^^^^SO 
 
 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 H grotjci. 
 
 MRS. HUNGERFORD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 MOLLY BAWN," "PHYLLIS," "A LIFE'S EEMORSE. 
 " HEK LAST THEOW," ETC.. ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO., 
 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 1891. 
 
PRINTED BY 
 
 KELLY AND CO., MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES ; 
 
 AND GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.C. 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 1 1 
 
 V.9 II. 16 
 
 ^ III 35 
 
 i ^^ 48 
 
 , V 65 
 
 VI. 81 
 
 VII 90 
 
 VIII. 105 
 
 '^ IX 122 
 
 X. 134 
 
 XI 152 
 
 ^ XII. 163 
 
 b 
 
 ^XIII. ....... 179 
 
 d^ XIV. 194 
 
 ^ XV 204 
 
 ^ XVI. ...... 216 
 
 ^ XVII. . . . .234 
 
 XVII J. 259 
 
APRILS LADY. 
 
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APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Must we part? or may I linger? 
 
 Wax the shadows, wanes the day." 
 Then, with voice of sweetest singer. 
 
 That hath all but died away, 
 ** Go," she said, but tightened finger. 
 
 Said articulately " Stay ! " 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "Philosophy triumphs easily over past and over future 
 evils, but present evils triumph over philosophy." 
 
 " A LETTER from my father," says Mr. 
 Monkton, flinging the letter in question across 
 the breakfast-table to his wife. 
 
 " A letter from Sir George ! " Her dark, 
 pretty face flushes crimson. 
 
 " And such a letter after eight years of 
 obstinate silence. There ! read it," says her 
 husband, contemptuously. The contempt is 
 all for the writer of the letter. 
 
 VOL. T, 1 
 
2 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 Mrs. Monkton taking it up, with a most 
 honest curiosity, that might ahnost be termed 
 anxiety, reads it through, and in turn flings 
 it from her as though it had been a scor- 
 pion. 
 
 " Never mind, Freddy ! " says she with a 
 great assumption of mdiiference that does not 
 hide from her husband the fact that her eyes 
 are full of tears. " Butter that bit of toast 
 for me before it is quite cold, and give Joyce 
 some ham. Ham, darling ? or an egg ? " to 
 Joyce, with a forced smile that makes her 
 charming face quite sad. 
 
 " Have you two been married eight whole 
 years ? " asks Joyce laymg her elbows on 
 the table, and starmg at her sister with an 
 astonished gaze. " It seems like yesterday ! 
 What a swmdler old Time is. To look at 
 Barbara, one would not believe she could have 
 been horn eight years ago." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " says Mrs. Monkton laugh- 
 ing, and lookmg as pleased as married women 
 — even the happiest — always do, when they 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 3 
 
 are told they look um-narried. " Why Tommy 
 is seven years old." 
 
 " Oh ! That's nothing ! " says Joyce airily, 
 turnmg her dark eyes, that are lovelier, if 
 possible, than her sister's, upon the sturdy 
 child who is sitting at his father's right hand. 
 *' Tommy, we all know, is much older than 
 his mother. Much more advanced ; more 
 learned in the wisdom of this world ; aren't 
 you. Tommy ? " 
 
 But Tommy, at this present moment, is 
 deaf to the charms of conversation, his young- 
 mind bemg nobly bent on proving to his sister 
 (a priceless treasure of six) that the salt-cellar 
 planted between them, belongs 7iot to her, 
 but to him ! This sounds reasonable, but the 
 difficulty hes m making Mabel believe it. 
 There comes the pause eloquent at last, and 
 then, I regret to say, the free fight ! 
 
 It might perhaps have been even freer, 
 but for the swift intervention of the paternal 
 relative, who, swooping down upon the two 
 belligerents witli a promptitude worthy of all 
 
 1—2 
 
4 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 praise, seizes upon his daughter and in spite 
 of her kicks, which are noble, removes her to 
 the seat on his left hand. 
 
 Thus separated hope springs within the 
 breasts of the lookers-on that peace may soon 
 be restored ; and indeed, after a sob or two 
 from Mabel, and a few passes of the most 
 reprehensible sort from Tommy (entirely of 
 the facial order), a great calm falls upon the 
 breakfast-room. 
 
 " When I was your age. Tommy," says 
 Mr. Monkton addressing his son, and striving 
 to be all that the orthodox parent ought to 
 be, "I should have been soundly whipped if 
 I had behaved to my sister as you have just 
 now behaved to yours ! " 
 
 " You haverCt a sister," says Tommy, after 
 which the argument falls flat. It is true, 
 Mr. Monkton is innocent of a sister, but how 
 did the little demon remember that so apropos. 
 
 "Nevertheless," says Mr. Monkton. "If I 
 had had a sister, I hioiv I should not have 
 been unkind to her." 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 5 
 
 " Then she'd have been unkind to you," 
 says Tommy, who is evidently not afraid to 
 enter upon a discussion of the rights and 
 wrongs of mankind with his paternal relative. 
 " Look at Mabel ! And I don't care what 
 she says," with a vindictive glance at the 
 angelic featured Mabel, who glares back at 
 him with infinite promise of a future settle- 
 ment of all their disputes in her ethereal eyes. 
 " 'Twas my salt-cellar, not hers ! " 
 
 " Ladies first — pleasure afterwards," says 
 his father somewhat idly. 
 
 "Oh Freddy!''^ says his wife. 
 
 " Seditious language, / call it," says 
 Jocelyne with a laugh. 
 
 " Eh ? " says Mr. Monkton. " Why what 
 on earth have I been saying, now. I quite 
 believed I was doing the heavy father to 
 perfection and teaching Tommy his duty." 
 
 "Mce duty," says Jocelyne, with a pre- 
 tence at indignation, that makes her charm- 
 ing face a perfect picture. " Teaching him 
 to reirard us as second best ! I like that." 
 
6 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 "Good Heavens ! did I give that im- 
 pression. I must have swooned," says Mr. 
 Monkton penitently. " When last m my 
 senses I thought I had been telling Tommy 
 that he deserved a good whij^ping ; and that 
 if good old Time could so manage as to make 
 me my own father, he would assuredly have 
 got it." 
 
 " Oh ! your father ! " says Mrs. Monkton 
 in a low tone ; there is enough expression in 
 it however to convey the idea to everyone 
 present that in her opinion her husband's 
 father would be guilty of any atrocity at a 
 moment's notice. 
 
 " Well, 'twas my salt-cellar," says Tommy 
 again stoutly, and as if totally undismayed 
 by the vision of the grandfatherly scourge 
 held out to him. After all we none of us 
 feel thmgs much, unless they come personally 
 home to us. 
 
 " Was it ? " says Mr. Monkton mildly. 
 " Do you know, I really quite fancied it was 
 
 mine." 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 7 
 
 " What ? " says Tommy, cocking his ear. 
 He, Hke his sister, is in a certain sense a 
 fraud. For Tommy has the face of a seraph 
 with the heart of a hardy Norseman. There 
 is nothing indeed that Tommy would not dare. 
 
 " Mine, you knoA\'," says his father, even 
 more mildly still. 
 
 " Xo, it wasn't," says Tommy with deci- 
 sion, " it was at my side of the table. Yours ^ 
 is over there." 
 
 " Thomas ! " says his father, with a rueful 
 shake of the head that signifies his resigna- 
 tion of the argument ; " it is mdeed a pity 
 that I am not like my father ! " 
 
 " Like him ! Oh ?2^," says Mrs. Monkton 
 emphatically, impulsively ; the latent dislike 
 to the family who had refused to recognize 
 her on her marriage with their son, taking 
 fire at this speech. 
 
 Her voice sounds almost hard — the gentle 
 voice, that in truth was only meant by Mother 
 N^ature to give expression to all things kind 
 and loving. 
 
8 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 She has leant a little forward and a swift 
 flush is dyeing her cheek. She is of all 
 women the youngest looking for her years ; 
 as a matron indeed she seems absurd. The 
 delicate bloom of girlhood seems never to 
 have left her, but — as though in love of her 
 beauty — has clung to her day by day. So 
 that now, when she has known eight years 
 of married life (and some of them deeply 
 tinctured with care — the cruel care that want 
 of money brings), she still looks as though 
 the morning of womanhood was as yet but 
 dawning for her. 
 
 And this is because love the beautifier went 
 with her all the way ! Hand in hand he 
 has travelled with her on the stony paths 
 that those who marry must undoubtedly 
 pursue. Never once had he let go his hold, 
 and so it is, that her lovely face has defied 
 Time (though after all that obnoxious Ancient 
 has not had yet much opportunity given him 
 to spoil it), and at twenty-five she looks but 
 a little older than her sister, who is just 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 9 
 
 eighteen, and seven years younger than 
 she is. 
 
 Her pretty soft grey Irish eyes, that are 
 as nearly not black as it is possible for them 
 to be, are still filled with the dews of 
 youth. Her mouth is red, and happy. Her 
 hair — so distinctly chestnut as to be almost 
 guilty of a shade of red in it here and there 
 — covers her dainty head in rippling masses, 
 that fall lightly forward, and rest upon a 
 brow, snow-white, and low and broad as any 
 Greek's might be. 
 
 She has spoken a little hurriedly, with some 
 touch of anger. But quick as the anger was 
 born, so quickly does it die. 
 
 " I shouldn't have said that, perhaps," says 
 she, sending a little tremulous glance at 
 her husband from behind the urn. " But I 
 couldn't help it. I can't hear to hear you 
 say you would like to be like him." 
 
 She smiles (a little, gentle, " don't-be- 
 angry-mth-me " smile, scarcely to be resisted 
 by any man, and certainly not by her husband, 
 
10 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 who adores her). It is scarcely necessary to 
 record this last fact, as all who run may read 
 it for themselves, but it saves time to put 
 it in black and white. 
 
 " But why not, my dear ? " says Mr. 
 Monkton, magisterially. " Surely, consider- 
 ing all things, you have reason to be deeply 
 grateful to Sir George. Why, then, abuse 
 him ? " 
 
 " Grateful ! To Sir George ! To your 
 father ! " cries his wife, hotly and quick, 
 and 
 
 " Freddy ! " from his sister-in-law brings 
 him to a full stop for a moment. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me," says he, thus 
 brought to bay, "that you have nothing to 
 thank Sir George for ? " He is addressing 
 his wife. 
 
 " l^othing, nothing ! " declares she, vehe- 
 mently, the remembrance of that last letter 
 from her husband's father that still lies, 
 within reach of her view, lending a suspicion 
 of passion to her voice 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 11 
 
 " Oh, my dear girl, consider I " says Mr. 
 Monkton, lively reproach in his tone. " Has 
 he not given you me^ the best husband in 
 Europe ? " 
 
 " Ah, what it is to be modest," says Joyce, 
 with her little quick brilliant laugh. 
 
 " Well, it's not true," says Mrs. Monkton, 
 who has laughed also, m spite of herself and 
 the soreness at her heart. " He did not 
 give you to me. You made me that gift 
 of your own free will. I have, as I said 
 before, nothing to thank him for." 
 
 " I always think he must be a silly old 
 man," says Joyce, which seems to put a fitting 
 termination to the conversation. 
 
 The silence that ensues annoys Tommy, 
 who dearly loves to hear the human voice 
 divine. As expressed by himself first, but 
 if that be impracticable, well then by some- 
 body else. Anything is better than dull 
 silence. 
 
 "Is he that ? " asked he, eagerly, of his 
 aunt. 
 
12 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 Though I speak of her as his aunt, I hope 
 it will not be misunderstood for a moment 
 that Tommy totally declines to regard her in 
 any reverential light whatsoever. A play- 
 mate, a close friend, a confidante, a useful 
 sort of person, if you will, but certainly not 
 an Aimt, in the general acceptation of that 
 term. From the very first year that speech 
 fell on them, both Mabel and he had refused 
 to regard Miss Kavanagh as anything but 
 a confederate in all their scrapes, a friend 
 to rejoice with in all their triumphs ; she 
 had never been Aunt, never, indeed, even so 
 much as the milder " Auntie " to them ; she 
 had been " Joyce," only, from the very com- 
 mencement of their acquaintance. The united 
 commands of both father and mother (feebly 
 enforced) had been insufficient to compel them 
 to address this most charming specimen of 
 girlhood by any grown up title. To them 
 their aunt was just such an one as themselves 
 — only, perhaps, a little more so. 
 
 A lovely creature, at all events, and lovable 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 13 
 
 as lovely. A little inconsequent, perhaps, at 
 times, but always amenable to reason, when 
 put into a corner, and full of the glad laughter 
 of youth. 
 
 "Is he what ? " says she, now returning 
 Tommy's eager gaze. 
 
 " The best husband in Europe. He says 
 he's that," with a doubtful stare at his 
 father. 
 
 "Why, the very best, of course," says Joyce, 
 nodding emphatically. " Always remember 
 that. Tommy. It's a good thing to he^ you 
 know. You'll want to be that, won't 
 you ? " 
 
 But if she has hojDcd to make a successful 
 appeal to Tommy's noble qualities (hitherto, 
 it must be confessed, carefully kept hidden), 
 she finds herself greatly mistaken. 
 
 " No, I won't," says that truculent person 
 distinctly. " I want to be a big general with 
 a cocked hat, and to kill people. I don't 
 want to be a husband at alL What's the 
 good of that ? " 
 
14 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " To pursue the subject would be to court 
 defeat," says Mr. Monkton meekly. He rises 
 from the table, and seemg him move, his 
 wife rises too. 
 
 " You are going to your study ? " asks 
 she, a little anxiously. He is about to say 
 " no " to this, but a glance at her face checks 
 him. 
 
 " Yes, come with me," says he instead, 
 answering the lovely silent appeal in her 
 eyes. That letter has no doubt distressed 
 her. She will be happier when she has talked 
 it over with him — they two alone. " As for 
 you, Thomas," says his father, " I'm quite 
 aware that you ought to be consigned to the 
 Donjon keep after your late behaviour, but 
 as we don't keep one on the premises, I let 
 you off this time. Meanwhile I haste to my 
 study to pen, with the assistance of your 
 enraged Mother, a letter to our landlord 
 that will induce him to add one on at once 
 to this building. After which we shall be 
 able to mcarcerate you at our pleasure (but 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 15 
 
 not at yours) on any and every hour of the 
 day." 
 
 " Who's Don John ? " asks Tommy, totally 
 unimpressed, but filled with lively memories 
 of those Spaniards and other foreign powers 
 who have unkindly made more difficult his 
 hateful lessons oiF and on. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 " No love lost between us." 
 
 " Well," says Mr. Monkton, turning to his 
 wife as tlie study (a rather nondescript 
 place) is reached. He has closed the door 
 and is now looking at her with a distinctly 
 quizzical light in his eyes, and in the smile 
 that parts his lips. " Now for it. Have 
 no qualms. I've been preparing myself all 
 through breakfast, and I think I shall sur- 
 vive it. You are gomg to have it out with 
 me, aren't you ? " 
 
 " Not with 3/oz^," says she, returning his 
 smile indeed, but famtly, and without heart, 
 " that horrid letter ! I felt I must talk of 
 it to someone, and " 
 
 " / was that mythical person. I quite 
 understand. I take it as a special com- 
 pliment." 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 17 
 
 " I know it is hard on you, but when I 
 am really vexed about anything, you know, 
 I always want to tell you all about it." 
 
 " I should feel it a great deal harder if 
 you dicMt want to tell me about it," says 
 he. He has come nearer to her and has 
 pressed her into a chair — a dilapidated 
 affair that if ever it had a best day has 
 forgotten it by now — and yet for all that 
 is full of comfort. " I am only sorry" — 
 movmg away again and leanmg against 
 the chimney piece — " that you should be so- 
 foolish as to let my father's absurd preju- 
 dices annoy you at this time of day." 
 
 " He will always have it in his power 
 to annoy me," says she quickly. " That,, 
 perhaps," with a little burst of feeling, "is. 
 why I can't forgive him. If I could forget, 
 or grow mdiiferent to it all, I should not 
 have this hurt feeling m my heart. But he 
 is your father, and though he is the most 
 unjust, the cruellest man on earth, I still hate 
 to think he should regard me as he does." 
 
 VOL. L 2 
 
IS APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 " There is one thing however you do for- 
 get," says Mr. Monkton gravely, " I don't 
 want to apologize for him, but I would re- 
 mind you that he has never seen you." 
 
 " That's only an aggravation of his offence," 
 her colour heightening ; " the very fact that 
 he should condemn me unseen, unheard, 
 adds to the wrong he has done me instead 
 of takmg from it." She rises abruptly and 
 .begins to pace up and down the room, the 
 hot Irish blood in her vems aiire. " No " — 
 with a little impatient gesture of her small 
 hand — " I canU sit still. Every pulse seems 
 throbbing. He has opened up all the old 
 
 w^ound, and " She pauses and then 
 
 turns upon her husband two lovely flash- 
 ing eyes. " Why, lohy should he suppose 
 that I am vulgar, lowly born, unfit to be 
 your wife ? " 
 
 " My darlmg girl, what can it matter 
 what he thmks ? A ridiculous headstrong 
 old man in one scale, and " 
 
 " But it does matter. 1 want to convince 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 19 
 
 Mm tliat I am not — not — what lie believes 
 me to be." 
 
 " Then come over to England and see 
 hmi." 
 
 " N^o — Xever ! I shall never go to Eng- 
 land. I shall stay in Ireland always. My 
 own land ; the land he despises ; the land 
 whose people he detests because he knows 
 nothing about them. It was one of his 
 chief objections to your marriage with me, 
 that I was an Irish girl ! " 
 
 She stops short, as though her wrath and 
 indignation and contempt is too much for 
 her. 
 
 " Barbara," says Monkton, very gently, 
 but with a certain reproach, " do you know 
 you almost make me think that you regret 
 our marriage ? " 
 
 " Xo, I don't," quickly. " If I talked 
 for ever I shouldn't be able to make you 
 
 think that. But " She turns to him 
 
 suddenly, and gazes at him through large 
 eyes that are heavy with tears. " I shall 
 
20 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 always be sorry for one thing, and that is 
 — that you first met me where you did." 
 " At your Aunt's ? Mrs. Burke's ? " 
 " She is not my Aunt," with a little 
 frown of distaste ; " she is nothing to me 
 so far as blood is concerned. Oh ! Freddy." 
 She stops close to him, and gives him 
 a grief- stricken glance. " I wish my j)oor 
 father had been alive when first you saw 
 me. That we could have met for the first 
 time in the old home. It was shabby — 
 faded" — her face palmg now with intense 
 emotion. " But you would have known at 
 once that it had been a fine old place, and 
 
 that the owner of it " She breaks down, 
 
 very shghtly, almost imperceptibly, but 
 Monkton understands that even one more 
 word is beyond her. 
 
 " That the owner of it, like St. Patrick, 
 came of decent people," quotes he with an 
 assumption of gaiety he is far from feeling. 
 " My good child, I don't want to see anyone 
 to know that of you. You carry the sign 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 21 
 
 manual. It is written in large characters 
 all over you." 
 
 " Yet I wish you had known me before 
 my father died," says she, her grief and 
 pride still unassuaged. " He was so unlike 
 everybody else. His manners were so lovely. 
 He was offered a Baronetcy at the end of 
 that Whiteboy business, on account of his 
 loyalty — that nearly cost him his life — but 
 he refused it, thinking the old name good 
 enough without a handle to it." 
 
 " Kavanagh, we all know, is a good name." 
 
 ''If he had accepted that title he would 
 have been as — the same — as your father." 
 There is defiance in this sentence. 
 
 " Quite the same ! " 
 
 " No, no, he would not," her defiance now 
 changes into a sorrowful honesty. " Your 
 father has been a Baronet for centuries^ my 
 father would have only been a Baronet for 
 a few years." 
 
 " For centuries ! " repeats Mr. Monkton 
 with an alarmed air. There is a latent sense 
 
22 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 of humour (or rather an appreciation of 
 humour) about him that hardly endears him 
 to the opposite sex. His wife, being Irish, 
 condones it, because she happens to under- 
 stand it, but there are moments, we all 
 know, when even the very best and most 
 appreciative women refuse to understand 
 anything. This is one of them. " Condemn 
 my father if you will," says Mr. Monkton, 
 " accuse him of all the crimes in the calen- 
 dar, but for my sake give up the belief that 
 he is the real and original Wandering Jew. 
 Debrett — Burke — either — of those immaculate 
 people will prove to you that my father 
 ascended his throne in " 
 
 " You can laugh at me if you like, 
 Freddy," says Mrs. Monkton with severity 
 tempered with dignity ; " but if you laughed 
 until this day month you couldn't make me 
 forget the things that make me unhappy." 
 
 " I don't want to," says Mr. Monkton, still 
 disgracefully frivolous. "7'??i one of the 
 things and yet " 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 23 
 
 " Don't ! " says his wife, so abruptly, and 
 with such an evident determination to give 
 way to mirth, coupled with an equally strong 
 determination to give way to tears, that he 
 at once lays down his arms. 
 
 " Go on then," says he, seating himself 
 beside her. She is not in the arm-chair now, 
 but on an ancient and respectable sofa that 
 gives ample room for the accommodation of 
 two ; a luxury denied by that old curmud- 
 geon the arm-chair. 
 
 "Well, it is this, Freddy. When I think 
 of that dreadful old woman Mrs. Burke, I 
 feel as though you thought she was a fair 
 sample of the rest of my family. But she 
 is not a sample ; she has nothing to do with 
 us. An uncle of my mother . married her, 
 because she was rich, and there her relation- 
 ship to us began and ended." 
 
 " Still " 
 
 "Yes, I know, you needn't remind me, it 
 seems burnt into my brain. I know she 
 took us in after my father's death, and 
 
24 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 covered me and Joyce with benefits when 
 we hadn't a penny in the world we could 
 call our own. I quite understand, indeed, 
 that we should have starved but for her, 
 and yet — yet — " passionately, " I cannot 
 forgive her for perpetually reminding us 
 that we had not that penny ! " 
 
 " It must have been a bad time," says 
 Monkton slowly. He takes her hand and 
 smoothes it lovingly between both of his. 
 
 " She was vulgar. That was not her fault ; 
 I forgive her that. What I can't forgive 
 her, is the fact that you should have met 
 me in her house." 
 
 " A httle unfair, isn't it ? " 
 
 "Is it ? You will ahvays now associate 
 me with her ! " 
 
 " I shan't indeed. Do you think I have, 
 up to this ? Nonsense ! A more absurd 
 amalgamation I couldn't fancy." 
 
 " She was not one of us," feverishly. " I 
 have never spoken to you about this, Freddy, 
 since that first letter your father wrote to 
 
APRIL'S LADl. 25 
 
 you, just after our marriage. You remem- 
 ber it ? And then, I couldn't explain some- 
 how — but now — this last letter has upset 
 me dreadfully ; I feel as if it was all different, 
 and that it was my duty to make you 
 aware of the real truth. Sir George thinks 
 of me as one beneath him ; that is not true. 
 He may have heard that I lived with Mrs. 
 Burke and that she was my aunt ; but if 
 my mother's brother chose to marry a woman 
 of no family, because she had money," — 
 contemptuously, "that might disgrace him^ 
 but would not make her kin to us. You 
 saw her, you — " lifting distressed eyes to 
 his — " You thought her dreadful, didn't 
 you ? " 
 
 "I have only had one thought about her. 
 That she was good to you in your trouble, 
 and that but for her, I should never have 
 met you." 
 
 " That is like you," says she gratefully, 
 yet impatiently. "But it isn't enough. I 
 want you to understand that she is quite 
 
26 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 unlike my own real people — my fatlier, who 
 was like a prince," throwing up her head, 
 " and my uncle, his brother." 
 
 " You have an uncle, then ? " with some 
 surprise. 
 
 " Oh no, had'' sadly. 
 
 "He is dead then?" 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so. You are wondering," 
 says she quickly, " that I have never spoken 
 to you of him or my father before. But I 
 could not. The thought that your family 
 objected to me, despised me, seemed to com- 
 pel me to silence. And you — you asked me 
 very httle." 
 
 " How could I, Barbara ? Any attempt 
 I made was repulsed. I thought it kinder 
 to " 
 
 "Yes — I was wrong. I see it now. But 
 I couldn't bear to explain myself. I told 
 you what I could about my father, and 
 that seemed to me sufficient. Your people's 
 determination to regard me as impossible, 
 tied my tongue." 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 27 
 
 "I don't believe it was that," says he 
 laughing, " I believe we were so happy 
 that we didn't care to discuss anything but 
 each other. Delightful subjects full of in- 
 finite variety ! We have sat so lightly to 
 the world all these years, that if my father's 
 letter had not come this morning I honestly 
 think we should never have thought about 
 him agam." 
 
 This is scarcely true, but he is bent on 
 giving her mind a happier turn if possible. 
 
 " What's the good of talking to me like 
 that, Freddy," says she reproachfully. " You 
 know one never forgets anything of that 
 sort. A slight I mean ; and from one's 
 own family. You are always thinking of 
 it ; you know you are." 
 
 "Well, not always my dear, certainly — " 
 says Mr. Monkton temporizing. " And if ever 
 I do give way to retrospection, it is to feel 
 indignant with both my parents." 
 
 " Yes ; and I don't want you to feel like 
 that. It must be dreadful, and it is my 
 
28 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 fault. When I think how I felt towards 
 my dear old dad, and my uncle — I " 
 
 "Well, never mind that. I've got you, 
 and without meaning any gross flattery, I 
 consider you worth a dozen dads. Tell me 
 about your uncle. He died ? " 
 
 " We don't know. He went abroad fifteen 
 years ago. He must be dead I think, be- 
 cause if he were alive, he would certainly 
 have written to us. He was very fond of 
 Joyce and me ; but no letter from him has 
 reached us for years. He was charming. I 
 wish you could have known him." 
 
 "So do I — if you wish it. But — " com- 
 ing over and sitting down beside her, "Don't 
 you think it is a little absurd, Barbara, 
 after all these years, to think it necessary 
 to tell me that you have good blood in 
 your veins ? Is it not a self-evident fact ; 
 and — one more word dearest — surely you 
 might do me the credit to understand that 
 I could never have fallen in love with any- 
 one who hadn't an ancestor or two." 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 29 
 
 " And yet your father " 
 
 " I know," rising to his feet, his brow 
 darkening. " Do you think I don't suffer 
 doubly on your account ? That I don't feel 
 the insolence of his behaviour toward you 
 fourfold ? There is but one excuse for him 
 and my mother, and that lies in their 
 terrible disappointment about my brother — 
 their eldest son." 
 
 " I know ; you have told me," begins she 
 quickly, but he interrupts her. 
 
 " Yes, I have been more open with you, 
 than you with me. / feel no pride where 
 you are concerned. Of course my brother's 
 conduct towards them is no excuse for their 
 conduct towards you, but when one has a 
 sore heart one is apt to be unjust, and 
 many other things. You know what a 
 heart-break he has been to the old people, 
 and is ! A gambler, a dishonourable gam- 
 bler ! " He turns away from her, and his 
 nostrils dilate a little ; his right hand grows 
 clenched. " Every spare penny they possess 
 
30 . APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 has been paid over to him or liis creditors, 
 and they are not overburdened with riches. 
 They had set their hearts on him, and all 
 their hopes, and when he failed them they 
 fell back on me. The name is an old one ; 
 money was wanted. They had arranged a 
 marriage for me, that would have been 
 worldly wise. I too disappointed them ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " she has sprung to her feet, 
 and is staring at him with horrihed 
 eyes. " A marriage ! There was someone 
 else ! You accuse me of want of candour, 
 and now, you — did you ever mention this 
 before ? " 
 
 " N'ow, Barbara, don't be the baby your 
 name implies,", says he, placing her firmly 
 back in her seat. " I dichit marry that 
 heiress, you know, which is proof positive 
 that I loved you, not her." 
 
 " But she — she — " she stammers and ceases 
 suddenly looking at him with a glance full 
 of question. Womanlike, everything has 
 given way to the awful thought, that this 
 
. APKIL'S LADY. : bl 
 
 unknown had not been unknown to liim, 
 and that perhaps he had admh^ed — loved 
 
 "Couldn't hold a candle to you," says he, 
 laughing in spite of himself at her expression 
 which mdeed, is nearly tragic. " You needn't 
 suffocate yourself with charcoal because of 
 her. She had made her pile, or rather her 
 father had, at Birmingham or elsewhere, I 
 never took the trouble to inquire, and she was 
 midoubtedly solid in every ivay, but I don't 
 care for the female giant, and so I — you 
 know the rest, I met you ; I tell you this only 
 to soften your heart if possible, towards these 
 lonely, embittered old people of mine." 
 
 " Do you mean, that when your brother 
 
 disappointed them, that they " she 
 
 pauses. 
 
 " Xo. They couldn't make me their heir. 
 The property is strictly entailed (what is left 
 of it) ; you need not make yourself miserable 
 imagmmg you have done me out of anything 
 more than their goodwill. George will in- 
 herit whatever he has left them to leave." 
 
32 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 "It is sadj" says she, with downcast 
 eyes. 
 
 " Yes. He has been a constant source of 
 annoyance to them ever since he left Eton." 
 
 " Where is he now ? " 
 
 " Abroad, I belie^^e. In Italy, somewhere, 
 or France — not far from a gaming table, 
 you may be sure. But I know nothing very 
 exactly, as he does not correspond with me, 
 and that letter of this morning is the first 
 I have received from my father for four 
 years." 
 
 " He must, indeed, hate me," says she, in 
 a low tone. " His elder son such a failure, 
 and you — he considers you a failure, too." 
 
 "Well, / don't consider myself so," says 
 he, gaily. 
 
 " They were in want of money, and you 
 — you married a girl without a penny." 
 
 " I married a girl who was in herself a 
 mine of gold," returns he, laying his hands 
 on her shoulders and giving her a little 
 shake. " Come, never mind that letter. 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 33 
 
 darling ; what does it matter, when all is 
 said and done ? " 
 
 " The first after all these years ; and the 
 last — you remember it ? It was terrible. 
 Am I unreasonable if I remember it ? " 
 
 " It was a cruel letter," says he slowly ; 
 " to forget it would be impossible, either for 
 you or me. But, as I said just now, how 
 does it affect us ? You have me, and I have 
 you ; and they, those foolish old people, they 
 
 have " He pauses abruptly, and then 
 
 goes on in a changed tone, " their me- 
 mories." 
 
 " Oh ! and sad ones ! " cries she, sharply, 
 as if hurt. "It is a terrible picture you 
 have conjured up. You and I so happy, 
 and they — Oh ! poor old people ! " 
 
 " They have wronged you — slighted you 
 — ill-treated you," says he, looking at her. 
 
 " But they are unhappy ; they must be 
 wretched always, about your brother, their 
 first child. Oh ! what a grief is theirs ! " 
 
 "What a heart is yours !^^ says he, draw- 
 
 VOL. I. 3 
 
34 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 ing her to him. " Barbara ! surely I shall 
 not die until they have met you, and learned 
 why I love you." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 " It was a lover and his lass 
 
 With a hey and a ho, and a hey-nonino ! 
 That o'er the green cornfield did pass 
 In the Spring-time, the only pretty ring-time, 
 
 When birds do sing hey-ding-a-ding, 
 
 Sweet lovers love the Spring." 
 
 Joyce is running through the garden, all the 
 sweet wild winds of heaven playing round 
 her. They are a little wild still. It is the 
 end of lovely May, but though languid sum- 
 mer is almost with us, a suspicion of her 
 more sparkling sister Spring fills all the 
 air. 
 
 Miss Kavanagh has caught up the tail of 
 her gown, and is flying as if for dear life. 
 Behind her come the foe, fast and furious. 
 Tommy, indeed, is now dangerously close 
 at her heels, armed with a ferocious -lookmg 
 garden fork, his face crimson, his eyes glow- 
 ing with the ardour of the chase ; ^label. 
 
36 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 mucli ill the background, is making a bad 
 third. 
 
 Miss Kavanagh is growing distinctly out 
 of breath. In another moment Tommy will 
 have her. By this time he has fully worked 
 himself into the belief that he is a Eed 
 Indian, and she his lawful prey, and is pre- 
 pared to make a tomahawk of his fork, and 
 having felled her, to scalp her somehow^ 
 when Providence shows her a corner round 
 a rhododendron bush that may save her 
 for the moment. She makes for it, gains it, 
 turns it, dashes round it, and all hut pre- 
 cipitates herself into the arms of a young 
 man who has been walkmg leisurely towards 
 her. 
 
 He is a tall young man, not strictly hand- 
 some, but decidedly good to look at, with 
 honest hazel eyes, and a shapely head, and 
 altogether very well set up. As a rule he 
 is one of the most cheerful people alive, and 
 a tremendous favourite in his regiment, the 
 Hussars, though just now it might sug- 
 
APEIL'S LADY. o7 
 
 gest itself to the intelligent observer that he 
 considers he has been hardly used. A very 
 little more haste, and that precipitation must 
 have taken place. He had made an in- 
 stinctive movement towards her with protec- 
 tive arms outstretched ; but though a little 
 cry had escaped her, she had maintained her 
 balance, and now stands looking at him with 
 laughing eyes, and panting breath, and two 
 pretty hands pressed against her bosom. 
 
 Mr. Dysart lets his disappointed arms fall 
 to his sides, and assumes the aggrieved air 
 of one who has been done out of a good 
 thing. 
 
 " You ! " says she, w^hen at last she can 
 speak. 
 
 " I suppose so," returns he, discontentedly. 
 He might just as well have been anyone else, 
 or anywhere else — such a chance — and gone ! 
 
 " IN'ever were you so welcome ! " cries she, 
 dodging behmd him as Tommy, fully armed, 
 and all alive, comes tearing round the corner. 
 " Ah, ha, Tommy, sold! I've got a champion 
 
38 APRIL'S LADY 
 
 now. I'm no longer shivering in my shoes. 
 Mr. Dysart will protect me — wont you, Mr. 
 Dysart ? " to the young man, who says 
 ^' yes " without stirring a muscle. The 
 heaviest bribe would not have induced him to 
 move, because, stonding behind him, she has 
 laid her dainty fingers on his shoulders, from 
 which safe position she mocks at Tommy 
 with security. Were the owner of the 
 shoulders to stir, the owner of the fingers 
 mio^ht remove those delio^htful members. 
 Need it be said that, with this awful possi- 
 bility before him, Mr. Dysart is prepared to 
 die at his post rather than budge an inch. 
 
 And, mdeed, death seems imminent. 
 Tommy charging round the rhododendron, 
 and finding himself robbed of his expected 
 scalp, grows frantic, and makes desperate 
 passes at Mr. Dysart's legs, which that hero, 
 bemg determined as I have said not to stir 
 under any provocation, circumvents with a 
 considerable display of policy, such as : 
 
 " I say. Tommy, old boy, is that you ? 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 39 
 
 How d'ye do ? Glad to see me, aren't 
 you ? " This last very artfully, with a view 
 to softening the attacks. " You don't know 
 what I've brought you ! " This is more 
 artful still, and distinctly a swmdle, as he 
 has brought him nothing, but on the spot 
 he determines to redeem himself with the 
 help of the small toy-shops and sweety 
 shops down in the village. " Put down that 
 fork hke a good boy, and let me tell you 
 how " 
 
 " Oh, bother you ! " says Tommy, in- 
 dignantly. " I'd have had her only for you ! 
 What brought you here now 1 Couldn't you 
 have waited a bit ? " 
 
 " Yes ! what brought you ? " says Miss 
 Kavanagh, most disgracefully gomg over to 
 the other side, now that danger is at an 
 end, and Tommy has planted his impromptu 
 tomahawk in a bed close by. 
 
 " Do you want to know ?" says he, quickly. 
 
 The fingers have been removed from his 
 shoulders, and he is now at liberty to turn 
 
40 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 round and look at the charming face beside 
 him. 
 
 " ]^o, no ! " says she, shaking her head. 
 " I've been rude, I suppose. But it is such 
 a wonderful thing to see you here so soon 
 again." 
 
 " Why should I not be here ? " 
 
 " Of course ! That is the one unanswer- 
 able question. But you must confess it is 
 puzzlmg to those who thought of you as 
 being elsewhere." 
 
 " If you are one of ' those ' you fill me 
 with gratitude. That you should think of 
 me even for a moment " 
 
 " Well, I haven't been thinking much," 
 says she, frankly, and with the most de- 
 lightful if scarcely satisfactory little smile ; 
 " I don't believe I was thinking of you at 
 all, until I turned the corner just now, and 
 then, I confess, I was startled, because I 
 believed you to be at the Antipodes." 
 
 " Perhaps your belief was mother to your 
 thought." 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 41 
 
 " Oh, no. Don't make rae out so nasty. 
 Well, but icere you there ? " 
 
 "Perhaps so. AVhere are they?" asks he 
 gloomily. " One hears a good deal about 
 them, but they comprise so many places 
 that nowadays one is hardly sure where they 
 exactly lie. At all events, no one has made 
 them clear to me." 
 
 " Does it rest with me to enlighten you ? " 
 asks she, with a little aggravating half 
 glance from under her long lashes. " Well 
 — the North Pole, Kamtschatka, Smyrna, 
 Timbuctoo, Maoriland, Margate " 
 
 " We'll stop there I thmk," says he, with 
 a faint grimace. 
 
 " There ! At Margate ? No, thanks. 
 You can, if you like but as for me " 
 
 " I don't suppose you would stop any- 
 where with me," says he. "I have 
 occasional glimmerings that I hope mean 
 common sense. No, I have not been so 
 adventurous as to wander towards Margate. 
 I have only been to town and back again.' 
 
42 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 " What town ? " 
 
 " Eh ? What town ? " says he, astonished. 
 " London, you know." 
 
 "No, I don't know," says Miss Kavanagh, 
 a little petulantly. " One would think there 
 was only one town in the world, and that 
 all you English people had the monopoly of 
 it. There are other towns, I suppose. Even 
 we poor Irish insignificants have a town or 
 two. Dublm comes under that head, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " Undoubtedly. Of course, ^^ making great 
 haste to abase himself. "It is mere snob- 
 bery our making so much of London. A 
 kind of despicable cant, you know." 
 
 " Well, after all, I expect it is a big 
 place in every way," says Miss Kavanagh, 
 so far mollified by his submission as to be 
 able to allow him something. 
 
 " It's a desert," says Tommy, turning to 
 his aunt, with all the air of one who is 
 about to impart to her useful information. 
 " It's ragmg with wild beasts. They roam 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 43 
 
 to and fro and are at their wits' end " 
 
 here Tommy, who is great on Bible history, 
 but who occasionally gets mixed, stops short. 
 " Father says they're there," he winds up 
 defiantly. 
 
 " Wild beasts ! " echoes Mr. Dysart, be- 
 wildered. " Is this the teaching about their 
 Saxon neighbours that the Irish children 
 recaive at the hands of their parents and 
 guardians. Oh, well, come now, Tommy, 
 really, you know " 
 
 " Yes ; they are there," says Tommy, 
 rebelliously. " Frightful beasts ! Bears I 
 They'd tear you m bits if they could get at 
 you. They have no reason in them, father 
 says. And they climb up posts, and roar at 
 people." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! " says Mr. Dysart. " One 
 would think we were havmg a French Revo- 
 lution all over agam in England. Don't you 
 think," glancing rather severely at Joyce, 
 who is giving way to unrestrained mirth, 
 "that it is not only wrong, but dangerous, 
 
44 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 to implant such ideas about tlie English in 
 the breasts of Irish children ? There isn't a 
 word of truth in it, Tommy." 
 
 " There is ! " says Monkton, junior, wag- 
 ging his head indignantly. " Father told 
 me." 
 
 " Father told us," repeats the small Mabel, 
 who has just come up. 
 
 " And father says, too, that the reason 
 they are so wicked is because they want 
 their freedom ? " says Tommy, as though 
 this is an unanswerable argument. 
 
 " Oh, I see ! The Socialists ! " says Mr. 
 Dysart. " Yes ; a troublesome pack ! But 
 still, to call them wild beasts " 
 
 " They are wild beasts," says Tommy, 
 prepared to defend his position to the last. 
 " They've got manes, and horns, and tails ! " 
 
 " He's romancing," says Mr. Dysart, look- 
 ing at Joyce. 
 
 " He's not," says she demurely. " He is 
 only trying to describe to you the Zoo- 
 logical Gardens. His father gives him a 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 45 
 
 graphic description of them every evening, 
 and — the result you see." 
 
 Here both she and he, after a glance at 
 each other, burst out laughing, 
 
 " Xo wonder you were amused," says he, 
 " but you might have given me a hint. 
 You were unkmd to me — as usual." 
 
 " Now that you have been to London," 
 says she, a little hurriedly, as if to cover 
 his last words and pretend she hasn't heard 
 them, " you will find our poor Ireland duller 
 than ever. At Christmas it is not so bad, 
 but just now^ and in the height of your 
 ■season, too " 
 
 " Do you call this place dull ? " interrupts 
 he. " Then let me tell you you misjudge 
 your native land ; this little bit of it, at all 
 events. I think it not only the lovehest, 
 but the liveliest place on earth." 
 
 " You are easily pleased," says she, with 
 a rather embarrassed smile. 
 
 " He isn't ! " says Tommy, breaking into 
 the conversation with great aplomb. He 
 
46 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 has been holding on vigorously to Mr. 
 Dysart's right hand for the last five minutes, 
 after a brief but brilliant skirmish with 
 Mabel as to the possession of it — a skirmish 
 brought to a bloodless conclusion by the sur- 
 render, on Mr. Dysart's part, of his left hand 
 to the weaker belligerent. " He hates Miss 
 Maliphant, nurse says, though Lady Balti- 
 more wants him to marry her, and she's a 
 fine girl, nurse says, an' raal smart, and with 
 the gift o' the gab, an' lots o' tin " 
 
 " Tommy ! " says his aunt frantically. It 
 is indeed plam to everybody that Tommy is 
 now quoting nurse, au nature!^ and that he 
 is betraying confidences in a perfectly reck-- 
 less manner. 
 
 " Don't stop him," says Mr. Dysart, glanc- 
 ing at Joyce's crimson cheeks with some- 
 thing of disfavour. " ' What's Hecuba to 
 me, or I to Hecuba ? ' I defy you," a little 
 stormily, " to think I care a farthing for 
 Miss Maliphant or for any other woman on 
 earth — save one ! " 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 47 
 
 " Oh, you mustn't press your confidences 
 on me," says she, smiling and dissembling 
 rather finely ; " I know nothmg. I accuse 
 you of nothing. Only, Tommy, you were a 
 little rude, weren't you ? " 
 
 " I wasn't," says Tommy promptly, in 
 whom the inborn instinct of self-defence has 
 been largely developed. " It's true. Nurse 
 says she has a voice like a cow. Is that 
 true ? " turning, unabashed, to Dysart. 
 
 " She's expected at the Court next week. 
 You shall come up and judge for yourself," 
 says he laughing. " And," turning to Joyce, 
 "you will come too, I hope." 
 
 "It is manners to wait to be asked," 
 returns she smiling. 
 
 " Oh, as for that," says he, " Lady Balti- 
 more crossed last night with me and her 
 husband. And here is a letter for you." 
 He pulls a note of the cocked hat order out 
 of one of his pockets. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Tell me where is fancy bred, 
 Or in the heart, or in the head ? 
 How begot, how nourished ? 
 Reply, reply." 
 
 " An invitation from Lady Baltimore," says 
 Joyce, looking at the big red crest, and 
 colouring slightly. 
 ■ "Yes." 
 
 " How do you know ? " asks she, rather 
 suspiciously. 
 
 ■ The young man raises his hands and 
 eyes. 
 
 " I swear I had nothing to do with it," 
 says he; "I didn't so much as hint at it. 
 Lady Baltimore spent her time crossing the 
 Channel in declaring to all who were well 
 enough to hear her, that she lived only in 
 the expectation of soon seeing you again." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " scornfully ; " it is only a 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 49 
 
 montli ago since I was staying there, just 
 before they went to London. By the bye, 
 what brings them home now ? In the very 
 beginning of their season?" 
 
 "/don't know. And it is as well not to 
 enquire perhaps. Baltimore and my cousin, 
 as all the world knows, have not hit it oiF 
 together. Yet when Isabel married him, we 
 all thought it was quite an ideal marriage, 
 they were so much in love with each 
 other." 
 
 " Hot love soon cools," says Miss Kavanagh 
 
 in a general sort of ^s 
 
 t) 
 
 ^ay. 
 
 " I don't believe it," sturdily, '' if it's the 
 right sort of love. However, to go back to 
 your letter — which you haven't even deigned 
 to open — you will accept the invitation, won't 
 you?" 
 
 " I don't know," hesitating. 
 
 " Oh ! I say, do come ! It is only for a 
 week, and even if it does bore you, still, 
 as a Christian you ought to consider how 
 much, even in that short time, you will be 
 
 VOL. I. 4 
 
50 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 able to add to the happiness of your fellow 
 creatures." 
 
 " Flattery means insincerity," says she, 
 tilting her chin, "keep all that sort of thing 
 for your Miss Maliphant ; it is thrown away 
 upon me." 
 
 "i¥y Miss Maliphant ! Really I must 
 protest against your accrediting me with such 
 a possession. But look here, don't disappoint 
 us all ; and you won't be dull either, there 
 are lots of people coming. Dicky Browne 
 for one." 
 
 " Oh ! will he be there ? " brightening 
 visibly. 
 
 " Yes," rather gloomily, and perhaps a 
 little sorry that he has said anything about 
 Mr. Browne's possible arrival — though to feel 
 jealousy about that social butterfly is indeed 
 to sound the depths of folly; "you like 
 him ? " 
 
 " I love him," says Miss Kavanagh promptly 
 and with sufficient enthusiasm to restore hope 
 in the bosom of any man except a lover. 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 51 
 
 "He is blessed indeed," says lie stiffly. 
 " Beyond his deserts I cannot help thinking. 
 I really think he is the biggest fool I ever 
 met." 
 
 " Oh ! not the biggest, surely," says she, 
 so saucily, and with such a reprehensible 
 tendency towards laughter, that he gives way 
 and laughs too, though unwillingly. 
 
 " True. I'm a bigger," says he, " but as 
 that is your fault, you should be the last to 
 taunt me with it." 
 
 " Foolish people always talk folly," says 
 she with an assumption of indifference that 
 does not hide her red cheeks. "Well, go on, 
 who is to be at the Court besides Dicky ? " 
 
 " Lady Swansdown." 
 
 "I like her too." 
 
 " But not so well as you like Dicky, you 
 love him according to your own statement." 
 
 " Don't be matter-of-fact ! " says Miss 
 Kavanagh, giving him a well-deserved snub. 
 " Do you always say exactly what you 
 mean ? " 
 
52 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 '' i\.lways — to youy 
 
 " I daresay you would be more interesting 
 if you didn't," says she, with a little, lovely 
 smile, that quite spoils the harshness of her 
 words. Of her few faults, perhaps the great- 
 est is that she seldom knows her own mind, 
 where her lovers are concerned, and will 
 blow hot and cold, and merry and sad, and 
 cheerful and petulant, all in one breath as 
 it were. Poor lovers ! they have a hard 
 time of it with her as a rule. But youth is 
 often so, and the cold still years, as they 
 creep on us, with dull common sense and 
 deadly reason in their train, cure us all too 
 soon of our pretty idle follies. 
 
 Just now she was bent on rebuffing him, 
 but you see her strength failed her, and she 
 spoiled her effect by the smile she mingled 
 with the rebuff'. The smile indeed was so 
 charming, that he remembers nothing but it, 
 and so she not only gains nothing, but loses 
 somethmg to the other side. 
 
 " Well, I'll try to mend all that," says he, 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 53 
 
 but SO lovingly, and with such unaffected 
 tenderness that she quails beneath his glance. 
 Coquette as undoubtedly l^ature has made 
 her, she has still so gentle a soul within her 
 bosom that she shrinks from inflictmg actual 
 pain. A pang or two, a passing regret to 
 be forgotten the next hour — or at all events 
 in the next change of scene — she is not above 
 imparting, but when people grow earnest 
 like — like Mr. Dysart for example — they 
 grow troublesome. And she hasn't made up 
 her mmd to marry, and there are other 
 people 
 
 " The Clontarfs are to be there too," goes 
 on Dysart, who is a cousin of Lady Balti- 
 more's, and knows all about her arrange- 
 ments ; " and the Brownings, and Norman 
 Beauclerk." 
 
 " The — Clontarfs," says Joyce, in a hurried 
 way, that might almost be called confused ; 
 to the man who loves her, and who is watch- 
 ing her, it is quite plain that she is not 
 thinking of Lord and Lady Clontarf, who 
 
54 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 are quite an ordinary couple and devoted to 
 each other, but of that last name spoken — 
 Norman Beauclerk ; Lady Baltimore's brother, 
 a man, handsome, agreeable, aristocratic — the 
 man whose attentions to her a month ago, 
 had made a little topic for conversation 
 amongst the country people. Dull country 
 people, who never go anywhere or see any- 
 thing beyond their stupid selves, and Avho 
 are therefore driven to do somethmg or 
 other to avoid suicide or the murdermg of 
 each other ; gossip unlimited, is their safety 
 valve. 
 
 " Yes, and Beauclerk," persists Dysart, a 
 touch of despair at his heart ; " you and 
 he were good friends when last he was over, 
 eh?" 
 
 " I am generally very good friends with 
 everybody ; not an altogether desirable char- 
 acter, not a strong one," says she smiling, and 
 still openly parrymg the question. 
 
 " You liked Beauclerk," says he, a little 
 doggedly perhaps. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. £5 
 
 " Ye — es — very well." 
 
 " Yery much ! Why can't you be honest ! " 
 says lie flashing out at her. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," coldly. 
 " If, however, you persist on my looking 
 into it, I — " defiantly — " yes, I do like Mr. 
 Beauclerk very much." 
 
 " Well, I don't know what vou see in 
 
 you 
 
 that fellow." 
 
 " Nothing," airily, having now recovered 
 herself, "that's his charm." 
 
 "If," gravely, " you gave that as your 
 opinion of Dicky Browne I could believe 
 
 you." 
 
 She laughs. 
 
 " Poor Dicky," says she, " what a cruel 
 judgment ; and yet you are right ; " she 
 has changed her whole manner and is now 
 evidently bent on restoring him to good 
 humour, and compelling him to forget all 
 about Mr. Beauclerk. " I must give in to 
 you about Dicky. There isn't even the 
 vaoTiest suo^o^estion of meanino- about him. 
 
56 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 I — " with a deliberate friendly glance flung 
 straight into liis eyes — " don't often give 
 in to you, do I ? " 
 
 On this occasion, however, her coquetry — 
 so generally successful — is completely thrown 
 away. Dysart with his dark eyes fixed un- 
 compromisingly upon hers, makes the next 
 move — an antagonistic one. 
 
 " You have a very high opinion of 
 Beauclerk," says he. 
 
 " Have I ? " laughing uneasily, and refusing 
 to let her rising temper give way. " We 
 all have our opinions, on every subject that 
 comes under our notice. You have one on 
 this subject evidently." 
 
 " Yes, but it is not a high one," says he 
 unpleasantly. 
 
 " After all, what does that matter ? I 
 don't pretend to understand you, I will only 
 suggest to you that our opinions are but 
 weak things — mere prejudices — no more." 
 
 " I am not prejudiced against Beauclerk if 
 you mean that," a little hotly. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 57 
 
 "I didn't," with a lio^ht shruo;. "Believe 
 me, you think a great deal more about him 
 than I do." 
 
 " Are you sure of that ? " 
 
 " I am at all events sure of one thing," 
 says she quickly, darting at him a frowning 
 glance, " that you have no right to ask me 
 that question." 
 
 " I have not indeed," acknowledges he 
 stiffly still, but with so open an apology in 
 his whole air that she forgives him. " Many 
 conflicting thoughts led me astray. I must 
 ask your pardon." 
 
 " Why, granted ! " says she. " And — I 
 was cross, wasn't I ? After all an old friend 
 like you might be allowed a little laxity. 
 There, never mind," holding out her hand. 
 " Let us make it up." 
 
 Dysart grasps the little extended hand 
 with avidity, and peace seems restored when 
 Tommy puts an end to all things. To any- 
 one acquainted with children I need hardly 
 remark that he has been listening to the 
 
58 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 foregoing conversation with all his ears and 
 all his eyes and every bit of his puzzled 
 mtelligence. 
 
 " Well, go on," says he, giving his aunt 
 a push when the friendly hand- shake has 
 come to an end. 
 
 " Go on ? Where ? " asks she, with ap- 
 parent unconcern but a deadly foreboding at 
 her breast. She knows her Tommy. 
 
 " You said you were going to make it up 
 with him ! " says that hero, regarding her 
 with disapproving eyes. 
 
 " AVell, I have made it up." 
 
 '' Ko you haven't ! when you make it up 
 with me you always kiss me ! Why don't 
 you kiss him ? " 
 
 Consternation on the part of the principal 
 actors. Dysart, strange to say, is the first 
 to recover. 
 
 " Why, indeed ? " says he, giving way all 
 at once to a fatal desire for laughter. This, 
 Miss Kavanagh, being vexed with herself for 
 her late confusion, resents strongly. 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 59 
 
 " I am sure, Tommy," says she, with a 
 mildness that would not have imposed upon 
 an infant, " that your lesson hour has arrived. 
 Come, say good-bye to Mr. Dysart, and let 
 us begin at once. You know I am going 
 to teach you to-day. Good-bye, Mr. Dysart 
 — if you want to see Barbara, you will find 
 her very probably in the study." 
 
 " Don't go like this," says he anxiously. 
 "Or if you ivill go at least tell me that you 
 will accept Lady Baltimore's invitation." 
 
 " I don't know," smilmg coldly. " I think 
 not. You see I was there for such a long 
 time in the beginning of the year, and 
 Barbara always wants me, and one should 
 not be selfish, you know." 
 
 " One should not, indeed ! " says he, with 
 slow meanmg. " What answer then, must 
 I give my cousin ? You know," in a Ioav 
 tone, " that she is not altogether happy. 
 You can lighten her burden a little. She 
 is fond of you." 
 
 " I can lio'hten Barbara's burden also. 
 
CO APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 Think me the very incarnation of selfishness 
 if you will," says she rather unjustly, "but 
 still, if Barbara says ' don't go,' I shall stay 
 here." 
 
 "Mrs. Monkton won't say that." 
 " Perhaps not," toying idly with a rose, 
 in such a careless fashion as drives him to 
 despair. Brushing it to and fro across her 
 lips she seems to have lost all interest in the 
 question m hand. 
 
 " If she says to you ' go,' how then ? " 
 
 " Why then — I may still remain here." 
 
 " Well stay then, of course, if you so 
 
 desire it ! " cries he angrily. " If to make 
 
 all your world 2/;2happy, is to make you 
 
 happy, why be so by all means." 
 
 " All my world ! Do you suppose then 
 that it will make Barbara and Freddy 
 unhappy to have my company ? What a 
 gallant speech ! " says she, with a provoking 
 little laugh and a swift lifting of her eyes 
 to his. 
 
 " ]^o, but it will make other people (more 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 61 
 
 than twice two) miserable to be deprived of 
 if?" 
 
 " Are you one of tliat quartette ? " asks 
 she, so saucily, yet withal so merrily that 
 the hardest-hearted lover might forgive her. 
 A little irresistible laugh breaks from her 
 lips. Rather ruefully he joins in it. 
 
 " I don't think I need answer that question," 
 says he. " To you at all events." 
 
 "To me of all people rather," says she 
 still laughing, " seeing I am the interested 
 party." 
 
 " Xo, that character belongs to me. You 
 have no mterest in it. To me it is life or 
 death — to you " 
 
 " Xo, no, you mustn't talk to me like 
 that. You know I forbid you last time 
 we met, and you promised me to be good." 
 
 " I promised then the most difficult thing 
 in the world. But never mind me ; the 
 principal thing is, your acceptance or rejec- 
 tion of that note. Joyce ! " m a low tone. 
 " Say you will accept it." 
 
62 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Well," relenting visibly, and now re 
 fusing to meet his eyes. " I'll ask Barbara, 
 and if she says I may go I " pause. 
 
 " You will then accept ? " eagerly. 
 
 " I shall then — think about it." 
 
 " You look like an angel," says he, 
 " and you have the heart of a flint." 
 
 This remark, that might have presumably 
 annoyed another girl, seems to fill Miss 
 Kavanagh with mirth. 
 
 " Am I so bad as that ? " cries she gaily. 
 " Why, I shall make amends then. I shall 
 change my evil ways. As a beginning, see 
 here. If Barbara says go to the Court, go I 
 will. Now, stern moralist ! where are you ?" 
 
 " In the seventh heaven," says he promptly. 
 "Be it a Fool's Paradise or otherwise, I 
 shall take up my abode there for the present. 
 And now you will go and ask Mrs. 
 Monkton ? " 
 
 " In what a hurry to get rid of me ! " 
 says this coquette of all coquettes. " Well, 
 good-bye then " 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 63 
 
 " Oh no, don't go." 
 
 " To the Court ? Was ever man so 
 unreasonable ? In one breath ' do,' and 
 ' don't ' ! " 
 
 " Was ever woman so tormenting ? " 
 
 " Tormentmg ? Xo, so discerning if you 
 will, or else so " 
 
 " Adorable ! You can't find fault with 
 that at all events." 
 
 " And therefore my mission is at an end ! 
 Good-bye again." 
 
 " Good-bye." He is holding her hand as 
 though he never means to let her have it 
 again. " That rose," says he pointing to 
 the flower that has kissed her lips so often. 
 "It is nothing to you, you can pick yourself 
 another, give it to me." 
 
 " I can pick you another too, a nice fresh 
 one," says she. " Here," moving towards 
 a glowing bush ; " here is a bud worth 
 having." 
 
 "Xot that one," hastily. "Not one this 
 garden, or any other garden holds, save the 
 
64 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 one ill your hand. It is the only one in the 
 world of roses worth having." 
 
 "I hate to give a faded gift," says she, 
 looking at the rose she holds with apparent 
 disfavour. 
 
 " Then I shall take it," returns he with 
 decision. He opens her pretty pink palm, 
 releases the dying rosebud from it and places 
 it triumphantly in his coat. 
 
 " You haven't got any manners," says 
 she, but she laughs again as she says it. 
 " Except bad ones you should add." 
 " Yes, I forgot that. A point lost. Good- 
 bye now, good-bye indeed." 
 
 She waves her hand lightly to him and 
 calling to the children runs towards the house. 
 It seems as if she has carried all the beauty 
 and brightness and sweetness of the day 
 with her. 
 
 As Dysart turns back agam, the afternoon 
 appears grey and gloomy. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 " Look ere thou leap, see ere thou go." 
 
 " Well, Barbara, can I go ? " 
 
 " I don't know " — doubtfully. There is a 
 cloud on Mrs. Monkton's brow, she is star- 
 ing out of the window instead of into her 
 sister's face, and is evidently a little dis- 
 tressed or uncertain. " You have been there 
 so lately, and " 
 
 " You want to say somethmg," says 
 the younger sister, seating herself on 
 the sofa, and drawing Mrs. Monkton 
 down beside her. " Why don't you do 
 it?" 
 
 " You can't want to go so very much, 
 can you now ? " asks the latter anxiously, 
 almost entreatmgly. 
 
 "I is I who don't know this time ! " says 
 Joyce, with a smile. " And yet " 
 
 VOL. I. 5 
 
66 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " It seems only like yesterday tliat you 
 came back after spending a month there." 
 
 " A yesterday that dates from six weeks 
 ago," a little reproachfully. 
 
 " I know. You like being there. It is 
 a very amusing house to be at. I don't 
 blame you in any way. Lord and Lady 
 Baltimore are both charming in their own 
 ways, and very kind, and yet " 
 
 " There, don't stop ; you are coming to 
 it now, the very heart of the meaning. 
 Go on," authoritatively, and seizing her 
 sister in her arms, " or I'll shake it out of 
 you." 
 
 "It is this then," says Mrs. Monkton 
 slowly. " I don't think it is a wise thing 
 for you to go there so often." 
 
 " Oh Barbara ! Owl of Wisdom as thou 
 art, why not ? " The girl is laughing, yet 
 a deep flush of colour has crept into each 
 cheek. 
 
 " Never mind the why not. Perhaps it 
 is unwise to go (.uiyivhere too often ; and 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 67 
 
 you must acknowledge that you spent almost 
 the entire spring there." 
 
 " Well, I hinted all that to Mr. Dysart." 
 
 " Was he here ? " 
 
 " Yes. He came down from the Court 
 with the note." 
 
 " And — who else is to be there ? " 
 
 " Oh ! the Clontarfs, and Dicky Browne, and 
 Lady Sivansdown and a great many others." 
 
 " Mr. Beauclerk ? " she does not look at 
 Joyce as she asks this question. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 A little silence follows, broken at last by 
 Joyce. 
 
 " May I go ? " 
 
 "Do you think it is the best thing for 
 you to do ? " says Mrs. Monkton flushing 
 delicately. " Think, darling ! You know 
 — you must know, because you have it al- 
 ways before you," flushing even deeper, " that 
 to marry into a family where you are not 
 welcomed with open heart, is to know much 
 private discomfiture. ' ' 
 
68 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " I know this too," says the girl petulantly, 
 "that to be married to a man like Freddy, 
 who consults your lightest wish, and is your 
 lover always, is worth the enduring of any- 
 thing." 
 
 " I think that too," says Mrs. Monkton, 
 who has now grown rather pale. " But 
 there is still one more thing to know — that 
 in making such a marriage as we have 
 described, a woman lays out a thorny path 
 for her husband. She separates him from 
 his family, and as all good men have strong 
 home ties, she naturally compels him to feel 
 many a secret pang." 
 
 " But he has his compensations. Do }'ou 
 thmk if Freddy got the chance, he would 
 give you up and go back to his family ? " 
 
 "No — not that. But to rejoice in that 
 thought is to be selfish. Why should he 
 not have my love and the love of his people 
 too ? There is a want somewhere. What 
 I wish to impress upon you, Joyce, is this, 
 that a woman who marries a man against 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 69 
 
 Ms parents' wishes lias much to regret, much 
 to endure." 
 
 " I thmk you are ungrateful," says the 
 girl a little vehemently. " Freddy has made 
 you endure nothing. You are the happiest 
 married woman I know." 
 
 " Yes, but I have made him endure a 
 great deal," says Mrs. Monkton in a low 
 tone. She rises, and going to the window, 
 stands there lookmg out upon the sunny 
 landscape, but seeing nothing. 
 
 " Barbara ! you are crying," says Joyce, 
 going up to her abruptly and folding her 
 arms round her. 
 
 "It is nothing, dear. Nothing at all, 
 darling. Only — I wish he and his father 
 were friends again. Freddy is too good a 
 man not to regret the estrangement." 
 
 " I beheve you think Freddy is a little 
 god ! " says Joyce laughing. 
 
 " Oh ! not a little one," says Mrs. Monk- 
 ton, and as Freddy stands six foot one in 
 his socks, they both laugh at this. 
 
70 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 '• Still you don't answer me," says the 
 girl presently, "you don't say 'you may' 
 or ' you shan't ' — which is it to be, Bar- 
 bara ? " 
 
 Her tone is distinctly coaxing now, and 
 as she speaks she gives her sister a little 
 squeeze that is plainly meant to press the 
 desired permission out of her. 
 
 Still Mrs. Monkton hesitates. 
 
 " You see," says she temporizing, " there 
 are so many reasons. The Court," pausing 
 and flushing, " is not quite the house for so 
 young a girl as you." 
 
 " Oh Barbara ! " 
 
 " You can't misunderstand me," says her 
 sister with agitation. " You know how I 
 like, I love Lady Baltimore, and how good 
 Lord Baltimore has been to Freddy. When 
 his father cast him off there was very little 
 left to us for beginning housekeeping with, 
 and when Lord Baltimoi gave him his 
 agency — Oh, iceJl I it isn't likely we shall 
 either of us forget to be grateful for that. 
 
APRIL'S LADY 71 
 
 If it was only for ourselves I should say 
 nothing, but it is for you, dear ; and — this 
 unfortunate affair — this determined hostility 
 that exists between Lord and Lady Balti- 
 more, makes it unpleasant for the guests. 
 You know," nervously, " I hate gossip of 
 any sort, but one must defend one's own." 
 
 " But there is nothing unpleasant ; one 
 sees nothing. They are charming to each 
 other. I have been staying there and I 
 know." 
 
 " Have I not stayed there too ? It is 
 impossible, Joyce, to fight against facts. All 
 the world knows they are not on good 
 terms." 
 
 " AVell, a great many other people aren't 
 perhaps." 
 
 "When they aren't tha tone of the house 
 gets lowered. And I have noticed of late 
 that they have people there who " 
 
 " Who what, Barbara ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, I Icnow they are all right ; they 
 are received everywhere, but are they good 
 
72 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 companions for a girl of your years ? It is 
 not a healthy atmosphere for you. They 
 are rich people who think less of a hundred 
 guineas than you do of ^ve. Is it wise I 
 ask you again to accustom yourself to their 
 ways." 
 
 " Nonsense, Barbara ! " says her sister, 
 looking at her with a growing surprise. 
 " That is not like you. Why should we 
 despise the rich, why should we seek to 
 emulate them ? Surely both you and I have 
 too good blood in our veins to give way 
 to such follies." She leans towards Mrs. 
 Monkton, and mth a swift gesture, gentle 
 as firm, turns her face to her own. 
 
 "Now for the real reason," says she. 
 
 Unthinkingly she has brought confusion 
 on herself. Barbara, as though stung to 
 cruel candour, gives her the real reason in 
 a sentence. 
 
 " Tell me this," says she, " which do you 
 like best, Mr. Dysart, or Mr. Beauclerk ? " 
 
 Joyce, taking her arm from round her 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 73 
 
 sister's neck, moves back from her. A deep 
 colour has flamed into her cheeks, then died 
 at^^ay again. She looks quite calm now. 
 
 " What a question," says she. 
 
 " Well," feverishly, " answer it." 
 
 " Oh, no," says the girl quickly. 
 
 " Why not ? Why not answer it to me, 
 your chief friend ? You think the question 
 indehcate, but why should I shrink from 
 asking a question on which, perhaps, the 
 happiness of your whole life depends ? If 
 — if you have set your heart on Mr. Beau- 
 clerk " She stops, checked by something 
 
 in Miss Kavanagh's face. 
 
 " Well, what then ? " asks the latter coldly. 
 
 " It will brmg you unhappiness. He is 
 Lady Baltimore's brother. She already plans 
 for him. The Beauclerks are poor — he is 
 bound to marry money." 
 
 " That is a good deal about Mr. Beau- 
 clerk, but what about the other possible 
 suitor whom you suppose I am madly in 
 love with ? " 
 
74 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Don't talk to me like that, Joyce. Do 
 you think I have any thin o^ at heart except 
 your interests ? As to Mr. Dysart, if you 
 like him^ I confess I should be glad of it. 
 He is only a cousin of the Baltimores, and 
 of such moderate means that they would 
 scarcely object to his marrying a penniless 
 girl." 
 
 " You rate me highly," says Joyce, with 
 a sudden rather sharp little laugh. " I am 
 good enough for the cousin — I am not good 
 enough for the brother, who may reasonably 
 look higher." 
 
 " Not higher," haughtily. " He can only 
 marry a girl of good birth. You are that, 
 but he, m his position, will look for money, 
 or else his people will look for it for him. 
 Whereas, Mr. Dysart " 
 
 " Yes, you needn't go over it all again. 
 Mr. Dysart is about on a level with me, he 
 will never have any money, neither shall I." 
 Suddenly she looks round at her sister, her 
 eyes very bright. " Tell me then," says she, 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 75 
 
 ^' what does it all come to ? That I am bound 
 to refuse to marry a man, because he has 
 money, and because I have none." 
 
 " That is not the argument," says Barbara 
 anxiously. 
 
 " I think it is." 
 
 "It is not. I advise you strongly not to 
 think of Mr. Beauclerk, yet he has no money 
 to speak of." 
 
 " He has more than Freddy." 
 
 " But he is a different man from Freddy — 
 with different tastes, different aspirations, 
 
 different He's different," emphatically, 
 
 " in every w^ay ! " 
 
 "To be different from the person one loves 
 is not to be a bad man," says Joyce slowly, 
 her eyes on the ground. 
 
 " My dear girl, who has called Mr. Beau- 
 clerk a bad man ? " 
 
 " You don't like him," says Miss Kavanagh, 
 still more slowly, still with thoughtful eyes 
 downcast. 
 
 "I like Mr. Dysart better if you mean that." 
 
76 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Xo, I don't mean that. And, besides, 
 that is no answer." 
 
 " Was there a question ? " 
 
 " Yes. Why don't you like Mr. Beau- 
 clerk ? " 
 
 " Have I said I didn't like him ? " 
 
 "Not in so many words, but . Well, 
 
 why don't you ? " 
 
 " I don't know," rather lamely. 
 
 Miss Kavanagh laughs a little satirically, 
 and Mrs. Monkton, objecting to mirth of that 
 description, takes fire. 
 
 " Why do you like him ? " asks she 
 defiantly. 
 
 " I don't know either," returns Joyce, with 
 a ruefiil smile. " And after all I'm not sure 
 that I like him so very much. You evidently 
 imagine me to be head over ears in love with 
 him, yet I, myself, scarcely know whether I 
 like him or not." 
 
 " You always look at him so kindly, and 
 you always pull your skirts aside to give 
 him a place by your side." 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 77 
 
 " I should do that for Tommy." 
 
 " Would you ? That would be too kind," 
 says Tommy's mother, laughing. " It would 
 mean ruin to your skirts in two minutes." 
 
 "But, consider the gain. The priceless 
 scraps of wisdom I should hear, even whilst 
 my clothes were being demolished." 
 
 This has been a mere interlude, uninten- 
 tional on the part of either, and, once over, 
 neither knows how to go on. The question 
 must be settled one way or the other. 
 
 " There is one thmg," says Mrs. Monkton, 
 at length. " You certainly prefer Mr. Beau- 
 clerk to Mr. Dysart." 
 
 " Do I ? I msh I knew as much about 
 myself as you know about me. And, after 
 all, it is of no consequence whom I like. 
 
 The real thing is Come, Barbara, you 
 
 who know so much can tell me this " 
 
 " Well ? " says Mrs. Monkton, seeing she 
 has grown very red, and is evidently hesi- 
 tating. 
 
 "No. This absurd conversation has gone 
 
78 APliIL'8 LADY. 
 
 far enough. I was going to ask you to solve 
 a riddle, but- 
 
 5J 
 
 " But what ? '' 
 
 " You are too serious about it." 
 
 " Xot too serious. It is very important." 
 
 " Oh, Barbara, do you hiow what you 
 are saymg ? " cries the girl with an angry 
 Httle stamp, turnmg to her a face pale and 
 indignant. " You have been telling me in 
 so many words that I am in love with either 
 Mr. Beauclerk or Mr. Dysart. Pray now, 
 for a chano^e, tell me which of them is in 
 love with mey 
 
 " Mr. Dysart," says Barbara quietly. 
 
 Her sister laughs angrily. 
 
 " You think everybody who looks at me 
 is in love with me." 
 
 " Not everyone ! " 
 
 " Meaning Mr. Beauclerk." 
 
 " Xo," slowly. " I think he likes you, 
 too, but he is a man who will always think. 
 You know he has come in for that property 
 in Hampshire through his uncle's death, but 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 79 
 
 he got no money with it. It is a large place, 
 impossible to keep up without a large income, 
 and his uncle left every penny away from 
 him. It is in great disrepair, the house 
 especially. I hear it is falling to pieces. 
 Mr. Beauclerk is an ambitious man, he will 
 seek means to rebuild his house." 
 
 " Well, what of that ? It is an interesting 
 bit of history, but how does it concern me ? 
 Take that troubled look out of your eyes, 
 Barbara. I assure you Mr. Beauclerk is as 
 little to me as I am to him." 
 
 She speaks with such evident sincerity, 
 with such an undeniable belief m the truth 
 of her own words, that Mrs. Monkton, looking 
 at her and reading her soul through her clear 
 eyes, feels a weight lifted from her heart. 
 
 " That is all right then," says she simply. 
 She turns as if to go away, but Miss Kavanagh 
 has still a word or two to say. 
 
 " I may go to the Court ? " says she. 
 
 " Yes ; I suppose so." 
 
 " But you won't be vexed if I go, Barbie ? ' 
 
80 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 " No ; not now." 
 
 " Well," slipping her arm through hers, 
 with an audible sigh of delight. " Thafs 
 settled." 
 
 " Things generally do get settled the way 
 you want them to be," says Mrs. Monkton, 
 laughing. " Come, what about your frocks, 
 eh?" 
 
 From this out they spend a most enjoyable 
 hour or two. 
 
CHAPTER VI, 
 
 " Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, 
 That leaves look pale, thinking the winter's near." 
 
 The visit to the Court being decided on, Miss 
 Kavanagh undertakes life afresh, with a joyous 
 heart. Lord and Lady Baltimore are the 
 best host and hostess in the world and a 
 visit to them means unmixed pleasure while 
 it lasts. The Court is, indeed, the pleasant- 
 est house in the county, the most desirable 
 in all respects, and the gayest. Yet, strange 
 and sad to add, happiness has found no bed 
 within its walls. 
 
 This is the more remarkable in that the 
 marriage of Lord and Lady Baltimore had 
 been an almost idealistic one. They had 
 been very much in love with each other. 
 All the hosts of friends and relations that 
 belonged to either side had been delighted 
 
 VOL. I. 6 
 
82 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 with the engagement. So many imprudent 
 marriages were made, so many disastrous 
 ones ; but here was a marriage where birth 
 and money went together, and left no guard- 
 ians or parents lamenting. All Belgravia 
 stood still and stared at the young couple 
 with genuine admiration. It wasn't often 
 that love, pure and simple, fell into their 
 midst, and such a satisfactory love too ! 
 ^sTone of your erratic darts that struck the 
 wrong breasts, and created confusion for miles 
 around, but a thoroughly proper, respectable 
 winged arrow that j^ierced the bosoms of 
 those who might safely be congratulated on 
 the reception of it. 
 
 They had, indeed, been very much in love 
 with each other. Few people have known 
 such extreme happiness as fell to their lot for 
 two whole years. They were wrapped up in 
 each other, and when the little son came at 
 the end of that time, nothing seemed wanted. 
 They grew so strong in their belief m the 
 immutability of their own relations, one to the 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 83 
 
 other, that when the blow fell that separated 
 them, it proved a very lightning- stroke, divid- 
 ing soul from body. 
 
 Lady Baltimore could be at no time called 
 a beautiful woman. But there is always a 
 charm in her face, a strength, an attractive- 
 ness that might well defy the more material 
 charms of a lovelier than herself. With a 
 soul as pure as her face, and a mind entirely 
 innocent of the world's evil ways — and the 
 sad and foolish secrets she is compelled to bear 
 upon her tired bosom from century to century 
 — she took with a bitter hardness the revela- 
 tions of her husband's former life before he 
 married her, related to her by — of course — a 
 devoted friend. 
 
 Unfortunately the authority was an unde- 
 niable one. It was impossible for Lady Bal- 
 timore to refuse to believe. The past, too, 
 she might have condoned ; though, believing 
 in her husband as she did, it would always 
 have been bitter to her, but the devoted friend 
 — may all such meet their just reward I — had 
 
 G— -2 
 
84 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 not stopped there ; she had gone a step 
 further, a fatal step ; she had told her some- 
 thmg that had not occurred since their 
 marriage. 
 
 Perhaps the devoted friend believed in her 
 lie, perhaps she did not. Anyway, the mis- 
 chief was done. Indeed, from the beginning 
 seeds of distrust had been laid, and, buried in 
 so young and unlearned a bosom, had taken a 
 fatal grip. 
 
 The more fatal in that there was truth in 
 them. As a fact. Lord Baltimore had been 
 the hero of several ugly passages in his life. 
 His early life, certainly ; but a young wife 
 who has begun by thinking him immaculate, 
 would hardly be the one to lay stress upon 
 that. And when her friend, who had tried 
 unsuccessfully to marry Lord Baltimore and 
 had failed, had in the kindliest spirit, of 
 course^ opened her eyes to his misdoings, she 
 had at first passionately refused to listen, 
 then had listened, and after that was ready 
 to listen to anything. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 85 
 
 One episode in his past history had been 
 made much of. The sorry heroine of it had 
 been an actress. This was bad enough, but 
 when the disinterested friend went on to say 
 that Lord Baltimore had been seen in her 
 company only so long ago as last week, 
 matters came to a climax. That was a long 
 time ago from to-day, but the shock when it 
 came shattered all the sacred feelings in Lady 
 Baltimore's heart. She grew cold, callous, 
 indifferent. Her mouth, a really beautiful 
 feature, that used to be a picture of serenity 
 and charity personified, hardened. She be- 
 came austere, cold. Not difficult, so much as 
 unsympathetic. She was still a good hostess, 
 and those who had known her before her mis- 
 fortune still loved her. But she made no new 
 friends, and she sat down within herself, as it 
 were, and gave herself up to her fate, and 
 would probably have died or grown reckless 
 but for her little son. 
 
 And it was after the birth of this beloved 
 child that she had been told that her husband 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 had again been seen in company with Madame 
 Istray ; that seemed to add fuel to the fire 
 already kindled. She could not forgive that. 
 It was proof positive of his baseness. 
 
 To the young wife it was all a revelation, a 
 horrible one. She had been so stunned by it, 
 that she accepted it as it stood, and learning 
 that the stories of his life before marriage 
 were true, had decided that the stories told of 
 his life after marriage were true also. She 
 was young, and youth is always hard. 
 
 To her no doubt remained of his infidelity. 
 She had come of a brave old stock, who, if 
 they could not fight, could at least endure in 
 silence, and knew well the necessity of keeping 
 her name out of the pubHc mouth. She kept 
 herself well in hand, therefore, and betrayed 
 nothing of all she had been feelmg. She dis- 
 missed her friend with a gentle air, dignified, 
 yet of sufiicient haughtiness to let that astute, 
 and now decidedly repentant lady, know that 
 never again would she enter the doors of the 
 court, or any other of Lady Baltimore's 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 87 
 
 houses ,* yet she restrained herself all through 
 so well that even until the very end came, her 
 own husband never knew how horribly she 
 suffered through her disbelief in him. 
 
 He thought her heartless. There was no 
 scandal, no public separation. She said a 
 word or two to him that told him what she 
 had heard, and when he tried to explain the 
 truths of that last libel that had declared him 
 unfaithful to her since her marriage, she had 
 silenced him with so cold, so scornful, so con- 
 temptuous a glance and word, that, chilled 
 and angered in his turn, he had left her. 
 
 Twice afterwards he had sought to explain 
 matters, but it was useless. She would not 
 listen ; the treacherous friend, whom she never 
 betrayed, had done her work well. Lady 
 Baltimore, though she never forgave Aer, would 
 not forgive her husband either ; she would 
 make no formal attempt at a separation. 
 Before the world she and he lived together, 
 seemingly on the best terms ; at all events on 
 quite as good terms as most of their acquaint^ 
 
88 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 ances ; yet all the world knew how it was 
 with them. So long as there are servants, so 
 long will it be impossible to effectually conceal 
 our most sacred secrets. 
 
 Her friends, when the Baltimores went to 
 visit them, made arrangements to suit them. 
 It was a pity, everybody said, that such com- 
 plications should have arisen, and one would 
 not have expected it from Isabel, but then she 
 seemed so cold, that probably a climax like 
 that did not affect her as much as it might 
 another. She was so entu^ely wrapped up in 
 her boy — some women were like that — a child 
 sufficed them. And as for Lord Baltimore 
 
 — Cyril — why Judgment was divided 
 
 here ; the women taking his part, the men 
 hers. The latter finding an attraction hardly 
 to be defined, in her pure, calm, rather impene- 
 trable face, that had yet a smile so lovely that 
 it could warm the seemingly cold face mto a 
 something that was more effective than mere 
 beauty. It was a wonderful smile, and, in 
 spite of all her troubles, was by no means rare. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 89 
 
 Lady Baltimore, they all acknowledged, was a 
 delightful guest and hostess. 
 
 As for Lord Baltimore, he — well, he would 
 know how to console himself. Society, the 
 cruellest organization on earth, laughed to it- 
 self about him. He had known how to live 
 before his marriage ; now that the marriage 
 had proved a failure, he would still know how 
 to make hfe bearable. 
 
 In this they wronged him. 
 
CHAPTER YII. 
 
 " lis n'employent les paroles que pour d^guiser leurs pens^es." 
 
 — Voltaire . 
 
 Even the most dysj^eptic of tlie guests had 
 acknowledged at breakfast, some hours ago 
 now, that a lovelier day could hardly be 
 imagined. Lady Baltimore, with a smile, had 
 agreed with him. It was, indeed, impossible 
 not to agree with him. The sun was shining 
 high in the heavens, and a soft, velvety air 
 blew through the open windows right on to 
 the table. 
 
 " What shall we do to-day ? " Lady 
 Swansdown, one of the guests, had asked, 
 addressing her question to Lord Baltimore, 
 who just then was helping his little son to 
 porridge. 
 
 Whatever she liked. 
 
 " Then nothing I " says she, in that soft 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 91 
 
 drawl of hers, and that Httle famihar im- 
 ploring glance of hers at her hostess, who 
 sat behind the urn, and glanced back at her 
 ever so kindly. 
 
 " Yes, it was too warm to dream of exer- 
 tion ; would Lady Swansdown like to remain 
 at home then, and dream away the afternoon 
 m a hammock ? " 
 
 " Dreams were delightful ; but to dream 
 alone " 
 
 " Oh, no ; they would all, or at least most 
 of them, stay with her." It was Lady Balti- 
 more who had said this, after waiting in vain 
 for her husband to speak — to whom, indeed, 
 Lady Swansdown' s question had been rather 
 pointedly addressed. 
 
 So at home they all had stayed. No one 
 being very keen about doing anything on a 
 day so sultry. 
 
 Yet now, when luncheon is at an end, and 
 the day still heavy with heat, the desire for 
 action that lies in every breast takes fire. 
 They are all tired of domg nothing. The 
 
92 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 tennis-courts lie invitingly empty, and 
 rackets thrust themselves into notice at every 
 turn ; as for the balls, worn out from ennui, 
 they insert themselves under each arched 
 instep, threatenmg to bring the owners to 
 the ground, unless picked up and made use 
 of 
 
 " Who wants a beating ? " demands Mr. 
 Browne at last, unable to pretend lassitude 
 any longer. Taking up a racket, he bran- 
 dishes it wildly, presumably to attract at- 
 tention. This is necessary. As a rule, 
 nobody pays any attention to Dicky Browne. 
 
 He is a nondescript sort of young man, of 
 the negative order ; with no features to speak 
 of, and a capital opinion of himself. Income 
 vague. Age unknown. 
 
 " Well, that's one way of putting it," says 
 Miss Kavanagh, with a little tilt of her pretty 
 chin. 
 
 " Is it a riddle ? " asks Dysart. " If so I 
 know it. The answer is — Dicky Browne." 
 
 " Oh, I hke that ! " says Mr. Browne, un 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 93 
 
 abashed. " See here, I'll give you plus fifteen, 
 and a bisque, and start myself at minus thirty, 
 and beat you in a canter." 
 
 " Dear Mr. Browne, consider the day ! I 
 believe there are such things as sunstrokes," 
 says Lady Swansdown in her sweet treble. 
 
 " There are. But Dicky's all right," says 
 Lord Baltimore, drawing up a garden chair 
 close to hers, and seating himself upon it. 
 " His head is safe. The sun makes no im- 
 pression upon granite ! " 
 
 " Ah, granite ! that applies to a heart not 
 a head," says Lady Swansdown, resting her 
 blue eyes on Baltimore's for just a swift 
 second. 
 
 It is wonderful however w^hat her eyes 
 can do in a second. Baltimore laughs lightly, 
 returns her glance fourfold, and draws his 
 chair a quarter of an inch closer to hers. To 
 move it more than that, would have been an 
 impossibility. 
 
 Lady Swansdown makes a slight movement. 
 AA'ith a smile seraphic as an angel's, she pulls 
 
94 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 her lace skirts a little to one side, as if to 
 j^rove to Baltimore that he has encroached 
 beyond his privileges upon her domain. 
 " People should not crush people. And why 
 do you want to get so very close to me ? " 
 This question lies within the serene eyes she 
 once more raises to his. 
 
 She is a lovely woman, blonde, serene, dan- 
 gerous ! In each glance she turns upon the 
 man who happens at any moment to be next 
 to her, lies an entire chapter on the " Whole 
 Art of Flirtation." Were she reduced to 
 penury, and the world a little more advanced 
 in its fashionable ways, she might readily 
 make a small fortune in teaching young ladies 
 ^' How to Marry Well." l^o man could resist 
 her pupils, once properly finished by her and 
 turned out to prey upon the stronger sex. 
 ^' The Complete Angler " would be a title they 
 might filch with perfect honour and call 
 their own. 
 
 She is a tall beauty, with soft limbs, grace- 
 ful as a panther, or a cat. Her eyes are like 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 95 
 
 the skies in summer time, her lips sweet and 
 full. The silken hair that falls in soft masses 
 on her Grecian brow, is light as corn in har- 
 vest, and she has hands and feet that are 
 absolutely faultless. She has even more than 
 all these — a most convenient husband, who 
 is not only now but apparently always in a 
 position of trust abroad. Very much abroad. 
 The Fiji, or the Sandwich Islands for choice. 
 One can't hear from those centres of worldly 
 dissipation in a hurry. And after all, it 
 really doesn't very much matter where he 
 is ! 
 
 There had been a whisper or two in the 
 County about her and Lord Baltimore. Every- 
 body knew the latter had been a little wild 
 since his estrangement with his wife, but 
 nothing to signify very much — nothmg that 
 one could lay one's linger on, until Lady 
 Swansdown had come down last year to the 
 Court. AVhether Baltimore w^as in love with 
 her was uncertain, but all were agreed that 
 she was in love with him. ]^ot that she made 
 
96 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 an esclandre of any sort, but one could see ! 
 And still ! she was such a friend of Lady 
 Baltimore's — an old friend. They had been 
 girls together — that was what was so wonder- 
 ful ! And Lady Baltimore made very much 
 of her, and treated her with the kindliest 
 
 observances, and . But one had often 
 
 heard of the serpent that one nourished in 
 one's bosom only that it might come to life 
 and sting one ! The County grew wise over 
 this complication ; and perhaps when Mrs. 
 Monkton had hmted to Joyce of the " odd 
 people" the Baltimores asked to the Court, 
 she had had Lady Swansdown in her mind. 
 
 " Whose heart ? " asks Baltimore, apropos 
 of her last remark. " Yours." 
 
 It is a leading remark, and something in 
 the way it is uttered strikes unpleasantly on 
 the ears of Dysart. Baltimore is bending 
 over his lovely guest, and looking at her 
 with an admiration too open to be quite 
 respectful. But she betrays no resentment. 
 She smiles back at him indeed in that little 
 
APRIL'S LADY 97 
 
 slow, seductive way of hers, and makes liim 
 an answer in a tone too low for even those 
 nearest to her to hear. It is a sort of chal- 
 lenge, a tacit acknowledgment that they two 
 are alone even in the midst of all these tire- 
 some people. 
 
 Baltimore accepts it. Of late he has grown 
 a little reckless. The battling agamst cir- 
 cumstances has been too much for him. He 
 has gone under. The persistent coldness of 
 his wife, her refusal to hear, or believe in 
 him, has had its effect. A man of a naturally 
 warm and kindly disposition, thrown thus 
 back upon himself, he has now given a loose 
 rein to the carelessness that has been a part 
 of his nature since his mother o^ave him to 
 
 o 
 
 the world, and allows himself to swim or g-o 
 down with the tide that carries his present 
 life upon its bosom. 
 
 Lady Swansdown is lovely ! and kind. 
 Always with that sense of injury full upon 
 him, that half-concealed but ever-present desire 
 for revenge upon the wife who has so coldly 
 
 VOL. I. 7 
 
98 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 condemned and cast liim aside, he flings him- 
 self willmgiy into a flirtation, ready made to 
 his hand, and as dangerous as it seems light. 
 
 His life, he tells himself, is hopelessly em- 
 bittered. The best thmgs in it are denied 
 him ; he gives therefore the more heed to 
 the honeyed words of the pretty creature 
 near him, who in truth likes him too well 
 for her own soul's good. 
 
 That detested husband of hers, out there 
 somewhere^ the only thought she ever gives 
 him is when she remembers with horror how 
 as a young ghl she was sold to him. For 
 years she had believed herself heartless — of 
 all her numerous love affairs not one had 
 really touched her until now, and now he is 
 the husband of her oldest friend ; of the one 
 woman whom perhaps in all the world she 
 really respects. 
 
 At times her heart smites her, and a ter- 
 rible longmg to go away — to die — to make 
 an end of it — takes possession of her — at 
 other times. She leans towards Baltimore, 
 
, APEIL'8 LADY. 99 
 
 her lovely eyes alight, her soft mouth smihng. 
 Her whispered words, her only half-averted 
 glances, all tell their tale. Presently it is 
 clear to everyone that a very fully developed 
 flirtation is well in hand. 
 
 Lady Baltimore coming across the grass 
 with a basket m one hand and her Httle 
 son held fondly by the other, sees and gras^^s 
 the situation. Baltimore, leanmg over Lady 
 Swansdown, the latter lying back in her 
 lounodno' chair in her usual indolent fashion, 
 swaying her feather fan from side to side, 
 and with white lids lying on the azure 
 eyes. 
 
 Seemg it all. Lady Baltimore's mouth 
 hardens, and a contemptuous expression de- 
 stroys the calm dignity of her face. For the 
 moment only. Another moment and it is 
 gone ; she has recovered herself. The one 
 sign of emotion she has betrayed is swallowed 
 up by her stern determination to conceal all 
 pain at all costs, and if her fingers tighten 
 somewhat convulsively on those of her boy's, 
 
 7-2 
 
100 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 why, who can be the wiser of that? No one 
 can see it. 
 
 Dysart, however, who is honestly fond of 
 his cousin, has mastered that first swift in- 
 voluntary contraction of the calm brow, and 
 a sense of mdignant anger against Baltimore 
 and his somewhat reckless companion fires 
 his blood. He springs quickly to his feet. 
 
 Lady Baltimore, noting the action, though 
 not understandmg the motive for it, turns 
 and smiles at him — so controlled a smile 
 that it quiets him at once. 
 
 " I am going to the gardens to try and 
 cajole Mclntyre out of some roses," says she, 
 in her sweet, slow way, stopping near the 
 first group she reaches on the lawn — the 
 group that contains, amongst others, her 
 
 husband, and her friend. She would not 
 
 willingly have stayed where they were, but 
 she is too proud to pass them by without a 
 word. " Who will come with me ? Oh ! 
 n^," as several rise to join her, laughing, 
 though rather faintly. "It is not compul- 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 101 
 
 sory — even though I go alone, I shall feel 
 that I am equal to Mclntyre." 
 
 Lord Baltimore had started as her first 
 words fell upon his ears. He had been so 
 preoccupied that her light footfalls coming 
 over the grass had not reached him, and her 
 voice, when it fell upon the air gave him a 
 shock. He half rises from his seat : 
 
 " Shall I ? " he is beginning, and then 
 stops short, something in her face checking 
 him. 
 
 " You! " she conquers herself a second later ; 
 all the scorn and contempt are crushed by sheer 
 force of will, out of look and tone, and she 
 goes on as clearly, and as entirely without 
 emotion, as though she were a mere machme 
 — a thing she has taught herself to be. " Not 
 you," she says gaily, waving him lightly from 
 her. " You are too useful here " — as she 
 says this she gives him the softest if "fleetest 
 smile. It is a masterpiece. " You can amuse 
 one here and there, whilst I — I — I want a 
 girl, I thmk," looking round. " Bertie," — 
 
102 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 with a fond, an almost passionate glance at 
 her little son — "always likes one of his sweet- 
 hearts (and they are many) to accompany 
 him when he takes his walks abroad," 
 
 "Like father, like son, I dessay. Ha, ha ! " 
 laughs a fatuous youth — a Mr. Courtenay — 
 who lives about five miles from the Court, 
 and has dropped in this afternoon, very un- 
 fortunately, it must be confessed, to pay his 
 respects to Lady Baltimore. Fools always 
 hit on the truth ! Why, nobody knows, 
 except the Heavens above us — but so it is. 
 Young Courtenay, who has heard nothing of 
 the unpleasant relations existing between his 
 host and hostess, and who would be quite 
 incapable of understanding them if he had 
 heard, now springs a remark upon the as- 
 sembled hve or six people present, that almost 
 reduces them to powder. 
 
 Dysart casts a murderous glance at him. 
 
 " A clever old proverb," says Lady Balti- 
 more lightly. She is apparently the cme 
 unconcerned person amongst them. " I 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 103 
 
 always like those old sayings. There is so 
 much truth in them." 
 
 She has forced herself to say this ; but as 
 the words pass her lips she blanches per- 
 ceptibly. As if unable to control herself she 
 draws her little son towards her ; her arms 
 tighten round him. The boy responds gladly 
 to the embrace, and to those present who 
 know nothing, it seems the simplest thing 
 in the world. The mother — the child ; natu- 
 rally they would caress each other on each 
 and every occasion. The agony of the mother 
 is unknown to them ; the fear that her boy, 
 her treasure, may inherit something of his 
 father, and m his turn prove unfaithful to 
 the heart that trusts him. 
 
 It is a very little scene, scarcely worth 
 recording, yet the anguish of a strong heart 
 hes embodied in it. 
 
 " If you are going to the gardens. Lady 
 Baltimore, let me go with you," says Miss 
 Maliphant, rising quickly and going towards 
 her. She is a big, loud girl, with money 
 
104 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 written all over her in capital letters, but 
 Dicky Browne, watching her, tells himself she 
 has a good heart. " I should love to go 
 there with you and Bertie." 
 
 " Come, then," says Lady Baltimore gra- 
 ciously. She makes a step forward ; little 
 Bertie, as though he likes and believes in 
 her, thrusts his small fist into the hand of 
 the Birmingham heiress, and thus united, all 
 three pass out of sight. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " I have no other but a woman's reason : I think him 
 so, because I think him so." 
 
 When a corner near the rhododendrons has 
 concealed them from view, Dysart rises from 
 his seat and goes deliberately over to where 
 Lady Swansdown is sitting. She is an old 
 friend of his, and he has therefore no qualms 
 about bemg a little brusque with her where 
 occasion demands it. 
 
 " Have a game ? " says he. His sugges- 
 tion is full of playfulness ; his tone, however, 
 is stern. 
 
 " Dear Felix, why ? " says she smiling up 
 at him beautifully. There is even a sus- 
 picion of amusement in her smile. 
 
 " A change ! " says he. His words this 
 time might mean something, his tone any- 
 thing. She can read either as she pleases. 
 
106 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " True ! " says she laughing. " There i& 
 nothmo^ hke chano;e. You have wakened 
 me to a delightful fact. Lord Baltimore," 
 turning languidly to her companion, who has 
 been a little distrait since his wife and son 
 passed by him. " What do you say to trying 
 a change for just we two ? Variety they 
 say is charming ; shall we try if shade and 
 coolness and comfort are to be found in that 
 enchanting glade down there ? " She points 
 as she speaks to an opening in the wood 
 where perpetual twilight seems to reign, as 
 seen from where they now are sitting. 
 
 " If you will," says Baltimore, still a 
 little vaguely. He gets up, however, and 
 stretches his arms indolently above his 
 head as one mio'ht who is flins'ino^ from 
 him the remembrance of an unpleasant 
 dream. 
 
 " The sun here is intolerable," says Lady 
 Swansdown, rising too. " More than one 
 can endure. Thanks, dear Felix, for your 
 suggestion. I should never have thought of 
 
APRILS' LADY. 107 
 
 the glade if you hadii't asked me to play 
 that impossible game." 
 
 She smiles a little maliciously at Dysart 
 and, accompanied by Lord Baltimore, moves 
 away from the assembled groups upon the 
 lawn to the dim recesses of the leafy glade. 
 
 " Sold I " says Mr. Browne to Dysart. It 
 is always impossible to Dicky to hold his 
 tongue. " But you needn't look so cut up 
 about it. 'Tisn't good enough, my dear 
 fellow. I know 'em both by heart. Balti- 
 more is as much m love with her as he is 
 with his Irish tenants, but his imagmation 
 is his strong point and it pleases him to 
 thmk he has found at last for the twentieth 
 time a solace for all his woes in the dis- 
 interested love of somebody, it really never 
 much matters who." 
 
 " There is more in it than you think," 
 says Dysart gloomily. 
 
 " Not a fraction ! " airily. 
 
 " And what of her ? Lady Swansdown ? '* 
 
 " Of her ! Her heart has been in such 
 
108 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 constant use for years that by this time it 
 must be in tatters. Give up thinking about 
 that. Ah ! here is my beloved girl again ! " 
 He makes an elaborate gesture of delight as 
 he sees Joyce advancing in his direction. 
 " Dear Joyce ! " beaming on her, " who 
 shall say there is nothmg in animal mag- 
 netism ? Here I have been just talking 
 about you to Dysart, and tellmg him what 
 a lost soul I feel when you're away, and 
 mstantly, as if in answer to my keen desire, 
 you appear before me." 
 
 " Why aren't you playing tennis ? " de- 
 mands Miss Kavanagh, with a cruel disre- 
 gard of this flowery speech. 
 
 " Because I was waiting for you." 
 
 "Well, I'll beat you," says she. "I 
 always do." 
 
 " ^ot if you play on my side," reproach- 
 folly. 
 
 " What ! Have you for a partner ! 
 IN^onsense, Dicky, you know I shouldn't 
 dream of that. Why it is as much as 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 109 
 
 ever you can do to put the ball over the 
 net." 
 
 " ' 'Twas ever thus,'" quotes Mr. Browne 
 mournfully. " The sincerest worship gains 
 only scorn and contumely. But never mmd, 
 
 the day will come! " 
 
 " To an end," says Miss Kavanagh, giving 
 a finish to his sentence never meant. 
 "That," cheerfully, "is just what I think. 
 If we don't have a game now, the shades 
 of night will be on us before we can look 
 round us." 
 
 "AYill you play with me?" asks Dysart. 
 "With pleasure. Keep your eye on this 
 near court, and when the game is at an end 
 call it ours." She sinks into a chair as she 
 speaks, and Dysart, who is in a silent mood, 
 flings himself on the grass at her feet and 
 falls into a reverie. To be conversational is 
 unnecessary, Dicky Browne is on the spot. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ <4& •&£- 
 
 Tf' "Tr •?¥• •«' w 
 
 Hotter and hotter grows the sun ; the 
 evening comes on apace ; a few people from 
 
110 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 the neighbouriiig houses have dropped iii ; 
 Mrs. Monkton among others, with Tommy 
 in tow. The latter, who is supposed to en- 
 tertain a strong affection for Lady Baltimore's 
 little son, no sooner, however, sees Dicky 
 Browne than he gives himself up to his 
 keepmg. What the attraction K* that Mr. 
 Browne has for children has never yet been 
 clearly defined. It is the more difficult to 
 arrive at a satisfactory conclusion about it, 
 in that no child was ever yet left m his 
 sole care for ten mmutes without commg to 
 blows, or tears, or a deter mmed attempt at 
 murder or suicide. 
 
 His mother, seeing Tommy veering towards 
 this uncertain friend, turns a doubtful eye 
 on Mr. Browne. 
 
 " Better come with me, Tommy," says 
 she ; "I am going to the gardens to find 
 Lady Baltimore. She will have Bertie with 
 her." 
 
 " I'll stay with Dicky," says Tommy, 
 flinging himself broadcast on Mr. Browne's 
 
APEIL'S LADY. Ill 
 
 reluctant chest, that gives forth a compul- 
 sory "Wough" as he does so. "He'll tell 
 me a story." 
 
 '' Don't be unhappy, Mrs. Monkton," says 
 the latter, when he has recovered from the 
 shock — Tommy is a well-grown boy, with a 
 sufficient amount of adipose matter about 
 him to make his descent felt. " I'll promise 
 to be careful. Xothmg French I assure you. 
 Nothing that could shock the young mmd, 
 or teach it how to shoot in the wrong direc- 
 tion. My tales are always strictly moral." 
 
 " Well, Tommy, be good ! " says Mrs. 
 Monkton with a last implormg glance at her 
 son, who has already forgotten her existence, 
 bemg lost in a wild wrestlmg match with 
 his new friend. With deep forebodmgs his 
 mother leaves him, and goes upon her way. 
 Passing Joyce, she says m a low whisjDer : 
 
 " Keep an eye on Tommy." 
 
 " Both eyes if you like," laughmg. " But 
 Dicky, in spite of his evil reputation, seldom 
 goes to extremes." 
 
112 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Tommy does, however," says Mrs. Monk- 
 ton tritely. 
 
 u Well— I'll look after him." 
 
 And so perhaps she might have done, had 
 not a light step soimding just behind her 
 chair at this moment, caused her to start — 
 to look round — to forget all but what she 
 now sees. 
 
 He is a very aristocratic -looking man, tall, 
 with large limbs, and big indeed in every 
 way. His eyes are light, his nose a hand- 
 some Eoman, his forehead massive, and if 
 not grand in the distinctly intellectual way, 
 still a fine forehead and impressive. His 
 hands are of a goodly size, but exquisitely 
 proportioned, and very white, the skin almost 
 delicate. He is rather like his sister Lady 
 Baltimore, and yet so different from her 
 in every way, that the distmct resemblance 
 that is surely there, torments the observer. 
 
 " Why I " says Joyce. It is the most 
 foolish exclamation and means nothing, but 
 she finds herself a little taken off her guard. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 113 
 
 " I didn't know you were here ! " She lias 
 half risen. 
 
 " Neither did I — How d'ye do, Dysart ? — 
 Until half an hour ago. Won't you shake 
 hands ? " 
 
 He holds out his own hand to her as he 
 speaks. There is a quizzical light in his eye» 
 as he speaks, nothmg to offend, but one can 
 see that he finds amusement in the fact that 
 the girl has been so much impressed by his 
 unexpected appearance, that she has even 
 forgotten the small usual act of courtesy 
 with which we greet our friends. She had, 
 indeed, been dead to everything but his 
 
 coming. 
 
 " You came " falters she, stammering 
 
 a little, as she notes her mistake. 
 
 " By the mid-day train ; I gave myself 
 just time to snatch a sandwich from Purdon 
 (the butler), say a word or two to my 
 sister, whom I found in the garden, and then 
 came on here to ask you to play this next 
 game with me." 
 
 VOL. I. 8 
 
114 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Oh ! I am so sorry, but I have pi'omised 
 it to " 
 
 The words are out of her mouth before 
 she has reahzed the fact that Dysart is 
 listenmg— Dysart, who is lying at her feet, 
 watchmg every expression in her mobile face. 
 She colours hotly, and looks down at him, 
 confused, lovely. 
 
 "I didn't mean — that!^'' says she, trying 
 to smile indifferently. '' Only " 
 
 " DonH ! " says Dysart, not loudly, not 
 curtly, yet in so strange and decided a way 
 that it renders her silent. " You mustn't 
 mind me," says he, a second later, in his 
 usual calm tone. ^' I know you and Beau- 
 clerk are wonderful players. You can give 
 me a game later on." 
 
 " A capital arrangement," says Beauclerk, 
 comfortably, sinking into a chair beside her, 
 with all the lazy manner of a man at peace 
 with himself and his world, "especially as 
 I shall have to go in presently to write some 
 letters for the evening post." 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 115 
 
 He places his elbows on the arms of the 
 chair, brings the ends of his fingers together, 
 and beams admiringly at Joyce over the tops 
 of them. 
 
 " How busy you always are," says she, 
 slowly. 
 
 " Well, you see, this appointment, or, 
 rather, the promise of it, keeps me going. 
 Tremendous lot of interest to work up. 
 Good deal of bother, you know, but then, 
 
 beggars eh ? — can't be choosers, can they ? 
 
 And I should like to go to the East ; that 
 is, if " 
 
 He pauses, beams again, and looks boldly 
 into Miss Kavanagh's eyes. She blushes 
 hotly, and, dropping her fan, makes a little 
 attempt to pick it up again. Mr. Beauclerk 
 makes another httle attempt, and so manages 
 that his hand meets hers. There is a shght, 
 an almost benevolent pressure. 
 
 Had they looked at Dysart as they both 
 resumed their places, they could have seen 
 that his face is white as death. Miss 
 
 8—2 
 
116 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 Kavanagh, too, looks a little pale, a little 
 uncertain, but as a whole nervously happy. 
 " I've been down at that old place of 
 mine," goes on Mr. Beauclerk. " Terrible 
 disrepair — take thousands to put it in any 
 sort of order. And where's one to get them? 
 That's the one question that has got no 
 answer nowadays. Eh, Dysart ? " 
 
 " There is an answer, however," says 
 Dysart, curtly, not looking at him. 
 
 " Ah, well, I suppose so. But I haven't 
 heard it yet." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I think you have," says Dysart, 
 quite politely, but grimly, nevertheless. 
 
 " Dear fellow, how ? where ? unless one 
 discovers a mine or an African diamond- 
 field ? " 
 
 " Or an heiress," says Dysart, incidentally. 
 " Hah ! lucky dog, that comes home to 
 yow," says Beauclerk, giving him a playful 
 pat on his shoulder, and stoopmg from his 
 chair to do it, as Dysart still sits upon the 
 grass. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 117 
 
 "^NTot to me." 
 
 " N"o ? You icill be modest ? Well, weU! 
 But, talking of that old place, I assure you. 
 Miss Kavanagh, it worries me — it does, indeed. 
 It sounds like one's duty to restore it, and 
 still " 
 
 " There are better things than even an old 
 place," says Dysart. 
 
 "Ah ! you haven't one, you see," cries 
 Beauclerk, with the utmost geniality. " If 
 
 you had I really think if you had you 
 
 would understand that it requires a sacrifice 
 to give it up to moths and rust and ruin." 
 
 " I said there were better things than 
 old places," says Dysart doggedly, never 
 looking m his direction. " And if there are, 
 make a sacrifice." 
 
 " Pouf ! Lucky fellows like you — gay 
 soldier lads — with hearts as lio^ht as sun- 
 beams, can easily preach ; but sacrifices are 
 not so easily made. There is that horrid 
 word. Duty ! And a man must sometimes 
 think ! " 
 
118 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 Joyce, as tliough the last word had struck 
 some answermg chord that wounds her as 
 it strikes, looks suddenly at him. What 
 was it Barbara had said ? "He was a 
 man who would always think, ''^ — is he 
 thinkmg now — even now — at this moment ? 
 — is he weighing matters in his mind ? 
 
 "Hah ! " says Beauclerk rising and point- 
 ing to the court nearest them ; " that game 
 is over. Come on, Miss Kavanagh, let us 
 go and get our scalps. I say, Dysart, will 
 you fight it out with us ? " 
 
 "No, thanks." 
 
 " Afraid ? " gaily. 
 
 " Of you — no," smiling ; the smile is 
 admirably done, and would be taken as the 
 genuine article anywhere. 
 
 "Of Miss Kavanagh, then?" 
 
 For a brief instant, and evidently against 
 his wish, Dysart's eyes meet those of Joyce. 
 
 "Perhaps," says he. 
 
 " A poor compliment to me," says Beau- 
 clerk, with his pleasant laugh that always 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 119 
 
 rings so softly. " AVell, never mind ; I 
 forgive you. Get a good partner, my dear 
 fellow, and she may pull you through. 
 You see I depend entirely upon mine," 
 with a glance at Joyce, full of expression. 
 " There's Miss Maliphant now — she'd make 
 a good partner if you like." 
 
 " I shouldn't," says Dysart immovably. 
 
 " She plays a good game, I can tell 
 you." 
 
 " So do you," says Dysart. 
 
 " Oh, now Dysart, don't be sarcastic," 
 says Beauclerk laughing. " I believe you 
 are afraid of me, not of Miss Kavanagh, 
 and that's why you won't play. But if 
 you were to put yourself in Miss Maliphant's 
 hands, I don't say but that you would have 
 a chance of beating me." 
 
 " I shall beat you by myself or not at 
 all," says Dysart suddenly, and for the 
 first time looking fair at him. 
 
 " A single, you mean ? " 
 
 " Yes, a single." 
 
120 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 "Well — we shall see," says Beauclerk. 
 " Hah, there is Courtenay. Come along, 
 Miss Kavanagh, we must make up a set 
 as best we may, as Dysart is too lazy to 
 face us." 
 
 " The next game is ours, Mr. Dysart, 
 remember," says she, glancing at Dysart 
 over her shoulder. There is a touch of 
 anxiety in her eyes. 
 
 " I always remember," says he, with a 
 rather ambiguous smile. What is he re- 
 membering now ? Joyce's mouth takes a 
 grave curve as she follows Beauclerk down 
 the marble steps that lead to the tennis - 
 ground below. 
 
 The evening has grown very still. The 
 light wind that all day long has sung 
 amongst the leaves, has gone to sleep. 
 Only the monotonous countings of the 
 tennis players can be heard. Suddenly 
 above these, another sound arises. It is not 
 the voice of the charmer. It is the voice 
 of Tommy in full cry, and mad with a 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 121 
 
 desire to gaiii tlie better of the argument 
 now going on between bim and Mr. Browne. 
 Mr. Browne is still, however, holding his 
 own. He generally does. His voice grows 
 eloquent. All can hear. 
 
 " I shall tell my story. Tommy, in my 
 own way, or I shall not tell it at all ! " 
 The dignity that Mr. Browne throws into 
 this threat is hardly to be surpassed. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge," 
 
 ^' 'Tisn't right," says Tommy. 
 
 " / think it is. If you will kindly listen 
 to it once again, and give your entire atten- 
 tion to it, you will see how faulty is the 
 ignorant conclusion to which you have 
 come." 
 
 "I'm not one bit ignorant," says Tommy 
 indignantly. " Niirse says ' I'm the dickens 
 an' all ' at my Bible, and that I know 
 Genesis better'n she does." 
 
 " And a very engaging book it is too," 
 says Mr. Browne, " but it isn't everything. 
 What you want to study, my good boy, is 
 natural history. You are very ignorant 
 about that, at all events." 
 
 "A cow couldn't do it," says Tommy. 
 
 " History says she can. Now, hsten 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 123 
 
 again. It is a grand old poem, and I am 
 grieved and distressed, Thomas, to find that 
 you refuse to accept it as one of the gems 
 of truth thrown up to us out of the Dark 
 Ages. Are you ready ? 
 
 " Diddle-dee, diddle-dee dumpty. 
 The cow ran up the plum-tree. 
 Half-a-crown to fetch her " 
 
 " She dichi't — 'twas the ra^," cries Tommy. 
 
 " ^ot in my story," says Mr. Browne, 
 mildly but firmly. 
 
 " A cow couldnU go up a plum-tree," 
 indignantly. 
 
 " She could in mif story," persists Mr. 
 Browne, with all the air of one who, even 
 to avoid unpleasantness, would not consent 
 to go against the dictates of his conscience. 
 
 " She coulchi't^ I tell you," roars Tommy, 
 now thoroughly incensed. " She couldn't 
 climb. Her horns would stick in the 
 branches. She'd be too heavy ! " 
 
 " I admit, Thomas," says Mr. Browne 
 gravely, " that your argument sounds as 
 
124 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 though there were some sense in it. But 
 who am I that I should dare to disbelieve 
 ancient history ? It is unsafe to throw 
 down old landmarks, to blow up the bul- 
 warks of our noble constitution. Beware 
 Tommy ! never tread on the tail of Truth- 
 It may turn and rend you." 
 
 " Her name isn't Truth," says Tommy. 
 " Our cow's name is Biddy, and she never 
 ran up a tree m her life." 
 
 " She's young," says Mr. Browne. " She'll 
 learn. So are you — yoitll learn. And re- 
 member this, my boy, always respect old 
 legends. A disregard for them will so un- 
 settle you that finally you will find yourself 
 — at the foot of the gallows m all human 
 probability. I suppose," sadly, "that you 
 are even so far gone in scepticism as to 
 doubt the glorious truth of the moon's being 
 made of green cheese ? " 
 
 " Father says that's nonsense," says Tommy 
 promptly, and with an air of triumph, " and 
 father always knows." 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 125 
 
 '' I blush for your father," says Mr. 
 Browne with iiicreasmg melancholy. " Both 
 he and you are apparently sunk in heathen 
 darkness. AYell, well ; we will let the 
 question of the moon go by, though I suj)- 
 pose you know, Tommy, that the real and 
 original moon first rose in Cheshire." 
 
 " Xo, I don't," says Tommy, with a 
 militant glare. " There was once a Cheshire 
 cat ; there never was a Cheshire moon." 
 
 " I suppose you will tell me next there 
 never was a Cheshire cheese," says Mr. 
 Browne severely. " Don't you see the con- 
 nection ? But never mmd. Talking of 
 oats brings us back to our mutton, and from 
 thence to our cow. I do hope. Tommy, 
 that for the future you will, at all events, 
 try to believe in that faithful old animal who 
 skipped so gaily up and down, and hither 
 and thither, and m and out, and all about, 
 that long-suffering old plum-tree." 
 
 " She never did it," says Tommy, stamp- 
 ing with rage and now nearly in tears. 
 
126 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " I've books — I've books, and 'tisn't in any 
 of them." 
 
 "It is in my book," says Mr. Browne, 
 who ouo'ht to be ashamed of himself. 
 
 " I don't believe you ever read a book," 
 screams Tommy furiously. " 'Twas the cat 
 —the cat— the cat ? " 
 
 " Xo ; 'twas the horned cow," says Mr. 
 Browne in a sepulchral tone, whereat Tommy 
 goes for him. 
 
 There is a wild and desperate conflict. 
 Tooth and nail Tommy attacks the foe, lists 
 and sturdy legs doing very gallant service. 
 There would indeed have been a serious case 
 of assault and battery for the next Court 
 day, had not Providence sent Mrs. Monkton 
 on the scene. 
 
 " Oh, Tommy ! " cries she, aghast. It is 
 presumably Tommy, though, as he has his 
 head thrust between Mr. Browne's legs, 
 and his heels in mid air, kicking with all 
 their might, there isn't much of him by 
 which to prove identification. And — " Oh, 
 
APEIL-S LADY. 127 
 
 Dicky," says she again, " how could you 
 torment him so, when you know how easy 
 it is to excite him. See what a state he 
 IS m I 
 
 " And what about me ? " demands Mr. 
 Browne, who is weak with laughter. " Is 
 no sympathy to be shown me 1 see what a 
 state Vm in. I'm black and blue from head 
 to heel. I'm at the point of death ! " 
 
 " Nonsense ! you are all right, but look 
 at Mm ! Oh Tommy, what a terrible boy 
 you are. And you promised me if I brought 
 you, that you Just look at his clothes ! " 
 
 " Look at mine ! " says Mr. Browne. " My 
 best hat is done for, and I'm afraid to ex- 
 amine my trousers. You might tell me if 
 there is a big rent anywhere. No ? Eh ? 
 Well — if you won't I must only risk it. 
 But I feel tattered and torn. By-the-bye, 
 Tommy, that's part of another old story. 
 I'll tell you about it some day." 
 
 " Come with me, Tommy," says his mother, 
 with awful severity. She holds out her hand 
 
128 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 to her son, who is still glaring at Dicky with 
 an undying ferocity. "You are a very 
 naughty boy and I'm sure your father will 
 be very angry with you when he hears of 
 this." 
 
 " Oh, but he must not hear of it, must 
 he. Tommy ? " says Mr. Browne, with de- 
 cision, appealing to his late antagonist as 
 airily, as utterly without arriere jjensee^ as 
 though no unpleasant passages have ever 
 occurred between them. " It's awfully good 
 of you to desire our company, Mrs. Monkton, 
 but really on the whole I thmk " 
 
 " It is Tommy I want," says Mrs. Monkton 
 still with a meaning eye. 
 
 " Where Tommy goes, I go," says Mr. 
 Browne, firmly. " We are wedded to each 
 other for the day. Nothing shall part us ! 
 Neither law nor order. Just now we are 
 going down to the lake to feed the swans 
 with the succulent bun. Will you come with 
 us?" 
 
 •' You are very micertam, Dicky," says 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 129 
 
 Mrs. Monkton, regarding Mr. Browne with a 
 gravity that savours of disapproval. "How 
 shall I be sure that if you take him to the 
 lake you will not let him drown himself?" 
 
 "He is far more likely to drown me," says 
 Mr. Browne. " Come along, Tommy, the 
 biscuits are in the hall, and the lake a quarter 
 of a mile away. The day waneth ; let us 
 haste — let us haste ! " 
 
 " Where has Dicky gone ? " asks Joyce, 
 who has just returned victorious from her 
 game. 
 
 " To the lake with Tommy. I have been 
 imploring him not to drown my son," says 
 Mrs. Monkton with a rather rueful smile. 
 
 " Oh, he won't do that. Dicky is erratic, 
 but pretty safe, for all that. And he is fond 
 of Tommy." 
 
 " He teases him, however, beyond en 
 durance." 
 
 " That is because he does like him." 
 
 " A strange conclusion to arrive at, surely,' 
 
 says Dysart, looking at her. 
 
 VOL. L 9 
 
130 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " No. If he didn't like him, he wouldn't 
 take the trouble," says she, nonchalantl}'. 
 She is evidently a little distraite. She looks 
 as though she wanted somethmg. 
 
 " You won your game ? " says her sister, 
 smiling at her. 
 
 " Yes, quite a glorious victory. They 
 had only two games out of the six ; 
 and you know Miss Connor plays very 
 weU." 
 
 '' Where is Mr. Beauclerk ? " 
 
 " Gone into the house to write some letters 
 and telegrams." 
 
 " Norman, do you mean ? " asks Lady 
 Baltimore, coming up at this moment, her 
 basket full of flowers, and minus the little 
 son, and the hen-ess ; "he has just gone 
 into the house to hear Miss Maliphant sing. 
 You know she sings remarkably well, and 
 that last song of Milton Welhngs suits her 
 so entirely. Norman is very fond of music. 
 Have you had a game, Joyce ? " 
 
 " Yes, and won it," says Joyce, smiling 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 131 
 
 back at her, though her face has paled a 
 little. Had she won it ? 
 
 " Well, I must take these into the house 
 before they fade. Righton wants them for 
 the dimier-table," says Lady Baltimore. A 
 little hurried note has crept into her voice. 
 She. turns away somewhat abruptly. Lord 
 Baltimore and Lady Swansdown have just 
 appeared in view. Lady Swansdown with a 
 huge bunch of honeysuckle in her hand, look- 
 ing very picturesque. 
 
 Baltimore, seeing his wife move towards 
 the house, and Lady Swansdown displaying 
 the spoils of her walk to Dysart, darts quickly 
 after her. 
 
 "Let me carry that burden for you," says 
 he, laying his hand upon the basket of flowers. 
 
 " No, oh ! 710^ thank you," says Lady 
 Baltimore, glancing up at him for just a 
 moment, with a httle curious expression in 
 her eyes. " I have carried it quite a long 
 time. I hardly feel it now. No ; go back 
 to the lawn to Lady Swansdown — see ; she 
 
 9-2 
 
132 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 is quite alone at this moment. You will be 
 doing me a real service if you will look after 
 our guests." 
 
 " As you will," says Baltimore, coldly. 
 
 He turns back with a frown, and rejoins 
 those he had left. 
 
 Joyce is talking to Lady Swansdown in 
 her prettiest way — she seems, indeed, excep- 
 tionally gay even for her, who, as a rule, is 
 the life of every party. Her spirits seem to 
 have risen to quite an abnormal height, and 
 her charming laugh, soft as it is sweet, rings 
 gaily. With the advent of Baltimore, how- 
 ever. Lady Swansdown's attention veers aside, 
 and Joyce, feeling Dysart at her elbow, turns 
 to him. 
 
 " We postponed one game, I think," says 
 she. " Well — shall we play the next ? " 
 
 " I am sorry," says he, dehberately, " but, 
 I think not." His eyes are on the 
 ground. 
 
 " No ? " says she, colouring warmly. 
 There is open surprise in her glance. That 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 133 
 
 he should refuse to accept an advance from 
 her seems truly beyond belief. 
 
 " You must forgive me/' says he, deliber- 
 ately still. He had sworn to himself that 
 he would not play second fiddle on this 
 occasion at all events, and he holds himself 
 to his word. " But I feel as if I could not 
 play to-day. I should disgrace you. Let 
 me get you another partner. Captain Grant 
 is out there, he " 
 
 " Thank you. I shall be able to provide 
 myself with a partner when I want one," 
 interrupts she, haughtily, turning abruptly 
 awav. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Nature has sometimes made a fool." 
 
 The fiddles are squeaking, the 'cellos are 
 groaning, the man with the cornet is making 
 a most ungodly row. As yet, the band have 
 the ballroom all to themselves, and are cer- 
 tamly making the most of their time. Such 
 unearthly noises rarely, if ever, have been 
 heard in it before. Why they couldn't have 
 tuned their instruments before coming is a 
 question that fills the butler's mind with 
 wrath, but perhaps the long journey down 
 from Dublin would have untuned them all 
 again, and left the players of them discon- 
 solate. 
 
 The dismal sounds penetrate into the rooms 
 right and left of the ballroom, but fail to 
 kill the melancholy sweetness of the dripping 
 fountains or the perfume of the hundred 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 135 
 
 flowers that give their sleeping-draughts to 
 all those who choose to come and inhale them. 
 Mild draughts that please the senses without 
 stealing them. 
 
 The sounds even penetrate to the library, 
 where Joyce is standing before the low fire, 
 that even in this July evening, burns upon 
 the hearth, fastening her long gloves. She 
 had got down before the others and now, 
 finding the room empty, half wishes herself 
 back again upstairs. But she is so young, so 
 full of a fresh delight in all the gaiety around 
 her, that she had hurried over her dressing, 
 and, with the first dismal sounds of the 
 tuning, had turned her steps its way. 
 
 The library seems cold to her, bare, un- 
 friendly. Had she expected to meet somebody 
 there before her — somebody who had promised 
 to get into a fresh tie in a hurry, but who 
 had possibly forgotten all about it in the 
 joy of an after-dinner cigar ? 
 
 It seems a long time since that first day 
 when she had been startled by his sudden 
 
136 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 reappearance at the Court. A long, long time. 
 Soon this last visit of hers to the Court must 
 come to an end. The Baltimores will be 
 going abroad in a fortnight or so — and he 
 with them. The summer is waning — dreary 
 
 autumn coming. He will go — and . 
 
 A sense of dissatisfaction sits heavily on 
 her, toning down to rather too cruel a de- 
 gree the bright expectancy of her face. He 
 
 had said he would come, and now . She 
 
 drums in a heavy-hearted, listless fashion on 
 the table with the tips of her pale gloves, and 
 noticing, half- consciously in so doing, that 
 they have not been sufficiently drawn up her 
 arm, mechanically fits them closer to the taper 
 fingers. 
 
 Certainly he haa ^aid he would be here. 
 " Early, you know. Before the others can 
 get down." A quick frown grows upon her 
 forehead, and now that the fingers are quiet, 
 the little foot begins to beat a tattoo upon 
 the ground. Leaning against the table in a 
 graceful attitude, with the lamplight stream- 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 137 
 
 ing on her pretty white frock, she gives a 
 loose rem to her thoughts. 
 
 They are a little angry, a httle frightened 
 perhaps. During the past week had he not 
 said many things, that in the end proved void 
 of meaning. He had haunted her in a degree, 
 at certain hours, certain times, had loitered 
 through gardens, Imgered m conservatories by 
 her side, whispered many things — looked so 
 very many more. But . 
 
 There were other times, other opportunities 
 for philandering (^she does not give it this 
 unpleasant name) ; how has he spent them ? 
 A vague thought of Miss Maliphant crosses 
 her mind. That he laughs at the plain, 
 good-natured heiress to her (Joyce), has not 
 prevented the fact that he is very attentive 
 to her, at times. Principally such times as 
 when Joyce may reasonably be supposed to 
 be elsewhere. Human reason, however, often 
 falls short of the mark, and there have been 
 unsuspected moments during the past week 
 when Miss Kavanagh has by chance appeared 
 
138 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 ■apon the scene of Mr. Beauclerk's amusements, 
 and has found that Miss Mahphant has had a 
 
 good deal to do with them. But then 
 
 " That poor, good girl you know ! " Here, 
 Beauclerk's joyous laugh would ring forth for 
 Joyce's benefit. " Such a good girl ; and so 
 — er — don't you know ! " He was certainly 
 always a little vague. He didn't explain him- 
 self. Miss Kavanagh, looking back on all he 
 had ever said against the heiress, is obliged 
 to confess to herself that the great "er" had 
 had to express everything. Contempt, dislike, 
 kindly disdain — he was always kindly — he 
 made quite a point of that Truly, thinks 
 Miss Kavanagh to herself, after this retrospec- 
 tive glance, "er" is the greatest word in the 
 English language ! 
 
 And so it is. It declares. It conceals. It 
 conveys a laugh. It suggests a frown. It 
 helps a sorrowful confession. It adorns a 
 lame one. It is kindly, as giving time. It 
 
 is cruel, as being full of sarcasm. It „ 
 
 In fact, what is it it cannot do ? 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 139 
 
 Joyce's feet have grown quite steady now. 
 She has placed her hands on the table behind 
 her, and thus compelled to lean a little 
 forward, stands studying the carpet without 
 seeing it. A sense of anger, of shame against 
 herself is troublino^ her. If he should not be 
 in earnest ! If he should not — like her as she 
 likes him ! 
 
 She rouses herself suddenly as if stung by 
 some thought. " Like " is the word. It 
 has gone no deeper yet. It shall not. He is 
 handsome, he has his charm, but if she is not 
 all the world to him, why, he shall not be 
 all the world to her. If it is money he 
 craves, for the restoration of that old home of 
 his, why money let it be. But there shall 
 not be the two things, the desire of one for 
 filthy lucre, the desire of the other for love. 
 He shall decide. 
 
 She has grown very pale. She has drawn 
 herself up to her full height, and her lips are 
 pressed together. And now a strange thought 
 comes to her. If — if she loved him, could 
 
140 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 she bear thus to analyse him ? To take him 
 to pieces, to dissect him as it were ? Once 
 again '^at feeling of fear oppresses her. Is 
 she so Cold, so deliberate in herself that 
 she suspects others of coldness ? After all 
 — if he does love her — if he only hesitates 
 because . 
 
 A step outside the door I 
 
 Instinctively she glances at one of the long 
 mirrors that line the walls from floor to ceil- 
 ing. Involuntarily her hands rush to her 
 head. She gives a little touch to her gown. 
 And now is sitting in a lounging-chair, a little 
 pale still perhaps, but in all other respects 
 the very picture of unconsciousness. It is — it 
 must be . 
 
 It isn't, however. 
 
 Mr. Browne, opening the door in his own 
 delightfully breezy fashion that generally 
 plays old Harry with the hinges and blows 
 the ornaments off the nearest tables, advances 
 towards her with arms outspread, and the 
 liveliest admiration writ upon his features, 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 141 
 
 which to say the truth, are of goodly pro- 
 portions. 
 
 " Oh ! Thou wonder of the world ! " cries 
 he in accents ecstatic. He has been reading 
 " Cleopatra " (that most charming of books) 
 assiduously for the past few days, durmg 
 which time he has made himself an emphatic 
 nuisance to his friends : Perpetual quotations, 
 however apt or salutary, proving as a rule a 
 bore. 
 
 " That will do, Dicky ! We all know about 
 that," says Miss Kavanagh, who is a little 
 unnerved, a little impatient perhaps. Mr. 
 Browne, however, is above bemg snubbed by 
 anyone. He continues on his way rejoicmg. 
 
 " Thou living flame ! " cries he, making 
 what he fondly supposes to be a stage attitude. 
 " Thou thing of beauty. Thou Jleshpot of 
 
 Egypt r' 
 
 He has at last surpassed himself ! He 
 stands silent waiting for the plaudits of the 
 crowd. The crowd, however, is unappre- 
 ciative. 
 
142 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " says Miss Kavanagh shortly. 
 *' I wonder you aren't tired of making people 
 tired. Your eternal quotations would destroy 
 the patience of an anchorite. And as for that 
 last sentence of yours, you know very well it 
 isn't m Rider Haggard's book. He'd have 
 been ashamed of it." 
 
 " Would he ? Bet you he wouldn't ! And 
 if it isn't m his book, all I can say is it ought 
 to have been. Mere oversight leaving it out. 
 He will be sorry if I drop him a line about it. 
 Shouldn't wonder if it produced a new edition. 
 But for my part, I believe it is in the book. 
 Fleshpots, Egypt, you know ; hardly possible 
 to separate 'em now from the public mind." 
 
 "Well, he could separate them any way. 
 There isn't a single word about them in the 
 book from start to finish." 
 
 " No ? D'ye say so ? " Here Mr. Browne 
 grows lost in thought. " Fleshpots — pots — 
 hot pots ; hot potting ! Hah ! " He draws 
 himself together with all the manner of one 
 who has gone down deep into a thing, and 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 143 
 
 come up from it full of knowledge. "I've 
 ^ mixed those babies ujd,' " says he mildly. 
 " But still I can hardly believe that that last 
 valuable addition to Mr. Haggard's work is all 
 my own." 
 
 " Distmctly your own," with a suggestion 
 of scorn, completely thrown away upon the 
 receiver of it. 
 
 "D'ye say so ! By Jove ! And very neat 
 too ! Didn't think I had it in me. After all 
 to write a book is an easy matter ; here am I, 
 who never thought about it, was able to form 
 an entire sentence full of the most exquisite 
 wit and humour without so much as knowing 
 I was doing it. Tell you what, Joyce ; I'll 
 send it to the author with a card and my com- 
 pliments, you know. Horrid thing to be mean 
 about anything, and if I can help him out with 
 a 999th edition or so, I'll be doing him a good 
 turn. Eh ? " 
 
 " I suppose you think you are amusing," 
 says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him with a 
 critical eye. 
 
144 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " My good child, I know that expression,'^ 
 says Mr. Browne, amiably. " I know it by 
 heart. It means that you think I'm a fool. 
 It's politer now-a-days to look things than 
 to say them, but wait awhile and you'll see. 
 Come ; I'll bet you a shilling to a sovereign 
 that he'll be delighted with my suggestion, and 
 put it mto his next edition without delay. No 
 charge ! Given away ! The lot for a penny - 
 three-farthings. In fact, I make it a present to 
 him. Xoble, eh ? Give it to him for nothing ! " 
 
 " About its price," says Miss Kavanagh 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " Think you so ? You are dull to-night, 
 Jocelyne. Flashes of wit pass you by without 
 warming you. Yet I tell you this idea that 
 has flo\\ai from my brain is a priceless one. 
 Never mind the door — he's not commg yet. 
 Attend to me." 
 
 " Who's not coming ? " demands she, the 
 more angrily in that she is growing miserably 
 aware of the brilliant colour that is slowly but 
 surely bedecking her cheeks. 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 145 
 
 " Never mind ! It's a mere detail ; attend 
 to me I entreat you," says Mr. Browne, ayIio is 
 now quite in his element, having made sure of 
 the fact that she is expectmg somebody. It 
 doesn't matter in the least who, to Mr. Browne, 
 expectation is the thing, wherem to catch the 
 embarrassment of Miss Kavanagh, and forth- 
 with he sets himself gaily to the teazmg of 
 her. 
 
 " Attend to what? ^^ says she with a little 
 frown. 
 
 " If you had studied your Bible, Jocelyne, 
 with that care that I should have expected 
 from you, you would have remembered that 
 for forty odd years the Israelites hankered 
 after those very fleshpots of Egypt to which I 
 have been alluding. Now I appeal to you, as 
 a sensible girl, would anybody hanker after 
 anything for forty odd years (veri/ odd years 
 as it happens), unless it was to their advan- 
 tage to get it ; unless, indeed, the object pur- 
 sued was priceless .' " 
 
 " You ask too much of this sensible girl,' 
 
 VOL. I. 10 
 
146 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 says Miss Kavanagh, with a carefully manu- 
 factured yawn. " Really, dear Dicky, you 
 must forgive me if I say I haven't gone into it 
 as yet, and that I don't suppose I shall ever 
 see the necessity for going into it." 
 
 " But, my good child, you must see 
 that those respectable people, the Israelites, 
 wouldn't have pursued a mere shadow for 
 forty years." 
 
 " That's just what I don''t see. There are 
 such a number of fools everywhere, in every 
 age, that one couldn't tell." 
 
 " This is evasion," says Mr. Browne sternly. 
 " To bring you face to face with facts must be 
 my very unpleasant if distinct duty. Joyce, 
 do you dare to doubt for one moment that 
 I speak aught but the truth ? Will you deny 
 that Cleopatra that old serpent of the " 
 
 " Ha — ha — ha," laughs Joyce ironically. 
 " I wish she could hear you. Your life 
 wouldn't be worth a moment's purchase.' 
 
 " Mere slip. Serpent of old Nile. Doesn't 
 matter in the least," says Mr. Browne airily ; 
 
APKILS LADY. 147 
 
 " because she couldn't hear me as it happens. 
 My dear girl, follow out the argument. 
 Cleopatra, metaphorically speaking, was a 
 fleshpot, because the world hankered after her. 
 And — you're another." 
 
 " Really, Dicky, I must protest against your 
 talking slang to me." 
 
 " Where does the slang come in ? You're 
 another fleshpot I meant to say — or convey — 
 because we all hanker after you." 
 
 " Do you ? " with rising wrath. " May 
 I ask what hankering means ? " 
 
 " You had better not," says Mr. Browne 
 mysteriously. " It was one of the rites of 
 Ancient Kem ! " 
 
 " Now there is one thing, Dicky," says 
 Miss Kavanagh, her wrath boiling over. " I 
 won't be called names. I won't be called a 
 fleshpot You'll draw the line there if you 
 please." 
 
 " My dear girl, why not ? Those delect- 
 able pots must have been bric-a-brac of the 
 most recherche description. a most deli- 
 
 10-2 
 
148 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 cate shape, no doubt. Of a pattern, tint, 
 
 formation, general get up — not to be hoped 
 
 for in these prosaic days." 
 
 "N'onsense," indignantly. She is fairly 
 
 roused now, and Mr. Browne regarding her 
 with a proud eye, tells himself he is about to 
 
 have his reward at last. " You know very well 
 that the term ' fleshpots ' referred to what was 
 in the pots, not to the pots themselves." 
 
 " That's all you know about it. That's 
 where your fatal ignorance comes in, my 
 poor Joyce," says he, with immense com- 
 passion. " Search your Bible from cover to 
 cover, and I defy you to find a single men- 
 tion of the contents of those valuable bits of 
 bric-a-brac. Of ^eshjyots — heavy emphasis 
 on the jjots — all ten fingers down at once 
 if you please — we read continually as bemg 
 hankered after by the Israelites, who then, 
 as now, were evidently avid collectors." 
 
 " You've been having champagne, Dicky," 
 says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him with a 
 judicial eye. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 149 
 
 " So have you. But I can't see what 
 that excellent beverage has got to do with 
 the ancient Jews. Keep to the pomt. Did 
 you ever hear that they expressed a longing 
 for the flesh of Egypt ? ISTo. So far so 
 good. The pots themselves were the objects 
 of their admiration. Durmg that remarkable 
 run of theirs through the howling wilderness 
 they, one and all, to a man^ betrayed the 
 true aesthetic tendency. They raved in- 
 cessantly for the girl — I beg pardon — the 
 land they had left behmd them. The land 
 that contained those priceless jars." 
 
 " I wonder how you can be so silly," says 
 Miss Kavanagh disdauifully. Will he never 
 go away ! If he stays, and if — the other — 
 comes 
 
 " Silly ! my good child. How silly ! 
 Why, everything goes to prove the probability 
 of my statement. The taste for articles of 
 vertu — for antiques — for fossils of all descrip- 
 tions that characterized them then has lived 
 to the present day. Then they worried after 
 
150 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 old china, and who shall deny that now they 
 have an overwhelming affection for old clo' ? " 
 
 " Well ; your folly doesn't concern me," 
 says Miss Kavanagh, gathering up her skirts 
 with an evident intention of shakmg oif the 
 dust of his presence from her feet and quit- 
 ting him. 
 
 " I am sorry that you should consider it 
 folly," says Mr. Browne sorrowfully. " I 
 should not have said so much about it per- 
 haps but that I wanted to prove to you that 
 in calling you a fleshpot I only meant to " 
 
 " I won't be called that," interrupts Miss 
 Kavanagh angrily. " It's horrid ! It makes 
 me feel quite fat I Now, once for all, Dicky, 
 I forbid it. I won't have it." 
 
 " I don't see how you are to get out of 
 it," says Mr. BroT\Tie, shaking his head and 
 hands in wild deprecation. " Fleshpots were 
 desirable articles — you're another — ergo — 
 you're a fleshpot. See the argument ? " 
 
 "No I don't," mdignantly. "I see only 
 you — and — I wish I didnt^^ 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 151 
 
 " Yery rude ; very ! " says Mr. Browne, 
 regretfully. " Yet I entreat thee not to 
 leave me without one other word. Follow 
 up the argument — do. Give me an answer 
 to it." 
 
 " Xot one," walkmg to the door. 
 
 " That's because it is unanswerable," says 
 Mr. Browne, complacently. " You are beaten, 
 you " 
 
 There is a sound outside the door ; Joyce 
 with her hand on the handle of it, steps 
 back and looks round nervously at Dicky. 
 A quick colour has dyed her cheeks ; in- 
 stmctively she moves a little to one side and 
 gives a rapid glance into a long mirror. 
 
 " I don't really thmk he could find a 
 fault," says Mr. Browne mischievously. " I 
 should think there will be a good deal of 
 hankering going on to-night." 
 
 Miss Kavanagh has only just barely time 
 to wither him, when Beauclerk comes hur- 
 riedly in. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 " Thinkest thou there are no serpents in the world 
 But those who slide along the grassy sod, 
 And sting the luckless foot that presses them ? 
 There are, who in the path of social life 
 Do bask their spotted skins in fortune's sun. 
 And sting the soul." 
 
 " Oh, there you are," cries he jovially. 
 " Been looking for you everywhere. The 
 music has begun ; first dance just forming. 
 Gay and lively quadrille, you know — country 
 ball wouldn't know itself without a beginning 
 like that. Come ; come on." 
 
 Nothmg can exceed his bonhomie. He 
 tucks her hand in the most delightfully 
 genial, appropriative, fashion under his arm, 
 and with a beaming nod to Mr. Browne (he 
 never forgets to be civil to anybody) hurries 
 Joyce out of the room, leaving the astute 
 Dicky gazing after him with mingled feel- 
 ings in his eye. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 163 
 
 " Deuce and all of a smart chap," says 
 Mr. Browne to himself slowly. " But he'll 
 fall through some day for all that, I shouldn't 
 wonder." 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Beauclerk is still carrying 
 on a charming recitative. 
 
 " Such a hore ! " he is saying, with heart- 
 felt disgust in his tone. It is really wonderful 
 how he can always do it. There is never a 
 moment when he flags. He is for ever up 
 to time as it were, and equal to the occasion. 
 "I'm afraid you rather misunderstood me 
 just now, when I said I'd been looking for 
 you — but the fact is, Browne's such an ass, 
 if he knew we had made an appointment to 
 meet in the library, he'd have brayed the 
 whole affair to any and every one." 
 
 " Was there an appointment ? " says Miss 
 Kavanagh, who is feeling a little unsettled 
 — a little angry with herself perhaps. 
 
 " No — no," with a delightful acceptation 
 of her rebuke. " You are right as ever. I 
 was wrong. But then, you see, it gave me 
 
154 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 a sort of joy to believe that our light allu- 
 sion to a possible happy half-hour before 
 the turmoil of the dance began, might 
 
 mean something more — something . Ah ! 
 
 well, never mind ! Men are vain creatures ; 
 and after all it would have been a happy 
 half-hour to me only ! " 
 
 " Would it ? " says she with a curious 
 glance at him. 
 
 " You know that ! " says he, with the full 
 and earnest glance he can turn on at a 
 second's notice without the slightest injury to 
 heart or mmd. 
 
 "I don't indeed." 
 
 " Oh well, you haven't time to think about 
 it perhaps. I found you very fully occupied 
 when — at last — I was able to get to the 
 library. Browne we all know is a very — 
 er — lively companion — if rather wanting in 
 the higher virtues." 
 
 " ' At last,' " says she, quoting his words. 
 She turns suddenly and looks at him, a world 
 of enquiry in her dark eyes. " I hate pre- 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 155 
 
 tence," says she curtly, throwing up her 
 young head with a haughty movement. 
 '' You said you would be in the library, at 
 such an hour, and though I did not promise 
 to meet you there, still, as I haj)pened to be 
 dressed earlier than I believed possible I came 
 down, and you ? Where were you ?" 
 
 There is a touch of imperiousness m that 
 last question that augurs badly for a false 
 wooer ; but the imperiousness suits her. 
 With her pretty chin uptilted, and that little 
 scornful curve upon her lips, and her lovely 
 eyes ablaze, she looks mdeed " a thmg of 
 beauty." Beauclerk regards her with distinct 
 approbation. After all — had she even half 
 the money that the heiress possesses, what a 
 wife she would make. And it isn't decided 
 yet one way or the other ; sometimes Fate is 
 kmd. The day may come when this delec- 
 table creature may fall to his portion. 
 
 " I can see you are thmking hard thmgs 
 of me," says he reproachfully ; " but you little 
 know how I have been passing the time I had 
 
156 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 SO been looking forward to. Time to be 
 passed with you. That old Lady Blake — sbe 
 would keep me maundering to her about that 
 son of hers in the Mauritius ; you know he 
 and I were at St. Petersburg together. I 
 couldn't get away. You blame me — but 
 what was I to do ? An old woman — un- 
 happy " 
 
 " Oh no. You were right^^'' says Joyce 
 quickly. How good he is after all, and how 
 unjustly she had been thmking of him. So 
 kind, so careful of the feelings of a tiresome old 
 woman. How few men are like him. How 
 few would so far sacrifice themselves. 
 
 " Ah, you see it like that ! " says Mr. 
 Beauclerk, not triumphantly, but so modestly 
 that the girl's heart goes out to him even 
 more. How generous he is ! Xot a word of 
 rebuke to her for her vile suspicion of him. 
 
 " Why, you put me into good spirits again," 
 says he laughing gaily. " We must make 
 haste I fear if we would sa^■e the first 
 dance." 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 157 
 
 " Oh yes — come," says Joyce going quickly 
 forward. Evidently lie is going to ask her 
 for the first dance ! That shows that he 
 
 prefers her to . 
 
 " I'm so glad you have been able to sym- 
 pathise with me about my last disappoint- 
 ment," says Beauclerk. " If you hadn't — if 
 you had had even one hard thought of me 
 I don't know how I should have been able to 
 endure what still lies before me. I am almost 
 raging with anger, but when one's sister is in 
 
 question " 
 
 " You mean ? " says Joyce a little faintly. 
 " Oh, you haven't heard. I am so annoyed 
 myself about it, that I fancied everybody 
 knew. You know I hoped that you would 
 have been good enough to give me the first 
 dance, but when Isabel asked me to dance it 
 with that dreadful daughter of Lady Duns- 
 combe's, what could I do ? Now I ask 
 you ? " appealing to her with hands and eyes. 
 '' What could I do ? " 
 
 " Obey, of course," says she with an efi:brt. 
 
168 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 but a successful one. " You must hurry too, 
 if you want to secure Miss Dunscombe." 
 
 " Ah ; what a misfortune it is to be the 
 brother of one's hostess," says he, with a sort 
 of comic despair. His eyes are centred on 
 her face, reading her carefully, and with much 
 secret satisfaction — rapid as that slight 
 change upon her face had been, he had seen 
 and noted it. 
 
 " It couldn't possibly be a misfortune to be 
 Lady Baltimore's brother," says she smiling. 
 " On the contrary, you are to be congratu- 
 lated." 
 
 " Xot just at this moment surely ! " 
 
 " At this or any other moment. Ah ! " — 
 as they enter the ball-room. " The room is 
 already fuller than I thought. Engaged, Mr. 
 Blake ?" to Lord Blake's eldest son. "No, 
 not for this. Yes, with pleasure." 
 
 She makes a little charming inclination of 
 her head to Beauclerk, and laying her hand 
 on Mr. Blake's arm, moves away with him to 
 where a set is already forming at the end of 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 159 
 
 the room. It is without enthusiasm she takes 
 her place, with Dysart and one of the 
 O'Donovan girls as a vis-a-vis, and prepares 
 to march, retreat, twist and turn with the 
 best of them. 
 
 " A dull old game," she is irreverently 
 terming the quadrilles — that massing together 
 of inelegant movements so dear to the bucolic 
 mind — that saving clause for the old maids 
 and the wall-flowers ; when a little change of 
 position shows her the double quartette on 
 the right hand side of the magnificent ball- 
 room. 
 
 She had been half through an unimportant 
 remark to Mr. Blake, but she stops short now 
 and forgets to finish it. Her colour comes 
 and goes. The sides are now prancmg 
 through their performance, and she and her 
 partner are standmg still. Perhaps — jjerhajjs 
 she was mistaken ; with all these swaying 
 idiots on every side of her she might well have 
 mixed up one man's partner with another ; 
 and Miss Dunscombe (she had caught a 
 
160 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 glimpse of her a while ago) was surely in 
 that set on the right hand side. 
 
 She stoops forward, regardless — oblivious — 
 of her partner's surprised glance, who has just 
 been makmg a very witty remark, and bemg 
 a rather smart young man, accustomed to be 
 listened to, is rather taken aback by her open 
 indifference. 
 
 A little more forward she leans ; yes, 7iow 
 — the couples part — for one moment the coast 
 lies clear. She can see distinctly. Miss 
 Dunscombe is mdeed dancing in that set ; 
 but not as Mr. Beauclerk's partner. Miss 
 Maliphant has secured that enviable role. 
 
 Even as Joyce gazes, Beauclerk turning his 
 head, meets her earnest regard. He returns 
 it with a beaming smile. Miss Maliphant, 
 whose duty it is at this instant to advance 
 and retire and receive without the support of 
 a chaperone the attacks of the bold, bad man 
 opposite, having moved out of Beauclerk's 
 sight, the latter with an expressive glance 
 directed at Joyce, lifts his shoulders forlornly, 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 161 
 
 and gives a serio-comic shrug of his shoulders. 
 All to show how bored a being he is at 
 findmg himself thus, the partner of the ugly 
 heiress ! It is all done in a second. An m- 
 imitable bit of acting — but unpleasant. 
 
 Joyce draws herself up. Her eyes fall 
 away from his ; miless the distance is too 
 far, the touch of disdain that lies in them 
 should have disconcerted even Mr. Beauclerk. 
 Perhaps it has ! 
 
 " Our turn ? " says she, givmg her partner 
 a sudden beautiful glance full of fire — of life 
 — of something that he fails to understand, 
 but does not fail to consider charming. She 
 smiles ; she grows radiant. She is a different 
 being from a moment ago. How could he 
 — Blake — have thought her stupid ? How 
 she takes up every word — and throws new 
 meaning into it — and what a laugh she has ! 
 Low — sweet — merry — music to its core ! 
 
 Beauclerk m his turn finds a loop-hole 
 through which to look at her, and is con- 
 scious of a famt feelmg of chagrin. She 
 
 VOL. I. 11 
 
162 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 ouirhtn't to have takeii it like that. To be 
 a little pensive — a little sad — that would 
 have shown a rif^ht spirit. Well — the night 
 is long, lie can play his game here and 
 there. There is plenty of time in which to 
 regain lost ground with one — to gain fresh 
 ground with the other. Joyce will forgive 
 him — when she hears Ms version of it. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " If thou caust see not, hast thou ears to hear ? 
 Or is thy soul too as a leaf that dies ? " 
 
 " Well, after all, life has its compensations," 
 says Mr. Beauclerk, sinking upon the satin 
 lounge beside Miss Kavanagh, and giving 
 way to a rapturous sigh. He is looking 
 very big, and very handsome. His close- 
 cropped, eminently aristocratic head, is thrown 
 a little back, to give full play to the ecstatic 
 smile he is directing at Joyce. 
 
 She bears it wonderfully. She receives it 
 indeed with all the amiable imbecility of a 
 person who doesn't understand what on earth 
 you are talking about. Whether this recep- 
 tion of his Httle opening speech — so carefully 
 prepared — puzzles or nettles Mr. Beauclerk 
 there is no way of learning. He makes no 
 sign. 
 
 11-2 
 
164 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 " I thought I should never be able to get 
 a dance with you ; you see " — smiling — 
 " when one is the belle of the evening, one 
 grows difficult. But you might have kept 
 a fifth or sixth for a poor outsider like me. 
 An old friend too." 
 
 " Old friends don't count at a dance, I'm 
 afraid," says she, with a smile as genial as 
 his own ; " though for the matter of that 
 you could have had the first ; no one — hard 
 as it may be to make you believe it — had 
 asked the belle of the evening for that." 
 
 This is not quite true. Many had asked 
 for it, Dysart amongst others ; but she had 
 kept it open for — the one who didn't want 
 it. However, fibs of this sort one blinks at, 
 where pretty girls are the criminals. Her 
 tone is deUcately sarcastic. She would will- 
 ingly suppress the sarcasm altogether as 
 beneath her, but she is very angry ; and 
 when a woman is angry there is generally 
 somebody to pay. 
 
 " Oh ! that first 1''^ says he, with a gesture 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 165 
 
 of impatience. " I shan't forgive Isabel in 
 a hurry, about that ; she ruined my evening 
 — up to this. However," throwing off as if 
 it were unpleasant memories by a shake of 
 his head, " don't let me spoil my one good 
 time by dwelling upon a bad one. Here I 
 am now, at all events ; here is comfort, here 
 is peace. The hour I have been longing 
 for, is mine at last." 
 
 " It might have been yours considerably 
 earlier," says Miss Kavanagh with very note- 
 worthy dehberation, unmoved by his lover- 
 like glances, which after all have more truth 
 in them than most of his declarations. She 
 sits playing with her fan, and with a face 
 expressionless as any sphinx. 
 
 " Oh ! my dear girl ! " says Mr. Beau- 
 clerk reproachfully, " how can you say that ! 
 You know in one's sister's house one must 
 — eh ? And she laid positive commands on 
 me " 
 
 " To dance the first dance with Miss 
 Maliphant ? " 
 
166 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 "Now, that's not like you," says Mr. 
 Beauclerk very gently. " It's not just. 
 When I found Miss Dunscombe engaged for 
 that ridiculous quadrille, what could I do ? 
 You were engaged to Blake. I was looking 
 aimlessly round me, cursmg my luck in 
 that I had not thrown up even my sister's 
 wishes and secured before it was too late 
 the only girl m the room I cared to dance 
 with, when Isabel came up again. ' Not 
 dancing,' says she ; ' and there's Miss Mali- 
 phant over there, partner less ! ' " 
 
 He tells all this with as genume an air 
 as if it was not false from start to finish. 
 
 "You know Isabel," says he, laughmg 
 airily ; " she takes the oddest fancies at 
 times. Miss Maliphant is her latest craze. 
 
 Though what she can see in her . A 
 
 nice girl. Thoroughly nice — essentially real 
 — a little too real perhaps," with a laugh so 
 irresistible that even Miss Kavanagh against 
 her will is compelled to join in. 
 
 " Honest all through, I admit ; but as a 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 167 
 
 waltzerl Well, well, we shouldn't be too 
 severe — but really, there, you know, she 
 leaves everything to be desired. And I've 
 been victimized not once, but twice — three 
 times." 
 
 " It is nothing remarkable," says Miss 
 Kavanagh coldly. " Many very charmmg 
 girls do not dance well. It is a gift." 
 
 " A very precious one. When a charming 
 girl can't waltz, she ought to learn how to 
 sit down charmingly, and not oppress inno- 
 cent people. As for Miss Maliphant ! " 
 throwing out his large handsome hands ex- 
 pressively, ^'' she certainly should not dance. 
 Her complexion doesn't stand it. Did you 
 notice her ? " 
 "No," icily. 
 " Ah, you wouldn't, you know. I could 
 
 see how thoroughly well occupied you were ! 
 
 Not a thought for even an old friend ; 
 
 and besides you're a girl in ten thousand. 
 
 Nothing petty or small about you. Now 
 
 another woman would not have failed to 
 
168 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 notice tlie fatal tendency towards rubicun- 
 dity that marks Miss Maliphant's nose 
 whenever- ' ' 
 
 "I do so dislike discussing people behind 
 their backs," says Miss Kavanagh slowly. 
 " I always think it is so unfair. They can't 
 defend themselves. It is like maligning the 
 dead." 
 
 " Miss Maliphant isn't dead at all events. 
 She is dreadfully alive," says Mr. Beauclerk, 
 totally unabashed. He laughs gaily. To 
 refuse to be lectured was a rule he had 
 laid down for his own guidance early in life. 
 Those people who will not see when they 
 ought to be offended have generally the best 
 of the game. 
 
 " Would you have her dead ? " asks Joyce 
 with calm interrogation. 
 
 " I don't remember saying I would have 
 her any way," says he, still evidently cling- 
 ing to the frivolous mood. " And at all 
 events I wouldn't have her, dancing. It 
 disagrees with her nose. It makes her sug- 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 169 
 
 gestive ; it betrays one into the making of 
 bad parodies. One I made to-night when 
 looking at her ; I couldn't resist it. For 
 once in her life you see she was irresistible. 
 Hear it. ' Oh ! my love's got a red, red 
 nose ! ' Ha ! ha I [N^ot half bad, eh ! It 
 kept repeating itself in my brain all the time 
 I was looking at her." 
 
 " I thought you liked her," says Joyce, 
 lifting her large dark eyes for the first time 
 to his. Beautiful eyes I a Httle shocked now 
 — a httle cold — almost entreating. Surely, 
 surely, he will not destroy her ideal of him. 
 
 " You think I am censorious," says he 
 readily, " cruel almost ; but to you " — with 
 delicate flattery — " Surely I may speak to 
 you as I would speak to no other. May I 
 not ? " He leans a little forward, and com- 
 pelling the girl's reluctant gaze, goes on 
 speaking. It chafes him that she should 
 put him on his defence ; but some one 
 divine mstinct within him, warns him not 
 to break with her entirely. " Still," says 
 
170 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 he, in a low tone, always with his eyes on 
 hers, "I can see that you condemn me." 
 
 " Condemn you ! No ! Why should / 
 be your judge ? " 
 
 " You are however — and my judge and 
 jury too. I cannot bear to think that you 
 should despise me. And all because of that 
 wretched girl." 
 
 " I don't despise you," says the girl 
 quickly. " If you were really despicable I 
 should not like you as well as I do ; I am 
 only sorry that you should say little unkind 
 things of a girl like Miss Maliphant, who, 
 if not beautiful, is surely to be regarded in 
 a very kindly light." 
 
 " Do you know," says Mr. Beauclerk 
 gently, " I think you are the one sweet 
 character in the world." There is a great 
 amount of belief in his tone, perhaps half 
 of it is" honest. " I never met any one like 
 you. Women as a rule are willing to tear 
 each other in pieces, but you — you condone 
 all faults ; that is why, I " 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 171 
 
 A pause. He leans forward. His eyes 
 are eloquent ; his tongue alone refrains from 
 finishing the declaration that he had begun. 
 To the girl beside him however, ignorant 
 of subterfuge, unknowmg of the wiles that 
 run in and out of society like a thread, his 
 words sound sweet — the sweeter for the 
 very hesitation that accompanies them. 
 
 " I am not so perfect as you think me," 
 says she rather sadly — her voice a little 
 famt. 
 
 " That is true," says he quickly, as though 
 compelled against his will to find fault with 
 her. " A while ago you were angry with 
 me because I was driven to waste my time 
 with people uncongenial to me. That was 
 unfair if you hke." He throws her own ac- 
 cusation back at her in the gentlest fashion. 
 " I danced with this, that, and the other 
 person it is true, but do you not know 
 where my heart was all the time ? " 
 
 He pauses for a moment, just long enough 
 to make more real his question, but hardly 
 
173 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 long enough to let her reply to it. To brmg 
 matters to a climax would not suit him at 
 all. 
 
 " Yes, you do know," says he, seeing her 
 about to speak. " And yet you misjudge 
 me. If ! — if I were to tell you that I would 
 rather be with you than with any other woman 
 in the world, you would believe me, wouldn't 
 
 you?" 
 
 He stoops over her, and taking her hand^ 
 presses it fondly, lingeringly. " Answer 
 me." 
 
 " Yes," says Joyce in a low tone. It has 
 not occurred to her that his words are a 
 question rather than an asseveration. That 
 he loves her, seems to her certain. A soft 
 glow illumines her cheeks ; her eyes sink 
 beneath his ; the idea that she is happy, or 
 at all events ought to be happy, fills her 
 with a curious wonderment. Do people al- 
 ways feel so strange, so surprised, so unsure^ 
 when love comes to them ? 
 
 " Yet you did doubt," says Beauclerky 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 173 
 
 giving her hand a last pressure, and now 
 nestlmg back amongst his cushions with all 
 the air of a man who has fought and con- 
 quered and has been given his reward. 
 "Well, don't let us throw an unpleasant 
 memory mto this happy hour. As I have 
 said," taking up her fan and idly, if grace- 
 fully waving it to and fro. " After all 
 the turmoil of the fight it is sweet to find 
 oneself at last in the haven where one would 
 be." 
 
 He is smiling at Joyce — the gayest, the 
 most candid smile in the world. Smiles 
 become him. He is looking really handsome 
 and happy at finding himself thus alone 
 with her. Sincerity declares itself in every 
 line of his face. Perhaps he is as sincere 
 as he has ever yet been in his life. The one 
 thmg that he unquestionably does regard 
 with interest beyond his own poor precious 
 bones, is the exquisite bit of nature's work- 
 manship now sitting beside him. 
 
 At this present moment, in spite of his 
 
174 AFEIL'S LADY. 
 
 flattering words, his smiles and telling 
 glances, she is still a little cold, a little un- 
 certain, a phase of manner that renders her 
 indescribably charming to the one watching 
 her. 
 
 Beauclerk indeed is enjoying himself im- 
 mensely. To a man of his temperament to 
 be able to play upon a nature as fine, as 
 honest, as pure as Joyce's is to know a keen 
 delight. That the girl is dissatisfied, vaguely, 
 nervously dissatisfied, he can read as easily 
 as though the workings of her soul lay 
 before him in broad type, and to assuage 
 those half defined misgivings of hers is a 
 task that suits him. He attacks it con 
 amove. 
 
 " How silent you are," says he very 
 gently, when he has let quite a long pause 
 occur. 
 
 " I am tired, I think." 
 
 " Of me ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Of what then ? " He has found that 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 175 
 
 as a rule there is nothing a woman likes 
 better than to be asked to define her own 
 feelmgs. Joyce, however, disappoints him. 
 
 " I don't know. Sitting up so late 1 
 suppose." 
 
 " Look here ! " says he, in a voice so full 
 of earnest emotion that Joyce involuntarily 
 stares at him ; " / know what is the matter 
 with you. You are fighting against your 
 better nature. You are tryiny to be un- 
 generous. You are trymg to believe what 
 you know is not true. Tell me — honestly 
 mind — are you not forcing yourself to regard 
 me as a monster of insincerity." 
 
 '^You are wrong," says she slowly. " I 
 am forcing myself, on the contrary, to be- 
 lieve you a very giant of sincerity." 
 
 " And you find that difficult ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 An intense feeling of admiration for her, 
 sways Beauclerk. How new a thing to find 
 a girl so beautiful, with so much intelligence. 
 Surely instinct is the great lever that moves 
 
176 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 humanity. Why has not this girl the thou- 
 sands that render Miss Maliphant so very 
 desirable ? What a hetise on the part of 
 Mother Nature. Alas ! it would be too 
 much to expect from that niggardly Dame. 
 Beauty, intelligence, wealth ! All rolled 
 into one personality. Impossible ! 
 
 " You are candid," says he ; his tone 
 sorrowful. 
 
 " That is what one should always be," 
 says she m turn. 
 
 " You are too stern a judge. How shall 
 I convince you ? " exclaims he — of what he 
 leaves open — " If I were to swear " 
 
 " Do not," says she quickly. 
 
 " Well, I won't. But Joyce ! " He pauses, 
 purposely. It is the first time he has ever 
 called her by her Christian name, and a 
 little soft colour s^^rings into the girl's cheeks 
 as she hears him. " You know," says he. 
 " You do know ? " 
 
 It is a question ; but again what. What 
 does she know ? He had accredited her 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 177 
 
 with remarkable intelligence a moment ago, 
 but as a fact the girl's knowledge of life is 
 but a poor thiag in comparison with that 
 of the man of the world. She belies her 
 intelligence on the spot. 
 
 " Yes, I think I do," says she shyly. In 
 fact she is longmg to believe, to be sure of 
 this thing, that to her is so j^lain that she 
 has omitted to notice that he has never put 
 it mto words. 
 
 " You will trust in me ? " says he. 
 
 '' Yes, I trust you," says she simply. 
 
 Her pretty gloved hand is lying on her 
 lap. Eaising it, he presses it passionately to 
 his lips. Joyce, with a little nervous move- 
 ment, withdraws it quickly. The colour dies 
 from her lips. Even at this suj^reme moment 
 does Doubt hold her in thrall ! 
 
 Her face is marvellously bright and happy, 
 however, as she rises precipitately to her feet, 
 much to Beauclerk's relief. It has gone quite 
 far enough he tells himself — five minutes 
 more and he would have found himself in a 
 
 VOL. I. 12 
 
178 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 rather embarrassing position. Eeally these 
 pretty girls are very dangerous. 
 
 " Come, we must go back to the ballroom," 
 says she gaily. " We have been here an un- 
 conscionable time. I am afraid my partner 
 for this dance has been looking for me and 
 will scarcely forgive my treating him so 
 badly. If I had only told him I wouldvUt 
 dance mth him he might have got another 
 partner and enjoyed himself." 
 
 " Better to have loved and lost," quotes 
 Beauclerk m his airiest manner. It is so 
 airy that it strikes Joyce unpleasantly. 
 Surely after all — after She pulls her- 
 self together angrily. Is she ahvays to find 
 fault with him ? Must she have his whole 
 nature altered to suit her taste ? 
 
 " Ah, there is Dicky Browne," says she, 
 glancing from where she is now standing at 
 the door of the conservatory to where Mr. 
 Browne may be seen leaning against a curtain 
 with his lips curved m a truly benevolent 
 smile. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ' Now the nights are all past over 
 Of our dreaming, dreams that hover 
 In a mist of fair false things : 
 Night's afloat on wide wan wings." 
 
 ^'Why, so it is ! Our ovm Dicky, in the 
 flesh and an admirable temper apparently," 
 says Mr. Beauclerk. " Shall we come and 
 interview him ? " 
 
 They move forward and presently find 
 themselves at Mr. Browne's elbow ; he is, 
 however, so far lost m his kindly ridicule of 
 the poor silly revolving atoms before him, 
 that it is not until Miss Kavanagh gives his 
 arm a highly suggestive pinch that he learns 
 that she is beside him. 
 
 " Wough ! " says he, shouting out this 
 iQiclassic if highly expressive word without 
 the slightest regard for decency. " What 
 fingers you've got. I really think you might 
 
 I'J - 2 
 
180 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 reserve tliat kind of thing for Dysart. He'd 
 like it." 
 
 This is a most infelicitous speech, and Miss 
 Kavanagh might have resented it, but for the 
 strange fact that Beauclerk, on hearing it, 
 laughs heartily. Well, if he doesn't mind, it 
 can't matter, but how silly Dicky can be ! 
 Mr. Beauclerk continues to laugh with much 
 enjoyment. 
 
 " Try him ! " says he to Miss Kavanagh, 
 with the liveliest encouragement in his tone. 
 If it occurs to her that, perhaps, lovers, as a 
 rule, do not advise their sweethearts to play 
 fast and loose with other men, she refuses to 
 give heed to the warning. He is not like 
 other men. He is not basely jealous. He 
 knows her. He trusts her. He had hinted 
 to her but just now, so very, very kindly that 
 she was suspicious, that she must try to con- 
 quer that fault — if it is hers. And it is. 
 There can be no doubt of that. She had 
 even distrusted him ! 
 
 "Is that your advice ? " asks Mr. Browne, 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 181 
 
 regarding him with a rather piercing eye. 
 " Capital, under the circumstances^ but rather, 
 eh ? — Has it ever occurred to you that Dysart 
 is capable of a good deal of feeling ? " 
 
 " So few things occur to me, I'm ashamed 
 to say," says Beauclerk, genially. " I take 
 the present moment. It is all- sufficing, so 
 far as I'm concerned. Well ; and so you tell 
 nie Dysart has feeling ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I shouldn't advise Miss Kavanagh 
 to play pranks with him," says Dicky, with a 
 pretentiously rueful glance at the arm she has 
 just pinched so very delicately. 
 
 " You're a poor soldier ! " says she, with 
 a little scornful up -tilting of her chin. " You 
 wrong Mr. Dysart if you think he would 
 feel so slight an injury. What ! A mere 
 touch from me f'' 
 
 " Your touch is deadlier than you know, 
 perhaps," says Mr. Browne, lightly. 
 
 " What a slander," says Miss Kavanagh, 
 who, in spite of herself, is growing a little 
 conscious. 
 
182 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Yes ; isn't it ? " says Beauclerk, to whom 
 
 she has appealed. " As for me " He 
 
 breaks off suddenly and fastens his gaze 
 severely on the other side of the room. " By 
 Jove ! I had forgotten ! There is my part- 
 ner for this dance looking daggers at me. 
 Dear Miss Kavanagh, you will excuse me, 
 won't you ? Shall I take you to your 
 chaperone, or will you let Browne have the 
 remamder of this waltz ? " 
 
 " I'll look after Miss Kavanagh, if she will 
 allow me," says Dicky, rather drily. " Will 
 you ? " with a quizzical glance at Joyce. 
 
 She makes a little affirmative sign to him, 
 returns Beauclerk's parting bow, and, still 
 with a heart as light as a feather, stands by 
 Mr. Browne's side, watching in silence the 
 form of Beauclerk as it moves here and there 
 amongst the crowd. What a handsome man 
 he is ! How distinguished ! How tall ! How 
 big ! Every other man looks dwarfed beside 
 him. Presently he disappears into an ante- 
 room, and she turns to find Mr. Browne, for 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 183 
 
 a wonder, as silent as herself, and evidently 
 lost in thought. 
 
 " What are you thinking of ? " asks she. 
 
 " Of you ! " 
 
 " iSTonsense ! What were you doing just 
 then when I spoke to you ? " 
 
 " I have told you." 
 
 " No you haven't. What icere you doing ?" 
 
 " Hankering ! " says Mr. Browne, heavily. 
 
 " Dicky 1 " says she indignantly. 
 
 " Well ; what ? Do you suppose a fellow 
 gets rid of a disease of that sort all in a 
 minute ? It generally lasts a good month, 
 I can tell you. But come ; that ' Beautiful 
 Star ' of yours, that ' shines in your Heaven 
 so bright,' has given you into my charge. 
 What can I do for you ? " 
 
 " Deliver me from the wrath of that man 
 over there," says Miss Kavanagh, indicating- 
 Mr. Blake, who, with a thunderous brow, is 
 making his way towards her. " The last was 
 his. I forgot all about it. Take me away, 
 Dicky ; somewhere, anywhere ; I know he's 
 
184 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 got a horrid temper, and he is going to say 
 uncivil things. Where " (here she meanly 
 tries to get behind Mr. Browne) ^^ shall we 
 go." 
 
 " Eight through this door," says Mr. 
 Browne, who, as a rule, is equal to all 
 emergencies. He pushes her gently towards 
 the conservatory she has just quitted, that 
 has steps leading from it to the illuminated 
 gardens below, and just barely gets her safely 
 ensconced behind a respectable barricade of 
 greenery before Mr. Blake arrives on the spot 
 they have just vacated. 
 
 They have indeed the satisfaction of seeing 
 him look vaguely round, murmur a gentle 
 anathema or two, and then resign himself 
 to the inevitable. 
 
 " He's gone ! " says Miss Kavanagh, with 
 a sigh of relief. 
 
 " To Perdition ! " says Mr. Browne in an 
 awesome tone. 
 
 " I really wish you wouldn't, Dicky," says 
 Joyce. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 185 
 
 " Why not. You seem to think men's 
 hearts are made of adamant ! A moment 
 
 ago you sneered at mine^ and now By 
 
 Jove I Here's Baltimore — and alone, for a 
 wonder." 
 
 " Well ! His heart is adamant ! " says 
 she softly. 
 
 " Or hers— which ? " 
 
 " Of course — manlike — you condemn our 
 sex. That's why I'm glad I'm not a 
 
 man." 
 
 " Why ? Because, if you were, you would 
 condemn your present sex ? " 
 
 " Certainly not ! Because I wouldn't be 
 of an unfair, mean, migenerous disposition 
 for the world." 
 
 " Good old Jo ! " says Mr. Browne, giving 
 her a tender pat upon the back. 
 
 By this time Baltimore has reached 
 them. 
 
 " Have you seen Lady Baltimore any- 
 where ? " asks he. 
 
 " Xot quite lately," says Dicky ; " last 
 
186 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 time I saw her she was dancmg with 
 Farnham." 
 
 " Oh — after that she went to the library,'^ 
 says Joyce quickly. " I fancy she may be 
 there still, because she looked a little tired." 
 
 " AVell, she had been dancmg a good deal," 
 says Dicky. 
 
 " Thanks. I daresay I'll find her," says 
 Baltimore, with an air of indifference, hurry- 
 ing on. 
 
 " I hope he will," says Joyce, looking 
 after him. 
 
 " I hope so too — and in a favourable 
 temper." 
 
 " You're a cynic, Dicky, under all that 
 airy manner of yours," says Miss Kavanagh 
 severely. " Come out to the gardens, the 
 air may cool your brain, and reduce you to 
 milder judgments." 
 
 " Of Lady Baltimore ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Truly I do seem to be sitting in judg- 
 ment on her and her family." 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 187 
 
 "Her family 1 What has Bertie done ? " 
 " Oh, there is more family than Bertie," 
 
 says Mr. Browne. " She has a brother, 
 
 hasn't she ? " 
 
 Meantime Lord Baltimore, taking Joyce's 
 hint, makes his way to the library, to find 
 his wife there, lying back in a huge arm- 
 chair. She is looking a little pale. A little 
 ennuyee; it is plain that she has sought 
 this room — one too public to be in much 
 request — with a view to getting away for 
 a little while from the noise and heat of the 
 balboom. 
 
 " Not dancmg ? " says her husband, stand- 
 ing well away from her. She had sprung 
 into a sitting posture the moment she saw 
 him, an action that has angered Baltimore. 
 His tone is uncivil ; his remark, it must be 
 confessed, superfluous. Why does she per- 
 sist in treatmg him as a stranger ? Surely, 
 on whatever bad terms they may be, she 
 
188 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 need not feel it necessary to make herself 
 uncomfortable on his appearance. She had 
 evidently been enjoying that stolen lounge, 
 and now 
 
 The lamplight is streaming full upon her 
 face. A faint colour has crept into it. The 
 white velvet gown she is wearing is hardly 
 whiter than her neck and arms, and her 
 eyes are as bright as her diamonds ; yet 
 there is no feature in her face that could 
 be called strictly handsome. This, Baltimore 
 tells himself, staring at her as he is, in a 
 sort of insolent defiance of the cold glance 
 she has directed at him. Xo ; there is no 
 beauty about that face ; distinctly bred, calm 
 and pure, it might possibly be called charming 
 by those who liked her, but nothing more. 
 She is not half so handsome as — as — any 
 amount of other women he knows, and yet 
 
 It increases his anger towards her tenfold 
 to know that in his secret soul she has the 
 one face that to him is beautiful, and ever 
 will be beautiful. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 189 
 
 " You see ; " says she gently, and with 
 an expressive gesture, "I longed for a 
 moment's pause, so I came here. Do they 
 want me ? " She rises from her seat, look- 
 ing very tall and graceful. If her face is 
 not strictly lovely there is, at all events, no 
 lack of loveliness in her form. 
 
 " I can't answer for ' they,' " says Balti- 
 more, " but " he stops dead short here. 
 
 If he had been going to say anything, the 
 desire to carry out his intention dies upon 
 the spot. " No, I am not aware that ' they ' 
 or anybody wants you particularly at this 
 moment. Pray sit down again." 
 
 " I have had quite a long rest already." 
 
 " You look tired, however. Are you ? " 
 
 "Not in the least." 
 
 " Give me this dance then," says he, half 
 mockingly, yet with a terrible earnestness in 
 his voice. 
 
 " Give it to you ! Thank you. No." 
 
 " Fearful of contamination ? " with a 
 smiling sneer. 
 
190 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Pray spare me your jibes," says she very 
 coldly, her face whitenmg. 
 
 " Pray spare me your presence, you should 
 rather say. Let us have the truth at all 
 hazards. A samt like you should be careful." 
 
 To this she makes him no answer. 
 
 " What ! " cries he, sardonically ; " and 
 will you miss this splendid opportunity of 
 giving a sop to your Cerberus ? Of con- 
 ciliatmg your bugbear ? your bete noire P 
 your fear of gossip V 
 
 " I fear nothmg " — icily. 
 
 "You do, however. Forgive the contra- 
 diction," with a sarcastic inclination of his 
 head. " But for this fear of yours you 
 would have cast me off long ago, and bade 
 me go to the Devil as soon as — nay, the 
 sooner the better. And indeed if it were 
 not for the child — By the bye, do you 
 forget I have got a hold on him — a stronger 
 than yours ? " 
 
 " I forget nothing either," returns she as 
 icily as before ; but now a tremor, barely 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 191 
 
 perceptible, but terrible in its intensity, 
 shakes her voice. 
 
 " Hah ! You need not tell me that. 
 You are relentless as — well, ' Fate ' comes 
 in handy," with a reckless laugh. '' Let us 
 be conventional by all means, and it is a 
 good old simile, well worn ! You decline 
 my proposal then ? It is a sensible one, 
 and should suit you. Dance with me to- 
 night, when all the County is present, and 
 Mother G-rmidy goes to bed with a sore 
 heart. Scandal lies slain. All will cry 
 aloud : ' There they go ! Fast friends in 
 spite of all the lies we have heard about 
 them.' Is it possible you can deliberately 
 forego so great a chance of puzzling our 
 neighbours ? " 
 
 " I can." 
 
 " AYhy, where is your sense of humour ? 
 One trembles for it ! To be able to deceive 
 them all so deliciously ; to send them home 
 believmg us on good terms, a veritable lovmg 
 couple" — he breaks into a curious laugh. 
 
192 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 " This is too much," says she, her face now 
 Hke death. "You would insult me ! Believe 
 me, that not to spare myself all the gossip 
 with which the whole world could hurt 
 me would I endure your arm around my 
 waist ! " 
 
 His short-lived, most mimu^thful mirth has 
 died from him, he has laid a hand upon the 
 table near him to steady himself. 
 
 " You are candid, on my soul," says he, 
 slowly. 
 
 She moves quickly towards the door, her 
 velvet skirt sweeping over his feet as she goes 
 by — the perfume of the violets m her bosom 
 reaches him. 
 
 Hardly knowing his own meaning, he puts 
 out his hand and catches her by her naked 
 arm, just where the long glove ceases above 
 the elbow. 
 
 " Isabel, give me this dance," says he, a 
 little wildly. 
 
 "^/" 
 
 She shakes herself free of him. A moment 
 
APEILS LADY. 193 
 
 her eyes blaze into his. " No ! " she says 
 again, trembling from head to foot. Another 
 moment, and the door has closed behind 
 her. 
 
 VOL. L 13 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " The old, old pain of earth." 
 
 It is now close upon midnight — that mid- 
 night of the warmer months when day sets 
 its lio'ht lino'er on the fringes of it. There 
 is a sighing through the woods, a murmur 
 from the everlasting sea, and though Diana 
 still rides high in Heaven with her handmaiden 
 Venus by her side, yet in a little while her 
 glory will be departed, and her one rival, the 
 sun, will push her from her throne. 
 
 The gleaming lamps amongst the trees are 
 scarcely so bright as they were an hour ago, 
 the faint sighing of the wmd that heralds the 
 morning is shaking them to and fro. A silly 
 bird has waked, and is chirping in a foolish 
 fashion amongst the rhododendrons, where, in 
 a secluded path, Joyce and Dicky Browne are 
 wandering somewhat aimlessly. Before them 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 195 
 
 lies a turn in the path that leads presumably 
 into the dark wood, darkest of all at this hour, 
 and where presumably, too, no one has ven- 
 tured — though one should never presume 
 about hidden corners. 
 
 " I can't think what you see in him," says 
 Mr. Browne, after a long pause. " I'd say 
 nothing if his face wasn't so fat, but if I were 
 you, that would condemn him for ever in my 
 eyes." 
 
 " I can't see that his face is fatter than 
 yours," says Miss Kavanagh, with what she 
 fondly but erroneously believes to be perfect 
 indifference. 
 
 "Neither is it," says Mr. Browne meekly, 
 " but, my dear Joyce, just there lies the gist 
 of my argument. You have condemned me. 
 All my devotion has been scouted by you. I 
 don't pretend to be the wreck now that once 
 by your cruelty you made me, but " 
 
 " Oh, that will do," says Joyce unfeelingly. 
 "As for Mr. Beauclerk, I don't know why 
 you should imas^ine I see anything in him." 
 
 13—2 
 
196 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Well, I confess I can't quite understand it 
 myself. He couldn't hold a candle to — er — 
 well, several other fellows I could name, myself 
 not included. Miss Kavanagh, so that super- 
 cilious smile is thrown away. He may be 
 good to look at, there is certainly plenty of 
 him on which to feast the eye, but to fall in 
 love with " 
 
 " What do you mean, Dicky ? What are 
 you speaking about ? Do you know 1 You," 
 with a deadly desire to insult him, " must be 
 in love yourself to — to maunder as you are 
 doing ? " 
 
 "I'm not," says Mr. Browne, "that's the 
 queer part of it. I don't know what's the 
 matter with me. Ever since you blighted me, 
 I have lam fallow, as it were. I," dejectedly, 
 " haven't been in love for quite a long, long time 
 now. I miss it — I can't explain it. I can't 
 be well, can I ? I," anxiously, " I don't look 
 well, do I ? " 
 
 " I never saw you looking better," with 
 unkind force. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 197 
 
 " Ah ! " sadly, " that's because you don't 
 give your attention to me. It's my opinion 
 that I'm fading away to the land o' the leal, 
 like old What-you-may-call-'em." 
 
 " If that's the way he did it, it must have 
 taken him some time. In fact, he must be still 
 at it," says Miss Kavanagh, heartlessly. 
 
 By this time they have come to the end 
 of the walk, and have turned the corner. 
 Before them lies a small grass plot surrounded 
 by evergreens, a cosy nook not to be suspected 
 by anyone until quite close upon it. It bursts 
 upon the casual pedestrian, indeed, as a charm - 
 mg surprise. There is something warm, 
 friendly, confidential about it — something safe. 
 Beyond lies the gloomy wood, embedded 
 in night, but here the moonbeams play. 
 Someone with a thoughtful care for loving 
 souls has placed in this excellent spot for 
 flirtation a comfortable garden seat, just 
 barely large enough for two, sternly indi- 
 cative of being far too small for the leanest 
 three. 
 
198 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 Upon this delightful seat four eyes now 
 concentrate themselves. As if by one con- 
 sent, although unconsciously, Mr. Browne 
 and his companion come to a dead stop. 
 The unoffending seats hold them in thrall. 
 
 Upon it, evidently on the best of terms 
 with each other, are two people. One is 
 Miss Maliphant, the other Mr. Beauclerk. 
 They are whispering " soft and low." Miss 
 Maliphant is lookmg, perhaps, a little con- 
 fused — -for her — and the cause of the small 
 confusion is transparent. Beauclerk's hand is 
 tightly closed over hers, and even as Dicky 
 and Miss Kavanagh gaze spellbound at them, 
 he lifts the massive hand of the heiress and 
 imprints a lingermg kiss upon it. 
 
 " Come away," says Dicky, touching 
 Joyce's arm. " Run for your life, but 
 softly." 
 
 He and she have been standing in shadow, 
 protected from the view of the other two by 
 a crimson rhododendron. Joyce starts as he 
 touches her, as one might who is roused 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 199 
 
 from an ugly dream, and then follows him 
 swiftly, but lightly, back to the path they 
 had forsaken. 
 
 She is trembling in a miserable fashion 
 that enrages her against herself cruelly, 
 and something of her suppressed emotion 
 becomes known to Mr. Browne. Perhaps, 
 being a friend of hers, it angers him too. 
 
 " What strange freaks moonbeams play," 
 says he, with a truly delightful air of say- 
 ing nothing in particular. " I could have 
 sworn that just then I saw Beauclerk kiss- 
 ing Miss Maliphant's hand." 
 
 No answer. There is a little silence, 
 fraught with what angry grief who can tell ? 
 Dicky, who is not all froth, and is capable 
 of a liking here and there, is conscious of, 
 and is sorry for, the nervous tremour that 
 shakes the small hand he has drawn within 
 his arm ; but he is so far a philosopher that 
 he tells himself it is but a little thing 
 in her life ; she can bear it ; she will re- 
 cover from it, " and in time forget she has 
 
200 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 been ever ill," says the good-natured sceptic 
 to himself. 
 
 Joyce, who has evidently been struggling 
 with herself, and has now conquered her 
 first feeling, turns to him. 
 
 " You should not condemn the moon- 
 beams unheard," says she, bravely, with the 
 ghost of a little smile. " The evidence oi 
 two impartial witnesses should count m 
 their favour." 
 
 " But, my dear child, consider," says Mr. 
 Browne mildly. "If it had been any one 
 else's hand ! I could then accuse the moon- 
 beams of a secondary offence, and say that 
 their influence alone, which we alj know is 
 maddening, had driven him to so bold a 
 deed. But not madness itself could inspire 
 me with a longing to kiss her hand." 
 
 " She is a very good girl, and I like 
 her," says Joyce, with a suspicious vehe- 
 mence. 
 
 " So do I ; so much, indeed, that I should 
 shrmk from calling her a good girl. It is 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 201 
 
 very damnatory, you know. You could 
 hardly say anything more prejudicial. It at 
 once precludes the idea of her havmg any 
 such mmor virtues as grace, beauty, wit, 
 etc. Well, granted she is ' a good girl,' 
 that doesn't give her pretty hands, does it ? 
 As a rule, I thuik all good girls have 
 gigantic points. I don't think that Pd care 
 to kiss Miss Maliphant's hands, even if she 
 would let me." 
 
 " She is a very honest, kind-hearted girl," 
 says Miss Kavanagh a little heavily. It 
 suggests itself to Mr. Browne that she has 
 not been listenmg to him. 
 
 " And a very rich one." 
 
 " I never think about that when I am 
 with her. I couldn't." 
 
 " Beauclerk could," says Mr. Browne 
 tersely. 
 
 There is another rather long silence, and 
 Dicky is begimimg to think he has gone a 
 trifle too far, and that Miss Kavanagh will 
 cut him to-morrow, when she speaks again. 
 
202 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 Her tone is more composed, but icy enough 
 to freeze him. 
 
 " It is a mistake," says she, " to discuss 
 people towards whom one feels a natural 
 antagonism. It leads one perhaps to say 
 more than one actually means. One is apt 
 to grow unjust. I would never discuss Mr. 
 Beauclerk if I were you. You don't like 
 him." 
 
 "Well," says Mr. Browne, thoughtfully, 
 " since you put it to me, I confess I think 
 he is about the most riihhishy person I ever 
 met in my life ! " 
 
 After this sweeping opinion conversation 
 comes to a deadlock. It is not resumed. 
 Reaching the stone steps leading to the con- 
 servatory they ascend them m silence, and 
 reach that perfumed retreat to find Dysart 
 on the threshold. 
 
 " Oh, there you are ! " cries he to Miss 
 Kavanagh. " I thought you lost for good 
 and all ! " His face has lighted up. Per- 
 haps he feels a sense of relief at finding 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 203 
 
 her mth Dicky, who is warranted harmless. 
 He looks almost handsome, better than 
 handsome ! The very soul of honesty shines 
 in his kind eyes. 
 
 " Oh ! it is hard to lose what nobody 
 wants," says Joyce in a would-be playful 
 tone, but something in the drawn, pained 
 lines about her mouth belies her mirth. 
 Dysart, after a swift examination of her 
 face, takes her hand and draws it within 
 his arm. 
 
 " The last was our dance," says he. 
 
 " Speak kindly of the dead," says Mr. 
 Browne, beating a hasty retreat. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving is folly." 
 
 " Did you forget it ? " asks Dysart, looking 
 at her. 
 
 " Forget ? " 
 
 " That the last dance was mine ? " 
 
 " Oh, was it. I'rn so sorry. You must 
 
 forgive me. I " with a feverish attempt 
 
 at gaiety, " will try to make amends. You 
 shall have this one instead, no matter to 
 whom it may belong. Come. It is only 
 just begun I think." 
 
 " Never mind," says Dysart gently. " We 
 won't dance this, I think. It is cool and 
 quiet here, and you are tired." 
 
 " Oh so tired," returns she with a little 
 sudden pathetic cry, so impulsive, so irre- 
 pressible that it goes to his heart. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 205- 
 
 " Joyce ! what is it ? " says he quickly. 
 " Here, come and sit down. No, I don't want 
 an answer. It was an absurd question. You 
 have overdone it a Httle, that is all." 
 
 " Yes, that is all ! " She sinks heavily 
 into the seat he has pointed out to her, 
 and lets her head fall back against the 
 cushions. " However, when you come to 
 think of it, that means a great deal," says 
 she, smiling at him languidly. 
 
 " There, don't talk," says he. " What is 
 the good of havmg a friend if you can't 
 be silent with him when it so pleases you. 
 That," laughmg, and arranging the cushions 
 behind her head, "is one for you and two 
 for myself. I too pine for a moment when 
 the meagre ' yes ' and ' no ' will not be 
 required of me." 
 
 " Oh, no," shaking her head. "It is all 
 for me and nothing for yourself ! " she pauses, 
 and putting out her hand lays it on his sleeve. 
 " I think, Felix," says she softly, " you are 
 the kindest man I ever met." 
 
206 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " I told you you felt overdone," says he, 
 laughing agam as if to hide the sudden 
 emotion that is gleaming in his eyes. He 
 presses the hand restmg on his arm, very 
 gently, and then replaces it in her lap. To 
 take advantage of any little kindness she may 
 show him now, Avhen it is plam that she is 
 suiFering from some mental excitement, grief 
 or anger — or both — would seem base to him. 
 
 She has evidently accepted his offer of silence, 
 and lying back in her soft couch, stares with 
 unseeing eyes at the bank of flowers before 
 her. Behuid her, tall, fragrant shrubs rear 
 themselves, and somewhere behind her too, 
 a tiny fountam is making musical tinklmgs. 
 The famt, tender glow of a coloured lamp 
 gleams from the branches of a tropical tree 
 close by, and romid it pale, downy moths 
 are flittmg — the sound of their wings as 
 every now and then they approach too near 
 the tempting glow, and beat them agamst 
 the Japanese shade, mingles with the silvery 
 fall of the scented water. 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 207 
 
 The atmosphere is warm, drowsy, a little 
 melancholy. It seems to seize upon the two 
 sittmg withm its seductive influence, and 
 threatens to waft them from day dreams into 
 dreams born of idle slumber. The rustle of 
 a commg skirt, however, a low voice, a voice 
 still lower whispering a reply, recalls them 
 both to the fact that rest, complete and 
 perfect, is impossible under the circumstances. 
 
 A Httle opening amongst the tall evergreens 
 upon their right shows them Lord Baltimore 
 once more, but this time not alone. Lady 
 Swansdown is with him. 
 
 She is looking rather lovelier than usual, 
 with that soft tmge of red upon her cheeks 
 born of her last waltz, and her lips parted 
 in a happy smile. The subdued Hghts of 
 the many lamps falling on her satin gown, 
 rest there as if in love with its beauty. It 
 is an old shade made new, a yellow that is 
 almost white, and has yet a tinge of green 
 in it. A curious shade, difficult perhaps 
 to wear with good eftect, but on Lady Swans- 
 
208 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 down it seems to reign alone, as queen of 
 all the toilettes in the rooms to-night. She 
 looks indeed like a perfect picture stepped 
 down from its canvas, a very vision of de- 
 light. 
 
 She seems to Joyce watching her — Joyce 
 who likes her — that she has grown beyond 
 herself (or rather into her own real self) 
 to-night. There is a touch of life, of passion- 
 ate joy, of abandonment, of hope that has 
 yet a sting in it, in all her air, and that, 
 though not understanded of the girl, is still 
 apparent. 
 
 The radiant smile that illumines her 
 beautiful face as she glances up at Baltimore 
 — who is bendmg over her in more lover - 
 like fashion than should be — is still making 
 all her face a lovely iire, as she passes out 
 of sight down the steps that lead to the 
 lighted gardens. The steps that Joyce but 
 just now had ascended. 
 
 The latter is still a little wrapped in wonder 
 and admiration and some other thought 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 209 
 
 that is akin to trouble, when Dysart breaks 
 in upon her fancies. 
 
 " I am sorry about that," says he bluntly, 
 indicating with a nod of his head the depart- 
 ing shadows of the two who have just 
 passed out. There are no fancies about 
 Dysart. Nothing vague. 
 
 " Yes ; it is a pity," says Joyce, hurriedly. 
 ■■'' More than that, I think." 
 
 " Somethmg ought to be done " — nervously. 
 
 " Yes," flushing hotly ; " I know — I know 
 what you mean " — she had meant nothing — 
 "but it is so difficult to know what to do, 
 and — I am only a cousm." 
 
 " Oh, I wasn't thmking of you. I wasn't, 
 really,^^ says she, a good deal shocked. 
 ^' As you say, why should you speak, 
 when " 
 
 " There is Beauclerk," supplements Dysart, 
 quickly, as if a little angry with somebody, 
 but certainly not with her. " How can he 
 stand by and see it ? " 
 
 "Perhaps he doesn't see it," says she in 
 
 VOL. I. 14 
 
210 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 a strange tone, her eyes on the marble floor- 
 mg. It seems to herself that the words 
 are forced from her. Because — because he 
 has 
 
 She brings her hands tightly together, 
 so tightly that she reduces the feathers on 
 the fan she is holding to their last gasp. 
 Because she is now disappomted m him, 
 because he has proved himself — perhaps — 
 unstable, deceptive to the heart's core, is 
 she to vilify him ? A thousand times, no ! 
 That would be to know herself as base as 
 — he may be. 
 
 "Perhaps not," says Dysart drily. In 
 his secret heart this defence of his rival is 
 detestable to him. Something in her whole 
 manner when she came in from the garden 
 had suggested to him the possibility that 
 she had at last found him out, Dysart 
 would have been puzzled to explain how 
 Beauclerk was supposed to be " found out " 
 or for what, but that he is liable to discovery 
 at any moment on some count or counts 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 211 
 
 unknown, is one of his Christian behefs. 
 " Perhaps not," says he. " And yet I cannot 
 help thinking that a matter so open to all 
 the world, must be patent to him." 
 
 " But," anxiously, " is it so open ? " 
 
 " I leave that to your own judgment," a 
 little warmly. " You," with rather sharp 
 question, " are a friend of Isabel's ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes," quickly. " You know that. 
 But " 
 
 " But ? " sternly. 
 
 " I like Lady Swansdown, too," says she, 
 with some determination. " I find it hard 
 to believe that she can — can " 
 
 " Be false to her friend. Have you yet 
 to learn that friendship ends where Love 
 begins ? " 
 
 "You think ?" 
 
 " That Lady Swansdown is m love with 
 Baltimore." 
 
 " And he ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " contemptuously ; " who shall gauge 
 the depth of his heart ? What can he mean ? " 
 
 14-2 
 
212 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 — he has risen and is now pacing angrily up 
 and down the small space before her. " He 
 
 used to be such a good fellow, and now 
 
 Is he dead to all sense of honour, of 
 honesty ? " 
 
 •' He is a man," says Joyce coldly. 
 
 " No. I deny that. Not a true man, 
 surely." 
 
 " Is there a true man ? " says she. " Is 
 there any truth, any honesty to be found 
 in the whole wide world?" 
 
 She too has risen now, and is standing 
 with her large dark eyes fixed almost defiantly 
 on his. There is something so strange, so 
 wild, so unlike her usual joyous, happy self 
 in this outburst — in her whole attitude — 
 that Dysart regards her with an astonishment 
 that is largely tinctured with distress. 
 
 " I don't know what is in your mmd," says 
 he, calmly ; " somethmg out of the common 
 has occurred to disturb you. So much I 
 can guess, but," looking at her earnestly, 
 " whatever it may be, I entreat you to beat 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 213 
 
 it under. Conquer it ; do not let it conquer 
 you. Do not let your better self, your own 
 self, fail you. There must be evil in the 
 world, but never lose sight of the fact that 
 there is good also ; that must be there, just 
 as surely. Truth, honour, honesty, are no 
 fables ; they are to be found everywhere. If 
 not in this one, then in that. Do not lose 
 faith in them." 
 
 " You think me evidently in a bad way," 
 says she, smiling faintly. She has recovered 
 herself in part, but though she tries to turn 
 his earnest words into a jest, one can see that 
 she is perilously near to tears. 
 
 "You mean that I am preaching to you," 
 says he, smiling too. " Well, so I am. What 
 right has a girl like you to disbelieve m any- 
 thing ? Why," laughing, " it can't be so very 
 long ago since you believed in fairies, in pixies, 
 and the fierce dragons of our childhood." 
 
 " I don't know that I am not a believer in 
 them still," says she. " In the dragons, at 
 all events. Evil seems to rule this world." 
 
214 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Tut ! " says he. "I can see I have 
 preached iii vain." 
 
 " You would have me beheve in good only," 
 says she. " You assure me very positively 
 that all the best virtues are still ridmg to 
 and fro, redeeming the world, with lances 
 poised, and hearts on fire. But where am 
 I to find them ? In you ? " 
 
 It is a very gentle smile she gives him, 
 as she says this. 
 
 " Yes ; so far, at least, as you are con- 
 cerned," says he stoutly. "I shall be true 
 and honest to you so long as my breath 
 lives m my body. So much I can swear to." 
 
 " Well," says she, with a rather meagre 
 attempt at light-heartedness ; " you almost 
 persuade me with that truculent manner of 
 yours into believmg m you at all events, or 
 is it," a little sadly, " that the ways of others 
 drive me to that belief ? Well," with a sigh ; 
 " never mind how it is, you benefit by it, 
 anyway." 
 
 " I don't want to force your confidence," 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 215 
 
 says Dysart ; " but you have been made 
 unhappy by somebody, have you not ? " 
 
 " I have not been made happy," says she, 
 her eyes on the ground. " I don't know why 
 I tell you that. You asked a hard question." 
 
 " I know. I should have been silent, per- 
 haps, and yet — " 
 
 At this moment the sound of approaching 
 footsteps coming up the steps outside, startles 
 them. 
 
 " Joyce ! " exclaims he, quickly ; " grant 
 me one request." 
 
 " One ! You rise to tragedy ! " says she, 
 as if a little amused, in spite of the depression 
 under which she is so evidently labourmg. 
 "Is it to be your last, your dying prayer ? " 
 
 " I hope not. Nevertheless I would have 
 it granted." 
 
 "You have only to speak," says she, with 
 a slight gesture that is half mocking, half 
 kindly. 
 
 " Come with me after luncheon, to-morrow, 
 up to St. Bridget's Hill ? " 
 
216 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Is that all ? And to throw such force 
 mto it. Yes, I shall like a long walk like 
 that." 
 
 "It is not because of the walk that I ask 
 you to go there with me," says Dysart, the 
 innate honesty that distinguishes him, com- 
 pelling him to lay bare to her his secret 
 meaning. " I have something to say to you. 
 You will hsten ? " 
 
 " Why should I not ? " returns she, a little 
 pale. He might, perhaps, have said some- 
 thing further, but that now the footsteps 
 sound close at hand. A glance towards the 
 door that leads into the fragrant night out- 
 side, from the still more perfumed air within, 
 reveals to them tw^o figures. 
 
 Mr. Beauclerk and Miss Maliphant come 
 leisurely forward. The blood receding quickly 
 to Joyce's heart, leaves her cold and singu- 
 larly calm. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " Out of the day and night 
 A joy has taken flight." 
 
 " Life, I know not what thou art." 
 
 " You two ! " cries Miss Maliphant pleasantly 
 in her loud, good-natured voice. She addresses 
 them as though it has been borne in upon 
 her, by constant reminding, that Joyce and 
 Dysart are for the best of all reasons generally 
 to be found together. There is something 
 not only genial, but sympathetic in her tones ^ 
 something that embarrasses Dysart, and an- 
 gers Joyce to the last degree. " Well, I'm 
 glad to have met you for one moment out 
 of the hurly-burly," goes on the massive 
 heiress to Joyce with the friendliest of smiles. 
 " I'm off at cock-crow you know, and so 
 mightn't have had the opportunity of say- 
 ing good-bye to you but for this fortunate 
 meeting." 
 
■218 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 " To-moiTOw ? " says Joyce, more with the 
 manner of one who feels she must say some- 
 thing, than from any desire to say it. 
 
 " Yes, and so early that I shall not have 
 it in my j)ower to bid farewell to anyone. 
 Unless indeed," with a glance at Beauclerk 
 meant perhaps to be coquettish, but so 
 elephantine in its proportions as to be almost 
 •anything in the world but that, " some of 
 my friends may wish to see the sun rise." 
 
 " We shall miss you," says Joyce, grace- 
 fully, though with an effort. 
 
 " Just what Fve been saying," breaks in 
 Beauclerk at this juncture, who hitherto has 
 been lookmg on, with an altogether delightful 
 smile upon his handsome face. " We shall all 
 miss Miss Maliphant. It is not often one meets 
 with an entirely genial companion. My sister 
 is to be congratulated on securing such an 
 acquisition if only for a short time." 
 
 Joyce, lifting her eyes stares straight at 
 him. " For a short time ! " What does 
 that mean ? If Miss Maliphant is to be 
 
.IPRIL'S LADY. 219 
 
 Lady Baltimore's sister-in-law she will un- 
 doubtedly secure her for a life-time ! 
 
 " Oh, you are too good," says Miss Mali- 
 phant giving him a playful but hurtful flick 
 with her fan. 
 
 " Well, what would you have me say ? " 
 persists Beauclerk still lightly, with wonderful 
 lightness in fact, considering the weight of 
 that playful tap upon his bent knuckles. 
 " That we shall not be sorry ? Would you 
 have me lie then ? Fie, fie. Miss Maliphant ! 
 The truth, the truth, and nothing but the 
 truth ! At all risks, all hazards ! " here he 
 almost imperceptibly sends flying a shaft from 
 his eyes at Joyce, who receives it with a blank 
 stare. " We shall, I assure you, be desolated 
 when you go, specially Isabel." 
 
 This last pretty little speech strikes Dysart 
 as being specially neat. This putting the 
 onus of the regret on to Isabel's shoulders. 
 All through, Beauclerk has been careful to 
 express himself as one who is an appreciative 
 friend of Miss Maliphant's, but nothing more ; 
 
220 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 yet SO guarded are these expressions, and the 
 looks that accompany them, that Miss Mali- 
 phant might be pardoned if she should read 
 a warmer meaning in them. 
 
 A sensation of disgust darkens Dysart's 
 brow. 
 
 " I must say you are all very nice to 
 me," says the heiress complacently. Poor 
 soul ! Xo doubt she believes in every bit 
 of it ; a long course of kow-towing from the 
 world has taught her the value of her pile. 
 " However," with true Birmingham grace, 
 "there's no need for howling over it. We'll 
 all meet again I daresay, some time or other. 
 For one thing. Lady Baltimore has asked 
 me to come here again after Christmas ;. 
 February, I daresay." 
 
 " So glad ! " murmurs Joyce rather 
 vaguely. 
 
 " So you see," says Miss Maliphant with 
 ponderous gaiety, " that we are all bound 
 to put in a second good time together ; 
 you're coming I know, Mr. Dysart, and 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 221 
 
 Miss Kavanagh is always here, and Mr. 
 Beauclerk " — with a languishing glance at 
 that charmmg j)erson, who returns it in the 
 most open manner — " has jwomised me that 
 he will be here to meet me." 
 
 " Well, if I can, you know," says he, now 
 beaming at her. 
 
 " How's that ? " says the heiress, turning 
 promptly upon him. It is strange how un- 
 desirable the very richest heiress can be at 
 times. "Why, it's only just this instant that 
 you told me nothmg would keep you away 
 from the Court next spring. What d'ye 
 mean, eh ? " 
 
 She brings him to book in a most un- 
 compromising fashion ; a fashion that betrays 
 unmistakably her plebeian origin. Dysart 
 listening, admires her for it. Her rough and 
 ready honesty seems to him preferable to the 
 best bred shuffling in the world. 
 
 " Did I say all that ? " says Beauclerk 
 lightly, colourmg a little nevertheless as he 
 marks the fine smile that is curling Joyce's 
 
222 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 lips. "Why then," gaily, "if I said it, I 
 meant it. If I hesitated about endorsing my 
 intentions ^z^^/^V/y, it is because one is never 
 sure of happiness beforehand ; believe me. 
 Miss Maliphant," with a little bow to her^ 
 but with a direct glance at Joyce, " Every 
 desire I have is centred in the hope that 
 next spring may see me here again." 
 
 " Well, I expect we all have the same 
 wish," says Miss Maliphant cheerfully, who 
 has not caught that swift glance at Joyce. 
 "I'm sure I hope nothing will interfere with 
 my coming here in February." 
 
 "It is agreed then," says Beauclerk, with 
 a delightfully comprehensive smile, that seems 
 to take in everyone, even the plants and the 
 dripping fountain, and the little marble god 
 in the corner, who is evidently listening with 
 all his might. " AVe all meet here again early 
 next year if the Fates be propitious. You, 
 Dysart, you pledge yourself to join our circle 
 then ? " 
 
 " I pledge myself," says Dysart, fixing a 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 22S- 
 
 cold gaze on him. It is so cold, so dis- 
 tinctly hostile, that Beanclerk grows uncom- 
 fortable beneath it. When uncomfortable, 
 his natural bias leads him towards a special 
 display of bonhomie. 
 
 " Here we have before us, a prospect to- 
 cheer the soul of any man," declares he, 
 shifting his eyes from Dysart to Miss Mali- 
 phant. 
 
 " It cheers me certainly," responds that 
 heavy maiden with alacrity. " I like to 
 think we shall all meet again." 
 
 " Like the witches in Macbeth," says Joyce 
 indifferently. 
 
 " But not so malignantly, I hope," say& 
 the heiress brilliantly, who, like most worthy 
 people, can never see beyond her own nose. 
 " For my part, I like old friends much 
 better than new." She looks round for the 
 appreciation that should attend this sound 
 remark, and is gratified to find Dysart is 
 smiling at her. Perhaps the core of that 
 smile might not have been altogether to her 
 
224 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 taste — most cores are difficult of digestion. 
 To her, to whom all things are new, where 
 does the flavour of the old come in ? 
 
 Beauclerk is looking at Joyce. 
 
 " I hope the prospect cheers you too," 
 says he a little sharply, as if nettled by her 
 determmed silence, and bent on makmg her 
 declare herself. " You, I trust, will be here 
 next February ? " 
 
 " Sure to be ! " says she, with an enig- 
 matical smile. " Not a jot or tittle of your 
 enjoyment will be lost to you in the coming 
 year. Both your friends — Miss Maliphant 
 and I — will be here to welcome you when 
 you return." 
 
 Somethmg in her manner, m the half de- 
 cant light m her eyes, puzzles Beauclerk. 
 What has happened to her since last they 
 were together ? Not more than an hour ago 
 
 she had seemed — er — well . Inwardly he 
 
 smiles complacently. But now. Could she ? 
 Is it possible ? Was there a chance 
 that 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 225 
 
 " Miss Kavanagh," begins he, moving to- 
 wards her. But she makes short work of 
 his advance. 
 
 "I repent," says she, turning a lovely 
 smiling face on Dysart. " A while ago I 
 said I was too tired to dance. I did myself 
 injustice. That waltz — listen to it" — lifting 
 up eager finger — " would it not wake a 
 hermit from his ascetic dreams ? Come. 
 There is still time." 
 
 She has sprung to her feet — life is in every 
 movement. She slips her arm mto Dysart's. 
 Not understanding — yet half understanding, 
 he moves with her — his heart on fire for 
 her, his puzzlement rendering him miserable. 
 
 Beauclerk, with that doubt of what she 
 really knows, full upon him, is wiser. With- 
 out hesitation, he offers his arm to Miss 
 Maliphant ; and — so swift is his desire to 
 quit the scene, he passes Dysart and Joyce, 
 the latter having paused for a moment to 
 recover her fan. 
 
 " You see ! " says Beauclerk, bending over 
 
 VOL. L 15 
 
226 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 the heiress, when a turn in the conservatory 
 has hidden him from the view of those 
 behmd. " I told you ! " He says nothing 
 more. It is the veriest whisper ! Spoken 
 with an assumption of merriment, very well 
 achieved. Yet if she had looked at him, 
 she could have seen that his smile is rather 
 strained. But as I have said. Miss Mali- 
 phant's mind has not been trained to the 
 higher courses. 
 
 " Yes. One can see ! " laughs she happily. 
 " And it is charming, isn't it ? To find two 
 people thoroughly in love with each other, 
 now-a-days, is to beheve in that mad old 
 world of romance of which we read. They're 
 very nice too, both of them. I do like Joyce. 
 She's one in a thousand, and Mr. Dysart is 
 just suited to her. They are both thorough! 
 There's no nonsense about them. Now that 
 you have pointed it out to me, I think I 
 never saw two people so much in love with 
 each other as they are." 
 
 Providentially, she is looking away from 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 227 
 
 him to where the Lancers is forming in the 
 ball-room, so that the deadly look of hatred 
 that adorns his handsome face is unknown 
 to her. 
 
 Meantime, Joyce, with that convenient 
 fan recovered, is looking with sad eyes at 
 Dysart. 
 
 " Come ; the music will soon cease," says. 
 she. 
 
 " Why do you speak to me like that," cries 
 he vehemently. " If you don't want to dance, 
 why not say so to me ? Why not trust 
 me ? Good Heavens ! if I were your bitterest 
 enemy you could not treat me more distantly. 
 And yet — I would die to make you hapj^y." 
 
 " BonU ! " she says in a little choking sort 
 of way, turning her face from him. She 
 struggles with herself for a moment, and then, 
 still with her face averted, says meekly : 
 " Thank you, then ! If you don't mind, I 
 would rather not dance any more to-night." 
 
 i5— 2 
 
228 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " Why didn't you say that at first ? " says 
 he, with a last remnant of reproach. " No ; 
 there shall be no more dancing to-night for 
 either you or me. A word, Joyce ! " turning 
 eagerly towards her, " you won't forget your 
 promise about that walk to morrow ? " 
 
 " No. No, mdeed." 
 
 " Thank you ! " 
 
 They are sitting very close together, and 
 almost insensibly his hand seeks and finds 
 hers. It is lying idle on her lap, and lifting 
 it, he would have raised it to his lips, but 
 with a sharp violent action, she wrests it 
 from him, and, as a child might, hides it 
 behind her. 
 
 "If you would have me believe in you 
 
 No, no, not that," says she, a little inco- 
 herently, her voice delivering her meaning 
 with difficulty. Dysart, astonished, stands 
 back from her, waiting for something more ; 
 but nothing comes, except two large tears 
 that steal heavily, painfully, down her cheeks. 
 She brushes them impatiently away. 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 229 
 
 " Forgive me," she says, somewhat bro- 
 kenly. " To you, who are so good to me, 
 I am unkind, while to those who are unkind 
 
 to me It " — trying to rally — " was a 
 
 mere whim, believe me. I have always hated 
 demonstrations of any sort, and why should 
 you want to kiss my hand ? " 
 
 "I shouldn't," says he. "If " His 
 
 eyes have fallen from her eyes to her lips. 
 
 " Never mind," says she ; " I didn't under- 
 stand perhaps. But, why can't you be con- 
 tent with things as they are ? " 
 
 " Are you content with them ? " 
 
 " I thmk so. I have been examining my- 
 self, and honestly I think so," says she a 
 little feverishly. 
 
 "Well, I'm not," returns he with decision. 
 " You must give me credit for a great private 
 store of amiability, if you imagine that I am 
 satisfied to take things as they now exist — 
 between you and me ! " 
 
 " You have your faults, you see, as well 
 as another," says she with a frown. " You 
 
230 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 are persistent ! And the worst of it is that 
 you are generally right,^^ She frowns again, 
 but even whilst frowning, glances sideways 
 at him from under her long lashes, with 
 an expression hardly uncivil. "That is the 
 worst crime in the calendar. Be wrong 
 sometimes, an' you love me, it will gain you 
 a world of friends." 
 
 "If it could gam me your love in return 
 I might risk it," says he boldly. " But that 
 is hopeless I'm afraid," shaking his head. 
 " I am too often in the wrong not to know 
 that neither my many frailties, nor my few 
 virtues can ever purchase for me the one good 
 thing on which my soul is set." 
 
 " I have told you of one fault, now hear 
 another," says she capriciously. " You are 
 too earnest ! What," turning upon him pas- 
 sionately, as if a little ashamed of her treat- 
 ment of him, " is the use of bemg earnest ? 
 Who cares ? Who looks on, who gives one 
 moment to the guessing of the meaning that 
 lies beneath ? To be in earnest in this life, is 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 231 
 
 merely to be mad. Pretend, laugh, jest, do 
 anything but be what you really are^ and you 
 will probably get through the world in a 
 manner, if not satisfactorily to yourself, at 
 all events to ' les autres.^ " 
 
 "You preach a crusade against yourself," 
 says he gently. " You preach against your 
 own conscience. You are the least deceptive 
 person I know. Were you to follow in the 
 track you lay out for others, the cruelty of 
 it would kill you. 
 
 '■ To thine own self be true/ 
 
 And " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I know it all," says she, in- 
 terrupting him with some irritation. '' I wish 
 you knew how — how unpleasant you can be. 
 As I tell you, you are always right. That 
 last dance — it is true — I didnJt want to have 
 anything to do with it ; but for all that I 
 didn't wish to be told so. I merely suggested 
 it as a means of getting rid of " 
 
 " Miss Maliphant," says Dysart, who is 
 
232 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 feeling a little sore. The disingenuousness of 
 this remark is patent to her. 
 
 " Xo ; Mr. Beauclerk," corrects she 
 coldly. 
 
 " Forgive me," says Dysart quickly. " I 
 shouldn't have said that. Well," drawing a 
 lono' breath, " we have o-ot rid of both of 
 them, and may I offer you one word of 
 advice ? It is disinterested, because it is to 
 my own disadvantage. Go to your room — 
 to your bed. You are tired, exhausted. 
 Why wait to be more so ? Say you will do 
 as I sut^crest." 
 
 "You want to get rid of me," says she, 
 with a little weary smile. 
 
 " That is unworthy of an answer," gravely ; 
 " but if a ' yes ' to it will help you to follow 
 my advice, why, I will say it. Come," rising, 
 "let me take you to the hall." 
 
 "You shall have your way," says she, 
 rising too, and following him. 
 
 A side door leading to the ante-room on 
 their left, and thus skirting the ballroom 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 23a 
 
 without entering it, brings them to the foot 
 of the central staircase. 
 
 " Good-night," says Dysart in a low tone,, 
 retaining her hand for a moment. All round 
 them is a crowd separated into twos and 
 threes, so that it is impossible to say more 
 than the mere commonplace. 
 
 " Good-night," returns she in a soft tone. 
 She has turned away from him, but some- 
 thing in the intense longing and melancholy 
 of his eyes compels her to look back again. 
 " Oh, you have been kind ! I am not un- 
 grateful," says she with sharp contrition. 
 
 " Joyce, Joyce ! Let me be the grateful 
 one," returns he. His voice is a mere whis- 
 per, but so fraught is it with passionate appeal 
 that it rings in her brain for long hours 
 afterwards. 
 
 Her eyes fall beneath his. She moves 
 silently away. What can she say to him ? 
 
 It is with a sense of almost violent relief 
 that she closes the door of her own room be- 
 hind her, and knows herself to be at last alone. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " And vain desires and hopes dismayed 
 And fears that cast the earth in shade 
 My heart did fret." 
 
 Night is waning ! Diespater, Father of Day, 
 is making rapid strides across the Heavens, 
 creating havoc as he goes. Diana faints ! 
 the stars grow pale, flinging, as they die, a 
 last soft glimmer across the sky. 
 
 Now and again a first call from the birds 
 startles the drowsy air ; the wood-dove's coo 
 — melancholy sweet — the cheep-cheep of the 
 robin, the hoarse cry of the sturdy crow. 
 
 " A faint dawns breaks on yonder sedge, 
 And broadens in that bed of weeds ; 
 A bright disc shows its radiant edge." 
 
 All things bespeak the coming morn, yet 
 still it lingers. As Lady Swansdown and 
 Baltimore descend the stone steps that lead 
 to the gardens beneath, only the swift rush 
 
APKIL'8 LADY. 235 
 
 of the tremulous breeze that stirs the 
 branches, betrays to them the fact that a 
 new life is at hand. 
 
 " You are cold ? " says Baltimore, noticing 
 the quick shiver that runs through her. 
 
 " No ; not cold. It was a mere nervous 
 sensation." 
 
 " I shouldn't have thought you nervous." 
 
 " Or fanciful ? " adds she. " You judged 
 me rightly, and yet — coming all at once 
 from the garish lights within into this cool 
 sweet darkness here, makes one feel m spite 
 of oneself." 
 
 " In spite ! Would you, then, never 
 willingly feel ? " 
 
 " Would you ? " demands she in turn, very 
 slowly. 
 
 "Not willingly, I confess. But I have 
 been made to feel, as you know. And you?" 
 
 " Would you have a woman confess ? " 
 says she, half playfully. " That is takmg 
 an unfair advantage, is it not ? See," 
 pointing to a garden seat, " what a charm- 
 
236 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 ing resting-place. Come I will make one 
 confession to you — I am tired." 
 
 " A meagre one ! Beatrice," says he 
 suddenly, " tell me this ? Are all women 
 alike ? Do none really feel ? Is it all fancy 
 — the mere idle emotion of a moment — 
 the evanescent desire for sensation of one 
 sort or another — of anger, love, grief, pain^ 
 that stirs you now and then ? Are none 
 of these things lasting with you, are they 
 the mere strings on which you play from 
 time to time, because the hours lie heavy 
 on your hands ? It seems to me " 
 
 " It seems to me that you hardly know 
 what you are saying," says Lady Swans- 
 down quickly. " Do you think then that 
 women do not feel, do not suffer^ as men 
 never do ? What wild thoughts torment 
 your brain that you should put forward so 
 senseless a question ? — one that has been 
 answered satisfactorily thousands of years 
 ago. All the pain, the suffering of earth 
 lies on the woman's shoulders ; it has been 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 237 
 
 SO from the begiiimg — it shall be so to the 
 end. On being thrust forth from their Eden, 
 which suffered most do you suppose, Adam 
 or Eve ? " 
 
 "It is an old story," says he gloomily ; 
 " and why should you of all people back 
 
 it up. You — who " 
 
 " Better leave me out of the question." 
 "You?" 
 
 " I am outside your life, Baltimore," says 
 she, laying her hand on the back of the 
 seat beside her, and sinking heavily into it. 
 ''^ Leave me there .^" 
 
 " Would you bereave me of all things," 
 says he, " even my friends. I thought — I 
 believed, that you at least — understood me." 
 " Too well ! " says she in a low tone. 
 Her hands have met each other and are 
 now clasped together in her lap in a grip 
 that is almost hurtful. Great Heavens, if 
 he only knew — could he then probe, and 
 wound, and tem2)t ! 
 
 " If you do " begins he — then stops 
 
238 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 short, and passing her, paces to and fro 
 before her in the dying light of the moon. 
 Lady Swansdown leaning back gazes at him 
 with eyes too sad for tears — eyes " wild 
 with all regret." Oh ! if they two might 
 but have met earlier. If this man — this 
 one man in all the world, had been given 
 to her, as her allotment. 
 
 '* Beatrice ! " says he, stopping short before 
 her ; " were you ever in love ? " 
 
 There is a dead silence. Lady Swans- 
 down sinking still deeper into the arm of 
 the chair, looks up at him with strange 
 curious eyes. What does he mean ? To 
 her — to put such a question to her of all 
 women ! Is he deaf, blind, mad — or only 
 cruel ! 
 
 A sort of recklessness seizes upon her. 
 Well, if he doesn't know, he shall know, 
 though it be to the loss of her self-respect 
 for ever ! 
 
 " Never," says she deliberately, leaning a 
 Uttle forward until the moonbeams gleam 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 239 
 
 upon her snowy neck and arms. " Never 
 — nei^er — until " 
 
 The pause is premeditated. It is eloquence 
 itself ! The light of Heaven playing on her 
 beautiful face betrays the passion of it— 
 the rich pallor ! One hand resting on the 
 back of the seat taps nervously upon the 
 cold iron-work, the other — is now in Balti- 
 more's possession. 
 
 "Until now?'''' suggests he boldly. He 
 is leaning over her. She shakes her head. 
 But in this negative there is only affirmation. 
 
 His hand tightens more closely upon hers. 
 The long slender fingers yield to his pressure 
 — nay more — return it ; they twine round 
 his. 
 
 "If I thought ," begins he in a low, 
 
 stammering tone — he moves nearer to her, 
 nearer still. Does she move towards him ? 
 There is a second's hesitation on his part, 
 and then, their lips meet ! 
 
 It is but a momentary touch, a thing of 
 an instant, but it includes a whole world of 
 
240 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 meaning. Lady Swansdown has sprung to 
 her feet, and is looking at him, with eyes that 
 seem to burn through the mystic darkness. 
 She is trembhng in every limb. Her haughty 
 mouth is quivering, and tears— arg there 
 honest, real tears in those mocking eyes ? 
 
 Baltimore too has risen. His face is very 
 white, very fall of contrition. That he regrets 
 his action towards her is unmistakable, but that 
 there is a deeper contrition behind — a sense 
 of self-loathing, not to be appeased — betrays 
 itself in the anguish of his eyes. She — 
 that cold woman who bears his name — had 
 accused him of falsity, most falsely up to this, 
 but now— now ! His mind has wandered 
 far away. 
 
 There is something so wild in his expression 
 that Lady Swansdown loses sight of herself 
 in the contemplation of it. 
 
 " What is it, Baltimore ? " asks she in a 
 low frightened tone. It rouses him. 
 
 " I have offended you beyond pardon," 
 begins he, but more like one seeking for 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 241 
 
 words to say than one afraid of using them. 
 " I have angered you " 
 
 " Do not mistake me," interrupts she 
 quickly, almost fiercely. " I am not angry, 
 I feel no anger — nothing — nothing — but that 
 I am a traitor." 
 
 " And what am I ? " 
 
 " AVork out your own condemnation for 
 yourself," says she, still with that feverish 
 self-disdain upon her. " Don't ask me to 
 help you. She loas my friend, whatever she 
 is now. She trusted me, believed in me. 
 And after all And you," turning passion- 
 ately upon him, " you are doubly a traitor, 
 you are her husband." 
 
 " In name ! " doggedly. He has quite 
 recovered himself now. Whatever torture his 
 secret soul may impress upon him in the 
 future, no one but he shall know of it. 
 
 " It doesn't matter. You belong to her, 
 and she to you." 
 
 " That is what she doesn't think," returns 
 he bitterly. 
 
 VOL. I. 16 
 
242 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " There is one thing only to be said, Balti- 
 more," says she, after a slight pause. " This 
 must never occur again. I like you, you 
 
 know that. I " she breaks off abruptly, 
 
 and suddenly gives way to a sort of mirthless 
 laughter. " It is a farce ! " she says. " Con- 
 sider my feehng anything. And so virtuous a 
 thing too as remorse ! Well, as one lives, one 
 learns. If I had seen the hght for the first 
 time in the middle of the dark ages, I should 
 probably have ended my days as the prioress 
 of a convent. As it is, I shouldn't wonder 
 if I went in for hospital nursing presently. 
 Pshaw ! " angrily, "it is useless lamenting. 
 Let me face the truth. I have done abomin- 
 ably towards her so far, and the worst of it is " 
 — with a candour that seems to scorch her — 
 " I know if the chance be given me, I shall 
 behave abominably towards her again. I shall 
 leave to-morrow — the day after. One must 
 invent a decent excuse." 
 
 " Pray don't leave on Lady Baltimore's 
 account," says he slowly, ' she would be the 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 243 
 
 last to care about this. I am less than 
 nothing to her." 
 
 " Is your wish father to that thought ? " 
 regarding him keenly. 
 
 " No, no, I assure you. The slight fact I 
 mention is plain to all the world I should 
 have thought." 
 
 " It is not plain to me," still watching him. 
 
 '' Then learn it," says he. " If ever she 
 loved me, which I now disbelieve (I would 
 that I had let the doubt creep in earlier), it 
 was in a past that now is irretrievably dead. 
 I suppose I wearied her ; I confess " — with 
 a meagre smile — " I once loved her with 
 all my soul, and heart, and strength — or else 
 she is mcapable of knowing an honest affec- 
 tion." 
 
 " That is not true," says Lady Swansdown, 
 some generous impulse forcing the words un- 
 willingly through her white lips. " She can 
 love I you must see that for yourself. The 
 child is proof of it." 
 
 " Some women are like that," says he 
 
 16—2 
 
244 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 gloomily. " They can open wide their hearts 
 to their children, yet close it against the 
 fathers of them. Isabel's whole life is given 
 up to her child ; she regards it as hers 
 entirely ; she allows me no share in him. 
 Not," eagerly, " that I grudge the little fellow 
 one inch of the aifection she gives him. He 
 has a father worthless enough. Let his 
 mother make it up to him." 
 
 " Yet he loves the father best," says Lady 
 Swansdown quickly. 
 
 " I hope not," hurriedly. 
 
 " He does, believe me. One can see it. 
 That saintly mother of his has not half the 
 attraction for him that you have. Why, look 
 you, it is the way of the world, why dispute 
 it ? Well, well," her triumphant voice deep- 
 ening to a weary whisper, " when one thinks 
 of it all, she is not too happy." She draws 
 her hand in a little bewildered way across her 
 white brow. 
 
 " You don't understand her," says Balti- 
 more frigidly. " She lives in a world of 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 245 
 
 her own. No one would dare penetrate it. 
 Even I — her husband as you call me, m 
 mockery — am outside it. I don't believe she 
 ever cared for me. If she had^ do you think 
 she would have given a thought to that 
 infamous story ? " 
 
 " About Madame Istray ? " 
 
 " Yes. You, too, heard of it then ? " 
 
 "Who hasn't heard. Marian Walden was 
 not the one to spare you." She pauses, and 
 looks at him, with all her heart in her eyes. 
 " Was there no truth in that story ? " asks 
 she at last, her words coming with a little 
 rush. 
 
 " None. I swear it ! You believe me ? " 
 He has come nearer to her and taken her hand 
 in the extremity of this desire to be believed in 
 by somebody. 
 
 " I believe you," says she gently. Her 
 voice is so low, that he can catch the words 
 only, the grief and misery in them is unknown 
 to him. Mercifully too, the moon has gone 
 behmd a cloud, a tender preparation for an 
 
246 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 abdication presently, so that he cannot see the 
 two heart-broken tears that steal slowly down 
 her cheeks. Her late agitation is telling on 
 her now\ 
 
 " That is more than Isabel does," says he, 
 with a laugh that has something of despair in 
 it. 
 
 " You tell me then," says Lady Swansdown, 
 " that you never saw Madame Istray after 
 your marriage ? " 
 
 " Never, willingly." 
 
 "Oh, roillim/lyr' 
 
 " Don't misjudge me. Hear the whole 
 story, then, if you must," cries he passionately 
 — " though if you do, you will be the first to 
 hear it. I am tired of being thought a Har ! " 
 
 " Go on," says she, in a low shocked tone. 
 His singular vehemence has compelled her to 
 understand how severe have been his sufferings. 
 If ever she had doubted the truth of the old 
 story that has wrecked the happiness of his 
 married life, she doubts no longer. 
 
 " I tell you, you will be the first to hear it," 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 247 
 
 says he, advancing towards her. " Sit down 
 there," pressing her into the garden-seat once 
 more. "I can see you are looking over-done, 
 even by this light. Well — " drawing a long 
 breath and stepping back from her — ''I never 
 opened my lips upon this subject except once 
 before. That was to Isabel. And she " — he 
 pauses — " she would not listen. She beheved, 
 then, all things base of me. She has so 
 believed ever since." 
 
 " She must be a fool ! " says Lady Swans- 
 down impetuously, " she could not " 
 
 " She did, however. She," coldly, " even 
 believed that I could lie to her ! " 
 
 His face has become ashen ; his eyes, fixed 
 upon the ground, seem to grow there, with 
 the intensity of his regard. His breath seems 
 to come with difficulty through his lips. 
 
 " Well," says he at last, with a long sigh, 
 " it's all over ! The one merciful thing be- 
 longing to the lives of us all, is, that there 
 must come, sooner or later, an end to every- 
 thing. The worst grief has its termination. 
 
248 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 She has been unjust to me ; but you," he Hfts 
 his haggard face, " you^ perhaps, will grant 
 me a kmdlier hearmg." 
 
 " Tell it all to me, if it mil make you 
 happier," says she, very gently. Her heart is 
 bleeding for him. Oh, if she might only com- 
 fort him in some way ! If — if that other fails 
 him, why should not she^ with the passion of 
 love that lies in her bosom, restore him to the 
 warmth, the sweetness of life. That kiss, half 
 developed as it only was, already begins to 
 bear fatal fruit. Unconsciously she permits 
 herself a licence in her thoughts of Baltimore 
 hitherto strenuously suppressed. 
 
 " There is absurdly little to tell. At that 
 tune we lived almost entirely at our place in 
 Hampshire, and as there were business matters 
 connected with the outlying farms round 
 there, that had been grossly neglected during 
 my grandfather's time, I was compelled to 
 run up to Town almost daily. As a rule I 
 returned by the evening train, in time for 
 dinner, but once or twice I was so far delayed. 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 249 
 
 that it was out of my power to do it. I laugli 
 at myself now," he looks very far from laugh- 
 ter as he says it, " hut I assure you, the 
 occasions on which I was compulsorily kept 
 
 away from my home were " He pauses, 
 
 " oh, well, there is no use in being more tragic 
 than one need be. They were, at least, a 
 trouble to me." 
 
 " Naturally," says she, coldly. 
 
 " I loved her, you see," says Baltimore, in 
 a strange, jerky sort of way, as if ashamed 
 of that old sentiment. " She " 
 
 " I quite understand. I have heard all 
 about it once or twice," says Lady Swans - 
 down, with a kind of slow haste, if such a 
 contradiction may be allowed. That he has 
 forgotten her^ is evident. That she has for- 
 gotten nothing is more evident still. 
 
 " Well, one day, one of the many days 
 during which I went up to Town, after a 
 long afternoon with Goodman and Small, in 
 the course of which they had told me they 
 would probably require me to call at their 
 
250 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 office to meet one of the most influential 
 tenants at nine the next morning, I met, on 
 leaving their office, Marchmont — Marchmont 
 of the 10th — you know." 
 
 "Yes, I Imow." 
 
 " He and a couple of other fellows belong- 
 ing to his regiment were going down tO' 
 Richmond to dine. Would I come ? It 
 was dull in Town, towards the close of the 
 season, and I was glad of any invitation 
 that promised a change of programme — any- 
 thing that would take me away from a dull 
 evening at my club. I made no inquiries ; 
 I accepted the invitation, got down in time 
 for dinner and — found Madame Istray was 
 one of the guests. I " 
 
 He hesitates. 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " You are a woman of the world, Beatrice, 
 you will let me confess to you that there 
 had been old passages between me and 
 Madame Istray at one time. Nothing very 
 special — nothing — well, I swear to you I 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 251 
 
 had never so mucli as thought of her since 
 my marriage — nay, since my engagement to 
 Isabel. From that hour my Hfe had been 
 clear as a sheet of blank paper. I had for- 
 gotten her ; I verily believe she had forgotten 
 me, too. At that dinner I don't think she 
 exchanged a dozen words with me. On my 
 soul," pushing back his hair with a slow, 
 troubled gesture from his brow, "this is the 
 truth." 
 
 " And yet " 
 
 " And yet," interrupting her with, now, a 
 touch of vehement excitement, " a garbled, 
 a most cursedly false account of that dinner 
 was given her. Tt came round to her ears. 
 She hstened to it — believed in it — condemned 
 me without a hearing. She, who had sworn, 
 not only at the altar, but to me — to me 
 myself that she loved me." 
 
 " She wronged you terribly," says Lady 
 Swansdown in a low tone. 
 
 " Thank you," cries he, a passion of grati- 
 tude in his tone. "To be believed in by 
 
252 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 some one, so thoroughly as you believe in 
 me, is to know happiness indeed. Whatever 
 happens, I can count on you as my friend." 
 
 " Your friend always," says she, m a 
 very low voice — a voice somewhat broken. 
 " Come," she says, rismg suddenly and walk- 
 mg towards the distant lights in the house. 
 
 He accompanies her silently. 
 
 Yery suddenly she turns to him, and lays 
 her hand upon his arm. 
 
 "Be my friend," says she, with a quick 
 access of terrible emotion. 
 
 Entreaty and despair are mingled in her 
 tone. 
 
 " For ever ! " returns he, fervently, tighten- 
 ing his grasp on her hand. 
 
 " Well," sighmg, " it hardly matters. We 
 shall not meet agam for a long, long time." 
 
 " How is that ? Isabel, the last time she 
 condescended to speak to me of her own 
 accord," with an unpleasant laugh, " told 
 me that she had asked you to come here 
 again next February, and that you had ac- 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 253 
 
 cepted the invitation. She, indeed, made 
 quite a point of it." 
 
 " Ah ! that was a lono^ time ao'o." 
 
 " Weeks do not make a long time." 
 
 " Some weeks hold more than years. Yes, 
 you are right ; she made quite a point about 
 my coming. Well, she is always very civil." 
 
 " She has always perfect manners. She 
 is, as you say, very civil." 
 
 " She is very proud," coldly. 
 
 "You will come ? " 
 
 " I think not. By that time you will in 
 all probability have made it up ^Yith her." 
 
 "The very essence of improbability, I 
 should say." 
 
 " Whilst I — shall not have made it up 
 with my husband." 
 
 " One thing seems to me quite as possible 
 as the other." 
 
 " Oh, no. Isabel is a good woman. You 
 would do well to go back to her. Swans - 
 down is as bad a man as I know, and that," 
 with a mirthless laugh, " is saying a great 
 
254 APKIL'S LADY. 
 
 deal. I should gain nothing by a recon- 
 ciliation with him. For one thing, an im- 
 portant matter, I have a great deal more 
 money than he has, and, for another, there 
 are no children." Her voice changes here ; 
 an indescribable alteration not only hardens, 
 but desolates it. "I have been fortunate 
 ihere^'' she says, " if in nothing else in my 
 unsatisfactory Hfe. There is no smallest tie 
 between me and Swansdown. If I could be 
 seriously glad of anythmg it would be of 
 that. I have nothing belonging to him." 
 
 " His name." 
 
 " Oh, as for that — does it belong to him ? 
 Has he not forfeited a decent right to it a- 
 thousand times ? No ; there is nothing. 
 If there had been a child he would have 
 made a persecution of it — and so I am better 
 off as it is. And yet, there are moments 
 when I envy you that little child of yours. 
 However " 
 
 " Yet if Swansdown were to make an 
 overture " 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 255 
 
 " Do not go on. It is of all speculations 
 the most useless. Do not pursue the sub- 
 ject of Swansdown, I entreat you. Let," 
 with bitter meaning, " ' sleeping dogs lie.' " 
 
 Baltimore laughs shortly. 
 
 " That is severe," says he. 
 
 "It is how I feel towards him — the lio^ht 
 in which 1 regard him. If," turning a face 
 to his that is hardly recognisable, so pale it 
 is with ill- suppressed loathing, " he were lying 
 on his death-bed and sent for me, it would 
 give me ijleasure to refuse to go to him." 
 
 She takes her hand from his arm and 
 motions him to ascend the steps leadmg into 
 the conservatory. 
 
 " But you ? " says he surprised. 
 
 "Let me remain here a httle while. I 
 am tired. My head aches, I " 
 
 "Let me stay with you." 
 
 " No," smiling faintly. " What I want is 
 to be alone. To feel the silence. Go. Do 
 not be uneasy about me. Beheve me you 
 will be kind if you do as I ask you." 
 
256 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 " It is a command," says he slowly. And 
 slowly too he turns away. 
 
 Seeing him so micertain about leaving her, 
 she steps abruptly into a dark side path, and 
 finding a chair sinks into it. 
 
 The soft breaking of the dawn over the 
 tree tops far away seems to add another 
 pang to the anguish that is consuming her. 
 She covers her face with her hands. 
 
 " Oh ! if it had all been different. Two 
 hves sacrificed ! nay, three. For surely 
 Isabel cannot care for him. Oh ! if it had 
 been she, she herself — what is there she 
 could not have forgiven hitiL Nay, she must 
 have forgiven him, because life without him 
 would have been insupportable. If only she 
 might have loved him honourably. If only 
 she might ever love him — successfully — dis- 
 honourably ! " 
 
 The thought seems to sting her. In- 
 voluntarily she throws up her head and 
 courts the chill winds of dawn that sweep 
 with a cool touch her burning forehead. 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 257 
 
 She had called her proud. Would she 
 herself then be less proud ? That Isabel 
 dreads her, half- scorns her of late, is well 
 known to her, and yet, with a very passion 
 of pride, would dare her to prove it. She, 
 Isabel, has gone even so far as to ask her 
 rival to visit her again in the early part of 
 the coming year to meet her present friends. 
 So far that pride had carried her. But 
 pride — was pride love ? If she herself loved 
 Baltimore, would she, even for pride's sake, 
 entreat the woman he singled out for his 
 attentions to spend another long visit in her 
 country house ? And if Isabel does not 
 honestly love him, why then — is he not 
 lawful prey for one who can, who does love 
 him ? 
 
 One — who loves him. But he — whom 
 does he love ? 
 
 Torn by some terrible thought, she starts 
 to her feet, and as though inaction has be- 
 come impossible to her, draws her white 
 
 silken wrap around her. and sweeps rapidly 
 VOL. I. 17 
 
258 ARKIL'S LADY. 
 
 out of all view of the waning Chinese lamps 
 into the grey obscurity of the coming day 
 that lies in the far gardens. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 " Song, have thy day, and take thy fill of light 
 Before the night be fallen across thy way ; 
 Sing while he may, man hath no long delight." 
 
 " What a delicious day ! " says Joyce, 
 stopping short on tiie hill to take a look 
 round her. It is the next day, and indeed 
 far into it. Luncheon is a thing of the past, 
 and both she and Dysart know that it will 
 take them all their time to reach St. 
 Bridget's Hill and be back again for after- 
 noon tea. They had started on their ex- 
 pedition in defiance of many bribes held out 
 to them. For one thing, there was to be 
 a reception at the Court at five ; many of 
 those who had danced through last night 
 having been asked to come over late in the 
 afternoon of to-day to talk over the dance 
 itself, and the little etceteras belonging to it. 
 The young members of the Monkton 
 
 17—2 
 
260 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 family had been specially invited too, as a 
 sort of make up to Bertie, the little son of 
 the house, who had been somewhat aggrieved 
 at being sent to bed without his share of the 
 festivities on hand. He had retired to his 
 little cot mdeed mth his arms stuffed full 
 of crackers, but how could crackers and cakes 
 and sweets console anyone for the loss of 
 being out of bed at an ungodly hour and 
 seeing a real, live dance ! The one thing 
 that finally helped him to endure his hard 
 lot was a promise on his mother's part that 
 Tommy and Mabel Monkton should come 
 down next day, and revel with him amongst 
 the glorious ruins of the supper-table. The 
 little Monktons had not come however, when 
 Joyce left for her walk. 
 
 " Going out ? " Lady Swansdown had said 
 to her, meeting her in the hall, fully 
 equipped for her excursion. " But wJiy^ my 
 dear girl ? We expect those amusing 
 Burkes in an hour or so, and the Delaneys, 
 and " 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 261 
 
 '' Yes, why go ? " repeats Beauclerk, who 
 has just come up. His manner is friendly 
 in the extreme, yet a very careful observer 
 might notice a strain about it, a determina- 
 tion to be friendly that rather spoils the effect. 
 Her manner towards him last night after 
 his interview with Miss Maliphant in the 
 garden and her growing coldness ever since, 
 has somewhat disconcerted him, mentally. 
 Could she have heard, or seen, or been told 
 of anything ? There might of course have 
 been a little contretemps of some sort. 
 People, as a rule, are so beastly treacherous ! 
 " You will make us wretched if you 
 desert us," says he with empressement. As 
 he speaks he goes up to her and lets his 
 eyes as well as his lips implore her. Miss 
 MaHphant had left by the early train, so 
 that he is quite unattached and able to em- 
 ploy his whole battery of fascinations on 
 the subjugation of this refractory person. 
 
 " I am sorry. Don't be more wretched 
 than you can help ! " says Joyce, with a 
 
26ii APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 smile wonderfully unconcerned. " Always, 
 after a dance I want a walk to clear my 
 brain, and Mr. Dysart has been good enougb 
 to say he will accompany me." 
 
 " Zs he accompanying you ? " asks Beau- 
 clerk, with an unpardonably superciHous 
 glance around him, as if in search of the 
 absent Dysart. 
 
 " You mustn't think him a laggard at his 
 post," says Miss Kavanagh, still smiling, 
 but now in a Httle provoking way that 
 seems to jest at his pretended suspicion of 
 Dysart's constancy and dissolve it into the 
 thinnest of thin air. " He was here just 
 now, but I sent him to loose the dogs. I 
 like to have them with me, and Lady 
 Baltimore is pleased when they get a run." 
 
 " Isabel is always so sympathetic," says he 
 with quite a new and delightful rush of 
 sympathy towards Isabel. " I suppose," 
 glancing at Joyce keenly, " you would not 
 care for an additional escort ? The dogs — 
 and Dysart — will be sufficient ? " 
 
APEIL'S LADY. 263 
 
 " Mr. Dysart and the dogs will be," says 
 she. " Ah ! Here he comes," as Dysart 
 appears at the open doorway, a little pack 
 of terriers at his heels. " What a time 
 youVe been ! " cries she, moving quickly to 
 him. " I thought you would never come. 
 Good-bye, Lady Swansdown ; good-bye," 
 glancing casually at Beauclerk. " Keep 
 one teapot for us if you can I " 
 
 She trips Hghtly up the avenue at Dysart's 
 side, lea\Tiig Beauclerk in a rather curious 
 frame of mind. 
 
 " Yes, she has heard something ! " That 
 is his first thought. How to counteract the 
 probable influence of that " something," is 
 the second. A little dwelling upon causes 
 and effects shows him the way. For an 
 effect there is often an antidote ! 
 
 " Delicious indeed ! " says Dysart, in 
 answer to her remark. His answer is, how- 
 ever, a httle distrait. His determination of 
 
264 APEIL'S LADY. 
 
 last night to bring her here, and compel her 
 to listen to the honest promptings of his 
 heart is still stronof within him. 
 
 They have now ascended the hill, and, 
 standing on its summit, can look down 
 on the wild deep sea beneath them that 
 lies, to all possible seeming, as calm and 
 passive at their feet as might a thing in- 
 animate. 
 
 Yet mthin its depths what terrible — what 
 mournfal tragedies he ! And, as if in con- 
 trast, what ecstatic joys. To one it speaks 
 like death itself — to another : 
 
 " The bridegroom sea 
 Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, 
 And in the fulness of his marriage joy 
 He decorates her tawny brow with shells, 
 Retires a pace to see how fair she looks. 
 Then, proud, runs up to kiss her." 
 
 " Shall we sit here ? " says Dysart, in- 
 dicating a soft mound of grass that overlooks 
 the bay. " You must be tired after all last 
 night's dancing." 
 
 " I am tired," says she, sinking upon the 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 265 
 
 soft cushion that Nature has provided, with 
 a httle sigh of satisfaction. 
 
 " Perhaps I should not have asked — have 
 extracted — a promise from you to come here,'^ 
 says Dysart, with contrition in his tone. 
 " I should have remembered you would be 
 overdone, and that a long walk hke this " 
 
 " Would be the very thing to restore me 
 to a proper state of health," she interrupts 
 him, with the prettiest smile. " No, don't 
 pretend you are sorry you brought me here. 
 You know it is the sheerest hypocrisy on 
 your part. You are glad that you brought 
 me here, I hope, and /" — deliberately — "am 
 glad that you brought me." 
 
 "Do you mean that ?" says Dysart gravely. 
 He has not seated himself beside her, and 
 is now looking down at her from a very 
 goodly height. " Do you know why I 
 brought you ? " 
 
 " To bring me back again as fresh as a 
 daisy," suggests she, with a laugh that is 
 spoiled in its birth by a glance from him. 
 
266 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 "No, I did not think of you at all. I 
 thought only of myself," says Dysart, speak- 
 ing a little quickly now. " Call that selfish 
 if you will — and yet " 
 
 He stops short, and comes closer to her. 
 "To think in that way was to think of you 
 too. Joyce, there is at all events one thing 
 you do know — that I love you." 
 
 Miss Kavanagh nods her head silently. 
 
 " There is one thing, too, that / know," 
 says Dysart, now with a little tremble in his 
 voice, " that you do not love me ! " 
 
 She is silent. 
 
 " You are honest," says he, after a pause. 
 "Still" — looking at her, "if there wasn't 
 hope one would die. Though the present is 
 empty for me, I cannot help dwelHng on the 
 thought that the future may contain some- 
 thing .' " 
 
 " The future is so untranslatable," says she 
 with a Uttle evasion. 
 
 " Tell me this, at least," says Dysart, very 
 earnestly, bending over her with the air of 
 
APKIL'S LADY. 267 
 
 one determined to sift Ms chances to the last 
 ^rain, " you like me ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 " Better than Courtenay, for example ? " 
 with a fleeting smile, that fails to disguise 
 the real anxiety he is enduring. 
 
 " What an absurd question ! " 
 
 " Than Dicky Browne ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 But here she lifts her head and gazes at 
 him in a startled way, that speaks of quick 
 suspicion. There is something of entreaty, 
 too, in her dark eyes, a desire that he will 
 go no farther. 
 
 But Dysart deliberately disregards it. 
 
 " Than Beauclerk ? " asks he in a clear, 
 a-lmost cruel, tone. 
 
 A horrible red rushes up to dye her pretty 
 cheeks, in spite of all her efforts to subdue 
 it. Great tears of shame and confusion suf- 
 fuse her eyes. One httle reproachful glance 
 «he casts at him and then : 
 
 " Of course," says she, almost vehemently, 
 
268 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 if a little faintly, lier eyes sinking to the 
 ground. 
 
 Dysart stands before her as if stricken into 
 stone. Then the knowledge that he has hurt 
 her pierces him with a terrible certainty, 
 overcomes all other thoughts, and drives him 
 to repentance. 
 
 " I shouldn't have asked you that," says^ 
 he, bluntly. 
 
 '' Xo, no ! " says she, acquiescing quickly, 
 " and yet," raising an eager, lovely face to 
 his, " I hardly know why not. I hardly 
 know anything about — about myself. Some- 
 times I think I like him, and sometimes " 
 
 She stops abruptly and looks at him with 
 a pained and frightened gaze. " Do you 
 despise me for betraying myself like 
 this ? " 
 
 " No — I want to hear all about it." 
 
 " Ah ! That is what I want to hear my- 
 self. But who is to tell me ? Nature won't. 
 Sometimes I hate him. Last night " 
 
 " Yes, I know. You hated him last night.. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 269 
 
 I don't wish to know why. I am quite 
 satisfied in that you did so." 
 
 " But shall I hate him to-morrow ? Oh, 
 yes, I think so — I hoiJe so," cries she, 
 suddenly. " I am tired of it all. He is 
 not a real person, not one possible to class. 
 He is false — naturally treacherous — and 
 yet " 
 
 She breaks off again very abruptly, and 
 turns to Dysart as if for help. 
 
 "Let us forget him," she says, and then 
 in a httle frightened way, " Oh, I wish I 
 could be sure I could forget him ! " 
 
 " Why can't you ? " says Dysart, in his 
 downright way. " It means only a strong 
 effort after all. If you feel honestly ^''^ with 
 an earnest glance at her, " like that towards 
 him, you must be mad to give him even a 
 corner in your heart." 
 
 " That is it," says she, " there the puzzle 
 begins. I don't know if he even has a corner 
 in my heart. He attracts me, but attraction 
 is not affection, and the heart holds only love 
 
270 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 and hatred. Indifference is nothing — a mere 
 minor feeling." 
 
 " You can get rid of him finally," say& 
 Dysart boldly, " by giving yourself to me. 
 That will kill all " 
 
 All he may be going to say is killed on 
 his lips at this moment, by two little wild 
 shrieks of joy that sound right behind his 
 head. Both he and Joyce turn abruptly in 
 its direction — he with a sense of angry as- 
 tonishment, she with a fell knowledge of its 
 meaning. It is, indeed, no surprise to her 
 when Tommy and Mabel appear suddenly 
 from behind the rock just close to them, that 
 hides the path in part, and precipitate them- 
 selves into her arms. 
 
 " We saw you, we saw you ! " gasps 
 Tommy, breathless from his run up the hill, 
 " we saw you far away down there on the 
 road, and we told Bridgie " (the maid) " that 
 we'd run up and see you, and she said ' cut 
 along/ so here we are." 
 
 " You are, indeed," says Dysart, with feeling. 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 271 
 
 " We knew you'd be glad to see us," goes 
 on Tommy to Joyce, in the beautiful roar 
 lie always adopts when excited, " you haven't 
 been home for years, Mary says, and Bridgie 
 says that's because you are going to be 
 married to " 
 
 " Get up. Tommy, you are too heavy, and 
 besides, I want to kiss Mabel," says Tommy's, 
 aunt with prodigious haste and a hot 
 cheek. 
 
 "Bat mammy says you're a silly-Billy,'^ 
 says Mabel in her shrill treble, " an' that '' 
 
 " Mammy is a shockingly rude person," 
 says Mr. Dysart, hurrying to break into 
 the dangerous confidence, no matter at what 
 cost, even at the expense of the adored 
 mammy. His remark is taken very badly. 
 
 " She's not ! " says Tommy, glowering at 
 him. " Father says she's an angel, and he 
 knows. I heard him say it, and angels are 
 never rude ! " 
 
 " 'Twas after he made her cry about some- 
 thing," says Mabel, lifting her little flower- 
 
272 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 like face to Dysart's in a miniature imitation 
 of her brother's indignation. " She was 
 boo-hooing Hke anything, and then father 
 got sorry — oh ! — dreadful sorry — and he said 
 she was an angel, and she said " 
 
 " Oh, Mabel ! " says Joyce, weakly, " you 
 know you oughtn't to say such " 
 
 " Well, 'twas your fault ! 'twas all about 
 you," says Tommy, defiantly. " Why don't 
 you come home ? Father says you ought 
 to come, and mammy says she doesn't know 
 which of 'em it'll be ; and father says it won't 
 be any of them, and — what's it all about ? " 
 turning a frankly inquisitive httle face up 
 to hers. '' They wouldn't tell us, and ive 
 want to know which of 'em is it to be." 
 
 " Yes, an' is it jints ? " demands Mabel, 
 who probably means giants, and not cold 
 meats. 
 
 " I don't know what she means," says Miss 
 Kavanagh, coldly. 
 
 " I say you two," says Mr. Dysart bril- 
 liantly, " wouldn't you like to run a race ? 
 
APKIL'S LAD^'. 273 
 
 Bridget must be tired of waiting for you, 
 down there at the end of the hill, and " 
 
 " She isn't waiting, she's talking to Mikey 
 Daly," says Tommy. 
 
 " Oh, I see. Well look here. I bet you, 
 Tommy, strong as you look, ^label can outrun 
 you down that hill." 
 
 " She ! she I ^^ cries Tommy indignantly, 
 " I could beat he 7^ in a minute." 
 
 " You can't," cries Mabel in turn ; 
 " Nurse says I'm twice the chile that you 
 are." 
 
 " Your legs are as short as a pin," roars 
 Tommy, " you couldnt run." 
 
 " I can, I can^ I can ! " says Mabel, on the 
 verge of a violent flood of tears. 
 
 " Well, we'll see," says Mr. Dysart, who 
 now begins to think he has thrown himself 
 away on a silly Hussar regiment, when he 
 ouo'ht to have taken rank as a distinoTiished 
 diplomatist. " Come, I'll start you both down 
 the hill, and whichever reaches Bridget first, 
 wins the day." 
 
 VOL. I. 18 
 
274 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 Instantly both children spring to the front 
 of the path. 
 
 " You're standing before me, Tommy." 
 
 " Xo, I'm not." 
 
 "You're cheating — you are!'''' 
 
 " Cheating yourself ! Mr. Dysart, amn't 
 I all right ? " 
 
 " I think you should give her a start ; she's 
 the (jirJ^ you know," says Dysart. " There 
 now, go. That's very good. Five yards, 
 Tommy, is a small allowance for a little 
 thmg like Mabel. Steady now, you two ! 
 
 One Good gracious, they're off," says he 
 
 turnino' to Miss Kavanaoh with a sio^h of 
 rehef mingled with amusement. " They had 
 no idea of waiting for more than one signal. 
 I hope they will meet this Bridget, and get 
 back to their mother safely." 
 
 " They are not going to her just now. 
 They are going on to the Court to spend 
 the afternoon with Bertie," says Joyce ; 
 "Barbara told me so, last night. Dear 
 things ! How sweet they looked ! " 
 
APRIL'S LADY. 275 
 
 " They are the prettiest children I know," 
 says Dysart — a little absent, perhaps. He 
 falls into silence for a moment or two, and 
 then suddenly looks at her. He advances 
 a step. 
 
 END OF VOL. I 
 
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