LI E) RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 HAASs 
 v.l 
 
/7 , 
 
 i^ / r 
 
SNOODED JESSALINE 
 
 THE HONOUR OF A HOUSE. 
 
 MRS. T. K. HERVEY 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 SAUNDEES, OTLEY, AND CO. 
 
 66 BROOK STREET, W. 
 1865. 
 
 lA'l Eights reserved.] 
 
LoyDoir 
 
 PEINTED BT SPOTTISWOODE AXB CO. 
 NKW-STEEZT SQUARE 
 
8^3 
 u, / 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 A. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 V. 
 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 
 IX . 
 X. 
 
 XI. 
 
 XII 
 .XIII 
 XIV 
 
 . Cross Purposes 
 
 . 1 
 
 . A Double Wedding 
 
 . 15 
 
 . A Bride Elect 
 
 . 36 
 
 . Clement Favrel 
 
 . 49 
 
 . A Small Link 
 
 . 65 
 
 . Loving Counsel 
 
 . 72 
 
 . . A Hostile ^^Ieeting 
 
 . 82 
 
 . . Self-devotion 
 
 . 94 
 
 . . Seeking a Refuge . 
 
 . 109 
 
 . . An Orphan's Welcome . 
 
 . 128 
 
 . . A True Woman 
 
 . 138 
 
 . . An Old Enemy 
 
 . IGO 
 
 . . A Spy in the Camp 
 
 . 173 
 
 . . The NE^Y Elixir . 
 
 . 183 
 
 ^ 
 
IV CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLIBIE. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XV ... A Night Adventure 
 XVI ... A Common Mistake 
 XVII . . . Woman's Wit 
 XVIII ... A Eejected Lover . 
 XIX ... A One-sided Eecognition 
 XX . . . The Wine Mounts . 
 XXI . . . Only a Man's Step 
 XXII . . . The Cross-country Post 
 XXIII ... A Husband's Trust 
 XXIV . . . More Mysteries 
 
 PAGE 
 
 . 189 
 . 208 
 . 218 
 . 227 
 . 240 
 . 255 
 . 268 
 . 279 
 . 291 
 . 299 
 
SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 My mind is troubled like a fountain stirred, 
 And I myself see not the bottom of it. 
 
 Troilus and Cressida, 
 
 This weak impress of love is as a figure 
 Trenched in ice ; vrhicb with an hour's heat 
 Dissolves to water, and doth lose his form. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona. 
 
 I WAS no governess by profession. The 
 only pupil I ever had was the child of my 
 mother's early companion and fast friend. 
 
 The chance — chance! — which threw us 
 two together; me, plain unromantic Grace 
 Harcourt, the daughter of a bankrupt mer- 
 chant; and fair sensitive Lilian, the only 
 child of the rich Colonel Elphinstone, is 
 soon told. 
 
 When my mother, then Margaret Felton, 
 and the beautiful May Whiteford, both fresh 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
2 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 from the trammels of school, exchanged — 
 as school-Osiris will — those vows of eternal 
 friendship which too often prove but empty- 
 breath, the two somehow became separated. 
 Some small conventional barrier, very likely- 
 some difference of social position, kept them 
 apart. Still, the girls kept up a vigorous 
 correspondence. And when life's spring- 
 time blossomed for each ; when dearer and 
 closer bonds held them prisoner; when 
 my mother became Margaret Harcourt, 
 and her friend May took, a few years later, 
 her proud position as the wife of a man 
 destined to become one of England's heroes 
 — the well-known Ralph Elphinstone — the 
 early tie between them was not broken, nor 
 the old love dead. 
 
 An old letter of my mother's to the 
 mother of my Lilian — my first and last 
 pupil — lies before me now. Its closing 
 passage will show how the connection be- 
 tween me and the Elphinstones was brought 
 about. 
 
 The letter seems to have been written — 
 for the date is wanting, a common fault in 
 a woman's letters — soon after my father's 
 bankruptcy, and under the depression caused 
 by his approaching death. I must have 
 been at that time in my sixteenth year. 
 
CROSS PURPOSES. 3 
 
 The letter ran thus .._***' You 
 remember your old promise, May ? Tt will 
 not be long, I think, before I shall call upon 
 you for its fulfilment. My poor Henry is 
 fast sinking. I feel that I cannot survive his 
 loss. When we are both gone — when all 
 is over, you will take my darling Grace to 
 your loving breast — to your motherly care, 
 will you not. May ? — Your faithful Margaret. ' 
 
 When that last shadow fell upon me, it 
 fell two years later. 
 
 It is enough to add here that May Elphin- 
 stone was true to her early friend. Her 
 husband, the Colonel, too indulgent to his 
 wife to throw any obstacle, in the way of 
 her wishes or duties, gave a cordial con- 
 sent to her plan of placing their daughter 
 Lilian under my care. And to Fairfield I 
 went. 
 
 I think my first meeting with Lilian gave 
 me as full a knowledge of her peculiar tem- 
 perament as years of intercourse could have 
 done. 
 
 As the old rumbling chaise that bore me, 
 a perfect stranger, to Fairfield Grange, 
 passed through the lodge gate and rattled 
 along the broad avenue of limes, her heart 
 came out to meet me by the way. The 
 
 B 2 
 
4 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 scream of the peacock perched upon the old 
 sun-dial — shadowing the hours with his 
 wings, as an orphan swept by — was followed 
 by her shout of welcome, Down the long 
 walk she came bounding like a fawn ; rush- 
 ing to be the first to greet me, heedless of 
 all cold rules of ceremony, obeying only the 
 impulse of her warm, pure heart. 
 
 I think I see her now; her hair given 
 wild to the winds; her soft white frock, 
 drawn close round throat and wrist, waving 
 and floating about her. 
 
 As I alighted, and she drew close to me, 
 I marked the sudden check — the quick tear. 
 The sight of my deep mourning suit struck 
 upon her with a pang. In her eagerness to 
 welcome me, she had for the moment clearly 
 forgotten that I came in the newness of a 
 great sorrow ; and she felt her happy spirits 
 reproved by the look of orphanage settled 
 on my face. 
 
 The child, for Lilian was at that time 
 scarcely twelve years old, placed her hand 
 softly, very softly, in mine, as one who fears 
 that a touch may wound. 
 
 'You are Miss Harcourt?' she said. 
 'May I call you Grace?' 
 
 I bent down and kissed her fair open 
 
CROSS PURPOSES. 5 
 
 brow, for her own sake and for our mothers' 
 sakes. And Lilian and I were allies for 
 life. 
 
 And now, if I step over those early days 
 of Lilian's pupilage, and of my happy task 
 of watching the unfolding of that fair life- 
 flower, sweet and fresh from heaven, it is 
 because to a later period belong those more 
 absorbing interests which arose out of my 
 early connection with the Elphinstones- 
 
 Of May Elphinstone, Lilian's mother, I 
 have nothing to say here. Yery soon after 
 I found a home at Fairfield Grange, she 
 passed into another world. 
 
 We laid her down very tenderly — how 
 tenderly, I leave to be spoken later, and by 
 other lips than mine. What she was to me 
 and Colonel Elphinstone long after that 
 which was mortal of her had left us ; how, 
 by the force of circumstance as well as 
 through our kindly recollection of her, she 
 continued long to keep her place in the in- 
 nermost chambers of our minds, I also leave 
 to be told hereafter. 
 
 Of Colonel Elphinstone, enough will ap- 
 pear by-and-by. I shall allow him to speak 
 for himself as much as is possible; only 
 here and there correcting the impressions he 
 
6 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 miglit make on others through that self- 
 depreciation which was usual with him. 
 
 Suppose, then, five years to have passed. 
 
 Those years had passed not without 
 changes — changes of many kinds — sad 
 enough, some of them. At the very begin- 
 ning of them, as I have said, Lilian had 
 lost her mother. Now, at their close, she 
 was about to take upon herself the duties of 
 a wife. 
 
 Vincent Elphinstone, the accepted suitor, 
 was, as his name indicates, an off-shoot of 
 the Elphinstone family tree. He was one, 
 therefore, it should be borne in mind, who 
 was expected to uphold in his own person 
 the rigid honour of that house by every act 
 of his life. Belonging to a collateral branch, 
 and thus related, though distantly, to the 
 Colonel, he looked upon that hero as the 
 head and chief of all the Elphinstones, as 
 indeed he was, and held him accordingly in 
 proper fear and respect. 
 
 To me who had watched the progress of 
 those days of courtship, and they were fewer 
 than they should have been, came grave 
 doubts if they would lead to a happy wife- 
 hood for Lilian. But great as was the love 
 and trust which I had won in that house- 
 
CROSS PURPOSES. 7 
 
 hold, it did not appear to me to lie exactly 
 within my duty to interfere in any way 
 with the progress of events tending to such 
 life- and- death issues. 'Lilian has a father/ 
 I thought, ' the noblest and best of all 
 God's creatures. This matter is in his 
 hands, and in his hands I leave it/ 
 
 It was not that I really knew any harm 
 of Vincent Elphinstone. Neither was it 
 that I disliked him. He was a man with a 
 heart. He was ready with a kind thought 
 and a kind word for everybody ; all atten- 
 tion, of course, to Lilian. Yet, he was at 
 times wayward, and he seemed to me always 
 ill at ease. In short, he was slippery as an 
 eel, eager as a grey-hound, and restless 
 as a Polar bear. However, surmises and 
 missrivino-s were too late now. Vincent was 
 
 o o 
 
 an accepted lover, and had the run of the 
 house as such creatures will, going and 
 coming as he listed, and giving himself all 
 the airs of a son-in-law elect. 
 
 My chief doubts centred in Lilian. Vin- 
 cent's suddenly conceived and vehemently 
 expressed adoration appeared, to my think- 
 ing, to have taken her young heart too 
 much by storm. The newness of such 
 worship — for he was her first lover, or I 
 
8 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 should perhaps say her first suitor — had 
 startled her into so faint and hesitating a 
 denial in answer to the important question 
 he proposed to her, as sent the enraptured 
 suitor forthwith to the Colonel to entreat 
 for his daughter's hand. Her father's con- 
 sent obtained, Lilian's withholding of any- 
 more frank admission of love went for 
 nothing. Vincent had more than hinted 
 to her father of an already expressed pre- 
 ference for himself on her part. The 
 Colonel thereupon pronounced the final 
 decree, and left the two young people to 
 conduct what he was pleased to call the 
 little preliminary flights and caprices of 
 lovers after their own fashion. 
 
 Congratulations were now the order of 
 the day — that is, within the walls of Fair- 
 field Grange. Beyond those boundaries, 
 the busy gossiping world as yet knew 
 nothing of the natter, — for so Lilian in- 
 sisted with an earnest pleading that had 
 something painful in its shrinking sensi- 
 tiveness. 
 
 Strangely enough, the very next day 
 after this somewhat unlooked-for climax of 
 affairs, Vincent was suddenly called away 
 on urgent business, the nature of which he 
 
CROSS PURPOSES. if 
 
 did not see fit to disclose ; only briefly la- 
 menting that he feared he should be de- 
 tained for some days — even a week — per- 
 haps longer. 
 
 When he was gone it seemed all like a 
 dream that had no grasp of reality in it. 
 His absence appeared to be a relief to us all. 
 Lilian, more than any one else, seemed to 
 rejoice in being freed from him. What 
 could it mean ? 
 
 A fortnight, then, would probably elapse 
 before the return of this strange but de- 
 termined wooer. It was a comfort that 
 for that period, at any rate, we women 
 should be left to go our own way without 
 being much troubled by our male plagues. 
 
 Durino; that fortni2:ht Lilian's mind was 
 a good deal diverted from dwelling upon 
 her own immediate prospects by a new 
 phase of things which set her wondering 
 and grieving. This was the rapid and un- 
 accountable drooping of her cousin and 
 orphan friend, Dora Flemming. 
 
 Dora was the niece of poor dead May. 
 The late incumbent of Fairfield, the Kev. 
 Robert Flemming, had married May's 
 sister. 
 
 During the lifetime of her father, who was 
 
10 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 early widowed, Dora had been the humoured 
 and spoiled pet of two several homes — the 
 Eectory and the Grange. On her father's 
 death, when the living was presented to 
 Dr. Percy, Colonel El^Dhinstone had offered 
 his wife's niece a home at the Grange. But 
 Dora clung to her old home, endeared by 
 so many recollections, and Dr. Percy, and 
 his wife — at that time living — insisted upon 
 her remaining at the Rectory; so the 
 Colonel good-humouredly yielded the point. 
 Again, however, when Dr. Percy lost his 
 wife, the Colonel offered Dora a home. But 
 nothing could tear her from the Rectory, or 
 from her old nurse, Eunice, who had be- 
 come quite a fixture in Dr. Percy's family. 
 
 Dora had one brother, who was absent. 
 He was a lieutenant in the navy. 
 
 Lilian's fears about her cousin were not 
 awakened without cause. The girl wasted 
 visibly ; ' moped to death,' the gossips would 
 have it, for want of change — ' buried alive' 
 in the dull old Rectory. But, moped or 
 not moped, we resolved that change she 
 should have ; and so we besieged the Rec- 
 tory and brought Dora off in triumph to 
 Fairfield Grange. 
 
 But strive to cheer her as we would, Dora 
 
CROSS PURPOSES. 11 
 
 would not brighten up. The condition into 
 which she had fallen was a most unhealth- 
 ful condition. Her days were passed almost 
 alone. It was with difficulty we could 
 draw her from the solitude of her own room, 
 to share our happy life of cares and plea- 
 sures. She was shrinkingly sensitive — 
 worse than Lihan. At the approach of 
 visitors she fled like a startled hare. She 
 read alone, worked alone, and, when pos- 
 sible, walked alone. During that fortnight 
 that she remained with us, both the Colonel 
 and I often surprised her in tears. At those 
 times, she would start ; colour up to her 
 very forehead; stammer out some insuffi- 
 cient excuse to account for her emotion; 
 and pertinaciously shut herself out from our 
 observation for hours afterwards. There 
 was one who was watching those indications 
 of unquiet in the orphan girl more closely 
 than any one was aware. That one was the 
 Colonel. 
 
 It was strange that nothing could win 
 Dora to share the happiness that was ours. 
 For we formed indeed a family group which 
 held within its charmed circle all the ele- 
 ments of peace and calm. 
 
 On the eve of that day which was to 
 
12 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 bring back the truant lover — for Vincent 
 had written to announce his return — we 
 were especially cosy. Gathered round the 
 winter fire on that cold February night, the 
 great logs crackling and ablaze with light, 
 our party was, with certain exceptions, a 
 happy one. To me there seemed no winter 
 in the world. 
 
 Colonel Elphinstone and I were seated 
 at opposite corners of the hearth. In front 
 of the fire sat a youthful group, very fair 
 to look upon. The central figure was that 
 of Lawrence Percy, the Rector's son. He 
 was the dear friend of Robert Fleniming, 
 Dora's sailor brother. On one side of 
 Lawrence was seated Dora— pale, lustrous- 
 eyed Dora ; on the other side sat our sweet 
 Lilian. Lawrence's arm was thrown over 
 the back of Dora's chair. Yet — odd, that ! 
 — he was whispering low to Lilian. 
 
 Were the gossips right or wrong ? Long 
 ago, from the fact of Dora's remaining at 
 the Rectory, it had all been settled in 
 people's minds that Lawrence and Dora 
 were lovers. We shall see. 
 
 There was but one addition to this party 
 of five. That one was Lady Laetitia Dal- 
 rymple — better and more familiarly known 
 
. CROSS PUKPOSES. 13 
 
 to US as ' Lady Letty.' She was aunt to 
 Vincent. And as she was wealthy, single, 
 fifty years of age, and had outlived all 
 closer ties, to her death, doubtless, Vincent 
 was looking with that cruel hope which 
 pictures golden coffers rising out of the dust 
 flung up from hallowed graves. 
 
 At the death of our poor May, Lilian's 
 mother, this quiet soul — bland, softly-smil- 
 ing Lady Letty — had been petitioned by 
 the Colonel, who had known her all his life, 
 to take up her abode indefinitely at the 
 Grange ; I fancy to conduct the proprieties, 
 as a sort of duenna over Lilian — and me. 
 In her train had come Vincent. 
 
 A most quiescent guardian was dear Lady 
 Letty — a soft, sleepy Cerberus, with half- 
 closed eyes. Yet, just now — surely I was 
 not mistaken — those soft, slumberous eyes 
 were watching Dora? 
 
 Had Lady Letty — so still — so silent — 
 had Lady Letty, with her little caution and 
 her great heart — had she divined more of 
 the cause of Dora's weariness, of Dora's 
 secret trouble, than any of us — the Colonel 
 excepted? 
 
 She had. Yet she had not arrived exactly 
 at the Colonel's conclusion, for all that. 
 
14 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 Lady Letty, it is true, suspected that there 
 must be some secret attachment on Dora's 
 part. The Colonel alone divined who was 
 the forsaking lover. 
 
15 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 A DOUBLE WEDDING. 
 
 Fair lovers, you are fortunately met : 
 Of this discourse we more will hear anon. — 
 Egeus, I will overbear your will ; 
 For in the temple by-and-by with us 
 These couples shall eternally be knit. 
 * * * * % 
 
 Merry and tragical ? Tedious and brief ? 
 That is hot ice, and wonderous strange snow. 
 How shall we find the concord to this discord ? 
 
 Midsummer NigMs Dream. 
 
 The day whicli was to bring back the bride- 
 groom elect, rose fair, calm, and frosty. 
 Snow had fallen in the night, and the 
 ground was covered pretty thickly. But 
 that was not weather to keep any one shut 
 within the house at Fairfield. We all lived 
 healthful country lives ; and it must have 
 been a storm indeed that would have kept 
 us prisoners at home. 
 
 Vincent was not expected to arrive until 
 late in the day. The Colonel had taken 
 
16 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 horse for the West-moor downs. Lady 
 Letty was going, if not akeady gone, we 
 were told, for a drive with Dora. Lawrence 
 had just looked in, as was his daily custom, 
 and had taken his departure. I sought 
 Lilian, to propose a walk with her. 
 
 I found her poring over Yincenf s letters, 
 which he had hailed upon her thick and fast 
 during his fortnight's absence. She looked 
 thoughtful, and I fancied very strangely 
 perplexed. On the dressing-table before 
 her lay a book, which Lawrence Percy had 
 just brought her. 
 
 It had not been my intention to question 
 Lilian. But Vincent's name was on her 
 lips, and the constrained tone in which she 
 spoke of his expected return that day, 
 moved me with the old trouble and misgiv- 
 ing I had felt about her. 
 
 I drew her to my breast. 
 
 'Can it be, darling,' I said, 'that you 
 have really accepted him?' 
 
 Her eyes wandered about the room with 
 a vacant, wistful expression, before she an- 
 swered me. 
 
 ' He says so.' 
 
 ' Says so! — Lilian ! my child, do you love 
 him?' 
 
A DOUBLE WEDDING. 17 
 
 ' Oh ! Grace, I was so grateful for such 
 a deep — such a fervent affection! I felt 
 that I could give my whole soul to one who 
 loved me truly — as I do think he loves me. 
 And yet — and yet — why cannot I answer 
 him as he craves to be answered?' 
 
 'Does he press forward this marriage?' 
 
 ' He does. He is daily expecting his 
 regiment to be ordered abroad, he says; 
 and he cannot — will not believe that I will 
 permit him to go into exile alone, after 
 what he calls my acceptance of his hand. 
 You see, Grace, how mean and selfish my 
 persistent refusal would seem, since this is 
 so, and if I have indeed misled him. I do 
 like him very much ; yet indeed — indeed I 
 never, never meant ' 
 
 ' Lilian,' I cried, ' there is something not 
 right in all this. If you have not the cou- 
 rage to dismiss this man, who is taking an 
 undue advantage of your tender heart and 
 sensitive conscience, leave this matter to 
 me : / will answer him.' 
 
 To all appearance Lilian was grateful for 
 the reprieve,, and in some sort relieved in 
 mind. 
 
 No more was said at the moment. It 
 seemed tacitly agreed between us that we 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
18 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 were to discuss the matter during our walk. 
 So Lilian and I put on our snow-boots, and 
 set out together, taking our way through 
 the shrubberies, and down towards the 
 copse walk, past the summer-house, one face 
 of which was towards the Eden river, and 
 which the Colonel had christened 'Grace 
 Harcourt's Hermitage.' 
 
 Lilian and I, both occupied with our 
 thoughts, and neither of us feeling it very- 
 easy to get afloat again upon the perplexing 
 subject upon which I had somewhat unex- 
 pectedly launched, were more than usually 
 silent; and silent, too, were our footsteps 
 on the snow. 
 
 Without a word we pursued our walk. 
 We approached the hermitage, and passed it. 
 
 Many steps, however, we had not passed 
 it, when a voice from the hermitage at- 
 tracted the attention of us both. The voice 
 was that of Dora. The words that reached 
 us were few, faltering, and broken by sobs. 
 
 ' How often — oh ! how often did you 
 vow that I — I only, was your wife before 
 heaven ! ' 
 
 Startled as we were, so much startled as 
 to have made a moment's instinctive halt, 
 the next instant found us hurrying on to 
 
A DOUBLE WEDDING. 19 
 
 avoid the odious consciousness of eaves- 
 dropping. But, nimble as we were, before 
 our hasty steps could bear us out of hearing, 
 another voice reached us, in answer to the 
 last. This time the voice was a man's. 
 
 ' You are — before heaven you are ! — 
 sweetest, dearest Dora ! "When I lose you 
 I have done with happiness — done with 
 life. But what can I do?' 
 
 Then in the distance died the words — 
 * My mother and sisters — my honour — debts 
 — ruin — suicide. ' 
 
 Whose was the voice? Had we either 
 of us a doubt? No. Thg,t voice was the 
 voice of Vincent Elphinstone. 
 
 As we reached the house — having taken 
 a long round to arrive at it by another 
 path, so as to avoid repassing the hermi- 
 tage — Lilian and I, exchanging not one 
 word, and but one glance, separated, each 
 to pass to her own chamber. I need hardly 
 say that all my previous resolves fell to the 
 ground with the snow I shook off from my 
 boots ; that I gave up as needless all further 
 thought of my intended early interview 
 with this faithless, heartless, this — this — 
 heaven pardon me ! how at that moment I 
 hated the man ! Lilian's fortune, then, it 
 
 c2 
 
20 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 was at which he had made such a bold 
 grasp ! 
 
 After this startling revelation that our 
 dashing wooer was already secretly pledged 
 to another, heart and soul — for there was 
 no mistaking that earnest, piteous cry of 
 love from his lips — poor, poor Dora! — I 
 was both curious and anxious to note how 
 Lilian and he would meet, nothing doubt- 
 ing, however, but that now, her courage was 
 equal to any extremity. So, believing all 
 to be quite safe, and that Lilian, under the 
 new light which had so suddenly burst upon 
 her, would herself dismiss this too urgent 
 wooer at the very first favourable opportu- 
 nity, I resisted the impulse to go straight 
 to the Colonel with my budget of gossip. 
 
 Hastening down to the dining-room, 
 therefore, where luncheon was laid, some- 
 what flurried, for me, I found the room 
 unoccupied save by Lilian and — of all 
 people in the world — Lawrence Percy ! 
 
 Now, when Lawrence had parted with 
 us just before our walk, we had both under- 
 stood that we should not see him again for 
 a day or two. Yet here were he and 
 Lilian in close and, as it seemed to me, 
 confidential talk ! 
 
A DOUBLE WEDDING. 21 
 
 Whether caused by my sudden entrance 
 or not, I of course could not say, but cer- 
 tain it is that that face of Lawrence Percy's 
 wore a distressed, anxious expression, totally 
 different from its ordinary calm, resolute, 
 steadfast look. An open letter was in his 
 hand. 
 
 The first words he spoke were odd enough. 
 
 ' Miss Harcourt, can you procure me ^\(d 
 minutes' conversation with Lady Laetitia?' 
 
 Of course I said I would see. I left the 
 room for that purpose. The permission 
 was at once given, and our grave young 
 friend Lawrence was shown into her lady- 
 ship's sanctum, where she always took 
 luncheon alone. 
 
 Before I could address three words to 
 Lilian, in stalked Vincent. A deep flush — 
 very natural in his eyes, and not much 
 of a wonder in mine — rose to Lilian's 
 cheek, as he took her hand and whispered 
 some fitting words. Vincent was soon 
 followed by the Colonel. Dora did not 
 appear. Lawrence, on closing his mys- 
 terious interview with Lady Letty, left the 
 house. 
 
 Luncheon was scarcely over when a mes- 
 sage came to the Colonel to the effect that 
 
22 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 Lady Lastitia ' would be glad if lie and Miss 
 Elphinstone would accompany lier and Dora 
 to the Rectory.' 
 
 The Colonel answered for Lilian and 
 himself. In my dread of being left face to 
 face with Vincent, with all the roused 
 womanhood in my heart bubbling up to my 
 lips, I beat a hasty retreat to my own room. 
 
 Looking from the window I saw Vincent 
 put Lilian into the carriage ; and saw him, 
 too, as it drove down the avenue of limes, 
 suddenly put his hand before his eyes, as 
 if something had stung him. Was it 
 conscience ? 
 
 Now what were we all about? Here 
 surely was a strange complexity of circum- 
 stances. Everybody appeared to be plotting 
 against everybody else. First I had plotted 
 to take to task this arch- deceiver, from 
 whose very face I was now fleeing like a 
 raw recruit at the first shot fired. Then 
 came Dora and he holding secret conference 
 under my own tents — in my own very 
 stronghold, ' Grace Harcourt's Hermi- 
 tage.' Next Lilian is holding a council 
 of war — or love ? — mth Lawrence, Dora's 
 reputed lover. Then again Lawrence is 
 closely closeted with dear innocent Lady 
 
A DOUBLE WEDDING. 23 
 
 Letty ! It was a very strange drama al- 
 together. Every one seemed to have 
 business behind the scenes — save only the 
 Colonel and I. 
 
 Had we, too, a little plot of our own? 
 Perhaps. Yet, if we had, it was a very 
 transparent one, and conducted wholly be- 
 fore the footlights. 
 
 Surely they were not going to draw him 
 into the whirl of this new scene of enchant- 
 ment ? I felt fairly frightened — aghast, as 
 the suggestion occurred to me, in spite of 
 the instinct that had almost led m.e straight 
 with my burden of trouble to him. ' They 
 had better consider,' I thought, ' how they 
 make him of their counsel. He is a terrible 
 martinet. There would be short shrift for 
 any culprit whom he had judged and con- 
 demned : he who had actually been heard 
 openly to avow his desire to adopt the good 
 old plan, and to hang up " to the first tree" 
 the malefactor, let him be prince or peasant, 
 who shirked his duty to God or man ! ' 
 
 As for this comfortable family drive to 
 the Eectory, if I had previously entertained 
 any doubts as to its being got up with some 
 especial object, I certainly dismissed those 
 doubts on the return of the party — without 
 
24. SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 Dora ! Her visit, then, was summarily cut 
 short, and she was left behind at the Parson- 
 age. This, of course, was but the premoni- 
 tory symptom heralding the general crash. 
 
 Strangely as the game had opened, the 
 next move on the board was more singular 
 still. 
 
 I was summoned by the Colonel into the 
 library. With him there I found Vincent 
 and — Lilian ! 
 
 The Colonel at once opened the campaign. 
 It was formally announced to me that Yin- 
 cent's regiment having been ordered abroad 
 forthwith, his marriage was to take place 
 at once. All needful home preparations 
 were left to my discretion. Lilian's fortune 
 had long ago been settled upon her for her 
 own especial use ; so that there was no need 
 of any law-meddling in the matter. The 
 rest was simple. Lilian would be married 
 by special license. That license, the Colonel 
 would himself procure. And there was an 
 end of the affair. 
 
 Porcupines' quills would fail in the 
 attempt to write down the sensations that 
 were bristling all over me ! But no one 
 noticed the extraordinary effect produced 
 by that communication. My open-eyed 
 
A DOUBLE WEDDING. 25 
 
 amazement, if indeed it betrayed itself 
 outwardly, passed probably for a natural 
 result of the suddenness of the announce- 
 ment. My failure to offer the stereotyped 
 compliments and congratulations customary 
 on such occasions — in short, my utter and 
 lamentable break-down was attributed 
 very likely to my sorrow at the anticipated 
 parting with Lilian. And so, the interview 
 ending somewhat abruptly on all sides, I 
 dismissed myself to my chamber, really and 
 truly scarcely knowing whether I stood on 
 my head or my heels. 
 
 After that scene in the library, I gave 
 myself up to the course of events like some 
 luxurious sultan afloat on the Bosphorus, 
 sailing at ease in his caique, and leaving all 
 matters mundane to be smoothed by the 
 fates at their own grand will and pleasure. 
 
 One effort, however, I made before I 
 finally yielded to the force of circumstances. 
 Once, I tried to open the subject with the 
 Colonel. But the Colonel was enigmatical. 
 He positively checked me, — Me ! 
 
 From Lilian I learned nothing. From 
 the morning when I saw her in the library, 
 to the morning of her bridals, she carefully 
 avoided being alone with me for a moment. 
 
26 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 Indeed she kept constantly close to her 
 father's side, much to the discomfiture of 
 her lover. When we did meet, quivering 
 half-frightened smiles, quick blushes chasing 
 each other over cheek and brow, shakes of 
 the head, and fingers on the lip — by such 
 signs and tokens I recognised, not my 
 Lilian, but a Sphinx ! 
 
 The wedding day came. The ceremony 
 had been arranged to take place in the 
 quietest and most private manner possible. 
 Dr. Percy was to officiate. Lawrence 
 Percy was groomsman. As for the brides- 
 maids, why, I was one, and — astounding to 
 relate — the other was — Dora ! Not a soul 
 was invited. The Colonel would give the 
 bride away. Lady Letty of course was 
 present. Dear old duenna ! she refused to 
 stand at the altar, because, as she said, the 
 marriage was not altogether of her bringing 
 about; so she gave a half-consent, and sat 
 in a pew on one side. 
 
 Lilian looked lovely — radiant; Dora, 
 down-cast. Arrived at the altar, by some 
 strange mischance everybody took their 
 places wrong. Vincent was so disturbed as 
 to visibly tremble. Even Lawrence was 
 scarcely so self-possessed as a groomsman 
 
A DOUBLE WEDDING. 27 
 
 should be, but stood quite apart with Lilian, 
 while Dora got shuffled next to Vincent. 
 In short, it is impossible to describe the 
 confusion and disorder of the whole scene. 
 
 Meanwhile, the ceremony proceeded. The 
 sonorous voice of Dr. Percy was giving 
 slow and solemn utterance to those awful 
 words which set the life-seal to love, or 
 brand the curse of a living death on the 
 unloving. It was not till he had spoken 
 the well-known words, ' Wilt thou have this 
 woman to thy wedded wife?' that Vincent 
 became aware that the ' woman ' indicated 
 was, not Lilian, but Dora. 
 
 Vincent started — seemed about to speak 
 — hesitated — made no answer. 
 
 More strongly — almost sternly, and in a 
 louder key, the same reverend voice made 
 the same demand. 
 
 Dora sobbed audibly. Vincent grew red 
 to the roots of his hair. 
 
 ' There is — there is some mistake,' he 
 began. But looking around him in his be- 
 wilderment, he saw the Colonel standing- 
 rigid as a rock, looking straight before him 
 as if he were on drill; Lady Letty motion- 
 less as a statue, dignified and placidly smil- 
 ing in her little side-pew ; while Lawrence 
 
28 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 drew the arm of Lilian within his own, and 
 moved still further apart, as if he too were 
 fearful lest there should be 'a mistake;' 
 leaving those two, Yincent and 'Dora, 
 standing alone together in front of the 
 altar. 
 
 At last Vincent began to see it all. He 
 covered his face with his two hands, and 
 shook visibly. 
 
 But, moved as he was, startled and be- 
 wildered at the turn which aifairs had taken, 
 the man's spirit within him would doubtless 
 have rebelled against the coercion put upon 
 him. Before, however, he could sufficiently 
 collect himself, a slight cough proceeding 
 from Lady Letty's little side-pew — a sort of 
 significant and determined cough — added 
 to his perplexity and dismay. She, the 
 rich aunt in whom all his future prospects 
 centred, she too appeared to be as resolved 
 and unyielding as the Colonel. 
 
 Lawrence was the first to break silence. 
 
 ' This is a solemn hour, Vincent,' he said. 
 ' I beg that you will allow the ceremony to 
 proceed. When the church has made you 
 one with your true wife, Dora, who is al- 
 ready your wife before heaven^ I have also 
 to ask its blessing upon my vows to Lilian.' 
 
A DOUBLE WEDDING. 29 
 
 Vincent uncovered his face. With head 
 bowed down on his breast, he took silently, 
 but very tenderly, the hand of Dora. The 
 responses were made — made with faltering 
 lips, on which the loyal words died faint and 
 low, broken by sobs. 
 
 Next followed the vows of Lawrence and 
 Lilian. Clear and earnest, through all the 
 emotions of the hour, through all the tears 
 flowing for Dora, came Lilian's words. 
 
 All was soon over. But how we all G:ot 
 back to the house I hardly know. 
 
 It was well that we had carried out an 
 arrangement suggested by the Colonel ; 
 which vras, to take an early morning meal 
 before proceeding to church. Only fancy 
 else what sort of a wedding breakfast we 
 should have had ! 
 
 The ceremony over, therefore, the usual 
 leave- 1 akin Of s had now alone to be o-one 
 through as best they might. 
 
 During the fev/ moments which preceded 
 the departure of Dora, while we were yet 
 all assembled together, we were naturally 
 somewhat subdued and grave. Yet, strange 
 to say, that part of the aiFair went oiF bet- 
 ter and altogether more in keeping with the 
 serious business of life — of which wedlock 
 
30 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 surely is, or should be, the most serious — 
 than many a leave-taking after a marriage 
 ordered with more exact attention to the 
 conventions. 
 
 A calm stole over us. From Vincent's 
 face something of the crushing sense of 
 shame was lifted off. Lawrence, with kindly 
 tact, turned our thoughts to the absent ; 
 and, in speaking of Dora's distant brother, 
 now on his voyage home to England, at 
 once delicately and indirectly indicated the 
 part he had himself acted as the substitute 
 for her nearest natural guardian. Every- 
 body else got on pretty well, all things con- 
 sidered. Still, I must own it was a relief 
 when the parting was over, and Dora and 
 her husband rose to take their leave. 
 
 Dora embraced me shyly. As I kissed 
 and blessed her warmly, I heard Lawrence's 
 voice as he took Vincent aside. 
 
 ' We are friends, Vincent?' 
 
 ' God bless you, Lawrence ! For myself 
 all is well. But Dora — Dora: I am not 
 worthy of her ! You know not what you 
 have done.' 
 
 While they were yet speaking, broke in 
 the slow voice of Lady Letty from the cor- 
 ner where she had ensconced herself. 
 
A DOUBLE WEDDING. 31 
 
 ' Vincent, you are surely not going to 
 pass me over in your farewells. Here — a 
 little nearer;' and whispering in his ear, 
 she laid a packet in his hand, adding, 'Dora 
 is portionless, you know. Her dower is 
 my business. Give her this, with my love, 
 when you two foolish people are far enough 
 away. There ; no thanks ! ' 
 So they were gone. 
 
 Up -stairs, there was another little collo- 
 quy between Lilian and me, as I helped her 
 to array herself for her journey. 
 
 * Lilian, dear, it is all right now?' I said. 
 ' There is no mistake here ? You love 
 Lawrence dearly?' 
 
 ' He says so,' she replied archly, with a 
 full smile and half a tear. 
 
 'Then why — ah! why, darling ' 
 
 ' Oh, do not let me think how weak I 
 was 1 * she replied. ' I did not know — 
 Lawrence had not spoken — I would not 
 admit to myself even that I loved him, 
 that I had loved him all my life, ever since 
 I can remember anything. Then you know 
 I never did accept Vincent.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I see it all now ; how bat-blind I 
 must have been! But now about Dora. 
 How could Lawrence, acting for her brother, 
 
32 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 dare to venture all her future lia23piness as 
 he has done — risk it on a marriage with 
 Vincent, after all his duplicity ! ' 
 
 'Lawrence was right,' Lilian persisted. 
 * Besides, my father — you know his acute 
 sense of honour — my father was deter- 
 mined that Vincent should be made to keep 
 his pledged word, given to Dora, since want 
 of money was the only obstacle in the way. 
 And we may rest quite sure that my father 
 will assist and support Vincent's mother 
 and sisters too. But now about Lawrence. 
 You remember when you found us to- 
 gether in the dining-room, Lawrence had 
 a letter in his hand. That letter he had 
 just received from Dora's brother, Eobert 
 Flemming. See, here it is in my old desk ; 
 he gave it me to keep for him. Read it 
 — quick, Grace, while I get ready. You 
 will see that Lawrence has done all for the 
 best.' 
 
 I took the letter, and read. The closing 
 passage ran thus : — ***** =^ * 
 'Be watchful, Lawrence, over my darling 
 sister, my own only Dora. If ever I should 
 know that any villain had tampered with 
 her pure affections, there will be some bitter 
 blood shed when I 'return to England. 
 
A DOUBLE WEDDING. 66 
 
 Guard her, Lawrence, as you love me — 
 Yours, Robert Flemming. 
 
 'P.S. — Is Yincent Elphinstone hanging 
 about her still? He is a good fellow — 
 first-rate ; a good son and a good brother ; 
 but too easily led by others. I fear he has 
 got amongst a bad set. If I thought that 
 she loved him, and that her love would 
 steady him — but I write in the dark, so far 
 away.' 
 
 ' Why, what a fire-eating brother this is ! 
 I cried. ' Well, well, I dare say Lawrence 
 is right. And so you. all plotted and all 
 deceived me. I, whose genius was equal to 
 the carrying out of the whole work, was 
 the only soul left out in the matter ! I took 
 it quietly, dear, for I knew there must be 
 some cogent reason for keeping me in the 
 dark. But now, tell me why I was hood- 
 winked; a woman will be curious, you 
 know.' 
 
 ' There is very little to tell. When Law- 
 rence — dear, (i^ar Lawrence ! — had spoken 
 to me of his love, at last, of course he told 
 me all he suspected, and I told him all I 
 had overheard — about Dora and Vincent, 
 you know. Lawrence went straight to Lady 
 Letty.' 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 ' Lady Letty ! of all people in the world !' 
 I said. 
 
 ' Yes, quiet as she seems, it was partly 
 her doing after that. She told my father 
 all. But I really must go ; I must tell you 
 what happened at the Rectory when I come 
 back.' 
 
 ' But why was I put in the corner?' I per- 
 sisted. 
 
 ' Oh, the fact was, dear Grace, my father 
 thought you might object; thought you 
 were too straightforv/ard to enter into his 
 little game of military tactics, and ' 
 
 ' The Colonel ! — a pretty stiff, starched, 
 grim old maid he must think me ! I am 
 really very much obliged to him.' 
 
 ' Stay — there was another reason, but 
 really I am so bewildered. My father said 
 that there would be such an alarming 
 amount of gossip going abroad when the 
 affair got wind, and all sorts of unpleasant 
 things talked about it, that he would not 
 have your name in any way mixed up with 
 the match-making ; you should, he in- 
 sisted, be able to say with truth that you 
 had had no hand in it.' 
 
 'God bless him!' 
 
 ' Ah ! Grace, we all know how it is. I 
 
A DOUBLE WEDDING. 35 
 
 suppose when I come back I must leave off 
 calling you " Grace," and say " mamma." ' 
 
 ' Why, you see, dear, what am I to do ? 
 There is Lady Letty quite tired of playing 
 duenna, and all at once becoming home-sick ; 
 as if that empty old house of hers could 
 compare with dear, happy Fairfield ! And 
 then the Colonel is so determined ! ' 
 
 And determined he was. Besides, it 
 really was incumbent on him to give the 
 neighbours a little matrimonial treat, to 
 make amends for the summary way in 
 which Lilian and Dora had been ' turned 
 off.' 
 
 1) 2 
 
36 SNOODED JESS ALINE 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A BRIDE ELECT. 
 
 lie was as far 'bove common men 
 As a sun-steed, wild-eyed and meteor-maned^ 
 Neighing the reeling stars^ is above a hack 
 With sluggish veins of mud. * * * * 
 * * * * I dwelt with him for years ; 
 I was to him but Labrador to Ind ; 
 His pearls were plentier than my pebble-stones. 
 He was the sun, I was "^ * the earth, 
 And basked me in his light until he drew 
 Flowers from my barren sides. 
 
 Alex AN DEE Smith. 
 
 We were all out on the gravel, of course, to 
 see them oiF. 
 
 Lawrence was to end his wedding tour 
 by a visit to his uncle in the Highlands; 
 proud and happy enough, as well he might 
 be, to present his winsome bride to the fond 
 and doting old man who was to make him 
 his heir. They would be absent for some 
 time. As for Dora and Vincent, after a 
 short run over the Isle of Wight, they would 
 embark for India, and our chances of meet- 
 
A BRIDE ELECT. 37 
 
 ing them again were among the more 
 doubtful of our life-problems. 
 
 As the newly- wedded couple drove off, 
 Lady Letty and Dr. Percy turned towards 
 the house. But the Colonel lingered on 
 the threshold. Just as I was about to 
 follow them, he turned his head towards the 
 hall which I was crossing. 
 
 'Where are you going?' he said. 
 
 ' I am going to look after Lady Letty.' 
 
 ' Your place is here.' 
 
 ' Oh J very well,' I said, as I stole quietly 
 to his side. 
 
 He did not seem, however, to have any- 
 thing to say. I did not speak, because I 
 felt that in his place I should have liked to be 
 alone with silence and my own heart; and, 
 besides, I may as well confess that I was 
 myself a little choky in the throat because 
 of my parting with Lilian. 
 
 When he did speak, I felt glad that I had 
 stayed ; it seemed a relief to him to have 
 me near him. 
 
 ' I was thinking of poor May,' he said. 
 
 ' So was I.' 
 
 ' She would have liked to see this day.' 
 
 ' She does see it.' 
 
 Heaven pardon me if I was presumptuous ; 
 
38 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 but one can only speak according to one's 
 convictions. 
 
 ' She sees Lilian and she sees you,' I said. 
 
 ' And you,' said the Colonel. 
 
 ' Yes, and me. And she has no tears, 
 as we have.' 
 
 ' Grace Harcourt, I have failed in my 
 duty,' he said. 
 
 ' You ! ' 
 
 ' Well, well ; there are some things you 
 never can be made to understand.' 
 
 ' That is one.' 
 
 ' It was very hurried at the last.' 
 
 ' There was nothing to wait for,' I said. 
 
 ' That is true. Lilian had loved Lawrence 
 from a child. She had sat on his father's 
 knee when first the boy kissed her and 
 called her his little wife. I ought to have 
 foreseen the issue long ago. I ought to 
 have seen how it was between them now.' 
 
 ' I should be sorry if you had, or I either.' 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 ' If their affection had been less frank, less 
 entirely what it was, an affection as simple 
 and true as the soul of wedded life, we should 
 all have seen it long ago.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so. You never suspected ' 
 
 ' Dora? You mean Dora's love for Yin- 
 
A BRIDE ELECT. 39 
 
 cent? No. Lady Letty was sure there 
 must be some attachment when she saw 
 Dora droop so; but she never thought of 
 Vincent — nor did L' 
 
 He turned the subject. 
 
 ' Grace Harcourt, how are we to get 
 through this day ? ' 
 
 ' By not trying to get through it,' I said. 
 ' The day is a good day and a happy day, 
 on the whole. Let us be thankful for it.' 
 
 ' Thankful ! — Oh, my God, I am thankful !' 
 he said. 
 
 There was so much earnestness in his 
 manner that I saw at once how great was 
 the relief he felt at Lilian's escape from an 
 union with a man like Vincent Elphinstone, 
 who was capable of acting so dishonourable 
 a part towards a girl who had confided in 
 him and loved him as Dora had. 
 
 As his heart seemed too full to speak 
 further, I came to his relief. 
 
 ' I have told Dr. Percy he must not think 
 of leaving us to-day,' I said. 
 
 ' Of course Percy will stop.' 
 
 ' I hope so : he is one of us now. He said 
 at first that he feared he could not stay, as 
 he had some sick parishioners to attend to ; 
 but I ofi'ered to go in his place.' 
 
40 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 * I cannot spare you, Grace. He can go.' 
 said the Colonel. 
 
 ' I ought not to retract, ought I ? ' 
 
 * Well, no ; perhaps not. As you like,' 
 he said. 
 
 I was turning away to get my cloak and 
 bonnet with a few things needful for the 
 people in the village, when he again called 
 me back. 
 
 ' You were not annoyed — not aggrieved 
 at being kept in the dark in this matter, 
 were you ? ' 
 
 ' Not at all,' I said with truth. ' Besides, 
 Lilian put all that right.' 
 
 'Did she? Then you know all she 
 knows ? ' 
 
 ' I know very little ; but it is all I want 
 to know.' 
 
 ' What is that ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' That you kept the whole aifair a secret 
 until the last, and made others keep it, out 
 of a tender consideration for me.' 
 
 I looked up into his face with grateful 
 eyes as I said this. He raised his hand, 
 and laid it on my head. I took it for a 
 blessing. And I was blessed. 
 
 That evening, when Dr. Percy and the 
 Colonel were making the excuse of loitering 
 
A BRIDE ELECT. 41 
 
 over their wine to discuss the momentous 
 event of the morning, Lady Letty and I had 
 a quiet chat in the drawing-room. 
 
 ' Well, Miss Harcourt,' she said, with her 
 pleasant approving smile, ' when are we to 
 go through this same little drama on your 
 account ? ' 
 
 * Whenever the Colonel wishes,' I said. 
 
 ' I fancy, my dear,' she replied, ' he has 
 been wishing it a good deal longer than 
 you know. I am glad, Grace, you are not 
 going to make any fuss, and let the affair 
 drag on any longer.' 
 
 ' Why should I ? I have no other affec- 
 tions, no other duties.' 
 
 'Eight, my dear; you are honest and 
 true. God bless you both and make you 
 happy together.' 
 
 ' I have no misgivings about that ; at 
 least none on my own account. Lady Letty. 
 But ' 
 
 ' But what, my dear ? ' 
 
 ' Do you think I can keep him always 
 happy, Lady Letty ? ' 
 
 ' Why do you ask? ' she said. 
 
 ' Because I want to see my way well on 
 into the far years : it is so much easier to 
 win love, you know, than to keep it.* 
 
42 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 ' My dear, there is sometlimg on your 
 mind. What is it ? I know the Colonel is 
 a little peculiar.' 
 
 ' I think so — ^peculiarly good,' was my 
 answer. 
 
 ' Would you have him other than he is ? ' 
 
 ' Not by so much as the faintest shadow 
 of a thought.' 
 
 ' What is it, then, that troubles you ? ' 
 asked Lady Letty. 
 
 ' I will not say that I am not good enough 
 for him,' I replied, ' because that does not 
 matter. If I am not so now, it will be im- 
 possible to live with him without growing 
 more like him, and therefore better than I 
 am now. But he is a little — just a little — 
 reserved. Suppose I should not always 
 understand him? I have heard even you 
 say, dear Lady Letty, that I am a little 
 wild, a little heedless, when my happiness 
 runs away with me.' 
 
 ' Matrimony tames most women, child ; 
 perhaps it will tame you.' 
 
 ' I hope so, if he dislikes any ways I have. ' 
 
 ' You look dreadfully serious, child ; what 
 is in your head now? ' 
 
 ' I was thinking of a hawk my father 
 had. It was very fierce and wild when he 
 
A BRIDE ELECT. 43 
 
 caught it. It pecked at everybody, save 
 only my father. He was good to it, and it 
 loved him. It would take honey from his 
 lips, though it did not want it. Yet, do 
 you know, it flew off at last.' 
 
 ' He should have clipped its wings.' 
 
 ' Perhaps. But I felt glad my father 
 did not curb it.' 
 
 ' Well, you are not likely to peck at the 
 Colonel any more than the hawk did at your 
 father; though possibly,' the old lady added, 
 smiling, as she drew me to her breast like 
 a mother, ' you may " suck the honey of 
 his music voavs." ' 
 
 ' I do not want honey : I want love.' 
 
 * And pray, you little prude, what is your 
 definition of love?' 
 
 ' If it is not faith, I do not know what 
 it is.' 
 
 ' You seem to have faith in the Colonel, 
 at all events.' 
 
 ' Boundless faith ! ' 
 
 ' And that, by your own confession, is 
 boundless love.' 
 
 ' I admit it, fully.' 
 
 ' What is it you are afraid of, then ? ' 
 
 ' I scarcely know. Yet, what if in my 
 heedless wildness, my glad freedom of heart, 
 
44 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 I should ever fly against him, ever jar on 
 some of his finer and deeper feelings. Like 
 Lilian, he is very sensitive.' 
 
 ' I see you know his failings,' said Lady 
 Letty. ' So much the better, my sweet 
 girl; forewarned is forearmed, you know.' 
 
 ' His sense of honour is very keen. Lady 
 Letty.' 
 
 ^It is, Grace; almost morbid. The 
 opinions he holds on the subject are ex- 
 treme; so extreme, that even I, who con- 
 sider personal honour in a man to be as es- 
 sential as chastity in a woman, even T 
 cannot quite follow him in the extent to 
 which he would carry out his theories of 
 family honour.' 
 
 ' Yery few women, I should think. Lady 
 Letty, ever realise their first dream of what 
 a man should be. But my ideal never 
 reached a standard so high as the nobleness 
 I find in him.' 
 
 ' People will be sure to say that the Colonel 
 is a great deal too old for you, my dear.' 
 
 ' What has age to do with love. Lady 
 Letty ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing whatever, my dear, I think. 
 Besides, Colonel Elphinstone is only thirty- 
 six, I believe. He married May when he 
 
A BRIDE ELECT. 45 
 
 was quite a boy. He was only nineteen 
 when Lilian was born.' 
 
 ' And 1 am twenty-three. He looks as 
 young as I look ; and I feel as old as he 
 does.' 
 
 ' That is likely enough, my dear Grace. 
 A pure life has kept him young ; and early 
 sorrows have made you old before your time. 
 You will wear together wonderfully well. 
 Your husband will be growing young again 
 under the happiness you will bring him; 
 and your early sorrows will have done their 
 worst with you, so that you may very 
 fairly expect to get no older for some time 
 to come.' 
 
 ' We shall be very happy — I shall.' 
 
 ' I believe it, my dear. The Colonel tells 
 me just the same story. There, you see 
 what lovers are I ' 
 
 ' I like rather to think of him as my hus- 
 band than as my lover. When once I am 
 his wife I shall feel that I have a better 
 right to serve him, to watch, to wait upon 
 him, ill or well.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes,' said Lady Letty. ' I re- 
 member at the time he had that strano^e 
 illness, v/hen he said, though I did not be- 
 lieve a word of it, that an old wound of his 
 
46 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 had broken out again — I remember quite 
 well, Grace, how pained you were because 
 he shut us all out.' 
 
 'Yes, I was thinking of that. His 
 wound was in his mind, I saw. He must 
 have none in future — no wounds — none. 
 Lady Letty, that I cannot heal ! ' 
 
 ' How you warm to your work, my dear ! ' 
 
 ' Yet my father used to say I was cold.' 
 
 ' So is a volcanic mountain, Grace, with 
 its cap of snow, when the lava is not flowing. 
 You are at a white heat at this moment, 
 thinking of that old pain of his.' 
 
 ' How tender, how self-forgetful he was ! 
 How he shook ofi^ that strange trouble for 
 our sakes ! ' 
 
 ' He did so. Like the great captain he 
 served under, his watch- word seems to be 
 " Duty." ' 
 
 ' May I do mine by him ! ' I said. 
 
 ' You have only to try.' 
 
 ' I shall never try.' 
 
 ^No?' 
 
 ' It will come to me as the air I breathe.' 
 
 ' You must not begin by being afraid of 
 him. And, whatever you do, my dear, do 
 not stint your tenderness to him.' 
 
 'Ah! no.' 
 
A BRIDE ELECT. 47 
 
 ' That was May's error, I fancy. She was 
 dreadfully undemonstrative.' 
 
 'Was she? It never struck me so.' 
 
 ' Oh, he was very happy with her, you 
 know ; and she with him, no doubt. Yet I 
 sometimes fancied that he missed something. 
 God grant that you may supply the want, 
 whatever that might be. But really, my 
 dear, I find myself talking to you just like 
 some old married woman, God help me ! ' 
 
 ' You should have been a wife, dear Lady 
 Letty.' 
 
 ' I used to think so, my love. But He 
 knew better.' 
 
 ' You would have been a second Rachel 
 Russell.' 
 
 ' I am glad to see, Grace, that you have 
 set up a high enough standard for wives.' 
 
 'Yes; nothing higher, or sweeter, or 
 nobler ever took shape in this world, than 
 wifehood in the person of Rachel, Lady 
 Russell.' 
 
 ' I would say, " Go, thou, and do like- 
 wise," ' said Lady Letty; ' but it is not well, 
 my dear, to be looking out for great 
 and heroic occasions for the exercise of the 
 virtues. Be content, Grace, with the small, 
 quiet, every-day occasions of loving and for- 
 
48 SNOODED JESSALTNE. 
 
 bearing. I have no doubt Lady Rachel 
 Eussell was equally good and devoted every 
 day of her life as she was in that great trial 
 scene. Live her life, my dear; but do not 
 be always looking for your husband's head 
 upon the block.' 
 
49 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CLEMENT FAVREL. 
 
 'Tis he ; I ken tlie manner of his gait. 
 
 ***** 
 Manly as Hector, but more dangerous. 
 
 Troihis and Cressida. 
 
 So we were married. 
 
 Of all the discomfortable periods of a 
 woman's life, that which is derisively called 
 the ' honeymoon ' is the most discomfort- 
 able. At once and for ever all the sur- 
 roundings of her girlhood are put from her, 
 and the aspect of things, like an unaired 
 robe, strikes coldly against her heart. 
 There is no nook or corner where she seems 
 to have her fit abiding-place. The smooth- 
 ness of sweet custom has departed from her 
 path, and a rough road of jarring incon- 
 gruities is substituted for it. The loneliness 
 of her past life was never so irksome as this, 
 when now for the first time she feels the 
 true loneliness of never being alone. The 
 gracious days of untrammeled singleness 
 
 VOL. L E 
 
60 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 have departed for ever, yet the sanctity of 
 a true marriage has not yet dawned. And, 
 to make matters worse, as if it were not 
 enough to steep her to tlie lips in strange- 
 ness — strange duties, strange habits, strange 
 hopes and fears for a future yet hidden 
 away in darkness deeper than that of the 
 grave — it is her fate to be removed away 
 from every familiar scene as if she were 
 plague-spotted, or as if her own household 
 disowned her. She is hurried away like a 
 o-uiltv thino; and thrown amono; new forms 
 and new faces, and made to play a part at 
 which the heavens stare ; a maid in all her 
 old associations ; a wife according to law, 
 yet scarcely a wife; 'the name and not the 
 thino-.' She is a man's ' beautiful,' his 
 'angel ;' not the careful keeper of his peace, 
 the dear habitual companion whose daily 
 willing surrender of herself to all his whims, 
 wants, and wishes, converts her into that 
 holy thing before which the seraphs bow 
 their heads, knowing nothing fairer on 
 earth or purer in heaven. 
 
 I suppose our honeymoon passed like 
 most other people's honeymoons. It was a 
 real blessing when it was over, and when 
 we — poor exiles ! — were permitted by the 
 
CLEMENT FAVKEL. 51 
 
 inexorable laws of society to return to home- 
 life and home duties. 
 
 Fairfield Grange looked its best to wel- 
 come us. All the old family servants came 
 out to meet us, and to pay that warm 
 respect which is a humbler love, to the 
 friend they called 'master,' and to break into 
 open smiles of congratulation as they 
 greeted the new bride-mistress. 
 
 From that moment I began to feel some- 
 thing like myself again ; only a happier self 
 That home-coming seemed to change our 
 relative positions with regard to each other 
 at once, and to put us on the right footing 
 for life. The lover was lost, while the hus- 
 band was found ; and as I took my natural 
 place by the familiar hearth, I felt for the 
 first time that I had a right to my hus- 
 band's love. Till now, he had ministered 
 to me — a false position, and irksome to a 
 true and loving woman. Now, at last. 1 
 was his helpmate in a thousand pleasant 
 Yv^ays; his companion in paths all sweet 
 to wander in; his consort fairly before 
 the world; the cherished and devoted 
 friend and associate of his more private 
 hours. 
 
 The first who gave us welcome within 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY - 
 UNIVERSnV OF ILLINOIS 
 
52 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 the house '^vas Dr. Percy, who had walked 
 over from the Eectory for the purpose. It 
 had been arranged amongst us that Lilian 
 and Lawrence should reach Fairfield on the 
 same day as ourselves, and we were look- 
 in o- for their arrival when Lawrence's father 
 came in. His entrance was hailed by us 
 both with great glee. We not only loved 
 him, and welcomed him for his own sake, 
 but, though both the Colonel and I had 
 kept up a rattling fire of correspondence 
 with the young people, we were not a little 
 rejoiced at the idea of having a talk with 
 the good Doctor about our children. 
 
 ' A thousand welcomes, my dear Mrs. 
 Elphinstone,' he began. ' Colonel, your house 
 looks like itself again.' 
 
 ' Thanks from us both,' answered the 
 Colonel, as the hand-shaking went round 
 in a most demonstrative manner. ' Grace 
 is just in one of her wild moods, impatient 
 for Lilian and Lawrence, and ready to lay 
 siege to you for any stray scraps of news 
 you may have about them, of later date 
 than her own.' 
 
 ' I had a letter from Lawrence this 
 morning,' said the Doctor. ' They seem to 
 be enjoying the Highlands as only the 
 
CLEMENT FAVREL. 53 
 
 young-limbed and active can enjoy such 
 scenes. Here, Colonel, hand the letter over 
 to your wife; it will tell her all about 
 Lilian better than I can.' 
 
 'Thanks, dear Dr. Percy,' I said, as I 
 eagerly seized upon the letter, spreading it 
 out before my husband that he might share 
 the pleasant banquet with me. 
 
 Dr. Percy turned away to the window 
 that we might enjoy the treat in peace. 
 
 The letter was one full from Lawrence's 
 heart ; just such a letter as such a son might 
 be expected to write to such a father. 
 Lilian was of course the chief theme ; yet a 
 good proportion of space was filled with 
 descriptions of Highland scenery. Alto- 
 gether the tone was less fulsomely and 
 exuberantly lover-like than would have been 
 looked for, coming from so young a man. 
 There was that slight dash of seriousness 
 in it which showed that the youthful hus- 
 band was awake even thus early to a sense 
 of his new responsibilities, and which au- 
 gured well for the lasting happiness of our 
 Lilian. 
 
 I had finished reading the main part of 
 the letter, and was about to devour the 
 postscript, when the Colonel quietly, with- 
 
54 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 out a word, folded up the letter and restored 
 it to Dr. Percy. 
 
 Supposing this was done in one of those 
 absent fits to which he was sometimes given, 
 I rebelled. 
 
 ' Oh, wait a moment,' I exclaimed, ' I 
 have not read the postscript.' 
 
 ' There is nothing there of any conse- 
 quence/ he replied, 'nothing more about 
 Lilian.' 
 
 I thought his manner a little queer, but 
 said no more. 
 
 Now, the only words in the postscript 
 which had caught my eye were ^ Poor 
 Dora ! ' I recalled the fact of my having 
 been struck by a similar strangeness of 
 manner in the Colonel on the morning 
 of the double marriage, when he and I 
 had stood for a moment sharing toge- 
 ther the sadness that came of Lilian's 
 going. It was a little singular that he had 
 never yet told me the full particulars of that 
 sudden substitution of one bride for the 
 other at the very altar. I had questioned 
 him about it, very naturally; but I soon 
 saw that the subject was for some reason 
 distasteful to him, and dropped it at once. 
 Now here was this girl Dora's name coming 
 
CLEIVIENT FAVREL. 55 
 
 up again, and again there was the old re- 
 serve about her. 
 
 All this glanced through my mind for a 
 passing moment, and then other subjects 
 arose. Dr. Percy had much to tell us. 
 Even during the short time we had been 
 away, some few changes had taken place in 
 the neighbourhood. One or two of his old 
 parishioners had dropped out of their place 
 in church, and were now in the churchj^ard ; 
 one of these was old Staines, the blacksmith, 
 who was among the last I had visited be- 
 fore leaving Fairfield. A poor hard-work- 
 ing woman, too, the victim of a brutal hus- 
 band, had been found drowned in the river 
 with her last baby in her arms. Then the 
 Glebe House, a house on the estate so called 
 not far from the Rectory, had changed 
 hands; the last tenant having suddenly 
 quitted it on the report of its being haunted 
 — so went the village gossip — and a new 
 tenant having come into possession. 
 
 'I am so heartily tired of that story about 
 the haunted Glebe,' said my husband, Hhat 
 I have forbidden my steward to tell me 
 one word about the place or its tenants.^ 
 
 ' By the way,' said Dr. Percy, 'I hear from 
 Sheringham' (Mr. Sheringham was one of 
 
56 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 our county magistrates), Hliat the new- 
 comers — I forget their name — are associ- 
 ated in some way with the early life of 
 Lady Letty. I suppose you have heard 
 from your old friend, Mrs. Elphinstone ? ' 
 
 'Lady Letty? Oh, yes. She begged me 
 to say all sorts of kind things to you.' 
 
 ' That woman,' pursued the Doctor, ' is a 
 living model for all single women. I should 
 fancy it had never occurred to anybody to 
 suspect her of being what is called an " old 
 maid." She is one of the largest hearted 
 women I know; the most free from pre- 
 judices and littlenesses; happy in herself 
 and a thorough blessing to every one about 
 her.' 
 
 ' Well done, Percy ! ' said the Colonel. ' It 
 is quite refreshing to hear you so enthusi- 
 astic about her. Grace and I go quite the 
 length you do. AYe know no one like her.' 
 
 * She seemed at one time to have taken 
 up her abode here altogether,' said the 
 Doctor. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered my husband, • I do not 
 think she cared to return to Hollywood at 
 all. You guessed, of course, that her talk 
 of going was only a little ruse of hers to 
 bring matters to a climax ? ' 
 
CLEMENT FAVREL. 57 
 
 The good Doctor laughed. ' That was 
 the most transparent fiction/ he said — 'the 
 most decided piece of generalship — I ever 
 knew. But she need not have carried out 
 her threat. She gained her point in bring- 
 ing matters to a point, and the most rigid 
 moralist might have forgiven her for chang- 
 ing her mind, after she had effected her 
 purpose, and holding fast by Fairfield.' 
 
 Here I caught the sound of wheels ; and 
 all my wild, joyous spirits broke out in a 
 moment. Another instant, and I clasped 
 Lilian to my breast. I was first to meet 
 her, first to welcome her. After one aff*ec- 
 tionate embrace, I placed her in her father's 
 arms. Then came Lawrence, who touched 
 my cheek with his lips like a dear son. Dr. 
 Percy's welcome to his new daughter was 
 scarcely less warm than ours, and his eyes 
 glistened as he looked at Lawrence and 
 wrung his hand. 
 
 What an entirely happy group we were ! 
 There was no chill, no strangeness any- 
 where. All was perfect harmony. Perhaps 
 no meeting in all our lives was so fresh, so 
 sweet and satisfying as that. We all seemed 
 to fall into our natural places. Lilian had 
 her dear old playfellow by her side, bound 
 
58 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 to her now by a closer, holier bond ; and 
 his father, who had nursed her on his knee, 
 was the witness of their happiness. Then, 
 where the Colonel was, 1 was not far off, as 
 I never had been for nearly five years. 
 How different a day was this from that 
 other day I recalled so vividly, when an- 
 other group sat round the household fire 
 but a short time tigo ! 
 
 Still, not one word was said about Dora ! 
 After our travellers were sufficiently re- 
 freshed, we all started off in a body for a 
 ramble through the pleasure-grounds to 
 visit our old haunts. In one of these I 
 slipped into a charming little confidence by 
 overhearing a dialogue between Lilian and 
 Lawrence, with the entire concurrence of 
 the parties concerned. 
 
 The summer-house already mentioned as 
 being called ' Grace Harcourt's Hermitage,' 
 and which had now to be re- christened 
 ' Grace Elphin stone's,' was a roomy, double- 
 faced building, having two open sides, one 
 looking towards the river, the other opening 
 upon the copse walk, there being seats on 
 each side, with a wall between. It might 
 have been fittingly named 'the spy's retreat.' 
 
 After a good deal of rambling and loiter- 
 
CLEMENT FAVREL. 59 
 
 ing by the way, on our return towards the 
 house, our party somehow got separated. 
 The Colonel and I, with Dr. Percy, found 
 ourselves alone. We turned into the sum- 
 mer-house, entering by the river side, and 
 occupied what we called the 'river seat.' 
 Here, my husband and Dr. Percy fell into 
 one of those long masculine gossips about 
 county matters, magistrates' doings, farm- 
 ing expedients, and other such subjects. I 
 sat silently enjoying my happiness, brimful 
 of satisfaction, dro^vned in very pleasant- 
 ness, fairly basking in the richness of con- 
 tent. The gambols of a blue tomtit, that 
 was playing a sort of bo-peep game round 
 and round the boll of a tree twined with 
 a luxuriance of hop-bind, amused my eyes, 
 and the drone of a pollen-laden bee made 
 music in my ear. 
 
 To add to the sum of my enjoyment, I 
 heard Lilian and Lawrence approach the 
 hermitage on the reverse side, and take 
 cosy possession of the copse seat. Our 
 usual custom on such occasions was to 
 imitate the green woodpecker's tap on the 
 wall, to give notice that the ground was 
 already occupied, and the first-comers' ears 
 open. So I gave the signal; and soon 
 
60 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 came the answering taps, meaning 'AH 
 right : we know you are there, but we 
 don't care.' 
 
 Charmed by their happy talk, I still sat 
 silently lapsed in a tender reverie, when my 
 attention was distracted from thoughts of 
 my immediate surroundings, and directed 
 towards the opposite side of the river. 
 
 At some little distance oiF, pacing leisurely 
 along the bank, but partially screened from 
 view by a row of alders that fringed the 
 stream, a man of somewhat lofty stature 
 was occupied in trying to induce a young 
 dog to take to the water. The splashing 
 noise made by the stick thrown into the 
 river for the purpose, had first caused me 
 to look up. The stick was floating further 
 and further away, and still the dog held 
 back. Not to be baulked of his pastime, 
 however, the dog's master at length seized 
 upon the animal with an impatient gesture, 
 and, in spite of its yelping, threw it after 
 the stick far out upon the stream. But 
 either the dos: was unused to the s^ame and 
 frightened, or else he was too young and 
 feeble to contend with the force of the cur- 
 rent. The little creature made an instinc- 
 tive movement to part the water with his 
 
CLEMENT FAVREL. 61 
 
 fore-paws after the manner of his kind ; 
 but, in spite of his efforts, the current was 
 bearing him fast away. Seeing this, and 
 without taking the trouble even to rid him- 
 self of his coat previous to the plunge, into 
 the river headlong after the dog went the 
 man. 
 
 ^ A few moments served to bring them both 
 safe back to the bank. Arrived there, the 
 man threw down the dog somewhat roughly, 
 rolled him over to see that he was alive and 
 unhurt, and, finding all right, angrily shook 
 the recovered stick over him. The dog set 
 up a feeble whine, as if it were used to that 
 part of the game at all events, and, crawl- 
 ing in a crouching attitude nearer to his 
 master, began to lick his feet. 
 
 In an instant the man's purpose was 
 changed and his causeless anger disarmed. 
 He once more raised the dog in his arms ; 
 but this time, as it seemed, in some ruth. 
 He placed the small favourite, all dripping 
 as it was, within the breast of his coat, 
 and, buttoning it up there close and warm, 
 continued his walk along the Eden's bank, 
 and soon passed out of sight. 
 
 Of this exploit I had not been the sole 
 witness. Both Dr. Percy and my husband 
 
62 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 had brought their conversation to a stop, 
 and watched the whole proceeding. 
 
 ' If I am not greatly mistaken,' said Dr. 
 Percy, 'judging by his swinging gait, that 
 man is your new tenant of the Glebe 
 House, Elphinstone.' 
 
 ' A not too desirable neighbour, I should 
 fancy,' returned the Colonel. 
 
 ' One can scarcely tell yet. He has fallen 
 in my way once or twice since he first came 
 down here to treat for the tenancy of the 
 Glebe, and I must confess that I do not 
 quite know what to make of the man. He 
 appears to me, as far as I can yet see my 
 way towards forming an opinion about him, 
 to belong to a rather large class of men. 
 Most people have met with some one speci- 
 men if not more. I have heard the sort of 
 man somewhat loosely described as "no- 
 body's enemy but his own." ' 
 
 'Which means,' rejoined the Colonel, 
 " everybody's enemy in general, and his own 
 in particular." ' 
 
 ' Does he live quite alone at the Glebe?' 
 I asked. 
 
 ' At present he does. It appears that he 
 has a family somewhere — in London, I be- 
 lieve — but they have never yet accompanied 
 
CLEMENT FAVREL. 63 
 
 him in his flying visits down here. The 
 report is that they cannot live with him. 
 As for himself, he comes and goes like the 
 wind. He rarely stops at the Glebe for 
 more than a couple of days at a time, and 
 then his chief pursuit seems to be garden- 
 ing. As the parson of the parish, of course 
 I made a point of calling on him. I found 
 him, as usual, busily occupied in digging. 
 Seeing me coming up the garden walk, he 
 lifted himself from his stooping position in 
 a lofty, regal kind of way, but with one 
 foot still resting on the spade, after the 
 manner, I suppose, of the noted Roman — 
 and he certainly has a highly Eoman nose ! 
 — who was called from the plough to the 
 purple. Before greeting me he cleansed his 
 hands in a somewhat odd, gipsy sort of 
 fashion, upon the rough coat of an ill-look- 
 ing dog, that seemed to be watching his 
 proceedings with some interest. As he 
 told me that he had brought the dog with 
 him from the New World, I suppose he had 
 been in the habit of making that primitive 
 kind of toilette while in the bush. After 
 all, the action became the man more than 
 anything else he did. It was at least natu- 
 ral — soap and water not happening to be 
 
64 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 at hand. His manner during the rest of 
 my visit struck me as rather stagy, and as 
 if he were acting a part that did not quite 
 suit him. He was, besides, most intolerably 
 and unwarrantably inquisitive.' 
 
 ' Has he gentle blood in his veins, think 
 you?' questioned my husband. 
 
 ' I should say so, decidedly ; and a little 
 too strong in the current, too. He has eyes 
 with a wild, strange power in them, and a 
 repressed something about his manner, as 
 if his real nature were not allowed to show 
 itself to common eyes. I should say he was 
 a man whom those belonging to him must 
 either fear greatly or love greatly.' 
 
 'What is his name?' I asked; for I was 
 becoming curiously interested about our 
 new neighbour. 
 
 ' Oddly enough,' said Dr. Percy, ' his is 
 a name that always escapes my memory. 
 Let me see. Far — no; Fal — that's not it; 
 Fav — Favrel — there, I have it at last! 
 Favrel; yes, that is his name, Favrel — 
 Clement Favrel. 
 
65 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 A SMALL LINK. 
 
 For several virtues 
 Have I liked several women ; never any 
 With so full soul, but some defect in her 
 Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow*d, 
 And put it to the foil : but you, you 
 So perfect^ and so peerless, are created 
 Of every creature's best. Tempest. 
 
 Late that evening Lilian and Lawrence 
 went home with Dr. Percy to the Rectory, 
 where they were to keep house for the 
 present. We should, of course, have liked 
 to retain the young people with us ; but it 
 would have been very selfish. Dr. Percy 
 had lost his wife years ago, and his home 
 was more lonely than ours. So we parted 
 with Lilian mth a good grace. She would 
 only be a fair half-mile distant ; so that our 
 self-denial did not rank us among the mar- 
 tyrs, and we put on no sackcloth. 
 
 When they were all gone, Ralph and I 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
6Q SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 lingered yet a little longer out of doors. 
 The moon was up, and we really could not 
 tear ourselves away from the pleasant 
 reveries that stole over us as we looked 
 round upon the woods, moors, and glens 
 that stretched purpling far beyond the 
 home-nook of happy Fairfield. We had 
 often and often looked on the same scene 
 before, standing side by side, just so; we 
 had looked on it, but never with the eyes 
 of to-night. 
 
 Seeing that I was a little tired, Ralph 
 drew me to a seat under the old mulberry- 
 tree on the lawn. The rest restored me ; 
 and my joyous spirits, damped for a moment 
 by fatigue, rose again. 
 
 After a good deal of talk about Lilian, 
 he told me that nothing was more sweet to 
 him than my warm love for his child. j\Iy 
 Ralph looked very happy. He said my 
 gladness of heart refreshed him like a 
 breeze. He never had seen me yield my- 
 self to it so freely before. 
 
 • I thought I knew Grace Harcourt pretty 
 well/ he said, ' but you — you are no more 
 like Grace Harcourt than you are like Pope 
 Joan ! You are a perfect Proteus in petti- 
 coats.^ 
 
A SMALL LINK. 67 
 
 'Do you think me so changeful?' I said. 
 
 ' You vary your colour quicker than the 
 down on a dove's breast. One never knows 
 what transformation is to come next. One 
 moment you are a woman; the next, a 
 child. Here have you been as demure as a 
 mouse for sundry unforgotten weeks past; 
 and the instant you set foot on Fairfield 
 Grange, there is no holding you ! ' 
 
 ' The air of the place is very trying to 
 my constitution,' I said. 
 
 'You mischief! Can you look in my 
 face with that roguish smile, and say you 
 do not love me ? ' 
 
 ' Shall I look another way, and say 
 I do?' 
 
 ' When do you mean to sober down again ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, give me a few months' grace. I will 
 begin to think about it when — when the sky- 
 lark has hatched her second brood, and the 
 cuckoo is gone to Malta ! ' 
 
 ' How shall I name you ? Woman never 
 matched you ; man never had a vision like 
 to you. Yes, Shakespeare had a dream of 
 you once. But he found that the perfect 
 whole in his imagination was too exquisite 
 for poor mortal man to realise in his wild- 
 est waking state. So he cut you up into 
 
 P 2 
 
68 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 snips — gave us a Beatrice here, and an 
 Imogen there ; threw your childlike simple- 
 ness into sweet Perdita, and divided the 
 soul of your eyes between the two Portias. 
 Your chaste lips he gave to liermione, and 
 immortalised them for ever in the breath- 
 ing stone. Juliet has little of you: in 
 Cleopatra he clean forgot you. When I 
 tell you you are fair — and you are fair— I 
 see Miranda's wonder in your face.' 
 * I am glad you think me fair.' 
 ' Fair cannot speak you. The artist who 
 should attempt to transfer your face to his 
 canvas would make a sad blunder. Who 
 can paint a soul? Well, well, you may 
 reprove me with your eyes if you wdll. I 
 dare say I am a fool. A man must be a 
 fool once in his life. Yet, the love of such 
 a woman as you are, Grace, once won, is a 
 man's best heaven — all he can know of it 
 till you guide him to a higher : the loss of 
 such a love would be madness, nothing less. 
 Did you ever wonder at Othello? 1 never 
 did. No one ever wept yet for Desdemona : 
 all our tears are for the Moor.' 
 
 ' She might have died a worse death.' 
 ' There spoke the woman. Strange, 
 what a keen perception some writers seem 
 
A SMALL LINK. 69 
 
 to have of the difference between a woman's 
 love and a man's. You have read "Undine?"' 
 
 ' Yes,' 1 said, ' that tale is the only ex- 
 ception I make in my dislike to supernatural 
 fictions. " Undine" is a conception worthy 
 of Shakespeare.' 
 
 ' ^yas Fouque altogether lost in the 
 regions of romance, do you think, when he 
 denied a perfect soul to that strange wild 
 child of the waters till after her marriage 
 with a mortal ? ' 
 
 'I believe, Ralph, he had far, faint glimp- 
 ses of a beautiful truth.' 
 
 ' If I remember rightly, her husband was 
 false to her ; and, by the laws of the water 
 spirits, she was obliged to put him to death.' 
 
 ' Yes ; she killed him Avith a kiss.' 
 
 ' I feel disposed to echo your words — "he 
 might have died a worse death." ' 
 
 ' Shall we go in now?' I asked. 
 
 ' You are tired ? You feel the dew ; you 
 are chilly?' 
 
 ' Just a little.' 
 
 ' Is it the moonlight ; or are you paler 
 than usual? ' 
 
 ' It is the moonlight, perhaps.' 
 
 'You are ill?' 
 
 ' I think we will go in.' 
 
,70 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 ' Lean on me. What is it, Grace? For 
 heaven's sake, what is it ? ' 
 
 ' It is nothing ; I am used to it ; don't be 
 alarmed. It is only a sudden palpitation : 
 it will go off in a minute.' 
 
 ' You were startled and shocked, I think, 
 to see that poor little animal on the point 
 of being drowned to-day ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I felt sure its master would save it. 
 He never could have been so inhuman as to 
 destroy it in that manner.' 
 
 ' If the stick had not floated out of reach 
 as well as the dog, I question much if the 
 man would have taken the plunge; you 
 saw he secured that first— some curious 
 specimen of American wood from the 
 bush, I suppose. But, Grace, I see per- 
 fectly well you cannot walk; you must 
 not attempt it.' 
 
 'No, not this moment. Stay — I will 
 remain quiet awhile.' 
 
 ' Let me carry you in.' 
 
 ' No ; let me sit down again one moment. 
 I will rest against your shoulder.' 
 
 ' You have been over-exerting yourself.' 
 
 ' Yes, that's it. My heart ran away with 
 me when I saw Lilian.' 
 
 ' You must be careful : you must never 
 
A SMALL LINK. 71 
 
 run to meet me so heedlessly as you do 
 sometimes.' 
 
 ' I will be careful. But it is really 
 nothing, my Ralph, to look so anxious 
 about. My mother had it, and outgrew it 
 with the quiet years. There, it is better 
 already. I can walk now.' 
 
 ^ Indeed you shall not, not one step.' 
 
 ' You icill carry me ? Well, do then, 
 love. I feel safe in your arms.' 
 
 So he carried me into the house. 
 
 The trifling incident of that slight faint- 
 ness from a passing attack of palpitation it 
 would be ridiculous to note down, but for 
 one reason. It had its result in no fatal 
 mischief affecting my health. But, like all 
 other seeming trifles in this world, it had 
 its important place among those small links 
 of circumstance which serve to connect the 
 one great chain which binds up our ' bundle 
 of life.' 
 
72 SNOODKD .TESSALTNE. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 L V 1 X G COUNSEL 
 
 The web of our life is of a miugled yarn, good and ill 
 together : our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipped 
 them not ; and our crimes would despair, if they were not 
 cherished bv our virtues. — Airs Well that Ends Well. 
 
 It may very naturally be supposed that on 
 the following day when Lilian and I met, 
 w^e should go fully into the subject of that 
 singular and sudden plot by which Dora's 
 marriage was brought about. From the 
 Colonel, as I have said, I had never been 
 able to get a clear account of it. He had 
 either quickly turned the subject, or had 
 shown in other ways so decided a distaste 
 to enter upon it, that I had early desisted 
 from any very minute inquiries. Neither 
 did I intend to speak to Lilian ^about it, 
 as 1 felt it scarcely right to question her 
 any further upon a matter which her father 
 was evidently unwilling should be dis- 
 
LOVING COUNSEL. 73 
 
 cussed. Lilian, however, opened the sub- 
 ject herself. 
 
 ' Grace ' (I begged her still to call me 
 ' Grace,' for ' mamma ' sounded so ridicu- 
 lous), 'Grace, do you know what is the 
 matter with Dora's old nurse, Eunice ? ' 
 
 'The matter? No.' 
 
 ' She refused to live at the Rectory after 
 Dora's marriage ; and -would give no reason 
 for leaving. She is outrageously angry, 
 too, against my father for the part he 
 played in hurrying forward Dora's mar- 
 riaore.' 
 
 ' Then I conclude she has left because 
 she is angry with Dr. Percy and Lawrence 
 for the same cause. She must be a 
 very foolish old woman, Lilian. She must 
 have seen that Dora was quietly breaking 
 her heart over Vincent's unwarrantable 
 desertion of her. Eunice, no doubt, knew 
 of the attachment, though we were so blind.' 
 
 ' That is the strangest part of it all. She 
 was clearly delio^hted that those two were 
 made happy. She seems to have no very 
 deep grudge against Dr. Percy, or Lawrence, 
 or even dear Lady Letty. Lawrence thinks 
 she must have overheard and misunderstood 
 something my father said to Dr. Percy 
 
74 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 when they were closeted together in the 
 study, that day you remember, Grace, 
 when Lady Letty, my father, Dora, and I 
 drove over to the Eectory.' 
 
 ' I remember; the day you and Lawrence 
 made your mutual confession.' 
 
 ' Yes. While Lady Letty was closeted 
 with Dr. Percy and Dora, we three — my 
 father, Lawrence, and I — had a long talk ; 
 and our marriage was a settled thing, much 
 to my father's evident satisfaction. After 
 that, there came the interview between Dr. 
 Percy and my father.' 
 
 ' How could Eunice know anything about 
 that?' 
 
 ' That was just what I asked Lawrence; 
 and he told me he had seen her watering 
 the flowers just under the window, and has 
 no doubt she heard what my father said.' 
 
 ' My dear, he could have said nothing 
 amiss.' 
 
 ' Of course not. Yet, I suspect, Grace, 
 Lady Letty was not wholly pleased with 
 the strange proceedings of that marriage 
 day. If you remember, she took a very 
 odd way of showing it, by refusing to 
 stand at the altar, and putting herself 
 away in a little side-pew.' 
 
LOVING COUNSEL. 75 
 
 ' But Lawrence and Dr. Percy were agreed 
 about it.' 
 
 ' Do you know, Grace, that although they 
 both fell into my father's plans at the time, 
 when they found that Vincent was really 
 secretly pledged to Dora, they both admit 
 that that hurried marriage was a mistake. 
 But they say very little about it, thinking 
 it a subject better not discussed.' 
 
 ' And do not let us discuss it any further, 
 my dear,' I said. 
 
 ' May I tell you what I heard Eunice 
 say?' Lilian asked. 
 
 ' Well, I suppose there is no harm in 
 that.' 
 
 ' She came to see Dr. Percy yesterday. 
 She is living now, you know, in her uncle's 
 old cottage on the road to Appleby. She 
 came out of the study where Dr. Percy had 
 admitted her, muttering to herself in the 
 strangest way, as I was crossing the 
 hall, something about " imprudence," and 
 "honour," and "Dora, indeed !" and "Robert 
 Flemming shall be told. I'll let her brother 
 know how they wrong my Miss Dora. " ' 
 
 ' Lilian, Lilian ! ' I said, ' let us talk of 
 this no more. I fear there has been some 
 unaccountable mistake on old Eunice's part ; 
 
76 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 something far worse than any passing gos- 
 sip which your father anticipated when he 
 took that summary manner of forcing Yin- 
 cent to keep the honourable pledge he had 
 given to Dora. No more of it, child, if you 
 love me.' 
 
 The subject was instantly dropped, and 
 we never renewed it. 
 
 I felt very uncomfortable — very uneasy. 
 I could scarcely frame in words the sur- 
 mises that arose in my mind. Was I be- 
 ginning to find out so early in my married 
 life the mischievous results of those peculi- 
 arities in my husband to which Lady Letty 
 had referred? Already, in the manner in 
 which he had forced the point of honour on 
 Dora's plighted lover, he had acted, as Lady 
 Letty had herself said, ' as no one ever did 
 act, out of a novel.' Could it be, too, 
 that in regard to Dora herself, his first 
 wife's kinswoman, he had been misled by 
 his acute sense of family honour into sus- 
 pecting error where none existed ? No : 
 of that I entirely and at once acquitted 
 him. 
 
 Meanwhile, the affair was over. Nothing 
 was to be done; and I decided to dismiss 
 the subject altogether from my mind. 
 
LOVING COUNSEL. 77 
 
 But with the verv first mail from India, 
 
 came a letter from Mrs. Yincent Elphinstone. 
 ' I will not upbraid your husband, Mrs. 
 Elphinstone,' it said, ' for the part he acted, 
 since all has ended well, and Yincent and I 
 are so entirely happy. Yet Colonel Elphin- 
 stone did me a cruel wrong. Eunice only 
 told me at the last moment, just as I was 
 leaving Fairfield, of the words he had used 
 regarding me. Oh, Grace, you at least 
 must know that there could have been no 
 imprudence in my conduct towards Yin- 
 cent ? Nothing that I have ever done, said, 
 or thousfht, could call for such a strano^e 
 and questionable proceeding as that of a 
 marriage plotted and brought about in 
 haste and secrecy, as if my good name 
 were in peril in consequence of some heed- 
 less conduct of mine. Yincent, of course, 
 knows nothing of this. I dare not tell 
 him. Neither, Grace, should I have touched 
 on so painful a subject to you, save for one 
 reason. If you do not already know, it is 
 well that you should know and be warned 
 against your husband's morbid tendencies 
 on all subjects touching the honour of his 
 family. What in other men is a virtue, 
 degenerates with him into a vice, leadino* 
 
78 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 him into a thousand errors. Be warned, 
 dear Mrs. Elphinstone, before it is too 
 late.' 
 
 I did not show that letter to Ralph im- 
 mediately. I thought it well to ponder 
 the matter over in my own mind a little 
 ■first. 
 
 Passing that night into my dressing- 
 room, I sat down on a little two-seated 
 settee before the window, with the letter in 
 my hand. I would take my time, I thought, 
 and consider how best to put the matter 
 strongly and seriously before him. There 
 was no hurry ; he was gone to his room, 
 but I should be sure to catch him before 
 he was asleep. Yes ; this morbid honour- 
 passion of his was beginning to lead him 
 into scrapes : there was no knowing where 
 the mischief would end if once the thing 
 were allowed to get a-head. It must be 
 checked — crushed if need be ; it must not 
 be permitted to over-ride common sense in 
 this manner. ' I am not a child,' I thought 
 — 'no, nor my lord's plaything. I am 
 "his true and honourable wife." Should I 
 not counsel him for his own good? Indeed 
 but 1 would ! 
 
 But, dear me! there he was at the door; 
 
LOVING COUNSEL. 79 
 
 and I had not half made up my mind what 
 to say or how I was to say it. 
 
 ' Oh, come in ; you need not stand knock- 
 ing there,' I said. 
 
 So in he came, and sat down beside me 
 on the little settee. There was no more 
 time for thought. I must plunge at once 
 into the subject. 
 
 ' Ralph,' I said, ' listen to me : I want to 
 talk to you very, very seriously. Ralph, 
 they tell me you have wronged a woman in 
 your thoughts.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? They — who ? 
 What do they say ? ' 
 
 'That you have wronged Dora.' 
 
 ' Who has told you that? ' 
 
 ' Dora's self — Mrs. Yincent Elphinstone.' 
 
 ' Grace — my wife — give me that letter ! ' 
 
 I placed Dora's letter in his hand. He 
 ran his eye over it hurriedly, glancing at 
 the whole before he spoke. 
 
 ' Grace,' he said at last, ' I am heartily 
 and profoundly grieved. I confess ' 
 
 'Ralph!' 
 
 ' I confess to an error in judgment.' 
 
 ' Oh, Ralph, only from your own lips 
 would I have believed it ! You must, you 
 must, before worse comes of it, you must 
 
80 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 put some check upon yourself, and not let 
 your virtues run to vices. Forgive me, 
 love, but I must speak. You are perilously 
 morbid on some points.' 
 
 ' I know that, Grace, quite as well as you 
 can tell me. But I cannot help it.' 
 
 ' You can help it, if you will only try.' 
 
 ' Then I will try.' 
 
 * That's my own Ealph, and I bless God 
 for him ! ' 
 
 ' And now, I suppose I am to consider 
 myself forgiven ? ' 
 
 ' Well— yes.' 
 
 ' You are sure you have entirely absolved 
 me?' 
 
 ' Entirely.' 
 
 '• Then now, my love, allow me to say 
 that I have not pleaded guilty to the main 
 charge.' 
 
 'Not guilty?' 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 'How? I thought you confessed ' 
 
 ' I confessed that I was sincerely and 
 heartily sorry ; sorry for a misconstruction, 
 the first hint of which was given to me just 
 before the final departure of Dora, and 
 Avhich was afterwards alluded to in that 
 letter of Lawrence to his father, the post- 
 
LOVING COUNSEL. 81 
 
 script to which you were so bent on reading 
 the day we came home. Moreover, I con- 
 fessed that I was guilty of an error in 
 judgment; guilty of having, through that 
 ill-judged proceeding of mine in the matter 
 of the hasty marriage, given rise to evil 
 thinking and gossip.' 
 
 * Ah ! I knew you could not say — could 
 not think ' 
 
 ' Never for an instant, you must feel 
 sure of that. That hateful suspicion touch- 
 ing the honour of Dora, ascribed to me, is 
 an entire fabrication, or else a most extra- 
 ordinary misunderstanding on the part of 
 old Eunice. I loved Dora and respected 
 her. My one regret in the matter, beyond 
 the compunction I feel for having tied her 
 for life to a man w^ho could so forfeit the 
 honourable pledge he had given to a confid- 
 ing girl, is, that my sudden move in that 
 matter should have led to sucli an incon- 
 ceivable, such an unwarrantable surmise 
 regarding Dora, or rather regarding my 
 opinion of her.' 
 
 So far well. But I had not yet heard 
 the last of that unfortunate story. 
 
 VOL. L G 
 
82 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 A HOSTILE MEETING. 
 
 He's truly valiant that can wisely suffer 
 
 The worst that man can breathe ; and make his wrongs 
 
 His outsides ; wear them like his raiment, carelessly ; 
 
 And ne'er prefer his injm-ies to his heart 
 
 To bring it into danger. Timon of Athens. 
 
 Letters! I wonder if any one ever took 
 the trouble to count up how many of the 
 most serious and fatal events of a life have 
 turned upon the sending or the receiving of 
 letters ? For myself, I can confidently affirm 
 that no trouble ever crossed my life-path 
 that did not owe its origin to a sheet of 
 Bath-post. The dead-letter office is an 
 egregious misnomer. A letter never dies. 
 It is the sole immortal of all inanimate 
 things. Inanimate did I say? Why, it 
 lives — it breathes; it stabs, and it curses. 
 It can stir the wildest heart-throbs in the 
 coldest breast by the force and depth of its 
 
A HOSTILE MEETING. 88 
 
 own feeling ; or send through the most 
 passionate soul a panic that stills every 
 pulse with terror by the iciness of its lip- 
 less words. 
 
 Scarcely had I had time to digest Dora's 
 to-the-point epistle, when a second missive 
 was hurled at me. 
 
 The letter that reached me now, however, 
 was one which had never been intended to 
 come within my knowledge. 
 
 A matter of business connected with the 
 estate had called my husband away from 
 Fairfield for a few days, and he had left 
 orders with me to open and answer any 
 letters that required immediate repty. 
 The very morning after he left home, a 
 letter came directed to him in a strange 
 hand. Supposing it to contain nothing of 
 very vital importance, I opened it carelessly 
 enough. 
 
 It was from Robert Flemminfi:, Dora's 
 fire-eating brother, and ran thus : — 
 
 'Colonel Elphinstone, — Certain reports 
 prejudicial to my sister's fair fame having 
 reached me through an old and valued ser- 
 vant of our house, and your name being 
 associated with the slander as one with 
 whom it originated, I am compelled to de- 
 
 o2 
 
84 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 mand such satisfaction as becomes a man of 
 honour. — Robert Flemming. 
 
 ' P.S. — I am to be found for the next two 
 da3^s at the cottage of Eunice Brett, on the 
 Appleby road/ 
 
 I did not take many minutes to consider 
 what this meant, or to decide how I should 
 act. 
 
 I read the letter carefully over a second 
 time, so as to be sure that I was not mis- 
 taken as to its deadly import. Having done 
 that, I concealed it in the bosom of my 
 gown. Then, dressing myself for a ride, 
 and making such preparations as I thought 
 fitting for a somewhat strange adventure, I 
 ordered a horse to be saddled. To the 
 groom's open-eyed amazement, I excused 
 his attendance. 
 
 A short hour's canter over a good road 
 brought me to Eunice's cottage. 
 
 Arrived there, I called to a strange boy, 
 who was sunning himself upon the garden 
 palings; learned, to my infinite satisfaction, 
 that Eunice was out; dismounted, leaving 
 the boy to mind my horse ; made my way 
 round to the door of the cottage, which was 
 in the side-wall; lifted the latch and entered. 
 
 The cottage door opened at once, without 
 
A HOSTILE MEETING. 85 
 
 any intermediate passage, into the one best 
 room — at once house-place and kitchen. 
 
 As I entered very quietly, I saw a young 
 man standing there — Robert Flemming, no 
 doubt. He was not at first aware of my 
 presence. His thoughts were evidently 
 busy elsewhere, for he was speaking aloud 
 to himself. The words I caught were — 
 ' What an earnest, soul-lighted face ! ' 
 
 Before he turned towards me, I had time 
 to get a good look at Robert Flemming's 
 profile. 
 
 He stood at the window, his head bent a 
 little down, and with one hand resting on 
 his hip, looking fixedly, as I fancied, at my 
 horse ; disappointed, doubtless, to find that, 
 instead of the Colonel riding up in hot 
 haste to be put quietly out of the world at 
 Robert Flemming's good pleasure, only 
 a strange lady, somewhat warmed and soiled 
 with travel, had alighted at the cottage to 
 visit an old pensioner. 
 
 I took the whole man in at a glance. Calm 
 as I outwardly showed, my heart beat 
 wildl}^ in my anxiety to know with whom I 
 had to deal. That one quick glance satis- 
 fied me. Robert Flemming's profile im- 
 pressed me pleasantly. His was a face to 
 
86 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 be trusted. He had Dora's dark hair ; and 
 the full, large, open eye, half whose light 
 was hidden from me, I knew would flash, 
 sudden and strong upon mine, with the 
 man's unabashed gaze, not the gentle light 
 in Dora's tender hazel, as soon as he should 
 know my errand. Yet I was not afraid of 
 him. He looked frank and generous; at 
 any rate, his anger could not hurt me. I 
 had not wronged his sister's name, and I was 
 safe in his presence. No, that eye of Robert 
 Flemming's, even when its glance bore down 
 full upon me, was not an eye to make me 
 feel the least abashed. It was not like a 
 haAvk's eye, fierce and cruel, as some men's 
 eyes are as well as hawks; neither was it 
 dull, cold, and heartless. Was it an honest 
 and a bright eye, then ? Aye, that it was 1 
 It was just such an eye as would serve well 
 in war-time to light a lonely English girl, 
 the beauty of the isle, through some dark 
 and gloomy ravine at midnight, in perfect 
 safety. 
 
 As he turned and faced me, I addressed 
 him at once. 
 
 ' Mr. Flemming, I think ? ' 
 
 ' At your service, madam.' 
 
 'My name is Elphinstone.' 
 
A HOSTILE MEETING. 87 
 
 He started. 
 
 ' In my husband's absence this morning 
 I opened your letter to him, Mr. Flemming, 
 and am here in his stead.' 
 
 ' My dear madam, allow me to assist you 
 to remount. My business, as I am sorry 
 to find you know, is with Col. Elphinstone.' 
 
 ' We are one, Mr. Flemming. Whatever 
 concerns my husband's honour concerns 
 me.' 
 
 ' Excuse me ; 1 really cannot argue this 
 question with you, Mrs. Elphinstone. My 
 sister has been cruelly slandered.' 
 
 ' Who has ever thought or spoken one 
 word against the name of Dora Flemming ? 
 Not my husband, I will answer for it.' 
 
 ' His acts spoke for him : those sudden, 
 forced bridals of my sister; her nurse's 
 testimony.' 
 
 ' The words, then, of a poor old doting 
 woman are to y/eigh against the life of the 
 best and noblest man in England — in the 
 world? I speak of my husband. Colonel 
 Elphinstone.' 
 
 ' Will he deny that he entertained the 
 injurious suspicion referred to? Why else 
 that unaccountable proceeding?' 
 
 ' He is a gentleman, sir. If he has done 
 
88 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 any unintentional wrong, he will be the 
 very first to regret it.' 
 
 ' Am I to understand, madam, that you 
 are the bearer of his apologies ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly not. As I think I told you, 
 my husband is at present absent from 
 Fairfield.' 
 
 ' Will he — can he deny the truth of the 
 charge made against him, think you? ' 
 
 * I cannot answer that question for him, 
 although I know the charge to be false. 
 He has a generous nature, Mr. Flemming, 
 and like all generous natures, he is warm. 
 He may see nothing at the moment but your 
 defiance — may desire only to give you that 
 satisfaction you so hotly desire, without, 
 permit me to say, sufiicient ground to jus- 
 tify you in seeking it. Nay, he may even, 
 and very justly, feel aggrieved that you or 
 any man living should for a moment be- 
 lieve him to be guilty of harbouring an 
 injurious suspicion against an innocent and 
 friendless girl.' 
 
 ' Madam, do me the favour — allow me to 
 reseat you on your horse.' 
 
 ' Thank you; I am not ready.' 
 
 ' I cannot ask you to be seated,' he said. 
 ' I must seem very discourteous ; but 
 
A HOSTILE MEETING. 89 
 
 I confess that this interview is most painful 
 to me. Will you be generous — will you 
 put an end to itr' 
 
 ' You will not forego your design then?' 
 
 ' I cannot, madam/ 
 
 * You persist in demanding satisfaction ; 
 in other words, you are resolved to have 
 your revenge ? ' 
 
 ' You can put it in that light, if you will.' 
 
 ' Be it so, Mr. Flemming. I own I am 
 sorry; for we both love Dora, both my 
 husband and I, and this matter will grieve 
 her deeply. However, I am not going down 
 upon my knees to you. I am a soldier's 
 wife, and am willing to take all the risks 
 and consequences of my proud position. 
 But let me beg you to think well what 
 you are doing. No shadow rests on your 
 sister's name as yet. The wild words of 
 an old nurse, uttered to none save to you, 
 the brother of her young charge, can do no 
 possible harm to Dora. But, move only a 
 single step further in the direction you are 
 now going, and reflect for one moment, just 
 picture to yourself what the consequence 
 must inevitably be. A duel cannot be hid- 
 den in a corner. Noisy tongues will wag. 
 Dora's name will creep out — will be in every 
 
90 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 idle mouth throughout the county. Is 
 your sister's fair fame really dear to you? 
 Enough, I read your answer in the setting 
 of your teeth as you hear me put that 
 question to you. Do you doubt my hus- 
 band's regard for it? If you do, you wrong 
 him grievously. What wrong has Colonel 
 Elphinstone done your sister ? Hastened 
 her marriage with the man she loved, in 
 order that she might accompany the hus- 
 band of her choice to India? Will the 
 world blame him for that, or will you ? You 
 are silent still? What more can I say? 
 You are yet unmoved, yet unconvinced? 
 Take your revenge, then, if you must. I 
 have but one request to make. May I ask 
 one small favour at your hands ? ' 
 
 ' Anything, my dear madam — anything 
 in all this world ! ' 
 
 ' On the honour of a gentleman ? ' 
 ' On the honour of a gentleman.' 
 ' Then have the goodness, sir, to measure 
 across this floor the fitting number of paces, 
 as few as you please. I have here my hus- 
 band's pistols. Choose which you like and 
 take your ground. If blood must be shed 
 in mere wantonness and folly, a woman's 
 blood is good enough to meet the occasion. 
 
A HOSTILE MEETING. 91 
 
 If you take my husband's life, the issue is 
 the same — you murder me.' 
 
 The young man turned away to the 
 window. I watched him pass his hand for 
 a moment across his eyes. When he turned 
 round again and looked full in my face, 
 there was such an expression in those 
 glistening eyes of Eobert Flemming's as I 
 had never beheld before in those of any 
 human being, and have never seen since. 
 
 ' No need to measure paces, Mrs. Elphin- 
 stone; I am conquered already,' he said. 
 ' AlloAv me to draw the charge from these 
 pistols ; it is not safe for you to carry them 
 in that condition.' 
 
 ' Thank you, no. I should wish to re- 
 place them as I found them.' 
 
 ' I see — I see. I understand you. This 
 is your secret ; a noble wife's secret from a 
 noble husband. Be sure I shall guard it as 
 my life 1 Are you satisfied ? ' 
 
 ' I am. You forego your intention ? You 
 mil not relapse ? ' 
 
 ' When I turn coward — not till then.' 
 
 ' I am answered. Farewell, Mr. Flem- 
 ming. I will use no idle word of thanks ; 
 our good deeds are their own best reward. 
 God bless you, sir ! ' 
 
92 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 I had turned towards the door. 
 
 ' Will you permit me for one moment — 
 will you give me your hand ? ' 
 
 ' Frankly ; yes/ 
 
 I extended my hand to him. He took it, 
 and bent over it with as courtly a grace as 
 if I had been an empress instead of a poor 
 merchant's daughter, and touched it with 
 his lips as reverently as if I were about to 
 be canonised. 
 
 ' Perhaps now,' he said, ' you will permit 
 me to assist you to remount your horse.' 
 
 I now gladly accepted his offered aid, 
 for I felt the awkwardness of being without 
 my groom. 
 
 And so for that time I parted with Robert 
 Flemming. 
 
 As I rode back to Fairfield Grange, what 
 were my thoughts ? Was I filled with pro- 
 found gratitude that all danger was averted 
 from my husband? That ought to have 
 been my first thought. And it teas my 
 first thought. 
 
 My second thought was, ' What will my 
 husband think of me when he knows — as 
 some day, doubtless, he will know — the ex- 
 traordinary part I have played in this 
 matter ? ' 
 
A HOSTILE MEETING. 93 
 
 As that idea arose, I felt perfectly aghast. 
 I, who had blamed Ralph m my secret 
 thoughts for that extraordinary escapade 
 in which he had improvised and held his own 
 court-martial upon Yincent Elphinstone, 
 here had I been acting a part equally out- 
 raoreous. And thous-h it is true that the 
 idea of really fighting a duel had never been 
 entertained by me, and the course I had 
 taken was simply a way of putting clearly 
 before this fire-eating brother the iniquity 
 as well as impolicy of what he was about 
 to do, yet the whole affair had certainly 
 a singular and most unwomanly aspect 
 about it. 
 
 So little are we capable of seeing our acts 
 in their true light while the impulse which 
 moves us towards them is full upon us ; and 
 so clearly does their real aspect force itself 
 upon our consciousness when that impulse 
 has subsided. 
 
94 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 CHAPTER YIIL 
 
 SELF-DEVOTION. 
 
 I praise tliee, Matron ! and thy due 
 Is praise — heroic praise, and true ! 
 With admiration I behold 
 Thy gladness unsubdued and hold : 
 Thy looks, thy gestures, all present 
 The picture of a life well spent : 
 This do I see ; and something more ; 
 A strength unthought of heretofore ! 
 ***** 
 
 A moment gave me to espy 
 
 A trouble in her strong black eye ; 
 
 A remnant of uneasy light, 
 
 A flash of something over-bright ! 
 
 JFo)^ds worth's Matron of Jedhorough. 
 
 The London season was at the full. Our 
 country house, but lately filled with guests, 
 was deserted. The reception-rooms were 
 being fast dismantled, and a general clamour 
 of cleaning was going forward. Old Kitty, 
 her flowered gown tucked through her 
 pocket-holes, was down upon her knees, 
 busily rubbing up into more dazzling polish 
 the brown oak floors. 
 
SELF-DEVOTION. 95 
 
 One word toucliiiig this same Kitty. 
 
 Kitty was not one of our regular staff, 
 but a sort of odd hand about the house. 
 Our other servants might be classed or 
 grouped into generations of families. Old 
 Townshend, the butler, was father to Bru- 
 ton, the housekeeper; his grand-daughter, 
 Winifred, being upper-housemaid. Group 
 second consisted of Stephen, the under- 
 butler and master's own man, with his 
 sister Bell, our second housemaid. Coach- 
 man and cook were man and wife, and so 
 on with the rest ; dairy and laundry maids, 
 grooms, &c., all being allied in some way. 
 Kitty stood alone. 
 
 Large of limb, and wiry as an^old moor- 
 hen, Kitty might have stood for one of 
 Cromwell's ' Ironsides.' Untauo-ht and il- 
 literate, she had yet a heart that worked out 
 its own problems, an eye that saw its duty 
 at a glance, and a fidelity unmatched and 
 beyond words to speak it. Such was old 
 Kitty. 
 
 Her eager determination now to set all 
 trim again after what she called the ' can- 
 thrips ' of our late guests, produced a most 
 admired confusion. Everything was shuf- 
 fled, or rather lunged out of its place before 
 
96 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 Y-re knew where we were. Curtains were 
 hanging about in queer places, sofas rolled 
 into odd corners, chairs and tables ' danc- 
 ing the hays.' We — the Colonel and I — 
 disdained to beat ujd fresh quarters. Be- 
 taking ourselves to the library, we held it 
 against all comers. When tired of such 
 harbourage and entertainment as we found 
 there, out of doors there was a fresh banquet 
 spread for tranquil souls, where the dropped 
 hawthorn blossoms starred the early new- 
 dried hay, and the coming rose budded the 
 hedge-tops. The little green linnet would 
 make our mid- day music, and the blackcap 
 call up dreams of nightingale haunts among 
 the moon-lit, wind- swayed poplar boughs in 
 the whisperless shades of night. No 'Lon- 
 don season' for us. A full house for weeks 
 past had well aired our minds with the 
 needful breath of social intercourse ; now 
 for the woods and wilds. 
 
 Evening was closing in. The moon was 
 sailing up a sea of frothing clouds, the last 
 smile of the sun glowing on her face, show- 
 ing a true Druid crescent. In keeping with 
 the hour, as we strolled through the wood- 
 lands, gliding through the closing boughs 
 like a stream of thought, somehow I got 
 
SELF-DEVOTION. 97 
 
 linked to my companion's side by a sort of 
 Druid knot. One hand had crept beneath 
 his arm and was linked in the other, both 
 warmed by his heart; his right hand rest- 
 ing securely on my clasped fingers. We 
 moved slowly on, lapsed in that blessed 
 silence which lets in each chirp and rustle 
 from the world of nature around, the 
 blackbird's last whistle and the ripple of 
 leaves on the shore of night coming up with 
 the wind. 
 
 For a moment we turned and stood still, 
 looking back on our happy home. It was 
 a picture of beauty at all times. But just 
 then, seen through a natural arch of trees, 
 the mellow evening light kissing the old 
 mullioned windows and glimmering on the 
 gilt dragon-vane that capped the stall-and- 
 kennel houses beyond, it seemed to look out 
 upon us with eyes of bright love, happy to 
 see us enjoying our freedom from closed 
 walls, and ready to welcome us again. 
 
 I was about to wheel round and go on 
 again, when Ralph said in a suppressed 
 voice, ' Don't move, for your life.' 
 
 Feeling his hand tighten on mine, I re- 
 mained motionless, with that instinctive 
 obedience which follows its own law of 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 love, and, looking up at him inquiringly, 
 followed the direction of his eyes. 
 
 Across my forward foot lay quite quietly 
 a small dark-coloured wood-adder. It was 
 one of that venomous species which haunt 
 such places, and which our foresters call 
 the 'death-adder.' It must have glided 
 thus far on its way across the wood path, 
 and remained where I saw it, arrested by 
 the warmth of my foot. Its body was ex- 
 tended across my instep above the shoe, its 
 head projecting beyond on that side next 
 my husband. 
 
 We both stood quietly, waiting for the 
 reptile to crawl oiF and go on its way ; for 
 the creature was harmless enough if let 
 alone and not frightened. 
 
 Unluckily, it was frightened ; yet wanting 
 courage for a fresh start. Its head rose 
 erect, its tongue was protruded, quivering 
 and boding mischief. 
 
 Seeing this, with a sudden movement 
 Ralph's boot heel was down upon its head 
 in an instant. The body writhed, contorted 
 for a second, and the thing was dead, Ralph 
 lifting it up by the tail and flinging it among 
 the brushwood. 
 
 But he could not be satisfied that I had 
 come off scathless, without again stooping 
 
SELF-DEVOTION. ^9 
 
 and passing his hand over my stocking. 
 There was no sign of hurt or mischief, 
 save only one small gradually widening 
 spot of blood staining the silk. 
 
 ' Grace, you are hurt/ 
 
 ' It is nothing ; a slight graze from youi 
 boot, that is all.' 
 
 ' Are you sure ? ' 
 
 ' Quite sure.* 
 
 ' You showed no sign of pain.' 
 
 ' I was wincing at the crunch of the poor 
 thing's head,' I said. 
 
 Still, I saw he was grave and uneasy. 
 
 ' Are you not satisfied ? ' I asked. 
 
 'I am not. A bite from these crea- 
 tures ' 
 
 He stopped, and looked in my face. 
 
 ' Grace, we will go home,' he said. 
 
 ' Nonsense. You do not believe me?' 
 
 ^ I always believe you.' 
 
 ' Ralph, you are uneasy ! ' 
 
 He made no answer. 
 
 I turned aside, and examined the wound. 
 There was really nothing but a rather wide 
 abrasion of the skin, which was curled and 
 rumpled away from the grazed spot. I told 
 him so. 
 
 'Thank God!' he said. 
 
 h2 
 
100 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 He drew me towards one of the decayed 
 seats with rudely-painted pictures of snakes 
 upon them, set up of old time to warn 
 chance passers through the woods against 
 the lurking mischief. He knelt on one knee, 
 and rested my foot on the other. Taking 
 his handkerchief from his pocket, he tore 
 off a narrow strip and bound it round the 
 wound. 
 
 In a few moments we were ready to start 
 again. 
 
 ' You are a very fair surgeon spoilt, my 
 Ralph,' I said. 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 ' Yours is not the first wound I have 
 dressed.' 
 
 ' Out in India?' I asked. 
 
 ' No ; when I was with Wellington at 
 the passage of the Douro.' 
 
 ' Tell me.' 
 
 ' Soult's loss was greater than ours. Many 
 as he carried away, he left in Oporto seven 
 hundred sick and wounded. The Portu- 
 guese would have made short work of them, 
 but for our great war-master.' 
 
 The Colonel never introduced the great 
 captain's name, without edging his hand to 
 his forehead in salute. 
 
SELF-DEVOTION. 101 
 
 ' Wellington's memorable proclamation 
 saved many. You remember his words on 
 taking possession of the city : " I call upon 
 you to be merciful. By the laws of war 
 these Frenchmen are entitled to my pro- 
 tection, loliicli I am determined to afford 
 thern.''^ Wellington wrote to Soult, asking 
 him to send some French army surgeons for 
 the care of his wounded. Our own medi- 
 cal staff had work enough — too much — on 
 their hands, and the civilian surgeons of 
 Oporto were not to be trusted. Our duke 
 assured Soult that his medical officers 
 should be restored to him as soon as the 
 need for them was over — proposing, by 
 the way, at the same time, an exchange of 
 prisoners. Soult, it was thought, would 
 have been willing enough. But he had a 
 difficult retreat to make through a moun- 
 tainous country. The ferocity of his 
 troops was beyond his control, for they 
 were driven wild by their reverses and 
 sufferings, and the merciless attacks of the 
 native peasantry — the Portuguese retalia- 
 tion for the excesses of the French. Soult's 
 road was strewed with dead horses and 
 mules and the bodies of his French sol- 
 diers — gallant fellows, some of them ! 
 
102 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 However it was, no help came, and the 
 poor French fellows got what handling 
 they could, or died unhelped. 
 
 ' Wellington was in Soult^s quarters, 
 which had been quitted in such hot haste 
 that our chief broke a long fast that day 
 from the dinner that was preparing for the 
 Duke-Marshal. I had strolled out to see 
 that the people were doing their best to get 
 the men into hospital quarters. But I need 
 not sicken you with a list of killed and 
 wounded. 
 
 ' Apart from the heap of poor devils, 
 French and English all lying mingled toge- 
 ther — a loving brotherhood enough now, and 
 all alike waiting for admission into hospital 
 — I noted one man the surgeons had passed 
 over in their rapid examination as all but 
 dead ; rigid, and insensible, it was supposed 
 from concussion of the brain. There were 
 so many urgent cases — amputation cases — 
 that required prompt looking to, that this 
 fellow, supposed to be past help, had been 
 little heeded. They had left him alone, 
 reared up, and leaning against a tree, till 
 the press and confusion should allow of his 
 being removed — perhaps to sick quarters 
 — perhaps to a hastily-dug grave. 
 
SELF-DEVOTION. 103 
 
 ' Having seen some scores despatched for 
 care or — never mind — I turned to this soli- 
 tary fellow, and drew near to try if he could 
 be made to swallow a few drops of water. 
 
 ' To my surprise the water was gulped 
 down almost without an effort. I now 
 looked for some sign of returning conscious- 
 ness; but I own I was unprepared for a 
 sudden restoration of speech. 
 
 ' "• Was it your honour, thin, that was 
 afther tentin' the poor divils — long life to 
 your honour! — that would die for your 
 honour any day, shrift or no shrift, and 
 make a good end too ! '^ 
 
 ^ " Come, come," said I, " this is no time 
 for shamming and shirking duty. Up !|and 
 beat back to quarters." 
 
 ' " Sorrow a leg have I to stand upon : 
 thry me ! " 
 
 ' I did " thry " the feUow. I lifted him 
 on to his legs, and, sure enough, down he 
 went again. 
 
 ' " What is the matter?" I asked. 
 
 ' " A spint ball, plase your honour." 
 
 '"A what?" 
 
 '"AspintbalL" 
 
 ' " You mean to say you are wounded^ 
 then?" 
 
104 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 ' "Sorrow a wound, at all, at all, to spake 
 of." 
 
 ' I was getting impatient — God forgive 
 me — and was moving away, when the same 
 voice, with a strange touch of pathos in it, 
 recalled me. 
 
 4 u ^hist ! your honour ! '' 
 
 ' " What do you want?" I asked. 
 
 '"They'll be afther takin' me to the 
 dead-house" (Irish for hospital), "and 
 sthrippin' the king's coat off me, they will." 
 
 ' "Well? — well?" I said, thinking the poor 
 fellow was light-headed, and wondering 
 what he would say next. 
 
 ' " I'd die a good many deaths first, dar- 
 lin', one over another. Could your honour 
 jist make 'em leave me where they find me? 
 I'll be all right in a jiffy." 
 
 ' " What are you afraid of?" I asked. 
 
 '"Plase your honour, Jan Frenchman." 
 (Jan for Jean, I conclude.) 
 
 ' " Jan Frenchman?" 
 
 ' " Plase, I am, thin, your honour. I can 
 face a Britisher any day; an' I don't know 
 nothin' agin the Portingee ; but if they take 
 me to hoshpital with Jan Frenchman, I'll 
 be kilt entirely, I will." 
 
 ' " You may depend on it, my good fel- 
 
SELF-DEVOTION. 105 
 
 low," I said, " nobody will be particularly 
 anxious to encumber themselves with you. 
 There's many a better man in worse need." 
 
 ' " That's thrue, and more's the pity. 
 Could your honour send Nan to me?" 
 
 ' " Send Nan to you?" I cried. 
 
 ' I really could not make the fellow out. 
 Xan, you must know, was a poor camp fol- 
 lower, a most useful creature, and the best 
 nurse in our regiment. But the thing 
 sounded odd, someho\v. 
 
 ' "Nan has business enough on her hands," 
 I said; " she is just about to bury a coun- 
 tryman of her own, knocked over in the last 
 struggle." 
 
 ' " I know that same. The ball that 
 sthruck my two legs spint itself on Pathrick. 
 Och hone ! your honour. Betther it had 
 plased the Maker to spind it on me ; I'd ha' 
 been grateful, anyhow. But I'd like to 
 spake to Nan." 
 
 ' " What are you hiding your hand for? " 
 said I. 
 
 ' " It's nothin', sure, it isn't." 
 
 ' " I must see it." 
 
 ' So saying, I drew forth the hand. It 
 was frightfully torn by some missile, and 
 bleeding profusely. It wanted, however, 
 
106 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 nothing but a bandage, and that I supplied 
 Something in the poor wretch's manner 
 touched me; a passing half- formed sus- 
 picion, too, passed through my mind; so 
 I did send "Nan." That done, in the 
 press of other matters, I forgot the whole 
 affair. 
 
 ' It was some time after, when a batch of 
 prisoners of war were on the point of being 
 embarked for England, that a strange wo- 
 man one day asked leave to speak with me. 
 On being admitted, she begged my good 
 word to get her a berth on board the ship. 
 Knowing nothing about her, I asked her 
 her name. 
 
 ' " Kathleen Maguire, at your honour's 
 service," she answered, with an awkward 
 bob, as if she were not used to petticoats. 
 
 ' " I think I've seen your face before : 
 where ? " 
 
 ' " Under the three.'' 
 
 ' I was still in the dark. 
 
 ' " Stunned with Pathrick's spint ball." 
 
 ' " You do not seriously mean to say " 
 
 ' " Plase your honour, it was, thin. It 
 was me, me own self that your honour bound 
 up with your honour's own precious hands 
 —the Lord bless you for that same ! And 
 
SELF-DEVOTION. 107 
 
 sure it was my Pathrick that all at oncet tuk 
 to the dhrink by rason of the bad health he 
 had, and tuk and got listed, he did. And 
 what would I do, his own wife, but go list 
 meself too, to follow my Pathrick all the 
 wide world over. Many's the time I put 
 meself before him, and he niver knowing 
 of it. But I could niver catch the ball, 
 somehow, sorrow a one. But at last it 
 come, and it tuk him, as your honour knows, 
 and I only got it when it had spint itself on 
 my Pathrick, I was sore of it, your honour 
 — not the ball, but Pathrick's going. But 
 I'm another woman now, I bless the Lord, 
 since I've seen him put dacent in the 
 ground, and made the holy sign over him. 
 And now I'll ax your honour's goodness to 
 get me back to ould England ; and may be 
 I'll find your honour's house, and you'll give 
 me a good word to your lady; and when 
 she's tould how your honour thought it no 
 shame to bind up poor Kathleen's wounds 
 with your own hands when she was a man 
 and a soldier, may be she'll take me on, and 
 think no ill of me for fightin' hard and fast 
 for the ould land — and Pathrick; and sure 
 I'll sarve her faithful all my days, and ax 
 no wage at all, at all." 
 
108 SKOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 ' '' Then you are not afraid of crossing 
 the sea with ' Jan Frenchman?' " I said. 
 
 ' " Lord love your honour, no; sorrow a 
 fear in the world! Nan says they'll be 
 kept down safe under hatches, the whole 
 kit of em" (our gallant French prisoners, 
 Grace!); ''and didn't I dthrame, thm, this 
 very last blessed night as iver was, that I 
 see 'em all chained togither by the rings in 
 their cars — they chatterin' all the while 
 worse than monkeys in a niinaager — and 
 thrown overboard in a storm, like so many 
 dhrowned puppies — and the more the 
 betther!" 
 
 ' Of course I gave her a letter to my poor 
 May (my first of two matchless wives, 
 Grace!), and home she came. 
 
 ' So, yoLi see, yours was not the first 
 wound I ever dressed,' added the Colonel. 
 • And now, perhaps, you cannot guess who 
 it is whose story I have been telling you?' 
 
 'Xot old Kitty's?' 
 
 ' Yes, old Kitty's.' 
 
109 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 SEEKING A REFUGE. 
 
 Behold this jewel ! Into worthy hands 
 I fain would yield it. It is more to me 
 Than aU things else the gracious earth aflfords. 
 I pray you tell me, where is she who knows 
 The worth of such a gem ? 
 
 Dead Leonard's child 
 3Iav win a welcome for dead Leonard's sake. 
 
 Ouii house was still a good deal in disorder, 
 and we continued to hold fast by the library 
 as our head-quarters; when one morning, 
 just as I was preparing to make breakfast, 
 the Colonel, who had gone out on his usual 
 foraging expedition, as we called it. in 
 search of the purest air to be found on the 
 downs, came in with a hurried step. 
 
 I saw at a glance that something had 
 happened to please him mightily. 
 
 ' I met the postman,' he said, ' on Heath- 
 down Moor, and finding he had a letter for 
 
110 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 you, brought it straight. It is from — who 
 do you think? — Lady Letty! She is com- 
 ing back to us. With such glad tidings I 
 knew my step would be ' 
 
 '"Beautiful upon the mountains!'" I 
 said, smiling warmly in his face. 
 
 There was no need on this account to 
 hurry on the great work of marshalling the 
 furniture in order, as long as we could stick 
 to the book-room. That room was a special 
 favourite with our old friend, and was, in- 
 deed, ever full of her presence, whether she 
 dwelt there in the body or not. The room 
 was a long panelled room of very dark oak. 
 One side only was occupied with books; 
 the other, the fire side, with family and 
 other portraits. On the raised divisions of 
 the panels, both the horizontal rails and 
 upright munions, it had been Lady Letty's 
 permitted delight — for she was an anti- 
 quarian artist in feeling and capacity— to 
 inscribe in red-initial black letter sundry 
 quaintly beautiful old ' legends ' which took 
 her fancy. Up to a certain height, just so 
 far as she could handily reach, the wall was 
 speechful with those delightful touches of 
 the truths of time. All above was barren. 
 This line of demarcation the Colonel called 
 
SEEKING A REFUGE. Ill 
 
 — quoting somebody — LadyLetty's 'brows- 
 ins: line.' This browsino; line was of course 
 not very high, for dear Lady Letty was no 
 giraffe. It was all the better for this, since 
 these choice morsels lay exactly along the 
 line of vision, as the best art-works should. 
 These inscribed scrolls were by no means 
 placed at random. Wherever the character 
 of any particular portrait admitted of illus- 
 tration, it was so illustrated, and its moral 
 suggestively pointed ; this method of ' im- 
 proving the occasion ' being the least offen- 
 sive — nay, the most beautiful and devotional 
 I ever met with. Beneath a portrait of 
 Lady Rachel Russell, making notes for her 
 husband on his trial, was inscribed — 
 
 ^fjall laj? it at ti^p i^a^ter'jS fept, autf ^iltntXit xetav^t 
 
 tl)C0. 
 
 Again, the portrait of the son of Lord 
 Edward Fitzgerald, receiving the deed con- 
 taining the reversal of his father's attainder, 
 was under-scrolled — 
 
 ^^ not^inge t^ ^a Rh^alutelv hlt^t 
 
 i^ut tl)Kim maij tra^^c aiitr mafic it ittmiiiQ in, 
 
 ^0 n0tf)ingc can a man sa murl; muTr^t 
 
 ?^ut 6otf mat) fI>i"S^» «"^ Pectus gnotr Ift Juill* 
 
112 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 Such were the scrolls that under- wreathed 
 the mimic forms of faces long since gone 
 down to the dust, touching with new light 
 the ' beautiful regards ' that were turned 
 on us. 
 
 Lady Letty would not be long in keep- 
 ing her promise to come to us, we well 
 knew. Before, however, she could reach 
 Fairfield, we were surprised by new visitors, 
 and those, by an odd coincidence, in search 
 of her. 
 
 A card was sent in bearing the name 
 of Mr. Heine Favrel, with a request that 
 Colonel Elphinstone would oblige the sender 
 with Lady Lsetitia Dalrymple's address. 
 
 Knowing that any one seeking Lady 
 Letty, by letter or otherwise, at her own 
 house, Hollywood, would most likely miss 
 her now, as she was probably already 
 on her way to ours, my husband thought 
 it would be best to explain this in per- 
 son, and so returned a message to the 
 effect that he should be glad to see Mr. 
 Favrel. 
 
 The stranger was shown in. The lady 
 on his arm not having sent up her card, 
 he seemed to feel the awkwardness, and 
 she had to be introduced — ' Mrs. Favrel.' 
 
SEEKING A REFUGE. 113 
 
 These, then, I thought, must be our strange 
 neighbours of the Glebe. 
 
 They were a strikingly good-looking 
 young couple; but as I am not writing 
 for the Minerva Press, I cannot describe 
 eyes and noses. There was, however, an 
 air of sorabreness hanging over them both 
 like a pall ; a morbid, ill-at-ease something 
 — shyness or melancholy — not easy to de- 
 scribe, that made it somewhat of a diffi- 
 culty to entertain them. In their manner 
 towards each other there was a sort of in- 
 describable restraint, as if they were carry- 
 ing on some deception, and were unused to 
 artifice. The wife, while I spoke to her, 
 sent her eyes wandering curiously over the 
 panelling, and seemed to be rather reading 
 the inscriptions than listening to me. Soon, 
 rising from her seat, she begged to be al- 
 lowed to look at the inscriptions more 
 closely. Turning from them at last to- 
 wards her husband, to whom the Colonel 
 was explaining that the friend he sought — 
 Lady Letty — was most probably on her way 
 to our house, I heard her say to him, 
 
 ' What an atmosphere ! ' 
 
 'You are chilly?' I said, rising to stir 
 the wood fire for June had opened coldly, 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 SXOODED JESSALINE, 
 
 and we had not yet discarded the pleasant 
 sparkling log ; so matter-of-fact was I. 
 
 Her husband answered for her. 
 
 ' Marian,' he said, ' alluded, I think, 
 rather to the asjDect of your room than 
 to its temperature- These speaking, old 
 scrolls seem to have taken her fancy.' 
 
 ' They are not so old — that is, their 
 workmanship — as you would suppose,' I 
 said. ' They are good imitations of our 
 ancient monkish illuminations, are they 
 not? You will like them better still, Mrs. 
 Favrel,' I added, turning to the young wife, 
 ' when you know they are painted by your 
 friend Lady L^etitia.' 
 
 ' I half fancied so,' she replied. 
 
 Both had now risen, and, after some 
 apologies for the intrusion, were about to 
 leave us. 
 
 'We are just going to have luncheon,' I 
 said; 'do join us, Mrs. Favrel. Lady 
 Laetitia's friends are ours by right. You 
 will not refuse me ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Favrel looked at her husband, and 
 hesitated. 
 
 ' Perhaps, ray dear,' said the Colonel to 
 me, ' Mr. Favrel has otlier objects in our 
 neighbourhood, and would prefer returning 
 
SEEKING A REFUGE. 115 
 
 to US later. — We dine at six. May we hope 
 that hour will suit Mrs. Favrel?' 
 
 ' We have no present object save the one 
 your kindness has forwarded,' said Heine 
 (Mr. Favrel. I really cannot help speaking 
 familiarly of these young people ; why this 
 is so will appear later). 
 
 ' If that is the case,' pursued the Colonel, 
 ' we cannot think of your leaving us in 
 such haste. My time is quite at your dis- 
 posal. After luncheon, if you like, I can 
 show you some fine views from the downs.' 
 
 When the time came for starting, I could 
 see by the jaded looks of Marian (Mrs. 
 Favrel) that she had already had walking 
 enough. That question having been put 
 to her, she gladly took advantage of my 
 suggestion of a book or a chat at the 
 open window. I gave her a volume that 
 I thought would amuse her, and took up 
 my work. 
 
 I saw very soon that she was not read- 
 ing, but merely turning over the leaves in 
 a listless, vacant manner. Nearly all her 
 shyness, however, had gone out with the 
 Colonel. 
 
 ' You must think it odd, Mrs. Elphin- 
 stone,' she said at last, ' that we did not 
 I ti 
 
116 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 write to Hollywood direct. The Dairy mples' 
 place must of course be well known to all 
 old friends of Lady Lsetitia's.' 
 
 ' It did not strike me,' I answered, with 
 truth. 
 
 ' One reason was,' she explained, ' that 
 we were sadly afraid she might be dead, 
 and asked where she was living, only as 
 another form of asking, " is she living?" ' 
 
 'Ah! I understand,' I said. 'You had 
 not courage to face the possible coming of 
 that saddest of all ensigns, the black seal.' 
 
 ' That was partly it ; but there was an- 
 other reason.' 
 
 As she stopped speaking, I looked up. 
 Her eyes were swimming v/ith tears. 
 
 ' Lady Laetitia was not well used by one 
 member of our family,' she went on. ' We 
 hesitated to remind her of our existence 
 through the cold medium of a letter. We 
 felt that if we could only see her, only 
 speak to her, we should not be repulsed.' 
 
 From the mournful tone, dashed with 
 just a touch of bitterness, in which the 
 words were uttered, here was clearly some 
 family complication to which the clue was 
 wanting: to me. 
 
SEEKING A REFUGE. 117 
 
 Not feeling quite comfortable at the idea 
 of creeping all at once into a confidence, 
 I turned the conversation as soon and as 
 decently as I could. 
 
 A pretty group of lilacs and laburnums 
 had been arranged by my husband and me 
 that morning, and now stood in a large 
 china bowl on a side-table. I rose, and 
 removing it, placed the mingled blooms 
 before her. 
 
 ' Do you draw, Mrs. Favrel?' I asked. 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered ; ^ I inherit a love 
 
 for art in all its forms. My poor father ' 
 
 She stopped abruptly, and sighed. 
 
 There it was again. It seemed hopeless 
 to attempt to lure her from this clinging 
 family trouble, or whatever it might be, 
 which appeared in some way mixed up 
 with Lady Letty. 
 
 ' Shall I get you a palette?' I said. ' We 
 have an easel somewhere. These flowers 
 group prettily. Or shall I sit to you? It 
 is not the first time I have held that patient 
 office. They tell me I have quite a faculty 
 for keeping quiet when anything particular 
 is going on. I might stand for a dumb 
 slave, or something of that sort.' 
 
118 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 ' No, thank you ; you are very good. I 
 am feeling a little weary. But it is no- 
 thing; I shall sleep it off.' 
 
 ' Will you lie down for awhile ?' 
 
 ' Please ; if I could just lie on the sofa, 
 and shut my eyes: the light is a strain 
 upon me.' 
 
 I bade her do so, and gently raised her 
 feet for her. I brought a warm shawl and 
 laid it over her, and she lay quite quietly 
 for some time, with one hand pressing down 
 her eyes. 
 
 Looking up from my work from time to 
 time at the young creature as she lay there, 
 I felt that there was something very sweet 
 in the lines of her face, a refined and spiri- 
 tual beauty betraying an almost too de- 
 licate organisation, a temperament that 
 might be poetic, but could scarcely be quite 
 healthful — at least, in youth. Time, the 
 maturer, which gives to some women a 
 touch of coarseness, would bring to Marian 
 Favrel a gracious and noble middle-life, 
 full with purpose, strong with hidden 
 strength, and sublimed by lifted thoughts. 
 
 She was not sleeping. By-and-by I 
 saw the tears stealing through the fingers 
 that held down her closed eyes. I dropped 
 
SEEKING A REFUGE. 119 
 
 my own eyes upon my work, lest she 
 should change her position and feel her- 
 self watched; not, however, before I had 
 noticed a striking likeness in her face to 
 that of her husband, which had more of 
 repose about it, but wore even a more me- 
 lancholy expression than her own. Likely 
 enough they were cousins. 
 
 Thinking that she would best recover 
 her spirits by being left quite alone, I was 
 in the act of stealing noiselessly out of the 
 room, when she rose up, attempted to fol- 
 low me, staggered, and fell back on the 
 sofa. 
 
 I turned and drew to her side. Her 
 momentar^T- giddiness was followed by in- 
 termittent shiverings — more, I fancied, of 
 the nature of nervous shakings than the 
 result of cold. 
 
 ' My dear,' I said, ' I cannot think of 
 your leaving us at all in this state. You 
 must consider yourself my guest till your 
 friend arrives. Now just go straight to 
 bed, and by the morning you will no doubt 
 be quite restored.' 
 
 'I cannot,' she said, nervously; 'I can- 
 not think of being your guest till I have 
 explained. It would not be right ' 
 
120 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 'Explain afterwards, my dear/ I said. 
 ' Now come up-stairs with me. i am really 
 anxious about you/ 
 
 'If I could only speak to you — could 
 only tell you * 
 
 The attempt to speak added to her agi- 
 tation, and she began to look really and 
 seriously ill. Seeing this, I at once over- 
 ruled all further objection; got her quietly 
 up-stairs, and saw her with everything com- 
 fortable about her in the little blue room, 
 which had escaped the general devastation. 
 Before leaving her I asked her if she would 
 like to have advice. 
 
 ' Oh, no,' she cried; ' I shall be quite well 
 after a little sleep.' 
 
 ' Farewell, then,' I said, ' for the present. 
 When your husband returns, shall I send 
 him up to see you ? ' 
 
 ' Pray don't,' she said, with some earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 'Had they quarrelled?' I wondered. I 
 really could not understand that ' pray don't.^ 
 
 The afternoon passed off very well. 
 Mr. Favrel did not seem at all surprised at 
 his wife's condition, but was warm in his 
 expressions of gratitude for the care taken 
 of her, entering quite readily into our 
 
SEEKING A REFUGE. 121 
 
 arrangement to watch over her J till Lady 
 Letty could welcome her in person. 
 
 The dinner hour, too, came and went 
 very satisfactorily. Mr. Favrel was rapidly 
 thawing, my husband enjoying the society 
 of so well-informed a guest, and I pleased 
 because he was pleased — a somewhat an- 
 tiquated state of feeling in a wife, supposed 
 to have gone out with farthingales. 
 
 The two were still lingering over their 
 concluding glass, when I stole away to look 
 after my new guest up-stairs. Early dark- 
 ness had closed in, for there were storm- 
 clouds overhead, and a soft hush like that 
 of deeper night hung about the room. I 
 looked to the bed. There she lay sleeping 
 a child's happy sleep ; tears upon her eye- 
 lids, but the calm of an unsoiled soul upon 
 her young lips. 
 
 As I yet stood feeding my eyes upon her 
 beauty, there rang through my ears the 
 quick, sharp crack of a pistol-shot. 
 
 For a passing second or two I stood 
 quite still to mark if it woke her. 
 
 No. She moved uneasily, but her sleep 
 was not broken. Cautiously stealing away, 
 I closed the door. 
 
 Once clear of the room, I shot down the 
 
122 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 stairs like an arrow from a bovN^, and en- 
 tered the room I had so recently quitted. 
 
 The room was empty ! 
 
 Passing straight to the window, I found 
 one of the centre panes pierced clean 
 through; a small round hole showing 
 plainly enough where a pistol-bullet had 
 passed through it. Turning towards the 
 opposite wall, I could trace where the pro- 
 jectile had struck, the ball being imbedded 
 in the panel. 
 
 While I was examining it, my husband 
 came in. 
 
 ' You here, Grace ! ' he cried. ' What are 
 you doing, you wild-goose— making a tar- 
 get of yourself ? ' 
 
 ' Ealph, what is all this ? ' I asked. 
 
 He answered by drawing me to the sofa, 
 which Avas rolled away with its head to the 
 comer of the outer wall, or window- wall, 
 so that I should be pretty well out of shot- 
 range, should a second bullet follow the 
 first. Then, as the story- writers would 
 say, ' to fling me down, to occupy the va- 
 cant seat in front of me, and so place his 
 broad shoulders between me and the win- 
 dow, was the work of a moment.' 
 
 'I should suspect there were poachers 
 
SEEKING A EEFUGE. 123 
 
 about,' he said, ' and that one of their guns 
 had gone oiF by accident; but, as we have 
 been favoured with a pistol-bullet, I do not 
 quite know what to make of it. How is 
 Mrs. Favrel?' 
 
 ' Ohj I left her sleeping quite comfortably. 
 It was fortunate the shot did not wake her, 
 for she appears to have gone through some 
 recent agitation, and is evidently much 
 shaken.' 
 
 ' Poor young thing ! It is to be hoped 
 for her sake there will be no repetition of 
 the annoyance. I have beaten the bushes 
 all round, and found nothing suspicious. 
 Are you comfortable ? ' 
 
 ' Quite. But you need not place your- 
 self between me and the enemy. If an- 
 other shot comes, it will take us both ; and 
 I should not like a " spint " ball any more 
 than old Kitty.' 
 
 ' No fear. I have let Neptune loose; if 
 any one is still hanging about the house, 
 he'll be sure to pin him.' 
 
 ' Neptune is not likely to " pin " Mr. 
 Heine Favrel, is he ? ' I asked in some 
 alarm. 
 
 ' Mr. Favrel ! ' cried my husband in as- 
 tonishment. ' Why, is he not in the house ? ' 
 
124 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 ^ No ; he must have gone out on the 
 same errand as you did — to beat the bushes 
 for the enemy.' 
 
 ' I concluded he had run up-stairs to as- 
 sure his wife of his safety.' 
 
 ' Nothing of the kind. Indeed they do 
 not seem to be as anxious about each other 
 as they should be. Do you know, a little 
 while back I offered to send him to her, but 
 she declined. Odd, was it not ? ' 
 
 ' Rather.' 
 
 ' Still, if anything should have happened 
 to him ! I wish he would return. Suppose 
 she should wake? I positively dare not 
 face her till I know that he is safe.' 
 
 ' Oh, I dare say he is all right. Yery 
 likely he is gone to the inn for the night.' 
 
 ' Gone to the inn ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; he said he must positively remain 
 at the inn.' 
 
 * And leave his wife here among stran- 
 gers ! Surely they cannot have quarrelled, 
 so young, so amiable, as they both look? 
 They must love one another.' 
 
 ' My dear, I have seen a good deal more 
 of the world than you ' 
 
 ' You surely do not believe ? ' 
 
 'I have seen a good deal more of the 
 
SEEKING A REFUGE. 125 
 
 world than you have, I tell you; yet, I'll 
 be hanged if I can come to any other con- 
 clusion ! ' 
 
 'Oh, Ralph! I thought you were in 
 earnest. I really wonder how you can 
 trifle so, with a bullet in the wall before 
 your face, and a strange guest outside, who 
 may be riddled through and through by 
 this time ! ' 
 
 ' Here he comes,' cried Ralph. 
 
 Enter Mr. Heine Favrel. 
 
 He looked pale and haggard, and ad- 
 dressed me as one who is painfully con- 
 scious of having brought trouble on a 
 house. 
 
 'I fear you have been alarmed, Mrs. 
 Elphinstone.' 
 
 ' Not at all : I can stand fire pretty well,' 
 I said. 
 
 'Has — has Marian been disturbed? Did 
 she hear the shot?' asked Mr. Favrel. 
 
 ' No, I am glad to assure you she did 
 not,' I answered. ' I was standing by her 
 bedside at the moment; she slept through 
 it — is sleeping calmly now.' 
 
 ' Thank God ! It is better she should not 
 know that it has come to this,' he said with 
 a deep earnestness. 
 
126 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 ' Shall I give her any message from you? ' 
 I asked. 
 
 ' Only my — my love,' he replied. 
 
 The word came hesitatingly. They 
 must have quarrelled, I thought. But I 
 went to her, taking with me that message 
 for her comfort. Her face lighted up at 
 once, and she received the brief message 
 with frank and grateful eyes. 
 
 When I ran down again, I found Mr. 
 Favrel gone — gone indeed to the inn. My 
 husband stood alone by the window. 
 
 ' Grace,' he said, all his sunny spirits 
 fled, all his light, careless mood vanished 
 now, ' my Grace, you should not have left 
 me. Ill thoughts cannot come to me while 
 you are present. There is no guardian 
 angel like a true wife. I have been think- 
 ing a wicked tljought, Grace.' 
 
 'Your 
 
 ' Yes ; the idea struck me for a moment 
 — but remember, I was heartily ashamed of 
 it the moment aiter — it did just strike me 
 that this fair woman might be the lost light 
 of some other man's home, and ' 
 
 'And that Heine Favrel deserved to have 
 had yonder bullet straight through his 
 heart? Is that it ? ' 
 
SEEKING A REEUGE. 127 
 
 'Aye/ 
 
 ' My life on it, this is not so ! Yet — yet 
 — if it should be so — oh ! Ralph ! — and in 
 our home ! * 
 
 ' My darling, sweetest, purest, best ! ' 
 
 He took my hand in his own strong 
 clasp, and we two stood mutely facing the 
 heavens, watching the stars — watching 
 them where they studded with undimmed 
 light those fields we should all one day 
 walk with Avhite feet ; and while, blessed in 
 the sanctifying clasp of our own untroubled 
 love, our souls hymned their song of word- 
 less praise, from the heart of each the same 
 prayer went up — ' Lord, keep our threshold 
 clean ! ' 
 
128 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AN orphan's welcome. 
 
 Sweet visions through my brain are thronging — 
 Wild dreams 'twere better should depart, 
 As, filled with all a mother's longing, 
 
 I clasp thee to my heart ! 
 That fondness has but one alloy, 
 The sadness of the weight of joy. 
 
 For he, your imaged form that wore, 
 My soul had loved as life and light ; 
 No Gheber ever worshipped more 
 . The sun that chased his night : 
 And thine are the last living rays 
 That cheer my darkened length of days. 
 
 E. L. Hervet. 
 
 Before it was likely that any one would 
 be moving the next morning — except, of 
 course, the servants — I was already bust- 
 ling about among my flowers, rejoicing in 
 that fresh morning mood in which by the 
 mere virtue of the hour every earthly thing 
 is beheld in its own rosy light. I had wan- 
 dered from bloom to bloom, as happy as a 
 
AN orphan's welcome. 129 
 
 bee, and almost as busy, and had made my 
 way all round the house, thinking nothing 
 of what path I took, till I found myself 
 nearly opposite the library window. There 
 my steps were arrested by one of the plea- 
 santest sights I ever saw in my life. 
 
 Heine must have quitted his uncomfort- 
 able quarters pretty early; the blue room, 
 too, would seem to have had no particular 
 charm for our other fairer guest ; for there, 
 in the very middle of the room, stood the 
 two. She appeared to be urging some re- 
 quest to him — possibly to be allowed to 
 make certain revelations to us — and he 
 looked as one who could refuse her no- 
 thing. His two arms met round her waist. 
 Kound his neck her left arm clung, fond 
 and close ; her other hand was busy with 
 his face, now stroking his forehead, now 
 playing with his hair. Her head rested 
 sideway on his breast, her sweet cheek ready 
 to his kiss ; yet, feeling the loving lips that 
 tenderly and delicately touched it, the little 
 head reversed its position, the assailed cheek 
 nestling down, and leaving the other open 
 to a similar attack, which it met on the 
 instant. Then, with a pretty grace, that 
 same little head was flung back out of 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 reach of the dear lips that dared so much. 
 So reproved, what could he do but bow his 
 own humbly ? Then she drooped hers, and 
 on his forehead set her pardoning kiss. 
 
 I ought to have run away at once. It 
 was quite unpardonable to stand there 
 staring at them. But I was wholly taken 
 by surprise, and fascinated by the beauty 
 of it. When at last I turned and fled 
 hastily away, I came full upon the Colonel. 
 
 ' My Ralph, I am so happy ! ' I said. 
 ' Those two, Heine and Marian Favrel, are 
 in the book-room, locked in such a sweet, 
 innocent embrace as there is no mistaking. 
 I really could dance for joy ! ' 
 
 ' So could II' he cried. ' Come, then, 
 here goes ! Give me your waist down the 
 long walk, and let's have it out ! ' 
 
 So we had our little spin. (I never 
 waltzed with any one but Ralph, like a 
 stupid old prude as I was.) That over, 
 the Colonel went to look after his cucumber 
 frames, and I in-doors to look after break- 
 fast. 
 
 As I entered the room, releasing herself 
 from Heine's arms, but in no guilty, con- 
 scious, flurried haste, 3iarian came straight 
 
AN orphan's welcome. 131 
 
 up to me with open, colourless face, and 
 laid her hand in mine. 
 
 ' Dear Mrs. Elphinstone,' she said, ' we 
 shall have a long, sad story to tell you 
 to-day. But on one point you must not 
 be misled a moment longer. I am not 
 Heine's wife — not yet.' 
 
 'All right, my dear,' I said; 'then you 
 have that blessing to come, for I see how 
 it is between you. And now, I need not 
 ask if you are better, you look so bright ; 
 but I fancy you are not very strong, so do 
 not begin the day with any agitating long 
 stories. Leave me to open your little 
 confession to the Colonel when you are 
 not by.' 
 
 The Colonel at that moment came in, 
 and after greeting Marian Favrel, addressed 
 himself to Heine. 
 
 'I fear you found your night-quarters 
 not very good, Favrel.' 
 
 ' Not particularly so,' Heine replied ; ' but 
 I thought Marian would feel more at ease 
 in knowing that I passed the night there 
 rather than at the Glebe.' 
 
 The Colonel looked surprised, but was 
 silent. 
 
 K 2 
 
132 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 After breakfast, I got him into a garden 
 corner and told him how matters stood. 
 
 ' Bless me ! ' cried he, amazed. ' What a 
 strange deception ! ' 
 
 ' I told you I felt puzzled by her manner,' 
 I added. ' But I see it all now. She clearly 
 hates any unnecessary conceahnent. It is 
 little wonder that she looked more ill at 
 ease than the occasion seemed to warrant, 
 feeling herself getting deeper and deeper 
 into the deception with every word she 
 spoke.' 
 
 ' What could be their motive?' said my 
 husband. 
 
 'No harm, I feel sure. But they will 
 tell us all by-and-by. Shall you be with us ?' 
 
 * Not for some hours. There is to be a 
 meeting of magistrates at Appleby, and I 
 am expected to attend.' 
 
 ' You will be home to dinner?' I asked. 
 
 ' I hope so ; one's meat has no flavour in 
 it out of one's own snuggery.' 
 
 ' Good-bye ! Kiss me ! I must go now 
 and look after my little deceiver. She 
 doesn't deserve it, but I love her already. 
 Do not be later than you can help.' 
 
 ' Not T. It will be a dismal business. 
 
AN oephan's welcome. 133 
 
 These country magistrates have a faculty 
 for cracking jokes over dead poachers. Then 
 there is that noodle, Sheringham. At our 
 last meeting, the whole time the talk was 
 about that miserable girl wlio drowned her- 
 self in the pool with her infant in her 
 arms, the fellow was amusins: himself with 
 making a ball of his pocket-handkerchief, 
 and tossing it from hand to hand.' 
 
 ' The wretch ! Poetical justice would 
 have ducked him in the pond.' 
 
 Ralph was just off, when I called him 
 back. 
 
 ' By the way, on second thoughts,' I said, 
 ' I fancy you are wrong about Mr. Shering- 
 ham. Do not let us be unjust. I am not 
 sure about that ball-trick of his; but I 
 suspect it is a blind.' 
 
 'A what, Grace?' 
 
 ' A blind. I watched him one day when 
 he was telling a cruel story of an ill-used 
 wife. He was busy all the time tossing 
 that handkerchief of his from hand to hand 
 just as you describe, and when he lifted his 
 eyes there was something in the corners of 
 them that glistened like tears.' 
 
 ' Perhaps they were tears. ' 
 
134 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 'I thought SO. There, that is all; go 
 now. I hope I have not detained you.' 
 
 ' Plenty of time,' he replied; and he was 
 off at last. 
 
 When I returned to the book-room, T 
 found Marian pondering over the scrolls 
 again; while just outside the window, 
 which was down to the ground, Heine was 
 busy twisting up a nosegay for her. 
 
 Having looked yesterday at those scrolls 
 on the end wall which faced the window, 
 Marian was now taking the long side, that 
 on which was the fireplace, and which was 
 opposite the books. She travelled along in 
 a direction away from the window, evi- 
 dently enjoying the quaint old legends, and 
 gradually making her way to the end of the 
 room. Having got there, and remembering 
 that she had read all those on the short 
 wall the day before, she was about to turn 
 away, when her glance happened to fall on 
 the scroll beneath the Fitzgerald portrait. 
 Another moment, and her eye was fixed 
 upon the bullet-hole, where the bullet itself 
 was plain enough to be seen imbedded in 
 the panel just beneath the concluding words 
 inscribed on the scroll, 'ji}t iDlIl.' She 
 placed her finger on the spot, and looked 
 
AN okphan's welcome. 135 
 
 round towards Heine, who was at the mo- 
 ment coming in to bring her his stolen gift 
 of flowers. 
 
 ' Heine ! ' she cried, as if something sharp 
 had pierced her. 
 
 'What is it, love?' he answered. 
 
 His eyes never lifting themselves from 
 the flowers, which he seemed bent on ar- 
 ranging with extraordinary care, she turned 
 to me. 
 
 ' Mrs. Elphinstone, this is a pistol-bullet.' 
 
 ' It is, my dear,' I was obliged to admit. 
 
 ' It was not here yesterday ! ' And I saw 
 her catch her breath as with a sudden spasm. 
 
 ' It is of no moment,' I said ; ' Lady 
 Letty will soon put that to rights;' but 
 she saw that I dropped my eyes from her 
 face, and she was answered. 
 
 'Oh! Heine — dear, dear Heine!' she 
 cried, ' have I watched and waked so many 
 nights, to sleep at last?' 
 
 'My beloved, I am safe now; let that 
 content you,' he said. 
 
 There was no more time for discussion. 
 The sound of wheels approaching up the 
 avenue, told us of Lady Letty's arrival. 
 In a minute or two I met her on the gravel 
 walk. 
 
136 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 As she and I entered the book-room to- 
 gether, I led Marian towards her, naming 
 her as Marian Favrel. Marian herself 
 completed the introduction. 
 
 ' Dear Lady Laetitia^ I see you do not 
 know my face — how should you? I am 
 Leonard Favrel's daughter. This is my 
 cousin Heine, Clement Favrers son.' 
 
 Heine came forward, took Lady Letty's 
 hand, and kissed it. 
 
 ' I place my Marian under your guar- 
 dianship, dear Lady Lsetitia,' he said. 
 
 Lady Letty did not reply to either of the 
 young people for a long, long time She 
 took Marian's two hands, each in one of 
 her own, holding her quite still, and look- 
 ing straight into her eyes. There was just 
 a slight perceptible quiver about the corners 
 of her mouth ; but the sweet, soft smile of 
 heartful greeting with which she had en- 
 tered the room did not leave her lips. 
 Gazing on the young face before her with 
 the deep inward look of one who listens to 
 sweet, far-off music, an expression broke 
 over her calm face that spoke of long-living 
 sorrows going slowly down into the dark- 
 ness, and of long-buried hopes leaping up 
 all at once into the light. Something of 
 
137 
 
 sweetness she was drinking in with that 
 long, lingering look — something thirsted 
 for through a starved life. 
 
 Slowly the young fingers were loosed 
 from her clasp, as she raised her arms to 
 embrace Marian. Slowly and silently those 
 old arms folded themselves round the neck 
 of the girl, as a spoiler steals upon a nest 
 lest the bird should escape. Closer and 
 closer grew the clasp, and not for a long, 
 long while was it withdrawn. Raising her 
 head at last, she said, 
 
 ' Heine Favrel, I accept the trust.' 
 
 Then, imprinting one long, yearning kiss 
 on the brow of Marian, she turned to me, 
 and said quietly, 
 
 ' If you please, my dear, I will now go to 
 my room.' 
 
138 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A TRUE WOMAN. 
 
 Better 'twere 
 That all the miseries which nature owes 
 Were mine at once. ***** 
 * * * * I will be gone. 
 Shall I stay here to do 't ? No, no, although 
 The air of Paradise did fan the house 
 And angels officed all ! I will be gone, 
 That pitiful rumour may report my flight 
 To consolate thine ear. Come night; end day ! 
 For with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away. 
 
 All's Well thai Ends Well. 
 
 Lady Letty ! how her presence seemed to 
 unite us all as with a new bond! These 
 young people were already creeping steal- 
 thily into our hearts; and the speechless 
 welcome she gave them, truer and deeper 
 than words, bore evidence on her part of 
 some love very strong for them or theirs. 
 
 On the day of her coming to us, nothing 
 worth noting passed for some hours, as 
 Lady Letty had retired to her room fatigued 
 
A TRUE WOMAN. 139 
 
 with her journey. But it was fully under- 
 stood among us all that when evening drew 
 on, and the cheerful log was sparkling on 
 the hearth, the reason of the young Favrels 
 having sought Lady Letty, would be told. 
 
 Without knowing anything of the cause 
 of the previous night's assault, it was need- 
 ful to guard against its repetition. To this 
 end my husband stationed Neptune outside 
 the book-room window, with such decided 
 instructions not to budge on any pretence 
 whatever, but to give us timely notice of 
 the approach of an intruder, that all fur- 
 ther apprehension would have been absurd. 
 We had tested the dog before now, and were 
 confident that he would let himself be torn 
 piecemeal before he would betray his trust. 
 
 Evening came. Lady Letty, who did 
 not like the full glare of the fire, took her 
 old seat in an easy chair drawn a little in 
 the shadow of the Colonel's. I sat opposite 
 them on the other side of the fire; Heine 
 and Marian Favrel in front, hand in hand. 
 
 ' I do not address myself to Lady Laetitia 
 so much as to you, Mrs. Elphinstone,' Heine 
 began. ' Your old friend knows something 
 of Marian already — you nothing. Yet you 
 took us nobly upon trust.' 
 
140 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 ' Right, Heine/ nodded Lady Letty. 
 
 ' Before I speak/ he continued, ' of that 
 domestic tyranny, from the daily witnessing 
 of which I took upon myself to withdraw 
 my beloved Marian, I must explain — that 
 is, as far as I am able — as far as it can 
 be explained — why it was that I allowed 
 a moment's misconception to exist with 
 regard to the true relations existing 
 between Marian and myself. Clement 
 Favrel ' 
 
 ' Your father,' put in Lady Letty. 
 
 Heine took no notice of the interruption, 
 but seemed to be seeking some new phrase 
 with which to reopen his explanation. 
 
 ' My object in seeking Lady Lastitia,' he 
 said, ' was to place Marian — the daughter 
 of her old friend Leonard Favrel — under 
 her care, in the face of opposition and pos- 
 sible pursuit on the part of one who had 
 assumed to himself the character of Marian's 
 guardian.' 
 
 ' Your father, Clement Favrel,' again put 
 in Lady Letty. 
 
 ' Clement Favrel,' repeated Heine ; and 
 he went on as before. 
 
 ' When, soon after our arrival at Fairfield 
 to visit for the first time the Glebe House 
 
A TKUE WOMAN. 141 
 
 — having lieard by the merest accident that 
 Lady La^titia was a frequent guest here — 
 I sought your door, Mrs. Elphin stone, sim- 
 ply to ask for Lady Letty's address, you 
 will remember that w^e had no intention of 
 entering your house. AYhen I found it a 
 little awkward to avoid doing so, a difficulty 
 arose — a difficulty which I cannot altoge- 
 ther explain. A morbid fear seized me 
 — I fear I am very morbid ; a fear seized 
 me lest our troubled faces, Marian's agitated 
 condition — in short, I feared some miscon- 
 struction if I should announce myself and 
 Miss Favrel.' 
 
 ' Why not have announced her as your 
 cousin plainly and at once, Heine?' said 
 Lady Letty. 
 
 ' Pardon me, Lady Letty,' Heine replied, 
 ' that is a question which, in the present 
 state of things, I should not be justified in 
 answering. You do not know — Marian 
 even does not know — pray excuse my being 
 more explicit; some day I hope to speak 
 plainly. Mrs. Elphinstone, have I your 
 pardon for introducing my Marian by a 
 title which she will one day bear — for anti- 
 cipating, in short, that sacred rite by the 
 blessing of which I trust before long to fold 
 
142 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 her to my heart as my beloved — my most 
 beloved wife ? ' 
 
 ' That is quite enough, I am sure, Heine,' 
 said Lady Letty. ' There, see ! Grace smiles 
 her pardon to your wife that was to be and 
 shall be, heaven willing ; so, no more of that. 
 Morbid, indeed ! you may well be morbid. 
 I only wonder, Heine Favrel, that you are 
 what I see you, a right-hearted, conscien- 
 tious man. But a youth is often liker to 
 his mother than to his father. You are 
 not one bit like your father Clement.' 
 
 'I find it difficult to speak of Clement 
 Favrel,' said Heine. 
 
 Clement Favrel, again ! what an odd way 
 of speaking of a father 1 
 
 ' Then / will speak of him,' said Lady 
 Letty. ' There were two brothers of the 
 Favrel name, Leonard the elder, Marian's 
 father, and Clement — your father, Heine. 
 Both loved, or rather I should say, both 
 were suitors to one woman, and that woman 
 an heiress. Why should I not give her a 
 name? Her name was Laetitia Dalrymple. 
 But pass on to your present trouble, Heine ; 
 I will tell my story afterwards.' 
 
 ' There is very little to say — that is, \'ery 
 little that can be said,' returned Heine. 
 
A TRUE WOMAN. 143 
 
 'Walter — my twin-brotlier, who has re- 
 turned to our old home in Canada — and I, 
 have both lived most unhappy lives. There 
 has been great disunion — frequent dissen- 
 sions in short, but none between Walter 
 and myself. Our home has been no home 
 to us. The cause of this I cannot enter 
 upon — it is too painful. Besides, it is my 
 brother's secret as well as mine, and I am 
 under a pledge to him to hold it sacred till 
 his return from Canada. Marian even is in 
 the dark. She trusts in me, and waits for 
 a time when I shall hope to make all clear 
 to her. When Marian came to live with 
 us, matters became worse. Her gentle re- 
 monstrances at the injustice with which we 
 were treated, only turned this man's anger 
 against herself. He not only upbraided 
 her for what he called her unbecoming 
 championship of me in my opposition to 
 his authority ; but, the moment he knew of 
 our engagement to each other, set his face 
 determinedly against our marriage.' 
 
 Heine paused. 
 
 ' Colonel Elphinstone,' he went on, ' can 
 you hold me blameless if I admit that I 
 opposed by every means in my power, with 
 all my manhood, the unkindness shown to 
 
144 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 a woman innocent of all offence, and that 
 woman the beloved of my heart?' 
 
 ' I can, Favrel,' said my husband. ' She 
 had a right to your protection in virtue 
 of her being a woman. Your love for her 
 could hardly deepen that claim.' 
 
 ' Thank you. I seem to have lost the 
 power of judging between right and wrong. 
 In short, I am bewildered in a maze of 
 doubts.' 
 
 He paused; then went on again. 
 
 ' The consequence of my rebellion, as it 
 was termed, was a threat against my life. 
 This shocked and alarmed Marian. Patient 
 and brave where she alone suffered, Marian 
 was haunted day and night by her fears 
 for me. It was only a day or two since 
 that I discovered, through the admission of 
 a servant, that Marian's rest has been dis- 
 turbed by her constant watchfulness lest 
 harm should come to me. Her sleepless 
 nights I could not endure to think of, and 
 at once resolved to remove her to the care 
 of Lady La^titia — how much against her 
 will, I need not say. She only yielded to 
 my wish at last, under the belief that I 
 should be safer when her tender champion- 
 ship was withdrawn. That is all our story.' 
 
A TRUE WOMAN. 145 
 
 ' Then now let me tell mine/ said Lady 
 Letty. ' But first, Heine, I must say that 
 you were to blame in not seeking me earlier. 
 I had quite lost sight of Leonard, and had 
 no idea that his only child was living, as 
 Marian tells me she was, alone in the 
 wicked heart of London, with but a single 
 servant to look after her — and in a lodging- 
 house, too! — when Clement Favrel found 
 her.' 
 
 ' We felt it scarcely right,' answered 
 Heine, ' to carry the curse of these stormy 
 passions into other homes. See what I 
 have done even now, by my sudden resolve 
 to place 3Jarian in an atmosphere of peace ! 
 Yonder bullet, which I have not the smallest 
 doubt came from Clement Favrel' s hand, 
 might have struck the heart which opened 
 with a welcome to her without question or 
 misgiving. Heaven bless and guard you, 
 Mrs. Elphinstone ! ' 
 
 ' Keep your prayers for the wicked, 
 Heine,' interposed Lady Letty; 'the good 
 have no need of them. God will protect. 
 His own. 
 
 ' But now to my tale. 
 
 ' I have lived fifty years in the world, 
 my dears,' pursued Lady Letty, ' yet I am 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 not altogether old now. I think my heart 
 is as young as ever it was. Some people 
 are young in the true sense of the word at 
 eighty; some die at a hundred and odd, 
 and have never known a day of youth in 
 their lives. 
 
 * My dears, you must not smile at an old 
 woman's love. Do not make a very com- 
 mon mistake ; do not for a moment suppose 
 that love ever dies. We bury it out of 
 sight sometimes, and fancy we have done 
 with it for ever. That is our mistake. 
 Some accident, some turning over of old 
 ground brings up its coffin again to the 
 light of day ; and then we are surprised to 
 find that our seeming dead has been buried 
 alive — has turned in its grave. The life 
 was not out of it when we laid it away, 
 wrapped in the shroud of cold custom, and 
 tombed in the darkness. Show me any- 
 thing, if you can, that dies wholly and for 
 ever, and I will grant that love may do so. 
 If not, leave me to my creed. My belief 
 is, that God so ordains love in this world 
 that it shall be mixed up with our most 
 earthly passions as well as with our di- 
 vinest dreams, in order that we may never 
 lose sight of it, but carry it about with us 
 
A TRUE WOMAN. 147 
 
 in all our works and ways — aye, and lay it 
 at His feet at last. 
 
 ^ Am I getting prosy? I dare say I am. 
 Well, now, I will tell you my story as 
 briefly as I can, for I want you to know 
 something of this man, Clement Favrel, 
 who has come amongst us with the some- 
 what odd introduction of a bullet in the 
 wall. That was no random shot, depend 
 on it. Be sure there is some deeper mean- 
 ing beneath it than we, any of us, know at 
 present. Clement Favrel is not the man 
 to venture on such a proceeding without 
 knowing very well what he is about. He 
 is not one to put his head into a noose 
 without having the other end of the cord in 
 his own hand, take my word for it. Of 
 him, more by-and-by. 
 
 * When I first knew his brother Leonard, 
 we two, Leonard and I, were neither of us 
 very young. Leonard was an artist, and at 
 that time very poor. Clement, I fancy, had 
 no profession ; he lived by his wits. 
 
 ' Poor Leonard ! he was very unsuccess- 
 ful. He had great taste, I may say genius. 
 He might have become a great painter — 
 for he could do nothing but paint — but un- 
 fortunately he had a queer, quaint, archaeo- 
 
 L 2 
 
148 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 logical leaning which stood in his way. 
 People will have everything new — green, 
 with the sap of the present in it, not rich 
 with the moss of time. But he was a good 
 teacher; he taught me to paint those an- 
 tique scrolls yonder on the wall, one of 
 which, as you see, Clement has so entirely 
 spoilt that I shall have to stop up the 
 bullet-hole, and paint it over again. 
 
 ' My father took a fancy to these Favrel 
 brothers, and they had quite the run of the 
 house. Though poor, they belonged to a 
 good English family — the Favrels of West- 
 mere. I very early learned to love Leonard 
 dearly; but Clement I never liked. Yes, 
 I loved Leonard, just as I love his memory 
 to this day — no more, no less. He knew 
 nothing of this ; I guarded my secret care- 
 fully, as women do. He was very, very 
 kind, very patient with me, as a teacher; 
 but he never spoke of love. 
 
 'When I first knew Leonard, we were 
 almost as needy as he was. My father had 
 then neither riches nor standing in the 
 world. But a little time brought about a 
 great change in the relative positions of 
 us young people. Ours was but a colla- 
 teral branch of the Dalrymple family, and 
 
A TRUE WOMAN. 149 
 
 we never expected that it would be any- 
 thing more. An unusual mortality, how- 
 ever, among the leading members of the 
 family suddenly placed my father at the 
 head of our house, and opened to him the 
 wealth and honours he had never looked to 
 enjoy. But I am not going into pedigrees. 
 
 ' When that happened I was still a pupil 
 of Leonard's. My father was not one to 
 shake off the associates of his less pros- 
 perous days ; so that when we removed to 
 Hollywood, the old hereditary possession 
 of the Dalrymples, we saw as much of the 
 Favrels as ever. Leonard, as I have said, 
 had never spoken to me of love. Yet 
 sometimes I thought — but never mind 
 what I thought; I had no business to 
 think. If he loved me, he had only to 
 say so. 
 
 ' Well, a day came when he did say so. 
 His confession was very suddenly, very 
 hurriedly made. He seemed much dis- 
 turbed. He took me quite by surprise, I 
 remember. He stammered; said he had 
 loved me long; blamed himself for not 
 having spoken earlier; and was altogether 
 not himself. 
 
 ' But I loved Leonard, and I took him 
 
150 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 upon faith, doubting nothing, and believ- 
 ing truly that his hesitation and sensitive- 
 ness arose from the fact that I was now 
 the rich Lady Lsetitia Dalrymple, while 
 he was only poor, talented, ambitious 
 Leonard Favrel. 
 
 ' It was all, as I have said, very sudden. 
 He had scarcely received the assurance of 
 my affection, and placed on my finger this 
 little ring — which you see is a hoop of 
 pearls — when our tender interview was in- 
 terrupted by Clement. He entered the 
 room quickly, glanced at Leonard, and as 
 quickly withdrew. 
 
 ' No sooner was Clement gone, than 
 visitors were announced; and Leonard, 
 apparently more than ever disturbed by 
 the sight of his brother, hurried away. 
 
 ' Some hours later, as I was sitting 
 alone, very calm, and absorbed in my new 
 happiness, a note was brought to me from 
 Clement, desiring a moment's private con- 
 versation. Clement might have sought 
 me without that formality. The fact, how- 
 ever, did not strike me at the time, but 
 only occurred to me later, that the letter 
 was sent as a sort of primer for what was 
 to follow, to excite my suspicions and the 
 
A TRUE WOMAN. 151 
 
 more readily pave the way for my falling 
 into the trap laid for me. 
 
 ' It did look odd, that note coming from 
 Clement, whose presence had so visibly dis- 
 turbed his brother ; and a vague fear of I 
 know not what, had already taken the place 
 of my dearest hope, as I entered the room 
 where Clement awaited me. 
 
 ' Clement Favrel was apparently greatly 
 agitated. 
 
 ' " My dear Lady Lastitia," he said, " I 
 trust you will forgive me. My deep in- 
 terest in your happiness impels me to take 
 a step from which I should otherwise shrink 
 most sensitively — too sensitively. My 
 brother Leonard " 
 
 ' " Mr. Clement," I found courage to in- 
 terpose, " if what you have to say concerns 
 Leonard, I would rather he were present." 
 My first instinct was true, and I distrusted 
 Clement. 
 
 ' " No," he said hurriedly ; " what I have 
 to say must be said to you alone, for your 
 own sake; your distress, your confusion, 
 your indignation, would but be increased 
 by my brother's presence. First, let me 
 ask you — may I ask you one question ? " 
 
 ' " As many as you please, Mr. Favrel," 
 
152 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 I answered; but in spite of my assumed 
 calmness my heart was quaking. 
 
 ' " Are you — are you — pray pardon me; 
 you must think me strangely agitated: I 
 cannot help it. May I — may I ask if there 
 is any engagement between you and my 
 brother Leonard?" 
 
 '"Yes; I am engaged to Leonard," I 
 replied. 
 
 ' " Ah ! I feared so ; then I am too late — 
 too late." 
 
 ' Here Clement Favrel covered his face 
 with his hands — a trick he has, as you must 
 know, Heine. He hides his face from you, 
 but he watches you through his fingers. 
 I found that out afterwards; I was too 
 distressed to notice it at that moment. 
 
 * He was silent. I played with the ring 
 on my finger, till he chose to speak. 
 
 ' His next move was to take a letter 
 from his pocket. 
 
 ' " Some time back," he said, " I knew 
 this would happen ; I warned Leonard 
 strongly to forego his — his — I must speak 
 the word — ^his dishonourable purpose." 
 
 ' " Dishonourable ! " 
 
 ' " Can anything be more dishonourable, 
 more despicable than to simulate a love 
 
A TRUE WOMAN. 153 
 
 that — that — in short, to simulate an affec- 
 tion that has no existence, for merely mer- 
 cenary purposes?" 
 
 '"Mr. Favrel, what do you mean?" I 
 demanded. " I will not hear this ; it is false." 
 
 ' He approached the letter to my hand. 
 
 ' " This," he said, " came to me during 
 my absence from Hollywood. It was 
 written by Leonard in answer to some 
 futile remonstrances on my part. I had re- 
 solved to destroy the letter — you see the 
 edge is burnt. I had already thrown it on 
 the fire, firmly determined to take no step 
 in the matter; but we have duties to 
 society — duties towards our friends — duties 
 towards those dearest to us, and — and, on 
 second thoughts, I snatched the letter from 
 the flames. Am I doing my duty in plac- 
 ing it before you? I think so; I trust so." 
 
 ' I took the letter he offered me. There 
 I was wrong. God knows I paid a life- 
 long penalty for that one error. But the 
 temptation was too strong for me Yet I 
 can truly say that something better and 
 worthier than mere curiosity moved me. 
 The desire to know the worst that could be 
 charged against Leonard, and to defend him, 
 was at the root of the error I committed. 
 
154 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 ' Xone of Clement's obscure hints had at 
 all prepared me for the real contents of 
 that letter. In this lay the depth and 
 cunning of the artifice he used. Had the 
 letter contained a confession that Leonard 
 was about to marry me in order to estab- 
 lish himself well in the world, I believe I 
 should have been weak enough to let our 
 engagement, so recently made, hold good 
 in spite of such a disclosure. I really 
 cannot say. I had no time for any such 
 thought or question. The letter contained 
 not that confession, but one far more 
 humiliating to a woman of any delicacy of 
 feeling. It contained an admission that Leo- 
 nard had at last taken compassion on me; 
 that he had discovered by a thousand un- 
 mistakable indications that I had long been 
 in love with him; and ended by saying 
 that as he had no particular partiality else- 
 where, he had resolved to make me happy ! 
 My fortune, it was added, was certainly a 
 consideration, though a secondary one. 
 
 ' I dropped the letter at Clement Favrel's 
 feet. How I left the room I do not now know. 
 
 ' 31 y first act was to make preparations 
 for a sudden visit to an old friend at some 
 distance from Hollywood. When Leonard 
 
A TRUE WOMAN. 155 
 
 Favrel came that evening as usual, I was 
 really too indisposed to meet him, and 
 made that my excuse for being a prisoner 
 in my own room. The next morning at an 
 early hour I was miles away from the 
 scene of my infatuation and my misery. 
 
 ' That was Clement Favrel's doing. 
 
 ' The letter was a pure forgery. The 
 handwriting of the brothers was much 
 alike; a very little ingenuity was needful 
 to make them appear identical. 
 
 ' Of course Leonard wrote to me. But 
 I was not to be moved. He was ignorant of 
 the cruel deception practised against us both, 
 and every word he said seemed but a con- 
 firmation of the lie ; while it was impossible 
 for me to argue with him a question that 
 shocked my womanly feeling beyond all 
 power of expression. I simply and decidedly 
 professed myself unwilling to carry out the 
 engagement too hastily entered into, and 
 so insisted on closing the correspondence. 
 
 ' My father knew nothing whatever of 
 the matter. The sudden engagement and 
 its as sudden reversal were matters to 
 which he was no party. Doubtless he 
 thought some of our proceedings strange 
 enough ; but at the most decisive moment 
 
156 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 he was absent, and was, besides, too much 
 absorbed in his own pursuits and interests 
 to inquire very closely into affairs of little 
 seeming moment. My poor father had in- 
 deed been too careless in admitting the Fav- 
 rels to so close an intimacy, without pos- 
 sessing a more certain knowledge of their 
 principles. Leonard never did and never 
 would have betrayed the trust reposed in 
 him, for I do not count his honest love for 
 me a crime, nor the expression of it; but 
 Clement, Clement could and did betray 
 that trust. 
 
 ' It was nearly six months after this, I 
 think, when one of the brothers again ap- 
 peared on the scene. Both had left the 
 neighbourhood of Hollywood at the time of 
 my flight from home after my interview with 
 Clement. It was Clement who returned. 
 
 ' It was not long before I received a pro- 
 posal of marriage from Clement Favrel! 
 This it was, I think, that first opened my 
 eyes to the truth. What I said to him I 
 scarcely know. I was not so calm then, 
 my dears, as I am now. I remember only 
 that the whole plot seemed to be laid open 
 to me in an instant. I felt quite sure at 
 once that Leonard had never so spoken, or 
 
A TRUE WOJMAN. 157 
 
 written, or thought of me, but had loved 
 me truly and deeply from the very first; 
 and that all his strange hesitation and dis- 
 tress had arisen out of his brother's taunts, 
 and his own sensitive dread lest he should 
 appear to be seeking my hand solely because 
 my power to raise him in the world was at 
 length assured by my father's unlooked-for 
 accession to wealth and position. I charged 
 Clement with the forgery, which he had 
 not the face to deny, or did not care to do 
 so; pleading only what he sacrilegiously 
 called his love for me in extenuation of the 
 act. 
 
 ' Very bitter words I believe I spoke to 
 him. They made no impression, I dare 
 say. The man has no heart. He had his 
 answer and he left me. We never met 
 again. 
 
 ' It was too late to retrieve the past. 
 Leonard was gone abroad, I knew not 
 whither. Had I known where to find 
 him, what step could I fittingly have 
 taken? It was delicate ground. So we 
 two were parted for life. 
 
 'But enough of that. As years went 
 on, news came to me of the marriage of 
 Leonard. 
 
158 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 ' Of Clement's marriage I knew nothing ; 
 did not even know that he had married. 
 Tell me of your mother, Heine. Did he 
 use her well?' 
 
 ' My dear Lady Lsetitia,' answered Heine, 
 'I know not how to reply to you. Will 
 you think very unkindly of me if I refuse 
 to answer that question? ' 
 
 ' Not a word more, Heine ; as a son you 
 are right to spare your father, where it is 
 possible,' said Lady Letty. 
 
 ' You misunderstand me,' stammered 
 Heine. ' I — I do not feel that I owe a son's 
 duty to the man Clement Favrel.' 
 
 ' I beg you will say no more, my dear 
 Heine. Let the dead past be buried in 
 your mother's grave «' 
 
 'Lady Lsetitia, I — I cannot allow such 
 an error to — to — the truth is that — that my 
 mother — I have no reason to suppose that 
 my mother is dead. I could better, far 
 better, bear to believe that she were so.' 
 
 ' Heine ! ' cried Lady Letty. 
 
 Heine was dumb. 
 
 ' Well, well,' she said, ' let us drop the 
 subject. I see that there is mystery — there 
 is pain in it. There, I have done. Marian, 
 my Leonard's daughter, and now mine 
 
A TEUE WOMAN. 159 
 
 by adoption, you have heard my frag- 
 ment of a history of a marred life, and 
 you now know your poor father's early 
 love-story before he married your mother. 
 Grace, you now, too, know something 
 more of your new neighbour, Clement 
 Favrel, than you did last night when he 
 sent his representative in the shape of a 
 leaden bullet through that window. Colonel, 
 be warned. That man is mischievous; 
 though not with fire-arms. His batteries 
 are all masked batteries. Have no fears 
 for your wife; she is quite safe. And you, 
 Marian, my child, dismiss from your mind 
 all terrors about Heine. Depend upon it 
 Clement Favrel has other game afoot just 
 now. Time will show.' 
 
160 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 AN OLD ENEMY. 
 
 A man *•***••** 
 * * tliat hath a mint of phrases in his brain j 
 One whom the music of his own vain tongue 
 Doth ravish like enchanting- harmony. 
 A man * * whom right and wrong 
 Have chose as umpire of their mutiny. 
 How you delight, my lords, I know not, I, 
 But I protest I love to hear him lie. 
 
 Loves Labours Lost. 
 
 As the last words fell from the lips of Lady 
 Letty, a low growl from Neptune told of 
 danger near at hand. 
 
 ' Sit still, Heine/ said the Colonel. ' It 
 is not fitting that you and this madman 
 should meet. Remove your wife to yonder 
 sofa.' (That was the Colonel's mistake; 
 he had forgotten that they were not mar- 
 ried.) ' Grace, go with them. I will see 
 to this affair. Lady Letty ' 
 
 ' I am quite well where I am,' said Lady 
 Letty. 
 
AN OLD ENEMY. lol 
 
 The Colonel's answer was, to wheel our 
 old friend, chair and all, into the corner 
 beside the window, opposite to that other 
 sofa-corner where the young people and I 
 had placed ourselves. Then, taking down 
 his pistols, which hung out of all reach 
 save his own, he opened the window, and 
 walked out. 
 
 ' Now,' said Lady Letty, ' make your- 
 selves quite easy, each and all of you, my 
 dears. There is not the slightest cause for 
 alarm. I know Clement Favrel as well as 
 I know myself, perhaps better, and I know 
 him to be a very bad man, but an uncom- 
 monly good actor. All this is bluster, and 
 nothing more. Look at the position of that 
 bullet. Clement Favrel is an excellent shot 
 — never misses his mark ; yet, when he sent 
 that bullet into the centre of yonder wall, 
 Grace tells me that the Colonel and you, 
 Heine, had drawn your chairs to the fire.' 
 
 ' I own I have sometimes suspected that 
 Clement Favrel was not really in a passion/ 
 said Heine. 
 
 Clement Favrel again ! It was very odd. 
 
 'That is just it, Heine; half of it is 
 acting,' said Lady Letty. ' That man can- 
 not walk straio:ht throup-h the Vv'orld: he 
 
 VOL. I. "SI 
 
162 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 must wriggle. When he is not acting he 
 is attitudinising.' 
 
 '• He thinks himself ill-used,' said Heine. 
 
 * Of course he does ; such men always 
 do. But hark! that is the Colonel's voice: 
 he seems to have some difficulty in keeping 
 the dog from springing upon some one.' 
 
 We could hear the repeated ' Down, 
 down, sir — Neptune, down, I tell you ! ' 
 
 At that moment the discharge of a pistol 
 made Marian start. Heine rushed to the 
 Colonel's rescue. As it chanced, there was 
 no need. In another second both appeared, 
 and not alone. The Colonel led in, grasping 
 him by the arm, Clement Favrel. Heine 
 followed. 
 
 Lady Letty rose slowly up and faced her 
 old enemy. But before a word could be 
 spoken, our ball-playing friend, Mr. Sher- 
 ingham, the magistrate, was announced, 
 and with him Dr. Percy. My husband, it 
 appeared, had told Mr. Sheringham of the 
 previous night's attack, and he was here in 
 consequence. 
 
 Perhaps there never was a prisoner who 
 took his capture so coolly as Clement Favrel. 
 Eeleased from the grip that had held him 
 as in a vice, he threw himself into the first 
 
AN OLD ENEMY. 163 
 
 vacant chair, and leaning one arm on the 
 back of it, reposed his cheek on his hand 
 in an attitude of melancholy which seemed 
 to say, ' Behold me here, the most amiable 
 and persecuted man in existence.' As Lady 
 Letty observed afterwards, ' that was Cle- 
 ment Favrel all over.' 
 
 Mr. Sheringham was the first to break a 
 silence which was beginning to be almost 
 ludicrous, since everybody stood looking at 
 the prisoner, who retained his position un- 
 moved, the discharged pistol dangling in 
 the unoccupied hand which hung by his 
 side. 
 
 'Will you do me the favour to inform 
 me, Mr. Favrel, senior,' asked }»ir. Shering- 
 ham, ' on what pretence you have thought 
 fit on two successive nights to favour my 
 friend Colonel Elphinstone and his family 
 with a little ball-practice?' 
 • ' By what authority, sir, may I ask, do 
 you address that question to me?' asked 
 Clement Favrel. 
 
 ' By the authority of a magistrate of the 
 county and justice of the peace — John 
 Sheringham, at your service,' was the an- 
 swer. 
 
 ' Oh, very well, very well. I suppose I 
 
 M 2 
 
164 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 am to submit to this. It is just what I 
 might have expected. This is not the first 
 cabal entered into against me. Doubtless 
 you are all in league for the ruin and de- 
 gradation of an unfortunate man. I am 
 quite prepared for it, quite prepared, Mr. 
 Sheringham. It is all a matter of the most 
 profound indifference to me. I am tired of 
 my life ; the sooner there is an end of it the 
 better.' 
 
 ' Dear me ! not quite so bad as that/ said 
 Mr. Sheringham, with what I thought was 
 a roguish twinkle in his shrewd grey eye 
 at this novel mode of carrying off an awk- 
 ward position; 'not so bad as that, Mr. 
 Favrel ; only a misdemeanour, I hope and 
 trust; not punishable by death — oh dear, 
 no! a little treadmill, perhaps, nothing 
 more. Explain, sir, pray explain; I am 
 all attention.' 
 
 'Mr. Sheringham, you see before you a 
 wrecked and ruined man ; a man destined 
 to be the sport of fortune, the victim of 
 domestic brawls ; one to whom the name 
 of home is a mockery ; one whose sacrifices 
 for his family are not appreciated, whose 
 peace is destroyed, whose hearth is — is — is 
 — in short, the unspeakable injuries heaped 
 
AN OLD ENEMY. 1G5 
 
 upon an unoffending being by those whose 
 duty it should be to extend the olive-branch 
 of conciliation on the shrine of affection, 
 are — are — are ' 
 
 '• Calm yourself, my dear sir,' cried Mr. 
 Sheringham, with mock gravity, 'and we 
 will, if you please, proceed to the more im- 
 mediate matter in hand. May I ask with 
 what intention you last night discharged 
 a pistol to the decided detriment of my 
 friend's panelling, and to-night repeated 
 the offence by sending a bullet but a few 
 yards clear of the weather-vane on the top 
 of my friend's stables, and lodging it among 
 the pigeon-holes?' 
 
 ' If this subject is one which affords you 
 amusement, Mr. Sheringham, pursue it, by 
 all means; play with it; make me your 
 sport ; stretch on the rack my already tor- 
 tured feelings by your inane remarks. Do 
 it, sir, do it,' insisted the prisoner. 
 
 ' If you refuse to answer me as a gentle- 
 man, Mr. Favrel,' continued his questioner, 
 ' I fear I shall be under the painful neces- 
 sity of dealing with this matter in a serious 
 form. It will be, I am sorry to say, my 
 imperative duty to ' 
 
 ' Zounds, sir ! ' cried Clement, suddenly 
 
166 SNOODED JES SALINE. 
 
 leaping up from his seat, ' I am not a man 
 to be trifled with. The pangs of the in- 
 jured shall no longer be exposed to the 
 gaze of the rabble multitude. I tell you 
 I am weary of my life — weary of one 
 long agonised struggle against assaults too 
 cruel, calumnies too crushing. It shall be 
 ended by my own hand. That thankless 
 boy shall behold the last refuge of a mar- 
 tyr. Let him witness the effect of his 
 prolonged insubordination. Let my last 
 
 gasp ' 
 
 He was brought to a stop rather sud- 
 denly. The Colonel, who had watched 
 him all the while he made this last speech, 
 fumbling in the breast of his coat for a 
 second pistol, thrust his own hand quickly 
 in the same direction, saying quietly, ' Let 
 me assist you;' and, drawing forth the 
 still undischarged weapon, laid it coolly on 
 the mantelpiece. My husband's unmoved 
 manner, together with Mr. Sheringham's 
 contemptuous dealing with him and subse- 
 quent determination, clearly drove Clement 
 Favrel to his wits' end, and he sank do^vn 
 into his chair, once more resuming his at- 
 titude of abandonment and injured inno- 
 cence. 
 
AN OLD ENEMY. 167 
 
 Lady Letty now interfered. She turned 
 first to Heine. 
 
 ' Heine Favrel,' she said, ' this is no scene 
 for you or for your cousin. I must end it. 
 Clement Favrel,' she continued, addressing 
 that worthy, ' if you refuse to answer Mr. 
 Sheringham, perhaps you will condescend 
 to reply to LaBtitia Dalrymple?' 
 
 All at once the man was surprised out of 
 his fictions. His acting seemed brought to 
 an abrupt close. In stage phrase, that name 
 of ' Lffititia Dalrymple' was a perfect 'gag.' 
 He sat up erect in his seat, and stared at 
 her as if he sav/ a ghost. It was evident 
 he had not the most remote recollection of 
 the woman he had once deeply injured. 
 
 ' If,' she went on, ' I am able to bear 
 witness for you that you have only been 
 playing the part of a great lubberly school- 
 boy — and, I must add, an exceedingly bad 
 specimen of that mischievous fraternity — 
 and if I am ready to be your bond that 
 you will never again dare to invade a home 
 whose peace passes your understanding; if 
 I am willing to free you at once from the 
 charges which the law is able to bring 
 against you, and which you have drawn 
 down on yourself by a madness, the chief 
 
168 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 peculiarity of which is that its method pre- 
 dominates over its delusions; — will you, I 
 say, on tnose conditions, do me one small 
 favour in return ? Stay ; do not answer me 
 in a hurry ; hear me out. I see you are 
 looking towards the door. Are you mea- 
 suring your distance from it ? Or were 
 you looking up at the clock? Do not be 
 alarmed about the hour. It is not at all 
 late. If I should detain you beyond a safe 
 hour for your return to the Glebe, unarmed 
 as you are, I dare say either or both of the 
 two special constables whom I saw behind 
 Mr. Sheringham, as he entered to pay us 
 his very flattering and timely call, will en- 
 gage to see you to a place of safety. My 
 proposal is this, that you will be good 
 enough to favour me with your objections 
 to the marriage of my esteemed young 
 friend, Mr. Heine Favrel, with his cousin. 
 Miss Marian Favrel, the child of your dead 
 brother, Leonard?' 
 
 At the mention of his brother's name, 
 Clement Favrel's face seemed for a moment 
 to wear its natural expression. He looked 
 very grave. When he next spoke, it was 
 in a voice altogether different — doubtless 
 his natural voice. 
 
AN OLD ENEMY. 169 
 
 ' Lady Laetitia, I am the last man to 
 stand in the way of what this head- 
 strong boy may be deluded enough to 
 consider his happiness. If he is such a 
 vain fool as to place any confidence in a 
 girl who can countenance him in his insane 
 rebellion ' 
 
 ' Hush, Clement ! (and you, Heine, be 
 still ! ) Pray remember that there is such 
 a thing as going a little too far. The pa- 
 tience even of my fifty years has its limits. 
 ISot one word against Marian Favrel, if 
 you value your liberty. Those years have 
 worn me doAvn into cahnness, and a true 
 heart has brought me God's peace at last; 
 but I am not quite a stone. This girl is 
 the child of the man I loved as woman 
 only loves. She is my daughter from this 
 hour, and her happiness is in my keeping. 
 But she shall not marry, if I can help it, 
 without your consent. Will you give it 
 or not?' 
 
 ' Oh ! I am nobody ; I have nothing what- 
 ever to say in the matter. She may marry 
 who she likes and when she likes ; it makes 
 not the slightest difference to me. That 
 boy Heine has set me at defiance. He 
 may go his own way. He will repent it ; 
 
170 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 but it is no business of mine. I have no 
 son.' 
 
 ' Mr. Sheringham, please to make a note 
 of this. Dr. Percy, you are another wit- 
 ness. That is quite enough, Clement Favrel. 
 No one has any further wish to detain you . 
 I think I know enough of you to feel quite 
 sure that you will not react the same scene 
 on the same stage. This is the door of exit.' 
 
 So saying, Lady Letty threw wide the 
 glass door. 
 
 Clement Favrel rose regally, rather like 
 a man who dismisses an inferior audience 
 than one who is himself dismissed; and 
 moving across the room with a leisurely, 
 swinging gait, passed out of eyeshot like 
 one who held the world at his command. 
 
 Poor Heine ! as this exhibition was going 
 on, he had buried his face from view. No 
 one spoke for some time, and the silence 
 itself was painful. Dr. Percy was the first 
 who found a voice. Going up to the two 
 young people — for Marian had held firm 
 by her lover — he took the trembling hand 
 of the girl kindly between both his own. 
 
 ' Who gives this woman to be married to 
 this man?' 
 
 ' I, Laetitia, in the name of Leonard, her 
 
AN OLD ENEMY. 171 
 
 father. Marian, dear Heine, my children 
 both, see! here on my old finger is the 
 little, queer, old-fashioned, worn-out ring 
 I showed you just now; a thing of no value 
 in the world, save for an old memory. It 
 was Leonard's once, this pale pearl hoop. 
 Had he ever placed on the finger it en- 
 circles, a plain gold ring you know the use 
 of, this hoop was to have guarded it. That 
 was its history and intention. Leonard 
 never did so. Take it, Heine. It will fit 
 Marian's finger. Come, children, this is 
 your betrothal hour ; do not let it be given 
 to sorrow.' 
 
 So the little pearl hoop, the relic and 
 remembrancer of a great love, passed to 
 the finger of Marian from the hand of her 
 lover. 
 
 Lady Letty embraced them both warmly. 
 So did the Colonel and I. And when the 
 two, Mr. Sheringham and Dr. Percy, had 
 taken their leave, we gathered round the 
 household fire with a feeling of subdued 
 happiness. 
 
 All but Heine. 
 
 On Heine's mind there was a weight ; a 
 burden heavier than ever; greater even 
 than could be caused by the natural feel- 
 
172 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 ing of shame which an ingenuous youth 
 might well be supposed to writhe under in 
 the presence of such a charlatan, to whom 
 he was bound by the tie of a son to a 
 father. 
 
 What that burden was, it was long before 
 we, any of us, suspected. 
 
173 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A SPY IN THE CAMP. 
 
 My honour's siicli — 
 My chastity's the jewel of our house, 
 Bequeathed down from many ancestors ; 
 Which 'twere the greatest obloquy i' the world 
 For me to lose. 
 
 AWs Well thai Ends Well. 
 
 It was one of the early days of a warm 
 July. The hay-harvest was all but ga- 
 thered in. Some light rain-showers had 
 delayed the final carrying for the season; 
 but the hay was parcelled out, tossed up 
 into a few large hillocks of sweet fodder, 
 dotting the landscape here and there with 
 the miniature mountains of a plenteous 
 land. Still evening fell down on the smooth- 
 shorn fields, and the last lingering stroller 
 had drawn homewards, bearing away with 
 him the rich scent of trailing hay-bands 
 clinging round his feet. 
 
174 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 Never weary of sucli scenes, revelling in 
 our own sweet home-life of undisturbed 
 enjoyment, Ralph and I had wandered into 
 one of these large grass -land fields, the one 
 adjoining the wide paddock that flanked 
 the Glebe Farm. 
 
 The scent of the hay tempted us to sit 
 down and rest at the foot of one of the 
 hillocks and nestle among its sweets. Ralph 
 drew his arm round my waist, and we 
 leaned back against the yielding mound 
 behind us ; he amusing himself from time 
 to time by flinging handfuls of the loose 
 hay over me. 
 
 A thousand merry tales we told. He 
 sang to me. We laughed. The hay was 
 sweet, but sweeter was the game. The 
 lavish hand of Nature had scattered all her 
 fruits into our lap, and we shared the feast 
 together. We shared it with as fresh and 
 ever-new a delight as those who are younger 
 to life and the world. There might be 
 better things in that world, but we knew 
 not of them. Like those poorer and more 
 barren little feeders in the city's heart, to 
 whom a few beads, a scrap of coloured 
 crockery or glass, or bit of waving artifi- 
 cially-tinted grass makes up a banquet, we 
 
A SPY IN THE CA^IP. 175 
 
 enjoyed all richly. To us the woods and 
 fields were the door-step pleasures of poor 
 children. 
 
 ' I am a favoured mortal, Grace/ said my 
 Ralph. ' As if it were not enough to have 
 been born to greatness, in the wealth of 
 these fair possessions, but I must have 
 greatness thrust upon me in your little 
 person.' 
 
 ' Thrust upon you ! Was ever a speech 
 so ungallant as that ! Know, sir, that I am 
 the greatness you achieved.' 
 
 ' The winning you, was not a very diffi- 
 cult achievement, was it?' 
 
 ' Well, I hardly know. I think you ac- 
 complished the feat by a sort of gradual, 
 undermining process — very slow, very in- 
 sidious. No one knew you were at work, 
 till all at once the ground gave way, 
 and ' 
 
 ' And I held the fort, eh ? Seriously, 
 my Grace, it was the best military opera- 
 tion I ever carried out in my life. If there 
 is one thing a man feels more intensely 
 than another in the possession of a wife 
 like you, it is the entire safety he has with 
 her, the safety of his honour and the honour 
 of his house.' 
 
176 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 ' Surely, with most women these are 
 safe?' 
 
 ' With many I hope, but not with all. 
 How many a man has trusted as I trust 
 you, and yet seen the woman he has brought 
 home and set proudly in the house of his 
 fathers, make shipwreck of his noble name.' 
 
 ' Yours has been a long unsullied line, 
 Ralph.' 
 
 'It has, Grace. The Elj)hinstones date 
 back since before the Conquest. Through 
 all that long descent there has been found 
 no one of all our line, neither husband nor 
 wife, who has left a single stain, or the 
 shadow of a stain, upon the name. Root 
 and branch the family tree has flourished 
 through all those centuries in the pride of 
 an unblighted growth. Conjugal truth, the 
 integrity of the marriage bond, the strict 
 obligation of its vow, and the purity of the 
 love that sanctified it, have, through all 
 those long ages, been the boast of the 
 Elphinstones. When I gave you the name, 
 Grace, I felt how safe was the ancestral 
 jewel I gave into your keeping. To think 
 otherwise, would be to go mad. From any 
 other quarter a stain upon the name might 
 be indeed a secret life-burden, almost greater 
 
A SPY IN THE CxVMP. 177 
 
 than I could bear. Any transgression of 
 my own against the loyalty I have vowed to 
 you, would, when the miserable infatua- 
 tion was over, fairly bow me to the earth. 
 But my wife's failure in duty would be to 
 me death itself, nothing less. You feel 
 this, do you not ? ' 
 
 ' I do.' 
 
 ' Do you wonder, then, with what a pas- 
 sionate tenderness I fold you to my heart, 
 being what you are ? ' 
 
 ' You made me feel this, though you 
 never said it to me, when you asked me to 
 marry you. You spoke like one who re- 
 poses a great trust.' 
 
 ' When was it that you first learned to 
 love me ? ' 
 
 ' I loved Lilian first, and poor May. 
 From their lips it was that I heard your 
 praises. Then May died so soon ; but one 
 short year after T came orphaned to Fair- 
 field, and May was gone. We were all 
 oppressed by that going out of the mild 
 light of May's life. There was darkness 
 amongst us for very, very long. 
 
 ' When the new dawn found us, I cannot 
 remember; but it must have been years 
 after. Happy household ways coming back, 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
178 SNOODED JES SALINE. 
 
 I think, drew me more to your side. Lilian 
 was too young to be your companion. It 
 was always " Grace " you called for and 
 looked to for every comfort that you 
 needed. 
 
 ' Then, you had a sudden illness ; you 
 remember? You had received some bad 
 news. Some deep heart-pain had come to 
 you, and you sank down at once before it 
 like a man who is shot. You never told 
 me what it was ; I never asked you.' 
 
 ' No more — no more of that, Grace ! 
 What on earth has drawn us into such a 
 serious mood on such a night as this?' 
 
 At that moment we were both startled 
 by a sound that, to speak the language^ of 
 romance, ^ made the welkin ring.' 
 
 The sound was close to us. It was a 
 familiar — quite a household — sound, but 
 inordinate in degree. 
 
 The sound was neither more nor less 
 than a sneeze ! 
 
 Kalph leaped up ; I rose too. 
 
 ' What the devil's that ? ' said he. 
 
 He moved round to the other side of the 
 haycock, and I heard him give some solid 
 resisting substance a resounding kick. 
 
 Then directly uprose from under the 
 
A SPY IN THE CAMP. 179 
 
 hay, yawning and stretching his arms in 
 the best-acted attitude of suddenly dis- 
 turbed sleep I ever saw, Clement Favrel. 
 
 ' I hope, Mr. Favrel, I have not inter- 
 rupted a very pleasant repose,' said my 
 husband. ' Excuse me, but really I took 
 you for a scare-crow. Pray continue 
 your slumbers, sir, if you find your night- 
 quarters to your taste. I had no idea 
 that an out-post was picketed here. Pray 
 accept my apologies for myself and my 
 boot.' 
 
 ' Oh, do not name it — do not name it. 
 Colonel Elphinstone,' answered Mr. Favrel. 
 'Perhaps I should offer your wife some 
 apologies for my unintentional intrusion 
 upon her privacy. The soothing influence 
 of the lovely July night upon a frame ex- 
 hausted by mental suffering must plead my 
 excuse. To you, sir, I have nothing to 
 say. I shall take good care — be assured I 
 shall take good care in future to avoid a 
 collision with one in whose house I have 
 already met with sufficient indignities, in- 
 dignities which to a man and a gentle- 
 man ' 
 
 ' Good-night to you — good-night, Mr. 
 Favrel,' said Ralph, stopphig him short, for 
 
 N 2 
 
180 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 he was by this time out of all patience with 
 the man's ridiculous ways. 
 
 ' Oh, good-night — good-night, Mrs. El- 
 phinstone — good-night by all means.' And 
 Clement Favrel moved off with the same 
 grand, monarchical air and gait with which 
 he had recently made his exit out of our 
 study window. 
 
 'What could the fellow want there?' 
 said Ralph, as the intruder moved off. 
 
 'He must have heard us, surely; we 
 talked loud enough. Hang the fellow ! I 
 have a good mind to horsewhip him. 
 
 ' Did you ever hear such a sneeze ? He'll 
 have the hay-fever to-morrow, that is one 
 comfort.' 
 
 As I followed this strange man's exit 
 with my eyes, I fancied I heard the sound 
 of a low chuckle. His amusement, then, at 
 something he had overheard, was, it seemed, 
 greater than either his sense of shame at 
 beino; cauorht in the attitude of a listener, 
 or his annoyance at the indignity put 
 upon him by my husband's free and easy 
 manner. 
 
 ' Could he have been wilfully playing the 
 eaves dropper? ' I said. 
 
 ' I suspect so. Do you know, Grace, I 
 
A SPY IN THE CAMP. 181 
 
 would give some of these fair fields — and 
 look round on them, love, and see how fair 
 they are, fairer, dearer for your presence 
 than ever they were before — that this 
 wretched man had not overheard some 
 things I said to you/ 
 
 ' What things ? ' 
 
 ' Save to you, my wife, J never yet so 
 fully confessed my one great weakness.' 
 
 ' All you said was right — noble as your- 
 self.' 
 
 ' Perhaps right in the spirit; but I carry 
 my theory to excess. I am quite aware that 
 I do so. More morbidly sensitive than 
 Heine Favrel is on every conceivable sub- 
 ject, am I on that of ' 
 
 ' Family honour ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, family honour.' 
 
 ' But why should you mind all the world 
 knowing this ? ' 
 
 ' For this reason. This peculiarit}^ of 
 mine — you see I know it, but I cannot 
 mend it — this peculiarity of mine is just 
 the sore spot through ^vhich a man can be 
 most easily wounded; it never heals over, 
 and but a faint thrust widens it, and makes 
 it mortal. This weakness once known, and 
 the whole world is ready to search into and 
 
182 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 probe the long-concealed sore. On this one 
 point I am an arrant coward. To silence 
 men's tongues, I am capable of bribing to 
 any extent.' 
 
 'Bribing!' 
 
 ' I mean — I mean, had I anything to 
 hide — a bar sinister anywhere — any, the 
 very faintest, shadow on my name, or on 
 the name of any soul belonging to me, 
 living or dead, here or above, I should be 
 the open sport of any man's malice, his 
 quarry, his prey. To silence such, I should 
 part with all the wealth I had, and be a 
 ruined man.' 
 
 I listened with greedy ears. I pondered 
 his words as if life and death were in them. 
 They were very dark to me, but I did not 
 question him further; but rather prayed 
 silently for light by which to read them 
 better. My one thought was, that if ever 
 a day should come when so rich, so noble, 
 so tender a nature should meet wrong or 
 disgrace, he should find in me no weakness 
 and no tears, but one full of strength to 
 fight his battle for him, silently, devoutly. 
 
183 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 THE NEW ELIXIR. 
 
 Eacli outward sense expanded to a soul, 
 
 And every feeling tuned into a truth ; 
 And all the bosom's shatter'd strings made whole, 
 
 And all its worn-out powers retouched with youth. 
 
 T. K. IIeryey. 
 
 It was at about this time that I made a 
 discovery. 
 
 Whatever may have been the specula- 
 tions of the old philosophers, with few, if 
 any, of the mystics of modern times has it 
 been the folly or fashion — equivalent terms 
 very often — to indulge in dreams of that 
 wonder-working elixir, sweeter and more 
 precious than Lethe or Ennoe, whose gift 
 was the renewing and perpetuating of 
 youth ; that divine elixir which no earthly 
 lip shall taste, and of which none shall 
 drink till the springs are set free in a 
 brighter world, and the fountains of heaven 
 
184 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 well up in the face of man made im- 
 mortal. 
 
 Yet here, in a lonely Grange embowered 
 by woods, in one solitary homestead out of 
 the many nestling in the green hearts of 
 hills and sending up the wreathed smoke 
 from happy hearths like incense to the 
 quiet skies ; here, in a home sanctified by 
 such a love as rarely beats its glad wings 
 against the breezes of the dawns of earth, 
 a dreamy German fabler would have said 
 that the heaven-sent waters of some wonder- 
 working spring, medicined like the famed 
 draught of old, must have bubbled up among 
 our secluded wolds, losing themselves in no 
 rivulet and hurrying to no sea, but stealing 
 silently and surely on their mysterious errand 
 to the thirsting lips of one favoured mortal. 
 
 This was my discovery. 
 
 Ralph was growing young. 
 
 Whither had gone, what had become of, 
 those stray white hairs that had stolen to 
 view as if to convey their first message of 
 care — like those thin lines of light which 
 break upon the watchers when the shutters 
 are closed heedlessly, and the house is 
 darkened for a death, and the mourners are 
 weeping, and the creeping in of heaven's 
 
THE NEW ELIXIR. 185 
 
 light is the first suggestion of how utterly 
 this world is changed ? 
 
 They were gone. They must have 
 fallen off in the renewing time of hairs, 
 and no others of that hue had replaced 
 them. 
 
 Whither, again, had vanished that sharp 
 curve about the mouth — that line of 
 sorrow that troubled the smile, and cut the 
 beautiful face of gladness like a sword ? 
 
 That was gone, too ; dropped into the 
 scabbard of time, where never dropped the 
 wrinkles of ' lean Cassius.' 
 
 Happiness, the true and only elixir, had 
 wrought this change. 
 
 Little less striking, yet less physically 
 marked, was the change that was stealing 
 over Lady Letty from the same cause. 
 
 Li Marian's young life and fresh warm 
 hopes. Lady Letty seemed to be living her 
 own youth over again. How deep and 
 lasting had been her woman's affection for 
 Leonard Favrel, the lover of her youth, 
 was evident now in the entire abandon- 
 ment with which, in spite of her fifty years, 
 she gave herself up, heart and soul, to pro- 
 mote the happiness of his child, so newly 
 and unexpectedly given to her care. 
 
186 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 As for Mariac, the trials to which she 
 had recently been subjected, her watchful 
 nights, and the constant weight of dread 
 under which she had lived in the house of 
 her uncle, Clement Favrel, had seriously 
 undermined her health. And now that 
 Marian had, both by her lover's wish and by 
 Lady Letty's will, taken up her abode with 
 her new guardian and friend, and it was 
 fully settled that she should remain at the 
 Grange as long as Lady Letty herself re- 
 mained with us, her anxiety about Heine, 
 who had returned to the Glebe, was rather 
 increased than diminished. It was in vain 
 Lady Letty urged that she knew Clement 
 Favrel perfectly well, and was convinced 
 that his fury and bombast were no more 
 genuine than his sentimentalities and his 
 tears ; that his vagaries of manner were 
 not natural, but assumed ; that his storms 
 of passion were fictitious, and his threats 
 mere air-bubbles ; that to appear eccentric 
 was his eccentricity ; and that in habitually 
 simulating that which he was not, his 
 design was to give himself scope occasionally 
 to be really what he seemed, without the risk 
 of attracting more than ordinary attention, 
 and so to work out at will his nefarious 
 
THE NEW ELIXIR. 187 
 
 schemes, while he was at any time able to 
 say, ' I do this or that not of malice afore- 
 thought, but simply because I am a genius, 
 and therefore erratic. It pleases me to 
 imitate a signature, or to play off a little 
 pleasant practical joke in the shape of a 
 few random pistol-shots — all in good faith, 
 my friends ! K you do not relish it, you 
 have only to say so — name it, pray name 
 it — and Clement Favrel will give up the 
 indulgence of his taste for the curiosities 
 of caligraphy, and restrain his love of 
 ball-practice within the limits of the ortho- 
 dox target. You have only to name it, my 
 good friends, you have only to name it! ' 
 
 But Marian's uneasiness was not to be 
 talked away. Mind-strong as she was, her 
 tender heart was still quaking. This was 
 enough for Lady Letty. Her keen eye 
 discerned at once that the body had been 
 over-wrought, and had rendered the mind 
 incapable of combating and dismissing its 
 fears. Tender, watchful, and no longer 
 sleepy Lady Letty ! The elixir draught 
 of happiness she was draining from the 
 fragile curp of this sweet flower, that 
 bloomed up for her out of dead Leonard's 
 grave, gave to her a new soul and a new 
 
188 S^TJODED JESSALINE. 
 
 life. And now, at the end of her fifty 
 years' pilgrimage, she held fast by scrip 
 and staff, and took the toil and heat of the 
 world's days upon her once more. 
 
 Lady Letty was ofi* to Scarborough for 
 a ' sea-change ' for Marian. And Marian 
 was to bathe and wander, and wander and 
 bathe, and drink the waters of oblivion 
 as regarded Clement Favrel, alternated 
 with draughts of remembrance quaflPed to 
 Heine the beloved. 
 
 And Ralph and I were once more alone 
 at Fairfield. 
 
189 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 A NIGHT ADVENTURE. 
 
 And never yet, since high in Paradise 
 O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, 
 Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind 
 Than lived through her, who in that perilous hour 
 Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart, 
 And felt him hers again : she did not weep. 
 But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist 
 Like that which kept the heart of Eden green 
 Before the useful trouble of the rain. 
 
 Alfeed Tena-yson. 
 
 The day, as I have hinted, was not far dis- 
 tant when those perils that trap the spirit 
 were destined to spread their pitfalls ready 
 to our feet. There were, however, some 
 perils awaiting the body which were fated 
 to come first in order: and well is it for 
 those who are so favoured by heaven as to 
 be permitted to share each other's joys, 
 that they should be called to share also 
 each other's dangers. They who are 
 
190 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 thrown on their knees in the crush of this 
 world's perils, find themselves in the fit 
 attitude of prayer; and they know best 
 how to seek God, who need each other's 
 assistance to rise up and bless Him. 
 
 The full flush of a radiant summer had 
 deepened into the hues of autumn. The 
 bloom of the year had ripened into its fruit. 
 October had touched the yet luxuriant leaf- 
 age of the Fairfield woods with the richer 
 tints of decay. The out-door dalliance 
 with rose-arbour and lawn had to be given 
 up; while the hardier field-sports were just 
 in their full vigour. The summer fairs 
 about the more rural districts had had 
 their day and were over. But the great 
 cattle-gatherings in the larger market 
 towns continued to draw to a focus such 
 wandering exhibitionists as know how to 
 make their market out of those accidents 
 which bring together a numerous con- 
 course, be the object of such concourse 
 what it may. Besides that provincial 
 theatres were beginning to open to the 
 public their more legitimate sources of en- 
 tertainment, the actors on a more vagrant 
 stage displayed their 'properties' for the 
 delectation of less refined audiences. Jug- 
 
A NIGHT ADVENTURE. 191 
 
 glers, mountebanks, and musicians of every 
 calibre and degree of skill, spread their 
 carpets, swung their balls, swallowed 
 knives, ate fire, twanged their strings, blew 
 their pan-pipes, or made themselves into 
 living pyramids, having a grown athlete 
 for a base and an embryo acrobat for an 
 apex. Excited towns were thronged with 
 them. They 'hung their banners on the 
 outer walls,' and 'the cry was still, 
 they come ! ' The party question that 
 echoed far and wide was, ' How now, Mr. 
 Merryman ? ^ and the slang of the tem- 
 porarily-erected booth where the clown 
 had the whole hustings to himself was, 
 ' Here we are 1 ' 
 
 Appleby was sufi*ering ^dth the rest of 
 our provincial towns under the amuse- 
 ment epidemic of the season. Posted on 
 all its walls were advertisements printed in 
 Brobdingnag type on flaming broad sheets 
 of yellow or green, announcing the special 
 annual exhibition Avhich was to draw men, 
 women, and children from their quiet 
 homes towards the great centre of at- 
 traction and excitement. Yes, Messrs. 
 Barwell and Green's Great AVild Beast 
 Show was on its way to Appleby. The 
 
1D2 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 graphic sign-board which depicted in one 
 startling group the various monstrosities 
 about to be exhibited had, like the ' coming 
 event,' duly ' cast its shadow before.' Art 
 had lent its aid to the printer's skill in de- 
 scription ; and the ' Great Bonassus ' was 
 prefigured with an amount of mane which 
 was well calculated to beguile the cattle- 
 dealing mind of Appleby into a belief that 
 the animal in question was an entirely indi- 
 vidual creation; a solitary handiwork of 
 dame Nature, thrown oiF with a commend- 
 able daringness of conception and ori- 
 ginality of touch unequalled by any j)ro- 
 duction offered to the world since the 
 antediluvian earth resounded to the tread 
 of the Mammoth and the Megatherium. 
 
 In due time, punctually in advance of 
 the engagement advertised in the posted 
 bills, a lengthened string of yellow cara- 
 vans, fifteen in number, might be seen 
 slowly and cautiously dragging their un- 
 wieldy and insecure-looking proportions 
 along the great Appleby road. On the 
 roofs of those most in advance might be 
 seen the smoking chimneys, and on their 
 side panels the blue and white check cur- 
 tained windows, which bespoke a moving 
 
A NIGHT ADVENTURE. 193 
 
 household, furnished with bed- cots, cooking 
 apparatus, and other equally home-like 
 arrangements. Next came the lumber, or 
 luggage vans, containing such means and 
 appliances as were needful for setting up 
 temporary booths for such of the less wild 
 and fierce beasts as could be better exhibited 
 in the open ground than enclosed in the 
 iron-barred cages inseparable from the 
 caravans. Next in order followed the 
 moving houses of the ' Hearte Beasts,' the 
 ' Lively Boa Constrictor,' the ' Royal White 
 American Condor,' and his highness the 
 ' Great Bonassus ' aforesaid, neither more 
 nor less than a favourable specimen of the 
 bison from the more temperate regions of 
 the North American continent. Last of 
 all, and following at some distance, as re- 
 quiring more care, possibly, in the transit, 
 or from some other accidental cause, might 
 be seen the caravans inscribed in large 
 letters as containing the ' Large Bengal 
 Tiger ' and the ' Huge African Lion.' 
 Here and there a piebald circus horse 
 ambled in the rear to indicate prospec- 
 tively that if the good people of Appleby 
 and its neighbourhood should show a pro- 
 per degree of appreciation for Messrs. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
194 S^^OODED JESSALINE. 
 
 Barwell and Green's Great Wild Beast 
 Show, that exhibition would in due time be 
 followed up by Mr. George Green's ' Unri- 
 valled Circus,' where the said Mr. George 
 Green himself in the person of ' the bare- 
 backed rider,' as it v/as somewhat doubt- 
 fully worded, would display the wonders 
 of the ' Famed Prairie Steeds,' including 
 the celebrated 'Mustang Mississippi,' to 
 the gaze of wondering beholders, as a con- 
 trast to the ferocious forest beasts now 
 under canvass for public favour. A solitary 
 and rather mangy-looking Bactrian camel, 
 probably intended to serve as a sort of whet 
 preparatory to the eye-feast about to be 
 spread, glided noiselessly in the wake of the 
 last comers, and closed the long cavalcade. 
 
 Why am 1 lingering over a description 
 of so commonplace a matter as a beast- 
 show at a country town cattle-fair? 
 
 Those who have ever been so unfortunate 
 as to see a human creature fall from a cliiF, 
 or get entangled in a piece of machinery, 
 or struggle with the waves and go do^vn in 
 a storm on some bleak sea-washed coast by 
 night ; and who have afterwards for many 
 a long night and year lain in their safe 
 beds and started and shuddered as-ain and 
 
A NIGHT ADVENTURE. 195 
 
 again at the bare remembrance of the 
 scene; they, and they only, can under- 
 stand how such memories affect the mind, 
 leaving behind them an ever-new sense of 
 horror, from which they shrink as long as 
 life lasts, and which they would vainly at- 
 tempt to embody in words. 
 
 Such, and so vivid, is the impression I 
 retain of the events of a certain October 
 night. 
 
 On that particular night of which I 
 speak, my husband had gone out, bound 
 on several and various errands. I knew 
 exactly the programme of his intended 
 movements. First, he was to call at 
 Dr. Percy's with a new volume of ' Ec- 
 clesiastical History ' for Lawrence, who 
 was studying for orders. There, burdened 
 with some messages from me to Lilian, he 
 might probably, including the half-mile 
 walk, be delayed about half an hour. 
 Next, he was to call at the Sheringhams' on 
 some magisterial business. That call, at a 
 rough guess, might occupy another half 
 hour, or perhaps a little more. His final 
 destination was a friend's house a good 
 mile further forward, skirting the great 
 Appleby road a little to the left, and the 
 
 o 2 
 
196 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 nearest foot-road to which lay through an 
 old copse, named ' Hitch in^s Copse/ stand- 
 ing alone amidst the common land, and 
 filling up the hollow of a decline between 
 two hills, or rather patches of raised down. 
 The path through this copse was so dreary 
 at all times, and so particularly dismal on 
 such a night as this, that I urged Kalph 
 strongly to go on horseback by the more 
 open road. Having, however, been kept 
 prisoner in the house by two previous days 
 of heavy rain, he preferred the walk, as he 
 said, to ' stretch his legs, ' and, smiling at 
 my unusual timidity, started on his way. 
 
 It was one of those half-clouded nights, 
 with passing gusts of wind, w^hen the 
 moon, coming out by fitful glimpses, . shows 
 a pale face for a moment, seems to shiver 
 as she peers on us, and, drawing again a 
 hood of grey cloud over her head, leaves 
 us once more to the darkness. 
 
 It must have been somewhere between 
 half an hour and an hour after this that 
 Stephen entered the room where I was 
 sitting, to tell me that the head groom had 
 just come in on his return from an errand 
 on which his master had sent him to 
 Appleby, frightened to death and riding 
 
A JsIGHT ADVENTURE. 197 
 
 for his life. A singular accident had hap- 
 pened to one of the caravans somewhere on 
 the other side of Fairfield village. Some- 
 thing was amiss. Stephen did not seem, I 
 thought, very clearly to know what. 
 
 I cannot tell what it was that seized me ; 
 whether a common nervous apprehension 
 of evil, sometimes dignified by the name of 
 a presentiment, or a real heaven-sent 
 warning. But, instead of questioning 
 Stephen, I rose up and followed him from 
 the room. 
 
 I crossed the hall, and passed out by the 
 back entrance towards the stables. There, 
 just dismounted, hot with a hard ride, but 
 blanched, white as the horse he had ridden, 
 stood the groom. 
 
 I felt half inclined to say, ' How now, 
 whey- face ! ' but neither those words nor 
 any more fitting ones could I frame. 
 
 The man, seeing my questioning face, 
 opened his budget. 
 
 It seemed that one of the last caravans 
 described above had met with an accident 
 on the road. A wheel had come off, the 
 horses had become restive, and the van had 
 not only been thrown on its side by a sharp 
 turning of the animals towards the now 
 
198 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 half- supported flank of the vehicle, but 
 had been dragged some way over the rough 
 road in that position. Not only was the 
 old, worn, and weather-beaten wooden 
 house itself a wreck, but a portion of the 
 iron cage, rusted and ill-adapted for its 
 tenant, had been broken open by the fall, 
 and the ' Large Bengal Tiger ' let loose ! 
 
 ' It was recaptured at once ? ' I asked. 
 
 The man hesitated, faltered, and replied : 
 
 ' No, ma'am ; the tiger's gone loose.' 
 
 ' Where were the keepers ? ' 
 
 ' On before, ma'am, a quarter of a mile 
 ahead, in the first van.' 
 
 Of course ! By just the same idiotic 
 arrangement which, in the event of a wreck 
 at sea, provides that all the boats shall be 
 safely lashed to the bulwarks, so that no 
 mortal hand can release them, and leaves 
 the despairing crew to the mercies of the 
 deep. 
 
 My God ! — and Ralph upon the road ! 
 
 ' Saddle me Blucher,' I cried. 
 
 ' Pray, ma'am, for the love of heaven, 
 never stir outside the house,' said the man. 
 
 ' Hush ! Which way did the beast seem 
 to take ? Only answer me that ; no more 
 words.' 
 
 ' Through the hollow, down by *' Hitchin's 
 
A NIGHT ADVENTURE. 199 
 
 Copse." The van-driver said there was no 
 fear but the beast would bide in the copse, 
 for he were a deal too frighted to come out 
 till his hunger druv him to it.' 
 
 And Ealph was on his way, most likely, 
 by this time towards that very spot, while 
 I stood talking to this craven fool ! Life 
 — a life dearer than my own, Ralph's life — 
 to be lying at the mercy of a fierce forest 
 beast ! 
 
 ' Saddle me Blucher instantly, or I'll do 
 it myself,' I cried again. 
 
 This time the man obeyed me. He led 
 out the horse, hanging his head for shame. 
 ' Help me to mount — quick ! ' I cried. ' If 
 there is not a man of you all that dares to 
 go with me, I go alone.' 
 
 The grooms and stable-boys were by this 
 timr} gaping at what was going on ; but not 
 one offered to share the danger for the best 
 master that ever breathed. 
 
 ' Stay where you are, then,' I cried ; 
 ' stay and eat the bread of shame ! ' 
 
 I was scarcely securely mounted — ^having 
 snatched, while the horse was being 
 saddled, my garden hat and cloak from the 
 hall, together with Ralph's hunting-whip 
 — when Kitty came out from the house 
 equipped like myself. 
 
200 SNOOUED JESSALINE. 
 
 ' Put the masther's saddle on me lady's 
 roan jennet, will ye, before I cuff the ears 
 of ye, ye big shame-faced coward ! ' cried 
 Kitty, as she stalked towards the stalls and 
 lent a rapid hand to the girthing of another 
 horse. ' Gently, me lady,' she added, 
 glancing over her shoulder in the midst of 
 her operations to where I sat mounted and 
 eager to be off ; ' gently, gently ; ye'll 
 niver travel this night Avithout old Kitty ? 
 Two's betther nor one in a tussle for life, 
 and may be I'll not be so tough but I may 
 sarve the haste's turn as well as my 
 betthers ! ' 
 
 What could I do? Could T, should I 
 forbid her ? 
 
 I could not ; I did not. 
 
 In a few breathless seconds she was 
 mounted, trooper-fashion, and at my side. 
 And away we two rode, before the startled 
 household were well aware on what errand 
 we were bent. 
 
 If we could but overtake Ralph in time ! 
 If only we could intercept him before he 
 reached ' Hitchin's Copse,' all might be 
 well. 
 
 With what a strange, new horror my 
 heart beat wild and fast, and poor Kitty's 
 
A NIGHT ADVENTURE. 201 
 
 too, as we flew through the village silent 
 and breathless. 
 
 The night had darkened gloomily, and 
 not a star was visible. So dark was it, 
 that had we come upon the shattered 
 caravan after passing the village, our 
 horses must have come down, tripped off 
 their feet by its scattered ruins, for we 
 could not have seen them in time. Trust- 
 ing, however, that some warning lantern 
 had been set up on the spot, or the wreck 
 removed to one side, we went fearlessly on. 
 That danger appeared a minor one ; yet, if 
 it impeded or disabled us, what would 
 become of Ralph ? JS^o warning would be 
 likely to reach him in time of the cruel 
 hazard that awaited him in the copse ; since 
 the caravan driver, according to the groom's 
 account, had in his terror rushed forward 
 along the main road, as well to secure his 
 own safety as to summon the aid of the 
 keepers. 
 
 While passing through the village we 
 had halted a moment at Dr. Percy's to in- 
 quire if Ralph was still there. 
 
 ' No ; he had gone on,' the servant said. 
 
 We left a hurried message and passed 
 on our way. 
 
202 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 Another gasping ride, and we were at 
 Mr. Sheringham's door. ' Was Colonel 
 Elphinstone there ? ' 
 
 'iS^o/ the answer was again. He had 
 been, but he was gone. 
 
 Again we left our startling message. 
 And again we passed on, like the fiery 
 cross. 
 
 Then Ealph was on his way to the 
 copse ! 
 
 A sick, faint feeling about my heart 
 caused me almost to reel in my saddle. 
 But it was no time to falter now. I must 
 on, or 
 
 I could not think, or I dared not. I 
 could scarcely feel. I was getting almost 
 benumbed both in soul and sense with the 
 sheer horror of the thing. 
 
 Kitty broke silence at last, but only by a 
 whisper, as if she feared to startle the 
 echoes of the wood^ which we knew was 
 now not far before us. 
 
 'Don't ye be afeered, me lady; we'll 
 catch the masther yet, no fears but we will,' 
 said Kitty. ' I'll jist set light to the link 
 now — I've got the flint and stale all handy 
 — ^may be the masther'll see it. And we'll 
 lose no time, for ye see the horses haven't 
 
A NIGHT ADVENTURE. 203 
 
 no mind to go forred ; soraethin's the matter 
 with them. I belave there's a camel 
 asthray — they can't stomich the smell of 
 a camel ; and if oncet I light the link, we're 
 as safe as a house, we are.' 
 
 ' How — what ? ' I faltered, scarcely com- 
 prehending her, and feeling it too true that 
 the horses were uneasy and could scarcely 
 be urged forward. 
 
 ' The link, me lady ! Them wild bastes 
 can't face a lio;ht at dark of nig-ht no more 
 than a cat can. It blinds them ; and when 
 they're blinded, they're frighted, and they'll 
 do ye no harm in life.' 
 
 Faint as I was, my heart aching with 
 dread, my senses reeling, I had yet wits 
 enough left to see the wisdom of Kitty's 
 precaution in providing herself with the 
 link. It passed vaguely through my mind 
 how I had somewhere read that this class 
 of animals have pupils so sensitive to the 
 o;lare of a brio;ht lio^ht as to diminish to a 
 point infinitely minute at its approach — so 
 small as to render the animal nearly sight- 
 less till the glare is withdrawn. 
 
 The horses had now come to a dead halt, 
 and no power of ours could induce them 
 to move. But Kitty's torch was already 
 
204 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 aliglit, and I seconded her efforts to draw 
 Ralph's attention, if it were yet indeed not 
 too late, by blowing sharply the whistle 
 fixed in the handle of his hunting-whip. 
 
 The next moment we heard his voice ! 
 
 Thank God !— thank God ! 
 
 No music surely ever sounded in mortal 
 ears as that voice sounded to me at that 
 instant. 
 
 We could see him now. He had stooped 
 down to examine some object which lay 
 across his path, and which by the light now 
 afforded him he found to be the stray 
 camel, ^ly whistle and the light together 
 had caused him to turn round. What he 
 must have thought at meeting us there at 
 such a time, I did not stop to inquire. All 
 I heard or thought about was his voice. 
 
 ' Grace, in heaven's name, what is this ? 
 What are you doing here ? ' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' Not a word ! ' I said. * Mount instantly 
 and take me behind you. We must ride 
 home for our lives. A tiger is loose, and 
 in yonder copse.' 
 
 The look he gave me I shall never 
 forget. 
 
 ' Oh ! my wife, if I had lost you ! God 
 in heaven ! why — why are you here r ' 
 
A NIGHT ADVENTURE. 205 
 
 Another moment and he was in the 
 saddle, and I on the crupper behind him. 
 I clasped my arms round his waist, and 
 never loosed him till he reached Fairfield 
 gates. 
 
 On our way we met a body of peasants, 
 and drivers belonging to the caravans, 
 bearing torches in their hands. They were 
 headed by a man mounted on a mettlesome 
 horse. We recognised him in a moment. 
 It was Clement Favrel. 
 
 Or was it his double ? If it were indeed 
 he, never had man undergone so complete 
 a metamorphosis ! Sitting his unruly 
 horse with a grace such as we rarely see 
 save in a practised cavalry rider — ^his some- 
 what long hair blown wildly off his face, 
 exposing its strangely complicated lines to 
 the glare of the torches — his eyes lighted 
 up with all the fire born of an exciting 
 chase — with a carbine held loosely under 
 one arm, while he gave free rein to his 
 horse with the other, and with a coil of 
 stout rope improvised into a lasso hanging 
 from his saddle-bow — so rode this strange 
 man, who seemed fated to cross our path 
 at every unexpected turn ; a welcome pre- 
 sence at any rate this night ! 
 
206 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 We knew now — and it was a blessing to 
 know — that no second life would be en- 
 dangered by the beast that lay hidden in 
 the wooded hollow. A cord of fire would 
 be drawn round the copse where the animal 
 had taken refuge ; and his eyes being 
 darkened by the strong glare of the light, 
 he would doubtless become an easy prey to 
 his captors. If not, there was the carbine, 
 no very ' forlorn hope ' in the hands of 
 such a man as Clement Favrel. So all 
 was well. But the thought that struck 
 home to my heart was — seeing these men 
 come lagging now under the leadership of 
 one who, whatever else he was, showed at 
 least a man's pluck and daring — how nearly 
 had all been over ! How nearly had a life, 
 the dearest, been lost, and my life in that 
 life! 
 
 At each house where our recent hurried 
 message of alarm had been left in the vague 
 hope of further succour, v/e now left a 
 message of peace and safety. Then, home 
 — home ! 
 
 As we reached our own door, eager faces 
 crowded round us. But we entered si- 
 lently and passed on. Through the open 
 dining-room door we saw supper laid for 
 
A NIGHT ADVENTURE. 207 
 
 US, a blaze from the household fire inviting 
 us to enter — to ' eat, drink, and be merry/ 
 But we were wearied and worn out ; I, with 
 my breathless night- ride and the torture of 
 writhing fear at my heart ; Ralph, with the 
 shock of the danger I had escaped. We 
 both sickened at the sight of food, and went 
 straight to bed. 
 
208 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A COMMON MISTAKE. 
 
 AVbat a change is here ! 
 * * * Young men's love^ then, lies 
 
 Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit 
 Of an old tear that is not washed oiF yet. 
 
 Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 What a waking it was ! My first impulse 
 was a cry of thankfulness. 
 
 ' Ealpli — my Ralph ! has this all been a 
 hideous dream? Are you indeed — indeed 
 safe — living?' 
 
 ' Aye, Grace : I owe you — ^what ? Life ? 
 More, more. Not life only, but love, the 
 life of life. My debt grows heavier day by 
 day, my wife ! — my true, m.y brave 1 How 
 is it ever to be repaid ? ' 
 
 ' There is none — no debt, save mine to 
 you.' 
 
 ' Have you a wish in the world ? If you 
 
A COMMON MISTAKE. 209 
 
 have, Grace, let me know, that I may grant 
 it.' 
 
 ' You leave me nothing to desire.' 
 
 'Is there no small hidden craving? No 
 little wish — not one ? ' he said. 
 
 ' Not one.' 
 
 ' Think again, my own darling ; search 
 your heart well.' 
 
 ' I have, and do not find it.' 
 
 ' Keflect, while I tell you an old tale. 
 
 ' In far-oiF times, here in our own land of 
 Britain, so long ago as in the days before 
 Arthur, it was a law or custom when a 
 bride was led home, that on the next morn- 
 ing the woman had a claim to ask any 
 gift she would of her husband, and it was 
 granted to her without stint or question, in 
 memory of the glad home-bringing to her 
 husband's house. 
 
 ' So, dear Grace, a few hours since, the 
 night brought you home. Now, see where 
 yonder the morning lightens over the hills 
 — the sunlight glancing across your face. 
 
 ' The morning is the bridegroom, night, 
 transfigured, breaking into smiles, and seal- 
 ing the sanctioned kiss upon your cheek. 
 So, come, tell your wish to the glad 
 morning; and I, his poor almoner, standing 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
210 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 by, will pour out whatever of wealth you 
 shall ask, at your feet.' 
 
 ' A pretty tale,' I said, amused at his odd 
 fancy, 'but indeed I cannot frame a wish 
 even at the bidding of the glad morning. • 
 
 ' Not one ? Look at me ! ' And his eyes 
 searched my soul. 
 
 ' No, not one,' I persisted. 
 
 ' Why is it that you close your eyes ? 
 Are you afraid of what I may read there ? 
 Grace, you cannot hide it — shall not hide 
 it any longer. In the depths of your eyes 
 I read a name. Nay, do not start; it is 
 a woman's name. Now that you see I 
 know so much, will you not tell me your 
 wish? ' 
 
 ' Ealph, you are as my own soul. But 
 to my own soul I will not admit it,' I 
 answered. 
 
 ' Then I must set up a claim. Come, I 
 will first probe yoitr heart to the core. 
 Did you ever love any man before you 
 married me ? ' 
 
 ' Never.' 
 
 ' I knew it. Had you ever a lover? ' 
 
 ' Yes, once.' 
 
 ' What was he like ? ' 
 
 ' Not like you.' 
 
A COMMON MISTAKE. 211 
 
 ' Did it pain you to refuse him ? ' 
 
 ' Keenly ; I cried for a week.' 
 
 'It must have been a great sorrow to 
 you. I rarely see your tears ; you must 
 have shed them all for him. Was your 
 lover urgent?' 
 
 'Frantic, I could not understand him.' 
 
 ' Have you never met him since ? ' 
 
 ' Never.' 
 
 ' Would you like to meet him ? ' 
 
 ' Greatly ; it would be a real pleasure 
 just to shake hands with him once more, 
 and tell him how bitterly it grieved me at 
 the time to sadden his life.' 
 
 ' Is there nothing beyond that — ^no desire 
 to call up those past early days of your 
 youth? Come, sound your own heart to 
 the centre.' 
 
 ' No ; you live there, and have dulled all 
 sense save of your truth, and noble, price- 
 less love ! ' 
 
 ' I am answered ; satisfied fully. And 
 now, mark me. All this while that I have 
 questioned you, your eyes have been fixed 
 steadily on my face. I have searched doAvn 
 to their very depths; and, Grace, I have dis- 
 covered the secret wish that you cannot or 
 will not name.' 
 
 p2 
 
212 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 'No — no; you mistake.' 
 
 ' No, Grace, I do not. As plainly as 
 words could speak, do those eyes ask, "• Do 
 you love me as dearly as you loved May ? " 
 Ah ! hide those eyes now on my breast, if 
 you will; it is too late, my darling. I have 
 read the one desire of your heart, and you 
 shall be satisfied. 
 
 ' It is a good many years ago, Grace. 
 I was scarcely eighteen when I first saw 
 May. The Elphinstones all marry young. 
 That has been the secret of the happiness 
 of their married lives. Husband and wife, 
 like fruits that grow together on a single 
 stem, and set at the same time, ripen to- 
 gether and fall together. And I may say 
 here, that it was under the recollection of 
 such traditions that I lent myself so readily 
 and blindly to Lilian's scheme of happiness ; 
 first, in falling into the blunder into which 
 she herself fell in the choice of Vincent 
 Elphinstone for her husband ; and after- 
 wards, in at once sanctioning the real choice 
 of her heart. 
 
 ' May and I met — as thousands of other 
 foolish young people meet — at a ball. 
 Boy-like, I admired her, and, boy-like, 
 I thought myself passionately attached to 
 
A COMMON MISTAKE. 213 
 
 her. Perhaps I was. But I was just at 
 that time an ardent lover of my profes- 
 sion, too ; and I suspect I was a good deal 
 divided between these two objects of attach- 
 ment. 
 
 ' I was very blind ; very credulous as to 
 May's love for me. I was not a deep 
 thinker in those days, any more than I am 
 now ; only an average man. I was no 
 Solon ; still less a Solomon. I judged 
 with my heart rather than with my head, 
 and a child might have beguiled me. 
 
 ' But you know all my deficiencies ; I 
 need not sum them up. 
 
 ' I proposed ; and was accepted. 
 
 ' Europe was just then in the heat of the 
 Peninsular war. I had no time for fancies, 
 or misgivings, or jealousies, or perhaps I 
 should have seen that May showed some 
 reluctance at the last moment to fulfil her 
 engagement. I did not see it, however, or 
 I should instantly have released her from 
 her promise. May was young, though 
 some years older than myself. I was 
 almost as difiiident as she was. It all 
 seemed perfectly natural. I saw no other 
 lover so well received. I had believed 
 myself first in the field; had headed the 
 
214 SNOODED JESSAUNE. 
 
 storming party ; gone in and won ; and 
 there was an end of it. 
 
 ' For a year we two lived very happily. 
 Before that year closed, Lilian was born. 
 
 ' It was not very long afterwards that one 
 morning a letter came to May bearing a 
 black seal. 
 
 ' I saw her turn deadly pale as she received 
 it. Something in her manner — probably 
 the fact of her not opening it in my pre- 
 sence — struck me as strange. But I asked 
 no questions. It was clear to me that she 
 desired to avoid .all communication on the 
 subject, and I held myself silent. 
 
 ' At this time May fell suddenly ill. It 
 was a sharp attack; appeared to be quite 
 without any discoverable cause, and soon 
 passed off. 
 
 ' Still, she never spoke to me about that 
 letter. When I gently touched upon the 
 subject once, in my wish to lead her to un- 
 burden her mind of any trouble that might 
 be weighing upon it, she so urgently and 
 vehemently entreated my forbearance on 
 the subject, that I at once desisted from 
 any further attempt of the kind ; and after 
 some little wonder and perplexity on my part, 
 the subject passed wholly from my mind. 
 
A COMMON MISTAKE. 215 
 
 ' May was a most true, good, patient 
 wife to me, very earnest in striving to 
 please me (you never strive^ Grace!), and 
 fulfilled every duty of her life as regarded 
 me in the strictest possible sense of that 
 word, duty. If her duties were tasks, the 
 credit certainly was hers of working them 
 out with all the strength that she had. 
 Let me do her at least that justice. 
 
 ' For some short while I thought myself 
 satisfied ; believed that I was happy. 
 
 ' A time, however, came at last when the 
 higher and better part of my nature craved 
 for something beyond the good which I 
 held in possession. 
 
 'It may be that I began to feel rather 
 than see, that there was task-work in the 
 daily round of May's duties, so scrupulously 
 and conscientiously performed. I did not 
 — could not reproach her. Indeed I hardly 
 knew what it was that I missed. I only 
 felt that there was a blank somewhere. 
 
 ' I loved no other woman. I never 
 swerved in my duty ; never wandered from 
 the path of right. But, Grace, my soul 
 was athirst ! 
 
 ' Can you guess what ailed our life ? 
 
 ' May's heart was in a grave ! 
 
216 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 * If I had made a mistake, she had made 
 a mistake still more fatal. She confessed 
 it to me at last. 
 
 ' May had loved another. 
 
 ' The revelation was a great shock to me, 
 as you may suppose. 
 
 ' May was scarcely to blame. She had 
 not wilfully deceived me. She had igno- 
 rantly — innocently deceived herself. Be- 
 lieving herself ill-used, she had resolved to 
 conquer her early attachment, and had, as 
 she thought, succeeded. It was only when 
 that letter reached her, bringing the news 
 of her lover's death — he dying, too, with 
 her name on his lips — that she knew 
 better. 
 
 ' Through all their errors and their 
 weaknesses — through all their wild mis- 
 takes, women are strangely true ! 
 
 ' May's was a natural and womanly 
 error. She had married me, she told me, 
 out of a feeling of gratitude for the affec- 
 tion I professed for her. It was the old 
 story touched by Shakespeare, though with 
 a difference. It was Rosaline's unkindness 
 that made Juliet's love so sweet. It was 
 her first lover's coldness that made poor 
 May melt beneath my warmer attachment. 
 
A COMMON MISTAKE. 217 
 
 'That is the whole story, Grace. I do 
 not like to linger over it. We did our 
 duty as far as was possible, each by the 
 other, and were content — after a fashion. 
 
 ' Now, I will ask you one question, Grace. 
 Is the life betw^een you and me like that 
 life?' 
 
 ' Ah ! no. Oh ! Ealph, what you must 
 have suffered ! ' 
 
 ' I did suffer something, Grace. But all 
 was not loss. With us both there remained 
 the trust that nothing could take away. 
 There was conscience at peace with us 
 both ; a good deal of tenderness, too. 
 What was wanting, nothing, however, could 
 replace ; what we lacked was the fulness of 
 love. That was to come.' 
 
 ' Has it come ? ' 
 
 ' In the fulness of the first paradise ! ' 
 
218 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 CHAPTER XYIL 
 
 woman's wit. 
 
 And the devil was shocked — and quoth he, 'Imust go, 
 For I find we have much better manners below : 
 If thus he harangues when he passes my border, 
 I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order.' 
 
 Bteon. 
 
 No sooner was breakfast over than Ralph 
 ordered Kitty to be summoned. None 
 knew how to gratify Kitty so well as the 
 Colonel. We were both obliged to be a 
 little careful not to show too broadly how 
 highly we valued this rough diamond, this 
 most unselfish and devoted of all our 
 domestic adherents. We were really at- 
 tached to all our helping hands in the home- 
 work of life, and had often to steer clear of 
 giving rise to jealousy by too open a display 
 of our especial admiration for our old 
 soldier in petticoats. To-day, however, a 
 reward had been fairly earned by Kitty, 
 and that reward the Colonel was determined 
 
woman's wit. 219 
 
 to give. It was given not in gold, nor in 
 medals; the reward was one whicli Kitty- 
 loved better — a grasp of the Colonel's hand. 
 
 Beaming all over with pleasure from the 
 crown of her cap to her high-heeled shoes, 
 in came Kitty. 
 
 The Colonel moved from his place on the 
 hearth-rug, and advanced to the door as it 
 closed behind her. He gave her his hand 
 as if he were ^Teetino' a duchess. 
 
 Kitty took the hand with an iron grip, 
 passing at the same time the back of her 
 other hand across her eyes. 
 
 ' And isn't it glad I am this day, thin, to 
 see your honour in life, that's a match for 
 a tiger anyhow — not to say two — and me 
 lady, that's a match for your honour, a 
 smilin' by your side with niver a widder's 
 cap upon her head — ^bad luck to the boy 
 that invinted it ! ' 
 
 * I shall not thank you, Kitty,' said the 
 Colonel; 'I leave that to my wife. I only 
 sent for you to ask how you fared after 
 your night's work.' 
 
 ' No thanks to the like of me, if your 
 honour plases. What I did, I did for the 
 love of God and His cratures, not alone 
 along of my duty — though that's what I 
 
220 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 trust I'll do while I brathe the breath of 
 life and ate your honour's and me lady's 
 bread ; and its rare and hearty I am, thanks 
 no end to your honour's goodness for axin', 
 and none the wurse, but betther ; and it's a 
 wurse pickle I've been in before now than 
 iver I was with the tiger, by a long line, 
 thin, I have.' 
 
 ' When was that, Kitty ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' That was in Fermanagh, plase. You 
 know Fermanagh, me lady? Every soul 
 alive knows Fermanagh, close anigh to St. 
 Pathrick's Purgatory. It's called the 
 '' Maguire's country," it is.' 
 
 I was obliged to confess my ignorance. 
 
 ' It's all one, me lady ; if you don't know 
 it I do, none betther. There was two strap - 
 pin' boys — both Fermanagh boys — that came 
 a-courtin' to Kitty MacCauU — at your sar- 
 vice, me lady. (Me name was MacCauU 
 thin, and I've heard say we got it right 
 down from the great Fin MacCumhal, the 
 chief of the old Irish Militia-boys.) Of the 
 two of them, Mike Sullivan wasn't fit to 
 hould the candle to Pathrick Maguire, and 
 so I tould him. With that he took spite 
 agin me, and swore I'd stole his pardon- 
 sale.' 
 
woman's wit. 221 
 
 'His what, Kitty?' 
 
 ' His pardon-sale, me lady ; that's what 
 the priest gives to them that pays handsome 
 for that same. It's a great big brass sale, it 
 is, with the words carved in rale ould Irish 
 Ogham all round the rim, grantin' blessins 
 and pardons for all the sins in life, from the 
 father to the son, and to the son of the son 
 of the son's son, and his son, and his son, 
 and so on, and along right down to the ind 
 of time, and as long as the world lasts for 
 iver and ivei^ amen. 
 
 ' The loss of such a seal must indeed have 
 been a terrible loss to your friend Mr. 
 Sullivan, Kitty,' I ventured to remark with 
 as much gravity as I was mistress of. 
 
 ' Mr, Sullivan is it ye call him, me lady ? 
 Sorrow a mister he was, not by so much as 
 a half-sir, and no friend of mine, as ye'll 
 soon see. Sorrow a know did I know what 
 had come of his pardon-sale. But he stuck 
 to it I'd got it, and he took his time to get 
 it out of me with my will or without my 
 will. 
 
 'There's a great big lough they call 
 Lough Dearg, your honour; and in the 
 middle of it there's a mighty quare rock of 
 an island with a cave in it ; that's where 
 
222 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 the blessed St. Pathrickhad his Purgatory. 
 There was always a boat kept on the shore 
 for the shoals of company that rowed over to 
 see the cave.|Pathrick and meself had gone 
 over times no end, a-courtin' of our two 
 selves, mornins, and evenins, early and 
 late, before the lough-boat was wanted for 
 the company. But Pathrick took a mind 
 he'd like to have a boat of his own. So 
 what does he do but he makes one — for he 
 was a rare handicraftsman — arid as good 
 and as tight a boat he buiffied as iver 
 swept the says, let alone of a lough. And 
 for fear stray hands should lay hould of it, 
 he hid it away in a bit of a creek where 
 nobody was the wiser. 
 
 ^ Well, thin, one night at half-dark, as I 
 was rockin' meself in the ouldboat, waitin' 
 for me Pathrick, who should come to the 
 banks of Lough Dearg but Mike Sullivan. 
 With no more said, he jist leaped into the 
 boat and rowed off in the spite of me 
 straight for the rock in the middle of the 
 wather . When I saw I couldn't masther him, I 
 took it quiet. But, bless your honour, didn't 
 I jist long for Pathrick, or anyhow for Path- 
 rick's two fists to lend the villin a launch 
 head-foremost over the rullocks — never 
 
woman's wit. 223 
 
 fear me but I did, thin ! Sure and steady 
 he rowed for the rock. And somehow — for 
 he was an ugly big giant, he was — somehow 
 he took me, and he landed me fairly on the 
 rock at the top of the cave, and sat me 
 down handy, and stretched hisself his long 
 length on the rock right afore me, resting 
 hisself on his two elbows with his chin in 
 his hands, and with his great broad back to 
 the shore he'd come from, and sis he, 
 
 ' " Now, Kitty MacCaull, will ye give me 
 my pardon-saie or won't you, once for all? " 
 
 ' "How can I give ye what I haven't got, 
 ye spalpeen ? " sis I. 
 
 ' " I'll have it out of ye," sis he, " or ye'll 
 niver lave this rock alive, so I tell ye. 
 The wather'll tell no tales, and there's big 
 enough stones in the cave under the seat of 
 ye to sink ye deep down for good and all, 
 and your Pathrick may whistle for ye," sis 
 he, " bad luck to the likes of him." 
 
 ' "But if I've got it," sis I, " as I haven't, 
 jist you let me go home and fetch it." 
 
 '"None of that," sis he; "ye've got it 
 about ye, ye have, Kathleen MacCaull." 
 
 ' " Thin ye'll niver goto dthrown it ? '^ sis I. 
 " Lave me alone and row me back, or I'll 
 call up the ould one to take ye flying for 
 
224 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 the sins of ye — and the goin' and a-threat- 
 enin^ to take the life of a lone woman at the 
 top of 'em — and you niver a pardon-sale to 
 help you ; think of that, Mike Sullivan ! " sis I. 
 
 ' ''Give it me, quick ! " sis he, frightened 
 out of the shabby life of him. 
 
 ' " By all the powers, he's there ! " sis I, for 
 I caught a sight of me Pathrick jist in that 
 nick of time. But the spalpeen thought it 
 was the ould one I maned, come straight 
 to lift him down to Purgatory. So I kept 
 him in that mind, and sis I, 
 
 ' " Don't ye dare to look round for the life 
 of ye," sis I, for I was feared if he'd catch 
 sight of Pathrick it would be all over with 
 me in no time and less. "For the dear life, 
 don't ye go to look round, or the evil one'll 
 have ye as sure as ye lie sprawlin' there." 
 
 '"Where is he?" sis he — maning the evil 
 one. 
 
 '" Jist behind ye," sis I; "don't ye hear 
 him?" for by this while Pathrick had got 
 his own boat out of the creek and was 
 jumped aboard of her, and I thought Mike 
 'ud hear him a-rowin'. 
 
 ' " What's he doin' ? What's that splash- 
 in'?" sis he. 
 
 ' " Whist ! " sis I, " that's his tail in the 
 wather, flappin' and flappin'." 
 
woman's wit. 225 
 
 '"Is he out of the wather, thin ?" sis he. 
 
 ' "He's not out of the wather and he's not 
 in the wather," sis I ; " but he's stuck his 
 pitchfork fast into the bottom of the lough, 
 and he's lying full sprawl on the belly of 
 him a-top of the handle, balancin' hisself 
 by his middle, and he's making as if he'd 
 be swimmin' with his long claws and his 
 clubbed feet ; and he's a-lashin' the wather 
 with his tail," sis I. 
 
 ' " The powers protect me ! " sis he, with a 
 big groan; " what '11 I do at all!" 
 
 ' " Lie still where you are's my advice," 
 sis I, " and confess yourself and make your 
 sowl's pace, and see what '11 come of it ; and 
 jist you swear you'll never play oiF your 
 wicked tricks on the like of me agin as long 
 as ye live. Do as I bid ye, and may be I'll 
 warn the evil one off." 
 
 ' With that I took my kercher off of my 
 neck and I waved it to Pathrick to make 
 haste and be quick about it ; and I a-cryin' 
 out all the while at the top of me voice to 
 Pathrick, pretendin' it was the ould one 
 I spoke to. 
 
 ' " Lave alone Mike Sullivan, will ye ! 
 DonUt^ thin. What if he's brought me over 
 here to get out of me the pardon-sale I 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 niver set eyes on, lave alone goin' and 
 crackin' of his crown ! Don't^ thin. And 
 it'll all come smooth agin, and he a-sayin' 
 of his pathers like mad ! — Divil go with him 
 and his pardon-sale ! '' 
 
 ' Thim last words I said jist as me Pathrick 
 jumped on the rock — for he'd rowed hard 
 and fast with a bating heart — and struck 
 at Mike with the butt of the oar. 
 
 ' The big baste rolled over as stum as a 
 man that's got the poppy- drug inside of 
 him. With that w^e tied his two hands and 
 his two feet so as he should find hisself 
 another man when he came out of his stum,, 
 which he didn't do while Pathrick and me 
 saw anythin' of him, for when we'd got 
 him ashore and pitched him down, we left 
 him to slape oif his evil drames, and the 
 divil untie his knots! — And that, your 
 honour, is the story of the pardon-sale ; and 
 a mighty dale a w^orse pickle it was for 
 a lone woman to be in than along with all 
 the tigers in the live world — out and out ! ' 
 
227 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 A REJECTED LOVER. 
 
 It may be, lie 
 Has strayed in paths that now remembered cast 
 That shadow o'er him. * * * * 
 * * * * I think he may 
 Have yet some years before him, if he will 
 Live some less wasting life. 
 
 AuTHOE OF Uriel. 
 
 The Sheringliams were about to give their 
 great annual dinner party. That event 
 had been looming in the distance for weeks. 
 There was no escaping it; an invitation 
 would assuredly come, and we should 
 answer it graciously and go. 
 
 Now we liked our would-be host with a 
 real honest liking; we liked his wife, and 
 we liked his children. Nevertheless, in the 
 case of this particular party we were both 
 disinclined to leave home. 
 
 What was it that made this long-looked- 
 for visit so irksome to us? Was it simply 
 
228 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 that we were so entirely bound up in the 
 delights of our own home-life, that we found 
 all barren of joy beyond its narrow scope? 
 Perhaps. Or are there such things as 
 spirit-warnings; and if so, what possible 
 end can they serve, since no one ever listens 
 to them? We all, at certain rare times in 
 our lives, bear witness to some warning 
 voice, some faint, internal, saving monitor, 
 that bade us turn our steps ; yet we have 
 gone on as if we had never heard it. Was 
 this voice speaking to us now ? Perhaps. 
 
 The day duly arrived. With it came, as 
 duly, from Madame Michau^s, the dress of 
 violet velvet in which it was my husband's 
 pleasure that I should appear. The rich 
 lace collar and manchettes, with head- 
 lappets to match, were also of his choosing. 
 A brooch, with May's hair set in diamonds, 
 confined the collar; other jewellery I wore 
 none. 
 
 One would have thought that with so 
 simple an arrangement of dress, I might 
 have escaped observation. It had never 
 occurred to either me or Ralph that there 
 could be anything odd or unbecoming in 
 my wearing a lock of his dead wife's hair. 
 The brooch which contained that sacred 
 
A REJECTED LOVEK. 229 
 
 relic — a relic sacred to us both — I bad worn 
 frequently before, but not in public. On 
 this particular day I chose it, I believe, 
 partly because May had been much in my 
 thoughts of late, partly for the small addi- 
 tional consideration that its somewhat 
 brilliant setting suited best with the 
 heavy material of which my dress was 
 composed. Before the evening was over, 
 however, I was made — no, not to under- 
 stand, for that was beyond my intellectual 
 capacity — I should say I was made to 
 see that I had offended against some code 
 or other which may exist among the Hot- 
 tentots for what I know; but certain it is 
 that I never had heard of it before, nor 
 dreamed of it. But I was assured ' on the 
 very best authority ' that such a thing was 
 never heard of, as a second wife wearing a 
 first wife's hair ! 
 
 Fortunately this announcement was not 
 made to me until the ladies had withdrawn 
 after dinner, or it might have spoiled my 
 appetite. 
 
 My informant was one of those middle- 
 aged, swelling, voluminous matrons, with 
 hard, unloving eyes, who always take the 
 foremost part in the after-dinner conversa- 
 
230 SJJOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 tion over the drawing-room fire. The 
 fender seems placed there on purpose for 
 them. With one foot they take possession, 
 and keep it as if they were holding a 
 fortress against a siege. The scythe-bear- 
 ing figure crowning the massive time- 
 piece on the chimney-slab, out-faced and 
 shamed, seems to lower its brows and 
 question penitently, ' Is this ony work ? ' 
 Poor simple women with hearts, and with 
 bosoms that nurse little children tenderly, 
 hearing her hard worldly talk and looking 
 on her heaving bulk, if they spoke their own 
 honest thought, would say of such specimens 
 of distorted humanity as this Mrs. Burling- 
 ton — though in terms perhaps more femi- 
 nine — what Mr. Sheringham said : ' There 
 is enough of her to know better ! ' 
 
 ' That is an uncommonly beautiful brooch, 
 Mrs. Elphinstone,' she said — ' excuse me ; 
 so massive. I like everything massive.' 
 She looked as if she did. ' May I ask with- 
 out offence whose hair that is contained in 
 it ? arranged so tastefully ; quite charmr 
 ingly — quite a true-love knot, I declare!' 
 
 ' The hair is the late Mrs. Elphinstone's,' 
 I replied. 
 
 ' Dear me ! You don't say so. Excuse 
 
A REJECTED LOVER. 231 
 
 my making the remark, but it is really very 
 unlucky.' 
 
 ' I am not in the least superstitious, Mrs. 
 Burlington.' 
 
 'Very unlucky — very unlucky indeed,' 
 she pursued, exactly as if she had not heard 
 me. ' Nay, it is more than unlucky, it 
 is ' 
 
 'Fatal, perhaps,' I put in, a little mis- 
 chievously, and with an amused glance at 
 my excellent hostess, to show her that 
 I was not annoyed by the remark, which 
 she evidently was. 
 
 ' It is really quite an amazing tempting 
 of providence, I never knew but one case 
 where a second wife wore anything belong- 
 ing to a first. It was a black velvet dress, 
 I remember ; and I can assure you she never 
 lived to wear it out.' 
 
 ' Black velvet lasts a long time,' I re- 
 marked. 
 
 ' Don't you think, though — pray pardon 
 me — but don't you think it must be very 
 painful to Colonel Elphinstone, your wear- 
 ing his first wife's hair ? ' 
 
 ' Not at all.' 
 
 ' Dear me ! I knew her very well — the 
 first Mrs. Elphinstone, you know; and do 
 
232 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 you know, I do not believe she could have 
 done such a thmg for her life.' 
 
 ' Well, no ; she could not very well have 
 done it,' I observed, rather maliciously, 
 I own. 
 
 ' Eh ? Oh, I see ; no, no, of course not ; 
 of course a first wife can't wear a second 
 wife's hair. But what, — of course, what I 
 meant to say was that she could never, I 
 feel quite sure, she could never have brought 
 herself to do anything so very, very ' 
 
 ' What, Mrs. Burlington? ' I asked, look- 
 ing her straight in the eyes ; ' so very, very 
 what ? ' for I was beginning to feel my ears 
 tingle, more at the woman's arm- wrapping, 
 head-tossing manner than even at her words. 
 
 ' Well, my dear ' — how warm people 
 always grow in their terms of address when 
 they are going to be offensive ! — ' well, my 
 dear, I was going to say, indelicate.' 
 
 This was really too much. I looked at 
 the woman. Some sharp words were at 
 my tongue's tip, ready to leap out. But 
 it really seemed an indignity to bandy 
 words on such a subject with such a person, 
 so I only said quietly, 
 
 ' My husband gave it to me ; and, I pre- 
 sume, gave it me to wear ; and I wear it.' 
 
A REJECTED LOVER. 233 
 
 ' A most obedient wife, truly ; quite 
 immaculate and romantic ! ' she went on, 
 apparently nettled at not moving me more 
 visibly. ' Poor Colonel Elphinstone ! he 
 must really have been vastly attached to 
 her.' Turning to her next neighbour, she 
 then dropped her voice to a sort of vrail, 
 intended as a dirge over all dead first wives 
 in general v.- ho were so unfortunate as to 
 be remembered with tenderness by a second, 
 and over poor unfortunate May in par- 
 ticular. 
 
 As I turned round, having swallowed 
 more of the lecture than did me good, I 
 perceived that one of the gentlemen had 
 sauntered in from the dining-room before 
 the rest, and was apparently busied in ex- 
 amining some choice engravings that lay 
 scattered on a side-table. His attitude, 
 however, was rather that of an amused 
 listener than one engrossed in an art-study. 
 I believe he had heard every word Mrs. 
 Burlington said. 
 
 Now, I knew who he was perfectly well. 
 His name was Roupe — James Koupe. In 
 the confusion occasioned by several arrivals 
 occurring at the same time, he had been 
 slightly introduced as a guest who was stay- 
 
234 SNOODED 'JESSALINE. 
 
 ing in the house. In the usual marshalling 
 of visitors in fitting couples previous to 
 the filing off to the dining-room, I had 
 lost sight of Mr. Roupe. 
 
 At the moment I turned round, my eyes 
 met his, and I saw that I was recognised. 
 
 ' Am I so unfortunate, Mrs. Elphinstone, 
 as quite to have passed out of your recollec- 
 tion?' he said. 
 
 ' No, indeed,' I replied ; ' I recalled the 
 face of an old acquaintance at the moment 
 you were introduced to Colonel Elphin- 
 stone.' 
 
 ' I have had the pleasure of meeting the 
 Colonel before,' he said ; ^ and it is very 
 pleasant to fall in with him again so happily 
 accompanied.' 
 
 A bow concluded this speech of ordinary 
 courtesy ; and the influx of a further army 
 of martyrs, whose politeness rather than 
 their good pleasure had led them somewhat 
 early to withstand the enticements of Mr. 
 Sheringham's burgundy, put an end to any 
 further recurrence to old times. 
 
 A little later in the evening I had a still 
 better opportunity of observing Mr. Roupe, 
 and the changes which time had made in 
 him since the days when I had met him in 
 
A EEJECTED LOVER. 235 
 
 my father's counting-house. He stood for 
 some time at the further end of the room, 
 conversing? rather noisilv, I thouo;ht, with 
 Mr. Burlington; a little "svizen man, just 
 such a man as you feel sure beforehand 
 could have no other mate than the dragon 
 from whose jaws I w^as but newly released. 
 
 Never surely had seven years wrought a 
 greater change on any human being than 
 they had wrought in the personal appear- 
 ance of James Eoupe. He had been, at 
 the time when I first knew him, remarkably 
 handsome. He was even yet what people 
 call good-looking ; but he had altered most 
 disagreeably. It was not that his last 
 remains of youth were gone : every age has 
 its charm, if only the life be well lived. 
 But with my old acquaintance there was a 
 marked, an uncomfortable change, which I 
 felt, but could not at first define. While 
 speaking to me, he had spoken and looked 
 like a gentleman; but now, while convers- 
 ing with one with whom he could be more 
 familiar, he spoke loudly, laughed coarsely, 
 and seemed to my eyes a very common-rate, 
 reckless, dissipated-looking man. 
 
 No sooner were Ralph and I snugly en- 
 sconced in the carriaore on our return home 
 
236 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 than I asked him if lie could guess whom I 
 had met, to my utter astonishment, at Mr. 
 Sheringham's. 
 
 ' I cannot guess who you mean in par- 
 ticular, Grace,' lie answered ; ' but a good 
 many people, I suspect, that we neither of 
 us care to meet again.' 
 
 ' Do you remember a certain morning — 
 the morning after our night adventure 
 with the tiger? I feel you do, by that 
 squeeze. Well, then, you remember how you 
 catechised me, and made me confess that I 
 had once had a lover ? ' 
 
 ' Perfectly ; and how many tears you had 
 shed over your own cruelty.' 
 
 ' Well, Ralph, I have met him to-night. 
 He was almost the first person introduced.' 
 
 ' Bless my heart, Grace, this is really a 
 very startling announcement ! Did I greet 
 the monster like a common man ? Who is 
 he ? What is his name ? ' 
 
 ' James Roupe.' 
 
 ' Roupe! Nonsense; you don't say so.' 
 
 ' Yes ; was it not odd ? ' 
 
 ' Of course he recognised you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; he asked me if I had quite for- 
 gotten him, and said he knew 3^ou; nay, 
 very graciously expressed his pleasure at 
 
A REJECTED LOVER. 237 
 
 falling in with you, as he expressed it, so 
 happily accompanied.' 
 
 ' Upon my word that is very good and 
 self-sacrificing of him ; he must be an un- 
 commonly generous fellow! I am very 
 glad he takes it so coolly, or you might have 
 had to find another supply of tears for him. 
 Besides, you might not have liked to meet 
 him again. ^ 
 
 ' Oh, I am not likely to meet him again.' 
 
 ' Do not be too sure. It is by no 
 means unlikely that you will meet him to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' To-morrow ! Where ? ' 
 
 ' At Fairfield Grange.' 
 
 'At home?' 
 
 ' Aye, at home. I have employed him 
 in a matter of business for some years. He 
 did me, too, a slight courtesy when I was 
 last in town, and I have asked him over for 
 a few days' shooting.' 
 
 ' Cannot you put him off ? ' 
 
 'Why should I, Grace?' 
 
 ' I do not think you and he will get on 
 together at all well. He has grown so 
 coarse.' 
 
 ' He drinks hard, I suspect. He is cer- 
 tainly not a very inviting acquaintance. 
 
238 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 But, as I tell you, he did me a service ; I 
 felt under a sort of obligation to him, and 
 so asked him to the Grange just to ease 
 myself of the burden; there are so few 
 ways in which one can return a courtesy 
 of that sort — a commercial accommoda- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' Well, then, I suppose vf e must make the 
 best of him. It will be heavy work to 
 entertain him, will it not ? ' 
 
 ' My wine cellar will do that. He shall 
 have the run of it; my choicest bins shall 
 be at his service. With good wine, dogs 
 and guns, he will get on very well, I dare 
 say, without taxing our powers of enter- 
 tainment very heavily.' 
 
 ' He will not stay many days, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Not likely. He doubted at first if he 
 could take advantage of my offer, as he is 
 in daily expectation of a sudden summons 
 to town, on some business that will admit 
 of no delay. Be as civil as you can to him, 
 Grace. I fancy he knows how to conduct 
 himself like a gentleman when he pleases. 
 If I had not thought so, I should have 
 found out some other way of repaying hiin 
 than bringing him down to the Grange. In 
 
A REJECTED LOVER. 239 
 
 spite of his admitted love of wine, lie was 
 the first to leave the table to-night.' 
 
 That was all that passed between Kalph 
 and me that night on the subject of James 
 Eoupe. 
 
240 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 A ONE-SIDED KECOGNITION. 
 
 This man's the evil genius of our house. 
 Strange ! that a creature formed of such coarse clay- 
 Should have the power to move the secret springs 
 Of mischief that can so entrap the feet 
 Of guileless wanderers crossing his dark path ; 
 Yet, no ; one evil brand may set a-glow 
 The fire that crumbles many homes. 
 
 The following day saw Mr. Roupe an ad- 
 mitted guest at the Grange. He came over 
 in the morning, and the Colonel and he had 
 some good hours' shooting. Both returned 
 full of animation, and to all appearance 
 well pleased with their sport and with 
 each other. Dr. Percy came over, together 
 with Lilian and Lawrence, to meet him at 
 dinner; other guests we had none. 
 
 Being an entire stranger in the neigh- 
 bourhood, having spent but a few days at 
 the house of Mr. Sheringham, it was natural 
 enough that our guest should feel an in- 
 
A ONE-SIDED RECOGNITION. 241 
 
 terest in exploring the new locality, and 
 amuse himself idly with its current gossip. 
 
 Thus, during that interval between the 
 labours of the morning and the summons to 
 dinner, when the duties of the toilet are 
 performed, but the second bell has not yet 
 rung, Mr. Roupe expressed some curiosity 
 about our Fairfield. legend of the haunted 
 Glebe. 
 
 ' Burlington was telling me about it,' he 
 said, ' but I could make very little of the 
 story, except that the ghost was a fair 
 ghost; perhaps you can give me a fuller 
 version of the wandering of this delicate 
 apparition, Mrs. Elphinstone ? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid I am but a poor guide to 
 the supernatural history of Fairfield,' I 
 answered; 'we are all very obtuse on such 
 subjects — very incredulous, in short.' 
 
 ' You have, indeed, so much of living 
 beauty around you here, that you may be 
 excused, Mrs. Elphinstone, for refusing to 
 go in search of even a beautiful ghost.' 
 
 ' I suspect that the apparition, such as it 
 was, has been laid long ago,' said Dr. Percy. 
 ' I have, myself, lived in the village for 
 these twelve years, and the gossips do not 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 pretend that the ghost has ever shown itself 
 during that period.' 
 
 ' To your exorcism, then, Dr. Percy, we 
 may possibly attribute the quieting of this 
 restless spirit,' said Mr. Roupe. 
 
 ' I am disposed to think,' returned Dr. 
 Percy, ' that the apparition was as material 
 as such supposed spiritual presences usually 
 are in these days, and exorcised itself by a 
 voluntary disappearance from the neigh- 
 bourhood.' 
 
 ' Who rents the Glebe House now ? ' asked 
 Mr. Roupe. 
 
 'A Mr. Clement Favrel,' answered Dr. 
 Percy. ' He is quite a new tenant, and is 
 very seldom here, residing chiefly in London, 
 I beheve. We shall see if he is proof 
 against the superstition which has driven 
 so many to quit the Glebe. The place has 
 passed into many different hands. The 
 moment the tenants hear the story, they 
 begin to imagine all sorts of nonsense, and 
 give notice of removal. I fancy Mr. 
 Clement Favrel is about the seventh or 
 eighth tenant who has succeeded to the 
 Campbells.' 
 
 ' The Campbells ? ' cried Mr. Roupe, ab' 
 ruptly, and with almost a start; 'what 
 Campbells ? ' 
 
A ONE-SIDED RECOGNITION. 243 
 
 'The O'Neil Campbells,' replied Dr. 
 Percy. 
 
 ' O'Neil, O'Neil Campbell,' repeated Mr. 
 Roupe in a musing sort of manner. ' I am 
 familiar with the name of Campbell, but I 
 do not remember ever to have heard it as- 
 sociated with that of O'Neil. It is an odd 
 combination of names; O'Neil, I fancy, is 
 Irish ; Campbell is certainly Scotch.' 
 
 ' Well, that never struck me before. How- 
 ever,' added Dr. Percy, ' the Celtic names 
 have no very strict line of demarcation. 
 Very likely an Irish heiress, some blooming 
 descendant of the great Neal-na-Gaillac 
 may have mingled her blood with that of 
 the Scotch Campbells, and so mingled also 
 two great hereditary names.' 
 
 ' To be sure — nothing more likely,' ad- 
 mitted Mr. Roupe. 
 
 There was a moment's pause in the con- 
 versation. It would appear, however, that 
 Mr. Roupe's curiosity ^vas, for some reason, 
 aroused. He returned to the subject. 
 
 'These — these O'Neil Campbells,' he 
 said, 'rented the Glebe House, I think I 
 understood you to say, during the ghost's 
 occupation.' 
 
 ' They did,' answered Dr. Percy ; ' so at 
 
 R 2 
 
244 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 least I have been told, for it was before my 
 incumbency. Old Mr. Campbell is said to 
 have been very unfortunate in his family 
 relations. He was particularly unhappy in 
 one of his sons ; a sad scape-grace, by all 
 accounts. It was reported to be owing to 
 some act committed by that son that old 
 Mr. Campbell died broken-hearted.' 
 
 Again Mr. Roupe pondered, as if turning 
 over in his mind some subject connected 
 with what had just been said. He looked 
 very worn and haggard now that his face 
 was in repose; quite a diiferent man from 
 what he had been in the morning, when he 
 returned from his out- door sport; though, 
 even then, his exuberant flow of good 
 spirits had struck me as something only 
 half real. He quickly recovered himself, 
 however, and addressed me in the tone of 
 one who suddenl}^ shakes oiF a distasteful 
 train of thought by recurring to more 
 agreeable associations. 
 
 ' You used,' he said, ' to be a very diligent 
 student, Mrs. Elphinstone. I remember 
 well your zeal in poring over old histories, 
 as well as your especial love for the battles 
 related by Ossian.' 
 
 'Do you ? ' I said. * Yes, I am afraid that 
 
A ONE-SIDED RECOGNITION, 245 
 
 even in my earliest days I should rather 
 have preferred to immortalise in tapestry- 
 stitch some stirring episode from the battle 
 of Clontarf, to perpetrating a sampler- 
 parody of Joseph and his brethren.' 
 
 * Fie, fie ! ' said Dr. Percy, with a shake 
 of the head and a good-humoured smile. 
 
 ' Then, possibly,' continued Mr. Roupe, 
 still addressing himself to me, ' possibly, 
 though you profess so profound an igno- 
 rance of ghost lore, you can enlighten me 
 on a subject connected with the early history 
 of those Celtic races so many individuals of 
 which have gone to people the world of 
 spirits. How do you trace these merely 
 arbitrary names and titles — such as that of 
 Neil, for instance — to their original source?' 
 
 ' It is not very easy to determine, ' I said, 
 ^ which land can lay the best claim to some 
 of our names, common now alike to Eng- 
 land, Scotland, and Ireland. To take t!ie 
 name of Neil — since you appear to be in- 
 terested in it — the earliest mention of it 
 that I have met with is in the designation 
 of our fourth-century hero just cited by 
 Dr. Percy. There we have it as a title of 
 leadership, similar to that of our British 
 Pend-ragon, and the Gal-cog of the Cale- 
 
246 SNCODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 donians or woodlanders ; Neal-na-Gaillac 
 beino; but a later and less renowned " Yind- 
 gall " or Fingal, that is, a leader or head 
 king of the Gauls — Gaul, Gael, and Celt, 
 being identical ; and we may, I think, content 
 ourselves with its origin as such title/ 
 
 ' The name is Irish, then ? ' said Mr. 
 Eoupe. 
 
 ' Well — yes.* But it may have passed 
 thither out of Britain for all that. The 
 'Scuites' or British refugees — Scots, as they 
 grew to be called — when they fled from their 
 Belgian intruders here to the lerna or 
 western isle — our Ireland — may have borne 
 it to that island with them. If not, perhaps 
 our Irish friend Neal-na-Gaillac left it to 
 us later as a legacy when he came over to 
 invade North Wales and our little Isle of 
 Man, strikino' his nio:ht-siofnal on the mast- 
 borne shield, steering by the stars, and 
 sino'ins: with his rowers to the music of the 
 harp and the chimed dip of the oars.' 
 
 ' Then, I suppose, the name may have 
 found its way afterwards into v/hat w^e now 
 know as Scotland proper? ' persisted Mr. 
 Roupe w^ith a true lavvyer-like pertinacity, 
 till we were almost tired at having the 
 subject so worried to death. 
 
A ONE-SIDED RECOGNITION. 247 
 
 ' Oh, yes,' T said, 'the " Scuites " or Scots, 
 when they sought the aid of their neighbours 
 and brother Britons, the men of Caledon, 
 against the fierce Belgic settlers in that island 
 of the west who had followed them thither, 
 would perhaps carry it with them into Cale- 
 donia, if it was not already there; especially 
 since, later, they settled among those wood- 
 landalHes of theirs altogether, and gave their 
 name to the country ; for I really must be 
 allowed to ignore wholly that old mythic 
 story of the Scythian Niul and his Egyptian 
 •wife Scota, so entirely exploded by our 
 greatest of modern historians.' 
 
 ' How came it — Ireland I mean,' said 
 Lilian, 'to be called the " Emerald Isle?" ' 
 
 ' I fancy, Lilian,' I said, ' that Ireland 
 must have come by that name at the hands 
 of Larthon of Innis-Huna, that early Bel- 
 gic leader who passed over to the west from 
 our Cornish shores about the time of Ves- 
 pasian. Innis-Huna, or the Green Isle, 
 history would have us believe, was one of 
 those islands long since submerged beneath 
 the waters close to our Cornish coast, the 
 largest of those islands of Scilly, supposed 
 to be the Cassiterris of the Phoenicians and 
 the Silura of Solinus.' 
 
248 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 ' And the lost land of Lyonesse/ said 
 Lawrence, ' so associated with our pleasant 
 readings of Sir Tristram.' 
 
 *yes, it was that too,' I said, 'there 
 seems little doubt ; or if there be, no mat- 
 ter ; it is pleasant to fancy we have tracked 
 Sir Tristram home.' 
 
 ' Is that your own suggestion, Mrs. 
 Elphinstone?' asked Mr. Roupe. 'I mean 
 as to the origin of the name of the " Eme- 
 rald Isle?" ' 
 
 ' Yes, it is quite my own, such as it is — 
 rather far-fetched, I dare say. It seems to 
 me not unlikely that the fiery Larthon gave 
 the name of his native home to his adopted 
 one. I am afraid a good deal of the fierce 
 Belgic spirit lingers yet among the sons of 
 Erin. If so, the self-exiled Larthon has 
 more to answer for to Ireland in having 
 carried his hot-blooded followers thither, 
 than can be cancelled by the pretty name 
 he may have bestowed upon the island of 
 his adoption.' 
 
 ' You have quite cleared up my trifling 
 perplexity, Mrs. Elphinstone,' again re- 
 marked our persevering guest ; ' and I feel 
 really obliged to you. Your tracking of 
 the British refuocees out of Britain into 
 
A ONE-SIDED llECOGNITIOX. 249 
 
 Ireland, and from thence to Caledonia, gets 
 rid of the apparent difficulty as to the 
 many names, as that of Neil, being common 
 to the three countries. For now 1 recollect 
 we have in England also the name of Neele 
 or Neale.' 
 
 ' The only difference,' I remarked, ' lies 
 in the spelling.' 
 
 ' It was an uncommonly stupid blunder 
 of mine — quite a delusion — to suppose it 
 could not be a Scotch name,' said Mr. 
 Roupe, ' and arose out of a momentary 
 suspicion connected with a subject of some 
 pain to me. And now see the force of error ! 
 In my momentary historical misconception, 
 I almost persuaded Dr. Percy to follow my 
 lead and believe so common a name as Neil 
 peculiar to Ireland.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Dr. Percj^, * for a moment I 
 confess that vou did. One is so used to 
 think of the name as necessarily combined 
 with the Hibernian prefix of primogeniture, 
 the ; our charming actress. Miss O'Neill, 
 having created so strong an impression upon 
 us, as to help the delusion. That prefix at 
 any rate is now used, or should be used, by 
 the Irish alone. The Scotch seem to have 
 retained the Mac only as the general term 
 for a son.' 
 
250 SNOODED JESSALIXE. 
 
 Just then, simultaneously with the peal 
 which announced dinner, my husband, who 
 had been writing letters up to the last 
 moment, made his appearance — for among 
 his greater virtues he had that smaller 
 graco of punctuality so rare among men — 
 and we marshalled ourselves for table. 
 
 Mr. Roupe, as a matter of course, took 
 me. There was Lilian onty for the Colonel. 
 Dr. Percy and Lawrence followed as they 
 might. The only other presence seemed to 
 be that of O'Neil Campbell, whose name 
 haunted my ears during all the first course. 
 
 When dinner was over, a short while 
 after Lilian and I had withdrawn from 
 table, and, having sought the drawing-room, 
 were eno^ao^ed in discussinof such number- 
 less small matters as serve to pass the 
 pleasant hours with those between whom 
 there is a boundless confidence and no 
 shadow of restraint, Heine Favrel was 
 announced. 
 
 Heine had walked over from the Glebe, 
 to give Lilian and me the latest, news of 
 Lady Letty and Marian, bringing with him 
 a letter received that morning from his 
 betrothed. Heine at all times preferred 
 women's society to men's, and — if I except 
 
A ONE-SIDED RECOGNITION. 251 
 
 my husband, for whom he entertained a 
 strong and ever-growing regard — had no 
 intimate friendships. It did not surprise 
 us, therefore, that, with news from Scarbo- 
 rough in his pocket, he should have chosen 
 to be shown straight into the room where 
 we were sitting, rather than to join the 
 gentlemen's party yet lingering over their 
 last bottle. 
 
 All was going well by the sea waves. 
 Marian's account of herself, as given to 
 Heine, was all that could be desired. She 
 was gaining health and bloom rapidly ; 
 while Lady Letty was full of activity, en- 
 joying a true ' St. Martin's summer ' — 
 that late life-sunshine which crowns the 
 shortening days of those whose passage 
 through this world has been darkened by 
 the rush of storms. 
 
 We were all very partial to Heine ; and 
 as, in conversing with us, all his ordinary 
 reserve, and what Lady Letty termed his 
 'morbidity,' disappeared altogether, we 
 three were soon drawn together by the 
 common interest attaching to the young 
 people, and were plotting and planning 
 schemes of happiness for Heine and Marian; 
 such as when they should be married, where 
 
252 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 they should live, and a thousand other topics 
 connected with the bright future to which 
 both were lookinsr forward. 
 
 We were thus engaged when the draw- 
 ing-room door opened, and Mr. Roupe en- 
 tered. 
 
 Now it so happened that during Mr. 
 Roupe's short stay with us, Heine had not 
 dropped in before this evening ; or if he 
 had, he must have come at a time when 
 our visitor was absent on one of his morn- 
 ing shooting expeditions. 
 
 This being the case, of course I was 
 prepared, on Mr. Roupe's entrance to the 
 room., to introduce them to each other. 
 
 What, then, was my surprise at witness- 
 ing the conduct of Heine ! 
 
 Mr, Roupe advanced leisurely toAvards 
 the middle of the room, smiled and slightly 
 inclined his head as I looked up, with that 
 sort of gesture which seemed to say, ' Don't 
 let me interrupt you; I see you and am 
 pleased to join you, but pray go on with 
 your chat.' I then saw him glance care- 
 lessly at Heine's face, but evidently with- 
 out the slightest recognition. 
 
 Heine had, however, met his glance. As 
 he did so, Heine gave something like a start. 
 
A ONE-SIDED llECOGNITION. 253 
 
 A cloud quickly stole over his face, deepen- 
 ing and lowering into a look that expressed 
 a mixture of hatred and defiance. A crim- 
 son flush at the same time overspread his 
 face — a flush which might be either that 
 of shame or anger. He said not a word ; 
 but, turning towards me and Lilian, and 
 bowing his farewell to us, drew himself up 
 to his full height, crossed the room, opened 
 the door, and was gone. 
 
 Looks of amazement, followed by an 
 awkward, uncomfortable silence among the 
 party left, comprised of Lilian, Mr. Eoupe, 
 and myself, told that we had all seen, and 
 were all equally at a loss to account for, 
 Heine Favrel's extraordinary behaviour. 
 
 Mr. Roupe was the first to speak. 
 
 ' Do I look particularly like a ghost, 
 Mrs. Elphinstone?' he asked. ' Your 
 friend seemed as much aghast at my 
 apparition as if I had been the fair w^an- 
 derer of the Glebe Farm. May I take the 
 liberty of asking that gentleman's name ? ' 
 
 'Mr. Heine Favrel, of the Glebe,' I 
 replied. 
 
 ' What an odd conjunction of circum- 
 stances ! This Mr. Favrel, it would appear, 
 then, is ghost-proof; yet I, whose " too, too 
 
254 SNOODED JESSALD^. 
 
 solid flesh," and not highly spiritual pro- 
 pensities, might, one would think, announce 
 me at once as an inhabitant of this very- 
 enjoyable world, seem to have startled him 
 somewhat strangely. Yery odd. I never 
 saw Mr. Favrel before in my life.' 
 
 I believed him. His surprise was evi- 
 dently genuine. It was a mystery. 
 
255 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE WINE MOUNTS. 
 
 ' pardon me ! the madness of that hour 
 When first I parted from you moves me yet.' 
 At this, the tender soimd of his own voice 
 And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, 
 Made his eye moist ; but Enid feared his eyes, 
 Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast ; 
 And answered with such craft as women use, 
 Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance 
 That breaks upon them perilously. 
 
 Alfeed Texntsgk". 
 
 Mr. Roupe was certainly making himself per- 
 fectly at home at Fairfield. The preserves 
 afforded him an exercise and excitement 
 which it was evident he keenly relished. Our 
 well-furnished wine cellar met with his espe- 
 cial approbation. All was enjoyed, however, 
 with an exemplary moderation; and the 
 most abstemious of hosts — amongst whom 
 my husband certainly deserved to be in- 
 cluded — could not have found fault with 
 our guest on the score of intemperance. 
 It was strange. He admitted himself to 
 
2') 6 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 be over-duly addicted to the after-dinner 
 bottle; was flushed with that unmistakable 
 hue of the hard drinker; had the quick, 
 restless eye and unsteady hand of one who 
 had habitually indulged in no limited pota- 
 tions. Yet with us he was a model of 
 prudence and self-denial. Only on one occa- 
 sion, after the receipt of a letter from town, 
 had my husband seen him for a moment 
 inclined to infringe the rule he seemed to 
 have prescribed for himself. On that occa- 
 sion he had eagerly replenished his glass, 
 but afterwards suddenly and resolutely put 
 it from him, and proposed to my husband 
 that they should join me in the drawing- 
 room. There, he seemed to recover him- 
 self, shook off the oppression under the 
 burden of which the old temptation had 
 beset him, and passed the evening with us 
 in the usual manner. 
 
 So, many days passed — rather more than 
 a week; and no city summons coming to 
 call him hastily away, Mr. Roupe's visit 
 seemed likely enough to last out the fort- 
 night. 
 
 And now, in the strange episode which 
 I am about to relate, let there be no mis- 
 understanding. Let it be very clearly 
 
THE WINE MOUNTS. 257 
 
 understood that the momentary error into 
 which James Roupe was betrayed towards 
 me, was one which I looked upon as 
 involving no intended — no deliberate in- 
 sult. Vanity could not construe that 
 error into anything more grievous than a 
 momentary forgetfulness of his own self- 
 respect. Men are more deeply answerable 
 for the habitual indulgence of such habits 
 as lead to the freaks and mischiefs for which 
 we condemn them, than for those freaks 
 themselves. In the downhill road of life, 
 if the human steed has too loose a rein, he 
 will stumble. We do not send madmen to 
 the gallows, though they bite off their 
 keeper's ears. A man who is drunk is 
 mad — for the time. 
 
 My husband and his guest had as usual 
 spent the morning in the preserves ; after 
 which ]\Ir. Roupe had gone to lunch, by 
 appointment, with his late host, Mr. Sher- 
 ingham, from whose house he perhaps felt 
 he had transferred himself to ours a little 
 prematurely — courtesy considered . We had 
 arranged to have an early dinner, as my 
 husband had an appointment at Appleby; 
 and, feeling that it would be so much 
 more agreeable to myself, as well as conve- 
 
 VOL. I. fe 
 
258 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 nient for Ralph, that we should all dine 
 together, instead of my sitting down to 
 that meal with Mr. Roupe alone — since 
 Ralph could not possibly be back by our 
 usual dinner hour — I persuaded my hus- 
 band to make no stranger of Mr. Roupe, 
 but let him just fall into our arrangements, 
 as I had no doubt he would be quite willing 
 to do. 
 
 So w-e dined, as I had suggested, at about 
 four o'clock. And afterwards, before my 
 husband started, he himself proposed that 
 I should show Mr. Roupe our favourite 
 larch wood, through which he had himself 
 been about to pilot him before he discovered 
 the necessity of his presence at Appleby. 
 
 Mr. Roupe had returned from his morn- 
 ing visit to the Sheringhams' a good deal 
 flushed — I supposed with exercise; for he 
 had walked, and the sun had shone with 
 great power all the morning. At dinner 
 he expressed himself as suffering from 
 great thirst, and mixed his wine with 
 water — taking, however, a good deal of it 
 even in that form. This, however, I did 
 not notice at the time, but recalled after- 
 wards. 
 
 No sooner was dinner over, and my hus- 
 
THE WINE MOUNTS. 259 
 
 band mounted and off, than I at once offered 
 to carry out the plan which Ralph had 
 arranged for us. 
 
 ' I should really like to see your favourite 
 wood,' said Mr. Eoupe; 4f indeed I may 
 trespass so far on your good-nature, Mrs,. 
 Elphinstone. But will the distance not be 
 too great for you?' 
 
 'Not at all,' I answered; 'we are great 
 walkers; and besides, the larch woods are 
 close at hand. You know the hermitage ? 
 Well, it lies a little to the right of that, 
 down through the second shrubbery. Please 
 be so kind as to fetch me my garden hat; 
 you will find it in the hall. I never go 
 into the woods without it, for the cater- 
 pillars drop from the trees and get into my 
 hair.' 
 
 ' Quite a knot of sweets to harbour in ; I 
 envy the little loopers,' said our guest. 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 ' They would tell another tale, I think,' 
 said I. 
 
 ' May I offer you my arm?' 
 
 ' Thank you, no. Were we mounting to 
 our moors, I should be glad of the help ; but 
 in the wood paths one wants both hands 
 free, the branches are in some places so 
 
 s 2 
 
260 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 closely arched. I think the trees grow- 
 faster at Fairfield than elsewhere.' 
 
 'It is a lovely spot indeed, with these 
 sweeps of greensward, waving woods, and 
 songs of birds. City- cooped men may well 
 sigh for such pasturage for eye and ear — 
 aye, and heart.' And he sighed. 
 
 I wished that he had been less senti- 
 mental ; it sat ill upon him, somehow, with 
 his coarse expression, and features blurred 
 and transfigured by indulgence in the 
 bottle. 
 
 As he went on in much the same strain, I 
 began for the first time to find it rather 
 difficult to converse with him. His speech, 
 too, became a little thick, his words not 
 coming out clear. 
 
 Still we went on. I had no pretext for 
 altering our course. But the further we 
 went the more he indulged in an annoying 
 mingled strain of talk, half flattery, half 
 self- reference. By the time we reached the 
 wood I wished the man anywhere, and re- 
 solved, as soon as I decently could without 
 making my design observable, to invent a 
 plausible excuse for returning to the house. 
 
 Mr. Eoupe preceded me into the wood 
 enclosure, lifting the boughs for me to pass. 
 Was his step unsteady? I fancied so. 
 
THE WINE MOUNTS. 261 
 
 The beauty of the woodland thicket, the 
 trail of boughs, the aromatic scent of the 
 larch-cones, seemed to have no charm for 
 him ■ now. He looked like a man whose 
 eyes are turned inwardly — whose mind is 
 absorbed and brooding. From a frank, 
 pleasant, every-day acquaintance, he had 
 become all at once a moody sentimentalist. 
 What could ail him? Had he drunk too 
 freely during his luncheon-visit to Mr. 
 Sheringham; and had our early dinner 
 again tempted him to yield to his besetting 
 sin? Had the cool, sweet air, so refreshing 
 to me, but deepened the effect of the wine? 
 Was the man drunk? 
 
 I was not afraid ; at least I gave no shape 
 to my fears. I felt simply uncomfortable 
 — not at my ease. So, taking a side path 
 that would bring us out by another opening 
 towards the house, I made my way as care- 
 lessly as I could through the thick-grown 
 bous^hs. 
 
 Still he talked — talked freely and volubly. 
 
 ' You remember the old days, Mrs. 
 Elphinstone? — I had nearly called you 
 Grace.' 
 
 ' Yes ; you have not forgotten my poor 
 father, I am sure. I hope the world went 
 prosperously with you after you left his 
 
262 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 house. You, of course, heard of my 
 father's failure.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I did. When that trouble over- 
 took you, I was miles away. I had given 
 up my former pursuits for the law at that 
 time. I w^as tied down by labours it was 
 impossible to escape, or I should have rushed 
 back to offer you my poor services.' 
 
 ' Thank you, that was kind. But we did 
 very well.' 
 
 ' I should have found my way back to 
 your father's — to Mr. Harcourt's house — if 
 — if I could possibly have done it, for — for 
 another reason. 1 was a good deal dis- 
 tressed. I had never been able to explain 
 to you the cause of — of the strange excite- 
 ment under which I laboured — in short, 
 my almost frantic conduct on the occasion 
 of— of ' 
 
 Seeing clearly what was coming, I tried 
 to arrest his words, which he was stammer- 
 ing out now in the most unmistakably 
 drunken manner. 
 
 * Pray do not apologise now,' I said ; 
 'that is a thing quite past and gone. I 
 beg you will not refer to the subject any 
 more.' 
 
 ' Pardon me,' he said, ' the remembrance 
 
THE WINE MOUNTS. 263 
 
 of my — my inexcusable vehemence has been 
 a heavy burden on my mind for many a 
 day. The fact was I — I was even then — 
 even at that time — led away by associates 
 who — who — who have been the ruin of me. 
 You could have saved me. It is too — too 
 late now. With you I should have been a 
 — a different man. Oh, Miss Harcourt ! ' 
 
 I was silent. Doubtless it would have 
 been better to have spoken, that there 
 might be no misconstruction as to how I 
 took such a speech. But though I was 
 rarely seized with what is called a panic, it 
 was usual with me under any surprise or 
 difficulty to remain passively silent. 
 
 All I did was to make a movement to 
 pass the man. But he was full in my path, 
 and did not seem disposed to move. See- 
 ing this, I diverged a little with the view of 
 passing round one of the tree boles, instead 
 of pushing past, as if simply as a matter of 
 convenience, since our professed object was 
 to pass through the wood and not to halt in 
 the midst of it. I was careful, of course, 
 to avoid any appearance of flight. 
 
 As I was passing forward, I felt a touch 
 on my hand which I thought was occasioned 
 by the rebound of a stray larch-bough 
 
264 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 which I had just put back out of my way. 
 I was mistaken. In another moment I felt 
 my wrist grasped, and a warm breath 
 approaching my cheek. This was too much. 
 Acting on the impulse of the moment — not 
 being able otherwise to free myself and 
 escape that hateful kiss — I lifted my right 
 arm, which was free, and struck him. 
 
 I was no amazon : the blow could not 
 have been heavy ; but it answeredits purpose. 
 Either it sobered him, or he repented; I 
 could not tell which, and did not care. It 
 was enough that he desisted, and released 
 me; staggering back against a tree, and 
 leaving the way clear. 
 
 I took advantage of my freedom by an 
 instant flight. 
 
 Scarcely had I cleared the wood, when I 
 saw my husband on his way towards me 
 from the house. He had turned back for 
 a law-paper which it was important he 
 should take with him, and which he had 
 forgotten. The key of the bureau, where 
 the paper had been laid, was, he knew, in 
 ray pocket. 
 
 The moment I saw him I thought only 
 of the sweetness and blessedness of his pre- 
 sence — the protection and dear shelter of 
 
THE WINE MOUNTS. 265 
 
 his arms. Heedless of all else I flew for- 
 ward to meet him, and sank panting upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 Seeing me breathless with running, and 
 suspecting no cause beyond his own unex- 
 pected presence there, he chided me for my 
 haste. 
 
 ' Grace, why will you run with this speed 
 to meet me ! How often must I warn you 
 of the danger of it ? There ! you are, as 
 usual, perfectly breathless and gasping. 
 What folly this is. Upon my word, my 
 dear, I am very angry with you. Now 
 rest quiet ; do not attempt to speak. Stay, 
 I will get you a glass of water.' 
 
 ' Not you, not you,' was all I could gasp. 
 I saw the man Roupe coming slowly to- 
 wards us, and had no mind to be left with 
 him. 
 
 ' Roupe,' said my husband, 'just run up 
 to the house for a glass of water, will you ? 
 My wife has been running to meet me in 
 her usual hasty manner, and is a little faint. 
 Make haste, there's a good fellow.' 
 
 How thankful I felt for that old palpita- 
 tion ! To my jqy and relief at seeing 
 Ralph, had succeeded the difficulty of ex- 
 planation. But, thanks to my old habit of 
 
266 SNOODED JESSALIIsT:. 
 
 going to meet my husband at the top of my 
 speed, and thanks to his open, unsuspicious 
 nature, the whole difficulty was, for the 
 present at least, got over. 
 
 But I had no mind that our intemperate 
 guest should find us on his return from the 
 house with the water. I told Ralph I 
 could not swallow it, begged him to lead 
 me to the hermitage for a few moments' rest, 
 and I should be then quite able to return to 
 the house. 
 
 He did so. I rested quietly, and re- 
 covered my breath; watching meanwhile, 
 through a chink in the hermitage wall, the 
 path to the right, down which Mr. Roupe 
 would pass towards the spot where he would 
 look to find us. 
 
 I saw him pass, the glass of water in his 
 hand; and saw, too, that, not finding us 
 where he had left us standing, he was pass- 
 ing still further away towards the wood. 
 
 That was my signal to move. 
 
 Ralph saw that I was recovered, and 
 turned home with me straight to the house. 
 
 * Now, Ralph,' I said, ' come up-stairs with 
 me, and I will get you the paper ; ' for while 
 I was resting he had told me of his forget- 
 fulness. 
 
THE WINE MOUNTS. 267 
 
 ' Take your time, Grace/ he replied, ' if 
 you must go ; but why on earth cannot you 
 let me fetch the paper myself ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, why, I am going to lie down a little 
 as soon as I have seen you off; so I may as 
 well get out the paper for you.' 
 
 ' That's right ; you are more prudent 
 than I thought. Lie down by all means. 
 But are you sure you are not seriously ill? 
 Shall I send Armstrong to you?' (Mr. 
 Armstrong was our Fairfield doctor.) 'Is 
 your heart quiet; let me feel it.' 
 
 He laid his hand on my heart. 
 
 ' Grace, it is beating fearfully yet.' 
 
 'A little rest will put all that right,' I 
 said. ' I will go straight to bed at once if 
 that will make you easy. But do go now ; 
 you will be so late at Appleby.' 
 
 'Well, I suppose you will have it so. 
 You seem to do very much as you like with 
 me, Grace.' 
 
 ' Of course,' I said with a smile ; ' I 
 s-hould miss my vocation else ! ' 
 
 One happy kiss ; one long, loving fold in 
 his arms : and I was alone. 
 
268 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 ONLY A man's step. 
 
 I'll devise a means to draw the Moor 
 Out of the way, that your converse and business 
 May he more free. Othello. 
 
 I KEPT my word, and went straight to 
 bed. Before doing so I had the satisfac- 
 tion of seeing my husband mount his horse 
 and ride down the avenue. A moment 
 afterwards Mr. Roupe returned to the house. 
 
 Thus far all was well. The two would 
 not meet until the wine-fever had subsided 
 and Mr. Roupe was himself again. The 
 sight of him in that condition, or rather, 
 any speech held with him in that condition, 
 might possibly have suggested to my hus- 
 band's mind something of the real state of 
 the case. Now, they would not meet again 
 that day till late, if at all. 
 
 But what was I to do? The man must 
 not remain in the house ; that was decided. 
 How was I to get rid of him ? 
 
ONLY A man's step. 269 
 
 Hour after hour I lay and pondered. I 
 could come to no conclusion as to what 
 was best and most fitting to be done. If I 
 told my husband, there would be bloodshed. 
 Many sensible men were beginning to see 
 the folly and wickedness of duelling; but 
 the practice was not gone out, and with 
 military men it was not likely to go out 
 just yet. 
 
 Should I write to this man and bid him 
 go quietly? No; I dared not do that. I 
 could not bear the idea of his having a letter 
 of mine in his possession. In what way, 
 then, was he to be got rid of — for see him 
 again, I thought, I could not? 
 
 Fairly worn out at last with the worry 
 of the thing, I determined to dismiss all 
 further debate with myself till morning; 
 and then act at once on whatever impulse 
 came to me with the fresh dawn. 
 
 Sleep came at last to restore me. It was 
 not, however, a very deep or a very tran- 
 quil sleep. I was haunted by a sort of 
 nightmare apparition of a man walking up 
 and down about the house with a glass of 
 water in his hand ! His boots creaked 
 horribly, and he was spilling the water as 
 he reeled along, at every step. With the 
 
270 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 usual inconsistency of dreams, too, the glass 
 remained brimful all the time in spite of 
 the spilling ; and there was an endless drop, 
 drop, dropping, like the falling of rain. 
 
 I woke up to find that a storm had set 
 in, and to know that Kalph was still out 
 and exposed to it. The rain-storm heard 
 through my troubled sleep, had doubtless 
 mixed itself with my dream of Mr. Koupe. 
 
 I tried hard to keep awake till I should 
 see my husband safely housed from the 
 storm. But a leaden weight seemed 
 pressing heavily on my eyes, and I strove 
 in vain. In a short time I was again 
 asleep, and again dreaming the same dream. 
 I did not wake till early morning. 
 
 How light and easy all my long per- 
 plexity seemed in that first freshness of 
 the day ! 
 
 I rose up softly without disturbing 
 Ealph ; and having dressed myself, made 
 my way to Kitty's room before it was her 
 time for leaving it, so as to attract no 
 observation on the part of the other and 
 more regular servants, by requiring her to 
 be sent to me. 
 
 ' Kitty,' I said, ' I want your help.' 
 
 ' Is anythin' the matter, me lady ? ' 
 
ONLY A man's step. 271 
 
 ' Nothing, Kitty ; all is well at present, 
 and you must help me to keep things so.' 
 
 ' I'll do it, me lady, if it's in the blood of 
 ould Ireland to do it.' 
 
 ' I know that well, Kitty, and that is why 
 I came to you. Do you think you could 
 hit on any plan to get your master out 
 into the gardens for the half hour before 
 breakfast ? ' 
 
 ' Nothin' aisier in life. The man's comin' 
 over the first of the mornin' about doin' 
 up the pineries, an' he'll be wantin' me 
 masther's eyes to set him well a-goin'. I'll 
 tell the masther, and I'll be about meself, 
 and see ' 
 
 ' No, Kitty, I shall want you in the 
 house. You can keep a secret, I know.' 
 
 'I'll thry, me lady. I niver kep one 
 but once. That was when I wouldn't 
 tell Pathrick how I loved him as the light 
 of my eyes till he axed me — an' thin it 
 came out with a thump.' 
 
 'But you must not let my secret come 
 out with a " thump," Kitty.' 
 
 'Niver fear, me lady; I'll do. I'd ate 
 my own heart without salt for ye, me lady, 
 and for me masther's honour.' 
 
 ' All shall be done for your masther's 
 
272 SNOODED JESSALIN'E. 
 
 honour, Kitty,' I answered, mistaking her 
 phrase. 
 
 ' An' don't I know that same, me lady, 
 as sure as there's shamrocks in Fermanagh? 
 Don't I know the honour of this house — 
 bless the roof of it ! — is safe in me lady's 
 keepin' — safer a dale tlian in me masther's, 
 and he the honourablest man that iver 
 walked without pattens; and I think, me 
 lady, sure as truth, if iver any thin' foul 
 touched the white name of him, he'd 
 just lie down and die like the little white 
 cratur with the many black tails me lady's 
 muff's made of — I do.' 
 
 ' What I want you to do is this, Kitty,' I 
 said. ' As soon as you have had your early 
 breakfast, come into our breakfast-room 
 and stay there. You can put yourself, if 
 you like, in the little half- curtained alcove 
 at the end of the room, and you need not 
 come out unless I call you.' 
 
 ' An' a beautiful tint I'll be in, me lady, 
 an' I'll make belave I'm in the great camp 
 at Sallymanky, and all the ginerals in full 
 talk, and I listenin' with all the ears I have, 
 as greedy as a dog at a rat-hole.' 
 
 ' That is what I mean : hear, but say 
 nothino:. I shall wait in the breakfast- 
 
ONLY A man's step. 273 
 
 room till Mr. Roupe comes down. I have 
 a few words to say to him, and I wish to 
 have a witness to them.' 
 
 ' I'll be that same, me lady. I niver was 
 much of a hand at a stragedum — if you let 
 alone and don't call it nothin' to have 
 called up the very divil hisself, horns and 
 tail an' all, when I was in St. Pathrick's 
 Purgatory; but Pll do, or niver thrust me.' 
 
 That part of the business settled, I had 
 nothing more to do than, at the appointed 
 time, to go down into the breakfast -room 
 and wait for Mr. Roupe. 
 
 While actively engaged in arranging the 
 matter up to this point, I had felt no qualms. 
 Now, while passively waiting for the man 
 whose drunken mood had l^d him into so 
 strange a confession of a loose life, and 
 whose unpardonable freedom made my 
 cheek burn when I thought of it, I grew 
 lamentably nervous. I could not feel sure 
 that my husband might not look into the 
 breakfast-room on his way to the gardens; 
 that he might not even look in at the very 
 moment when it was most important that 
 he should be out of the way. 
 
 Then, again, what was I to say to this 
 man for whom I was secretly waiting — 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
274 SKOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 innocent, but to all appearance like some 
 poor infatuated guilty wretch who was 
 planning her husband's dishonour ? 
 
 It was in vain that I thought over some 
 set speech, carefully worded, cool and quiet. 
 I knew very well I must be guided by the 
 accident of the moment when the man 
 should enter the room, and when I should 
 have nothing for it but to blurt out the 
 indignation that was swelling at my heart. 
 
 I listened. Yes, there was a step ! It 
 was Ralph's. It fell with its old music on 
 my ear ; went ringing like a strain of sweet 
 song past the door of the room where I 
 stood; passed with a dying fall along the 
 great hall, and was finally lost in the sharp 
 slam of the outer door. 
 
 The sound of that step revived me. 
 
 But I must wait for another. 
 
 It was not very long before I heard that 
 other step. 
 
 What was it that made sounds so similar 
 produce so different an effect? The pulses 
 at my heart, stirred by the music-fall of 
 Ralph's foot upon the stair, beat their 
 soft and tender answer, sweet as the tones, 
 — clear and ringing — called forth by a 
 Mozart's touch upon the keys. But this 
 
ONLY A man's step. 275 
 
 man's step, the — to me — harsh, mad beat 
 of it, set every nerve within me throbbing 
 with a force and loudness that could be com- 
 pared to nothing but the gallop of the wild 
 huntsman. 
 
 I heard only Mr. Eoupe's first words, 
 and went dash at my meaning. 
 
 ' Good morning, Mrs. Elphinstone,' he 
 began. 
 
 ' The morning is not good to me, sir, 
 while you remain in this house. You will 
 have the goodness to quit it immediately.' 
 
 Mr. Roupe looked aghast; but, recover- 
 ing himself, was advancing towards me 
 with a sort of cringing, conscious, obse- 
 quious attitude, with his hand extended. 
 
 ' My fair hostess ' 
 
 ' Kitty, show this gentleman the door ! ' 
 I cried. 
 
 ' I'm here, me lady,' answered Kitty, 
 coming forward and holding open the 
 door. 
 
 I had retired up to the further end of 
 the room, and would not look round. But 
 there was a long mirror on the wall in 
 front of me, and into that I looked. 
 
 It was all right. He was going quietly, 
 and without another word. 
 
 t2 
 
276 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 But did I see aright? was I mistaken, 
 or did Kitty really and truly in her mis- 
 taken zeal expedite his movements? As 
 he passed over the threshold of the door, 
 did she or did she not slam it against 
 him before he was fairly through? 
 
 I feared so. I fancied it could be no 
 mistake of mine. That comes, I thought, 
 of trusting any living soul with matters of 
 private delicacy ! I felt angry and humi- 
 liated ; angry with myself, angry with 
 Kitty. I had only wished the man away 
 quietly, since it was impossible he could 
 remain under the same roof with me after 
 an outrage so glaring. I had no desire to 
 insult him. If he recalled his indiscretion 
 at all — and he was certainly not so far 
 gone in intoxication as to be afterwards 
 quite unconscious of it — I felt sure he 
 would be sorry for his momentary forget- 
 fulness of what was due to me and to 
 himself. 
 
 Fortunately, Kitty left the room at once, 
 or I might have rebuked her in a way pain- 
 ful to her devoted heart. 
 
 Soon afterwards I was indebted to her 
 for a thoughtfulness which saved me from 
 the awkward dilemma of having to ente 
 
277 
 
 into any excuses to my husband, to account 
 for Mr. Koupe's absence from the breakfast 
 table. 
 
 Scarcely had Ralph sat down to his 
 coffee, when Kitty put her head in at the 
 door. 
 
 ' If it plases your honour, the gentleman 
 that's been a-shooting's gone.' 
 
 ' Shooting ? Gone ! What, Mr. Clement 
 Favrel?' said my husband, remembering 
 the bullet in the wall. 
 
 ' Not him, your honour, but one as takes 
 his aim betther than that Mr. Clem. Favril. 
 Mr. Roupe's the name he calls hisself; and 
 he's got a post-letter, and his porkmankle's 
 all packed, and Stephen's tuk it down to the 
 lodge gate, and he's off by the coach, and 
 as I was by at the goin' of him, he's left 
 me to say all there is to be said for him — 
 an' it isn't much, that isn't ; only he 
 couldn't stop nohow, and his respects to me 
 lady's honour and to your honour's honour.' 
 
 ' That will do, Kitty,' said my husband ; 
 and Kitty closed the door behind her and 
 was gone. 
 
 'Well, his summons has come at last, 
 then,' said Ralph.. ' I am not very particu- 
 larly sorry, are you, Grace ? ' 
 
278 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 * No, indeed ; I am rather glad he is gone.' 
 
 ' How awkward that there should be but 
 one coach, and at such an early hour. He 
 must have gone without his breakfast. 1 
 wish I had known of it. If they had sad- 
 dled Blucher for him, he could have broken 
 his fast while that was doing, and could 
 have ridden to meet the mail that drops 
 the cross-post letter -bag. A mounted 
 groom could have carried his valise, and 
 he would have lost no time whatever.' 
 
 ' Never mind,' I said, ' the coach stops 
 after a very short stage; and his usual 
 London breakfast hour is, as he told us, 
 so much later than with us primitive coun- 
 try folks, that the delay will be no serious 
 discomfort to him.' 
 
 With that, I was glad to let the subject 
 drop, lest anything should be said or asked 
 which I might find it more difficult to 
 reply to with truth ; and no more was 
 said. 
 
279 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE CROSS-COUNTRY POST. 
 
 He something seems unsettled. 
 
 How, my lord ? 
 What cheer? * * * You look 
 As if you held a brow of much distraction. 
 
 * Cruel are the times when we are traitors 
 
 And do not know ourselves. Winter's Tale. 
 
 The cross-country post came in at nine 
 o'clock. 
 
 It was not very usual for us to receive 
 letters by this bag; so that it had some- 
 thing of the effect of a surprise when 
 Stephen appeared, waiter in hand, at my 
 elbow, about half an hour after Mr. Roupe's 
 summary dismissal. 
 
 Ralph and I were still lingering over our 
 breakfast. He was reading the morning's 
 paper when the servant came in, and did 
 not lift his eyes from its columns when I 
 took the letter from Stephen. 
 
280 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 I saw at a o^lance in whose handwritinor 
 it was. 
 
 The hand was Mr. Roupe's. 
 
 This letter, then, could not have come in 
 the regular way, but must have been con- 
 signed to the mail-guard as a private parcel, 
 paid as such, and given over for delivery to 
 the boy who brought the letters on. There 
 was, of course, no post-mark. 
 
 Seeing this, and feeling that there would 
 be something awkward about the letter, I 
 would gladly have slipped it quietly into 
 my pocket, so that neither the handwriting 
 nor the want of post-mark might attract my 
 husband's attention. But the singularity 
 of such a proceeding would very naturally 
 have at once aroused his suspicions by 
 awakening him to the fact that there was 
 somethino^ to conceal. I therefore thous^ht 
 better of it, broke the seal, and ran my 
 eyes over the contents. 
 
 What was my first impression on reading 
 Mr. Roupe's coarse and revengeful ebulli- 
 tion of wrath, I cannot now tell. All I 
 know is, that at that moment I certainly 
 did not make that excuse for it which I am 
 about to make now. 
 
 The excuse I make now is this. 
 
THE CROSS-COUNTRY POST. 281 
 
 The letter was written in the first burst 
 of a very natural feeling of indignation at 
 the ignominious manner in which the writer 
 had been thrust from the house; a mode 
 of expulsion which, as I have shown, was 
 quite foreign to my intention, and at which 
 1 blush to this day whenever I think of it. 
 That was the excuse, if excuse there could 
 be for so gross, so brutal, so malevolent 
 a missive as the one which was hurled 
 at me in the shaj)e of that letter of Mr. 
 Eoupe's. 
 
 The first few lines, as they pointed only 
 at myself, I could read, shocked though I 
 was, calmly enough. I could command my 
 face, except that the tell-tale blood would 
 mount there, struggle against it as I would. 
 But I had not read far before the torture 
 of mastering all outward expression of the 
 feelings that were at work within me be- 
 came a perfect agony. My under lip began 
 to quiver with suppressed emotion, and the 
 letter to shake in my hand. 
 
 This was the letter : — 
 
 ' Madam, — The blow dealt by your hand 
 I forgive. Not so, however, the insult to 
 which you were a consenting party in 
 allowing a menial of your house to be 
 
282 SNOODED JESS ALINE. 
 
 a witness to my ignominious dismissal 
 from it. 
 
 * I will have my revenge, depend on it. 
 If I cannot strike you directly, I can at 
 least wound you through that husband of 
 yours, for whom you seem to entertain a 
 queer sort of transcendental adoration. 
 
 ' You will remember, I have no doubt, a 
 missing letter about which a ridiculous fuss 
 was made in your father's house. That 
 letter was from your predecessor at Fair- 
 field Grange — the first Mrs. Elphinstone — 
 and was addressed to your mother. I had 
 opened it by mistake, but seeing what its 
 contents were, found it awkward to avow 
 that I had read it. I retained that letter. 
 I have it now, amongst other precious 
 documents. 
 
 ' That letter contained the agonised con- 
 fession of a wife's frailty. May Whiteford 
 had a lover before she became Mrs. Colonel 
 Elphinstone, and afterwards. Have I said 
 enough, or must I be more explicit? 
 
 ' You may tell your husband this plea- 
 sant little story, if you like ; I care not one 
 jot whether you do or do not. If you do, 
 he will hate you for being the bearer of 
 
THE CROSS-COUNTRY POST. 283 
 
 such news, and for having such a know- 
 ledge, for all the country is well aware to 
 what an absurd length he carries his no- 
 tions on such matters; if you do not tell 
 him, why then there will be a secret be- 
 tween you, and I wish you both joy of it T 
 
 The letter was not signed. 
 
 Now, while these words were silently 
 burning into my brain, even while my eyes 
 were fixed upon the letter I was perfectly 
 conscious that my husband's eyes were fixed 
 upon me — ^fixed steadily upon my face in 
 wonder and perplexity. There is sometimes 
 a silence so dead, so much more deep than 
 that which is born of the mere absence of 
 words, that it strikes upon us with a weight 
 like the weight of a slab-stone on a grave. 
 My very breathing was hushed, my pulses 
 seemed dead, and Ralph knew it. 
 
 ' What is it, Grace?' he asked at last. 
 
 ' Wait a little, Ealph,' I said ; and I spoke 
 very low, with all the voice I had. 
 
 Under cover of reading the letter over 
 again, I gained a little time to think what 
 I should do and say. 
 
 My resolve was to throw myself on my 
 husband's forbearance. 
 
284 SNOOD ED JESS ALINE. 
 
 ' Ralph, do you feel sure that you can 
 trust me?' I said. 
 
 ' With my life, Grace ; nay, more, with 
 my honour. You know that quite well. 
 Why do you ask such a question ? ' he 
 replied. 
 
 ' Because I want you to trust me, fully 
 and entirely, without reservation, without 
 question.' 
 
 He looked at me for a moment or two in 
 profound silence before he spoke. 
 
 ' You will read me that letter, Grace?' 
 
 ' Ralph, I cannot.' 
 
 'Who is it from?' 
 
 I was dumb. 
 
 ' This is not like you, Grace.' 
 
 My heart was very full. There was 
 something, just a shadow of reproach, in 
 his tone. It moved me strangely, but 
 I mastered myself. I ventured another 
 appeal. 
 
 ' My husband, have I ever disobeyed 
 you?' I asked. 
 
 ' Upon my life, Grace, the word is not 
 in my vocabulary. We have thought and 
 felt so much alike, that the question of 
 obedience has never arisen between us.' 
 
 ' Then let me seem wilful, disobedient, 
 
THE CROSS-COUNTRY POST. 285 
 
 for this once. Forgive me, my Ealph, if 
 I withhold this letter.' 
 
 Again he remained silent, and now for 
 some length of time. 
 
 ' Grace,' he said at last, ' I have reasons 
 for wishing to see that letter — reasons which 
 you must well know are entirely apart from 
 any unworthy suspicion, any unjust thought 
 towards you. Indeed, I feel almost ashamed 
 to suggest the bare possibility of a thought 
 that could wrong you. But I have got it 
 into my head that this letter must concern 
 me ; that you are putting yourself to pain 
 by this silence and secrecy, quite unneces- 
 sarily, on my account ; in short, that you 
 are throwing yourself, with your usual self- 
 devotion, between me and some imaginary 
 danger. , Tell me, is it not so?' 
 
 Still I was silent. What could I say? 
 I was not thinking or caring now about 
 the telling or withholding of the secret of 
 the man Roupe's drunken folly. It was 
 this hateful brand flung at dead May, 
 which would burn into my husband's heart 
 as long as he lived, that my lips refused 
 to tell him of. Suffer what I might, I 
 thought, he should never meet such a 
 wound through me. But he was quite 
 
286 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 justified, knowing nothing of the cause of 
 my silence, in thinking me dreadfully ob- 
 stinate, and his next words showed that he 
 did think me so. 
 
 ' Grace, you are still silent. You will 
 think me, I fear, very tyrannical ; but, 
 Grace, that letter I must see.' 
 
 I glanced at the fire. If I could only 
 have thrown it there! But the fire was 
 black with fresh coals, and the letter would 
 not burn quickly; he might snatch it away 
 
 Possibly he saw my intention, for he rose 
 from his seat, and stood between me and 
 the grate. 
 
 ' Come, come, Grace,' he said, somewhat 
 impatiently, ' give me the letter.' 
 
 I saw that he was getting angry. I had 
 never seen this in him before. 
 
 ' Ralph ! ' I cried, piteously, ' if you are 
 angry with me, how shall I bear it ! ' 
 
 ^ There can be no possible reason why 
 you should withhold anything from me.' 
 
 I longed to throw myself into his arms 
 and entreat his forbearance. But I could 
 not bring myself to use the weak weapons 
 of fondness and tears to disarm a displea- 
 sure in which he was so fully justified. I 
 felt it was my right to shield him from 
 
THE CROSS-COUNTRY POST. 287 
 
 sorrow and shame, and it was hard to be 
 denied that dearest privilege of a wife's 
 love. This was the first cloud that had 
 ever come between us two, and it bowed 
 me down. 
 
 The anguish of feeling that he was judg- 
 ing me harshly, thinking me obstinate, if 
 nothing worse, made me at last break 
 silence. 
 
 'Ralph, I know your right,* I said; 'I 
 know the vow I gave you, and in what 
 spirit I gave it you. In what I wish to do 
 — in desiring to keep this letter from you 
 — possibly 1 am wrong. Your opposing 
 me makes me almost feel that I am wrong. 
 I have been so in the habit of believing you 
 right in all you do, and say, and think — 
 of relying on you so very, very fully and 
 entirely in all my doubts, that, standing 
 alone as I do now, and trying hard to 
 judge for myself what is best to do, I feel 
 perplexed.' 
 
 I paused a moment, feeling my voice 
 getting a little unsteady. Ralph gave me 
 time, and I went on, a little recovered. 
 
 ' Will you do one thing for me, Ralph ? ' 
 I continued. ' Will you be a little patient, 
 and give me a few hours for calm thought ? 
 
288 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 If, when I have thought this matter well 
 over — if, after a little consideration, it still 
 seems best to me to withhold this letter 
 from you, I will come to you, and will 
 plead once more to be allowed to do so. 
 If I decide otherwise — if, by the coming of 
 another day — by to-morrow morning, say — 
 I should see my way clearer, and believe 
 that, on the whole, it will be best to be 
 ruled by you in this matter, why, then, I 
 will come to you frankly with the letter in 
 my hand, and there shall be at once an end 
 to the mystery.' 
 
 ' As you like,' he answered. But his 
 eyes did not meet mine. They were fixed 
 on the carpet, and he was tossing the fringe 
 of the hearth-rug backwards and forwards 
 with his foot. 
 
 Never in my life, I think, did I put so 
 violent a restraint upon myself. The wish 
 to give him the letter at once was so strong 
 within me, that I felt myself grasping it 
 tightly as if it would take wings and fly to 
 him if I relaxed the. firmness of my grasp 
 upon it. It was dreadful, looking in my 
 husband's face, to see him as I saw him now. 
 In some homes a coldness like this might 
 be the frequent accident of married life ; 
 
THE CROSS-COUNTRY POST. 289 
 
 but in ours, tlie first icy touch of it seemed 
 to freeze up the very life within me. Yet, 
 if it chilled and made me shiver, it streng- 
 thened me too. He was himself, his perfect 
 self, even in this mood, so new to me. 
 That same strong sense of what was just 
 and right which made me in his eyes appear 
 lax in my duty, was the very quality of his 
 mind, the thought of which lent a new 
 dread to the fact of his comins; to a know- 
 ledge of that which I had so hard a 
 struggle to keep from him. If a slight 
 swerve from duty in me could so pain him, 
 how would he bear the thought of May's 
 disloyalty ? 
 
 Supposing my husband to have yielded 
 the point for the present, I thanked him for 
 his forbearance. I could not help my voice 
 being a little unsteady as I did so. 
 
 As I was shortly after preparing to leave 
 the room, he called me back. 
 
 ' Grace, there is no unkindness between 
 us?' he asked. 
 
 ' None, Ralph,' I said. 
 
 ' Take your time. I cannot think that 
 you will seriously oppose me about such a 
 trifle ' (a trifle !) * I shall expect to see that 
 
 VOL. I. u 
 
290 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 letter; to-morrow, or a week hence; it does 
 not matter which.' 
 
 ' To-morrow, Ealph, certainly, if at all. 
 Please God, by that time I shall see my way 
 — see my duty clearly.' 
 
 ' You must remember that I have had 
 cause to hate concealments about letters. 
 You recollect what I told you about May?' 
 
 He was thinking, then, of May! How 
 should I keep my eyes from betraying that 
 it was of May I, too, was thinking — pain- 
 fully, miserably ? 
 
 ' I remember everything, my Ealph,' I 
 said. ' May I go now? ' 
 
 He nodded, and then turned away to 
 the window. I was glad to be alone. I 
 went first about some household matters; 
 then, taking bonnet and shawl, I strolled 
 out into one of the quiet shrubberies, to 
 hold an open-air council with my con- 
 science — I and my ugly letter together. 
 
291 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL 
 
 A husband's trust. 
 
 * I do believe yourself against yourself, 
 And will henceforward rather die than doubt.' 
 And Enid could not say one tender word, 
 She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart. 
 
 Alfred Tenntso]^-. 
 
 How Ealph and I got through the rest of 
 that day together, I hardly know. A strange 
 new restraint stood like a wall between us. 
 The hours rolled on somehow; night 
 came, and still I was as far as ever from 
 gaining any new light to guide me out of 
 the labyrinth of perplexities among which 
 I seemed to have suddenly lost my way. 
 The more I thought, the less able I became 
 to decide in the choice between two evils. 
 On the one hand, if I held by my secret, 
 there was my husband's displeasure, so well 
 justified, but yet so hard — so hard to bear ! 
 hard to bear on my own account, but 
 doubly hard from the pain it brought to 
 
 u 2 
 
292 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 him. On the other hand, if I yielded up 
 my secret to him — if I told him all — there 
 was this shameful brand upon May's good 
 name — a loathsome blot upon the honour 
 of his house, never to be wiped out ; blood, 
 even the slanderer's blood would not wash 
 it clean. May was in her grave. It was 
 next to impossible now to disprove the 
 charge. The knowledge of it would be a 
 lifelong misery to him. And the disgrace 
 and shame of it did not even rest upon him 
 alone — there was Lilian ! 
 
 Out of one hope alone, which burst upon 
 me suddenly like a flash of sunlight, did I 
 draw any comfort. May — dear, dead May ! 
 — was stainless. Of that I felt as sure as I 
 did of my own existence. What, then, if 
 I could by some means get possession of 
 that missing letter — that letter James 
 Eoupe referred to as containing a guilty 
 confession, which had failed to reach my 
 mother's hands, and had fallen into his? 
 Doubtless, that letter of May's would speak 
 with a different voice to us, who knew her, 
 loved her, and could judge her with clean 
 thoughts, thoughts so pure and sweet of 
 her as to be utterly beyond the comprehen- 
 sion of such a composition of earth's mould 
 
A husband's trust. 293 
 
 as this man James Eoupe, who, by his own 
 confession, had sunk even in youth into a 
 depth of depravity which must have tainted 
 every chamber of his mind with foulness 
 and corruption. 
 
 But how to set about it? How would it 
 be possible for me, alone and unassisted, to 
 get into my own hands a letter at this 
 moment in the possession of a man who 
 had been dismissed from my house for an 
 outrage committed in a fit of drunkenness? 
 The thing seemed out of the question. 
 And yet something must be ventured. 
 Supposing for a moment that May's letter 
 contained any revelation which, however 
 innocent she might really be, yet would 
 admit of a different construction ? In that 
 case was it not imperative that such a living 
 and breathing record of dishonour should 
 be recovered out of the keeping of the 
 wretched purloiner of another's property, 
 and one who could shamefully boast of hold- 
 ing it cruelly for years in his dishonourable 
 hands, to the pain and disquiet of the 
 living, and to the lasting disgrace of the 
 dead? 
 
 Over these thoughts I worried and 
 brooded half the night, and so wasted and 
 
294 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 let slip the time which should have been 
 given to arriving at some decision as to the 
 point more immediately in question — that 
 point being whether I should or should not 
 stand alone in this business, or place Mr. 
 Koupe's letter in my husband^s hands, and 
 take the consequences. 
 
 With that debate between my love and 
 obedience still unconcluded, I dropped 
 asleep. 
 
 With the dawn of a new day I awoke to 
 find my husband's face bending over me, 
 and his eyes, which would seem to have 
 been seeking through my closed lids that 
 light of truth which my waking eyes had 
 refused to pour upon him, bent fixedly upon 
 mine. 
 
 ' Grace,' he said, ' I have slept upon this 
 trouble of ours, and with the morning I 
 liave other thoughts. Keep your secret, 
 Grace ; I shall not molest you. I waive all 
 right to know what you desire to keep 
 from me.' 
 
 ' You are not pleased? ' I said. 
 
 ' Perhaps not. I cannot help that. But 
 I will do what I can to keep my thoughts 
 from dwelling on the subject. It may very 
 well be that I am not over-pleased, Grace. 
 
A husba^nd's trust. 295 
 
 But what I will to do at all, I do without 
 stint or reservation, in so far at least as lies 
 within my power. I give you your own 
 way wholly and thoroughly. I have thought 
 deeply and long as I looked on you lying 
 there beside me, Grace. I know that I 
 have a right — so the world judges and says 
 — a right to exact from you what you 
 refuse to yield to me, let it be your will or 
 your conscience, your body or your soul; 
 in short, the right to make a slave of you, 
 if I see fit. But, Grace, when for the first 
 time there comes an occasion for me to 
 exert that right, I cannot take advantage 
 of it.^ 
 
 'MyKalph!' 
 
 ' Hear me out, Grace. Do not mistake 
 me. I am not yielding to your weakness, 
 but to your strength. You sought nothing 
 by tears or embraces. You appealed not 
 to my love, but to my reason — my sense of 
 common justice — my manhood — my duty. 
 Yesterday I could not see my duty ; to-day 
 I am wiser. Keep your secret, Grace.' 
 
 ' And you will not be unhappy ? ' 
 
 ' If I am, it will be my own fault. "When 
 I look back on the past, and recall all you 
 have been, not to me only, but to others ; 
 
296 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 when I remember what you were to May ' 
 (May, again!), 'the sweetest, truest com- 
 panion woman ever had ; when I remem- 
 ber all you were to her in sickness, stinting 
 no toils, doing for her the offices of the 
 meanest hireling, cheering her hours of 
 weariness, and smoothing her passage to 
 the grave ; then, years afterwards, what you 
 were to me ; when I recall first your pitiful 
 silence, your thousand small offices of kind- 
 ness rendered without effort — small daily 
 offices of healing, unstudied, rising straight 
 from the tender woman's nature within 
 you ; when I think of all these things, I 
 fairly blush to admit for a moment that I 
 have a right to deny you anything in all 
 this world that you should ask of me.' 
 
 ' My own Ralph ! ' 
 
 ' Then, as the years went on, did I not 
 see you a mother to my motherless girl ? 
 How I loved you for that ! How you grew 
 into my heart, till you became a part of it ! 
 When my thoughts began to twine more 
 closely about you; when, at last, I ceased to 
 see in you my lost wife's companion, almost 
 her slave, and my child's guide and teacher, 
 many and many a time, though you never 
 knew it, when I felt that my eyes lingering 
 
A husband's trust. 297 
 
 upon your face would betray me, I turned 
 away lest you should read in them the love 
 that craved utterance too soon.' 
 
 ' My husband ! ' 
 
 ' Aye ; then came your sweet surrender ! 
 You remember, when I spoke to you of 
 Lilian, and craved that you should give 
 her a new title to love you — you remem- 
 ber how you placed your hand in mine, and 
 did not shrink from my kiss? Of all that 
 you have been to me since that day, I can- 
 not speak; words are feeble to tell the 
 unutterable sweetness of it. It is enough 
 that you have earned — tenderly and righ- 
 teously earned — the right to my forbearance 
 — nay, to my utmost love and my most 
 entire, unquestioning trust. So now, kiss 
 me, and in God's name, my darling, go 
 your own way.' 
 
 I dared to embrace him now, for I had 
 no more to ask. It was very difficult just 
 then to keep down the rebel tears that were 
 slowly and silently making their way 
 through my closed lids as my head lay 
 hidden in his neck. If a tear escaped me 
 he did not know it ; it had full time to dry 
 upon my cheek before I loosed ray arms 
 from about him. But I could not speak. 
 
298 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 I was touched — amoved so visibly by his 
 kindness and self-yielding, that I dared not 
 trust my voice. It did not matter, my 
 silent lips could find his cheek and nestle 
 there. He understood the action — it was 
 not new to him — and he needed no cold 
 thanks from me. 
 
299 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 MORE MYSTERIES. 
 
 You see but what I show, 
 And more you cannot. I have greater thoughts 
 Than you can hold ; and I to you remain 
 Most incommunicable. 
 
 Author of Uriel. 
 
 I WAS free now to act, and was compara- 
 tively glad and happy. What should I do 
 first? I sat down to think. 
 
 It seemed to me that the first thing to 
 be done was to get, if possible, to the real 
 truth of the story of May's early life. If, 
 later, it should prove possible to get the 
 purloined letter out of James Roupe's 
 hands, it was well that I should hold in 
 my own the clue to its real import, for one 
 especial reason. My unassisted attempts 
 to possess myself of that letter by stra- 
 tagem might fail. In that case I might, 
 after all, feel it right to place the matter in 
 stronger hands ; in short, to put my hus- 
 band on the scent, and leave to him the 
 
300 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 task of obtaining it by the strong arm of 
 the law if necessary. If I should be driven 
 to that course to obtain it, my husband's 
 peace of mind required that I should be 
 able to lay before him some evidence 
 -which should make it quite conclusive that, 
 whatever colour poor May's unguarded 
 writing might bear to a harsh -judging 
 world, it could have but one, and that the 
 purest, meaning to him. 
 
 I resolved to put myself to a painful 
 ordeal. I would go over, date by date, in 
 regular order, all May's letters to my 
 mother, her old school- companion and the 
 friend of all her life ; I would also run my 
 eye over my mother's answers to hers, and 
 see what colour May's open-hearted revela- 
 tions wore in the sight of that fast friend 
 of her youth. By my mother's death and 
 my marriage with Ealph, the whole cor- 
 respondence, packets upon packets, now 
 yellowing with age, which had passed from 
 one young heart to the other, had fallen 
 into my possession. Of my mother's let- 
 ters, fortunately not one had been de- 
 stroyed by May; and I had been equally 
 averse to cast into the fire one line that 
 May had ever written. 1 had them, and 
 
MORE MYSTERIES. 301 
 
 could read them all. The task would be a 
 painful and a toilsome one, but it must be 
 gone through. 
 
 Once, for a moment, the idea occurred to 
 me that the letter referred to with such a 
 cool and cruel malevolence had no exist- 
 ence; was a mere creation of James Roupe's 
 brain. But there came, to dash that hope, 
 the recollection of what Ralph had himself 
 told me of May's heart having been 
 another's and not his, and, besides, the 
 knowledge I had from the same source, 
 that the attachment was a deep and lasting 
 one; so deep that when her early lover 
 died ' May's heart was in a grave.' Here 
 was a fatal confirmation of one portion at 
 least of the substance of the alleored ' con- 
 fession.' Could the rest by possibility, 
 then, be equally true, or seem so? 
 
 Our famxily letters on both sides, were 
 kept in that same bureau in my dressing- 
 room, of which the key had been sought by 
 Ralph on that day when I had rushed to 
 meet him in my flight from that detestable 
 Mr. Roupe. It was always kept on a small 
 ring, with one or two other keys which se- 
 cured documents of importance, in my 
 own pocket. This was fortunate I could 
 
S02 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 find the letters and look tliem over without 
 observation. I should not have to seek 
 them from any depository of my husband's 
 papers, and he would thus have no clue to 
 my purpose by noting how I was engaged. 
 
 Apart from its pain, I did not like the 
 office. There seemed to me something 
 almost culpable in intruding myself into a 
 confidence never meant for me. Even if I 
 could be presumed to have any right to 
 overhaul my mother's correspondence, was 
 I justified in searching into the secret reve- 
 lations of my husband's dead wife? The 
 key trembled in my hand as I prepared to 
 unlock the bureau, and I sat down before 
 the written records of May's youth and 
 love like a guilty thief. 
 
 Seizing my opportunity when alone I 
 could feel secure from interruption, it was 
 a day or two before I reached that point 
 in the date of the correspondence which 
 would be likely to bear upon the question 
 most fearfully at issue. At last I came 
 to it. 
 
 Very simple was May's early love-story, 
 up to that point in its sorrowful relation at 
 which I arrived on a certain day when, as 
 I shall show, I was interrupted. It may 
 
MORE MYSTERIES. 303 
 
 be told in a few words. That story 
 was simply the vague love -dream of a ro- 
 mantic girl who had given away her young 
 heart unasked ; now hoping, now doubting ; 
 one moment crying with Shakespeare's 
 Helen, ' There is no living — none, if Ber- 
 tram be away,' now masking all outward 
 show of affection in his presence; some- 
 times feeling confident that he secretly 
 worshipped her, sometimes feeling equally 
 assured that she had no place in his 
 thoughts. Altogether, the impression left 
 on the reader's mind was that the man had 
 been trifling with her; playing, in short, 
 that game of ' fast and loose,' which is 
 play indeed to the player thereof, but cruel, 
 crushing earnest to the true heart which is 
 so wantonly played with. 
 
 After much painful recording of the 
 heart-ache which such young gentleman 
 amusement is apt to give rise to, the young 
 man's name (I need not record it here) all 
 at once dropped out of the correspondence. 
 He had gone abroad ; and there for a time 
 was an end of him. 
 
 In due time came the mention of Colonel 
 Elphinstone's proposal of marriage — Colonel 
 Ralph Elphinstone, young, quite a boy. 
 
304 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 fresh in heart, earnest and true ; her grati- 
 tude for a love -which she believed she 
 could return; her acceptance of him, and 
 their bridals. 
 
 Then there came another interval; after 
 which the name which had dropped out of 
 the correspondence crept into it again. He, 
 this man, the only man she had ever really 
 loved, was dead. He had died, she had 
 been told, with her name the last word 
 upon his lips. 
 
 May wTote this last news from a sick 
 bed. The young man's death was a blow 
 under which for a time she sank. 
 
 The letter next in date would be the 
 missing one ! 
 
 This was quite clear from the disturbed, 
 agitated way in which the letters next fol- 
 lo^\dng were written, referring to the loss 
 of one by post. By looking over my 
 mother's replies, too, of the same date, I 
 found the very reference I expected to lind 
 in them to that anxiety, that ' ridiculous 
 fuss,' as Mr. Eoupe had been pleased to 
 call it, which the unaccountable non-arrival 
 of the letter in question had caused in my 
 father's house. 
 
 Now here certainly was, evident enough 
 
MORE MYSTERIES. 305 
 
 on the part of May, all the tremor and 
 the misery of one who had trusted to the 
 chances of a letter's safe delivery some 
 compromising disclosure. Yet, it seemed 
 equally evident that she and her early 
 lover had never met after she took the 
 name of Elphinstone ; and the very letter 
 preceding that whose loss caused all this 
 deplorable agitation, announced to my 
 mother the fact of the young man's death 1 
 
 What could it mean ? 
 
 I was just about to refer to Clay's next 
 letter, having separated it from a new 
 bundle which I had untied for the purpose, 
 when I heard Ealph come into the house 
 on his return from his early walk before 
 breakfast. I tied up the bundle again 
 with some haste, and then found that I had 
 omitted to put up with the packet the letter 
 I was about to read. Fearing lest Ealph 
 should come up to show me that he had re- 
 turned and to summon me down to break- 
 fast, as it was very unusual for me to be out 
 of the way on his return, I would not lose 
 time by untying the bundle again; so I 
 laid the excluded letter on the top of the 
 packet, loose and ready to my hand for the 
 
 VOL. I. X 
 
306 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 next opportunity, locked up the bureau, and 
 went down-stairs. 
 
 ' My dear Kalph,' I said, as I entered the 
 room, ' you are waiting for your breakfast/ 
 
 He made no answer. He was standing 
 at the breakfast -room window with his 
 back towards me ; not looking out, but at 
 something he held in his hand. It was a 
 letter ; one that, as I afterwards learned, 
 had been sent on to us for Mr. Roupe from 
 Mr. Sheringham's, to whose house all Mr. 
 Roupe's letters had continued to be ad- 
 dressed, even after he became our guest; 
 oddly enough, as we both thought, since 
 his correspondence appeared to be so 
 urgent. Oh, these everlasting letters ! 
 
 Seeing him so preoccupied, I said no 
 more, but went on with my breakfast pre- 
 parations. 
 
 By-and-by, he turned round, flung the 
 letter, which was unopened, on the table 
 with the direction uppermost, still keeping 
 his eyes on it. It was directed to Mr. 
 Roupe, and was, as I guessed at once, the 
 letter which had been expected, and the 
 coming of which was to be Mr. Roupe's 
 signal for quitting our neighbourhood and 
 proceeding without delay to town. That 
 
MORE MYSTERIES. 307 
 
 summons to quit our house, my dismissal 
 of Mr. Roupe had forestalled. 
 
 My husband might well look perplexed. 
 
 It will be remembered that Kitty had 
 said that a letter had come to our house 
 for Mr. Roupe on the morning of his dis- 
 missal. Whether any such missive had 
 really reached him on that morning, or 
 whether that announcement was purely a 
 stroke of diplomacy on Kitty's part, I never 
 took the trouble to inquire. This was the 
 letter; there was no mistake about that. 
 It was marked, ' Haste — post haste.' 
 
 Expecting every moment some question 
 awkward to answer, I watched my husband 
 uneasily. But in a few moments I became 
 convinced that it was not the fact of such 
 a summons coming for Mr. E-oupe several 
 days after his hurried departure that alone 
 was perplexing my husband. It was the 
 handwriting of the direction that was en- 
 grossing him so entirely that he seemed to 
 forget my presence, and everything else 
 save and except only those lines, traced, as 
 it appeared to me, by a woman's hand. 
 
 A very fair, clear, beautiful hand it was ; 
 unlike the poor, mean, miserable, universal 
 type of handwriting observable among us 
 
 X 2 
 
oUb SXOODED JESSALIXE. 
 
 v/omen, who all write pretty nearly alike. 
 The letters were large, but singularly 
 formed, being at the same time quite 
 legible. It was a hand that, once seen, 
 could never be forgotten. 
 
 Ealph took his breakfast very quietly; 
 he did not open the newspaper as usual, 
 though it lay in its ordinary place beside 
 his plate. He was lost in thought. 
 
 He remained in-doors all the morning. 
 I think he must have walked up and down 
 the book-room for at least two hours. 
 
 When our man was about to start with 
 our own private letter-bag to the Fairfield 
 post-office, I sought my husband, and asked 
 if he had forgotten the letter that required 
 forwarding to Mr. Roupe. 
 
 ' Have you enclosed it ? ' I asked. 
 He looked up at me slowly, as if he were 
 waking out of a dream. 
 
 ' No,' he said at last, rather sharply, I 
 thought. 
 
 ' Shall I do so for you ? Will you give 
 me Mr. Roupe's address ? ' 
 
 ' What do you want with Mr. R-oupe's 
 address ? ' 
 
 ' I thought you were occupied. I could 
 enclose it in a moment. Roger is waiting; 
 
MORE ]MySTERIES. 309 
 
 he said you had no letters for him this 
 morning.' 
 
 ' True ; I had forgotten. I will attend 
 to it myself.' 
 
 So I left him. Roger had the letter, I 
 believe. I did not see my husband for 
 some hours afterwards. 
 
 Dinner passed over more silently than 
 was at all usual with us. When it was 
 over, and Townshend and Stephen had left 
 the room, my husband drew his chair close 
 to mine, throwing his arm over the back of 
 that which I occupied, and leant his head 
 down upon it. In that position I could not 
 see his face. 
 
 When one is looking out for some impor- 
 tant communication, how oddly a common 
 household arrangement of words strikes 
 upon our ear ! 
 
 ' Grace,' said my husband, ' I wish you 
 would see to the packing of my valise the 
 first thing in the morning. I must start 
 for London at an early hour.' 
 
 ' Only what you will want for a day or 
 two, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot say; I do not know how long 
 I may be detained in town. I am possibly 
 going on a fool's errand. If so, I shall 
 
310 SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 return at once. If — if I am not mistaken, 
 however, I shall have some arrangements 
 to make which will keep me in town some 
 time.' 
 
 ' Then I know what to do. You shall 
 have the larger valise — your old campaigner 
 — and well filled for any emergency.' 
 
 ' That's as well, perhaps.' 
 
 He was now silent. His face was still 
 buried on his left arm, but his other hand 
 was passing over my hair. 
 
 What was troubling him? What, that he 
 could not speak to me ? 
 
 For the first time I felt the inevitable 
 evil of having a secret from my husband; 
 I seemed as if I had no right to question 
 him. 
 
 Words are poor weak things. I could 
 have nothing to say, either, till he spoke 
 again. All I did was gently to draw his 
 hand from my head and press my lips 
 upon it. 
 
 Our silence lasted long; I had time to 
 think of many things. With his present 
 trouble, whatever that might be, came the 
 thought of that other trouble about May, 
 which now more than ever I longed to save 
 him from. A bright idea struck me. 
 
MORE MYSTERIES. 311 
 
 What if he would take me with him? 
 Might not this prove the very opportunity 
 that was wanted? Might I not, when once 
 in town, hit on some device for getting that 
 compromising letter of poor May's out of 
 that man Roupe's possession? 
 
 ' Ralph, may I go with you? ' I asked. 
 
 He raised his head in surprise. 
 
 'You, Grace!' 
 
 ' Yes, Ralph.' 
 
 ' My dear, I shall be occupied — painfully 
 occupied. What could I do with you? ' 
 
 ' I shall not be in your way ; I will 
 take care not to be an encumbrance. I 
 could stay at the hotel where you would 
 stay.' 
 
 ' That would scarcely be fitting ; I should 
 be so much out.' 
 
 ' What harm could come to me ? ' 
 
 ' Well, none, I dare say. You need 
 little protection; no one, I believe, would 
 ever think of insulting you, except a mad- 
 man or a drunkard.' 
 
 That remark was a strange one. Was it 
 only a random shot? If innocence is so 
 quick to take alarm, what must guilt be? 
 I thought. 
 
 ' Besides,' I said, ' I could take one of 
 
SrZ SNOODED JESSALINE. 
 
 the servants ; so that I should not be quite 
 alone while you were absent.' 
 
 ' Who would you take — Bell ? ' 
 
 ' Kitty is older ; I should like to take 
 Kitty.' 
 
 ' Kitty, my dear, is an excelknt creature, 
 but she is scarcely a fitting squire of dames 
 for you. I often wonder why you do not 
 have a proper personal attendant, a regular 
 lady's maid. I have often told you so.' 
 
 ' I do not like lady's maids; I was never 
 used to them in my father's house. I am 
 sorry, darling, you do not like my plebeian 
 ways. It is your own fault : King Cophetua 
 should not have married the beggar-maid ! 
 And then, you know, you will always insist 
 on fastening and unfastening my dress with 
 these dear hands.' And I laid my cheek 
 fondly on one, and again kissed the other. 
 
 He was silent again ; he seemed as if he 
 was dropping off into another reverie. At 
 last he spoke. 
 
 ' You can go with me if you like.' 
 
 ' And take Kitty ? ' 
 
 * As you like. But I rather think Kitty 
 puts herself a little forward sometimes. 
 We know her and prize her, but people 
 must think her a very odd addition to our 
 
MORE MYSTERIES. 313 
 
 establisliment. She makes queer blunders 
 sometimes even in her zeal to serve us.' 
 
 Was that another chance hit at a truth? 
 Could he mean anything more than ap- 
 peared on the surface, or was it only my 
 own consciousness again? 
 
 I looked at his hand ; it was marked with 
 a deep groove from the pressure occasioned 
 by his leaning it against the chair-back 
 beneath his cheek. I was risino^ to eet a 
 cushion to lay under it, but he detained 
 me. 
 
 ' Don't move, Grace; don't go.' 
 
 ' I was only going to get a cushion for 
 your head.' 
 
 ' A sod at Waterloo would have been 
 best for it, I fancy.' 
 
 ' You are troubled, love,' I said. 
 
 He made no answer. 
 
 ' Tell me at your own time, Ralph,' I 
 added ; ' when you will.' 
 
 His reply was strange. 
 
 ' Never ! ' 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLU.ME. 
 
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