and makes a vain effort, that is very 
 pitiable in one so strong, to change his position. 
 
 *' You are in pain?" says !Norah, miserably. 
 
 ** No. But tired — tired," murmurs he, wearily. Then, 
 seeing her abont to rise, he clasps her hand closer. 
 " Don't gol Stay with me. Oh! darling, if I am to die 
 now — after this — with the knowledge that you love me, it 
 will be hard— hard 1" 
 
 " Do not try to talk," entreats she, raising him with all 
 her strength and so turning him that he will find relief. 
 ** Do not — you are only wasting the little power left you. 
 Now, are you better, more comfortable?" 
 
 ** I am happier than I have ever been in all my life. 
 Obi Duchess, what shall repay you? Not I — I can noL 
 
THE DUCH£8«, 188 
 
 Bat — ** He pauses as though he has lost hhnself, and a 
 
 Bad wild light grows witliin his eyes. " You should not 
 be here. You must go — go — oi' else she will have her 
 gibes — her sneers — she — she — " 
 
 He has wandered again, but mercifully those cruel im- 
 aginings soon come to an end, as he sinks once more into 
 the old lethargy and lies as if dead, save for the faint 
 breathings that make themselves heard now and then. 
 
 Beside him, her hand still clasped in his, Norah sits 
 quietly, her head bent upon her knees. And presently on 
 tired thought kindly sleep descends and conquers it, and 
 soon all is forgotten. Oh, blessed, health-giving uncon- 
 Bciousness, where would the tried ones of the earth find rest 
 if thou wert withdrawn? 
 
 It is dawn as with a pang of acutest fear she wakes. 
 Nay, more than dawn. The day is well awake, and on 
 the mountain tops the first fine clouds of coming morn are 
 dissolving beneath the sun's warm rays. Springing to her 
 feet Norah turns a terrified glance upon Delaney, to find 
 that he still breathes, and with a rush of thankfulness she 
 bends over him and presses the last few precious drops of 
 brandy between his lips. She knows perfectly the task 
 that now lies before her, and, having heaped the few re- 
 maining sticks on the still glowing embers, she prepares 
 for departure and a return to the place where a severe 
 cross-examination, as she believes, awaits her. 
 
 At the door she looks back, and something — is it the 
 helplessness of his attitude or the utter forlornness of him 
 —touches her. In a moment she is by his side again; she 
 is leaning over himj softly her loving fingers brush back 
 
IM TBE DUCHESS. 
 
 the short hair from his brow; long, long she gazes at hinii 
 as one might upon their dead, with, in her case, an in- 
 tensity born of the fear that it may be for the last time. 
 Those wretched ones whose beloved are already dead may 
 be counted happy in comparison with those who still wait 
 upon their dying, fighting each minute with the Tyrant 
 who conquers all things — love and hate and pride and lust 
 and jealousy and envy and all uncharitableness. 
 
 Is'orah, kneeling beside him, feels as though indeed this 
 were a last farewell, and at the thought her heart fails 
 her, and she bursts out crying. She dares not believe the 
 terrible idea that so obstinately forces itself upon her, or 
 else (she knows) she will never be able to summon the 
 courage to leave him; yet go she must for his sake. 
 
 She presses her lips to his hand, and then, emboldened 
 by his unconsciousness and strengthened by the innocent 
 love she bears him (it is, after all, but a little the more), 
 she stoops and gives him soft, gentle, loving kisses upon 
 cheeks aud hair and forehead, and, at last, after some 
 faint, honest hesitation, his lips, too! Cold, unresponsive 
 lips! but all the dearer because of the sad reason for their 
 coldnessi 
 
 Then, now bitterly weeping, she runs out of the cabin, 
 and gaining the road turns, without knowing why, to the 
 right. All roads, indeed, are alike to her, so great is her 
 ignorance of her locality, but unfortunately instinct, if one 
 may call it so, has in this instance led her aright. It haa 
 stood to her so well that half an hour's brisk walking 
 brings her within view of the gilded vane of Ventry, glit- 
 tering gayly in the morning sunlight. 
 
THS DU0UE8& 186 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 " Back- wounding calumny 
 The whitest virtue strikes; what king so strong 
 Can tie the gall up in the slanderer's tonguef ' 
 
 At Ventry the utmost conaternation holds full sway. 
 During all the past evening questions had been rife^ first 
 as to the strange non-appearance of Norah, and later on 
 about the continued absence of Delaney, and presently, aa 
 the evening wore on, every one — as if bracketing them — 
 began to wonder, in a rather aside sort of way., aa to where 
 they could be. 
 
 Until dinner was over, however, no very grcsat alarm 
 was felt, even by madame. The night was so inclement 
 that probably Norah had been kept at the rectory, and 
 Denis, who had gone shooting in that direction, would, in 
 all probability,, have been compelled by the hospitable 
 O'Shaughnessys to stay and dine with them. At least so 
 argued madame up to nearly eleven o'clock, with the in- 
 tent to allay the nervous fear that already was beginning 
 to find a homo within her breast. 
 
 But when midnight came and neither Norah nor Denis 
 had returned, her assumed calm broke down, and she gave 
 way openly to the terror that was consuming her. Mes 
 sengers were at once sent out, to the rectory first, and 
 then on to the 0'Shaughnessy*s, and as the two houses were 
 many miles apart, much time was lost in this vain qneak 
 
186 THE crciresi. 
 
 When the men returned, with Colonel O'Shaughnessy, who 
 was always eager for the fray, and the kindest soul alive — 
 a regular " emergency man,'' if ever there was one — to 
 say nothing was known of either Norah or Delaney at 
 either of the houses, madame's fear grew to agony, and 
 the whole male portion of the household was turned out 
 with lanterns and overcoats to search high and low. 
 Colonel O'Shaughnessy undertook the command; but the 
 night, as we know, was terrible, and, unfortunately, ma- 
 dame was under the impression that Norah had gone in a 
 direction diametrically opposite to that she had really 
 chosen. As for Denis, who shall say where a sportman's 
 feet will take him? 
 
 The servants, too, and the out-door contingent were only 
 half-hearted in their search for the missing pair. Noth- 
 ing so sharp as an Irishman, if you can get him to put his 
 heart into a thing; but the Irish peasantry, as a rule, have 
 a fatal knack of forming conclusions for themselves— on 
 every topic under the sun that is at all known to them — 
 and worse still, acting on them; and, as the specimens em- 
 ployed on this occasion had come to a unanimous decision 
 that *' Misther Dinis an' Miss Norah" were far too 
 " cute '* to lose thesmelves in any storm, the search, 
 though seemingly vigorous and indeed very kindly, if pro- 
 testmgly, conducted, was in reality but poorly carried out, 
 and (as we also know) resulted in nothing. 
 
 The gray morning brought to madame no tidings of 
 either niece or son. All night long she had spent pacing 
 up and do"RTi her room, and from her room down the broad 
 staircase, and through the spacious hal\ to the entrance 
 
THE Dfciruss. 187 
 
 door, where, having ordered it to be flung wide open, she 
 would stand awhile, silent, motionless, listening as one 
 might for a cry from afar for help. But none came, and 
 nothing was left her but the slow, hopeless journey back 
 again to her desolate chamber. With the first flush of the 
 dawn despair seized upon her. 
 
 It is now seven o'clock, and the dull daylight is putting 
 the lamps to shame. One by one the footman extinguishes 
 them in the library, where madame, with Lady Glandore, 
 Miss Blake, and some of the others, is walking up and 
 down, waiting, waitmg always, as she has waited since ten 
 o'clock last night. She is still in her dinner-dress of black 
 velvet, and her face is ghastly pale; from one side of the 
 room to the other she walks incessantly, not talking, but 
 always with that terrible look of expectancy upon her 
 face. What is it she expects? 
 
 To her, as to Norah, the face of the man Moloney has 
 stood out clearly, with a horrible persistency, all through 
 the changes of the past miserable night. 
 
 Lady Glandore, who has risen out of her languor and 
 her rather hot-house style to quite an extraordinary de- 
 gree, has ordered coffee, and now tries to induce her to 
 partake of it. But madame repulses her with a harshness 
 hitherto unknown to that sweet and kindly nature. 
 
 " No, no," she says, hoarsely, almost pushing Lady 
 Glandore away from her. 
 
 *' But, dearest madame, consider," says that spoiled 
 beauty, taking her rebuff with the utmost mildness. 
 " This may be, after all, only a dreadfully mistaken affair 
 all through, and when presently they come back, we — " 
 
188 THB DUGHBttk 
 
 "Theyr 
 
 Madame looks at ber gtrangely, qnestionmgly, as if not 
 
 understanding, and then all at once a slow red barns like 
 fire upon her cheeks. She is expecting the»n, of course, 
 but something in the way Lady Glandoro has spoken haa 
 widened her vision, and Bhown her a solution of the prob> 
 lem hitherto unthought of. 
 
 " He— Denis/* stammers Lady Glandore, coloring in 
 turn and altering her mistake a little too late. 
 
 '* You think?" says madame, fixing her with her large, 
 bright gaze, grown brighter since her unhappy vigil. 
 
 " And even if so — dear madame, would it not be better 
 than — '* Lady Glandore pauses, a little frightened and 
 confused, yet sure that there has suddenly come into ma- 
 dame's despairing face an expression that is nearer hope 
 than anything she has seen there since yesterday. She is 
 still struggling with a desire to say a little more to the 
 same effect, when the necessity for it is removed by the 
 abrupt entrance of some one. 
 
 All eyes are tnrned to the door^ and a little breathless 
 hush falls upon those who form an audience, to what sug- 
 gests itself as being very likely to create a scene of a rather 
 tragic order. There is a clear promise of it, indeed, in 
 the very way Katherine enters the room. For one thing, 
 she is remtukably pale, and it must be some powerful emo- 
 tion indeed, something worse than mere anxiety, to create 
 emotion of so high an order in that well-regulated mind; 
 and besides this, for once the calm, supercilious month is a 
 little from under control. 
 
 It hardly takes her a moment to get from the door to 
 
THE DUCHESS. 18& 
 
 where madame is standing, quite still now, and as misera 
 ble as human being can be. The opening of the door that 
 had brought no tidings had been one disappointment th© 
 more. For a little while the two women regard each other 
 critically, uncertainly, and then madame by an effort 
 breaks the silence that has become almost painfuL 
 
 '* You have heard some news," she says, with dry lips, 
 " of Denis?" 
 
 *' Of DeniB? No; I don*t expect any." Then, with a 
 cold uplifting of her brows, and a colder smile, *' Do jou?'* 
 
 " What else is there to expect?" says madame, trem- 
 ulously, her eyes dilating. 
 
 " A great deal, as it seems to me; but you must wait for 
 a post or two. As for me, I have been thinking — the 
 night has been long — and I have quite thought it all out. " 
 Her voice is so clear as to be positively grating. " There 
 is, in my opinion, no longer room for conjecture. As I 
 tell you, the post-bag is the one thing to look forward to. 
 I felt it to be my duty to come down and warn you of the 
 truth. Don't look for Denis— look for the post." A low, 
 contemptuous laugh escapes her. Madame, drawing back 
 a step or two, looks with such heartfelt unhappiuess 
 around her, that Lady Glandore at once steps into the 
 breach. 
 
 " You are pleased to be enigmatical," she says, turning 
 rather bellicose eyes on Miss Cazalet, between whom and 
 herself indeed little love is lost. ** But if you could ex- 
 plain yourself, and put what you have so evidently come to 
 ■ay into language adapted to our intellects, it would be, J 
 think, ft kindness to— madame. As you see,'* sharply, 
 
110 VHE DUCHES& 
 
 " she is anflering; come, let hor know at onoe what yon 
 think the post will tell her.'* 
 
 ** Of her son's marriage to that little adventaress,*' re- 
 ttkrns Katherine, with a venomous flash from her blue 
 eyes; ** I warned you,'* turning to madame with a 
 touch of rage that all her cleverness can not conceal — *' I 
 told you what the end would be if you persisted in keeping 
 that wily wretch here; I showed you what she would do 
 with him when the time was ripe; but you would not lis- 
 ten. You permitted her to deceive you, as she has de- 
 ceived hintf but — " facing round upon the room and speak- 
 ing with a slow, deliberate enunciation, ** I tell you all, 
 that she has never deceived me. Here," laying a letter 
 slowly and with care upon the table, " is a letter from Sir 
 Brandrum Boileau (who you know left last night when the 
 truth of this disgraceful elopement first dawned upon us,) 
 asking me to throw up my engagement to — to my cousin." 
 
 She beats her hand slowly upon the table as she says this 
 in a curiously compressed fashion, and then goes on again 
 as if no pause had occurred. 
 
 " Asking me also to marry him. As I have already 
 said, I have thought out this — this vile affair — during a 
 long night, and to-day I have sent Sir Brandrum an ac- 
 ceptance of his offer. You are all witnesses," lifting her 
 head and gazing defiantly around her, " that before I heard 
 whether Dennis was dead or married, or," — she laughs 
 shortly, cruelly — ** merely gone for a tour with her, I de- 
 cidedly gave him up, and accepted Sir Brandrum. You 
 all hear? You are all witnesses I" 
 
 The poor, miserable, egotistical pride of her, that rises 
 
THE DUCllKSS. 1^1 
 
 above and crashes under foot aH womanly feeling for 
 the terrible grief of the unhappy mother, strikes a chill t€ 
 the heart of those present. Mrs. 0\Shaughnessy, who had 
 come over with the davvu, is the only one equal to the oc- 
 casion. 
 
 *' Weill You're the poorest creature I know!" says 
 she, with an emphatic shake of her head. Miss Oazalet 
 takes not the slightest notice of her. 
 
 ''You hear? You will remember?** she repeats, des- 
 potically, with a little stamp of her foot. 
 
 " It is difficult to remember anything just now, except 
 madame*s grief and anxiety, and this wearing suspense,*' 
 says Miss Blake, gravely, with a cold stare. " Pray try to 
 remember that — you have some small consideration for 
 her!*' 
 
 "What consideration is there for me?'* demanded 
 Katherine, turning upon her as though she would annihi- 
 late her. " Am 1 nothing? Am I not to be considered too?*' 
 
 "Afterward! If this idle imagining of yours should 
 prove true!" drily. 
 
 " If? Have you still a doubt then? But you have noti** 
 triumphantly. '* Your eyes betray you! It is as clear to 
 you as it is to me. * Do not expect me till you see me,' 
 ehe said to madame, her ' Auntie,* whom she so loved and 
 caressed, and,** savagely, "played upon! Yes, you too 
 know that she has run away with him.** 
 
 " Well, at least, I hope so,** returns Miss Blake, com- 
 posedly. 
 
 Katherine would have answered this, but a toach apon 
 her arm checks her. 
 
19% THE ni'cnEsa. 
 
 *• Do yott reall^/ believe it? Do you think it is tru^* 
 asks madame, in a low, austeady tone, her eyes seeming to 
 burn into the other's, as though with a determination to 
 force her real meaning from her. Something in their ex- 
 treme earnestness, yet apart from it — something quick and 
 bright, and altogether diCfe rent from the misery that shone 
 in them awhile since, betrays itself to Miss Cazalet. She 
 flings off her aunt's clinging fingers with a passionate gest- 
 ure. 
 
 "You are glad," she says, in an indescribable tone; 
 ** you hope it may be so. The very idea has given you new 
 life. Is that what I am to learn now, after all these years? 
 You would gladly take this girl to your heart. You would 
 condone this odious offense of hers?" 
 
 *' Oh, that I could know that he lives," falters madame, 
 clasping her hands. 
 
 "You would sacrifice all to thsit— his honor — mine. 
 "While I," she draws her breath quickly, " I wish I could 
 see him now, this moment, dead at my feet." She looks 
 on the ground as she says this, and spreads out her hands, 
 palms downward, as though picturing him to herself there. 
 His mother, with a little sharp, gasping cry, shrinks away 
 from her. 
 
 " Oh, no, no, nol" she says, faintly. *' Anything but 
 that! Oh! to see him once again alive — alivel Ohl 
 Denis. Oh! my son!— my child!" With this she falLa 
 a-sobbing as though her heart must break. 
 
 " Well, so you will," says Miss Cazalet, with a fine con- 
 tempt; " not only him, but her too. The daughter you 
 were always wishing for in one guise or another. I hope 
 
THE DUCHESS. 193 
 
 you will like her when yon get her. At all events she will 
 give you scope for the superfluous sentimeut that must be 
 such a trouble to you." 
 
 She laughs again insolently, and moves toward the door 
 Kancy Blake, who happens to be standing near it, draws 
 away as she approaches, with an unconscious but very elo- 
 quent display of condemnation. But of this Katherino 
 takes little heed. Opening the door, she steps out into 
 the hall and there comes face to face with — 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 *• I find she loves him much, because she hide« ft. 
 Love teaches cunning even to innocence." 
 
 Such a poor, little, forlorn, draggled, frightened girl, 
 that for the moment she scarcely knows her. Can this bt 
 the dainty Duchess? 
 
 It is I With a quick exclamation she goes forward, and 
 lays her firm white hand upon the shrinking Norah'a 
 shoulder, and twists her round so that the light may fall 
 more fully upon her. 
 
 " So you have come home! I wonder yon weren's 
 
 ashamed," she says. " And in such a plight too! Where 
 
 Is your beauty gone, I wonder?'* She seems to find a rich 
 
 enjoyment in the girl's miserable appearance. '' Come, 
 
 you have now to explain," she says, and using a little (a 
 
 very little is all that is needed) of the strength that be- 
 
 loagi to her, she comDek the woru-out chilcl to lollow heri 
 7 
 
194 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 and enter what seems to her sad, terrified, half-duUedi 
 brain, a room crowded with condemnatory eyes. 
 
 When she left Denis she had been fortunate in taking 
 at first the path that led direct to Veutry. At the gates 
 she had met two of the stablemen, whom she had at once 
 dispatched to the cabin where lay the unconscious De- 
 laney. A third man she had sent off for the doctor; and 
 having, as she felt, done now for him all she could do, the 
 strain at last relaxed and she gave in. It seemed to her as 
 though something had given way within her head, and she 
 lost thought for most things, being only desirous of get- 
 ting away from every one, that she might be alone, beyond 
 the view of prying eyes; able to give herself up to the 
 deadly lethargy that is so surely overcoming her. 
 
 Then Katherine had seized upon her as she was en- 
 deavoring, like some wounded thing, to creep upstairs un- 
 seen to her own room, and now she puts up her hands as if 
 to shut them all away from her, 
 
 ** Norah! Norah!" cries Lady Glandore, rushing to her; 
 she is not first — madame is before her, and has caught the 
 girl by both her shoulders, and is, in her agitation, sway- 
 ing her gently to and fro. 
 
 " Korah, where is Denis? Where is my son?" 
 
 The poor child, bewildered, gazes from one to the other. 
 A feeling of faintness is overpowering her, mingled with 
 that terrible dread of what they will say of her — of public 
 censure — that had tormented her all through the past in- 
 terminable night. Oh, to escape— to get awt ;1 She 
 looks round her helplessly, and makes a feebli «£tort to 
 shake oft madame's detaining graspw 
 
THE DUCHESS. 195 
 
 " Korah, speak," says Lady Glandore in a kind, con- 
 ciliatory toue. " Where have you been since last night?** 
 
 " In the woods," says the Duchess, trembling, repeathig 
 half unconsciously the words she had drilled herself to say 
 ill the lonely hours spent beside the insensible body. He is 
 safe now. The men must have found him. She can not 
 lay herself open to the cruel insinuations of Katherine 
 Cazalet. How if she were, in her fury, to tell them all of 
 that scene in the garden! Oh no, no. 
 
 " I lost my way," she stammers, foolishly, that horrible 
 pain in her head beating with maddening force. " I went 
 on — on. I could not come back; there was rain. It was 
 very dark. I — ** She breaks off this incoherent speech, 
 trying in a little piteous way to collect herself, and only 
 succeeding in repeating again the words she had impressed 
 upon her tired brain in a more lucid moment. ** I lost 
 my way,*' she says, slowly. 
 
 Miss Cazalet laughs out loud. 
 
 " Did Denis lose his way, too?** she asks. " It is really 
 refreshing, in such a material age as this, to hear of two 
 beings so charmingly unsophisticated. Two veritable 
 babes in the wood I" 
 
 " Be silent, girl!*' cries Mrs. 0*Shaughnessy, with 
 honest indignation. 
 
 " No. I shall not be silent. WhatI Is all her path, 
 however depraved, to be made smooth for herP*' 
 
 *' What path?" demands Nancy Blake, quickly. ** Con- 
 fess at least that your first surmise was a false one. There 
 has been no elopement.** 
 
 " I am nevertheless as firmly convinced as ever^ thai 
 
19(1 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 she, and she alone, knows why Denis » ahsent from hii 
 home. " 
 
 At the sound of Delaney's name, Korah starts violently. 
 
 **Ha! do you see that?*' cries Miss Cazalet, triumph- 
 antly. " Deny now, if you can, that she is hiding 
 something from us. ** 
 
 " Korah, dearest, try to explain," says Lady Glandore, 
 going nearer to the half-fainting girl and passing her arm 
 round her. 
 
 " Yes, do. Do, my dear! Sure a word will settle it one 
 way or the other," says Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, giving her 
 an encouraging pat on the back. 
 
 " Oh, Duchess! If there is anything to tell, teti iti" 
 entreats Miss Blake, in deep distress, being evidently on 
 the verge of tears. 
 
 But Norah is past understanding now. 
 
 ** I lost my way," she murmurs, foolishly. " It was so 
 dark, so cold. I went on, on; I lost my way." She looks 
 round her with darkening eyes and an agonized expression. 
 
 *'WhyI" exclaims Miss Cazalet, creeping slowly up to 
 her, with her head bent and gaze fixed upon Norah*8 
 gown, " what is this!" She lifts a corner of it. ** It is 
 hloodi'* she cries, shrilly. *' Blood! She has murdered 
 him. Look at her, lookl It is blood, I tell you. She has 
 killed him." 
 
 ** Don't be a fool!" says Mrs. O'Shaughnessy with more 
 force than elegance. But even as she says it her tone 
 trembles. 
 
 That Rwf al word has penetrated the mists that trouble 
 Norab's intellect; staggering to a table, she leans against 
 
THB DUCHESS. 191* 
 
 ft, and tnrns ber miserable 03^68 on madama All is for- 
 gotten now, save the memory of how she left him; all that 
 natural desire to shield herself if possible from cruel cen- 
 sure is dead witliin bar. 
 
 *' Send for him," she cries, hoarsely, holding out both 
 her hands. And then, with sharp remembrance, ** Do 
 not blamo rae! Forgiyg me I I could not help it. I — 
 He would have died — ** 
 
 She is leaning rather heavily against the tpble now — ^her 
 face is ghastly. But they are all so puzzled, so terrified by 
 ber extraordinary speech, that they forget to notice her. 
 
 Then there is a sound at the door, a quick footstep- 
 would she not know it among ten thousand? And the 
 squire enters the room. Oh I the joy of this moment A 
 Bharp exclamation breaks from her, 
 
 **0h, dadt Oh, dadl" ahe cries, wildly, and falls 
 Kuaeless into his Armg. 
 
 OHAPTEB XXVIL 
 
 "ButthoiOQi 
 Whence the love comes, all ravage leaves that wboJa 
 Vainly the flesh fades — soul makes all things new." 
 
 " Why, how is this? Look up, my lamb; my preciou* 
 Why, Norahl Why, DuchessI*' The squire, as he holds 
 his daughter's insen»ble body to his heart, appears at his 
 wit's end. He is bending over her, and is looking with 
 heart-broken anxiety into the white, worn face. Then 
 suddenly he lifts his head and gazes sternly at madams 
 •cross her body. 
 
198 tHB ouaB38& 
 
 ** What haye jon done to herP" he uks, fiercely. " 1 
 lent her to you. I trusted you. And yoa — Is this the 
 way you give her back to me?** He pauses here and looks 
 so indignantly around him that, aa Nancy Blake afterward 
 expressed it, they all went into their shoes. *' Had none 
 of you compassion on her, after all she had jtist gone 
 through?** This, of course, ig not understood by any of 
 them, and he turns back again to madame. " Answer 
 me,*' he says. " What have you done to my daughter?** 
 
 Nancy Blake and Lady Gland ore are doing what they 
 can for Norah, while madame takea a step forward and 
 confronts her brother-in-law. 
 
 " Oh, mani*' she cries, in broken accents, " yon have 
 her. She is there within your arms. But I — Where is 
 my son?*' There is tragedy in her whole air. 
 
 " Have yon not heard then? Has she not told you?*' 
 exclaims the squire, startled. " They told me to break it 
 to yon, but I thought Norah would have been able to — 
 Why, they are bringing him here. He has been hurt — 
 and—" 
 
 '* He is dead!" says madame, in a low bnt piercing tone. 
 
 ** Bless me, my dear creature, na Not a bit of it. 
 Far from it, I hope. He — There now, Norah I*' as the 
 girl opens her eyes. "Come now, there's a good girl I 
 That's right now I Look up at your old dad! He," turn- 
 ing again to madame, ** was attacked, it appears, by one 
 of those damned Land Leaguers. I really beg your par- 
 don, my dear madame — but — er — anyway " (with an airy 
 gesture) ** it was one of those damned rascals who fired at 
 Ilia, and tho ballet hit him, and bis arm — There, now, 
 
THE DUCHESS. 199 
 
 that's my own girl again. Why, Noddlekins, to think of 
 your fiiiuting at the sight of your old father." 
 
 *' Oh, his arm. What of his arm?'* asks the poor 
 mother, distractedly. 
 
 *' It— I'm afraid it's broken," says the squire, gently. 
 " But hasn't Norah told you?" 
 
 "Norahl No." They all draw closer together, 
 *' What does she know of it?" 
 
 *•' Why, bless my heart, everything," says the squire, 
 looking proudly down upon the Duchess, who now, safe in 
 the shelter of his embrace, and somewhat fortified by the 
 wine that Lady Glandore has insisted on her drinking, is 
 listening with some composure to her father's tale. 
 " Why, it was Norah who found him in that ruffian'? 
 grasp, and somehow saved him. I don't quite know all 
 about it myself yet, but, anyhow, she must have succeeded 
 in dragging him into a sort of hut that is m the woods, and 
 there she stayed with him all night, nursing him and bind- 
 ing up his wounds, and — and — covering him up from the 
 cold with her own poor little petticoats. 'Pon my soul!" 
 says the squire, two tears stealing down his cheeks, *' she's 
 a heroine, that's what she is, though I say it of my own 
 flesh and blood. " 
 
 *' Oh, Korah! But why didn't you tell us, darling?'* saya 
 madame, taking the girl in her arms and kissing her some- 
 what reproachfully. " To know he was alive — *' 
 
 Here the door is pushed open very gently, and the but- 
 ler thrusts in his hoary head. 
 
 *' If ye plaze, madame, they've brought the masther,*' 
 he begins, genuine fear and sorrow in his tone. 
 
200 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 ** Bring him in here,*' says the squire, hastily. " And 
 Bend another messenger for the doctor." 
 
 He is quite conscious as they bring him in on his im- 
 provised couch, a door covered with coats, and his first 
 word is for the mother who bends over him in speechless 
 grief. 
 
 " Dear mother! It might have been worse,*' he says, 
 feebly, with a touching attempt at the old lightness of 
 manner; and then his gaze wanders. *' Norah?" he asks. 
 
 " She is here,^* says madame, drawing her eagerly for- 
 urard; and indeed no pressure is needed. She is at his side 
 almost as soon as her name passes his lips, with love, un- 
 forbjdden, in her eyes. It seems to her now as though 
 nothing matters, and that for this one supreme moment he 
 is still her own. The influence of the past night, when he 
 was given so utterly into her keeping, is stiil strong upon 
 her, and regardless of all eyes (they are very kindly ones) 
 she kneels down beside him, and presses her lips to his 
 hand. 
 
 " You are better," she says, softly, joyfully. The mor- 
 row may give him again to Katherine. The morrow may, 
 nay it shall, take her away forever, back to her old home, 
 but just now, noWf she will hold him as her own. 
 
 *' Mother!** says Denis, turning to madame with some 
 excitement, ** she is worn out, exhausted. Don*t you see 
 it? Take her away; I give her into your charge. See to 
 her as you love her. But for her, I — " 
 
 He ceases somewhat suddenly, and falls backward^ 
 whereupon the doctor, who has providentially arrived at 
 this critical instant, pucs them all out of the room, save 
 
THE DUCHESS. 201 
 
 madaine and the squire, who proves a most efficient sur- 
 gical help. 
 
 Lad J Gland ore has carried off the Duchess and induced 
 her to go to bed; and indeed it is not until long afterward 
 that the squire learns how very near to brain fever his 
 little daughter had been. Thanks, however, to the unre- 
 mitting care of Nancy Blake, who devoted herself to her, 
 and to Lady Glandore, who surprised even herself on this 
 occasion, the danger was tided over. Soothing judicious 
 answers were given to the wild, incoherent questions — 
 spoonfuls of beef tea were administered every now and then 
 — a sleeping draught was procured from the doctor, and 
 thus the tired and over-excited brain was calmed, and finally 
 toward midnight a heavy sleep falling on her, saved her. 
 
 But a terrible cold arises out of those hours when she 
 had sat in the cabin, only half-clothed; and for weeks she 
 lies prostrate, fondly tended night and day by the squire, 
 whose very soul seems wrapped up in her, and whose only 
 comfort lies in such moments as when he can cradle her in 
 his loving arms, and feel her head nestling close against hia 
 heart. 
 
 And there, too, she loves to lie, and whisper to him, 
 when her cough permits, all sorts of things about Denis. 
 There is no shame, no thought of hiding anything from 
 her dad, in her gentle breast. He is dad^ and therefore he 
 will understand. She knows that he will believe nothing, 
 save that every thought and word and deed of his little 
 Duchess is the very purest, and sweetest and best. 
 
 None but thcsa who have experienced it can comprehend 
 ibo divine oomiort that lies in a love like thisi 
 
THE DUCHESS. 
 
 And then there comes a day when she is really better, 
 and though but a phantom of her former sprightly self, 
 still it is Norali who speaks to them, moving about lan- 
 guidly enough, heaven knows, but able to talk without 
 having to pause between every other word for the terrible 
 paroxysm of coughing to go by. 
 
 Her recover}'^, after all, has been slower than Delaney's, 
 who has pulled through rapidly, to the admiration of hia 
 doctor and nurse, and who, though he has not yet been 
 out of the house, on account of the inclemency of the 
 weather (it is now close to Christmas), has very nearly pass- 
 ed the bonds of invalidism. Yet though the time has been 
 long since he was struck down by that revengeful hand, 
 Norah and he had never yet met face to face. Indeed, 
 Dr. Morgan and the great man from Dublin have been 
 rigid in their determination to keep Denis from seeing any 
 one except his special attendants, but to-day, Katherine, 
 whose inquiries all through his illness have been unceasing 
 and very touching, and who has apparently forgotten all 
 about that acceptance of Sir Brandrum, so boldly declared 
 on a certain occasion, has wrung a rather reluctant per- 
 mission from madame to pay him a visit. 
 
 A hope that he had heard nothing of that unpleasant 
 declaration of hers yet warms Katherine's breast. A hoi)e 
 vain indeed, as Lady Glandore, who loves a little mischief, 
 has been at particular pains to make him thoroughly ac- 
 quainted with it. To do her justice, she has given a very 
 striking and graphic description of that past scene to 
 Denis, having fought her way into his room to do it. Un- 
 jiware of this, and iiui ui * ueiermination to establish th« 
 
THE DUCHESS. 203 
 
 old relations between them — the Delaney rent-roll being 
 Tery considerably in advance of Sir Brandrum's — Kuther- 
 in© one morning lays aside her work in a rather ostenta- 
 tioas manner, and rising, declares aloud, in a rather pie- 
 wedltated tone, that she is going to see Denis. 
 
 ** Are you? Lucky mortalT* says Lady Glandore, quite 
 beaming upon her. ** Kow here are all wo longing to get 
 a glimpse of him, yet are denied; whilst you — ** 
 
 *' Well, you see," says Miss Cazalet, with what is meant 
 to be a sentimental air, ** I suppose they would concede the 
 prior claim to me I" 
 
 ** Oh, naturally I To he sum! How could I have for 
 gotten that!" exclaims Lady Glandore, with so much em- 
 pressement that even Katherine regards her with a little 
 suspicion. As for the others — it is a wet day, and the 
 drawing-room is full of men and women — they all stare 
 at her as if lost in amazement at her d uplicity. 
 
 " Why, I thought,** begins Miss Blake, looking coldly 
 at Katherine, " that on the morning when we were all so 
 upset by the fact that Denis couldn't be found, that you — ** 
 
 "Tat, my good Nancyl" whispers Lady Glandore, 
 catching her frock behind and palling her down on the ot- 
 toman beside her. **Fy, fy, now I One should never i-e- 
 member such little mistakes as that" 
 
 " You are a disgraceful hypocrite," says Nancy, after a 
 pause, during which she has studied her friend with un- 
 isual severity. 
 
 " I am worth my weight in gold," responds Lady Glan- 
 dore, unabashed. " Wait till you seel She is going up to 
 Iieais with that elephantine air of sentiment fixed on bei 
 
204 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 chiseled features, and when she finds out what I have done 
 (in about twenty minutes from now, I should Bay) there 
 will be such another little game as you have never dreamed 
 oi*' 
 
 ** I wonder when we may see the Duchess," says Mr. 
 Oreene at this moment. 
 
 ** Duchess! AVhat a name that is!** said Miss Cazalet, 
 with a curling lip. " Doesn't it seem to you that — er — 
 there is almost a touch of impropriety about itf" 
 
 ** About where now?*' asks Mr. Greene, leaning for- 
 ward as if positively athirst for information. 
 
 *' No, it doesn't seem like that to any of ns," says 
 Nancy Blake, a sudden fire in her eyes. ** I should have 
 to be born all over again — born a cleverer creature— a yoii' 
 perhaps —before I could understand how to associate such 
 a word as that with our dear, brave, little Duchess." 
 
 Miss Cazalet shrugs her shoulders very slightly, very 
 gracefully, very superciliously, implying somehow by her 
 gesture that of course it is impossible to carry out an 
 argument with such an unfortunately mannered person as 
 Miss Blake, and leaves the room. 
 
 " What a way she talks of Norah,** says the latter, her 
 charming eyes still aflame, turning to Lord Kilgarriff, 
 who, as usual, is at her elbow. They are walking toward 
 the conservatory. 
 
 ** She is abominable,*' says Kilgarriff, warmly. 
 
 " Who?" demands Nancy, with pardonable puzzlement, 
 standing still beside a giant palm. 
 
 "Why, Miss Cazalet, of course. Sarely you did not 
 think I meant the dear Duchessl" 
 
THE DtJCHESS. 205 
 
 " No." She seems rather taken np by the shape of the 
 palm leaf nearest her for a moment or two, and then says 
 Blowly: 
 
 ** Foil would take Norah's part, of course?" 
 
 " Well, why shouldn't I? She is one of the oldegi 
 friends I have." 
 
 "More than that," thoughtfully, resting a piercing 
 glance on him. " You don't forget, do you?** 
 
 " Forget what?" 
 
 ** All you told me when we were abroad last summer." 
 
 ** About Norah?" desperately. "No, why should 1 
 forget? It is all over now, and no harm done to her or to 
 me." 
 
 " Are you so sure of that — the last, I meanP" 
 
 " You ought to be a very good judge. Toa who know 
 how I—" 
 
 " Pouf, youVe said all that so often, but — about Norah, 
 now — " edging round the palm, and glancing at him every 
 now and then through the parted leaves. " You onco 
 asked her to marry you, didn't you? And,** provokingly, 
 " she wouldn't have you, eh?*' 
 
 " Well, I couldn't help that," defiantly. ** That wasn't 
 my fault, though you may despise me for it. And, as 1 
 said before, it is all over now, and," taking a turn round 
 the palm, with an agility that brings him very close to 
 Miss Blaks, before she can manage a second escape — " the 
 real question is what you think of it all I" He has im- 
 prisoned her hands, and is looking into her face with saffi* 
 cient anxiety to satisfy most women. 
 
 *' 1 atujok she was a looll" says Miss Blake, with d»nQ« 
 
206 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 Sng simplicity, and the very coyest; little glance in Uk 
 world. 
 That settles iti 
 
 CHAPTER XXVm. 
 
 •• Bat certain points, left wholly to himself 
 When once a man has arbitrated on, 
 We say we must succeed there, or go hang: 
 Thus, he should wed the woman he lOves most, 
 Or needs most — " 
 
 So tender, so careful is Miss Cazalet's footstep, that 
 almost one might believe she walks on tiptoe, as she enters 
 Delaney's room. 
 
 *' Dear Denis, I am so grieved to see yon still so en- 
 feebled," she says, bending over him, with as much lover« 
 like ardor as she can manage. " I have so longed to come 
 to you, to minister to you. But — " She makes a dramatic 
 pause. 
 
 " Well, KatheriueP'* asks he, in a most uncomfortably 
 matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 "So many things were to be considered — so many 
 things had happened." 
 
 ** True,*' says he, determined to treat the interview as a 
 purely friendly one, if possible. ** There was the arrest of 
 the man Moloney, for example, who, it appears, has con- 
 fessed himself the mnrderer of poor Meredith — a thing I 
 suspected all along." 
 
 ** Ah! you are so clever 1" interposes she, sweetly. 
 
 ** Father Doolin, I suppose you heard, wrote to me 
 about it Good man (he is that!), though shocked a4 tlM 
 
IHE DUCHESS. 20'» 
 
 fliscovery of that black sheep in his fold, he was, I believe 
 at heart glad at the very thought that on his arrest I 
 would redeem my promise and show meroy to the rest of 
 tlie flock." 
 
 " But you disappointed him?*' says she, smiling bland- 
 ly. " I know the stern justice that distinguishes you. 
 You were not taken in by his Jesuitical letter; you felt that 
 those ill-coaditioued tenants should be taught a lesson 
 that—" 
 
 " Ko, I didn't," says he, calmly. " I consider that 
 their punishment has gone deep enough; and, of course, I 
 kept to my word. I remitted all past rents, and gave 
 further reductions to most, and now all is peace and har- 
 mony between me and my tenants, so long as it lasts." 
 
 *' Tills new bill," begins she, to carry oil a certain feel- 
 ing of defeat that is hot within her. 
 
 ** The breakage of leases, you mean. Well, it won't 
 rnin me. I thank my stars I have better irons in the fire 
 than Irish acres. But indeed we do seem to have come to 
 that socialistic pitch in this greenest of green isles when no 
 man may dare to call his soul his own, lest he be required 
 to divide it with his neighbor." 
 
 " True, true," says Miss Cazalet, hastily. It was hard- 
 ly to h'sten to uninteresting speeches of this sort that she 
 had made her way to his room. ** But pray do not let 
 your mind wander to such disturbing topics. I am sure," 
 sentimentally, '* it must oe so very bad for you; and as I 
 am here, installed as head nurse for the moment, as it 
 were," with baly playfulness, **I must insist on my 
 patient being very careful, lest I should loso the predoca 
 
208 IHB rrcHESs. 
 
 chance of visiting him ag^in. Dear Denis, yoa can not 
 conceive bow I have pined to come to you. I felt hoir yoa 
 must be missing me, but they said it would be imprudent, 
 my coming, above all others *' — this is a bold stroke — '* so 
 Bure to excite you, and — and I would not, of course, even 
 v^iah anything where your valued health was concerned." 
 • This awful speech, so labored, so plainly prearranged, 
 draws a sound that is suspiciously like a groan from the 
 luckless Denis. He turns his head suddenly, and fixes his 
 eyes on hers with an expression in them that startles her. 
 
 *' I was right, was I not, dearest?'* she goes on rather 
 uncertainly, puzzled by that new expression. *' I did long 
 to be with you; but — but no doubt you have heard — ** 
 
 ** Yes, I have heard a good deal,** interrupts he, calm- 
 ly; " of your engagement to Sir Brandrnm, for instance, 
 among other thingsl" 
 
 For once her savoir faire entirely forsakes her. 
 
 ** Who told you?*' she exclaims, as artlessly as might « 
 maiden of fifteen, and then, collecting herself with a very 
 admirable audacity, attempts to give a satisfactory ending 
 to her deplorable beginning. " Ah I that was the work of 
 a moment, of one miserable moment; when — ^I confess it 
 all to you, Denis, with deepest remorse — I had actually 
 dared to doubt your — your honor," (Immense telling 
 stress on the last word.) " But, come now,** shaking off 
 the penitent mood, and making a heavy attempt at arch- 
 ness, " confess in your turn. Say, at least, that I had 
 some cause for my foolish jealousy. Though " — magnani- 
 mously — ** of course, that absurd little affair is of no mo« 
 meat really, and you must know, yoa must think, that—** 
 
THE DUCHESS. 209 
 
 * What I think and Know is tudt you will keep to your 
 last engagement," says Delaney, immovably, 
 
 " Ah! you are angry with me!'* exclaims she, plaint* 
 ively, clasping her hands in the most approved fashion. 
 At this instant the solid coin of The Delaney seems to her 
 incomparably more to be desired than the comparatively 
 empty coffers that accompany the title of Sir Brandrum. 
 
 " One word, Kathleen,*' says Delaney, grimly. (It is 
 to be now or never, he tells himself.) **Yon, of your 
 own accord, smashed the extremely heavy chain that 
 bound us, and I think it better to let you understand once 
 for all that I decline to forge it agam.*' 
 
 ** You mean — ?" says she, choking with suppressed 
 rage, indignation, and supreme disappointment. 
 
 *' Exactly what I have said.** 
 
 " A little more, I think,*"' vindictively. " You mean 
 to marry that girl, that ad — " 
 
 ** Kot a word about Korah!*' interposes he, with a 
 frown so stern that it checks her. " Of yourself,** re- 
 covering himself, and smiling lightly, *' as much as you 
 will. When,'* with a direct glance, " do you marry Sir 
 Brandrum?** 
 
 *' Next month* in all probabilify," with a defiant curl of 
 the lip. 
 
 " So soon?" 
 
 " To forget yon, you would say?*' with a bitter laugh. 
 ** But believe me, my dear cousin, it will be an easier task 
 than perhaps you imagine. Oh, yes, I accept the inevita- 
 Dle," with a shrug. ** 1 shall not pose even in private at 
 a lovelorn damself 
 
210 THE DUCHES& 
 
 ** M} efear girl I Tohaveerea a doabt on thoBubject 
 woald be indeed not to know you. I quite understand 
 that all through our — our knowledge of each other — I was 
 regarded by you— and very properly too — as one distinctly 
 beneath your level. I honestly believe,** pleasantly, 
 " that you regard this torn of the affair as a happy re^ 
 lease from — " 
 
 " Well, I wish you joy of Norah, at all events," says 
 she, interrupting him with a brasqueness foreign to her. 
 She has risen, and is looking down at him, a distinctly 
 venomous gleam in her pale eyes. 
 
 *' That's so like youl Thanks very muchi" returns 
 he, graciousness itself. '^ One naturally likes to be con- 
 gratulated on occasions such as this. It is very good of 
 you, but of course old friends, cousins, as we are, it is 
 only what I might have — ** 
 
 The door slamming with rather undue haste terminates 
 the sentence. 
 
 " I thank my stars that's overl" says Delaney, with a 
 heart-felt sigh. 
 
 He goes back to his reading, but somehow the flavo'- has 
 gone out of it. A sense of discontent, of impatience, 
 seizes hold of him, and troubles him to such an extent 
 that finally he flings away his paper and gives way to the 
 one til ught that for days has been tormenting him. If 
 Katherine — if the others — are permitted to see him, why 
 may not Xorah come, so that he may see ^r? Ob, the 
 tender joy of that thought! To see her face to face, to 
 look again into her eyes, with no hateful barrier to check 
 
THE DUCHESS. 211 
 
 the love-light in his own. She is so very mnch better, so 
 nearly strong again, that it seems to him she might be 
 trusted to visit him for a fevr short minutes — half an hour 
 or so. It is altogether absurd the way in which these doc- 
 tors are domineering over him, forbidding him to move ex- 
 cept at stipulated moments, or else he would go and find 
 her, were she ever so Jealously guarded. But as it is, and 
 as madanie has told him only this morning that she is so 
 far herself again that she is to go down-stairs to-morrow, 
 surely, surely, of her grace she will come to him if he peti- 
 tion her. Not to-day, perhaps — not even to-morrow — but— 
 
 To ring a bell, to bring the devoted mother to his side, 
 to explain to her his hopes and longings, to gain her e*«r 
 to his views, is but the work of a few minutes. 
 
 " She is not very strong yet, darling; you must remwm 
 ber that. I am afraid you will be a little troubled by iho 
 change in her. And if she comes, Denis, you must be 
 very, very careful not to unnerve her in any way, because 
 she is still — well — rather unstrung, you know, since that 
 awful night." 
 
 " I know. Perhaps, after all, mother, it would be bet- 
 ter for her not to come. I can wait. In a few days, at all 
 events, 1 shall be able to go to her, and — " 
 
 " I don't think I am afraid of her meeting yon, only I 
 would have you be careful! Indeed, I was talking to Dr. 
 Morgan yesterday, and he agreed with me that if she were 
 to see you it might have the effect of allaying this danger- 
 ous nervousness that is retarding her recovery. So, if yoq 
 think, dearest, that she might come now. it woold be worth 
 while, I think, to try the experime&t.'* 
 
212 THE DUCHBSS. 
 
 ** Ncw^. now? This momenti Oh! mother! do yen 
 really mean that?' * 
 
 " Certainly not,** severely. ** If yon are going to wor| 
 yourself into a fever over it." 
 
 '* NoQsensel I*m as cool as a cacnmber! The only 
 thing that could bring on a fever now would be your going 
 back of your blessed suggestion; so hurry, if you love me^ 
 and give Norah this message from me : * That I shall never 
 be a bit better than I am now until I look upon her face 
 again. * " 
 
 It is a message that touches the Duchess. Perhaps she 
 had been secretly longing for some such token, because 
 when she gets it she rises up out of the deep lounging-chair 
 in which her little fragile form is almost hidden, and with a 
 silent embrace bestowed upon the gentle madame, she slips 
 her arm into hers, and goes with her down the long south- 
 ern corridor and past the gallery into the western wing 
 where Denis perforce dwells. 
 
 Here madame, stopping at the door of his sitting-room, 
 presses the girl's arm fondly and walks deliberately away. 
 They must settle matters in their own fashion, without her 
 or any one*s interference. 
 
 And Norah, opening the door of her consin's room with 
 a trembling hand, walks slowly in. In the heavy, close- 
 fitting gown of white serge she wears, and with her pale 
 little face spiritualized by illness, she seems almost an 
 angel visitor, as she stands just inside the door, oncertain, 
 motionless, hardly krcwing what to do. 
 
tax DUCHESS. SIS 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 *'Oh, what a dawn of day! 
 Bow the !March Bun feels like May! 
 All is blue again 
 After last night's rain." 
 
 " Flower o' the broom. 
 
 Take away love and our earth is a tomb.** 
 • ••••• 
 
 ** Ah, at last! At such a long last I*' cries Denis, hold« 
 ing oat to her his hand — the left one; the other is still 
 bound up, but one can see that it has made great strides 
 toward recovery. He makes an effort to rise, as if to go to 
 her, but with a little exclamation Norah checks him. A 
 Boft flush springs into her cheeks, but as it dies away again, 
 and as she draws nearer to the couch on which he is lying, 
 he can see, by the fuller light that now shines on her, the 
 sad ravages that illness and nervous depression have made 
 on her charming face. 
 
 She looks so fragile, so pale, Bnch a little thing, that al- 
 most it seems to him as if an idle breath of wind mighS 
 blow her away forever. But her smile is brilliant as she 
 turns it on him, and the eyes are the same as of old, so 
 sweet, so tender, so loving. 
 
 ** You are looking very ill still," she says, gently, gaz- 
 ing gravely down at him. ** Yet they told me yoa were 
 almost well." 
 
 " T^y told yon the bare trath. So I am. Better thao 
 
214 THB DUCHESS. 
 
 yoa are, my darling, I fear. But time will work wonders 
 for us both. As for me, I should be quite well by this had 
 you been able to come to me. Well, never mind, I have 
 yoa now, at all events. Come here and sit beside me.** 
 
 He moves inward on his couch, making room there where 
 the may sit, so that his good arm may comfortably go 
 round her slender — alas! now how terribly slender — form. 
 She takes no notice of this friendly arrangement, however, 
 but drawing up a chair to a discreet distance from the 
 couch, seats herself thereon. 
 
 ** Not there 1 Why, I can scarcely see yoa there l" ex- 
 claims he, in an aggrieved tone. " And besides, that chair 
 — why, it is the only uncomfortable one in the room.'* 
 
 " It will do; it is very nice indeed, thank you,** replies 
 she, hurriedly. 
 
 " For you, yes. But for me? Korah, don't let me 
 learn for the first time that you are by nature selfish. I 
 tell you I can't exist if you stay over there. I shall have 
 to get up and bring you over here, and any exertion in my 
 present state, as you may have heard, would be fatal. The 
 doctors have made a very special point of this. Well," 
 rising on his elbow preparatory to standing, ** of course, if 
 you won't come, I—" 
 
 ** No, no — don't stir," says the Duchess, nervously, 
 who, though only half believing him, is still a little 
 frightened. She gets up from the discreet chair and seats 
 herself this second time where he would have her be. 
 He lifts one of her little hands, now no longer brown aa 
 autumn berries, but white as a fiake of snow, and would 
 have pressed it to his lips. She shrinks from him. 
 
THE DUCHESS. 213 
 
 " Oh, have you f orgotter*? " she says, reproachfully, tears 
 rising to her lovely eyes. 
 
 " Indeed no. Nothing. I shall never forget anything 
 connected with you." 
 
 " Never mind me. There — there is still Katherino.'* 
 
 ** So there is, andloug may she wave; but she will never 
 have anything to do with you or me, my sweet. Why, 
 have you heard nothing, then? Has the mater, that most 
 womanly of all women, actually kept a secret? You really 
 don't know, then?** 
 
 "Know what?" faintly. 
 
 ** Of Katherine*s new matrimonial scheme. Why, she 
 has thrown me over ** — with a happy laugh — " and i. now 
 engaged to Sir Brandrum Boileau. She is to be married to 
 him, I hear, next month." 
 
 The lips of the Duchess grow a little white. 
 
 ** Oh, is it true?" she cries, clasping her hands. There 
 is honest hope in her eager voice. Her eyes dilate. 
 
 ** As true as that you and I are here together now and 
 shall be together for the rest of our lives,*' says he, gently. 
 
 " Oh, then I may indeed love yon now,** cries she, so in- 
 nocently, with such a sweet glad tremor in her tone, that 
 all his heart goes out to her. 
 
 ** If you only will, my beloved,*' he answers, softly, with 
 endued but earnest passion. He draws her closer to him, 
 and as if a little tired she yields to his embrace and lays 
 her head upon the silken cnshlon where his head lies, her 
 little pale cheeks resting contentedly against his. 
 
 " Are you happy?" asks he presently, in a low whisper. 
 
 '* Happy!" scomfolly. " Ko» that does not explain it. 
 
816 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 There is no word in any language that can tell yoa how I 
 feel.'* There is the sweetest abandonment in her manner. 
 
 " My darling!" Then he laughs a little out ofthe full- 
 ness of his heart, and presses her closer to him. '* I do 
 think you are the most satisfactory little sweetheart in the 
 world," he says, with a touch of reverence in his tone, 
 born of the innocence that marks each word and action of 
 her. ** But," regarding intently her little, wan face, 
 *' how thin you are, my lovel I don't like to see you look 
 like this. It makes me feel as though I had killed you. 
 By the by, Korah,*' impulsively, as though the thought had 
 just returned to him, "do you ever think of that night 
 when you saved my life?*' 
 
 The moment the words are uttered he regrets them— 
 but too late. She starts hurriedly into a more upright 
 position, and her white face grows almost ghastly. 
 
 " DonHP' she says, laying her hand upon his chest, as 
 
 though to keep him from her. ** Don't speak of that. I 
 
 can't bear it. It hurts me here,** catching the bosom of 
 
 her gown in a convulsive grasp. Rising abruptly, she 
 
 moves away a little, and her eyes grow strangely bright. 
 
 ** Kever mind, darling. Don*t think of it,*' says De- 
 laney, in a low, quick tone; something in her whole air 
 has frightened him. 
 
 " Oh! that I couldnH thinki" cries she. ** But it is al- 
 ivays there. Always! It stands out before me just as it 
 hapj)ened. I see — I hear — everything. The ring of the 
 bullet — the man's grasp upon your throat — that murder- 
 ous weapon uplifted — the blood trickling down your faoCj 
 and tiie rain — the rain falling ceaselessly — " 
 
THE DUCHESS. 217 
 
 She stops short; a strong shudder runs through her frail 
 frame, and lier breath conaes in little gasps from between 
 her parted lips. 
 
 " And then that long awful night. When there — living 
 through it— it seemed nothing, but now I wonder how it 
 was I lived.*' 
 
 *' Norah! Come here/** says Delaney, authorijative^y. 
 
 *' No. Let mo speak. All this time 1 i.afo feh tnab I 
 must give voice to my past misery, bat there was no one 
 to whom I could unburden my mind." 
 
 *' Was thero not my mother?*'^ 
 
 " I tried, but I could not. Thero was no}y'r3.j bat you, 
 1 suppose/* says she, with a mournful eimplicfcy. *' Bnic 
 what troubles me is this,^' cries she,- turnii:^ her large, 
 soft eyes wildly on him, " why I must speak at ail; why 5.1; 
 is not permitted to me to forget. Oh! the cruel agony of 
 remembrance. Those moments when I thought you c'ead; 
 when I half feared to lean over you, lest I should find your 
 breath was indeed gone — that you were gone— forever; 
 they remain with me, I can not drive them from me. 
 They do not come all together, those moments, but one by 
 one, dragging my very heart from my breast. At night,*' 
 panting, *' I lie awake and go over it a!., bit by b't, list« 
 ening to your labored sighs, waiting for your last breath, 
 until I sometimes think it will .^w me.*' 
 
 She is trembling convulsively h every limb, and her 
 eyes, large and brilliant, are filled with a strange fire. 
 Delaney, who has by the aid of his stick brought liimself 
 to a standing position, now goes over to her, and placing 
 bis good arm round her, draws her back with him to.whero 
 
S18 TBB orcHsaf 
 
 he had been sitting. Still quivering, and totally nnnervod, 
 she obeys his unspoken request, and sinking upon the 
 coach beside him, makes a Tiolent effort to controlo her- 
 self. 
 
 ** I know," she says, in a TCMce of deepest contrition — 
 ** I know I should not agitate yoo. I should be calm for 
 your sake; but — " 
 
 " Just so," says he, gravely, ** I am naturally the one 
 person to be considered. If you agitate me any more I 
 "won't answer for the consequences." 
 
 *' Then do not talk to me of that,** says she, with a 
 little plaintive sob. 
 
 *' Certainly not. We shall talk of something altogether 
 different, " says he, quietly fixing an observant eye on her. 
 " There are many other subjects, are there not? You 
 can tell me, for example, of the world outside. It seems 
 quite an age since I saw it, except from the window, which 
 is but a poor way of doing things." 
 
 " You forget I have not been out much either. This 
 troublesome cough has kept me prisoner. But yesterday, 
 and one day last week, dad took me for a little stroll, just 
 we two, you know, round the inner garden." 
 
 *' Ah! But even so, you are better off than I am. 
 However, a secret for you! I am to go out to-morrowpand 
 next week I am to be shifted off to the south of France, 
 simply, I firmly believe, to satisfy the mother, who still 
 thinks me at the point of death; and because the doctor 
 must order me something. By the bye. Duchess," smil- 
 ing, while still regarding her keenly, ** will you come 
 there with meP" 
 
THE DUCHESS. Sl'J 
 
 *' Oh, how can I? i am afraid dad would never go so 
 far as that. '' 
 
 " Let us leave him at home, then, and the mother too. 
 I have reasons for knowing that she would positively hate 
 going abroad at this time of year. What I mean is, will 
 you marry me in a hurry, darling, and come with me to 
 that nice soft climate (which they say is sure to set us both 
 up again in no time) and help to nurse me?" 
 
 He is growing rather anxious, now. Will she consent? 
 As for the nursing, it seems to him that it is he who will 
 have to do most of that. But will she consent?'* 
 
 " To nurse you; to be always with you," says she, in a 
 soft, low, dreamy voice. " Oh, Denis! do you think dad 
 will let me?'' A quick, sweet flush has risen to her cheeks; 
 there is a wealth of loving joy in her eyes. 
 
 *'He shall, if only you consent. You will come with 
 me, then?" bending toward her, a world of delighted 
 surprise in his glance. 
 
 " Come?" reproachfully. " Why? Did you think I 
 wouldn't, then? There is, however, one other thing 
 more," says she, presently, a little troubled frown on her 
 brow. *' When people get married, you know — they also 
 get trousseaus, and — in a iceeh — '^ 
 
 **Is that all? Tut!" cries he, with a happy laugh, 
 drawing her head down upon his breast. ** Let them send 
 our trousseaus after us — ^it will give them something to 
 da" 
 
The Harvard 13mos. 
 
 This series comprises one liumiri'il titles of stiinJard popular fiction. Printed from 
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 PRICE, 50 CENTS PER VOLUME. 
 
 Admiral's Ward. By Mrs. Alexander. 
 Aurora Flovd. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 
 Bachelor's Blunder, A. By W. E. Norris. 
 Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By Rosa N. 
 
 Carey. 
 Bondman, The. By Hall Caine. 
 Broken Wedding King. By Charlotte M. 
 
 Braeme. 
 Captain of the Pole-Star. By A. Conan 
 
 Doyle. 
 Chandos. By"Ouida." 
 Charles OMalley. By Charles Lever. 
 Cherry Ripe. By Helen B. Mathers. 
 Children of Gibeon. By Walter Besant. 
 Comin' Thro' the Rj'e. By Helen B. 
 
 Mathers. 
 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. Blackmore. 
 Daughter of an Empress. By Louisa 
 
 Muhlbach. 
 Deemster, The. By Hall Caine. 
 Dick's Sweetheart. By "The Duchess." 
 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester. 
 Dora Thome. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 
 Duchess, The. By "The Duchess." 
 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 
 Firm "of Girdlestone. By A. Conan 
 
 Doyle. 
 First Violin. By Jessie Fothergill. 
 For Faith and Freedom. By W. Besant. 
 Gk)od-Bye, Sweetheart. By Rhoda 
 
 Broughton . 
 Geod Luck. By E. Werner. 
 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alexander. 
 Heriot's Choice. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 House of the Wolf. By S. J. Weyman. 
 1 Have Lived and Loved. By Mrs. 
 
 Forrester. 
 In the Golden Days. By Edna Lyall. 
 In the Heart of the Storm. By Maxwell 
 
 Grey. 
 In the Schillingscourt. By E. Marlitt. 
 It is Never Too Late to Mend. By 
 
 Charles Reade. 
 Jack's Courtship. By W. Clark Russell. 
 June. Bv Mrs. Forrester. 
 Kit and Kitty. By R. D. Blackmore. 
 Lady Audley's Secret. By Miss M. E. 
 
 Braddon . 
 Lamplighter, The. By Maria S. Cummins. 
 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Blackmore. 
 Louise de la VaUiere. By Alexandre 
 
 Dumas. 
 Madcap Violet. By WiUiam Black. 
 Maid of Sker. By R. D. Blackmore. 
 Man In the Iron Mask. By Alexandre 
 
 Dumas. 
 Marooned. By W. Clark Russell. 
 Michael Strogoflf . By Jules Verne. 
 Midshipman Easy. Bv Captain Marryat 
 Mohawks, The. Bv Miss M. E. Braddon. 
 Molly Bawn . By " the Duchess . " 
 Monsieur Lecoq. By Eaiile Gaboriau. 
 Mrs. Geoffrey. By '"The Duchess." 
 
 My Lord and My Lady. By Mrs. 
 
 Forrester. 
 My Shipmate Louise. By W. C. Russell. 
 Nellie's Memories. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 Not Like Other Gii'ls. By Rosa N. 
 
 Carey. 
 Old Myddleton's Money. By Mary Cecil 
 
 Hay. 
 Page of the Duke of Savoy. By Alex- 
 andre Dumas. 
 Pathfindei-s, The. By J. F. Cooper. 
 Phyllis. Bv " The Duchess. " 
 Pioneers, Tne. By J. Fenimore Cooper. 
 Prairie, The. By J. Fenimore Cooper. 
 Princess of Thule. By William Black. 
 Put Yourself in His Place. By Charles 
 
 Reade. 
 Queenie's ^Vhim. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 Repented at Leisure. By Charlotte M. 
 
 Braeme. 
 Robert Ord's Atonement. By Rosa N. 
 
 Carey. 
 Romance of Two Worlds. By Marie 
 
 Corelli . 
 Saint Michael. Bj'E. Werner. 
 Second Wife. By E. Marlitt. 
 Shadow of a Crime. By Hall Caine. 
 Shaudon Bells. By Wilhara Black. 
 Springhaven. By R. D. Blackmore. 
 Spy. The. By J- Fenimore Cooper. 
 Strathmore. By " Ouida." 
 Study in Scarlet. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 Thelma. By Marie CorelU. 
 Thorns and Orange Blossoms. By 
 
 Charlotte.,M . Braeme. 
 Three Men in a Boat. By Jerome K. 
 
 Jerome. 
 Tents of Shem. By Grant Allen. 
 Ten Years Later. By Alexandre Dumas. 
 Tom Cringle's Log. By Michael Scott. 
 Tricotrin. By "Oulda." 
 Trumpet Major, The. By Thos. Hardy. 
 Twin Lieutenants. Bj' Alexandre Dmnas. 
 Two Admirals. By J. F. trooper. 
 Two on a Tower. By Thomas Hardy. 
 Uncle Tom's Cabin. By Hari-iet B. Stowe. 
 Under Two Flags. By "Ouida." 
 Vendetta. By Marie Corelli. 
 Vicomte D'Bragelonne. By Alexandre 
 
 Dumas. 
 Wanda. By "Ouida." 
 Wee Wifie. By Rosa Nouchette 
 
 Carey. 
 WTiite Company. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 White Wings. By William Black. 
 Widow Lerouge. By Emile Gaboriau. 
 Won by Waiting. By Edua Lyall. 
 Wooing O't, The. By Mrs. Alexander. 
 Wooed and Married. By Rosa N. Cai-ey. 
 Wormwood. By 3Iarie "Corelli. 
 Wreck of the Gi'osvenor. By W. Clark 
 
 BusseU. 
 Yolande . By Wilham Black . 
 
 For Sale by all Booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of price by 
 the publisher, A. L ^URT, 97 Beade Street, Kew TorJc. 
 
THE MANHATTAN LIBRARY. 
 
 New Series. Standard Works. Popular Authors. 
 
 Each Number Complete in One Volume, 
 
 Price 25 cents per copy. 
 
 The numbers in this series will be published semi-weekly, well printed on good 
 paper, bound with neat paper covers, and sewed in the back, so each book will 
 open flat. 
 
 1— A Romance of Two Worlds. By 
 
 Blarie Corelli. 
 S— Lorna Dooae. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 3— The Wreck of the Grosvenor. By 
 
 W. Clark Russell. 
 4 — The First Violin. By Jessie 
 
 Fotherxill. 
 5— The Bride of the Nile. By (Jeorge 
 
 Ebers. 
 6— The White Company. By A. 
 
 Conan Doyle. 
 7— On the Heights. By Berthold 
 
 Auerbach. 
 8 — It is Never too Late to Mend. By 
 
 Charles Reade. 
 9-The Maid of Sker. By R. D. 
 
 Blackmore. 
 10— Thelma. By Marie Corelli. 
 
 11— Uarda, 
 12- 
 
 By George Ebers. 
 Freedom. 
 
 By 
 
 For Faith and 
 
 Walter Besant. 
 13— Far from the Madding Crowd. 
 
 By Thomas Hardy. 
 14— The Three Guardsmen. By 
 
 Alexander Dumas. 
 15— File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau. 
 
 16— Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
 ander. 
 17— Gold Elsie. By E. Marhtt. 
 
 18 — Shandon 
 
 Black. 
 19— Armadale, 
 
 Bells. By William 
 By Wilkie Collins. 
 SO- -The Bondman. By Hall Caine. 
 
 21- Under Two Flags. By " Ouida.'" 
 
 22- -Phyllis. By ' ' The Duchess. ' ' 
 
 23—1 have Uved and loved. By Mrs. 
 
 Forrester. 
 24— The Countess of Rudolstadt. By 
 
 George Sand. 
 25 — The Silence of Dean Maitland. 
 
 By Maxwell Grey. 
 
 26— Springhaven. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 27— Yolande. By WilUam Black. 
 
 28— Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. 
 
 Braddon. 
 29— Consuelo. By George Sand. 
 
 30- 
 
 By 
 
 Barbara Heathcote's Trial. 
 Rosa N. Carey. 
 31— Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
 lins. 
 32— Wormwood. By Marie Corelli. 
 
 By A. Conan 
 "Tha 
 By 
 
 33— A Study in Scarlet. 
 
 Doyle. 
 34 — ^Airy Fairy Lilian. By 
 
 Duchess." 
 35 — The Burgomaster's Wife. 
 
 Gteorge Ebers. 
 36— Twenty Years After. By Alex^ 
 
 andre Dumas. 
 37— My Lord and My Lady. By Mrs. 
 
 Forrester. 
 38— Jack's Courtship. By W. Clark 
 
 Russell. 
 39— Monsieur Lecoq. By Emilo 
 
 Gaboriau. 
 40— A Pair of Blue Eyes. By Thomas 
 
 Hardy. 
 41— Old Myddelton's Money. By 
 
 Mary Cecil Hay. 
 42— The Story of a Clergyman's 
 
 Daughter. By W. Heimburg. 
 43— Westward Ho. By Charles Kings- 
 ley. 
 44— Charles O'Malley. By Charles 
 
 Lever. 
 46— Donovan. By Edna Lyall. 
 
 46 — Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
 lotte M. Braeme. 
 
 47— Donal Grant. By George Mao- 
 donald. 
 
 48— The Second Wife. By E. Marhtt. 
 
 49— Comin'' Thro' the Rye. By Helen 
 
 B. Mathers. 
 50 — John Halifax, Gientleman. By 
 
 Miss Mulock. 
 
 ForsaUbyaU Booksellers and Newsdealers, or ivill be sent post-paid on 
 receipt of price by the publisher, A, X. BURT, 97 Meade Street, New 
 York, Price So cents per cojfj. 
 
THE MANHATTAN LIBRARY. 
 
 New Series. Standard Works. Popular Authors. 
 
 Each yutnbcr Complete in One Volume. 
 
 Price 25 cents per copy. 
 
 The numbers in this series will be published semi-weekly, well printed on goo^l 
 paper, bound with neat paper covers, and sewed in the back, so each book will 
 open flat. 
 
 51— The Trumpet-Major. By Thomas 
 
 Hardy. 
 53— Wanda. By"Ouida." 
 
 5.3— Put Yourself in His Place. By 
 
 Charles Reade. 
 54— Marooned. By W. Clark Russell. 
 
 65— The Prime Minister. By Anthony 
 
 Trollopo. 
 66— Saint Michael. By E. Werner. 
 
 57— East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 
 Wood. 
 
 68— The Heir of Redclyffe. By Char- 
 lotte M. Youge. 
 
 59— Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 
 N. Carey. 
 
 60— The Vicomte de Bragelonne. By 
 Alexandre Dumas. 
 
 6l_We Two. By Edna LyaU. 
 
 62— Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 
 6a— The Admiral's Ward. By Mrs. 
 Alexander. 
 
 64— The Deemster. By Hall Caine. 
 
 65 — Ten Years Later. By Alexandre 
 
 Dumas. 
 66— A Princess of Thule. By Wilham 
 
 Black. 
 67— Her Only Brother. By W. Heim- 
 
 burg. 
 68— The Tents of Shem. By Grant 
 
 Allen. 
 69— Two on a Tower. By Thomas 
 
 Hardy. 
 70— An Egyptian Princess. By George 
 
 Ebers. 
 71— Mrs. Geoffrey. By " The Duchess. 
 
 72— A Hardy Norseman. By Edna 
 LyaU. 
 
 73 — Louise de la ValliSre. By Alexan- 
 dre Dumas. 
 
 74— The Weaker Vessel. By David 
 Christie Murray. 
 
 75 — Very Hard Cash. By Charles 
 Reade. 
 
 76— Hypatia. 
 
 By Charles Kingsley. 
 By Mrs. Alex- 
 
 77— The Wooing O't. 
 auder. 
 
 78— The Moonstone. By Wilkie Col- 
 lins. 
 
 79— Cliildren of Gibeou. By Walter 
 Besant. 
 
 80— Vendetta, or The Story of One 
 Forgotten. By JIarie Corelli. 
 
 81 — Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 
 82— Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 
 Lever. 
 
 83— My Shipmate Louise. By W. 
 Clark Russell. 
 
 84— The Man in the Iron Mask. By 
 Alexandre Dumas. 
 
 85— Won by Waiting. By Edna Lyall. 
 
 86— Tricotrin. By " Ouida." 
 87 — Dolores. Bj' Mrs. Forrester. 
 
 88— Kit and Kittj'. ByR. D. Black- 
 more. 
 
 89— Robert Ord's Atonement. By 
 Rosa N. Carev. 
 
 90— Shirley. By Charlotte Bronte, 
 
 91— A Bachelor's Blunder. By W. 
 
 E. Norris. 
 92 — Thorns and Orange Blossoms. By 
 
 Charlotte M. Braeme. 
 93— In the Golden Days. By Edna 
 
 LyaU. 
 94~The Squire's Legacy. By Mary 
 
 Cecil Hay. 
 95— No Name. By Wilkie CoUins. 
 
 By Miss M. E. Brad- 
 By Rosa N. 
 
 96— Mohawks 
 
 don. 
 97 — Nellie's Memories. 
 
 Carey. 
 98— The Emperor. By George Ebers, 
 
 99- 
 
 -Dick's Sweetheart. By "The 
 Duchess." 
 100— Cradock NoweU. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 
 For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or iviU be sent post-paid on 
 receipt of price by the publisher. A, £. HURT, 97 Heade Street, New 
 Torh, JPrice 35 cents per copy. 
 
THE MANHATTAN LIBRARY. 
 
 New Series. Standard "Works. Popular Authors. 
 
 Each Nutuher Cottiplete in One Volume. 
 
 Price 25 cents per copy. 
 
 The numbers in this series will be pubhslied weekly, well printetl on good paper, 
 bound with neat paper covers, and sewed in the back, so each book will open flat. 
 
 By 
 
 101— Micah Clarke. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 10-'~(;ood Luck. By E. Werner. 
 
 lUJ-Love Jle Little, Love Me Long. 
 
 Hy t'harles Reade. 
 I(.i4— Strathuiore. By "Ouida." 
 
 105 -In the Counselor's House. By E. 
 Marlitt. 
 
 100— Wooed and Married. By Rosa N. 
 Carey. 
 
 (07— Cherry Ripe. By Helen B. Math- 
 ers. 
 
 108— The Shadow of a Crime. By Hall 
 Caine. 
 
 109— The Woodlanders. By Thomas 
 Haniy. 
 
 110— Queenie"s Wliim. By Rosa N. 
 Carey. 
 
 Ill— 3Iatriniony. By W. E. Xorris. 
 
 113— The Sin of Joost AveUngh. By 
 
 Maarteu .^laartens. 
 113— Fair Women. By Mrs. Forrester. 
 
 114- White Wings. By Wm. Black. 
 
 115— Armorel of Lyonesse. By Walter 
 Besatit. 
 
 116— Pere Cforiot. By Honore De 
 Balzac. 
 
 117— The E.vecutor. By Mrs. Alex- 
 ander. 
 
 118— The Arundel Motto. By Mary 
 Cecil Hay. 
 
 119— Othmar. By "Ouida." 
 
 120— Chandos. 
 
 By '* Ouida." 
 
 By R. D. 
 
 121— Cripps the Carrier. 
 
 Blackmore. 
 123— June. By Mrs. Forrester. 
 
 12:J— Wee Wifle. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 124— The Twin Lieutenants. By Alex- 
 andre Dumas.- 
 
 125- Good-Bye, Sweetheart. ByRhoda 
 Broufrhton. 
 
 126— St. Katherinos By the Tower. 
 
 Walter Besant. 
 127— Cloister and the Hearth. By 
 
 Charles Reade. 
 128— The Countess Gisela. By E. Mar- 
 
 htt. 
 129— The Duchess. By "The Duchess." 
 
 130— Cousin Pons. By Honore De 
 
 Balzac. 
 131— In Far Lochaber.^ By William 
 
 Black. 
 133— A Broken Wedding Ring. By 
 
 Charlotte M. Braenie. 
 133— The Page of tlie Duke of Savoy. 
 
 By Alexandre Dumas. 
 1.34— The Captain of the Pole-Star. By 
 
 A. Conan Doyle. 
 135— Heriot's Choice. By Rosa N. 
 
 Carey. 
 136- In the Schillingscourt. By E. 
 
 Marlitt. 
 1.37- Dora Thome. By Charlotte M. 
 
 Braeme. 
 138— The Firm of Girdlestone. By A. 
 
 Conan Doyle. 
 139— The Lady with theRubies.y By E. 
 
 Marlitt. 
 140— The Reproach of Annesley. By 
 
 Maxwell Grey. 
 141— Moths. By " Ouida." 
 
 142— Tempest-Tossed. By Theodore 
 
 Tilton. 
 143— The Woman in White. By Wilkie 
 
 Collins. 
 144— The Hunchback of Notre Dame. 
 
 By Victor Hugo. 
 145— Tom Cringle's Log. By Michael 
 
 Scott. 
 146— Clara Vaughan. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 147— In the Heart of the Storm. By 
 
 Maxwell Grey. 
 148— A March in the Ranks. By Jessie 
 
 Fothergill. 
 149— Molly Bawn. By "The Duchess." 
 
 150— Madcap Violet. 
 Black. 
 
 By William 
 
 For sals hy all BoohseUers and Newsdealers, or icill be sent post-paid on 
 receipt of price by the publisher. A., i. BTIRT, 97 Meade Street, Ne%u 
 Fork, Price 25 cents per c®py. 
 
BURT'S HOME LIBRARY. 
 
 Comprising two hundred and 
 fifty titles of standard wr::ks, em- 
 bracing fiction, essays, poetry, 
 history, travel, etc., selected from 
 the world's best literature, written 
 by authors of world-wide repu- 
 tation. Printed from large type, 
 on good paper, and bound in 
 handsome cloth binding, uni- 
 form with this volume. Price, 
 75 cents per copy. 
 
 Adam Sede. By Cfeorge Eliot 
 ^sop's Fables. 
 
 Alhambra, The. By Washington 
 
 Irviiif?. 
 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 
 
 moiv. 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 
 By Besam and Rice. 
 Andersen's Fairy Tales. 
 
 Arabian Nights Enter- 
 tainments. 
 Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. 
 
 Armorel of Lyonesse. By Walter 
 
 Besant. 
 Avild Iiicht Idylls. By James M. 
 
 Barrie. 
 Aunt Diana. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 Autobiography of Benjamin 
 
 Franklin. 
 Averil. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 Bacon's Essays. 
 
 By Francis Bacon. 
 By 
 
 Barbara Heathcote'a Trial. 
 
 Rosa N. Carey. 
 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 
 
 Dickens. 
 Berber, The. By W. S. Mayo. 
 
 Betrothed, The. By Allessandro 
 
 Manzoni. 
 Bleak House. By Charles DickenS. 
 
 Bondman, The. By Hall Caine. 
 
 By Georgs 
 By 
 
 Bride of the Nile, The 
 
 Ebers. 
 Burgomaster's Wife, The. 
 
 George Ebers. 
 Cast up by the Sea. -By Sir Samuel 
 
 Baker. 
 Caxtons, The. By Bulwer-Lytton. 
 
 Charles Auchester. 
 
 By E. Berger. 
 By Charles 
 By Re. 
 
 Charles O'Malley, 
 
 Lt.'ver. 
 Children of tne Abbey. 
 
 tfitia JIaria Roche. 
 Children of Gibeon. By Walter 
 
 Besaut. 
 Child's History of England. By 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 Christmas Stories. By Charles 
 
 Dickeus. 
 Cloister and the Hearth. By 
 
 Charles Reade. 
 Confessions of an Opium-Eater. 
 
 By Thomas De Quiucey. 
 Consuelo. By George Sand. 
 
 Corinne. By Madame De StaeL 
 
 Countess of Budolstadt. By 
 George Sand. 
 
 Cousin Pons. By Honore de Bal- 
 zac. 
 
 Cranf ord. By Mrs. GaskelL 
 
 Crown of Wild Olive, The. By 
 
 John Ruskin. 
 Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot. 
 
 Daughter of an Empress, The. 
 
 By Louisa Mulilbach. 
 
 For sale hy all Booksellers, or will he sent postrpaUi on receipt of price bjf 
 the vublisher, A. L, BU&X, New rorfc. 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 Rf TURN TO DKK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 o Tel. No. 642-3405 
 
 «CTie«.eil boob «ie siibiect to Immediate recall. 
 
 JAN 2 8 
 
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 CliL AUa 1 1981 
 
 LD21A-40m-8,'71 
 (P6572sl0)476-A-32 
 
 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 
 Berkeley 
 
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