iiiiilr^^:::ii III 
 
 
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 ■■■'■"liili :;
 
 LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
 AT URBANA-CHAMPAICN 
 
 823 
 
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 A WILT WIDOW, 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS 
 
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 3 vols. 
 
 HURST & BLACKETT, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
 
 A WILY WIDOW 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY CRESSWELL 
 
 ALTHOK OF 
 
 A MODERN GREEK HEROINE," '* THE SINS OF THE FATHERS, 
 
 "INCOGNITA," "THE SURVIVORS," ETC. 
 
 '* Beware of the wrath of the dove. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 
 
 LBOI 
 
 1888. 
 All Rights Reserved.
 
 
 A WILT WIDOW. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ' Yes, Brown, you are right. It will make 
 a deal of difference who gets the place. 
 Well : good-night.' 
 
 With his great-coat collar turned up 
 high about his ears (for the October 
 night was cold) Dr. Gregg descended the 
 steps of the South Western Bank, Lyn- 
 ham; and directed his steps towards his 
 own house at the other end of the street. 
 
 Brown was quite right. It would make 
 a deal of difference who got the place. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 For instance, if a large family came to 
 live there, wealthy, but none of tliem in 
 good health, that would make a diifer- 
 ence to Doctor Gregg himself Or a man 
 of position with a little public spirit ; that 
 would be a God-send to everyone. Where- 
 as, on the contrary, if the j)lace again fell 
 into the hands of a miserly old hunks, 
 there would be one more chance lost for 
 Lynham. And at Lynham, ^ chances ' 
 were rare. 
 
 The little town of Lynham — it is not 
 worth while to look for it on the map — 
 lies hidden, in one of the most sequestered 
 parts of the Dorsetshire coast, in a narrow 
 and secluded valley, shut in on every side 
 from the surrounding world by high, steep 
 hills. No one has yet thought of making 
 a ^ sea-front ' at Lynham, nor of inventing 
 curious diagrams to show how much more
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 3 
 
 the sun shines and how much less rain 
 falls there than anywhere else in England ; 
 nor even of discovering that the climate — 
 like that of all the known watering- 
 places — is a certain cure for most of the 
 ills that hurry poor humanity to the 
 tomb. So Lynham remains a primitive 
 little place. Down by the beach there is 
 an old church on one side of the nar- 
 row valley, and on the other side a small, 
 and very tolerable, old-fashioned inn that 
 calls itself the ' London Hotel.' Between 
 the tAVO a little esplanade extends, built 
 by the munificence of a former lord of the 
 manor, and believed by the natives to be 
 one of the finest promenades in Europe. 
 Then there is a High Street, and a Church 
 Street, and three or four other streets, 
 with about a dozen houses in each of 
 them; and after that only cottages and 
 
 B 2
 
 4 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 the rectory, and a few picturesque little 
 houses clotted here and there ; one, unten- 
 anted, up the Mill Lane, a pretty little 
 place covered with jasmine, and another, 
 even more secluded, nearly a mile out of 
 the town in a hollow on the cliif, called 
 Cliff Cottage : of which more anon. 
 
 In the same direction, but further in- 
 land is Lynhurst, once the country seat 
 of the Lynhursts of Lynhurst, lords of the 
 manor of Lynham, and county people of 
 a little importance. The family is now 
 extinct. The last of the Lynhursts 
 (he who built the esplanade) ruined 
 himself with speculation, and expensive 
 faddles, and afterwards died childless. 
 Lynhurst was sold, and passed rapidly 
 from owner to owner, faring ever worse 
 and worse, until the poverty of some, 
 and the neglect of others, and the indif-
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 5 
 
 ference of all, had reduced the estate — 
 sadly curtailed of its original propor- 
 tions — to a miserable condition of ruin 
 and dilapidation. 
 
 It had been a pretty spot. Xot, it is 
 true, one of those stately homes that are 
 fairy-lands of rolling lawns, and glassy 
 lake.'?, and lordly forest trees ; but a fair 
 place, with woods climbing the hills, and 
 a. broad, well-timbered valley opening 
 before the house, and a glimpse in the 
 distance of the Channel. The mansion 
 itself, the last of the Lynhursts rebuilt. 
 It was a largish house, of two storeys, 
 forming three sides of a square with a 
 long verandah in front, not very pic- 
 turesque, but, within, roomy and com- 
 fortable ; though, like ever}' thing else at 
 Lynhurst, fallen into a shockingly ruinous 
 condition.
 
 b A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 Still, of course, the place might be done 
 up, the house restored, and the dilapida- 
 tions of the estate put into repair, and 
 then Lynhurst might be as pretty a spot 
 as ever. Nature does not wear out. And 
 if some one would come with a pocket full 
 of money, and do all that, that would be a 
 fine thing for Lynhara. 
 
 For the last fifteen years Lynhurst had 
 been in the possession of a particularly 
 sour and unsociable old bachelor, who had 
 been in evil odour with everyone. Un- 
 deniably he had allowed the place to go 
 to rack and ruin in a shameful way, and 
 he was niggardly and mean to a degree. 
 But perhaps the old fellow could have 
 told some things his neighbours little sus- 
 pected. How hard it was for him to find 
 the money to pay the interest on the 
 crushing mortgages, and what sort of
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 7 
 
 weight that is which falls on an old man's 
 heart when his circumstances demand of 
 him the spirit and energies of youth. At 
 any rate, the old gentleman's shortcomings 
 do not concern this story. At the time 
 when it begins he had just been buried a 
 week, and all Lynham was on the tiptoe 
 of curiosity ; and everyone, except the 
 very poorest — the only persons in the 
 place whose occupations were large enough 
 to till their lives — was talking about Avho 
 would have Lynhurst, and what would 
 ensue. 
 
 As Brown the banker said, it would 
 make a deal of difference who got the 
 place. And Dr. Gregg was not the only 
 person who agreed with him. 
 
 A tall, thin man was the doctor, with 
 light hair and whiskers, and a rather 
 cadaverous face that seemed to be entirely
 
 8 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 made of sharp points — sharp cheek-bones, 
 a sharp nose, a sharp chin, sharp pointed 
 lips, sharp ends to his short whiskers, and 
 a sharply prominent forehead. 
 
 But the doctor had not at all the air of 
 being intellectually a sharp man. Rather 
 the contrary. As is mostly the case with 
 these pointed-faced people, he looked like 
 a vague man. 
 
 The doctor soon reached his own home. 
 It was a double-fronted house, with iron 
 railings before it, and wire blinds in the 
 lower windows. Two very large brass 
 plates, one attached to the iron railings, 
 and the other to the surgery door, an- 
 nounced that Dr. G. Gregg was M.D., sur- 
 geon, and M.R.C.S., and neither the doctor 
 himself nor any of his patients had ever 
 observed that that was saying the same 
 thing twice over.
 
 A TVILY WIDOW. y 
 
 The doctor hung up his coat and hat in 
 the hall, and proceeded towards the draw- 
 ing-room. A sound of eager conversation, 
 mingled with merry laughter, came through 
 the door. Mrs. Gve^^ had a Cambrido^e 
 man staying in the house for a few days, 
 and had asked one or two friends to tea. 
 When the doctor entered, he found them 
 all sitting round a table on which a pack 
 of cards had been thrown aside. There is 
 no occasion to describe particularly either 
 the doctor's little wife or the rector's 
 daughters, two plain, ladylike, countrified 
 girls, without a trait to distinguish them 
 from a thousand other of their class. But 
 two other ladies sat at the round table 
 who merited attention. 
 
 One of them was a vouno: widow: a 
 handsome brunette, in the opinion of some 
 people a very handsome brunette, of five-
 
 10 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 and-twenty, who looked younger than she 
 was, in fact, of so girlish an appearance that 
 her title of Mrs. seemed to be a mistake. 
 Scarcely above the middle height, she had 
 a pretty figure, and a charming head and 
 neck. Her face was a striking face, finely 
 chiselled, delicate, intellectual, Avith deeply 
 cut features, and an expression a little 
 sad, a little arch, a little reticent, a little 
 romantic, and altogether very difiicult to 
 decipher. Men who looked at her once 
 invariably looked at her again, to get 
 some better understanding of her wide 
 low forehead, and her deeply-shaded, dark, 
 enigmatical eyes, her round, wilful chin, 
 and her little mouth, firm, with narrow, 
 blood-red lips. And if the low forehead 
 appeared, on a second view, a morsel cruel, 
 if her lips seemed to close a little coldly, 
 who would have a brunette without steel
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 11 
 
 in her composition? At moments slie 
 looked like an unhappy woman, and she 
 was no flirt, as the Cambridge undergradu- 
 ate, who had been smitten on the spot, had 
 discovered with regret. 
 
 The charms of the other were of a 
 diiFerent kind. 
 
 This was simply a lively, pretty, frank 
 young girl, fresh as a rose, with a broad 
 dash of spirit in her fine eyes and her 
 easy bearing. One look at her open brow, 
 her clear blue eyes, sparkling like two 
 stars, her guileless lips, and her fearless, 
 direct reo-ard, was enou2;h to tell that she 
 was of a generous nature, innately noble^ 
 and untainted, hitherto, by contact with 
 the world. She was taller than the widow 
 by a good inch, and so, distinctly above 
 the average height, with a slight, girlish 
 figure, a small waist, sloping shoulderSj
 
 12 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 and a long, flexible neck. Her face was 
 rather small, a mignonne face, full of a 
 certain artlessness, but saucy too, with a 
 touch of childish espieglerie that lurked in 
 her soft eyes, and her rosy cheeks, and 
 about her little dimpled chin. Her eye- 
 brows were exquisitely pencilled, arched, 
 and two or three shades darker than her 
 hair, of a light, soft brown — crisp and 
 abundant. Her ripe little lips had a look 
 of such sweetness, with such an air, too, 
 of ' Why don't you kiss us ?' that the 
 temptation to comply would have been 
 altogether irresistible, if there had not 
 been about her, for all her childishness, 
 and all her pretty mischievousness, clear 
 evidence of other qualities in her character 
 that would have made an impudence dif- 
 ficult to offer her. As she rose, with the 
 rest, to greet the doctor, turning her head
 
 A TVILY WIDOW. 18^ 
 
 quickly, and smiling as she held out her 
 small, narrow hand, a charming dignity 
 of girlish grace mixed with her rapid 
 movements. And, as she put her hand 
 into the doctor's, and, looking straight 
 into his eyes, said, in her clear, musical 
 voice, the common-place, ' How do you do, 
 Dr. Gregg?' there was a sincerity in her 
 regard, and in the tone of her greeting, 
 which showed that, if she was artless 
 and light-hearted, still she carried in 
 her breast a soul intrinsically noble and 
 sincere. 
 
 She was much better dressed than the 
 widow, whose silk gown was a tiny bit 
 shabby, and did not, in the exactest accep- 
 tation of the word, fit. Indeed, she was by 
 far the best-dressed person in the room. 
 The fact may as well be mentioned at 
 once : that, when Lily Hardwick became
 
 14 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 on e-and- twenty, she would have a very 
 pretty little fortune; and so having nice 
 clothes from London was for her one of the 
 simplest things in life. 
 
 They had all sat down again, and the 
 doctor, alluding to the laughter he had 
 overheard in the hall, begged that his 
 arrival might not interrupt their amuse- 
 ments, and asked what was going on. 
 
 ' Well — I was proposing a little problem 
 — a sort of problem of the imagination,' 
 said the Cambridge man. ' It was not 
 original, but ' he paused. 
 
 ^ But I want to hear the end of it, 
 please,' demanded the young heiress, with 
 that species of authority which pretty girls 
 are very apt to assume. 
 
 The Cambridge man went on. 
 
 'Well — I was saying, Dr. Gregg, that 
 suppose there was an old Tartar in Tartary
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 15 
 
 — oh. you have heard all alDOut it, I am 
 sure — and suppose that, if that old Tartar 
 died, you came into a very large for- 
 tune. And if you did something very 
 simple ; say, took this thimble ' — he had 
 a thimble under his hand, and was rolling 
 it about on the table — ' and put it down 
 so ' — suiting his action to his words, he 
 put down the thimble on the table-cloth, 
 as if he were extino-uishino^ a candle with 
 it — 'and put that old Tartar out, you see, 
 without anybody but yourself knowing 
 anything about it : well — would you do 
 it ? I don't mind confessing that I — well ; 
 I am afraid I should be much tempted to 
 put out that Tartar.' 
 
 And he put down the thimble again as 
 if extinguishing a candle with it, and 
 then, looking up quickly at one of the 
 rector's daughters, asked,
 
 16 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ^ Well, Miss Wood ; what do you say T 
 ' But that would be murder ; just as if 
 you killed him in any other way/ replied 
 the girl. 
 
 '- But I should not be found out, you 
 know — and the fortune T 
 
 ' I should do it, I know,' said the other 
 Miss Wood. ' I know it would be awfully 
 wicked. But Vm sure I should not be able 
 to resist the temptation.' 
 
 * We ought to pray to resist temptation,' 
 remarked her sister, solemnly. 
 
 ' I'd not do it ; not for millions,' ex- 
 claimed the heiress, in her clear, ringing 
 voice, without waiting to be asked. 
 
 'Not really. Miss Hardwick?' asked the 
 Cambrido-e man. 
 
 ' Certainly not !' 
 
 'You know he is awfully old. He can't 
 last long anyway,' said the undergraduate
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 17 
 
 with a droll earnestness that made everyone 
 laugh. 
 
 And, with his eyes fixed on Lily Hard- 
 wick, he beojan bringing the thimble down 
 again. 
 
 ' No. you shan't !' exclaimed the girl, 
 stretching out her arm and snatching the 
 thimble out of his hand. 
 
 The doctor, standing by the table, 
 laughed. 
 
 The Cambridge man turned to the young 
 widow. 
 
 *And you, Mrs. Gainsborough,* he 
 said. 
 
 Leanin^r forward with her elbows on the 
 table the wddow had been watching all that 
 was soinor forward, with sin^jular attention. 
 Her thin crimson lips were tightly pressed 
 together, and not a shade of change passed 
 over the expression of her sculpturesque 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 face, still as marble. But her strange, 
 dark eyes went from one to another of the 
 group before her as they spoke, and she 
 seemed to watch for what each would say, 
 and to con the expression of their faces 
 with an inordinate interest. Every time, 
 too, that the thimble slowly descended to 
 extinguish the imaginary Tartar's exist- 
 ence, her eyes fixed themselves on it in a 
 fascinated glance. Now that she was 
 addressed she moved, almost as if unex- 
 pectedly awakened from a reverie. 
 
 'What do I say?' she repeated, and 
 meditatively lifted her fingers to her lips. 
 ' But — you see ' — she looked at the Cam- 
 bridge man — * the thing is impossible.' 
 
 ' Unluckily,' admitted the undergra- 
 duate so seriously that they all laughed 
 again. 
 
 ' Yet,' he went on, ' do you know, I
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 19 
 
 once heard of something that comes very 
 near it. If I may tell a little story ?' 
 
 ' Oh, do !' exclaimed the girls. 
 
 * Some years ago a scientific man, a 
 friend of one of our tutors, was showini:: 
 some chemical experiments to a number of 
 school-girls. They were very intelligent 
 girls, big girls, who had been attending 
 chemical lectures at a first-class school. 
 They asked him a number of questions, 
 and got him to show them various elements 
 and compounds that they had heard of but 
 never seen ; and, among other things, they 
 asked to be shown some of the poisons. 
 Some days afterwards, going to look on his 
 shelves, he found that one of the most 
 dangerous of his poisons had been stolen. 
 And he believed one of the girls had taken 
 it. If so, there is somewhere in the world 
 a lady — for she is of course grown up by 
 
 c 2
 
 20 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 this time — who could dispose of any of us 
 as simply as I could of the Tartar — if Miss 
 Hard wick would kindly give me back my 
 thimble.' 
 
 The girls regarded each other with wide 
 eyes. 
 
 ' What was the poison ?' asked Doctor 
 Gregg. 
 
 * I believe it was aconite.' 
 
 ' Is that very poisonous stuff, Doctor 
 Gregg ?' asked Lily Hardwick. 
 
 * Yes : a very small dose is fatal.' 
 
 'But can it not be easily detected, 
 doctor ?' enquired the widow. ' I have an 
 idea that I have heard my father — he was a 
 medical man, you know — say that it could.' 
 
 'Well, Mrs. Gainsborough,' replied the 
 doctor, speaking gravely, and with much 
 authority, ' in some cases this poison can 
 be very easily detected ; in fact '
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 21 
 
 What more he might have said remained 
 unfinished, for at this moment the rector 
 was announced and entered the room. He 
 had himself come to fetch his daughters 
 home, because he had some news to bring 
 the doctor. His wife had had a letter 
 from a friend in town who had heard all 
 about Lynhurst. 
 
 The late owner of the estate had be- 
 queathed it to a Mr. Warrington. Mr. 
 Warrington was a young man of some 
 property, it seemed, and was shortly to be 
 married. But Mr. Warrington had no 
 wish to live in the country, and meant to 
 sell the place. 
 
 So it still remained to be seen what 
 would become of Lynhurst.
 
 22 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 But man proposes and — woman disposes. 
 
 Later this same evening the new pro- 
 prietor of Lynhurst, who had recently been 
 the object of so much curiosity in the 
 Dorsetshire town, and his intended bride, 
 sat talking together in the large drawing- 
 room of a house in Welmore Street, Caven- 
 dish Square. 
 
 The fiancee — she was his cousin — was in 
 a low seat a little distance from the fire, 
 leaning back idly, and listening to what he 
 was saying to her as he bent over her 
 chair.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 23 
 
 She was a good-looking girl — nothing 
 more : a blonde, with a blonde's fine com- 
 plexion and a graceful figure, and a 
 classical face, a trifle passionless and 
 reserved. 
 
 But he was a distinctly handsome man. 
 Tallish, dark, about six-and-twenty, with 
 a well-knit figure, athletic, and justly pro- 
 portioned, with a strong, deeply-cut fkce 
 that had aristocratic features and keen, 
 penetrating eyes of the sort that attract 
 those women who like to feel a little awe 
 for what they admire. There was, how- 
 ever, nothing awe-inspiring in his appear- 
 ance this evening, as he stood leaning over 
 his betrothed with that easy, masculine 
 grace which appears merely natural, but is 
 never achieved except by perfectly well- 
 bred gentlemen, chatting to her in a 
 pleasant playful tone of his fine flexible
 
 24 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 voice, and compelling her to be amused, 
 even in spite of herself, in a manner 
 that revealed him — whatever resolute- 
 ness or inflexibility he might have in 
 reserve — as a good-natured fellow, with 
 a strong vein of chivalry in his 
 character, and a natural penchant for 
 honest, perhaps almost blunt, straight- 
 forwardness. 
 
 The girl listened apathetically, dropping 
 now and then a few words, and smiling 
 softly when he said anything that amused 
 her ; for the rest employing herself merely 
 with holding her fire-screen between her 
 face and the flames, and remarking from 
 time to time, ' I wonder where Essie can 
 be.' To all appearance she was a little 
 bored. 
 
 Presently the door opened softly, 
 and a girl came into the room — the ex-
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 25 
 
 pected Essie. As lier eyes fell on her sister 
 and her lover by the fire, she stopped, 
 and entertained herself for a minute 
 or two with regarding them. There 
 was a twinkle of amusement in her 
 eyes. 
 
 She was prettier than her sister, though 
 her features were less correct. She had 
 all the appearance, too, of being a good 
 deal brighter. Her light tall figure 
 seemed created for rapid motion, and in 
 her playful face, with its high cheek-bones, 
 sharp nose, little roguish lips, and laugh- 
 ing eyes, stood a pretty plain confession 
 of a waywardness, capable, when the 
 humour took her, of pranks that at one- 
 and- twenty, which was her age, may be 
 serious. 
 
 All she said to herself, while watching 
 the couple at the other end of the room,
 
 26 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 was, 'Ah, Mr. Frank Warrington, make the 
 most of it, my dear cousin !' Then, with 
 the step of a cat, she crossed to them. 
 
 She had stood a full minute close to 
 Frank Warrington's side before he or her 
 sister saw her. 
 
 Then, laughing, he said, 
 
 ' Ah, here you are at last. I've per- 
 suaded grandfather.' 
 
 'And he will let us go?' exclaimed the 
 girl, with an eagerness in which appeared 
 some seriousness. 
 
 ' Yes ; both you and Violet. I have told 
 Violet.' 
 
 ' And I have told Frank, Essie, that he 
 had better breakfast with us to-morrow,* 
 said Violet. 
 
 ' Yes, do, cousin !' said Essie. 
 
 ' Well, I will then.' 
 
 ' And we will all drive to the station
 
 A TVILY WIDOW. 27 
 
 together. And, Violet,' she continued, 
 turning to her sister, ' as we shall have to 
 breakfast to-morrow at nine instead of half- 
 past ten we had better ^o to bed soon.' 
 
 ^AYell, then, I'll be off,' said Frank 
 Warrington. 
 
 Violet rose and he put his arm round 
 her and kissed her, and, having shaken 
 hands with her sister, took his departure, 
 saying, 
 
 ' To-morrow at nine.' 
 
 Essie listened for his steps descending 
 the stairs, and for the front door to close 
 after him. Then she turned quickly to her 
 sister. 
 
 * Oh ! I say, Violet !' she exclaimed. 
 Struck with a sudden thought, she went 
 on, ' Violet, Frank has over-persuaded 
 grandpapa for the instant, but nothing is 
 more likely than that the horrid old
 
 28 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 thing will change his mind again. And 
 you know how he went on at dinner 
 Let us go to bed before he comes up 
 stairs.' 
 
 'What for? What does it matter? 
 asked Violet, who had sat down again 
 leaning back idly in her chair. 
 
 ' It seems to me it matters a good deal, 
 replied Essie. ' Suppose grandpapa should 
 not let us go ?' 
 
 But her sister would not move.
 
 29 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 However, when the next morning War- 
 rington appeared for breakfast at a little 
 after nine, the girls welcomed him with 
 their things on, already dressed for their 
 journey. 
 
 It was a bright October morning, calm 
 and rather cold. 
 
 An hour later the northern express, 
 standing by the long departure platform at 
 Saint Pancras, was rapidly taking up the 
 last of its passengers and their luggage. 
 The minute hand on the giant clock-face at
 
 30 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 the end of tlie imposing station had nearly- 
 reached the hour, and the clipping of 
 tickets had commenced, and the closing of 
 carriage-doors. 
 
 Warrington, standing on the edge of the 
 platform, by the window of one of the 
 first-class carriages, was talking to Violet, 
 and from time to time looking over his 
 shoulder at the bookstall. 
 
 ' I don't see Essie,' he said. 
 
 ' Oh, Essie is sure to come in time, 
 Frank,' said Violet, reassuringly. 
 
 And, as she spoke, Essie slipped out of 
 the booking-office, and, passing through 
 the crowd on the platform, came over to 
 where Warrington stood, coming up to him 
 with her noiseless step just as the ticket- 
 inspector reached the carriage, Avhich he 
 opened for her. 
 
 She sat down opposite her sister, by the
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 31 
 
 window. At the other end of the carriage 
 was the lady's-maid, a discreet-looking 
 parisiemie^ with an impenetrable and im- 
 perturbable French face. 
 
 Whilst the official clipped the tickets, 
 "Warrington for the moment stood back 
 from the window. Then, resuming his 
 place, he said, speaking to both the 
 girls, 
 
 ' I shall tell grandfather that I saAv you 
 safely off, and that you had a compart- 
 ment to yourselves. The guard has 
 promised me not to put anyone in at 
 Kentish Town, and the train does not stop 
 afterwards until you reach Kettering, so 
 you will have the carriage to yourselves 
 all the way. Mrs. Eversfield will be sure 
 to meet you on the Kettering platform, and 
 you have Felicite with you. So I think 
 I may tell grandfather not to fidget,
 
 32 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 seeing that you are about as perfectly safe 
 as it is possible to be.' 
 
 ' Always supposing that there is not a 
 railway accident, you know,' said Essie. 
 
 ' Heaven forbid it !' remarked her sister, 
 with greater solemnity than the unlikely 
 suggestion demanded. 
 
 ' At any rate, ' ran on Essie, ' if any- 
 thing does happen to us, it will be all 
 cousin Frank's fault, won't it, Frank ? Be- 
 cause if it had not been for your persuading 
 him, and promising to see us off, grand- 
 papa would never have let us go. If any- 
 thing goes wrong it will be your doing, 
 won't it ?' 
 
 ' We will hope that nothing will go 
 wrong,' said Warrington, easily. 
 
 'No, but seriously, Frank,' returned 
 Essie, in another tone, Sve are awfully 
 obliged to you for having persuaded
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 33 
 
 grandpapa, and having managed it all for 
 us ; for we should never have done it with- 
 out you. Grandpapa always gets cross 
 and impatient, when we try to bring him 
 to any reason.' 
 
 Whilst she spoke Violet Chesterfield 
 looked through the side window, an ask- 
 ance look at Frank Warrington, a very 
 strange look. When her sister had done 
 speaking, she added her thanks languidly, 
 a sort of echo only of what the other had 
 said, and asked, 
 
 ' Is it not almost time for the train to 
 start ?' 
 
 ' In about two minutes.' Warrington 
 looked up and down the train, and then 
 went on, ' I shall come to meet you this 
 evening.' 
 
 ' Thanks,' said Violet, in the same cold 
 tone. 
 
 VOL. 1. D
 
 34 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 A shadow crossed the man's handsome 
 face, a shadow of pain, but a momentary 
 one only. It was not difficult to under- 
 stand that shadow. The case between him 
 and the girl was only too plain. The old 
 story, ^ En amour il y a toujour s wi quiaime 
 et un qui se laisse aimer. ^ And the love 
 was on his side, a man's blunt love, with 
 its unselfish tenderness. On her side 
 existed, perhaps, some admiration for a 
 handsome, accomplished man, certainly 
 nothing more ; and a cruel indifference to 
 his seeing it. Nothing breathes more piti- 
 less than a woman who is loved by a man 
 whom she does not love. All the histories 
 of the worst of tyrants and inquisitors, 
 and of the cruellest tortures to which their 
 victims have been subjected, offer no ex- 
 ample of a heartlessness so bitter as that 
 with which a woman will, mthout hesita-
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 35 
 
 tion, wound the gentlest feelings of a lover 
 for whom she has no affection. 
 
 ' Oh, Frank, do you know,' recommenced 
 Essie, ' we were so awfully amused at some- 
 thing we heard the other night at Mrs. 
 Phillips's. I must tell you about it. It 
 tickled our fancy so enormously. It was 
 such an awfully funny story, and your 
 coming to see us off has made me think of 
 it. I hope I shall have time to tell you 
 before the train starts. Mrs. Phillips has 
 a niece, or a cousin, or something, I really 
 forget what exactly. And she — I mean 
 the cousin — lived with her great-aunt, or 
 her great-uncle, or her great something. 
 And she was eno-ao-ed to a man for whom 
 she did not care a bit — you understand.' 
 
 Frank Warrington nodded assent. From 
 her corner Violet Chesterfield was regard- 
 ing her sister with a certain degree of 
 
 D 2
 
 36 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 curiosity. Apparently this story was new 
 to her. 
 
 ' Well,' went on Essie, ^ this girl was 
 engaged to this man, a Mr. — really I for- 
 get his name — we will say Smith. And 
 she could not for the life of her discover 
 how she was to escape from having to 
 marry him. I can't tell you all about 
 that. It would take too long. Anyhow 
 the time slipped by, and at last the 
 wedding-day was fixed, and the girl grew 
 positively desperate, when, all of a sudden, 
 she hit upon a plan. It really was so aw- 
 fully funny I can't help laughing when I 
 think of it.' 
 
 And she began to laugh. 
 
 ' Are you crazy, Essie ?' interrupted 
 Violet, in a low cold voice, from her 
 corner. 
 
 ' Why ? Why should I not tell Frank? '
 
 A WILY WIDOW. S7 
 
 demanded Essie. ' The story is no secret.' 
 ' I am sure Frank does not want to hear 
 it. Don't listen, Frank.' 
 
 * No. But it is a very funny story,' 
 insisted Essie. 'Xow, Frank, listen. This 
 mrl manaijed to jfet an invitation from 
 her ;^odmother to come and pay her a 
 visit before her wedding. The godmother 
 had been always awfully kind to her ; 
 like Violet's godmother, Mrs. Eversfield, 
 3^ou know. I don't know where the god- 
 mother lived. But it was near Dover. 
 The girl's friends refused to let her go. 
 So she appealed to Smith to help her, 
 and he agreed. She got away from home 
 on the sly, and the amorous Smith met 
 her, and accompanied her to Victoria 
 Station, and put her into the Dover train 
 and promised to come and meet her again 
 in the evening. You understand ?'
 
 38 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' Well, the train started all right. And 
 — that is the end of the story.' 
 
 * How so ?' asked Warrington. 
 
 ^ Why — can't you see ?' 
 
 ' She never came back ?' 
 
 ' Never ^ said Essie, with a shake of her 
 pretty head, and a look of the drollest 
 solemnity. ' But, don't you see, the joke 
 of it was that it was Smith that had 
 assisted her to escape from himself.' 
 
 The minute hand of the train had 
 reached the hour. At St. Pan eras the 
 trains start with the greatest punctuality, 
 and without the least fuss, and at the 
 same instant a guard's low whistle sounded 
 down the platform, and the train began to 
 move. 
 
 Frank Warrington walked a few paces 
 by the side of the train, shaking hands
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 39 
 
 with the girls, wishing them * Bon voyage^ 
 and adding, 
 
 ' Telegraph from Kettering.' 
 
 The speed quickening slightly, he was 
 just about to turn away from the train 
 when Violet suddenly leaned forward and 
 looked in his face. 
 
 ' Adieu^ she said, in a tone that had a 
 ring of strange significance. 
 
 And a moment afterwards, he being 
 left by that time some three or four yards 
 behind, Essie put her head out of the 
 window. 
 
 'Good-bye — Mr. Smith,' she said, 
 laughing. 
 
 Then she drew in her head, and the 
 window-sash went up with a little jerk.
 
 40 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The train rolled away, winding round the 
 curve out of the station. Frank War- 
 rington stood looking after it. Soon the 
 end of the last carriage disappeared, and 
 there was no more to be seen : only the 
 porters with their trucks, and other rail- 
 way servants, and the news-boys, and the 
 people who had come to see their friends 
 off, moving away. 
 
 Warrington turned, and took six slow 
 steps towards the way out of the station. 
 Then he stopped, and, facing about, looked
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 41 
 
 in the direction of the train that had 
 vanished. 
 
 His mind misgave him. Incredible as 
 the thing was, he could not shake off 
 a haunting misgiving that his cousin 
 Essie had been describino' to him an 
 impudent hoax of which he was himself at 
 this very moment the victim. 
 
 * But this is impossible !' he said to 
 himself. 
 
 Yet he could not make up his mind to 
 leave the station. Lighting a cigar, he 
 began walking up and down the long 
 platform. And he went to look at the 
 time-table. The train was due at Ket- 
 tering at 11.28 a.m. He might have 
 remembered that. 
 
 The train did not stop except at Kentish 
 Town between London and Kettering. 
 It would be very easy to telegraph to
 
 42 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 Kettering. Only, if really bent on mis- 
 chief, the girls might easily go on beyond 
 Kettering. 
 
 The train stopped next at Sheffield, or 
 they might change at Kettering for Not- 
 tingham. Only then, Mrs. Eversfield 
 would see them. Well, it would be easy 
 enough to telegraph to all these points : 
 "Two young ladies, sisters — tall, fair, et 
 cetera^ dressed — that would be rather more 
 difficult to describe — accompanied by a 
 French maid — should alight at Kettering, 
 and be met by a Mrs. Eversfield — suspected 
 of intention of escaping from their guardian. 
 Have train watched. Arrest ladies, if they 
 pass Kettering.' Thus Warrington to 
 himself, whilst consulting the time-table. 
 One thing he knew for certain, Mrs. Evers- 
 field would not assist the girls in any mis- 
 chief. If they alighted at Kettering, and
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 43 
 
 were met by her, all was Avell. In that 
 case, he would only have to pay for the 
 telegrams, and no one need ever know 
 anything about the matter. 
 
 He did telegraph to Kentish Town, to 
 know if by any chance the ^irls had com- 
 menced operations at once, by leaving the 
 train there. Answer in the negative. 
 
 With a jerk, Frank Warrington brought 
 his cane up under his arm, and, swinging 
 round on his heel, walked away from the 
 telegraph-office, and out of the station. 
 
 He was ashamed of himself. He ap- 
 peared to be forgetting that he was a 
 gentleman and the girls ladies. Ladies 
 and gentlemen do not do things of this 
 kind. A girl who respects herself does 
 not jilt a man without a word of explana- 
 tion a month before her wedding-day. 
 Young ladies do not go on their travels
 
 44 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ivitli no more luggage than a lady's-maid 
 and a hand-bag. Well-bred girls have 
 more regard for their own reputations 
 than to vanish in the manner related in 
 the history of Mr. Smith. The story of 
 Mr. Smith was simply a story, and 
 probably not true; it seemed doubtful 
 whether any man could be such an ass 
 as Smith — though some great fool might, 
 perhaps. 
 
 And resolving to banish from his thoughts 
 a suspicion which he was ashamed ever to 
 have entertained, he hailed a hansom, and, 
 jumping into it, named to the driver his 
 grandfather's house in "Welmore Street. 
 
 ' Is General Chesterfield down ?' he asked 
 of the boy in buttons who opened the 
 door. 
 
 'At breakfast, sir.' 
 
 Laying down his hat and stick on the
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 45 
 
 hall-table, "Warrington crossed to the dining- 
 room. 
 
 Seated at one end of the table, with his 
 back to a roaring fire, was an old man, 
 very stout, and perfectly bald, with a large 
 and very rubicund face. He was dressed 
 in a hideous flowered dressing-gown, and, 
 with a large table-napkin tucked under his 
 double or treble chin, was commencing 
 with a plate of julienne soup what was 
 evidently, from the number of things on 
 the table, to be a very long and elaborate 
 dejeuner. 
 
 * Good-morning, grandfather ; how are 
 vou this morninoj ?' said Warrinn^ton. 
 
 ^ I've got the indigestion,' growled the 
 old man, crossly. * What's the time ?' he 
 asked in the same tone, as Warrington 
 drew a chair to the side of the table. 
 
 'About half-past ten.'
 
 46 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 'And those jades of girls not down yet. 
 They treat me with no more respect than a 
 sweep. Upon my soul, I'll not put up 
 with it ! — ril not put up with it.' 
 
 'Down! They had breakfast at nine,' 
 said Warrington, sitting down. ' I break- 
 fasted Avith them. You forget. I have 
 just come back from seeing them off from 
 the station.' 
 
 ' Station ! What station ?' demanded 
 the old man, holding a spoonful of soup in 
 front of his mouth. 
 
 ' From St. Pancras.' 
 
 ' What do they want to go to St. Pancras 
 for?' 
 
 * Gone down to Kettering, you know, to 
 see Mrs. Eversiield.' 
 
 'I said they should not go down to 
 Kettering,' exclaimed the general, passion- 
 ately, turning half round in his chair to
 
 A WILY WIDOWc 47 
 
 face his grandson. And he gave the table 
 a great thump with his fist. 
 
 ' But, you know, last night you gave 
 them leave to go,' remarked Warrington, 
 altogether undisturbed at the old man's 
 temper. 
 
 ' I said they should not go. I will not 
 have them go to see Mrs. Eversfield ; and 
 they shall not go,' replied the old man, 
 still more angrily. ' I'll not have them 
 running about the country like a pair of 
 milliners.' 
 
 ' But, you see, as you gave them leave, 
 they are gone.' 
 
 * I don't care. They shall not go,' thun- 
 dered the general. ' I say they shall not 
 go. 
 
 But, bringing down his fist once more 
 to emphasize his determination, the old 
 fellow, whose sight was not so good as it
 
 4S A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 had been, this time just caught his knuckles 
 on the edge of his soup-plate, which there- 
 upon flew spinning into the air, showering 
 its contents all over himself. 
 
 * Ugh !' he exclaimed, with disgust, push- 
 ing back his chair and holding out his 
 hands as he watched the souj) dripping 
 down on the carpet. 'Here, get me a 
 napkin ; get me something. Here, James ! 
 Ugh !' 
 
 The man-servant came to his assistance, 
 the soup was wiped ofl* the carpet, a clean 
 table-napkin provided, and another plate 
 of soup. Meanwhile, Warrington explained 
 how he had seen the two girls and their 
 maid safely oiF from St. Pan eras in a com- 
 partment which they would have to them- 
 selves all the way, the general growling all 
 the time, and asserting the wilful disobe- 
 dience of the girls, and declining to hear
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 49 
 
 anything "Warrington wished to say in 
 explanation. 
 
 'Very well/ he concluded at last, pas- 
 sionately, ' very well. I wash my hands 
 of the whole affair. I said that the girls 
 should not go. I told them so last night 
 after you left. You choose to assist them 
 to disobey me. I have nothing to do 
 with it. If anything happens, it is all 
 your fault. You understand, sir, all your 
 fault. Not mine. And if you wish your 
 wife and her sister to conduct themselves 
 like milliners — very good. Only not so 
 long as they are in my house, please. You 
 have assisted them to disobey me ; and I 
 wash my hands of the whole affair.' 
 
 And he pushed his plate from him and 
 poured himself out a glass of Chablis. 
 
 Cod "a la HoUaiidaise'' succeeded the 
 julienne, and the painful subject of the 
 
 YOL. I. E
 
 50 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 Misses Chesterfield's conduct was dropped. 
 The old man was still cross, and exceeding- 
 ly huffy, but by degrees his breakfast and 
 his grandson coaxed him into a better 
 temper, and by one o'clock grandfather 
 and grandson were getting on together 
 capitally. The old man had finished his 
 breakfast, and was sipping a cup of strong 
 coffee and smoking a cigar in which War- 
 rington had joined him, standing leaning 
 against the chimney-piece. 
 
 A servant came in with a telegram for 
 the general. 
 
 ' Now, then, what's this ?' exclaimed the 
 old man, pettishly ; ' why do you bring me 
 telegrams directly after my meals ? Eh ? 
 Haven't I trouble enough to digest my 
 food, without having my stomach loaded 
 mth telegrams. Eh? AVhat's it about? 
 Take it away.'
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 51 
 
 Warrington stepped forward. 
 
 * I told the girls to telegraph as soon as 
 they reached Kettering/ he said, quietly. 
 *No doubt it is from them.' 
 
 'Very well/ said his grandfather, not 
 too pleasantly. ' Then you had better 
 look at it.' 
 
 Warrington took the telegram from the 
 servant, and, still leaning against the 
 chimney-piece, tore it open. 
 
 He turned as pale as ashes. 
 
 The telegram was not from the girls but 
 from Mrs. Eversfield. 
 
 ' Misses Chesterfield not come hy eleven 
 tiventy-eight Am 1 to expect them hy a later 
 train ^ or are tJieir plans changed? 1 wait at 
 station for reply, ^ 
 
 Warrington felt the floor giving way 
 under his feet. 
 
 Sitting up in his deep arm-chair, the
 
 52 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 general was sipping his coffee. Putting 
 down his cup he leaned back again, and 
 replacing his cigar between his lips, puffed 
 a slow cloud of smoke. 
 
 ' I am afraid there is something wrong,' 
 said Warrington, in a cold, even tone, 
 mastering himself by a strong effort. ' Mrs. 
 Eversfield telegraphs that the girls have 
 not arrived at Kettering.' 
 
 * Where are they gone, then?' 
 
 ' I don't understand it,' answered War- 
 rington, in the same quiet way. *The 
 train did not stop between London and 
 Kettering, and they must have arrived 
 there. Onlv it seems that there is some 
 mistake. — I'll telegraph to Mrs. Evers- 
 field at once,' he concluded, proceeding to 
 leave the room. 
 
 In his own mind he had no doubt at 
 all about what had happened. This was
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 53 
 
 the veritable history of the redoubtable 
 Mr. Smith. 
 
 He hastily put on his coat in the hall, 
 and snatched up his hat and stick, telling 
 the telegraph boy that he need not wait. 
 Going out he hailed the first cab he saw, 
 and, promising the cabman a handsome 
 fare, bade him drive for his life to St. 
 Pancras. 
 
 For the moment he did not know what 
 he felt most, indignation, anger, mortifica- 
 tion, or sheer stupefaction : mortification 
 at the evidently irretrievable loss of his 
 cousin, to whom he was sincerely attached ; 
 indignation at the trick that had been 
 played him ; anger with his cousin for 
 what she had done, and with himself for 
 proving so easily her dupe ; or stupefac- 
 tion at the sudden occurrence of an inci- 
 dent, so far as he could perceive, utterly
 
 54 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 unprepared, and perfectly unaccountable. 
 
 He already had a theory. The girls had 
 deliberately gone beyond Kettering. Their 
 intention was to leave the train at some sta- 
 tion further down the railway. There, some 
 accomplice would be waiting to meet them,, 
 some man, or men ; all this had not been de- 
 vised without the assistance of men. Who 
 the men might be was more difficult to 
 conjecture. The girls had an uncle, their 
 mother's brother, and they liked their uncle 
 better than their grandfather. But their 
 uncle was abroad. Other relatives they had 
 none. Presumably then the men on whose 
 assistance they were relying belonged to 
 the indefinite class most simply described 
 as ' lovers,' and these gentlemen were pro- 
 bably to be rewarded with the hands and 
 hearts of the young ladies. 
 
 ' Only, by Jove, not if I can help it,"
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 00 
 
 vowed Warrington, in the corner of his 
 cab. 
 
 Another point occurred to him. The 
 girls, if they were well advised, would not 
 go very far beyond Kettering. They could 
 hardly have left out of their calculations that 
 as soon as they were missed they would be 
 pursued by the telegraph. And they would 
 be missed as soon as they did not appear 
 at Kettering. Their device would evident- 
 ly be to quit the train at the next station 
 after Kettering in the hope of getting away 
 before there had been time for Mrs. Evers- 
 field to telegraph to the grandfather, and 
 for their grandfather to telegraph down the 
 railway to stop them. 
 
 The next place at which the express 
 stopped after Kettering was Sheffield. 
 AVas that their destination ? or had they 
 gone to Xottingham ?
 
 56 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ' I think I have them. They have been 
 mistaken in their Mr. Smith,' quoth 
 Warrington to himself. 
 
 The cab drew up with a jerk. Tossing 
 the driver half-a-crown, "Warrington rushed 
 to the telegraph office. 
 
 He telegraphed to Sheffield and to Notting- 
 ham, and, at the suggestion of the official, 
 to Chesterfield, where the train might 
 have been stopped by signal. 
 
 ' Tiuo young ladies^ sisters^ tall, fair ^ fasldon- 
 ally dressed^ accompanied by a French ladys- 
 maid^ have tickets for Kettering^ hut have gone 
 beyond that station, believed to be attemjpting to 
 escape from their guardian^ perhaps have gone 
 further^ jjlease search train and make in- 
 quiries.'' 
 
 An answer came back from Nottingham. 
 No such ladies had alighted there. Nor at 
 Chesterfield where the train had stopped.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 57 
 
 Warrington went out of the telegraph 
 office, and took a turn on the 2)latfonii, 
 considerably lighter of heart. 
 
 * You ought to have left the train before 
 this, young ladies,' he remarked, in im- 
 agination addressing the fugitives. ' I am 
 afraid thac you have not been very well 
 advised. We shall have vou now at 
 Sheffield.' 
 
 He had telegraphed to Mrs. Eversfield 
 making some sort of excuse. 
 
 Now he was waitinir for the train to 
 
 CD 
 
 reach Sheffield. 
 
 When it was due there he returned to 
 the telegraph office. 
 
 Telegram from Sheffield : ' No such ladies 
 in the train.'' 
 
 ' But this is impossible,' exclaimed War- 
 rington. ' I myself saw them leave this 
 station in the train, and if they did not
 
 58 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 alight at Kentish Town, nor at Kettering, 
 they must have been in the train when it 
 reached Sheffield.' 
 
 The telegraph clerk asserted that ^He 
 couldn't say,' with the curtness peculiar to 
 his species. 
 
 It appeared to Warrington that it was 
 very easy to say that people who had not 
 left a train must still be in it. The adven- 
 ture began to resemble magic. If Fell cite 
 had had anything bigger than a hand-bag 
 with her he would have begun to believe 
 in disguises. 
 
 Another telegram from Sheffield. 
 
 * Guard of eocpress says that two young 
 ladies similar to those described^ and accom^ 
 panied by a ladys-maid, alighted at Bedford, 
 One of the ladies ivas ill^ and the train ivas 
 stopped by signal from the carriage as it ivas 
 running into Bedford station. Train stopped
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 59 
 
 at Bedford only for a minute. Telegraph to 
 Bedford.' 
 
 One of the girls taken ill ! This was a 
 new aspect of the matter. 
 
 And of course Warrington 'telegraphed 
 to Bedford. 
 
 Answer from Bedford: 'The Scotch 
 express stopped here by signal given by 
 2)assengers. Tivo young ladies cdighted and 
 a maid with them. They had tickets for 
 Nottingham' 
 
 ' How on earth did they come to have 
 tickets for Nottingham?' wondered War- 
 rington. Were these his cousins? His 
 head began to turn on his shoulders. 
 
 Telegram to Bedford for further particu- 
 lars, and to inquire what had become of 
 the young ladies and their maid. 
 
 Reply : ' One of the young ladies was in- 
 disposed^ and her sister stopped the train just
 
 60 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 as it ivas coming into Bedford. Young ladies 
 and maid left the station shortly after their 
 arrival. Nothing is knowfi of luhere they 
 went aftenuards.'' 
 
 A suspicion of the truth rose before 
 Frank Warrington. There was a train in 
 the station shortly to start for Bedford, 
 and he went down by it. He found his 
 suspicion correct. The young ladies who 
 had stopped the express were the Misses 
 Chesterfield. Violet had found herself 
 suddenly indisposed, and Essie had stopped 
 the train. The waiting-room attendant 
 was inclined to think that the young lady 
 had nothing very serious the matter with 
 her. She refused to take anything that 
 was suggested, and, after about ten minutes, 
 said she would walk up and down the 
 platform, believing that the air would do 
 her good. After that the attendant saw
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 61 
 
 and heard no more of them until the tele- 
 gram arrived. 
 
 It was {lYe o'clock by this time, and 
 dark. The girls had had time to go almost 
 anywhere, and further inquiries about 
 them were merely ridiculous. Warrington 
 had nothing left to do but to return to 
 town to inform the general that his grand- 
 daughters had, beyond a doubt, run away, 
 and to see how the old man would like 
 it. 
 
 For his own private satisfaction, he 
 had the further knowledsre that he had 
 
 o 
 
 played the part of Mr. Smith to perfection.
 
 62 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 On reaching town, Frank Warrington drove 
 straight to General Chesterfield's. He 
 was resolved at once to acquaint the 
 general with the whole truth. To put off 
 facing inevitable mortifications is the foible 
 of those weak characters that seek to gain 
 time with some] vague hojDe of gaining, 
 with time, courage ; and weakness was not 
 among Frank Warrington's faults. 
 
 When he reached Welmore Street, the 
 general was just going to dine. Nothing 
 could have been more unfortunate, and
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 63 
 
 Warrington knew it. If he could have 
 reached the general's only a quarter-of-an- 
 hour earlier, the case would not have been 
 so utterly desperate. Kow the general 
 would be kept waiting for his dinner ; 
 he must hear vrhat Warrington had to 
 say. Then the dinner would be spoiled; 
 and the general would be furious : and the 
 passion he would put himself into would 
 entirely upset his digestion : — and, when 
 once the general's digestion was upset, his 
 self-control became a minus quantity, 
 after which everything was possible, not 
 excluding apoplexy. However, there was 
 nothing for it but to break the fatal 
 
 news. 
 
 Indeed, the general left him no choice. 
 As Warrington came in, the old man was 
 descending the stairs, and, seeing his grand- 
 son, at once demanded,
 
 64 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ' Eh, Frank, is that you ? But where — 
 where are the girls ?' 
 
 Instead of directly answering the ques- 
 tion, Warrington asked, 
 
 ' Grandfather, can I speak to you for a 
 few minutes in private ?' 
 
 ' Speak to me for a few minutes in 
 private: now: just before dinner? No 
 — certainly not, sir ! Where are those two 
 girls ?' 
 
 Receiving no answer, he ran on, angrily, 
 with an oath, 
 
 ' Not come in yet ! Eh ? Well, then, 
 I'll not have them out of the house at this 
 time of night. I'll not have it, sir ! I tell 
 you, I'll not have it !' 
 
 ' It is of no use for you to put yourself 
 into a passion, grandfather,' remarked 
 Warrington, tolerably coolly. ^ I'd rather 
 tell you in private, if you could spare a 
 couple of minutes.'
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 65 
 
 ' But — I'll not spare a couple of 
 minutes.' 
 
 ' Well, then, I suppose I must tell you 
 here,' said Warrington. (They had come 
 into the dining-room, where the men-ser- 
 vants were waiting by the sideboard.) ' The 
 girls have bolted.'' 
 
 ' What !' demanded the general, stop- 
 ping suddenly, and facing his grandson. 
 
 ' The girls have bolted,' repeated War- 
 rington. 
 
 Going to the hearth, he turned his back 
 to the fire, and stood stroking his mous- 
 tache, and looking at the general. 
 
 For a few minutes the general looked 
 dumbfounded, only trembling, and turning 
 crimson with passion. Then he stammered 
 out, in a choking voice, 
 
 ' What ! what ! gone away ! the hussies ! 
 gone : it's — it's — not true !' 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ' Perfectly true, I assure you,' answered 
 Warrington, with very tolerable com- 
 posure. 'The girls have bolted. I saw 
 them into the train at St. Pancras this 
 morning, and got them and their maid their 
 tickets. Three tickets for Kettering. They 
 did not go to Kettering. When they 
 reached Bedford they signalled to the 
 guard to stop the train. Violet said that 
 she was ill, and they were left upon the 
 Bedford platform. They went to the 
 ladies' waiting-room, and remained there a 
 few minutes. After that they must have 
 left the station, for nobody knows any 
 more about them. I have been down to 
 Bedford to make inquiries, and can ascer- 
 tain nothing.' 
 
 The serving-men standing by the side- 
 board looked at each other. 
 
 * Here, come with me,' said the general.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 67 
 
 He led the way to the library, AVarring- 
 ton following him. As soon as the door 
 was closed behind him the general began, 
 
 ' What the devil, sir, do you mean by 
 telling me a story like this before the ser- 
 vants? And listen, sir. I don't believe a 
 word of it. And I icont believe a word 
 of it. AYherc are these hussies gone ?' 
 
 Warrington related his history again, 
 with further particulars. And then he 
 told it a third time ; the general work- 
 ing himself up into a terrible passion 
 meanwhile, and vowing that he would not 
 believe a word. Howbeit, in time the 
 facts became too strong for him, and then 
 began the real scene. 
 
 First the general swore. And then, 
 falling into such a rage that he could 
 scarcely speak, he stammered out, in 
 broken sentences, amidst many very bad 
 
 f2
 
 68 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 words, that the girls were a pair of disre- 
 putable hussies, and something else a great 
 deal worse, and that they should never 
 enter his house again — that he would dis- 
 inherit them, and would alter his will that 
 very evening — that Warrington was every 
 whit as bad as the girls, and an impudent, 
 conceited donkey into the bargain — that 
 it was Warrington's fault and nobody's 
 else that the girls had finally disgraced 
 themselves ; that he, the general, did not 
 care a fig what became of any of them — 
 and that he was going to have his dinner. 
 All that might have been said in a 
 very few minutes. But the old gentleman 
 repeated each particular so many times, 
 and employed so many powerful adjectives 
 and adverbs to emphasize all he said, and 
 stammered so much, that it was past nine 
 o'clock before he and his grandson parted,
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 69 
 
 not very amicably, but less unpleasantly 
 than might have been expected. After 
 all, men understand one another, and make 
 allowances. 
 
 Going to the dining-room, the general 
 even said to himself, 
 
 ' Fm afraid the poor boy is put out about 
 the loss of his sweetheart — the hussy. 
 And confound the young coxcomb ! Help- 
 ing the hussies to disobey me ! It's all his 
 doiuo:, confound him ! But I'm afraid the 
 boy is put out about the loss of his sweet- 
 heart.' 
 
 Of course the dinner was spoiled. That 
 was a small matter compared with the 
 flight of the girls, but hardly so in the 
 eyes of the general. Anyhow, this last 
 flnal provocation proved too much for the 
 poor old fellow's already over-heated brain. 
 After pushing away a third dish with a
 
 70 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 savage ' Take it away, James. Take it 
 away. It's not fit to give to a dog/ he 
 got up from tlie table, vowing he had no 
 appetite. For an hour or two he fretted 
 about the place, sending for the servants, 
 and wanting to know why Warrington had 
 left, scolding in all sorts of unreasonable 
 ways, and grumbling about not being able 
 to eat his dinner. Then he went to bed. 
 The next morning he was complaining of 
 rheumatism in his left shoulder, and look- 
 ing as yellow as a guinea, and unable to 
 eat his breakfast.
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 About the same time that Warrington left 
 Bedford, a big, broad-shouldered man 
 between fifty and fifty-five years of age, 
 with his large hands thrust into the side 
 pockets of his dark pea-jacket, sauntered 
 into the station at Hunstanton. He was 
 a strongly built man, good-looking for his 
 years, with a bright clear eye, and a finely- 
 moulded face, expressive in a high degree 
 of both energy and good-nature, browned 
 with exposure to the sun and wind, where 
 it was not covered by his heavy moustache
 
 72 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 and enormous beard that grew high on 
 his cheeks and flowed down on his broad 
 breast. In his air there was something 
 of the man accustomed to command, and 
 something of the easy bearing of a sailor. 
 
 ' When will the train be in from Lynn ?' 
 he asked of the station-master, who was 
 standing on the platform. 
 ' Six-seventeen, sir.' 
 * It will be late to-night.' 
 ' No, sir.' 
 ' Thanks.' 
 
 The speaker turned away, and, strolling 
 along the platform, took from his pocket 
 a briar pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He 
 filled his pipe slowly, and then, having 
 lighted it, put his hands again into his 
 pockets, and, walking up and down the 
 end of the platform, smoked his pipe in a 
 leisurely fashion.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 73 
 
 When the train was signalled, he had 
 just finished. Knocking out the ashes 
 against a lamp-post, he put away his pipe, 
 and putting his hands again into his 
 pockets, sauntered to the front of the plat- 
 form with the same leisurely ease that 
 characterised all his movements. 
 
 The train rolled in. As it passed, he 
 rapidly scanned the windows of the car- 
 riages, and then a smile lighted his face. 
 
 At one of the windows were two girls 
 looking out eagerly : Violet and Essie 
 Chesterfield. 
 
 ' There is Uncle Tony,' cried Essie at the 
 same instant, as he turned and came to- 
 wards them. 
 
 A minute later the girls were both on 
 the platform, holding their uncle by his 
 arms, with their little hands on his great 
 shoulders.
 
 74 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ' Dear old Uncle Tony !' 
 
 ' So you got away, then ?' remarked their 
 uncle, smiling. 
 
 ' Oh, we had such fun !' replied Essie. 
 'Cousin Frank came to see us off; really 
 he did. Last night grandpapa said we 
 should not go, and we were in the most 
 awful fright. But Frank took our part, 
 and at last grandpapa consented. After 
 Frank had gone, grandpapa changed his 
 mind again, and said we should not go 
 after all. But grandpapa never comes 
 down to breakfast till nearly eleven, and 
 so this morning we had an early breakfast. 
 And we told Frank — he came to breakfast 
 -with us — nothing about grandpapa having 
 changed his mind. So he took us to the 
 station, and, only fancy, Uncle Tony ! he 
 got us our tickets, and everything! I could 
 have laughed ! And he told us we were
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 75 
 
 to be sure to telegrapli when we got to 
 Kettering. And he said he would come 
 to meet us at St. Pancras in the evening. 
 And, do you know, just before we started, 
 we told him a story about an imaginary 
 Mr. Smith, who was going to be married 
 to a girl who did not care for him, and 
 how the girl got him to see her oif by the 
 train, and never came back; just what we 
 were doing, you know. And he never 
 took it in, not a bit. Then all the rest we 
 did just as you told us. Violet pretended 
 that she was ill, and we stopped the train 
 at Bedford. I am sure ' — here Miss Essie 
 looked very droll — ' that the woman in the 
 ladies' waiting-room at Bedford saw that 
 we were humbugging. However, we got 
 away from her as fast as we could. Then 
 we took the train to Cambridge. And, 
 do you know, we had such an awfully
 
 76 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 jolly luncheon at Cambridge, we were so 
 hungry ! And from Cambridge we came 
 straight on here, and here we are, you see, 
 safe and sound.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Uncle Tony. ' I'm afraid 
 it's all very wrong, you know. You've no 
 luggage, I imagine, and we may just as 
 well be going.' He turned and spoke to 
 the lady's-maid, who was standing a little 
 off. ^And how are you, Felicite, quite 
 well?' 
 
 'Quite well, thank you, sir,' answered 
 Felicite, with a French accent ; ' and very 
 glad to get away from the General Chester- 
 field's house, sir.' 
 
 ' Come along, then,' said Uncle Tony to 
 the girls. ' The trunk you sent down from 
 town came last night, and was taken on 
 board this afternoon ; so we have nothing 
 to wait for.'
 
 A ^VILY WIDOW. 77 
 
 When they were in the cab, he asked, 
 
 'And the general, how did you leave 
 him ?' 
 
 ' The horrid old thing !' exclaimed Essie. 
 ' He is killing himself with eating. Fancy ! 
 the doctor has told him five times within 
 the last two months that, if he goes on 
 stuffing himself as he does, he will die of 
 it. And yet he eats enough at any meal 
 for three.' 
 
 'You have been very unhappy with 
 your grandfather?' 
 
 ' He never said a kind word to us, not 
 once, all the time we were with him,' 
 said Violet, passionately. ' We have been 
 scolded at, called names, and sworn at for 
 two years.' 
 
 ' Do you mean that he really swore at 
 you ?' 
 
 ' Rather !' said Essie.
 
 78 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ' The general's life has been a very rouo^h 
 one/ observed Uncle Tony, apologetically ; 
 ' but in his time he was a fine officer. 
 And your fiance^ my dear V he continued, 
 turning to Violet. 
 
 • Oh, I suppose he is all right,' replied 
 Violet Chesterfield, indifi*erently. ' You 
 l5:now, he is not at all a bad sort of fellow, 
 uncle. In a way I like him, only ' 
 
 ' But you must not be changing your 
 mind, my dear. It is too late to begin 
 liking him now.' 
 
 ' You quite misunderstand me,' answered 
 Violet Chesterfield, coldly. 
 
 *A11 right, niece.' 
 
 ^ I mean, uncle,' explained Violet, more 
 confidentially, ' that I could like Frank 
 well enough as my cousin — but that I 
 could never wish to marry him. I should 
 never have dreamed of such a thing, I can
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 79 
 
 assure you, only we were both of us so 
 utterly wretched with grandpapa. You 
 can't huagine what we have endured. No- 
 thing but scold, scold, scold, nag, nag, nag, 
 all day long, to say nothing of his being 
 in a perfect fury -with us at least twice a 
 week ; and almost mad whenever we said 
 we wished that we could live with you. 
 "We have been nearly beside ourselves, and 
 there seemed no way out of it, except 
 getting married. And so, when Frank 
 came home from abroad, and I saw that 
 grandpapa wanted me to marry him, I 
 accepted him. I know it was wrong ; but 
 — oh, well, T don't want to make excuses, 
 I know it was wrong.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' admitted Uncle Tony. 
 
 'Afterwards, you know, when it came 
 to marrying, I began quite to hate him, 
 thouo^h I knew he was not a bad sort of
 
 80 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 fellow. Still, when I began to see what it 
 all meant, that I was throwing myself away 
 for good and all, and should have ever 
 after to turn round and round in one fatal 
 circle of Frank, Frank, Frank, nothing but 
 Frank — never to live anywhere except with 
 Frank, never to go anywhere except with 
 Frank, never to love an3^one but Frank, 
 never have anyone to think about but 
 Frank, never any home but Frank's home, 
 and never any future but Frank's 
 future, I began to think that I should go 
 mad. And if you had not come to our 
 assistance 1 should have done something 
 desperate, I know, something awfully 
 wrong, I daresay. However, thank good- 
 ness, it's all over now, like a bad dream : 
 and I don't know that I am not a little bit 
 sorry for Cousin Frank. He has been 
 rather badly used. Still, I could not
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 81 
 
 help it. I could not have married him.* 
 
 * I don't think, you know, that you need 
 be afraid of his wanting you to do so after 
 this,' said Tony Gainsborough, drily. 
 
 ' Violet,' put in Essie, ' has been in such 
 an awful fright all day lest we should 
 be telegraphed after, and caught. I could 
 not help laughing when I thought of it. 
 It would have been such an awful climax/ 
 
 ' Ah, you were not going to be married 
 next month,' remarked Violet. 
 
 'Well, I think you may consider your- 
 selves safe now,' said the uncle ; ' unless we 
 find a policeman with a telegram waiting 
 for us on the pier.' 
 
 * You wouldn't send us back, uncle ?' 
 exclaimed Essie. 
 
 ' Well, perhaps not,' admitted Uncle 
 Tony. 
 
 But there was no policeman on the pier. 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 Only a four-oar cutter, waiting, and a man 
 with a lantern. 
 
 The girls were soon in the boat. 
 
 ' Where is the yacht, Uncle Tony ?' said 
 Violet. 
 
 ' Lying off, about a mile and a half 
 out.' 
 
 He sat down in the stern and took the 
 yoke-lines ; the girls were on his right and 
 left. 
 
 ' All ready ?' he asked. 
 
 ' No, uncle, wait a minute,' said Essie. 
 - ' What is it ?' 
 
 * Ask the man to hold the light near. I 
 am going to write a line to grandpapa. 
 May I ? It will put a stop to his hunting 
 after us all over the country, you know.' 
 
 ' All right — as you please.' 
 
 Essie drew a little pocket-book from her 
 pocket, and, having opened it on her knees,
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 83 
 
 unfastened a pencil from her watcli-chain. 
 The man with the light bent down, holdins^ 
 the lantern at her shoulder. The imper- 
 fect light fitfully illumined the boat, and 
 the calm water round it, the little group in 
 the stern-sheets, the sailors in their loose 
 shirts resting on their oars, and the iron 
 piles of the pier above them. Whilst the 
 waves sobbed and splashed against the side 
 of the boat, Essie wrote, 
 
 'Dear Grandpapa, 
 
 ' I write this on 
 my knees in Uncle Tony Gainsborough's 
 cutter, as we are waiting under the lee of 
 the pier at Hunstanton before putting olF 
 to his yacht. 4 
 
 ' Violet was quite unable to face marriage 
 
 with Cousin Frank. She is very sorry for 
 
 it, and you can tell him so ; but she does 
 
 q2
 
 84 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 not care a bit for him, and would never 
 have promised to marry him if we had 
 not wanted so dreadfully to get away from 
 No 19, Welmore Street, where we were both 
 so miserable, as you must know. However, 
 Uncle Tony has promised us that neither 
 of us shall ever come back to live with you 
 — so we will let bygones be bygones, and 
 say no more about how wretched you 
 have made us every day for two whole 
 long years. 
 
 ' We have left a lot'of things behind us. 
 You can do just what you like with them, 
 and we have paid all our bills. 
 
 ' It will be of no use for either you or 
 Cousin Frank to hunt after us. But, as 
 you might feel inclined to do so, I am 
 unable to tell you anything about our 
 plans. 
 
 ' Violet and I hope that you will think
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 85 
 
 of what Dr. Beauchamp told you, and leave 
 off over-eating yourself. — Your affectionate 
 and dutiful grand-daughter, 
 
 ' Essie Chesterfield.' 
 
 She had brought with her an envelope 
 directed to General Chesterfield, and she 
 slip])ed the paper into it. Tony Gains- 
 borough passed it over to the man who 
 held the lantern, giving him a shilling 
 and telling him to post it. Then he gave 
 the Avord, 
 
 • Give way.' 
 
 And the cutter left the jetty, cleaving 
 her way, through the calm, gently rippling 
 water, to where the lights of the steam- 
 yacht shone out at sea.
 
 86 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Fro?»i his grandfather's house, Warrington 
 went to his own chambers. It was a relief, 
 after a day of excitements and fatigues of 
 so unpleasant a kind, to find himself, once 
 more, at last at home, and he put the 
 latch-key into the lock of his own door 
 with a feeling of coming into port, after 
 shipwreck, it is true, but, still coming into 
 port. 
 
 He passed through the small lobby, and 
 entered the dining-room. 
 . A bright fire blazed on the hearth, and a
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 87 
 
 lamp on the table shed a pleasant light 
 around the comfortable, rather tastefully 
 furnished room. Folding-doors leading 
 into the next room were open, and there 
 the clicking of some machine at work was 
 audible. 
 
 A man sittin^rat a little table was busilv 
 at work with a Remington type-writer. As 
 Frank Warrington approached him, he 
 spoke, without looking up. 
 
 ' Why, Frank, where have you been all 
 day?' 
 
 ' Where, indeed ? You may well ask, 
 my dear Eustace,' replied Warrington, 
 throwino^ himself into a bi": arm-chair. 
 
 The other rose, and came towards him. 
 
 He was Frank Warrington's brother, 
 and very like him; nearly of the same 
 height, but fairer and much more slightly 
 built, and with more delicate features:
 
 88 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 features tliat presented less of actual 
 masculine handsomeness, but more of 
 sculpturesque refinement; a finer, more 
 spiritual type — if the term may pass — 
 something almost feminine, that was en- 
 hanced by the pensive expression of a face 
 in which, though it had a light of its own, 
 there was a great blank : for the eyes were 
 closed. Eustace Warrington was blind. 
 
 ' Why, what has happened ?' he asked, 
 sitting down in the chair opposite his 
 brother with that perfect ease of the blind 
 which suggests the idea of sight being a 
 rather superfluous accomplishment. 
 
 ' In the first place,' replied Frank 
 Warrington, ' it is all over between me and 
 Violet.' 
 
 'Finally?' 
 
 'Finally, Eustace,' answered Warrington, 
 with emphasis.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 89 
 
 ' And how so ?' asked the blind man, 
 very quietly. 
 
 ' The girls have bolted from grandfather.' 
 
 ' Where are they gone ?' 
 
 'That we don't know.' 
 
 Eustace Warrington leaned forward and 
 seemed to think. 
 
 ' Grandfather has treated them very 
 badly,' he said, meditatively, *and they 
 have been very unhappy with him.' Then, 
 raising himself, he said : ' Where and how 
 did all this happen ?' 
 
 Warrington related the history of the 
 day, and made no scruple about express- 
 ing his opinion of the Misses Chesterfield's 
 behaviour. 
 
 Talking is intoxicating. A man may 
 think much, and feel deeply ; but, whilst 
 he only thinks and feels within himself, 
 it is singular how little his passions are
 
 90 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 moved, either by his feelings or by his 
 speculations. It is when he proceeds to 
 speak, to give his soul utterance in the 
 hearing of other men, that he is carried 
 away. Telling his brother what had 
 occurred, Warrington became very soon 
 bitter beyond measure. And, still, harsh 
 as the things were that he said, none of 
 his language seemed to himself sufficiently 
 to express the savage anger against his 
 cousin, and the profound indignation at 
 the way he had been used, that was seeth- 
 ing within him. 
 
 Eustace heard him attentively, seldom 
 interrupting him. Only, as his brother's 
 language became more passionate, he 
 repeated what he had said before, very 
 quietly. 
 
 'The girls have been very unhappy 
 with grandfather, much more so than
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 91 
 
 you have imagined. Of course you did 
 not see it. You people who see are 
 always blind to that sort of thing. But 
 I assure you those two girls have been 
 miserable.' 
 
 ' However grandfather treated them, he 
 treated them better than they deserved, 
 and the event has proved it,' returned 
 Warrington. 
 
 At the end came the real question, 
 ' What was to be done ?' 
 
 There was no hope of the affair being 
 quietly hushed up. Arrangements for a 
 wedding had gone too far, and the general's 
 servants knew what had happened. And 
 the general himself would not be reticent. 
 As soon as he had got over his first twenty- 
 four hours of rage, the old fellow would 
 cast about him for an explanation of what 
 had occurred that would make the case
 
 92 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 look best for himself. Both his grandsons 
 knew that. No doubt all the blame would 
 be laid upon Warrington. Rather than 
 marry him, Violet Chesterfield had bolted, 
 and made her sister go with her. And 
 then the assistance that Warrington had 
 lent his betrothed to get away from 
 him : his persuading the general, and 
 seeing his cousins off, and all the rest 
 would make a magnificent story, which 
 the general would know only too well 
 how to relate to his friend Colonel Nysson, 
 and to old Tyler of the War Office, and 
 little Jack Gratton of the Blues. And two 
 hours after that the thing would be all 
 over London. 
 
 Only Warrington trusted that he would 
 be before then out of the way of hearing 
 about it. Only the question was, where 
 should he go ?
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 93 
 
 ' La nuit i^orte conseil^ said Eustace. 
 ' Let us leave it till to-morrow. So far as I 
 can see, you have had nothing to eat since 
 breakfast. We will have supper now. 
 AVhilst it is being brought up, I'll finish 
 my letters, and we will leave the discussion 
 of our plans until to-morrow.' 
 
 His advice was good. It is not until 
 after a night's rest that a man learns, in 
 a case like this, justly to appreciate his 
 new situation. On waking, Warrington 
 seemed to himself hardly, on the previous 
 day, to have understood what had taken 
 place, and only now to comprehend that 
 he had lost the girl he had hoped to 
 marry, and all that that implied ; the 
 singularly ridiculous figure he himself was 
 likely to cut when the story got abroad ; 
 and many other things, unhappily none of 
 them pleasant.
 
 '24: A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 As for the young lady — well, he was 
 well rid of her, and would be a fool if he 
 regretted her. The pretty little escapade 
 of running away from her grandfather was 
 enough of itself to cure any man of judg- 
 ment from wishing to have Miss Violet 
 Chesterfield for his wife. And unhappily, 
 in addition to that, Frank AYarrington 
 could, with truth, lay to her charge other 
 delinquencies still more serious. 
 
 When they were first engaged, his cousin 
 had been cold and unresponsive. When a 
 date for the marriage came to be talked 
 about, she only, after considerable delay, 
 consented, with evident reluctance, to name 
 the wedding-day. But a week or so later 
 a gradual change came over her. The 
 marked coolness of her manner disappeared. 
 When Warrington came to see her she re- 
 ceived him with smiles, and showed herself
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 95 
 
 amiable and responsive, almost affectionate. 
 That, then, Warrington inferred, was the 
 date when she first laid her plans to escape 
 from him, and began to see her way to 
 carrying them into execution. If so, it 
 was not difficult to find ugly words for the 
 disino^enuousness of a ^irl who be^ran to 
 be indulgent to her lover as soon as she 
 saw her way to deceiving him. 
 
 And these considerations rendered more 
 easy the bitterness with which Frank War- 
 rington proceeded next to judge the finish- 
 ing stroke of his faithless mistress's deceit, 
 and the malice that had found amusement 
 in making him an accomplice in his own 
 humiliation. 
 
 It did not occur to him to remember 
 that it was not Violet but her sister who 
 bad found so much amusement in his part 
 of the escapade, and had entertained him
 
 96 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 witli the legend of Mr. Smith. Neither 
 did he reflect that it was quite possible 
 that Violet Chesterfield had made use of 
 his assistance with reluctance, and only 
 because her escape was imj)ossible without 
 it. He was far too angry to give really 
 cool thought to anything, and he summed 
 up his verdict on the whole affair in a 
 single little word — ' low.' 
 
 When a woman behaves very badly to a 
 man who is really attached to her, the 
 man does one of two things. Either he 
 forgives her and then loves her ten times 
 better than he did before, or, if he does 
 not forgive her, he sooner or later hates 
 her. A man seldom forgives a woman for 
 being unladylike. A man seldom forgives 
 a woman who wounds his amour propre. 
 A man never forgives a woman who 
 wrongs him and then disappears. To
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 97 
 
 pardon, he must at least be able to see lier. 
 
 And Warrington was beginning to be 
 aware already of a revulsion of feeling that 
 turned against his mistress, and grew sour 
 with hatred. Probably, had he tried, he 
 could not have helped it. And perhaps 
 he would have been a rather poor-spirited 
 mortal if he had tried. Men are not to be 
 asked to retain their esteem for women 
 in spite of anything the woman may 
 do. 
 
 Having got thus far whilst dressing and 
 shaving, Warrington proceeded to break- 
 fast. Eustace was already waiting for 
 him. Over the breakfast-table the brothers 
 discussed what should be their plans; 
 Warrington a little sulky and very savage, 
 Eustace quiet and cool as he always 
 was, and, as he often was, a little philo- 
 sophical. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ^You've been badly treated by your 
 fiancee^ Frank/ he admitted. ' The best 
 thing you can do is to forget it.' 
 
 ' No doubt : only how?' 
 
 ' Let us go down to that place in Dorset- 
 shire, and, instead of selling it, live there. 
 You won't be wanting now to marry for a 
 year or two.' 
 
 * For a year or two ! Never, my dear 
 fellow. I have had a lesson in what 
 women are. You don't find me putting 
 my neck into that noose again.' 
 
 * That may be, or not. Only, if you are 
 not going immediately to marry, there is 
 no reason why we should not go and live, 
 at any rate for a time, at Lynhurst. You 
 will be able to afford to spend something 
 on the place, and that may very likely in 
 the end pay you well. At any rate, you 
 can hunt, and I will grow roses. To live
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 99 
 
 in the country will be paradise to me. So 
 I propose that we betake ourselves to 
 Lynhurst. But I don't want to be selhsh. 
 Take the day to think about it ; to see 
 whether you would like it, too. And 
 we will talk the matter over again in the 
 evening.' 
 
 ' It is certainly worth thinking of,' 
 admitted Warrington. 
 
 Rising from the breakfast-table, he 
 lighted a cigar, and asked, 
 
 'You see a good deal, Eustace, that 
 most of us do not see. Did you think this 
 affair between me and my cousin would 
 end like this ?' 
 
 'No, I did not. I thought that she 
 would marry you. May I tell you 
 why?' 
 
 ' Pray, do not hesitate.' 
 
 ' I thought she would marry you to get 
 
 h2
 
 100 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 away from grandfather. Only, you see, she 
 has managed that somehow else.' 
 
 ' Cutting, Eustace.' 
 
 'The truth, Frank.' 
 
 Warrington went out to see the general, 
 and left Eustace alone. 
 
 ' Frank has been shamefully used,' said 
 the blind man to himself ' But he was a 
 good deal too ready to believe that the 
 ofirl admired him and liked him more than 
 she did. And, of course, he was ignorant 
 of how miserable she and her sister were 
 with the general. Though why people 
 should be able to perceive less with five 
 senses than with four is an odd problem. 
 Now, too, of course, Frank will be out of 
 humour with all the sex.' 
 
 He was right about that. When a man 
 has singled out one amongst women as 
 more worth believing in and loving than
 
 A WILY WIDOW 101 
 
 all the rest, and found her faithless, it is 
 easier for his vanity to change his opinion 
 of all womankind than to confess his 
 personal incapacity to distinguish a woman 
 worth having. 
 
 And, making his way to the general's, 
 Warrington was soliloquizing thus : ' One 
 hears it said, that women arc a bad lot. 
 But I have never hitherto given my assent 
 to it. Only this is a somewhat staggering 
 experience. I should have said that those 
 two girls were ladies — if there be any such 
 things. Only it seems that " lady " is far 
 from being the correlative of " gentle- 
 Avoman." ' 
 
 He found the general in bed, ill, and 
 very, very cross. The old man was hungry, 
 and had not been able to eat his breakfast. 
 AYarrington was rather alarmed at his yellow 
 appearance. But the general was so out
 
 102 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 of temper, so furious that his grand- 
 daughters should have run away from his 
 house, so angry at the failure of his 
 cherished scheme of marrying his eldest 
 grandson to his eldest granddaughter, so 
 put out about the breakfast he had not 
 been able to eat, and so resolved to mix 
 all these subjects together, that no con- 
 nected conversation of any kind was to be 
 got from him. 
 
 While Warrington was with him, Essie's 
 letter arrived. The doctor had just called, 
 and insisted on the general's being kept 
 quiet. Of course the letter put him into 
 a frightful passion ; to crown which he 
 declared his intention of having every- 
 thing that the doctor had forbidden for 
 luncheon. 
 
 On Frank Warrington the note had no 
 effect of any kind. He had made up his
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 103 
 
 mind about tlie Misses Chesterfield, and 
 Essie's letter merely served to confirm him 
 in his opinion. 
 
 For the rest, he was thankful enough to 
 find that there would be no occasion to 
 make investigations about what had become 
 of the girls. 
 
 When he returned to his brother at 
 dinner-time, he said, 
 
 ' I have been thinking of your proposal, 
 and I like it. We will go down and live 
 at Lynhurst. And we'll see whether we 
 can't do some good with the place. And 
 at any rate we shall be out of the reach 
 of hearing anything about this affair, 
 and out of the way of all these cursed 
 women.' 
 
 * Lynhurst must be a strange place if 
 there are no women there,' thought 
 Eustace to himself; 'and Frank must
 
 104 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 know that as well as I.' But aloud he said 
 only, ' That is it, then. We'll go down to 
 L3^nhurst.'
 
 105 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 So after all the new master of Lynhurst 
 did not sell the place, but came to live 
 in it. 
 
 The brothers sent down their furniture 
 and Frank Warrin^^ton's horses. They put 
 up at the * London Hotel,' and had the small 
 suite of rooms, in wliich the former owner 
 of Lynhurst had lived, refurbished, and a 
 part of the large, long-empty stables made 
 fit for use. And in a very few days they 
 had established themselves, comfortably
 
 106 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 enough for bachelors, in their new home, 
 and began to look about them. 
 
 They found that they had a good house, 
 a handsome house it would be if put into 
 repair, and properly furnished, and what 
 might be a beautiful place if they could 
 find the judgment, money, and energy to 
 make it so. They had what might be 
 capital preserves ; they had what might be 
 beautiful pastures. The point was to make 
 them such. The dilapidations were terrible, 
 and the mortgages very formidable. But 
 the enterprise of redeeming the place was 
 an engaging one, and the young men 
 entered upon it at any rate with zest 
 and spirit, and a resolution to do their 
 best. 
 
 They had come to live in a quiet way 
 and they carried out their intention. They 
 breakfasted at an earlier hour than in town.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 107 
 
 and devoted the mornings to business, to 
 becoming acquainted mth the property, to 
 seeing what could be done for it, and to 
 making arrangements to have it done. 
 Together they went about all over the 
 place on foot ; and what a treat that was to 
 Eustace, who was fond of walking, and 
 promised himself soon to be so familiar 
 ^vith the whole neighbourhood that he 
 would be able not only to walk about his 
 brother's estate unaccompanied, but to 
 stroll down to the little town, and to 
 manage all his own business there without 
 the assistance of his valet, indispensable in 
 London. 
 
 In business matters, meanwhile, in the 
 choice of servants, employment of hands, 
 and other such affairs, he proved of 
 the greatest service to his brother. His 
 delicate ear was so quick to detect in the
 
 108 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 turn of a voice indications of incapacity or 
 deceit, which people, accustomed to study 
 to deceive the eye only, were negligent to 
 conceal. In the evenings the brothers had 
 the same pastimes as in town. Warring- 
 ton read aloud, or they sat down together 
 to chess, or Eustace took out his violin, 
 or opened the piano. In the big house, 
 Eustace could enjoy his indoor pleasures 
 better than in town, as well as in the 
 grounds those of the open air. A grand 
 piano would have somewhat crowded the 
 London chambers ; but here he had one 
 of the large rooms opening from their little 
 suite for a music-room. Frank Warring- 
 ton, devoted to his brother, had at least 
 this gratification, if no other, from his 
 country life, to see how enormously Eus- 
 tace's pleasures had been in an instant 
 enlarged. Even the site for the rose-
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 109 
 
 garden had been already cliosen, and the 
 ground partly laid out according to Eus- 
 tace's design, and some of the rose-trees 
 planted. 
 
 Lynham, however, was a little disap- 
 pointed. Two young bachelors who came 
 to do the best thing they could for their 
 estates, and lived in rather a secluded way, 
 were not what people had expected. They 
 were both in excellent health, and so of 
 no use to Dr. Gregg. They preferred 
 having things from London to paying 
 fifty per cent, more for inferior articles in 
 a small Lynham shop ; and so were of no 
 use to the tradespeople. The elder bro- 
 ther, who was ^ the rich one,' was reputed 
 rather morose, and the younger was blind 
 and poor ; and so they were of no use to the 
 pining virgins of Lynham. Howbeit, as 
 they came with excellent introductions,
 
 110 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 and Warrington at once subscribed hand- 
 somely to the nearest hunt (though he 
 made, and kept to, a resolution not to 
 follow the hounds more than once a week), 
 they were well received. The rector, and 
 Dr. Gregg, and Brown of the bank, and 
 the local solicitor called, and Eustace re- 
 ceived them, and was considered an agree- 
 able and accomplished young fellow. Be- 
 ing at the same time less engaged than 
 his brother, and, like many blind people, 
 a bright conversationalist, fond of talking, 
 and always ready for a chat, he was con- 
 sidered, in a small way, an acquisition. 
 But it was clear that the universally use- 
 ful, public-spirited, much-desiderated ideal 
 owner of Lynhurst had, after all, not 
 come. 
 
 A month soon slipped away. Eustace 
 already began to find his way, unaccom-
 
 A ^^"ILY WIDOW. Ill 
 
 panied, about the parts of the ground 
 nearer the house ; and Warrington was 
 deeply engaged in his schemes for doing 
 as much as he could afford for the estate 
 — very much less, alas, than the state of 
 the place required. He and Eustace knew 
 still very little of their neighbours, though 
 they had already received two or three 
 invitations, one only of which had been 
 accepted, and that much more for Eustace's 
 sake than for \yarrington's. To Frank 
 Warrington, just at present, the greatest 
 treat in the world was to be left to 
 himself; to indul^^e himself with a lono:, 
 solitary walk or ride, sometimes in the 
 country, sometimes along the long sands, 
 which presented, when the tide was low, 
 a promenade of several miles, and no bad 
 place for a gallop. The change of scene 
 and of occupation had done much to take
 
 112 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 him out of himself, and to divert his 
 thoughts from recollections of his cousin's 
 behaviour. But, Avhen he did recollect 
 her, neither change of occupation nor of 
 scene served much to qualify the bitter- 
 ness with which he judged her perfidy, or, 
 rather, that of all her sex. At such times 
 to saunter by the sea, or to ride slowly in 
 the low evening light across the downs, 
 smoking a good cigar, and letting his 
 anger cook in his breast, afforded him a 
 savage satisfaction of a sort that will 
 perhaps be better understood by men than 
 bv women. 
 
 It was in this humour that he, one after- 
 noon late in November, strolled down to 
 the beach, after having been into Lynham 
 on business. 
 
 At four o'clock the sun was already 
 setting. The short afternoon was closing
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 113 
 
 apace and the few people remaining on 
 the beach were leaving it. The sky was 
 grey with dull clouds, a breeze, growing 
 chilly, passed over the sands, blowing 
 nearly parallel with the shore. The sea 
 was neither calm nor rough : a restless, 
 choppy sea that broke coldly in low, curling 
 waves, monotonously, almost mournfully. 
 A good deal of rain had fallen recently, 
 and the cliffs were soaked with moisture. 
 Down their faces trickled little streams, 
 whose ceaseless dropping made a wistful 
 accompaniment to the cold splashing of 
 the sea, and to the soughing of the wind. 
 The circumstances were hardly such as 
 anyone would have been expected to 
 choose for a walk on the sands, but they 
 assorted with Frank Warrington's humour, 
 and going down to the waterside he strolled 
 on along the beach. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 The tide was rising, but had hardly 
 yet reached the half-flood, and there was 
 a broad tract of fine sand, tiojhtly cemented 
 by the water it contained, firm and plea- 
 sant for walking. Not at all displeased 
 to see the grey light fading, nor to have 
 the lonely beach to himself, Frank 
 Warrington sauntered on a long way, 
 occupied only with his own thoughts, 
 now and then stopping to look seaward, 
 not at anything in particular, but only 
 at the restless movement of the cold 
 waves ; and then again strolling on, 
 dashing away from time to time a 
 broken shell or a fragment of seaweed 
 that lay in his path — angrily, impatiently. 
 He was very savage this afternoon, savage 
 with that seething, fermenting anger 
 which works in all the male animals when 
 irritated by the caprices of feminine
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 115 
 
 humour. Somehow he believed that he 
 could with satisfaction have taken a 
 woman, any woman not too old, and 
 have ^\Tung her neck, just to convince 
 her what he thought of the whole of her 
 species. 
 
 ' The miserable lying wretches !' he 
 said in himself, sulkily. ' The devil take 
 the whole tribe of them ! I am afraid 
 there is no hope of his doing that. But 
 he may have me if I ever again put 
 myself in the way of being fooled by one 
 of them.' 
 
 And striking an ancient, iishless shell 
 he sent it flying into the sea. 
 
 i2
 
 116 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 He strolled on a long way. The tide 
 had yet far to rise before it could incon- 
 venience his return. The twilight began 
 to turn to gloom, and the beach had be- 
 come quite deserted. But when a man is 
 very angry it is pleasant to wander in 
 solitude by the sea with the shades of 
 night falling, and no light to be seen but 
 the white gleam of the surf. 
 
 The beach was not everywhere of the 
 same breadth. At some places the cliffs 
 presented to the sea a long flattish face, at
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 117 
 
 Others they advanced a bit, and then fell 
 back again, making small bays, or wound 
 in and out irregularly. There were points 
 where at high water it was not possible to 
 pass in front of them, and there the sands 
 were more level, broad plateaux of rocks, 
 bordered with sea-weed, stretched out to- 
 wards the sea, and the cliffs rose high 
 in tall, perpendicular peaks. Warrington 
 passed several of these headlands, having 
 satisfied himself each time, by a glance at 
 the tide, that he should be easily able to 
 return. 
 
 All of a sudden he was surprised to see, 
 only a little way in front of him, a figure 
 loom out of the gloom. It was so dark 
 that any object became indistinguishable 
 at a distance of a few yards. The figure 
 approached, moving very slowly, as slowly 
 as he was walkinsf himself Was it some
 
 118 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 other man come to sulk by the sobbing 
 sea, in the dark ? No. It was a woman : 
 a girl. She was nearer now. A tall girl, 
 apparently fashionably-dressed, wearing a 
 high hat ; with her hands hanging before 
 her tucked into her muff ; walking slow- 
 ly, her head bent, and her eyes on the 
 ground. 
 
 When they were nearer, she saw War- 
 rington. He thought she started. Then 
 they passed quite close to each other. 
 Without turning his head, Warrington 
 stole a hard questioning look at her from 
 the corners of his eyes. And, at the same 
 instant, the girl, without turning her head, 
 stole a precisely similar hard question- 
 ing look at him from the corners of her 
 eyes. 
 
 For a moment the two keen, searching 
 glances met — her eyes were nearly level
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 119 
 
 with his — and then both quickly looked 
 away. 
 
 *He looks handsome. "What on earth 
 can he be walking about here in the dark 
 for ?' thought the girl — it was Lily Hard- 
 wick — as she passed on. 
 
 ' She looks pretty. What on earth can 
 she be walking about here in the dark 
 for?' thought Warrington, as he walked 
 on. 
 
 Stopping, and standing facing the sea, 
 he turned his head, and looked after 
 her. 
 
 He could just see her. She was walk- 
 ing very slowly; had she, too, turned? 
 No ; her figure was disappearing — had 
 disappeared. 
 
 But he was mistaken, Lily had stopped. 
 Her curiosity had been as much exercised 
 as his. And across the murky night the
 
 120 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 two had looked questioningly into each 
 others faces, and had seen nothing, and 
 passed on. 
 
 Warrington fell back upon his own 
 thoughts, and strolled perhaps as much as 
 half-a-mile farther. 
 
 A noise behind him suddenly arrested 
 his slow steps. It was a singular noise. 
 Was it a squall, a sudden fierce storm 
 coming over the sea, for there was a 
 sound of something rushing, a sound not 
 unlike water pouring heavily ? Only there 
 was a distinct rumble. It could hardly 
 be distant thunder. The noise had none 
 of the character of thunder. Perhaps an 
 explosion at a gunpowder magazine a 
 long way off. Only where were there any 
 magazines ? The sound lasted a percepti- 
 ble time, and seemed divided into three 
 intervals, of which the third was the
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 121 
 
 loudest and lon^^-est. Then a<]^ain all was 
 silent. Only the waves plashed on, and 
 the cold night wind moaned under the 
 cliffs. 
 
 Wondering what it could be, Warrington 
 walked a few steps farther. Then the 
 same sound reached him again. Only 
 this time it was briefer, and not nearly so 
 loud. 
 
 What could it be? He stopped again 
 and then turned back. He could not go 
 much farther. There was another head- 
 land not far in front, to round which 
 required lower water. The breakers were 
 already washing against its base. And 
 the noise had awakened his curiosity. 
 So he turned, and strolled back towards 
 Lynham, keeping along by the gleaming 
 surf. 
 
 Before long, out of the gloom, came
 
 122 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 again a figure. This time, too, walking to- 
 wards him. It was the girl again. Only 
 this time she walked fast. She had her 
 muif, thrust back like a great cuff, upon 
 her arm hanging by her side. Her other 
 hand was raised to her face. She was 
 holding something against her cheek — her 
 handkerchief, and she hurried over the 
 damp sands swiftly. 
 
 As Warrington was passing, she stopped. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' she said quickly, 
 in a soft, musical voice. 'But you cannot 
 pass that way, the cliff has fallen.' 
 
 'The cliff fallen!' 
 
 ' A great piece of it. It reaches right 
 into the sea.* 
 
 As Warrington only looked surprised 
 and said nothing, she continued, pointing 
 with the hand that was thrust through her 
 muff.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 123 
 
 • There are steps in the next cove to the 
 top of the cliff.' 
 
 And she moved to go on. 
 
 ' But the water, madam, is ah^eady up 
 to the cliff that way.' 
 
 ' Oh, no. Kot yet. Impossible !' she 
 answered, incredulously ; and with a tiny 
 bend of her head she went on. 
 
 Warrington knew that the water was up 
 to the cliff. He had seen it. He waited 
 till the stranger was out of sight, and then 
 he went on to inspect the fallen cliff. It 
 extended in a great landslip many yards 
 into the sea, and through the darkness, 
 that rendered any clear view of what had 
 happened impossible, were plainly audible 
 ominous sounds of the occasional thud of 
 stones still falling or of mud slipping 
 down. 
 
 Clearly he was a prisoner till the tide
 
 124 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 should ebb. And so was the younof lady. 
 He turned and walked back in the direc- 
 tion she had taken. 
 
 By-and-by he came again to the other 
 end of the bay. And there was the girl. 
 She was looking nervously at the sea which 
 was getting deep under the cliif. 
 
 Warrington passed her and looked at it, 
 too, for several minutes ; then, submitting 
 to necessity, he proceeded to light a cigar. 
 
 Lily Hardwick looked at him hard. 
 Was he not going to speak to her ? 
 
 The cigar was lighted, and Warrington 
 threw away the vesta, and, pushing his 
 hands into the pockets of his short coat, 
 proceeded to walk back in the direction of 
 Lynham. Lily had followed every move- 
 ment intently, and looked after him wist- 
 fully as he left her. 
 
 But, when an instinct of chivalry is
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 125 
 
 innate in a man, a great many women may 
 treat him very ill, and yet, if he iinds a 
 young and pretty woman in a predicament, 
 he will not be able to avoid coming to her 
 assistance. So Frank Warrington took 
 only a very few steps, and then turned 
 back to the stranger. 
 
 ' I am afraid that it is no go,' he said^ 
 putting down his cigar, and pointing to 
 the deep water under the cliff, and taking 
 their common calamity for an intro- 
 duction. 
 
 ' Ah, no ! But what is to be done ?* 
 asked poor Lily, in a tone that showed her 
 to be much more frightened than Warring- 
 ton had supposed, and very pleased to be 
 spoken to. 
 
 * Nothing ; but to wait for the tide to 
 turn.' 
 
 * But at high tide the water comes right
 
 126 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 up to the cliiF, all along the bay.' 
 ^ Indeed ! Are you sure ? Anyhow it 
 cannot be very deep/ said Warrington, en- 
 couragingly. ' Evidently we are prisoners 
 here. And perhaps it may be as well to 
 reconnoitre whether there is not some 
 place above high-water mark. Suppose,' 
 he suggested, ' we walk along under the 
 cliff and see ?' 
 
 ' Under the cliff! Oh, no, thank you,' 
 exclaimed Lily, drawing back. ' These 
 cliffs come down. I've had enough of 
 them for this evening.' 
 
 ' You were near the cliff, then, when it 
 fell ?' 
 
 Near ! she was all but underneath it. 
 And when she heard the crack, and saw 
 the great black masses come toppling 
 forward in the gloom, one piece after 
 another, and each larger than the last.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 127 
 
 with stones flying about in the air all 
 around her little head, — she hadn't had a 
 fright either, of course not ! She de- 
 scribed it all very graphically; but no more 
 going near the cliff for her, no, thank you. 
 
 Warrington could not help laughing. 
 
 ' It is not likely that any more will 
 come down to-night,' he said, easily. 
 * Anyhow, I'll walk along under the cliff, 
 and reconnoitre, and come and tell you. 
 Meanwhile, if you will pardon my offering 
 advice, you had better walk up and down. 
 It is cold.' 
 
 He proceeded to make his inspection. 
 All along packed close under the cliffs he 
 found a heap of broken sea-weeds and 
 rack, that proved the tide came up to 
 them. Only here and there a rock cropped 
 out, and offered a little coigne of vantage. 
 If the sea was not rough, the tops of those
 
 128 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 rocks might remain dry. His investiga- 
 tions being iinislied, he returned to his 
 companion in misfortune. Keeping the 
 end of his cigar in view, she had come 
 along with him, walking by the edge of the 
 sea. 
 
 'You are right,' he said. 'The water 
 does come to the base of the cliff. But 
 there are a few rocks here and there.' 
 
 ' Close under the cliff only,' answered 
 the girl, distrustfully. 
 
 'But the only alternative will be to stand 
 in the sea.' 
 
 * Oh, good gracious ' began Lily, with 
 
 her breast heaving. 
 
 The falhng cliffs had given her a fright 
 that had evidently unnerved her. And, 
 indeed the occurrence might have unnerved 
 courage made of stouter stuff. 
 
 'Come now!' said Warrington, kindly.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 129 
 
 ' Don't be frightened. Our situation is 
 really much more ridiculous than danger- 
 ous. At the worst we shall probably be 
 up to our ankles in sea-water for an hour 
 or so, nothing more. As for risks, there 
 are risks everywhere, are there not ? And 
 you see, after all, it is best to face them 
 pluckily. And I am sure you have some 
 courage, now, haven't you ? And so you 
 must try to be brave, you know. Now, 
 suppose we make the best of it, forget all 
 about the cliffs, and walk up and down, 
 and try to keep ourselves warm : may I 
 offer you my arm ?' 
 
 The girl hesitated for a moment, and then 
 quickly put her arm within his. 
 
 ' I'll try to be plucky,' she said, stepping 
 out by his side, ' but I am awfully 
 frightened.' 
 
 ^ You have had a fright, you see — you'll 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 feel all right again presently. There is no 
 real danger. This is, in fact, only a very 
 ridiculous adventure, I assure you.' 
 
 ' I'm sure it's awfully kind of you to take 
 so much trouble to help one to get over 
 one's fears,' answered the girl, gratefully. 
 ' Light another cigar, do. I don't mind the 
 smoke, and I am sure you will enjoy it, 
 and some one may see the light and come 
 to help us.' 
 
 He lighted a cigar, and then they walked 
 up and down, up and down, on the beach 
 that presently grew much narrower. He 
 had travelled, and he talked to her about 
 things he had seen ; and he had read a good 
 deal, and told her about things he had read. 
 He was one of the men who had the knack 
 of amusing women ; and, listening to him, 
 Lily began to forget everything else. 
 
 But presently she said,
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 131 
 
 ' What a lot you have read. You seem 
 to have read almost everything.' 
 
 * Oh, dear no. But I have a brother 
 who is blind, poor fellow ; and I read a good 
 deal to him. Often the same book, when 
 he likes it, several times over.' 
 
 * Ah, then,' said the girl, a little archly, 
 ' I know, I think, who you are. You are 
 Mr. Warrington of Lynhurst.' 
 
 ' I am.' 
 
 * And this,' thought Lily, ' is the man 
 whom everyone calls so morose and dis- 
 agreeable. I only wish there were more 
 men like him.' Still, she did not tell him 
 that : but requested only to hear the rest 
 of what he had been relating. 
 
 By-and-by, the sands being more level 
 on the top, the tide came in very fast. 
 
 'Now we must go to those rocks,' said 
 Warrington. ' You won't be frightened.' 
 
 k2
 
 132 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 * You'll stay with me/ 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 It was horribly cold on the rock, though 
 he did his best to shelter her. He offered 
 her his coat, but she refused it. 
 
 ' No, no — no, no,' she said, almost crossly, 
 ' you want it yourself. I am not very cold ;' 
 which last was not true. 
 
 As Warrington had anticipated, the tide 
 did not reach the top of the rock. They 
 got a little splashed, that was all. 
 
 And all the time he still talked on to the 
 girl, keeping her amused out of a mine of 
 reminiscences that was apparently inex- 
 haustible, and which he had the art to 
 make entertaining. The tide turned, the 
 sea gave them back first a little, and soon 
 an ample tract of sand on which to try to 
 recover their limbs from the stiffness and 
 the cold, and at last, retiring from the base
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 133 
 
 of the cliiF, set its prisoners free ; the whole 
 affair turning out, as Warrington had pre- 
 dicted, to be a ridiculous adventure and 
 nothing worse. Only the girl, though she 
 showed a good deal of spirit in trying to 
 conceal the fact, was evidently ready to 
 sink with fatigue. 
 
 The steps were soon reached. War- 
 rington gave her his arm up them, and then 
 they found themselves in a lane. 
 
 ' You live at Lynham?' he asked. 
 
 ' No, I live quite near here. At Cliff 
 Cottage. Our garden has a gate into the 
 lane only a little way farther back. You 
 will come in, will you not?' she continued, 
 ' my cousin is sure to be up, and she 
 will be very glad to see you ; you must 
 be very cold, and you will let me offer 
 you something in return for all your 
 kindness ?'
 
 134 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 But he declined. He would walk 
 straight back to Lynhurst. 
 
 They soon reached the gate, and Lily 
 opened it with a latch-key. 
 
 ' There is a light in the drawing-room/ 
 she said, looking in. ' My cousin is up. 
 Won't you come in and take something ?' 
 
 But he declined again. 
 
 ' Then good-night,' — she offered her hand, 
 and, with it resting in his, continued — 'and 
 thank you so much for being so kind to 
 me.' 
 
 The door closed behind her, and Frank 
 Warrington went on up the lane. He 
 half wished now that he had accepted the 
 girl's invitation. Now that she was gone, 
 he was oppressed with an odd sense of 
 loneliness. What had passed between him 
 and this young girl — who had walked arm 
 and arm with him for a few hours, who
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 135 
 
 had managed to be brave because he pro- 
 tected her, who had consented for a while 
 to rest her shoulder against his — that he 
 should feel so odd a loneliness when she 
 left him ?
 
 136 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Lily Haedwick followed a little path for 
 a short distance, and then, leaving it, 
 struck across the lawn. 
 
 The cottage and the fir-trees around it 
 made a single black mass in the back- 
 ground, but in two of the lower windows 
 lights gleamed brightly through the down- 
 drawn blinds. 
 
 ' Perhaps your friends, missing you, will 
 send some one to find you. Did they know 
 that you were on the beach ?' Warrington 
 had asked, as they were walking together
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 137 
 
 on the sands. And Lily had answered : 
 ' Oh, no, my cousin won't send anyone. 
 She will know that I am somewhere.' But 
 now she said to herself, 
 
 ' I hope Maud has not been anxious 
 about me.' 
 
 She need not have distressed herself. In 
 the drawing-room of Cliff Cottage, prettily 
 lighted by shaded lamps and warmed by 
 a fire of glowing coals, Mrs. Gainsborough 
 was bearing very philosophically any ap- 
 prehensions to which her cousin's absence 
 might have given birth. 
 
 Seated, or more accurately rather re- 
 clining upon a rug on the drawing-room 
 floor, at a little distance from the warm 
 fire, with her elbow on a low chair and her 
 head pensively supported on her hand, 
 Maud Gainsborough was idly regarding the 
 glowing coals, listening to the stillness of
 
 138 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 the country night, unbroken by any sound 
 except the soughing of the wind amongst 
 the pines, and indulging herself in a long 
 reverie. 
 
 She was a woman in whose nature 
 reverie and imagination predominated 
 strongly. To-night, minutes had passed, 
 quarters-of-an-hour, hours, and still all the 
 time, moving only a little now and then, 
 Mrs. Gainsborough had been there, 
 crouched upon the rug, immersed in her 
 meditations. 
 
 Her thoughts were of a young widow, a 
 very young widow, one iive-and-twenty 
 only, and in appearance quite a girl, a 
 young girl. The widow was tall and hand- 
 some, and had brains, and — in a way — 
 courage. She had a graceful figure, too, 
 and a picturesque face, deep dreaming eyes, 
 and beautiful black hair. Her husband
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 139 
 
 had been dead some years. His death she 
 did not regret. Perhaps she loved him 
 once. Perhaps not. Certainly she did 
 not love him when he died. Their exist- 
 ences had proved very uncongenial. And 
 the widow was well-pleased to be freed 
 from him, and to call her own, her beauty, 
 and her courage, and — her fifteen thousand 
 a-year. 
 
 This young widow of whom she was 
 thinking, naturally interested Mrs. Gains- 
 borough very much : for the young widow 
 was herself Hers the unregretted hus- 
 band, who had died some years ago ; hers 
 the dark dreaming eyes, and the other 
 charms (perhaps she flattered them a little 
 to herself) only not hers, unfortunately, 
 the fifteen thousand a-year. 
 
 Mrs. Gainsborough was building air- 
 castles then? No. Not that either ex-
 
 140 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 actly. The fifteen thousand a-year was; 
 only it was not Mrs. Gainsborough's — 
 though it might have been ; that is, if Lily 
 Hardwick had not stood between her and 
 the possession of it. Not that it was Lily 
 Hard wick's, either, though it might have 
 been, if Lily had been aware of its 
 existence and had known how to set to 
 work to get it. This fifteen thousand a-year, 
 which formed so integral a part of Mrs. 
 Gainsborough's day-dreams, was safe in the 
 custody of the Court of Chancery, where, 
 for the present, having mentioned its exist- 
 ence, it will sufiice to let it rest. 
 
 And Mrs. Gainsborough had, instead of 
 this splendid fortune, an income of a much 
 smaller and more precarious sort, a little 
 jointure: one hundred and fifty pounds per 
 annum ; and an allowance made her by 
 her brother-in-law, Anthony Gainsborough,
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 141 
 
 two hundred a-year, on condition that she 
 lived at Cliff Cottage, Lynham, which he 
 let her have rent free. A very, very sore 
 subject this with the young widow, this 
 ' wretched two hundred,' and all the con- 
 ditions that 'that Anthony Gainsborough* 
 had attached to it. But when one has no 
 money, you know, how can one help one's- 
 self? It made only three hundred and 
 fifty. And Maud Gainsborough could not 
 live at Cliff Cottage on three hundred and 
 fifty. At least, so she had said to herself. 
 Howbeit, happily her cousin Lily Hard- 
 wick, who was an orphan, had wished 
 very much to live with her ; and as Lily s 
 guardian had nothing to say to the con- 
 trary, Lily came, and with her another 
 two hundred. Besides which, Lily had 
 a liberal allowance to do as she liked 
 with, so that the two ladies made up be-
 
 142 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 tween tliem something nearer seven hun- 
 dred than six. And on that they could 
 live. 
 
 Howbeit, although, with the assistance of 
 her cousin, Maud Gainsborough had arrived 
 at those happy figures, so vainly desired 
 by many — the number of pounds on which 
 to live is possible — yet the -widow's im- 
 agination would at times, as to-night, busy 
 itself with that one thing wanting to 
 complete the ideal she had of herself — the 
 fifteen thousand a-year of her own. And, 
 when Maud Gainsborough fell to thinking 
 about that, her thoughts were generally 
 long and serious. 
 
 To-night they were very serious. 
 
 When she came in, it was a little be- 
 fore dinner-time. She had asked of her 
 servant, 
 
 'Is Miss Hardwick in, Ann?'
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 143 
 
 ' Miss Hardwick came in and went out 
 again, ma'am/ 
 
 ' Where did she go ? Do you know ?' 
 
 ' She went into the town, ma'am. She 
 said she thouo^ht she should walk alonsr the 
 l)each.' 
 
 They frequently walked into the town 
 along the beach when the tide was low. 
 The road was steep, and often very muddy, 
 and the sands level and clean. ' 
 
 'You don't know whether she did go 
 along the beach, Ann ?' asked Maud. 
 
 ' No, ma'am.' 
 
 Maud Gainsborough went upstairs. 
 Before the maid-servant, she had allowed 
 nothing to escape her that could raise in 
 the girl any suspicion of the serious nature 
 of her information. But, on reaching her 
 room, she sat doAvn, and with her face paled 
 with excitement, asked herself,
 
 144 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 *Is it possible?' 
 
 Just before leaving Lynham she had 
 heard of the fall of the cliffs. The whole 
 of the town was in a fever of excitement at 
 the news, for it was reported that there 
 were men out on the beach. 
 
 If Lily Hard wick had gone along the 
 sands to Lynham ? 
 
 Dinner-time came, and Lily did not 
 return. 
 
 ' I'll dine, Ann,' said the widow. ' I 
 daresay Miss Hardwick has stoj)ped at Dr. 
 Gregg's.' 
 
 Lily was a favourite of Dr. Gregg's. 
 
 *At what time did Miss Hardwick start 
 to go to Lynham, Ann ?' continued the 
 widow. 
 
 ' About half-past four, ma'am.' 
 
 Maud Gainsborough thought : 
 
 ' And the cliiF fell a few minutes after
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 145 
 
 iive. If Lily walked fast she had passed 
 the place. In that case she is really gone 
 to the Greggs. If she walked slowly — she 
 must have walked very slowly not to have 
 reached that part of the beach by five. Is 
 it possible ? But I shall be very sorry, too, 
 for poor Lily.' 
 
 The widow dined ; and went to the draw- 
 ing-room ; and had her coffee ; and still 
 her cousin had not returned. 
 
 She took up a book and tried to read. 
 But the Avords swam before her eyes. 
 If anything should have happened to 
 Lily! 
 
 Mrs. Gainsborough slipped gently from 
 her chair to the floor, and surrendered 
 herself to her reverie. 
 
 Suppose— not that the widow wished it ; 
 not at all ; she would be horribly sorry if 
 anything happened to Lily ; the amusing 
 
 VOL. L L
 
 146 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 little puss ! — still, suppose tliat some 
 accident had happened ? Then — there Avas 
 nothing more between her and the fifteen 
 thousand a-year ! 
 
 Could it really be true ? True, perhaps, 
 this very night, that that fifteen thousand 
 a-year was hers ! 
 
 It was true, certainly — if anything had 
 happened to Lily. 
 
 Lily was not aware of the fact, nor had 
 the faintest suspicion of it. No one had 
 any suspicion of it, neither Lily, nor Lily's 
 friends, nor Mrs. Gainsborough's friends, 
 nor anyone in the whole wide world. The 
 secret was all the widow's own, and had 
 been so ever since the day when she dis- 
 covered it. 
 
 But — if anything happened to Lily. 
 
 Then the money was the widow's: yes, 
 this very night !
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 147 
 
 And, lying before the fire, Maud Gains- 
 borougli repeated to herself, ' Can it be ? 
 Has ray day-dream turned actually into 
 reality T 
 
 She fell to thinkinj]^ what she would 
 do, of the steps she would take : of the 
 letter she would write to Anthony 
 Gainsborough — ah ! what a letter that 
 should be ! And if the future that 
 should follow — that brilliant fairy-land 
 future. 
 
 Ten o'clock ! If Lily was at Dr. Gregg's 
 she would return soon now. 
 
 Half-past ten. And no Lily. Her 
 prolonged absence became strange, un- 
 accountable. Something must have hap- 
 pened. 
 
 Maud Gainsborough rose and rang the 
 bell, and gave orders that the groom 
 should go at once into Lynham to Dr. 
 
 l2
 
 148 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 Gregg's and find out if Miss Hardwick was 
 there. 
 
 The man returned a little after 
 eleven. 
 
 Miss Hardwick had not been at Dr. 
 Gregg's, — and the cliff had fallen. 
 
 Mrs. Gainsborough asserted at once her 
 disbelief that the cliffs had anything 
 to do with Miss Hardwick's absence. 
 Miss Hardwick must be at Mrs. Brown's, 
 or perhaps at the rectory, they always 
 kept late hours at the rectory. She would 
 sit up for Miss Hardwick. Ann and the 
 cook could go to bed. 
 
 And she sat down again on the rug 
 before the fire. 
 
 Poor Lily ! 
 
 But the fifteen thousand ! A feverish 
 excitement obtained possession of Mrs. 
 Gainsborough ; her pulse became quick,
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 149 
 
 and her cheek flushed. The drawing- 
 room clock struck half-past eleven with 
 a soft, silvery chime ; and, overstrung in 
 every nerve, she started almost as if she 
 had received a blow. Then she sank again 
 into her former position. 
 
 Lily crushed under the falling cliffs ! 
 Fifteen thousand a-year ! AYas it possible ? 
 Fifteen thousand a-year. After all : fifteen 
 thousand a-year ! 
 
 Any other woman would have been pac- 
 ing the room unable to remain still, with 
 these torrents of excitement coursing in 
 her veins. But Maud had passed through 
 moments more feverish, even, than this ; 
 and her muscles had been schooled 
 sternly to obey, not her emotions, but 
 her will. 
 
 Still at last even she moved as if she 
 would get up.
 
 150 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 St ! What is that ? — a step ? — yes — on 
 the lawn. 
 
 Yes. It comes nearer. And Maud 
 Gainsborough sits up listening. 
 
 A tap at the window and a voice : 
 
 ' Maud, Maud.' 
 
 Lily ! No fifteen thousand a-year to- 
 night. 
 
 A momentary contraction of Maud 
 Gainsborough's handsome face ; an instant 
 of disappointment, disillusion ; and then, 
 as she rose, her lips parted in a smile, 
 and she almost lauo-hed a little laus^h 
 at her own folly, with an easy toss of 
 her head as she came to the window to 
 open it. 
 
 ' Good heavens, Lily ! Where have you 
 been?' 
 
 ' Oh, I am half dead, Maud 1' said the 
 girl, sinking on a chair. ' I'll tell you
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 151 
 
 all about it presently. But, dear, give 
 me something warm to drink. I am per- 
 ishing with cold.' 
 
 Maud Gainsborough bustled about the 
 house, and, in fewer minutes than might 
 have been thought possible, she had pre- 
 pared with her own hands a cup of cocoa, 
 and kneeling before the drawing-room fire, 
 to which she had made her cousin come 
 closer, was warming some ox-tail soup in 
 a little saucepan. And meanwhile Lily 
 related her adventures. 
 
 Maud put her to bed, and brought her 
 up a hot-water bottle, and insisted upon 
 her drinking a little hot wine and water. 
 If the fifteen thousand a-year had depend- 
 ed upon her cousin's life, not on her death, 
 she could not have been more careful or 
 more kind. 
 
 ' I only hope Lily won't have rheuma-
 
 152 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 tisin, or pleurisy, or anything serious,' she 
 said to herself, going to her own room after 
 having shut up the house and put out the 
 lights : ^ I suppose an awful cold is in- 
 evitable.'
 
 153 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Apparently the cold was inevitable. At 
 any rate Lily Hardwick had one ; and for 
 the next few days was confined to her 
 room. She even develoj)ed a little hack- 
 ing cough, and complained of pains in 
 her chest. Mrs. Gainsborough began to 
 be a little alarmed, and called in Dr. 
 Gregg. 
 
 The quality on which Dr. Gregg 
 most prided himself was his power of in- 
 tuition. One look at a patient, and 
 Dr. Gregg knew all about what was the
 
 154 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 matter. The widow had mentioned that 
 her cousin had a nasty little hacking cough 
 and complained of pain in her chest, and 
 the doctor was able to make a good 
 beo^innino*. 
 
 *Ah, I see, Miss Hardwick,' he com- 
 menced. ' Now you have a nasty little 
 hacking cough, eh?' 
 
 ^ Yes, Dr. Gregg.' 
 
 ' And a pain in your chest ?' 
 
 ' Yes, a little.' 
 
 'Ah, you see. I can see it all. And 
 when you cough it hurts you a great 
 deal?' 
 
 ' N-o.' 
 
 ' No ! Ah, well, in some cases a cough 
 of this character is not accompanied by any 
 particular pain, in other cases there is a 
 good deal of pain. But, I see, in your case 
 there is no pain. A tiresome little cough,
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 155 
 
 and a little uncomfortableness about the 
 lungs. And — now — you don't sleep very 
 well.' 
 
 ' Oh, but, yes, I think I sleep much the 
 same as usual.' 
 
 ' You sleep much the same as usual ? 
 Ah yes, you sleep much the same as usual. 
 Heaviness about the head ; eh ?' 
 
 He was feeling her pulse. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 'You see, I know all about it, my dear 
 young lady. Cough, not painful ; some 
 uncomfortableness about the chest ; sleep 
 well, heaviness : pulse a little feverish. 
 But — appetite, eh ? now I am right, am I 
 not — bad appetite?' 
 
 ' Xo-o. I don't think so, doctor.' 
 
 ' No, not bad appetite. Well, sometimes 
 there is no loss of appetite in those cases. 
 I see — appetite good, sleep well. Tiresome
 
 156 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 little cough — occasional pain in chest. 
 Heaviness about head ; pulse a trifle rapid, 
 but appetite good. We shall soon set you 
 up again, Miss Hardwick. I will send you 
 a little prescription which you will take, 
 won't you? We shall soon set you up 
 again.' 
 
 ' What an ass he is !' quoth Mrs. Gains- 
 borough to herself, standing by the fire. 
 
 ' No occasion for alarm, my dear Mrs. 
 Gainsborough,' said the doctor, reassur- 
 ingly, as he left. ' Just as well, though, 
 to have taken it in time. I shall send 
 Miss Hardwick a little draught.' And, 
 going along the little drive to the gate, 
 he continued to himself, 'Nothing of 
 importance. Send her something quite 
 harmless. Leave it to Nature.' 
 
 So Lily was left to Dame Nature, and 
 to her cousin's nursing. It was the best
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 157 
 
 thing that Dr. Gregg could do for her. 
 He was seldom dano;erous, so Ions; as he 
 did nothing. 
 
 Healthy young blood, and the nursing, 
 soon got the better of the cold. After a 
 day or two in bed, Lily was able to sit 
 up in her room, and to amuse herself with 
 writing letters. At the end of the week, 
 though she was still not to go out of the 
 house for some days, she was downstairs 
 ao^ain in the drawins^-room. 
 
 Towards the end of an afternoon — Mrs. 
 Gainsborough had gone into Lynham, and 
 not yet returned — Lily received an answer 
 to one of her letters, written to a school- 
 fellow in London. She had related briefly 
 her adventure on the beach as the occa- 
 sion of the cold that had made her a 
 prisoner in her room, and in reply her 
 friend wrote :
 
 158 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 'Your adventure, dear, really was very 
 nearly most romantic. The tide really ought 
 to have risen a little higher, so that you 
 might have been in some danger ; only just 
 a little, wee bit, but enough for Mr. AVar- 
 rington to have really saved you. But, even 
 as it was, he was really most chivalrous^ 
 and, as he is reputed to be so morose., you 
 must feel quite vain. I am sure you will 
 like to know all about him ; and, as it 
 happens, I can tell you something I heard 
 only last week, and which \sic.'\ I believe 
 is half a secret. — The real reason why he 
 went to live at Lynham. Two months 
 ago, he was engaged to his cousin. She is 
 very beautiful., but quite heartless., and he was 
 most desperately in love with her.' 
 
 And here followed the history of how 
 Warrington was dujied into assisting the 
 flight of the Misses Chesterfield, with many
 
 A TVILY WIDOW. 159 
 
 emljellishments of the facts, and a lavisli 
 use of italics. The writer of the letter was 
 responsible for the italics, but not for the 
 embellishments ; they were simply the 
 natural accretions the story had gathered 
 in town. 
 
 Lily Hardwick read it twice. She had 
 not yet arrived at the age that replies to 
 any history with an incredulous ' And 
 how much of that is fact?' and without 
 hesitation accepted for truth all that her 
 friend had written her. Putting down 
 the letter on her lap, she leaned forward, 
 with her cheek rested on her hand, and 
 thought. 
 
 She felt very sorry for Mr. Warrington, 
 rather indignant too. She would have 
 liked to have had it in her power to ' pay 
 out ' that cousin of his for the way she 
 had treated him. Poor Mr. Warrington !
 
 160 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 No wonder he was morose ! And this, 
 then, was why he had come to bury him- 
 self in the country. 
 
 She read the short concluding portion 
 of the letter, and, folding it up, placed it 
 in her pocket, and then went to one of the 
 windows. 
 
 Cliff Cottage was a pretty little place, 
 cosy, deeply clad in ivy and creeping 
 plants. It was only two storeys high, but 
 with more room inside it than anyone, 
 acquainted with the exterior only, might 
 suppose. A thatched verandah festooned 
 in the summer with creepers, ran round 
 three sides of the cottage, and, above the 
 verandah, low, half-dormer windows with 
 little diamond casements peeped out coyly, 
 amidst the thick ivy from under the 
 projecting thatch of the roof. On the 
 ground-floor the sitting-room windows
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 161 
 
 opened to the ground. Inside, there was 
 a little hall, rather dark, with quaint nar- 
 row windows of coloured glass that gave 
 a peep into the rustic porch with its 
 low seats ; a good broad staircase of 
 shallow stairs ; and a really wonderful 
 number of fair-sized rooms. A greenhouse 
 flanked one side ; at the back were a con- 
 venient little stable-yard and stable, and 
 coach-house. The Avhole lay planted in a 
 sheltered hollow, a little below the level of 
 the country road that ran behind it, and 
 hidden from view among a small plantation 
 of Scotch firs. Some of the firs grew quite 
 close to the cottage, even spreading their 
 broad branches over its roof. Before it 
 the lawn sloped only very gently, and the 
 garden, sometimes wider, sometimes nar- 
 rower, Avinding a little with the turns of a 
 natural hollow, sheltered by trees on either 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 side, descended slowly to the brink of 
 the cliff. Where the garden ended at 
 the cliffs edge, there was a ladder of 
 steps, leading down to a little cove, in- 
 accessible otherwise, except by boat, even 
 at the lowest tide. The garden itself was 
 exceedingly nicely kept. The closely- 
 shorn lawns, the tidy beds, in which the 
 many-hued chrysanthemums were just 
 now in all their glory, the neatly-clipped 
 shrubs and the handsome forest trees all 
 evinced the most ungrudging care bestowed 
 upon them. 
 
 Before Lily's view, as she stood at the 
 window, the view of the long garden 
 wound picturesquely down to the cliff 
 Beyond, closed in on both sides by the 
 leafless trees, there was a glimpse of the 
 sea. The sun was sinking fast towards 
 the horizon in a ruddy glow, crossed by
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 163 
 
 hard black bars of clouds lightly edged 
 with saffron, and the low light came up 
 the perspective of the autumn garden with 
 a charming effect. 
 
 ' How awfully pretty it is here !' said 
 Lily to herself, ' morning, afternoon, and 
 evening, lovely in every light ; and how 
 beautifully the sunset must be glowing 
 now, through the woods, at Lynhurst. I 
 wonder whether Mr. Warrington admires 
 the country. Whether all these lovely 
 sights go a little way to console him for 
 the way his cousin used him. I do feel 
 sorry for him ! Poor Mr. Warrington !' 
 
 Xo thing appeals to a young girl's heart 
 
 more strongly than a story of unhappy 
 
 love, and this story of the ill-usage of a 
 
 man, who, a perfect stranger, had been 
 
 kind to her, stung all Lily's feelings of 
 
 right and of generosity into a keen indig- 
 
 m2
 
 164 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 nation. She saw no ludicrous side to tlie 
 story. She saw only the wrong, the false- 
 hood, the cowardice, the cruelty, the 
 worthlessness of the girl who mercilessly 
 duped the man who loved and trusted her. 
 How angry he must have been ! And 
 how grieved too. If he really loved his 
 cousin so much, what a blow for him to 
 find that she did not care for him a bit, 
 that she was so worthless, so undeserving 
 of the affection of any man. And they 
 were engaged, too ! To be married in a 
 few days ! (that was what the letter said). 
 And he had felt it all so much that he had 
 come down here in the country to bury 
 himself. She would always think quite 
 differently of him now. He seemed alto- 
 gether another man since she had learned 
 this about him. How she wondered 
 whether he still cared for his cousin.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 165 
 
 Surely he could not. Yet men did care 
 for women who behaved very badly to 
 them. 
 
 The door opened, and, Maud Gains- 
 borough entering, disturbed Lily's reverie. 
 
 In Lynham Maud had met ^Irs. Wood, 
 the rector's wife. Mr. Warrington and his 
 brother had been to dine at the rectory. 
 I\Irs. Wood thought the blind brother 
 ^ very interesting, poor fellow,' Mr. War- 
 rington rather reserved. Oh, and Mr. 
 Warrington's name was Frank. 
 
 ' I thought you would like to hear all 
 about it, dear, as you take so much interest 
 in the gentleman.' 
 
 Thus said the widow in conclusion, with 
 a touch of significance. 
 
 But the one word that struck Lily was 
 ' reserved.' No wonder, poor fellow ! It 
 would be strange if he were not reserved,
 
 166 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 if lie ever trusted anyone again as long as 
 he lived, after the way he had been treated. 
 
 Quite easily she asked, sitting down, 
 
 ' Did you ask Mrs. Wood whether she 
 thought him good-looking ?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, I said I had heard that he was 
 good-looking, and Mrs. Wood said it was 
 quite true. I am really becoming quite 
 curious to see him.' 
 
 She stood before the glass unfastening 
 her brooch. 
 
 Lily had taken up her work. 
 
 ' And so Mr. Warrington is called Frank, 
 is he ?' she answered. ' That is not a very 
 remarkable name.' 
 
 ' Everybody is talking about your ro- 
 mantic escape,' went on the widow. ' It 
 has caused, I assure you, almost as much 
 sensation in Lynham as the fall of the 
 cliff.'
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 1G7 
 
 ' Has it ?' asked Lily, indiiFerently. 
 
 Turning over her work, she drew out 
 the needle from the stuff and began to 
 sew, quite unconscious that her cousin 
 was watching her. 
 
 'I have been wrong,' said the widow to 
 herself, ' I thought it was a smite. Par- 
 ticularly when she wondered whether he 
 would call to inquire how she was. But 
 she takes it all too indiiFerently. She has 
 not lost her heart this time.' 
 
 Maud Gainsborough was quite right 
 about that. Lily had not lost her heart at 
 all. She liked the man, and, since she had 
 learned his history, she was very sorry for 
 him. And that was all. She was not in 
 love with him, not the least bit in the 
 world. A young girl very seldom falls in 
 love all in a moment. 
 
 By-and-by the ladies went upstairs to
 
 168 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 dress. In Lily Hardwick's room, a bright 
 fire burned on the hearth. Its leaping 
 flames lighted fitfully the pretty room, 
 with its tasteful satin-wood furniture, and 
 blue silk curtains, and little girlish knick- 
 knacks placed here and there. It was one 
 of the best rooms in the house, and Lily, 
 Avho had been allowed to furnish it as she 
 pleased, had been a little extravagant. 
 There was a low wicker chair by the fire, 
 and the girl sat down on it, and again drew 
 out her letter. 
 
 Once more she read it through. She 
 might have spared herself the trouble, 
 for there was nothing in it of interest 
 but what was already sunk deep into her 
 memory. Then, rising, she crushed the 
 letter in her hand, and threw it into the 
 flames. 
 
 ^ If he comes down here to escape from
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 169 
 
 all this, at any rate his secret shall be safe 
 with me,' she said. 
 
 And lighting her candles she proceeded 
 to dress. 
 
 Maud Gainsborough had said that Lily 
 Hardwick's adventure on the beach had 
 occasioned almost as much sensation as the 
 fall of the cliffs, and that was not far from 
 the truth. Almost everyone was talking 
 about it with that eagerness to talk which is 
 indigenous in small places, where there is 
 nothing to talk about. The same afternoon 
 some one mentioned it — mth a view to 
 obtaining, if possible, some further informa- 
 tion on the topic — to Eustace Warrington. 
 Eustace was a little taken by surprise, for 
 he had not before heard of the incident. 
 But he had more discretion than to betray 
 his ignorance. When, however, he and
 
 170 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 Warrington were alone after dinner, he 
 said, 
 
 ' The other day, when you were caught 
 by the tide, and did not get home here till 
 midnight, there was a young lady, I hear, 
 caught at the same time with you.' 
 
 ' Yes ; some girl who lives at Cliff 
 Cottage.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, I wish you had men- 
 tioned the fact to me. Why didn't 
 you?' 
 
 'Why? I really did not imagine 
 that it was a point of any importance. 
 Why do you wish that I had told 
 you?' 
 
 ' Because, you see, everyone down here 
 has heard of your adventure ; and is 
 talking about you and the young lady. 
 And I, who had heard nothing, when I 
 was this afternoon asked about it, very
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 171 
 
 nearly looked foolish, I assure you. The 
 man who spoke to me was most desirous to 
 gather up any crumbs of information that 
 were to be had ; and if I had been taken 
 off my guard, and he had gone away in a 
 position to inform the next man he met, 
 "Do you know, Mr. Warrington's brother 
 had never heard of it at all, till I told him. 
 There is some mystery in it," he would 
 have been very much delighted. Whether 
 you would have been equally pleased is for 
 you to consider.' 
 
 ' They may say what they like for any- 
 thing I care,' remarked Warrington. 
 
 * At any rate, my dear Frank, I should 
 like to hear all about it, if you please,' 
 observed Eustace, ' I don't wish again 
 to be taken by surprise, as I was this 
 afternoon.' 
 
 The request was reasonable, and War-
 
 172 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 rington could not refuse to comply with 
 it. He made tlie story very short. The 
 blind man listened with a good deal of 
 attention, and asked at the end, 
 
 ' And Miss Hardwick — for, of course, 
 you have learnt her name by this time — a 
 nice girl, rather, is she not ?' 
 
 ^I am not a judge of girls. I daresay 
 she is well enough,' answered Warrington. 
 
 He did not deny that he had acquainted 
 himself with her name. 
 
 The conversation dropped. But Eustace 
 had already learned, at any rate sufficiently 
 for the present, what he was anxious to 
 know. That was not alone what had hap- 
 pened on the evening that his brother had 
 been imprisoned by the sea, but also why 
 Frank had been reticent about a part of 
 bis adventures, and whether his reticence 
 had any connection with an altered
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 173 
 
 humour whicli he had for the last few days 
 been displaying. 
 
 On the evening itself when he came in 
 from the beach about midnight, hungry, 
 cold, and distinctly cross, Eustace had had 
 at once a suspicion of something having 
 taken place beyond what his brother 
 related. At the time Eustace had con- 
 jectured some little annoyance about 
 monetary arrangements, for which AVar- 
 rington was seeking the assistance of the 
 local bank ; and he had purposely ab- 
 stained from asking questions, seeing the 
 business was not exactlv his. Since then, 
 however, Eustace had assisted at six 
 distinct long jeremiads on the cursedness 
 of women, the folly of love, the peculiar 
 nature of feminine disingenuousness, and 
 the perfect impossibility of a man's being 
 sufficiently on his guard against the
 
 174 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 knavery of young girls. A month since 
 Warrington liad declaimed in this way a 
 good deal, as indeed it was very natural 
 that he should. But since he had been 
 in the country, and had interested himself 
 in his estates, he had got the better of this 
 weakness. Now, the sudden recrudescence 
 of his complaint must have had some 
 cause. 
 
 Eustace believed that he could now 
 give a shrewd guess at what the cause 
 was. Frank had not returned to Lyn- 
 hurst quite heart-whole from the five 
 hours spent on the beach in the November 
 night with pretty Lily Hardwick. 
 
 And if he had known that Warrington 
 had not only talked to Miss Hardwick (as 
 he said), but had talked to her as kindly 
 and encouragingly as it was possible for a 
 man to do ; if he had known that Miss
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 175 
 
 Hardwick and his brother had not only 
 walked up and down (as Warrington said) , 
 but had walked up and down arm-in-arm ; 
 if he had suspected that they had not 
 only (as AVarrington had related) stood 
 upon a rock, but that the young girl had 
 been glad to lean her shoulder against 
 Warrington's, and that he had put his 
 arm round her to shelter her from the 
 wind — if Eustace had suspected anything 
 of all this — which Warrington did not 
 relate, — he would have been a good deal 
 more certain of his opinion than he 
 was. 
 
 Eustace was a bit of a philosopher in his 
 way, and he was not taken by surprise at 
 this new turn of events. On the contrary, 
 he found it rather natural. A man who 
 has just been badly used by one woman is 
 susceptible in the extreme of a sudden
 
 176 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 passion for another ; and if, at a critical mo- 
 ment, some young girl, bewitching, fresh, 
 uncorruptecl, crosses his path, and shows 
 the faintest inclination to like him, he 
 succumbs to her fascinations almost infal- 
 libly. And, that this might very probably 
 occur in his brother's case, Eustace War- 
 rington had conceived from the first, 
 especially when Warrington began to vow 
 and protest that he would never marry, 
 nor permit himself again to fall a victim 
 to the seductions of a woman. Do not 
 vows always imply a consciousness of 
 weakness? Could anyone be conceived 
 vowing not to do what he knew was im- 
 possible ? Briefly, in Eustace's opinion, 
 Frank Warrington was, without having 
 the least suspicion of the fact, on the 
 brink of falling in love. What would 
 ensue depended, unless Eustace was very
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 177 
 
 much mistaken, upon how much time 
 elapsed before Frank next saw Miss Hard- 
 wick, and what mi^^ht occur on the 
 occasion of their meeting. 
 
 VOL. 1. N
 
 178 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 That meeting the fates liad decreed should 
 take place soon. 
 
 In the middle of the next week there 
 was a meet not far from Lynham at a 
 somewhat popular spot, where a large 
 field almost always assembled. 
 
 The previous week Warrington had, 
 owing to business, missed his usual outing 
 with the hounds, and, the morning prov- 
 ing promising, he announced at breakfast 
 his intention of going to the meet. 
 
 A numerous and picturesque gathering
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 179 
 
 was already assembled when he arrived, 
 forming under the winter sky an animated 
 scene of men and women, horses, drags, 
 pony-carriages, dog-carts, scarlet coats, 
 pretty costumes, well-cut habits, and rich, 
 warm furs, scattered in many groups with 
 the grey sky overhead, and the copse and 
 pine-woods behind, for a background. 
 
 Warrington rode up to some friends, and 
 was talking to the rector s son, when the 
 master came up, and, after wishing him 
 good-morning, said, 
 
 ' Lady Louisa is anxious to introduce 
 you to two ladies, friends of hers, Mr. 
 Warrington.' 
 
 ' But, really, Sir Robert — ' began War- 
 rington, not looking particularly gratified, 
 and preparing to offer some convenient 
 excuse. 
 
 ' Nonsense. Mr. Warrington, you must 
 
 n2
 
 180 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 not refuse,' interrupted Sir Eobert, 'I 
 believe that, as a fact, one of the ladies is 
 known to you already. But indeed you 
 must not disappoint Lady Louisa. She is 
 over there by the gate.' 
 
 Evidently Warrington was not left much 
 choice of action. 
 
 Crossing the field to where the master's 
 wife, in a dark brown habit, was con- 
 spicuously mounted on a thorough-bred 
 bay, Warrington perceived with her a 
 young girl, a slight, tall figure whom he had 
 no difficulty in recognising, and a lady in a 
 black habit, with her low hat coquettishly 
 set forward over a very striking face. 
 
 ' There are two ladies, friends of mine, 
 here, Mr. Warrington,' said Lady Louisa, 
 after their first greeting, ^ who very much 
 wish that you should be introduced to 
 them ;' and, turning round, she presented
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 181 
 
 him: 'Mr. AVarrington, Mrs. Gains- 
 borough, Miss Hardwick.' 
 
 Lily was looking charming. Xot a trace 
 of her inGlisposition was left in her bright 
 young face ; and in royal spirits, anticipat- 
 ing a good scamper after the hounds, she 
 was looking as sparkling and gay as sum- 
 mer mornins^ sunshine. 
 
 Warrington addressed himself to her 
 first. 
 
 ' I hope you are none the worse, Miss 
 Hard wick, for that very cold evening spent 
 upon the beach ?' 
 
 The young girl's lips parted in an arch 
 smile that displayed her small teeth, white 
 as pearls. 
 
 'I had a dreadful cold for a few days, 
 but it is all over now,' she answered. 
 
 Maud Gainsborough was regarding War- 
 rington from under her brows with a fixed
 
 182 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 gaze of her deep, dark eyes. The strange 
 intensity of that gaze had a resemblance 
 to fascination. 
 
 And the truth is, Maud was fascinated. 
 The first moment that she saw Frank 
 Warrington, something in his appearance, 
 his handsome, aristocratic face, his car- 
 riage, the slightly reserved expression of 
 his features, or all these together, in an 
 instant attracted her regard, and held 
 it rivetted. When Lady Louisa introduced 
 him, as he raised his hat, and his eyes 
 and Maud's for a moment met, some- 
 thing, that passed with the lightning 
 rapidity of an electric shock, troubled the 
 young widow, thrilled into the very core 
 of her being, and even made her, for an 
 instant, change colour. 
 
 It seemed to her that she knew this man, 
 had known him for years.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 183 
 
 Something about liim answered the most 
 familiar impressions of her recollection — 
 or of her imagination. It appeared in- 
 credible that she had never seen him 
 before. They must have met somewhere 
 — and she kjiew him. But she was also 
 sure that they had never met ; sure with 
 the most positive assertion of her reason. 
 She could never have met him, and after- 
 wards have forgotten that meeting. Till 
 a moment since, she had never set eyes 
 on him. He had not crossed her path 
 until this instant of their introduction. 
 Her recollection of him, as some one 
 familiar in another world, or known in 
 a previous state of existence, resembled 
 that strange impression of certain recol- 
 lections which comes upon the imagina- 
 tion in spots never visited before. He 
 was the man that had been at her side
 
 184 A WILY WIDO^y. 
 
 unseen these how many years ! in her 
 heart, in her dreams. It was his face, his 
 voice, his bearing that she had been look- 
 ing for, expecting ever since she had been 
 a young girl. Her real other self was 
 before her, the man whose name fate meant 
 her to bear, whom she had sought and not 
 found in her husband ; whom she had 
 looked for, and not seen among her many 
 admirers ; the ideal of her maiden fancy, 
 and of her womanhood's yearnings. 
 
 It all passed in an instant ; that recog- 
 nition that was not a recognition ; that 
 impression that was a fascination ; that 
 conviction that was in its first instant — 
 love. 
 
 She sat looking at him timidly, half 
 dazzled, listening to what he was saying 
 to her cousin, with her heart beating. 
 
 Lily too, though she was chatting with
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 185 
 
 him merrily, was regarding him with more 
 seriousness in her heart than her lauorhinor 
 lips would have let anyone suppose. This 
 pleasant, agreeable man, who was talking 
 with her, Avas the man who a few weeks 
 ago was so shamefully used, who held at 
 this moment the secret of it all in his 
 breast. Any morsel of the sadness of life 
 looks large and strange when it comes 
 near, and to Lily it seemed well-nigh im- 
 possible that this man who was talking 
 with her could really be the hero of a 
 story of a deceit that had made her blood 
 boil with indignation. And yet she knew 
 that it was so. 
 
 None the less she was replying playfully 
 to something that he had said. 
 
 * I think I mio^ht almost be cross with 
 you, Mr. Warrington. You might have 
 had the chivalry to come and enquire after
 
 186 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 my healtli. Now, don't make excuses off 
 hand. Take your time to think of some 
 good ones.' 
 
 Warrington turned to the widow. 
 
 ' I hope, Mrs. Gainsborough, that you 
 were not very much alarmed about Miss 
 Hard^vick that evening.' 
 
 ' A little,' replied Maud, lying promptly. 
 ' I was dreadfully afraid, you know, that 
 she might have been killed by the fall of 
 the cliffs. I am sure that we are both of 
 us very much obliged to you for all the 
 care you took of her, and very pleased to 
 have found an opportunity of offering you 
 our thanks.' Having made this gracious 
 speech very prettily, she went on, ' I think, 
 Mr. Warrington, that you must know some 
 of my poor husband's friends. He was 
 Mr. Anthony Gainsborough's brother. You. 
 know Anthony Gainsborough ?'
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 187 
 
 ' I have met him. Rarely though. 
 You know, of course, that he is ahnost 
 always in his yacht.' 
 
 ' Ah, the lucky man ! yes,' said Maud, 
 dreamily. ' That yacht ! I was to have been 
 invited to go a cruise in it once. But the 
 invitation never came.' 
 
 'He is a strange man,' observed 
 Warrington. Recently he had found 
 Anthony Gainsborough a very strange 
 man : notably in the way in which he 
 had assisted the flight of the Misses Ches- 
 terfield. 
 
 ' Ah, you know that, then,' observed 
 Maud. 
 
 And she looked at "\Varrin2:ton sio;nifi- 
 cantly. She and he had found already a 
 secret point of contact. 
 
 'You hunt often. Miss Hardwick?' 
 asked Warrington turning to Lily.
 
 188 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ^Not very often, Mr. Warrington. I 
 like it, too much. You see,' she explained, 
 laughingly, ' to hunt one should be a little 
 bit staid, sure of never becoming over ex- 
 cited by the chase, always careful to keep 
 on the safe, not to try ticklish jumps, to 
 be content to wait one's turn at the gates, 
 and not to mind coming up when every- 
 one else is riding away after the death. 
 For all that one requires to be rather 
 wise.' 
 
 ' And you are not always wise ?' asked 
 Warrington, laughing, and pleased to hear 
 her confessing so real a zest for the 
 sport. 
 
 ^ Alas no,' replied Lily. 
 
 *I shall expect to see you ride home 
 with the brush, Miss Hardwick,' said War- 
 rington. 
 
 ' Oh, no, please, don't expect anything
 
 A AVILY WIDOW. 18^' 
 
 of the sort,' returned the ^irl, quickly. 'I 
 shall not be in at the death. I shall 
 have a good ;T;allop or two, and enjoy my- 
 self thoroughly. But I am not a first- 
 class horsewoman, and you must not 
 expect to see me doing wonders. My 
 cousin here is far more likely to be in at 
 the death than I.' 
 
 The girl's modest disclaimer was as 
 pretty and natural as her previous con- 
 fession of keen pleasure in the chase. 
 
 ' You and I shall very likely, then, have 
 the pleasure of finding ourselves together, 
 Miss Hardwick,' observed Warrington ; ^ I 
 am a regular cockney, you know, and have 
 a great deal to learn.' 
 
 All of a sudden it occurred to him that 
 he was talking a great deal to Miss Hard- 
 wick, and very little to her cousin ; and so, 
 turning to Maud Gainsborough, he began
 
 190 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 to say something to her about Cliff Cottage. 
 The edge of its garden joined one corner 
 of his estate. In the midst of that the 
 hounds were thrown off, and, a general 
 movement ensuing, Warrington wished 
 the ladies a pleasant scamper, and said, 
 ' good-morning.' 
 
 It was some time before they got away. 
 One or two coverts were drawn without a 
 whimper, the field, in loose order, moving 
 slowly along the brow of the hill after the 
 dogs. Once, for a few minutes, — at a spot 
 where a little group were assembled, who 
 conjectured the place likely to be a good 
 one for a start in case they found, — Maud 
 discovered herself again near Warrington, 
 and was unable to resist the pleasure of 
 exchanging half-a-dozen words with him. 
 Then, all of a sudden, a holloa came from 
 the other side of the wood, a little way
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 191 
 
 oif, just as the dogs threw up their 
 voices. 
 
 In a moment there was a scurry and a 
 rush ; the foremost of the field were off, 
 and those around Warrington and the 
 widow wheeled to follow them. From 
 the other points, the others came up 
 helter-skelter, and then in an avalanche 
 they all swept away down the slope, 
 dogs and horses, scarlet coats and dark 
 habits. 
 
 In the fore-front was Lady Louisa, 
 Warrington and Maud not very far behind, 
 fairly in the ruck, and Lily amongst those 
 who were bent upon enjoying themselves, 
 with a certain regard to not being a nuis- 
 ance to the others. 
 
 Pug led them first across tolerably open 
 meadow-lands, with little brooks and low 
 fences. The fences little by little scattered
 
 192 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 the more timid part of tlie field in search 
 of gates and convenient gaps. The hounds 
 ran fast, pointing for some way straight 
 up the valley, and only a pick of the field 
 kept near them. Presently they wheeled 
 a little to the left, and then came a broad 
 brook, and a plantation through which 
 the drives were narrow. There were some 
 catastrophes at the brook, and after the 
 plantation only the best riders had the 
 hounds in view, as they followed close upon 
 the fox. But, after a run of nearly half- 
 an-hour, on the brow of the hill, reynard 
 got into a copse, and then the thing was 
 to get him out again ; and meanwhile the 
 check allowed a good j)art of the stragglers 
 to come up. Pug was drawn at last, and 
 a fairish fresh start ensued over the open 
 downs. 
 
 Presently the ground dropped and there
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 193 
 
 came a flight of posts and rails, and then an 
 almost impossible blackthorn hed^e with a 
 deep ditch behind. One or two very bold 
 hands ventured at the hedge, but the 
 greater part of the field turned to a gate 
 only a little way out of the line, whilst a 
 few, seeing the crush there was there, pre- 
 ferred another farther out of the track, but 
 less crowded. 
 
 Chance favoured these last. As the fox, 
 making a wide detour, came round again 
 towards the hill, many of those at first 
 left far behind, striking out a bold line, 
 managed again to nick in with the fore- 
 most of the hunt. Crossing a field War- 
 rington found, amongst a good many 
 others quietly taking their turns to pass, 
 one-by-one, over a stile in the corner, 
 Maud Gainsborough, keeping back a little 
 to allow others to go before her. Warring- 
 
 ^OL. I.
 
 194 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ton had been over this ground only a little 
 time before, and felt sure that by bearing 
 a little more to the left he could take 
 a line better than those in front of him 
 were selecting ; and also one not involv- 
 ing waiting for a turn. As he passed 
 Maud Gainsborough, he felt moved to 
 invite her to share the benefit of his 
 knowledge. 
 
 He would hardly have done that if it 
 had been Lily. He would have been on 
 his guard. But there is a way of showing 
 a liking for a girl, into which the most 
 cautious of men are easily betrayed, and 
 that is doing little kindnesses to the people 
 who belong to her. 
 
 And so Warrington, stopping for a 
 moment by Maud Gainsborough, said, 
 
 *Do you feel inclined, Mrs. Gainsborough, 
 to attempt that fence over there at a
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 195 
 
 weak point, say there,' — lie pointed with 
 his hunting-crop — 'We could afterwards 
 cut across the meadows beyond by a far 
 shorter route.' 
 
 ' I think I would try, if you would go 
 first; 
 
 They rode oiF together, two or three 
 others, as soon as they saw their move, 
 turning to follow them. 
 
 ' Bravo, Mrs. Gainsborough,' said War- 
 rington, as the young widow came over 
 after him safely, and very prettily too, her 
 neat figure perfectly balanced, as she sat 
 back, with her little hands well down, 
 setting her horse straight at the fence, 
 a momentary flush of excitement lighting 
 her classical face. He had broken the 
 way a little, and made a very fair jump for 
 her. 
 
 Across the fields they rode on together, 
 
 o2
 
 196 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 keeping well in front of tlie others. The 
 line they were taking should evidently 
 bring them into a good position. But 
 presently, when they came nearer the 
 hounds, they met a rather wide water- 
 jump. 
 
 ^You can do it?' said Warrington. 
 ' The taking off is good, and the opposite 
 bank sound.' 
 
 'There is one man in it already; and 
 those others only just got over.' 
 
 ' But they are lower down — it is wider 
 there. You will try ?' 
 
 A nod signified her assent. In her 
 heart she knew she would have put her 
 horse at the English Channel to keep with 
 him. 
 
 And they were over — both. But the 
 others had turned aside. 
 
 Up the hill. The pace was sharp and
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 197 
 
 the hill steepened. One of the ladies who 
 had been all the way hitherto in the front 
 dropped behind. There were then only 
 two others now besides Maud. The hounds 
 were topping the brow of the hill, and 
 began to disappear. Then the land be- 
 came less steep, and they were on the top. 
 And there are the hounds, tearing along 
 a level glade, with the fox in view, as it 
 seems, but a yard or two before them. 
 Some one goes a purl over a fence that 
 Maud crosses flying, following Warrington's 
 lead, she hardly knows how. The horse 
 of one of the ladies has refused that fence. 
 Maud has loosened her rein and is plying 
 her whip. Will it be really with him at 
 her side that she will get the brush ? With 
 only her light nine stone to carry, and 
 comparatively fresh, her horse flies with 
 her as if she was but a feather, and she is
 
 198 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 neck and neck now with young Mrs, 
 Rivers, the best horsewoman of the 
 hunt. 
 
 And, at the death, a neck in front of 
 her. 
 
 All except the ladies have jumped off 
 their horses. 
 
 As the huntsman comes up with the 
 brush, there seems to be a moment's 
 hesitation. 
 
 Maud Gainsborough bows to Mrs. 
 Rivers. 
 
 ' I think it was a drawn race, Mrs. 
 Rivers,' she says. 
 
 ' Oh, no, Mrs. Gainsborough, the brush 
 is yours.' 
 
 And, as it is fastened to her saddle, 
 Maud turns and says to Warrington, ' I 
 owe this entirely to your kindness, Mr. 
 Warrington,' with a blush of such grati-
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 199 
 
 fication mantling her beautiful face 
 that the man cannot feel other than 
 flattered. 
 
 Lily came up, as she said, when the 
 rest were beginning to think of riding 
 away, having, nevertheless, enjoyed herself 
 royally. 
 
 The cousins rode home together un- 
 accompanied. 
 
 ' You have made quite an impression 
 upon Mr. Warrington, Maud,' said Lily, 
 playfully. 
 
 But the young widow made no answer. 
 She had become very pensive. It was not 
 she, she knew, that had made an impres- 
 sion upon Frank Warrington. She saw a 
 great many things too puzzling to be 
 understood by Lily's bright eyes. It was 
 for some one's sake else even, that Frank 
 Warrington had helped her, Maud, to van
 
 200 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 that brush at her saddle-bow, or else she 
 knew nothing of men — and she knew 
 something about them.
 
 201 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The new year came, and a cold afternoon 
 early in January found Maud Gains- 
 borough sittino; close to the drawing- 
 room fire at Cliff Cottage, with her feet 
 on the fender, taking herself to task very 
 seriously. 
 
 That morning she had done a silly 
 thing, a very silly thing. She had met 
 Warrington in the High Street, Lynham, 
 and she had walked the whole length of 
 the street with him. Really it seemed 
 rather a small matter to be distressed 
 about, but the young widow was vexed
 
 202 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 about it, and she was vexed with reason. 
 First of all. it would give the Lynham 
 people occasion to talk, and Maud Gains- 
 borough could not afford to be cavalier 
 respecting what people said about her. 
 And in the next place — this was far more 
 serious — that little walk up the High 
 Street had been haunting her memory 
 ever since. 
 
 She and her cousin had not seen much 
 of Frank Warrington since the day of the 
 hunt recorded in the last chapter. Once 
 they had bowed on the esplanade, once 
 they had met in the Lynhurst woods — 
 there was a public way through a part of 
 the woods — that day he introduced his 
 brother who was with him, and the two 
 men had walked a little way with them ; 
 and once they had exchanged a few Vv'ords 
 at a small public concert.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 203 
 
 But how large a place the owner of 
 Lynhurst had come to occupy in Maud 
 Gainsborough's thoughts ! 
 
 She was not in love with Mr. Warring- 
 ton yet — at least, so she said to herself. 
 But if she allowed herself to be always 
 thinking about hira,if she got talking with 
 him and walking with him, Maud knew 
 how it would end. 
 
 She had been in love before now — more 
 than once. She knew all about all the 
 symptoms of the complaint from its very 
 earliest stages. And she knew, too, that 
 she could make Warrington fall in love 
 with her. Certainly she had no idea of 
 the vows and resolutions he had been 
 making to have nothing more to do with 
 women. But, if she had heard all about 
 them, she would not have attached the 
 faintest importance to them : she would
 
 204 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 simply have replied that she knew she 
 could make him love her. And that was 
 the most dangerous part of it all. 
 
 'And that is just what I am resolved 
 to forbid myself/ quoth Mrs. Gainsborough 
 to herself, mechanically plucking at the 
 fringe of the fire-screen she was holding 
 before her face. ' He shall not fall in love 
 with me. I am not worth it, and I should 
 do him a very great wrong. I should be 
 drawing him into a match with a woman 
 beneath him, for I am beneath him ; and 
 I haven't a halfpenny. And he ought to 
 marry money, and to right his estates. 
 I've done some things in my time that I 
 ought not to have done, and I'll not add 
 this to them to wrong that man.' 
 
 The man himself had taken a fancy to 
 Lily. And Lily was just the girl he ought 
 to marry. A good girl Lily, and with a
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 205 
 
 nice little fortune of her own. Tt would 
 be a very fair match for Lily, and for 
 Warrington a very good one. 
 
 A strange shadow passed in the young 
 widow's deep eyes. 
 
 What a match it would be for Mr. War- 
 rington if he only knew ! If he knew, or 
 Lily knew, or anyone knew, about that 
 fifteen thousand a-year. But about that 
 no one knew. So that was nothing to do 
 with the case. Apart from that fifteen 
 thousand a-year, it would be a very fair 
 match. 
 
 The only question was. what would Lily 
 do ? Mr. Warrington was already far from 
 indifi'erent to her, hardly suspecting that 
 himself, apparently. But Lily, though 
 she liked him, was taking her time very 
 leisurely indeed to fall in love with 
 him. Still, gently she was going that way.
 
 '^^ 
 
 206 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 The little witch was very attractive, 
 and Frank Warrington was handsome and 
 agreeable, and a very little thing might 
 convince the two that they were created 
 for one another. And these things hap- 
 pen so quickly. Two people meet in the 
 autumn, and before the leaves are on the 
 trees they have bound themselves indis- 
 solubly together to share all the pleasures 
 and face all the perils of life. 
 
 Well, supposing Warrington and Lily 
 did make a match of it, they would pro- 
 bably afterwards be very happy. . 
 
 And here it must be recorded, to Maud 
 Gainsborough's credit, that the considera- 
 tion of the income she would lose when 
 her cousin left her, and the evident fact 
 that she would be brought back to the 
 galling monetary difficulties in which she 
 had found herself when she first came to
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 207 
 
 Cliff Cottage, had no weight with her at 
 all to suggest to her that she should stand 
 in the way of her cousin's happiness. 
 
 ' I'll manage somehow,' she said to her- 
 self; 'no one knows what may happen 
 between this and then.' 
 
 But her thoughts came back in another 
 way to herself. 
 
 ' That is all very fine. But if I do fall 
 in love with that man, shall I have the 
 courage to keep myself from making him 
 love me ?' 
 
 There were two women in Maud Gains- 
 borough, and she had a dim consciousness 
 of the fact. There vtas the Maud Gains- 
 borough whose imagination was at rest ; a 
 not bad kind of young woman, with some 
 faults, but with a good heart and plenty 
 of judgment. And there was the Maud 
 Gainsborough whose imagination had
 
 208 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 caught fire. That was a young lady 
 capable of a good deal : of a good deal 
 more than Maud herself suspected. And 
 if her imagination were not imagination of 
 the brain alone, but the more subtle, 
 and wilder, passionate romance of the 
 heart 
 
 ' It will never, never do to let it come 
 to that,' quoth Maud to herself; 'I should 
 have him, if I ruined him. Only, how to 
 prevent it ?' 
 
 In the evening, after dinner, she said to 
 
 Lily, 
 
 ' Lily, what should you say to leaving 
 here?' 
 
 ' Leaving Cliff Cottage, Maud ?' 
 
 *No, Lynham.' 
 
 'Leave Lynham !' exclaimed the girl, 
 with surprise. 
 
 'I mean,' explained Mrs. Gainsborough,
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 209 
 
 taking note of the tone of startled aston- 
 ishment, and lying diplomatically, ' if we 
 were to go abroad, perhaps for a few 
 months ; say next month, when the days 
 get a little longer. We might spend the 
 spring in the south of Europe.' 
 
 ' I should like to travel,' replied Lily, 
 slowly. ^ We might think about it, 
 Maud.' 
 
 Again Maud Gainsborough took notice 
 of the girl's tone, and of the phrase, ' We 
 might think about it.' 
 
 Miss Hardwick had her tricks, and one of 
 them was to say, 'We might think about it,' 
 when, in her own mind, she resolved not 
 to assent to what was proposed, but was 
 too polite to say so. 
 
 So it was some minutes before Maud 
 offered, 
 
 ' It is dull here.' 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 *< 
 
 210 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ' I don't find it so, Maud. I am very 
 happy.' 
 
 Thought Maud : ' And so indeed am 
 I.' 
 
 A longer silence ensued, whilst she re- 
 flected how quietly and peacefully pleasant 
 the life was that they led : an existence 
 that a good many people might have 
 envied. A pretty little house, and a beau- 
 tiful garden. Breakfast late, and neither 
 of them particularly punctual in appearing 
 at breakfast, if a longer and deeper slumber 
 than usual made them late in rising, or a 
 little beauty-sleep of another half-hour 
 suggested itself as likely to be agreeable. 
 And breakfast itself always rather dainty, 
 as were all the meals ; though they spent 
 a great deal less time over them than men 
 would have done under similar circum- 
 stances. Till luncheon there were the cares
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 211 
 
 of the neat little house, and perhaps a 
 little exercise ; after it Avalking, riding, or 
 driving ; for they could hack good horses, 
 and they had a pony-carriage ; paying 
 or receiving a few calls, tea, and a lazy 
 hour before dressing for dinner ; and 
 the long, careless evening ; music, mag- 
 azines, perhaps a game of cards. And, to 
 conclude, upstairs, where there were fires 
 in the bed-rooms, talk, as only women can 
 talk after they have retired. 
 
 It would have been strange if they had 
 not been happy. 
 
 Still, Lily's was a girlish, restless nature, 
 and Maud had surmised that possibly the 
 prospect of travel, movement, something 
 new, might have distinct attractions for 
 her. If it had not, it seemed to Maud 
 that Lynham must have attractions not 
 publicly admitted by the young lady, or, 
 
 p2
 
 212 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 more plainly, tliat things between her and 
 Mr. Warrington had advanced further than 
 Maud had supposed. 
 
 'After all/ she remarked, 'it is not of 
 much use to talk about it. Very likely 
 we should not be able to go, if we wished 
 it. At least, you could always go, of 
 course. But perhaps not I.' 
 
 Lily looked at her interrogatively. 
 
 ' You mean ?' she asked. 
 
 ' You know what I mean, dear.' 
 
 ' Something to do with that horrid old 
 Anthony Gainsborough ?' 
 
 'Yes. You see, I should have to get 
 his leave.' 
 
 'His leave, Maud!' 
 
 ' Oh, yes,' replied the widow, bitterly. 
 ' I cannot go away from here without that. 
 You see, he lets me have the place rent 
 free, and, if I left it without consulting
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 213 
 
 him, he is as likely as anything to turn 
 nasty, and to stop the allowance he makes 
 me. And then, where should I be, dear? 
 I could not live upon what my husband 
 left me.' 
 
 And the widow leaned back in her chair, 
 looking dissatisfied enough at the state of 
 her case. 
 
 ' If I were one-and-twenty, you should 
 live with me,' answered the girl, with the 
 natural generosity of youth. ' Xever mind, 
 Maud, I shall be one-and-twenty soon, and 
 have all my money. Then we'll snap our 
 fingers at old Anthony Gainsborough, and 
 do as we like, won't we ?' 
 
 To which the young widow said nothing. 
 She had all the will to snap her fingers 
 at her brother-in-law, and afterwards to 
 do as she liked, but not all the necessary 
 courage.
 
 214 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 Lily noticed her silence. 
 
 'Maud,' she said, after a minute, ' what 
 was it that happened between you and 
 Anthony Gainsborough ? I often feel aw- 
 fully anxious to know.' — That was very 
 true. — ' If it is a secret, Maud, you may 
 trust me with it.' 
 
 ' I don't know that it is exactly a secret,' 
 answered the widow. 
 
 ' Then tell me, Maud, do !' 
 
 Maud Gainsborough seemed to hesitate 
 for a moment. But, really, she was only 
 asking herself why she should hesitate. 
 She had not a sincerer friend in the world 
 than this young girl, nor one more able to 
 be of use to her. 
 
 'Well, then, dear, you shall know,' she 
 said. ' But first, you must understand, 
 darling, that you are a very lucky girl not 
 to be married.'
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 215 
 
 ^ H'm. It is a species of luck which, if 
 it be of too long duration, I am not sure 
 that I shall appreciate. Still, go on, 
 Maud.' 
 
 ' It is one thing to be married, Lily, 
 explained the young widow, ' and another 
 to find marriages turn out as you antici- 
 pate ; and of the two evils — I will grant you 
 that both are evils — not to be married is a 
 less one than to be married, and to dis- 
 cover that you have made a big mistake. 
 / made a mistake. Mr. Gainsborough was 
 in business : you know that. I believe that 
 he worked very hard, and was successful 
 and all that sort of thing. I have never 
 been able to see how all that could be of 
 the faintest interest to me. I know that I 
 soon discovered that his not having a 
 handsome independent fortune, as his elder 
 brother had, would make a much greater
 
 216 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 difference to us tlian I had supposed ; that 
 the life we had to lead was hideously dull ; 
 and that he and I saw all these things from 
 exactly opposite points of view. He let 
 me have a large house, and, although he 
 said he could not afford it, allowed me this 
 and that that I wished for, and ' 
 
 Maud Gainsborough sat up in her chair, 
 and continued, in another tone : 
 
 ' All that has nothing to do mth it, 
 Lily. To come straight to the point. I 
 met a young married woman about my 
 own age, who played — gambled, I mean. 
 And I went to her house, and joined in the 
 gambling. Of course, gambling is wrong, 
 but, people may say what they like, there 
 is no excitement under the sun equal to 
 that of playing with stakes, the loss of 
 which might make you uncomfortable. 
 And I, who was awfully dull, got quite
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 217 
 
 wild about play, and I p:ot up a little party 
 of my own, and we used to play in my 
 boudoir at afternoon tea for ever so much 
 
 higher stakes than at Mrs. . I won't 
 
 mention names. It was soon whispered 
 about that the play at her house was not 
 a patch upon what was going on at mine, 
 and women left her to come to me, and I 
 can tell you we had some scenes sometimes ; 
 and some excitement.' 
 
 ' It must have been exciting, of course. 
 Still it was awfully wrong, was not it, 
 Maud ?' 
 
 ' It was, and, of course, we all knew that 
 we should get into fearful scrapes if we got 
 found out ; we married women with our 
 husbands, and the girls with their fathers 
 and mothers. And now I am coming to 
 Anthony Gainsborough. Of course, Mr. 
 Gainsborouo:h knew nothing about this
 
 218 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 play ; at least, at first. I had taken good 
 care that he should not. But afterwards 
 he had to know, for I lost a lot of money 
 and could not possibly pay my debts. I 
 had some trouble to get the money from 
 him, but in the end I got it, and then, 
 somehow, his business affairs went wrong. 
 I never understood his horrid business 
 affairs, so I cannot tell you how that was. 
 All I know is, that one night he came home 
 and made me a frightful scene, declaring 
 that he was a ruined man, and sobbing 
 like a great baby, and saying that he 
 would have to be bankrupt. He fretted 
 a lot about all this and made himself ill. 
 However, in the end, he got some money 
 from somewhere, and his brother Anthony 
 lent him or gave him some more, and I 
 understood that it was all to come risrht. 
 I was in monstrously bad luck all that
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 219 
 
 time, and then, to crown it all, I had one 
 most desperate afternoon. I won't tell 
 you what I lost, it was something too 
 dreadful.' 
 
 The widow paused, and remained silent 
 for a minute. Then, leaning back in her 
 chair, she went on : 
 
 ' Of course, if I had won a lot of money, 
 I should have been an angel. Only as I 
 had lost it — I wasn't. And I had to pay 
 my debts, or some of them. And Mr. 
 Gainsborough had to let me have some 
 money. And so he had to be bankrupt, 
 after all. I suppose it was very diso^race- 
 ful, and all that. I can't Sdiy I understood 
 it, but Mr. Gainsborough upset himself 
 about it, most tremendously. In the end he 
 made himself ill, and the end of his being 
 ill was that he died. The fact is that he 
 was a man without a bit of pluck. The
 
 220 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 only good thing I can say for him was that 
 he kept my secret for me. For you must 
 understand that all this time that he was 
 ill I was worried out of my life with 
 Anthony always about the house, wanting 
 to understand how his brother could have 
 been bankrupt after all, and I don't know 
 what else besides. However, in the end 
 Mr. Gainsborough died. The doctors said 
 of some affection of the heart. It was not 
 of affection for me. After his death I found 
 that I had only the most miserable pittance, 
 and began asking myself what on earth I 
 was to do. Then Anthony called, and 
 offered to make me an allowance of two 
 hundred a-year, and to let me live here 
 rent free, if I liked to agree to certain 
 conditions. And one of the conditions was 
 that I am not to leave Lynham without his 
 knowledge.'
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 221 
 
 ' You mean that you have to get leave 
 to go anywhere, Maud ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Maud Gainsborough, in 
 a tone that expressed plainly enough how 
 far she was from liking it. 
 
 'Even, say, to go up for a week tO' 
 London.' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 'But, you really m.ean that this man 
 actually said to you, " I'll let you live there, 
 but the condition is that you never go any- 
 where without my leave." ' 
 
 ' He did not say it in those words.' 
 
 That was true. It had been said in 
 words Maud would not forget so long as 
 she lived. But she did not care to repeat 
 them. 
 
 'And you assented?' 
 
 ' I had to assent, you see.' 
 
 ' I'd rather have swept a crossing !' ex-
 
 222 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 claimed Lily. ' I'll tell you wliat it is, 
 cousin,' she continued, ^ I think what you 
 did was awfully, awfully wrong. But I 
 don't see what right Anthony Gainsborough 
 had to put you into prison for it. What 
 sort of man is he, Maud ?' 
 
 ' A man past fifty, tall, and rather hand- 
 some ; with about as much pity as Herod,' 
 answered Maud, quietly. 
 
 ' I'm sure I shall hate him !' remarked Lily. 
 Leaving her chair she knelt on the floor 
 by her cousin's side, and putting her arm 
 round her neck continued, ' Maud dear, 
 you are not angry with me because I said 
 just now that what you did was wrong? 
 Because it was wrong, you know. Still, 
 we were friends at school, Maud, weren't 
 we? Do you remember how frightened I 
 was the first day I came, and how kind 
 you were to me. And we'll be friends
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 223 
 
 always, won't we? And as for that old 
 Anthony Gainsborough, by-and-by, when 
 I have all my money, you shall live with 
 me, dear. And we will p^o where we choose, 
 and do what we please, and not consult 
 Anthony Gainsboroupjh at all, the nasty 
 old thing.' 
 
 Maud bent her head, and kissed her, 
 and called her ' a darling,' and it was 
 somehow taken for granted that, until 
 Lily's coming of age put them in a posi- 
 tion to set Anthony Gainsborough at de- 
 fiance, things should go on as at present, 
 and nothing more be said about leaving 
 Lvnham. 
 
 But when Lily had fallen asleep that 
 night, ]\raud Gainsborough stole downstairs 
 with her hat and cloak on, and, going to the 
 little writing-table in the drawing-room, 
 wrote a hurried note.
 
 224 a wily widow. 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Gainsborough, 
 
 ' When I ^ave 
 you my word of honour not to leave Cliff 
 Cottage without your knowledge, I received 
 in return a promise from you that, if cir- 
 cumstances made my leaving necessary, 
 you would at once allow me to go. Such 
 circumstances have occurred; and I write 
 to beg that you will allow me to go abroad 
 for twelve months. I will live in any 
 place you like to name. But please give 
 me leave at once to leave England. 
 ' Yours sincerely, 
 
 ' Maud Gainsborough.' 
 
 Folding the letter without reading it 
 through, she put it in an envelope, and 
 directed it to Anthony Gainsborough at 
 his bankers. 
 
 Carefully opening one of the drawing-
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 225 
 
 room windows, so as to make no noise, she 
 stepped out. 
 
 The January night was cold, dark, and 
 cloudy. She only stopped for an instant 
 to look at it, and then drawing the window 
 shutters together, so that the open window 
 should not be noticed from the lawn, she 
 pulled the hood of her cloak over her 
 head, and, stepping on the grass, made her 
 way noiselessly towards the gate that 
 opened upon the high-road. 
 
 Half-an-hour elapsed, and then the same 
 cloaked and hooded figure returned across 
 the grass, stopped before the verandah, 
 looked stealthily around her, pushed open 
 the shutter, and, with a long breath of 
 relief, was once more safely at home. 
 
 No one had seen her. 
 
 She closed the window, refastened the 
 shutter, and threw back her hood. The 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 room was cold, and the fire liad burned 
 low, but sbe sat down once more beside it. 
 
 She had done the best action she had 
 ever done in her life ; and her conscience 
 told her so. 
 
 Where, she wondered, was Anthony 
 Gainsborough ? How long would it be 
 before her letter reached him ? How long 
 before she received his reply? Would 
 the reply come in time to be of any use ? 
 
 The room was horribly cold. She would 
 go to bed. 
 
 Eight days elapsed. In the course of 
 those eight days, she met Warrington 
 twice. They seemed to be fated to come 
 together. 
 
 At last a telegram arrived from the 
 Mediterranean. 
 
 ' Let me know reason why you wish what you 
 ash in letter.^
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 227 
 
 How was Maud to answer? Could she 
 wire back. ' I am afraid I shall make a 
 man fall in love with me.' Impossible ! 
 
 She threw the telegram into the fire 
 unanswered. 
 
 But she said to herself, 
 
 ' So it is all up ! Things must go their 
 own way, now. What happens will be 
 Anthony's fault. But God knows that 
 this time I tried to do my duty ; and that 
 I hate the wrong that I am going to do to 
 that man.' 
 
 And she dashed two big tears from her 
 great, handsome eyes. 
 
 A singular character, Maud ! AVhat 
 would prosperity, and a man able to guide 
 her, have made of her ? 
 
 q2
 
 228 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Love grows of itself, and of itself passes 
 away ; in a moment springs unbidden into 
 being, and in a moment is gone like the 
 perishing of a dream. Man has just as 
 much dominion over it as he has over the 
 forces of nature and the elements of the 
 world, and no more. By knowledge and 
 observation and contrivance and by favour 
 of circumstance, he turns this too, as he 
 turns tide, and the fire, and air, as he turns 
 oxygen, and carbon, and gold, to attend-
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 229 
 
 ance on his pleasure and to the service of 
 his will : and that is all. Independent of 
 man, the tides roll on, and the great forces 
 of nature unfold and exhaust their powers, 
 and so love warms and cools, and man 
 must abide it. 
 
 For a fortnight the ladies of ChfF Cot- 
 tage saAv nothing of their neighbour. The 
 reason was simple. He did not hunt on 
 the days they hunted, and all the rest of 
 the time he was busy on the farthest part 
 of his estate. Meanwhile came oiF the 
 Lynham Christmas ball, one of Lynham's 
 few gaieties. Frank Warrington did not 
 go to it, and Maud returned home thank- 
 ful, and Lily disappointed. 
 
 Two days afterwards fifty yards of 
 the boundary wall of the Lynhurst estate 
 fell flat into Mrs. Gainsborough's garden. 
 When the gardener brought in the news at
 
 230 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 lunclieon-time, Maud Gainsborough said to 
 herself: ^This is fatality.' 
 
 ' We ought to send and tell Mr. War- 
 rington,' opined Lily, as forward to find 
 any good excuse for seeing or saying 
 something to Mr. Warrington as her cousin 
 for avoiding him. 
 
 Maud considered any such step un- 
 necessary. Mr. Warrington would be 
 sure to hear all about it from his own 
 people. 
 
 In the afternoon, Maud being gone for a 
 walk, Lily suddenly thought she should like 
 to drive into Lynham. So she ordered out 
 the pony-carriage, and drove down. 
 
 Once in Lynham, she drove several times 
 up and down the parade, and then up 
 the High Street, where her perseverance 
 was rewarded at last with the sight of 
 Warrington coming down the street.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 231 
 
 He was a little surprised when she drew 
 up beside him. 
 
 ' Mr. Warrington,' she said, 'about fifty 
 yards of your wall fell this morning into 
 our garden. Perhaps you know all about 
 it.' 
 
 No. He knew nothing about it at all. 
 
 Well then, the best thing he could do 
 was to come and see. Would he drive up 
 with her ? 
 
 Warrington accepted the offer : and 
 Lily drove him up to Cliff Cottage. On 
 the way he offered many apologies for the 
 conduct of his wall. There was not a 
 wall on the estate that was not rotten to 
 the core, he asserted. He hoped that this 
 one had not done much damage. 
 
 Maud Gainsborough was still out when 
 they arrived at the cottage. So they went 
 to view the fallen wall together.
 
 232 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ' What a pretty place you have here,' 
 said Warrington, when that was done. 
 
 'Is it not?' answered Lily. 'Come 
 down the garden, will you ? It goes all 
 the way to the cliff.' 
 
 So they made the tour of the garden, 
 and talked about the flowers. There were 
 a number of rose-trees, and already one or 
 two tea-roses in bloom. Lily mentioned 
 that in this little shaded glade, for such 
 the garden was, her cousin and she were 
 particularly successful with their early and 
 late roses. 
 
 ' I should much like my brother to 
 come and see them,' said Warrington. ' I 
 say see, though he can't see, poor fellow. 
 But he is a great rose-fancier.' 
 
 And he went on to talk about the 
 rosary Eustace had laid out at Lynhurst. 
 
 ' And Mr. Eustace AVarrington can tell
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 233 
 
 all his roses, and knows whether the 
 plants are in good condition, and whether 
 the flowers are all they should be, although 
 he is blind ?' asked Lily. 
 
 ' It is wonderful what he knows, even 
 that we who can see do not know : and 
 what he sees that we cannot see,' replied 
 Warri nekton. 
 
 That served them for another subject of 
 conversation. Warrington invariably ap- 
 peared at his best when talking about his 
 brother, and Lily was so much interested 
 that it was quite a long time before they 
 returned from the forther end of the 
 garden to the cottage. Maud Gainsborough 
 had returned, and Lily insisted that War- 
 rington must see her: and Warrington 
 himself was inclined to think that it 
 might look better if he did. So he 
 consented to come in, and to accept a cup
 
 234 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 of afternoon tea, whilst he repeated his 
 apologies to the widow. 
 
 'Did he come to call, Lily?' asked Mrs. 
 Gainsborough, when he was gone. 
 
 ' No. I met him in the town.' 
 
 Maud smiled to herself She knew 
 all about accidental meetings of that 
 kind. 
 
 The restoration of the wall commenced 
 on the morrow with the removal of the 
 debris^ and went on for the next three 
 weeks. Work was not wont to be very 
 rapidly executed at Lynham. 
 
 But the number of casual meetings 
 that took place between Lily Hardwick 
 and Frank Warrington over the repairing 
 of that fallen wall were wonderful. Of 
 course, Warrington, like a prudent man, 
 had to look after the work to see how it 
 got on, and visited the spot, at least once,
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 235 
 
 often twice a day, to inspect progress, and 
 to see that the men were not wasting their 
 time. And then, if Lily was in the garden, 
 or at the drawing-room windows, there 
 was a bow to be exchanged, a greeting, a 
 smile. And sometimes Lily would stroll 
 across, and, warmly wrapped in her pretty 
 furs, stand and talk for a few minutes ; or 
 else they strolled up and down together, 
 sometimes on Mrs. Gainsborough's lawn, 
 which was being sadly trodden down, 
 sometimes on ^Yarrington's path on the 
 other side of the wall. Once, when War- 
 rington had his brother with him, Lily 
 insisted that Eustace should come and see 
 the roses, and with her arm in his led him 
 all round the garden, telling him the history 
 of every one of their plants. 
 
 When the wall grew higher, there was 
 no more possibility of stepping backwards
 
 ^36 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 and forwards across it, but they could still 
 meet, and stand on each side and talk ; and 
 for Warrington to lean his elbows on the 
 wall, and to talk ^to Lily, whilst watching 
 the workmen, or for Lily to rest her elbows 
 on the wall and talk to Warrington, was 
 apparently quite sufficient amusement for 
 both of them. 
 
 ^What a pity Mr. Warrington should 
 look so much after the men building the 
 wall,' remarked the widow. 
 
 She had only spoken to Warrington 
 across it twice. 
 
 ' Why ?' asked Lily. 
 
 ' They would have been ever so much 
 longer about it if he had left them alone.' 
 
 * Of course. That is just why he looks 
 after them. He would be robbed every 
 hour of the day if he did not keep an 
 eye on all those people he is employing.'
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 237 
 
 *Yes. But won't you and he be very 
 sorry when the wall is done, dear?' asked 
 the widow. 
 
 Lily knew what her cousin meant, and 
 made no answer, only said to herself, 
 ' I didn't think Maud could be so idiotic' 
 But the next day she did not visit the 
 scene of operations. Warrington strolled 
 over twice to see how his wall was 
 fi^ettino; on. But he saw nothin"^ of Miss 
 Hardwick. 
 
 On the third day, however, when he 
 again came to look at the workmen, about 
 eleven o'clock, Lily was strolling up and 
 down the wide garden walk in the Feb- 
 ruary sunshine, and crossed over to him at 
 once. 
 
 If Maud liked to be idiotic, what did it 
 matter to her? She supposed she could 
 speak to Mr. Warrington if she chose !
 
 238 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 And, besides, there was something she 
 wanted to ask him. 
 
 Warrington was in wonderful spirits at 
 that date. He did not know when he had 
 felt himself so light-hearted, or in such 
 vigorous health, or half so happy, and 
 careless, and free. All the anxieties of 
 the limited capital at his command, and of 
 his mortgages, and of the considerable sum 
 of money he was spending lay on him as 
 light as a feather. He felt sure of himself, 
 sure of his courage proving undaunted, 
 and his patience equal to any demands. 
 Success and good fortune in the future 
 were quite secure. Everything was going 
 right at Lynhurst. All he had done had 
 turned out well. There were contretemps 
 here and there, certainly — that wall 
 which had tumbled into Mrs. Gains- 
 borough's garden, and had had to be
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 239 
 
 rebuilt, just at a moment when lie wanted 
 the money for something else, and that dyke 
 that had broken, and turned all the best 
 meadows into a swamp. But everything 
 could not be expected to go on perfectly 
 smoothly in this world. And all he was 
 doing now was getting on royally, and 
 what he would do by-and-by would set all 
 the rest right. That they should come 
 down and live in this jolly old place, and 
 rescue it from destruction was the happiest 
 inspiration his brother had ever had. He 
 never tired of repeating that. Life was 
 become a delightful exhilaration, full of 
 the keenest enjoyment from morning to 
 night. He had never been so happy as he 
 was now, trudging about the place all day 
 long, working like a nigger, enjoying his 
 meals with the appetite of a rustic, and 
 entering into everything with the zest of
 
 240 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 an enthusiast. Never had his brother 
 and he led so merry a life : never known 
 the days pass so gaily, the evenings so 
 pleasantly, as since they had been in 
 Dorsetshire. His good spirits even at- 
 tained to that superlative degree which 
 disposes a man to fall in, as far as possible, 
 with the wishes of everyone under the 
 sun ; and when the rector, after much 
 searching of heart, at last found the 
 courage to approach him on the subject 
 of his never coming to church, he surren- 
 dered at once with a good-tempered, 'I 
 know what you mean. Dr. Wood.' And 
 the next Sunday morning he came to 
 church. 
 
 At which the young ladies of Lynham 
 turned up their noses, and said that he 
 had come to hear Mrs. Gainsborough and 
 Miss Hard wick sing in the choir.
 
 A TVTLY WIDOW. 241 
 
 He was in excellent spirits with himself 
 about Miss Hardwick. 
 
 * Saw the little Hardwick again to-day/ 
 he said to his brother, one evening at 
 dinner. ' She was walking up and down 
 in the garden, and we had quite a long 
 talk. A nice girl that, a straight-forward 
 girl, with no nonsense about her, and a 
 good heart, I should say. Deucedly pretty 
 too, and rides well ; better than she thinks. 
 I enjoyed a chat with her very much. 
 The fact is, Eustace, there is a lot to 
 enjoy in the society of women, if a man 
 has only once made up his mind not to 
 have too much to do with them. That is 
 the secret of the thing. A man is not on his 
 guard against consequences, and then he 
 gets falling in love, and all that sort of non- 
 sense. Or, at least, he knows that walking 
 about and talking to a girl may end in his 
 
 VOL. r. R
 
 242 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 marrying her ; and that spoils it all. When 
 a man has once had the sense to say to 
 himself that he is not going to go in for 
 any of that, that he means to keep him- 
 self within bounds, there is a lot to enjoy 
 in the conversation of a straight-forward 
 giri; 
 
 All of which was very philosophic, only 
 it was a strange thing that there was no 
 part of the estate to which Warrington 
 so seldom invited his brother to accompany 
 him as to that wall bordering Mrs. Gains- 
 borough's garden. 
 
 And, whatever Warrington's views might 
 be, his pretty friend on the other side of 
 that wall was beginning rapidly to enter- 
 tain less and less platonic ideas of the 
 situation, and to open her bright blue eyes 
 very widely on the truth. 
 
 A great part of the wall was finished
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 2i3 
 
 right up to the coping-stones, when she 
 began, in her counsels with herself, to rise 
 rapidly through such degrees of confessed 
 regard as, ' I like Mr. Warrington.' ' I do 
 like Mr. Warrington.' * I like him awfully.' 
 * I like him most awfully.' And then came 
 a mild afternoon in February ; one of those 
 soft afternoons which tell that the spring is 
 really coming. Maud was gone to a work- 
 ing-party at the rectory, for the widow 
 much studied all the little things that pro- 
 vide a woman with allies. Lily, who made 
 no pretence of liking working-parties, stayed 
 at home, and that afternoon there was a 
 long talk over the wall ; Lily leaning 
 against it, with one elbow rested on the 
 top, and the low, westering sun shining 
 softly into her lovely young face, and 
 Warrington talking to her about — why, 
 about nothing. A good part of the time 
 
 ■r2
 
 244 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 neither of them were saying anything, 
 only the man feasting his eyes on the 
 girl's exquisite face, as she stood with her 
 eyes cast on the ground, and she simply 
 happier than she could tell, merely because 
 she was with him, because she ' liked him 
 most awfully.' 
 
 At last they parted (for the evening 
 shadows began to fall), and laughingly 
 said, ' Good-night.' Their eyes met as he 
 pressed her little hand in his, and she 
 could not resist the temptation to return 
 the pressure. ' She liked him so awfully,' 
 and was so willing that he should know it. 
 
 But she did not go in. She only made 
 sure that he was not watching her, and 
 then turned and strolled down the garden 
 towards the cliff slowly, slowly. 
 
 ' I wonder whether I ought to see him 
 so often, to talk to him quite so much ?'
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 245 
 
 That was the question the pretty little 
 head was pondering. 
 
 ' I do like him so awfully, and I do feel 
 so sorry for him, poor fellow. And I don't 
 mind a bit if he knows it. But I should 
 not like him to think me forward. He 
 does not seem as if he did think me so ; 
 not a bit. Still ' 
 
 Fifty yards further down the garden she 
 had got as far as : 
 
 ' I should miss talking to him awfully, if 
 T had to give it up. Still, I would rather 
 give it up than have him think me forward.' 
 
 Fifty yards further : 
 
 ' When the wall is finished, we shall 
 have to give up our little talks. And 
 that was what Maud said.' 
 
 And then she got to the edge of the 
 cliff, and, leaning over the railing, stood 
 watching the night falling over the sea.
 
 246 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 *Why should I make a lot of words 
 about it?' she thinks, slowly ; ' I know the 
 truth — I am in love with him.' And, 
 though the words are unspoken, a hot 
 blush scalds her cheek. ' And I am not 
 ashamed to love him. He likes me, I am 
 sure. And I'll be a good girl to him, and 
 show him that girls can be honourable 
 and true, and I'll make up to him for the 
 way his cousin used him. I'll be good to 
 him even if he should behave badly to 
 me.' 
 
 There was only one blood-red streak left 
 low down on the horizon, and she turned 
 and went slowly back to the house. 
 
 ' He has proposed to her,' said the widow 
 to herself, the evening of the next day, 
 when she reached her bed-room. And, 
 white as ashes, Maud threw herself down
 
 A WILY WIDOT\'. 247 
 
 into a chair, and, -svith an agony in her 
 heart, drove her teeth into her lips. ' Oh, 
 my God !' 
 
 She put her handkerchief to her lips. 
 There was blood on it. 
 
 But Warrington had not proposed. As 
 a matter of fact Lily had not that day seen 
 him. But there was a pride in her face, a 
 dignity in her walk, a firmness in her step, 
 that they had never had before. And her 
 young lips were riper, and the meaning 
 of her eyes deeper and fuller of the con- 
 sciousness of life. And Maud had seen 
 it. 
 
 ' I could take him from her if I chose 
 for all that,' said the widow to herself, 
 standing before her glass regarding herself 
 and reckoning how easy the young girl's 
 defeat would be. 
 
 ' And break her heart, poor little puss !
 
 248 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 And she is happy! No, she shall have 
 him. It will be better for him.' 
 
 But she turned away from the glass with 
 a face full of bitter pain.
 
 249 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Two long, bappy days Lily proudly kept 
 her secret of golden sunshine locked in 
 her breast; then, after thinking of the 
 matter for a quarter-of-an-hour, she came 
 to the opinion that the prettiest, frankest, 
 and right thing to do was at once to be 
 open with Maud, and to confide her love 
 to her. 
 
 Frankness, and that artlessness which 
 craves at once to communicate whatever 
 has overfilled the heart, were a much 
 larger part of her nature than reticence.
 
 250 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 She had, besides, no wish to keep secrets 
 from her cousin. She and Maud were one 
 in heart and soul, one in tastes, in incli- 
 nations, in feelings, in everything — both 
 of the same age within a few years ; both 
 mere girls, for Maud's stupid marriage had 
 hardly been a marriage at all ; and both, 
 in their hearts, ready enough to fall in 
 love with Prince Charming if he would 
 only come and fetch them away. 
 
 At least so Lily thought. Some peo- 
 ple would have told her that she was 
 a little goose, and that she and her 
 cousin were not alike at all. Only 
 Lily Hardwick would certainly not have 
 understood them. 
 
 Having resolved to take her cousin into 
 her confidence, Lily did not wait long to 
 put her purpose into execution. She made 
 her avowal the very same afternoon, in
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 251 
 
 the twilight after afternoon tea. Seated 
 on the sofa with her saucer and empty 
 cup on her knees, she had suddenly dropped 
 into a reverie so profound that she did not 
 hear Maud Gainsborough ask her whether 
 she would take another cup of tea. Maud, 
 who, at the moment she spoke, was inspect- 
 ing the contents of the teapot, receiving no 
 answer to her question, looked round. 
 
 ' How awfully pretty she is !' thought 
 the widow to herself. ' It would really be 
 a shame to disturb her. What a picture ! 
 I am afraid she has caught it very badly, 
 though. Poor girl ! I wonder how long 
 she will remain in that exceedingly pic- 
 turesque attitude ?' 
 
 Lily appeared prepared to remain im- 
 passibly immersed in her dream for any 
 period of time. So presently Maud Gains- 
 borough softly rose from her chair and
 
 252 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 came to her, sitting down at her side, and 
 gently passing one arm round her, and 
 then drawing her to her. 
 
 Lily let her do as she pleased ; only 
 once she glanced guiltily into Maud's eyes, 
 and laughed a little nervous laugh. 
 
 Then, half-lying in her cousin's arms, 
 with her eyes turned away, she said, 
 
 ' I had something to tell you, Maud.' 
 
 * Suppose I have guessed it ?' 
 
 Lily started, and disengaging herself 
 from her cousin, and sitting up, looked 
 her hard in the face. Then, bending 
 forward a little, she said, softly, 
 
 'Maud, I love him so awfully — so 
 awfully.' 
 
 An expression of acute pain shot across 
 the widow's face. But, mastering herself, 
 she took one of her cousin's hands, and 
 began caressing it.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 253 
 
 ' I feel sometimes as if I should go quite 
 mad — I love him so awfully,' continued 
 Lily. 
 
 'And, Maud, isn't he handsome?' she 
 resumed, after another pause. * I do 
 admire him so. I expect every other girl 
 down here does too. But I don't care. 
 They don't love him as I do : they couldn't. 
 And, do you know, Maud,' — this in a 
 lower voice — ' I believe that he does not 
 dislike me.' 
 
 Maud Gainsborough started. Hope, 
 brilliant as summer noontide, had burst 
 in an instant upon the blackness of her 
 night. The man had not proposed. The 
 girl was only flattering her heart with her 
 own dreams. 
 
 ' But, darling,' she asked, gently, in her 
 soft, rich voice, ' he has proposed to 
 you?'
 
 254 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ' Oh ! no, Maud ! Only I love Mm so 
 that I don't know even whether I want 
 him to propose. To be engaged to him 
 would be such awful happiness that I 
 think I should feel half afraid of it. But 
 I believe that he does not dislike me.' 
 
 ' Yes,' thought Maud, ' I believe that, 
 too.' But what a weight was gone from 
 her heart ! Aloud she asked, rather 
 markedly, 'Already?' 
 
 ' Why do you say, " already," Maud ?' 
 asked Lily, not quite pleased. 
 
 ' You have not heard anything, then ? 
 There are people who say there was a 
 cousin of Mr. Warrington's * 
 
 ' Well ?' interrupted Lily. ' There was 
 a cousin of Mr. Warrington's. What of it, 
 if there was ?' 
 
 ' My dear, I was going to tell you, only 
 you interrupted me. Some people say
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 255 
 
 that, only a very short time ago, Mr. War- 
 rington was engaged to this cousin of his, 
 a great beauty, to whom he was very much 
 attached. And that it was only because 
 the match was broken oif that he came to 
 live down here.' She looked at Lily, but 
 Lily's face was inscrutable. ' If any of 
 that is true, it seems to me that Mr. 
 Warrington has not been very long in 
 chano:inoc his mind.' 
 
 Lily had risen. 
 
 'What was his cousin called ?' she asked, 
 shortly. 
 
 ' I don't know that anyone down here 
 knows.' 
 
 'Well, then, I know,' returned Lily, 
 quickly. 'Mr. Warrington's cousin to 
 whom he was engaged is a Miss Chester- 
 field ; and she is very pretty, and he was 
 very fond of her, and — I know all about it.'
 
 256 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 Folding her arms, slie stood at a little 
 distance, with her head slightly turned, 
 looking down at Maud Gainsborough as if 
 she would say, 
 
 ' Now, then ! You did not expect that, 
 did you?' 
 
 Maud did not expect it. She said to 
 herself, ' So, he has been making a confi- 
 dante of her, has he?' That looked seri- 
 ous, and the expression of the widow's face 
 changed. 
 
 The girl saw it at once, and followed up 
 her advantage without mercy. 
 
 ' I know all about it,' she said, flopping 
 herself down in a little chair by the low 
 tea-table. ' But that is no one's business 
 but mine. Mr. Warrington was shame- 
 fully, shamefully used. And as to his 
 having changed his mind " already," as 
 you call it, I don't see that that has any-
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 257 
 
 thing to do with it. And, any how, I 
 don't care. I wished to be frank and nice 
 about it all to you, Maud. If you don't 
 wish it, I can perfectly well hold my 
 tongue. And so we will say no more 
 about the matter.' 
 
 And, with considerable sang-froid^ Miss 
 Hardwick proceeded to pour herself out 
 another cup of tea. 
 
 The widow knew how to manacle her, 
 and said nothing ; only took up her needle- 
 work. Lily drank her tea in silence, and 
 then sat looking at the fire. So passed 
 half-an-hour, or more. Then Lily got up 
 and came across to her cousin. 
 
 *I beg your pardon, Maud,' she said, 
 kneeling on the floor by the widow. ' I 
 got into a temper just now. It was all 
 your fault, with that stupid "already," 
 but I'm awfully sorry.' 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ' Come then, darling/ said Maud Gains- 
 borough, good-temperedly, coaxing her 
 back to her side on the sofa. ' Now, let 
 me hear all about it.' 
 
 So, after all, the tender confession was 
 made. But nothing would Lily tell about 
 Miss Chesterfield. That was not her secret, 
 and she would not be persuaded to com- 
 municate anything on the subject. It was 
 disappointing, for the young widow was 
 very anxious to be informed. 
 
 After all, though Mr. Warrington had 
 not proposed, it seemed to Maud Gains- 
 borough that things had gone pretty far, 
 particularly as she imagined that what 
 Lily knew about Miss Chesterfield she had 
 learned from her lover. But still it would 
 be an easy thing for Maud to do as she 
 pleased with the young girl's pliant, con- 
 fiding nature, and with her naive, childlike 
 love.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 259 
 
 But Maud was still resolved to let things 
 take their course. 
 
 ' She mil make him a better wife than 
 I,' she said to herself. ' Or, at any rate, 
 she will bring him some money. I will 
 not come between them.' 
 
 s2
 
 260 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 "Warrington and his brother went to a 
 dinner-party at the rectory. The dinner 
 was dull, but the brothers met Maud 
 Gainsborough, who, to do her justice, 
 would have refused the invitation, if she 
 had suspected whom she was to meet. 
 
 Warrington — now he had discovered how 
 agreeable feminine society can be when a 
 man has once made up his mind not to be 
 in any danger from its fascinating wiles — 
 would much rather have met Miss Hard- 
 wdck. But she was not of the party.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 261 
 
 Failing her, he made himself agreeable to 
 her cousin, and with the assistance of 
 Maud's conversation, which was bright 
 and witty enough, got through the dull 
 evening rather more successfully than the 
 majority of the party. 
 
 Maud, too, had by this time invented 
 herself a myth. So that now the only one 
 of the three who was not acting a part 
 was Lily Hardwick. Maud Gainsborough's 
 myth was this : that she freely surrendered 
 the man she loved to her cousin, out of 
 regard for the young girl's feelings, and 
 for the man's good. For the rest of her 
 life she would herself be made happy by 
 the reflection of their happiness, and by 
 the consciousness of having, at the su- 
 premest moment of her existence, had 
 enough nobility of character to sacrifice 
 the great passion of her life to the welfare
 
 262 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 of the man she loved. That was, however^ 
 no reason why she should not show her- 
 self to Warrington in her fairest colours. 
 Rather the contrary. Some day he would 
 hear the truth. These things always come 
 out some day. And the more he admired 
 her the greater the price he would set 
 upon the sacrifice she had made him, and 
 the higher the opinion of her which he 
 would always entertain. Poor Maud I 
 She enjoyed the dull dinner-party at the 
 rectory that evening as she had enjoyed 
 few things in the whole of her life. 
 
 A day or two afterwards came a letter 
 to Lynhurst from General Chesterfield. 
 It was an unlucky letter, and it came 
 on an unlucky day, when Warrington 
 was bothered about finding some ready 
 money. 
 
 The general was not at all well. And
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 263 
 
 his medical adviser was entirely deceived 
 about the nature of his complaint. With 
 the general's medical adviser this was 
 commonly the case, at least in the general's 
 opinion. 
 
 At present the old gentleman had a 
 bad touch of rheumatism, and the doctor 
 did not choose to treat him for it. So 
 the general was going to pay no more 
 attention to anything that the doctor said. 
 And, contrary to the doctor's orders, he 
 had had some friends to a big dinner, and 
 these had amused him very much by want- 
 ing to know whether the story of his 
 granddaughter's escape from her betrothed 
 was true. They had all laughed over the 
 story until they had nearly fallen under 
 the table in fits. Also, it was said at the 
 club that Warrington had gone to hide 
 himself in some hole in the country be-
 
 264 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 cause he was ashamed to be seen after the 
 Miss Chesterfield adventure. The general 
 thought Warrington had better come up 
 to town for a day or two and show himself. 
 Also some one had put a report about the 
 place that Warrington was so awfully cut 
 up about the loss of Miss Chesterfield that 
 he had become as lean as a lath : a report 
 the general was not able to contradict 
 because he did not know whether it was 
 true or not. Thus the general in his 
 letter. 
 
 Warrington lighted his pipe with the 
 document. If his acquaintances in town 
 thought he had hidden himself in some 
 hole in the country because he was ashamed 
 to be seen, they might think it. He did 
 not care what they thought. And if they 
 liked to believe that he had become as thin 
 as a lath with fretting for Violet Chester-
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 265 
 
 field, they might believe it. He did not 
 care what they believed. 
 
 Nevertheless, the letter made him cross, 
 and when, to add to it, he failed in the 
 afternoon to obtain some ready money he 
 wanted, for which he had gone into Dor- 
 chester, he returned in the evening to 
 dinner at Lynhurst irritable and in low 
 spirits. Eustace did his best to cheer him, 
 but with no success. 
 
 ' Frank, old man,' he said at last as they 
 sat smoking after dinner, ' there is nothing 
 that puts a man so much out of humour 
 with himself and with everything about 
 him as attempting impossibilities. And 
 the fact is we are attempting impossibilities 
 here. We cannot afford all that we are 
 doing. We must make up our minds to 
 one of two things ; either to do less for the 
 place, to go in for all these repairs more
 
 266 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 gradually, or else to lisre a little less like 
 country gentlemen with plenty of money 
 to spend. The place is costing us a great 
 deal more than we meant it should. In 
 my opinion, we are trying to do too 
 much at once. And certainly we are try- 
 ing to do more than we can very well 
 afford; 
 
 ' Every month that things are left un- 
 done, the dilapidations become more 
 serious,' returned Frank Warrington, rather 
 gloomily. ' If I could have got that money 
 this afternoon ' 
 
 ' But you see you could not. You have 
 already got as much as is to be had 
 easily. Now, we must either be content 
 to go on as we are, or else to be bothered 
 out of our lives with loans. There is no 
 third course, my dear fellow, you can see 
 
 it;
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 267 
 
 Of course Warrinpjton could see it. 
 But he was cross ; and loth to admit any- 
 thino^ in a reasonable fashion. 
 
 So, instead of answering, he only smoked 
 in silence. 
 
 Presently taking a pipe, and filling it, 
 he remarked, 
 
 ' I think I shall look about for a woman 
 with a lot of money, and marry her. 
 There are women enough, no doubt, per- 
 haps not quite of our own caste with whom 
 it might be possible to live tolerably peace- 
 fully, who would not mind the match 
 costing them a little money. Men marry 
 mostly, sooner or later, some woman or 
 another. And, as I am not likely to be 
 troubled with any more sentimentalities 
 on the subject, I might ver}^ reasonably 
 look out for some advantage to result from 
 the contract.'
 
 ^68 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ' I think the first question is, whether 
 jou mean what you are saying.' 
 
 'Well, yes,' replied Warrington, leaning 
 back in his chair, and crossing his legs. 
 ' Say, some woman rather older than my- 
 self: a middle-aged woman : a widow. I 
 feel distinctly in favour of a widow, she 
 would have got over all the romance and 
 the nonsense. A woman with some sense, 
 of course. I have wondered in my time, 
 like other young donkeys, at men making 
 marriages with women of this kind, but I 
 can see the sense of it now. I really 
 believe that it would be a prudent thing 
 to do.' 
 
 'And the lady is to agree to leave 
 the tender passion entirely out of the 
 question ?' 
 
 ' That is very simple.' 
 
 ' I am not sure that you would find
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 269 
 
 it so in practice,' commented Eustace, 
 thoughtfully. ' However,' he continued, 
 Hhe lady is not discovered yet.' 
 
 ' Now,' resumed Warrington, ' there is 
 Mrs. Gainsborough. Certainly she is not 
 a middle-aged woman : and she has no 
 money, so she would not do. But, if she 
 had money, she is a sensible woman. And, 
 at any rate, she is a widow. I was dis- 
 tinctly interested by her conversation the 
 other evening at the rectory : and I should 
 say that it would not be difficult to get on 
 with her.' 
 
 ' H'm,' said Eustace. 
 
 ' You don't agree with me?' 
 
 ' I agree with you that she is a widow: 
 and that she is poor. That she has sense 
 — yes. That you will persuade her to 
 waive the tender passion — most certainly 
 not. That she would not be difficult to
 
 270 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ^et on with. Well — I distrust Mrs. Gains- 
 borough.' 
 
 indeed. Why?' 
 
 * Difficult to say, my dear Frank. Mrs. 
 Gainsborough puzzles me. I am sure that 
 I do not understand her ; and yet I cannot 
 satisfy myself that the prejudice against 
 her, which I know I am contracting, springs 
 merely from my inability to read her char- 
 ticter. I won't say that she is insincere. 
 No, I don't think that she is insincere. 
 
 And yet ' he broke off, and concluded, 
 
 ^I can't understand Mrs. Gainsborough: 
 and that is a fact.' 
 
 ' You don't think she would make a man 
 a good wife ?' 
 
 ^ Not one that he could trust.' 
 
 ' Well, if a man wanted a wife whom he 
 could trust — he would want what he would 
 simply never find, I suppose.'
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 271 
 
 ' There you are wrong. If a man wanted 
 a wife who would prove an invaluable ac- 
 complice in something not quite straight- 
 forward, then I should say Mrs. Gains- 
 borough was the very woman for him. If 
 he could make her first of all passionately 
 in love with him.' 
 
 ' What has love to do with it ?' demanded 
 Frank, sceptically. 'Women don't love as 
 we do, Eustace. They love themselves 
 and their pleasures, nothing beyond. We 
 regard them as animals not so very unlike 
 ourselves, a little bit better in some re- 
 spects, and a little bit weaker in others. 
 But that, I assure you, is altogether a 
 mistake.' 
 
 To which Eustace answered, very philo- 
 sophically, 
 
 ' The sense of mankind is against you, 
 my dear fellow. Still, respecting Mrs.
 
 272 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 Gainsborough, I may be altogether mis- 
 taken, for, as I have confessed to you, I 
 don't understand her. However, she has 
 no money, and so we need not trouble 
 ourselves about her.' 
 
 ' That is true,' admitted Warrington ; 
 and he puiFed his pipe in silence. 
 
 Eustace resumed, after a few minutes' 
 silence, 
 
 ' Now, if you could do without a widow 
 it might be easier to find what you want. 
 If a tolerable sort of girl, with a pretty 
 little fortune, who would not mind putting 
 her hand to the work of rescuing Lynhurst 
 from destruction, would do for you ?' 
 
 ' Thanks. I have had enouo^h of o^irls. 
 Only pray who may this very easily dis- 
 coverable lady be ?' 
 
 ^ You don't know?' asked Eustace, sig- 
 nificantly.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 273 
 
 ' No. I certainly don't,' answered War- 
 rington, quite honestly. -^ 
 
 ' A young lady : a very decent sort of 
 girl : an heiress : with a nice little fortune : 
 distinctly pretty : and, I assure you, quite 
 ready to be asked to be mistress of Lyn- 
 hurst, as soon as you like.' 
 
 ' You speak in enigmas, my dear Eus- 
 tace. You mean one of Sir Robert's girls ? 
 They are not heiresses. Miss Welsley? 
 she is not pretty. I give it up.' 
 
 ' Guess again. I am talking of some one 
 of whom you have seen more than of any 
 of those ; a neighbour of ours ; tall ; recent- 
 ly much interested in the building of your 
 wall.' 
 
 ' Miss Hard wick ? My dear Eustace, 
 you are talking nonsense.' 
 
 * Not at all. The girl is in love with 
 you.' 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ' Then I am sorry for her,' remarked 
 Warrington, shortly. 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 'And besides, I have told you that 
 women do not fall in love.' 
 
 ' In that case, then, there seems to be 
 no reason for being sorry for Miss Hard- 
 wick. Nevertheless, I should say that 
 she was distinctly smitten. If you don't 
 believe me, take some opportunity of 
 judging for yourself If you find that I 
 am right. Miss Hardwick is, by your own 
 admission, a sensible, straight-forward sort 
 of girl. She certainly has a pretty little 
 fortune as soon as she is one-and-twenty. 
 You are not going to be troubled with any 
 sentimentalities ; so she will do for you as 
 well as anyone else. And you can't do 
 better than marry her.' 
 
 ' And pray what on earth should she
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 275 
 
 marry me for ? For the pleasure of sink- '^' 
 ing her fortune in Lynhurst?' 
 
 ' Not at all. For the sake of providing 
 herself with an agreeable husband.' 
 
 Warrington laughed, and Eustace joined 
 him, but went on in another tone. 
 
 ' You don't know it, of course, my dear 
 Frank, but you have recently developed 
 an exceedingly ugly trait.' 
 
 ' Very likely. Let us hear what it is.' 
 
 ' You are turned into a mysogynist. 
 But it is still a fact that, when you are 
 with women, no man could be more 
 studiously or successfully agreeable to them 
 than you give yourself the pains to be. 
 As soon as you leave them, you abuse 
 them without mercy ; and I partly believe 
 that you think what you say. But per- 
 mit me to observe, that your conduct is 
 rough on the ladies, who are irresistibly 
 
 T 2
 
 276 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 attracted towards you as one of the nicest 
 of men, witliout the faintest suspicion of 
 the other side of your character. Into 
 this trap Miss Hardwick has walked.' 
 
 ' Then she should have known better.' 
 
 ' Still, it is open to you, who are not 
 troubled with sentimentalities, to take 
 advantage of her mistake if you choose.' 
 
 * Only, my dear fellow, I don't choose. 
 I certainly am not going to propose to 
 Miss Hardwick — about whom, besides, you 
 are, I believe, mistaken.' 
 
 There was a little pause, and then 
 Eustace asked, 
 
 ' Only, seriously, Frank, I am desirous 
 to know one thing. If I am not mistaken, 
 if Miss Hardwick would have you, why 
 would you not have her ? There is no 
 sentimental motive at the bottom of all 
 this.'
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 277 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 ^ Well then?' 
 
 But Frank Warrington made no reply. 
 
 Gradually a little smile began to play 
 around Eustace Warrington's fine lips, and 
 he continued, rather banteringly, 
 
 ' I suppose it is not necessary to imagine 
 that you have had a smite as well as Miss 
 Hardwick, and are, in consequence, tender 
 about her feelings. Falling in love is a 
 habit like anything else, and when a man 
 once gets into the way of it, he goes on, 
 €h ? Qui a hu hoira. Now, I remember 
 that your weakness for Violet began very 
 much in the same fashion, a quiet and 
 rather platonic liking, just as you and 
 Miss Hardwick made friends over that 
 wall ; and ' 
 
 ' Eustace, shut up, and don't be a fool,' 
 interrupted Warrington, abruptly, but
 
 278 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 with perfect good-humour. ^ We have 
 had too much of this nonsense. Let us 
 take out the chess-men.' 
 
 ' By all means,' assented Eustace. 
 
 He crossed the room to where the chess- 
 table stood, and, bringing it, began putting 
 the men on the board, thinking, mean- 
 while, in himself: 
 
 ' Frank is honestly convinced that I have 
 been talking nonsense ; he doubts that the 
 girl can care at all for him, and is entirely 
 unsuspecting that he is smitten himself. 
 All in the dark, just as he was the last 
 time. Strange. How blind these people 
 are who see I' 
 
 Warrington was in the dark entirely, 
 and honestly convinced that his brother 
 had been talking nonsense. And yet the 
 next morning, strolling out after break- 
 fast, he did think of some of the thinsrs
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 279 
 
 Eustace had said. He reflected in himself 
 thus : 
 
 'A man does not pass straight from 
 being jilted by one girl to making a fool 
 of himself over the next one he meets. 
 And I think I am honestly cured of the 
 weakness of falling in love. For which 
 reason, I don't mind admitting without 
 hesitation that Miss Hardwick has her 
 good points.' 
 
 ' It is possible that she may have taken 
 a small fancy to me. Probably she does 
 not see too many men. I have the reputa- 
 tion of being a bit of a woman-hater. And 
 to captivate a woman-hater flatters the 
 vanity of a girl. I helped her in a 
 scrape, too, and she is, very likely, a bit 
 romantic' 
 
 A matter of entire indiff'erence to him, 
 all of it. Still, he was a trifle curious on
 
 280 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 the subject. If he wished to know, he 
 had only to take Eustace's advice, to 
 observe the young lady, and to judge for 
 himself.
 
 281 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 A FEW days later, wending his way home- 
 wards from a long solitary walk, he was over- 
 taken — it was in one of the most nnroman- 
 tically muddy of lanes— by Mrs. Gains- 
 borough and Lily Hardwick returning 
 home from an unsuccessful outing with 
 the hounds. They had drawn blanks at 
 all the covers. The lane led up a steepish 
 hill, and Warrington walked some little 
 way by the side of their horses. The 
 widow, gradually passing in front, left him 
 and Lily to talk together.
 
 282 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 Lily, with a little laugh, made some allu- 
 sion to their being apparently destined to 
 meet always under difficult circumstances. 
 
 'The first time it was the tide, Mr. 
 Warrington. To-day it is hopeless mud. 
 Did you ever see such a slough T 
 
 ' I suppose I ought to tell you,' replied 
 Warrington, ' that the pleasure of meeting 
 Miss Hardwick ' 
 
 'Has made you imagine the lane was 
 quite dry,' laughed Lily. ' That would 
 have all the essential qualities of a real 
 compliment, would it not ? falsehood, ful- 
 someness, and utter incredibility. You 
 have been for one of your long walks ?' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 'All alone?' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' What a shame it is, Mr. Warrington, 
 that you are so unsociable. Why do you
 
 A WILY WIDOWc 283^ 
 
 not hunt oftener ? and why don't you try 
 to help us all to get up some fun in this 
 dull place ? Why cannot you even bring 
 your brother to see my cousin and me ? 
 We have expected you every Wednesday.' 
 
 ' You are very kind/ 
 
 ' I think we are. to wish to see anyone 
 so very unsociable,' said the girl, archly. 
 ' Do you know, I shall soon feel tempted 
 to believe what I hear said of you, that 
 you are a regular morose, crabbed 
 misanthrope.' 
 
 ' Dear me : is that what they say of me ?' 
 asked Warrington. 
 
 'It is : and you look as if you rather 
 liked it. Only, now that I come to think 
 of it,' she continued, ' I am not sure that 
 it was not that other long word which was 
 used.' 
 
 'Which?'
 
 284 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 ^ Oh, I am not going to say it, for you 
 to laugh at me : the word that means that 
 you don't like ladies.' 
 
 ' Mysogynist ?' 
 
 Lily nodded mischievously. 
 
 'Well, perhaps it is true, you see,' 
 remarked Warrington, in a rather quiet 
 way. 
 
 He would give her to understand that 
 he did not much care for ladies, and see 
 how she would like it. 
 
 ' What ? That you are a woman- 
 hater, Mr. Warrington? I can hardly 
 believe that,' answered Lily, on the 
 spot. 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 ' It is so mean. You don't think so ? 
 But I do. When I hear girls speaking 
 against men, saying they don't care for 
 them, dislike them, hate them, prefer their
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 285' 
 
 own sex, and all that, I always think it 
 sounds so cowardly, so poor-spirited, just 
 as if they did not know how to hold their 
 own with men. And if that sort of thing 
 is contemptible in a girl — what must it be 
 in a man ?' 
 
 ' Well, I have no wish to contradict a 
 lady,' answered Warrington, surrendering^ 
 with ready grace. 
 
 ' No, no,' put in the girl, quickly, ' you 
 shall not get out of it in that way. That 
 is just a trick you men have. I would 
 much rather hear you say anything than 
 that you should pretend to give in to me 
 at once, and still all the time think the 
 same as before.' 
 
 ' You wish for the pleasure of defending 
 your sex, Miss Hard wick ?' 
 
 ' Add at once, " and of having the last 
 word of the argument like a woman," ' re-
 
 ^86 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 turned the girl. ' But I assure you you 
 wrong me. Come now, let us be honest. 
 I promise you, solemnly, that I will not 
 defend my sex. I will hear whatever you 
 may choose to say, and answer nothing. 
 But you, in return, shall tell me what it is 
 that you really think.' 
 
 * I am afraid it will be too bad.' 
 
 ' "Well, say it all the same.' 
 
 Warrington was fain to comply. Here 
 was an opportunity to see whether she 
 would care what he might think of 
 women, including herself But to frame 
 the exact things he should say was diffi- 
 cult. 
 
 ' I am waiting, Mr. Warrington.' 
 
 'Then, if you must have it, I am afraid. 
 Miss Hard wick, that women, at any rate 
 young women, are not good for much — 
 rather selfish, untrustworthy, cold-hearted
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 287 
 
 creatures, specious enough very often, I 
 will grant you, but very treacherous.' 
 
 ' Well, I don't think you need say any 
 more. You could not make us out much 
 worse than that,' said the girl, rather 
 discomposed. 
 
 His words had grated on her feelings, 
 and he could see it. 
 
 ' Those are really your opinions ?' she 
 asked, after a moment. 
 
 ' Well— yes.' 
 
 It was plain that she would have liked 
 to dispute what he said ; but she had given 
 him a promise not to argue with him, and 
 she meant to keep it. She only turned 
 her face away, certainly -with an expression 
 of pain, and presently asked, 
 
 ' You make some exceptions, I trust ?' 
 
 * Oh, the present company, you know,' 
 answered Warrington, lightly.
 
 288 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 • Ob, of course,' returned Lily, with 
 some acidity. ^ We know that that means 
 nothing. I am sure that I don't wish you 
 at all to except me.' Then, quickly resolv- 
 ing not to be guilty of an exhibition of 
 temper, she went on, good-humouredly : 
 ' However, I made you tell me, didn't I ? 
 So you will justly think me very silly 
 if I am cross about what you have 
 said.' 
 
 'And, after all, what people say matters 
 very little, does it not, Miss Hard- 
 wick ?' 
 
 ' It matters sometimes.' 
 
 ' You mind what people say of you ?' 
 
 ' I mind what people I like say of me 
 very much indeed,' answered the girl, 
 simply and unaffectedly. *And, Mr. War- 
 rington, I gave you my word that I would 
 not dispute with you; but. I am very
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 289 
 
 s5orry that you think of us all like that ; 
 I am indeed. I may say that without 
 breaking my word, may I not ? I think 
 such opinions are unworthy of you. And, 
 if I had the right to ask a favour of you, 
 I would ask you as a great favour to try 
 to think differently.' 
 
 ' Impossible, I am afraid.' 
 
 ' Quite impossible ?' — she spoke very 
 prettily, softly, in a tone of the gentlest 
 persuasion. 
 
 They had reached the level, and Maud 
 Gainsborough, a little in front, waited for 
 them to come up. As Warrington made 
 no answer to her last question, Lily went 
 on, good-temperedly, 
 
 ' Still I hope, Mr. Warrington, that you 
 and I are none the less good friends ; and 
 I must try to turn out not so bad as you 
 think me.' 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 They came up with Mrs. Gainsborough, 
 and Warrington wished the ladies ^ good- 
 bye,' and they trotted on. 
 
 But Warrington caught, as Lily bowed 
 to him, a shadow of pain in her blue eyes. 
 
 Turning out of the lane, he strolled 
 slowly homewards across some fields. 
 There was perhaps something in what his 
 brother had said. The girl did evidently 
 care what he thought of womankind, and 
 so of herself. But, after all, he did not see 
 that much could be inferred from that. 
 Perhaps she had taken a little ordinary 
 liking to him, as to a man who had made 
 himself agreeable to her, and perhaps she 
 was a little vexed to see there was not 
 much prospect of her liking being recipro- 
 cated ; though, for the matter of that, he 
 was quite prepared to admit that, as girls 
 go, she was a good enough sort.
 
 A WILY WIDOW. 291 
 
 ' And after all,' he concluded to himself, 
 ' women do not fall in love. Possibly the 
 better sort don't pretend that they do. 
 And, if Eustace knew as much about it all 
 as I do, he would know that.' 
 
 And Lily meanwhile reached home, and, 
 whilst Warrington was still crossing the 
 meadows, drank a cup of tea, standing in 
 her riding-habit before the drawing-room 
 fire, and answering, rather at random, such 
 remarks as her cousin made to her, so that 
 Maud said to herself, 
 
 ' Have they had a little tiff, then ?' 
 
 Once in her own room, Lily was able to 
 sit down by the fire, and to give herself up 
 entirely to her reveries. 
 
 ' I did not think he had got so far as that,' 
 she said to herself a little sadly. 
 
 But if her love could win him to think 
 better thoughts?
 
 292 A WILY WIDOW. 
 
 Was it strong enough, tliat love ; strong 
 enough for a battle with his disbelief in 
 all love? 
 
 At last she gave it up, saying to herself: 
 ' I love him, and I know no more. If I 
 love him enough, I shall succeed. If I 
 fail, it will be because I have not loved 
 him enough ; and then it will be better for 
 both of us that I should fail.' 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BT DUNCAN MAODONALD, BLENHEIM HODSK.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 Vipiiliifi 
 
 
 ^iiiiiii