■■■I nfiH LI B RAFLY OF THE U N IVLRSITY Of ILLINOIS 8Z3 ScW»59w v.l / WHO IS VERA? VOL. I. a Still a Wife's Sister A NO VEL IN THREE VOLUMES. By A. E. SCHLOTEL ' Let me not to the marriage of true mind Admit impediments.' — Shakespeare. ©pinions of tbe ipress. ' The book is cleverly written, and the interest is maintained fairly well throughout.' — Church Times. ' Is a very ingeniously complicated and successfully-told history. The descriptions are well done, and the author seems as much at home under Italian skies, or in South America, as off the Cornish coast.' — Yorkshire Post. 1 A good deal of capital writing in the novel. The hero marries his deceased wife's sister, and is very happy ; but the law is hard upon him. Still, he has his deceased wife's sister.' — Westerfi Mor?ii?ig News. 1 There is interesting, even exciting, material here for a story.' — Sheffield Daily Telegraph. i The three volumes which make up this novel are crowded with characters, full of incident, and replete with plot and counterplot The characters of the middle-aged lawyer, Dr Penson, and of the young lady who earns her living by writing sermons, and who becomes Dr Penson's fourth wife, in spite of his objections to her " opinions," are well drawn, and the book is evidently the work of one possessed of both learning and common sense.' — Jewish World. ' In an excellent, though complicated, story, full of incident, adventure, and capitally-drawn characters, the writer puts up an earnest plea for a change in the marriage laws, which forbid a man to marry his deceased wife's sister It is, in point of merit, much above the average of novels, while some of the characters are really fine creations.' — Newcastle Weekly Chronicle. LONDON GRIFFITH, FARRAN, OKEDEN & WELSH (successors to newbery and Harris) WEST CORNER ST PAUL'S CHURCHYARD Who is Vera? A NOVEL Wherein English and Russian Lives are Interwoven BY A. E. SCHLOTEL AUTHOR OF 'STILL A WIFE'S SISTER' Though human, thou did'st not deceive me ; Though woman, thou did'st not forsake ; Though lov'd, thou forborest to grieve me; Though slander'd, thou never could'st shake ; Though trusted, thou did'st not disclaim me ; Though parted, it was not to fly ; Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me ; Nor mute, that the world might belie.— Byron. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON GRIFFITH, FARRAN, OKEDEN & WELSH (successors to newbery and Harris) WEST CORNER ST PAUL'S CHURCHYARD AND SYDNEY, N.S.W. 1888 [The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction a?-e reserved.] BeMcation. TO MY DEAR FRIEND MARION E. ROBERTSON, I DEDICATE THIS WORK, AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF MY GREAT ESTEEM AND LOVE. A. E. SCHLOTEL. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE THE ACTRESS, I CHAPTER II. A ROMEO AND JULIET, 8 CHAPTER III. LAKE WINDERMERE, 30 CHAPTER IV. NOT GREEN, 37 CHAPTER V. ARE THE BONDS OF MARRIAGE DISHONOURABLE? . 49 CHAPTER VI. RUPTURE, 64 CHAPTER VII. THE TURK, y$ CHAPTER VIII. A STRANGE MEETING, 78 CHAPTER IX. A WIFE'S INFLUENCE, .87 CHAPTER X. THE BISHOP OF MALAVITA, I03 CHAPTER XI. 'THE LAURIUM,' .. . . .113 viii Contents. ' CHAPTER XII. PAGE A HOARD DESTROYED, 13° CHAPTER XIII. TALK ABOUT OLD TIMES, 135 CHAPTER XIV. A BREAKFAST TETE-A-TETE, 153 CHAPTER XV. A PATRIOT AND HIS WIFE, 1 63 CHAPTER XVI. A PEACEMAKER,. . I,9 6 CHAPTER XVII. MRS cade's dilemma, I9 6 CHAPTER XVIII. THE ROUND TABLE, 2l8 CHAPTER XIX. A SHADOW OF THE FUTURE, 234 CHAPTER XX. athelstan's home, 246 CHAPTER XXI. THE BISHOP'S LETTER, . 258 CHAPTER XXII. DISCLOSURES, 265 CHAPTER XXIII. athelstan's visit to magna house, . . . .278 CHAPTER XXIV. MRS MORGANE'S DEVICE, 2S4 CHAPTER XXV. EORTUNE-SEEKING, .... . . 289 WHO IS VERA? CHAPTER I. THE ACTRESS. Therefore she walks through the great city, veiled In virtue's adamantine eloquence ; 'Gainst scorn, and death, and pain thus trebly mailed ; And blending in the smiles of that defence The serpent and the dove — wisdom and innocence.' Revolt of Islam. HE glare of the gaslights had been cast into darkness ; a crowd of gay spectators had left untenanted seats that were now covered with coarse cloth thrown hastily over them ; quiet and gloom reigned in heavy oppression where ap- plause, and glee, and cheery voices had rung VOL. I. A 2 Who is Vera ? out well-deserved plaudits : the performance at a London theatre was over, and the very air seemed changed to a noxious, gaseous atmo- sphere in the lone darkness. The exterior of the theatre was dull ; the night dark ; the gaslights reflecting on the still wet pavement rendered it shiny ; and brightness and shadow alternately marked the pathway. Rain had ceased, but threatened to pour down again at no far distant moment. The actors and actresses were en route, some to quiet, sad homes, others to enjoy a merry supper, and gay, light, happy talk among kin- dred spirits, before the vein of play and mirth had become drowsy, to remind them that rest was needed before the morrow — a morrow that would surely bring requirements mental and physical, which nolejts volens must be per- formed, under contract with managers to whom time and talent had been sold. An almost child-actress, fair and sylph-like, might be seen tripping lightly along the nearly deserted streets ; it was no night for pedestrians, but her conveyance and her guardian had failed to reach the theatre at the appointed time. All unseen by her fellows, she slipped out of the theatre, and purposed to make her journey home on foot. Little progress was made when a large drop of rain fell heavily on her nose ; this reminded The Actress. 3 her she was unprovided with an umbrella, and that it would be well to hasten her steps ; more drops came in quick succession, then a pelting downpour. She took shelter under the first portico that offered protection from weather, there to wait the cessation of rain that in its present force could not continue long, judging from experience that nearly thirteen summers passed in England had taught her. She felt she was a trespasser, but gained her object in keeping herself dry. A large gas lamp hung under the portico, and shed a fierce light on features that could well bear the brilliant glare that brought out to clear view beauty often spoken of, often seen on canvas, but possessed by less than one in a thousand. They were of marked type, and one that candle or gas light robbed not of charm. The complexion fair, untinted in its whiteness, except where the youthful bloom of rosy hue, deep yet soft, painted the cheek with tone of health ; hazel eyes, lustrous and full as a trusty dog's, shaded with long, bright golden lashes, flashed the light of intel- lect and innocence in their clear, ardent glances. Upon the ruddy lips still played the smile of pleasure caused by recent praise, and were ready to part in a merry laugh, actuated by the heart- felt lightness still warm in the happiness of con- tentment that animated the young, blithe being ; 4 Who is Vera ? for she felt she had within her grasp the crown of success, and hoped she was well on the road to lasting fame that would ensure her fortune. The rain dripped from the portico, and was forming little rills and pools on the worn pave- ment ; the wind stirred, and drove the rain drops under the portico ; the young girl changed her position and went close to the door. Under the knocker she read, ' Knock and ring,' and wished she could avail herself of the invitation. But no, it was not for her ; she did not know the occupant of the house, and the general invitation was not accepted, much as better shelter was desired. Then her quick eye read the sentence over the letter-box — ' Do not ring unless an answer is required.' This suggested to her mind that the establishment was one in which an extra servant was needed, — that economy was practised, even though the owner of the house might be wealthy, which she decided he must be. Then she fell into a train of thought, suggest- ing to her mind the vastness of the necessary income required to keep up such an establish- lishment, to which she supplemented another in the country ; and possibly the owners possessed property in moors, a marine residence, and re- velled in hunting and sport, travel and expen- sive pleasures. ' Ah ! ' the girl sighed and thought on, ' with all this wealth they are no The Actress. 5 happier than I, perhaps not so happy, they in their well-lighted rooms, and I under their portico in the rain, and wind, and darkness ; they burdened with wealth, I earning my bread. Yet I do wish I was under my own roof and out of this pelting rain. I have done a foolish act. Nobody will know where to find me.' The sound of wheels was heard. Instinc- tively the young girl looked towards the street ; a hansom cab drew up and stopped at the curb, and from it hastily sprung a man. Hur- riedly he ran up the steps, and found himself face to face with the weatherbound actress, who said quickly, — 1 Have you further use for that cab, permit me to ask ? ' Had not the glare of gas shown him her features, her voice would have told him she was 1 his destiny ' — a voice that for many days past had rung in his ears as he fell asleep, and whispered an echo when he awoke. ' It is at your service,' replied the man. The young actress signed to the cabman to stop, for he had delayed in lowering the glass blind, that hitched somewhere, and prevented him driving off. ' Give me a minute's grace, and you shall have the protection of an umbrella. I think I recognise you as — as — Miss Verge/ The man raised his hat slightly, and thought 6 Who is Vera ? the face still more beautiful, heightened by the becoming effect of the light woollen cloud around the throat, than when behind the footlights. ' You are quite right ; and I fancy I recog- nise in you my friend who has more than once made me nervous. But I may be wrong, if this is your house ; no critic earning his guineas could live here. I will accept your offer of an umbrella — the rain is dreadful now.' The actress, when saying these words, looked in the man's face, and the thought followed, 1 What a handsome Romeo he would make/ ' I have relations living here,' replied the man hesitatingly ; and he opened the door with his latchkey. He quickly obtained an um- brella, turned off the tap of the gas lamp, and the darkness that followed was felt in the sud- den extinction of light. ' Oh ! why do so ? I cannot see the first step.' ' Pardon. I did not think of that ; the light was left for me to extinguish. . . . Take my arm, and you will be safe. So, step again ; now, the first step.' 1 Please, the umbrella a little lower, the rain beats on my face. Thanks.' The actress seated herself in the cab. ' It is late — I will accompany you.' ' Distinctly and decidedly no,' replied the girl, with firmness. Then she told the cabman the number of the The Actress. 7 house, and name of the street to which he was to drive her, and ordered him to quickly lower the glass shade, for the rain beat upon her. ' I will place the umbrella there, outside, across the door. I, like Paul Pry, have an affection for my umbrella, and do not wish to lose it. I will call for it to-morrow.' ' I have no further use for it. Pray remove it/ was the answer given. 1 Certainly. Yet to-morrow I will call on you, and make inquiries as to your safe arrival.' The glass hitched again before it dropped into its proper place. The actress had time to admire the former occupant of her cab, and decided again, ' How charming a Romeo he would make ! ' She said, — ' Little need to trouble yourself. I am not travelling in a land peopled by Arab tribes, but in civilised Britain ; no harm can overtake me. Do not give me a second thought ; an hour hence I shall rest in perfect peace, and sleep well. My day's work is ended, and I am weary.' The man returned to the dark portico. The young actress was driven to her home, and on the way she dreamed of her future fame, but little dreamed that her rest in perfect peace was even now at an end. CHAPTER II. A ROMEO AND JULIET. ' Beneath this starry arch, Nought resteth, or is still ; But all things hold their march, As if by one great will. Moves one, move all ; Hark to the footfall ! On, on for ever. Yon sheaves were once but seed ; Will ripens into deed : As cave-drops swell the streams, Day thoughts feed nightly dreams ; And sorrow tracketh wrong, As echo follows song. On, on, for ever.' Song of August — H. Martineau. HE morrow came. Early was the hour that brought the fascinated Romeo to the home of the sad Juliet ; so early, that the door steps were receiving their matutinal mopping and sluicing, and the entrance door stood open. A Ro7neo and Juliet. 9 ' You need not ring, our lad is out. Your name and business, please ? ' said the servant, who stayed the process of sluicing to accost the stranger, and trundled her mop as the young man questioned her. 1 Is Miss Verge at home ?' ' Certainly. The actress, you mean ? ' The man's face was suffused with colour, as his indignation was roused by the tone of voice in which the sentence was uttered. 'Can I see Miss Verge ?' he asked. ' She's a particular lady. What is your name and business ? I must give both, or she may refuse to see you.' The young man hesitated a minute. The woman continued, — ' Are you a hairdresser or draper ? They are admitted at all times. Their time's precious.' ' Neither: a visitor,' said the young man curtly. 'Your card, please, and I beg pardon. Men of all professions and trades are so much alike now-a-days. In my young days, gentlemen were stamped gentlemen ; now, any shoddy makes a gentleman.' The woman put her wet hand under her apron, to take the card that she expected to be proffered her. The visitor still hesitated. The she-dragon at the door that stopped his entrance must be appeased, and yet he desired to keep his name unknown ; she devised the means, as she said, — io Who is Vera ? ' If a card is scarce, dare say you have an old envelope addressed to you ; for my part, I think that more genuine than a bit of paste- board ; any scamp can get that manufactured, living at no home that is known.' A bright thought at the right moment. The she-dragon was propitiated ; the envelope of a letter was put in her hand that bore a name and address, but not those of the visitor, and the guarded portal was passed by the unknown intruder. 1 Beg pardon, all the uppers are out or busy/ ' Possibly I can find my way unannounced.' 1 La ! all this house does not belong to Miss Verge. She's the drawing-room flat. Tell me your name as is written here — all dash and splash obscurity in zigzags — and just follow me, and I will sing it out. Sorry the lad's not in — for you are a gent, and no mistake — and he hates me to meddle with his work ; he calls me a heathen, he does ; but I call myself the slavey of the crew, I do.' ' That letter is addressed to the Honourable C. F. Crispe,' said the stranger carelessly. The woman closed the door, and, in her untidy condition, preceded the visitor, with quick, heavy step, up a broad staircase, and stopped on a landing spacious and handsome, bearing indications of having been once in the possession of wealthy owners. On this landing, A Romeo and Juliet. 1 1 decorated with columns and niches for statuary, opened four doors. * Number six is the draw- ing-room, slow and sure,' muttered the woman, as the young man delayed. He had to form plans that took him a few seconds, whilst she wriggled the handle of the door, with her wet hand under the apron, that was used as a safe- guard to prevent soiling all she touched, though the apron retained little of the whiteness that it possessed when it left the loom. The visitor was now by the door. 1 Your envelope bothers me, and the door too ; and yet I would do the lad's work well if I could, and sing your name out.' Within the room a voice said, ' Come in.' A minute more the door was opened from the inside. 4 Poor imbecile, what does she want ?' thought Miss Verge, when she heard the step and voice of the woman. ' His Honour, Cef Crispe, asks a word with you, Miss Verge.' The charming Romeo was again face to face with his Juliet, and she heeded not the mis- nomer by which he was ushered into her presence. He met her eye now for the first time in broad daylight, and it brightened when she recognised her friend-in-need of the previ- ous evening. Her golden hair was hanging loose, bound 1 2 Who is Vera ? only with a broad band that gathered it to- gether to prevent too heavy a preponderance falling- about her face and arms, and it streamed in long tresses over her shoulders. Her dress was simple as a child's, hanging in graceful folds that took their play from the figure that upheld them rather than from the art of the tailleuse. The material was not costly, — a cotton fabric of the pale colour of tea rose — around her neck was a ribbon band of the palest blue, likewise the fillet that bound her hair was of the same soft hue. She would have personated a zephyr to the poet's or painter's imagination, so light and aerial was her appearance, and so noiseless her step. Miss Verge was lovely, and beloved for her loveliness ; and her Romeo decided she must be capable of loving. For many days past he had hoped to gain her admiration ; he fostered this hope, born from the longings of his own impassioned heart. This hope, now that he saw his dream of loveliness before him in the home garb of simplicity and natural vein of disposition, and no longer in dreamland, made him bashful, fearful, and nervous. These three impediments to his entire happiness were in- creased by the remembrance of a conversation he had had with his paternal parent, who had met him in no friendly frame of mind on his return home the previous evening, as he passed the A Romeo and Jtdiet. 1 3 darkened portico and entered his house, after he had placed the young actress in his discharged cab. His parent had given vent to his dis- pleasure in full force ; and in his anger and indignation had seemed to grow grander in aspect and taller in stature, though garbed in the non- dignity-giving costume of dressing- gown and slippers, and the still less imposing addition of hair dishevelled, and candle in hand — for he had awoke in fright from a first sleep. Being disturbed at an unseemly hour caused irritation to a highly sensitive nature. The dis- quieted parent, hearing voices under his portico, had quickly imagined mischief working in his household. He was pained to find the culprit his own son. A son whose character had been spotless until that hour, but now must be dis- trusted and treated as faithless to his word and honour, until he retrieved both by test and trial. Question followed question as suspicion was aroused. Were the debts he had contracted those that an honourable man would not be ashamed of ? Were the pastimes he indulged in profitable, and becoming a Christian man in a Christian land ? Did he pass his time idly in wicked theatres, worldly clubs, and in society that would be a curse to body and soul ? Had he distributed the tracts given to him to dispose of among the ignorant, heedless, and unthink- ing ? and did he require one himself to save 14 Who is Vera? him from the ' wrath to come/ and from present wickedness ? He should receive one to reflect on that night. The enraged parent had heard his son almost deny his home ; he had carelessly said a relation of his lived in his father's house, and said that to a ' giddy girl, who spoke with familiarity.' Yes, he had heard all. He dived his hand into his deep pocket and drew out a tract — tracts abounded in every pocket he possessed ; he glanced at the title, and said, with sanctimonious solemnity, ' Good watch- words, "The wages of sin is death." Read, mark, and inwardly digest that, and, having de- voured the contents this night, let me see the outward sign of the good seed thus implanted. Your latch-key I retain, to be restored to you when I see the fruits of repentance visibly shown in the course of a better life/ The young man had taken the tract and given his latch-key up to his would-be protector, with the full conviction that his father was in error, and that he was pursuing a course that was honourable and congenial, replete with good- ness, and well according with his principles, — principles that were diametrically opposed to his father's. He had neither defended himself nor his newly-made acquaintance. Self-defence was never his policy with his father, but he did not read the tract nor take to heart the forfeiture of latch-key. In a word, the son distrusted the A Romeo and Juliet. 1 5 father far more than the father distrusted the son ; but the filial feeling of the son actuated him to treat with profound respect his puri- tanical parent, who had exacted from him from boyhood an entire deference, even to blind obedience, that neutralised his character to a sham in his own home. This deference had grown into habit from the effect of long usage now he attained manhood, yet it was unspiced with love or admiration for the object who called it forth. Thus the memory of the previous evening's altercation rendered the handsome Romeo bash- ful, fearful, and nervous when he was again in the presence of his Juliet ; but Juliet would have been wanting in wit and perception, had she not been able to dispel embarrassment by a word of kind welcome, even though given to a stranger ; for the stranger had been kind to her, and this demanded civility in return on her part. She proffered her hand, nameless as he still was to her except under the misnomer that she gave little heed to, blurted out indistinctly by the woman, who muttered, as she closed the door behind her, ' Suppose I am right to leave him, though he has no box of frizzled wigs. A hairdresser ? No, he is stamped from head to foot a gentleman; but I'll just hide the um- brellas before I take my mop in hand — they are all I'm responsible for ; the actress will take 1 6 Who is Vera ? care of her own good name, doubtless. But she is wondrous beautiful, and that's a snare — not a worse on earth ; and sharp as I keep an eye on the area and front steps, I never saw his feet on them before ; but they are honest feet, I'll swear, that dance under such a manly face as Cef Crisp's.' Nevertheless, the umbrellas were put safe out of sight. A short talk for the space of a quarter of an hour sufficed to make the strangers of yesterday friends of to-day. Miss Verge, finding her guest still prolonged his visit, asked permission to continue the case she was making to cover her pet canaries, as time pressed, and they were to be removed to the country in the course of a few hours. She stated she intended to follow them after the lapse of a day or two. Her birds were dear to her — she had reared them herself. With- out doubt they would like the country better than London, but she feared her time might hang heavily. To think over her fate made her sad. A disappointment amounting to pain passed through the feelings of the visitor. He knew so little of the young girl who held his love so firmly ; but he knew for many days past that the world, without the hope of hearing her voice, or seeing her beaming face and eye, would be- come a desolate, dreary desert, with no object of living interest in it for him, rendering his life lone and blank. The actual hearing and seeing A Romeo and Juliet. 1 7 her had had the talismanic effect of making life lovely, and replete with brightness. He felt he lived day after day on the hope that he might see her, though only on the boards of the stage, for he could not surmount obstacles that blocked his way to gain an introduction or interview with her. He was a stranger, and she an actress. Yet he knew he loved her, knowing nothing of her. Now, gaining a long-desired but accidental acquaintance, was he to hear that he had a rival, and that his heart's choice was about to pitch her tent in the country far away from him ? He was much in earnest, and yet so diffident, that he feared he could not gain the truth that he ardently desired to know, of a probability that had never till this moment whispered a thought to damage his hopes. All absorbed as he was in the present, yet he impulsively resolved he would at this moment leave her for ever should his dread of rivalry be verified. How could he arrive at this most important knowledge at this crucial moment of early acquaintance ? By what test could he learn had he a rival ? The young man went to the cage, as he re- marked that birds were 'innocent toys.' The young actress was using a foot-rule to measure the proportions of the cage, to enable her to cut the baize covering she was hastening to make. He might render her assistance, and gauge her vol. 1. B 1 8 Who is Vera? heart at the same time ; he would try, though he felt diffident, and conscious of this weakness. 'Your birds look very happy, Miss Verge. Are they Chinese ? ' 1 I should say first cousins, — Japanese. Dear little things, are they not ? and so tame. I let them fly out of their cage, and they make a tree of me, — perch on my arms and hands and shoulders, they even mount the highest branch, for I often put their daintiest food on the crown of my head, and they are clever in finding out a bonne bouche. Do you like birds ? ' J/ Yes, very much,' replied the would-be Romeo. The gauge of his heart was easily taken on that score. He hesitated to touch on another subject, and Miss Vera noted the inches meas- ured, as well as the silence that existed. She broke the silence by saying, — 1 I like men to like birds. I like all pets ; dogs are my special weakness, but a marmoset is perfect. I have two such chilly dears ; I have them in my snug room, wrapped in flannel, dear pets ! Such lovely eyes, and little ear- rings in their ears — so sweet ! and they are so happy together. They were sent me from Turkey, anonymously — so strange ! I cannot slight my pets ; and I find marmosets and live birds are bona peritura, so I give them a warm covering to save them. Vicissitudes of many A Romeo and Juliet. 1 9 sorts may beset my children during their long journey/ Miss Verge talked rapidly of her pets as she measured her baize ; when she had finished her task, her visitor continued the coversation, in view of probing Truth to quiet his fears. 1 So you think your birds will like the country, and that you will not, Miss Verge ? ' ' A life must be lived before we can judge how well or ill it suits one's disposition. I have never passed any length of time in the country.' The man's earnestness overcame his diffi- dence, and he dashed at his point recklessly ; be the result agreeable or disagreeable, he desired to learn it without delay. 1 When a young girl accepts a golden cage, and changes her name, she generally anticipates happiness.' He pushed his sentence further, and asked a direct question, ' Is this not the usual hope, Miss Verge ? ' Through the bars of the bird-cage he met the startled glance and confused countenance of the pretty actress, as she caught the inquiring gaze of the handsome Romeo, and she said, — 1 Possibly you are right.' Then her woman's wit told her she was misleading her Romeo, and she added quickly, — ' But I have not accepted a golden cage. My name Verge, I am told, is but a nom de guerre, and can be changed twenty times a year ; but I have 20 Who is Vera ? no wish to take any other. When I have that wish, I shall naturally hope that happiness may follow ; but — but — ' 1 But ? What would you say ? Is fancy free, and heart whole, Miss Verge, and the compan- ion of the golden cage unchosen ? ' asked the visitor, in accents of earnest inquiry. His happiness hung on her answer, he had known her in his dreams so long, and loved her so well. 'What would I say? Simply this,' said the pretty actress archly, — ' that I think I have not given reason to be questioned on such a subject by a stranger, and my idea is that a stranger is somewhat inquisitive. Pardon me, — I am out- spoken.' The man's earnestness now sunk again into diffidence. He felt he had gone too far; he was silent under the smart lash, and would have been more cast down had he not caught the soft, fond, dreamy look in the hazel eyes under the golden eyelashes, that were not now seen through the bars of the bird-cage, but cast full on him ; and if there was language in them, it was the language of love. He read them right, and took courage again. 1 May I ask, without offence, to what country you go, and even why you go away, yet prefer a London life ? ' A Romeo and Juliet. 2 1 A sigh escaped the actress's lips, a gloom came over her face ; she plied her scissors according to her ruled measurement and cut the baize, as she said, — 1 To answer all your questions would doom you to too long a story. I will tell you. My home will be in Westmoreland, — no gilded cage, but a tiny cottage near Lake Windermere. It is at the wish of my uncle that I leave London and my profession. Ennui will be my enemy in the country.' With the energy of sudden temper, she added, as she stopped plying her scissors, — ' It is a shame! The grass has been cut under my feet ; to-night is the last time I shall act. I cried last night bitterly, when I heard how I had been disposed of in the future, — without consulting me too ! or mak- ing me conversant of the plans proposed. Even the money is paid that will release me from my engagement with Mr Capias.' The young girl was led away from caution by her feeling of injury, and spoke to the stranger as she might to her confidential friend, without suspecting that she was guilty of indiscretion ; though she had only numbered seventeen sum- mers, yet she might have been at that age more discreet in tongue. 1 Your mother and father are your natural guardians, Miss Verge.' This remark reminded the young actress that 22 Who is Vera ? her intended confidant was indeed a stranger to her, and she reflected a minute, looked wistfully into his open, handsome face, and decided she would trust him, — tell him the cause of her trouble, and relieve her mind in disburdening it, though she had chid her visitor when she felt he scrutinised her too keenly. When is youth consistent ? 1 You know little of me or mine. I and my mother live here, my father I never knew; he died in my infancy, and my mother's brother rules me in his stead. My mother obeys him as an oracle, though he lives miles and miles away, somewhere as wild and as secluded as Siberia.- It is my uncle's wish that I should leave the stage ; his reason is as ludicrous as his style of argument is fallacious. Forsooth ! I lose in reputation — though I gain in money. My uncle delayed his departure so long last evening, and made the time pass so unheeded, that my mother failed to be with me at the usual hour. I have been so sad — so very sad, since I heard how that delayed time was em- ployed. The decision arrived at is unalterable. My uncle left England this morning, or possibly I could have coaxed him over to suit my views, though I have never seen him in my life.' ' In truth, it is not well to be gazed on, ap- plauded, or hissed, at the caprice of London sightseers. Greater refinement exists in the A Romeo and Juliet. 2 3 retirement of country life. Your uncle is right, you will gain much in position.' The handsome Romeo felt that the way was already smoothed over that would enable him in time to make his confession of love, and that the union of the families Montague and Capulet might be cemented amicably when the actress ceased to act, and the name of Verge had dropped out of the mind of the public, though on the eve of its possessor becoming famous. ' Living in idleness in the country will never make me a duchess. Does prejudice make an actress's station in society so low that she need be ashamed of her profession ? A pro- fession I have loved so well, and been so proud to follow. Do you think this ? ' 1 Do I think it ?' repeated the Romeo thought- fully to his Juliet ; ' in part I do. Yet I admit a good actress must be a woman of some talent. Thus she is above the commonality who form her audience and admire her gifts. I do not admit that her position is low.' Still more thoughtfully he added, — ' The actress loses much as a woman. A girl of talent in the country would find a select circle of friends of fitting quality who might be counted under ten, but who would prize her more than the millions who gaze on her as a nine days' wonder.' ' Did you so gaze on me when I thought you criticised me?' asked Miss Verge, with a fasci- 24 Who is Vera ? nating insouciance that captivated by its simple witchery. A sense of his illogical conclusions came quickly to her Romeo's mind. Night after night had he gazed on the clever actress, yet no other being was to admire her, or be grati- fied by the pleasure her beauty and just render- ing of natural emotions inspired ; he alone was to be her admirer. This argument was absurd, unfair, actuated by jealousy — jealousy born ot love, truly, yet jealousy, and he would be swayed by justice and truth ; and to his keen inquirer he desired to give a logic criticism of her true position with him, — one that his manly taste and judgment could accept, and gain her to accept also. Why disguise the truth ? Why tie a knot by obscure utterances when a clear sentence would put both Romeo and Juliet on a proper footing ? Had he gazed on her as a nine days' wonder ? And he asked himself another question. Was he the only man actuated by a deeper pas- sion than admiration of her ? He wished to make strong his present position. He was profoundly sincere in his love ; he would be tender with the young girl, and if pathos in words could draw her nearer him, he would use such means. ' I gazed on you, Miss Verge, not as a nine days' wonder, but as a miser gazes on his treasure — as his life's chief blessing. For weeks, nay months, I have lived on one hope. A Romeo and Juliet. 2 5 The memories associated with you were ever constant, daily filling my mind ; each throb of my pulse has been heightened or lowered as I hoped or despaired that the time might come that I could speak these words to you.' The stranger paused. The young actress was mute, caused by surprised emotions raised suddenly. The stranger continued, — ' I have courted solitude that I might recall the worth of words and sentiments that you have made me con- scious of, — to remember the noble way you have studied to portray and raise mind above matter. Miss Verge, you have led me high above weak prejudices. I have not thought of you as a nine days' wonder, — as the actress who repeated well the thoughts of others, but I have studied you indeed critically. I have found you grasp the subtle fineness of your author's grandest thoughts, and depict them only as a high in- telligence could have mastered. Thus rendered, you have added a greatness to words possibly undreamed of by their author ; by this, the loftiness of your mind has been proved to me.' The stranger stopped again in his rhapsody. The young actress said timidly, — ' I think you flatter me above my merit. I have always wished to act up to the height of my ability : I have been but an actress. I could not have suggested one line I uttered.' 26 Who is Vera ? The word actress seemed to kindle the man's ire ; he said quickly, — ' But an actress ! Sneers and petty spite may cast disparagement on a worthy profession ; some people there are who treat it with cold indiffer- ence. Wrongly biassed minds regard theatres as pernicious and demoralising, actors as men to be elbowed out of all well-conducted house- holds. Such tenets were imbued into my train- ing. I have lived to see the error and ignorance existing in such opinions, and to know the stage may be made the source of much good, and an incitant to noble actions by worthy actors and actresses. How much I respect the ac- tress.' The stranger paused. The effect of the beautiful girl, in the spring-time of youth, led him to be more courageous and to speak openly, and leave his prologue, by which he was endeavouring to render intelligible the cause of his admiration of her, and when he spoke again it was with an abruptness, rapidity, and warmth of tone disclosing his long -pent affections. ' Miss Verge, I have loved you in dream as deeply as ever a pure woman was loved by man ; but now that I have touched your hand, the dream becomes reality, and love will grow deeper, if that be possible, if we cease to be strangers.' A slight pause followed, as the Romeo advanced a few steps nearer his Juliet, and A Romeo and yuliet. 2 7 stopping within a few yards' length of her, he said, with a tremor in his voice, — ' How great will be my joy if you will admit me into your gilded cage as your chief and choicest pet.' Miss Verge had listened to love sentences all fiction and froth — her heart had never fluttered as now. Had she shown coyish shyness, and been awkward, and in tame language rebuked her too precipitant and earnest lover, and returned him to his natural diffidence, it is possible the love for his ideal miorht have vanished at the moment, to return only as it had so long existed, in dreams and imaginary illusions. She felt the man loved her, she doubted not one word he uttered. Love abrogated time ; less than an hour sufficed to engender a mutual sympathy one with the other, and she answered him softly, — ' We are strangers, — unknown to each other even in name. This is all too sudden. What can I say ?' ' My name is Athelstan Morgane ; and yours ?' ' Vera,' she murmured, as her soft eyes met his, with the tenderness and holy expression of a first love beaming in them ; rendering still more attractive the freshness of early woman- hood, and leaving no doubt in their answer to 28 Who is Vera ? the appealing look of tenderness as the man, who had now awoke from dreams, gazed on the object of his admiration. ' Vera, summon me to the country. What happiness to leave London and the dusty- muslin flowers I have seen you sometimes toy over on the stage. Let us walk over true violets and primroses in the country together.' 1 Can I ? Could I invite you ? Will my mother let me ? ' Athelstan looked thoughtful a minute, then said quickly, — ' Your mother is known to me, Vera. I have watched your exit too well and too often not to know your guardian. May I watch you again, this, your last night ? Will you recognise me, and introduce me to your mother ? Leave the rest to me.' Ever inconsistent youth ! The declaration had been all too sudden ; yet but a few min- utes later Vera rashly approves the time and place of meeting. She hangs on her lover's words that he over and over again repeats, without being conscious of reiteration, as he wearies not of his subject — that is, of love and happiness. His cup of success had intoxicated him ; his imaginative nature was elated ; his dream of hope was shaped into substance. The music of words, the sight of peaceful beauty, made him reckless A Romeo and Jtdiet. 29 of the dregs of bitterness that might be added to his cup on the morrow. No fears of the inscrutable future whispered evil doubts to clash against the will and happy tenor of the lover's mind. The demon Caste did not rise before him to be resisted and fought against and crushed by logic. His love had made him wild and forgetful, — forgetful of all but that he loved, and that his love had called forth reciprocal love from one whom to live near and idolise would be the realisation of a hope long and silently cherished. The prospect of Vera's country residence was now no longer likened to a desert. Fresh imaginary roses sprung up in an oasis that were unknown to have had existence. She had played love often, but to be the object of earnest, honest love was a new emotion bewil- deringly sweet. She had fascinated a lover whom nature had blessed with many charms. Her beauty had fascinated many, but her own heart had been unscathed, though her pride had been flattered by acknowledged conquests ; but now began a fresh era with her ; she loved impulsively but sincerely, and was proud of the man she loved. CHAPTER III, LAKE WINDERMERE. I trust thee from my soul, O Mary, dear, But, ofttimes when delight has fullest power, Hope treads too lightly for herself to hear, And doubt is ever by until the hour ; I trust thee, Mary, but till thou art mine, Up from thy foot unto thy golden hair, Oh, let me still misgive thee and repine, Uncommon doubts spring up with blessing rare ! Thine eyes of purest love give surest sign, Drooping with fondness, and thy blushes tell A flitting tale of steadiest faith and zeal ; Yes I will doubt — to make success divine ! A tide of summer dreams, with gentlest swell, Will bear upon me then, and I shall love most well ! ' Sonnet — Charles Tennyson. HE young actress was charmed with the novelty of her new retreat. How beautiful was the lake, with its green fells so picturesque and bright ; how sweet the stillness and solitude. The hush Lake Windermere. 31 that reigned around her made her own step all too loud and harsh that broke the silence ; she loved to roam and enjoy the quietude of hill and dale, of lake and wood, alone. Such sentiments Vera breathed into her mothers ear. 1 So, my child, you find it no hardship to leave the merriment and gay company you loved so well in London and hide your beauty away to be seen only by the ploughboy and peasant. I feared you were not fitted to like the country, and would ever look on your uncle as unjust and severe in placing you here.' ' A woman, dear mother, can fit herself to any- thing. In London I fancied I had not courage to walk through a country lane, but here I find I have courage to walk, row, or ride alone, and no place is dull enough to cause me the fear I dreaded would destroy my pleasure.' 1 I am glad, my child, for I am in life's third season, and could not always be your companion in long rambles. May your whim always fit you to enjoy the country, for our tent may be pitched here for life.' Poor woman ! How much of the future was hidden from her as she spoke her thoughts with a foreign accent. Vera loved her rambles ; but there was another who loved to ramble too, — who loved loneliness, except when he chanced to meet her and made her his companion. Then, 32 Who is Vera ? in the midst of the wild and grand solitude of nature, with freedom given to speech and action, and not within earshot or ken of inquisi- tive eye, and no law to rule, save that of love and honour, would Athelstan whisper, in a spell- bound ear, in honied words, how his dreary world had been rendered paradise by the pres- ence of an Eve — that no other woman lived in the wide world for him but Vera. And Vera believed him, and believed she was fitted to be companion for life to a man who talked like a poet, and dreamed of future joys culled far from gay cities, and could be happy in a cottage by the margin of a lovely lake. Madame Verge had smiled when she saw the time Vera spent over her toilette, and asked her if it were to please the ploughboys. But Vera had a woman's vanity ; and not far off was an- other being who had been equally scrupulous to assume a captivating exterior that he considered due to his position. He had a man's love of admiration, and of appearing his best, when admiration was to be raised in the opposite sex ; and he desired to look well before his best beloved. He had often smiled at woman's vanity and weakness, but, like many men, for- gotten his own. This day Athelstan had an object in trying art to heighten his power of fascination. Among his friends he had heard Miss Verge eulogised, Lake Windermere. 33 her place of retirement had become known, and hints were made that intrusion on her retreat was likely to follow this knowledge, and her quietude to be interrupted by admirers, whom it would pain him to know were allowed en- trance to the gilded cage he so jealously watched; and some of the intruders were handsome, wealthy, and well born. Athelstan wore a fisherman's costume, and had rod in hand ; his face was smileless as that of a fish waiting to be captured, his mind more agitated than a fish's mind (should a fish have one) could be, even when furiously wriggling, caught in a torturing net, with freedom lost for ever, and desperately endeavouring to re- gain it. Vera did not fail to observe that Athelstan was less buoyant in spirit, and more absorbed in thought, and almost silent, as he walked with her to the fishing-punt, that was close to the edge of the water. He seated her comfortably, wrapped her carefully with plaids to protect her from strong breezes, and placed rugs for her feet ; he took the fish-basket and bait from his servant's hand, dismissed him, and punted the boat to the point he desired. He baited Vera's line, then his own ; he looked wistfully, then vacantly, at his float ; he caught nothing, whilst Vera landed perch after vol. 1. c 34 Who is Vera ? perch, gudgeon and dace, that began to make a goodly heap of glistening spoil. 1 Athie, you let the bites pass, or your hook is not baited ; or why do the fish prefer my line?' 1 Because beauty holds the rod and is at peace, dear.' 1 Athie, we have outlived flattery. It is four months since we first met, and you told me I was as beautiful as Venus, and I said you were a handsome Adonis. That was when we only knew each other's external merits. Now, dear Athie, I know your disposition, your bent of mood, and depth of mind, and I am sure you are one wee bit miserable and abstracted. I believe you have no bait on your hook, — nibbled off, or never put on. Let me look.' ' You have a quick eye, Vera.' ' And brain too. Tell me what annoys you.' * Do you know a man named ? ' ' Hush, Athie. Do not let a sombre reverie overtake you about any Brummagem lover of mine. All girls flirt, dear, many times, but love once. Surely you know who is my love. Do you doubt still that truth ? Look in my face and tell me.' 4 No, Vera, I trust you implicitly, but — ' ' After that, no more buts. Let me look at your hook.' 1 We will give up fishing, and talk awhile, Lake Windermere. 35 Vera. I have a difficult proposition to make to you, who are so frank and true, and hate dis- sembling. I shall despise myself when I make it, but make it I must. It will prove your strength of love and trust in me, as you accept or reject it.' So no more gudgeon, perch, dace, or trout were added to the fish-basket that day. The rods were placed in their cases, as Athelstan thought over how to break to Vera his plan for the future, for which he was fully prepared. He paved his way with suitable preamble, then a propositional event was suggested. After some smart fencing in words, attack, and parry- ing, the proposition was accepted, and, with the full knowledge of error on one side, and ignor- ance on the other, the plan was to be carried into effect the following day. Then Athelstan and Vera left the punt, to wend their steps to the cottage by the lake. Arriving at the cottage, they seated themselves under the broad antique porch, which had in past times served as the resting - place of lovers, who were now sleeping in their long rest under the trees that grew luxuriantly in the churchyard surrounding the village church, the high square tower of which marked the solemn, calm spot, and was seen from the porch. Leading to this cemetery on the forest border, were glens that served as pathways to peasants far and near. In the deep 36 Who is Vera ? hush of the stillness that reigns in so fit a spot that is a place of rest after long toil and busy world work, there is a beautiful, sad tranquillity that invites reflection. Each life now ended had fashioned and worked out its course ; each course differed. Many generations slept there in peace while their children's children told the same old tale that was told years ago by some of them, even under the spacious antique porch of the cottage by the lake, where Vera and Athelstan are fashioning their lives. Now a mother joins the lovers. She believes they met perchance. Athelstan offered her his day's sport, though each fish had chosen Vera's hook and bait to be caught by. Later in the day he partook of the spoil, at Madame Verge's invitation ; and though much conversation fol- lowed during the time devoted to enjoying it, the event planned for the morrow remained sub silentio. CHAPTER IV. NOT GREEN. 'Places of nestling green, for poets made.' Story of Romini. |OW happily passed the time at the cottage by the lake. Athelstan visited it frequently, and he met others there on whom he looked no longer with an eye of jealousy. Vera left them to her mother's care, and was solicitous only that his amusements should be enhanced. To him she gave her time, and marked him her chief friend among her friends ; and in the course of a few months many of her London friends found no beauty in the lake cottage, nor in the scenery, that was now too tame, nor even in the late actress, and their visits became less frequent, then ceased. Athelstan was content, and approved Vera's ways, and his mind was at peace. In the 38 Who is Vera ? midst of this peacefulness, he was called away to be with his father in London. During his absence, an elderly, handsome man, with a sedate countenance and the clear stamp of a Londoner, strolled up the cottage garden. As he continued his course, he re- garded with much attention the picturesqueness of the old worn cottage and well-kept flower- beds, that gave forth the sweet scent of mignon- ette and wallflower ; the choicer hyacinth and heliotrope too added strength to the perfume and colouring to the picture — for picture it was — of rural loveliness. The cottage suggested no cause for remark, as it differed little from many other simple cottages of white, rough stone that existed all over the land, but the elderly gentleman paused often as he scrutinised this simple dwelling, that was only conspicuous in extreme neatness and in its trim and well-tended garden. He came nearer, and conned over the unique ap- pendants and ornamental attractions the cottage possessed, the antique carved porch and finely- carved window frames. He plucked grapes from the vine, that was marked by the finger of Time, and for many years had adorned, as a coping, the bay window it was trained to sur- round, and it mantled the side of the cottage with graceful clusters of tiny grapes and leaves of soft green. Not Green. 39 When under the antique porch he came to his last grape he threw the stalk away. Yet he lingered still, and turned from the cottage and looked on the view that gave the lake, seen through a vista of high trees, and beyond the ha-ha that divided the grounds of the cottage from the public thoroughfare. He satisfied himself that the view was pretty. He turned again. What more had he to notice ? He had well surveyed the exterior of the cottage, — taken note of the lace curtains being uniform in hanging and manner of crossing the windows, and colour of bands that held them in position, that gave an effect the elderly gentleman could not approve. 1 Pretty,' he mentally decided; 'but a cottage remote from a roadway, buried among birds and squirrels, made all an unnecessary extra- vagance — all was vanity ! ' Still the elderly gentleman hesitated. At length he drew himself up to the last fraction of an inch of his height, that might measure two inches over six feet, and with a swelling chest and upright back he strode on and rang the cottage bell. The peal startled him that rung from under a housing of wood that shel- tered the loud-tongued monster bell that hung near the porch. The same bell-pull shook a weaker- sounding bell inside the house, that brought several dogs to the porch in full cry, 4-0 Who is Vera ? as they struggled to pass the door that was ajar, and which they flung wide open to wel- come the expected visitor. Following them was the radiant Vera, anticipating, like the dogs, Athelstan's visit ; a cursory glance sufficed to tell her she did not know the figure under the porch. She called her boisterous pets, and turned into the room over which the vine clustered shading the window, and in which her mother sat. A few minutes later the visitor, grand in gait, entered the room, his composure re- gained, after the uncivilised noise and hubbub, for he had been long used to the musical tingling of electric bells, and dogs that were trained never to accost a stranger unless called by name. The stranger introduced himself by present- ing a card to Madame Verge of a mutual friend (now this elderly gentleman could with ease tell a fib, if to his advantage), and he explained the object of his visit was to gain information for this friend of a Mr Caston, whom he understood was uncle to Miss Verge. He laid great emphasis on the relationship. ' I know the name of Caston,' replied Madame Verge, with great hesitation, and a common topic of conversation sprung up be- tween the trio. Their discourse was carried on in a trivial Not Green. 41 vein, yet under that covering the man formed sentences that unveiled to him knowledge that the most reserved might have given without suspecting that the cool and careless exterior covered a subtle desire and intense longing to worm out secrets for his own purpose, and that he hid strong emotion and acute interest when his smile was bland, his accents artless, and words fluent. Oh, that Athelstan could have possessed the mirror that Merlin constructed for King Ryence. Yet it would not have secured him happiness, nay, it would have greatly marred his peace, had the vision been reflected on its surface, that would have told a clear tale, as he was trying to conjecture how the cottagers at Lake Winder- mere were passing their time, whilst he was putting the finishing touches to his toilet before escorting his mother to Exeter Hall. An oratorio, given during an afternoon, en- abled a woman of such a pious mind as Athel- stan's mother to return to her peaceful home before Erebus reigned and the gas lights al- lowed wicked abuses of time and pleasure, and drew Arcadian nightingales together to bray to music words of light import, and create a love of gaiety and mirth that was all in discord with the sobriety of a well-conducted life. Yet whilst it was day — hearken — the same throats would be the organs to swell forth full notes in words of 42 Who is Vera ? holy import, whether of prayer or praise, that fell on the ear only as a well-executed solo, duet, or chorus, often with no prayer or praise felt in the heart of the hearer, nor in that of the singer. Still the pious woman enjoyed con- tentment in seeming good, and this good con- sisted only in listening to the performance of an oratorio rather than an opera. So little quiets the conscience, let that little be still unction to the souls that feel benefited under the influence. Athelstan was bound, as an act of duty, to accede to the request of his mother, and remain in London whilst Vera was on the tiptoe of ex- pectation that he would meet her at his usual hour. Without Merlin's mirror, how could Athelstan foresee the future that awaited him, not seeing the present. He, too, was blind and contented; he, too, quieted his conscience, having confidence in present security that could not in the future be weakened. Vain man ! how little he knew of the fence that was being raised for him to encounter, and put him to a standstill, or force him to leap into unknown ground. The elderly gentleman carried a cheerful countenance when about to leave Vera and her mother, whom he treated with marked gallantry. He felt he lost nothing by his urbane manner. He, too, was contented with the phase of decep- tion he had practised ; he would profit by it, — Not Gi-een. 43 rescue the innocent from the guilty ; he was satisfied, and placed this unction to his soul, that the end sanctified the means, and at all times the innocent should triumph over design- ing schemers. He refused all the hospitable offers that were pressed on him as his due, he being Mr Caston's friend. Wine was a beverage he eschewed, but he owned he had unscrupulously robbed his new friends of a bunch of grapes — that would suffice for refreshment until he reached Am- bleside, to which place he was bound. ' I have always hesitated even to eat them ; — so small, can they be good ? I thought they were grown because they looked pretty/ said Vera carelessly. ' The life of an actress causes her to think only of exterior beauty, effect, and illusion, until even the juicy grape is looked on as a mere ornate adjunct, without the invigorating power of sustaining life. Possibly fermented into wine, the juice would be rendered acceptable to Miss Verge ; and such grapes are made into wine to tempt the unwary into fascinating snares.' Without waiting Vera's reply, the guest con- tinued in a pompous voice, as if addressing someone whose education in the tenets of religion and morality, possibly, had been ne- glected : — ' Miss Verge, there is a fountain to which, I hope, you sometimes have put your 44 Who is Vera ? lips, and drawn from it water that for ever quenches thirst and satisfies.' ' I have never heard of it : is it near here ? After violent exercise, and much talking, what a godsend not to be thirsty, nor to have a parched throat.' As her guest had been facetious, Vera fancied there was a double entendre in his last remarks ; but he had weighed her in his balance, and found her wanting. ' Miss Verge,' he said, 'reflect; the morrow will come, and you may not be here.' 1 What ! leave this cottage, so pretty and snug, so suddenly ? What a cruel hint to make.' 1 Sad, sad,' sighed the man, in a murmur, as he thought the girl a pretty heathen ; and though he drew himself up to his greatest height again, he bent his lofty mind so low as to endeavour to be jocose, and said, — ' My pretty lass, spare me a few flowers — a little button-hole — and then I shall say adieu reluct- antly, for the hour I have passed with you I shall reckon important in my life.' There seemed much meaning marked in these words. He took his leave of Madame Verge, and with a bland smile, that seemed induced by a natural, merry humour, turned to Vera. 1 Come, lassie, let me choose my flowers.' Not Green. 45 Vera and her new friend passed out into the garden. ' I will choose that small moss-rose just tipped with colour, because it blushes covertly, and has within its mossy bands the full rose of love yet undeveloped, emblem of a fair girl like you ; and that golden heart's ease I will ask for, that I may be mindful that with love yellow-eyed jealousy is seldom absent ; so I must repeat my visit to the lass of Windermere at no long interval of time.' Vera held the flowers, smiling merrily as she put them in form, and kept up a spirit of play as she said, — 1 1 will add another emblem, not of myself, for it is green. To love-passages I think I give full value when I compare them to weeds : they grow apace, but die soon. See this weed, this wild grass and its light seed, I add to re- mind you I am not quick to believe all light flattery to be sober truth. Look, it accords well with rosebud and pansy, and makes the bouquet complete ; accept it as a parting gift from one who is not green/ 1 Say kinder words, or kiss the flowers ; just one kiss, after so many that you have wasted on the stage, will not be difficult.' ' You insult the actress, — one, who, to please the frivolous, or amuse the thinking, has tested her powers to make fictitious love appear real, 46 Who is Vera ? and now will give a lesson, by the way, from which you may profit, — that which is suited to the stage is all unsuited to real life. But I will kiss your flowers ; and more, I will fasten them in your coat, when sweetened with fictitious love by my kiss. Now, when will you come again ? — to-morrow, before these flowers fade, that carry love with them ? ' Vera laughed a low, smothered laugh, as she fastened the small cluster of flowers in her visitor's coat. 1 Not to-morrow. Ere long you will hear of me.' With a majestic gait the elderly man walked out of the garden into the public thoroughfare. By weights of his ideal gravity he had weighed Vera, and had, with satisfaction, proved her worthless. He was deceived in her, and how greatly was she deceived in him. 1 Vera, my love, I scarcely remember if that man's name is Scott Gordon, or Gordon Scott. I have looked through our London Directory, and see no such name ; neither do I see his card about,' said Madame Verge, when Vera returned with her many pet dogs, that she fondled and kissed in turn. * He may be only a shopkeeper, mother. I quite forget his name. He jumbled so many together — friends of friends — I could not dis- tinguish his own. But it signifies little ; he Not Green. 47 was delightful company whilst he was with you, but the old boy tried his wits to raise a little flirtation when alone with me. Should he come again, Scott or Gordon, I shall not be at home. If you see him, let this suffice, that you know I refuse to see him.' 1 Vera, my child, I considered you incautious ; you spoke too much of your early life, forgetting you addressed a stranger.' 1 Too much ! I am sorry. The old man was so interested in all I said, and I really thought he was an old family friend, yet unknown to us. Now, I will call my doggies — give the long coats a swim in the lake, and those that prefer to paddle shall keep to the margin ; and if I should accidentally meet Athelstan, mother dear, may I invite him to dinner ? ' 1 My dear, he is too frequent in his visits.' ' I may not meet him, mother ; but if I should, dear mother ? We must lodge him in this out-of-the-way place, for you gave him a general invitation. You see the fish are more numerous just here than in any other part of the lake, and he generally chooses a spot near here to fish/ 1 A strange coincidence ; but let it pass, Vera. I will accompany you to-day, and be amused by the dogs' play too. Come Reni, Dlirer, Francisca, all come to bathe/ No. Athelstan would not have been pleased 48 Who is Vera ? had he had Merlin's mirror, nor at his ease had he known the result of his visit to Exeter Hall this day: a ruse of his father's to take him well out of his way for a time, to suit his own purpose. CHAPTER V. ARE THE BONDS OF MARRIAGE DISHONOURABLE ? * Intrigue is mere invention in men, an instinct in woman.' Steele. |0 you know the town of Windsor, Athelstan ? ' ' How, father, could I avoid knowing it well, — as well as I do the Canterbury meadows ? Was not Eton my first school ? ' 1 I had quite forgotten that, my son.' Athelstan, observing the silence that followed his father's remark — a remark as false as any man could utter — asked if any of his knowledge about the vicinity of Windsor would be useful to him. 1 Is there good fishing in the Thames about there ? ' 4 Some parts of the river first-rate ; ' and Athelstan continued with gusto, ' 1 could take VOL. I. D 50 Who is Vera ? you near a weir where every fly would catch the eye of a good prize. My tackle is just now in perfect order ; use it for an indefinite time, just as you may desire.' 1 We might be companions in the sport ; yet I think lake fishing is superior to river.' ' Oh, in the Scotch lakes : no one would wish better.' 'We need not go so far north as that. Is it good in Derwentwater ? ' ' Very fair.' Athelstan saw not the drift of his father's remarks. ' Any lake better ? Do you know Winder- mere ? ' 1 I have heard of good sport there in the proper season.' ' Heard ! But do you know of your own knowledge ? ' Athelstan took his father's words cum. grano salts ; they might mean much or nothing. A few strides took him to the window. He looked out, turned his back towards his father, as he answered, — ' Of my own knowledge good fishing is to be had there — at least it was years ago.' 1 I have been to Lake Windermere lately. Do you know a cottage — a bijou residence — facing the lake, on the west, conspicuous from its elevated position — quite small ? A retired Are the Bonds of Marriage, etc, 51 actress lives there. Did she happen to live there the last time you visited Winder- mere ? ' 1 Possibly ; but I do not recall any particular cottage. Windermere being a large lake, many retired actresses may choose to live on its banks when they become old ladies.' 1 Never apply the word " lady " to an actress my son.' ' No ; not when she is raised to be a duchess or countess, or any other title ? ' said Athelstan, with a malicious chuckle. ' Well, Athelstan, the actress is not old who lives now in the cottage ; which you will re member, when I tell you Miss Verge lives there, and she had the boldness to ask me to call upon her. I saw her mother, on a business matter, at the cottage some months ago.' ' You did ! ' Athelstan turned towards his father ; an ex- pression of strong indignation was visible in every feature of his face. ' Should I have asked your permission ? All I wish you to know is that I saw Miss Verge.' Mr Morgane looked hard into his son's face and as steadfastly his son looked into his. Not a word passed for many minutes. The father distrusted the son, no less did the son distrust the father. Each desired not to lose ground in choosing defence or attack. Athelstan waited UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY 5 2 Who is Vera ? attack, and remained passive. His father re- peated his question again. ' Should I have asked your permission V ' Certainly not. You had business with Madame Verge. So far, she had the right to grant or refuse you an interview ; and, natur- ally, if you called on the mother, you would gain an introduction to her daughter.' ' I wish you to hear my opinion of Miss Verge before I speak on other matters, and to warn you that though she converses pleasantly, there is an artful spirit in her. Her dress, studied even to the folds of her tucker, and her manners so coquettish that she would be dangerous if she came in contact with a youth unused to the snares of designing witchery ; she disguises boldness under the aspect of easy indifference.'