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 C849i 
 v.l

 
 DULCIBEL 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS 
 
 AT ALL THE LIBRARIES. 
 
 PART OF THE PROPERTY. By Beatrice Whitby, 
 
 author of 'The Awakening of Mary Fenwick.' -i vols. 
 
 A MARCH IN THE RANKS. By Jessie Fothergill, 
 
 author of ' The First Violin,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 A LADY HORSEBREAKER. By Mrs. Conney. 
 
 o vols. 
 
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 3 vols. 
 
 CAST OUT. By Morice Gerard. 2 vols. 
 
 HURST & BLACKETT, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
 
 DULCIBEL 
 
 BY 
 
 GERTRUDE M. HAYWARD 
 
 Grow old along with me! 
 
 The best is yet to be, 
 The last of life, for which the first was made: 
 
 Our times are in His hand 
 
 Who saith, " A whole I planned, 
 Youth shows but half ; trust God : see all, nor be afraid !" 
 Rabbi Ben Ezra—E. Beowning. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 
 
 13. GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1890. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 N.l 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 j: THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 v7 ^ 
 
 
 
 i? CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Major Bultitaft 1 
 
 11. St. Aidans 31 
 
 ■p III. John Carwinion 51 
 
 '^ IV. A Lost Saint 72 
 
 y^ V. Bassel Vale and THE Squire OF Basildene 82 
 y 
 
 To VII. Chris. . 147 
 
 ^ VIII. Confidences 172 
 
 /^ IX. The First Break 194 
 
 J X. Mrs. Furcell's Dance . . .206 
 
 Jj XL ' Oh, how easily Things go Wrong !' . 255 
 
 ^ XII. Hope and Verney's 292 
 
 VI. Brother and Sister 113
 
 DULCIBEL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 
 
 A square-set man and honest ; and his ejes,y 
 An outdoor sign of all the warmth within, 
 Smiled with his lips — a smile beneath a cloud, 
 But Heaven had meant it for a sunny one. 
 
 TJie Holy Grail 
 
 'I MUST say, Major Bultitaft, that I en- 
 tirely disagree with you. I cannot see in 
 the least, on what grounds you base your 
 objections. The whole thing seems a 
 perfect storm in a tea-cup, not worth the 
 trouble of arguing about.' 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Sir Eustace Kitson, leaning Avith his 
 elbow on the elaborate over-mantel of his 
 wife's drawing-room, looked down from a 
 position, which was not without its advan- 
 tages in an argument, on Major Bultitaft, 
 who, seated in a low wicker-chair, with his 
 face turned to the strong light from the 
 window, was feeling very acutely the 
 defects of a situation into which he had 
 incautiously allowed himself to be beguiled. 
 
 Lady Kitson, at a daintily-arranged 
 tea-table close by him, was enjoying his 
 discomfiture, of that the unfortunate major 
 felt convinced, and the thought disturbed 
 his equanimity considerably. In fair and 
 open argument, he had come prepared to 
 make a good stand, to win the day even, 
 he had persuaded himself; but with two 
 pairs of supercilious eyes upon him, and 
 with the broad glare of a Madras after-
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 6 
 
 noon sun full in his face, and sunk into 
 the ignominy of a low wicker-chair, which 
 forced his knees nearly up to his chin, and 
 left him in vague misgivings as to what 
 would become of him, if he ventured to 
 lean back, his presence of mind deserted 
 him, and reduced him to a foregone con- 
 'clusion of the hopelessness of any argu- 
 ments he could bring forward. He had 
 floundered painfully in the objections he 
 had come to raise, ever since he had made 
 the false step in selecting the low chair. 
 It had been destructive to his most 
 cherished theories. 
 
 Lady Kitson and her husband watched 
 him with amusement. 
 
 • It is the principle I am arguing for. 
 Sir Eustace — it is the principle. I make a 
 rule, and I hate making exceptions to it. I 
 say this invitation may be all right ; these 
 
 b2
 
 4 DULCIBEL. 
 
 people, this Mr. Carwinion and his family^ 
 may be excellent people, very kind, and 
 all the rest of it. I don't say a word 
 against them — I can't. I don't know any- 
 thing about them. But there's this rule 
 I've made, and there are Colonel Jocelyn's 
 last words about it, and I don't want to 
 depart from them. The boy's very well 
 where he is. We never have any com- 
 plaints from him. Let well alone. He is 
 very happy at St. Aidans ; what does he 
 want to go anywhere else for, or make 
 other friends for, till he goes to Sand- 
 hurst?' 
 
 ' It's absurd talking about a principlcy 
 Major Bultitaft ! People should not make 
 hard and fast rules that they won't depart 
 from on principle. If you have objected 
 to Chris's making friendships among his 
 schoolfellows, and we have fallen in with
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 
 
 your objection, it is a widely different 
 matter allowing him to renew an old 
 friendship of his father's. There is no 
 question of principle now — excuse my say- 
 ing so — it is simply narrow-mindedness. 
 This Mr. Carwinion is an old friend of my 
 late husband ; he writes offering to make 
 a home in England for his son. From all 
 accounts, the Carwinions are a deadly dull, 
 typical clergyman's family. There is no 
 chance of there being any temptation with 
 these people, to the bad companionship of 
 which you make such a bugbear. And 
 simply the only objection you can raise 
 against the proposal, is this one of prin- 
 ciple — of making an exception to this rule 
 of yours.' 
 
 It was Lady Kitson who was speaking, 
 in the low, well-balanced voice of calm 
 self-possession. She had, however, jerked
 
 b DULCIBEL. 
 
 her sentences out somewhat at the last, as 
 though the even tenor of her bearing 
 was taxed a little, to keep back a feeling 
 of irritability that would not much longer 
 be suppressed. 
 
 Major Bultitaft contemplated her un- 
 easily ; he felt the disadvantage he was at, 
 in his present frame of mind, in contend- 
 ing with a person of her exactly balanced 
 temperament. Sir Eustace's hasty retorts 
 and scant civility were preferable. 
 
 'No tea, thank you, no tea !' impatiently 
 waving back the cup Lady Kitson prof- 
 fered him. ' If you don't mind, I will 
 take a turn or two under the verandah, 
 and think the matter over. I want to be 
 fair to the boy, I want to do what's right ; 
 but honestly I never considered the ques- 
 tion from any point of view but that of a 
 refusal, and I must go over the 2^'^^os and
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 7 
 
 cons a little, before 1 can come to a deci- 
 sion. Will you permit me ?' as he pulled 
 himself up from the depths of the ill- 
 chosen chair, and strode across to the 
 French window that opened upon the 
 verandah. 
 
 ' I am afraid you will find it rather hot 
 for your meditations,' said Sir Eustace ; 
 adding, when the major's shadow had dis- 
 appeared from the blind, and his retreat- 
 ing footsteps made the remark safe, ' What 
 a bore the man is ! I can't think how 
 Colonel Jocelyn could ever have been so 
 misled, as to appoint such a creature his 
 son's guardian. The fellow's like a bull 
 in a china-shop. Did you ever see any- 
 thing like the way he sat in that chair ? 
 He doesn't know how to behave out of a 
 barrack-room. Your late husband must 
 have seen a great deal more in him than
 
 8 DULCIBEL. 
 
 is visible to the naked eye. He's so 
 
 d d interfering, too. What business is 
 
 it of his, to make all this affair? If we 
 choose to let the boy spend his holidays 
 with these Carwinions, or in the infernal 
 regions, what right has he to object ? We 
 must teach him a lesson, or he'll make 
 himself insufferable about this boy, before 
 long.' 
 
 ' I suppose Colonel Jocelyn knew how 
 he wanted his son brought up, and ap- 
 pointed Bultitaft his guardian in accord- 
 ance,' remarked Lady Kitson. blandly, as 
 though the boy in question were no son 
 of hers, or matter of interest to her. ' Bul- 
 titaft seems to have had his instructions 
 before Colonel Jocelyn died, and I don't 
 mean to make it my policy to interfere. 
 If the boy gets his commission, and comes 
 out here, it will be time enough then to
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 9 
 
 see what he is made of. Bultitaft is not 
 very likely to impress him favourably as 
 a guardian, if he goes on like this.' 
 
 Lady Kitson turned her attention to 
 her tea-making, her slender, sallow hands 
 devoting themselves, with the calm de- 
 liberateness that was characteristic of all 
 her actions, to the details of hot water, 
 milk and sugar, dismissing, as it were, 
 with a deprecatory extension of the slim 
 fingers, the unpleasant subject of the con- 
 versation. 
 
 Sir Eustace, still leaning against the 
 mantel-shelf, contemplated his wife's 
 severely handsome face with a critical 
 admixture of satisfaction and disapproval, 
 stroking his long moustache gravely, as he 
 meditated upon the calm indifference with 
 which she treated this matter, relating to 
 the possible happiness of her son.
 
 10 DULCIBEL. 
 
 He was not a heartless man himself, he 
 was cynically worldly-wise, in a super- 
 ficial fashion, and rather lacked tact in 
 his dealings with his fellow-men ; but 
 below the cultivated exterior of cynicism 
 he possessed a carelessly affectionate heart. 
 He was too fond of his own children ^ 
 though they bored him, he told people, 
 not to desire sincerely that he might live 
 to watch over their future, rather than 
 this self-possessed, beautiful mother of 
 theirs. 
 
 Outside, Major Bultitaft paced the 
 verandah with impatient, creaking foot- 
 steps. It was too sunny beyond for even 
 an acclimatised Indian, like himself, to 
 venture out of the shadow of the house, 
 as he had contemplated when he left the 
 drawing-room. Too agitated to quietly 
 consider the matter before him for some
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 1.1 
 
 time, he could only rail inwardly against 
 the woman whose calmness had so roused 
 his anger. 
 
 The major was too blunt and honest a 
 soldier to disguise matters even to him- 
 self. He led too solitary and friendless a 
 life not to make himself his own unre- 
 served confidant. He made no attempt 
 now to conceal from himself the fact, that 
 he was at a disadvantage when he was in 
 Lady Kitson's drawing-room, and under 
 the fire of her and her husband's super- 
 cilious glances. He told himself simply, 
 that he was a rough soldier, the son of a 
 soldier, and not the equal of people of the 
 world of fashion like the Kitsons. 
 
 He had not language at command to 
 meet them on their own ground, and, 
 though he felt his cause to be a more 
 righteous one than theirs, he could not
 
 12 DULCIBEL. 
 
 say anything in defence of it, against their 
 cahn impassiveness. What right, he felt, 
 had he to interfere in the concerns of such 
 j)eople? With his own native regiment, 
 among his men, it was different. They 
 understood and respected him, because he 
 had been among them all his days, and 
 they had grown used to him and his bluff 
 ways ; but here, among other manners, and 
 seeing things from other points of view, 
 he was lost, he could not be his honest 
 self, and he could not change himself to 
 meet these people, as others might. 
 
 Worst of all, he could not banish from 
 his mind in their presence the thought 
 that he was not their equal, that he was 
 the son of a sergeant, and that he himself 
 had risen to his command through the 
 ranks ; while he despised himself for the 
 remembrance, he could not drive it from
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 13 
 
 him, and it made him a coward in the 
 presence of Lady Kitson. He might argue 
 with himself, and overcome the feeling 
 when he was outside, but again in that 
 drawing-room, again sunk into the depths 
 of that abominable low chair, he could not 
 depend upon his prudence for ten consecu- 
 tive minutes. 
 
 The idea that they despised and ridi- 
 culed him jarred upon his sensibilities, 
 more than it might upon those of an ap- 
 parently more delicately organised mind. 
 His warm Irish blood boiled with indiof- 
 nation and resentment. And yet, below 
 the rough, irritable surface lay a very 
 different character. A warm, tender- 
 hearted, generous disposition, brimming 
 over with the suppressed affection that 
 had never yet been bestowed upon an 
 adequate object. A high sense of honour
 
 14 DULCIBEL. 
 
 and duty, above all, a grave sense of the 
 responsibility of his duties as a guardian, 
 — these were the instincts of a nature of 
 which Sir Eustace and Lady Kitson knew 
 nothing, as they sat and watched their 
 victim, in their quietly superior way, and 
 summed him up as an unconscionable 
 bore. 
 
 Lady Kitson's first husband, Colonel 
 Jocelyn, had judged otherwise, learning 
 fully to appreciate his comrade's true 
 character, during the few days of close 
 intercourse together that were spared him, 
 after a fatal accident in the jungle, at 
 which Captain Bultitaft was the only 
 Englishman present. 
 
 Lionel Jocelyn, discovering the staunch 
 character of his companion, had not been 
 afraid to ask him to act as guardian to his 
 child, despite the clear evidences of Bulti-
 
 MA JOE BULTITAFT. 15 
 
 taft's humble origin in society. He had 
 charged him very sternly to look after his 
 orphan boy, feeling a strong confidence in 
 the man of curt speech who held his hand, 
 and swore words that were solemn reali- 
 ties to him, looking honestly into the face 
 of his dying companion. 
 
 It was a serious responsibility, this 
 guardianship, but Bultitaft had not under- 
 taken it without being aware of the diffi- 
 culties he would have to encounter, 
 although he was unconscious of his gener- 
 osity. He desired only to be true to his 
 notion of these responsibilities, now. The 
 remembrance of Colonel Jocelyn's last look, 
 and the words of implicit trust he had 
 spoken, these returned vividly to poor 
 Bultitaft's memory, during his present in- 
 terview wdth Lady Kitson. He saw again 
 the clearing in the jungle, the camp, and
 
 16 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Jocelyn's dying eyes as they had been 
 turned upon him in appealing confidence 
 — they were ahnost womanly blue eyes, 
 these, that had sought his face, while 
 their owner spoke his last words in this 
 world : ' You'll look after little Sunny, 
 Bultitaft, and see that he grows up a good 
 boy, and leads a different life to mine?' 
 and the thought that the Kitsons' sneers 
 should ever make him blind to his duty 
 seemed almost maddening now to Bulti- 
 taft's honest soul. 
 
 Colonel Jocelyn had kept no secret from 
 him, the distrust he felt for his young wife, 
 and the painfully low estimate his anxiety 
 conceived of her character as a mother and 
 a companion to his child. He had given 
 him an almost exaggerated account of the 
 mistakes and unfortunate connections of his 
 own youth, thinking to impress theresponsi-
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 17 
 
 bilities of guardianship more fully upon 
 Bultitaft thereby, and had implored him, 
 if he would undertake the care of his boy, 
 to guard him from the influences that had 
 been the ruin of his own career, to see, 
 too, that his mother's youth and inexperi- 
 ence, and above all her heartlessness, did 
 not bring about the misfortunes that he 
 dreaded for the child. 
 
 * Let him be as your own son, Bultitaft. 
 It will relieve Mrs. Jocelyn to have the 
 care of her child taken off her shoulders, 
 and I know that a boy of yours would 
 grow up well.' 
 
 The fundamental mistake that both these 
 men in their anxiety were making, occurred 
 to neither of them, and Bultitaft had pro- 
 mised all that was required of him, with 
 conscientious good faith in his own capa- 
 bility to perform it, and had closed in 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 DULCIBEL. 
 
 peace the eyes of perhaps the only man 
 •who had ever cared to call him friend. 
 
 The guardianship he undertook had 
 been an uphill course for him ever since. 
 Mrs. Jocelyn, not unnaturally vexed at 
 her husband's conduct, had made his task 
 as unpleasant as she could, and by-and- 
 by, when she had married Sir Eustace 
 Kitson, things, instead of improving, had 
 I'rown worse : for her share of the oruar- 
 dianship was nominally handed over to 
 her husband, who had fallen in even less 
 readily with Major Bultitaft's views than 
 Mrs. Jocelyn. 
 
 One line of conduct, one object and aim, 
 the major had throughout his guardian- 
 ship steadfastly pursued. It was a sug- 
 gested deviation from this course that was 
 so deeply agitating him on the afternoon 
 of this present interview with the Kitsons.
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 19 
 
 Bultitaft knew nothing personally of 
 young Jocelyn ; he had not seen him since, 
 as a little child of six, he was sent to 
 England, but he had grown to regard this 
 ward of his as peculiarly his own personal 
 property, and with the strange, unreason- 
 ing love of a lonely heart, that has no 
 .object on which to bestow its affections. 
 
 With a solicitude that was more than 
 parental, he cared for the boy's well-being, 
 and his anxiety to shield his life from 
 ^very possible evil had become to him one 
 of the most important of his duties as a 
 guardian. With the narrow-minded caution 
 of a man who knows nothing of society's 
 ways, he tried to make bad companionship 
 an impossibility, and especially tried to 
 cut young Jocelyn off from the cultivation 
 of any friendship, until the time when he 
 should come out to India, and be under 
 
 c2
 
 20 DULCIBEL. 
 
 his iiniriediate supervision in all his doings. 
 
 With unpractical day-dreams, the good 
 major, whose practical ways were the jest 
 of the whole station, was building up for 
 himself a future, in which the boy was to 
 figure as his adopted son. He was to be 
 the son of Bultitaft's old age. The major 
 meant to retire when young Jocelyn passed 
 out from Sandhurst, and came to India,, 
 for he intended going to live near Chris 
 Jocelyn, wherever his regiment might be 
 stationed. Often he had rehearsed the 
 conversations they would have together, 
 the explanations Chris would then hear, of 
 all the meaning of his guardian's actions, 
 which he confessed must be inexplicable 
 enough now to the boy in England. 
 
 He would tell him of the last days of 
 his father's life, and of his dying charge ; 
 — that would surely make everything clear,.
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 21 
 
 and incline young Jocelyn to his guar- 
 dian's views. And then the major had 
 j)ronnsed himself to make this boy his sole 
 heir, though, to be sure, he hardly needed 
 anything Bultitaft could leave him, as 
 Colonel Jocelyn had so amply provided for 
 his son, to the detriment and disappoint- 
 ment of the boy's mother, who numbered, 
 as not the least among her grievances, the 
 being left with a very inadequate jointure 
 by her wealthy husband. 
 
 The satisfaction of having an heir was 
 none the less, however, to the major, let 
 the heir's independent circumstances be 
 what they might, and his pay was hoarded 
 as carefully as if it had been put by to 
 enrich a penniless object. — But these 
 fancies had been indulged in the undis- 
 turbed quiet of the Rattee barracks. 
 
 Now, a letter had come from England
 
 22 DULCIBEL. 
 
 from a college friend of Colonel Jocelyn, 
 with pressing offers of hospitality to Chris. 
 Major Bultitaft had refused to entertain 
 the idea of the invitation at first, but his 
 refusal had only been followed by a 
 pereniptor}^ request from Lady Kitson, that 
 Major Bultitaft should go to see her in 
 Madras upon the matter, and in the per- 
 sonal interview he had found himself 
 worsted — he almost admitted that now — 
 and, with his defeat, his plans for Chris's 
 future seemed to be destroyed. 
 
 There was much personal feeling in his 
 objection to the invitation, much more 
 than the major admitted, even to himself, 
 when he wrote first from Rattee. If Chris 
 Jocelyn made friends in England, and 
 particularly friends who had known and 
 cared for his father, where would be
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 23 
 
 poor Bultitaft's chances as first claimant 
 for his affections by-ancl-by ? 
 
 Bultitaft might do all in his limited 
 power to make the boy care for him, but 
 what chance could he have against people 
 who were to make a home for him when 
 he was homeless ? — people who had spon- 
 taneously come forward and offered him 
 their hospitality, just at a time when he 
 did not know what hospitality and true 
 friendship meant. 
 
 Major Bultitaft's heart was torn by con- 
 flicting emotions. Duty to the boy, and 
 fairness to the good people who had so 
 generously written to Lady Kitson proffer- 
 ing their hospitality, divided his mind 
 with the more selfish considerations of 
 losing his first claim on Chris's gratitude, 
 and his hopes in consequence for the 
 future.
 
 24 V DULCIBEL. 
 
 No one, to have observed the stout, 
 little, reel-faced man, with the bristly, iron- 
 grey moustache and short, scanty hair 
 brushed forward from his ears above the 
 clean-shaven cheeks, with the shaggy eye- 
 brows, and the keen grey eyes, the whole 
 deportment so stiff and soldierly, as he 
 walked hastily to and fro with his thumbs 
 thrust into his waistcoat-pockets, would 
 have imagined how fierce a conflict be- 
 tween self and newly-discovered duty was 
 being fought out beneath the rough ex- 
 terior. No sensitive girl, on the eve of a 
 great renunciation, could have felt more 
 acutely the painful demands of self-sacri- 
 fice than Major Bultitaft. 
 
 His fancy distorted the magnitude of 
 the demands made upon him. It seemed 
 like giving up his future. The thought of 
 the boy as his companion in old age had
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 25 
 
 grown insensibly to be part of bis future 
 self. Could this thing, asked of him 
 really be for the boy's good ? Chris had 
 unlimited pocket-money, was at a good 
 school, had companions of his own age, 
 was dearly loved by his distant guardian ; 
 could anything else be necessary ? Money, 
 school-companions ! Yes ; but had the 
 boy ever had anyone near to tell him that 
 they loved him ? These people might do 
 that for him. 
 
 With a sense of deep regret, the major 
 remembered how, in his letters to Chris, 
 he had always concealed his deep feelings 
 of affection, from a sensitive dread of being 
 laughed at, and rousing the schoolboy wit 
 of his ward at his expense. He had meant 
 to keep his feelings and intentions a secret 
 from Chris till he came to India, when his 
 old heart had often warmed within him at
 
 26 DULCIBEL. 
 
 the thought of the moment in which they 
 were to be disclosed. And now, Chris, 
 having never known of them, would learn 
 to do without them, would give his grati- 
 tude to others, and never need his guar- 
 dian's tardily proffered affection. 
 
 Major Bultitaft's step quickened and his 
 boots creaked more obtrusively as the 
 full meaning of his renunciation dawned 
 more and more clearly upon him. He 
 became hot and dejected-looking, and, as 
 the necessity of going in and announcing 
 his consent to Chris's accepting Mr. Car- 
 winion's invitation grew more pressing, so 
 the conviction came over him that it 
 would be impossible, when he did so, for 
 him to control his emotion before Lady 
 Kitson. 
 
 Men like Major Bultitaft, however, 
 generally act up to the external appear-
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 27 
 
 ance of firmness in such cases. Chris 
 Jocelyn's guardian was not false to out- 
 ward appearances in this emergency, though 
 the effort that controlled his hidden self 
 was a supreme one. 
 
 The inward feelings were raging fiercely 
 still, when at last he stopped his im- 
 patient promenade, and, Aviping his hot 
 forehead for a moment, as he gathered him- 
 self up for the effort, he thrust aside the 
 muslin drapery of the window, and stepped 
 again into Lady Kitson's presence. 
 
 She had one of her younger children on 
 her knee as Bultitaft entered. The sight 
 softened him almost to unmanning him for 
 a moment ; but she put the little one from 
 her coldly, and looked towards him with- 
 out speaking, — a mute protest against the 
 brusque way he had entered expressed in 
 her eyes, as she looked from him to the dis-
 
 28 DULCIBEL. 
 
 arranged curtains. The look brought him 
 to himself. 
 
 ' I have thought the matter over, Lady 
 Kitson, —Chris had better accept Mr. Car- 
 winion's offer. Will Sir Eustace write to 
 the head-master about it?' 
 
 ' Perhaps you will take some tea now, 
 Major Bultitaft, since this momentous 
 question is off your mind?' she said; and 
 then, turning to the child, added : ' Ethel, 
 go and tell father that Major Bultitaft has 
 come in.' 
 
 But Bultitaft declined both tea and 
 another interview with Sir Eustace ; his 
 consent, summed up in the few common- 
 place words he had spoken, had cost him 
 so much, that he longed to be away by 
 himself to recover the effort. He would 
 like to have spoken to the child, for she 
 reminded him of what little Chris had
 
 MAJOR BULTITAFT. 2& 
 
 been like, but did not venture, and hastily 
 made his excuses for dej)arting instead. 
 
 A two days' coasting journey separated 
 his Rattee station from Madras. He started 
 that evening, going back to his regiment^ 
 and his duties, externally the same man 
 who had left them three days before, but 
 bearing with him a lonelier and heavier 
 heart than he had ever yet known in all 
 his past experience of loneliness and friend- 
 lessness, and with it the conviction, that 
 from henceforth his life must be, as it 
 then was, misunderstood, joyless, and 
 loveless. 
 
 Lost in the oblivion of Rattee, we may 
 not hear of Major Bultitaft for years. His 
 methods may fail, his best intentions be 
 misinterpreted, before he emerges again 
 into our notice ; his name will often be 
 used slightingly by those who should care
 
 30 DULCIBEL. 
 
 for it the most ; of his lost hope we shall 
 scarcely hear a^^airi, but perhaps this one 
 glimpse of him may serve to convince some 
 of those most likely to judge him harshly, 
 what the true nature of the little Irish 
 major really was.
 
 31 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ST. ATDANS. 
 
 He was no more witty than another man, but what he 
 said, he said and looked as no man else could say or look it. 
 
 Esmond. Thackeray. 
 
 The news that Sir Eustace Kitsori had 
 written to the head-master, giving his con- 
 sent for his stepson to spend his holidays 
 away from St. Aidans, was the topic of gene- 
 ral conversation in the school for at least 
 a fortnight before the summer term ended. 
 Chris Jocelyn had been looked upon by 
 everyone as the property of the masters' 
 wives, as soon as the holidays began. It 
 was one of those questions to be arranged 
 among them before every vacation — who
 
 32 DULCIBEL. 
 
 was to take younf^ Jocelyn ? The settle- 
 ment of it was even more important than 
 whether they each and all were to go 
 away for a change, or to spend the holiday 
 time at St. Aidans, and one question ver}^ 
 often hinged upon the other, much more 
 than the matrons who discussed them, 
 were prepared to admit ; for it was univer- 
 sally allowed, that whatever Sir Eustace's 
 behaviour to his stepson personally might 
 be, in monetary matters concerning him 
 his conduct was all that could be desired. 
 
 Jocelyn had been at St. Aidans School 
 seven years, since he was a tiny, pale- 
 faced child of eight, and all that Avhile he 
 had never been allowed to spend his holi- 
 days away from the supervision of the 
 school authorities, nor to accept an invi- 
 tation to stay with a friend. He had been 
 on tours with the tutors, and to the coast
 
 ST. AIDANS. 33 
 
 with the tutors' wives and families, but he 
 had never escaped from the scholastic 
 atmosphere of St. Aidans since the day he 
 had first been brought into it. 
 
 The boy's position was an unique one. 
 His history was a part of the contemporary 
 school chronicle, with which everyone well- 
 posted in St. Aidans news was acquainted. 
 New boys wondered at, and sometimes 
 resented, until they understood, the air 
 of possession with which young Jocelyn 
 treated everything connected with the 
 place ; but, if new boys were considered 
 at all worthy of confidence by their 
 seniors, it was not many days before they 
 heard, related with more or less embellish- 
 ment, the account of Jocelyn's position at 
 St. Aidans, and the reports concerning his 
 curiously persuaded guardian, and the in- 
 difference shown by his parents in India. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Circumstances had drifted somewhat to 
 make Chris's position exactly that which 
 it was. Had his mother been forewarned 
 of the utter callousness with which she 
 would eventually come to regard her 
 child's existence, it is probable that she 
 would have resented the prophecy, and 
 considered it unnatural and impossible. 
 But she had experienced a great deal of 
 disappointment when she was informed of 
 the terms of her husband's will. She had 
 been tempted into her marriage with a 
 man many years her senior, by motives 
 that had had much to do with the possible 
 arrangements of marriage settlement and 
 will, and on her husband's death, finding 
 that her hopes had failed her, she felt no 
 small amount of jealousy for the innocent 
 cause of her disappointment. 
 
 The ill-feelings were aggravated by the
 
 ST. AIDANS. 35 
 
 character of the man whom Colonel Joce- 
 lyn had seen fit to appoint as first guar- 
 dian to his child in her stead. Mrs. 
 Jocel}^ quickly discovered she had no 
 idea in common with Captain Bultitaft, 
 and a general disgust for all matters relat- 
 ing to the child, each one of which roused 
 such disagreeable associations in her me- 
 mory, soon overcame the small share of 
 maternal instinct with which she was 
 endowed. 
 
 After one or two stormy interviews, 
 Captain Bultitaft found himself free to a 
 certain extent to do as he chose with his 
 little ward. Upon one point only relating 
 to the small Chris's future did Mrs. Joce- 
 lyn insist, and this, quite as much because 
 she saw it annoyed and troubled Captain 
 Bultitaft, as for the real good she be- 
 lieved it would prove to the boy. She 
 
 d2
 
 36 . DULCIBEL. 
 
 determined to have Chris's name entered 
 at once for a public school. Poor Bulti- 
 taft protested, with vague, old-fashioned 
 notions that most of the vices of young 
 men dated from their early connections 
 with public schools and universities, and 
 absolutely refused to entertain the idea of 
 allowing Colonel Jocelyn's son to be sent 
 to Eton, which was his father's school. 
 
 Still Mrs. Jocelyn showed such tenacity 
 of purpose upon the matter, that Chris's 
 name was eventually placed upon the 
 bursar's list at St. Aidans, as a candidate 
 for admission, when he should be old 
 enougli to enter the preparatory school 
 there. 
 
 As a reservation, in keeping Avith his 
 promise to his chief, Captain Bultitaft 
 extracted permission to make the rule 
 with reference to Chris's holidays. His
 
 ST. AIDANS. 37 
 
 conscience troubled him a little less 
 when this strict rule was laid down : 
 •Chris could not wander far into the 
 paths of bad companions under the con- 
 stant supervision of his tutors, and to 
 the arrangement, as relieving her of some 
 embarrassment, Mrs. Jocelyn did not 
 demur. 
 
 Her intention was to remain in India, 
 where the climate and the society suited 
 her very well, and to send the boy at once 
 to England, placing him there in the 
 custody of one of those numerous families, 
 renowned for their shabby gentility, who 
 advertise themselves as willing to receive 
 Indian children, until such a time as he 
 should be old enough to be received at 
 St. Aidans. Once at the school, holidays 
 spent as Bultitaft wished them or not, the 
 boy would be provided for until he could
 
 38 DULCIBEL. 
 
 enter at Sandhurst, and eventually return 
 to India. 
 
 And on this wise, so far, things had 
 fallen out. Mrs. Jocelyn had married 
 again very soon, and had grown, with 
 other cares and interests, and other 
 children around her, to think less and 
 less of the welfare of her son in England. 
 Chris, meanwhile, remembered very little 
 of either of his guardians. He wrote to 
 them, and formed his own ideas, founded 
 on hazy recollection, of what his mother 
 and the captain, now Major Bultitaft, 
 really were like. 
 
 His life had not been an unhappy one, 
 although he was so cut off from all dis- 
 interested friendship. Chris Jocelyn pos- 
 sessed too buoyant and cheerful a disposi- 
 tion for troubles lightly to affect him, that 
 would have weio^hed down another child's
 
 ST. AIDANS. 39 
 
 spirit with a sense of irreparable wrong. 
 He remembered his father, and the days 
 in Madras, in a visionary and ideal way, as 
 the most blissful and perfectly happy in 
 his life. The tall, grave man who had 
 called him ' Sunny,' and who had taken 
 him in front of him on his charger to the 
 parade-ground, was his perfect hero, his 
 ideal type of what a man should be. 
 
 He remembered the bitter sense of 
 desolation that had come over him, on 
 the morning when he lay in his little bed, 
 and the ayah had come in to tell him that 
 the sahib, his father, was dead and gone 
 away for ever. That was the first childish 
 trouble he remembered : the bitterness of 
 the tears he had shed then, with his little 
 hot cheeks pressed to the pillow, and his 
 baby-hands convulsively clutching the bed- 
 clothes, was a bitterness and a sorrow to him
 
 40 dulcibp:l. 
 
 still : no one had ever taken his father's 
 place in his heart. But his nature was not 
 one that trouble crushes. His spirits re- 
 bounded, and his next memory was of the 
 enjoyment of the voya^^e home. People 
 made much of him on the ship. His 
 brio;htness and intellio;ence brouo^ht him 
 into notice, and his pretty face, and the 
 peculiar little lauojh that was something 
 quite his own, made him a favourite every- 
 where. At school it was the same with 
 him, he had only to be known to be 
 popular. He made friends, and was pitied 
 by them for the severity of the restriction 
 with which his school-days were encom- 
 passed. Certainly the restrictions luere 
 troubles ; but, with the ready adaptability 
 that was a part of his nature, he rose 
 superior to them, and made himself a 
 favourite with the masters and their
 
 ST. AIDANS. 41 
 
 wives, among whom he spent his holidays. 
 Chris had the art of thoroughly entering 
 into the ways of the people among whom 
 he was thrown. 
 
 Periodically came the unhappiness of 
 having to refuse the invitations of his 
 friends to stay with them during the 
 holidays ; but his spirits rose very soon 
 after they left without him, and many St. 
 Aidans boys passed less happy holidays 
 than young Jocelyn, who sometimes had 
 to content himself with acting as the com- 
 panion of a Dry-as-dust, or with mild 
 amusements on a quiet beach, with the 
 small children of his house-master. His 
 chums sometimes reproached him. 
 
 ' You are a regular humbug, Jocelyn ! 
 You don't care a bit whether you come 
 with us or not. I never knew such a fellow 
 as you are !'
 
 42 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Then Chris's bright, merry laugh would 
 disarm the doubt, and his warm, genial 
 manner would win back the friendship that 
 had taken alarm. And he ivas sincere, in 
 his own light-hearted way. 
 
 He wrote to his friends, and was glad to 
 meet them again, remembering their tastes 
 and peculiarities in the things he collected 
 for them during his trips with the tutors, 
 and taking an interest in their accounts of 
 how the holidays had been spent in their 
 homes. But nothing affected him very 
 seriously. 
 
 It was not surprising, that in course of 
 time there came to be no more popular 
 boy in the school than young Jocelyn. 
 He worked satisfactorily, but Chris was 
 not clever. He remained a rather undue 
 period among the lesser luminaries of the 
 lower school, and shell, but in the cricket-
 
 ST. AIDANS. 43 
 
 field and on the river he excelled. Alma 
 Mater felt a proper pride when she saw 
 this muscular young son of hers carrying 
 out his l3at after a representative match, 
 or rowing stroke for her at Henley, and 
 kindly forgot his blunders at Greek prose. 
 Young Jocelyn had his fair share of 
 muscle and activity, but six years of early 
 life in India had detracted from the per- 
 fect robustness of his constitution. More- 
 over, Chris had hardly ever known what it 
 was to have a mother's care over him. He 
 had pulled through his childish illnesses as 
 best he could, all thanks to the matrons 
 and school-doctor who looked after him^ 
 but he had missed the little superfluities of 
 tenderer nursing, which mean so much ; 
 and the thought and attention that other 
 boys received after their illnesses, and that 
 sent them back to school none the worse
 
 44 DULCIBEL. 
 
 for tlieir attacks of measles or whooping- 
 cough, had never fallen to Chris's lot. 
 
 Jocelyn was too much a favourite for 
 even the masters' wives to grudge him the 
 good news that the head-master had to 
 communicate to him, about a fortnight 
 before the summer-term of his seventh 
 year at St. Aidans ended. 
 
 ' Afternoon school ' was just over in the 
 large class-room, when the doctor singled 
 him out, and told him to come up to his study 
 before tea. Jocelyn went, wondering great- 
 ly at the cause, and doubting w^hether the 
 summons augured well or badly for him; the 
 popular school-boy's existence is not always 
 sans peur et sans reproche. The doctor had a 
 letter in his hand, and was standing with 
 his back to the empty firej^lace, his un- 
 varying attitude, summer and winter, when 
 interviewing a pupil. Jocelyn knocked,
 
 ST. AIDANS. 4^ 
 
 and entered to the august presence. 
 
 'Eh, Jocelyn ?' interrogated the head- 
 master. ' I have had a letter from Sir 
 Eustace Kitson. It relates to the coming 
 holidays.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. Does he say Avith whom I am 
 to spend them? The Batsons ? — Mr. Bat- 
 son, I mean, or ' 
 
 ' No, boy, no ! With none of them this 
 time. It seems you are to be allowed to 
 go away. Sir Eustace has had a letter 
 from an old friend of your father — a Mr. 
 Carwinion, a clergyman in Westernshire — 
 he invites you to spend your holidays at 
 his house. Major Bultitaft has been com- 
 municated with, and the major agrees.' 
 
 ' That's a wonder !' hazarded Chris, 
 whose vivacity was not quite suppressed 
 by his proper awe for the person of the 
 head-master.
 
 46 DULCIBEL. 
 
 ' No, Major Bultitaft, strange to say, 
 quite falls in with the proposal,' continued 
 the doctor, smiling. 
 
 Though so exalted a personage in the 
 eyes of the community, which he ruled as 
 an autocrat, the head-master was intensely 
 human in his likes and dislikes, and was 
 not proof against a strong partiality for the 
 handsome young Jocelyn, though he un- 
 derstood the boy's faults better than most 
 people. 
 
 He contemplated Chris in his silent, 
 absorbed way, without speaking again for 
 a minute, summing up the lad's character 
 mentally, as he took in the details of 
 strength and weakness which his figure 
 displayed. 
 
 The sunny, bright face, over which much 
 outdoor exercise had spread a healthy tan; 
 the fair flaxen of the curly hair, that
 
 ST. AIDANS. 4:7 
 
 looked so silvery light against the sun- 
 burnt forehead, on which it lay in untidy, 
 thick masses ; above all, the intense blue- 
 ness of the eyes that constantly sparkled 
 with light, and reflected the happy nature 
 within ; — we shall so often have to speak of 
 these blue eyes of Chris's, that it is well to 
 take a long stare at them, with the silent 
 head-master now, and notice how they are 
 the making of a face which grows a little 
 narrow and unsatisfactory towards the 
 mouth and chin, and has a look of irreso- 
 lution about it. He is a tall, straio;ht lad, 
 this son of Colonel Jocelyn ; rather too 
 thin and slight, perhaps, to look quite 
 strong, in spite of the satisfactorily- 
 developed biceps. 
 
 The doctor roused himself from his 
 absent-minded soliloquy and spoke again. 
 
 ' It seems this Mr. Carwinion and your
 
 48 DULCIBEL. 
 
 father were great friends at Eton. I 
 believe they never met afterwards. How- 
 ever, Major Bui tit aft considers their having 
 been friends there, quite sufficient guar- 
 antee for your going to Basildene, to stay 
 with the Carwinions. It is a country 
 place, very quiet and dull, I daresay. 
 Mr. Carwinion is quite an old man, and 
 there are a son and daughter, both a great 
 deal older than you. But you are to be 
 congratulated, Jocelyn, at getting per- 
 mission to go away at all ! It is a move 
 in the right direction by the Indian 
 authorities. We shall have you going off 
 somewhere better after a time.' 
 
 Chris did not seem exactly as delighted 
 as he might have been at the prospect. 
 
 *I havn't much to be grateful to the 
 Indian authorities for, sir,' he remarked. 
 * I don't expect they'd have given me this
 
 ST. AIDANS. 4:9 
 
 permission, if they thought I'd have cared 
 much about it.' 
 
 ' Don't be bitter, Jocelyn !' 
 
 The good doctor put his hand on the 
 boy's shoulder in so kindly a manner, that 
 Chris instantly felt his heart brimming 
 over with affectionate gratitude, and found 
 himself wishing that an opportunity might 
 occur some day, more favourable for the 
 exhibition of it. 
 
 ' I'd really rather have stayed at St. 
 Aidans,' he said, feeling that he would like 
 to have added something concerning his 
 devotion to the person of the head- master, 
 had not shyness rather embarrassed him. 
 
 * Jocelyn, you have a faculty for making 
 yourself happy anywhere ! You will en- 
 joy this visit, we shall see. You can take 
 Mr. Carwinion's letter to read, if you like. 
 He seems a very kind old gentleman, and 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 DULCIBEL. 
 
 to have had the greatest aiFection for your 
 father. He speaks of him and of you in 
 the warmest terms. You don't remember 
 his son, Michael Carwinion? He was at 
 St. Aidans. Left just about the time you 
 came. He took a scholarship at Oxford. 
 You will see his name on the boards in the 
 school-room. He was a capital fellow, 
 everyone liked him. You are sure to get 
 on together, though he has a very serious, 
 quiet way you must get accustomed to at 
 first. I never saw his father, thou2:h he 
 wrote to me once or twice about Carwinion 
 — I fancy he must be an invalid. Now, 
 bo}^, you must be off to your tea. Take 
 the letter. I shall see you about this 
 business again, before the time comes for 
 you to go to Basildene.' 
 
 In this way was Chris Jocelyn's first 
 visit from St. Aidans arranged.
 
 51 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 JOHN CARWINION. 
 
 ' A man's foes shall be they of his own household.' 
 
 Life at Basildene Vicarage surpassed in 
 \ineventfulness the ordinary dull existence 
 of most country livings. Neither summer 
 nor winter brought there events of a more 
 exciting nature than good or bad skating 
 reasons, annual lawn-meets at the Tower 
 House, hay-makings, and harvest-festival 
 keeping, with interchange of visits among 
 humdrum country neighbours, and the oc- 
 casional excitement of a dancing-party, 
 
 E 2
 
 52 DULCIBEL. 
 
 of the olcl-fashionecl, sit-down supper sorty 
 — these last furnishing anticipatory and 
 retrospective conversation of great value 
 in the waste desert of the ordinary com- 
 mon-place gossip of the neighbourhood. 
 And yet, at Basildene Vicarage, amid the 
 monotony and quiet, had been enacted 
 many a life's history of pain and joy, 
 intensest pain and brightest joy, since the 
 day, twenty-five years ago now, that the 
 present vicar, the Reverend John Michael 
 Carwinion, had been installed there as 
 incumbent. 
 
 People have more leisure to suffer and 
 enjoy in the country than they have in 
 the bustle of town surroundings. Perhaps 
 if his college had presented John Car- 
 whiion with one of its city or suburban 
 livings, instead of electing him to the quiet 
 one in Wcsternshire, his life's history
 
 JOHN CARWINION. 53 
 
 might have been a very clifFerent one ; his 
 early hopes and ambitions might have 
 come nearer to realization, and he himself 
 might have been a more satisfied, a hap- 
 pier, and a more satisfactory member of 
 society. 
 
 Unfortunately fate only allows of our 
 weighing results when its actions are 
 irremediable. John Carwinion's college 
 career had been a brilliant one. Scholar 
 and fellow of his college, and first-class of 
 his year, he had hoped and believed, with 
 his friends, great things of himself. He 
 had originally been intended for the Bar, 
 and his early promise at the Union led to 
 hope being entertained of his, by-and- 
 by, becoming a successful candidate for 
 a parliamentary seat. But the Tractarian 
 movement upset all these prospects, and 
 Carwinion presented himself for ordination
 
 54 DULCIBEL. 
 
 at the time when he should have been 
 anticipating his call to the Bar. 
 
 Yet his ordination was not the decision 
 of a moment. No action of his was ever 
 undertaken without due deliberation, and, 
 in his early life at least, without its object 
 having as its ultimate aim a future of 
 promise and ambition. 
 
 As a clergyman, Carwinion meant to 
 realise his ideal conception, according to 
 revived notions, of the model parish priest. 
 His temperament was admirably suited to 
 the type, combining an excitable and emo- 
 tional nature with a deep insight into the 
 realities of religion. He started well in 
 the life he had embraced, and his college, 
 which hoped great things of him as a 
 zealous disciple of Pusey, bestowed very 
 soon the desirable living of Basildene upon 
 its promising young fellow.
 
 JOHN CARWINION. 55 
 
 His admirers looked to foster and en- 
 courage the ambition they had noticed in 
 him, — their patronage ruined his life at 
 its very beginning ! How could the zeal- 
 ous young Anglican priest propound the 
 revived tenets and doctrines of his Church 
 to the rustic intelligences he was sent to 
 enlighten ? He could but hope to advance 
 cautiously ; there was no better prospect 
 for the most energetic of men at Basil- 
 dene, but John Carwinion's energy gave 
 way at the first rebuff, and stationary he 
 and his parish had remained ever since. 
 Not as might have been expected, though ; 
 the death-blow to his reforming efforts 
 came not from without. The man's foes 
 were those of his own household, and the 
 gentlest and most inoffensive of foes they 
 were. 
 
 A year after coming to Basildene, Car-
 
 56 DULCIBEL. 
 
 winion married the sister of one of his 
 college friends — a highly-educated, fair, 
 delicate woman who idolized her husband, 
 yet misunderstood him, w^ho made him 
 too perfectly happy to leave any ambi- 
 tion in him, and wdio was too refined 
 and intellectual herself to find anything 
 in common with the bucolic minds around 
 her. 
 
 Falhng back upon the perfect sympathy 
 of her husband, she never recognised, in 
 her unconscious selfishness, what a vast 
 field of uncultivated possibilities she was 
 neoflectins: in her villao^e neighbours. From 
 these neighbours, too, she absorbed her 
 husband's interest. All that was brightest, 
 and cleverest, and most companionable he 
 found in her — a ready appreciation and a 
 perfect sympathy. He needed no more, 
 he hoped no longer for aught else, and
 
 JOHN CARWINION. 57 
 
 contentedly rested upon this siren-rock of 
 a prematurely attained happiness, until 
 Nemesis overtook him. 
 
 A boy was born to them a year after 
 their marriage. The birth of little Michael 
 seemed to the infatuated husband and wife 
 as the climax of all happiness. The child 
 was made their constant companion from 
 its babyhood. As a pet-dog learns to 
 interpret the moods and ways of the 
 master with whom it is continually, so 
 the baby-boy, before he could speak, 
 learnt to understand his parents as baby 
 never understood before. 
 
 He was a bright, clever little lad, know- 
 ing the alphabet at three, and at four and 
 iive becoming such a prodigy of infant 
 learning (though no one ever knew exactly 
 how the child was taught), that he was an 
 astonishment to all the neisrhbours and
 
 58 DULCIBEL. 
 
 clergy witli whom the Carwinioiis ever 
 came in contact. 
 
 When little Michael was six years old, 
 a baby sister was born to him. Dulcibel, 
 the girl, was christened after her mother, 
 as Michael had been named after his 
 father, but, in the inclusive trio of the 
 vicarage society, the little one was always 
 known as ' Baby Sis ;' six-year-old Michael 
 regarding himself as greatly her superior, 
 and as ancient a member of society to her 
 as if he belono-ed to another o-eneration. A 
 year after Dulcibel's birth, another child 
 was born. 
 
 Little Michael found his duties develop- 
 ing around him now thick and fast. The 
 care of ' Baby Sis ' had weighed consider- 
 ably upon his infant mind, the charge of 
 another interloper — a boy this time — 
 proved a grievous burden on the tiny
 
 JOHN CARWINION. 59 
 
 shoulders. For his mother never lived to 
 see the last-comer old enough to steady him- 
 self upon tottering baby-feet. 
 
 The inconsolable husband and wife left 
 all the love and care for the new-comers to 
 little Michael, and spent the last three 
 months of their wedded life together, in 
 one unceasing harmony of, it would be 
 hard to know whether to call it, unutter- 
 able happiness or sorrow. Their children 
 almost forgotten, they lived those last three 
 months absolutely to themselves, careless 
 of the outside world, and not daring to 
 mention the future. 
 
 Carwinion never knew how he got 
 through his parish work at that time. 
 How he preached, how he read the service^ 
 whether he did either ; he lived too much 
 in a dream to care even to inquire. 
 Neighbouring clergy pitied him, and
 
 60 DULCIBEL. 
 
 helped him with his duties ; the bishop gave 
 him leave of absence for a twelvemonth, 
 when the last terrible scene w^as over, and 
 the long green mound in the churchyard, 
 in sight of his study window, was all that 
 w^as left to him of the wife whom he had 
 w^orshipped as his god, besides her three 
 children, Avhose existence he overlooked so 
 strangely at first. 
 
 After a twelve-months' foreign travel, 
 he came back to Basildene an altered 
 man. His friends hardly recognised, in the 
 grey-haired, stooping figure, the clever, 
 brilliant Carwinion of the Oxford days ; 
 his parishioners w^ondered, and held their 
 tongues. How were his duties to them, as 
 their parson, going to be discharged now ? 
 they asked one another. 
 
 If anyone could have warned John Car- 
 winion of the result that would be effected
 
 JOHN CARWINION. Bl 
 
 by such ungovernable sorrow as his, it i& 
 probable that he himself would have 
 shuddered to foresee the utter wreck that 
 his own free act was to achieve. But 
 there was no kind angel near to warn hiniy 
 at the time when it seemed almost as 
 though his mind must become unhinged 
 by the unrestrained violence of his grief. 
 No friend, even, was found with courage 
 sufficient to oiFer his companionship to 
 the lonely man, who set forth to try to 
 deaden his sorrow by a twelve-month of 
 solitary wandering in foreign lands. Is 
 it any wonder that the result of such 
 travelling was to confirm in him the frame 
 of mind which he left his home in the 
 endeavour to shake off? Brooding daily 
 over his loss, with no friend to whom he 
 could communicate his feelings, instead of 
 lessening in intensity, they increased, and
 
 62 DULCIBEL. 
 
 assumed unreal proportions, such as they 
 had not even possessed Avhen first he went 
 away. 
 
 He spent much of his time in Rome. 
 The spirit of the place accorded with his 
 own. There is a sense of oppression even 
 in the prospect of the most imposing of its 
 monuments, an atmosphere of decay, of 
 disappointment, and lost hope, and of 
 shadowy foreboding for the future, that 
 are experienced nowhere else but in 
 Rome. Carwinion imbibed the melancholy 
 atmosphere of the place with a pitiable 
 eao-erness and sense of rest. 
 
 The lonely figure of the English priest, 
 in the broad-brimmed hat and long coat, 
 that made him look not unUke a member 
 of some Roman fraternity, became a well- 
 known object to the guardians of the 
 Forum and the Palatine Hill. In these
 
 JOHN CARWINION. €3 
 
 places he did not appear to notice the 
 excavations, or the ruins particularly, 
 only to take in the general atmosphere 
 of the surroundings, wandering through 
 them absently, with bowed head and 
 clasped hands, sometimes seating himself 
 among the fragments of masonry, and 
 looking, with fixed, vacant gaze, away over 
 them to the blue Alban Hills, as though 
 he would penetrate the dim mystery that 
 enshrouded them in summer haze, and 
 concentrate his vision in the unfathomable 
 beyond. 
 
 Visitors and sightseers noticed and pitied 
 him. Unfortunately they respected his 
 sorrow and his solitude too much to 
 venture to inflict their sympathy or com- 
 panionship upon him. 
 
 At length the spirit of grief that pos- 
 sessed him became too strong a power to
 
 64 DULCIBEL. 
 
 be shaken off. It became a demon that 
 haunted him, with a ghostly shadow of 
 another spirit more evil than itself. 
 
 He had been sitting in vacant reverie, 
 oppressed by the now ever-present sense of 
 misery, one afternoon, in one of the quiet 
 glades of the Borghese gardens. There 
 was a little miniature sylvan temple in 
 front of him, and avenues of giant ilex 
 trees crossed one another at rio;ht ano-les 
 where he sat. The scene became imprinted 
 upon his memory, engraved there as by 
 a finger of fire, for many years to come. 
 He had rested himself at that particular 
 spot, struck in an unusual degree by the 
 arcadian beauty of a scene that he never 
 afterwards recalled without a feeling of 
 intensest horror. His head had been 
 buried in his hands, for the melancholy 
 that possessed him had soon monopolised
 
 JOHN CARWINION. 65 
 
 his senses again, and made him forgetful 
 of the sylvan beauty which had attracted 
 him, and he had not noted how time passed. 
 He had seated himself there, away from 
 the gay crowds that thronged the more 
 frequented walks of the gardens, but 
 their voices had reached him even in his 
 retreat. 
 
 Now he looked up. A gloom had settled 
 over the place, the ilex walks were almost 
 in darkness, the temple stood out strange 
 and ghostly from the gloom. Carwinion 
 passed his hand over his brow. ' Where 
 was he ?' There was a fearful silence, a 
 strange hush. Gloomy spirits seemed to 
 flit between the gnarled trunks of the ilex 
 trees. Was he in the sad elysium of the 
 ancients, and these the disembodied spirits 
 of the dead? He looked beyond to the 
 temple, still the same strange spirits 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 DULCIBEL. 
 
 flitted between him and it. His eyes, 
 with the same vague, distant light in 
 them that the workmen on the Palatine 
 had noticed, wandered round the scene, 
 his head not turning with them, only the 
 restless wandering hither and thither of 
 the eyes. 
 
 Was he dreaming? What was it all? 
 Where was he ? Why this awful hush ? 
 Suddenly through the silence rang the 
 awful shriek of a maniacal laugh. Car- 
 wiiiion sprang from his seat, full of terror, 
 and looked wildly round. Solitude and 
 the advancing gloom of the short Roman 
 twilight were all that greeted his 
 awakening. 
 
 Whence came the unearthly shriek ? 
 There was no one near. He was alone. 
 Then the terrible truth broke upon him. 
 It Avas the voice of the demon that pos-
 
 JOHN CARWINION. 67 
 
 sessed him, and that was trying to fix its 
 iron manacles around him, body and soul, 
 he had heard. A sickening awe and horror 
 €rept over him, and beads of perspiration 
 broke out on his brow. He put his hand 
 up, and found how burning and fevered 
 his head was. Then he stood up and tried 
 to remember where he was, and how he 
 had come there. His heart throbbed too 
 violently, and the brain was too unstrung 
 for the effort to be immediately successful. 
 
 Gradually it all came back. The 
 walk through the Porto del Popolo, 
 the crowded Borghese promenades, the 
 attraction of the quiet avenues, the 
 w'ooden bench, the reverie — he dared not 
 think of the awakening. A lifetime seemed 
 to have elapsed since he had first come 
 there. 
 
 Hurriedly he tried to find his way back 
 
 f2
 
 68 DULCIBEL. 
 
 to the open walks, but his memory played 
 him false once or twice, and brouoht him 
 back, Avith fatal persistency, to the awful 
 spot which the demon of his mind would 
 never henceforth allow him to forget. At 
 last he gained the grand promenade, and 
 made his way once more into the city and 
 to his hotel. 
 
 Strangers who observed him there saw 
 no particular difference in him that night. 
 He did not mix with them more, nor did 
 he avoid them more determinedly than 
 before ; but could they have known the 
 anguish which was consuming his mind, 
 the restless anxiety that his conduct 
 should not betray to them his terrible 
 secret, they would have understood that a 
 whole chapter in his life's history had been 
 enacted, since he went out from them from^ 
 the midday lunch.
 
 JOHN CAR WIN ION. 69 
 
 This struo^orle to hide his secret became 
 with him for months a more present cause 
 for anxiety than his previous grief, though 
 that retained as intense and real a power 
 over him as formerly. He left Rome, and 
 wandered north to Florence, spending the 
 later summer in the classical solitudes of 
 Vallombrosa, in the company of a well- 
 worn copy of the ' Paradise Lost.' 
 
 Strength came to him here, and with it 
 the power to cast off the immediate terror 
 that possessed him. A calmer grief took 
 the place of the wild, restless sorrow and 
 unrest that had followed the death of his 
 wife. He tried to persuade himself that it 
 was an illusion, a mere waking-dream, the 
 terrible shadow that had stood over him, 
 with ominous hand pointed in his face, that 
 afternoon in the Borghese garden, and in a 
 manner he succeeded in driving the shadow
 
 70 DULCIBEL. 
 
 from his presence. Before he returned ta 
 Eno^land it had become a very remote and 
 distant thing. But he never quite wiped 
 out the impression it had left ; its fatal 
 touch had seared his brain and had left 
 there the mark of its visitation. 
 
 There were times when the old horror 
 would seize him, and when he would crave 
 for death to come and relieve him of his 
 dread. It was the key-note to all his 
 after-life, this secret of his, that he kept 
 buried even from himself; it influenced 
 his conduct, and it accounted for every- 
 thing. It would have excused him for 
 everything, had his children, his friends, 
 and his parishioners only understood that 
 which he dared not explain to himself^ 
 much less to them. 
 
 Back to the old routine at Basildene he 
 had come, mechanically taking up his line
 
 JOHN CARWINION. 71 
 
 of duties just where he had dropped them, 
 ^oing the old time-honoured round week 
 after week, without a thought of innova- 
 tion, without an effort and without an 
 ambition ; his hopes and heart, and all his 
 life in the grave outside his study window, 
 and his fears for the future unexpressed 
 and shapeless, yet never absent from him.
 
 72 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A LOST SAINT. 
 
 * Lost saints of mine,' how fair your faces seem ! 
 
 Your sweet eyes shine as in the vanished days ; 
 
 Tender your voices' cadence, and one lays 
 Her hand upon my forehead — till I deem 
 That all the long sad Past is but a dream, 
 
 That still they walk with us earth's weary ways, 
 
 Who long have joined the rapturous songs of praise 
 That freed souls sing beside the tideless stream. 
 
 G. E. Clarke. 
 
 Such was the father to whom Michael, 
 Dulcibel, and Francis Carwinion owed 
 their bringing up. Yet fate, which had 
 warred resolutely against their parents' 
 lives, had been kinder with the children.
 
 A LOST SAINT. 73 
 
 Michael's character had been already 
 formed before his mother's death. His 
 lively remembrance of her made him a link 
 with his father between the past and 
 present. He was companionable to his 
 father still, because he remembered so 
 well, and therefore was, what neither of 
 the others could ever be, particularly the 
 child of the mother whom he loved and 
 recollected. 
 
 But if little Michael was to his father 
 a link between himself and the dead 
 wife, the boy felt doubly the responsi- 
 bility of his guardianship of the two 
 forlorn little ones in the nursery. He 
 never had the courage to speak much 
 about them to his sad father, but cherished 
 the simple thought, that if, by-and-by, 
 the little sister and brother showed them- 
 selves as proficient in memories of their
 
 74 DULCIBEL. 
 
 mother as lie was himself, their father 
 might take them, too, into his affection 
 and confidence. Thus the little self-con- 
 stituted guardian brought these babies up 
 on memories of their mother, and trained, 
 in his simple child-way, their small minds 
 to look upon her almost as a departed 
 divinity. Their highest sense of right 
 became that which ' mother ' would have 
 had them do, or had done, and her por- 
 traits and possessions were as sacred to 
 their baby-minds as relics of the saints to 
 pious Catholics. 
 
 An elder sister of Carwinion took charge 
 of his house and children during the first 
 years of his bereavement. She managed well 
 for him, and trained up the children un- 
 sympathetically, but carefully. She looked 
 after their health and their schooling, 
 and allowed their active little imaginations
 
 A LOST SAINT. 75 
 
 to run riot with them, ojiiided only by 
 Michael's crude, quaint creed of right and 
 wrong. 
 
 They were bright, pretty children, the 
 objects of much commiseration in the 
 village, as ' poor neglected little mother- 
 less childer.' Yet, setting aside their 
 strange, ever-present, and but half com- 
 prehended grief, — • the loss of poor dear 
 mother,' as they termed it, in their old- 
 fashioned, borrowed way, — these children 
 scarcely knew wdiat a trouble was. They 
 ran wild for years, learning lessons for 
 Aunt Margaret in the school-room, rest- 
 lessly, in the morning, and lessons from 
 Mother Nature, with much aptitude, in 
 the fields for the remainder of the day. 
 
 Their first real trouble came when 
 Michael, at twelve years old, was sent 
 away to a public school. Dulcie and
 
 76 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Francis mourned his loss, feeling that now 
 there was no one left to bring them up in 
 the way that ' dear mother ' would have 
 had them go in. It was a pitiful sight 
 to see these two babies sitting on their 
 mother's grave, and discussing, in their 
 childish fashion, what would have been 
 ' poor mother s ' views, when a vexed ques- 
 tion arose to perplex them. A less en- 
 grossed sorrow than that of John Carwinion 
 would have been touched deeply by it. 
 But it was doubtful if the bow-headed 
 victim of anxiety and grief even noticed 
 these children's existence at the time. 
 
 By-and-by his pride and hope rekindled 
 somewhat in Michael. The boy distin- 
 guished himself at school. There was a 
 strange depth of character in the quaint, 
 old-fashioned lad, and he inherited both 
 his father's and his mother's abilities, so
 
 A LOST SAINT. 77 
 
 that presently he made his mark, as his 
 father had before him, both during his 
 school career and at the university. 
 
 Michael was nearly as much of an idol 
 with his young sister and brother as was" 
 their mother's memory. What Michael 
 thought, was with them the ultimatum of 
 all criticism, and, to the elder brother's 
 credit be it said, he never proved himself 
 unworthy of their high opinion. 
 
 Dulcibel's education was of a desultory 
 nature, that might have been the ruin, but 
 which was the making, of her character. 
 She picked up knowledge from governesses, 
 from a twelve-months' unhappy experience 
 at a boarding-school, and from her father, 
 as she grew older, and he learned to take 
 notice of her in his strange way. What 
 she knew best, she taught herself. A 
 little Greek, acquired because she longed
 
 78 DULCIBEL. 
 
 to read her Testament in the original ; a 
 little Latin, because she came across so 
 many Latin words that puzzled her in 
 some of the books she read ; a great deal 
 of German, because Schiller and Heine's 
 poetry fascinated her, even before she 
 learned to understand the meaning of the 
 musical rhythm that took her fancy. She 
 read a great deal, and, no one restraining 
 her, her reading was of a most comprehen- 
 sive and general description. 
 
 As a school-girl, her career had been a 
 failure, yet at eighteen her mind was filled 
 with such a miscellaneous collection of 
 knowledge, that it would have been hard 
 to find any subject of general information 
 that she was not capable of conversing 
 intelligently, but somewhat crudely, upon, 
 from metaphysics to entomology. 
 
 Dulcie was no blue-stocking, despite her
 
 A LOST SAINT. 79 
 
 general well-informedness. Her knowledge 
 was self-acquired, sometimes quaint and 
 mistaken, and accuracy was not in her. 
 All depended upon the books she had 
 come across, for she devoured equally in- 
 discriminately the good and bad, the old 
 systems and the new. It was wonderful, 
 too, what a loving and lovable character 
 the child had developed, considering the 
 chilling influences that had surrounded 
 her early life. 
 
 Aunt Margaret had gone abroad, to join 
 a colonist brother, when Dulcie was ten 
 years old, and from then, till the date at 
 which we must now make her acquaint- 
 ance, Dulcie Carwinion had been subjected 
 to the discipline of a certain Miss Mellor, 
 a housekeeper of respectable antecedents 
 and frigid exterior, whose disposition, and 
 bearing generally, Dulcie had always looked
 
 80 DULCIBEL. 
 
 upon as typical of her species, and as an 
 awful warning of what the sex might 
 develop into when its peculiarities were 
 allowed free license. 
 
 The friction between Miss Mellor and 
 Dulcie had long since ceased — it had been 
 one of the heaviest crosses of her girlhood, 
 but one that had been borne patiently for 
 Michael, the beloved brother's, sake, and 
 from a sort of mute recognition of the fact 
 that submission to Miss Mellor Avas one of 
 the duties that love and respect for the 
 dear dead mother's memory demanded. 
 
 Francis's life had drifted away from hers 
 very early ; he had been sent to the Brit- 
 tania training-ship when he was eleven, to 
 be educated for the navy ; and there, 
 though he always remained one of the 
 first claimants for her affection, he de- 
 veloped such modern and new-fashioned
 
 A LOST SAINT. 81 
 
 ideas as to make his tastes little in har- 
 mony with the country-bred sister, whose 
 sterling worth Michael alone was old 
 enough to appreciate. 
 
 That the three children's lives were 
 lived entirely apart from their father's, it 
 needs no comment to assert. Their in- 
 terests and pursuits had no sort of interest 
 for him, he lived his life away from them, 
 in the company of his troubles. His 
 children had grown up schooling them- 
 selves to expect nothing else from him. 
 It was part of the peculiarity of their lot, 
 and they never complained of it, but 
 accepted his indifference to them as one of 
 the results of that great misfortune round 
 which their destinies all centred, the loss 
 of their mother. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BASSEL VALE AND THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 
 
 Green the land is where my daily 
 Steps in jocund childhood played, 
 Dimpled close with hill and valley, 
 Dappled very close with shade. 
 
 The Lost Bowei'. 
 
 The home of these Carwinioiis is in a cor- 
 ner of England that plays an unostentatious, 
 but useful, part in the country's agricul- 
 tural system, and is ' unknown to fame.' 
 There are higher hills in the south of 
 England than the Western shire chalk 
 ranges, which encompass Basilden^ there 
 are finer and more picturesque valleys by
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 83 
 
 far in Devonshire, than the Bassel Vale 
 country ; and yet, I think, if you argued 
 with the Westernshire folk, concerning the 
 comparative beauty of their country and 
 height of their hills, you would find their 
 ignorance so profound, that they would 
 hardly deem the weakness lay in their 
 reasoning and lack of corroborative fact, 
 rather in your small appreciative faculty, 
 if they failed to convince you theirs was 
 the finest and most picturesque country in 
 all the West of England. Proper pride is 
 pardonable. There is a certain amount of 
 truth, after all, in this opinion of the 
 Westernshire people. Their valleys and 
 their chalk hills have a quiet beauty that 
 is pecuharly their own ; a rural beauty, 
 * tamed and grown domestic,' that no man 
 need refuse to acknowledge, if Western- 
 -shire folk are not too intent on pressing 
 
 g2
 
 84: DULCIBEL. 
 
 the superiority of their claims above all 
 others. 
 
 Bassel Yale divides the two ranges of 
 chalk hills that run parallel to one 
 another for about a dozen miles through 
 central Westernshire, its five-mile breadth 
 of richly cultivated farm-lands, with atten- 
 dant villages and homesteads, lying, like 
 the bed of some mighty, long dried-up 
 river, between the short-cropped green of 
 the hill-slopes. The narrow silver thread 
 that winds about among the villages, mid- 
 way between the hills, is the Bassel stream, 
 which, by-and-by, grows into a large river, 
 and has another name ; the broad band of 
 water close under the northern range is 
 the canal, that used, not very long ago, to 
 be one of the principal thoroughfares by 
 which Bassel Yale communicated with the 
 outer world. There is a railway now —
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 85 
 
 where is there not one? — and broad curls 
 of white smoke are puffed into the vale 
 half-a-dozen times daily from the railway 
 engines ; but the trains bring no tourists, 
 and very few new faces to these parts. 
 
 The vibrations of the great outside wave 
 of progress have but dimly penetrated 
 here. Politics mean very little to Wes- 
 ternshire country people, though Whig 
 tendencies, somehow, are taken to be 
 nearly connected with cheap loaves, and 
 sturdy refusals to comply with the old 
 custom of touching of hats and of curtsey- 
 ings to a master, and are associated with 
 dissenting opinions upon religious sub- 
 jects, and general gettings into the bad 
 books of the powers that be. Needless 
 to say that there are few found daring 
 enough to venture into the dangerous 
 regions of such unprofitable speculation.
 
 86 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Few county families live in the Bassel 
 Vale. Each villao;e has its church, its 
 parson, and its manor-house, where lives 
 retired some local magnate who has made 
 his fortune, maybe by honest trade, maybe 
 by honourable profession ; fortunately the 
 Bassel Yale is not too particular over such 
 nice distinctions. The open country 
 around the villao;es is divided amono' two 
 or three farmers, whose families are stars 
 of the second magnitude in the village 
 societv. 
 
 Farm cottages, alas ! in Bassel Yale still 
 need the reforming pen of a Charles 
 Kingsley, the zeal of a Dorothea Brooke. 
 They are redeemed from squalor only by 
 their picturesqueness in too many cases, 
 perhaps, too, their long strips of well- 
 tended garden may be taken into favour- 
 able account. Almost all the cottages
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 87 
 
 have these attractions, but too often they 
 are tumble-down, ill-ventilated, and of 
 miserable accommodation. 
 
 There are some Elizabethan specimens 
 still remaining — the overhanging top 
 storeys and the quaint intersecting pat- 
 tern of the woodwork showing out between 
 the masses of ivy, or rose-leaf, or vine 
 Tvith which they are mostly covered. 
 Thatched houses many of them are still, 
 with tiny windows peeping out from 
 shaggy eaves, and long, sloping projections 
 of thatch coming down between the win- 
 dows, that often gave them, to my childish 
 imagination, the effect of a rough pair of 
 eyebrows frowning down over diminutive 
 eyes, while the middle patch of thatch 
 upon the porch completed the idea of a 
 grotesque-looking face. 
 
 But they thatch cottages no longer in
 
 88 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Bassel Vale. Mud-wall making is becom- 
 ing a lost art, and red bricks and slates 
 are coming into fashion. Still the old 
 ideas have to be worn out before their 
 day can be quite gone by, and, like the 
 smock frocks, of which there is still a 
 goodly store in the vale, the fashion for 
 them will have to continue till the day 
 arrives that the last of them is declared 
 beyond repair. 
 
 Fancy lingers lovingly along this un- 
 known strip of West of England country. 
 It would be a pleasure to point out every 
 spot of local celebrity, if the reader's 
 patience could only be relied upon during 
 the process. But there are no ruined 
 castles, no sites of battle-fields to tell of 
 Westernshire has never been a county for 
 exciting events since the Romans and 
 the Lords of the White Horse departed,
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 89 
 
 and left their camp-sites on the hills, and 
 there are only stretches of wide, green 
 pasture-land, and slate-grey, upturned 
 plough-furrows of heavy clay ; patches of 
 blue-green turnip-fields, and copses of 
 beech-trees, or long belts of fir, whose only 
 history is the account of the pheasants and 
 partridges found among them, or the 
 number of the nests of jays and wood- 
 pigeons, of hawks and tawny owls, which 
 the boys find in the branches from year to 
 year, to be spoken of now. 
 
 Basildene lies at the western extremity 
 of the vale. People think its name is 
 derived from the same source ; but the 
 Westernshire country-folk have such a 
 propensity for corrupting names in their 
 dialect that we will leave this point for 
 others to decide. 
 
 Beyond Basildene, the southern range
 
 90 DULCIBEL. 
 
 of hills, running from east to west, makes 
 a sharp turn to the south, and leaves a 
 broad, open country of pasture-land away 
 to the right beyond the village. They 
 have a way of cutting up these meadow- 
 lands by tall hazel and hawthorn hedges, 
 and it is in the shade of these that the 
 Basildene village-children find the first 
 white violets and primroses at Easter-time,, 
 and, earlier in the spring, bring back the 
 hazel tassels and soft grey catkins, those 
 earliest ofFsjDring of the woods. 
 
 There are lanes among these meadows 
 that a Westernshire countryman would 
 not exchange for any of the vaunted lane& 
 of Devon. Long tracks of turf among tall 
 hedges, under which a luxuriant greenery 
 of hart's-tongue and shield-fern, wood- 
 anemones and smooth-leaved ' lords and 
 ladies,' take refuge ; lanes that are made
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 91 
 
 merry in the autumn-time by the voices of 
 the children, who have come, baskets in 
 hand, to gather the nuts or the black- 
 berries, which grow here as they grow no- 
 where else in the county. 
 
 Basildene village is larger than many of 
 those at the lower end of the vale. There 
 are the vicarage, and the Tower House, 
 and ^YQ or six farm-houses, varying in 
 size, from the comfortable, red brick, 
 Queen Anne manor-house, with its rows of 
 numerous small windows, in which Mr. 
 Purcell, the great short-horn breeder, lives 
 in much state, with a large establishment 
 of servants, and a stable full of hunters, to 
 the humble dimensions of the six-roomed 
 cottage of Clay Farm, where Mr. Solomon 
 Brown and his family make a valiant 
 yearly struggle against impending bank- 
 ruptcy.
 
 92 DULCIBEL. 
 
 The Tower House at Basilclene is the 
 most pretentious mansion in the vale, its 
 handsome architecture, with all the glory 
 of tall windows, stone balconies, and 
 porticoes, and its noble stretch of sur- 
 rounding gardens and park land, that shut 
 it off from the vulgar gaze, making it a most 
 imposing edifice in local esteem. Unlike 
 almost any other village of the neighbour- 
 hood, Basildene, too, has the conscious 
 pride of possessing a resident landlord, a 
 member of that good old county family, 
 the Warwick-Scudamores, whose reputation 
 chiefly rests upon the fame of a royalist 
 ancestor of the time of the civil wars. 
 Though his tenants voted him, in matters 
 agricultural, a ' poor sort o' a chap,' the 
 presence among them of their squire, 
 young Warwick-Scudamore, had the efl^ect 
 of raising the people of Basildene, and the
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 93 
 
 condition of their village, greatly above the 
 level of its neighbours. 
 
 Members of the Scudamore family took 
 alternately the two names of their great 
 royalist ancestor ; the late squire's name 
 had been Richard, the present one's was 
 Arthur. Young Scudamore succeeded his 
 father in the Basildene property just after 
 he came of age. He was not exactly the 
 son and successor that old Squire Scuda- 
 more w^ould have chosen, had he had a 
 voice in the matter of his heir. The old 
 man understood more about straight- 
 riding, hard-drinking, and strong language 
 than is considered exactly necessary for a 
 gentleman of the present day. He married 
 a lady whom people were pleased to term 
 beneath him, and not until he was w^ell on 
 in years. Arthur's mother was a govern- 
 ess in a neighbouring magistrate's family,,
 
 94 DULCIBEL. 
 
 when Squire Scuclamore, one day, after 
 quarter-sessions, met and took a fancy to 
 her delicate, half-Italian type of beauty, 
 and her pretty manners. 
 
 She was not very younc^, and escape 
 from the onerous duties and invidious 
 position to which she had not been bred 
 miofht have been considered more of an 
 inducement than the prospect of life- 
 partnership with Squire Scudamore, when 
 she accepted his bluff proposal of matri- 
 mony. Her subsequent life, as mistress 
 of the Tower House, brought her nothing, 
 however, to cause her to repent her choice. 
 
 The desire of the squire's heart was 
 realised when his wife bore him a son 
 and heir, and in consideration of this, and 
 her gentle, unresisting manner, her hus- 
 band tolerated, nay, even took a sort of 
 pleasure in her society. It pleased him,
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 95 
 
 moreover, to impose her society on those 
 good friends of his who had chosen to look 
 down upon his marriage. His pretty, 
 ladylike wife compared so favourably with 
 the county ladies, who had doubted 
 whether, at first, to call upon her. 
 
 But Squire Scudamore would have pre- 
 ferred to have had a son who took after 
 himself; daughters, had there been any, 
 mio;ht better have favoured their mother 
 than this only boy, who grew up slight in 
 figure, olive-tinted in complexion, with his 
 mother's dark brown eyes and thick wavy 
 hair, giving him more the appearance of 
 an artist than a country squire. 
 
 The boy was strong and fearless, for all 
 his slim build and small hands, and rode 
 and shot with his father in a manner of 
 which old Scudamore might well have 
 been proud, had not the lad taken more
 
 96 DULCIBEL. 
 
 naturally to books, and painting, and 
 dilletante music, when his own choice of 
 occupations was consulted. The squire 
 hated such things, had a genuine country 
 contempt for them, and his one grudge 
 against his wife was, that she had borne 
 him a son in whom was innate her own 
 partiality for them. Arthur was sent to 
 Eton, and to Cambridge, where he distin- 
 guished himself in a way more satisfactory 
 to his mother and his tutors than to his 
 father. 
 
 Richard Scudamore was developing a 
 very strong antipathy to this son, who so 
 far fell short of his paternal ideal as to 
 affect unshorn locks and black velvet 
 coats, when a stroke of paralysis carried 
 him off, and left the son to inherit those 
 possessions which the old squire was so 
 fully persuaded he would sooner or later
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 97 
 
 squander away on the follies whicli he had 
 qualified by no mild adjective. 
 
 But Arthur had turned out better than 
 was anticipated. True, he had affected art 
 as a hobby, pour passer U tempSy and found 
 himself more of an adept than most men 
 who dealt in such fancies at college ; but 
 that he was capable also of sterner work 
 was proved by his place in the mathe- 
 matical tripos, in which he came out 
 among the wranglers of his year. 
 
 His accession to the Basildene property 
 did not at first belie his capacity for 
 thoroughness. Certainly he did not ap- 
 preciate the station of life to which Pro- 
 vidence had seen fit to call him — he 
 would have done better out of it, with 
 the faculties with which he was endowed ; 
 but he did his honest best to make an ad- 
 mirable landlord and country gentleman. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 DULCIBEL. 
 
 ISTo estate in the county was better admin- 
 istered than his at Basildene, but the fact 
 remains that at first he was as a good 
 man spoilt by the waywardness of the 
 blind goddess Fortune. 
 
 The squire's life was not congenial to 
 the man of taste, and its occupations 
 never became absorbing, yet they dwarfed 
 his best energies, turning the possible 
 artist into the dilletante^ who was the un- 
 comprehended butt of much rough country 
 pleasantry among his fellows. And through 
 it all, young Scudamore had the painful 
 consciousness of being capable of better 
 and higher things than his position per- 
 mitted him to accomplish. He felt the 
 contemptible inadequacy of the sketches 
 he made, and of the scrappy articles on 
 matters scientific or artistic which he wrote 
 for mairazines. He knew them to be un-
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 99 
 
 worthy of the abilities he had tested at 
 the university, and not found wanting; 
 and yet, growing less in love with his 
 neighbours, and his duties to them, as 
 years went on, and less contented with 
 the inherited fame of the good cavalier 
 ancestor, his former ambition of one day 
 merging the name of Scudamore the squire 
 into that of Scudamore the artist, became 
 less and less likely to be realised. 
 
 Inherited from his mother, there was a 
 vein of southern indolence in Arthur 
 Scudamore's blood, southern enjoyment of 
 the present, which indulged the temptation 
 to postpone the working-day indefinitely. 
 The wave of lassitude being permitted to 
 encroach, it deadened his energy, while it 
 made a less genuine county gentleman of 
 him than ever. The rusting away dis- 
 tressed him at times, and he would read, 
 
 h2
 
 100 DULCIBEL. 
 
 or travel, or write scrappy articles more 
 indefatigably than ever, as long as the 
 restless feeling of dissatisfaction lasted. 
 
 But the actual effort to sever himself 
 from the ease of his surroundings was not 
 made, the wrench was too hard for the 
 nature that needed it, and, instead, the 
 restless dissatisfaction resolved itself into 
 a silence and cynicism that brought him 
 into still poorer esteem among Western- 
 shire people, who did not appreciate 
 involved methods of speech, and con- 
 sidered his ways novel and of dangerous 
 tendencies. 
 
 No one but Arthur Scudamore's mother 
 understood of what sterling stuiF the 
 young squire of Basildene was made, nor 
 what a brave, honest heart beat beneath 
 the thin veil of cynical silence that cir- 
 cumstances were weaving around it. Mrs.
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 101 
 
 Scudamore believed in her son, and was 
 devoted to him to an extent which was 
 almost irritating to his quiet reserved 
 nature ; but she appreciated the points in 
 his character that were overlooked, or 
 misinterpreted, by harshly -judging, half- 
 jealous critics. 
 
 Arthur Scudamore had grown into a 
 silent, somewhat unsociable man, of an 
 uncommon type of southern grace and 
 refinement. His features were strongly 
 marked, and delicately outlined by the 
 dark contrast of finely curved eyebrows, 
 and long eyelashes, and small moustache, 
 against the clear olive of his skin. The 
 thin, sensitive nostrils, the straight line of 
 the nose, the bright dilating keenness of 
 his eyes, all were of an unusual type in 
 Westernshire. People hardly knew whether 
 to admire or despise a style so different to
 
 102 DULCIBEL. 
 
 the warm colouring and rounded outline 
 of the accepted Westernshire idea of 
 beauty. Scudamore looked years older 
 than his age; at eight-and-twenty he 
 would have passed for five-and-thirty, the 
 manner giving more the idea of age than 
 the appearance. 
 
 Scudamore made few friends. His dis- 
 position was not quickly responsive to 
 advances, but many who had never cared 
 nor ventured to call him by the name of 
 friend, learned the value of his friendship, 
 if trouble or difficulties came to make a 
 level for them by which the young squire's 
 sympathy might approach. His friend- 
 ship with the Carwinions at the vicarage 
 was the most agreeable thing to him in all 
 Basildene. It dated from his earliest 
 remembrance. It was a free, unconstrained 
 intercourse, and was cemented on either
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 103 
 
 side by memories of a past spent too;ether, 
 by unreserved confidence, and, with the 
 young people, by somewhat similarity of age. 
 The friendship between Dulcie Car- 
 winion and the young squire had its 
 origin in a vivid recollection of Dulcie's 
 childhood. The shy little maiden, hiding 
 in the churchyard, and weeping over some 
 unkindness of Francis, had come across 
 the tall, handsome schoolboy, of whom 
 she had always stood somewhat in awe, 
 lying luxuriantly in the long, dry grass 
 among the tombstones, with the collection 
 of paint-box, books, and pencils, that were 
 his best holiday companions, around him. 
 She was shy, and ashamed of her tears, 
 but the books and the sketching arrange- 
 ments interested her, so she stood still, 
 timid, and yet anxious to see what Arthur 
 Scudamore was doing, until the sunUght,
 
 104 DULCIBEL. 
 
 shining through the rough mass of her 
 fair hair, caught the boy's eye, and he 
 called to her. 
 
 Forgetful of the tears, Dulcie came 
 across the grass to him, and stood watch- 
 ing and not speaking, as a shy child will, 
 until young Scudamore, feeling himself a 
 little embarrassed in the small maiden's 
 presence, — his experience of girls' society 
 being limited — asked, looking at the child's 
 fluttering fair hair, 
 
 ' You are Michael Carwinion's little 
 sister, aren't you ?' 
 
 To this Dulcie replied a brief ' Yes,' and 
 then added : 
 
 ' / know who you are ! You are War- 
 wick-Scudamore. Michael says you are 
 very clever ;' making the last observation 
 as she came closer to his side, to look at the 
 sketch upon the block.
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 105 
 
 ' Oh ! It's Michael who's clever,' said 
 young Scudamore, as if depreciating his 
 own claims to such distinction, and looking 
 lazily up with his dark eyes into the little 
 girl's face, from his easy lounge upon the 
 turf. 
 
 ' Oh, yes. Of course Michael is clever, 
 but he says you are too !' in a voice that 
 implied that no talents quite came up to 
 Michael's. ' Are you painting the church ? 
 It is very clever to do that ; I can't even 
 draw our own house a bit like, I make all 
 the sides look like part of the front. May 
 I watch you ? I will be very quiet if I 
 may.' 
 
 ' Come along ! Yes, and sit down by 
 me. But I won't draw the church,' he 
 said, ruthlessly cutting oif the sketch he 
 had spent the afternoon in making, ' I will 
 draw your portrait while you talk to me.
 
 106 DULCIBEL. 
 
 What's your name ? Why, fancy, 1 don't 
 even know that! I have forgotten it.' 
 
 ' Dulcibel Carwinion. It was my 
 mother's name.' 
 
 ' Dulcie. It's just the best name they 
 could have given you, I declare I' 
 
 ' Why !' 
 
 • Ah, somebody will tell you that when 
 you are grown up. It's better to keep it 
 a secret now.' 
 
 ' Why ?' and then, not being at all eager 
 for the answer, she asked, without waiting 
 for it, looking from Arthur's paint-box to 
 his books : ' Can you read and paint all at 
 once, like Aunt Margaret reads and knits?' 
 and she lifted up on to her knee, with an 
 effort, the large library edition of Shelley 
 that was lying open near young Scuda- 
 more's elbow. ' Is this a pretty book, " The 
 Senci " ? What a funny name !'
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 107 
 
 * The " Ce7ici^'" ' corrected Arthur, who, 
 like most younoj people with free access to 
 large libraries, and no consorship over 
 their choice of books, was, at sixteen, 
 sowing the wild oats of his reading with 
 much lavishness and preference for the 
 Byron and Shelley class of literature. 
 
 Dulcie spread her little brown hands 
 over the open page, and looked into the 
 poetical dialogue with a puzzled ex- 
 pression. 
 
 ' I don't think it's at all a pretty book. 
 I wouldn't try to read it if I were you ; 
 though I believe, now I look at you, you 
 are rather like Guido's " Beatrice," for you 
 have been crying, haven't you, Dulcie?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said the little girl, blushing at 
 Arthur's discovery, and returning to the 
 former topic of conversation to avoid im- 
 portunate questioning. 'Is it a holiday-
 
 108 
 
 DULCIBEL. 
 
 task for your school, the "Send," that 
 you've got to read ? AVhat a pity it isn't 
 pretty. Michael had such a nice holiday- 
 task once, a story called " Ivanhoe," that 
 he told me all about, and I read some 
 myself. Now he's in the sixth, he has 
 something much harder — the " Faery 
 Queen." I thought it would be pretty 
 and I could read it all myself, but the 
 words are so funny and old-fashioned, I 
 can't make them out; but Michael tells me 
 lovely stories out of it, about Sir Guyon 
 and Una. He can read it, and in the '' Can- 
 terbury Tales," too^ that are much harder, 
 and where there are nice stories as well. 
 What a pity you've got a nasty holiday- 
 task !' 
 
 'It isn't a holiday-task, Dulcie. I 
 brought out that book to see if T should 
 like to read it, but I think I Avon't now.
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. 109 
 
 I will read the " Faery Queen " instead, 
 like Michael. He's your archangel, isn't 
 he, Dulcie ? Will you tell me some tales 
 about Ivanhoe, or Sir Guyon, while I draw 
 your portrait? I am going to make a 
 picture of you talking, with all that little 
 row of white teeth showing, just for 
 fun !' 
 
 Dulcie sat contentedly under the shadow 
 of a large, square tomb-stone, and forgot 
 to be shy in the presence of this most 
 interesting companion, who told her stories 
 more wonderful almost than Michael's, and, 
 above all, who made such a capital listener 
 to her prattle about knights, and warriors, 
 and her views concerning bravery and 
 goodness, as personified in Michael. 
 
 ' Isn't that " burnt umber " you are 
 painting with now, for my hair ?' she asked, 
 by-and-by, when Arthur was shading the
 
 110 DULCIBEL. 
 
 deep touches in his picture of her disorderly 
 mane. 
 
 ' Yes, it really is. Do you know, 
 Dulcie, you only just escaped having red 
 hair,' said Arthur, laughing, as he mixed 
 his paint, and looked at the child to see if 
 she minded his remark. 
 
 Dulcie disarranged the mane, by tucking 
 her front locks behind her ears, and shaking 
 her head. 
 
 ' I don't mind what colour it is, if it 
 doesn't go into my eyes. Michael's is just 
 the same colour,' she added, as if this last 
 piece of information was an indisputable 
 fact, to prove the desirability of the shade 
 in question. 'I must go in now to Aunt 
 Margaret, there's the tea-bell. But you 
 haven't finished yet, have you ? That is a 
 pity!' 
 
 ' No, you must come again to-morrow,
 
 THE SQUIRE OF BASILDENE. Ill 
 
 and let me work your portrait up, and then 
 you shall have it for your hero, Michael,' 
 he said, smiling at the little maiden, as she 
 scrambled to her feet, and seized the string 
 of her blue sun-bonnet, preparatory to 
 running off. ^ Shake hands, then, because 
 weVe struck up a friendship ; and you'll 
 come again to-morrow,' said young Scuda- 
 more, holding out his hand. 
 
 Dulcie looked doubtfully at it. School- 
 boy friends of Michael had teased her by 
 making a point sometimes of kissing her, 
 and she now distrusted Arthur's intentions. 
 Why this new-found little friend of his 
 became again suddenly shy, and reluctant- 
 ly extended her brown fingers to be 
 clasped in his slim, dark ones, Arthur did 
 not understand ; neither did he know how 
 highly he rose in the timid little maiden's 
 estimation, when she found that her con-
 
 112 DULCIBEL. 
 
 iidence Avas not abused, by a sudden pull 
 forward of the unwilling fingers for the 
 dreaded embrace, and that Arthur only 
 returned her shy, appealing glance by a 
 confidential smile, as he held her little 
 hand, which showed how ignorant he was 
 of her fears. And thus, trusting him, she 
 came again the next day, for the portrait 
 to be completed ; which, pronounced by 
 them both to be a very good one, was to 
 be given to Michael as a surprise, when he 
 went back to school ; and so commenced a 
 friendship that had grown and thriven on 
 mutual respect and admiration ever since.
 
 113 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 The lost days of my life until to-day 
 What were they, could I see them on the street 
 Lie as they fell ? Would they be ears of wheat 
 Sown once for food, but trodden into clay ? 
 Or golden coins squandered and still to pay ? 
 Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet *? 
 Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat 
 
 The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway. 
 
 House of Life. — G. D. Rossetti. 
 
 It was the end of a very hot July day; 
 one of those days that come so unexpect- 
 edly upon us sometimes in England, and 
 find us all unprepared to battle with the 
 heat. The flowers had been drooping 
 with excess of sunshine, the roses and 
 heliotropes in the vicarage garden had 
 VOL. L I
 
 114 DULCIBEL. 
 
 visibly faded, and life within doors all day 
 had been endured only behind closely-shut 
 Venetian blinds and sun-shutters. 
 
 With the sunset there had fallen a 
 heavy dew, and a glorious and refreshing 
 coolness seemed with it to be rising from 
 the ground. But the vicarage faced south- 
 west, and a brilliant after-glow still 
 lingered on the horizon nearly opposite 
 the windows, which shone again in its 
 dazzling light. The drooping clematis 
 and passion-flowers upon the porch, catch- 
 ing the rays, dare not yet lift up their 
 heads, though beyond, on the lawn, where 
 there was shadow from lime-trees and 
 laurel shrubs, the evening coolness had 
 penetrated. 
 
 Basildene Vicarage is a typical country 
 parson's house, neither too large nor too 
 small. There is the dark oak door in the
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 115 
 
 centre of the white stone frontage, shel- 
 tered by the trellis-porch, over which a 
 luxury of creepers cHmb in seasonable 
 varieties, from early summer honeysuckle 
 to autumn Virginia creeper ; parting com- 
 pany as they leave the porch's support, 
 some go to twine round the drawing-room 
 windows, which are sheltered just now by 
 a mass of dull purple clematis blossoms, 
 while the study windows and the bed- 
 rooms above are surrounded by the 
 autumn creepers and the passion-flower 
 vine. The window-panes are lozenge- 
 shaped, framed in brown-grained wood- 
 work, and downstairs they open vertically, 
 and have inside those comfortable red- 
 cushioned seats that one likes to associate 
 with country houses, though they are 
 becoming too rare for the association to be 
 actually accurate as a rule. 
 
 i2
 
 il6 DULCIBEL. 
 
 The windows look out over a narrow 
 strip of lawn and flower-garden on to a 
 broad stretch of typical Basildene pasture- 
 land and copse, part of the (^lebe which 
 constitutes the vicar's revenue. To the 
 left lie the church and the churchyard,, 
 into which a small gate opens from the 
 lawn, and behind, beyond a large domain 
 of walled kitchen garden, that lies side by 
 side with more of the churchyard, are 
 fields, and lanes, and copses, following one 
 another in endless succession. 
 
 Dulcie Carwinion had brought her easel 
 from the house, and set it up under the 
 lime-tree on the lawn, and was trjdng to 
 catch the effect of the sunset after-glow in 
 her sketch-book. Painting was no new 
 fancy with Dulcie, and it was one for 
 which she had much unskilled talent. 
 Michael had come out into the garden to
 
 BROTIlEPv AND SISTER. 117 
 
 lier. He was going to Milcot station to 
 meet young Jocelyn, and was spending the 
 odd minutes, until it was time to start, in 
 watching his sister. 
 
 Dulcie's slim brown hands, actively 
 engaged on her task, were struggling 
 bravely with the difficult changing effects 
 of light. She had taken in hand a subject 
 that demanded all her skill, the absorbing 
 interest and difficulty of her work kept 
 her engrossed, while Michael stood by, 
 partly watching the work, but more often 
 the worker, with an interest as deep as her 
 own. 
 
 ' I Avonder how we shall like this boy, 
 Jocelyn?' Michael remarked at last, not 
 very originally, for the thought had been 
 expressed many times before, in almost 
 identical words, since Jocelyn's visit to 
 Basildene had been arranged ; but he
 
 118 DULCIBEL. 
 
 wanted to interrupt Dulcie's painting, and 
 to make her talk, and he knew that the 
 question interested her. 
 
 ' It is strange that father makes so much 
 of Jocelyn's coming here, and talks so 
 much about him, when he cares so little 
 about anything that concerns any of us,' 
 she said, without looking up from the 
 grey wash with which she was toning 
 her sky. ' It makes me feel a sort 
 of jealousy, that nothing ever gave me 
 before. It shows that father can care, 
 when there is something to interest him 
 sufficiently. We can't help seeing that, 
 Michael.' 
 
 Poor Dulcie had just a shade of wistful 
 petulance in her voice, as she turned her 
 paint-brush absently round between her 
 finger and thumb, and watched, apparently 
 with deep interest, the little drop of
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 119 
 
 coloured water ooze from the point, while 
 she waited for her brother to answer her. 
 
 Michael did not answer, however. It 
 always pained him when this subject of 
 their father's indifference was mentioned 
 amon^ them : necessarily, with his clearer 
 insight, and better knowledge of their 
 father, he had a dim apprehension of the 
 truth concerning him, which he dreaded 
 some day that necessity would compel him 
 to reveal, by way of explanation, to his 
 sister. Thus, contrary to Dulcie's expecta- 
 tion, — for Michael was generally sympa- 
 thetic upon these occasions, — her brother's 
 only reply was to smooth back a stray lock 
 of her hair, touching her cheek gently as he 
 did so, with a tender air of brotherly 
 patronage that was very dear and sooth- 
 ing, though it could not altogether calm 
 the ruffled spirit just then.
 
 120 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Dalcie squeezed the brush till the big 
 grey drop fell off on to her fingers. 
 
 ' I believe I shall detest Jocelyn, just 
 because of this ! It s my bad disposition, 
 you see. Otherwise, I daresay he's nice 
 enough, Dr. Crosbie's letter seemed to say 
 so, but I always hate people that every- 
 one makes a fuss over ! I do wish you 
 would say what you think about his 
 coming here. Michael, really and truly, 
 do you like it?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, I think I do. It will be a 
 change for us, at any rate — and I daresay 
 it will do good. It will rouse father 
 tremendously, I believe. He will take an 
 interest in Jocelyn, that is very evident, 
 and Jocelyn, if he's wise, will take an 
 interest in you and me, and father may 
 catch the infection, and then there'll be a 
 general warming to one another, due alto-
 
 EEOTHER AND SISTER. 121 
 
 gether to the society of young Jocelyn. 
 I'm very hopeful about it. I want you 
 to be too. You can make the boy's visit 
 here jolly or not, just as you like. Pro- 
 bably he will look on me as a venerable 
 old gentleman, to be avoided as much as 
 possible; but you're just the age that boys 
 of fifteen get on best with, so it rests with 
 you to start the ball, if it is to roll to any 
 good results. Anything is worth trying if 
 it ends in interesting father, Dulcie. Don't 
 let me preach to you though, little sis. 
 You always set everyone straight, better 
 than any of us ! Eh ? You don't mean 
 to cut off your tender mercies from young 
 Jocelyn, do you ?' 
 
 ' I thought about it,' she said, but spoke 
 laughingly this time, for Michael's ending 
 his speech by becoming the expected 
 visitor's champion, had not been without
 
 122 DULCIBEL. 
 
 results to Jocelyn's prospects, and her 
 brother guessed this by her changed tone. 
 
 ' Just let nie see you work up that 
 cloud, then I must be off!' he said, with a. 
 little smile meeting her own, and which 
 still lingered round his mouth, as though 
 he were thinking pleasant thoughts of 
 his sister Dulcie, while he consulted his 
 watch. 
 
 The brilliant glow of the sunset, falling 
 upon the brother and sister, lingered lov- 
 ingly on them just then, as it streamed 
 low down from the horizon, through a 
 break in the boughs of a tree upon the 
 lawn. It lighted upon a couple as fair and 
 goodly to look on, as heart could wish to 
 have found in all that county of fair and 
 comely west-country folk. Rays of light 
 fell upon Dulcie's hair. This hair alone 
 would have made Dulcie a noticeable
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 1 2^ 
 
 young woman from its soft shining abun- 
 dance, and the rarity of its colour. It 
 was fair, a yellow tint at its lightest, 
 shading warmly into auburn brown under- 
 neath, and grew thick, and low down 
 round her ears and neck, and round her 
 forehead. It was straight hair, but the 
 short locks had all that fluffy softness 
 which sometimes redeems straight hair 
 from stiffness. It waved and fluttered 
 round her face, and was piled up into 
 loose coils which caught the sunlight, 
 every stray hair acting as a little con- 
 ductor of light in the direction of the 
 bright mass which crowned her. And 
 Dulcie's complexion, corresponding with 
 the hair, was clear and healthy, freckled 
 sometimes, very often sunburnt, and al- 
 ways bright with the fresh colouring of 
 perfect health. Her features were less
 
 124 DULCIBEL. 
 
 regular than Michael's, but there was a 
 strong family likeness between them, and 
 the eyes of both brother and sister were 
 the same deep grey, shaded by the same 
 brownish-red lashes and eyebrows. Dulcie 
 was very slightly Michael's inferior in 
 height, though among men the brother 
 passed for above the average height. Both 
 were strongly built, slim, and Avell-propor- 
 tioned : that the girl had been accustomed 
 to be the companion of her brother from 
 her childhood was written in every line of 
 the slight but well-developed frame, which 
 was full of activity and easy grace. 
 
 At the time when they stood together 
 there, under the lime-trees on the vicarage 
 lawn, those two, so alike to one another 
 outwardly, were to each other more than 
 auo^ht else in the world beside. Between 
 Michael and Dulcie Carwinion there existed
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 125 
 
 that perfect mutual understanding and 
 sincere depth of friendship which one sees 
 at times between a brother and sister. 
 Shall we say that it is the highest and 
 purest of all friendships between men and 
 women, this, which is based alone on 
 mutual knowledge and esteem, and is 
 devoid of all the blandishments of co- 
 quetry ? But, alas, for it ! Its life is too 
 often transitory. All love seems to demand 
 a first place, our earliest friendships, and 
 loves above all ; and when the time for 
 the confession arrives, which inevitably 
 does arrive between a brother and sister, 
 ' Not that I love you less, but that I love 
 another more,' it is the unconscious death- 
 warrant of the former perfect communion. 
 The sister or the brother takes up their posi- 
 tion as second cheerfully, perhaps, in prof- 
 fering perfectly sincere congratulations, but
 
 126 DULCIBEL. 
 
 ' There follows a mist and a blinding rain, 
 And life is never the same again.' 
 
 As yet our two Carwinions had had no 
 such cloud pass across their friendship; 
 they were all in all to each other, and felt 
 no doubts concerning the future. Silence 
 between such friends is not felt to be 
 silence, each having a certain insight into 
 the drift of the other's thoughts. 
 
 ' It's time for you to be going, Michael/ 
 Dulcie said at last, breaking the pause; 
 and then added, ^ I will be as jolly as I 
 can to young Jocelyn, though I really 
 don't feel amiably disposed, but I know 
 what you mean about father. Perhaps 
 Jocelyn's coming really will make things 
 better for us all. You depend on me, 
 Michael?' 
 
 Michael smiled, and their eyes met, and 
 Dulcie looked self-conscious over her
 
 BEOTHER AND SISTER. 127 
 
 amiability, till her brother made her laugh, 
 and they mutually understood they were 
 being good-natured upon sufferance. 
 
 ' If Warwick-Scudamore comes over about 
 the fishing while I am away, ask him to 
 wait for me ; it won't take me long to go 
 to the station, and I want to settle that 
 with him to-night,' he remarked, as he 
 started. 
 
 And, not many minutes after Michael 
 had left, Arthur Scudamore appeared, 
 inquiring for him. 
 
 Dulcie was busily engaged painting in 
 her sky, and did not notice the steps on 
 the turf, until, suddenly looking up, she 
 saw Arthur standing almost close beside 
 her. A colour rose in her cheeks, and she 
 looked anxiously at her sketch as she 
 wished him ' good-evening.' 
 
 ' So you have managed to survive the hot
 
 128 DULCIBEL. 
 
 day, Dulcie. How goes the world with you T 
 He had her hand, paint-brush and all, 
 grasped in his for a warm shake, before 
 she had time to recover her confusion, at 
 having been discovered with the painting 
 she meant to have taken into the house 
 before the time she deemed this visitor to 
 be due. 
 
 ' Michael has gone to Milcot to meet 
 young Jocelyn. I believe he thought you 
 were coming presently, to see about the 
 iishing, so he wanted me to ask you to wait. 
 But he has gone to meet the half-past seven 
 train, and I am afraid he will be a long 
 time yet.' 
 
 * Being pressed for time is very rarely a 
 complaint of mine, Avhen I am at Basildene, 
 Dulcie. I simply play at being busy here ; 
 so, if I may, I will wait for him, if I don't 
 interrupt your painting.'
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 129 
 
 ' Oh ! I think I shall not do any more 
 now, it is so hopeless to get a good effect 1 
 Don't you think it very foolish of me, in 
 my inexperience, to try such a difficult 
 subject as this sunset? But I didn't 
 mean you to see it at all, only you crept 
 so quietly over the lawn, that I never heard 
 you coming, and had no time to hide it 
 away.' 
 
 ' Why might I not see it ? I believe I 
 am your original painting-master, though 
 I have never seen anything of your doing 
 now for years. Why, Dulcie, it really is 
 splendid, though it is such an ambitious 
 subject ! I hadn't any idea you painted 
 like this,' he said, looking close into the 
 sketch. * Why, you have got the broad 
 touch which is a bit of natural talent that 
 all the painting-masters in Christendom 
 can't give to a pupil. It's first-rate.' 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Arthur spoke with genuine enthusiasm, 
 as he looked into the sketch, and the praise 
 was doubly gratifying to Dulcie, partly 
 because she had been utterly unconscious 
 of deserving it, and partly that she valued 
 praise from Arthur Scudamore, because she 
 had still a childish belief in his abilities, 
 which almost equalled her faith in Michael. 
 
 Her companion stepped back a pace or 
 two from the easel, to catch the full value, 
 with distance, of her style of painting. 
 Dulcie, looking up, smiling and pleased, 
 with the warm, sunset glow upon her hair, 
 and her blue dress, and standing against 
 the background of laurel shrubs, struck 
 young Scudamore as the prettier picture 
 of the two, though he praised the sketch 
 with honest approval. 
 
 ' It's all very good, Dulcie ! Very good 
 — ve-ry go-od.'
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 131 
 
 How she wished he would not drop into 
 that absent-minded, patronising tone when 
 his mind was engrossed. Still, she was 
 pleased with his praise, and, by-and-by, he 
 came and stooped over her work, pointing 
 out, with the authority of one who knew, 
 weak points in the colouring and outline, 
 and she forgot her momentary impatience 
 under the spell of his quiet, masterly 
 manner of discussing things. Then they 
 talked of the fishing expedition, and the 
 advent of young Jocelyn, Dulcie chattering 
 as simply and confidentially with him as 
 when she was a child. The fascination of 
 her society was still her entire absence 
 of self-consciousness ; she was gay and 
 animated, without a thought of the effect 
 she was producing, and the artless uncon- 
 sciousness had a peculiar charm for the 
 reserved Arthur Scudamore. They were 
 
 k2
 
 132 DULCIBEL. 
 
 good friends, these two ; no constraint in- 
 fluenced either as they thus stood chattino; 
 together for half-an-hour. Arthur's quiet 
 nature unbent beneath the influence of 
 her genial companionship, and Dulcie's 
 good spirits rose to a rather unprecedented 
 pitch of confidingness after the praise she 
 had been receiving. 
 
 She was not quite sure how it had all 
 been led up to, when she found herself 
 asking, by-and-by, some questions about 
 Arthur's own painting. 
 
 ' I have seen those small sketches of 
 yours, you know, the group of villagers, 
 and the sketches, and copies from Italy, 
 but I often think those are so little and 
 good, that you must be doing something 
 more ambitious still, and be keeping it 
 back to surprise us all one day in the 
 Academy.'
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 133 
 
 Dulcie spoke at random. She had not 
 studied Arthur Scudamore's character, and 
 did not understand the weakness and the 
 strength of the man who was standing by 
 her. She had a way of taking people's 
 character very much for granted, as what 
 they were universally accepted to be, and 
 unwittingly now she put her finger on the 
 tenderest point in his self-esteem, so that 
 Arthur winced under the operation, though 
 his companion was ignorant of her irony. 
 
 ' I wonder what is your opinion of the 
 people who, with ten talents, rust away 
 their lives and never achieve anything ?' 
 he asked, a bitter smile wrinkling the 
 corners of his mouth. 
 
 By the question he was following up 
 his own train of thoughts, but Dulcie con- 
 sidered the remark somewhat irrelevant. 
 
 * Oh, I have a very poor opinion indeed
 
 134 DULCIBEL. 
 
 of them/ she answered, indifferently ; and 
 then, kindling a little, she went on : 'It 
 always seems to rae that the best days of 
 the world would be <^one by if people 
 hadn't any longer to work hard, and make 
 great efforts to do everything still that is 
 noble and worth doing in it.' 
 
 'What am I to understand by that?' 
 asked Arthur, relaxing into a smile, as he 
 looked at the sweet, uplifted, serious face, 
 round which the light was illuminating 
 the fair hair into a halo of brightness. 
 
 Dulcie did not answer for a moment, 
 and then, looking up at him again, asked : 
 
 ' Shall I tell you really what ideas you put 
 into my mind, by asking me that question ? 
 It is a very childish notion, I daresay, that 
 comes from spending an idle afternoon, 
 readinsr Mrs. Browning:. I was thinkino: 
 about the knight in the '^Romance of the
 
 BROTHEE AND SISTER. 135 
 
 Swan'sNest," when lansweredyou, just now. 
 You remember how fond I was of heroes 
 and knights when I was a little girl ? Well, 
 this knight's is the kind of bravery that 
 strikes me as the very worthiest sort of 
 all, though I know it is only a heroic kind 
 of childish fancy, that the boys might 
 laugh at. I mean the bravery of that 
 knight who went away three times to do 
 Ellie's bidding, and make the world better, 
 before he dared to come back to claim 
 Avhat he wanted. After that time when 
 she sent him away, saying, 
 
 " Rise and go, 
 For the world must love and fear him 
 Whom I gift with heart and hand !" 
 
 I think everyone ought to be brave like that, 
 and work their best, before they dare to rust, 
 to be idle in this world, where there is so 
 much to do, or before they think of a 
 reward at all.'
 
 136 DULCIBEL. 
 
 'But if I remember rif^htly,' said Sciicla- 
 more, the cynical mood rising in him, ' the 
 reward your friend, the knight, was to 
 have for his good deeds, was a view of a 
 certain swan's nest that Miss Ellie had 
 discovered, in which the eggs came to an 
 untimely end before the gentleman in 
 question had finished the tasks she set him. 
 That poem seems to me a sort of cynical 
 protest against such Quixotic proceedings.' 
 
 ' I expect he found out, though, that 
 the " reward is nothing, and the work 
 is all," ' quoted Dulcie, with a radiant face. 
 
 ' I hope Ellie made it up to him,' said 
 Arthur ; and then asked : ' Do you really 
 think everyone should work their hardest, 
 and rub their biblical " ten talents " up to 
 the highest pitch of brilliancy, before they 
 have any right to ask for a reward in this 
 Avorld, Dulcie?'
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 137 
 
 He Spoke in a tone in which lurked a 
 half-amused cynicism still. He did not 
 particularly concern himself with the an- 
 swer she was likely to give, but Dulcie's 
 artless conversation and naivete fascinated 
 him. He watched her with a half-amused, 
 half-admiring look in his quiet face. But 
 fortunately the tone and look were equally 
 lost upon his companion. She only appre- 
 ciated the real earnestness that there 
 was in the question. She had half-childish 
 notions still about the power of influence, 
 it was a matter upon which her sisterly 
 instincts meditated very frequently. Dulcie, 
 therefore, was hardly conscious how enthu- 
 siastic her voice had become when she 
 spoke next. 
 
 * I would never reward a thing that had 
 not been very bravely worked for. It 
 must be about the noblest kind of thought
 
 188 DULCIBEL. 
 
 which a girl can have, that she has en- 
 couraged and helped a man to do some- 
 thing brave in the world — to do his duty. 
 Michael and Francis are so earnest and 
 
 hard-working ' she stopped short, and 
 
 a blush of self-consciousness at what she 
 was saying came into her cheeks. ' I 
 think you are letting me talk nonsense,' 
 she said, the blush suffusing her face, and 
 forbidding her to look at her companion. 
 
 Arthur's voice suddenly became very 
 earnest. 
 
 ' No, indeed, Dulcie. No, indeed. It 
 is very true all you have said. Dul- 
 cie, do you know that I believe I have 
 the talents and capacity to one day do 
 some good work in painting ? It is this 
 life at Basildene, and my confounded in- 
 decision of character, that hold me back. 
 As my girl-friend, Dulcie, and we date
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 139 
 
 back our friendship to the old days, tem 
 years ago, when we struck it up among 
 the tombs, I think you ought to be my 
 " Ellie " noAv, and bid me " Rise and go," 
 since Michael and Francis don't seem to 
 require your assistance. You don't know 
 what a rusted, wasted life mine is growing, 
 and it is no vanity to say it is not from a 
 certain lack of skill. It is energy that is 
 wanting. I had my ambitions once for 
 myself, but they are all dying out. What 
 do you think of me, when I tell you this 
 about myself?' 
 
 Arthur Scudamore had been a grown-up 
 man to Dulcie since the days when inno- 
 cent eight years old learned to respect the 
 talent of sixteen. He had always been to 
 her a grave, serious character, worthy of 
 much childish reverence. They had been 
 good friends always, in the style of teacher
 
 140 DULCIBEL. 
 
 and pupil, but with the barrier of a genera- 
 tion ahnost in her eyes between their ages. 
 Dulcie looked upon Arthur as she might 
 have on a younger brother of her father. 
 There was no thought of coquetry in her 
 mind, as she turned simply now towards 
 him, but only a little anxious tremor in 
 her voice when she spoke. 
 
 ' I would do anything to help you, but 
 how can 1 ? You know so much more 
 about life than I do. T think you should 
 w^ork just for the work's sake, and because 
 you have the ability, and feel sure that the 
 reward will not fail.' 
 
 ' If I could feel sure of that !' said 
 Scudamore, kindling into enthusiasm. 
 * Would you go surety for the reward, 
 Dulcie?' and as he spoke he smiled a smile 
 which somehow had lost all its predecessor's 
 cynicism.
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 141 
 
 * Do you mean that I should promise 
 you success, if you undertake to work 
 hard, and gain a name for yourself in the 
 world ?' she asked, a little puzzled. 
 
 ' Success is not all that I care for. I 
 mean more than that, Dulcie,' he said, but 
 did not look at her now as he spoke. 
 
 She stood up, and folded some soft 
 paper over her painting-block, preparatory 
 to putting it away. Her eyes were cast 
 down. She was not quite sure of Arthur 
 Scudamore's meaning, but her heart beat 
 a little faster, as she said, in a low voice : ' I 
 do not think you would be disappointed.' 
 
 Arthur had incautiously said more, or 
 at least implied more, than he had intend- 
 ed ; and a sort of shame came over him 
 now, an accusation that he had been taking 
 advantage of his companion's sympathetic 
 naivete^ and, as he helped her fold her easel^
 
 142 DULCIBEL. 
 
 a strange awkwardness possessed him, and 
 kept him back from making the speech 
 which rose to his lips. 
 
 Dulcie looked timidly at him. Had she 
 unintentionally said anything to oifend 
 him ? He was so reserved a man, and so 
 seldom unbent as he had to-night, her 
 heart misgave her, that she had been talk- 
 ing random nonsense in return for his con- 
 lidence. He made no more reply to her 
 low- voiced promise, than some trivial 
 remark about the easel which he was un- 
 screwing, and how, indeed, could the 
 anxious child know the resolves which 
 were forming in his mind, in response to 
 her words ? 
 
 It was a relief certainly to them both 
 when the sound of footsteps broke in upon 
 their silence, and Michael and Chris 
 Jocelyn approached up the long gravel
 
 BllOTHER AND SISTER. 143 
 
 drive from the high-road. The two figures 
 standing under the trees, with the folded 
 easel and the camp-stool, were the first 
 objects that met the school-boy's eyes, as 
 he and Michael came towards the house. 
 The impression he received of them was, 
 that the girl was fair and pretty, with 
 features like miniatures of those of young 
 Carwinion by his side, and that the 
 man (Chris meditated, and concluded 
 that he was altogether too old and 
 objectionable-looking to be the lover of 
 such a pretty girl) was tall, and rather 
 foreign in appearance, and wore his hair 
 long, and had generally that artistic cut 
 which the school-boy taste is pleased 
 to consider ridiculous. Chris made up a 
 mind, rather given to jumping to con- 
 clusions, that he should not like this com- 
 panion of Miss Carwinion.
 
 144 DULCTBEL. 
 
 The distraction caused by the arrival 
 of the visitor was a welcome one to Dulcie. 
 She came across the grass to meet him, 
 with unintentional pleasure expressed in 
 her face. It was an agreeable surprise to 
 her to find how eminently satisfactory a 
 face and person were possessed by the 
 interloper, who seemed sublimely uncon- 
 scious of not being wanted, and already to 
 be on excellent terms with Michael. Dul- 
 cie, in spite of herself, was betrayed into 
 being genial, when her brother, after intro- 
 ducing her, walked on to speak to Scuda- 
 more. It w^as characteristic of the latter's 
 reticent manner that he made no effort 
 to come forward to speak to young Joce- 
 lyn, and that he hardly seemed to notice 
 him, as he talked away to Michael. 
 Dulcie, from feeling well-disposed, found 
 the irritation that Scudamore's manner
 
 BKOTHER AND SISTER. 145 
 
 once before that evening had aroused, 
 rising in her, and was piqued, at least in 
 Arthur's presence, to be friendly towards 
 young Jocelyn. 
 
 Unfortunately, this good turn in affairs 
 for Chris received a check upon the 
 appearance of Mr. Carwinion. He came, 
 with shuffling, hasty steps now, from the 
 study window, whence he had caught 
 sight of them, round through the hall- 
 door, to meet the visitor — a frail, thin, 
 restless-eyed old man, looking much older 
 than his scarce three-score of years. Dul- 
 cie's conversation broke oif abruptly, and 
 she looked from Chris Jocel}^ to her father. 
 This hearty greeting, this flushed face, 
 and the eager, dilating eyes beaming with 
 pleasure, when had they ever welcomed a 
 returning child of his own in this way ? 
 She fell back, and left young Jocelyn 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 DULCIBEL. 
 
 alone with her father, her cheek burning 
 with ill-repressed indignation and bitter- 
 ness at this interruption of her conversation 
 with the boy. 
 
 ' Let her father make things at Basil- 
 dene pleasant for young Jocelyn, she and 
 Michael were not required to do it, for all 
 their good resolutions,' thought Dulcie ; 
 and then, looking again at the pleasant 
 sunny boy-face, that was anxiously trying to 
 assume a sympathetic expression over Mr. 
 Carwinion's incoherent talk, concerning his 
 remembrance of Colonel Jocelyn, she 
 relented a little, and felt it would not 
 always be possible to withstand the spell 
 of those very blue eyes.
 
 147 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CHRTS. 
 
 She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd ; 
 And I loved her, that she did pity them. 
 This only is the witchcraft I have us'd. 
 
 Otliello. 
 
 But magic, be it that of blue eyes, or 
 whatsoe'er you will, can have but small 
 power in a jealous womanly heart that is 
 already possessed by a sense of injury to 
 its best beloved. She may succumb pres- 
 ently, but the fascination that is eventually 
 to overcome her intensifies at first her 
 
 feelings of dislike : she recognises it as the 
 
 l2
 
 148 DULCIBEL. 
 
 weapon that is to subdue her, and hates it 
 accordingly. And a woman is so much 
 more alive to the small possibilities of 
 jealousy than the larger-hearted, more 
 liberal-minded male sex. 
 
 Michael had recognised the fact, that the 
 position Chris occupied in their father's 
 capricious affections was not of the boy's 
 own making, and found no cause for alter- 
 ing his original good opinion of the visitor ; 
 while Dulcie, during two miserable days, 
 was eating her heart out with indignation 
 and bitterness over her brother's wrongs. 
 That their father should take so much 
 notice of this son of his old friend, while 
 the days of Michael and Francis' slighted 
 boyhood were yet fresh in her memory; 
 to this Dulcie could in no wise reconcile 
 her mind. 
 
 She kept her promise to Michael by a
 
 CHRIS. 149 
 
 conscientious lip-service, and was civilly 
 polite to young Jocelyn ; but in her inmost 
 heart, — every time she saw her father's 
 restless eyes directed with a peculiar 
 expectant pleasure towards unsuspecting 
 Chris, or heard the little parenthetical 
 remarks, ' Lionel Jocelyn's own voice !' 
 ' Just as your father would have spoken !' 
 which so confused the boy for suitable 
 replies, — Dulcie felt how impossible it 
 would be for her ever to take into her 
 friendship this modern specimen of a 
 Jacob. 
 
 But Chris, all unconscious of the unto- 
 ward position in which circumstances had 
 placed him, needed no better help to 
 extricate himself than his own irresistible 
 personality. The notion that unfavour- 
 able opinions were entertained concerning 
 him never troubled his curly head, or kept
 
 150 DULCIBEL. 
 
 his blue eyes sleepless at night, when the 
 day's events passed before them. It was 
 an unknown condition of affairs in young 
 Jocelyn's experience for people not to like 
 him. 
 
 He had never yet failed to conciliate 
 whom he would, when once he took the 
 trouble. He had even made friends with 
 the detested form-master, whose irrita- 
 bility was a by-word in St. Aidans, until 
 young Jocelyn's power to appease him 
 became a still more remarkable fact in 
 connection with his name. He took Dul- 
 cie's constrained manner for shyness, and 
 meant to overcome it when he should have 
 got the better of similar feelings of his 
 own. 
 
 In the meanwhile, her manner of treat- 
 ing her brother created quite a new 
 sensation of loneliness, and of something
 
 CHRIS. L51 
 
 missed in his life hitherto, for him. He 
 never imagined Dulcie to be anything but 
 as kindly disposed towards him, as he had 
 ever found the outside world. Conse- 
 quently, at the end of the week after his 
 arrival at Basildene, when Scudamore's 
 fishing expedition was being carried out, 
 and the vicarage party, with the young 
 squire, were belabouring the shallow Bas- 
 sel waters for trout, there was, in Chris's 
 estimation, nothing to prevent his taking 
 a flying leap over the stream, to the wrong 
 side of which he had been beguiled by the 
 tempting passage of a fallen willow, and 
 landing close by Miss Carwinion's side, to 
 proffer some trivial remark to her, in the 
 evident intention of remaining her com- 
 panion for the indefinite period permitted 
 by the exigencies of fly-fishing. Dulcie's 
 discipleship to the gentle craft of Izaak
 
 152 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Walton was of a desultory nature, not 
 marked by enthusiasm. She took no par- 
 ticular pleasure in the capture of trout, 
 and generally managed to combine a little 
 reading with her sport, by propping her 
 rod against a tree, and keeping, so to 
 speak, one eye upon her unscientific float, 
 and one upon her book 
 
 At the present moment, her reading was 
 interrupted by Jocelyn's approach on the 
 opposite bank. Looking up with a short 
 glance, and looking down again, (Chris 
 might have seen she did not want his 
 society, if he had had any eyes to perceive 
 such things,) the thought passed through 
 her mind that it would be much easier to 
 thorougly detest this young son of Colonel 
 Jocelyn, if he were a trifle less good-look- 
 ing and good-natured. The temptation to 
 look up again was irresistible, as Chris
 
 CHRIS. 153 
 
 took a little run off for his jump. He was 
 a clever youth, this slim owner of muscle 
 and shapely iiannel-clad limbs. If he had 
 consulted the best authorities as to how he 
 was to please this distant and cold-man- 
 nered young woman, he could have learned 
 no better method than the display of 
 physical skill. 
 
 Dulcie watched him with reluctant ap- 
 proval. A flash of memory recalled 
 Michael's one attempt to leap the Bassel 
 just here, and brought with it recollections 
 of a damp, crestfallen individual, listening 
 to Aunt Margaret's dissertations on the 
 subject of the injury caused to boot- 
 leather by submersion in water. 
 
 Chris leaped without an effort, and was 
 by her side, looking as though nothing had 
 occurred out of the ordinary course of the 
 day's proceedings, before Dulcie exactly
 
 154 DULCIBEL. 
 
 knew what to think of the comparison her 
 mind had been making. 
 
 ' So here you are !' said Chris. He had 
 a large bunch of forget-me-nots and reeds 
 in his hand, which were evidently his 
 excuse for joining her. ' Would you like 
 some of these? There were such splendid 
 ones further up, I got you a lot.' 
 
 Dulcie accepted the offering, and a little 
 mollified smile, of which there had first 
 been a shadow when Chris jumped, 
 hovered round the corners of her mouth, 
 as she did the first thing that one usually 
 does when flowers are presented to us^ 
 buried her small nose among the fragrant 
 greenery. — There is a subtle spell in the 
 intense azure and golden eye of a water 
 forget-me-not, among its setting of bright 
 green, that the colouring of no other 
 flower has been endowed with, though the
 
 CHRIS. 155 
 
 spell is of the same nature as the exuberant 
 enjoyment we experience when inhaling the 
 odour of an old-fashioned, rain-washed rose. 
 
 No lover of flowers could harbour feel- 
 ings of ill-will against the donor of forget- 
 me-nots, as long as their blue eyes and 
 odorous, earthy fragrance were freshly 
 appealing to the senses. To resist their 
 spell would be to reject the flowers — and 
 Dulcie had accepted them. 
 
 'Thank you so much. They are lovely !' 
 she leaned forward and dipped into the 
 stream the stalks which still retained the 
 heat of the schoolboy clasp. 
 
 'I'm afraid I've made them so hot, they're 
 no use,' exclaimed Chris, looking on. 
 ' Somehow, when you jump, you can't 
 help squeezing up anything you've got in 
 your hand. I'll go and get you some 
 better ones, if you like.'
 
 156 DULCIBEL. 
 
 ' Oh, no, j^lease don't. Those are not 
 hurt. They will keep fresh in the water 
 till we ^o home. It was kind of you to 
 get them for me. Have you caught any 
 fish ? I haven't even seen one.' 
 
 It was impossible to remember the 
 grievances for which he was accountable, 
 in the presence of this boy's easy manner 
 and handsome, winning face. Dulcie felt 
 her resentment vanishing, knew she was 
 weak, and yet found nothing in particular 
 at the moment to justify her treating her 
 companion with coolness. Chris flung his 
 long limbs upon the turf by her recumbent 
 fishing-rod, and commenced to make a 
 little dance upon the water with her float. 
 
 ' Your brother and Mr. Scudamore have 
 got some splendid trout, I believe. I 
 never caught one, and I got so tired of 
 keeping quiet while the gnats ate me. so I
 
 CHRIS. 157 
 
 came away and had a look for water-rats. 
 It is better fun potting them with a 
 catapult, than waiting for fish that never 
 bite. 1 say, though, what a splendid way 
 of fishing yours is ! I wonder how many 
 get away wdthout your seeing them. You 
 can't fish with a fly like this.' 
 
 ' Nor with a float, if you move it about 
 like that. You'll frighten every fish aw^ay 
 if you do that,' said Dulcie, severely, while 
 Chris, looking at her, still danced the float 
 gently upon the water. 
 
 ' Did you evei^ catch one like it T 
 inquired Chris, laughing. 
 
 ' Of course. Why I get quite a lot that 
 way, sometimes. I look at the float every 
 time I turn a page, and I really don't 
 think I miss many.' 
 
 ' I wonder you don't fish with a fly, 
 though ; girls often do, I believe, and
 
 158 DULCIBEL. 
 
 you clo so many things with your brother.' 
 'Well, I mean to learn some day, but 
 Michael and VVarwick-Scudamore are al- 
 ways so intent on their own affairs when 
 we come fishing, that I generally put off 
 asking them to teach me, when I come 
 down meaning to get a lesson.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say you can't throw a 
 fly? Oh, I can teach you that,' exclaimed 
 Chris, with the remarkable lack of humil- 
 ity that proceeded from profound ignorance 
 in the art that he proposed to impart. 
 
 'Can you? Oh, I should like to learn. 
 Will you throw the fly once before I try, 
 just to let me watch how it is done. This 
 is Francis' old rod, isn't it ? He's had it 
 ever since he was a little boy. He calls it 
 his " other self," when he's at home. I 
 never knew anyone so fond of fishing as 
 Francis is.'
 
 . CHRIS. 159 
 
 ' It's a very good rod,' said Chris. ' Stand 
 here, and I'll just throw the fly once. I'll 
 try to put it on that leaf, there in mid- 
 stream, to show you. — You do it like this !' 
 
 Chris gave a sweeping flourish with the 
 long fishing-line among the willow branches 
 overhead. He and Dulcie both bent for- 
 ward to see the fly alight gracefully upon 
 the little floating leaf indicated ; but the 
 line, and the fly instead, were reposing, 
 entangled, among the boughs above them. 
 
 'Hullo!' remarked Chris. 'That's a 
 pity ! I never saw that tree was so near.' 
 Pulling, and tugging, and easing the line, 
 all failed to loosen the cord, which had 
 become firmly wound round a projecting 
 branch, the hook holding it in position. 
 
 * That was careless of you !' came spon- 
 taneously from Dulcie's lips. ' Trees 
 shouldn't make any difl*erence to a good
 
 160 DULCIBEL. 
 
 fly fisherman. Oh, do be careful, that is 
 Francis' favourite rod !' 
 
 ' It's all ripjht, I'll get it loose in a 
 minute,' said Chris, unruffled by the blunt- 
 ness of his companion's remarks, and re- 
 doubling his eiforts to rectify the damage 
 which his inexperience was likely to cause. 
 
 But a minute's more pulling and tugging 
 only served to show how hopelessly en- 
 tangled the line really was, and Dulcie, by 
 that time, was looking on with gathering 
 indignation depicted in her face. Was 
 not the property endangered that of her 
 already over-much injured brother Francis, 
 whose possessions most certainly were not 
 to be treated with the levity of inex- 
 perience by this stranger. 
 
 ' 1 think I had better get up into the 
 tree, and reach it off from there,' said 
 Chris, noticing the anxiety and other
 
 CHRIS. 161 
 
 sentiments whicli were telling their own 
 tale in Dulcie's countenance, and feeling 
 anxious to propitiate her for his mistaken 
 offer of instruction. 
 
 ' Oh, do be careful !' insisted Dulcie. 
 
 It was doubtful to Chris whether he or 
 the fishing-rod were the object of her 
 solicitude. 
 
 ' Lift the rod up as high as you can, 
 then the line will be looser. I think it's 
 coming now,' remarked the sunburnt face 
 from among the willow-branches. Dulcie 
 raised the rod, and a whipping and 
 rustling of the leaves overhead ensued. 
 
 Suddenly there came a sweep down- 
 wards of the branches, and a blue cap 
 and white flannelled shoulder appeared 
 in the gap made by the swaying boughs ; 
 this was followed by another sweep and 
 cracking of twigs, as Chris half fell, half 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 DULCIBEL. 
 
 leaped to the prround, liolding an end of 
 the fishing-line in his hand, while the top 
 of the broken rod came falling after him. 
 
 'You have broken it!' cried Dulcie, 
 wrathfully. 
 
 ' I leaned forward to that end bough, 
 and lost my balance, and it snapped. I'm 
 awfully sorry,' said Chris, prevented by 
 other feelings from experiencing all the 
 penitence the occasion demanded. In fall- 
 ing, he had broken the barbed fish-hook, 
 he was in the act of releasing, into the 
 j)alm of his hand, and the sharp throbbings 
 of acute bodily pain were the feelings he 
 was most alive to at that moment. He 
 opened and shut his hand, to see a thin 
 stream of blood trickling across his palm, 
 and the pain and the sight brought over 
 him the sensation of faint sickness which 
 he had experienced before at school, in
 
 CHRIS. 163 
 
 similar accidents, while the landscape 
 assumed a strangely blurred appearance. 
 He dived his uninjured hand into his 
 pocket, only to discover that the handker- 
 chief of which he stood in need must have 
 been dropped at the spot where he 
 gathered the forget-me-nots. 
 
 Dulcie, meanwhile, in her vexation over 
 the ruin of Francis' fishing-tackle, had no 
 eyes for her companion's misfortune ; and 
 Chris, meditating a little scornfully upon 
 her strong feelings for family property, 
 was staggering off in search of his lost 
 handkerchief, when Dulcie turned towards 
 him. 
 
 There were w^ords of reproach on her 
 lips, for Dulcie was decidedly a candid 
 young woman, and meant to inform Joce- 
 lyn exactly what she felt about his care- 
 lessness, but his back was turned, and he 
 
 M 2
 
 164 DULCIBEL. 
 
 was walking off. This was base and cow- 
 ardly, worse than she had expected of him. 
 
 ' Jocelyn, at least you might ' 
 
 'I'm coming back to put the rod to 
 rights. I've scratched my hand, T was — '^ 
 
 Just then the field seemed to swim 
 before his eyes, and the pain in his arm 
 compelled Chris to stop, and support him- 
 self against a willow trunk. 
 
 Dulcie came after him. 
 
 ' What is the matter? Have you hurt 
 yourself? Oh, what have you. done to your 
 hand ?' 
 
 Chris had recovered from the momentary 
 faintness by this time, and made a feeble 
 attempt to smile indifferently over his 
 wound. 
 
 ' It was the hook — I have lost my hand- 
 kerchief — I was going ' 
 
 ' Do have mine !'
 
 CHRIS. 165 
 
 ' ^No, thank you.' 
 
 ' Oh, Jocelyn ! Come back. Do stop 
 — I am so sorry. You can't go on with 
 your hand bleeding like that, Jocelyn !' 
 
 Chris came back reluctantly ; but the 
 pain in his hand conquered his pride, and 
 he was glad enough to take the small 
 square of cambric that did service as Dul- 
 cie's handkerchief, and press it to his in- 
 jured palm. He sat down, and in a minute 
 the faintness had entirely disappeared. 
 
 'Thank you, Miss Carwinion. But I'm 
 afraid I've spoilt your handkerchief now, 
 as well as the rod.' 
 
 * Let me tie up your hand,' said Dulcie. 
 
 ' Oh, it is all right as it is, thanks,' 
 answered Chris. 
 
 ' You had much better allow me to do 
 it up properly,' she insisted; ' and really, I 
 think you might call me by my Christian
 
 166 DULCIBEL. 
 
 name, if you will. "Miss Carwinion"' 
 sounds so strange.' 
 
 This last was a little act of penance 
 for her late anger, and a concession to 
 which it had cost her many days of de- 
 liberation to bring her mind. Chris sub- 
 mitted to have the little square folded into 
 a bandage, and tied across his hand and 
 round his wrist, watching Dulcie's slim 
 fingers very contentedly as they tied and 
 knotted her handkerchief. 
 
 ' That's awfully good of you ! — I mean, to 
 let me call you Dulcie. It's such a jolly 
 name ! I believe you call me " Jocelyn." 
 That's just like a girl w^ho has brothers. 
 But you know my name is " Chris," don't 
 you ? Will you call me that too, if I call 
 you ''Dulcie?'" 
 
 Why did the blue eyes look so straight 
 at her, and why was it at this moment,
 
 CHRIS. 167 
 
 when she was wanting to return to her old 
 remembrance of his shortcomings, that his 
 face had a pale, pained look under the sun- 
 burn, which evoked pity, for it was as 
 though he were suffering in silence ? Dul- 
 cie gave in. — It was a last, and ineffectual 
 struggle to dislike young Jocelyn, and cir- 
 cumstances triumphed for him. 
 
 '"Chris." Shall I call you ''Chris"? 
 What does it stand for ?' 
 
 ' Christopher, I believe. An awful 
 name, isn't it ? But it has nearly always 
 been " Chris," whenever I've had the 
 pleasure of hearing it, though father used 
 to call me "Sunny," when he was alive, 
 and since then, till your father took to 
 calling me " Chris," I hadn't heard any 
 other name than '' Jocelyn," from the time 
 when I was seven.' 
 
 'Not in your holidays? The people
 
 168 DULCIBEL. 
 
 you spent your holidays witli surely called 
 you by your Christian name ?' 
 
 ' Oh, no, they didn't, though. You see, 
 I was always with St. Aidans people, who 
 couldn't get into a holiday name for me 
 when I was " Jocelyn " to them in term. 
 Even the little kids called me " Jocelyn." 
 You can't think what it is like, coming 
 here and being in a home, away from the 
 eternal routine of St. Aidans.' 
 
 ' It can't be like anything particularly 
 nice, though. It is so dull here, and we 
 are all very cross and grumpy people when 
 things put us out.' 
 
 ' Ah, you can't understand what it is. 
 Your father is so jolly good to me. I've 
 never been made a fuss over since I came 
 from India, till I came here and met him.' 
 
 Dulcie meditated, a little reproachfully, 
 that the liveliness and attractions of Basil-
 
 CHRIS. 169 
 
 dene were not generally considered to 
 centre in her father, and opened and shut 
 her book absently, as she prepared for a 
 second concession. 
 
 ' I hope we shall be good friends now, 
 for always,' she said, feeling that she had 
 been very weak in so easily having been 
 conquered, and yet, somehow, realising that 
 Chris Jocelyn's objectionableness did not 
 exactly lie in himself. 
 
 They were still sitting on the sloping 
 bank above the stream and talking, when 
 Michael and Arthur Scudamore returned, 
 an hour later, in triumph with their trout. 
 Friendships at fifteen and eighteen take 
 rapid strides. It is a pace we have for- 
 gotten when we cautiously make new 
 friends at five-and-thirty. 
 
 Dulcie had a boyish, blunt way of 
 speaking, which she had caught from her
 
 170 DULCIBEL. 
 
 brothers, and gradually, as Chris told her 
 the history of his lonely life, her face had 
 assumed a pretty, penitent expression, that 
 was not lost upon her companion, though 
 he but vaguely understood its meaning. 
 Chris's impulsive nature was entirely cap- 
 tivated by her sympathy and prettiness; 
 he was ready to recant all his late opinions 
 of her pride, and to be her willing slave in 
 future; while Dulcie, little by little, from 
 sheer pity, out of the kindliness of her 
 sweet, sisterly heart, had taken him into 
 her affection as she heard his story. 
 Francis' broken rod lay between them, 
 the seal of their new friendship, when 
 Michael and Arthur arrived, declaring it 
 to be time to be going home. 
 
 ' Alas for the poor smashed rod !' said 
 Dulcie, picking it up. ' I wonder if we can 
 have it mended?'
 
 CHEIS. 171 
 
 ' I'll buy Francis another, of course/ 
 said Chris. 
 
 ' And keep that, and learn how to fly 
 fish with it yourself. You young scamp ! 
 To try to teach my sister to throw a fly, 
 when I only gave you your first lesson up 
 there by the bridge this afternoon !' 
 
 Michael laughed. It pleased him to see 
 that, in some unaccountable way, Chris and 
 Dulcie had at last made friends, over the 
 breaking of the rod.
 
 172 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 CONFIDENCES. 
 
 Crede non illam tibi de scelesta 
 Plebe dilectam, neque sic fidelem 
 Sic lucro aversam, poterisse nasci 
 INIadre pudenda. 
 Carmen iv, Liber ii. HORACE. 
 
 The accident to Chris's hand proved a 
 troublesome matter for some days, but it 
 was the means by which his friendship with 
 DulcieCarwinion became firmly established. 
 Dulcie had had no intention of taking him 
 into her charge as a patient, but when 
 Chris, next day, held out his wounded 
 member, and asked her to ' Tie it up pro-
 
 CONFIDENCES 173 
 
 perly,' followino; the request witli a 
 mischievous laugh, as he added : ^ I know 
 you're proud of showing how well you can 
 bandage ;' what, under the circumstances, 
 could she do but comply ? And history 
 repeated itself on the next and many 
 following days. 
 
 It may seem but a small matter, but 
 thus it came about, after the injured hand 
 was healed, and the holiday-time was 
 drawing to a close, that Dulcie insensibly 
 realised how firm a hold young Jocelyn's 
 bright personality had taken upon the 
 quiet vicarage household. The dulness 
 that followed his departure, the quiet that 
 seemed to be waiting for the interruption 
 of his noisy laugh or irreverent whistle, 
 came as additional proofs of how he was 
 missed. And these summer holidays at 
 Basildene were the first of a lono- series of
 
 174 DULCIBEL. 
 
 visits which Chris paid to the vicarage. 
 The place became, in ftict, exactly as Mr. 
 Carwinion had wished, and over-anxious 
 Major Bultitaft most had dreaded, a regu- 
 lar home for Colonel Jocelyn's son ; and 
 it grew to be an understood thing that his 
 holidays were to be spent nowhere else. 
 
 The lad's visits did much to rouse Mr. 
 Carwinion into a sociable frame of mind, 
 which somewhat faintly resembled his 
 former self. He thoroughly enjoyed the 
 boy's society, apart from the associations 
 his presence recalled. ' Sunny,' as they 
 called him now, with ready adaptability, 
 fell into the old man's ways, and humoured 
 him as his children had failed to. Chris 
 never quite understood the halo of melan- 
 choly with which it pleased the vicar to 
 surround himself, and sometimes had the 
 temerity to relate jokes to him, while the
 
 CONFIDENCES. 175 
 
 others listened with bated breath, and 
 hardly credited their ears when the result 
 of Jocelyn's boldness was the unusual 
 sound of John Carwinion's nervous laugh. 
 The old man 'grew to take more interest 
 in life, and to look for ^ Sunny's ' visits as 
 the red-letter days in his dull calendar, 
 while the friendship which grew up between 
 Dulcie and Chris naturally drew the father 
 and daughter together. 
 
 Michael was frequently absent during the 
 holida3^-time. Sometimes he took a travel- 
 ling tutorship, and at other times remained 
 up at Oxford, with permission, during the 
 vacation, working steadily in the quiet time 
 of the '• long,' for the coveted fellowship to 
 which his hopes aspired. To Dulcie, whose 
 life hitherto had been so quiet and un- 
 eventful, the coming of Chris Jocelyn into 
 the home-circle made a great change. She
 
 176 DULCIBEL. 
 
 was very young and simple-minded for 
 her age. A girl who, after leaving school, 
 has had her youth suppressed by mono- 
 tony and lack of society, for even two or 
 three years, will still iind a vast store of 
 school-girlish enjoyment of trifles left in 
 her, when the opportunity conies for her 
 to once more expand the tentacles which 
 we all must, sooner or later, send out in 
 search for the pleasures of life. Dulcie 
 was possessed of a strange mixture of 
 childish gaiety of heart, combined with a 
 quiet, self-possessed womanliness, acquired 
 from her deep friendship with Michael. 
 
 The society of Chris appealed to the 
 gay side of her nature. She found his 
 vivacity infectious, and was never so 
 lio^ht-hearted as with him. Chris never 
 seemed to have troubles, like other people. 
 Her companionship had equal charms for
 
 CONFIDENCES. 177 
 
 Chris. He Avas at an age when boyhood 
 ■first appreciates female society, and Dulcie 
 was peculiarly a young woman likely to 
 be found companionable by boys. She 
 was strong and healthy, an indefatigable 
 walker, and cared as much for the natural 
 history objects, which are the schoolboy's 
 keenest interest, as any youngster who 
 worships at the shrine of Wood, or White 
 of Selbourne. 
 
 The girl had the greater stability of 
 character. Jocelyn, though he had a 
 genuine affection for the Carwinions, 
 would have gone back to the old system 
 of spending his holidays at St. Aidans 
 with only a transitory regret. This friend- 
 ship had not stirred his heart very deeply, 
 though Dulcie's society in the holidays, 
 and her letters in term time, were real 
 pleasures to the lad. Bright, winning 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 DULCIBEL. 
 
 natures sucli as Chris's require a great 
 deal to move them effectually, though, on 
 the surface, they are continually being 
 fluttered by the breath of each successive 
 ^vind that blows in their direction. 
 
 Dulcie trusted him implicitly, and gave 
 him the unreserved sisterly warmth of her 
 affection, when once he had won it, with- 
 out questioning what it was that she 
 received in return. 
 
 For Arthur Scudamore her friendship 
 partook of the same reverential nature as 
 that she bestowed on Michael, though the 
 strange medley of cynicism and earnest- 
 ness in Arthur's character often puzzled 
 her simple mind. Praise from Scudamore 
 or from Michael brought the warm flush 
 of pride into her cheeks, their presence 
 was a power to draw out the highest and 
 best qualities of her nature, while Jocelyn's
 
 CONFIDENCES. 179 
 
 only called forth the lighter characteristic 
 of gaiety. 
 
 To Chris she still was a child, strong, 
 buoyant, and light-hearted; to Arthur 
 Scudamore she had become a woman, 
 grave with the serious thoughts of life 
 that the wide extent of her reading had 
 awakened, sympathetic with the ready wit 
 of a true woman, and tender with an old- 
 fashioned solicitude which is acquired by 
 all women, who are women indeed, and 
 who have intercourse mostly with fathers, 
 brothers, or their husbands, and meet few 
 members of their own sex. 
 
 That Dulcie was unconscious of herself 
 
 was still her greatest charm. When her 
 
 brothers laughed at her for her anxious 
 
 motherly ways with them, she blushed, 
 
 ^nd felt there must be some wide gulf 
 
 separating her from the ways of other 
 
 N 2
 
 180 DULCIBEL. 
 
 girls, not knowing how they valued her 
 for the very width of the difference she 
 deplored. Chris's friendship saved her 
 from hecoming pedantic and self-absorbed, 
 such as her previous life might have made 
 her, without this outlet for her capacity for 
 enjoyment. Yet, if Chris ever paused in 
 his light-hearted career to think seriously 
 of things, it was Dulcie's influence at work 
 in him. Together, she and Chris would 
 sometimes discuss the strange relation- 
 ship they each stood in to their parents. 
 Reticent at first with one another upon 
 this point, that was a sore subject with 
 them both, they had learned graduall}^, 
 beginning by a silent respect for the 
 avoided subject, and then by a carefully 
 planned revelation of the whole secret, 
 and an appeal to one another's sym- 
 pathy, to enter into each other's feelings,
 
 CONFIDENCES. 181 
 
 and openly to talk upon the matter. 
 . ' You all think so much of your mother's 
 memory,' Chris said one day to her ; ' it 
 seems, sometimes to me, as if she really 
 were a living being in your household. 
 Some one hid away from us, from sight, 
 but who gave her orders every day to you 
 all, of what she wanted done. She must 
 have had a tremendous influence with 
 people while she lived, for it to go on act- 
 ing upon you now, as it does.' 
 
 And Dulcie had answered thoughtfully: 
 ' I can never quite understand all that 
 our mother must have been to father. I 
 was such a baby — hardly a year old — when 
 she died. And yet my earliest recollection 
 is of her. I don't mean, of course, that I 
 remember her. But the tirst thing that I 
 can recollect is about her memory. We 
 grew up out of babyhood with the sense
 
 182 DULCIBEL. 
 
 of a great cloud hanging over our lives^ 
 and making us different to other children. 
 Not Michael so much. He could remem- 
 ber mother well, and used to tell Francis 
 and me about her. We learned a prayer 
 about her memory — that its influence 
 might make us good children, and help us 
 to grow up to be comforts to our father in 
 his trouble. Wasn't it a funny combin- 
 ation of superstition and nice ideas ? 
 Mother was like a god to us, and I believe 
 her memory is a real influence with us all 
 now. It is like a tradition with me, be- 
 cause I never really knew her ; and yet I 
 seem to understand about her, and I am 
 sure I should recognise her if I could see 
 her. Poor father ! It was very awful for 
 him, losing her. He has just existed in 
 a sort of living death, waiting to go to her, 
 since she died. It is his sorrow that has
 
 CONFIDENCES. 183 
 
 made her loss such a real trouble to us. 
 Sunny, it must be the most terrible thing 
 in the world to lose some one you really 
 care for very much. I have never had 
 any friend that I loved die, yet —I can't 
 know what mother was, so 1 can't realise 
 her loss. She is like a part of the Bible 
 story to me. But I sometimes try to 
 imagine what would happen to me, what 
 the world would seem like, if Michael Avere 
 to die. I think my trouble would be then 
 like father's is now. No one could under- 
 stand it. The greatest part of it would be 
 the feeling that I must needs go on living 
 still. If one could just drop out of life, 
 too, when those we love very much die, 
 how much easier it would be.' 
 
 Dulcie clasped her hands in her earnest- 
 ness, and leaned forward as she spoke. 
 She felt almost ashamed that she had said
 
 184 DULCIBEL. 
 
 SO much, even to Chris, who was her con- 
 fidant now in ahnost everything. Yet 
 outward influences most often conduce to 
 the circumstances which provoke the con- 
 fidences that, differently situated, people 
 might never have been drawn into. 
 
 What secrets a winter twilight by the 
 fireside has revealed ! What tales, other- 
 wise deeply buried in our own hearts, 
 the charm of a summer evening in a 
 country lane, amid fragrant honeysuckle 
 and the notes of belated thrushes, has 
 drawn from us into sympathetic ears ! 
 
 It was Christmas-time. Chris and Dul- 
 cie together were sitting in the half- 
 darkness of a frosty twilight, before the 
 drawing-room fire. Chris stretched in his 
 favourite attitude, a long length of arms 
 and legs, upon the rug, in front of his 
 companion, who was leaning forward,
 
 CONFIDENCES. 185 
 
 playing with a palin-leaf screen, from the 
 depths of a large arm-chair. The fire- 
 light flickered,- the red light from the 
 setting sun struggled with the deepening 
 gloom, and the keen icy breath of the 
 frost was claiming the window-panes for 
 its own, and dimming them into patterns 
 of delicate lacework tracery. 
 
 There was a pause after Dulcie's eager 
 words. Chris did not know exactly how 
 to answer. For himself, he had no experi- 
 ence of such feelings, and, though he under- 
 stood all that Dulcie meant, the ideas 
 aroused more a sense of admiration for 
 her, as a very exceptional and noble 
 character, than a responsive echo in his 
 own breast. 
 
 He passed his fingers through his 
 rumpled curls, and, turning, leaned his 
 chin upon his palm, and looked straight
 
 186 DULCIBEL. 
 
 into his companion's face. The warm^ 
 sympathetic nature was brimming over 
 with indescribable devotion for his com- 
 panion just then. He did not understand 
 her ; that w^as all the more reason for his- 
 admiration. Dulcie feared she had roused 
 painful memories in his mind, and wa& 
 quick to try to remedy her thoughtlessness^ 
 by the proffered sympathy that was con- 
 tained in the challenge for his confidence. 
 ' Do you remember your father, Sunny?' 
 And Chris, presently, playing with the 
 fringe upon the rug as he spoke, told her, 
 in his brusque, boyish way, of his dim re- 
 collections of the Indian home, and of the 
 tall ^rave man who had called him 'Sunny ;' 
 of the awakening on that morning, when 
 the ayah had bent over his cot, and said 
 that the father he loved was gone away 
 for ever. But Chris's nature was different
 
 CONFIDENCES. 187 
 
 to Dulcie's. His loss was less vivid. The 
 memory of his father was faint and unreal. 
 He remembered him as a hero for his 
 admiration, but, as an influence, the recol- 
 lection of him was void. 
 
 ' 1 was sent to England at once, to people 
 who had never known him. I never met 
 anyone who could tell me about him, until 
 I knew Mr. Carwinion, and came here. 
 Knocking about, as I have, has blunted 
 all my good feelings, Dulcie. I never 
 thought about caring for his memory. I 
 just remembered father as some one whose 
 son I was rather proud to be, that was all. 
 I am proud, too, of being his son ; but I 
 have thought a good bit more about the 
 kind of man he was, since I've heard you 
 talk about your mother. Father was a 
 splendid man ; I can remember that. I 
 remember his face very well. Such a bigy
 
 188 DULCIBEL. 
 
 strong man ; but India did for hiui. I 
 recollect him best as he went on to the 
 parade-ground, in his uniform. His eyes 
 were so blue, and he had those two up- 
 right lines between them that you some- 
 times see in the portraits of very clever 
 people. And then his hair. It was that 
 liofht, o^oldish-coloured hair that never 
 seems to lose its brightness; it used to 
 shine, and his beard too, — a square, pale- 
 coloured beard, that came down on to his 
 chest. His voice came out of his beard, I 
 used to think. It was such a sad voice ; 
 very deep and sad, except when he spoke 
 to me. I think he must have loved me 
 very much, he was always wanting to take 
 me out with him, and I was never any- 
 thing but " Sunny " to him. It was 
 wretchedly cold-hearted of me to forget 
 him so quickly. Do you think me cold
 
 CONFIDENCES. 189 
 
 and forgetful, Dulcie ? Sometimes I don't 
 know what I am myself. It's all my 
 bringing up. I've had no one since he 
 died. I shall be diiferent now I've met 
 you, and you have taught me about these 
 things.' 
 
 ' Poor Sunny,' said Dulcie, softly, look- 
 ing at him with moist eyes, and then 
 beyond his recumbent form into the glow- 
 ing fire, as she meditated that this son of 
 Colonel Jocelyn must be very much like 
 his father in appearance. The same blue 
 eyes, the same fair, bright-coloured hair, 
 the same deep melodious voice, even for a 
 boy. 
 
 She wondered whether Colonel Jocelyn 
 had had the same well-formed, full, irreso- 
 lute mouth. That mouth used to trouble 
 her sometimes when she studied Sunny's 
 face. She thoucrht there was a clue in it
 
 190 DULCIBEL. 
 
 to his father's anxiety concerning the 
 friendships that his boy should form. Per- 
 haps Colonel Jocelyn had founded his 
 anxiety upon his own experience. If he 
 had the same weak mouth as his son, he 
 probably had suffered, and had had bitter 
 proof of the falseness of friends, or why 
 should he have been so grave and stern ? 
 Chris was so opposite in his nature to any- 
 thing like that. 
 
 She answered, hardly trusting her voice 
 as she spoke : 
 
 ^ Sometimes, yes, I do wonder if things 
 €ver pain you very deeply. I know you 
 are too kind to be cold-hearted, Chris ; 
 but I often want to know if you care very 
 much. If you lost a friend noio T 
 
 Jocelyn raised himself on his elbow, and 
 looked at the frosty window-panes and the 
 red reflection of the firelight that was
 
 CONFIDENCES. 191 
 
 flickering upon them. Pie felt bound to 
 be candid with Dulcie; she was all truth, 
 all sincerity, and she was looking straight 
 into his face, as if she would forestall his 
 answer with her own hopes. 
 
 ' You have made me diiferent, Dulcie, 
 to what I was when I first came here. I 
 had nothing in me then, but a wish to 
 make people like me, and to get on. It 
 wouldn't be like that now. I'm not good, 
 I never shall be ; but I do care about 
 things now, Dulcie. You have been my 
 little sister, though I can't get it into my 
 calculations what the world would be like 
 if I lost you. I hate to think about things 
 of that sort. Why should I, when I have 
 you here all to myself, to lecture me, and 
 make me a good boy ?' Chris turned and 
 met her eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, Sunny, why do we talk like this ?'
 
 192 DULCIBEL. 
 
 she asked, looking away again into the 
 fire. 
 
 Poor, earnest Dulcie ! she was filled 
 with a great pity and trouble all at once 
 for this boy. His answer had been candid 
 and straightforward. He had protested 
 nothing that he did not mean, as he might 
 have a year ago. All the same she was 
 bitterly disappointed. Was he really 
 incapable of feelings such as those that 
 formed the keynote of her being ? 
 
 * My mother has behaved miserably to 
 me,' said Chris, speaking his thoughts 
 aloud. ' Fancy her not writing to me 
 more than once or twice a year ! And 
 then such scraps of letters, not worth the 
 postage. They take my patience away 
 before I begin to read them, though, to be 
 sure, they don't try it long afterwards. 
 It's all the fault of my wretched money !
 
 CONFIDENCES. 19S 
 
 Mother makes no secret of how disgusted 
 she was about it, and Sir Eustace is a 
 perfect tool in her hands. Some day, I 
 think, I'll write and tell my precious 
 step-father my opinion of him. And old 
 Bultitaft — if ever anyone was an enigma, 
 he's one. I confess I cant make him out.' 
 Dulcie consoled Chris for his wrongs by 
 a comparison between her own self-absorbed 
 father and Lady Kitson, and the conver- 
 sation from them drifted away on to other 
 topics, until the maid appeared with the 
 candles, and the bright light produced 
 silent meditation and reflection, as the 
 dusk had provoked confidence. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE FIRST BREAK. 
 
 Macte virtute esto ! 
 
 Horace. 
 
 For three years, in this way, Chris's life 
 was spent, with little variety, between St. 
 Aidans and Basildene. It was a quiet, 
 ■uneventful time, in which were passed 
 none but the ordinary landmarks of a 
 schoolboy's career, yet they were especially 
 years full of influence upon young Joce- 
 lyn's character. 
 
 Chris lost none of his buoyancy of 
 temperament by his intercourse with the
 
 THE FIRST BREAK. 195 
 
 graver type of character which he en- 
 countered in the Carwinions, but his mind 
 acquired a certain ballast, and he grew 
 into the idea of anticipating a very different 
 person in his grown-up self, to that he had 
 pictured as his future, in the old days 
 before he went to Basildene. The head- 
 master watched the change with approval, 
 and, if it were possible, Chris became more 
 than ever a favourite in the school ; though, 
 in his worst days, he had always belonged 
 to that happy class of individuals of whom 
 we all know one or two among our acquain- 
 tance, whose society is universally con- 
 sidered a favour, for no special merit of its 
 own, beyond the idiosyncrasy possessed by 
 a bright, sans souci personality. Before he 
 went to Basildene, his popularity threat- 
 ened to become a dangerous influence with 
 Chris. Of late, his good friend, the head- 
 
 2
 
 196 DULCIBEL. 
 
 master, had noticed that the danger seemed 
 to have disappeared, and directed o:rateful 
 after-thoughts, on his favourite pupil's 
 account, towards the neighbourhood of 
 the Carwinions. 
 
 After a failure for Sandhurst when he 
 was seventeen, Chris was once more work- 
 ing steadily to the fore in the St. Aidans 
 army class, now as one of the most pro- 
 mising of the school candidates, and life 
 was progressing with especial serenity for 
 him, when the day arrived once more for 
 him to receive another summons to the 
 doctor's study, to hear news concerning 
 his prospects, which had been received 
 from the guardians in Madras. 
 
 * Jocelyn, I'm sorry to tell you that we 
 are to lose you,' began the doctor. 
 
 He was holding a letter in Major Bul- 
 titaft's erratic caligraphy, and was frown-
 
 TEE FIRST BliEAK. 197 
 
 ing at it when Chris opened the door. 
 
 ' Lose me, sir ! How ?' exclaimed Chris, 
 with a suspicious glance at the foreign 
 letter. 
 
 ' Your guardian has written to say that 
 Sir Eustace and he both consider it will 
 be best to make quite sure of Sandhurst 
 the next time, by sending you for a 3^ear's 
 preliminary coaching to Hope and Ver- 
 ney's. They are afraid to trust to your 
 going up from here again, as we all wanted 
 you to. They think there is no hurry, 
 and imagine you will be doubly sure of 
 success if you follow their royal road. 
 And so we are to lose you. You are to go 
 to Endbourne after Christmas.' 
 
 Chris groaned. 
 
 ' I am sorry to lose you, Jocelyn. Very 
 sorry. You were one of our best in the 
 army class, and — you might have been in
 
 198 DULCIBEL. 
 
 the sixth.' The doctor laughed a trifle 
 mischievously as he said this. ' Anyhow, 
 I am quite confident we might have passed 
 you into Sandhurst. But your people are 
 anxious, it seems. They don't know what 
 a reformed character in your work you 
 have been lately. They don't know that 
 you are more anxious of results now than 
 themselves.' 
 
 The head-master smiled as he spoke of 
 the improvement in Chris's work, which 
 had been noticeable of late. But poor 
 Chris could not find it in his heart to be 
 even gratified by the allusion just then, 
 the news from India so upset all his 
 calculations. 
 
 ' It's utter nonsense, sir ! Isn't it ? As 
 though I should work better anywhere 
 else ! Won't you write and expostulate ? 
 I Avas a fool to miss last time, but it's
 
 THE FIRST BREAK. 199 
 
 brutal punishing me like this. I knvow 
 my work fairly well, now — at least, I shall 
 by the time I go up again, and I don't 
 want to wait another year. I shall be so 
 old then, it would be my last chance gone 
 if I failed again. It's too bad sending me 
 to a place like that, too, when I want 
 so much to pass in straight from here. 
 It's wasting money, and — and I never 
 thouo^ht of leavinoj here like that !' 
 
 ^ I'm afraid you must though, Jocelyn. 
 It appears Major Bultitaft has his own 
 ideas upon these matters. He thinks it 
 will give you a certain standing, and a 
 better chance of passing high up in the list, 
 if you wait, and try in a year's time from 
 Verney's. It is so long since the major 
 himself was in England, it is no use writing 
 to try to convince him about our present 
 views upon these things. His opinion
 
 200 DULCIBEL. 
 
 seems to be biassed by some one but there. 
 
 The Cliff House, where you are to go, is 
 at Endbourne, a little sea-coast place, about 
 forty miles from your friends at Basildene. 
 It isn't a place I think particularly well of, 
 myself, I must say. Hope and Verney's is 
 too large an establishment for much steady 
 work to be done, unless a man naturally is 
 a good worker. I am afraid you hardly 
 have enough to do, to well till up your 
 time for twelve months. Don't drop into 
 doing it unsteadily, my boy, and disappoint 
 your friends at St. Aidans, after all.' 
 
 Chris left the doctor's study in a less 
 cheerful frame of mind than he had known 
 for a long while. 
 
 The prospect of leaving St. Aidans had 
 no charm for him, at least until he did so 
 to enter for his military training. It tried 
 all the best tendencies of his disposition.
 
 THE FIRST BREAK. 201 
 
 The school had been his home, a home 
 ■where he had been petted and made much 
 of during the lonely years of his childhood, 
 and parting with the least object in the 
 place, that was associated with the mem- 
 ories of so many kindnesses, and not a few 
 triumphs, was rendered doubly trying by 
 the very evident regret with which every- 
 one connected with the school heard of 
 his departure. 
 
 From the porter at the school-gate, who 
 many a time had weakly and not wisely 
 admitted him after ' call time,' because his 
 j)leading chaff was so irresistible, to the 
 head prefect, who regretfully at times had 
 punished him for delinquencies which 
 raised, rather than detracted from, the cul- 
 prit's reputation in the school, from the 
 highest to the lowest, everyone was sorrier 
 than they said, to part with the good-
 
 202 DULCIBEL. 
 
 looking, popular young Jocelyn. They 
 said enough, indeed, to trouble Chris's se- 
 renity considerably during the long series 
 of affecting good-byes which he went 
 through. He had won so warm a corner 
 in so many unsuspected places, which only 
 revealed themselves at the moment of 
 parting. Poor Chris found it hard only 
 to learn the extent of his popularity at 
 the cost of leaving it behind him for ever. 
 No one regretted his going more than 
 did the good head-master, for no one 
 realised more fully the unadvisability of 
 the step now taken by the young fellow's 
 guardians. Jocelyn occupied a very pro- 
 minent place in the great man's affections, 
 though not, as with his many friends, at 
 the expense of his defects of character 
 being overlooked ; and the doctor could not 
 undervalue the temptations which lay
 
 THE FIRST BREAK. 203^ 
 
 before a lad of Chris's temperament, during 
 a twelvemonth's idleness at a place like 
 Hope and Yerney's. 
 
 Chris did not soon forget the look in the 
 grave, well-known face, when he parted from 
 him, nor his words : 
 
 ' My boy, 3^ou must dare to be true to 
 yourself in the world you are going out 
 into. You'll need your best courage, I can 
 tell you. Don't let me be disappointed in 
 you;' and the hand that rested on Chris's 
 shoulder pressed it slightly, as the doctor 
 continued : ' Don't always follow that im- 
 pulsive heart of yours, Jocelyn, and do 
 the first thing that comes into it. There's 
 a thing in the world better and more 
 difficult than popularity. For the sake 
 of old St. Aidans' friendships, and be- 
 cause you have been her representative 
 in more places than one, let me hear
 
 204 DULCIBEL. 
 
 of you as a worthy son of Alma Mater ! 
 We shall miss you at Lords and at 
 Henley, Jocelyn. Let us hear well of 
 you, elsewhere. Boy, if some things I 
 have said to you are ever able to help 
 you to know what is rio;ht, and to remem- 
 ber your duty, I shall think I have not 
 had you here all these years for nothing. 
 And may God bless you, Jocelyn, may God 
 bless you.' 
 
 Dulcie heard these words repeated, 
 almost verbatim, when Chris arrived at 
 Basildene for Christmas. 
 
 ' I shall try to follow what he said. I 
 should like to do well, just to please him; 
 he's been most awfully good to me I' Chris 
 added, as he told her. 
 
 The uphill path of life seemed an easy 
 course just then to Chris, since it was so 
 brilliantly illuminated by the good doctor's
 
 THE FIKST BREAK. 205 
 
 safe counsels. Meanwhile, life at Basil- 
 dene had many attractions, into which 
 weighty principles and notions concern- 
 ing duty had no^ reasons to intrude.
 
 206 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MRS. PURCELL's dance. 
 
 The web of our life is a mingled yarn, good and evil together. 
 
 AlVs Well that Ends Well. 
 
 Undoubtedly the greatest winter event at 
 Basilclene every year was the dance at 
 the Manor House. As regularly as the 
 twenty-sixth of December came round, 
 so regularly did it find Mrs. Purcell pre- 
 pared to receive her guests for dancing, 
 with hall-floors polished to a dangerous 
 pitch of slipperiness, and decorations and 
 supper arrangements that were justly
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 207 
 
 looked upon as unrivalled in the neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 As with Boxing-night pantomimes, this 
 date of Mrs. Purcell's annual party some- 
 times awkwardly fell upon a Sunday. 
 But the good lady was nothing daunted 
 by so natural an occurrence. — ' Some folks 
 'ud put their parties off till well on in 
 Christmas week,' Mrs. Purcell remarked 
 upon these occasions, ' but, la ! if you're 
 good managers, it don't make the differ- 
 ence one 'ud think. Kot that I ever 
 made any o' my whips and shapes o' a 
 Sunday, and that Christmas night too ; 
 but when you've once got your joints and 
 your poultry roast, and your pastry made, 
 whips and shapes is small matters, and can 
 be done in the morning, if you're up in 
 time. And joints and tarts 's none the 
 worse o' keepin' a day or two. They cuts
 
 208 DULCIBEL. 
 
 easier at supper for it, and makes fewer bits.' 
 From such remarks it may be gathered 
 that Mrs. Purcell was a lady equal to an 
 emergency, and one joossessed of proper 
 pride in her capacities of organization. 
 Her remarks on the matter of the guests 
 to whom her invitations were issued 
 were equally forcible, and to the point. 
 
 It was a guarantee of respectability to 
 receive an invitation card for Mrs. Purcell's 
 dance. If you were anyone at all in 
 Bassel Vale, you were to be met at the 
 Manor House, in your smartest attire, on 
 the evening of December the twenty-sixth, 
 or on the Monday nearest to that date 
 when it fell upon a Sunday. 
 
 The neighbouring clergy did not despise 
 Mrs. Purcell's excellent home-prepared 
 supper, nor Mr. Purcell's good champagne, 
 while their young people entertained high
 
 MKS. PUKCELL S DANCE. 209 
 
 opinions of the oak hall floor, and the un- 
 restrained enjoyment of so rare a festivity 
 as this old-fashioned party, at which 
 dancing, not unfrequently, was kept up 
 until four in the morning. I am loth 
 to say, that some of her guests were found 
 shameless enough to not always remember 
 good Mrs. Purcell on occasions afterwards, 
 when they encountered her in a smart 
 bonnet, at the local flower-shows, or in the 
 market. Mrs. Purcell did not at all times 
 present so distinguished an appearance, as 
 on the night when she received her visitors 
 in state in the manorial hall, and perhaps 
 this was in some slight degree an excuse 
 for those guests who hereafter ignored 
 her acquaintance. Yet the pettinesses of 
 clique, and false pride, and ingratitude 
 lurk in the arcadian quiets of the Bassel 
 Yale, though Mrs. Purcell had discovered 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 DULCIBEL. 
 
 the method of mastering them for one 
 night, at least, in the year. 
 
 The Christmas before Chris Jocelyn was 
 to go to Hope and Verney's, the Manor 
 House dance invitations had been issued 
 in an unusually imposing manner, and 
 the preparations of Mrs. Purcell and her 
 daughters for the great event were on 
 an unprecedentedly magnificent scale, ow- 
 ing to the promise, made in a letter sent 
 from Rome by the squire, that he would 
 be present in person at the dance. 
 
 The neighbourhood so rarely had the 
 pleasure of meeting Mr. Warwick-Scuda- 
 more at evening-parties, that the occasion 
 demanded unusual preparations. — It would 
 seem like a breath of air from a past 
 more than twenty years now gone by 
 and dead, were I to detail to you the 
 labours and preparatory arrangements of
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 211 
 
 the Purcell family before this much-antici- 
 pated Christmas dance. People do not 
 easily shake off old-fashioned ways in the 
 Bassel Vale ; the tendency there is to still 
 respect the good sound methods of one's 
 fathers. 
 
 Agriculturalists are naturally conserva- 
 tive, and old customs, when they iiud 
 themselves forsaken by society, take refuge 
 in well-to-do farm-houses, where they are 
 kindly treated and honoured for years. 
 I must ask you to bear this in mind, or 
 in these days of impromptu ' bread-and- 
 butter dances,' and supperless ' cinderellas,' 
 you will hardly be able to realise the time 
 it took the Miss Purcells to wreathe their 
 sitting-rooms in garlands of evergreen, 
 brightened by alternate pink and white 
 paper roses and appropriate Christmas 
 mottoes of greeting, cut out in wool and 
 
 p2
 
 212 DULCIBEL. 
 
 frosted with pounded glass. Scarcely 
 otherwise could you understand the inde- 
 fatigable energy of their mother, as she 
 apportioned out fowls and jam- tarts in 
 lavish allowance for the supper, as each 
 party of guests Avrote to accept her in- 
 vitation. 
 
 ' It isn't the Carwinions nor even the 
 squire, as notices much if things are short,' 
 summed up Mrs. Purcell, as she rested from 
 her labours, and contemplated her groan- 
 ing supper-board with a satisfied eye^ 
 before going to array herself for the climax 
 of these preparations. ' It's the Thorleys 
 from Milcot, and the Hodgsons. People 
 like that as sees where the weak points in 
 a supper is. But not even Maria Thorley 
 could do better than that whip, Tilly,' 
 turning to her eldest daughter, who stood^ 
 in admiring contemplation, by her side.
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 213 
 
 ^ It came beautiful ; and it's all with having 
 the cream in the kitchen over-night, for 
 all Miss Thorley says against it !' 
 
 ^ I do hope as Mr. Scudamore will come 
 after all. We haven't heard if he's even 
 back at the Tower House yet. There was 
 no sign o' him in church yesterday,' said 
 Miss Matilda, whose long absence from 
 school had allowed certain of her mother's 
 peculiarities of speech to develop in her own. 
 
 'Mr. Arthur must do as he likes,' re- 
 marked Mrs. Purcell. ' There's nothing 
 to be nervous about if he does come. 
 Your father's got some special champagne 
 from the lower wine-cellar, and we must 
 tell George to see he's put somewhere near 
 a turkey at supper, so as he'll be served 
 soon. It's bad bein' kep' waiting for your 
 food, when you're used to a-many men- 
 servants to look after you.'
 
 214 DULCIBEL. 
 
 The Manor House guests had all arrived, 
 expectation had grown tired of standing on 
 tiptoe, and dancing had been going on for 
 more than an hour, before the report 
 reached Miss Matilda's ears that the squire's 
 carriage was at tbe door. A quadrille 
 was being danced, in which nearly all the 
 guests present were taking a part, when 
 this announcement was made. Mr. Pur- 
 cell had grown a trifle impatient over the 
 tardiness of the squire's arrival. He had 
 gone to refresh himself, and once more to 
 give an eye to the champagne, at the 
 moment when the advent of the guest of 
 the evening was made known to his spouse, 
 by mysterious signals from ' George,' 
 Manor House gardener on ordinary occa- 
 sions, footman for the evening of this ex- 
 traordinary one. 
 
 Mrs. Purcell, good hospitable soul that
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 215 
 
 she was, forgetful of the dignities of her 
 position as hostess, and ignoring her 
 younger daughter's frowns, tripped jaun- 
 tily between the mazes of the dancers, 
 and went to the back hall to receive the 
 guest, in the place of her absent husband. 
 Visitors came to the back hall Avhen they 
 arrived on these occasions, while the front 
 hall was occupied by dancers. 
 
 Belinda Purcell's dignity received an- 
 other crushing blow during the evolutions 
 of ' lady's-chain,' when she caught a 
 glimpse of her mother, red-faced and re- 
 splendent, insisting upon helping the squire 
 oiF with his great-coat, and heard her 
 voice, in an appreciative key, announcing 
 how ' honoured she felt to see him.' 
 
 Belinda Purcell had been to a fashion- 
 able London boarding-school, and had 
 associated with young people whom she
 
 216 BULCIBEL. 
 
 considered quite the equals of Squire 
 Scudamore, though I fancy such acquaint- 
 ances had not improved upon the original 
 simplicity of Miss Belinda's manners. 
 
 In consequence, her mother's vagaries 
 were a constant trial to the young lady's 
 sensitive nerves, while she could hardly 
 appreciate the quiet kindliness and cour- 
 tesy with which the squire received her 
 mother's protestations. 
 
 Dulcie Carwinion was dancing with 
 Chris. Her face was flushed and her lips 
 were just parted, while a bright look of 
 merriment and real enjoyment shone in 
 her eyes. Chris was whirling her round 
 with schoolboyish appreciation of the romp- 
 ing last quadrille -figure, when Scudamore 
 came into the hall. They were the first 
 persons whom he recognised. He gave 
 Dulcie a grave bow, and passed on up the
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 217 
 
 ball to speak to some men who were 
 crowding round the great carved fireplace. 
 
 It was an old-fashioned, pretty sight, 
 this, which met the young squire's critical 
 eyes as he looked round him, after making 
 a remark or two to his neighbours. The 
 lofty, panelled hall, hung with grotesque 
 oil-paintings of Mr. Purcell's prize short- 
 horns and hunters ; the green wreathing 
 and red berries in the flickering light of 
 numberless wax candles ; the gay dresses 
 of the dancers finding a suitable back- 
 ground against the dark oak of the hand- 
 some old hall. 
 
 ' Scudamore can only have arrived this 
 afternoon,' said Chris, as he and Dulcie, 
 together, strolled about the hall after their 
 dance. ' I shouldn't have thought he was 
 so keen on dancing, as to come here to- 
 night after a journey. He doesn't seem to
 
 218 DULCIBEL. 
 
 be going to work very hard now, to find 
 partners.' 
 
 * Trust Mrs. Purcell, Sunny; she will 
 find partners for the squire. Don't you 
 think Belinda looks as if she had kept him 
 a dance or two ? she is trying to seem so 
 unconcerned.' 
 
 ' I've a good mind to go and ask to see 
 her programme, and fill up all the vacan- 
 cies myself. Belinda would be so mysti- 
 fied by my sudden attention, and so dis- 
 gusted, poor thing,' said Chris, laughing. 
 
 ' Y"ou conceited boy ! She would tell 
 you that two dances are quite enough for 
 any young woman to give a man, and you 
 would find yourself coming away feeling 
 very small indeed.' 
 
 'Fortunately, then, you're not "any 
 young woman," for I've put down a good 
 many more than two in your programme. 
 I hope you don't mind?'
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 219 
 
 Dulcie laughed. 
 
 ^Perhaps I shall cheat and cross out 
 some,' she said. 
 
 The band began just then to play the 
 preliminary bars of the now almost for- 
 gotten ' Dreamland ' waltz, yet Chris still 
 lingered in Dulcie's society. It might 
 have been another of the numerous dances 
 he intended to claim from her — he was, in 
 fact, preparing to ask her to dance again. 
 But, just as the first couples were moving 
 forward for the waltz, Arthur Scudamore 
 came across the room towards them. 
 
 Scudamore had reached the age which is 
 superior to the pleasures that are derived 
 from tucking a coloured silk-handkerchief 
 into a dress waistcoat, and that glories in 
 a brilliant shirt stud. His evening attire 
 was of the severest and simplest description. 
 Chris imagined that he detected the faint
 
 220 DULCIBEL. 
 
 shadow of a smile round Scudamore's 
 mouth, as he took in the schoolboy's con- 
 scious triumph of a get-up. He nodded to 
 him with a look of uncertain recognition. 
 
 Scudamore took Dulcie's hand in a warm 
 grasp of greeting. 
 
 ' It's so good to be at home again, among 
 old friends,' he said. 'May I have this 
 waltz, Dulcie? We can say our Christmas 
 greetings then, to the tune of " Dream- 
 land." ' 
 
 Chris imagined that Scudamore put 
 his hand upon her arm with an unwar- 
 rantable touch of possession. 
 
 ' Is it our dance. Sunny?' asked Dulcie. 
 
 ' No, only if you had no other partner,' 
 Chris replied, a trifle sulkily. He felt un- 
 reasonably irritated with Scudamore for 
 asking his partner to dance, though he 
 excused Dulcie most magnanimously. She
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 221 
 
 certainly did not know that he had es- 
 pecially selected this as a favourite waltz 
 to dance with her. 
 
 Scudamore bore away unconscious Dulcie, 
 and they danced together in silence for a 
 few minutes. 
 
 They were both excellent waltzers, and 
 for Dulcie, who rarely had the enjoyment 
 of a dance, the fascination of the move- 
 ment, and the light and music, above all, 
 her partner's perfect time and step with her 
 own, were sufficient in themselves ; her en- 
 joyment did not admit of conversation. 
 
 Moreover, on renewing acquaintance 
 with Arthur Scudamore, Dulcie always felt 
 a little timid and shy. He was so strange 
 and handsome, and seemed so old and 
 serious in his manner to her. He made, too, 
 so strong a contrast, with his dark face and 
 slim figure, to the florid, broad-shouldered
 
 222 DULCIBEL. 
 
 type of the men around him, that Dulcie 
 unconsciously fell into a constrained way 
 in his society. 
 
 Arthur held his arm round her, and felt 
 inclined also for silence, though he had 
 chosen her as his first partner, because it 
 had seemed to him that he had so much to 
 say to her. 
 
 'How serious you are, Dulcie,' he re- 
 marked presently, accusing her of that 
 which conscience told him he was himself. 
 
 ' I enjoy dancing so much, I don't think 
 of anything else at the time.' 
 
 'Then you mil think me very selfish if 
 I want to stop ?' asked Arthur. ' I had a 
 fancy to talk a little too.' 
 
 Dulcie danced on in silence for another 
 minute ; she was not particularly anxious 
 to talk, but she stopped rather abruptly 
 then.
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 223 
 
 Arthur smiled, and moved his arm from 
 her waist. ' It's a shame, isn't it T he said. 
 
 After all, he did not feel very much 
 inclined to talk on common-place things, 
 just then. He had wanted their conver- 
 sation to be a spontaneous one, and, with 
 his want of tact, had marred both dancing 
 and talking. With a trivial remark, he 
 led her to the deep-cushioned recess of a 
 stained window, half-way up the broad 
 staircase, and they sat talking upon com- 
 mon-place subjects, while the waltz below 
 was finished. 
 
 Arthur was disappointed. He imagined 
 that Dulcie might have asked him some 
 questions concerning his work in Rome, or 
 at least might have wished to have known 
 why it was he had so hastened his home- 
 ward journey, to be at the Manor House 
 dance.
 
 224 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Instead of which, she made enquiries as 
 to the winter climate of Rome, and the 
 journey through the Mont Cenis, as if she 
 imagined those could be the subjects that 
 he considered compensated for the loss of 
 the remainder of the waltz. He did not 
 take her programme, nor ask for another 
 dance, but relapsed into a thoughtful 
 silence. The thoughts were so puzzling 
 and all absorbing, that he seemed to for- 
 get his partner's presence. Chris came up 
 to them, as they sat silent together thus, 
 — Chris, forgetful of his late annoyance, and 
 radiant in all his boyish display of silk 
 handkerchief and gorgeous turquoise stud, 
 so striking a contrast to the gloomy squire. 
 Dulcie put her hand, on to the proffered 
 arm, and went with him, a feeling of relief 
 stealing over her, and brightening her face, 
 as she left her former partner. Scudamore
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 225 
 
 watched her, a sense of failure and con- 
 tempt for himself stirring within him. 
 
 This particular party at the Manor 
 House must have been about the year 
 when the so-called ' house-maid ' skirts 
 were worn. Dulcie's was one of these, a 
 full round frock of white muslin, with rows 
 of narrow tucks ; its broad folds swept the 
 stairs as she passed down on Chris's arm. 
 She had a little round open neck to her 
 boddice, and, here and there, the dress was 
 trimmed with white ribbons. 
 
 Arthur had noticed that the only colour 
 about her attire was the amber of her neck- 
 lace and the bracelets she had upon her 
 arms, old-fashioned, large beads that had 
 been her mother's, and he had inwardly 
 approved the simplicity and grace of the 
 costume when she sat by his side. He re- 
 marked it again, especially as she moved 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 DULCIBEL. 
 
 away, and the shaded light from the hang- 
 ing staircase lamp gleamed upon the mass 
 of her coiled hair. A sigh of impatience 
 passed his lips, as he rose and followed 
 her into the hall, where, presently, he re- 
 joiced Belinda's heart by requesting the 
 pleasure of a dance. 
 
 That climax of Mrs. Purcell's tenderest 
 solicitude, the supper, was at an end before 
 Scudamore sought another opportunity of 
 speaking toDulcie. The ordeal of the supper 
 observances tested Scudamore's sensibilities 
 to the uttermost. As the lion of the 
 evening, the guest whom rubicund Mr. 
 Purcell delighted to honour by a seat at 
 his right hand, and glass and plate filled 
 with the choicest of everything, the posi- 
 tion seemed absurd and uneviable enough. 
 But it might have been sufficiently endur- 
 able, and the idea, as the meal advanced.
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 227 
 
 that his host was becoming somewhat pre- 
 occupied and nervous never would have 
 interfered with Scudamore's serenity, had 
 not the cause of Mr. Purcell's distraction 
 manifested itself presently, in a manner 
 which the squire was totally unprepared 
 for. 
 
 ' James, my dear,' said Mr. Purcell's 
 spouse, in a severe undertone, making 
 futile efforts to catch that good gentle- 
 man's eye, as the sound of cracker-pulling 
 waxed rarer, and a pause, which evidently 
 waited for something, was making itself felt 
 at the conclusion of this festive repast. 
 
 ' Mr. Purceli: 
 
 ' Ahem!' said Mr. Purceli, at this second 
 reminder consenting to meet the glance 
 of his wife, and returning it with as 
 indignant a flash as his good-natured eyes, 
 on such an occasion, were capable of ex- 
 
 q2
 
 228 DULCIBEL. 
 
 pressing, just to remind her that he was 
 no more neglectful of duty than she was, 
 ' Ladies and gentlemen.' Mr. Purcell with 
 this rose to his short legs, and looked 
 around him a little nervously. 
 
 Scudamore raised his eyes just then, 
 and suddenly realised what was coming. 
 He had been trying to engage Mrs. 
 Purcell in conversation, but had lately 
 found her manner singularly agitated, and 
 her replies irrelevant. Was this the reason 
 of it ? Was her husband going to make a 
 speech ? 
 
 ' Ladies and gentlemen,' once more re- 
 marked Mr. Purcell, fixing his eyes on the 
 central glass dish, which held the trifle, 
 to steady his nerves for the first few 
 moments, till he should be fairly embarked 
 in his speech, and ready to meet his 
 audience face to face. ' It isn't often as
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 229 
 
 an occasion like this evening occurs. Not 
 that I'm speaking of this little party o' 
 Mrs. Purcell's and mine. That's an annual 
 event, as we might call it, and I'm proud 
 and glad to see you all here.' 
 
 At this point Mr. Purcell's hospitality 
 got the better of his nervousness, and he 
 faced round cheerily upon his guests, like 
 the stout-hearted countryman that he Avas. 
 
 ' I'm proud to know how often it is 
 I've had the pleasure o' welcoming you, 
 an', if the Lord spares me, I'll have the 
 same pleasure yet, for many a year to 
 come. But there's a stranger among us 
 to-night, one as ought to be no stranger, 
 our squire, Mr. Warwick- Scudamore ! — 
 What?' 
 
 Mr. Purcell had a nervous habit of un- 
 consciously putting this short question, 
 as an aside, to the nearer among his
 
 230 DULCIBEL. 
 
 audience, after stating any fact whicli ap- 
 peared particularly impressive to him. 
 
 ' Man and boy I've known the squire — 
 I should put it pretty nigh to a figure, 
 even in weeks and days, if I was to say 
 how long ; but dates is awkward things, 
 and my Tilly, there, mightn't like it. She 
 was a baby of a fortnight when we heard 
 the bells a-rino;ino: to tell us as the old 
 squire had got an heir. And there wern't 
 two prouder fathers nor squire and me in 
 the parish just then, for Tilly were my 
 first-born, and Mr. Arthur were squire's 
 only one. He must pardon an old man 
 for saying it, but his father were a gentle- 
 man of the good old sort, who came in 
 and out of us wi' a rough word and a 
 smooth, and we knew his humours well, 
 and took 'em as they came, like as we'd 
 been only too glad to do the same wi' Mr.
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 231 
 
 Warwick, his son. — What ? — And I say, as 
 this evening's the beginnin' o' what we'd 
 all wish to see. Our squire sittin' among 
 us, as the guest we honour for his own 
 sake, and for the old gentleman's who's 
 gone ; speakin' out when he's pleased, and 
 lookin' arter this fine property himself. Mr. 
 Warwick must forgive us plain folk, if we 
 speaks plain, and says w^e'd a deal rather see 
 his face at the audit dinner, nor read the 
 books he's wrote, and see his picturs. — 
 What? — Let book and pictur-makin' be 
 for them as has a livin' to earn. Squire 
 Scudamore's got a name as we're all proud 
 o' namin', and he don't see in furrin' 
 lands finer acres of corn and roots than we 
 can show him on his own clays at Basil- 
 dene. — What? — We're old-fashioned people 
 here, and we're proud to see our squire 
 back among us. T' Liberals haven't taught
 
 232 DULCIBEL. 
 
 US bad manners yet ! Gentlemen, I say we 
 hope squire has come back to stay. Come 
 back to bring a good lady wife, too, to the 
 Towers. That's what Basildene folk 'ud 
 like to see, excusing my plain-speaking, 
 sir. Gentlemen and ladies, fill your glasses 
 please, and drink a good bumper to the 
 health o' Squire Scudamore, an' may he be 
 come home to stay.' 
 
 Mr. Purcell wiped his warm forehead 
 with the large red silk square that had 
 been hanging from his coat-tails earlier in 
 the evening, and sat down, feeling justly 
 proud of himself, among much well-deserved 
 applause. 
 
 ' The squire — Mr. Warwick-Scudamore f 
 said old Mr. Thorley of Milcot, taking up 
 the toast, and raising his glass of brown 
 sherry.
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 233 
 
 ' The squire — Mr. Scudamore/ echo 
 answered down the table, and glasses and 
 tumblers were thumped and drained and 
 filled again in response to this appeal. 
 
 Sou dam ore listened for one moment in 
 troubled silence, and then rose. He rested 
 one slim dark hand upon the white cloth, 
 not many inches from Mr. PurcelFs fat red 
 one, with which it made a ridiculous con- 
 trast, and bowed slightly, with a very grave 
 face. 
 
 ' You all do me a very great and un- 
 deserved honour,' he said, in the clear 
 deep voice that his tenantry and neigh- 
 bours heard less frequently than was their 
 due. He paused then, and looked round 
 the table, and, doing so, met Dulcie Car- 
 winion's sweet grave face anxiously turned 
 in his direction. The simple grey eyes
 
 234 DULCIBEL. 
 
 disconcerted him moi'e than he was aware 
 at this commencement of his reply to Mr. 
 Purcell's friendly speech. 
 
 It was always an effort for this self- 
 absorbed man to bring down his thoughts 
 at a moment to the level of his hearers. 
 Mr. Purcell's remarks, and hopes too, were 
 most difficult to answer satisfactorily. And 
 beyond such considerations, and Scuda- 
 more might have risen superior to them 
 under other circumstances, the glance of 
 the grey eyes opposite had recalled him 
 to that self-consciousness which is most 
 deadly to the success of any public effort. 
 The dark fingers, therefore, were bent 
 nervously on the white damask, and under 
 the olive of his cheek a faint warmth of 
 self-recollection crept, much less noticeable 
 than Mr. Purcell's erst apoplectic hue, but 
 more trying.
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 235 
 
 * You have done me a very great honour,, 
 in so kindly responding to Mr. Purcell's 
 toast,' he began. ' I thank you all, our 
 host especially. I cannot express now, in 
 a few unprepared words, all the thoughts 
 that Mr. Purcell's speech suggests to me. 
 He has struck the very keynote of the 
 position that I stand in to you all, my 
 friends. I am quite aware of it. I know 
 what is the position that the absentee 
 landowner must occupy in the esteem of 
 all right-minded men. Mr. Purcell has 
 reminded me very kindly of it, and yet 
 the reminder is very painful to me. And — 
 while knowing that, though I try to make 
 what provision I can, in the way of substi- 
 tutes, I fail still in my duty to you, — can 
 I ask you to bear with me, and understand 
 me still, if for the present I can promise no 
 amendment ? It is a platitude, — a bitter
 
 236 DULCIBEL. 
 
 platitude, for both of us, to say that we are 
 not as our fathers. The great progress of 
 things, that sweeps us along unconsciously, 
 will not allow of our being stationary, nor 
 holding satisfied the position that a genera- 
 tion before thought as good as it need be. In 
 quiet Basildene you are outside the rush and 
 bustle of life, and do not feel these things 
 so. All I can ask, then, is your sympathy 
 and patience with me. Sometimes the 
 now almost proverbial aphorism, " Survival 
 of the fittest," strikes me as terribly un- 
 suited to express the circumstances by 
 which some of our survivals, in these days, 
 are environned. If I could have been as my 
 fathers, satisfied with the life at Basildene ; 
 if I had had no more troublesome endow- 
 ment than the clay acres which produce 
 good, honest corn crops, I should have 
 been better fitted to my position, and it
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 237 
 
 for me. But it is not so. Tasting of the 
 Tree of Knowledge lost our first parents 
 a paradise ! One day, in the future, I do 
 look to come back to Basildene to stay, 
 but there are some hopes and ambitions 
 that I have a fondness for, which must be 
 seen to, elsewhere, first. Earnestly, m}^ 
 friends, I desire to do my duty by you 
 here, though I feel that I deserve so little 
 of your kindness and your charity. May- 
 be, in the future, I may be able to justify 
 myself in your opinions. Then perhaps I 
 shall feel more worthy of the kind things 
 Mr. Purcell has said about me than I 
 do to-night. Pardon this very egotistic 
 speech, which has already been much too 
 long. Mr. Purcell, ladies and gentlemen, 
 1 desire to thank you all for your kindness 
 in drinking my health.' 
 
 A silence fell upon the assembled com-
 
 238 BULCIBEL. 
 
 pany, as the dark hand was moved from 
 the table-cloth, and Arthur Scudamore sat 
 down. 
 
 Mr. Purcell's ingenuous face expressed 
 his disappointment and mystification at 
 the squire's speech, while the guests around 
 the table, who announced to one another 
 afterwards that they had not expected 
 anything better, merely made a mental 
 repetition now of their previous criticism 
 upon Scudamore, ' that he was a poor sort 
 o' fellow. There was never any knowing 
 what he was talking about.' 
 
 Scudamore himself hardly knew what he 
 had said ; he was dimly conscious that he 
 had tried to explain himself to his neigh- 
 bours, and had made a great failure of it. 
 He felt certain that what he had said had 
 sounded cynical and ungenial, and sat 
 down, obliviously omitting to propose the
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 239 
 
 health of his host and hostess, and heartily 
 wishing that he had never come into the 
 vicinity of such mistaken hospitality. 
 
 Chris, himself, might have taken pity 
 upon his dejection, had he realised to what 
 depth of self-abasement the young squire 
 had sunk, when next he approached Dul- 
 cie, after supper, to ask, almost penitently, 
 for the favour of another dance. 
 
 Sympathetic Dulcibel had witnessed the 
 unhappy conditions under which Arthur 
 had borne the honours of the evening. She 
 understood, better than most people, how 
 his sensitive nature recoiled from situations 
 that another might have filled without an 
 effort. She partly understood the motive 
 that induced him to come, to ask her for 
 this dance. Partly understood, for Dulcie 
 was as little versed in the ways of the 
 world and subtle meanings as a child.
 
 240 DULCIBEL. 
 
 ' The next after this,' she promised. ' It 
 is a square dance, but it's the only one I 
 have left.' 
 
 Arthur smiled his gratitude, and wan- 
 dered away to indulge in morbid thoughts, 
 not unenlivened by anticipation, until 
 the band commenced its lively quadrille 
 music. 
 
 Dulcie had been dancing with young 
 Thorley of Milcot, a fair, broad-shouldered 
 young giant, who, with pale-blue, un- 
 sophisticated eyes, was contemplating his 
 partner admiringly, when Scudamore came 
 to claim her. Arthur drew her hand 
 within his arm and led her off, experi- 
 encing, as he did so, a very strong feeling 
 of disgust for the young farmer who had 
 so dared to look at her. 
 
 Scudamore had purposely come for this 
 partner of his rather late, and, as they
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 241 
 
 turned now to take their places, Dulcie 
 remarked, regretfully, 
 
 ' I believe all the sets are made up !' 
 
 ' Shall we come up to our window-seat, 
 then, and watch ?' said Arthur, quite pre- 
 pared for the announcement. ' Do you 
 mind very much ?' 
 
 ' Oh, no. After all, it's only a quad- 
 rille, and I have been dancing every dance. 
 I'm rather glad to rest, and you can tell 
 me some more about Italy.' 
 
 ' I won't answer another question con- 
 cerning my travels,' said Scudamore, al- 
 most gsily for him. ' I'll send you over 
 my Baedeker to-morrow, but I positively 
 refuse to talk any more about its contents. 
 See, though, this window is occupied, we 
 must go up to the top one. Have you 
 ever seen Mrs. Purcell's old clock, that is 
 up there ? Now ' — as they turned the 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 DULCIBEL. 
 
 angle in the staircase, and, up a stair or 
 two farther, found themselves before the 
 deep recess of the upper corridor window, 
 — ' that is Mrs. Purcell's old clock, for 
 which I would pledge the half of my 
 kingdom ; this is the window-seat, and I'm 
 prepared to talk of things innumerable, 
 but not of Italian travels.' So far Scuda- 
 more had spoken in a tone of well-assumed 
 gaiety ; now he said, seriously, and in a 
 lower voice, ' Dulcie, was that speech of 
 mine a fearful failure ?' 
 
 If his life had been at stake for it, he 
 could not have helped the question. He 
 had had no intention of asking it her, but 
 the thought was uppermost — it was not 
 egotism that prompted it — if he had failed 
 to make himself intelligible to his neigh- 
 bours and tenants, he had failed, he could 
 but stand a little worse in their estimation
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 243 
 
 for it, and his position with them was all a 
 mistake ; but reassurance, to be understood, 
 and our failures treated tenderly when the 
 world goes roughly, it is that we all un- 
 consciously yearn for, when our ruffled 
 selves, straight from outside friction, come 
 into contact with the soft influence that is 
 most fitted, in our estimation, to bestow 
 sympathy. To be told, with gentle kind- 
 liness, that our failures are indeed failures, 
 softens the harsh voice of self-conviction 
 which before told us the same thing. That 
 soul of truth which was in Dulcie would 
 not admit of an}^ mincing of matters in an 
 answer. The voice might be sympathetic, 
 but the reply must be straightforward. 
 
 ' You and the Basildene people don't see 
 things from the same point of view. I 
 think they did not understand you, and 
 that hurt their feelings. I think I know
 
 244 DULCIBEL. 
 
 what you meant, but then you see I have 
 known you for such a very long time now. 
 I knew you did not mean to hurt anyone's 
 feehngs by anything you said. That's what 
 they did not understand.' 
 
 Arthur laughed. 
 
 ' I wanted to be genial, and to explain 
 what a curiously organised individual I 
 am, but I made a failure and a conde- 
 scension, somehow, of it, when I put my 
 ideas into words'. I ought to have been 
 content with thanking them all, and wish- 
 ing them a merry Christmas, instead of 
 getting diffuse. But it is something to 
 have had one in my audience who followed 
 my involved ideas.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Mr. Scudamore, why will you 
 always take things so seriously? There 
 is no harm done !' 
 
 ' No more harm than was already done,
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 245 
 
 Dulcie/ he said, rather sadly; ' but don't 
 talk any more about it. You must forget 
 that I asked you so egotistical a question.' 
 
 A pause ensued, while the great eight- 
 day clock in front of them seemed to tick 
 time to the band music below. Presently 
 Dulcie asked : 
 
 ' Do you ever paint, now, in Rome ? 
 When people paint a great deal, it always 
 seems to me they must leave oif looking 
 at the worst side of life, and learn to see 
 the bright lights, even in the darkest 
 aspects of things. You must see them, if 
 you paint, and it ought to make you give 
 up being gloomy, when you find how 
 much light there really is in every- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' I paint, — yes. Nearly all day, and 
 every day, very often. Still I am bitter and 
 doubting pretty frequently, even in sunny
 
 246 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Italy, where things have a larger share of 
 light than in England.' 
 
 Dulcie gave a little, half-impatient sigh. 
 
 ' I am very sorry for you then,' she 
 said ; and Scudamore, not quite under- 
 standing whether her sorrow was not of 
 the nature of a reproach, fingered her 
 white fan absently. 
 
 Looking at the fair young face, which 
 was so tender and lovable, even in its 
 assumed expression of grave severity, Scu- 
 damore experienced a strong temptation 
 to claim something more from her than 
 this very negative expression of sympathy. 
 But he put the temptation away from him, 
 in a minute of silence, during which the 
 vivid recollection of a past resolve con- 
 quered inclination, while the clock in front 
 ticked sixty very loud seconds, which
 
 MRS. PURCELLS DANCE. 247 
 
 mingled with his thoughts; and Dulcie, 
 marvelling at her partner's absent-minded- 
 ness, thought very curious and amusing 
 thoughts concerning him, that brought a 
 smile to the corners of her mouth. 
 
 Arthur broke the silence which he be- 
 came suddenly aware of. 
 
 ' I have brought some Roman pearls, as 
 a Santa Glaus for you. May I bring them 
 to the vicarage to-morrow ? There are 
 some little bronze miniatures, too, I want 
 you and Michael to choose from.' 
 
 ' That is kind of you. But we are going 
 to skate to-morrow. Won't you be on the 
 canal, too? The ice is just perfect. Sunny 
 says.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes, I forgot skating. After all, 
 life is very much worth living in a world 
 where skating is occasionally to be had.
 
 248 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Two years ago — that winter I spent in 
 
 Canada ' and Scudamore commenced 
 
 an account of the ice amusements which 
 our friends across the Atlantic have invented 
 for themselves. 
 
 Neither he nor Dulcibel noticed that the 
 strains of the quadrille music had long 
 since changed into those of a polka, until 
 the last notes of the latter were dying 
 away. Then Dulcie picked up her pro- 
 gramme anxiously. 
 
 ' That is another dance they have been 
 playing. I believe I was to have danced it 
 with Sunny. I wonder why he never came 
 for me ? I quite forgot !' 
 
 ' Is it young Jocelyn you call " Sunny " ? 
 He ought to have come to look for you. 
 Never mind. At least, I am very sorry 
 for keeping you, but the polka is over now,
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 249 
 
 and regret is rather late. Have you to 
 dance this next thing ?' 
 
 ' With Mr. Thorley again,' said Dulcie, 
 still consulting the programme. 
 
 ' Thorley of Milcot ? He's an imperti- 
 nent young rustic, who ought to be taught 
 manners,' observed Scudamore, seized with 
 renewed aversion for his companion's late 
 blue-e3^ed partner. * Let him come and 
 look for you, too.' 
 
 Arthur knew that young Thorley would 
 not venture to claim a partner from the 
 Squire of Basildene. Dulcie hesitated. 
 
 'Is it quite fair?' 
 
 She was a novice in the ways of ball- 
 rooms. She did not understand that she 
 was perpetrating a thing that the strict 
 etiquette of society condemns ; she trusted 
 Scudamore, and felt that she much dis-
 
 250 DULCIBEL. 
 
 liked Mr. Thorley's undisguised admiration^ 
 and would be glad of the excuse of escap- 
 ing from him, if he did not find her. So 
 she remained, and the waltz below passed 
 by with much tantalizing brilliancy to 
 young Thorley, whose pale eyes peered 
 vainly into every possible corner, in search 
 of the missing lady with whom he had 
 anticipated treading the measure. 
 
 Michael came up the stairs presently. 
 Arthur was describing his Roman painting 
 models to his companion, and they did not 
 hear the approaching steps, until young 
 Carwinion's voice, in a tone of annoyance, 
 exclaimed : 
 
 ' So here you are, Dulcie ! Chris and 
 young Thorley have been looking every- 
 where for you. We must be going home 
 now.' 
 
 A conscious flush came into his sister's
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 251 
 
 face, and over her neck, as she stood up. 
 
 '1 did not notice how time was going, 
 Michael,' she said, artlessly ; and Arthur, 
 rising too, smiled down upon her- 
 
 ' Blame me, Carwinion. I'm afraid it is 
 all my fault. I had so much to talk to 
 your sister about. I hope her partners 
 will forgive me, if Dulcie does.' 
 
 ' You must make your peace yourself, 
 I'm afraid. Come, Dulcie. Can I get 
 your cloak for you ?' 
 
 Michael was still too much vexed at 
 the remembrance of Belinda's tittering 
 pleasantry, over Dulcie's disappearance, to 
 be easily conciliated. Below, as the delin- 
 quent came into the back-hall, WTapped in 
 her long fur cloak for the walk home, she 
 found Chris, with a very angry countenance^ 
 struggling into his overcoat. 
 
 ' I'm so sorry, Sunny, that we missed our
 
 252 DULCIBEL. 
 
 last dance,' she said, penitently, looking at 
 the red boyish face, that wore such an ex- 
 ceedingly cross expression. 
 
 ' It didn't matter,' said Chris, curtly. 
 Boyhood does not disguise its irritation 
 with false politeness, but finds relief in ex- 
 pressing facially and verbally the annoy- 
 ance it experiences. 
 
 Dulcie was self-condemned and penitent, 
 yet a trifle angry as well, at the thought 
 of Mrs. Purcell's benignly sententious 
 smile when they parted, which feelings, 
 for the nonce, made her silent and uncon- 
 ciliatory. 
 
 As they came out into the frosty moon- 
 light of the early winter morning, the large 
 carriage from the Tower House, with two 
 tall horses, champing their bits and tossing 
 impatient heads, was waiting at the door. 
 
 Arthur Scudamore had followed them,
 
 MRS. purcell's dance. 25S 
 
 and stood on the step behind, as the 
 vicarage party were starting on their 
 homeward walk. He knew that he had 
 been the means of bringing disagreeable 
 feelings into the minds of two, at least, of 
 the party, and so hesitated for a second. 
 
 For all the mistakes of the evening, 
 Arthur Scudamore was feeling, just then, 
 that the web of life, after all, contains a 
 large proportion of good in its mingled 
 yarn, and his voice, for once, had nothing 
 melancholy in the sound of it, as he called 
 through the moonlight : 
 
 'Michael ! I say, it would be a positive 
 sin for me to drive home alone in this 
 affair. Since they have sent it, let me take 
 you all, as well ?' 
 
 He came a few steps after them. 
 
 Chris would have refused indignantly 
 and point-blank, but Michael had no good
 
 254 DULCIBEL. 
 
 reason for so doing, though he was a trifle 
 annoyed with Scudamore. He turned 
 back, and the others with him. Arthur had 
 the satisfaction of tucking Dulcie's white 
 skirts into the wraps that were piled up 
 inside, while the impatient horses dashed 
 off, their breath going up like a cloud in 
 the frosty air. The cold moonlight peered 
 in through the carriage window, and a 
 silence fell upon the party, which the short 
 drive did nothing to dispel. Scudamore's 
 good offices were repaid by very brief 
 words of thanks, and still briefer ' good- 
 nights,' as the three parted from him at the 
 vicarage gate, unless, indeed, the chance of 
 once more holding Dulcie's warm fingers in 
 his own miorht be counted a reward.
 
 255 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 ' OH, HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG !' 
 
 ' There is no hopelessness so sad as that of early youth, 
 when the soul is made up of wants, and has no long 
 memories, no superadded life in the life of others ; though 
 we who look on think lightly of such premature despair, as 
 if our visions of the future lightened the blind sufferer's 
 present.' 
 
 The Mill on the Floss. 
 
 The misunderstanding between Dulcibel 
 and Chris Jocelyn was not permitted to 
 clear itself up as easily as it might have. 
 Circumstances, unfortunately, tended to 
 widen the little rift, and formed themselves, 
 henceforward, out of those very elements
 
 256 DULCIBEL. 
 
 that at any other time would have given a 
 fresh zest to their friendship. 
 
 The country round Basildene during 
 some winters acquires quite a reputation 
 for its skating. Those broad, low-lying 
 pastures through Avhich the Bassel flows, 
 frequently become flooded during the 
 rainy, autumnal months, and when the 
 frost comes, they form one continuous 
 sheet of ice, extending from Basildene 
 almost to the canal. The surface of the 
 canal itself, too, turns into one long 
 skating course, broken only by the bridges, 
 under which the ice rarely freezes strongly 
 enough to be a safe passage for skaters. 
 People from the neighbouring villages, and 
 from Westerbury, flock to the flooded fields 
 then, coming often on their skates by way 
 of the canal. A hard, frosty winter thus 
 brings quite a festival time to Basildene,
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 257 
 
 when the long, swinging ring of skates 
 echoes in its neighbourhood from morning 
 till night. 
 
 This particular winter the skating was 
 pronounced unsurpassed by any memories, 
 even of that incompetent authority, ' the 
 oldest inhabitant.' Sheets of dark ice, 
 here and there sprinkled white by the 
 fallen rime of the hoar-frost from the 
 hedges, lay over the fields behind the 
 vicarage, and, day after day, the iron frost 
 held its sway, sometimes under clouds of 
 threatening snow, but more often under 
 skies as clear and blue as those of June, 
 while the skating went on uninterrupted 
 by either snow-fall or thaw. 
 
 Dulcie and Michael took to their skates 
 as to the manner born. Good practice, 
 from the winters of their earliest child- 
 hood, when, together, they had tumbled 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 DULCIBEL. 
 
 about and mastered the exercise of skating, 
 had not been lost upon these active young 
 Carwinions. And to the ice with them 
 <jame Chris, persevering but unskilful 
 when shod in steel, and Scudamore, a 
 perfect master of the art. 
 
 Skating was almost the only athletic 
 exercise in which Arthur Scudamore took 
 a genuine delight, for its own sake. In 
 other sports and exercises he quietly ex- 
 celled, because, with an easy grace and 
 accurate eye, it is not possible to be awk- 
 ward, but he took no great pleasure in 
 them, nor practised them more often than 
 necessity compelled. On the ice all was 
 different. Scudamore had learned his per- 
 fect mastery over his skates to the sound 
 of njilitary music, at the moonlight skating 
 fetes in which Germans rejoice. 
 
 The romance of these evenings on the
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WKONg! 259 
 
 ice pleased a fanciful young imagination — 
 which was not too particular, then, over the 
 contour and figure of the fraulein, his 
 skating-partner — and, while the pleasure 
 and romance all had faded before the dis- 
 appointed bitterness of manhood, the skill 
 still remained, and the old delight in the 
 swift, easy motion. A man who has a 
 perfect mastery over his skates is never 
 more at an advantage before his fellows ; 
 he balances himself, and performs won- 
 derful evolutions, each more graceful than 
 the last, while his companions totter 
 around him. 
 
 Scudamore never was conceited, rather 
 he was ever too acutely sensitive con- 
 cerning his own short-comings, but he took 
 an almost artless pleasure in his own skat- 
 ing performance ; and Dulcie, for whom the 
 display of physical excellence of any sort 
 
 s2
 
 260 DULCIBEL. 
 
 had a strange fascination, evinced a lively 
 interest in all his exploits, and became a 
 zealous pupil in his more perfect art 
 herself. 
 
 Chris meanwhile was too proud to accept 
 hints ; his active young limbs learned to- 
 skim over the ice in a manner very satis- 
 factory to himself, and, since Scudamore 
 and he had never had much in common, 
 from the day when the older man had 
 overlooked his arrival at Basildene, Chris 
 affected a profound contempt for Arthur's 
 more fantastic proficiency in outside-edge 
 and figure-cutting, and declared that he^ 
 Chris, preferred to measure his achieve- 
 ments by the miles on the canal he had 
 traversed in his day's skating, rather than 
 the g3a'ations he had turned. 
 
 To Dulcie it seemed at first too trivial a 
 matter to be of any importance ; Chris was
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 261 
 
 •certainly a little narrow-minded, that was 
 all. She had made her peace with him after 
 the trouble at the Manor House, and re- 
 garded this contempt of Chris's for Scuda- 
 more as schoolboyish and unjustifiable. 
 
 Presently she was tempted to give him 
 a little teazing lecture upon his lack of 
 respect for the person of the great man of 
 Basildene. 
 
 But poor Chris, smarting under feelings 
 that he did not choose to define to himself, 
 much less to Dulcie, was in no humour to 
 allow matters to be jested about. He was 
 feeling left out in the cold, now that Scu- 
 damore had come home. Chris did not 
 say as much, but his remarks were all the 
 more irritable and difficult to understand, 
 because this thought was rankling unex- 
 pressed within him, and the conversation, 
 begun in a light spirit of banter by Dulcie,
 
 262 DULCIBEL. 
 
 ended not a little bitterly upon his part, 
 Dulcie was distressed. She perceived an 
 injustice, and was offended. She had never 
 been in the habit of drawing comparisons 
 between Sunny and Mr. Scudamore. 
 She had none but the most impartial 
 intentions of dividing her regard with per- 
 fect equality between them ; but with this 
 distinction : Sunny stood to her in the 
 light of a young brother, while Arthur 
 Scudamore, years older in her estimation 
 even than he really was, remained still the 
 friend of her childhood. The friendship 
 between them, from its commencement, 
 had had somewhat of the nature of that 
 which exists between a master and a fav- 
 ourite pupil. Dulcie's life had always been 
 so full of her all-satisfying love for Michaely 
 that the idea never entered her healthy 
 young mind that either of the other two»
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WKONG! 263 
 
 might one day wish to claim from her some- 
 thino; more definite than this simple friend- 
 ship. If Dulcie ever thought of lovers, the 
 idea was associated with strangers, who 
 might come to her and win her suddenly. 
 She never contemplated the notion of one 
 arising within the present limited area of 
 her acquaintance. 
 
 Why is it that youth almost always 
 anticipates its life's romances from with- 
 out ? It is not until the years of a quarter- 
 of-a-century or more have rolled over us, 
 that we realise that the friends and things 
 which lie quite near, closest to our hand,, 
 alone are the material out of which we 
 may fashion our life's history. If Dulcie 
 had meditated upon the nature of her 
 friendships, the entire charm of her uncon- 
 scious society would have disappeared. 
 Subtle definitions, had she understood them
 
 264 DULCIBEL. 
 
 herself, could not have been explained to 
 Chris. 
 
 Meanwhile, the true secret of the 
 young man's disturbed equanimity lay in 
 the fact, that just then he stood greatly 
 in need of her help and companionship, 
 and was longing to accept any spontaneous 
 offers of friendliness she would make him. 
 For lack of a correct understanding, the 
 actual want never came near satisfaction. 
 Dulcie thought his conduct perverse and 
 inexplicable, and Chris, from sheer miser- 
 able disappointment, nipped in the bud 
 all the little advances which Dulcie, in her 
 forbearance, attempted. They neither knew 
 exactly what was wanting. 
 
 Chris had come to Basildene troubled in 
 spirit at leaving his old school, and with 
 all the impulsive thoughts, suggested by 
 the doctor's words at parting, seething in
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 265 
 
 his mind, until they could be shared by 
 Dulcie. Once or twice did not at all 
 suffice for discussinf^ thera. His plans and 
 prospects, too, at Hope and Yerney's had 
 hardly more than been hinted at between 
 them, when this skating came to occupy 
 all thoughts and all time. He intended to 
 have had so many quiet talks alone with 
 Dulcie ; now^ Scudamore seemed to absorb 
 all the time, and Chris's thoughts went 
 back, impatiently, to the days when long 
 hours alone with Dulcie had been matters 
 of every-day occurrence. Perhaps he did 
 not see how often the old opportunities 
 were lost by his own over-well assumed 
 indifference. 
 
 Thus the time passed, and the day of 
 his departure for Endbourne approached, 
 only to find a more inwardly indignant, 
 ■outwardly indifferent Chris than ever, dis-
 
 266 DULCIBEL. 
 
 j^orting himself upon the still smooth ice- 
 fields of Basildene. It was the last day of 
 his visit. Poor Chris ! He was very sore 
 at the blunders and unforgivingness of the 
 past fortnight, but outwardly a climax 
 of wrath was worked up in his manner 
 towards Dulcie. She had spent the 
 last two days almost exclusively learning 
 a Dutch skating movement from Scuda- 
 more, and last evening had so far taken 
 the hint of Chris's deep interest in the 
 tragedy of ' Called Back,' as to leave 
 him alone over the study-fire, after mak- 
 ing not more than half-a-dozen attempts- 
 to beguile him into trivial conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 Such things Chris felt to be quite fresh 
 to his experience, and insupportable. Dul- 
 cie in her turn was troubled to perceive the 
 miserable look in Sunny's eyes, as that
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 267 
 
 morning he dispatched his breakfast in self- 
 conscious silence. 
 
 They were going to skate as usual. 
 Michael busied himself with straps and 
 screws from a low chair before the fire- 
 place, making his face very red and hot, 
 as he struggled into his boots in front of 
 the blazing coals, upon which a kettle 
 sang soothingly. Michael had finished his 
 breakfast, and the vicar's place was also 
 vacant, but Dulcie and Chris still lingered 
 over their coffee. The silence was so 
 observable that Michael, buckling a strap, 
 looked up, red-faced, to remark : 
 
 ' Well, you two don't seem particularly 
 inspired with conversation this morning ! 
 Have a look at the weather fore-cast, Chris, 
 — anything will do to talk about ; that's as 
 good as any other subject — if Dulcie and 
 you are short of original ideas.'
 
 268 DULCIBEL. 
 
 Dulcie rose silently, and smiled a smile 
 ■to Michael, that she only just prevented 
 being overcast by tears, as she rang the 
 bell. 
 
 ' I heg your pardon. Chris. I forgot, have 
 you finished ? I rang for Ann to clear 
 away.' 
 
 ' Yes, I've quite finished, thanks. Have 
 the paper yourself, Michael, if there's any- 
 thing you want to see in it.' 
 
 ' You young lunatic,' observed Michael, 
 looking up to laugh, and throw the prof- 
 fered paper back at Chris. ' I only wanted 
 to know whether you have got up tongue- 
 tied this last morning you're at Basildene ?' 
 
 Chris, examining a skate, vouchsafed no 
 reply ; he walked over to the window. 
 
 ' No need of weather fore-cast, look at 
 that blue sky !' he remarked presently, 
 ostensibly addressing himself to the chairs
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WKONg! 261) 
 
 and tables, but in a tone that evinced 
 much less indifference to the cheerful 
 things of this life than he had shown of 
 late. 
 
 After all, it was his last day at Basildene,. 
 and damp weather and rain are more con- 
 sistent with sulkiness than sunshine and 
 briojht frost. 
 
 ' I vote we do a good skate down to 
 Drayley, Michael.' 
 
 Whereupon Dulcibel, taking her fate into 
 her hands, went over to him, and putting 
 a hand, that was in much fear of repulse, 
 upon his arm, leaned across the window- 
 seat also, to look out, and to add her vote 
 to his for an expedition to Drayley. 
 
 And thus, a quarrel which, but for its 
 after-consequences, would not have been 
 worth recording, was patched up, and that 
 last morning of Chris Jocelyn's holidays
 
 270 DULCIBEL. 
 
 at Basildene saw him startin^^, with the 
 old radiant expression on his handsome 
 face, in company with Michael and Dulcie, 
 for the canal. No shadow, in the form of 
 the squire, appeared to cloud the renewed 
 serenity of their horizon. 
 
 To-day, as they walked along the frozen 
 cart-track of the lanes which led to the 
 skating-ground, Chris swung, in well-satis- 
 fied possession, the small pair of skates 
 which of late Dulcibel had declared were 
 a burden her own strength was equal to 
 the task of bearing. 
 
 By the road -side, dejected hart's- tongue 
 hung down their limp leaves, fringed by 
 white spikes of hoar-frost, and from the 
 bare hazel boughs, ever and anon, fell little 
 showers of radiant whiteness, as the winter 
 sun asserted itself, or a perky robin shook 
 the twiirs anion o; which it was twitterinoj
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 271 
 
 its shrill winter song ; while above all, the 
 clear blue sky hung like a providence over 
 this sparkling world. There is irresistible 
 good-humour in every breath we draw 
 upon such a day in winter, an exhilaration 
 that defies sulkiness, at least Chris found 
 it so to-day, and deemed it wise to forget 
 similar occasions when he had been other- 
 wise persuaded. 
 
 Their skates on, our three were just 
 descending towards the ice, when the 
 unusual appearance of two strangers — girls 
 — skating hand in hand, very nervously, 
 attracted their notice. Strangers were 
 objects of interest in the neighbourhood 
 of Basildene, for, though folks came from 
 Westerbury or from Milcot for the skating, 
 people recognised each other, and knew 
 quite accurately whether they had come 
 from Wheatley's bank, or from the grocery-
 
 272 DULCIBEL. 
 
 store, or even were members of the higher 
 circles of society in their respective town- 
 ships. Thus, two unknown young ladies, 
 who, moreover, skated very badly, — an]un- 
 usual thing in the neighbourhood, — were 
 subjects for conversation and surmise, as 
 our friends skated off towards the canal. 
 
 'Those must be the Carwinions that 
 Arthur expected to meet out here,' said 
 one of the strangers, steadying herself 
 against her companion's shoulder, and rest- 
 ing one of the feet, which showed a tendency 
 to run away with her, against the other. 
 
 ' I wonder if it would have been better 
 to have spoken to them, and told them 
 Arthur's coming? I wish I had now!' 
 
 ' Oh, no, Janet, you couldn't have done 
 that !' 
 
 ' Why ever not ? My dear Mabel, 1 
 hope you have not come here to begin
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 273 
 
 preaching propriety again. Anyhow, who 
 ever they are, they'll be out of sight before 
 Arthur comes back. What a bother that 
 screw of his was, getting out of order just 
 as he was ready to start. It's so stupid 
 tumbling about by ourselves. Arthur said 
 young Carwinion would help him to teach 
 us, and now we're left to his tender mercies 
 alone, and he can't bear teaching stupid 
 people ; I learned as much of him as that 
 last night. I've a good mind to take my 
 skates off.' 
 
 ' Here comes Arthur,' said the other girl, 
 looking back over her shoulder. ' Dont 
 undo your skates, Janet ! Cousin Warwick, 
 I'm afraid your friends, the Carwinions, 
 have flown. There was a party just 
 answering to your description — three of 
 them — out here when we arrived, but they 
 took to the ice and rushed off when they 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 DULCIBEL. 
 
 saw what was likely to become of us. 
 Shall we inflict ourselves on you, or shall 
 we take our skates off again ? You see, 
 we don't know anything about the use of 
 them.' 
 
 * We shall throw ourselves on you in 
 more ways than one,' chimed in Janet. 
 
 ' Yv^ell, I hope I am equal to the occasion. 
 Anyhow, try me before you take off the 
 skates. Perhaps the Carwinions will come 
 back by-and-by. They wouldn't have an 
 idea who you were, I imagine. They have 
 a rather more limited notion concerning 
 my cousins, the Miss Wests, than I had, till 
 I came in from Westerbury last night. 
 And that is a large order for ignorance, 
 I'm afraid. Have they gone this way, 
 towards the canal ? Come, we'll try to 
 look independent of them, at any rate.' 
 
 Skating usually extended the limited
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 275 
 
 boundary of Scudamore's hopefulness, but 
 the science of his cousins upon the ice 
 he soon discovered to fall considerably be- 
 low the modest average he had anticipated 
 of them. 
 
 During one of the longest hours he ever 
 experienced, they slipped and tumbled 
 about the ice one on each side of him, 
 chattering and laughing good-naturedly 
 over their blunders, but showing that 
 weak timidity which is a sure preventive 
 against any progress in physical exercise. 
 
 Meanwhile, the three from the vicarage 
 had skimmed over the ice at a very dif- 
 ferent pace in the direction of Drayley, 
 and Chris, allowing once more full sway 
 to his large capacity for enjoyment, was 
 triumphantly happy in the monopoly of 
 Dulcie's society. Michael was considerate. 
 He laughed, and gave them every oppor- 
 
 T 2
 
 276 DULCIBEL. 
 
 tuiiit}' for making uj) their past differences. 
 Yet, somehow, evening twilight seemed to 
 them a fitter time for explanations than 
 the present. They tacitly agreed to wait 
 for it, and now to ignore rather than dis- 
 cuss late troubles, while the keen bright 
 air around them seemed so full of vigour, 
 and of healthy rejoicing. 
 
 But a long course is speedily traversed 
 by experienced skaters. Drayley, under 
 the combination of pleasant circumstances, 
 was reached all too quickly, and here 
 a check occurred. Beyond the village 
 the canal ice had been spoilt by the 
 passage of some barges, and the return 
 journey to Basildene was the only course 
 left open to them. 
 
 Thus, it was still quite early in the day 
 when the three once more came in sight 
 of the upper bridge near Basildene, and
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 277 
 
 beyond it descried the form of Arthur 
 Scudamore, with the tAvo strangers of the 
 morning's encounter. 
 
 ' Scudamore seems to have been having 
 a poor time of it, for once in a while,' said 
 Chris, a good deal of amusement twinkling 
 in the blue eyes, which were all the 
 brighter and clearer for the exercise that 
 had brought a warm glowing colour into 
 the happy young face. 
 
 A momentary feeling of resentment, for 
 Chris's tone was sarcastic, prompted a quick 
 retort from Dulcie. But, after all, was not 
 to-day Chris's last at Basildene. It was to 
 be ' pax ' between them ; that was under- 
 stood. She refrained. 
 
 The two parties skated up to one 
 another laughing. 
 
 To see Scudamore at his best was to see 
 him on the ice. His slight figure and the
 
 278 DULCIBEL. 
 
 easy graceful bearing lent themselves 
 singularly to the motion demanded by the 
 skates. There was ease and reliance in 
 the manner in which he moved, while the 
 sharp steels echoed a pleasant ring upon 
 the sounding ice as he came towards them. 
 Unconsciously Dulcibel smiled her satis- 
 faction at seeing him. There is always, 
 pleasure in watching the display of skill, 
 especially physical skill, dexterously ex- 
 hibited by a well-formed man. 
 
 Let me assure you that Dulcie's smile 
 had no trace of coquetry in it. It was the 
 pleasure of pure simple friendliness, the 
 pleasure, too, of a pupil watching the skill 
 of a master she fain would imitate. 
 
 Arthur noticed it, and felt that a morn- 
 ing had not been lost which had earned so 
 much. He brought forward the two cousins 
 to introduce, and suggested, as the ice was
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 279 
 
 strong, that six might very well skate 
 hand in hand, to give confidence to the 
 timidity of Mabel and Janet West, and 
 not exclude them from the remainder 
 of the day's enjoyment. 
 
 Chris was well enough content with this 
 arrangement when he found himself at the 
 extremity of the line, holding Janet West's 
 nervous fingers in his confident grasp. 
 Janet seemed much younger than Dulcie, 
 and her pretty little brunette face, with 
 half shy, half coquettish, golden-brown 
 eyes and helpless manners, took his fancy 
 for the time. For a while the combined 
 forces progressed satisfactorily, but it was 
 a cumbersome experiment, and frequently 
 their numbers had to divide, as they en- 
 countered other parties. Some excuse, 
 therefore, may be pleaded for the erst- 
 while long-sufi'ering Scudamore — -standing
 
 280 DULCIBEL. 
 
 in ignorance as he did of Chris's hostile 
 opinions concerning him — when presently, 
 as the novelty of combination palled, he 
 challenged Dulcibel to an exhibition of 
 her skill in the lately-acquired art of ' out- 
 side edge.' 
 
 The hesitation with Avhich his challenge 
 was accepted was perfectly unaccountable 
 to him. The idea that Dulcie, foohshly 
 anxious to propitiate Chris to-day, was 
 seeking for an excuse to refuse, would have 
 seemed too absurd to be believed in. But 
 outward circumstances determined the 
 course of events, in the arbitrary way they 
 sometimes take pleasure in adopting. The 
 ice cracked ominously under the weighty 
 party, and dispersal in separate numbers 
 became a necessity. Consent not being 
 taken into account, Dulcie found herself 
 skating away from the dangerous spot in
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 281 
 
 Scudamore's society, hesitation having had 
 no other effect than to make her unsteady 
 upon the ice — an additional reason why her 
 present companion should remain with her. 
 
 Chris was left behind with the tottering 
 Janet, and presently came upon Michael 
 tightening the other Miss West's skates 
 upon the bank. Dulcie and Scudamore had 
 gone on together beyond the upper bridge. 
 
 Chris gave a shrug and a little laugh as 
 Michael asked where they were, a laugh 
 which made Janet look up, and ask why he 
 had said ^ Of course,' in reference to her 
 <jousin and Miss Carwinion. The question 
 increased Chris's gathering irritation. Was 
 it likely that he was going to explain 
 about his late quarrel with Dulcie to a 
 stranger ? Yet he had no wish to be mis- 
 understood, and imply something that was 
 incorrect to this babbling schoolgirl. So
 
 282 DULCTBEL. 
 
 he became silent and inattentive, and let 
 Janet tumble about on those troublesome 
 skates of hers in a way that made her long 
 to be rid of them, while she changed her 
 opinion of her companion, whom she at 
 first had been inclined to consider 'jolly,' 
 and came to the conclusion, that, after all, 
 he was dull and disagreeable, and in no 
 
 way to be compared though of Miss^ 
 
 Janet's invidious comparisons ive must 
 speak in due course. 
 
 It was not long before the missing two 
 re-appeared from the upper bridge, Dulcie 
 triumphantly proclaiming her success at 
 figure-cutting, and exhibiting her newly- 
 perfected skill at the 'outside edge.' Chris 
 would not even look now. He was un- 
 reasonably angry about it all ; angry with 
 Janet and everyone. It was quite clear 
 to him that he was no one in Dul-
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WEONG ! 283 
 
 cie's estimation when Scudamore was 
 anywhere near, and Scudamore — well, 
 Chris pitied the perversion of people's 
 taste who saw anything at all to like in 
 him. All the remembrance of the morn- 
 ing's reconciliation seemed crushed out by 
 this impulsive rush of jealousy. 
 
 ' I must get off my skates, and go back ; 
 I've got to pack,' he explained to Janet, and 
 started off, forthwith, in the direction of 
 the village, before any of his companions 
 could show such proficiency in loosening 
 straps and screws as he immediately 
 evinced after this announcement. 
 
 The others followed more slowly, Dulcie 
 in silent misgiving as to the effect the 
 morning's reconciliation might have after 
 this second grievous falling away. 
 
 Chris had disappeared when they reached 
 the house, and did not put in an appearance
 
 284 DULCIBKL. 
 
 until dinner-time. Dulcie set aside her 
 pride then, and asked him to come to the 
 drawing-room to talk after coffee, as she 
 left the dining-room. 
 
 ' I've promised Miss Mellor to finish my 
 packing with her to-night. Awfully sorry. 
 But I'm going to Endbourne, you know, 
 to-morrow !' 
 
 The answer was made in a gruff, strained 
 voice. One word more from Dulcie would 
 have broken the barrier down. There was 
 a piteous failing at Chris's heart as he said 
 it, that ' I'm going to-morrow,' though his 
 voice was especially gruff and uncompro- 
 mising as he got the words out. 
 
 He had so great a craving for kindness, 
 yet so proud a spirit, this boy, who had 
 known so little of love and of sympathy 
 until he knew the Carwinions. He was 
 ready to yield, longing to be friends when
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 285 
 
 the parting time came, and bitterly ashamed 
 of his own unreasonableness. He was 
 almost ready to go down on his knees to 
 thank her for having made this first ad- 
 vance. He had the fullest intention of meet- 
 ing it. Dulcie ivas good, he was grateful, 
 she had done so much, she was generous. 
 But the last struggle of the pride that 
 tempts penitence rose within him, to exact 
 one thing more before he showed that he 
 had yielded. She would surely let him 
 see that she was disappointed, and ask him 
 once more — once. 
 
 And, for lack of the oneword more, Dulcie 
 undid her success at the very moment of 
 victory. She had had patience with this 
 petulant, unreasonable boy until the seven 
 times, and human nature revolts against the 
 divine forbearance that demands sacrifice 
 unto seventy times seven. She turned
 
 286 DULCIBEL. 
 
 away without another word, and passed 
 through the door he held open for her. 
 
 So souls are lost for lack of the one more 
 sacrifice, which would have made the re- 
 nunciation perfect ; the one more prayer, 
 which, by much importunity, would have 
 gained the blessing sought ; the one more 
 morsel cast upon the waste of waters, 
 which would have returned and been 
 found after many days. We give too 
 little, where we seem to give too much, 
 and it is thus that so many lives seem to 
 fail of the reward of apparent good deeds. 
 They fall short in doubt, before the time 
 of blessing comes. 
 
 Chris held the door open as Dulcibel 
 went out from dinner. If their eyes had 
 met, one of them might have relented ; but 
 Dulcie looked resolutely away from him 
 into the hall, and Chris turned his eyes
 
 now EASILY THINGS GO WKONG ! 287 
 
 down with a clogged look of misery in them, 
 and his face grew very red. He had made a 
 mistake — pride only could help him now to 
 go through with the course he had chosen. 
 
 He could not have trusted his voice to 
 speak just then. As he came back into the 
 dining-room, he busied himself for a minute 
 with the handle of the door, his face 
 turned away, and then addressing Miss 
 Mellor, in a voice which was still gruff 
 and unnatural, he asked her to come up 
 to the packing when she had time. 
 
 ' It's all a miserable mistake : this leav- 
 ing St. Aidans, and going to Verney's at 
 Endbourne,' he said that evenino; to Miss 
 Mellor, Avith a burning desire to complain 
 about something, when, the packing finished, 
 they had both come to sit down by the 
 little bed-room fire, for a few minutes 
 before saying ' good-night.' ' I shan't
 
 288 DULCIBEL. 
 
 ever be the same fellow any more. Tve 
 got an awful tendency to go to the 
 devil, do you know, Miss Mellor? and 
 there won't be anyone there to keep me 
 straight, like the doctor did. I haven't got 
 any claim on anybody here. Why should 
 anyone care if I do go to the bad ? I've 
 such a brute of a temper too ! I don't 
 deserve anything better of you. You'll 
 never be surprised at anything you hear 
 that's happened to me. Will you, now, 
 Miss Mellor T 
 
 The unsuspecting housekeeper considered 
 such remarks somewhat out of place. 
 
 * My dear Christopher, whatever can 
 make you say such things ? I'm sure Mr. 
 Carwinion thinks most highly of you. 
 It's only that you're so impetuous, and 
 jump down one's throat so, like my dear 
 mother used to say, or else 1 should not
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 289 
 
 think there was much to complain of in 
 you, but you and your Maker know best 
 what is in your heart.' 
 
 ' Envy, hatred, malice, all that crew you 
 learn about in the catechism. That's 
 what my heart's composed of,' said Chris, 
 handling the poker very fiercly, and making 
 an angry onslaught on the coals. ' You 
 can tell them so, Miss Mellor. They 
 haven't any of them half found me out 
 yet!' 
 
 The commonplace goody-goodiness, that 
 the housekeeper considered a suitable rem- 
 edy for such disorders, and proceeded 
 forthAvith to administer, had no power to 
 exorcise the demons of unrest, which just 
 then possessed poor Chris's soul in its 
 bitterness, neither could her blunt percep- 
 tion fathom the drift of his irrelevant 
 
 remarks. He was rejoiced when she took 
 VOL. L u
 
 290 DULCIBEL. 
 
 her departure in subdued sorrowfulness 
 at the newly-arrived conviction, that 
 Christopher was not the correctly minded 
 lad she had previously taken him for. 
 Then he paced his room in anojry petulance, 
 until fatigue and excitement wore him 
 out in mind and body, and he threw him- 
 self down to sleep. Compunction did not 
 soften his pride, though it magnified his 
 troubles, and in the morning Dulcibel's 
 rather chilly advances were again repulsed. 
 Chris told himself that now he had gone 
 too far, and could not make things clear 
 again without an explanation. Pride 
 suggested that it would be less awkward 
 to write this, unless a very favourable 
 opportunity for speaking alone with Dulcie 
 should occur. Such an opportunity, need- 
 less to say, they both carefully prevented, 
 and Chris left for Endbourne in the after-
 
 HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG ! 291 
 
 noon, with the grievance, which the day 
 before had been but a little cloud no 
 bigger than a man's hand, now grown to 
 proportions which overshadowed all that 
 was brightest and most hopeful in his past 
 and in his future. 
 
 u2
 
 292 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HOPE AND VERNEY's. 
 
 Did you hear no talk of neighbour Pliable ? 
 
 PilgrivCs Progress. 
 
 ' I SAY, Blackett, did you see on Sunday 
 that Golden-eyes has come back? I saw 
 her outside the church in Fore Street with 
 the Piggotts' two small kids, after morning 
 service. Wonder what she's doing back 
 here ! I met a man the other day, who's got 
 a sister at old Tyler's school. I lieard a 
 lot about Golden-eyes from him. She was 
 a pupil-teacher there. A regular little 
 go-a-head thing, by all accounts. I can 
 find out a lot more about her, if you like,
 
 HOPE AND VERNEy's. 293 
 
 Blackett ; the fellow will tell you anything, 
 truth or lies, if you stand hini a drink or 
 two. I was only interested in her on your 
 account. Her name's West — Janet West. 
 Common-place, Blackett. Common-place ! 
 Sounds like a house-maid, instead of a 
 divinity. Poor old chap !' 
 
 * Janet West ? I knew a Janet West,' 
 said Jocelyn's voice, coming from between 
 his hands, as he lay, nursing his chin upon 
 his palms, on a well-worn rug, before the 
 iire. 
 
 He had been listening to the conver- 
 sation of his companions with a listless 
 attention, which made it seem to him that 
 he, himself, had been joining in all their 
 previous talk. 
 
 ' Is she a dark, bright-faced little thing, 
 with big eyes, and a thick curly black 
 fringe ?'
 
 294 DULCIBEL. 
 
 ' The very same,' said Durley, the young- 
 fellow who had begun the conversation. 
 ' May I ask where you had the pleasure 
 of making Miss Janet West's acquaintance ? 
 Don't you know she's the divinity of old 
 Blackett's heart, the light of his eyes, 
 the bit of butter on his daily bread? 
 Where and when did she first come to 
 lighten your darkness ? Out with it, man, 
 or Blackett ' 
 
 ' I met her out skating at Basildene. 
 She's got a cousin there : Warwick Scuda- 
 more.' 
 
 ' A cousin, Blackett ! Hark 'ee, man I 
 Golden-eyes goes out skating with a 
 cousin ! A man /' 
 
 Blackett, the object of Durley 's chaff, a 
 thick-set, swarthy complexioned young 
 man, some years the senior of his com- 
 panions, seemed to rather enjoy being made
 
 HOPE AND VERNE y's. 295 
 
 the butt of this wit in connection with the 
 girl they called ' Golden-eyes.' He smiled 
 somewhat limply back at Durley, as a sign 
 of his approval, and proceeded to refill his 
 pipe, without troubling to speak. 
 
 ' Oh ! Scudamore's a very middle-aged 
 sort of a cousin, who palmed Miss West ofE 
 on me only too readily, the only time I 
 ever saw her,' said Chris. 
 
 ' Blackett needn't be jealous of him.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to imply he should be 
 jealous of anyone, you young fool?* 
 demanded this supposed victim to the 
 green-eyed monster, at length condescend- 
 ing to rouse himself. 
 
 Chris stood up from the lolling attitude 
 upon the rug. He felt disposed to return 
 the compliment of offensive name-calling, 
 but Durley and his companion continued 
 their conversation without further refer-
 
 296 DULCIBEL. 
 
 ence to him ; and Blackett, in no wise con- 
 cerned for a reply to his question, again 
 became absorbed in listening to the talk in 
 which he figured so conspicuously. 
 
 A fortnight's discipline of the common- 
 room at Hope and Verney's had taught 
 Jocelyn the etiquette of not replying rashly 
 tohis elders there, however much he resented 
 their mode of address. Blackett's remark 
 was ignored by the others, consequently it 
 was of no use taking more notice of it. 
 
 Durley went on : 
 
 ' It's said, by them as knows, that 
 Golden-eyes couldn't tear herself away 
 from the neighbourhood of the Cliff-houses. 
 I believe she's come back as governess to 
 the Piggotts' small kids, rather than be 
 awa}^ altogether from the sunshine of a 
 certain gentleman's presence. Wake up 
 there, Blackett ! Doesn't the thought
 
 HOPE AND VERNE YS. 297 
 
 rouse some iire in your sluggish pulses? 
 Jocelyn, if you are acquainted with the 
 divine Golden-eyes, you might prevent 
 more maggots feeding upon our damask 
 cheeks by introducing some of us to her, 
 I'm a modest sort of a chap myself, and 
 couldn't bring myself to speak to a young 
 lady without the favour of an introduction. 
 You might do the " Mr. Durley, Miss 
 West " business for me. Blackett, there, is 
 a brazen individual, who accosts young 
 women as if the whole sex were his sisters ; 
 he don't want your good offices. Wood 
 and I will come out with you to-morrow, 
 and meet Miss Golden-eyes on the 
 cliifs, when she's walking with her pupils, 
 and you shall inquire after the cousin's 
 health, and then, you know, quite acci- 
 dentally present to her your friends. Share 
 4md share alike, old man, in the after-
 
 298 DULCIBEL. 
 
 conversation, always remembering that you 
 had first innings at the skating.' 
 
 ' Upon my word, I didn't want the in- 
 nings, then, — I left her. I'd much rather 
 have been wdth some one else,' said Chris^ 
 looking very wise. 
 
 'Oho!' ejaculated Wood, 'the plot thickens. 
 " Some one else " hasn't come down here 
 as a governess too by any chance, has she ?*" 
 
 Chris did not answer. He was vexed 
 with himself for having even so remotely 
 hinted at the existence of this ' some one 
 else.' It caused his best feelings to recoil 
 at the thought of Dulcie's name ever be- 
 coming the jest of the Cliff House common- 
 room, as Janet West's had just been. Dul- 
 cie's name, he inwardly swore, should be 
 kept sacred from these new associates of 
 his, whatever impulse or self-glorificatioa 
 might prompt him to say concerning her.
 
 HOPE AND VERNE y's. 29J^ 
 
 His respect for Dulcie had not changed, 
 though he had left her in a fit of anger, 
 and had not replied again to the letter of 
 kind, sisterly forgiveness with which she 
 had answered the curt letter of explana- 
 tion he had written to her on his arrival at 
 Endbourne. It would be hard to trace 
 all the remote causes for Chris's conduct 
 to Dulcie at this time. Jealousy, no doubt, 
 that instigator to most unaccountable 
 actions, was at the root of it ; and poor, 
 impulsive Chris, like all very light- 
 hearted people, was terribly susceptible to 
 moments of depression and mistrust, and 
 little given to reasoning out what might 
 be the end of his impetuous actions. 
 
 ' Golden-eyes is a deuced jolly little 
 thing to talk to,' remarked Blackett, medi- 
 tatively, knocking the ashes from his pipe, 
 and affecting a tone of genial superiority,
 
 300 DULCIBEL. 
 
 as though he would forewarn his young 
 friends of the subtle pleasure that might be 
 in store for them on the morrow. 
 
 Durley screwed his face into a wink 
 behind Blackett's back at Wood. They 
 both knew that that hero's conversations 
 with Miss West were limited to the passing 
 remark of ' Good-morning,' fired off in 
 haste at her occasionally, as she brought up 
 the rear of Miss Tyler's establishment, when 
 taking its daily two-and-two promenade 
 
 upon the cliffs. 
 
 ' All right, old man, we will prove that 
 too, to-morrow. Jocelyn, have a cigarette 
 on the strength of it ? What d'3'e bet we 
 one of us cut you out with " Golden-eyes " 
 before next Easter? Eh, Blackett ? who'll 
 back the favourite ?' 
 
 To which impertinence, Blackett, being 
 a man who considered himself particularly
 
 HOPE AND VERNE y's. 301 
 
 impressive while observing a bland silence, 
 vouchsafed no reply. 
 
 Next morning, however, this young gen- 
 tleman condescended to be very civil to 
 Jocelyn, and, as the boy came out at twelve 
 o'clock from his work with Mr. Hope, he 
 found Blackett, attired in a smart check 
 suit, with hat and stick in his hand, await- 
 ing him in the hall for a walk. 
 
 ' Going out, Jocelyn ?' asked Blackett, 
 with such a transparent attempt at indif- 
 ference in his tone that Chris answered, 
 quite scornfully : 
 
 ' Oh ! if you're going out, and want to 
 come on the cliffs with Durley and "Wood 
 and me, you'll have to ask them before 
 you go. I don't mind introducing you to 
 Janet West, if they don't. But I thought 
 3^ou knew her.' 
 
 'Wood and Durley have gone to Smee's
 
 302 DULCIBEL. 
 
 about the football match. They didn't 
 really care about going to meet Janet. It 
 ■was only Durley's chaff. I'll go, though, 
 if you don't mind, instead. Durley's a 
 good fellow, but he really doesn't know 
 anything about it. I don't know^ Miss 
 West, and I want you to introduce me, 
 old fellow.' 
 
 ' You were a great humbug last night 
 then, to say the least of it !' said Chris. He 
 scarcely relished this change of com- 
 panions for his walk, but Chris was good- 
 natured, as we all know, and Aveak perhaps, 
 caring much for popularity, if he did not 
 appreciate the society of Blackett. ' Very 
 well, then. Come along. I daresay Janet 
 has forgotten all about me by this time.' 
 
 Durley was not wrong in his surmise 
 that Janet West might be met daily on the 
 Endbourne Cliffs, walking with her little 
 pupils. The cliffs were the fashionable prom-
 
 HOPE AND VEHNEy's. 303 
 
 enade of this small south coast watering- 
 place, and, as Janet cared for notice more 
 than nature when abroad, she took the 
 little Piggotts where she had most chance 
 of gratifying her tastes. 
 
 Blackett and Chris encountered her com- 
 ing through the swing gate, which was at 
 the foot of a steep incline, a path over 
 which was a short cut to the promenade. 
 Chris opened the gate for her, feeling a trifle 
 shy concerning the way in which he was to 
 make the first advance towards recognition. 
 
 Janet spared him the embarrassment by 
 looking up into his face, the half-shy, half- 
 coquettish brown eyes beaming a vast deal 
 more gratitude than the occasion seemed 
 to warrant, although, I regret to say. Miss 
 West imagined it was to a stranger she was 
 addressing her thanks. 
 
 ' Mr. Jocelyn ! Oh, how strange to meet 
 you here ! Did you run all the way from
 
 304 DULCIBEL. 
 
 the Basildene canal to Endbourne that day, 
 when you left me stranded on the ice?' 
 
 *Not quite. Though this was my next 
 move. It's equally strange to meet you 
 here. Are you living down here?' 
 
 It was hard work to Chris to work up 
 much enthusiasm over their encounter. 
 The sight of Janet did not recall pleasant 
 memories. He felt his conversation was 
 shallow, and all previously rehearsed, and, 
 without waiting for an answer to his ques- 
 tion, he turned to present Blackett. 
 
 His companion was examining with 
 much apparent interest a bramble leaf 
 in the hedge, Avhile two small Piggotts 
 were shyly inspecting his person about the 
 region of his boots. 
 
 The introduction was welcome, but Mr. 
 Blackett's embarrassment was ludicrously 
 observable, as he bowed, and endeavoured
 
 HOPE AND VERNEY S. 305 
 
 to express unutterable things by the eyes 
 which were not bold enough long to meet 
 Miss Janet's laughing gaze. 
 
 ' Were you going back to Endbourne ?* 
 asked Chris. ' May we walk a little way 
 with you ?' 
 
 But Miss West declaimed against any such 
 intention as that of immediately returning 
 home, and protested that she was only 
 starting for her walk upon the cliffs, al- 
 though the side from which she was coming 
 through the gate, and the two small Piggott 
 voices in expostulation, seemed to argue 
 otherwise. 
 
 There was therefore no reason why Chris 
 and his companion should not continue 
 their mid-day constitutional, in the society 
 of Miss West and her charges. Chris 
 punctiliously made way for Blackett to 
 take up that position, for the monopoly 
 
 VOL. I, X
 
 306 DULCIBEL. 
 
 of the little governess's conversation, 
 which Durley's remarks upon the previous 
 evening, concerning his tender sentiments 
 for her, might have warranted. 
 
 Unfortunately this senior pupil of 
 Messrs. Hope and Verney was less equal 
 to the occasion than might have been 
 anticipated. He appeared to prefer listen- 
 ing to the others' conversation, much as 
 he usually did in the common-room at the 
 Cliff House, throwing in now and then a 
 remark su2:2:estive of his own latent con- 
 versational capacities, and the great things 
 he might say on many subjects, if he only 
 could be induced to do so. Chris was 
 struck by the fact that Janet seemed to 
 prefer talking to him rather than to 
 Blackett, with whom undoubtedly her 
 previous irregular acquaintanceship caused 
 her to be shy. Yet the idea brought 
 small share of satisfaction with it, since
 
 HOPE AND VERNEY's. 307 
 
 Janet was a perpetual reminder of un- 
 pleasant things at Basildene. 
 
 After Janet had left them, hurrying off 
 to the Piggotts' mid-day dinner, which 
 town clocks announced she had already 
 kept waiting, Chris found cause for re- 
 newed wonder and amusement at the tone 
 Blackett immediately assumed. He made 
 Chris's late conversational efforts his own, 
 laughed and chuckled, Avell-pleased, over 
 jokes and speeches in which originally he 
 had participated only by an echoing laugh. 
 
 Chris felt prepared for the boasting that 
 formed part of Blackett's unusually brilliant 
 conversation in his room that evening, 
 where a few selected spirits, now including 
 Chris, were occasionally invited to assemble 
 for singing, card-playing, and smoking, or to 
 enliven Mr. Blackett's silence by their wit. 
 Chris was too good-natured to confide 
 
 x2
 
 308 DULCIBEL. 
 
 even to Durley how small a share in the 
 morning's events this boastful senior pupil 
 in reality had had. On similar lines were 
 conducted, from that day forth, the fre- 
 quent walks which Janet, Blackett, and 
 Chris took together on the cliffs. The 
 senior pupil eagerly attentive to the 
 conversation, ever ready with laugh or 
 small remark to participate in it, but never 
 evincing the smallest inclination to under- 
 take tete-a-tete interviews with the adored 
 one of his heart. 
 
 The situation in itself was not particu- 
 larly congenial to Chris. He would gladly 
 have relinquished all share in such pro- 
 ceedings, but for the fame he acquired at 
 the Cliif House as Blackett's second in 
 these walks, and his too easy-going dislike 
 to making an end of them by what would, 
 most likely, prove to be a disagreeable 
 scene either with Janet or Blackett. Poor
 
 HOPE AND VERNEy's. 309 
 
 Chris was too good-natured to act exactly 
 as his better taste suggested. He seemed 
 to be doing harm to no one. He enjoyed 
 the chaff and attention his acquaintance 
 with Janet brought upon him, and it was 
 a little flattering to his pride to be on 
 such excellent terms with the Piggotts' 
 pretty governess, just at the time when his 
 own folly was rendering him doubtful 
 concerning Dulcie. 
 
 So, through the long, bleak spring-time, 
 in spite of blustering winds and muddy 
 footpaths, these three might constantly be 
 seen taking their morning walk upon the 
 Endbourne cliffs. Sometimes the little 
 Piggotts raised wailing protestations 
 against the only walk Miss West seemed 
 acquainted with in their neighbourhood. 
 But Janet knew how to silence their 
 laments, while she was indifferent to their 
 opinions, and, I grieve to say, amused her-
 
 310 DULCIBEL. 
 
 self to her heart's content at the expense 
 of duty, while her pupils tumbled about, 
 often dangerously near the edge of the 
 rocks they had grown to despise from long 
 acquaintance. People in Endbourne, with 
 tongues as busy as elsewhere concerning 
 their neighbours, began to wonder that 
 Mrs. Piggott did not put a stop to such 
 doings, but they supplemented their re- 
 marks generally, almost in the same breath, 
 by telling one another that Mrs. Piggott 
 was an inexperienced and thoughtless 
 young woman who never troubled her 
 head about her children or her household, 
 and that it Avas a wonder things went on 
 as well at the Shrubberies as they did. 
 
 ' Piggott must be a richer man than peo- 
 ple used to take him for before he saddled 
 himself with that little doll of a wife !' 
 
 It is not very wonderful that after a 
 time Janet West began to find Blackett's
 
 HOPE AND VERNEy's. 311 
 
 society rather superfluous. His wit had a 
 tendency to repeat itself, and the wonderfitl 
 stores of amusing anecdote, of which he 
 was perpetually suggesting himself to be 
 possessed, were never forthcoming for any- 
 one's amusement. Blackett, after a time, 
 began to suspect that he was being super- 
 seded, and the thought made him surly 
 and ill-tempered, even in Janet's society. 
 
 When Chris flrst discovered the course 
 things were taking, he made a desperate 
 resolve to break awav from his connection 
 with both ; yet somehow he allowed 
 things to drift on, until he came to dis- 
 like more and more the idea of a breach 
 with Blackett, who might make his posi- 
 tion very unpleasant for him at Hope 
 and Verney's if he chose. Janet's society, 
 too, had a certain charm for him. It was 
 not to be given up without the shadow of 
 a regret.
 
 312 DULCIBEL. 
 
 One day, when they were alone for a 
 few minutes, Janet suggested that it would 
 be a great advantage if Chris could dispense 
 with Blackett's company when next they 
 met upon the cliffs, a request, she said, 
 she felt necessitated to make a point of, if 
 he still wished to continue to enjoy the 
 privilege of their morning walks together. 
 
 ' I think we'd better give the walks up,' 
 said Chris, fired suddenly with the resolve 
 to speak his mind upon this matter. ' I 
 believe Mr. Piggott was talking to Hope 
 the other day about seeing me so often 
 out here. He didn't mention you, he just 
 asked who I was. But I expect it would 
 come to a row if we Avent on with it much 
 longer. Blackett's such a fool ! He brags 
 to our fellows quite openly about meeting 
 you.' 
 
 ' Blackett is a fool !' said the little siren, 
 with a moue and a shrug of the shoulders,
 
 HOPE AND VERNE y's. 313 
 
 looking up at Chris with the limpid bronze- 
 brown eyes which had gained her her 
 nickname of ' Golden-eyes,' in a manner 
 that suggested it was his own and not 
 Blackett's society she was risking the bad 
 opinion of Mr. Piggott to enjoy. 
 
 ' I tell you what, Janet,' the eyes 
 tempted him to say — * I tell you what : I 
 must find some better plan than this. It'a 
 too stupid having old Blackett always at 
 our heels, and, if Mr. Piggott speaks to 
 Hope again, it will be all over with us. 
 We won't come out here again ; you must 
 tell Blackett that you can't. And then 
 I'll find out somewhere else. I'll write to 
 you. We'll outwit Messrs. Piggott and Co., 
 and manage to see a great deal of each 
 other, somewhere better than up here — 
 eh, Janet ?' 
 
 Miss West assented very readily. 
 
 Chris was glad thus to banish the danger^
 
 514 DULCIBEL. 
 
 then very imminent, that these walks were 
 to Janet, and not altogether regretful to 
 Taave this ready-made excuse for ending 
 his too close intimacy with Blackett. He 
 was quite sincere in his assurances to Janet 
 that he was * most awfully sorry not to 
 come out on the cliifs with her any more ; 
 knowing her really had made his life at 
 Endbourne so much jollier than he had 
 ever thought it could be.' 
 
 ' But we're not saying " Good-bye," 
 though — it's only good-bye to the walks. 
 I shall devise a scheme for seeing you 
 somewhere else pretty soon.' 
 
 ' Chris, you will come to see me ? This 
 isn't an excuse to give me up ? 0, Chris, 
 you're not going to do that ! Tell me 
 truthfully.' 
 
 She turned the little dark face away 
 from him, and Chris fancied there had 
 been tears in the pretty eyes when he
 
 HOPE AND VERNEY's. 315 
 
 once more induced her to look his way, 
 not being at that time learned in the wiles 
 of such young women. He over-eagerly 
 hastened to reassure her. 
 
 ' Give you up, Janet dear. No ! Why, 
 I'd do anything for you. I'll come out 
 for w^alks with you still, if you like. I'll 
 w^alk up and down in front of Piggott's 
 office-window arm-in-arm with you now, 
 if you'll let me !' 
 
 ' Oh, Chris !' 
 
 ' It's horrid of you to distrust me, I 
 declare, Janet. Why, what can I do 
 to prove how much I really care about 
 you ?' And the foolish boy put his arm 
 round the small leather-belted waist, 
 and held the shabbily-gloved hands in the 
 pressure of his own for a minute, while 
 Janet, thankful that the little Piggotts 
 and Blackett did not inopportunely re- 
 appear, felt a sense of possession and of
 
 316 DULCIBEL. 
 
 triumph, and of security for many weeks^ 
 of pleasure that might be anticipated after 
 such unreserved expressions of Chris's de- 
 sire to please. 
 
 But the walk together that day was the 
 last opportunity these two had of seeing 
 one another for many weeks to come. 
 Janet had to leave Endbourne on a visit 
 with her pupils before she received the 
 promised letter from Chris, and, when she 
 returned there, he had left for the summer 
 vacation, which he was to spend, not at 
 Basildene, but with Durley and Wood, at 
 the continental establishment of Messrs. 
 Hope and Verney, at Vevay, in Switzerland. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON: TRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE^