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 OF THE 
 
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 or ILLINOIS 
 
 82 3 
 H882i?a 
 
 V. I 
 
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 'THE LAD YE NANCYE.' 
 
 1// 
 
 jH 
 
'THE LAD YE NANCYE.' 
 
 3- ?ToocI. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 'DAME BURDEN,' 'MY LORD CONCEIT,' 
 ' DARBY AND JOAN,' 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 WARD AND DOWNEY, 
 
 12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. 
 
 1887. 
 
 [All Ji! [/Ids Reserved.] 
 
. v.- -X. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 It may be argued that the introduction of 
 Mysticism and Psychology in a novel is out 
 of place. The growing importance, however, 
 of these subjects, as well as a firm belief in 
 the phenomena of Psychic Force, induces 
 the author to plead for the strange creation 
 of the Woman in Black. Magnetic in- 
 fluences and magnetic cures are now ac- 
 knowledged truths, and truths to which 
 science and philosophy are lending their best 
 energies. The power of affecting others by 
 the will of a stronger physical and mental 
 organization is receiving as much attention 
 
vl Preface. 
 
 as any other discovery that has surprised 
 the world. When mystery is disrobed, and, 
 instead of scoffing, meets with the calm in- 
 vestigation given to known laws and as- 
 certained facts, it ceases to be mysterious. 
 It may even become a recognised and useful 
 agent in some of those strange and torturing 
 mental diseases that have again and again 
 baffled human science and human skill. A 
 change has overtaken the mind and feeling of 
 the world at large : old superstitions, old theo- 
 ries, old ideas and prejudices have passed away, 
 and new ones have taken their place. Mag- 
 netic and physiological treatment would have 
 been looked upon as a species of the Black 
 Art a century ago, and the susceptibility of 
 any nature to such an influence as mesmerism 
 would have simply resulted in fiendish perse- 
 cution on the part of relatives and friends. 
 Fortunately, in these days no such harsh 
 treatment need be dreaded. The shafts of 
 
Preface, vii 
 
 ridicule and the scorn of incredulity are the 
 only forms of modern persecution, but they 
 are powerful only in the hands of the 
 investigator. As a rule, they are wielded 
 chiefly by the scoffer and the sceptic, who 
 have never given even an hour's serious con- 
 sideration to subjects which certainly de- 
 mand it. Nature holds her own secrets, nor 
 yields them save to the careful and patient 
 investigator. The despot fears the over- 
 throw of his pride ; the theorist dreads the 
 calm, clear judgment that can sweep away 
 probabilities like cobwebs, and prove beyond 
 dispute the shallowness of the most poetic 
 supposition. The captious, the acute, and 
 the logical have each and all their own 
 special principle to defend. But to the 
 liberal-minded, the unbiassed, and the pains- 
 taking no subject is too trivial for examina- 
 tion, no leaf of Nature's Primer too alpha- 
 betically simple to be ignored. 
 
viii Preface, 
 
 Nothing is more strange than the diversity 
 of human intellect, which, though acknow- 
 ^ledged to emanate from one Source, flows 
 into a thousand channels of belief, theorism, 
 and scepticism. But because one mind be- 
 lieves what another rejects, it is unfair to say 
 one is right and the other wrong. Each has 
 received its own capacity, and is left free to 
 exercise or control it. The rash and hasty 
 judgment of one human being upon the 
 faith or conduct of another has always 
 seemed to me a thing to be deplored as well 
 as condemned. The wisest intellect may 
 sometimes learn an unsuspected truth from 
 the simplest ; and to denounce in hasty, im- 
 perative, and unjust fashion against a newly 
 advanced opinion is only another form of 
 obstinacy or self-conceit. 
 
 The science of medicine has been entirely 
 revolutionized, and the doctrine of theology 
 may share a similar fate. 
 
Preface. ix 
 
 There is nothing impossible in a human 
 creature vohmtarily living the life I have 
 described, any more than it would be im-- 
 possible for a monk, or a nun, or a hermit to 
 choose isolation in preference to the haunts 
 of men. The curious development of mag- 
 netic force, and its special effect upon an 
 unusually sensitive nature, are also coin- 
 cidences that do not need to quit the region 
 of facts, or require support from testimony, 
 though such testimony is producible. As 
 a rule people believe either too much or 
 too little. There is another class who be- 
 lieve notliing at all. I feel I can safely 
 leave my characters to the tender mercies 
 of all three. 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
CONTENTS OF VOL. I, 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MYSTERY -------- 1 
 
 BOOK II. 
 PAIN --------- 44 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 PENANCE -------- 15B 
 
'THE LADYE NANCYE.' 
 
 BOOK L 
 MYSTERY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE STORY TOLD BY MRS. DEBORAH CLITHEROE, 
 HOUSEKEEPER AT OWLS ROOST, IN THE SERVICE 
 OF ERROL GLENDENNING, ESQ. 
 
 I HAVE been asked by Mrs. Freere to relate, 
 as succinctly and clearly as possible, my 
 knowledge of certain facts relating to the 
 mystery of Owl's E-oost — the mystery of 
 my master's strange marriage, and its still 
 stranger results. 
 
 T am getting on in years now, but, thank 
 Heaven, my memory is good, and my powers 
 
 '■^ VOL. I. 1 
 
2 ' The Lachje Nancijc' 
 
 of thinking and reasoning not deficient. 
 When I told Mrs. Freere all I knew, she 
 asked me if it were not possible for me to 
 put it together in the form of a narrative, so 
 as to join in with her own later acquaintance 
 of the sad history. I agreed very readily. 
 My time is none too fully occupied, and the 
 forcible presentiment of late in my mind, that 
 some day my testimony may be of service, 
 has conspired to further my efforts. I wish 
 to try if it is possible — in writing — to put 
 down the series of perplexing, melancholy, 
 and sorrowful events that have so affected 
 my dear master's fate, and fallen with so 
 sombre a darkness and mystery around his 
 ancestral home. 
 
 To begin with, I have lived in the service 
 of the Glendennings, of Owl's Roost, since I 
 was a mere slip of a girl of fifteen. The old 
 Squire was alive then, and his wife also. A 
 proud, cold, managing lady she was, and not 
 very much liked. They had two sons, 
 Philip and Errol. Mr. Philip was the 
 mortal image of his mother in everything — 
 
Mystery, 3 
 
 looks, temper, and pride. Mr. Errol was 
 quite different — dreamy, gentle, kind of 
 heart — for all the world like the old Squire. 
 From his birth his mother treated him quite 
 differently to Mr. Philip. All of love or 
 tenderness that so cold and proud a lady 
 could show, she gave to her eldest born. It 
 was not fair or right, I often thought, but 
 mothers have these fancies. 
 
 When Mr. Errol was about two years old, 
 there happened to him that sad and cruel 
 accident, which, to my thinking, altered his 
 whole life and nature. He and his brother 
 w^ere playing together in the gallery over- 
 looking the staircase, when some childish 
 dispute arose. Mr. Philip was high and 
 haughty even then, and he struck his baby- 
 brother across the face. Mr. Errol did not 
 cry, but his little face grew scarlet, and he 
 seized Mr. Philip and kicked him several 
 times. It was a childish quarrel, and a 
 childish burst of passion ; but it happened 
 that their mother was just then crossing the 
 gallery to the great staircase, and saw them. 
 
 1—2 
 
4 ' The Lachje Nancy e' 
 
 I saw them, too, but before I could reach 
 their side, she had seized the little fellow, and 
 with her riding-whip she struck him heavily 
 across his back. He struggled out of her 
 grasp — they were close to the staircase by 
 then- — his foot slipped, and he fell down the 
 whole flicjht of stairs. I felt sick with 
 horror. I seemed rooted to the spot. At 
 last I ran forward and looked down. The 
 child was sobbing in his father's arms. 
 
 The scene comes before me, even after all 
 these years, like a picture. The haughty 
 lady standing at the top of that staircase, 
 dressed in her riding-habit, and with the 
 whip held tight in her clenched hand, and 
 that awful look of white, set passion on her 
 face, and there below, looking up at her in 
 pale and shocked reproach, the noble figure 
 of the grey-haired Squire, with that little 
 bruised and sobbing figure clasped in his 
 arms. 
 
 His mother came slowly down the steps at 
 last. It seemed to me as if only a sense of 
 duty prompted the inquiry : 'Is he hurt V 
 
Mystery, 5 
 
 Her husband never answered. He carried 
 the httle fellow to the nursery, and I 
 followed. My lady went out for her ride 
 alone. 
 
 We undressed him, and there seemed no 
 sign of hurt on him, except the cruel mark 
 across his little back where the whip had 
 struck him. 
 
 When I saw the look of agony on his 
 father's face as he pressed his white and 
 shaking lips to that place, I thought it was 
 strange that only women are credited with 
 tenderness. 
 
 The child soon ceased to crj, and his 
 father took him out with him on the big 
 black horse that both the boys knew and 
 loved so well. I cannot, of course, say 
 whether he spoke to my lady or not ; but if 
 he did, it made no difference in her coldness 
 to the child. 
 
 A year after that, I first began to notice 
 that the boys back was not quite straight, 
 and I spoke to the Squire at once. The 
 child was taken up to London and seen by 
 
6 , * Tlie Ladijc Ndiwije.'' 
 
 the cleverest physicians there. After that, 
 most of his boyhood was spent bound down 
 to an invahd's couch. All the gaiety, and 
 fun, and frolic, and mischief of his sex and 
 years were denied him ; but to compensate 
 for that, he had all the devotion and love of 
 his father. My lady seldom came near him. 
 Perhaps his presence was a reproach to her. 
 He had his own rooms, his own attendants ; 
 he had books, toys, and every ingenious 
 device to while away his hours of confine- 
 ment ; and perhaps both mother and brother 
 thought that he ought to be satisfied. 
 
 He was always most patient and gentle. 
 But I think that life sobered and saddened 
 him, and gave to his character a shy and 
 sensitive reticence, which kept him lonely 
 then, and keeps him lonely still. 
 
 I fear I am wandering somewhat in my 
 story. Memories carry me back instead of 
 forward, and I forgot that my intention was 
 to write of my master as he is, not drift into 
 reminiscences of his childhood. 
 
 The years brought changes. My lady died 
 
Mystery, ' 7 
 
 quite suddenly of a chill, caught at a county 
 ball. Then Mr. Philip, who was at college, 
 was upset into the river w4iile making one of 
 a boating-party, and drowned. It was a 
 great blow to the old Squire ; but he and 
 Mr. Errol lived on quietly here for five or 
 six years more. Then the old Squire died, 
 sitting quietly in his chair in the library, and 
 Mr. Errol was left alone. 
 
 He was about eight-and-twenty then, but 
 he looked much older. The deformity had 
 almost passed away, save for a slight stoop 
 in the shoulders. His face was delicate, 
 thoughtful, refined, but not strikingly hand- 
 some. He was very studious. He lived 
 almost entirely among books, and such 
 friends and guests as came to see him were 
 all scholarly or scientific men. 
 
 Owl's Eoost was very, very lonely in those 
 days. My husband was butler, and I had 
 been given the post of housekeeper. Mr. 
 Errol gave no entertainments, and no ladies 
 ever came near the place. 
 
 Even at its best the house had been 
 
8 * TJie L<nhjc yancj/e,^ . • 
 
 dreary. It was very dark, and very, very 
 old. It was near enough to the sea-coast for 
 the swell and roar of the Vv^aves to be heard 
 in any storm ; it was closely shut in by 
 trees ; and in one of the oldest portions was 
 a ruined turret, where from time immemorial 
 had dwelt the race of melancholy night-birds 
 who had given to the house and property the 
 name of ' Owl's Roost.' 
 
 There was a tradition about them, of 
 course. The luck of the race was connected 
 with the life and succession of these uncanny 
 tenants. When the one was broken so would 
 be the other — at least, that was the popular 
 superstition. 
 
 The intense quiet and dreariness of the life 
 there seemed to deepen as the years went by. 
 Mr. Errol, as by force of habit I called him 
 still, was more like a man of middle age, than 
 one who should have been in the prime of 
 youth and strength. 
 
 The only thing that for long broke the 
 monotony of this life was the arrival of two 
 boys — sons of some distant cousin who had 
 
Mystery, 9 
 
 left the children to Mr. Errol's guardianship. 
 For some years they ran wild about the 
 place, and I will give them credit for waking 
 it up. We all adored them, and I am afraid 
 spoilt them, too. 
 
 The eldest, Mr. Basil, was over twelve 
 years old when Mr. Errol, whose health had 
 for long been very delicate, was ordered by 
 the doctor to sj)end a winter abroad. He 
 arranged then for the boys to go to the 
 rector's every day to be instructed as he 
 thought fit, and left Owl's Eoost to the joint 
 care of my husband and myself. 
 
 All that winter we heard but once from 
 the Squire, and that was to say he was at 
 Nice, and enjoying much better health. 
 
 The cold, bitter weather was just breaking 
 up, and a few buds and shoots were visible 
 on the trees, when a telegram came that fell, 
 so to speak, like a bombshell among us all. 
 It said : 
 
 ' / was married in London this morning. 
 We are coming straight to OwVs Roost, Have 
 all in readiness for your mistress' 
 
10 * The Lad ye Xancye.^ 
 
 That was so like a man, and a man who 
 had Hved a bachelor's Hfe for more than 
 thirty years. 
 
 Carpets were to be put down, beds aired, 
 furniture cleaned, and rooms arranged, all in 
 a few hours' time, and without any previous 
 warnino' ! 
 
 o 
 
 However, we all set to work, and made the 
 old place look as well as we could, and what 
 with fires and lio^hts, and one thinof and 
 another, the hall and the library looked very 
 well. 
 
 We did not touch the great drawing-room. 
 There was no time, and we knew it would 
 scarcely be needed. I was full of curiosity 
 to see my new mistress, and well-nigh mazed 
 with wonder at the thought of Mr. Errol 
 being married, and so sudden. 
 
 I told the young gentlemen, and had them 
 nicely dressed in their Sunday clothes, and 
 begged them to be on their best behaviour — 
 not that they ever had any ' best ' so far as 
 I could judge. However, they were fairly 
 good, and had settled themselves and their 
 
Mystery. 11 
 
 dogs on the rug before the great fire in the 
 hall, when the carriage drew up. My hus- 
 band was ready to open the door, and I stood 
 just behind to welcome my lady. 
 
 The lio^ht from the blazino^ fire fell full on 
 her as she stepped into the hall. I quite 
 started. She was so wonderfully beautiful, 
 and yet so strange to look at. If she had 
 been carved out of marble she could scarcely 
 have been whiter, and her eyes were so large 
 and so solemn they made me feel afraid. She 
 threw off her heavy travelling mantle, and 
 went up to the fire. She was dressed all in 
 white, some thick, soft stuff, with black 
 velvet bands at her throat and wrist, and she 
 looked like a spirit more than a woman. 
 The boys sprang up, and stood staring at 
 her. They never even noticed their guardian, 
 till he spoke. He had shaken hands warmly 
 Avith me as I bade him welcome home, and 
 then he went up to his wife, and laying his 
 hands on her shoulders, turned her face to- 
 wards the boys. 
 
 ' My dear,' he said, ' these are the young 
 
12 * The Lachje Nancy e.^ 
 
 wards I told you about. Won't you speak 
 to them ?' 
 
 She looked at the two young, startled 
 faces, and then put out her hand in a timid, 
 appealing way. 
 
 ' I hope,' she said, in a low, even voice, 
 and with a certain hesitation and formality 
 of speech, that made me think she must be 
 foreign, ' I hope we shall be good friends.' 
 
 Mr. Stewart hunir his head and said 
 nothing. Mr. Basil, always the leading 
 spirit in everything, took her hand at once, 
 and said, with a graciousness I could scarcely 
 have expected : 
 
 ' I hope so, too. I don't see why we 
 shouldn't. Only I hope you don't mind 
 larks.' 
 
 * Larks V she echoed. 
 
 She looked in a puzzled sort of way at her 
 husband, and then at the boy. Her calm 
 blue eyes would have seemed cold, had it not 
 been for the wonderful shadow and softness 
 of their long black lashes. The effect of that 
 colouring on the marble-white face gave it a 
 
Mystery. 13 
 
 strange and fascinating beauty. I saw Mr. 
 ErroFs glance rest on it with passionate 
 admiration. He smiled at her. 
 
 ' Basil means fun, riot, and recklessness, I 
 fancy/ he said. * But he must learn to alter 
 his boisterous amusements now that there is 
 a lady in the house.' 
 
 She did not answer her husband's glance. 
 She looked at the bold, handsome, boyish 
 face, and faintly smiled. 
 
 * He must not alter anything,' she said in 
 that slow, measured way, as if the English 
 words and the English phrasing were yet 
 strange to her. ' I should not wish it. 
 There is so little time, after all, that one is 
 young.' 
 
 A shadow crossed her face, her ej'es 
 drooped. I noted then how sad a face it 
 was, and what lines of trouble were about 
 the tremulous lips. Mr. Basil looked at her 
 with fervent admiration : 
 
 * I think you're a brick !' he said, and then 
 drew back and stood beside his brother. 
 
 I knew by his face and his words that he 
 
14 ^ TJic Ltuhje Xanqie! 
 
 ^vas her devoted champion henceforth. I 
 stepped forward then. 
 
 ' Would you like to go to your room, 
 madam V I said, and took up her heavy 
 travelHno'-cloak from the chair where she had 
 tln'own it. 
 
 She assented eagerly. 
 
 ' I am very tired,' she said to her husband; 
 * T shall rest till dinner-time, if you do not 
 mind.' 
 
 ' Pray do.' he answered, with that gentle 
 courtesy of manner I knew so well. ' Mrs. 
 Clitheroe will see to your comfort, I am sure. 
 We need not dine for an hour yet, if you 
 prefer it.' 
 
 ' I should prefer it,' she said, and then 
 followed me up the great oak staircase to the 
 room prepared for her. 
 
 It was always a gloomy room, that state 
 bedchamber at Owl's Eoost. Not all the 
 pflow of fire and candles seemed to make 
 it cheerful, and I noticed that my lady 
 shuddered as she glanced round. The 
 wind had risen, too, and was sobbing in a 
 
Mij-^tery. 15 
 
 fitful, moaning way around the dreary old 
 house. 
 
 She listened for a moment, standing by 
 the hearth, with her dress held back a little 
 from her pretty arched feet. 
 
 ' Does it always make that sound V she 
 asked. 
 
 * Yes,' I said. It was the truth, and I 
 knew she would have to get used to the 
 sound like the rest of us. 
 
 ' It is very dreary here,' she said, and 
 again she shuddered, and her face seemed to 
 grow white and cold in a set, hopeless way. 
 ' I did not know it was so dreary. I come 
 from France, you know.' 
 
 ' I did not know, madam,' I said. ' My * 
 master only to-day, telegraphed he was 
 married.' 
 
 * You — you must have been surprised,' she 
 said, bending her white face down to the 
 flames. 
 
 ' We were all surprised/ I answered ; ' but 
 very pleased. He has been alone so long — 
 so very long.' 
 
16 ' The Lad II e Nancy e,' 
 
 But in my heart I thought — why had he 
 married a half-foreign woman of all women, 
 and one so beautiful, and so young, and so 
 strange ? 
 
 ' He is very good,' she said presently ; and 
 then, looking at her, I saw the tears standing 
 on those wonderful lashes. * Very — very 
 good. I should have been quite friendless 
 and homeless but for him.' 
 
 I wondered greatly to hear her speak like 
 that, but I made no remark. I removed her 
 hat, and saw then what wonderful hair 
 framed in that lovely face — not gold, or fair, 
 or brown, but a rich and burnished tint, the 
 like of which I had never seen. It waved 
 back naturally from her low, smooth brow, 
 and little rinses and tendrils of it cluno^ like 
 threads of gold about her ears and temples. 
 Her beauty amazed me more and more. She 
 was slightly made and of average height — 
 not too tall or too short. All her movements 
 were graceful, if somewhat languid. I thought 
 that night that sorrow and fatigue had de- 
 pressed and unnerved her. I only learnt 
 
Mi/sfen/. 17 
 
 later what terrible sorrow she had under- 
 gone. I moved about. I opened her travel- 
 ling-bag, and put out such things as she would 
 require, and brought her hot water, and did 
 all I could to make her comfortable. Then, 
 remembering she had said she wished to rest, 
 I asked her if I should leave her. 
 
 Her eyes were still fixed on the fire. She 
 sighed wearily. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, with a nervous look around. 
 * It is a dreadful room,' she added. ' That 
 bed looks like a funeral vault, and every 
 corner is full of lurking shadows. Are all 
 your famous English mansions like this'?' 
 
 I felt hurt. The dignity of the family was 
 called in question by this young and ignorant 
 foreign girl. It did not seem right or 
 fitting. 
 
 ' Few are so old and so famous,' I told her 
 proudly, but I saw her shudder again, and 
 felt hopeless of her power to keep up that 
 family dignity, or even appreciate it. I made 
 my obeisance and left the room. 
 
 My master still stood by the fire, the boys 
 
 VOL. I. 2 
 
]8 ' The Ladjje Nancy e.' 
 
 on either side of him talking eagerly and 
 gaily. He turned quickly as he heard my 
 step. 
 
 ' Well, Deborah,' he said gaily, ' I have 
 taken you by storm, have I not ? Were you 
 very much astonished?' 
 
 As the words left his lips, he stopped like 
 one in the act of listening. In the momen- 
 tary hush of the wind I caught a sound — the 
 sound of wheels dashing quickly up the 
 avenue. I saw him hold up his hand as if to 
 silence me. The next instant the bell awoke 
 a hundred clanging echoes, and, as he heard 
 the noise, his face grew white and stern, and 
 full of wrath. He drew himself up, tall and 
 stern, as if to confront an enemy or a judge. 
 
 The next instant the great door fell to 
 with an ominous, hollow sound, and I heard 
 my husband's voice announcing ' M. Pierre 
 de Volens.' 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 I SUPPOSE a greater contrast than that pre- 
 sented by the two men who now faced each 
 other in that dim old hall could not easily be 
 found. 
 
 The gentleman thus abruptly introduced 
 was, to my thinking, the handsomest man it 
 had ever been my lot to gaze upon. Tall and 
 splendidly made, with haughty, clear-cut 
 features, and the darkest of hair and eyes, he 
 stood before my master, and eyed him like a 
 wrathful and avenging spirit. 
 
 ' Tell me,' he said, ^ it is not true — you have 
 not married her !' 
 
 ^ It is quite true,' said my master. He 
 seemed to have forgotten my presence and 
 the boys'. 
 
 I went up to them and drew them away. 
 
20 ' The Lad ye Ndncye.^ 
 
 ' Come,' I said, ' this is no place for 
 you.' 
 
 Mr. Stewart, with his usual pleasantness, 
 was following me, but Mr. Basil refused to 
 move. 
 
 ' I'm going to hear what's the row,' he 
 said in his favourite schoolboy phraseology. 
 * Perhaps they'll fight a duel. How jolly.' 
 
 I did not waste time trying to persuade 
 him. I knew it would be of no use. I drew 
 Mr. Stewart's hand within my arm and 
 turned away. At the same moment a sound 
 caught my ear. I looked up. I saw my 
 lady in her white dress, with all that lov^ely 
 burnished hair hanging loose to her feet, come 
 flying down the stejDS. 
 
 * Pierre !' she cried, and her voice had such 
 a ring of gladness, and love, and wonder in 
 it, that it held me chained and spell-bound to 
 the spot. 
 
 The stranger looked at her, then a very fire 
 of fury and hatred seemed to flash into his 
 face. 
 
 * Brute — dog !' he hissed ; ' I could kill 
 
Mystery. 21 
 
 you !' And his hand was at my master's 
 throat. 
 
 With a faint cry of intense terror she flung 
 herself between them. Not on the breast 
 whose love and shelter she of right could 
 claim ; not on the heart w^hose duty and 
 aflection were for ever her own ; but into the 
 arms of that stranger whose presence had 
 evoked this stormy scene. 
 
 He held her for a moment while her hus- 
 band drew back and surveyed them both with 
 a look the like of which I pray I may never 
 see on a man's face again. 
 
 He saw the convulsive clasp of those meet- 
 ing arms — he saw the agony of one face 
 change to chill insensibility ; the passion of 
 the other to the diabolical and thwarted fury 
 of a fiend. 
 
 He saw, yet stood there silent, mastering 
 with the strong, stern self-control of years, 
 the storm of bitter and outraged feeling in his 
 heart. 
 
 I shook in every limb with the terror and 
 the pity that I felt. Mr. Stewart and I were 
 
22 . ' The Lachjc Nancye: 
 
 in a shadowy corner of the great hall, and I 
 do not think anyone noticed us. 
 
 The strange gentleman was murmuring 
 words in a foreign tongue over the pale, 
 senseless form of my master's bride. Pre- 
 sently he led her to the chair by the fire. Her 
 eyes were open now — she looked ghastly. 
 
 ' Pierre,' she said faintly, ' you should not 
 have come here. Did you not get my letter V 
 
 ' I did not believe it,' he said. ' Bitterly 
 as your father hated me, I did not believe 
 it.' 
 
 Mr. Errol stepped forward then. 
 
 ' Sir,' he said coldly, ' your presence here is 
 an intrusion. I have every reason to believe 
 that M. de Foreze had good and justifiable 
 reasons for wishing to part his daughter and 
 yourself. I intend to obey his wishes in that 
 matter. Permit me to remind you that this 
 lady is my wife ; this house mine. I will 
 explain my motives to her for saying plainly 
 I desire you to relieve both of your presence.' 
 
 The handsome face looked very evil now. 
 He glanced irresolutely from the drooping 
 
Mystery. 23 
 
 figure in the chair to the stern, cold face of 
 my master. 
 
 ' Is this your wish also, Nancette ?' he 
 said. 
 
 'Yes, Pierre — yes,' she answered faintly. 
 * I told you we ought never to meet again. I 
 told you of my father's dying wish. It is too 
 late. Go — go }'our way and forget me !' 
 
 He drew back ; he looked first at one face, 
 then at the other. 
 
 ' I go,' he said slowly and distinctly, and 
 the light in his eyes grew lurid and evil. 
 ' But I shall not forget you, Nancette — nor 
 you, monsieur,' turning sharply on my mas- 
 ter. ' You have played your game well — so 
 far. But there may be other cards in my 
 hand. Time will show. I am a De Volens 
 — a De Volens never forgets — nor for- 
 gives !' 
 
 He made this theatrical speech ; he fol- 
 lowed it by a theatrical bow. He did not 
 touch my lady's hand nor look at her again. 
 An instant later the door fell to with a loud, 
 dull clang. The roll of departing wheels 
 
24 ' The Lad II c Xtotcj/e.' 
 
 announced the departure of our strange 
 visitor. My master turned to his wife. 
 
 * I think/ he said, with cold gentleness, 
 ' that you had better retire to your room 
 again. Permit me to offer you my arm.' 
 
 She rose slowly, like one half stunned. But 
 she did not take his arm. 
 
 ' I hope,' she said, ' you do not blame me. 
 I forbade him to come. I know you are my 
 husband. All my duty and obedience are 
 yours. I w^ould not willingly have seen 
 him.' 
 
 ' I believe you,' he said, still very coldly. 
 ^ And I hope you will understand that it is at 
 your father's imperative command that I close 
 my doors on Pierre de Volens.' 
 
 She shivered as if with sudden cold. 
 
 ' I will obey you,' she said. ' It is my 
 duty.' 
 
 I think the words pained him, but I think 
 it pained him more to see the little chilling 
 o'esture with which she turned from his 
 offered arm, and went up the broad oak stairs 
 alone. He watched her till she was out of 
 
Mystery. 25 
 
 sight, then turned and leant against the great 
 carved oaken mantelpiece, and I heard him 
 groan. 
 
 I made a sign then to Mr. Basil, and, for 
 once, he was actually good enough to obey it. 
 Softly and quickly he crept to my side, and 
 then followed his brother and myself into my 
 own snug room. When we got there, how- 
 ever, the momentary fit of seriousness forsook 
 him. He leapt straight on to the table. 
 Then he crossed his arms on his breast 
 and threw himself into a theatrical attitude. 
 
 ' Sucre nom de Dieu /' he cried, in exact 
 imitation of the strange gentleman's voice 
 and manners. ' I do not forget — I. I am a 
 De Yolens — a De Yolens never forgets, and 
 nev-ar-r-e foro^ives 1' 
 
 Then his mockery ceased, his face and 
 voice grew grave. 
 
 ' Deborah,' he said, ' I like Nancette. 
 When I'm a man, I shall fight that frog- 
 eating Frenchman ! See if I don't !' 
 
 It miofht have been some half-hour later 
 that my lady's bell rang. I went up to her 
 
26 * Tlic Lddjic Xanci/c.^ 
 
 room, as she had brought no maid. My 
 master met me at the door. 
 
 His hand was pressed against his heart. 
 He looked hke a man who had received a 
 death-blow. 
 
 ' Your mistress wants you,' he said. 'Go 
 to her.' 
 
 He hurried down the stairs and into the 
 library. I heard him close and lock the 
 door. 
 
 All this happened two years ago. I have 
 never set eyes on my master since. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 I TRY to keep to the sequence of events, but 
 I find it is not so easy to write things down 
 as it is to say them. This point of my story 
 brings me to the point of my master's letter, 
 written to me on that night. 
 
 I have said he locked himself in the 
 library, and that from that hour to this, I 
 have never seen him. But don't let it be 
 supposed he came to a violent end or made 
 away with himself, though, indeed, if I was 
 writing a book, it would be a grim thing to 
 say that the wicked Frenchman came back 
 in the dead of night and stabbed him there 
 in the old library, which was really the 
 haunted room of Owl's Koost, on account of 
 a murder lonof aofo committed. But, as I am 
 a truthful person, though I am afraid writers 
 
2S ' The Lathi c Nancije: 
 
 of romance are not, I cannot say such a tragic 
 event happened. 
 
 My master's kiggage was in the hall, and 
 Clitheroe told me he had received instructions 
 to send it up to London next day. My 
 master himself left the house as soon as he 
 had written that letter to me, which I am 
 now going to copy in here. 
 
 Cojvj of letter ivritten to Deborah Clitheroe, 
 March Srd, 1867, hij Errol Glendenning , Esq., 
 of Old's Roost : 
 
 ' Deborah, 
 
 ' I am going to put a great trust in 
 you. Years of faithful service in our family 
 have proved your worth, and there is no 
 other living soul to whom I can turn in this 
 dire strait, save yourself I came back to 
 my old home a few hours ago, thinking that 
 at last I had tasted of happiness. I go from 
 that home to-night a broken-hearted man. 
 Heaven knows if I shall ever set foot in it 
 again. . . . My hasty marriage amazed you 
 all. I will briefly relate how it happened. 
 
Mystery. 29 
 
 When I was at Nice I made the acquaint- 
 ance of a French gentleman, by name the 
 Comte de Foreze. He was a sinofular man. 
 He had married an EngUsh lady, had been 
 left a widower early in life with one child, a 
 daughter. He had sent her to be- educated 
 in England when she was about thirteen, 
 because his greatest desire was that she 
 should grow up as much an Englishwoman 
 as possible. He then sold the property he 
 had in France, and for years travelled about, 
 visiting different parts of the world. He was 
 comino" back to Eno^land, to see his dauofhter, 
 when I met him at Nice. He was in great 
 distress about her. A relative of his — an 
 unprincipled, reckless spendthrift — had made 
 acquaintance with the young lady, and written 
 to ask his permission to marry her. The 
 schoolmistress had foolishly permitted his 
 visits, as he stated they were authorised by 
 the father, and produced a letter to that 
 effect. It is needless to say the letter was a 
 forgery. Pierre de Volens is an unscru- 
 pulous man, and worse. As I had taken a 
 
30 ' The Ladjie Xancne' 
 
 strong liking to the Comte de Foreze, and 
 
 was at that time thinkinof of leavinof Nice 
 
 myself, I went back to England with him. 
 
 We parted at the London terminus — he to 
 
 go to his daughter, I to an hotel. I gave 
 
 him my address at parting, begging him to 
 
 come and see me when he had leisure. For 
 
 a week I heard or saw nothinsf of him. 
 
 Then, one evening, he called. I started when 
 
 I saw him. In that one week he had grown 
 
 into an old man. He apologised hurriedly 
 
 • for his long absence, stating that he had been 
 
 occupied with business matters. I asked him 
 
 about his daughter. He said she was well 
 
 and happy ; that he had managed to settle 
 
 the troublesome cousin, and, fortunately, bring 
 
 the young lady to reason. 
 
 ^ " Her heart was not in the affair," he 
 said; ^^ and all Pierre de Volens cared for 
 was money. I told him I had no fortune to 
 give my daughter, and he at once withdrew 
 his offer for her hand." 
 
 ' I did not pursue the subject, seeing that 
 it troubled him. He remained an hour or so 
 
Mystery. 31 
 
 with me, then gave me a pressing invitation 
 to dine with his daughter and himself the 
 next night. I accepted it, moved, I confess, 
 by a strong curiosity to see the young lady 
 who had caused all this trouble and anxiety. 
 I saw her. I will confess, Deborah, that I 
 had come to her presence prejudiced and cold. 
 I left it, knowing to my cost that love was 
 no fable of poets, that that pure, cold, lovely 
 face would haunt me all my life long. From 
 that day I was like a man in a dream. I 
 was perpetually at her father s. Some spell 
 drew me there too strong for mortal resist- 
 ance. The old man noticed my infatuation, 
 and was well pleased. As for Mdlle. de 
 Foreze, she was always calm, and gracious, 
 and serene. If she suspected my passion, 
 she did not seem to notice it. She moved in 
 another atmosphere, she seemed too spiritual 
 and fair for the breath of this lower world. 
 Her father at last spoke to me on the subject. 
 He said nothing would please him better. 
 The sole desire and ambition of his heart 
 was that his daughter should marry an 
 
?)'2 ' T/ic Lcali/c Nuncyc.' 
 
 Englishman. He knew my position and 
 family ; lie seemed nervously anxious that 
 I should expedite matters, or let him arrange 
 the marriage French fashion. To this I 
 objected. I wished to win her for myself, 
 and to do so by my own unaided efforts. 
 Some weeks liad drifted by, too happily for 
 me to notice their passage. One morning I 
 w^ent to the hotel by appointment. We were 
 all going on an expedition for the day — the 
 Count, and his daughter, and myself. I was 
 a little before the time. She was alone in 
 the sitting-room. We spoke a few^ words, 
 then she went over to the window to look 
 for her father. She said he had merely gone 
 over to the jeweller's, opposite the hotel, to 
 fetch his watch, which had been left for 
 repair. In another moment we saw him 
 come out of the shop. He glanced up at the 
 window, and when he saw us both there, he 
 smiled and waved his hand. I can never tell 
 how it happened. In another instant there 
 was a shout, a crowd, a host of moving 
 figures, and plunging horses. I rushed 
 
Mystery, 33 
 
 down the stairs and into the street. The 
 porter at the hotel and two other men were 
 bringing in a man's crushed and lifeless 
 body. 
 
 * That was all that I ever saw again of the 
 Comte de Foreze. . . . The poor child was 
 well-nigh frantic with grief Oh, the terrible 
 days — the terrible time that followed ! All 
 the arrangements devolved on me — the 
 horrors of the inquest and the funeral. He 
 seemed to have no near relative, and I did 
 not feel justified in sending for Pierre de 
 Yolens. I found no will among the dead 
 man's papers, and no clue to his family or 
 friends. There was a letter for me, enclosing 
 a small, hard parcel, sealed and addressed to 
 his daughter, and written on it were the 
 words : 
 
 ' " Not to be opened by Nancette until she 
 has reached the age of twenty -one." 
 
 ' There was a small balance of three hun- 
 dred pounds at his banker's, which I drew 
 out for his dauohter at her desire. She still 
 remained at the hotel. I tried to persuade 
 
 VOL. I. 3 
 
34 ^ TJie Laibje Xancjie' 
 
 hei' to return for a time to her sclioolmistress, 
 but she seemed to have a horror of doing 
 that, and I could only advise, not enforce. 
 At last her loneliness and desolation gave 
 me courage to plead my suit, and strengthen 
 it b}^ her father's wishes for its success. 
 
 ' She hstened silently. I saw that she was 
 much moved. 
 
 ' '^ You are sure," she said, ''' that he wished 
 
 it r 
 
 '''It was his great desire," I said; ''but 
 do not let that influence your decision if your 
 heart does not wish it." 
 
 ' For a moment she hesitated, and looked 
 at me with those deep, solemn eyes that were 
 like wells of mystery. Then she stretched 
 out her hands. 
 
 ' " I have not a friend in the world but 
 you," she said. " I will be your wife if you 
 wish." 
 
 ' I was too bewildered and too happy to 
 ask her for other assurance. I knew nothing 
 of women. My life had always been that of 
 a recluse. It seemed to me no woman would 
 
Mystery. 35 
 
 give herself to a man unless she loved him 
 with all her heart and soul. 
 
 ' A month later we were married. 
 
 ' I come now to the events of to-niofht. 
 You know who Pierre de Volens is — the lover 
 of my wife ; the man whose character and 
 principles were such, that her father declared 
 to me he would sooner see her dead at his 
 feet than wedded to such a scoundrel. Nan- 
 cette had written, telling him of her intention 
 to marrj me. His answer was his appearance 
 here to-night. 
 
 ' Deborah, when I saw his face and hers, I 
 knew I had been deceived. I knew that she 
 had loved, and did love this man, despite her 
 father's denial, despite her acceptance of me. 
 When I went up to her room I asked her if 
 my suspicions were correct. She refused to 
 answer me. She said I had no right to in- 
 quire into her past — I, her husband. Heaven 
 knows if I was cruel or passionate in my just 
 reproaches, I only know that suddenly she 
 swayed forward, and had I not caught her in 
 
36 ' The Lad lie Xancye,^ 
 
 my arms, would have fallen to the ground. I 
 laid her on the couch, I dashed some water 
 on her face, and loosened the clasps of her 
 dress. As I did so a scrap of paper fell out. 
 It was a fragment of an old newspaper ; there 
 was an advertisement printed on it. Wonder- 
 ing why she should conceal such a thing about 
 her, I looked at the words. 
 
 ' Deborah, old and faithful servant as 
 you are, I can't tell you more. ... I only 
 want to hide my shame and misery hence- 
 forth from every mortal eye. To your care 
 I confide the wretched girl who is my wife in 
 the eyes of the law, but who never can be 
 wife to me in auo^ht but name. No one knows 
 of my marriage save just you of my household. 
 Deborah, no one must hioivf Let her live 
 here. See to her comforts ; serve her with 
 all service of your tender, womanly heart ; 
 but to any inquiries, let it appear she is only 
 an orphan left to my guardianship — no less, 
 no more. I have written her briefly to the 
 same effect. She will obey my wishes for 
 her own sake. 
 
Mystery. 37 
 
 ^ All arrangements as to money matters I 
 will write about from London. Also respect- 
 ing my two wards. 
 
 ' Do your best for me, Deborah. Hide 
 my folly from prying eyes ; and remember 
 that the doors of my house are for ever closed 
 to Pierre de Volens. 
 
 'Errol Glendenning.' 
 
CHAPTER lY. 
 
 When I read this letter, I was, as one may 
 say, dazed. 
 
 I could not understand the mystery a bit. 
 Deeply as I pitied my master, I thought, in 
 my heart, he was very foolish to run off in 
 this fashion because of a schoolgrirl's flirtation- 
 Thino's mio^ht have all come rio^ht if he had 
 waited ; but now — well, what wife would like 
 to occujDy such a position as he had assigned 
 to this poor, lonely girl ? No ; I could not 
 think he had acted right, but then, also, I 
 did not know the mystery of that scrap of 
 paper. 
 
 That was evidently the clue to his conduct. 
 There must be something more than a mere 
 schoolgirl fancy connected with that mysteri- 
 ous advertisement. 
 
Mystery, 39 
 
 No woman is without cariosity, and, for 
 the matter of that, no man either. I would 
 have given a great deal to know what that 
 newspaper had contained, but, with no clue 
 to dates or events, it was impossible to find 
 out. Nothing remained for me but to accept 
 the situation, and trust to time. 
 
 Not a soul knew of my master's marriage. 
 His long absence had weakened people's 
 memories of him. Very few in the neigh- 
 bourhood ever came to Owl's Roost, and in 
 the strange position my lady was to occupy, 
 I scarcely thought she would care about 
 visitors. The most difficult part of the busi- 
 ness was to manage the servants. 
 
 They all knew of the marriage. They 
 would all know of the sudden departure of 
 their master. I scarcely knew what to say. 
 I took counsel with Clitheroe. We both 
 a2freed it would be best to connect Mr. Glen- 
 denning's departure with business of import- 
 ance relative to the strange visitor, who had 
 summoned him abroad. In a week's time I 
 persuaded my lady to come up to London 
 
40 ' The Lruhje Nannjc: 
 
 with me to make some purchases. A more 
 ^c^entle creature I never did see — that I will 
 say for her. 
 
 When we were there, Clitheroe gave out 
 that we had gone to meet the master on his 
 return from the Continent. Then he next 
 gave notice to the whole of the servants, pay- 
 incr them their month's wacres, and statingr as 
 how Owl's Koost was going to be shut up for 
 a year or more, as Mr. and Mrs. Glendenning 
 were going to h*ve abroad. 
 
 I engaged some new servants in London — 
 a cook and two housemaids, a gardener and 
 coachman, and a man for the stables. Then 
 when the house was clear, my lady and I 
 went back. 
 
 ■ She did not seem to feel the strangeness of 
 her position at first. She and the boys were 
 much together, and Mr. Basil was her devoted 
 slave. They accepted their guardian's depar- 
 ture with perfect content ; they were too 
 young to be very curious about the circum- 
 stance. My lady was always very quiet and 
 very sad. Some deep trouble lay at her heart. 
 
Mystery. 41 
 
 She seldom left the house, though the bo3^s 
 tried to persuade her. No one ever called, 
 and I doubt if anyone in the neighbourhood 
 knew anything of her presence save and 
 except the rector. He called, but she would 
 not see him. 
 
 I told the boys not to mention that their 
 guardian was married, and they promised to 
 obey. I suppose they did obey, as I never 
 heard any inquiries on the subject, even from 
 the rector. But he was a quiet, studious 
 gentleman, and he had no wife. 
 
 As time went on there were changes. 
 Master Basil and his brother went to school, 
 and Mrs. Freere came as companion to my 
 lady. She was just as nice a lady as ever 
 stepped in shoe-leather. She had been used 
 to live as a girl in a queer old house on the 
 coast, with a crotchety old father who had 
 been an admiral. She and Mr. Errol had 
 been great friends once. Then Miss Myra 
 got married all of a sudden, and went away 
 to some foreign country. She was left a 
 widow, and came home to the Old Hulks, as 
 
42 ' The Ladije Nanciic' 
 
 the Admiral had named it. 1 think Mr. 
 Errol must have asked her to hve with his 
 wife, but she did not seem to know anvthinij: 
 of her story. She questioned me at first, but 
 I had little to tell, only what I've written 
 here now. Perhaps it may be useful one 
 day. 
 
 Dear me, what a world of trouble this is, 
 and what a deal of worry folks do give them- 
 selves ! I often have thouo^ht that if Mr. 
 Glendenninof hadn't sfone off so sudden-liko, 
 things might have been explained. I'm sure 
 my lady was the sweetest creature, and every 
 one took to her ; but he didn't write to her 
 but once — always to Mrs. Freere or to me. 
 And, to my knowledge, he's never set foot in 
 Owl's Roost since that night. 
 
 I have put all this down at odd times for 
 Mrs. Freere's satisfaction. I have had 
 troubles of my own since the day Mrs. 
 Freere came here, and bitter sorrow, too. 
 She has been like an ano-el to me, and I have 
 learned to love her well-nigh as dear as my 
 ladv. 
 
Mljstcvjj. 43 
 
 Looking at this that I have written, and 
 remembering things as they were, I find my 
 old brain puzzhng itself as to w-hat will be the 
 end. 
 
 My poor husband's affliction has been a 
 sore trial to me. I told Mrs. Freere that, 
 from the time she and my lady left the 
 house, he had failed and failed until this 
 stroke took him, and set him apart from us 
 all, as a mere piece of living childishness.. 
 But it is Heaven's wdll, and we have all 
 our troubles to bear. 
 
 Here is a wdiole family made miserable for 
 life by reason of a scrap of paper ! 
 
 Will a day ever come when the cloud w^ill 
 lift off my master's heart and home, and the 
 sunshine of peace and love fall over the dark- 
 ness of Owl's Koost ? 
 
 I pray for it every day I live. 
 
BOOK 11. 
 PAIN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Two boys were sitting in a large, old-fashioned 
 and dingily-furnished room. 
 
 Itw^as their own special ^den.' There was 
 not much in it left for them to spoil, and that 
 was its only disadvantage. 
 
 By the time they had inked the walls and 
 covered them with caricatures, kicked off the 
 rails of the chairs, notched their leofs and 
 arms, carved initials over the window-seats, 
 and decorated the carpet with ink-splashes, 
 the room looked as if it could not be improved. 
 Bats and balls, fishing-tackle, and bows and 
 arrow^s, were hung about the walls. Shelves 
 of books in various stashes of untidiness filled 
 
Pain. 45 
 
 the recesses on either side the window. That 
 window itself, with its low, broad seat, and 
 its outlook on the kitchen-garden, was their 
 favourite nook. Here had they counselled 
 and disputed, quarrelled and made friends, 
 over and over again. Here had they sat 
 concocting plots and schemes with a view to 
 devastation, assault and battery, and general 
 mischief. Here they sat now^ watching the 
 rain as it descended in a dull, monotonous 
 downpour, their bright young faces disconso- 
 late and strangely grave. 
 
 ' Well,' said the elder of the two, at last 
 breaking silence, ' it's a rum go. What can 
 be the matter \ I don't know much about 
 marrying — I know it's a thing people do — 
 but to start off and leave your wife almost as 
 soon as you've brought her home — I shouldn't 
 think it was usual, should you, Stewart V 
 
 The younger brother looked grave. 
 
 ' It must have been the Frenchman,' ho 
 said. 
 
 ' I expect so,' said the other reflectively. 
 '• They're our natural enemies as a nation. 
 
4G ' The Ladjir Namnjc.' 
 
 'They're a dirty lot. What can you expect of 
 people who cat frogs V 
 
 ' I wonder when we sliall see her aofain V 
 said Stev/art, passing the question as to his 
 expectations of a nation whose culinary tastes 
 were so in advance of his own. * How pretty 
 she is ! She's French, too, isn't she, Basil •' 
 
 ' Only half, so Deborah said. Her mother 
 was Enoflish.' 
 
 ' Do you think,' hazarded the younger 
 brother, somewhat timidly, ' that she'll want 
 to eat fro Of s V 
 
 * Oh, very likely ! We shall have to 
 collect them for her. I've a mind to bring 
 her that fine old fat one out of the pond. 
 He ought to be in prime condition by 
 now.' 
 
 ' What are we to call her V asked Stewart. 
 ' She's got a French name, Debbie says.' 
 
 ' I know w^hat Fm oroinsf to call her,' said 
 Basil coolly; 'I made up my mind last 
 night : the Ladye Nancy e. Isn't she just 
 like her V 
 
 Both pair of eyes turned instinctively to a 
 
Pain. 47 
 
 picture in the dark recess. It hung above 
 the book- shelves. It was the picture of a 
 woman. All the background was dark and 
 sombre. She seemed to be looking down an 
 avenue so dim, and shadowy, and mysterious 
 that nothing could be clearly distinguished. 
 She was clothed in loose and flowing white, 
 and her face was white, and her eyes dark 
 and sombre, and full of fear. 
 
 The two boys looked at each other 
 ag^ain. 
 
 ' It's awfully like her,' said Stewart under 
 his breath. 
 
 ' I think it is her,' said Basil, ' or her spirit 
 come into the world again in the body of 
 another woman.' 
 
 ' When I saw her come down the stairs I 
 felt frightened/ said Stewart. 'Wasn't she 
 white V 
 
 * She was so,' said Basil, nodding his head 
 emphatically. Then he rose and looked at 
 the clock. ' Ten !' he said. ' I don't mean 
 to go to old Chasable's this morning. We'll 
 have a holiday. I think it's our duty to try 
 
48 ' The Lad If e Nnncye.'' 
 
 and amuse our Ladye Nanc3^e. Let's ask 
 her if slie'd like to look over the house.' 
 
 Stewart never dreamt of opposing a sug- 
 gestion of his brother s. He had been always 
 used to look up to him as a leading spirit. 
 He, therefore, rose with alacrity, and the 
 two little fellows presented themselves a few 
 moments later at the door of a suite of rooms 
 in the opposite wing to where their own door 
 was situated. 
 
 Basil's knock was firm and decided, like 
 most thino^s about him. 
 
 A low, soft voice bade him come in, and 
 the two boys found themselves in the presence 
 of a slight, girlish figure. She was standing 
 by the window looking out on the desolate 
 grey sky and the sweeping rain. She did 
 not look round as they entered. 
 
 Basil went up to her. 
 
 * Good-morning,' he said politely. ' I hope 
 you have slept well.' 
 
 She started and looked in bewilderment 
 at her youthful visitor. Then she seemed to 
 recollect him. Her face grew a shade whiter. 
 
Pain. 49 
 
 * Ah, it is you !' she said. * I had forgotten. 
 You Hve here, then V 
 
 * Yes,' said Basil frankly, ' at present. I 
 hear our guardian's gone away. It's rather 
 funny, but, of course, you know all about it.' 
 
 Her hand went suddenly to her bosom as 
 if to clasp something hidden there. A faint 
 colour stole into her white face. It was a 
 lovely face, but so delicate and pure in colour- 
 ing and feature that it scarcely looked like 
 flesh and blood. 
 
 The boys watched her curiously. 
 
 ' I know,' she said unsteadily, * he had to 
 leave here — on — on business. It was very 
 sudden, but he will write and tell you.' 
 
 * Oh,' said Basil graciously, ^ he needn't 
 trouble. You'll do very w^ell as a guardian, 
 I'm sure. I didn't think I should like Mr. 
 Glendenninof to brinof a wife here, but Stewart 
 and I don't mind now we've seen you. We'll 
 take care of you, don't you fear. That's what 
 we've come to say.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, looking a little puzzled as 
 she met the frank, boyish eyes, ' that is very 
 VOL. T. 4 
 
50 ' Tlie Lathje Nancy e.'' 
 
 kind. This seems a dull, dreary house,' she 
 added with a shudder. * I was thinkinof how 
 dreary it was when you came in.' 
 
 ' Oh, it's not half a bad old place when 
 you get used to it/ explained Basil. ' We'll 
 show you all over it, the haunted room and 
 all, if you like.' 
 
 * The haunted room V she said, and shivered 
 suddenly. ' Oh, I hope that is not true.' 
 
 ' We've never seen the ghost,' said Basil 
 eagerly. ' We'd like to, but she doesn't 
 come. We've tried all sorts of dodges to 
 draw her out, but it's no use. I think she's 
 a fraud myself. But will you come and look 
 over the house V 
 
 ' Yes,' she said w^ith an effort ; ' I should 
 like to see it.' 
 
 ' I don't know about these matters,' re- 
 marked Basil, as he led the way, ' but I 
 should fancy the husband ought to be show- 
 man on these occasions. However, Mr. 
 Glendenning was always different to every- 
 body else. If you haven't found that out, 
 you soon will. By the way ' — and he 
 
Pain. 51 
 
 stopped abruptly and surveyed the new 
 mistress — ' aren't you cold in that white 
 dress V 
 
 ' No/ she said ; ' the stuff is thick. I 
 always wear white.' 
 
 Stewart and Basil exchanged a rapid 
 glance. 
 
 ^ Isn't it queer V whispered the younger of 
 the two ; ' so did the other one.' 
 
 It was two hours later before the tour of 
 the house had been completed. Then the 
 boys took their new friend into their own 
 special sanctuary. A huge fire burnt in the 
 wide, open fireplace. They drew an old- 
 fashioned leather armchair up before it, and 
 made her sit down. 
 
 ' Whenever you feel lonely, or in want of 
 a chat, just come in here,' said Basil ; ' we'Jl 
 put you up to no end of larks, if you like. 
 I'm sure you'd be more at home here than in 
 any other part of the house.' 
 
 ^ I think I should,' she said, half-smiling, 
 as she looked at the flushed, eager faces of 
 her young hosts. 
 
 4—2 • 
 
52 ' Tlw, Ladjie A^ancye.^ 
 
 ' In strict confidence,' said Basil, dragging 
 up a stool, and sitting down at her feet, 
 ' I don't mind telling you that I look upon 
 Mr. Glendenning as a failure, in the shape of 
 a husband. Perhaps he'll improve, but he 
 has certainly not begun well. I, in his 
 place, should have arranged all business 
 matters before I married. Then I could 
 have looked after my wife, you see. Still, 
 we'll do our best for you. Won't we, 
 Stewart V 
 
 Stewart agreed with alacrity. 
 
 ' First, though,' w^ent on the loquacious 
 Basil, ' I must tell you we don't think much 
 of foreigners. You, I expect, are pretty glad 
 you're half English. Still your name's foreign, 
 isn't it r 
 
 * My name,' she said, ^ is Nancette. My 
 mother was an Englishwoman, my father a 
 French nobleman.' 
 
 ^ We won't go into particulars,' said Basil 
 loftily. 'All I've got to say is, we don't 
 mean to call you Nancette. Nancye is better, 
 and has an old English flavour about it. Ladye 
 
Pain. 53 
 
 Nancye if you like, but certainly Nancye. 
 You don't mind — do you V 
 
 ' Not in the least,' she said smiling. ' I 
 like your name better than my own.' 
 
 ' It might be your own,' said Stewart 
 timidly ; ' only you've forgotten ; it's such a 
 long time since you were on earth before.' 
 
 ' Since I was on earth before ! But what 
 is it then you mean V exclaimed their new 
 friend amazed. 
 
 ' Shut up, Stewart 1' muttered his brother. 
 * You see,' he explained, turning to Nancette, 
 ' he's got an idea you're like a picture of 
 someone, and that her spirit's come back in 
 you.' 
 
 ' Oh !' said the girl somewhat mystified ; 
 ' that is drole for a fancy. Who was the 
 lady ?' 
 
 ' There's the picture. You can look at it 
 if you like.' 
 
 She followed the direction of his hand, 
 then rose and went up to the strange paint- 
 ing, and looked at it long and earnestly. 
 
 ' Like me !' she said below her breath. 
 
54 ' The Ladye Nancy e.^ 
 
 Again her hand went to her heart with a 
 sudden invohintary movement. * Am I hke 
 that ? She looks so desolate, so heart-broken, 
 so alone. See how her eyes gaze down, down 
 that avenue, watching for someone who never 
 comes.' 
 
 * That/ said Basil, ' is the Ladye Nancye. 
 She was wife to one of the Glendennino-s in 
 the time of the Pretender. Her husband 
 was killed in battle. She is supposed to be 
 looking for him, or news of him. That's our 
 avenue, you know.' 
 
 The girl shivered and turned away. 
 ' It is a sad picture/ she said. ' I am sorry 
 you think it resembles me.' 
 Then she resumed her seat. 
 
 * Listen/ she said slowly, * you are only 
 children, but perhaps you will understand. 
 It is my fault that your guardian, Mr. Glen- 
 denning, has gone away like this. He ma}^ 
 not come back for a lono^, longf time. It is 
 his wish that I should stay here, and I am 
 his wife, and I must obey. I think it best to 
 tell you. You have been so kind to me this 
 
Pain. 55 
 
 morning, and yet, to you, I am only a stranger, 
 and not even a countrywoman. Your name 
 for me is prophetic. My fate here may he as 
 unhappy as that of your Ladye Nancye, there. 
 I — I want to tell you both that it is all my 
 fault — it is not Mr. Glendenning's. You owe 
 him love, obedience, gratitude. You owe me 
 nothing ; I am only an interloper. I cannot 
 hold up my head and take my place here, and 
 I am quite friendless in the world. Now, 
 that is all my history. I do not think it is 
 quite right, perhaps, that you should be 
 friendly with me, or care for me. I am 
 grateful to you ; you could make me happier ; 
 but still Mr. Glendenning might not like 
 it.^ 
 
 ' Then,' said Basil, taking her hand, and 
 looking frankly and fearlessly into her troubled 
 eyes, ' Mr. Glendenning can do — the other 
 thing. Stewart and I are going to be your 
 champions, your knights, and all that sort, 
 you know. We knew there was a screw loose 
 somewhere, but w^e put it down to the French- 
 man. However, you cheer up. It'll all come 
 
50 ' The Ladjie Xancj/e.' 
 
 right some clay. ^Meau while, we'll take care 
 of you.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Stewart, rising and taking her 
 other hand ; * Basil always does what he says. 
 We'll take care of you !' 
 
CHAPTER 11. 
 
 ' You haven't been out for a week, Ladye 
 Nancye. Come along this morning with us. 
 We'll have a look at the sea. It's only a 
 mile and a half to walk, and it will do you 
 good.' 
 
 Basil said this, standing at the boudoir- 
 door, cap in hand, his handsome boyish face 
 flushed and rosy with exercise. He and 
 Stewart had been racing each other down the 
 avenue. 
 
 ' The Ladye Nancye,' as he called her, 
 lifted her head, and looked out of the 
 window. 
 
 ' How is it you're not at school V she 
 said. 
 
 ' It's Saturday. You always forget Satur- 
 day. Don't you know old Chasable has to 
 
58 ^ The Ladye Nancye' 
 
 write his sennoii — I mean crib it. He 
 couldn't compose an original one if he 
 tried; 
 
 * Basil once wrote a; sermon for him,' inter- 
 posed Stewart, who, as usual, was close to his 
 brother. ' It was very short, but the rector 
 wouldn't have it.' 
 
 * What was it about V asked Nancette 
 curiously. 
 
 She had reached down her hat from a 
 peg, where it was hanging, and now put it 
 on. 
 
 ' The text was, '^ And when they rose up 
 in the morning they were all dead men," and 
 Basil said : " This is a mistake, dear brethren. 
 If they'd been dead they wouldn't have got 
 up and seen each other, could they, dear 
 brethren ? Consequently someone's wrong. 
 I don't say Avho. I think you'd better ask 
 the Bishop about it, dear brethren. He'd be 
 sure to know." ' 
 
 ' Was that all V asked Nancette in surprise. 
 
 * It was quite enough/ said the young 
 author. ' I don't hold with long: sermons. 
 
Pain. 5^ 
 
 I told old Chasable that. But he still writes 
 them. I see you've got on your hat. I 
 thoue^ht all woaien had to look in the c^lass to 
 put their hats on. You never do.' 
 
 The girl smiled. 
 
 ' I can feel if it's straight,' she said. ' That's^ 
 all it wants.' 
 
 They left the room, and went down the 
 broad stairs, and so out into the fresh, cool 
 air. and brilliant sunHght. 
 
 * I wish you wouldn't mope so much,' said 
 Basil presently. ' You look so white. I 
 can't make out whether you're pretty. I 
 suppose you'd be considered so, but I like 
 more colour than you've got.' 
 
 * I am always pale,' said the girl wdth a 
 faint sigh. ' I am not like your rosy English 
 maidens, you know.' 
 
 ' Deborah thinks you very pretty,' said 
 Stewart eagerly. * She often says so.' 
 
 ' Do you think it matters much about one's 
 looks V asked Basil. ' Do all girls want to 
 be pretty V 
 
 ' At school they were always talking about 
 
GO ' The Ladjje Nancy e.' 
 
 beauty,' said Nancette. ' They seemed to 
 think a great deal depended on it.' 
 
 * Oh, husbands, of course,' scoffed Basil in- 
 dignantly. * Just like girls — always bothering 
 their heads about men. I've no patience with 
 them.' 
 
 ' You don't know any,' remarked Stewart 
 wisely. 
 
 ' Well, I hear enough about Jago's sisters 
 and cousins.' 
 
 ' Who is Jago ?' inquired Nancette curi- 
 ously. 
 
 ' The other boy who goes to old Chasable's,' 
 answered Basil. ' Such a duffer ! He boards 
 there because he's delicate. His place is 
 twenty miles off. He's always bragging 
 about it, and he's been in London. He 
 thinks no end of himself for that.' 
 
 * He's bigger than Basil, but Basil can lick 
 him easily,' said Stewart. 
 
 ' I should think so,' said the handsome 
 
 boy, lifting his fair curly head defiantly ; 
 * and then, he cries.' 
 
 ' But you know, dear,' said Nancette 
 
Pain. Gl 
 
 gently, ' all boys are not strong like you. 
 Even Stewart is different. You ousfht not 
 to bully them if they're timid and weak.' 
 
 ' I bully !' exclaimed Basil, flushing up 
 indignantly. * T wouldn't do such a thing, 
 Ladye Nancy e.' 
 
 ' No, that he wouldn't,' agreed Stew^art. 
 ' Jago's a bully, and a sneak too. Basil 
 only fought him because he'd never let me 
 alone.' 
 
 * Boys are very funny,' said Nancette with 
 a sigh. ' I suppose they wouldn't be happy 
 if they hadn't someone to fight.' 
 
 ' Do you know/ said Basil eagerly, ^ I've 
 been breaking in the little mare for you ? 
 I want you to come riding with us. Will 
 you?' 
 
 * But I can't ride,' she answered. 
 
 * Well, I'll teach you. It's awfully easy. 
 I wanted Debbie to practise the mare a bit, 
 but she wouldn't. She said she was too old. 
 When she was a girl she vras a rare one to 
 ride. Old Clithy says so. What a pity 
 people get old, isn't it V 
 
•62 ' The Ladijc Nanajc' 
 
 ' Yes,' agreed Nance tte ; ' only they seem 
 more content than when they're young.' 
 
 * Well, you're young enough,' said Basil 
 patronisingly ; ' and you must learn to ride, 
 ^nd drive, and skate, and all that, you know. 
 It will do you a world of good. Why, Mr. 
 Glendenning won't know you when he comes 
 back.' 
 
 The girl's face seemed to grow whiter and 
 more sorrowful at his random w^ords. She 
 did not answer them. The two boys rattled 
 on, however, plunging recklessly into subjects 
 and out of them. Nancette was always a 
 quiet companion, but, nevertheless, she made 
 a very sympathetic one. 
 
 At this time,, and with the heavy burden 
 of her life's error to bear, and bear alone, no 
 society would have been tolerable but that of 
 the two frank, loyal young knights who had 
 devoted themselves to her service. 
 
 Strange as her position was, its full strange- 
 ness had not dawned upon her yet. Her 
 marriage had been a fatal mistake, she had 
 discovered that even in its first early days ; 
 
Pain, 63 
 
 but as yet she only felt the relief of her hus- 
 band's absence. He had told her to remain 
 in his house, and she did so. Friends she 
 had none. Society she had none — except 
 the boys. But she was altogether ignorant 
 of the world as a judge and an inquisitor ; 
 and it had not yet occurred to her that her 
 position was ambiguous, and would necessi- 
 tate explanation. 
 
 A sort of lull had descended on her life 
 after a terrible storm of woe and sorrow. 
 The peace was so tranquil and so sweet that 
 she did not care to question its possible dura- 
 tion or extent. 
 
 Some day, of course, her husband would 
 return. Some day, things would be ex- 
 plained — or she might die and set him free. 
 It had never occurred to her that he loved 
 her very deeply. He was not a man to 
 wear his heart on liis sleeve. He had been 
 a true, and tender, and loyal friend, and her 
 father — knowing her past secret and its folly 
 — had counselled her to marry him. In her 
 sorrow, and loneliness, and desolation, she 
 
64 * TJie Ladije Xanej/r. 
 
 had turned to him as to a rock of strength. 
 Insensibly she had drifted too far to retreat. 
 Then she learnt what he had a right to 
 expect — what she, alas ! could never give — 
 or so it had seemed to her then. An ava- 
 lanche of doubt, shame, and torture had 
 descended upon his life. He had said bitter 
 and cruel words to her, but she had listened 
 patiently, knowing too late that they were 
 well deserved. 
 
 She thoucrht of him often — thouo^ht of him 
 wdth resrret, but never with lonc/inof. Passion 
 seemed dead in her — frozen by a bitter ex- 
 perience, slain by a treacherous hand. Life 
 was henceforth to be a cold and empty exist- 
 ence. That was her fate. About his — the 
 man she had wronged, she did not think. 
 Her heart was still too crushed and too 
 sorrowful. 
 
 Had she been able to read that other heart, 
 she would have shrunk appalled from the 
 suffering's she had dealt. There was no balm 
 for his wound — the wound that small, white, 
 woman's hand had given. It had cut its 
 
Pain. 65 
 
 way deep down to his heart ; it must bleed 
 and bleed un stanched till life should end. 
 All that could make life desirable or dear 
 would flow out with that flowing blood — 
 energ}^, hope, love, joy, peace, desire, all were 
 over for him. Life was looked on only as a 
 torture-chamber ; each phase could but hold 
 fresh agony. Yet it must be lived through, 
 without help or pity from any living soul. 
 
 Had he seen her now — the woman who 
 had given him this living death to bear — he 
 would have judged her, perhaps, more harshly 
 than she deserved. She was still so younof. 
 and the boys' merry voices, and jests, and 
 anecdotes had won her to laugh at, and with 
 them. 
 
 The springtime was at its best and 
 brightest. The dark tree- stems were covered 
 with tender shoots of green. Now and then 
 a bird's sweet, full-throated song quivered 
 through the air, rich with glad thanksgiving 
 for its young, free life. In every nook and 
 rocky cranny were hues of wild-flowers, and 
 opening fronds of ferns. The wind was fresh 
 
 VOL. I. 5 
 
G G ' Til e Lad ye Nan cijc. * 
 
 and cool, bringing the keen breath of the sea 
 on its wings. 
 
 The girl was runninix a race with her two 
 companions up the rocky slope, from whence 
 the first view of the sea could be obtained. 
 Light of foot, and quick as a young fawn, 
 she easily distanced them. She reached the 
 summit, and, taking off her hat, waved it in 
 triumph to Basil, who was still some distance 
 off. The wind caught her hair, and ruffled it 
 into little ringf-s and tendrils all over her 
 
 o 
 
 delicate temples. 
 
 The rapid run had brought colour into her 
 cheeks, and Hght into her eyes. As she 
 stood there, with the wind blowing the loose 
 white folds of her gown back from her sliglit 
 3^oung form, and the sunlight on her hair, 
 she made a lovely picture. 
 
 The boys shouted out that they were going 
 to scramble down the chlf by another way, so 
 she turned her face towards the sea. The 
 long, slow rollers, fringed with foam, were 
 breaking noisily and majestically on the rocks 
 below, but even as her eyes rested on them, 
 
Pain. 67 
 
 a shadow fell across her path, and a fio-ure 
 stood between her and the flashing sun- 
 light. 
 
 She looked up, and a low cry escaped her 
 lips. 
 
 ' Pierre !' she cried. ' You !' 
 He seized her hand, and looked down at 
 her paling face and trembling lijDS. 
 
 ' At last !' he murmured passionately — 
 ' at last ! Oh, Nancette, is it a thousand 
 years since that cruel night ? It seems 
 so. dear ; and you — you can smile and laugh 
 still 1' 
 
 Slovvly she drew a step or two away ; but 
 he still held her hand firmly in his clasp, and 
 his eyes seemed to devour every feature of 
 her lovely face. 
 
 But for her the warm spring air seemed 
 suddenly to grow chill ; a great terror seized 
 her as in a grasp of ice ; the very sun seemed 
 misty and indistinct. 
 
 * Nancette, won't you speak ? Have you 
 no word for me V jileaded her companion. 
 * I have watched for you — hunsrered for si^ht 
 
 h—'2 
 
()8 ' Tlie Livhje Ndncijc.'' 
 
 of you this month past. 1 heard you were 
 alone here. Is it true ?' 
 
 * Yes,' she said, finding voice at hist ; * Mr. 
 Glendenninof left me that nicjht.' 
 
 ' That — night !' His voice sounded hoarse 
 and unsteady. ' Then I had my revenge,' he 
 said slowly. 
 
 She looked at him. 
 
 ' Oh, Pierre/ she faltered, ' why did you 
 come ? I prayed you to keep away. You 
 forget my father's command.' 
 
 ' Your father is not here to part us now,' 
 he said — his voice had a ring of triumph, 
 and his eyes looked down into hers with a 
 burnino^, easier lio^ht that made her tremble 
 and turn faint — ' nor your husband either,' he 
 added below his breath. 
 
 ' The wTong is just the same — even though 
 they do not know^ it,' she faltered. ' Both of 
 them have forbidden your presence.' 
 
 ' In the house — yes. But we are under 
 the free roof of heaven, and no one can 
 prevent my speaking to you here. And I 
 must speak, Nancette. You have misjudged 
 
Pain. 69 
 
 me, and wronged me. You would not hear 
 me when — when I pleaded ' 
 
 She shrank back. 
 
 ' Hush !' she said ; ' you forget. You lured 
 me on to take a false step. Afterwards, 
 when you heard I was poor, you told my 
 father you could not marry me ; he said so. 
 And then that week — oh, Pierre, that ter- 
 rible week ! How could you so trap and 
 deceive me '? I was only an ignorant school- 
 girl, steeped to the lips in romance I I be- 
 lieved all you said — and then, oh, you don't 
 know what cruel truths my father told me, 
 and that — that woman !' 
 
 * Curse her !' he muttered fiercel}^ ' It 
 was all her fault.' 
 
 * You have spoilt all my life,' went on the 
 girl piteously. ^ I loved you, and I believed 
 in vou — yes, against all I had heard and 
 been warned about, I believed in you. And, 
 after all, it was only mcuiey you cared for — 
 not me !' 
 
 ' I cared for you, above and beyond all 
 things in the world I' he answered vehemently. 
 
70 ' The Ladjie Xannjo' 
 
 * You know that. I did not lie. I love you 
 — to my own misery, I know it. Your 
 father was determined to part us. He told 
 you one story — he told me another. There 
 is no truth in yours, that T swear ! Certain 
 legal formalities had to be gone through. 
 Before they were arranged you were dis- 
 covered — draofeed from me. I only heard 
 of you again when you had married this 
 Englishman — your father's ally and friend. 
 The man who helped to steal you from 
 me!' 
 
 His face was white with passion ; his eyes 
 flamed with a wrath and scorn that terrified 
 the girl. 
 
 Doubts began to awaken once more within 
 her heart. He was her girlhood's lover, and 
 she had been torn from his arms. That w^as 
 all she remembered. 
 
 Suddenly the shouts and sounds of boyish 
 voices from the rocks below, started and 
 aroused her. Instinctively she drew farther 
 from the edge of the cliff, and drew him. with 
 her. 
 
Pain. 71 
 
 ^ They must not see you !' she said in 
 horror. * They will tell their guardian. Oh, 
 go — leave me now, Pierre. Whether you 
 are in the wrong, or I, it is too late to alter 
 anything ! I am another man's wife. Law 
 and duty jDart us once again. It is all wrong, 
 and cruel, and terrible, I know ; but it is too 
 late to alter anything now 1' 
 
 The hurried words, the imploring voice, 
 did not move him to pity her, but only to 
 serve and aid himself and his purpose. 
 
 ' If I go now,' he said, 'you must see me 
 again ; ^ I will not leave you like this.' 
 
 * I cannot disobey my husband,' she fal- 
 tered ; ' you remember what he said.' 
 
 ' I have no desire to cross his threshold ; 
 but see you I must and will. Meet me here 
 to-morrow, at noon. I have a riofht to see 
 you, and I demand to see you ! Will you 
 come, Nancette V 
 
 Piteously, afFrightedly — like a bird might 
 look at its captor — she looked up at him. 
 Her fluttering breath came and went in piti 
 ful entreaty. 
 
72 ' Tlie Lndye XancyeJ 
 
 ' Pierre, don't ask me — don't persuade me ! 
 It is wrong — you know it is wrong !' 
 
 ' Promise,' he said inexorably — 'promise to 
 meet me, if only once more.' 
 
 ' Only — once more V she faltered. ' You 
 are sure — sure you will not force me to do 
 so again V 
 
 He smiled ironically. 
 
 ' No ; I will leave you then — if you de- 
 sire it.' 
 
 Again the voices from below sounded clear 
 and shrill on the soft spring air. 
 
 She shuddered and drew away. 
 
 ' I must go,' she said. 
 
 He drew her suddenly into his arms and 
 kissed her on the lips. 
 
 ' Till noon to-morrow, cousin,' he said. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 ' Will you come with us to church this 
 morning, Ladye Xancye T asked Basil, as he 
 rose from the breakfast-table and sauntered 
 over to the chair where Nancette sat, pre 
 siding over the meal and the two boys ; 
 ' you've never been yet.' 
 
 ' To church !' Her eyes drooped suddenly. 
 * Oh no. Not to-dav,' she said. 'You must 
 go with Deborah/ 
 
 * We always go with Deborah,' said Stewart 
 discontentedly. ^ I wish you'd come for a 
 change.' 
 
 * How long does the service last V asked 
 Xancette. The bright spot on either cheek 
 had deepened in colour ; her voice was hurried 
 and anxious. 
 
 ' We never get home till half-past one,' 
 
74 ^ Tlie Ldjljic Nancy e.^ 
 
 said Basil. ' I thought you knew that. 
 We've been nearly every Sunday since you 
 Avere here. Don't you ever mean to come 
 to church V he added anxiously. 
 
 * Yes — oh yes,' she said nervously — 'only 
 not to-day. It is all so strange, your country 
 churches — everyone stares so. I know that. 
 I — I have not courage yet.' 
 
 ^ They will only think you're another ward 
 of Mr. Glendenninfy's/ urored Basil. 'I'm 
 sure you look young enough. How old are 
 you — sixteen V 
 
 * Seventeen,' she corrected gravely. 
 
 ^ Four years older than me/ said Basil, 
 gravely surveying her ; ' not that you look 
 it. Well, what will you do all the time we're 
 aw^ay — mope V 
 
 ' I — I shall read, or go in the grounds,' 
 she said nervously. 
 
 She could not meet the boy's clear eyes ; 
 her guilty secret weighed heavily on her 
 mind. 
 
 ' Well,' he muttered discontentedly, ' if 
 you won't, you won't. It's a beastly 
 
Pain. 75 
 
 shame 1 I did so want you to hear old 
 Chasable.' 
 
 She rose from the table. 
 
 ' You shall take me for a walk this after- 
 noon,' she said. 
 
 'We'll go to the Smuggler's Cave, then,' 
 said Basil eagerly ; ' that's a fine place. Do. 
 you know, it runs inland from the sea for 
 nearly a mile ? The smugglers used to have 
 a fine time of it there, J. should fancy.' 
 
 But Nancette was not listening. Her 
 eyes kept turning anxiously to the clock. 
 At last she left the room, and the boys 
 went oft" to old Deborah, who was waiting for 
 them, stiff and prim, in her Sunday attire. 
 
 ' Won't my lady come V she asked, as 
 they entered her room. 
 
 ^ No,' said Basil ; ' she's afraid of being 
 stared at. Deb, I do wish you'd tell us 
 what the row was. Doesn't Mr. Glendenninoc 
 really intend to come back T 
 
 The old woman — a faithful servitor in the 
 household — looked gravely at the curious 
 young face. 
 
7() ^ Tlic Liubje Nanqjc' 
 
 ' Mr. Basil, I told yoa that something had 
 gone wrong between them,' she said; ' I can't 
 say more. Only time can right it. I pity the 
 poor young thing — with all my heart I pity 
 her. But she ouo^ht never to have married 
 Mr. Glendenninsr.' 
 
 The boy was silent. Young as he was, 
 his chivalry and devotion had all gone out 
 to this lonely, friendless girl, whose fate 
 seemed at once so strange and inexplicable. 
 He wished he could help her ; he was always 
 wishing it, but it did not seem possible. 
 Perhaps some day, he thought, she would 
 give him her confidence, and then he would 
 understand this dark mystery. At present 
 it was hopeless. 
 
 With his usual boisterous spirits strangely 
 subdued, he got into the waggonette which 
 was to take them to church. From the 
 window of her room Nancette saw them 
 depart, and saw, too, the upward glance and 
 disappointed look of the bright young face, 
 as it fliiled to meet her owm. 
 
 A sigh of relief escaped her ; she looked 
 
Pain. 77 
 
 again at the c'ock. Half-past ten ! It was 
 an liour's walk to the trysting-place. She 
 liad still half an hour's leisure. 
 
 She took off her pretty morning-gown, 
 and put on an outdoor dress. It was a 
 thick, creamy fabric, simply and plainly 
 made, as all her dresses were. Then she 
 twisted her lovely hair into a loose, soft knot, 
 and put on her hat. 
 
 These preparations complete, she stood 
 and looked ?ct herself. This would be her 
 last tryst — perhaps her last meeting with 
 the lover she had so passionately loved. It 
 did not seem to her that she was com- 
 mitting a w^rong now — that she was 
 breaking her husband's command in the 
 spirit, if not in the letter. The strange 
 force of attraction which this man had 
 had for her drew her resistlessly towards 
 him. 
 
 She scarcely looked upon herself as a wife. 
 Her husband had faded like a shadow from 
 out of her life and heart. A few curt words 
 of farewell, a cruel sentence, and a lonely 
 
78 ' 11 ic Tjtihjc Nanaje! 
 
 fate — these were all that reminded her of 
 her strange marriage-day. And in contrast 
 there bloomed again before her the passion- 
 flower of her girlish love. The man who 
 had been her ideal of chivalry, tenderness, 
 and devotion, was again at her side. She 
 did not ask herself what chivalry that could 
 be, that only sought to ruin and deceive ; 
 what devotion could live in the selfishness 
 of a baffled passion ; or what tenderness lurk 
 in a pitiless pursuit of helplessness, and igno- 
 rance, and faith. 
 
 It was not possible for her yet to see her 
 idol as he was.* The halo of a girls romance 
 still shielded him and kept him holy. They 
 had both been persecuted and wronged, he 
 most of all ; and she told herself she owed 
 him some amends for all the pain she had 
 dealt out. Therefore had she consented to 
 see him to-day, to taste the bitter-sweet of 
 explanation and farewell. They could not 
 part thus ; it was not possible ; and her 
 thoughts grew saddened and confused ; and 
 all the time the clock ticked on, and the 
 
Pain. 79 
 
 minutes passed, and the time drew near 
 when she must keep her j)romise. 
 
 Hurriedly she glanced around. The sombre 
 magnificence of the room struck cold and 
 chill on her excited fancy. It was like her 
 own life, she thought — rich in all outer 
 appearance, but dark, and dreary, and 
 desolate within. 
 
 With a shudder she turned away, then 
 opened the door and hurried down the stairs, 
 and passed out into the grounds by the 
 window of the library. 
 
 The bells were chiming softly in the dis- 
 tance ; the air was cook and warm, and 
 balmy as summer. All around was so still 
 that she almost fancied she could hear the 
 sound of the sea, the low, monotonous murmur 
 of its tireless voice. 
 
 She took the path the boys had shown 
 her. Her white dress flickered in and out 
 of the dark trees. The lovely air, the songs 
 of the birds, the rustling of the leaves, 
 seemed to gladden and delight her. Her 
 feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground ; 
 
80 ' The Ladf/e Nancye.'' 
 
 her heart Avas beating ^Yilclly and ex- 
 citedly. 
 
 The way grew wilder and more rocky as 
 she approached the shore. The swell of the 
 sea was loud and distinct. She moderated 
 her pace then, with that unfailing woman's 
 instinct which teaches concealment of what 
 it most desires. 
 
 He was there already, and he hurried down 
 the cliff to her side. 
 
 ' Let us go on the shore,' he said, draw- 
 ing her hand within his arm. ' We can sit 
 down there and talk.' 
 
 The absence of any formal greeting, the 
 calm, even tones of his voice, reassured her. 
 How natural it seemed to be ruled and 
 directed by him ! How it brought back the 
 old girlish dreams and hopes, and turned her 
 sorrowful present into gladness once again. 
 
 In silence they went down the steep and 
 rocky path. The wide sweep of blue sea 
 lay before them. Here and there a bird 
 fluttered over its expanse. The fringe of 
 the waves left a white line upon the glitter- 
 
Fain, 81 
 
 ing shingle. The tall cliffs towered above. 
 It ^A'as a quiet enough retreat, and the girl's 
 eyes took in its beauty with something near 
 akin to pain. She thought what such a 
 scene and such companionship might have 
 meant for her once. Now — alas ! alas! what 
 could anything mean for her, in her spoilt 
 and ruined life ? 
 
 She seated herself on a rug^o^ed block of 
 rock that looked as if it had been hurled 
 from the cliff. He took his place beside 
 her. 
 
 ' I was half afraid you would not come/ 
 he said, by way of prelude. ' I thought 
 you might have had one of your conscien- 
 tious fits.' 
 
 ' Don't speak like that !' said the girl 
 gently. ' It is like you in your bad moods.' 
 
 She looked at him as she spoke, and 
 thought what a perfect face it was — this 
 face of her maligned and persecuted cousin. 
 
 The wavy brown hair, the large, melting 
 eyes, and curling lashes, the beautifully- 
 shaped features — how well she knew them 
 
 VOL. I. 6 
 
82 ' Tlie Ladije y<uu'ij(\' 
 
 all ! The mouth alone marred the face — it 
 Avas hard, and cruel, and sensual ; but it 
 Avas carefully hidden by the thick moustache, 
 and the face carried its attractions fearlessly 
 and almost insolentl}'. 
 
 Beauty is a great power, let men say what 
 they will. If it had not been for Pierre de 
 Volens's handsome face and magnificent 
 figure, he would not have been the success 
 of Parisian salons. He could not have robbed 
 women under the guise of chivalry and mis- 
 fortune, or levied black-mail in a thousand 
 specious ways on all classes and communities 
 of frail and fashionable life. 
 
 His debts were enormous, his extrava- 
 gances the theme of many tongues. He 
 had gambled, and speculated, and raced 
 away a fair fortune, and been reduced to 
 living by his wits and not over scrupulous 
 talents. Men had trusted, and women loved 
 him, to their cost. Friendship and love 
 were alike to him, but the means to an end, 
 or a variety of ends. 
 
 Being utterly unscrupulous, he never paused 
 
Pain. 83 
 
 to consider liow others might suffer, so long 
 i as his own immediate comfort was pro- 
 / cured. 
 
 This was the idol that Nancette wor- 
 shipped ; this the man for whose sake she 
 had well-nigh broken her father's heart, and 
 ruined her husband's life. Only her igno- 
 rance and innocence could plead her excuse 
 — that, and the fatal fascination of a man 
 only too well skilled in the arts that attract 
 women — a man in whose hands she had 
 been malleable as wax, and trustful as a 
 child. 
 
 He met her glance, and saw with triumph 
 how the colour sprang into the clear pallor 
 of her face, how shyly her eyes drooped 
 before his own. 
 
 ' I am not in one of my bad moods,' he 
 said .gently ; ' but I am very unhappy.' 
 
 ' And so,' she said, ' am I.' 
 
 He drew a lonor- breath. He was wonder- 
 ing whether he dared speak all that was in 
 his heart. 
 
 ' I am sick of my life,' he said slowly ; 
 
 6—2 
 
84 * TJie Ladye Nanqie' 
 
 ' it has never been the same to me, Nancette, 
 since I lost you.' 
 
 She was silent, but she trembled greatly. 
 
 ' If you Avould tell 7ne how it really 
 happened,' she said. ' My father always 
 blamed you. It was not my fault — you 
 know that. I was ready to be your wife, 
 even though he forbade it ; but it w^as 
 you who gave me up, Pierre — that you 
 know.' 
 
 ' I could not help myself,' he said bitterl3\ 
 ' It meant ruin for us both at that time. 
 But I thought you would be true — that you 
 \vould wait, or your father would relent. I 
 ^vas not prepared for — for what followed.' 
 
 The danoferous break in his voice stabbed 
 her gentle heart. How^ could she tell it 
 was an actor's trick — the successful result of 
 long practice ? 
 
 ' But that is not what I wish to speak 
 about to-day,' he went on, as she remained 
 silent. * You have made a fatal error, and 
 spoilt both our lives ; but no doubt strong- 
 pressure was put upon you. And, in spite 
 
Pain, 85 
 
 of 3^our English education, your father's will 
 was law in a question of marriage. You 
 thought my absence and silence sufficient 
 23 roof that I no longer loved you. That is 
 so like a woman. I thought of you every 
 hour of every day that we were parted. I 
 could not come to you, or reach across the 
 barrier that separated us ; but I thought 
 you would be true to me. So much trust, 
 at least, I had in you, and now this cursed 
 Englishman has taken you from me.' 
 
 'Is it only to say this over again that 
 you have forced me to meet you, Pierre V 
 questioned the girl. ' We knew it all before. 
 I told you my story. I told you also what 
 my father said of you. Without a fortune 
 you would not marry me ; he had none to 
 give me ; so we parted.' 
 
 ' I do not believe him,' said Pierre de 
 Volens, slowly ; ' I am sure he was rich. 
 It was the Englishman who made him tell 
 that lie.' 
 
 ' It is too late to mend it now,' said the 
 girl, hopelessly. 'I know I am very wretched, 
 
8G ' llic Lachje Nancye' 
 
 and I think, too, I must be very wicked, but 
 1 cannot help it.' 
 
 ' I don't want you to help it, sweetheart,' 
 he said passionately ; ^ but it is not too late 
 to be happy. That is what I wanted to say 
 to you. That is why I Avished to meet you 
 here, Nancette. I have a story to tell you. 
 It is of two people, unhappy as ourselves, 
 yet bold and brave enough to take Fate into 
 their own hands and shape it to their will. 
 Will you hsten V 
 
 His voice had sunk to its tenderest and 
 Inost persuasive tones — the voice that spoke 
 the language of .her own country in the 
 language of her own heart. The dreamy 
 spell of the day and the scene, and that 
 fatal presence, were round her like a web of 
 doom. She leant back against the rocks, 
 her eyes half-closed, her colour wavering fit- 
 fully, as she felt the burning glance that 
 sought, yet repelled her own. 
 
 ' I am listening,' she said. 
 
CHAPTER lY. 
 
 Pierre de Yolens drew a long breath. AH 
 ignoble passions and desires were afc work 
 within his breast. It seemed to him that his 
 hour of revenge was at hand. 
 
 Beyond the rocky headland a boat lay idly 
 moored. Farther off a white sail gleamed on 
 the blue width of water. The girl leaned 
 back quite still, and, as he thought, content. 
 She' was lulled to dreamy rapture; of right 
 or wromx she did not think. 
 
 His voice broke across the stillness. It's 
 soft, persuasive music thrilled her heart and 
 stayed its power of judgment. 
 
 'My story,' he s:ud, * is short, but it is 
 true. A man and woman loved — as we do. 
 Like us, also, they were parted by a cruel 
 fate. She married a man to whom she was 
 
88 ' The Ladjie \(()icj/r.' 
 
 only a shadow ; a rich old imbecile, to whom 
 her parents sold her. And he — he put the 
 width of half the world between them, and 
 for years tried to fori^et. But, Nancette, 
 :^ man does not forofet the woman he has 
 once loved. Tlie world says so, but the 
 world lies. And after years they met again 
 — suddenly and strangely — without warning. 
 Then they knew what time had done for 
 them. A look broke down the barrier of 
 years, a word — just one brief word— told a 
 life's history, for honour and duty are no 
 food for craving hearts, and the world's poor 
 barriers are puny indeed before the water- 
 flood of a great love. " You are wretched," 
 he said, " and I — I am a lonely, haunted 
 man. Love, let us make our own happiness. 
 There are other countries to fly to. The 
 world is wide, and our world is each other. 
 We have tasted the bitterness of barren 
 years, the emptiness of vain longings and 
 struggles, and starved and empty days Let 
 them end at last. If love were not more 
 than ail these thincrs it would have died out 
 
Pain. 89 
 
 of our hearts ere this. If it is for life, shall 
 it not also bless life ?" Are you listening, 
 Nance tte V 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 The burning colour surged up to her brow. 
 Her eyes were hidden still. 
 
 ' She — she listened also, and her heart 
 spoke as any woman's heart speaks — when 
 she lets it. Where a great love is, there is 
 always trust. Nancette — there are no two 
 people in all the world happier than those 
 two of whom I am speaking.' 
 
 For a moment she was silent. 
 
 ' And — and her husband X she asked faintly. 
 
 ' Oh,' laughed Pierre de Volens, with a 
 laugh that jarred upon her sensitive nerves 
 like a discord in music, ' he was soon con- 
 soled.' 
 
 'But the — the other? Did he never 
 blame her, never say that she was wrong 
 in so forgetting duty, honour, self-respect V 
 
 ' Those words are the cant of virtue, 
 when it is too fearful of outside blame. She 
 had given up all for him. Why should he 
 
J)U * TJie Lmhje Xnnciie.'' 
 
 blame her? Nancette, liow little you know 
 men !' 
 
 She might have said 'Yes/ to her cost, 
 with such a man beside her, with such 
 tempting and treachery assailing her igno- 
 rance, and weakness, and belief. But his 
 voice and presence had lulled her to forget- 
 fulness. And, in a o-irl's dreams, what is her 
 lover but a hero and a god ? 
 
 ' I only know — you,' she said softly. ' You 
 came into my life and changed it from peace 
 to storm — from content to suffering — from 
 
 • From stagnation to love, and joy, and 
 knowledge,' he interpolated. ' Have you 
 suffered by the exchange ? Would you have 
 the old peace and quiet — the dull, common- 
 place round of duties back, and give me no 
 place in 3^our heart or thoughts again V 
 
 ' No,' she said, growing white in her pas- 
 sionate earnestness. ' I would not, Pierre. 
 When I knew I loved you ' 
 
 * Don't speak of it in the past,' he said. 
 * You love me still — you cannot deny it. 
 
Pain. 91 
 
 Let us look the truth in the face to-day for 
 the last time. The world is full of sliains 
 and hypocrisies. Experience and advantage 
 are the enemies of love. But I have shown 
 you that love can conquer every difficulty 
 and every barrier that tlie world and its false 
 code of honour sets up !' 
 
 ' You know the v.'orld/ she said timidly. 
 ' I — I am onlv an iirnorant girl, whose life 
 has all gone wrong, and through you, Pierre. 
 I can only remember my father's warnings, 
 and — and my love, that will not be stamped 
 out or conquered, try how I may. But 
 somethinof tells me it is WTonof to listen to 
 vou. Thougfli mv husband is only a name — 
 a shadow, yet he gave his honour into my 
 hands.' 
 
 * A_ mere form of words cannot make him 
 your husband,' said Pierre de Volens stormily. 
 ' Why is he not with you ? Why does he 
 insult you by an absence so unwarrantable V 
 
 ' I— I have his letter. Will you read it ^' 
 she said, drawing a folded paper from her 
 dress. ' I could not quite understand it, but 
 
02 ' Tin; Ladjie Nanci/e,' 
 
 he thinks I have deceived him, and ' — she 
 added, with a hot, shamed bhish — ' he is 
 right; 
 
 The young man took tlie paper. Its con- 
 tents were very brief. He began to read 
 them with a clouded brow, but a look of 
 triumph flashed in his eyes as he reached the 
 end. 
 
 ' What could he have seen V he asked the 
 girl 'Your father never told him about — 
 about that week V 
 
 ' No ; I am sure of that/ she answered. 
 ' He told me he w^ould not breathe the secret 
 to living soul, and he never broke his word. 
 I cannot make it out/ she went on as she 
 took the letter back. ^ It is all a mystery.' 
 
 ' I am very thankful for the mystery/ said 
 Pierre de Yolens, dropping his voice and 
 drawing nearer to her. ' It seems to leave 
 you still my owm. There is only a shadow 
 between us, and that shadow a w^ord from 
 you will dispel. Oh, love, don't shrink from 
 me like that ! This day — this hour Avon't 
 come to us again. When I left your pre- 
 
Pain. 93 
 
 sence on that miserable nicrht, I thouofht I 
 
 Avould never set eyes on your face again. 
 
 But something drove me back — something 
 
 stronger than my will, more faithful than ni}" 
 
 faith. And that something sent you to me 
 
 once more, and so we met, and to-day I have 
 
 decided that Fate is too strong. You won't 
 
 hold an empty sound dearer than a man's 
 
 wdiole heart — w^ill you, Nancette ? That 
 
 letter divorces 3^ou from the man you were 
 
 foolish enough to wed, as surely as any 
 
 human laws could do. He will not call you 
 
 wife, he will not return : and I — Nancette, 
 
 think of me ; of mj loneliness — my useless- 
 
 ness — my despair. Surely my love could 
 
 console you for what you lose in the eyes of 
 
 the few wdio know your story ? Besides, the 
 
 w^orld is all before us. We can live for each 
 
 other. Oh, love, don't look like that ! Is it 
 
 so hard a thing I ask ? Think of our dreams 
 
 realised, our hopes fulfilled, our happiness 
 
 too full and complete for one regret to soil it. 
 
 our hearts, our souls as one, our * 
 
 She held up her hand. 
 
i)4 . ' The Laihfc Nmicyc: 
 
 ' Listen,' she said. ^ The barrier that first 
 parted us still exists. Pierre, you know 
 what your life has been, better than I do. 
 When I could have been your wife, you let 
 that barrier part us. Now' — she turned 
 aside her Avhite face — 'now,' she added 
 brokenly, ' you best know what it is you 
 offer me, when I am so friendless and so 
 wretched that despair alone urges me to 
 listen.' 
 
 His eyes went out to the white speck on 
 that glittering blue of the sea. 
 
 ' I offer you,' he said, ^ freedom, happiness, 
 love. You need never go back to that 
 dreary house again.' 
 
 She rose and looked at him then ; she 
 seemed to see his face, and his alone, be- 
 tween two worlds of blue — the mingling 
 blue of sea and sky. All other thoughts 
 and feelings passed vaguely into space, and 
 she looked into his heart and read only a 
 love that answered to her own. 
 
 She stood on the threshold of destiny. 
 This was the one supreme moment of her 
 
Pain. 95 
 
 life, and by it slie must rise or fall. Yet 
 some instinct \varncd her against self-abase- 
 ment. Something held her back almost 
 against her will, and kept unuttered the one 
 fatal word that would have sealed her fate. 
 He knew every sign of trembling, of hesita- 
 tion, of fear. This was no first experience 
 for him, as she in her innocence believed. 
 He loved her with that supreme selfishness 
 of passion that seeks its own aim and object 
 at any cost, and he was resolved to bafEe 
 Fate at last. 
 
 To win her meant not only his own 
 triumph, but triumph over a man he hated. 
 
 ' Won't you speak V he said at last. ' Your 
 silence is torture. If you send me from 
 you now, what w^ill your life be ? And 
 mine ' 
 
 Briefly she reviewed the possibility, her 
 eyes downcast, her heart beating stormily 
 and nervously, despite the quiet of her atti- 
 tude and face. 
 
 ' Might we not be friends V she said hesi- 
 tatingly. 
 
96 ' The Lruhjc Xaiicj/c' 
 
 His scoffing laugh cut sliort that feeble 
 quibble. 
 
 ' Friends ! A woman's paltry suggestion ! 
 the offer of a stone for bread. No, my 
 cousin ; it is too late for subterfuge. I will 
 have love or hate. We shall be all in all, or 
 strangers. I want no middle course, no 
 2:)laying at platonics. They may suit your 
 tame, cold Englishmen, but I am ' 
 
 * A De Volens and a scoundrel !' burst out 
 a clear, shrill voice, so close behind him that 
 he sprang aside as if from a blow. 
 
 ^ Basil r faltered the girl, pale and trem- 
 bling, as she met the angry indignant glance 
 of her young champion. 
 
 ' Yes — Basil !' said the boy, coolly pushing 
 the young man aside, and taking his stand 
 beside her. ' Now, you sir,' he went on, 
 flashincr- like a vouni^ lion upon the as- 
 tonished Frenchman, ' perhaps you'll tell me 
 what right you have to insult this lady ? 
 Mr. Glendenninir left her in mv care. I 
 heard him forbid you the house. I suppose 
 you've waylaid her here. 1 heard what you 
 
mn. 
 
 97 
 
 were saying to her. Be sure Mr. Gleri- 
 denning shall hear of it too !' 
 
 ' Get out of my way, you young cub !' cried 
 Pierre de Volens furiously. ' What do you 
 mean by interfering with my cousin ? If you 
 don't take yourself off, I'll pitch you into the 
 sea yonder ! Do you think I am to be 
 bearded in this fashion by a foolish boy X 
 
 ' Oh, hush, Pierre — hush !' cried Nancette, 
 clinging to the boy's arm in terror. ' Pe- 
 member he is but a child in comparison with 
 you r 
 
 ' Child or not, let him take himself off as 
 quick as he came, or it will be worse for 
 him !' hissed Pierre de Volens with rising 
 fury. 
 
 Basil only laughed. 
 
 ' I'm not afraid !' he said. ' I don't quite 
 understand your lingo, but I suppose you 
 want to fight. I'm quite read}^. I know 
 you want Nancette to run away with you. 
 I heard you ask her, but I should think she 
 has too much sense.' 
 
 ' No, no ; I am not going !' cried the girl 
 
 VOL, I. 7 
 
98 ' The Ladj/e Nancye: 
 
 wildly. ^ Oh, Basil, take me home — take rae 
 home! I was mad to come here — mad to 
 listen! Pierre,' she went on passionately, 
 ' you did not mean it. You would repent as 
 — as I should. I can't break my trust. My 
 life may be dreary — hopeless, as you say; but 
 I must bear it. Oh, forget what you said ! 
 Let us part, even if it is for ever. I have 
 done one wronof. Don't ursfe me to commit 
 a greater.' 
 
 He drew back, an evil light in his hand- 
 some eyes, a sneer on his lips. 
 
 ^ I have no wish to urge you,' he said. 
 ' Your consent was given. A moment more, 
 and we would have been on our road to free- 
 dom. If a child's voice has so much influence 
 with you, I must have greatly mistaken your 
 feelings.' 
 
 The tears gathered in her eyes ; she looked 
 from the treacherous face she had loved, to 
 that bold and truthful one of her boyish 
 champion. 
 
 ' You know my heart,' she said ; ' to my 
 bitter cost I can say that. If my life were 
 
Pain. 99 
 
 my own to deal with as I pleased, I — I might 
 only remember that I loved you. But it has 
 other claims and other duties.' Then her 
 voice broke. She turned to Basil and clasped 
 his arm convulsively. ' Take me home,' she 
 cried ; * oh, take me home ! I can't bear 
 more.' 
 
 A man's soul seemed to leap into the boyish 
 eyes as they flashed defiance at the mean and 
 cruel scoundrel, to whom a woman's weakness 
 meant only a plea for her destruction. 
 
 •You hear!' he said. 'It is her wish to 
 leave you. Have you anything to say V 
 
 For an instant Pierre raised his hand, as if 
 to silence with its strength this audacious 
 young defender of his cousin's honour. 
 
 But Nancette stayed him. 
 
 * Touch him if you dare V she said. ' It 
 wall neither help your cause, nor alter my 
 decision.' 
 
 ' Let him do what he likes,' said Basil 
 haughtily ; ' I'm not afraid, big as he is. But 
 perhaps he won't care to face your husband. 
 He's on his way here.' 
 
 7—2 
 
100 * Tlie Ladyc Nancy e' 
 
 Pierre de Yolens turned ashy pale. He 
 gave one rapid glance up at the cliffs and the 
 rocky path. Then, without a word of fare^vell, 
 he turned away and went rapidly along the 
 shingly beach to w^here the little boat lay 
 moored. 
 
 Nancette stood and watched him — her eyes 
 anxious and full of pain, her hands clasped 
 tiglit against her breast. 
 
 It seemed to her he must look back, give 
 some sigfn of remembrance or reicret — he 
 whose burning words seemed yet upon the 
 air, and echoing again and again in her ears. 
 A strange revulsion of feeling shook her. 
 Could they part thus — they for wdiom life 
 now^ was as a blank and dreary desert ? Part 
 coldly, cruelly, knowing of days to come when 
 heart ^vould crave for heart, and face for 
 sight of face. Surely he would look back 
 once — only once ! 
 
 His steps quickened. He was on the rocks, 
 crossing from group to group towards the 
 little boat. Suddenly she remembered it 
 must have been brought there for her — to 
 
Pain. 101 
 
 bear her to freedom, life, love, delight — all 
 that he had painted and promised. 
 
 A low cry escaped her lips ; she tried to 
 call, but her voice was husky and indistinct. 
 
 ' It is good-bye for ever/ she said ; ' for 
 ever ! Oh, the pain — the cruel — cruel pain !' 
 
 ' It is better than his love,' said the voice 
 beside her. ' Oh, Lady Nancye, can't you 
 read him better ? He is a selfish coward — 
 not worth a thoui^ht. No, don't cry like 
 that. Your tears are too good to be wasted 
 on such a brute.' 
 
 ' Don't !' she cried passionately. * What 
 do you know — a boy like you V 
 
 His face flushed. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, * I am only a boy to you. 
 I ought not to feel angry at your folly, I 
 suppose. But I think you'll be glad one day 
 that only I know of it.' 
 
 ' Oh, forgive me V she said, weeping pas- 
 sionately now. ' You have saved me, Basil 
 — I know it ; but I am not even grateful. I 
 am a wicked woman. I am not fit for you 
 to associate with !' 
 
102 ^ TJic Ladije Xanqie' 
 
 ' You are nothini^ of the sort/ said the boy 
 gently and decidedly ; 'and I love you just 
 the same, and I'll stand up for you always. 
 But you must dry your eyes, and look like 
 yourself, for Mr. Glendenning is waiting to 
 speak to you. He won't go to the house, 
 and I promised to bring you.' 
 
 ' Where did you see him ? I thought you 
 were in church,' she said, bewildered and 
 frightened at the news. 
 
 ' I was on my w^ay there, when I had a 
 fancy to come back and look after you,' said 
 the boy coolly. ' So I had a sudden fit of 
 toothache, got out of the \Yaggonette, and 
 came home. I found you'd gone out, so I 
 followed. In the woods I met Mr. Glenden- 
 ning, looking like a wandering ghost. He 
 said he w^ouldn't go to the house, he washed 
 no one to know of his visit, but could I 
 bring you to him ? Thereupon I started 
 to look for you, and stumbled on you 
 here.' 
 
 She had dried her eyes now. She was 
 pale and trembling, but composed. 
 
Pain, 103 
 
 ' Let us go,' she said, and put her hand in 
 his, and witli one shuddering glance at the 
 distant speck on the wide, blue waters, went 
 slowly and silently up the rocky path. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 If a wall of ice had been built up round her 
 heart, Nancette could not have felt colder — 
 harder — stranger than she did. Her brain 
 seemed numbed and dazed. She was like 
 one walking in semi-consciousness after a 
 heavy blow. 
 
 The boy looked anxiously at her again and 
 again. Her intense quiet, the strained look 
 in her eyes, the rigid pallor of her face, 
 frightened him. In silence he dared not 
 break he walked beside her, till they reached 
 the wood which formed the boundary of 
 Owl's Roost. 
 
 Pacing to and fro between the dark tree- 
 stems was a man of some five-and-thirty years. 
 He was tall, but he stooped slightly ; his face 
 was worn and delicate — the face of a student 
 
Pain. 105 
 
 and a dreamer. Now it wore a look of re- 
 pressed suffering, a look that changed to a 
 mom en tar}" anguish as he saw that slender 
 figure coming towards him, with the delicate 
 tracery of leafy shadow upon her white gown 
 and down-bent face. He stood motionless 
 waiting for her to approach. 
 
 He gave her no greeting, only turned to 
 the boy with a chill sternness that awed 
 him. 
 
 ' Go home now/ he said, ' and remember 
 your promise.' 
 
 The boy drew back a step, looking 
 anxiously from one to the other of those two 
 strangely- mated beings. Then he lifted the 
 cap from his fair curls, and moved slowly and 
 thoughtfully away through the narrow wooded 
 glade. 
 
 Nancette stood before her husband like a 
 culprit before a judge. She could utter no 
 word. She only waited to hear what he would 
 say. 
 
 ' I sent for you,' he began abruptly, ' be- 
 cause I am leaving this country altogether, 
 
100 * llic Lmljir Nancy e.^ 
 
 for — for a long time. When I wrote to you, 
 I told you I would do all that was necessary 
 for your comfort. I have placed a sum of 
 money in your name, in the county bank. 
 You can draw on it as you please ; for the 
 rest all household arrangements will be in 
 Deborah's hands. The bo3^s are going to 
 school. They are too old to run wild here 
 any longer ; but they may come home for the 
 holidays — if you wish.' 
 
 She broke the spell of constraint then. 
 
 ' Must they go away V she cried piteously. 
 ' It will be so sad — so lonely without them.' 
 
 ' I cannot help that/ answered Errol Glen- 
 denning sternly. * I have a duty to fulfil to 
 them, and I must obey my trust. Whatever 
 your life is/ he went on, looking at her with 
 cold and wrathful eyes, ' remember, you have 
 brought its sufferings on yourself Why were 
 you not open with me ? Do you think, if I 
 had known your secret, I, or any honest man, 
 Avould have made you his wife ? Your father 
 deceived me ; so did you. I was a fool, and 
 I suited your purpose, no doubt. So you 
 
Paiii. 107 
 
 chose me for that purpose, without regard to 
 the hfe and hopes you were ruining.' 
 
 She did not speak. Her head was half 
 turned from him. The beautiful profile, cut 
 clearly as a cameo, stood between him and 
 the wavering shadows. He could not read the 
 acute pain, the set and heart-broken anguish 
 of the sad 3'oung face. 
 
 ' You accepted me for your husband,' he 
 went on bitterly, ' knowing that you held 
 locked within your heart a shameful secret. 
 1 gave you my whole heart in full trust, and 
 how did you repay me ?' 
 
 ' Stop !' she said, turning round, and facing 
 him with sudden desperation. ' You don't 
 know all ; you don't know how I, too, was 
 trapped and deceived ; how ' 
 
 He silenced her with a gesture. 
 
 ' You have condemned yourself,' he said. 
 * I do know all. I know that I can never 
 look upon you as my wife, and yet, legally, I 
 see no way to set you free. My promise to 
 the dead binds me ; my vows to you bind me. 
 I must shelter you, protect you, defend you 
 
108 ' The LdiJijc Nancy e J 
 
 alike from the man who has wronged you and 
 the man you have wronged. Pierre de Volens 
 was a villain and a cheat, yet to this villain 
 you have given your heart, and in his keep- 
 ing is your secret.' 
 
 ^ If I had foreseen this hour,' she mur- 
 mured brokenly ; ' if only I had been less 
 ignorant, less trustful ' 
 
 ' Heaven knows I can echo those words 
 from the bottom of my heart/ he said ; ' but 
 the regret is as useless as the reproach. 
 I served your purpose, and — his. I only 
 stand before you as a shadow. Yet I tell 
 you that a day will surely come when you 
 will know your fjither s judgment was correct 
 — that you would be happier in your coffin 
 than as the wife of this man. But my words 
 won't carry much weight now. I know that 
 to my cost. It was not you that Pierre de 
 Volens sought, but your fortune. To baffle 
 him I was made your father's tool. I am 
 the guardian of that fortune and of you. In 
 three years' time you will be of age. On the 
 day you are twenty-one I will be here to 
 
Pain, 109 
 
 deliver my trust into your hands. You will 
 then be free to act as you please. Nor shall 
 I compel you to live under my roof unless 
 you desire it. This is what I came to say to 
 you to-day. No doubt your life will be dreary, 
 but for that you alone are to blame. I can- 
 not introduce you to society as my wife, 
 knowinof v/hat I know. I cannot suffer shame 
 and scandal to attach themselves to an 
 honoured name, even for sake of the infatua- 
 tion that has broken my heart and home. 
 We are man and wife by the laws of heaven 
 and man, but in all else we stand apart as the 
 veriest strangers. If you rebel against your 
 own fate, remember to what you have con- 
 demned me. You chose to keep your secret, 
 but chance discovered it to me. For sake of 
 your treachery we both must suffer, till death 
 
 cuts the knot for one or other.' 
 
 She bent her head on her clasped hands in 
 
 a sudden storm of tears. 
 
 * You are very hard on me,' she said. ' My 
 
 youth, my ignorance, might plead excuse 
 
 with you as they did in my father's eyes.' 
 
110 ' The Latlijc Nancije.^ 
 
 ' Nothing,' he said sternly, * can excuse 
 deception.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' she pleaded, amid her broken 
 >sobs, * if you knew all ' 
 
 * I do know all/ he said, growing deathly 
 white. ' That nigjht revealed it to me. 
 Clearer proof is not necessary. Had it been, 
 I could have procured it from — Julie Lamon- 
 taine.' 
 
 Her hands fell. She looked at him in 
 terror. 
 
 ' From — her !' she gasped. ' How did you 
 know of her V 
 
 ' That/ he answered bitterly, ' is my 
 aflfair.' 
 
 * Have you seen her — did she tell you ' 
 
 ' She told me/ he interposed coldly and 
 
 'relentlessly, ' all I wished to know ; she told 
 me enouofh to make me reo-ret, to the last 
 hour of my life, the fate that made me your 
 father's friend.' 
 
 She shivered as with sudden cold. 
 
 ' He was right, then,' she said slowly ; ' he 
 told me if anyone ever knew ' 
 
Pain. Ill 
 
 Again that sudden, passionate gesture 
 stopped her. 
 
 ' Don't put it into words,' lie said ; ' the 
 truth is horrible enoug^h.' 
 
 She did not answer, only turned her head 
 aside, while the hot colour stole up to her 
 brow and crimsoned even the delicate shell- 
 like ears that were alone visible to him. 
 
 After a moment's silence he spoke again. 
 
 ' Although I condemn you,' he said, ' I 
 pity you. I pity you all the more, because 
 I know what manner of man has won your 
 heart, and made me the cloak of his vile 
 designs. But, no doubt, in your eyes he is a 
 hero still. Women are so blind where they 
 love. So much trust I have in you that I 
 believe you will respect my wishes, and close 
 my doors against this man. Perhaps these 
 years of absence may plead as desertion in 
 the eyes of the law% and give you back your 
 freedom with your fortune. In that case 
 you may still be happy in your own way. 1 
 can do no more for you.' 
 
 ' Oh,' she cried between her bitter sobs, 
 
112 * TliC Lad ye Xancye' 
 
 *you have done too niueli already. I see 
 my folly and my blindness now. Have pity 
 on me. You are a man, and strong, and full 
 of purpose. I — oh, I am so pitifully weak. 
 Only to-day I have deceived you again. I 
 know your doors are closed to him; but for 
 all that I have seen him. We met by the 
 sea not two hours ago. How can I escape 
 him ? He is relentless, and — you — you leave 
 me alone.' 
 
 For a moment he turned white as death. 
 
 ' You mean to tell me,' he said, ' that — 
 that man has been here to-day V 
 
 She bent her head ; she could not speak 
 now for weeping. 
 
 'And you met him — not accidentally, but 
 with full purpose, knowing what has been 
 between you — knowing that I have forbidden 
 his presence V 
 
 * I met him,' she said brokenly, ' for the 
 last time. I have parted from him for ever. 
 Oh, be generous enough to pity and forgive 
 me ! Let me try to do what is right and 
 what you wish. I was motherless from my 
 
Pain. 113 
 
 cradle — I have had no one to love or help 
 me. And you — you call yourself my hus- 
 band, yet you forsake me too !' 
 
 He stood there quite silent, battling with 
 a storm of outraged pride, and crushed love, 
 and hopes now doomed to be for ever unful- 
 filled. 
 
 Yet that piteous appeal — that sight of 
 w^eak and suffering womanhood — wrung his 
 very heart. 
 
 ' It is true,' he said, and his voice shook 
 with emotion. ' I am your husband. It is 
 my duty to help and jDrotect you, if you 
 claim it ' 
 
 ' Oh no — no !' she broke out passionately. 
 ^ I claim nothing — nothing. I am not 
 w^orth a thought of yours. I have done 
 you a cruel WTong. It is but just I should 
 suffer.' 
 
 ' Your sufferings/ he said bitterly, ' can 
 scarcely equal mine. But let that pass. I 
 will not leave you alone. You shall have a 
 friend to stay here with you, and keep you 
 company in your loneliness. Besides, it will 
 
 VOL. I. * 8 
 
114 * Tlic Liuhjc Nancye.' 
 
 be some protection. Will you trust me to 
 arrange this V 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered unsteadily. ' I will 
 obey whatever you desire/ 
 
 * Except with regard to your cousin,' he 
 said sternly. 'There your powers of obedi- 
 ence seem to fail you altogether.' 
 
 ' They never will again,' she said, and 
 turned her white, despairing face to heaven, 
 as if reofisterino^ there a vow her heart had 
 sworn. ' I promise you never again to meet, 
 or speak to him, of my own free will !' 
 
 ' Until, as I said before, you are of age to 
 dispose of yourself and your fortune,' he 
 answered. ' By that time I hope you may 
 have gained some judgment and firmness of 
 purpose. I — I think now there is no more 
 to be said. The lady I v/ill send you as 
 companion is a widow — a young, and graceful, 
 and accomplished woman, and a woman who 
 will be a true friend. ' From time to time I 
 will send you news of me and my welfare. 
 You may answer my letters or not, as you 
 please. For the rest, I bid you farewell now 
 
ain. 
 
 115 
 
 until the day mentioned in your father's 
 letter to me.' 
 
 She looked timidly, almost entreatingl}^, at 
 him. 
 
 ' If you could only say,' she pleaded, ' that 
 you trust me, or will try to trust me, I think 
 that would give me courage.' 
 
 As he met that piteous gaze, the hard 
 crust about his heart seemed broken through 
 as with the scorch of fire. How he had 
 loved this girl ! he thought ; and yet, as he 
 met her eyes, he only looked into a soul that 
 had never met his own — that now, it seemed, 
 never could meet it, while life should draof its 
 days of weariness along the path their feet 
 must tread. 
 
 ' I cannot say it,' he said. ' For I cannot 
 trust you.' 
 
 Her eyes looked sorrowfully back to his 
 
 ' I cannot blame you,' she said. ' I shall 
 nut blame you even in my years of penance. 
 I — I feel I have treated you with unspeak- 
 able cruelty. I don't ask or expect you to 
 forcrive me. I will prav that freedom mav 
 
 8—2 
 
116 ^ TJte Ladye Nancye' 
 
 come to you. I do not want to live. I am 
 so unhappy. If I could only die young as 
 my mother did I' 
 
 Those words smote him to the heart. 
 For long years they were to haunt him as 
 memory recalled his life's mistake and all 
 its bitter suffering. But he answered her 
 coldly : 
 
 ' Do not wish for death ; it is unwise. 
 When most desired, it never approaches. 
 And now — good-bye.' 
 
 She stretched out her hand. Her eyes 
 were red with weeping ; her face looked 
 almost terrible in its tragic pain. 
 
 He touched her hand, but it seemed as if 
 a wall of ice were between them. No life or 
 warmth was in that chilly pressure. Then, 
 without a word, he turned away, and was 
 lost in the shadows of the wood. 
 
 She stood there quite still, and watched 
 him till he was out of sight. The tears were 
 still wet upon her lashes ; her mouth seemed 
 set in a line of rigid despair. The events of 
 this one day had taken all the youth from 
 
Pain. 117 
 
 her face, though they could not destroy its 
 beauty. 
 
 At last she turned away and went home- 
 wards. A sort of lonmno^ had come over her 
 to escape from the mocking sunhght, the 
 clear sky, the glad trills of the birds. 
 
 She craved for solitude, and darkness, and 
 rest. Her brain seemed on fire, her heart 
 throbbed tumultuously. 
 
 Existence seemed to her like an awful 
 burden laid upon unwilling shoulders, and 
 she found herself dimly wondering how her 
 strength would be equal to the task of bear- 
 ing it. 
 
 She stood on the threshold of life, and yet 
 that life had all gone wrong. It was her 
 own fault. She had only herself to blame ; 
 but that thought did not help her in this 
 hour, nor would it in any hour that was yet 
 to come. 
 
 As she hurried through the hall she met 
 Basil. He was waiting for her. He stepped 
 forward, but she waved him hurriedly 
 aside. 
 
118 ^ Tiie Ladije Xancye! 
 
 ' Not now,' she said. ' I can't bear it. I 
 must be alone.' 
 
 The boy stood motionless. Her face fright- 
 ened him ; but he did not attempt to resist 
 her appeal. She almost staggered as she 
 went up the stairs in that frenzied, feverish 
 fashion. Listening;, he heard the door of her 
 room closed and locked ; then all was silent. 
 
 ' I suppose/ he said half to himself, ' she is 
 crying. All women cry when they are in 
 trouble. But I wish — oh, I wish 6'Ae 
 * wouldn't r 
 
 Something rolled down his own face on to 
 his hand. Not a tear — for the pride and 
 sake of dawning manhood, it could not be 
 that ! 
 
 But the boy's heart was sore within him 
 as he went sadly through the corridor to 
 the old shabby playroom, where Stewart was 
 patiently awaiting him. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 That long miserable Sunday was drawing to 
 a close. 
 
 Basil had kept his word religiously. No 
 one knew that Mr. Glendenning had been in 
 the neighbourhood ; no one knew of that 
 strange interview in the wood. Nancette had 
 kept her room. The boys had dined alone, 
 and spent the afternoon in aimless wandering 
 about the grounds. 
 
 Stewart saw that something had affected 
 his brother's usual spirits, and kept him sub- 
 dued and anxious, but as Basil declared 
 nothing was the matter, he felt in duty bound 
 to accept that statement as correct. They 
 had tea with Deborah, and listened to her as 
 she read out the ' Pilgrim's Progress ' as an 
 unfailing Sunday treat ; but even she noticed 
 
120 ' The Ladyc Xancije: 
 
 how listless and dispirited the elder boy was, 
 and audibly expressed a fear that he was 
 sickeninc^ for somethinsr. 
 
 It was c^ettino' dusk. The blue of the skv 
 had turned to sober grey. The birds had 
 all sought their nests for the night. 
 
 It was too dark to read, and Deborah was 
 talking softly to Stewart in the corner by the 
 fire. Basil could bear the suspense no longer. 
 He stole quietly out of the room, and went 
 to that locked door about which his thoughts 
 had lingered all these hours, and stood there 
 listening. Not a sound was audible. The 
 silence frightened him. Once before he 
 remembered he had stood like that before a 
 closed and silent chamber. When it opened, 
 they had told him his young mother lay 
 within dead. 
 
 In sudden desperation he knocked. For 
 a moment all was still. Then came the faint, 
 soft rustle of a woman's dress over the car- 
 peted floor. The door was opened. He saw 
 the room all dark and shadowy, and a white 
 figure standing motionless before him. 
 
Pain. 121 
 
 ' Don't be angr}^' he said imploringly. ' I 
 felt I must see you. I couldn't bear it any 
 longer. May I come in V 
 
 She moved aside. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, faintly and wearily. ' I — I 
 intended to 'send for you, only somehow I had 
 not courage.' 
 
 He closed the door behind him, then took 
 her hand and led her to the broad, old- 
 fashioned window-seat. There was no fire in 
 the o^rate, nor anv light in the room save that 
 from the pale grey sky, where now a star or 
 two was shining. 
 
 ' Have you been crying all day V he asked. 
 * And you've had nothing to eat. Don't you 
 think you're very silly V 
 
 'Deborah brouo^ht me some tea,' she said. 
 ^ I can't eat — food seems to choke me.' She 
 laid her burning forehead against the boy's 
 cool hands. ' You are very good to think of 
 me,' she said. ' I wonder what I shall do 
 Avhen you leave me V 
 
 'I'm not going to leave you,' he said 
 sturdily ; ' I've told you so, often and 
 
122 ' The Ladye Nancy e' 
 
 often. Someone must take care of yon, 
 you know.' 
 
 ' But your — I mean Mr. Glendenning, said 
 that you and Stewart were to go to school — 
 somewhere away from here.' 
 
 ' To school !' he cried, aghast at the infor- 
 mation. ' Oh, surely he can't mean it ! What 
 a shame ! And just as we were all going to 
 be so jolly together. Tell me/ he added, 
 dropping his voice, * is he coming to live here 
 ag^ain V 
 
 She sadly shook her head. 
 
 * No ; and it is all my fault. Oh, Basil, if 
 I only could live my life over again — if I only 
 — only — could !' 
 
 The boy was silent, too startled for words, 
 yet vaguely conscious that he understood why 
 that yearning cry had escaped her — why she 
 looked out on life, and saw it blurred and 
 blotted by a first mistake. 
 
 * I think,' he said at last, ' you had better 
 give up all thoughts of that other fellow. 
 He's a mean cur ! He's no business to come 
 sneaking after another man's wife, even if 
 
Pain, 123 
 
 there is a screw loose between them ! Some 
 day, things are sure to come right between 
 Mr. Glendenning and you. He's no end 
 of a good fellow, when you know him. 
 But, if 3^ou encourage that cousin of yours, 
 there'll be mischief. Take my word for 
 
 itr 
 
 ^ I have promised never to see him again — 
 of my own free will,' she said despairingly. 
 * You are too young to understand all this ; 
 but I am grateful for your sympathy. I don't 
 know what I should have done without you 
 to-day.' 
 
 * Yes,' he said with a short laugh ; ' my 
 toothache came in useful. But, oh ! I wish I 
 wasn't going to school. Won't you be awfully 
 dull all alone here ?' 
 
 'Mr. Glendenning said he was going to 
 send some one to live with me,' she answered. 
 ' Some widow4ady — a friend of his. Do you 
 know who it can be V 
 
 ^ Not unless it's Mrs. Freere ; but I can 
 hardly believe that.' 
 
 ' Why, is she old, or ugly, or disagreeable V 
 
124 ' The Ladye Nancye: 
 
 asked the girl listlessly. ' It will not matter, 
 even if she is.' 
 
 ' Oh, she's all that, and more !' laughed the 
 boy. ' Wait till you see her. I hope I'll be 
 here when she comes. Did Mr. Glen denning: 
 say when we were to go to school V 
 
 ' No. He is to write to you. Probably 
 you will hear to-morrow.' 
 
 * Can we come home for the holidays V 
 
 ' I believe so. Oh, surely if you wish it.' 
 ' Wish it ! I should just think I did. Will 
 you write to me sometimes, Lady Nancye V 
 
 'Yes, dear,' she said gently. 'You know 
 you are my only friend — my brave young 
 champion. I wish I had had a brother like 
 you. I might have made a better thing of 
 my life.' 
 
 * You must let me be your brother,' he said ; 
 then after a pause he added : ^ Lady Nancye, 
 did you tell Mr. Glendenning about — about 
 meeting your cousin to-day V 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' I'm glad of that,' he said quickly ; ' I 
 shouldn't have any secrets from him, if I were 
 
Pain. 125 
 
 you. I'm quite sure I wouldn't like my wife 
 to have any from me.' 
 
 ' Your wife !' 
 
 The girl's white lips quivered faintly, but 
 she was too weak and too heart-sick for mirth. 
 
 ' I should like to marry someone just like 
 you,' he went on. 
 
 ' As pale,' she asked, ' and as wicked V 
 
 ' I don't believe you're wicked — I'm sure 
 you're not.' 
 
 ' Indeed I am,' sh esaid drearily ; * very, 
 very wicked.' 
 
 ' Then,' he said, calmly, ' wicked people 
 must be nicer than good ones.' 
 
 ' You are a droll boy ; but you always cheer 
 me up,' she said, smiling faintly. ' But now 
 I am going to send you away. I am too 
 tired to talk more. I wall go to bed and see 
 if I can sleep for once.' 
 
 ^ Don't you always sleep V he asked anx- 
 iously. 
 
 ' No ; very seldom of late. But to-night I 
 am worn out. I only want to rest, and not 
 think.' 
 
126 ' The Ladijc Nancy e.^ 
 
 ' Shall I send Deborah V ho asked, rising 
 and looking at her with those honest young 
 eyes, which she loved yet feared. 
 
 ' No,' she said ; ' tell her I have gone to 
 bed. I do not want her, or anyone.' 
 
 She held out her hand to him. 
 
 * Kiss me, my little knight,' she said. ' I 
 wish I could tell you how grateful I am 1' 
 
 She did not say for what, but he knew well 
 enough. Knew that but for his intervention 
 she would not have been sitting here now 
 — sheltered, safe, even if unhappy and 
 alone. 
 
 He bent down. The shadowy dusk hid 
 the flush upon his cheeks as his lips touched 
 her cold brow. He did not speak, his heart 
 was too full. That kiss was as a seal set 
 upon his life, to keep it pure, and chivalrous, 
 and reverential to all womanhood for sake of 
 one. 
 
 * Heaven bless you, dear !' she said. 
 
 But he was silent. For the second time 
 that day the smart of tears was on his eyelids 
 as he left her presence. 
 
Pain. 127 
 
 A week had passed. 
 
 It was close on sunset, and the two young 
 Glendenninos were sitting: astride the talliron 
 gates that shut out the precincts of Owl's 
 Roost from the main road. Their faces were 
 full of expectation. 
 
 ' I am sure I heard wheels,' remarked 
 Stewart for about the twentieth time in the 
 course of as many minutes. ' Yes, this time 
 I am right. Look there it comes. I see her 
 face.' 
 
 In a second he was dowm, and had flung 
 open the gate and fastened it back. The 
 carriage stopped, a lady looked out of the 
 window. 
 
 ' How^ are you both V she said. ' Have 
 you come to meet me V 
 
 ' Of course,' said Basil ' Get out of the 
 carriage and walk up the avenue with us, will 
 you ? We've such lots to tell you.' 
 
 The lady spoke to the driver, and then 
 opened the door and came up to the boys and 
 kissed them warmly. 
 
 ' How well you both look/ she said ; ' and 
 
128 ' The Ladyc Nancy eJ 
 
 how you've grown ! Now what's all this 
 Avonderful news ?' 
 
 * You know, of course,' said Basil, ^ that 
 Mr. Glendenning's married V 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, and a sort of constrained 
 look came over her face ; ' he told me that.' 
 
 ' But why he should have got married at 
 all, I don't see,' went on Basil, ' for he's never 
 stayed here, and now he's gone off for years, 
 I believe. Did he tell you why, Mrs. 
 Freere V 
 
 'No ; only for reasons that were imperative,' 
 he said. 
 
 ' I can't make it out,' said Basil. ' And 
 she's such an angel.' 
 
 * What is she like V asked Mrs. Freere, not 
 curiously, but with that same constraint of 
 face and voice that had marked her previous 
 question. 
 
 * Like ! Well, she's very young, and very 
 white, and ' 
 
 ' She's just like the picture of the lady 
 Nancye in our playroom,' said Stewart eagerly. 
 ' Basil calls her that. And she's very sad 
 
Pain. 129 
 
 always. But Basil is awfully fond of her, 
 and she is very good to us.' 
 
 ^ And Mr. Glendenning's going to send us 
 
 to school, and we have to leave to-morrow,' 
 
 »■ 
 
 said Basil ; ' and what she'll do without us I 
 don't know. It's a shame. That's why I 
 wanted to see you, Mrs. Freere — ^just to put 
 you up to what you ought to do, you lvnow\ 
 Because, of course, she doesn't know you like 
 we do, and she's so unhappy, and so — so 
 different to anybody else.' 
 
 ' Is she V asked Mrs. Freere, somewhat 
 listlessly. 'I imagined that for myself 
 
 ' Quite different/ w^ent on Basil. * But 
 you're sure to like her, and I know you'll be 
 a friend to her. Did Mr. Glendenning tell 
 you there was a screw loose X 
 
 'A what?' she exclaimed, standing still In 
 sheer astonishment to look at the boy. 
 
 ' A screw loose — something wrong between 
 them. I don't, of course, know anything 
 about married people, but I should imagine 
 they didn't behave quite like these do.' 
 
 Mrs. Freere's face flushed. 
 
 VOL. I. 9 
 
130 * llie Ladije Xcuicyc.'' 
 
 * Perhaps,' she said, ' Mr. Glenclenning only 
 married her out of pity forher forlorn condition, 
 and then found out he had made a mistake.' 
 
 Basil shook his head. 
 
 ' No,' he said ; ' he was very fond of her. 
 I can't make out why he left her almost as 
 soon as he brought her here.* 
 
 ' He — he did not tell me that/ said Mrs. 
 Freere in a low voice. 
 
 * Perhaps he was ashamed of himself,' said 
 Basil loftily. ' I know I should have been. 
 However, perhaps things will come right 
 some day. No one knows he's married yet, 
 and ' 
 
 ' Do you mean,' she interrupted, ' that it is 
 a secret ? That no one knows this — this girl 
 is his wife V 
 
 ' That is exactly it. The servants have 
 been sent away, and only Deborah and old 
 Clitheroe know of the marriage. The others 
 think she's a ward of Mr. Glendenning's, like 
 we are.' 
 
 'It is very extraordinary,' said Mrs. 
 Freere ; ' very extraordinary !' 
 
Pain. 131 
 
 ' Oh, you'll cheer her up, I've no doubt/ 
 said Basil hopefully. ^ Women, of course, 
 understand women. I've done my best, but 
 this whim of sending us to school has spoilt 
 all my plans. So I must just trust to you. 
 I know you're awfully good, and I'm glad 
 you've not gone out to America, as you 
 threatened. Did your affairs come right, 
 and did you get your dollars V 
 
 ' Some,' she said, smiling faintly. ' Enough 
 to live on. I won't trouble about the rest.' 
 
 ' And are you going to live here, now V 
 asked Stewart. 
 
 ' I have promised Mr. Glendenning to 
 stay with his wife until he returns,' she 
 answered gravely ; ^ unless, of course, she 
 wishes me to leave her. But I hope he will 
 not be away more than a year.' 
 
 * Perhaps,' suggested Basil, ' you can find 
 out what's gone wrong, and bring them 
 together again.' 
 
 * That,' she said, flushing faintly, ' is my 
 earnest wish and desire. Life is too short to 
 be made altogether wretched by a mistake, 
 
 9—2 
 
132 ' The Ladye Nancye: 
 
 and it can be only a mistake that has caused 
 this — this estrangement.' 
 
 * Of course/ said Basil loyally. ' Nothing 
 else in the world.' Then he looked at her 
 admiringly. ' You are just the sort of 
 woman,' he said, 'to do her good. Mr. 
 Glendenning says you are a " universal 
 helper." ' 
 
 ' You seem to have constituted yourself 
 her champion, at all events,' said Mrs. 
 Freere. ' I hope she is duly grateful. I 
 suppose,' she added, looking anxiously at the 
 house, which was now in sight, ' she expects 
 me to-day f 
 
 ^ I heard her telling Deborah about your 
 room,' answered Basil. " You are to have the 
 room next hers. She was putting flowers 
 there this morning.' 
 
 ' That was nice of her,' said Mrs. Freere 
 thoughtfully. ' How strange the house looks 
 with that crimson light on it !' she added ; 
 ' as if it were in a sea of fire.' 
 
 ' Or blood,' suggested Basil. 
 
 * What a horrible idea !' she said with a 
 
Pain. 133 
 
 shudder. ' Oh,' hurriedly, ' who is that 
 standing there all in white V 
 
 ' That,' said Basil proudly, ' is my Ladye 
 Nancy e. She's coming to meet us.' 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 With the red glow of the sunset upon her 
 uncovered head and the floating folds of her 
 white dress, Nancette advanced to meet her 
 visitor. 
 
 Had she known with what strange interest 
 Myra Freere regarded lier^ it might have 
 made her more nervous than she was. She 
 greeted her shyly — almost coldly. She was 
 wondering how much of her history this 
 woman knew, and what she thought of it. 
 
 In five minutes' time she had forgotten 
 she had any peculiar history for her to know. 
 Mrs. Freere had that greatest of feminine 
 charms — a sympathetic manner. Looking at 
 her, on first acquaintance, no one would have 
 thought of calling her beautiful — conversing 
 with her for ten minutes, anyone would have 
 
Pah. 135 
 
 decided she was ten times more attractive 
 than any merely beautiful woman. She was 
 tall and slight, and very graceful. She had 
 large, clear, grey eyes, that often looked black 
 under the shadow of their long lashes.. Her 
 mouth, nose, and complexion were ordinary. 
 Her hair was of soft, warm, chestnut-brown, 
 and waved back from her forehead in a natural 
 rippling line ; her eyes and hair formed her 
 only claim to beauty. She was serious but 
 not melancholy — grave but not gloomy. 
 
 Nancette found herself looking at her 
 again and again, as they walked up to the 
 house. She half wondered how she could 
 feel so cordially disposed to an utter stranger, 
 and a woman who, for the sake of her friend- 
 ship with Mr. Glendenning, might be passing 
 harsh and critical judgment upon his wife. 
 
 ' I will show you to your room/ she said 
 as they entered the hall. ' I hope you will 
 like it. But all the rooms here are gloomy.* 
 
 ' That is the penalty one pays for an an- 
 cestral residence,' said Mrs. Freere, with 
 that soft, grave smile ujoon her lips that gave 
 
lo5 * The Ladiie Xancj/e.^ 
 
 its sweetest expression to her face. ' I never 
 possessed one myself, unfortunately. It is 
 always a comfort, therefore, to discover they 
 have draw^ backs.' 
 
 ' I — I am not fond of gloom,' said the 
 girl seriously. ' I thought this whole place 
 terrible when first I saw it. Of course, I am 
 more used to it now, and the bovs make it 
 lively sometimes. It will be very melancholy 
 when there is no young life in it.' 
 
 * There is 3^0 urs !' said Mrs. Freere involun- 
 tarily. But as she met Nancette's quick, 
 pained glance, she felt she had said the 
 wronof thinof. 
 
 They did not speak again till they reached 
 the bedroom. 
 
 ' You have done your best to banish gloom,' 
 Mrs. Freere then said, looking round at the 
 flowers, and lace, and feminine decorations. 
 ' Why did you take so much trouble V she 
 added, taking the small white hands in her 
 own, and looking straight into the shy and 
 sorrowful eyes. 
 
 ' Trouble !' echoed Xancette. ' Oh, if you 
 
Pain. 137 
 
 only knew how dreary it is — liow long the 
 days are !' 
 
 ' We must alter all that,' said Mrs. Freere 
 gravely. ^ I have come to be a friend to you, 
 my dear ; and I mean to be one. A woman 
 always understands a woman, and when both 
 have known sorrow, it helps them to get on 
 better, I think.' 
 
 Nancette went over to the window, and 
 stood there looking out. The dying glow of 
 the sunset still lingered over the trees ; but 
 her eyes never saw it, or indeed anything. 
 Her heart was beating too painfully for 
 speech. 
 
 Myra Freere had taken off her bonnet and 
 travellinof-cloak, and washed the dust of her 
 journey from her face and hands, before the 
 girl turned to her again. She met a face and 
 smile that seemed to her almost divine in 
 their beauty, and tenderness, and compassion. 
 
 ' I — I beg your pardon,' she said timidly. 
 * I should have asked if you required any- 
 thing. I forgot myself for a moment.' 
 
 * That was a long thought,' said Mrs. 
 
138 ' Tke Ladye Xancye.^ 
 
 Freere. ' But I am glad you do not intend 
 to be ceremonious. I should not like it, and 
 I am not used to it.' 
 
 ' Shall we go down and have some tea V 
 asked Xancette. ' I expect the boys are 
 getting impatient. It is their last day, and 
 they want as much of me as they can get.' 
 
 * I am quite ready,' answered Mrs. Freere. 
 ' How fond Basil is of you !' she added. 
 
 * Yes,' said Nancette with a sigh. ^ And 
 he is such a nice boy. I wish he was not 
 going away.' 
 
 'If he were not a nice boy,' said Mrs. 
 Freere, ' there would be nothing^ to reo^ret in 
 the advent of school-life. But you are right. 
 He is delightful as boys go, and you can't 
 help missing him.' 
 
 She looked at Nancette as she spoke with 
 highly critical attention. She was marvel- 
 ling at the girl's beauty, and the strangeness 
 of her fate. 
 
 ' It must be something very grave that a 
 husband could not for^^ive — her,' she thouo^ht. 
 
 A wood-fire burnt in the open fireplace of 
 
Pain. 13^ 
 
 the great hall. Tea was waiting, so were the 
 boys and their two rough terriers, Floss and 
 Boss, who for this last day had been privi- 
 leged to go wherever their young masters 
 went. 
 
 ' We're quite ready for tea,' said Basil, 
 setting his Lad^^e Nancye's chair opposite 
 the tray. ' I told Debbie to bring plenty of 
 hot cakes. I thouo-ht Mrs. Freere would be 
 hungry.' 
 
 ' Of course it was only Mrs. Freere's appe- 
 tite that required consideration,' said the 
 visitor ; ' schoolboys are never addicted to 
 such weaknesses as cakes.' 
 
 ' I'll tell you when I am one,' said Basil 
 cooll}^, as he brought her her tea. ' Won't 
 you two just be longing for Midsummer — 
 that's all.' 
 
 ' Why Midsummer V asked Nance tte, look- 
 ing at him wonderingly. 
 
 ' Because then we shall have holidays/ said 
 the boy. 
 
 ^You seem to pity us very much for the 
 loss of 3^our society,' said Myra Freere. ' I 
 
140 * Tlie Lathje Nancije.^ 
 
 don't know that it is quite an unmixed evil.* 
 Then she smiled at the boy's handsome face. 
 * You are rather conceited, Master Basil. 
 School will soon take that out of you.' 
 
 ' I wonder what it will be like,' said 
 Stewart musingly. 
 
 ' Well,' said Myra Freere, ' there are schools 
 and schools. At some you learn nothing, at 
 others a good deal. I have heard of fathers 
 paying at the rate of four hundred a year 
 that a boy may learn to discriminate in the 
 matter of cigars and hats.' 
 
 ' Oh !' said Basil thoughtfully. ' Well, I'm 
 not fond of grinding, I must say. Stewart's 
 the one for that. Besides, they teach you 
 such a lot of unnecessary stuff. Look at old 
 Chasable now. All he thinks of is Greek, 
 and Latin, and Hebrew. What's the good 
 of it V 
 
 ^ A necessary part of the education of a 
 gentleman,' said Myra Freere demurely. 
 
 Basil pulled Boss's ears reflectively. 
 
 ' I'd like to be an explorer,' he said ; ^ I 
 can't stand irrindhigf at desks or work. The 
 
Pain. 141 
 
 wilder the life the better I should like it. 
 Did you ever see a prairie when you were in 
 America V he asked abruptly. 
 
 'America,' said Mrs. Freere, Ms a large 
 country. I was only in New York. I never 
 went West. But I would have made an 
 effort to see a prairie/ she went on, setting 
 down her cup and looking gravely at her 
 young questioner, ' if I had thought it would 
 be a matter of importance to you.' 
 
 ' One reads about them, you know,' said 
 the boy. * I should like to hear from some 
 one who has seen them, if the books are 
 correct.' 
 
 ' Books are always correct,' said Nancette 
 gravely. 
 
 ' No,' said Myra Freere, looking quietly at 
 the delicate, pale face, ' not always. Inten- 
 tions are good, but sometimes fall short in 
 the carrying out. Adventurous life has been 
 greatly exaggerated. It is not w^holesome 
 reading.' 
 
 ' It is the only reading I care for,' said 
 Basil, taking his cup round to be replenished 
 
1-^2 * TJic Liuhfc Xanci/c.^ 
 
 for the third time. ' If I were Mr. Glen- 
 denning, I should go straight off to the Eocky 
 Moiintains and shootgrizzlies and wild Indians, 
 and have no end of a jolly life.' 
 
 There was an awkward pause. Then Myra 
 Freere spoke in her soft, low voice : 
 
 ' Your future will doubtless be very differ- 
 ent to what you now imagine or desire,' she 
 said. ' The young are always irrational. But 
 you may be very sure that you will never 
 choose at thirty what you would at thirteen.' 
 
 'Thirty!' cried Basil. 'Oh, but that's 
 awfully old.' 
 
 She smiled. She turned her beautiful 
 calm eyes upon him. 
 
 * I,' she said, ' am thirty.' 
 
 The boy flushed hotly. 
 
 ' Are you ? Well, of course you're not old. 
 I mean you don't look it. But it does seem 
 a long way off to me now, you know.' 
 
 ' No doubt,' answered Mrs. Freere gravely. 
 ' And sometimes I feel as old as you fancy 
 you would. But it isn't the years that age 
 us,' she went on in her low, even tones ; ' it 
 
Pain. ] 43 
 
 is ^vhat those years bring. Troubles are sure 
 to come, but the capacity of bearing them 
 varies much. To some it is very, very hard. 
 If you have a sensitive conscience, and 
 emotions, life is harder for you. It seems to 
 go wrong so easily.' 
 
 * I don't see why anyone's life should go 
 wrong,' said Basil sturdily. 'We can do 
 pretty much as we like with it.' 
 
 ' Ah,' said Mrs. Freere quietly, ' you will 
 perhaps make a different confession when 
 3^ou, too, are thirty.' 
 
 There was a short silence. Nancette rose 
 from her seat almost abruptly. The boys 
 looked uncomfortable. They finished their 
 tea, and then Stewart suggested they should 
 see if Deborah had packed up their books. 
 
 Nancette and Myra Freere were left alone. 
 
 • Come and sit down here,' said the latter, 
 pointing to a low and softly-cushioned chair 
 beside her. ' Don't ring for lights yet. Let 
 us have a talk.' 
 
 The girl took the seat at once. Her face 
 looked intensely sad in the light of the dim 
 
144 ' The Ladjje Nancye.'' 
 
 wood fire. Her hands were listlessly folded 
 upon her knees. 
 
 * If we are to be friends,' said Mrs. Freere 
 gently, 'as I trust and hope we shall, I must 
 be perfectly candid and open with you. I 
 have known Mr. Glendenning since I was a 
 girl, though my marriage parted us for years. 
 I went to America with my husband ; he 
 remained here. When I was left a widow, I 
 came back to my old home. It is some miles 
 away from here — a mere cottage facing the 
 sea. I was quite alone in the world. Mr. 
 Glendenning and I resumed our old friend- 
 ship. When he told me that he was about 
 to put that friendship to a test, I A^^as glad of 
 it. He said that circumstances he could not 
 explain obliged him to leave his young wife for 
 a time — that it was very lonely for her here — 
 that she needed not only a companion but a 
 friend, and in all the world he knew of no 
 one who would be both to her, and yet respect 
 her secret, and the sorrow that was her portion. 
 I listened, and my heart went out to you, for, 
 oh, child, I too have drunk the cup of sorrow 
 
Pain. 145 
 
 to its dregs, and I thought my own experi- 
 ence might help 3^ours.' 
 
 She paused. Nancette still looked at the 
 fire ; she felt as if she could not trust herself 
 to speak. 
 
 ' I said to him, '' Do not tell me anything; 
 I will o'o to her if she will have me." ' 
 
 She paused again. Nancette turned her 
 head, and looked at her, but she did not 
 speak. It almost seemed as if she were hold- 
 ing: herself back for fear that words would 
 break from her despite herself. 
 
 ' I have come to you,' went on the tenderly 
 modulated voice, ' because you are in a strait 
 which only a woman can understand — because 
 you have neither mother, nor sister, nor friend 
 — because you stand on the threshold of life, 
 and all your future happiness depends on the 
 step you take. But,' she added gently, *you 
 shall tell me nothing that you do not wish. 
 I don't make my friendship or my help the 
 reward of a forced confidence. You are only 
 a child in comparison to myself — only a child, 
 and yet ' 
 
 VOL. I. 10 
 
14G ' Tlie Lad lie Nancy c' 
 
 'And yet/ broke in Nancette, her voice 
 trembling and broken, ' how I have suffered 
 — oh, how I have suffered !' 
 
 * It is a woman's lot/ said Mrs. Freere, 
 * and we cannot evade it !' 
 
 'Then/ said the girl unsteadily, 'you 
 too ' 
 
 ' I, too,' interposed Myra Freere, ' have 
 had my experience. It might have made 
 me hard. I am glad it has only made me 
 pitiful/ 
 
 * I think/ said the girl sorrowfully, ' I 
 could bear mine better if I did not see so 
 clearly it was all my own fault. There is 
 nothing palliating about it. It is only foolish 
 and humiliating.' 
 
 ' Most mistakes are,' said Mrs. Freere, 
 'when we look back upon them. We don't 
 see their true nature till then.' 
 
 The tears rose to Nance tte's eyes. 
 
 ' You have done me good/ she said. ' I do 
 not want to get hard ; but I should in time 
 if I were alone. Some day I will try to tell 
 you ; I can't yet. It is — oh, it is much 
 
Fain. 147 
 
 worse than you think. All good women 
 would turn from me if they knew. My fault 
 is beyond forgiveness. Did not my husband 
 tell you that V 
 
 ^ If he had/ said Myra Freere gently, ' I 
 should not have believed him. Looking at 
 you now, I cannot believe you.' 
 
 ' Indeed, you are too charitable,' said the 
 girl, while the slow tears dropped one by one 
 on her clasped hands. ' I have no right 
 here, and my sin has driven him away. 
 Only that I am too cowardly and too 
 ignorant to face the world, I would not 
 remain. But,' she added hopefully, ' it is 
 only for three years. I shall soon be 
 eighteen, and on the very day I am twenty- 
 one, he will set me free !' 
 
 * Set you free !' echoed Mrs. Freere in a 
 puzzled voice. ^ But he cannot ; you are his 
 wife r 
 
 ' He says three years' desertion will be a 
 plea in the eyes of the law,' said the girl. 
 
 ' Desertion !' cried Myra Freere indig- 
 nantly. ' He — Errol Glendenning — the soul 
 
 10—2 
 
148 ' The Ladye Nancy e.'' 
 
 of honour, capable of so forgetting duty and 
 morality ! Impossible ! Why, child, if you 
 bad been the worst of women, he could not 
 have humiliated you more ! There must be 
 some terrible mistake here. Why do you 
 not clear it up V 
 
 ' Because,' she said, ' it is hopeless ; you 
 would say so if you knew all.' 
 
 ' The worst mistakes can be put right,' 
 said Myra Freere gently ; ' and the greatest 
 sins may be forgiven. I never thought 
 Errol Glendenning was a merciless or a harsh 
 man — far from it/ she added, with a faint 
 flush stealing over her eager face. ' He is 
 the very soul of chivalry and gentleness. 
 His nature is very sensitive, I know ; but 
 it is serious and deeply tender, and if he 
 loved you ' 
 
 ' He did,' said the girl sorrowfully ; 'that, 
 I think, is what makes it so hard.' 
 
 ' When one loves,' said Myra Freere, ' for- 
 giveness should be easy if it is sought in the 
 right way.' 
 
 * I did not seek it in the ri'sht wav,' said 
 
Pain. 149 
 
 Nancette sadly. ' I think I was frightened 
 when I saw what I had done.' 
 
 * Tell me one thing,' said Mrs. Freere, 
 bending forward in the firelight, and looking 
 anxiously at the girl's white, sorrowful face. 
 ' Did you love him V 
 
 ' No,' she said quite simply, but a faint 
 shiver shook her slight young form ; ' oh no, 
 I did not love — him.' 
 
 ' Then,' said Mrs. Freere, drawing back 
 and flushing hotly, 'there was some one 
 else V 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Nancette, her face hidden 
 now by her clasped and trembling hands ; 
 ' there was — some one else !' 
 
CHAPTER VIU. 
 
 ' Five o'clock !' shouted Basil, throwing a 
 pillow across the room at his sleeping 
 brother. * Do wake up ! You know" we 
 have to make our pilgrimage.' 
 
 Stewart opened his eyes and yawned 
 sleepily. The sun was streaming in, and he 
 lay for some moments blinking at it, and 
 lazily watching his more energetic brothers 
 proceedings. They had made a compact the 
 previous night to rise early and take a fare- 
 well of all their favourite haunts and pets 
 and belongings. 
 
 Some half-hour later they were in the 
 stable-yard, the two dogs following at their 
 heels. The thought that this was the last 
 morning, for a long time to come, when they 
 should wander at their own sweet will, some- 
 what sobered the boys. 
 
Pain. 151 
 
 Basil was unusually silent, and Stewart's 
 heart was too full for anything but tears. 
 They fed the pony, and stroked his glossy 
 coat with gentler touch than that they 
 usually bestowed. The pigeons came flocking 
 round them, strutting to and fro in the sun- 
 light with their pretty rosy feet. The rabbits 
 in the hutch rubbed their soft noses against 
 the hands that gave them their early break- 
 fast. 
 
 They left the live-stock at last, and went 
 into the kitchen -garden, and thence into the 
 wood, still damp Avith dew, and odorous with 
 the breath of spring flowers. The warm 
 spring sunlight w^as streaming through the 
 boughs ; the birds were chirping and twitter- 
 ing in the trees, giving vent to glad thanks- 
 giving for the beauty of the fresh, sweet day. 
 The boys seated themselves on one of the 
 low branches of a spreading oak, and soberly 
 and gravely surveyed the scene. 
 
 ' It will seem a lonof time to Midsummer/ 
 said Stewart mournfully. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Basil. ' I dare say school won't 
 
152 ' TJie Ladye Nancye.' 
 
 be so bad, but it's the breaking off here I 
 don't hke. Thincjs never seem the same once 
 you leave them.' 
 
 ' I think,' said Stewart, nodduig his head in 
 the direction of the house, ' that if — she — 
 had not come here we should never have 
 been sent away. Nothing has been the 
 same since.' 
 
 ' I — I don't mind that,' said Basil loyally. 
 ' She's worth putting ujd with bothers for. 
 No ; I think it's some fad Mr. Glendenning 
 has taken up. I dare say he'll be sorry some 
 day.' 
 
 ' He might have let us remain here,' mur- 
 mured Stewart plaintively. ' I never wanted 
 to go away. Old Chasable taught us quite 
 enough.' 
 
 * Perhaps,' said Basil, laughing, ' he sug- 
 gested school by way of revenge. We've 
 plagued him a good deal lately.' 
 
 ' I should think Jago will be very dull 
 without us,' said Stewart. ' He'll want to 
 come to school too.' 
 
 * Debbie has promised to send us a hamper 
 
Pain. 153 
 
 once a week/ said Basil more cheerfully. ' I 
 told her to be sure and put in some of her 
 home-made cakes, and lots of that toffee we 
 showed her how to make. That,' with a 
 sigh, ' will be something to look forward to.' 
 
 ' Why, good gracious I' cried Stewart 
 hastily, ' here is your Ladye Nancye coming ! 
 She must have seen us.' 
 
 ^ So it is !' cried Basil, colouring with de- 
 light and surprise. * Let's go and meet her 1' 
 
 They were off their perch, and tearing over 
 the ground like young hares in another 
 instant. 
 
 * I saw you from my window,' said Nancette, 
 ' I thought I should like to join you. You 
 do not mind V 
 
 ' Mind ? No !' cried Basil, delighted. 
 
 * We've been making a pilgrimage,' he added. 
 
 * We had to say good-bye to all our pets. 
 Isn't it horrid leaving a place V 
 
 ' I promise to look after them all for you,' 
 said the girl gently ; ' and I will write every 
 week and tell you about them.' 
 
 ' Will you really ? That's awfully good,' 
 
154 ' The Ladi/e Xancf/e.^ 
 
 said Basil. ' Of course I'll write to you,' he 
 went on, after a moment's silence ; * not that 
 I'm much good at letter-writing. In fact, I 
 hate it, but I'll do my best. And now,' look- 
 ing gravely at her, ' how do you think you'll 
 get on with Mrs. Freere V 
 
 * I like her very much,' said the girl can- 
 didly ; ' she is quite different to what I ex- 
 pected. Why/ looking at him reproachfully 
 — ' why did you say she was old, and prim, 
 and disagreeable V 
 
 ' In order to give you a pleasant surprise,' 
 said the boy, laughing. ' I thought if I said 
 she was nice, you would be sure to think she 
 wasn't ; but if you were told she was horrid, 
 you'd be quite pleased to find her different.' 
 
 ' Was she a great friend of your guardian's V 
 asked Nancette somewhat timidly. 
 
 The boys had taken an arm on either 
 side, and they were all walking now through 
 the dew- wet glades that were sweet and fresh 
 as flowers and sunshine could make them. 
 
 * I think so,' said Basil ; ' I don't quite 
 know. I believe he knew her when she was 
 
Pain. 155 
 
 a girl. Then she got married and went out 
 to America, as you know. We've only seen 
 her now and then this last year. She lived 
 in a queer, ramshackle old house, away down 
 on the coast. Her father left it her. She 
 used to ask us over for a day, and Mr. Glen- 
 denning would come up in the evening and 
 fetch us back. It's about twelve miles off 
 where the house is. Only herself and an old 
 servant lived there. Why,' with a laugh, ' it 
 will seem quite lively here after it. I thought 
 you'd like her, and I thought you'd be 
 friends.' 
 
 ' I do not think I make friends easily,' said 
 the girl sadly. ' But I hope — yes, I do hope 
 she will be one. I feel so terribly alone.' 
 
 Stewart here dashed off to look at a squir- 
 rel's nest he had discovered. Basil still 
 walked beside her, his arm linked in hers. 
 
 ' Ladye Nancye,* he said gravely, ' if anyone 
 can put things straight, she can ; but take my 
 advice, tell her everything, and, above all, 
 don't you see that Frenchman again !' 
 
loG * llie Lachje Nancy e.' 
 
 They had made a tour of everything — the 
 kitchen-garden, the paddock, the orchard, the 
 wood, and the old shabb}^ schooh^oom. 
 
 The boxes were packed and in the hall ; and 
 breakfast had been partaken of in a depressed 
 and nervous manner. Mrs. Freere had done 
 her best to raise the spirits of the party, but 
 Nancette's sad face, and Deborah's weeping 
 one, and old Clitheroe's maundering fore- 
 bodings, had counteracted her good inten- 
 tions. 
 
 At last the wao^g^onette came round, and 
 with very white faces and a poor effort at 
 composure, the boys gave their last kisses 
 and handshakes. 
 
 'Don't forget to write to me,' whispered 
 Nancette as she laid both hands on the 
 shoulder of her young knight, and looked 
 with brimming eyes at the bright handsome 
 face, now so pale and tearful, despite the boy's 
 resolute efforts to appear manly and heroic. 
 'And don't forget me,' she added below 
 her breath. 
 
 'That I won't,' he said earnestly; and, 
 
Pain. 157 
 
 with one last handshake, he sprang into the 
 waggonette, followed by the weeping Stewart. 
 Then the coachman drove off at a quick 
 trot, and the two women stood sadly there in 
 the entrance, watching for the last wave of 
 Basil's handkerchief, and the last sight of the 
 two young figures that seemed to take with 
 them all the brio^htness and mirth of the deso- 
 
 CD 
 
 late old house. 
 
 * Now,' said Myra Freere, turning to the 
 girl beside her, ' now we have to " make 
 company" for each other, as the children say. 
 To begin with, let us be as much as possible 
 in the open air. The year is at its best, and 
 earth and heaven are kinder than humanity. 
 With air and sunshine, and flowers and free- 
 dom, and youth and health to enjoy them, 
 life cannot be such a heavy burden, after all. 
 Unhappiness doesn't last for ever.' 
 
 ' I will do whatever you wish,' said Nan- 
 cette gently ; * but my unhappiness is too 
 deeply rooted for Nature to ease.' 
 
 * When we know the disease a great point 
 IS gained,' said Mrs. Freere. ' You are the 
 
l')S * T/ie LaJi/e Nancijc.^ 
 
 patient ; I am going to try and find a remedy. 
 You will take it when I do ?' 
 
 The girl looked at her thoughtfully. The 
 shadow of a smile seemed to touch her pale 
 lips. 
 
 'Yes,' she said, ^when you do.' 
 
BOOK III. 
 PENAXCE. 
 
 r 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 FRxiGMENTS FROM A JOURNAL KEPT BY MYRA 
 FREERE DURING HER STAY AT OWL's ROOST. 
 
 I CAME here to-night with strange and con- 
 flicting feehngs. I had a hard struggle with 
 myself before I could give in to Errol Glen- 
 dennino^'s wish. How strangle it seemed that 
 he should ask me to be a friend to his wdfe I 
 His wife ! 
 
 The memory of many bitter years lay 
 heavy at my heart. They had changed me, 
 I think, more than I fully recognised ; but 
 when I thought of the lonely girl in that 
 lonely house, and saw the pained and altered 
 
1()0 ' llic Lachjc Nancije! 
 
 face of my old friend, I seemed also to see a 
 duty before me, and I bent my unwilling 
 spirit to its acceptance. 
 
 Some painful mystery is at work here. 
 Something, cruel as sin, yet intangible as a 
 shadow, has parted Errol Glendenning from 
 his wife. It must be my task to learn it — 
 to help them — to leave them happy and con- 
 tent ere I go back to my own life of loneli- 
 ness once more. 
 
 She is very young, and very, very lovely. 
 As she came to meet me in her simple 
 white dress, and with the red sunset light 
 on her beautiful hair, I felt almost afraid 
 of her loveliness. It was like nothing earthly. 
 But she is too serious and too sad. I wish 
 she were the girl that her years should make 
 her. I wish there was somethino^ bris^ht and 
 fanciful about her. But she carries a heavy 
 burden, that is plain, and she needs sympathy, 
 and love, and help. 
 
 I won a confession from her to-night. 
 Passionately as Errol Glendenning loves her 
 
Penance. 161 
 
 (I read that in his face and voice when he 
 spoke of her), she does not care for him. 
 His absence seems a rehef ; her heart is 
 absorbed by another feeling. There is just 
 the chance that it may be an unworthy one 
 — the chance that a girl's fancy has been, 
 caught by a temporary infatuation — the 
 chance that time may heal the wound, and 
 give her peace, and strength, and comfort. 
 But if it is not so — if something has gone 
 out of her life as — as once it went out of 
 mine — how hard it will be, how terribly, 
 bitterly hard ! 
 
 How funny boys are ! Basil giving her 
 over to my charge and care in a solemn, 
 protective fashion would have been comic 
 but for his earnestness. He is quite devoted 
 to her, and she to him. I am sorry the 
 boys have gone. They gave some element 
 of brightness to this dull and gloomy place. 
 For though Owl's Eoost has a beauty and 
 grandeur of its own, there is no doubt that 
 gloom predominates. Everything in the 
 
 VOL. I. 11 
 
162 * The Ladye Aanci/c' 
 
 house itself is old, and dark, and faded. 
 The dingy tapestries, the faded velvets and 
 satins of the curtains, the funereal beds, the 
 dim old portraits — all have a gloomy and 
 depressing effect upon a stranger. 
 
 Eight years ago I knew them all so well. 
 Eight years — it is a large slice out of a 
 woman's life ! 
 
 And now I am here, living under his roof, 
 and expected to be the friend of his wife. 
 She needs a friend if ever a woman did. 
 Her confession to-day told me that. 
 
 So there is ^ another.' She only said 
 teas, but I will not put ' it in the past 
 tense yet. It must have been something 
 connected with that discovery that has sent 
 Errol Glendenning into voluntary exile. 
 That is so like a man I Why did he not 
 stay here and win her heart for himself, 
 and oust his rival out of her fancy ? She 
 is too young for a first romance to be more 
 to her than fancy. He has wedded her 
 hurriedly and inconsiderately, discovered 
 the fancy for 'another,' then left her here 
 
Penance. 163 
 
 alone in her youth, and ignorance, and 
 sorrow. 
 
 I thought Errol Glendenning would have 
 been more chivalrous and less harsh of judg- 
 ment. Men have a tendency to repress 
 emotion, or, rather, a display of emotion, as 
 if it were a breach of good manners to 
 possess feeling. When I saw Errol Glen- 
 denning last, he was full of repression. I 
 drew my own conclusions, therefore, and 
 imagined that his feelings must be very 
 deep and his sufferings also. This seems a 
 cold-blooded way of writing it down. I 
 wonder sometimes if I am getting cold- 
 blooded. I hope not — oh, I hope not ! but 
 a long, long heartache must tell upon one 
 in time. Mine has been with me for very 
 long. And now 
 
 I broke off here last night. I don't want 
 to drift into introspect or self-analysis. It 
 is a dangerous habit. You dissect yourself 
 morally ; you classify your sensations, and 
 peer into your feelings^ and are always 
 
 11—2 
 
ICA ^ Tlie Ladye Nancy e.^ 
 
 examining and adjusting your inner me- 
 chanism. 
 
 I have been wandering about the woods 
 with Nancette. She is depressed after part- 
 ing with the boys. Errol Glendenning might 
 have let them remain here a year longer. 
 It would not have harmed them, and I do 
 not think it wise to separate his wife from 
 all that is bright and young. But I suppose 
 men will never understand women. 
 
 The more I see her, the more I wonder 
 what the mystery can be. She is too young, 
 and certainly too innocent, to have committed 
 a very serious fault. 
 
 I asked old Deborah to-day what had 
 happened to change her master so terribly, 
 but she knows little more than I do. There 
 was a lover, she says, and he came down 
 here on their wedding- night, and was very 
 indignant, and very wrathful ; but, although 
 Errol Glendenning forbade him the house, 
 he did not seem to blame his wife for this 
 episode — not at the time. 
 
 Yet still he separated himself from her, 
 
Penance, 165 
 
 and, according to Deborah, has not seen her 
 since. Now, from what I know of Errol, 
 he is too gentle and chivalrous to act in 
 such a manner without strong provocation ; 
 but here my researches end, unless Nancette 
 herself chooses to enlighten me. 
 
 Two more days have passed. I think 
 she begins to trust me, and, I hope, like 
 me. 
 
 Last night as I sat by the fire in my 
 room, which adjoins her own, a knock came 
 at the door, and I heard her voice asking if 
 she might come in. 
 
 ^ I know I shall not be able to sleep to- 
 night,' she said ; ^ may I sit with you a 
 little while V 
 
 Her face was as white as her dressing- 
 gown ; her lovely rich hair was unbound, 
 and hung in one long loose plait almost to 
 her feet. She looked like some visitor from 
 another world with those pure, colourless 
 tints, and starry eyes. 
 
 I am, and always have been, a great 
 
16G « The Ladye Xcmq/e: 
 
 beauty - lover. I never tire of watching" 
 Nancette's face. I placed her in a low, 
 deep chair opposite my own, and stirred the 
 fire into a blaze. 
 
 * This is very nice,' I said. ' We will sit 
 here and talk till you feel sleepy.' 
 
 'That will be a very unusual circumstance/ 
 she said, with that faint smile that only seems 
 to touch her lips and leave them. 
 
 ' It ought not to be/ I told her gravely ; 
 *you are too young to be troubled with 
 sleepless nights and wakeful hours.' 
 
 ' I shall have to try sleeping-draughts/ 
 she said, linking her small, pretty fingers 
 one in the other, and letting them rest idly 
 on her lap. ' I sometimes think I should 
 like to go to sleep and not wake for years, 
 and years, and years ! I wonder what would 
 have happened by then.' 
 
 ' Do you want anything to happen V I 
 asked her curiously. 
 
 For a moment her eyes flashed, then the 
 white lids hid them. 
 
 'Yes/ she said, 'one thino-/ 
 
Penance. 167 
 
 ' I hope,' I said, ' it is the one thing that 
 would make your Kfe complete.' 
 She looked at me gravely. 
 
 * It is not what you think,' she said, ' nor 
 anything that you could guess. But,' with 
 a sudden chancre of tone, ' it does not matter 
 — it never could happen. Things don't easily 
 come rio'ht in this world.' 
 
 * Perhaps,' I said, ' that is only because 
 they don't come in our own way. That is 
 one of our mistakes.' 
 
 * Life is full of them, is it not V she said 
 wearily. ' You told me so once.' 
 
 * I am afraid it is,' I answered. ' Human 
 nature is very foolish and very impracticable.^ 
 
 * I think some people must be born to be 
 unfortunate,' she said. ' I am one. What- 
 ever I have done turned out wrong ; what- 
 ever I wish to do seems impossible. I often 
 think it must be a stranofe sensation to be 
 happy.' 
 
 *Do you mean to say,' I asked, startled 
 by her words and her voice, ' that you have 
 never been happy V 
 
168 ' The Ladije Nanajc: 
 
 * Never !' she said, looking at me with her 
 large and serious eyes. ' I cannot remember 
 the feeling. I thought once I had experi- 
 enced it, but it was only a fearfulness and 
 uncertainty — a looking forward to some 
 shadowy prospect that faded away before I 
 had actually seen it.' 
 
 * It is all to come,' I said gently. ' No one 
 is destined to be always unhappy.' 
 
 She leant back in her chair ; her hands 
 were tremblino-. 
 
 ' I should be afraid to be anything else,' 
 she said. ' I could not understand it. But 
 do not let us get morbid. I did not want to 
 speak about myself.' She hesitated a moment, 
 clasping and unclasping her restless fingers. 
 ' 1 want you,' she said, ^ to tell me about my 
 — I mean about Mr. Glendenning when you 
 knew him long ago. I know so little of him. 
 I scarcely seemed to know him at all before — 
 before I married, and since — well, since then 
 everything has gone wrong betw^een us.' 
 
 ' He ought to have told you about himself;' 
 I said, wondering how two words in that 
 
Penance. 169 
 
 speech could have sent so sharp a thrill of 
 pain through my heart. ' Long ago !' Well, 
 it seemed lon^c^ enough ago now. 
 
 I summed up courage. T told her of the 
 lonely boy whose fate had been so sad, of the 
 accident that had made his boyhood only a 
 penance, and his manhood a thing of dread and 
 pain, and set him apr.rt from his fellow-men, 
 ev^en more than his own proud sensitiveness. 
 He was not in any way brilliant. His clever- 
 ness was not superficial, but deep, studious, 
 and thorough, as indeed was his whole nature. 
 He was not addicted to friendships, or 
 sociality, yet no one could call him a misan- 
 thrope. As for women, it had always seemed 
 to me that he only looked on them as abstract 
 phenomena of nature — creatures with whom 
 he could have no possible concern. I told 
 her all this, but I did not tell her how that 
 calm indifference had been used to irritate me 
 in my passionate and restless youth ; how 
 once I would have given worlds for power to 
 awake the inner fire that slumbered in that 
 grand and lonely soul. I think he himself 
 
170 * The Ladye Nancye! 
 
 hardly knew it was there, but I knew it, and 
 I wondered for whom it would one day burst 
 into flame. His was a nature to waken 
 slowly. It was always distrustful of its own 
 power over others, and its own charms and 
 streno'th. Beincr unused to love and ten- 
 derness, it had, in a way, assured itself of 
 independence. It said : ' I shall be always 
 alone. I must learn to be self-sufficient.' 
 Up to a certain day and hour this had been 
 possible. I saw the wonder and the fear in 
 Nancette's eyes as I told her that she at last 
 had broken the spell, and opened the flood- 
 gates of that passionate tenderness. Her 
 voice broke across my words with a little low 
 cry of terror. 
 
 * I hope,' she said — 'oh, I hope you are 
 mistaken ! Surely he does not love me like 
 that !' 
 
 ' You must judge for yourself,' I said. 
 ' I have only told you what I know. The 
 Errol Glendenning who came to me some two 
 weeks back was not the Errol Glendenninof 
 of other days. His life had been uprooted 
 
Penance. 17 1 
 
 from all its calm content. He was a dreamer 
 no longer, but a man, strong to love, to suffer, 
 to endure.' 
 
 She shivered as she sat there in the warm 
 blaze of the fire. 
 
 * He does not care for me as much as you 
 fancy,' she said slowly. 'How could he? 
 He knows so little of me.' 
 
 * When a man loves,' I said, ' he thinks 
 he knows enough. And he told me that 
 he loved you; but, of course, you know 
 that.' 
 
 ' I am afraid I did not think of it much,' 
 she said slowly ; ' but I always thought he 
 was very good and steadfast.' 
 
 *That is just the word to express him/ I 
 said. 'He is very steadfast. It will not make 
 life any easier for him. I am always sorry 
 for people whose memories are faithful.' 
 
 ' I wish,' she said, almost passionately, 
 * there were no such thing.' 
 
 ' As steadfastness V I asked. 
 
 * No — as memory.' 
 
 ' But it would be sad to have no remem- 
 
172 ' The Ladye Nancye* 
 
 brance at all,' I answered. ' One must take 
 the bitter with the sweet.' 
 
 * Should you think,' she asked suddenly, 
 ' that I was a wicked woman — too wicked 
 and hardened for a man to forgive her V 
 
 I started. 
 
 * No !' I cried with vehemence. ' Who 
 said you were '?' 
 
 * I myself,' she answered sadly ; * and Mr. 
 Glendenning thinks so also. Does not his 
 conduct prove it V 
 
 ' He is hurt and angry now,' I said ; ' but 
 he will relent, and forgive you. It is his 
 duty, and duty is easy where love is its 
 counsellor.' 
 
 ^ Love I' She shuddered, and her hands 
 trembled more visibly than they had done 
 before. * Oh no — no ! That is all killed and 
 dead for ever.. We shall be strangers all our 
 lives long — all our lives long !' 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 For a week Nancette has been very ill. I 
 suppose the long strain of secret unhappiness 
 has told upon her at last. She seemed to 
 break down completely. She could not eat 
 or sleep, or do anything save lie in a 
 darkened room, with closed eyes and fevered 
 limbs, shuddering at every noise, and — so it 
 seemed to me — haunted by some fear she 
 could not, or would not express. 
 
 The first thing that roused her, and seemed 
 to bring her back to life again, was a letter 
 from Basil. He had written once to tell us 
 of their arrival, but the second letter was so 
 characteristic that I feel tempted to copy it 
 here. It began as follows : 
 
 *Dear Lady Nancye, 
 
 * I write to tell you how I like school. 
 
174 ^ TJie Ladjje Nancye.' 
 
 which is not at all, and I'm afraid I shan't. 
 The first thing the boys did was to fight me 
 all round. I licked three of them the first 
 day. I did not mind that. They took my 
 best hat and made a targit of it. (P.S. — I 
 don't quite know how to spell that, as I've 
 not written it before. I'm better at writing 
 Latin and Greek than English. That's how 
 old Chasahle taught us.) They also took my 
 watch, and opened it to see how the wheels 
 worked. Some of the wheels have got lost, 
 and the others don't fit. I'm afraid the watch 
 will not be of much use this term. It doesn't 
 go now. There are fifty boys here. Last 
 night they all went out, except me and 
 Stewart, into the covered courtyard, which 
 is the pla.yground in wet weather. It was 
 not wet, and they ought to have been in bed ; 
 but they wanted to play at being Zulus. 
 They had scarcely any clothes on, and had 
 some old saucepans and fire-irons to make a 
 noise with while they danced their war-dance. 
 The masters heard them, and locked them 
 out. When they tried to get Un they could 
 
Penance. 175 
 
 not. I think they got frightened then. 
 They were locked out in the cold stone yard 
 for a long time. The masters said if the 
 ringleaders would confess they would let them 
 in ; so they promised. But, the moment the 
 door was open, they rushed in like mad, and 
 knocked down the masters, and up to the 
 dormitories, and got into bed. It was a great 
 lark. Next morning the whole school was 
 caned. Also Stewart and me. That was 
 not a lark. We said we had not been out 
 of bed. One boy said I was a sneak to say 
 so. I fought him. He says he will not call 
 me a sneak aofain. 
 
 ' I am in the third form. I mean third 
 from the first. Stewart is in the sixth. 
 Stewart says he does not like the food. It 
 is not wholesome. The meat is raw and 
 stringy, the tea is only hot water, and the 
 butter is ransid. (P.S. — That is another 
 word I have not wiitten before, so please 
 excuse mistakes.) 
 
 ' They have bolster-matches in the dormi- 
 tories. We are going to have one in our's 
 
17G ' TJie Lad ye Nancy e.^ 
 
 to-night. Some of the boys tie knots in the 
 towels, and flip our bare legs with them. It 
 hurts. I dare say I shall not mind school 
 when I get used to it. I play cricket in the 
 second eleven. I wish it was midsummer. 
 
 * Dear Lady Nancye, I hope you are well, 
 and the rabbits, and the dogs, and my pigeons, 
 and Bob, the pony. Have you tried to ride 
 him yet ? I miss you very much. I often 
 think of you. I am glad Mrs. Freere came 
 to stay with you. Please write me a long 
 letter, as long as this. I think I have told 
 you everything. Tell Debbie to send some 
 more cakes and toffee. It does not last long 
 when you have to share it with fifty boys. 
 The boys are always very kind to us when we 
 get a box. Stewart sends his love. Good-bye. 
 'From your affectionate friend, 
 
 'Basil/ 
 
 We laughed so much over this production, 
 that it quite roused Nancette from her languor 
 and depression. She answered it the same 
 day 
 
Penance, 111 
 
 It was not a cheerful day. The rain had 
 been falKng steadily and persistently. The 
 outlook from Nancette's room, where she 
 lay on a couch by the window, was very 
 dreary. 
 
 ' Do you never have any visitors V I asked 
 her suddenly. 
 
 ' No, of course not ; no one knows I am 
 married.' 
 
 ' But you might let it be known. Wouldn't 
 you like some society ? It seems to me that 
 this seclusion is telling upon your health as 
 well as upon your spirits.' 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 ' Mr. Glendenning did not wish anyone to 
 know of our marriage, and I don't think the 
 people about here would interest me at all.' 
 Then she looked at me with her wonderful 
 deep eyes. ' I don't want any other society 
 than yours,' she said softly ; ' you have done 
 me so much good.' 
 
 ' I wish,' I said, ' you would get well and 
 strong, and come down to the sea. That 
 Avould do you good.' 
 
 VOL. I. 12 
 
17-8 '- The Ladye Nancy e' 
 
 * The sea !' she shivered and turned very 
 white. ' Oh, I cannot bear to go there. I 
 feel as if I could never look at it again.' 
 
 ' Why ?' I asked, astonished. 
 Her eyes drooped; a strange repressed look 
 came over her face. 
 
 * I am ashamed to tell you,' she said in 
 a low, unsteady voice ; ' and yet, if you are 
 ever to understand me, I might as well tell 
 you the truth. It was by the sea that I last 
 met the man whom I had the misfortune to 
 love. It was by the sea that the first real, 
 terrible subtlety of the w^ord " temptation'^ 
 became a tangible and vivid thing. It was 
 by the sea that my life was wrecked, and my 
 heart broken. Its sound will always be a 
 terror to me now.' 
 
 ' I am glad,' I said gravely, * that you say 
 " the man you liad the misfortune to love." 
 It is a thing of the past, is it not ?' 
 
 ' The love,' she ^aid ; ^ but not the pain — 
 not the pain !' 
 
 ^ Would it hurt you,' I asked, ' to tell me 
 of him % Some sorrows grow easier when 
 
Penance, 179 
 
 shared, and I think you know my sympathy 
 is all your own.' 
 
 * Everyone was against him,' she said pite- 
 ously. ' His whole career has been unfortu- 
 nate. I think I pitied him so much at first 
 because of — of that ! And he was so hand- 
 some I I have never seen such a face. It is 
 always haunting me. And when he said he 
 loved me I was so proud — oh, so proud. It 
 seemed as if the world did not hold his 
 equal.' 
 
 ' You were free then V I asked. 
 
 ' Yes. I was at school. He is my only 
 living relative. He came to see me there. 
 My father was away at the time, but I wrote 
 and told him. He seemed angry. He said 
 I must not encourage these visits. Then I 
 knew I loved him. It was such a shock to 
 even think of not seeing him and meeting 
 him any more.' 
 
 * And then ?' I asked, as she paused. 
 
 * My father saw him, and made him promise 
 to give me up. He told me that. We were 
 parted — I thought for ever. I was in de- 
 
 12—2 
 
189 ' The Ladije Nancye: 
 
 spair. Then I met Mr. Glendenning. My 
 father said he loved me and wished to marry 
 me. I told him I could not accept him, but 
 he did not speak to me himself. Then came 
 the accident and my father's death.' 
 
 * I know of that,' I said, in a low voice ; 
 * and you were friendless, and alone, and 
 poor.' 
 
 ' I thought I was poor,' she said ; ' but I 
 know now that I was nOt. I had been de- 
 ceived. My father had simply confided his 
 fortune to the care of Mr. Glendenning. If 
 — if Pierre de Volens had known of that, he 
 could have married me.' 
 
 ^ Could r I interposed in amazement. ' Was 
 it for sake of money, then, that he forsook 
 you V 
 
 ' That is what they say,' she answered; 'but 
 they judge so harshly. You — can you not be 
 more lenient ? Pierre de Volens could not 
 marry a fortuneless girl. It would have been 
 his ruin.' 
 
 ' If he had loved you,' I said resolutely, 
 ' he would not have yielded you up so easily. 
 
Penance.' 181 
 
 Love does not reason as to suitability or con- 
 venience. It acts on its own impulses of 
 tenderness.' 
 
 ^ Still,' she said, ' I think he loved me. 
 Fate was very hard on him.' 
 
 ' You are oblicred to make excuses for him,' 
 I said. ' That shows that he needs them. A 
 great love will conquer Fate, or die in the 
 attempt. Ah, my dear, all men are selfish, 
 more or less. Perhaps your imagination has 
 led you astray. You see this man only as 
 you wish to see him — not as he really is !' 
 
 ' Everyone is against him,' she said mourn- 
 fully, ' even you.' 
 
 * Is that why you make him a hero V I 
 asked. ' I do not wish to judge him harshly. 
 Let me hear some more about him. You 
 have seen him since you married. Did he 
 speak of — of the past V 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered, growing very white. 
 ' I have seen him three times since I was 
 Errol Glendenninp^'s wife. The first time 
 was on my wedding-night, when he came 
 down here. It was terrible — that scene. The 
 
182 * The Lad ye Nancy e' 
 
 second was on the cliffs — by accident. The 
 third was by the sea, when — when Basil saved 
 me !' 
 
 ' Basil saved you !' I echoed. ' How V 
 
 * I think I was beside myself with unhappi- 
 ness/ she said mournfully. * I seemed to have 
 probed life's deepest bitterness. My husband 
 had forsaken me — I was quite alone. And he 
 — he was by my side once more ; and with 
 his presence my pulses throbbed to living joy, 
 and all my dreams came back. I could only 
 think of how T loved him, and how he — loved 
 me.' 
 
 She bent her face on her hands. Her voice 
 was broken by tears. 
 
 My arm stole round her — the poor un- 
 happy child who had been so sorely tempted. 
 
 * And he took advantasre of that hour of 
 weakness and loneliness to tempt you into a 
 sin that all your life's regret would never 
 wash away ?' I said bitterly. * That is like a 
 man !' 
 
 ' I ^vas only too ready to listen,' she said. 
 * Do not blame him. His boat was there, 
 
Penance, 183 
 
 waitinof to bear me to freedom and to bliss. 
 I looked at him, and thought of the sweetness 
 of '^ to-day," and the bitterness of the to- 
 morrows, when I should have sent him from 
 me. I listened to his pleadings. I thought 
 in all the wide world there was no other to 
 love me as he would love ; and then — Basil 
 came.' 
 
 ' Thank heaven,' I said, below^ my breath. 
 
 Her hands fell ; a faint red flush stained 
 her cheeks. 
 
 ' I was ashamed,' she said. ' The boy's 
 frank voice and clear eyes struck home to me 
 like a spoken truth. I knew right from 
 wrong. I knew if T chose the wrong, there 
 would be no palliation. I — I sent him from 
 me. Then something seemed to fall from 
 my eyes. I looked at the blue sky and the 
 blue water, and his face seemed to fade into 
 them, and a great cold weight fell on my 
 heart. I have never been the same since that 
 day — I do not think I ever shall. That cold, 
 strange deadness is always on my heart. If 
 I saw him now I do not think I should care. 
 
IcS-i 'The Liuhje Nancye.' 
 
 I seem to have lost the power of feeling any- 
 thing but unhappiness.' 
 
 * That power will come back,' I said, * when 
 something worthier recalls it.' 
 
 She sadly shook her head. 
 
 ' I do not think I wish for it,' she said. 
 * It is a thino' one cannot Hve over twice. I 
 have learned enouorh.' 
 
 ' My dear,' I said gently, ' you must listen 
 to me. I am an old woman in comparison 
 with yourself, and I, too, have had an — ex- 
 perience. It is different to your own, but it 
 was quite as hard to bear. The world is full 
 of women who suffer as we suffer,, but we 
 think no pain is like our own pain. What 
 you have told me of Pierre de Yolens con- 
 vinces me that he was in no way worthy of 
 your love. A pure, steadfast, chivalrous love 
 never seeks only its own selfish ends. He 
 sought only that. I think if you had made 
 a friend of Mr. Glendenning — if you had told 
 him the whole truth — he would not have 
 been so hard on you ; but it is a terrible fate 
 for a man to give his whole heart and trust, 
 
Penance, 185 
 
 and find no return. A man like Errol Glen- 
 denning could not be content with bare duty 
 and respect. He must have loved intensely. 
 I cannot think you were right in deceiving 
 him.' 
 
 * I did not deceive him/ she said. ' He 
 knew about Pierre. My father told him.' 
 
 'Knew about it,' I said, 'and married 
 you !' « 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' I can't understand it,' I said. ' From 
 what he told me, I supposed he onl}^ dis- 
 covered the truth too late — the very day you 
 were married ; that the shock and grief drove 
 him from you in utter desperation. Was 
 there — are you sure there was nothing else V 
 
 She turned deathly white. 
 
 ' There was — something,' she said ; 'but 
 he could not have found it out that night — at 
 least ' 
 
 She hesitated and broke off abruptly. 
 
 ' Ah,' she said, ' I remember now ; I 
 fainted, and when I recovered my dress was 
 unfastened, and the paper was gone.' 
 
186 ' The Ladye Nancy e.^ 
 
 ' The paper I' I said. ' What paper T 
 
 ' He must have found it,' she went on 
 hurriedly. * My father said I must never 
 tell a living soul, or — or no man or woman 
 would respect me again. It was my — my 
 secret, that I must alwa3?s keep.' 
 
 ' Your father knew it, then V I asked. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said. ' My poor father !' 
 
 ^ Was it,' I said sternjy, 'a secret that gave 
 Errol Glendenning the right to act as he has 
 done ? Tell me that.' 
 
 She bent her head. Again that faint, 
 shamed flush coloured the clear pallor of her 
 beautiful skin. 
 
 ' It nearly broke my father's heart,' she 
 said. 
 
 ' And for sake of it/ I said bitterly, ' 3^ou 
 have broken your husband's, and sent him 
 out into the world a bitter and despairing 
 man.' 
 
 She looked up at me with her white face 
 and great, sad haunting eyes. 
 
 ' I told you,' she said, * I was very wicked. 
 You had better believe it, and leave me like — 
 
Penance. 187 
 
 like the others. I seem to bring misfortune 
 wherever I ofo.' 
 
 Then a revulsion of feeling shook me to my 
 heart's depths. 
 
 ' I shall not leave you,' I said ; ' I mean to 
 help you to put your life straight again. This 
 fancy — this wild passion of yours will die out. 
 It is an unworthy one. You will suffer for 
 it ; but the suffering will not be for long — I 
 am sure of it. This man has done his best 
 to wreck your life at its very outset. He 
 must not glory in his success. He is a selfish 
 coward — of that I am sure — and you thought 
 him a hero. Dear, w^e are two women who 
 have suffered and sinned. That should make 
 us pitiful to each other. Let me help you to 
 W'in back happiness. Only tell me one 
 thing : if — if your secret w^ere known to 
 your husband, would it part you irre- 
 vocably V 
 
 Her clear, lovely eyes looked straight into 
 mine. 
 
 ' I never thought so,' she said ; ' but he 
 said it.' 
 
188 * The Ladye Nancy e,' 
 
 I was silent ; a thousand thoughts and 
 emotions were busy in my brain. 
 
 * You think,' I said at last, * that he dis- 
 covered it accidentally on your marriage- 
 night. Have you seen him since ?' 
 
 ' I saw him,' she said, * on that day I 
 told you of. He would not come to the 
 house. I think nothing would induce him 
 to sleep beneath the roof that I have dis- 
 honoured.' 
 
 ' Not that /' I cried entreatingly. ' Oh, 
 surely not that !' 
 
 ' He said so/ she answered with a sort of 
 despair. ' I could not think or reason clearly. 
 I seemed to have reached a crisis in my life. 
 Everything had happened that could happen 
 on that one day. I felt like ice. His grief 
 did not touch me, nor his generosity, for he 
 has been very generous.' 
 
 * It is his nature,' I said stupidly. 
 
 I felt too bewildered myself now for clear 
 reasoning. 
 
 ' Yes/ she went on, * very generous and — 
 and thoughtful. He sent you. I sometimes 
 
Penance, 189 
 
 think I cannot be quite bad, or he would not 
 have done that/ 
 
 ' I think/ I said, * you are mistaken. Your 
 fault may have been one of thoughtlessness 
 or ignorance, but not of guilt.' 
 
 * I was very ignorant,' she said, ' and I am 
 not strong: — I mean of nature. I think I am 
 easily swayed by my feelings.' 
 
 ' It is a dangerous nature,' I said. 
 
 * It is a poor and pitiful one,' she said in 
 sudden, passionate condemnation. ' I deserve 
 my punishment. I cannot blame him — I 
 never have blamed him. I know he does not 
 understand me. All my sorrow came upon 
 me so early, and I had no mother, and no 
 friend, and no one to counsel me ; and my 
 father — I know he loved me, and was proud 
 of me, but he seemed to think I had no right 
 to feel or remember, and I could not help 
 doing both.' 
 
 ' You would not have been a woman 
 had you not,' I said in that sudden, broken 
 pause that was an effort against the weak- 
 ness of tears. 
 
190 'The Lndije Ncmci/e.' 
 
 * But/ she went on, ^ men do not think of 
 tliat, and they are unmerciful to weakness. 
 Oh, I have been weak — horribly weak. I 
 see it all now, when it is too late.' 
 
 * It is not too late,' I said slowly ; ' and 
 ErrolGlendenning is the last man in the world 
 to be unmerciful to a woman's weakness.' 
 
 ' You are a staunch champion,' she said, 
 looking suddenly at me. ' You — you ought 
 to hate me for spoiling his life.' 
 
 ' You have not spoilt it irretrievably,' I 
 answered calmly. ^ That is why I hope. If 
 you can only convince yourself of the un- 
 worthiness of that other, you are on the way 
 to recovery. Love is only an. illness like — 
 like any physical disease. It has its remedies 
 and alleviations.' 
 
 ' It is a foolish thing,' she said passion- 
 ately ; ' an irrational thing. I wish to 
 heaven I had never — never experienced 
 it!' 
 
 Then she lay back on her pillows, and cried 
 bitterly and long. 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 FIRST LETTER FROM MYRA FREERE TO ERROL 
 GLENDENNING. 
 
 ' Owl's Eoost, 
 
 'April, 187—. 
 ' My dear Friend, 
 
 ^ I came here to please you, but I fancy 
 I am staying to please myself. I feel most 
 deeply for you and for your wife ; but I 
 cannot help thinking that you might make 
 matters better if you would. I think men 
 are somewhat inconsistent, and I know per- 
 fectly well that, they can always find good 
 reasons for following their own inclinations. If 
 your inclinations led you from your home and 
 your duty, I can only suppose your reasons 
 are sound. To me it seems as if they were 
 irrational. 
 
192 ' The Lmhjc Nancye: 
 
 * The more I see of life, and men, and 
 women, the more convinced I am that most 
 of them make fatal mistakes in marriage. 
 It may be the fault of sentiment, of weakness, 
 of accident, blindness, folly, obstinacy — but 
 all the same it is a fault. Perhaps a mar- 
 riage of sentiment is the most disappointing 
 of all — for women are not angels, and men 
 are not demi-gods. When they discover this 
 fact individually, they become tragic ; they 
 don't reason, they don't look at facts by the 
 light of logic and experience — they usually 
 rush into the opposite extreme, and declare 
 each other to be — well, what you please to 
 
 SU2f2fest. 
 
 ' I am a practical person, as you know. I 
 think 1 never had much sentiment in me. 
 You used to say so in your poetic youth, 
 when I ventured to disagree with various 
 high-flown and imaginative sonnets addressed 
 to mythical beings, the like of whom certainly 
 never graced this sphere of ours. Being a 
 practical person, I don't like to see other 
 persons who are not practical, voluntarily 
 
Penance. 193 
 
 condemning themselves to lifelong misery on 
 account of a fancied wrong. 
 
 ' You will, of course, say your wrong is not 
 fanciful — that it has struck at the roots of 
 your life ; and I am inclined to think you 
 really believe it when you say it. But, from 
 what I can gather, there is every hope that 
 this wrong may be righted, and that a day 
 may yet come when you may regather happi- 
 ness and peace from that tree of life you now 
 regard as seared and dead ! To go from 
 poetry to plain facts, you have seriously mis- 
 judged your wife. You married her in igno- 
 rance of her real feelings, and at a time w^hen 
 grief had numbed and paralyzed her energies. 
 She is a young, beautiful, passionate, romantic 
 creature — as easy to guide as a child. Her 
 first romance has been a wretched and most 
 prosaic one. The springs of her life seem 
 broken. She is morbidly sensitive, and ac- 
 cuses herself of sins of whose very meaning 
 she is totally ignorant. 
 
 ' She wants help, sympathy, encourage- 
 ment, a strong nature on which to lean, and 
 
 VOL. I. 13 
 
194 ^ The Lad ye Nanci/e.' 
 
 a gentle heart in whose tenderness to trust. 
 Who should ^iwe her these but you, her 
 husband — and you forsake her ! I think you 
 are wrong — seriously wrong. She did not 
 love you — and worse, she loved some one 
 else ; that is what you plead as excuse. It 
 is no excuse, since you married her with your 
 eyes open — since you were in her father's 
 confidence, and knew the fatal fascination 
 this man had for her. 
 
 ' You leave her now completely at his 
 mercy, and give him the power to use the 
 strongest possible argument in his favour — 
 the argument that she is an unloved and for- 
 saken wife. My friend, you are doing her a 
 great wrong, and yourself also. It is not 
 like you — in fact, it is so utterly unlike you 
 that I fail to recoofnise in this cruel and un- 
 chivalrous action anything connecting it 
 with my previous knowledge of Errol Glen- 
 denning. 
 
 ' I am speaking plainly, because I feel 
 deeply. A woman can read a woman as no 
 man can. Your wife may have been weak 
 
Penance. 195 
 
 and foolish, but she is not a wicked woman, 
 and she does not deserve to be treated as if 
 she were. In her ignorance and inexperience 
 she has fallen a victim to an infatuation for 
 an unprincipled and fascinating man — a man 
 apparently only too well skilled in the art of 
 deluding women. But I am certain that this 
 feeling has not taken deep root in her heart. 
 Her nature is still undeveloped ; it has 
 charms, and gifts, and capabihties of which 
 you are ignorant, and which you alone might 
 call forth and enjoy, if it pleased you to take 
 the trouble. 
 
 ' I have written frankly and fully on this 
 subject because I am deeply interested in it, 
 and because it seems to me you are wilfully 
 wrecking your life's happiness at its most 
 critical moment. Trust a woman's judgment, 
 and a woman who has your welfare most 
 deeply and sincerely at heart. Come back 
 to your own home and win your wife to your- 
 self, while you can yet do so. 
 
 ' To set up this barrier of years and ab- 
 sence between you is absurd. You cannot 
 
 13—2 
 
196 ' TJie Ladye Nancy e,' 
 
 give her back her freedom without a stigma 
 on her name and your own. Would you 
 drag your wrongs, as you call them, before a 
 public court, and call the world's notice to 
 your own foll}^ I I thought you were old- 
 fashioned enough to look upon marriage as a 
 bond, to accept and reverence its obligations, 
 and not seek to nullify them at the first shock 
 of trouble. I might ask you if you should 
 not have inquired a little more closely into 
 you wife's past before she became your wife. 
 You acted hastily, if trustfully, and now you 
 make that haste and trust an excuse to for- 
 sake her, young, friendless, helpless, as you 
 know her to be. The world will always con- 
 demn a woman — rarely a man. You do not 
 even allow her to use your name. Everyone 
 here is in ignorance of her position. 
 
 * My friend, this is all very wrong. She 
 is in a false position ; yet she is the mistress 
 of your house, and has a right to your name 
 and acknowledsfment. She does not heed 
 this, or notice it, but I do, and so will others. 
 She says this is to go on for three years. It 
 
Penance. 197 
 
 is preposterous ! You must have been mad 
 to suofQfest or ao-ree to such a thino:. You 
 must do something, unless you wish to throw 
 her straio'ht into the arms of the man who is 
 your natural enemy, and hers — if she only 
 knew it. What is there to hold her back if 
 he summons her to his side ? Bare duty and 
 self-respect. We all know how weak they 
 can become in the fire of a hopeless and 
 despairing passion. Duty, honour, right — 
 all demand that you should protect her — that 
 she should preside here as mistress, and be 
 acknowledged and recognised as such. 
 
 ' Oh, foolish man ! do you not see that the 
 tie that binds her to you, your interests and 
 responsibilities, weakens the hold of the past, 
 and strengthens your claim on her heart ? 
 Surely — surely I have said enough ? Enough 
 to bring you back from Timbuctoo, or Ashan- 
 tee, or any of those wild regions whither you 
 may have fled for consolation. Believe me, you 
 will only find it here, in your own home. 
 'Your ever faithful friend, 
 
 ' Myra Freere.' 
 
198 ' The Ladije Nancije: 
 
 I wrote this letter after that last conversa- 
 tion with Nance tte. I wrote it hurriedly, 
 passionately, earnestly, brimful of eager ex- 
 citement, and suppressing with a strong hand 
 that innate selfishness that prompted me to 
 use weaker arguments. 
 
 I wrote it and closed it, and then — then I 
 leant my head upon the table and cried as 
 if my heart would break. 
 
 It was very feminine to do that, and I 
 might have made a dozen excuses for doing 
 it, but I knew the real one well enouo^h. I 
 knew it years ago. I thought it had ended, 
 but it seems there are thino-s that have no 
 end — for a woman. 
 
 It was a sentiment then ; it is only a 
 miserable, undignified thing now. But it is 
 wonderful w^hat a hold some feelings have 
 over one. I said to myself once, ^ A year or 
 two will do it,' but I was wrong. Yes, I was 
 quite wrong. And yet how glibly I can 
 reason with that pretty, heart-broken girl I 
 How wise I seem, even to myself! But I 
 
Penance. 199 
 
 am not wise at all. Only a foolish, suffering, 
 wounded woman, who will cany with her to 
 her grave a secret that no other living soul 
 knows, or suspects. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LETTER FROM ERROL GLENDENNING TO MYRA 
 FREERE. 
 
 ' Genoa, 
 
 May 1st, 187—. 
 
 ' My dear Myra, 
 
 * Your letter came safely to hand. I 
 can only thank you for it, and your good in- 
 tentions in writing it. You will say I am 
 very obstinate when I tell you that your ar- 
 guments, clever and convincing as they are, 
 have in no way altered my decision. I cannot 
 come back to OavI's Roost. You know cer- 
 tain facts, and you reason by the light they 
 give you. But you don't know all. I have 
 been duped and deceived in a different manner 
 to what you imagine. Heaven knows I would 
 not be hard on a young girl's ignorance and 
 
Penance. 201 
 
 weakness ; but there is a secret in Nancette's 
 life, and, had I known it, I would never have 
 made her my wife. She may tell you of her 
 love for this villain and of his fatal power over 
 her, but she will not tell you more. Do you 
 think I am unacquainted with the witchery 
 of her angel face, and voice like music, and 
 her solemn mysterious glances, that seem to 
 say what a beautiful soul lies in those starry 
 depths ? No — to my everlasting sorrow, no. 
 They haunt me still, and will haunt me till 
 my miserable life shall end. I was deceived 
 by her father for his own purposes. He con- 
 fessed as much in the letter I found after his 
 death, in w^hich he entrusts Nancette and her 
 fortune to me. He bade me not read the 
 letter unless she became my wife — a wise 
 proviso. I am rightly punished, as you say, 
 for my rashness and my trust ; but both were 
 the outcome of an intense and chivalrous de- 
 votion to the beautiful, friendless girl whom 
 Fate had left to my care. 
 
 ' More I cannot tell you. I thank you for 
 well-meaning efforts, bat they are useless. 
 
202 ' The Ladye Nancye: 
 
 The barrier between my wife and myself 
 is one that nothing can break down, save 
 a miracle, and we are beyond the age of 
 miracles. Still, I would do her every jus- 
 tice, as you suggest. She may use my name; 
 she may, if she chooses, visit, or go among 
 such neighbours as enliven our county. I 
 withdraw my objections so far. But she 
 must put up with the remarks and questions 
 my absence will draw down upon her, 
 and make what excuse she likes. Fortu- 
 nately, I have always been counted an eccen- 
 tric man. 
 
 ' I am leaving here for Terzia next week. 
 You may address me there, if you care to 
 write again. But please spare me the pain of 
 useless arguments, and believe that, however 
 mistaken my conduct looks in your eyes, it is 
 more than justified in my own. 
 
 ' Yours ever faithfully, 
 
 'Errol Glendenxixg.' 
 
 Obstinate ! Yes, I should think he is 
 obstinate. This letter was quite a shock to 
 
Penance. 'iC^ 
 
 me. I had so hoped and looked forward to 
 better thino^s. Of course I had said nothiiiix 
 to Nancette about my writing, and she is 
 evidently not well acquainted with her hus- 
 band's caligraphy, for she made no remark 
 when she saw his letter to me. 
 
 She is certainly better. I will not suffer 
 her to get morbid. Neither do I ridicule or 
 resent the fact of that cherished romance. 
 That is not the way to cure it. Kather would 
 I lead her on to speak of it, showing by small 
 facts and details that her own imagination 
 has coloured the incidents of her unhappy 
 love — that she has seen this man by its light 
 instead of in his o wn. How he would hate me 
 if he heard me speak of him as I do ! — not 
 that his hate or regard would trouble me 
 for a moment. 
 
 I wonder often where he is now. Nancette 
 has not seen him or heard from him, since the 
 day she escaped his subtly-laid snare. How 
 I bless Basil every time I think of that day ! 
 Providence must surely have sent him to the 
 spot just in the very nick of time. 
 
204 ' The Laclye Nancye.^ 
 
 By the way, here is another letter of his, 
 nearly as funny as the first, so I have copied 
 it in my journal : 
 
 'Dear Lady Nancye, 
 
 ^ Thanks, awfully, for your letter. It 
 was very nice. We like school better ; still, 
 w^e are countino^ the days to the holidays. 
 They cook blackbeetles in the soup. I don't 
 think it can be wholesome — nor does ifc look 
 nice. Debbie would have fits if she saw our 
 dinners. One day there is boiled pork and 
 fly-pudding. The boys call it fly-pudding, 
 because the currints — is that riofht?- — are 
 scattered about so few, that you see about 
 one in every square foot of pudding. You 
 wouldn't like to eat it, 1 know. Stewart used 
 to get awful sick at first, but he's better now. 
 The boys don't want to fight us as much as 
 they did. I have grown two inches ; my 
 trousers have got too short. I had to buy a 
 new hat with my pocket-money, because the 
 boys made mine into a target, as I told you 
 before. 1 have only threepence left. I wish 
 
Penance. 205 
 
 Mr. Glendenning would send me some more. 
 One boy here owes me eighteenpence. He is 
 not coming back to school, so I do not think 
 I shall get it returned. He says he will send 
 it ; but he is not a nice boy, and he tells 
 stories. Do not send me any money unless you 
 can quite spare it. I don't know if Mr. Glen- 
 denning has given you more than he did us. 
 I think it would be awful jolly if you and I, 
 and Stewart, went off to the prairies together. 
 What do you say ? I'm sure I could take care 
 of you, and go trapping and hunting, and all 
 that. It's the proper sort of life, take my 
 word for it ! Give my love to Mrs. Free re. 
 Do you ever see old Chasable ? I wouldn't 
 mind grinding with him again. There's a 
 French master here — such a rum old chap ; 
 but I like him. The boys call him '' Beetle." 
 He is always talking of his discoveries in 
 natural science. He is very clever, only no 
 one will believe it. They make fun of me 
 because I like him ; I don't mind that. His 
 name's Mr. St. Jean ; I do not think it is his 
 real name. Has your Frenchman turned up 
 
20G ' The Lcuhje Najicjje.' 
 
 again ? But I hope he's not ''your" French- 
 man any lonc^er. I remember our talk that 
 Sunday. This old chap has given up his 
 name, because his family might be hurt at the 
 idea of his turninor teacher ! Rum thincr, 
 pride ! Don't think I've got any. Stewart 
 is writing also ; but he always wants to know 
 what I'm putting, and then copy it. I say, 
 what's the g;ood of two letters beinor both the 
 same '? 
 
 ' Your loving 
 
 ' Basil. 
 
 'P.S. — The cakes and tofiee have all gone. 
 I suppose Debbie couldn't send us a round 
 of beef? I was going to send you a piece 
 off ours, that we had to-day. Talk of stringy 
 — my word ! But it might grease the letter, 
 so I chucked it out of the window. It fell 
 on the head of the head-master. He didn't 
 like it, judging from his face. Good-bye 
 again. Hurrah for Midsummer ! 
 
 * P.SS.— P.SS.— So glad Mrs. Freere rides 
 the little mare. You must really have a try 
 
Penance. 207 
 
 on Bob. He's as quiet as a lamb. He won't 
 hurt you, I assure you. 
 
 'B. G.' 
 
 The days are running on. This morning 
 I persuaded Nancette to go to church with 
 me. It was the first time she had been 
 since she came to Owl's Boost. I wonder 
 what people will think when they hear who 
 she is. For I mean to take Errol Glen- 
 denning at his word, and tell everyone she 
 is his wife. The fact is certain, and what is 
 the use of concealing it ? 
 
 It was a warm, sunny day. She wore her 
 usual white gown, and looked very lovely, 
 though too fragile and delicate to please me. 
 
 We had to run the gauntlet of many 
 critical eyes as we walked up the aisle to 
 our seat. JSIancette was not so conscious as 
 myself. 
 
 One never feels how thoroughly respect- 
 ably solid and devout English people are, 
 till one has made the round of a series of 
 country churches. The country-people are 
 
208 ' The Ladye Nancye: 
 
 modelled on the usual excellent pattern. So, 
 I fear, is the rector, Basil's friend, Mr. 
 Chasable. He belongs to the old school of 
 preachers — prosy, dry, and safe. He chose the 
 subject of Balaam's ass as a suitable sermon 
 for a sleepy congregation on a hot summer 
 day. After listening to him for a while, I 
 became too confused to discover which was 
 the offender, the ass or his master, but am 
 thankful to say I was pulled out of this pit 
 of difficulty by strong pulleys of symbolical 
 and mystic explanations which resulted in 
 convincing me that everything meant some- 
 thing else, and must be regarded as abstract 
 to the main question of the ass and his 
 powers of speech. The next moment, how- 
 ever, I was plunged into a doctrinal chaos, 
 which, gratifying as it might have been to 
 the preacher, was slightly mystifying to the 
 congregation — at least, to such as were 
 awake. The majority were not. I confess 
 my ideas were not illuminated, nor did I 
 perceive that such sermons were quite an 
 unmixed blessing. In the end I fear my 
 
Penance, 209 
 
 view of the ass differed somewhat from that 
 of the preacher. 
 
 A few people spoke to me when we came 
 out, and I took the opportunity of intro- 
 ducing Nancette. The great lady of the 
 neighbourhood, Lady Bosistow, whose hus- 
 band is our M.P., was very gracious to 
 the young mistress of Owl's Koost, though, 
 of course, she asked more particularly for 
 Mr. Glendenning. I said he was absent 
 just now on business. As he was at no 
 time a church-goer, and renowned through- 
 out the neighbourhood for unsociability, no 
 one seemed much surprised. We got into 
 the carriage and drove home, I congratulating 
 myself that the first ordeal was over. 
 
 ' That was a strange sermon,' said Nan- 
 cette, as we bowled along under the green 
 shade of the trees, now fully clothed in 
 brio'ht and luxuriant verdure. * Yv hat did 
 it all mean V 
 
 ' I doubt if Mr. Chasable himself could 
 explain that,' I said. ' I think he got en- 
 tangled in a web of his own spinning.' 
 
 VOL. I. 14 
 
210 ' The Ladye Nancye! 
 
 * One expects peace and promise from the 
 Church,' she said ; ' not mystification.' 
 
 * Ah,' I said, * I wonder when the Church 
 will learn that. Tt seems as if, in its own 
 self-glorification, it could not believe in the 
 worth of calm and repose. It is always 
 exhorting, bullying, wailing, lamenting — 
 cramming philosophies and creeds down 
 people's throats — giving vent to arbitrary 
 assertions, taking from us our primal right 
 to comfort and content — and ofifering in their 
 place disturbing theories and imperfect doc- 
 trines.' 
 
 ' What sort of church would you attend 
 if you had your choice ?' she asked. 
 
 I smiled. 
 
 ' Nature's — most of all/ I answered. * But 
 we are tied and bound by conventionality. I 
 often look round on a congregation and wonder 
 how many among them would like their 
 real motives for attending church, revealed.' 
 
 'Perhaps/ she said, 'some of them have 
 no motives. Nothing fits so easily as habit.' 
 
 ' True,' I said ; ^ and if there is one habit 
 
Penance. 211 
 
 on whii'li the British nation j^rides itself 
 more than another, it is that of regular 
 church attendance. It is the '^ regular " : 
 upon which it lays the greatest stress.' 
 
 ' I used to think that at school,' she said. 
 * Oh, the weary, dreary, respectable Sundays 
 — how dreadful they were ! How I used to 
 long for my bright sunny France then.' 
 
 ' You are half a Frenchwoman at heart, I 
 think,' I said, looking closely at her. 
 
 ' Yes/ she answered with a faint sigh ; ' by 
 religion as well as birthright. I prefer our 
 Church to yours. It has more life — more 
 soul — more poetry and beauty. It seems to 
 me that yours is stripped of everything that 
 sweetens and beautifies the faith you wor- 
 ship and the church you attend. It may be 
 prejudice — I don't know^ — but so it seems.' 
 
 ' I dare say it does seem so/ I answered ; 
 ' English people always connect religion with 
 gloom, and penance, and sacrifice, and general 
 discomfort. It is a prejudice, I suppose ; but 
 they cling to it just as the Puritans of old 
 did. To my mind there is something deeper 
 
 14—2 
 
212 ' The Ladye Nancye! 
 
 and holier in the teaching of Nature, would 
 we but hsten to it. But we think it too 
 simple. Yet it would be sweet to lie in that 
 tender bosom and listen to the comfort of 
 that universal voice. To let slip the sense of 
 our worldly cares and sorrows — our strifes, 
 and narrow hopes, and vain strivings — to feel 
 that the warfare of flesh and spirit was at an 
 end, for a time at least ; and that the hand 
 of eternal goodness and wisdom rested on 
 our world-weary brow.' 
 
 She looked at me with her beautiful sad 
 eyes. 
 
 ' That is better than a sermon,' she said. 
 ' I have been wondering why you were so 
 anxious for me to go to church. I should 
 have been happier in the woods with you. I 
 — I tried to pray, but thought seemed stag- 
 nant. Out here I feel my soul leap into 
 one rush of sudden thoughts that spring to 
 heaven ; but there it was all dull, and heavy, 
 and spiritless as death. Does that sound 
 wicked ?' 
 
 ' It does not sound — conventional/ I said. 
 
Penance, 213 
 
 * Let us get out here and walk through the 
 wood home. It will do us both good in our 
 present mood.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered, ' I think it will. 
 Only ' 
 
 * Only what V I asked gently as we moved 
 on under the arch of trees that canopied the 
 soft green turf 
 
 ' Only I am not in tune with Nature as 
 you are. I sometimes think what would I 
 not give for your changeless serenity.' 
 
 / The sky that has been swept by storm is 
 always the brightest and fairest,' I answered 
 gravely. ' I have not been always — serene.' 
 
 ' I wish,' she said hesitatingly, * you would 
 tell me your story I know you have one. 
 Is it — was it as painful as mine V 
 
 ' Quite as painful,' I said, ' to me. But I 
 cannot tell you of it now. I want you to 
 have a draught of peace, if not of Lethe.' 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 * It can't be possible,' I said, ' that visitors 
 are coming ; yet I certainly hear chariot- 
 wheels !' 
 
 We were sitting in the room designated by 
 Deborah as ^my lady's boudoir' when I made 
 this remark. ' My lady ' herself rose and 
 glanced in alarm through the curtained 
 windows. 
 
 ' Some one is certainl}^ coming,' she said. 
 
 * That is the effect of church-ofoino\' 
 
 ' They have taken two days to decide 
 whether you may be called upon,' I an- 
 swered. ' Let us look upon it as a matter of 
 course.' 
 
 She sat down nervously and in evident 
 trepidation. Her face almost matched her 
 gown in its colourless tints. Presently the 
 
Penance. 215 
 
 door opened. Old Clitheroe, with a new and 
 important sense of the family dignity, an- 
 nounced * Mrs. and Miss TresylUan.' 
 
 I was tolerably well acquainted with the 
 neighbouring ' squiresses,' but am happy to 
 say I was not on intimate terms with any of 
 them. I had been away so long that I 
 seemed to come back to my old, ramshackle, 
 desolate co'ttage as a new inhabitant, and 
 certainly a very unsocial one. 
 
 Mrs. Tresyllian and her daughter were not 
 favourites of mine. They swept into the 
 room with portentous rustling skirts and 
 nodding plumes, and gave a general effect 
 of there not being sufficient space for 
 them. 
 
 Nancette rose to greet them with a certain 
 quiet dignity that pleased me. I shook 
 hands also, and then we all sat down, and 
 there was a faint, deadly pause. 
 
 ' I — I really must apologize,' began Mrs. 
 Tresyllian soothingly, ' for . not calling before. 
 But I had not the sliofhtest idea — not the 
 very slightest idea — that we had a Mrs. 
 
216 ^ TJlc Lad 11 e Ncmct/e.* 
 
 Glendennino' among us. You — you have 
 only just arrived, I suppose V 
 
 * I have been living here for nearly three 
 months,' answered Nancette. 
 
 * Dear me ! So long ! And your good 
 husband ? I quite long to renew my ac- 
 quaintance with him. He has been so very 
 retired ; we have really scarcely seen any- 
 thing of him at all. But I suppose things 
 will be altered now.' 
 
 ' I don't fancy they will,' I put in at this 
 juncture. 'Mr. Glendenning is not addicted 
 to festivity in any shape or form. At 
 present' — and I glanced at Nancette — ' at 
 present he is away from home on business. 
 His absence, of course, prevents Mrs. Glen- 
 denning from entertaining. It is a matter of 
 regret. Let us hope the regret may only be 
 temporary — like the cause.' 
 
 She looked at me through her gold eye- 
 glass. 
 
 'Are you staying here?' she asked some- 
 what insolently. 
 
 * 1 am,' I replied. ' You know it is not 
 
Penance. 217 
 
 good for man to be alone — still less for woman. 
 I am taking care of Mrs. Glendenning during 
 her husband's absence.' 
 
 'And you have been here nearly three 
 months,' pursued the estimable dame. 'Dear 
 me — three months! And to think I should 
 not hav€ known it ! Has — has Lady Bosistovv 
 called on 3^ou yet V 
 
 ' We are expecting her to-day/ I said 
 mendaciously. ' She has only lately returned 
 from London.' 
 
 ' Yes — yes ; I know,' she said a little 
 uncomfortably, for she and the ' great lady ' 
 were not on visiting terms, and a deep-seated 
 animosity existed between them. ' I hope,' 
 she added presently, 'Mr. Glendenning's 
 business will soon be arranged. We shall be 
 so delighted to welcome him among us again. • 
 You really must,' she added with ponderous 
 playfulness, turning to Nancette — 'you really 
 must insist on his becoming social and — and 
 — ah — convivial. He was quite a hermit, I 
 assure you — quite a hermit.' 
 
 ' It requires certain inducements to become 
 
218 ' The Lcuhje Nancye: 
 
 convivial, does it not V I asked, offering the 
 suggestion in an innocent and speculative 
 fashion for her due consideration. 
 
 ' There are many reasons, and — ah — induce- 
 ments here,' she said, still contemplating her 
 hostess, and only presenting me with a sight 
 of a rubicund profile and a set of nodding 
 yellow plumes. ' I am sure Mrs. Glenden- 
 ning will acknowledge that when she knows 
 us better.' 
 
 Nancette murmured somethini^f ; I can't 
 exactly say what. She looked very bored. 
 The stony daughter sat frigidly in her chair, 
 taking no part in the conversation. Presently 
 the mother turned to me again. 
 
 ' And how did you like America ?' she 
 asked, with a flattering appearance of interest. 
 
 ' America !' 
 
 I looked at her in placid bewilderment. I 
 was to all appearance strenuously endeavour- 
 ing to collect my thoughts, and turn them 
 into the channel she directed. 
 
 * Yes,' she said somewhat nervously ; ' it 
 was America you w^ent to — wasn't it X 
 
Penance. 219 
 
 *Ah, of course it was,' I answered with 
 pleased alacrity ; ' only I have been back so 
 long that I really scarcely remember how I 
 liked it; 
 
 Her complexion assumed resplendent tints 
 of dusky purple. 
 
 ' ' I — I really was not aware — time passes 
 so rapidly — so very many calls upon my time/ 
 she stammered. 
 
 ' I — I hope you are not apologizing for an 
 inadvertent forgetful ness,' I said. 'I never 
 have regarded myself as a person calculated to 
 exact attention from my neighbours. Socially, 
 I have not the position to be a success. Indi- 
 vidually, I have not the inclination.' 
 
 ' That is a pity,' said Miss Tresyllian, in a 
 sudden, sharp, metallic fashion that startled 
 us. It was so unexpected. 
 
 I regarded her with polite attention. 
 
 ' I venture to disagree with you,' I said. ' I 
 don't compassionate myself. I certainly have 
 not the vanity to compassionate society.' 
 
 'Is it true,' asked the motlier abruptly, 
 ' that American women are all vulgar, and 
 
220 ' The Lfuhje Nancye: 
 
 say **1 guess" «and "I calkerlate" every sen- 
 tence ? And do they all eat with their 
 knives?' 
 
 ' There are vulgar American women,' T 
 said, *just as there are vulgar Englishwomen. 
 Their tastes are as loud and overstrained in 
 some things, as ours are in others.' 
 
 She turned up her lofty nose with a lofty 
 scorn that was meant to be impressive. If 
 she had hissed out ' Hateful woman 1' it could 
 not have been more audible to me than the 
 mute expression of her face and gesture. 
 
 ' When people go abroad/ she said rebuk- 
 ingly, ' they seem to acquire a reprehensible 
 habit of ridiculing everything in their native 
 land. I am thankful to say I have never 
 travelled.' 
 
 'It is a good thing for widening one's 
 powers of observation all the same,' I said. 
 * No doubt'^ — reflectively — ' it my have its 
 disadvantages.' 
 
 ' I think if English people travelled more 
 they would not be so narrow-minded,' inter- 
 posed Nancette coolly. 
 
Penance. 221 
 
 That was the last straw. The metaUic 
 daughter gave utterance to a pecuHar * click' 
 like the shutting of a lock, and the portly 
 mother, bristling with outraged British 
 dignity, rose from her seat, and hinted at 
 departure. We were politely regretful that 
 they should so soon deprive us of the pleasure 
 of their society, but we were only regretful, 
 not pressing as to its continuance. I think 
 that became clear to them by the time they 
 reached home. 
 
 As their carriage drove down the avenue, 
 it met Lady Bosistow's driving up. 
 
 ' My arrow, shot at a venture, has hit its 
 mark,' I said, laughing, as I turned to 
 Xancette. ' The country is really going to 
 take you under its protection.' 
 
 Lady Bosistow was followed by Dr. and 
 Miss Jago — an old bachelor and his maiden 
 sister, round, rosy, plump, kindly people, who 
 took Nancette under their kindly wings like 
 two fussy, clucking old farmyard hens might 
 take a forlorn chicken. Lady Bosistow 
 was gracious and suave, and the advent 
 
222 ' Tlie Lad ye Nancy e' 
 
 of tea drew us all together in a friendly 
 circle. 
 
 But when they had all gone, and we were 
 alone, the girl turned to me with a bewildered 
 and half-terrified look. 
 
 ' What does it all mean V she said. ' I — 
 I did not think Mr. Glendenning wanted 
 anyone to know — I mean, that he wished me 
 to be received as his wife. He will not like 
 it, and in time, when the truth comes 
 out ' 
 
 ' What truth V T asked. ' The truth that 
 he has had the bad taste to leave you for a 
 while ? My dear, do not trouble about that. 
 I have his own permission to release you 
 from the ambiguous position you occupied 
 here. It could not have lasted. It was a 
 shame and scandal to you both.' 
 
 ' It was my own fault,' she said bitterly, 
 'and I fail to see how the acknowledgment 
 of my marriage improves my position.' 
 
 ' But I do,' I answered confidently. ' You 
 are so young and so unworldly ! Why, you 
 are little better than a child ! Let me give 
 
Penance. 223 
 
 3^011 the benefit of my superior knowledge. 
 There is no earthly reason for you to hide 
 your head under a load of shame and sus- 
 picion ; still less to place yourself in a false 
 position, and live on here as Errol Glenden- 
 ning's unacknowledged wife. Nothing can 
 alter the fact that you are his wife. It is 
 madness to suppose it. It is a logical deduc- 
 tion, arrived at by the knowledge of certain 
 conditions leadino^ to results. No g^ood can 
 be obtained by letting the outside world into 
 the secrets of vour inner life. I am iudfifinof 
 this case as you cannot judge it, and I am 
 a woman like yourself. I hope you trust 
 me sufficiently to feel sure I would not 
 advise you to do anything injudicious or 
 unwise V 
 
 She looked at me steadily for a minute or 
 two with her clear, beautiful eyes. 
 
 ' I think/ she said, half turning away, 
 ' that it is a thousand pities Errol Glenden- 
 ning did not marry — you.' 
 
 The remark was so unlooked-for and so 
 extraordinary that for a moment I seemed 
 
224 ' The Ladye Nancye: 
 
 fairly to lose my breath. Then the colour 
 rushed in a hot wave all over my face. 
 
 * Nonsense !' I said sharply. ' Such an 
 idea never entered his head. In marriage it 
 is always 'Mike to unlike," you know. That 
 is the irresistible law of attraction ; you can't 
 arorue aoainst it/ 
 
 ' I have no wish to arofue against it,' she 
 said wearily. ' It is too late ; but it was 
 a terrible mistake — a terrible mistake !' 
 
 ' Tell me,' I said presently, when voice and 
 face were once more under control ; ' tell me, 
 are you not beginning to forget a little ? He 
 has made no sign. Your refusal that day 
 made it all look final. Does that fact not 
 give you resignation V 
 
 * I am trying my best to forget/ she said 
 simply. * It is my daily task. But it is not 
 easy. I try to school my heart — to hold it 
 down. I know that — that time is over 
 for ever. Nothino' could brinsr it back : 
 nothing could make me as I was that day by 
 the sea. But the effort makes me cold to 
 everything. The spring seems all gone out 
 
Penance. 225 
 
 of my life. I shut my eyes against 
 his j)resence, but I can't shut my heart 
 against recollection. It still comes at 
 times.' 
 
 ' That,' I said, ' is to be expected, but it 
 will be less frequent and less painful. Believe 
 me, it will. Duty seems a hard and unlovely 
 thing, but if we follow it we are repaid in the 
 end.' 
 
 *Ah,' she said bitterly, 'it is so easy to 
 talk ! I feel strong because I am untempted ; 
 but if he crosses my path again, if he looks 
 at me with those sad eyes that hold so much 
 unhappiness ' 
 
 ' I don't believe he is unhappy,' I said 
 restively. ' I am sure he is not. I have no 
 doubt if you could see him now you would 
 be thoroughly disillusioned. He is probably 
 eating, and drinking, and dancing, and 
 gambling, and entering into all the frivolous 
 pleasures of Parisian life, as if no thought of 
 •you had ever troubled his reason — I won't 
 say his heart. Frenchmen have passion, and 
 sentiment, and vanity. I don't think love 
 
 VOL. I. 15 
 
226 ^ The Ladye Nancye! 
 
 is ever more to them than an episode, 
 calHng one or all of these emotions into 
 play.' 
 
 * You are prejudiced,' she said with a faint 
 smile. 
 
 ' On the contrary/ I said quickly, * I am 
 impartial. If I were not I could not 
 reason.' 
 
 ' If you loved,' she said sadly, ' you would 
 not care to do — that.' 
 
 * I might care/ I said quietly. ' But I 
 know very well I should not be able to.' 
 Then I laughed. ' Can you fancy,' I said. 
 ' Miss Tresyllian a slave to the tender passion? 
 Poor thing I I wonder if she is sufficiently 
 feminine for sentiment or emotion V 
 
 * She is very metallic, I think,' said 
 Nancette. 
 
 ' That,' 1 said, ' expresses her exactly. 
 You Avill have to undergo the ordeal of 
 returning^ all these calls next week.' 
 
 ' Oh,' she said with a shiver, ' how dreadful ! , 
 Must I really V 
 
 'You must,' I said with vigour, ' if you 
 
Penance, 227 
 
 wish to be a social success. The entertaining 
 will come later on.' 
 
 ' And do people really like this sort of life ?' 
 she asked anxiously. 
 
 ' Apparently/ I said. ' Some ambitions 
 have no wilder boundary than admission to a 
 certain " set " — invitations to a particular 
 house, or the reputation of givin^^ the best 
 dinners in their special circle. It seems odd, 
 and poor, and a sad waste of time to other 
 people whose views are broader, whose 
 experiences are wider, and to whom life has 
 a great and serious aspect.' 
 
 ' I don't think I should like that sort of 
 life/ she said gravely. ' Does it also come 
 under the head of duty V 
 
 * It may be a pleasure to you one day,' I 
 answered ; ' there is no saying how your tastes 
 may develop now the " squiresses" have taken 
 you up.' 
 
 'Why have you not become like them?' 
 she asked suddenly ; ' you have lived among 
 them lono^ enous^h.' 
 
 ' Oh/ I said, laughing gaily, * you forget I 
 
 15—2 
 
228 ' The Laclije Nancye: 
 
 have been in the land of freedom and enlarged 
 views of woman's rights. That makes all the 
 difference.' 
 
 ' If it has made you what you are,' she 
 said simply, ' I am glad of it.' 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 There cannot be much, to chronicle in the 
 life of two women living in a dull country 
 neighbourhood, where the routine of each day 
 is almost unvaried. We have drifted on a 
 year further since I began my journal. 
 Basil's letters and the holidays were almost 
 the only things that roused or amused us. 
 Yet I think Nancette is certainly better in 
 health, and more tranquil in spirits ; perhaps 
 this restful pause in her life has done her 
 good. She never voluntarily mentions Pierre 
 de Volens's name now, but I am not sure, in 
 my own mind, that that is altogether a good 
 sign. 
 
 By aid of the coachman's and my instruc- 
 tions she has learnt to ride, and she and I go 
 out early in these warm, bright mornings, 
 
230 ' The Ladye Nancye: 
 
 and scour the country for miles round. We 
 never meet or see anyone but the farm- 
 labourers or the cottagers. 
 
 Having returned the county's visits, we had 
 done as much as was necessary. To accept 
 invitations was as impossible as to give any, 
 until such time as Errol Glendenning chose 
 to put matters on a different footing. 
 
 I have not heard from him since he went 
 to Terzia. I scarcely think he would have 
 stayed there during the hot summer following 
 his letter. But he never writes. 
 
 It is now June. The woods are darkly 
 green, the lawns and hedgerows full of deep 
 and lovely colours, of wild roses and honey- 
 suckle. The sea is no longer stormy and 
 gray as I catch sight of it sometimes from 
 some high inland point, but blue and clear, 
 with gently heaving swell, and faint lines of 
 foam that fringe the shingle or the low-lying 
 rocks. 
 
 Nancette can look at it now without 
 flinching, but we do not ever go near the 
 cliffs. I think sometimes that the day she 
 
Penance. 231 
 
 agrees to do that will be a day when she has 
 scored a great victory over herself. 
 
 Most of the great folks have gone to 
 London for the season. The good old doctor 
 and his sister trot over occasionally to see us, 
 but Mrs. Tresyllian and her daughter con- 
 cluded lonor aofo that we were not desirable 
 acquaintances. They never paid us a second 
 visit. 
 
 ' There is one good thing about us/ I 
 remark casually to Nancette ; ' we don't bore 
 each other, trying as our position is. It is 
 trying, you must acknowledge.' 
 
 ' If you were bored,' she said, ' I am afraid 
 you w^ould be too polite to tell 'me.' 
 
 'I should not, indeed,' I answered. * Plain- 
 speaking is my strong point, I assure you ; I 
 should find it terribly hard to say anything I 
 did not feel, or think, or mean.' 
 
 ^ But you can show consideration,' she 
 said. 
 
 And something in her uplifted eyes touched 
 my heart very deeply. 
 
232 ' The Ladye Nancye: 
 
 ' That/ I said, as lightly as my feelings 
 would let me, * is not so much a merit as the 
 outcome of the natural restrictions of civilized 
 life.' 
 
 She looked at me a moment, then suddenly 
 a rush of colour came over her face. She 
 clasped her hands round my arm. 
 
 * Tell me,' she said, ' do you think it would 
 be j)ossible to go away from here for a little 
 while ? I feel — oh, don't think me foolish — 
 but I feel sometimes a sort of horror of the 
 place. It is not that it is dull, or dreary, or 
 desolate, but it seems haunted by so many 
 memories, and full of so much reproach. I 
 feel as if I had been long, long years in it. 
 If, when the boys come this time, we might 
 all go away — I don't mind where — only out 
 of this — away from here !' 
 
 I looked at her, amazed. All her self- 
 control was broken down. She was trembling 
 like a leaf 
 
 ' There is no reason why you should not go 
 away,' I answered soothingly. ' It might 
 have occurred to me before. There are lots 
 
Pe7iance. 233 
 
 of pretty places along the coast ' Then 
 
 I stopped abruptly. ' But you don't like the 
 seal' I said. 
 
 * I want to hear the voices of my own land,' 
 she cried passionately. ' The longing is like 
 a sickness that devours me. I want to look 
 on faces that are not set, and stiff, and prim 
 as these English faces here. Oh, Myra, you 
 don't know what it is.' 
 
 ' I think I do,' I said gently. ' I felt like 
 that myself — once. I was in America then.' 
 
 She dropped my arm and stood there 
 perfectly still. 
 
 ' You always understand me/ she said. 
 ^ Tell me, can it be done V 
 
 ^ I think it might,' I answered, after a 
 moment's reflection. ' We do not know 
 where Mr. Glendenning is, so we cannot 
 ask his permission. But I don't see why 
 he should object. Where do you wish to 
 go?' 
 
 ' Do you know the Channel Islands V she 
 asked. ' I went to Guernsey when I was at 
 school ; I often think I should like to sro 
 
234 ' The Ladife Nancye.^ 
 
 there again. It is all so French there, and 
 yet so quiet, and so pretty, and quaint.' 
 
 ' It is only a dot of granite/ I said, smihng. 
 * No ; I have never been there. By all 
 means let us go. But,' looking at her 
 gravely, ' I hope it will be safe ? No chance 
 of meeting someone there V 
 
 She flushed as red as a June rose. 
 
 * If there were,' she said, * I would not 
 have asked this of you. Nothing is farther 
 from my wishes than such a meeting. Can't 
 you believe it V 
 
 'Nearly two years,' I said, 'and no >Yord 
 
 — no sifjfn. 
 
 ' No,' she said steadily. * How wisely you 
 judged him !' 
 
 * And in another year and a half/ I said, 
 ' your penance will be over. Errol Glenden- 
 ning must come back then.' 
 
 She grew very pale. 
 
 * He will never forgive,' she said. * I 
 could not expect it. I have had ample time 
 to think the subject over. It looks even 
 worse than it did at first. I sometimes hope, 
 
Penance, ^35 
 
 for his sake, that he may be able to set me 
 free.' 
 
 * You should not wish that,' I answered. 
 'You don't know what a terrible stigma it 
 would leave upon your life. Marriage is not 
 a thing to be lightly set aside.' 
 
 ' Or lightly entered upon,' she said wearily. 
 ' Oh, if I had only thought — only known ; 
 but all the regrets in the world won't alter 
 thino^s now.' 
 
 ' No,' I said ; ' that is what I am always 
 telling you. But it may yet lie in your 
 power to alter the course of both the lives 
 that now look so hopeless and so sad. 
 Reparation is possible.' 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 * Sometimes I think I am cured,' she said. 
 ' It all looks so senseless, so foolish. If I 
 could go back, and take my life up and begin 
 all over again from — from that time, I do not 
 think I should be here alone, and my husband 
 banished.' 
 
 'My dear,' I said joyfully, 'that is a charm- 
 ing confession. I wish your husband were 
 
236 ^ TJie Ladye Nancy e.'' 
 
 here to have heard it. Not,' I added gravely, 
 ' that he deserves such a reward. I consider 
 he has acted very injudiciously, and neglected 
 you most unpardonably.' 
 
 * No/ she said ; ' I deserved it all. Ke- 
 member, you don't know all the story 
 
 yet.' 
 
 ' Shall I ever know it?' I asked somewhat 
 anxiously, as I looked at the young sad face, 
 so grave, and fair, and colourless. 
 
 * You shall know it,' she said, ' on the day 
 that sees me reconciled to my husband, and 
 cured for ever of the folly that has made 
 shipwreck of both our lives.' 
 
 ' I shall be content to wait,' I answered. 
 * And all shipwrecks are not fatal, even 
 though disastrous.' 
 
 The following day the boys came home. 
 
 It was always delightful to have them back. 
 They were so full of life, health, spirits, they 
 seemed to animate the whole place, to sweep 
 like a very whirlwind through its quiet and 
 repose, and dusty, unwholesome desolation. 
 
Penance. 237 
 
 Basil had grown very tall, and handsomer 
 than ever. 
 
 * Stringy beef and beetles have not injured 
 your looks,' I said to him, as we all sat out 
 on the lawn that afternoon, drinking tea and 
 eatino' Deborah's home-made cakes, * nor 
 Stewart's either. He looks much more 
 robust than he did last term.! 
 
 ' Would you both mind spending your 
 holidays away from here V asked Nancette 
 rather timidly. ' I want to go away for a 
 change, but I would not leave unless you 
 came also.' 
 
 ' Mind !' shouted Basil. ' Good gracious ! 
 We should be delighted ! Where do you 
 want to go?' 
 
 ' To the Channel Islands/ I said. 
 
 * Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, and Sark,' 
 quoted Stewart. 'How jolly! How do we 
 get there ?' 
 
 ' By sea, of course, duffer !' laughed Basil. 
 ' No wonder you are the bottom of the class- 
 for geography 1' 
 
238 ' The Ladye Nancye: 
 
 ' And so are you for mathematics,' returned 
 Stewart with brotherly frankness. 
 
 ' Oh, hang mathematics ! We won't talk 
 of them now,' exclaimed Basil impetuously. 
 ' Guernsey is a better subject. When do we 
 go, Lady Nancye V 
 
 ' As soon as we can,' she answered. ' We 
 can start to-morFow if Mrs. Freere likes.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Freere is quite willing,' I answered. 
 ' We can go up to London to-morrow, make 
 a few necessary purchases — our wardrobes, 
 my dear Nancette, are very unfashionable — 
 and start on Thursday for Guernsey. I may 
 remark, en iKirenthese, that it will be very 
 hot there.' 
 
 ' I love heat !' exclaimed the q{y\. 
 
 Her face looked animated — almost happy. 
 I had never seen her look so brilliant. 
 
 ^ And so do I,' said Basil. 'Can we go 
 about in flannels and straw-hats ? I shall do 
 lots of boating there.' 
 
 ' Isn't it Guernsey that the old Beetle goes 
 to T asked Stewart suddenly. ' I'm sure it 
 is. Don't vou remember he told us about 
 
Penance, 239 
 
 his granddaughter Leonie — the clever one— 
 said she was a better scholar than himself?' 
 
 ' Yes, I believe it is Guernsey he goes to/ 
 said Basil. ' What a lark ! Won't he be 
 astonished to see us !' 
 
 ' Is Guernsey really an island V asked 
 Stewart. ' Water all round, I mean. I 
 know they say England is one, but I never 
 can believe it. There seems too much land 
 about it, somehow. My idea of an island is 
 to stand somewhere about the middle of it, 
 you know, and see the water all round you.' 
 
 'We'll get a few of the inhabitants of 
 Guernsey to chuck some cartloads of stone 
 into a heap as near the middle of the island 
 as possible,' said Basil ; ' then you'll be 
 able to see the water if you stand on the pile. 
 I know it's very small — so small that it's 
 confidently expected the water will sweep 
 all over it one day, and the place that knows 
 it shall know it no more.' 
 
 ' Don't be profane,' I said rebukingly. 
 
 ' I think,' said Stewart, rising, ' I'll go and 
 study the map.' 
 
240 * The Lnchje Nanqie' 
 
 ' Do,' said his brother encouragino^ly ; 'and 
 just mark the spot where you'd Hke that stone- 
 lieap. It will be a guide for us when we get 
 there.' 
 
 The bare thouo^ht of chano^e and movement 
 in oar quiet stagnant life was enough to excite 
 us all. That evening sufficed for packing and 
 arrangements. Old Deborah seemed amazed 
 at the idea of our flight, but gradually sobered 
 down, and accepted it as inevitable. 
 
 We took no maid with us, nor did we 
 burden ourselves Avith superfluous luggage. I 
 was an experienced enough traveller to know 
 the disadvantages of that proceeding. 
 
 Early the next day we were off" to London. 
 Our purchases, which consisted mainly of a 
 few cool cambrics, and ribbons, and straw- 
 hats, were soon concluded. The next night 
 we were crossing: the blue waters of the 
 Channel, and after a ten hours' passage we 
 found ourselves tired and safe in the best 
 hotel in Guernsey. 
 
 We had determined to rent a small house 
 
Penance. 241 
 
 (if we could find one) for a couple of months, 
 and the first two days of our stay were spent 
 in searching for a domicile. 
 
 We succeeded at last in discovering a small, 
 pretty cottage with a straggling, unkept 
 garden that was a delicious wilderness of 
 roses, heliotrope, and carnations. From every 
 window, and from the wide,- creeper-festooned 
 veranda, one could see the dazzling diamond- 
 like glitter of the sea, sweeping away to the 
 rim of the hazy blue horizon. 
 
 A huge cedar- tree fronted the house, and 
 shaded Avhat should have been the lawn. 
 The golden sunshinO; the scents of the flowers, 
 the deep shades of the old gnarled trees, and 
 the far-reaching blue sweep of water, made a 
 picture altogether delightful after the gloom 
 of Owl's Koost. 
 
 Nancette was enchanted. So were the 
 boys. So was I in a sober, well-advised 
 fashion. I engaged the cottage, and two 
 French servants, had our boxes sent over 
 from the hotel, and then we settled ourselves 
 comfortably to enjoy Guernsey. 
 
 VOL. I. IG 
 
CHAPTER YII. 
 
 * It is the Beetle himself/ said Basil. 
 
 We were all sitting on one of the points of 
 the Guernsey cliffs enjoying the sunset when 
 he made this remark. Heaven knows how 
 we had come there ! By some tortuous and 
 ingenious method best known to the boys, but 
 not calculated to improve either our dresses, 
 or appearance. 
 
 A cool, delicious breeze was blowing over 
 the sea. The sky and air were crisp, clear 
 tints of blue and gold. Faint wafts of hay 
 and clover scents reached us from far-off 
 fields ; low, melodious notes of birds fell 
 across the stillness. 
 
 I felt thrilled to the heart's core with keen 
 physical delight. The scene, and the air, 
 the colour, and warmth, seemed to bring 
 
Penance. 243 
 
 back youth, and hope, and fair dreams, 
 and all sorts of sweet far-reaching possi- 
 bilities. 
 
 When Basil's voice broke across the 
 stillness it jarred on me. But I followed his 
 glance. I saw a small elderly man standing 
 on the edge of the cliffs some short distance 
 off. Beside him was a small childish figure 
 in a dress of blue and red cotton. She had 
 taken off her hat, and w^as swinging it in her 
 hand. Her dark hair was simply plaited in 
 one long plait down her back. Neither of 
 them Avas speaking. They stood quite still 
 watching the sunset. 
 
 ' I'll go and speak to him,' said Stewart. 
 
 ^ Don't startle him too suddenly, or Leonie 
 will be an orphan,' said Basil with thoughtful 
 consideration. ' He's rather rickety on his 
 pins, and he's just about as near the edge of 
 the cliffs as he can go in safety.' 
 
 Thus cautioned, Stewart slowly advanced. 
 We watched him lazily. Before he had 
 reached the old gentleman, a shrill little voice 
 broke out in explanation : 
 
 16—2 
 
244 ' TJw L(uhje Xancye.^ 
 
 * Mais, elites done. II y un petit msieu, 
 Mon pere, entendez-vous T 
 
 The old man turned round ; blank amaze- 
 ment was written on his face. 
 
 ' Mais pas possihle, mon eleve ! Ici T 
 
 ' Now, listen to Stewart's French/ whis- 
 pered Basil. 'It's lovely.' 
 
 'Yes, monsur,' said Stewart, very slowly 
 and distinctly. ' Nous soimnes a Guernsey 
 vrayment. Nous sonimes ecrrivay — there 
 are two jours since our arrivay. Made- 
 moiselle est — est votre grande jille ; nest-ce 
 pas f 
 
 ' Mais ouij said the old man beamingly ; 
 and then considerately lapsing into English, 
 he went on : ' My grandchild — my little girl 
 — of whom I have spoke, she lives here with 
 her gixtndmere what time I away am in 
 England. And you stay here for the 
 holiday ? And msieu your brother, do I 
 behold him also ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; he is with those ladies,' said Stewart, 
 nodding in our direction. 
 
 * May I be honoured T asked the old man 
 
Penance. 245 
 
 politely, as he took off his hat and advanced 
 towards us. 
 
 Basil rose to greet him, and Nancette and 
 I did the same. In another moment she 
 ^Tas talking fluently and unrestrainedly to 
 him in her native tongue, while the boys 
 amused themselves by taking stock of Mdlle. 
 Leonie. She was a rather slim, ugly child ; 
 she might have been any age from twelve to 
 sixteen. Her eyes were dark and large, but 
 too brilliant and restless to be beautiful. 
 She had a keen, clever face, but not a 
 prepossessing one. 
 
 ' Can you speak any English at all V asked 
 Stewart bashfully, ' because I — je ne sctis pas 
 hcaiicoup le Frangais/ 
 
 She nodded in a quick marmoset fashion 
 peculiar to her. 
 
 * Yes,' she said. ' I know it — some. There 
 are plenty English people here. My idioms 
 are not good, perhaps, but I understand, 
 and I know many words for conversa- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' That's all right,' said Basil. ' It's very 
 
246 ' Tlte Lmlye Nancy e.^ 
 
 hard to keep on talking long in a foreign 
 tongue.' 
 
 Then we all sat down once more and 
 conversation became general. We learnt a 
 great deal about the island from the little 
 girl. She seemed familiar with every part 
 of it. 
 
 ' I have lived here all my life,' she said. 
 * 1 wish I could go away to some big city. 
 Perhaps I shall some day.' 
 
 ' No doubt,' I answered. ' But ^' all your 
 life " is not a very long span as yet V 
 
 ' I am sixteen,' she said gravely, 
 
 ' And do you really know Greek, and 
 Latin, and mathematics, and all those dry old 
 things, as your grandfather said you did V 
 asked Basil, regarding her with unfeigned 
 wonder. 
 
 'Mais Old. It is not so strange, is it ? I 
 like to learn. I wish I were a man. 1 
 would go to college then, and become a great 
 2)rofesseur. That is my ambition. Mais 
 helas ! it is not possible.' 
 
 ' I don't see what women w^ant to be 
 
Penance. 247 
 
 learned for,' said Basil. ' They ought to be 
 content to be pretty and agreeable, not stuffed 
 with dry and useless sciences/ 
 
 ' Dry ! Useless !' Her eyes flashed Hke 
 sparks. * Ah, what do you know ? You 
 are but an idle English schoolboy. I know 
 your type. The pauvre grandpere, he tells 
 me when he conies back for the holidays 
 what a life it is you lead him ! You only 
 think to " shirk work " — that is your Eno-lish 
 slang — not do it. T — oh, I have never enough 
 to do !' 
 
 ' Haven't you V said Basil in surprise. 
 * By Jove ! what a rum idea ! I wish you'd 
 do some of mine.' 
 
 The small fury regarded him with supreme 
 contempt. 
 
 'What will you do with your life, your 
 future, mon petit msieu T she asked scorn- 
 fully. ' You will have to think of that. 
 The battle is not always to the strong, though 
 you think so.' 
 
 'My ideas on that subject are of the 
 vaguest,' laughed Basil. ' I should like to be 
 
248 ' The Lachje Nancye: 
 
 a great hunter or explorer. One doesn't 
 need book-learning for that — certainly not 
 classics or mathematics.' 
 
 ' You would want to know the science and 
 laws of measurement even if you were an 
 explorer,' said the girl decidedly. ^ How 
 can you talk such hetise T 
 
 ' What a little termagant you are !' said 
 the boy coolly. ^ You pitch into me worse 
 than Mrs. Freere does.' 
 
 Her eyes turned to me in a half-apology. 
 
 ' Am I not right, madame V she said. 
 * Is it not a sin to be idle, and to waste 
 opportunities V 
 
 ^ Most decidedly/ I answered ; ^ and one 
 can never know too much. I agree with 3^ou 
 there. It must be satisfactory to work up to 
 the highest improvable point if you have an 
 ambition.' 
 
 'All lives should have that,' she said 
 decidedly. 
 
 ' Well, I have told you mine,' laughed 
 Basil. * We can't all have the same. It 
 would be a waste of money to send me to 
 
Penance, 249 
 
 college. Now you, mademoiselle, would 
 appreciate it. So will Stewart. He wants 
 to be a clergyman. I — oh, give me life, air, 
 space, liberty — better things than books, any 
 day.' 
 
 ' Do you think so V she asked with evident 
 contempt. * That is the opinion of the 
 animal world also.' 
 - Basil coloured. 
 
 ' Then it shows their wisdom,' he said, 
 rising, and marching off to the edge of the cliff. 
 
 The girl turned to Stewart. 
 
 ' And so you want to be a clergyman,' she 
 said. ' I have often wondered what an 
 English clergyman was like.' 
 
 The naivete of the speech and her grave, 
 intent survey of the boy were delicious. I 
 laughed outright. 
 
 ' My dear,' I said, ' Stewart will probably 
 change his mind a dozen times before he 
 decides on a career. A boy's nature matures 
 more slowly than a girl's. Haven't you dis- 
 covered that V 
 
 * I do not know any boys,' she said. 'I have 
 
250 ^ Tlie Ladjie Ncmn/e.' 
 
 only old people as acquaintances, and one or 
 two priests. Grandmere does not visit or 
 entertain ; she says she is too old.' 
 
 ' Your life must be awfully dull,' said 
 Stewart compassionately. 
 
 ' I have my books/ she said gravely. * I 
 am never dull with them.' 
 
 A little stir, a sudden exclamation, made 
 me look round here. I saw that Nancette- 
 was very pale and agitated. I rose quickly 
 and went over to her side. 
 
 'Are you ill? What is it?' I asked 
 hurriedly. 
 
 * Madame is fatigued — she is faint,' said the 
 old Frenchman with deep concern. * The 
 walk has been too long for her.' 
 
 ' No, it is nothing. I am quite well,' said 
 Nancette. 
 
 The colour came back to her face and lips. 
 She smiled at my anxious looks, then rose to 
 her feet and took my arm. 
 
 ' I think we ousfht to be returninof,' she 
 said. ' See, the sun has set, and it is a long 
 walk.' 
 
Penance. 251 
 
 The old Frenchman turned away to call his 
 granddaughter and the boys. For a moment 
 Nancette and I were alone and out of ear- 
 shot. 
 
 ' What was it?' I asked her anxiously. 
 
 ' Do you remember,' she said, * in one of 
 Basil's letters that he said ''St. Jean " was 
 not his French master's real name ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; has he told you itf 
 
 * He has told me enough,' she said. ' I am 
 sure — I am convinced — that he is Pierre de 
 Volens's father.' 
 
 * Good heavens f I cried ; ' and the child V 
 She shuddered, and turned pale. 
 
 ' T do not know/ she said hoarsely ; ' I 
 dared not ask.^ 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 B1LL1^G AND SON'S, PRIXTBR.S, GUIl.DFURD. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 084213526