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 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
 L161— O-1096
 
 WEAVERS AND WEFT 
 
 l^irtr oi^tx CaUs 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET 
 
 ETC. ETC. ETC. 
 
 I^' THKEE VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LO^"DON 
 JOHN MAX^YELL AND CO. 
 
 4, SHOE LASE, FLEET STREET 
 
 1877 
 
 {Ail right$ reterrtdr
 
 g^3 
 
 CONTENTS TO VOL. I. 
 
 3 
 
 ^ CHAP. PAGE 
 
 v\ I. At the ' Star and Gaeter ' . . , . i 
 II. 'When We Two Parted' 19 
 
 v^ III. * It was thine Oath that first did fail ' . 36 
 X IV. * Offend her, and she knows not to forgive ' . 54 
 
 -v^^w^ V. *TiME is, Time was' 71 
 
 ^^ VI. ' Arise, black Vengeance, from tht hollow cell ' 80 
 
 vii. * Green -Ei'ED Jealousy ' 95 
 
 VIII. Had you loved me once as you have not loved! ' 108 
 
 \ IX. The Beginning of Sorrow 122 
 
 n X. The Cruel Kiver . , . . . .141 
 
 ? XI. Getting over it . , 152 
 
 :' XII. * The Shackles of an Old Love straiten'd him' 168 
 u xiii. ' At Merlin's Feet the wily Vivien lay ' . 1 80 
 ■^ xiv. Sir Cyprian has his Suspicions . . .193 
 ' ^ XV. ' They live too long who Happiness outlive ' 203 
 ^ xvi. * Grief fills the room up of my absent Child ' 220 
 
 ^ xvii. A Balcony Scene 232 
 
 jxviii. Cyprian's Visitor 243 
 
 ^ XIX. Mrs. Walsingham breaks Faith . . .254 
 
 \ XX. Dr. Hollendorf 267 
 
 j XXI. A Rapid Thaw 292 
 
 ^ XXII. Kill or Cure 3°^
 
 WEAVERS AND WEFT 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 AT THE ' STAR AXD GARTEK. 
 
 Glorious June weather, tender moonlight, from a 
 moon newly risen ; silvery on far-off glimpses of the 
 winding river; soft and mysterious where it falls upon 
 the growing darkness of the woodland; a pensive 
 light, by which men, not altogether given up to the 
 world, are apt to ponder the deeper enigmas of this 
 life, and to look backward, Heaven knows with what 
 keen agonies of regret, to youth that has vanished, 
 and friends that are dead. 
 
 Two men, who have been dining at the ' Star and 
 Garter/ and who have stolen away from the dessert to 
 
 VOL. I. li
 
 2 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 smoke their cigars under the midsummer moon, con- 
 template the familiar landscape in a lazy meditative 
 silence. One is sitting on the stone balustrade of the 
 terrace, with his face turned to the distant curve of 
 the river, watching the tender light with a sombre 
 expression of countenance ; the other stands with his 
 elbows resting on the balustrade, smoking indus- 
 triously, and looking every now and then with rather 
 an uneasy glance at his companion. 
 
 The first is Sir Cyprian Davenant, the last scion 
 of a good old Kentish family, and owner of one of 
 the finest and oldest places in the county of Kent. 
 The Davenants have been a wild and reckless set for 
 the last hundred years, and there is not an acre of 
 Davenant Park or a tree in Davenant woods unen- 
 cumbered by mortgage. How Sir Cyprian lives and 
 contrives to keep out of debt is a subject for the 
 wonder of his numerous acquaintances. His inti- 
 mate friends know that the man has few expensive 
 habits, and that he has a small income from an estate 
 inherited from his mother. 
 
 Sir Cyprian's companion is a man approaching 
 middle age, with a decidedly plain face, redeemed
 
 AT THE * STAR AXD GARTER.' ^ 
 
 from ugliness by a certain vivacity of expression 
 about the mouth and eyes. This gentleman is James 
 Morton Wyatt, a solicitor, with an excellent practice, 
 and a decided taste for literature and art, which he 
 is rich enough to be able to cultivate at his leisure, 
 leaving the ordinary run of cases to the care of his 
 junior partner, and only putting in an appearance at 
 his office when an affair of some importance is on 
 hand. James Wyatt is a bachelor, and a great 
 favourite with the fair sex, for whom his fashionable 
 modern cynicism seems to possess an extraordinary 
 charm. The cynic has a natural genius for the art 
 of flattery, and a certain subtle power of pleasing 
 that surprises his male acquaintance, who wonder 
 what the women can see in this fellow, with his Ions, 
 mean-looking nose, small gray eyes, and incessant 
 flow of shallow talk. 
 
 * You're not very lively company to-night, 
 Davenant,' James Wyatt said at last. 'I've been 
 waiting with exemplary patience for some kind of 
 reply to the question I asked you about a quarter 
 of an hour ago.' 
 
 ' You can scarcely expect much liveliness from a
 
 4 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 man who is goine: to start for Africa in four-and- 
 twenty hours, with a very vague prospect of coming 
 back again.' 
 
 * Well, I don't know about that. It's a pleasure 
 trip, isn't it, this African exploration business ? ' 
 
 * It is to be called pleasure, I believe. My share 
 in it would never have come about but for a 
 promise to an old friend. It is a point of honour 
 with me to go. The promise was given five or six 
 years ago, when I was hot upon the subject. I 
 expect very little enjoyment from the business now, 
 but I am bound to go/ 
 
 He sighed as he said this, still looking far away 
 at the w^inding river, with the same gloomy expres- 
 sion in his eyes. It was a face not easily forgotten 
 by those who had once looked upon it, a face of 
 remarkable beauty, a little wan and faded by the 
 cares and dissipations of a career that had been 
 far from perfect. Cyprian Davenant was not quite 
 five-and-thirty, but he had lived at a high pressure 
 i-ate for ten years of his life, and bore the traces 
 of the fray. The perfect profile, the broad low 
 brow, and deep dark ej'es had not lost much in
 
 AT THE 'STAR AND GARTER.' 5 
 
 losing the freshness of youth, but the pale cheeks 
 were just a little sunken, and there were lines 
 about those thoughtful eyes, and a weary look 
 about the resolute lips. If there was a fault to 
 be found in the face, it was perhaps the too pro- 
 minent lower brow, in which the perceptive organs 
 were developed in an extreme degree ; yet this very 
 prominence gave character and individuality to the 
 countenance. 
 
 James Wyatt heard the regretful sigh, and noted 
 the despondence of his companion's tone. 
 
 'I should have thought there were not many 
 people in England you would care about leaving, 
 Davenant,' he said, with a curiously watch- 
 ful look at the other man's half-averted face, 
 ' IVe heard you boast of standing alone in the 
 world.' 
 
 ' Rather a barren boast, isn't it ? ' said Sir 
 Cyprian, with a brief and bitter laugh. 'Yes, 1 
 am quite alone. Since my sister Marian's marriage, 
 and complete absorption in nursery cares and 
 nursery joys, there is no one to offer let or hin- 
 drance to my going yonder. I have friends, of
 
 6 WEAVERS AND WEPT. 
 
 course, a great many — such as you, Jim, for 
 instance; jolly good fellows who would smoke 
 8 cigar with me to-night in the bonds of friend- 
 ship, and who would hear of my death a month 
 hence without turning a hair.' 
 
 ' Don't talk platitudes about your friends, 
 Cyprian. I have no doubt they are as good as 
 other people's. I don't know a man going more 
 popidar than you are.' 
 
 Cyprian Davenant took no notice of this 
 remark. 
 
 ' Dear old river,' he murmured tenderly. * Poor 
 old river, how many of the happiest hours of my 
 life have been spent upon your banks, or ou your 
 breast ! Shall I ever see you again, I wonder, or 
 shall I find a grave in some reedy marsh far 
 away from the Thames and Medway ? Don't think 
 me a sentimental old fool, Jim; but the fact is, 
 I ani a little out of spirits to-night. I ought not 
 to have accepted Sinclair's invitation. I talked 
 nineteen to the dozen at dinner, and drank no 
 end of hock and seltzer, but I felt as dreary as a 
 c^host assisting at his own funeral. I suppose I
 
 AT THE * STAR AND rrARTKK. 7 
 
 am too old for this African business. I have 
 outlived the explorer's spirit, and have a foolish 
 kind of presentiment that the thing will come to 
 a bad end. Of course I wouldn't own to such a 
 feeling amongst the men who are going, but I 
 may confess as much to you without being put 
 down as a craven.' 
 
 ' I'll tell you what it is, Davenant/ answered 
 the lawyer. ' There is something deeper than you 
 have owned to yet at the bottom of your reluc- 
 tance to leave England. There is some one, a 
 least — a woman.' 
 
 The other turned his face full upon the speaker. 
 'You're about right, Jim,' he said, tossing the 
 end of his cigar away as he spoke. 'There is a 
 woman, not a sudden caprice either, but a woman 
 I have loved truly and fondly for the last five 
 years of my life. If I were a wise man I should 
 be very glad of this chance of curing my infatua- 
 tion by putting a few thousand miles between 
 myself and the loveliest face I ever saw.' 
 
 ' It's a hopeless case then, I suppose ? ' suggested 
 James Wyatt.
 
 8 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 'Quite hopeless. What have I to offer the 
 woman I love ? The income upon which 1 have 
 managed to live, since my ruin and subsequent 
 reformation, would be something worse than 
 beggary for a wife such as the woman I love. 
 Even if she were willing to share my poverty, 
 could I be mean enough to drag her into such a 
 slough of despond? No, Jim, it is a hopeless 
 case. My pretty one and I must part, — I to 
 dreary old bachelorhood, she to fulfil her mis- 
 sion, and make one of the grand matches of the 
 season.' 
 
 ' I think I know the lady,' said James Wyatt, 
 slowly. 'Lord Clanyarde's youngest daughter, the 
 new one, eh, Cyprian ? The Clanyardes are neigh- 
 bours of yours in Kent, I know.' 
 
 'Of course I can trust you, Jim. Yes, you've 
 hit it. But what made you fix upon Constance 
 Clanyarde ? ' 
 
 ' Have not I senses to understand, and eyes to 
 see ? and have I not seen you and Miss Clanyarde 
 together at least three times? Why, Cyprian, the 
 infatuation on both sides is patent to the most
 
 AT THE 'STAR AXD GARTER.' 9 
 
 unsophisticated obsen^er. It's a pity you've only 
 four hundred a year. That would be rather a tight 
 squeeze for a Clanyarde. They're a notoriously 
 extravagant set, I know, and have been up to their 
 eyes in debt for the last forty years. Yes, I have 
 seen the lady, C}T3rian, and she is very lovely. 
 Upon my word I'm sorry for you.' 
 
 ' Thanks, old fellow. I needn't ask you not to 
 mention my name in conjunction with Mss Clan- 
 yarde' s. And now I suppose we'd better go back to 
 our friends.' 
 
 ' I think so. By the way, what do you think 
 of the lady we were asked to meet ? ' 
 
 * Mrs. Walsingham. She is very handsome. A 
 widow, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' She is rather silent on that point, and I have 
 heard it hinted that Colonel Walsingham — he was 
 colonel in the Spanish contingent, I believe, and 
 count of the Holy Roman Empire — still walks this 
 earth, and that the lady owes her agreeable freedom 
 to an American court of divorce. The antecedents 
 are altogether doubtful, and Mrs. Walsingham's 
 society is of the Bohemian order — actors and artists.
 
 10 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 and uice little womeu who keep miniature 
 broughams, and don't seem to belong to anybody. 
 Gilbert Sinclair likes that kind of thing.' 
 
 ' And I suppose Mrs. Walsingham likes Gilbert 
 Sinclair?' 
 
 * Or his money. Sinclair's about the biggest fish 
 in the matrimonial waters, and she will be a happy 
 angler who lands him. But I really believe Mrs. 
 Walsingham has a weakness for the man himself, 
 independent of his money. Strange, isn't it ? 
 Sinclair's the dearest fellow in the world, and as his 
 friend, of course, I doat upon him ; but I confess 
 that if I were a woman I should regard him with 
 unmitigated loathing. ' 
 
 ' That's rather strong.' 
 
 * Of course he's a most estimable creature — out- 
 spoken, frank, liberal, all the manly virtues ; but 
 such an unspeakable snob, such a pompous, purse- 
 proud cad. Ah, there he is at the window, looking 
 for us. If I were a woman, you know, Cyprian, that 
 man would be the object of my aversion ; but I'm 
 not, and he's my client, and it is the first duty of a 
 solicitor to love his clients. Coming, Gilbert.'
 
 AT THE ' STAR AND GARTER.' 11 
 
 The two men crossed a little bit of lawn, and went 
 in through the open window. The room was lighted 
 with wax candles, and a merry party was crow^ded 
 round a table, at one end of which a lady was dis- 
 pensing tea in quite a homelike fashion. She was a 
 very beautiful womao, of a showy type, dressed in 
 India muslin and lace, dressed just a shade too youth- 
 fully for her five-and-thirty years. There were two 
 other ladies present, one a fashionable actress, the other 
 her friend and confidante, also an aspirant to dramatic 
 fame. The first was occupied in an agreeable flirta- 
 tion with a cornet of dragoons ; the second was 
 listening with delight to the lively conversation of 
 Mr. Bellingham, the manager of the Phoenix Theatre. 
 A couple of gentlemen belonging to the stockbroking 
 fraternity, and Gilbert Sinclair, the giver of the feast, 
 made up the party. 
 
 Mr. Bellingham had been entertaining the com- 
 pany with anecdotes of MacStinger, the great trage- 
 dian, the point of every story turning on the dis- 
 comfiture of the great man by some blundering 
 tyro in dramatic art. Mrs. Walsingham had heard 
 most of the stories a good many times before, and
 
 12 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 she gave a palpable little yawn as Mr. Bellingham 
 told her how the provincial Horatio informed the 
 great Hamlet that his father's ghost 'would have 
 much amused you.' She covered the yawn with 
 her pretty plump little hand, and watched Gilbert 
 Sinclair's face with rather a troubled expression in 
 her own, and in so doing was a little inattentive to 
 the demand for more cups of tea. 
 
 Mr. Sinclair was a man whom many people 
 admired, and who was in no obvious manner de- 
 serving James Wyatt's unflattering description. He 
 affected a certain bluntness of style, which liis 
 friends accepted as evidence of a candid and open 
 soul and a warm heart. He was generous to a 
 lavish degree towards those he associated with and 
 was supposed to like ; but he was not liberal with 
 protestations of regard, and he had few intimate 
 acquaintances. He was a man whom some people 
 called handsome — a big man upwards of six feet 
 high, and with a ponderous, powerful frame. He 
 had large regular features, a florid complexion, 
 prominent reddish brown eyes, thick curling hair, of 
 the same reddish brown, and intensely white teeth.
 
 AT THE 'STAR AND GAKTEE.' 13 
 
 The chief claim which Mr. Sinclair possessed to 
 notoriety was comprised in the fact of his wealth. 
 He was the owner of a great estate in the north, 
 an estate consisting of ironworks and coalpits, the 
 annual income from which was said to be something 
 stupendous, and he had shares in more railways and 
 mines and foreign loans than his friends could 
 calculate. His father had been dead about five years, 
 leaving Gilbert sole possessor of this great fortune, 
 unfettered by a claim, for the young man was an 
 only child, and had neither kith nor kin to share 
 his wealth. He had been at Rugby and Cambridge, 
 ai^d had travelled all over Europe with a private 
 tutor. He had seen everything and had been 
 taught everything that a wealthy young English- 
 man ought to see or to learn, and had profited in a 
 very moderate degree by the process. He had a 
 strong will and a great capacity for keeping his own 
 secrets, and had started in life with the deter- 
 mination to enjoy existence after his own fashion. 
 After three years spent in his companionship, 
 his tutor remarked that he scarcely knew Gilbert 
 Sinclair any better at the close of their acquaint-
 
 14 WKAVEKS AND WKFT. 
 
 ance than he had known him at the beginning 
 of it. 
 
 * And yet the fellow seems so candid/ said Mr. 
 Ashton, the tutor, wonderingly. 
 
 * I wish you would give me a little assistance 
 with the teacups, Gilbert,' Mrs. Walsingham said, 
 rather impatiently. ' It is all very well to talk of 
 the pleasantness of having the tea made in the room 
 in this way, but one requires some help. Thanks. 
 Take that to Sir Cyprian Davenant, if you please, 
 and bring me Sophy Morton's cup.' 
 
 ]\Ir. Sinclair obeyed, and when he came back 
 with the empty cup Mrs. Walsingham motioned him 
 to a vacant chair by her side, and detained him 
 there till the carriages were announced. She called 
 him by his Christian name in the face of society, and 
 this party of to-night was only one of many enter- 
 tainments that had been given at different times for 
 her gratification. It was scarcely strange, therefore, 
 if rumour, especially loud on the part of the lady's 
 friends, declared that Mr. Sinclair and Mrs. Wal- 
 singham were engaged to be married. But the 
 acquaintance between them had continued for a long
 
 AT THE 'STAR AND GARTER.' 15 
 
 time, and those who knew most of Gilbert Sinclair 
 shook their heads significantly when the matri- 
 monial question was mooted. 
 
 * Gilbert knows his own value/ growled old 
 Colonel Mordant, an inveterate whist-player and 
 diner-out, who had introduced young Sinclair into 
 fast society. 'When he marries he will marry 
 well. A man with my friend Sinclair's fortune 
 must have all the advantages in the lady of his 
 choice — youth, beauty, rank — or, at any rate, posi- 
 tion. Most men of that calibre look out for a 
 corresponding amount of wealth. I don't say 
 Sinclair will do that. He is rich enough to 
 indulge in a caprice. But as to marrying Clara 
 Walsingham — a deuced fine woman, I grant you ! 
 Pas si hete ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham detained Mr. Sinclair in 
 conversation some time after the carriages had been 
 announced. She was very bright and animated, 
 and looked her best as she talked to him. It was 
 nearly eleven o'clock when she was reminded of 
 the lateness of the hour, and the length of the 
 drive before them, by Miss Sophy Morton, who
 
 16 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 had latterly transfeiTed her attention from the 
 callow comet to Mr. Wyatt, much to the disgust 
 of the youthful dragoon. 
 
 'Yes, Sophy, I am just going to put on my 
 shawl. Will you fetch our wraps from the next 
 room, please, Mr. Wyatt ? Will you take the back 
 seat in the brougham, Gilbert, and wind up with a 
 lobster salad in Half- moon Street? It is really 
 early, you know.' 
 
 'Thanks, no. I could scarcely trust my man 
 to drive those chestnuts, so I think I'll go back 
 in the phaeton ; and I'm due at a hop in Eaton 
 Square. * 
 
 'Indeed?' asked the lady, curiously, and with 
 a rather anxious look. 'You used not to care for 
 dancing parties.' 
 
 ' I don't care for them now, but one has to 
 sacrifice inclination now and then, you know.' 
 
 * Do I know the people ? ' asked Mrs. Walsing- 
 ham. 
 
 Mr. Sinclair smiled as lie replied, *I think 
 not.' 
 
 A cloud came over the lady's face, and when
 
 AT THE 'STAR AND GARTEE.' 17 
 
 her shawl had been adjusted she took Gilbert 
 Sinclair's arm in silence. Nor did she speak to 
 him on the way to the porch of the hotel, where a 
 mail phaeton and a couple of broughams were 
 waiting. Her adieux to the rest of the party were 
 brief and cold, and Gilbert himself she only 
 honoured by a stately inclination of her beautiful 
 head, with its coronal of bright chestnut hair, and 
 coquettish little curls dotted about a broad white 
 forehead. 
 
 Mr. Sinclair stood bareheaded under the porch 
 as the Walsingham brougham drove away, and then 
 turned with a frown to perform his duties in other 
 directions. Here, however, he found there \^^as 
 nothing left for him to do. Miss Morton and her 
 companion had been escorted to their carriage by 
 Sir Cyprian Davenant and ]\Ir. Wyatt, and were 
 waiting to bid their host good-bye. 
 
 *And a thousand thanks for our delightful day, 
 !Mr. Sinclair, which we are not likely to forget for 
 a long time, are we, Imogen V 
 
 Miss Imogen Harlow, who had been born 
 Watson and christened Mary Anne, shook her 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 empty little head coquettishly, and declared that 
 the memory of that Eichmond dinner would re- 
 main with her to her dying day. And on the way 
 home the two ladies discussed Mr. Sinclair and the 
 probable amount of his income, and speculated as 
 to the chances of his ultimately marrying Mrs. 
 Walsiugham.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 * WHEN WE TWO PARTED.' 
 
 Sir Cyprian Davenant and James Wyatt went 
 back to town by rail, and parted company at 
 Waterloo, the baronet going westward to his 
 bachelor lodgings in one of the shabbier streets 
 about Grosvenor Square, the lawyer to a big dull 
 house in Bloomsbury Square, which his father had 
 bought and furnished some fifty years before, and 
 in which there was a large collection of old pic- 
 tures, and a still larger collection of rare old wines 
 stored away in great gloomy cellars with ponderous 
 iron-plated doors. Mr. Wyatt the elder had done a 
 good deal of business, of a very profitable kind 
 with the youthful members of the British 
 aristocracy, had raised loans for them, at heavy 
 rates of interest, never omitting to remind them of 
 the sacrifice they made in borrowing money at all, 
 and only yielding to the stern necessities of theii'
 
 20 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 position in a reluctant grudging spirit at the last^ 
 whereby the foolish young men were in no manner 
 prevented from rushing blindfold along the broad 
 road to ruin, but were kept in ignorance of the 
 fact that it was from Thomas Wyatt's own coffers 
 that the money came, and that to him the interest 
 accrued. 
 
 James Wyatt inherited his father's astute mind, 
 together with his father's handsome fortune, and he 
 had cultivated very much the same kind of business, 
 making himself eminently useful to his young friends, 
 and winning for himself the character of a most 
 prudent friend and adviser. He did not take the 
 risks of an ordinary money-lender, and he raised 
 money for his clients on terms that seemed moderate 
 when compared with the usurer's exorbitant de- 
 mands ; but he contrived nevertheless to profit con- 
 siderably by every transaction, and he never let a 
 client escape him while there was a feather to pluck. 
 
 Sir Cyprian Davenant had been in this gentle- 
 man's hands ever since his coming of age, but now 
 that there was not an acre of the Davenant estate 
 unmortgaged, and the day was not far off in which
 
 'WHEN WE TWO PARTED.' 2l 
 
 must come foreclosure or sale, the relations between 
 the two men were rather those of friendship 
 than business. Cyprian had lived his life, had 
 wasted his last available shilling, and had reformed. 
 His dissipations had never been of a base or degrad- 
 ing order. He had been wild and reckless, had 
 played high at his club, and lost money on the turf, 
 and kept an extravagant stud, and ridden in steeple- 
 chases at home and abroad, and had indulged in 
 many other follies peculiar to his age and station; 
 but he had no low vices, and when his money was 
 gone, and the freshness of youth with it, he fell from 
 the ranks of his fast friends without a sigh. It was 
 too late for him to think of a profession ; and there 
 seemed to be no brighter fate possible for him than 
 the dreary monotony of old bachelorhood on a limited 
 income. 
 
 ' I suppose I shall live to be an old fogy,' he said 
 to himself. *I shall have my particular corner at 
 the club, and be greedy about the newspapers, and 
 bore the youngsters with my vapid old stories. 
 What a barren waste of years to look forward to ! ' 
 
 Sir Cyprian had work to do after the Richmond
 
 22 AVEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 dinner, and was occupied till long after daybreak 
 with letter-writing, and the last details of his pack- 
 ing. When all was done he was still wakeful, and 
 sat by his writing-table in the morning sunlight, 
 thinking of the past and the future with a gloomy 
 face. 
 
 Thinking of the past — of all those careless hours 
 in which one bright girlish face had been the chief 
 influence of his life ; thinking of the future, in which 
 he was to see that sweet face no more. 
 
 ' How happy we have been together ! ' he thought, 
 as he bent over a photograph framed in the lid of his 
 despatch-box, contemplating the lovely face with a 
 fond smile, and a tender dreaming look in his dark 
 eyes. ' What long hours of boredom I have gone 
 through in the way of evening parties in order to 
 get a waltz with her, or a few minutes of quiet 
 talk in some balcony or conservatory, and all for the 
 vain delight of loving her ! Without one ray of hope 
 for the future, with the knowledge that I was doing 
 her a great wrong in following her up so closely with 
 my barren love. So even James Wyatt saw my 
 infatuation ! And hers, he said. Is there any truth
 
 ' ^\'HEN ^VE TWO PARTED.* 23 
 
 in that last assertion, I wonder ? Does Constance 
 really care for me ? I have never asked her the 
 question, never betrayed myseK by any direct 
 avowal. Yet these things make themselves under- 
 stood somehow, and I think my darling knows that 
 I would willingly die for her : and I think I know 
 that she will never care for any man as she could 
 care for me ! ' 
 
 He shut the despatch-box, and began to walk 
 slowly up and down the room, thinking. 
 
 ' There would be just time for me to do it,' he 
 said to himself presently; 'just time for me to run 
 down to Davenant, and see the old place once more. 
 It will be sold before I come back from Africa, if 
 ever I do come back. And there would be the 
 chance of seeing her. I know the Clanyardes have 
 gone back to Kent. Yes, I will run down to Da- 
 venant for a few hours. A man must be hard 
 indeed who does not care to give one farewell look 
 at the house in which the brightest years of his life 
 have been spent. And I may see her again, only to 
 say good-bye, and to see if she is sorry for my going. 
 What more can I say to her ? What more need be
 
 24 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 said? She knows that I would lay down my life 
 for her.' 
 
 He went to his room, and slept a kind of fitful 
 sleep until eight o'clock, when he woke with a start, 
 and began to dress for his journey. At nine he was 
 driving through the streets in a hansom, and at mid- 
 day he was in one of the woody lanes leading across 
 country from the little Kentish railway station to his 
 own ancestral domain, the place he had once been 
 proud and fond of, but which he looked at now in 
 bitterness of spirit, and with a passionate regret. The 
 estate had been much encumbered when it fell into 
 his hands, but he knew that, with prudence, he might 
 have saved the greater part of it. 
 
 He entered the park by a nistic gateway, beside 
 which there was a keeper's lodge, a gate dividing the 
 thickest part of the wood from a broad green valley, 
 where the fern grew deep under the spreading 
 branches of giant oaks, and around the smooth sil- 
 very trunks of fine old beeches. The Davenant 
 timber had suffered little from the prodigal's de- 
 stroying hand. He could better endure the loss of 
 the place than its desecration.
 
 'WHEN AVE TWO PARTED.' 25 
 
 The woman at the keeper's lodge welcomed her 
 master with an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 ' I hope you have come to stay, Sir Cyprian,' she 
 said, dropping a rustic curtsey. 
 
 * No, Mrs. Mead, I have only come for a last look 
 at the old place before I go away from England.* 
 
 ' Going away, sir ! that's bad news.' 
 
 Cyprian cut short her lamentations with a friendly 
 nod, and was walking on, when it suddenly struck 
 him that the woman might be useful. 
 
 ' Oh, by the way,' he said, ' Lord Clanyarde is at 
 Marchbrook, is he not ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, the family have been there for the last 
 week.' 
 
 * Then I'll walk over there before I go on to the 
 house, if you'll unlock the gate again, Mrs. ^lead.' 
 
 ' Shall I send one of my boys to the house with 
 a message, sir, about dinner, or anything ? ' 
 
 * You are very good. Yes, you can send the lad 
 to tell old Mrs. Pomfret to get me something to eat 
 at six o'clock, if you please. I must get back to 
 London by the 7.30 train.' 
 
 ' Deary me, sir, going back so soon as that ? '
 
 26 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 The gates of Marclibrook were about half a mile 
 distant from the keeper's lodge. Lord Clanyarde's 
 house was a dreary red brick habitation, of the 
 Georgian era, with long lines of narrow windows 
 looking out upon a blank expanse of pasture land, 
 by courtesy a park. An avenue of elms led from 
 the lodge gate to the southern front of the house, 
 and on the western side there w^as a prim Dutch 
 garden, divided from the park by a ha-ha. The place 
 was in perfect order, but there was a cold, bare look 
 about everything that was eminently suggestive of 
 narrow means. 
 
 A woman at the lodge informed Sir Cyprian that 
 there was no one at home. Lord Clanyarde had 
 driven to Maidstone. Miss Clanyarde was in the 
 village: she had gone to see the children at the 
 National School. She would be home at two, to 
 lunch, no doubt, according to her usual habit. She 
 was very fond of the school, and sometimes spent 
 her morning in teaching the children. 
 
 'But they leave school at twelve, don't they?* 
 demanded Sir Cyprian. 
 
 * Yes, sir ; but I dare say Miss Constance has
 
 'WHEN WE 'nVO PAKTED.' 27 
 
 stopped to talk to Miss Evans, the schoolmistress. 
 She is a very genteel young person, and quite a 
 favourite with our ladies.' 
 
 Cyprian Davenant knew the little school-house, 
 and the road by which Constance Clanyarde must 
 return from her mission. Nothing could be more 
 pleasant to him than the idea of meeting her in her 
 solitary walk. He turned away from the lodge- 
 keeper, muttering something vague about calling 
 again later, and walked at a rapid pace to the neigh- 
 bouring village, which consisted of two straggling 
 rows of old-fashioned cottages fringing the skirts of 
 a common. Close to the old ivy-covered church, 
 with its massive square tower and grass-grown grave- 
 yard, there was a modern Gothic building in which 
 the village children struggled through the difficulties 
 of an educational course, and from the open windows 
 whereof their youthful voices rang loudly out upon 
 the summer air every morning in a choral version of 
 the multiplication table. 
 
 Miss Clanyarde was standing in the little stone 
 porch talking to the schoolmistress when Sir 
 Cyprian opened the low wooden gate. She looked
 
 28 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 up at the sound of his footstep with a sudden 
 bhish. 
 
 *I did not know you were at Davenant, Sir 
 Cyprian,' he said, with some little embarrassment, 
 as they shook hands. 
 
 ' I have not been at Davenant, Miss Clanyarde. 
 I only left town this morning. I have come down 
 here to say good-bye to Davenant and all old 
 friends.' 
 
 The blush faded, and left the lovely face very 
 pale. 
 
 * Is it true that you are going to Africa ? I heard 
 from some friends in town that you were to join 
 Captain Harcourt's expedition.' 
 
 'It is quite true. I promised Harcourt some 
 years ago that if he ever went again I would go with 
 him.' 
 
 ' And you are pleased to go, I suppose ? ' 
 
 * No, Miss Clanyarde, not pleased to go. But I 
 think that sort of thing is about the best employ- 
 ment for the energies of a waif and stray, such as I 
 am. I have lived my life, you see, and have not a 
 single card left to play in the game of civilized
 
 MvHEX AVE rwo parted/ ' 29 
 
 existence. There is some hope of adventure out 
 yonder. Are you going home ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I was just saying good-bye to Miss Evans 
 as you came in.' 
 
 ' Then I'll walk back to ^tarchbrook with you, if 
 you'll allow me. I told the lodge-keeper I would 
 return by and by in the hope of seeing Lord 
 Clanyarde.' 
 
 * You have been to Marchbrook already, then? ' 
 
 ' Yes, and they told me at the lodge that I should 
 find you here.' 
 
 After this there came rather an awkward silence. 
 They walked away from the school-house side by 
 side, Sir Cyprian furtively watchful of his com- 
 panion's face, in which there were signs of a sorrow 
 that seemed something deeper than the conventional 
 regret which a fashionable beauty might express for 
 the departure of a favourite waltzer. 
 
 The silence was not broken until they had arrived 
 at a point where two roads met, the turnpike road 
 to Marchbrook, and a shady lane, a cross country 
 road, above which the overarching branches of the 
 elms made a roof of foliage in this midsummer
 
 80 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 season. There was a way of reaching Marchbrook 
 by this lane, a tempting walk compared to the high 
 road. 
 
 * Let us go back by the lane/ said Cyprian. ' It is 
 a little longer, but I am sure you are not in a hurry. 
 You would have dawdled away half the morning 
 talking to that young woman at the school if I hadn't 
 come to fetch you, and it will be our last walk 
 together, Constance. I may call you Constance, may 
 I not, as I used when you were in the nursery ? I 
 am entitled to a few dismal privileges, like a dying 
 man, you know. Oh, Constance, what happy hours 
 we have spent together in these Kentish lanes ! I 
 shall see them in my dreams out yonder, and your 
 face will shine down upon me from a background of 
 green leaves and blue sky ; and then I shall awake 
 to find myself camping out upon some stretch of 
 barren sand, with jackals howling in the distance.' 
 
 * What a dreadful picture !' said Constance, with 
 a faint forced laugh. * But if you are so reluctant to 
 leave England, why do you persist in this African 
 expedition ? ' 
 
 'It is a point of honour with me to keep my
 
 *WHEN WE TWO PARTED.' 31 
 
 promise ; and it is better for me to be away 
 
 from England.' 
 
 ' You are the best judge of that question.' 
 
 Sir Cyprian was slow to reply to this remark. He 
 
 had come down to Kent upon a sudden impulse, 
 
 determined in no manner to betray his own folly, and 
 
 bent only upon snatching the vain delight of a farewell 
 
 interview with the girl he loved. But to be with her, 
 
 and not to tell her the truth was more difficult than 
 
 he had imagined. He could see that she was 
 
 sorry for his departure, he believed that she loved 
 
 him, but he knew enough of Viscount Clanyarde's 
 
 principles and his daughter's education to know 
 
 there would be something worse than cruelty in 
 
 asking this girl to share his broken fortunes. 
 
 * Yes, Constance,' he went on, ' it is better for me 
 
 St 
 to be away. So long as I am here it is the old story 
 
 of the insect and the flame. I cannot keep out of 
 
 temptation. I cannot keep myself from haunting the 
 
 places where I am likely to meet the girl I love, fondly, 
 
 foolishly, hopelessly. Don't look at me with those 
 
 astonished eyes, my darling. You must have known 
 
 my secret ever so long. I meant to keep silence till
 
 32 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 the end ; but you see the words are spoken in spite of 
 me. My love, I dare not ask you to be my wife. I 
 dare only tell you that no other woman will ever bear 
 that name. You are not angry with me, Constance, 
 for having spoken ? ' 
 
 ' Angry with you ' she began, and then broke 
 
 down utterly, and burst into tears. 
 
 He drew his arm round her with a tender 
 protecting gesture, and soothed her gently, as if she 
 had been a child. 
 
 * Dear love, I am not worth your tears. If I had 
 been a better man I might have redeemed Davenant 
 by this time, and might have hoped to make you my 
 wife. There would have been some hope for me, 
 would there not, dear, if I could have offered you a 
 home that your father could approve ? ' 
 
 * ram not so mercenary as you think me,' an- 
 swered Constance, drying her tears, and disengaging 
 herself from Sir Cyprian's encircling arm. 'I am 
 not afraid of poverty. But I know that my father 
 would never forgive * 
 
 'And I know it too, my dearest girl, and you 
 shall not be asked to break with your father for
 
 * ^VHE^' AVE TWO PARTED.' 33 
 
 such a man as I. I never meant to speak of this, 
 dear, but perhaps it is better that I should have 
 spoken. You will soon forget me, Constance, and I 
 shall hear of you making some brilliant marriage 
 before I have been away very long. God grant the 
 man may be worthy of you. God grant you may 
 marry a good man.' 
 
 ' I am not very likely to marry,' replied Miss 
 Clanyarde. 
 
 ' My dearest, it is not possible you can escape. 
 Heaven forbid that my shadow should come be- 
 tween you and a happy future. It is enough for one 
 of us to carry the burden of a life-long regret.' 
 
 There was much more talk between them before 
 they arrived at a little gate opening into the March- 
 brook kitchen-garden ; fond regretful talk of the days 
 that were gone, in which they had been so much 
 together down in Kent, with all the freedom per- 
 mitted between friends and neighbours of long 
 standing, the days before Constance had made her 
 dehut in the great world. 
 
 Sir Cyprian did not persevere in his talked- of visit 
 to Lord Clanyarde. He had, in truth, very little 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 desire to see that gentleman. At the little garden 
 gate he took Miss Clanyarde's two hands in his own 
 with one fond fervent clasp. 
 
 'You know the old song,' he said, '"it may be 
 for years, and it may be for ever." It is an eternal 
 parting for me, darling, for I can never hope to call 
 you by that sweet name again. You have been 
 very good to me in letting me speak so freely to-day, 
 and it is a kind of consolation to have told you my 
 sorrow. God bless you, and good-bye.' 
 
 This was their parting. Sir Cyprian went back 
 to Davenant, and spent a dreary hour in walking up 
 and down the corridor, and looking into the empty 
 rooms. He remembered them tenanted by the loved 
 and lost. IIo^v dismal they were now in their blank 
 and unoccupied state ! and how little likeliliood 
 there was that he should ever see them again! His 
 dinner was served for him in a pretty breakfast-room, 
 with a bow-window overlooking a garden that had 
 been his mother's delight, and where the roses she 
 had loved still blossomed in all their glory. The 
 memory of the dead was with him as he eat his 
 solitary meal, and he wa^ ^U\d when it was time for
 
 WHEN WE TWO PARTED.' 35 
 
 him to leave the great desolate house, in which every 
 door closed with a dismal reverberation, as if it had 
 been shutting upon a vault. 
 
 He left Davenant immediately after dinner, and 
 walked back to the little station, thinking mournfully 
 enough of his day's work, and of the life that lay 
 before him. Before noon next day he and his com- 
 panions were on the first stage of their journey, 
 speeding towards Marseilles.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 'IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 
 
 Neakly a year had gone since Cyprian Davenant 
 turned his back upon British soil. It was the end 
 of May, high season in London, and unusually bril- 
 liant weather, the West End streets and squares 
 thronged with carriages, and everywhere throughout 
 that aristocratic western world a delightful flutter 
 and buzz of life and gaiety ; as if tlie children of that 
 pleasant region had indeed in some manner secured 
 an exemption from tlie cares and sorrows of meaner 
 mortals, and were bent on making the most of thei^' 
 privileged existence. 
 
 A neatly appointed brougham waited before the 
 door of a house in Half-moon Street, and had been 
 waiting there for some time. It was Mrs. Walsins- 
 ham's brougham, and the lady herself was slowly 
 pacing up and down her little drawing-room, pausing 
 every now and then to look out of the window and
 
 *IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 3? 
 
 in a very unpleasant state of mind. She was dressed 
 for walking, in one of those airy combinations of 
 India muslin and fine old lace which she so much 
 affected, her warm brown hair crowned with a 
 bonnet that seemed to be made of pansies, and she 
 was looking very handsome, in spite of the cloud 
 upon her brow, and a certain angry sparkle in her eyes* 
 
 *I suppose he is not coming,' she muttered at 
 last, tossing her white silk umbrella upon the table 
 with a petulant gesture. ' This will be the second 
 disappointment in a week. But I shall not go to 
 the concert without him. What do I care for their 
 tiresome classical music, Hummel, and Chopin, and 
 all the rest of them, or to be stared at by a crowd of 
 great ladies who don't choose to know me ? ' 
 
 She rang the bell violently, but before it could 
 be answered there came a thundering double knock 
 at the door below, and a minute afterwards Gilbert 
 Sinclair dashed into the room. 
 
 ' Late again, Gilbert,' cried Mrs. Walsingham 
 reproachfully, her face brightening nevertheless at 
 his coming, and kindling with a pleased welcoming 
 smile as they shook hands .
 
 38 WEAVERS AND VTEFT. 
 
 'Yes, I know, it's late for that confounded 
 concert. But I want you to let me off that infliction, 
 Clara. That sort of thing is such a consummate 
 bore to a man who doesn't know the difference 
 between Balfe and Beethoven, and you know I have 
 a heap of engagements on my hands.' 
 
 * You have only come to cry off, then V said Mrs- 
 Walsingham, with a sudden contraction of her firmly 
 moulded lips. 
 
 'My dear Clara, how demoniac you can look 
 when you like ! But I wouldn't cultivate that kind 
 of expression if I were you. Of course I'll go to the 
 concert with you if you are bent upon it, rather 
 than run the risk of anything in the way of a scene. 
 But you know very well that I don't care for music, 
 and you ought to know ' 
 
 He stopped, hesitating, with a furtive look in 
 his red-brown eyes, and a nervous action of one big 
 hand about his thick brown moustache. 
 
 ' I ought to know what, IMr. Sinclair ? ' asked 
 Clara Walsingham, with a sudden hardness of voice 
 and manner. 
 
 * That it is good neither for your reputation nor
 
 * IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 39 
 
 mine that we should be seen so often toc^ether at 
 such places as this Portman Square concert. It is 
 almost a private affair, you know, and everybody 
 present will know all about us.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! and since when has Mr. Gilbert Sinclair 
 become so careful of his reputation — or of mine ? ' 
 
 'Since you set your friends talking about our 
 being engaged to be married, ^Irs. Walsingham. 
 You have rather too many feminine acquaintances 
 with lonor toncrues. I don't like beincr conoratulated 
 
 o o o o 
 
 — or chaffed — it comes to pretty much the same 
 thing — upon an event which you and I know 
 can never happen.' 
 
 'Never is a long word, Gilbert. My husband 
 may die, and leave me free to become your wife ; 
 if you should do me the honour to repeat the pro- 
 posal which you made to me six years ago.' 
 
 'I don't like waiting for dead men's shoes, 
 Clara/ answered Sinclair, in rather a sulky tone. 
 ' I made you that offer in all good faith, when 
 I believed you to be a widow, and when I was 
 madly in love with you; but six years is a long 
 time, and '
 
 40 WKAVKKS AND AVKFT. 
 
 He broke down again, and stood beture her with 
 his eyes fixed on tlie ground. 
 
 ' And men are fickle,' she said, taking up his 
 unfinished sentence. * What is that Alfred de Musset 
 
 " C'est I'hiitoire du cceur. — Tout va si vite en lui ! 
 Tout y mourt, comme un son, tout, excepte I'ennui ! " 
 
 That is what a man says of himself, you know. 
 The woman in the story is constant — constant in 
 her love and constant in her revenge. You have 
 grown tired of me, Gilbert, is that what you mean ? ' 
 
 'Not exactly that, Clara, but rather tired of a 
 position that keeps me a single man without a 
 single man's liberty. You are quite as exacting as 
 a wife, more jealous than a mistress ; and I am 
 getting to an age now at which a man begins to 
 feel a kind of yearning for something more like a 
 home than chambers in the Albany, some one more 
 like a wife than a lady who requires one to be 
 perpetually playing the cavaliere servente.' 
 
 ' Have I been exacting, Gilbert ? I did not 
 know that. I have tried my uttermost to make 
 my house agreeable to you. Believe me, I care less
 
 ' IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 41 
 
 for gaiety than you imagine. I should be satisfied 
 with a very dull life if I saw you often. Oh, Gilbert, 
 I think you ought to know how well I love you.' 
 
 ' I could better have believed that six years ago, 
 if you had consented to leave England with me, as 
 I proposed, when I found out the secret of Colonel 
 Walsingham's existence, and that the Yankee divorce 
 was all bosh.' 
 
 *I loved you too well to sink as low as that, 
 Gilbert.' 
 
 ' I thought the strength of a woman's love was 
 best shown by her sacrifice of self You preferred 
 your reputation to my happiness, and have kept me 
 dangling on ever since, for the gratification of your 
 vanity, I suppose. It would have been more 
 generous to have dismissed me, and made an end 
 of the farce at once.' 
 
 ' You were not so willing to be dismissed until 
 very lately, Gilbert. You were quite willing that 
 we should continue friends, with the hope that the 
 future might make us something nearer and dearer. 
 Why have you grown so tired of me all of a 
 sudden ? '
 
 42 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' I tell you again, it is the position I am tired 
 of, not you. If you were free to marry me it would 
 be a different thing, of course. As it is we are both 
 wasting our lives, and getting ourselves talked about 
 into the bargain.' 
 
 Clara Walsingham laughed scornfully at this. 
 
 ' I care very little what people say of me,' she 
 said. ' English society has not chosen to receive me 
 very graciously, and I feel myself at liberty to 
 despise its petty by-laws. Nor did I think you 
 would consider yourself injured by having your 
 name linked with mine/ 
 
 ' But you see, Clara, it does a man harm to have 
 it said he is engaged to a woman he never can 
 marry. It does him some kind of harm in certain 
 circles.' 
 
 * How vague you are, Gilbert, and how mys- 
 terious! Some kind of harm in certain circles. 
 What does that mean ? ' 
 
 She stood for a minute looking at him, with a 
 sudden intensity in her face. He kept his eyes on 
 the ground during that sharp scrutiny, but he was 
 fully conscious of it nevertheless.
 
 IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL. 4/> 
 
 * Gilbert Sinclair,' she cried, after a long pause, 
 ' you are in love with some other woman. You are 
 going to jilt me.' 
 
 There was a suppressed agony in her tone which 
 both surprised and alarmed the man to whom she 
 spoke. Of late he had doubted the sincerity of 
 her attachment to him, and had fostered that doubt, 
 telling himself that it was his wealth she cared for. 
 
 * Would it grieve you very much if I were to 
 marry, Clara ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Grieve me if you were to marry ! It would be 
 the end of my life. I would never forgive you. 
 But you are playing with me. You are only trying 
 to frighten me.' 
 
 'You are frightening yourself,' he answered. 
 ' I only put the question in a speculative way. 
 Let us drop the subject. If you want to go to the 
 concert ' 
 
 ' I don't want to go ; I am not fit to go any- 
 where. Will you ring that bell, please ? I shall send 
 the brougham back to the stable.' 
 
 * Won't you drive in the park this fine after- 
 noon ? '
 
 44 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' No ; I am fit for nothing now.' 
 
 A maid-servant came in answer to the bell. 
 
 ' You can take my bonnet, Filby,' said Mrs. 
 Walsinj^ham, removinGf that floral structure, 'and 
 tell Johnson I shall not want the brougham to-day 
 You'll stop to dinner, won't you, Gilbert ? ' she 
 went on when the maid had retired. 'Mr. Wyatt 
 is to be here, and Sophy Morton.' 
 
 * How fond you are of those actor people I So 
 Jim Wyatt is coming, is he ? I rather want to see 
 him. But I have other engagements this afternoon, 
 and I really don't think I can stay.' . 
 
 ' Oh, yes, you can, Gilbert. T shall think I had 
 just grounds for my suspicion if you are so eager to 
 run away.' 
 
 ' Very well, Clara, if you make a point of it I 
 will stop.' 
 
 Mr. Sinclair threw himself into one of the low 
 luxurious chairs, with an air of resignation scarcely 
 complimentary to his hostess. Time was when this 
 woman had exercised a profound power over him, 
 when he had been indeed eager to make her his wife ; 
 but that time was past and gone. He was tired of
 
 * IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 45 
 
 an alliance which demanded from him more than it 
 was in his selfish nature to give ; and he was 
 inclined to be angry with himself for having wasted 
 so much of his life upon an infatuation which he 
 now accounted the one supreme mistake of his 
 career. Before his charmed eyes there had appeared 
 a vision of womanly loveliness compared with 
 which Clara Walsingham*s beauty seemed of the 
 earth, earthy. He could not deny that she was 
 beautiful, but in that other girlish face there was a 
 magic which he had never before encountered, a 
 glamour that enthralled his narrow soul. 
 
 The interval before dinner dragged wearily, in 
 spite of Mrs. Walsingham's efforts to sustain a 
 pleasant conversation about trifles. Gilbert was not 
 to be beguiled into animated discussion upon any 
 subject whatever. It seemed as if the two were 
 treading cautiously upon the verge of some conver- 
 sational abyss, some dangerous chasm, into whose 
 depths they might at any moment descend with a 
 sudden plunge. 
 
 Mrs. "Walsingham questioned her companion 
 about his plans for the end of the season.
 
 46 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' Shall you go to Norway for the salmon fishing ? ' 
 she asked. 
 
 ' I think not. I am tired of that part of the 
 world.' 
 
 ' Then I suppose you will amuse yourself with 
 the grouse in Scotland ? ' 
 
 'No, I have just declined a share in a moor. I 
 am heartily sick of grouse shooting. I have really 
 no settled plans as yet. I shall contrive to get rid 
 of the autumn somehow, no doubt.' 
 
 The conversation dawdled on in this languid 
 manner for a couple of hours, and then ^Ir. Sinclair 
 went away to change his loose gray suit for the 
 regulation evening dress. 
 
 The smile which Mrs.Walsingham's face had worn 
 while she talked to him faded the moment he had 
 left her, and she began to pace the room with rapid 
 steps and a clouded brow. 
 
 ' Yes, there is no doubt of it,' she muttered to 
 herself, with suppressed passion. ' I have seen the 
 change in him for the last twelve months. There is 
 some one else. How should I lose him if it were not 
 so ? Heaven knows what pains I have taken to
 
 ' IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL,' 47 
 
 retain my hold upon liim ! There is some one else. 
 He is afraid to tell me the truth. He is wise in that 
 respect. Who can the woman be for whom I am to 
 be forsaken ? He knows so many people, and visits 
 so much, and is everywhere courted and flattered on 
 account of his money. Oh, Gilbert, fool, fool ! 
 Will any woman ever love you as I have loved you, 
 for your own sake, without a thought of your for- 
 tune, with a blind idolatry which has made me 
 indifferent to your faults ? What is it that I love 
 in him, I wonder ? I know that he is not a good 
 man. I have seen his heartlessness too often of 
 late not to know that he is hard and cruel and 
 remorseless towards those who come between 
 him and his iron will. But I, too, could be hard 
 and remorseless if a great wrong were done me. 
 Yes, even to him. Let him take care how he pro- 
 vokes a passionate, reckless nature like mine. Let 
 him beware of playing with fire.' 
 
 This was the gist of her thoughts during a 
 gloomy reverie that lasted more than an hour. At 
 the end of that time Miss Morton was announced, 
 and came fluttering into the room, resplendent in
 
 48 WEAVE i:S AND AVEFT. 
 
 rose-coloured silk and black lace, followed shortly 
 by James Wyatt, the lawyer, courteous and debon- 
 nair, full of small talk and the latest fashionable 
 scandal. Gilbert Sinclair was the last to enter. 
 
 The dinner was elegantly served in a pretty little 
 dining-room, hung with pale green draperies, and 
 adorned with a few clever water-colour pictures, a 
 room in which there was a delightful air of cool- 
 ness and repose. The folding-doors between the two 
 rooms on the ground-floor had been removed, and 
 the back room was covered with a cool Indian 
 matting, and converted into a kind of conservatory 
 for large ferns and orange trees, the dark foliage 
 whereof made an agreeable background to the pollard 
 oak furniture in the dining-room. There was no 
 profuse display of plate upon the round table, but 
 the wine flasks and tall-stemmed glasses were old 
 Venetian, and the dessert service was old Wedge- 
 wood. 
 
 ^Ir. Wyatt was invaluable in the task of sustain- 
 ing the conversation, and Clara Walsingham seconded 
 him admirably, though there was a sharp anguish at 
 her heart that was now almost an habitual pain, an
 
 IT WAS THINE OATfl THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 49 
 
 agony prophetic of a coming blow. Gilbert Sinclair 
 was a little brighter than he had been in the after- 
 noon, and contributed his share to the talk with a 
 decent grace, only once or twice betraying absence 
 of mind by a careless answer and a wandering look 
 in his big brown eyes. 
 
 James Wyatt and Mrs. Walsingham had been 
 running through a catalogue of the changes of 
 fortune, for good or evil, that had befallen their 
 common acquaintances, when Gilbert broke in upon 
 their talk suddenly with the question, — 
 
 * What has become of that fellow who dined with 
 us at Kichmond last year ? Sir Cyprian something/ 
 
 * Sir Cyprian Davenant,' said James Wyatt. ' He 
 is still in Africa.' 
 
 ' In Africa ; ah, yes, to be sure, I remember 
 hearing that he was going to join Harcourt's expe- 
 dition. I was not much impressed by him, though I 
 had heard him talked about as something out of the 
 common way. He had precious little to say for 
 himself.' 
 
 ' You saw him at a disadvantage that day. He 
 was out of spirits at leaving England.' 
 
 VOT T. B
 
 50 WKAVLIKS A^■D ^VEIT. 
 
 ' \^ery likely ; but I had met him in society ver}' 
 often before. He's rather a well-looking fellow, no 
 doubt ; but I certainly couldn't discover any special 
 merit in him beyond his good looks. He's a near 
 neighbour of the Clanyardes, by the way, when he's 
 at home, is he not ? ' 
 
 ' AVhen he's at home, yes,' answered the solicitor. 
 * But I doubt if ever he'll go home again.' 
 
 * You mean that he'll come by his death in Africa, 
 I suppose ? ' 
 
 *I sincerely hope not, for Cyprian Davenant 
 is one of my oldest friends. Xo, I mean that 
 he's not very likely to see the inside of his 
 ancestral halls any more. The place is to be sold 
 this year.' 
 
 * The baronet is quite cleaned out, then ? ' 
 
 ' He has about four hundi'ed a year which he 
 inherited from his mother, so tightly tied up that he 
 has not been able to make away with it.' 
 
 * What Clanyardes ai-e those i ' asked Mrs. Wal- 
 singham. 
 
 * Viscount Clanyarde and his family. They have 
 a place called Marohbrook, and a very poor place it
 
 'IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 51 
 
 is, the adjoining estate to Davenant. The old 
 Viscount is as poor as Job.' 
 
 ' Indeed. But his youngest daughter will make 
 a great match, no doubt, and redeem the fortunes of 
 the house. I saw her at the opera the other night. 
 She was pointed out to me as the loveliest girl 
 in London, and I really think she has a right 
 to be called so. Wiiat do you think of her, 
 Gilbert ? ' 
 
 She fixed her eyes upon Sinclair with a sudden 
 scrutiny that took him off his guard. A dusky flush 
 came over his face, and he hesitated awkwardly 
 before replying to her very simple question. 
 Clara Walsingham's heart gave a great throb. 
 *That is the woman,' she said to herself. 
 ' Miss Clanyarde is very handsome,' stammered 
 Grilbert, ' at least, I believe that is the general 
 opinion about her. She has been intimate with 
 your friend Davenant ever since she was a child, 
 hasn't she, Wyatt ? ' he asked, with an indifference of 
 tone which one listener knew to be assumed. 
 
 * Yes, I have heard him say as much,' the other 
 answered, with an air of reserve which implied the 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNOIS 
 
 •♦
 
 52 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 possession of more knowledge upon this point than 
 he cared to impart. 
 
 ' Those acquaintances of the nursery are apt to 
 end in something more than friendship/ said Mrs. 
 Walsingham. ' Is there any engagement between 
 Sir Cyprian and Miss Clanyarde ? ' 
 
 * Decidedly not.' 
 
 Gilbert Sinclair burst into a harsh laugh. 
 
 ' Not very likely,' he exclaimed. ' I should like 
 to see old Clanyarde's face if his daughter talked of 
 marrying a gentlemanly pauper.' 
 
 ' That is the woman he loves/ Mrs. Walsingham 
 repeated to herself. 
 
 No more was said about Sir Cyprian or the 
 Clanyardes. The conversation drifted into other 
 channels, and the evening wore itself away more or 
 less pleasantly, with the assistance of music by and 
 by in the drawing-room, where there were a few 
 agreeable droppers in. Mrs. Walsingham played 
 brilliantly, and possessed a fine mezzo-soprano, which 
 had been cultivated to an extreme degree. There 
 were those who said she had been an opera singer 
 before her marriage with that notorious roui and
 
 IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 53 
 
 reprobate, Yenion Walsingham. But this was not 
 true. Clara Walsingliam's musical powers had never 
 been exercised professionally. She had a real love 
 of music, for its own sake, and found consolation 
 during many desolate hours in the companionship of 
 her piano.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 'OFFEND IIER AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FOPiGIVE.' 
 
 Three days after tlie little dinner in Half-moon 
 Street, Mrs. Walsingham sat at her solitary breakfast- 
 table rather later than usual, dawdling over the 
 morning papers, and wondering drearily what she 
 should do with the summer day before her. She 
 had seen nothing of Gilbert Sinclair since the 
 dinner, and had endured an agony of self-torment in 
 the interval. His name appeared in one of the 
 morning journals among the guests at a distinguished 
 countess's ball on the previous evening, and in the 
 list of names above Mr. Sinclair's she found those of 
 Lord Clanyarde and his daughter. There had been 
 a time when Gilbert set his face against all fashion- 
 able entertainments, voting them the abomination of 
 desolation. He had changed of late, and went every- 
 where, raising fond hopes in the breasts of anxious 
 mothers with large broods of marriageable daughters, 
 waiting for their promotion.
 
 OFFEND HER AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE.' 55 
 
 Mrs. Walsinorham sat for some time looking 
 vacantly at the long list of names, and thinking of 
 the man she loved. Yes, she loved him. She knew 
 his character by heart, knew how nearly that ob- 
 stinate selfish nature verged upon brutality, and 
 loved him nevertheless. Something in the force of 
 his character exercised a charm over her own ill- 
 regulated mind. She had believed in the strength 
 of his affection for herself, which had been shown 
 in a passionate undisciplined kind of manner, that 
 blinded her to the shallowness of the sentiment. 
 She had been intensely proud of her power over this 
 rough Hercules, all the more proud of his subjugation 
 because of that half-hidden brutishness which she 
 had long ago divined in him. She liked him for 
 what he was, and scarcely wished him to be better 
 than he was. She only wanted him to be true to 
 her. When he had asked her, years ago, to be his 
 wife, she had frankly told him the story of her youth 
 and marriage. Her husband was five-and-twenty 
 years her senior, a man with a constitution broken 
 by nearly half a century of hard living, and she 
 looked forward hopefully to a speedy release from a
 
 56 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. 
 
 uuion that had long been hateful to her. She had 
 believed that it would be possible to retain Gilbert's 
 affection until the time when that release should 
 come without sacrifice of honour or reputation. Had 
 she not believed and hoped this, it is impossible to say 
 what guilty sacrifice she might not have been willing 
 to make rather than lose the man she loved. She 
 had hoped to keep him dangling on, governed by her 
 womanly tact, a faithful slave, until the Colonel — who 
 led a stormy kind of existence, wandering about the 
 Continent, haunting German gaming-tables, and 
 plucking English pigeons — should be good enough to 
 depart this life. But the Colonel was a long time 
 exhausting his battered constitution, and the flowery 
 chain in which Mrs. Walsingham held her captive 
 had faded considerably with the passage of years. 
 
 A loud double knock startled the lady from her 
 reverie. Who could such an early visitor be ? 
 Gilbert himself, perhaps. He had one of those 
 exceptional constitutions to which fatigue is a 
 stranger, and would be no later astir to-day because 
 of last night's ball. Her heart fluttered hopefully, 
 but sank again with the familiar anguish of dis-
 
 ' OFFEND HER AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE.' 57 
 
 appointment as the door was opened and a low 
 deferential voice made itself heard in the hall. 
 Those courteous tones did not belong to Gilbert 
 Sinclair. 
 
 A card was brought to her presently, with James 
 Wyatt's name upon it, and ' On special business, 
 with many apologies,' written in pencil below the 
 name in the solicitor's neat hand. 
 
 'Shall I show the gentleman to the drawing- 
 room, ma'am, or will yoa see him here ? ' asked the 
 servant. 
 
 * Ask him to come in here. What special busi- 
 ness can Mr. Wyatt have with me ? ' she wondered. 
 
 The solicitor came into the room as she asked 
 herself this question, looking very fresh and bright in 
 his careful morning costume. He was more careful 
 of his toilet than many handsomer men, and knew 
 how far the elegance of his figure and the perfection 
 of his dress went to atone for his plain face. 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Walsingham,' he began, * I owe 
 you a thousand apologies for this unseasonable 
 intrusion. If I did not think the nature of my busi- 
 ness would excuse '
 
 58 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' There is nothing to be excused. Yon find me 
 guilty of a very late breakfast, that is all. Why 
 should you not call at half-past ten as well as at 
 half-past three ? It is very kind of you to come at 
 all.' 
 
 There was a tone of indifference in all this 
 politeness, a half weary tone, which did not fail to 
 strike James Wyatt. He had made this woman a 
 study during the last year, and he knew every note 
 of her voice, every expression of her face. 
 
 * I hold it one of my dearest privileges to be 
 received by you,' he replied, with a certain grave 
 tenderness. * There are some men who do not know 
 when they are happy, Mrs. Walsingham. I am not 
 one of those.' 
 
 She looked at him with a surprise that was half 
 scornful. 
 
 ' Pray spare me the pretty speeches which make 
 you so popular with other women,' she said. * You 
 spoke of business just now. Did you really mean 
 business ? ' 
 
 *jNot in a legal sense. ^ly errand this morning 
 is of rather a delicate nature. I would not for the
 
 OFFEND HEK AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE.' o9 
 
 world distress or offend you by any unwarranted 
 allusion to your domestic relations, but I believe I 
 am the bearer of news which can scarcely have 
 reached you yet by any other channel, and which 
 may not be altogether unwelcome.' 
 
 ' What news can you possibly bring me ? ' she 
 asked, with a startled look. 
 
 * Would it distress you to hear that Colonel 
 Walsingham is ill — dangerously ill, even ? ' 
 
 Her breath came quicker as he spoke. 
 
 ' I am not hypocrite enough to pretend that,' she 
 answered. *^Iy heart has long been dead to any 
 feeling but anger — I will not say hatred, though he 
 has deserved as much — where that man is con- 
 cerned. I have suffered too much by my union 
 with him.' 
 
 * Then let me be the first to congratulate you 
 upon your release from bondage. Your husband is 
 dead.' 
 
 Clara Walsingham's cheek blanched, and she 
 was silent for some moments ; and then she asked in 
 a steady voice, * How did you come by the news of 
 his death ? '
 
 60 WEAVERS AND WEtT. 
 
 * In the simplest and most natural manner. My 
 business requires me to be au courant as to Conti- 
 nental affairs, and I get several French and German 
 newspapers. In one of the last I found the account 
 of a duel, succeeding upon a quarrel at the gaming- 
 table, in which your husband fell, shot through the 
 lungs. He only survived a few hours. His oppo- 
 nent was a Frenchman, and is now under arrest. 
 Shall I read you the paragraph ? ' 
 
 * If you please,' answered Mrs. AValsingham, with 
 perfect calmness of manner. Her heart was beating 
 tumultuously nevertheless. She had a dismal con- 
 viction that no advantage— that is to say, not that 
 one advantage for which she longed — would come to 
 her from her husband's death. How eagerly she 
 had desired his death once I To-day the news gave 
 her little satisfaction. 
 
 Mr. Wyatt took a slip of newspaper from his 
 card-case, and read her the brief account of the 
 Colonel's exit from this mortal strife. Duels were 
 common enough at Hombourg in those days, and the 
 journal made very little of the sanguinary business. 
 
 'As many of my friends believe me to have
 
 * OFFEND HER AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE. 61 
 
 been left a widow long ago I shall make no fuss 
 about this event ; and I shall be very grateful if you 
 will be good enough not to talk of it anywhere, 
 Mrs. Walsingham said, by and by, after a thought- 
 ful pause. 
 
 'I shall be careful to obey you/ answered the 
 lawyer. 
 
 ' I wonder how you came to guess that I was not 
 a widow, and that Colonel Walsingham was my 
 husband? He took me abroad directly after our 
 marriage, and we were never in England to- 
 gether.* 
 
 * It is a solicitor's business to know a great many 
 things, and in this case there was a strong personal 
 interest. You accused me just now of flattering 
 women; and it is quite true that I have now and 
 then amused myself a little with the weaker of your 
 sex. Until about a year ago I believed myself 
 incapable of any real feeling, of any strong attach- 
 ment, and had made up my mind to a life of soli- 
 tude, relieved by the frivolities of society. But at that 
 time a marked change came over me, and I found 
 that I too was doomed to suffer life's great fever.
 
 62 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 In a word, I fell desperately iu love. I think you 
 can guess the rest' 
 
 * I am not very good at guessing, but I suppose 
 the lady is some friend of mine, or you would 
 scarcely choose me for a confidante. Is it Sophy 
 Morton ? I know you admire her.' 
 
 *As I admire wax dolls, or the Hay dees and 
 Zuleikas of an illustrated Byron,' answered Mr. 
 Wyatt, with a wry face. * Sophy Morton would have 
 about as much power to touch my heart or influence 
 my mind as the wax dolls or the Byronic beauties. 
 There is only one woman I have ever loved, or 
 ever can love, and her name is Clara Walsingham.' 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham looked at him with unaffected 
 surprise. 
 
 ' Of course I ought to feel very much flattered by 
 such a declaration on your part, Mi\ Wyatt, if I 
 could quite bring myself to believe in your 
 sincerity.' 
 
 ' Put me to the proof.' 
 
 * I cannot do that. I can only thank you for the 
 honour you have done me, and regret that you 
 should endanger the smooth course of our friendship
 
 'OFFEND HER AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FOKGIVE.' 63 
 
 by that kind of declaration. I have learnt to rely 
 upon you as a friend and an adviser, a thorough man 
 of the world, and the last of mankind to lapse into 
 sentimentality.' 
 
 * There is no sentimentality in the business, 
 Mrs. Walsingham. I offer you a real and devoted 
 affection, such an affection as a man feels but once 
 in his life, and which a woman should scarcely 
 reject without a thought of its value. I know I 
 must seem at a disadvantage amongst the men who 
 surround you, but they are men of the butterfly 
 species, and I believe the best of them to be in- 
 capable of feeling as I feel for you. Yes, you are 
 right when you call me a man of the world. It is 
 to such men that love comes with its fullest force 
 when it comes at all. I have not yielded weakly to 
 the great master of mankind. I have counted the 
 cost, and I know the devotion which I offer you 
 to-day is as unalterable as it is profound.' 
 
 *I am sorry that I should have inspired any 
 such sentiment, Mr. Wyatt. I can never return it.' 
 
 * Is that your irrevocable reply ? ' 
 
 * It is,' she answered, decisively.
 
 64 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 'You reject the substance, an honest man's 
 devoted love ; and yet you are content to waste the 
 best years of your life upon a shadow.' 
 
 * I don't understand you.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, I think you do. I think you know as 
 well as I do how frail a reed you have to lean on 
 when you put your trust in Gilbert Sinclair.' 
 
 * You have no right to speak about ^Ir. Sinclair,' 
 answered Clara Walsingham, with an indignant 
 flush. 'What do you know of him, or of my feelings 
 in relation to him ? ' 
 
 ' I know that you love him. Yes, Clara, it is 
 the business of a friend to speak plainly, and even at 
 the hazard of incurring your anger I will do so. 
 Gilbert Sinclair is not worthy of your affection. 
 You will know that I am right before long, if you do 
 not know it now. It is not in that man's nature to 
 be constant under difficulties, as I would be constant 
 to you. Your hold upon him has been growing 
 weaker every year.' 
 
 ' If that is true I shall discover the fact quite 
 soon enough from the gentleman himself,' replied 
 Mrs. Walsingham, in a hard voice, and with an
 
 ' OFFEND HER AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE.' 65 
 
 angry cloud upon her face. * Your friendship, as 
 you call it, is not required to enlighten me upon 
 a subject which scarcely comes within the province 
 of a confidential solicitor. Yes, Mr. Wyatt, since 
 plain speaking is to be the order of the day, I am 
 weak enough and blind enough to care for Gilbert 
 Sinclair, better than for any one else upon this 
 earth, and if I do not marry him I shall never 
 marry at all. He may intend to jilt me. Yes, 
 I have seen the change in him. It would be a 
 vain falsehood if I denied that. I have seen the 
 change, and I am waiting for the inevitable day in 
 which the man I once believed to be the soul of 
 truth shall declare himself a traitor.' 
 
 * Would it not be wise to take the initiative, 
 and give him his dismissal ? ' 
 
 'No. The wrong shall come from him. If he 
 can be base enough to forget all the promises of 
 the past, and to ignore the sacrifices I have made 
 for him, his infamy shall have no excuse from any 
 folly of mine.' 
 
 'And if you find that he is false to you — 
 that he has transferred his affection to another 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 woman — you will banish him from your heart and 
 mind, I trust, and begin life afresh.' 
 Mrs. Walsingham laughed aloud. 
 
 * Yes, I shall begin a new life, for from that 
 hour I shall only live upon one hope.' 
 
 'And that will be V 
 
 'The hope of revenge.' 
 
 * My dear ^Irs. Walsingham ! ' remonstrated 
 
 the lawyer. 
 
 ' That sounds melodramatic, does it not ? But 
 you see there is a strong mixture of the melo- 
 dramatic element in real life. Gilbert Sinclair 
 should know that I am not a woman to be jilted 
 with impunity. Of course I don't mean that I 
 should poison him, or stab him. That sort of thing 
 is un-English and obsolete ; except among the 
 labouring classes, who have a rapid way of taking 
 payment for the wrongs that are done them. No ; 
 I should not kill him, but rely upon it I should 
 make his life miserable/ 
 
 Mr. Wyatt watched her face with a thoughtful 
 expression in his own. Yes, she looked the kind 
 of woman whose anger would take some tangible,
 
 ' OFFEND HER AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE.' 67 
 
 and perhaps fatal form. She was not a woman to 
 carry the burden of a broken heart in silent 
 patience to the grave. 
 
 'Upon my 'life I should be afraid to offend 
 her,' thought James Wyatt. 
 
 ' Revenge is a bad word, ' he said, after an- 
 other long pause. ' Redress is much better. If Mr. 
 Sinclair should marry, as I have some reason to 
 think he will ' 
 
 * What reason ? ' 
 
 'Public rumour. His attentions to a certaia 
 young lady have been remarked by people I know.' 
 
 * The lady is the beautiful Miss Clanyarde.' 
 
 * How did you discover that ? ' 
 'From his face, the other night.' 
 
 'You are quick at reading his face. Yes, I 
 believe he is over head and ears in love with 
 Constance Clanyarde, as a much better man, 
 Cjrprian Davenant, was before him; and I have no 
 doubt Lord Clanyarde will do his utmost to bring 
 the match about.' 
 
 'How long has this been going on?' 
 
 ' Since the beginning of this season. He may
 
 68 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 have lost his heart to the lady last year, but his 
 attentions last year were not so obvious.' 
 
 * Do you know if Miss Clanyarde cares for him ? ' 
 'I have no means of knowing the lady's 
 feeling on the subject, but I have a considerable 
 knowledge of her father, in the way of business; 
 and I am convinced she will be made — induced 
 is, I suppose, a more appropriate word — to accept 
 Sinclair as a husband. Lord Clanyarde is as poor 
 as Job, and as proud as Lucifer. Yes, I think we 
 may look upon the marriage as a certainty. And 
 now, Mrs. Walsingham, remember that by whatever 
 means you seek redress I am your friend, and 
 shall hold myself ready to aid and abet you in 
 the exaction of your just right. You have 
 rejected me as a husband. You shall discover 
 how faithful I can be as an ally.' 
 
 'I don't quite understand the nature of the 
 alliance you propose. Do you mean you will 
 help me to come between that man and all hope 
 of domestic happiness ? You do not know how 
 merciless I could be if chance gave me the 
 power to punish Gilbert Sinclair's infidelity'
 
 * OFFEND HEPv AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FOEGIVE.' 69 
 
 I know that he will deserve little compassion 
 from you.' 
 
 ' Bat from you ? He has never injured you.' 
 *Do not be so sure of that. There are petty 
 insults and trivial injuries that make up the 
 sum of a great wrong. Gilbert Sinclair has not 
 treated me well. I will not trouble you with the 
 dry details of our business relations, but I have 
 sufficient reasons for resentment, without reference 
 to you. And now I will intrude upon you no 
 longer. I see you are a little tired of this con- 
 versation. I only entreat you, once more, to 
 remember that I am your friend.* 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham looked at him with a doubtful 
 expression. He had subjugated her pride com- 
 pletely by the boldness of his attack. At another 
 time she might have been angry with him, but 
 the weariness of her spirit and the dull sense of 
 impending sorrow were more powerful than anger. 
 She only felt humiliated and perplexed by James 
 Wyatt's proffers of love and friendship, uncertain 
 how far he had been sincere in either offer. 
 
 I have no[^ doubt I ought to be gi-ateful to
 
 70 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 you, Mr. Wyatt,' she said, in a slow weary way, 
 'but I do riot think your friendship can ever 
 be of much service to me in the future business 
 of my life, and I trust that you will forget all 
 that has been said this morning. Good-bye.' 
 
 She gave him her hand. He held it with a 
 gentle pressure as he answered her, — 
 
 'It is impossible for me to forget anything 
 that you have said, but you shall find me as 
 secret as the grave. Good-bye.' 
 
 He bent his head, and touched her hand 
 lightly with his lips before releasing it. In the 
 next instant he was gone. 
 
 * How she loves that snob ! ' he said to him- 
 self as he walked away from Half-moon Street 
 * And how charming she is ! Eich, too. I could 
 scarcely make a better match. It is a case in 
 which inclination and prudence go together. 
 And how easily I might have won her, but for 
 that man ! Well, well, I don't despair of ultimate 
 victory, in spite of Gilbert Sinclair. "Time and 
 I against any two," as Philip of Spain used to 
 say when things went badly iu the Netherlands.'
 
 CHAPTEIi V. 
 
 'TIME IS, TIME WAS.' 
 
 Mrs. Walsixgham wrote to Gilbert Sinclair, 
 immediately after Mr. Wyatt's departure, a few 
 hasty lines begging him to come to her without 
 delay. 
 
 * Something has occurred/ she wrote, ' an event 
 of supreme importance to me. I will tell you 
 nothing more till we meet.' 
 
 She despatched her groom to the Albany with 
 this note, and then waited with intense impatience 
 for Gilbert Sinclair's coming. If he were at home 
 it was scarcely possible he could refuse to come to 
 her. 
 
 ' I shall know the worst very soon,' she said 
 to herself, as she sat behind the flowers that 
 shaded her window. 'After to-day there shall 
 be no uncertainty between us — no further reser- 
 vation on my part — no more acting on his. He
 
 72 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 shall find that I am not his dupe, to bo fooled to 
 the top of my bent, and to be taken by surprise 
 some fine morning by the announcement of his 
 marriage in the Times' 
 
 Mr. Sinclair was not at home when the note 
 was delivered, but between two and three o'clock 
 in the afternoon his thundering knock assailed the 
 door, and he came into the room unannounced. 
 
 In spite of the previous night's ball he had 
 ridden fifteen miles into the country that morning 
 to attend a sale of hunters, and was looking flushed 
 after his long ride. 
 
 * What on earth is the matter, Clara ? ' he asked. 
 ' I have been out since eight o'clock. Poor Townley's 
 stud was sold off this morning at a pretty little 
 place he had beyond Barnet, and I rode down 
 there to see if there was anything worth bidding 
 for. I might have saved myself the trouble, for 
 I never saw such a pack of screws. The ride was 
 pleasant enough, however.' 
 
 ' I wonder you were out so early after last 
 night's dance.' 
 
 *0h, you've seen my name down among the
 
 ' TIME IS, TIME WAS.' 73 
 
 swells,' he answered, with a forced laugh. 'Yes, I 
 was hard at it last night, no end of waltzes and 
 galops. But you know late hours never make much 
 difference to me.' 
 
 ' Was it a very pleasant party ? ' 
 
 'The usual thing — too many people for the 
 rooms.' 
 
 * Your favourite, Miss Clanyarde, was there, I see.' 
 
 * Yes, the Clanyardes were there. But I suppose 
 you haven't sent for me to ask me questions about 
 Lady Deptford's ball ? I thought by your letter 
 something serious had happened.' 
 
 ' Something serious has happened. My husband 
 is dead.' 
 
 She said the words very slowly, with her eyes 
 fixed on Gilbert Sinclair's face. The florid colour 
 faded suddenly out of his cheeks, and left him 
 ghastly pale. Of all the events within the range 
 of probability this was the last he had expected 
 to hear of, and the most unwelcome. 
 
 * Indeed,' he stammered, after an awkward pause. 
 'I suppose I ought to congratulate you on the 
 recovery of your freedom ? '
 
 74 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 *1 am very glad to be free.' 
 
 *^Vhat did he die of — Colonel Walsingham ? 
 And how did you get the news ? ' 
 
 ' From a foreign paper. He was killed in a 
 duel.' 
 
 And then she repeated the contents of the para- 
 graph James Wyatt had read to her. 
 
 * Is the news correct, do you think ? No mis- 
 take about the identity of the person in question ? ' 
 
 'None whatever, I am convinced. However, I 
 shall drive into the City presently, and see the 
 solicitor who arranged our separation. I know the 
 Colonel was in the habit of corresponding with him, 
 and no doubt he will be able to give me official 
 intelligence of the event/ 
 
 After this there came another pause, more awk- 
 ward than the first. Gilbert sat with his eyes 
 fixed upon the carpet, tracing out the figures of it 
 meditatively with the ferrule of his cane, with an 
 air of study as profound as if he had been an art 
 designer bent upon achieving some novel combi- 
 nation of form and colour. Clara Walsingham sat 
 opposite to him, waiting for him to speak, with a
 
 'TIME IS, TIME WAS.' 75 
 
 pale, rigid face, that grew more stony as the silence 
 continued. That silence became at last quite un- 
 endurable, and Gilbert felt himself obliged to say- 
 something, no matter what. 
 
 ' Does this business make any alteration in 
 your circumstances ? ' he asked, with a faint show 
 of interest. 
 
 ' Only for the better. I surrendered to the Colonel 
 the income of one of the estates my father left 
 me, in order to bribe him into consenting to a 
 separation. Henceforward that income will be 
 mine. My poor father took pains to secure me 
 from the possibility of being ruined by a husband. 
 My fortune was wholly at my own disposal, but I 
 was willing to make the surrender in question in 
 exchange for my liberty.' 
 
 ' I am glad to find you will be so well off/ 
 said ]\[r. Sinclair, still engrossed by the pattern 
 of the carpet. 
 
 'Is that all you have to say?' 
 'What more can I say upon the subject?' 
 ' There was a time when you would have said 
 a great deal more.*
 
 76 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' Very likely,' aoswered Gilbert, bluntly ; * but 
 then you see that time is past and gone. What 
 is it Friar Bacon's brazen head said — " Time is, 
 time was, time's past/' Come, Clara, it is very 
 little use for you and me to play at cross pur- 
 poses. Why did you send for me in such hot 
 haste to tell me of your husband's death?' 
 
 ' Because I had reason to consider the news 
 would be as welcome to you as it was to me.' 
 
 'That might have been so if the event had 
 happened a year or two ago ; unhappily your release 
 comes too late for my welfare. You accused me 
 the other day of intending to jilt you. I think that 
 accusation scarcely fair, when it is remembered how 
 long I was contented to remain your devoted slave, 
 patiently waiting for something better than slavery. 
 There is a limit to all things, however, and I con- 
 fess the bondage became a little irksome at last, 
 and I began to look in other directions for the 
 happiness of my future life.' 
 
 'Does that mean that you are going to be 
 married ? ' 
 
 ' It does.'
 
 TIME IS, TDIE WAS. 77 
 
 'The lady is Miss Clanyarde, I conclude/ said 
 Mrs. "Walsingham. Her breathing was a little 
 hurried, but there was no other sign of the storm 
 that raged within. 
 
 * Yes, the lady is Constance Clanyarde. And 
 now, my dear Clara, let me entreat you to be 
 reasonable, and to consider how long I waited for 
 the chance that has come at last too late to be 
 of any avail, so far as I am concerned. I am not 
 coxcomb enough to fear that you will regret me 
 very much, and I am sure you know that I shall 
 always regard you with the warmest friendship 
 and admiration. With your splendid attractions 
 you will have plenty of opportunities in the matri- 
 monial line, and will have, I dare say, little reason 
 to lament my secession.' 
 
 Clara Walsingham looked at him with unutter- 
 able scorn. 
 
 ' And I once gave you credit for a heart, Gilbert 
 Sinclair,* she said. 'Well, the dream is ended.' 
 
 'Don't let us part ill friends, Clara. Say you 
 wish me well in my new life.' 
 
 'I cannot say anything so false. Ko, Gilbert,
 
 78 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 I will not take your hand. There can be no such 
 thing as friendship between you and me.' 
 
 * That seems rather hard,' answered Sinclair, in 
 a sulky tone. ' But let it be as you please. Good- 
 
 * Good morning, Mr. Sinclair.' 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham rang the bell, but before her 
 summons could be answered, Gilbert Sinclair had 
 gone out of the house. He walked back to the 
 Albany in a very gloomy frame of mind, thinking 
 it a hard thing that Colonel Walsingham should 
 have chosen this particular time for his death. He 
 was glad that the interview was over, and that 
 Clara knew what she had to expect ; but he felt 
 an uneasy sense that he had not altogether extri- 
 cated himself from an awkward entanglement. 
 
 *She took it pretty quietly upon the whole,' 
 he said to himself, 'but there was a look in her 
 eyes that I didn't like.' 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham called on her late husband's 
 lawyer in the course of the afternoon, and received 
 a confirmation of James Wyatt's news. Her hus- 
 band's death increased her income from two to
 
 'TIME IS, TIME WAS.' 79 
 
 three thousand a year, arising chiefly from landed 
 property which had been purchased by her father, 
 a city tradesman, who had late in life conceived 
 the idea of becoming a country squire, and had 
 died of the dulness incident upon an unrecognised 
 position in the depths of an agricultural district. 
 His only daughter's marriage with Colonel Wal- 
 singham had been a severe affliction to him, but 
 he had taken care to settle his money upon her in 
 such a manner as to secure it from any serious 
 depredations on the part of the husband.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 'ARISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 
 
 The summer had melted into autumn, the 
 London season was over, and the Clanyardes had 
 left their furnished house in Eaton Place, which 
 the Viscount had taken for the season, to return 
 to Marchbrook, where Gilbert Sinclair was to follow 
 them as a visitor. He had proposed for Constance, 
 and had been accepted, with much inward rejoicing 
 on the part of the lady's father ; with a strange 
 conflict of feeling in the mind of the lady herself. 
 Did she love the man she had promised to 
 marry ? Well, no, there was no such feeling as 
 love for Gilbert Sinclair in her mind. She thought 
 him tolerably good-looking, and not exactly dis- 
 agreeable, and it had been impressed upon her that 
 he was one of the richest men in England, a man 
 who could bestow upon her everything which a 
 well-bred young lady must, by nature and edu-
 
 * ARISE, BLACK VE:^;Gi::A^■Cl::, FKOM THY UOLLOW CELL.' 81 
 
 cation, desire. The bitter pinch of poverty had 
 been severely felt at Marchbrook, and the Clanyarde 
 girls had been taught, in an indirect kind of way 
 that they were bound to contribute to the restora- 
 tion of the family fortunes by judicious marriages. 
 The two elder girls, Adela and ^Margaret, had 
 married well, — one Sir Henry Elrington, a Sussex 
 baronet, with a very nice place, and a comfortable 
 income, the other a rich East Indian merchant, 
 considerably past middle age. Bat the fortunes 
 of Sir Henry Elrington and Mr. Campion, the 
 merchant, were as nothing compared with the 
 wealth of Gilbert Sinclair; and Lord Clanyarde 
 told his daughter Constance that she would put 
 her sisters to shame by the brilliancy of her mar- 
 riage. He flew into a terrible passion when she 
 expressed herseK disinclined to accept Mr. Sinclair's 
 offer, and asked her how she dared to fly in the 
 face of Providence by refusing such a splendid 
 destiny. What in heaven's name did she expect ? 
 A girl w^ithout a sixpence of her own, and with 
 nothing but her pretty face and aristocratic lineage 
 to recommend her. Then came the two married 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 AVE AVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 sisters with more lecturing and persuasion, and at 
 last the girl gave way, fairly wearied out, and 
 suffered herself to be scolded into a kind of des- 
 ponding submission. 
 
 So Gilbert Sinclair came one morning to Eaton 
 Place, and finding Miss Clanyarde alone in the 
 drawing-room, made her a solemn offer of his heart 
 and hand. He had asked her to be his wife before 
 this, and she had put him off with an answer that 
 was almost a refusal. Then had come the scolding 
 and lecturing, and she had been schooled into 
 resignation to a fate that seemed to her irresistible. 
 She told her suitor that she accepted him in 
 deference to her father's wishes, and that she could 
 give him nothing better than duty and gratitude 
 in return for the affection he was so good as to 
 entertain for her. This was enough for Gilbert, 
 who was bent on winning her for his wife, in a 
 headstrong, reckless spirit, that made no count 
 of the cost. He put down this speech of Constance's 
 to girlish modesty. She couldn't help being fond 
 of him, he tliouglit, when he was so fond of her, 
 i^nd such a good-looking fellow into the bargain.
 
 ' ARISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 83 
 
 He was not at all inclined to undervalue his 
 own merits, or to suppose that any woman could 
 feel indifferent to him. Had not Clara Walsing- 
 ham loved him with an inconvenient devotedness ? 
 But as Miss Clanyarde sat by and by with her 
 hand in her love?''s, and listened to his protesta- 
 tions of affection, there rose before her the vision 
 of a face that was not Gilbert Sinclair's — a darkly 
 splendid face, that had looked upon her with such 
 unutterable love one summer day in the shadowy 
 Kentish lane ; and she wished that Cyprian 
 Davenant had carried her off to some strange, 
 desolate land, in which they might have lived and 
 died together. 
 
 *What will he think of me when he hears 
 that I have sold myself to this man for the sake 
 of his fortune ? ' she asked herself ; and then she 
 looked up at Gilbert's face and wondered whether 
 she could ever teach herself to love him, or to 
 be grateful to him for his love. 
 
 All this had happened within a week of 
 Gilbert's final interview with Mrs. Walsingham, 
 and in a very short time the fact of Mr. Sinclair's
 
 84 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 engagement to Miss Clanyarde was pretty well 
 known to all that gentleman's friends and acquaint- 
 ance. He was very proud of carrying off a girl 
 whose beauty had made a considerable sensation 
 in the two past seasons, and he talked of his 
 matrimonial projects in a swaggering, boastful 
 way, that was eminently distasteful to some of his 
 acquaintance. Men who were familiar with 
 Mr. Sinclair's antecedents shrugged their shoulders 
 ominously when his marriage was discussed, and 
 augured ill for the future happiness of Miss 
 Clanyarde. 
 
 James Wyatt was one of the first to congratu- 
 late him upon his betrothal. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Gilbert, * she's a lovely girl, isn't 
 she ? and of course I'm very proud of her affection. 
 It's to be a regular love match, you know. I 
 wouldn't marry the handsomest woman in the 
 world if I thought she were marrying me for my 
 money. I don't say the father hasn't an eye to 
 the main chance. He's a thorough man of the 
 world, and of course fully alive to that kind of 
 thing. But Constance is superior to any such
 
 * ARISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 85 
 
 consideration. If 1 didn't believe that, I wouldn't 
 be such a fool as to stake my happiness on the 
 venture.' 
 
 * I scarcely fancied you would look at matters 
 from such a sentimental point of view,' said 
 Mr. Wyatt, thoughtfully, 'especially as this is by 
 no means your first love.' 
 
 * It is the first love worth speaking of,' answer- 
 ed the other. 'I never knew what it was to be 
 passionately in love till I met Constance Clan- 
 yarde.' 
 
 * !N'ot with Mrs. Walsingham ? ' 
 
 * Xo, Jim. I did care for her, a good deal, once 
 upon a time, but never as I care for Constance. 
 I think if that girl were to play me false I should 
 kill myself. By the way, I'm sure yon know more 
 about Sii- Cyprian Davenant than you were inclined 
 to confess the other night. I fancy there was some 
 kind of love affair — some youthful flirtation 
 between him and Constance. You might as well 
 tell me everything you know about it.' 
 
 * I know nothing about Miss Clanyarde, and I 
 can teU you nothing about Davenant. He and I
 
 86 "WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 are old friends, and I am too fully in his confidence 
 to talk of his sentiments, or his affairs.' 
 
 * What a confounded prig you are, Wyatt ! But 
 you can't deny that Davenant was in love with 
 Constance. I don't believe she has ever cared a 
 straw for him, however, and if he should live to 
 come back to England I shall take good care he 
 never darkens my doors. How about that place 
 of his, by-the-bye ? Is it in the market ? ' 
 
 *Yes, I have received Sir Cyprian's instructions 
 to sell whenever I see a favourable opportunity. 
 He won't profit much by the sale, poor fellow, for 
 the Davenant estate is mortgaged up to the 
 hilt.' 
 
 ' I'll look at the place while I'm at Marchbrook, 
 and if I like it I may make you an offer. We shall 
 want something nearer town than the barrack my 
 father built in the north, but I shall not give up 
 that either.' 
 
 ' You can afford a couple of country seats. You 
 will have a house in town, of course ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I have been thinking of Park Lane ; but 
 it is so difficult to get anything there. I've told
 
 * ARISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 87 
 
 the agents what I want, however, and I dare say 
 they'll find something before long.' 
 
 ' AVhen are you to be married ? ' 
 
 ' Xot later than October, I hope. There is not 
 the shadow of a reason for delay.' 
 
 At Marchbrook everything vreut pleasantly 
 enough with the plighted lovers. Lord Clanyarde 
 had filled the house with company, and his youngest 
 daughter had very little time for reflection or 
 regret upon the subject of her approaching marriage. 
 Everybody congratulated her upon her conquest, 
 and praised Gilbert Sinclair with such a show of 
 enthusiasm that she began to think he must be 
 worthy of a warmer regard than she was yet able 
 to feel for him. She told herself that in common 
 gratitude she was bound to return his affection, and 
 she tried her utmost to please him by a ready 
 submission to all his wishes; but the long drives 
 and rides, in which they were always side by side, 
 were very wearisome to her, nor could his gayest 
 talk of the future, the houses, the yacht, the 
 carriages and horses that were to be hers, inspired 
 her with any expectation of happiness.
 
 88 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 They rode over to Davenant with Lord Clauyarde 
 one morning, and explored the old house, Gilbert 
 looking at everything in a business-like spirit, 
 which jarred a little upon Constance. She could 
 not but remember that luckless exile who had 
 loved the place so well. 
 
 Her lover consulted her about the disposition 
 of the rooms, the colours of the new draperies, and 
 the style of the furniture. 
 
 'We'll get rid of the gloomy old tapestry, and 
 have everything modern and bright,' he said; but 
 Lord Clanyarde pleaded hard for the preservation 
 of the tapestry, which was very fine and in 
 excellent condition. 
 
 'Oh, very well,' answered Gilbert, carelessly. 
 'In that case we'll keep the tapestry. I suppose 
 the best plan will be to get some first-class London 
 man to furnish the house. Those fellows always 
 have good taste. But of course he must defer to 
 you in all matters, Constance.' 
 
 'You are very good,' she returned, listlessly. 
 * But I don't think there will be any necessity for 
 my interference.'
 
 ' ARISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FllOM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 89 
 
 • Don't say that, Constance. That looks as if 
 you were not interested in the subject,' Gilbert said, 
 with rather a discontented air. 
 
 The listlessness of manner which his betrothed 
 so often displayed was by no means pleasing to 
 him. There was a disagreeable suspicion growing 
 in his mind that Miss Clanyarde's heart had not 
 quite gone with her acceptance of his offer, that 
 family influences had something to do with her 
 consent to become his wife. He was not the less 
 resolved on this account to hold her to her promise ; 
 but his selfish tyrannical nature resented her cold- 
 ness, and he was determined that the balance should 
 be adjusted between them in the future. 
 
 ' Perhaps you don't like this place, Constance,' 
 he said presently, after watching her thoughtful face 
 for some minutes in silence. 
 
 •Oh, yes, Gilbert, I am very fond of Davenani. 
 I have known it all my life, you know.' 
 
 ' Then I wish you'd look a little more cheerful 
 about my intended purchase. I thought it would 
 please you to have a country house so near your 
 own family.'
 
 90 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 'And it does please her very much, I am sure, 
 Sinclair/ said Lord Clanyarde, with a stealthy frown 
 at his daughter. ' She cannot fail to appreciate the 
 kindness and delicacy of your choice.' 
 
 * Papa is quite right, Gilbert,' added Constance. 
 * I should be very ungrateful if I were not pleased 
 with your kindness.' 
 
 After this she tried her utmost to sustain an 
 appearance of interest in the discussion of furniture 
 and decorations; but every now and then she 
 found her mind wandering away to the banished 
 owner of those rooms, and she wished that Gilbert 
 Sinclair had chosen any other habitation upon this 
 earth for her future home. 
 
 October came, and with it the inevitable day 
 which was to witness one more perjury from the 
 lips of a bride. The wedding took place at the little 
 village church near Marchbrook, and was altogether 
 a very brilliant affair, attended by all the relatives 
 of the Clanyarde family, who were numerous, and 
 by a great many acquaintances of bride and bride- 
 groom. Notable among the friends of the latter was 
 James Wyatt, the solicitor who had been employed
 
 * ARISE, BLACK VENGEAXCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 91 
 
 in the drawing up of the marriage settlement, which 
 was a most liberal one, and highly satisfactory to 
 Viscount Clanyarde. Mr. Wyatt made himself 
 excessively agreeable at the breakfast, and was 
 amazingly popular among the bridesmaids. He did 
 not long avail himself of the Marchbrook hospitali- 
 ties, but went quietly back to town by rail 
 almost immediately after the departure of the newly 
 married couple on their honeymoon trip to the 
 Italian lakes. He had an engagement in Half- 
 moon Street that evening at eisjht o'clock. 
 
 The neighbouring clocks were striking the hour 
 as he knocked at the door. Mrs. Walsingham was 
 quite alone in the drawing-room, and looked 
 unusually pale in the light of the lamps. The 
 solicitor shook liis head reproachfully as he pressed 
 her hand. 
 
 ' This is very sad,' he murmured, in a semi- 
 paternal manner. * You have been worrying yourself 
 all day long, I know. You are as pale as a ghost.' 
 
 * I am a little tired, that is all.' 
 
 ' You have been out to-day ? You told me you 
 should not stir from the house.'
 
 92 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 * I changed my mind at the last moment. Any- 
 thing was better than staying at home keeping the 
 day like a black fast. Besides, I wanted to see how 
 Gilbert and his bride would look at the altar.' 
 
 ' You have been down to Kent ? ' 
 
 * Yes, I was behind the curtains of the organ loft. 
 The business was easily managed by means of a 
 sovereign to the ^clerk. I wore my plainest dress 
 and a thick veil, so there was very little risk of 
 detection.* 
 
 ' What folly ! ' exclaimed Wyatt. 
 
 ' Yes, it was great folly, no doubt, but it is the 
 nature of women to be foolish. And now tell me all 
 about the wedding. Did Gilbert look very happy ? ' 
 
 ' He looked like a man who has got his own 
 way, and who cares very little what price he has 
 paid, or may have to pay, for the getting it.' 
 
 ' And do you think he will be happy ? ' 
 
 ' Not if his happiness depends upon the love of 
 his wife.' 
 
 ' Then you don't think she loves him ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure she does not. I made a study of her 
 face during the ceremony and afterwards ; and if
 
 'ARISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 93 
 
 ever a woman sold herself, or was sold by her 
 people, this woman is guilty of such a bargain.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you say this to please me,' said Clara 
 doubtfully. 
 
 ' I do not, Mrs. Walsinghara. I am convinced 
 that this affair has been brought about by Lord Clan- 
 yard e's necessities, and not the young lady's choice. 
 But I doubt whether this will make much difference 
 to Gilbert in the long run. He is not a man of fine 
 feelings, yon know, and I think he will be satisfied 
 with the fact of having won the woman he wanted to 
 marry. I should fancy matters would go smoothly 
 enough with him, so long as he sees no cause for 
 jealousy. He would be rather an ugly customer if 
 he took it into his head to be jealous.' 
 
 ' And you think his life will go smoothly,' said 
 Clara, ' and that he will go on to the end unpunished 
 for his perfidy to me ? ' 
 
 * What good would his punishment be to you ? ' 
 
 * It would be all the world to me.' 
 
 ' And if I could bring about the retribution you 
 desire — if it were in my power to avenge your 
 wrongs — what reward would you give me ? '
 
 94 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, knowing there was 
 only one reward he was likely to claim from her. 
 
 * If you were a poor man I would offer you two- 
 thirds of my fortune/ she said. 
 
 * But you know that I am not a poor man. If I 
 can come to you some day, and tell you that Gilbert 
 Sinclair and his wife are parted for ever, will you 
 accept me for your husband ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered, suddenly. ' Break the knot 
 between those two — let me be assured that he has 
 lost the woman for whose sake he jilted me, and 
 I will refuse you nothing.' 
 
 ' Consider it done. There is nothing in the world 
 I would not achieve to win you for my wife.'
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 * GREEN-EYED JEALOUSY ! ' 
 
 It was not till the early spring that Mr. and Mrs 
 Sinclair returned to England. They had spent the 
 winter in Rome, where Gilbert had found some con- 
 genial friends, and where their time had been occupied 
 in one perpetual round of gaiety and dissipation. 
 Constance had shown a great taste for pleasure since 
 her marriage. She seemed to know no weariness of 
 visiting and being visited ; and people who re- 
 membered her in her girlish days were surprised 
 to find what a thorough woman of the world she had 
 become. Nor was Gilbert displeased that it should 
 be so. He liked to see his wife occupy a prominent 
 position in society, and having no taste himself for 
 the pleasures of the domestic hearth, he was neither 
 surprised nor vexed by Constance's indifference to 
 her -home. Of course it would all be different at 
 Davenant Park. There would be plenty of home
 
 96 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 life there — a little too much, perhaps, Gilbert thought 
 with a yawn. 
 
 They had been married nearly four months, 
 and there had not been the shadow of disagreement 
 between them. Constance's manner to her husband 
 was amiability itself. She treated him a little de 
 haut en has it is true, made her own plans for the 
 most part without reference to him, and graciously 
 informed him of her arrangements after they were 
 completed. But then, on the other hand, she never 
 objected to his disposal of his time, was never 
 exacting, or jealous, or capricious, as Clara Wal- 
 singham had been. She was always agreeable to 
 his friends, and was eminently popular with all of 
 them. So Gilbert Sinclair was, upon the whole, per- 
 fectly satisfied with the result of his marriage, and 
 had no fear of evil days in the future. What James 
 Wyatt had said of him was perfectly true. He was 
 not gifted with very fine feelings, and that sense of 
 something wanting in such a union, which would 
 have disturbed the miud of a nobler man, did not 
 trouble him. 
 
 They returned to England early in February,
 
 ' GREEN-EYED JEALOUSY.* 97 
 
 and went at once to Davenant, which had been 
 furnished in the modern mediaeval style by a West 
 End upholsterer. The staff of servants had been 
 provided by Lady Elrington, who had come up to 
 London on purpose, and had bestowed much 
 pains and labour upon the task of selection, bitterly 
 bewailing the degeneracy of the race she had to 
 deal with during the performance of this difficult 
 service. All was ready when Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair 
 arrived. A pompous housekeeper simpered and 
 curtseyed in the hall ; an accomplished cook hovered 
 tenderly over the roasts and the stew-pans in the 
 great kitchen; housemaids in smart caps flitted 
 about the passages and poked the fires in bedroom 
 and dressing-rooms, bath-rooms and morning-room, 
 eager to get an early look at their new lady ; a 
 butler of the usual clerical appearance ushered the 
 way to the lamp-lit drawing-room, while two 
 ponderous footmen conveyed the rugs and news- 
 papers and morocco bags from the carriage, leaving 
 all the heavier luggage to the care of unknown 
 underlings attached to the stable department. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Sinclair dined alone upon this first evening 
 VOL. L H
 
 98 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 of their return, under the inspection of the clerical 
 butler and the two ponderous footmen. They talked 
 chiefly about the house, which rooms were most 
 successful in their new arrangement, and so on ; a 
 little about what they had been doing in Rome ; and 
 a little about their plans for the next month ; what 
 guests were to be invited, and what rooms they were to 
 occupy. It was all the most conventional talk, but 
 the three serving-men retired with the impression 
 that Gilbert Sinclair and his wife were a very happy 
 couple, and reported to that effect in the housekeeper's 
 room and the servants' hall. 
 
 Before the week had ended the great house was 
 full of company. That feverish desire for gaiety and 
 change, which had seemed a part of Constance's 
 nature since her marriage, in no way subsided on 
 her arrival at Davenant. She appeared to exist for 
 pleasure, and pleasure only, and her guests declared 
 her the most charming hostess that ever reigned 
 over a country house. Lavish as he was, Mr. Sinclair 
 opened his eyes to their widest extent when he per- 
 ceived his wife's capacity for spending money. 
 
 * It's ratlier lucky for you that you didn't marry
 
 'GREEN-EYED JEALOUSY.' 99 
 
 a poor man, Constance,' he said, with a boastful 
 laugh. 
 
 She looked at him for a moment with a strange 
 expression, and then turned very pale. 
 
 * I should not have been afraid to face poverty,' 
 she said, * if it [had been my fate to do so.' 
 
 * If you could have faced it with the man you 
 liked, eh, Constance ? That's about what you mean, 
 isn't it ? ' 
 
 * Is this intended for a complaint, Gilbert ? ' his 
 wife asked, in her coldest tones. ' Have I been 
 spending too much money ? ' 
 
 *No, no, I didn't mean that. I was only con- 
 gratulating you upon your fitness for the position of 
 a rich man's wife.' 
 
 This was the first little outbreak of jealousy of 
 which Gilbert Sinclair had been guilty. He knew now 
 that his wife did not love him, that his conquest 
 had been achieved through the influence of hei 
 family, and he was almost angr}' with himself for 
 being so fond of her. He could not forget those 
 vague hints that had been dropped about Sir 
 Cyprian Daveoant, and was tormented by the idea
 
 100 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 that James Wyatt knew a great deal more tlian he 
 had revealed upon this point. This hidden jealousy 
 had been at the bottom of his purchase of the 
 Davenant estate. He took a savage pride in 
 reigning over the little kingdom from which his 
 rival had been deposed. 
 
 Among the visitors from London appeared Mr. 
 Wyatt, always unobtrusive, and always useful. He 
 contrived to ingratiate himself very rapidly in Mrs. 
 Sinclair's favour, and established himself as a kind 
 of adjutant in her household corps, always ready 
 with advice upon every social subject, from the 
 costumes in a tableau vivant to the composition of 
 the menu for a dinner party. Constance did not 
 particluarly like him ; but she lived in a world in 
 which it is not necessary to have a very sincere 
 regard for one's acquaintance ; and she considered 
 him an agreeable person, much to be preferred to the 
 generality of her husband's chosen companions, who 
 were men without a thought beyond the hunting- 
 field and the racecourse. 
 
 Mr. Wyatt, on his part, was a little surprised to 
 see the manner in which Lord Clanyarde's daughter
 
 'GREEN-EYED JEALOUSY.' 101 
 
 filled her new position, the unfailing vivacity which 
 she displayed in the performance of her duties as 
 hostess, and the excellent terms upon which she 
 appeared to live with her husband. He was 
 accustomed, however, to look below the surface of 
 things, and by the time he had been a fortnight at 
 Davenant he had discovered that all this brightness 
 and gaiety on the part of the wife indicated an 
 artificial state of being, which was very far from real 
 happiness, and that there was a growing sense of 
 disappointment on the part of the husband. 
 
 He was not in the habit of standing upon much 
 ceremony in his intercourse with Gilbert Sinclair, 
 and on the first convenient occasion questioned him 
 with blunt directness upon the subject of his 
 marriage. 
 
 *I hope the alliance has brought you all the 
 happiness you anticipated,' he said. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, Jim,' Mr. Sinclair answered, rather 
 moodily, ' my wife suits me pretty well. We get on 
 very well together. She's a little too fond of playing 
 the woman of fashion ; but she'll get tired of that 
 in time, I dare say. I'm fond of society myseK, you
 
 102 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 know, couldn't lead a solitary life for any woman in 
 Christendom ; but I should like a wife who seemed 
 to care a little more for my company, and was not 
 always occupied with other people. I don't think 
 we have dined alone a dozen times since we were 
 married.' 
 
 It was within a few days of this conversation 
 that Mr. Wyatt gratified himself by the performance 
 of a little experiment which he had devised in the 
 comfortable retirement of his bachelor room at 
 Davenant. He had come into Mrs. Sinclair's 
 morning-room after breakfast to consult her upon 
 the details of an amateur dramatic performance that 
 was to take place shortly, and had, for a wonder, 
 found the husband and wife alone together. 
 
 ' Perhaps'we'd better discuss the business at some 
 other time,' he said. * I know Sinclair doesn't care 
 much about this sort of thing.' 
 
 'Is that your theatrical rubbish V asked Gilbert. 
 ' You'd better say what you've got to say about it. 
 You needn't mind me. I can absorb myself in the 
 study of Bell's Life for a quarter of an hour or so.' 
 
 He withdrew to one of the windows, and read his
 
 * GREEN-EYED JEALOUSY.' 103 
 
 newspaper, while James Wyatt showed Constance 
 the books of some farces that had just come to him 
 by post, and discussed the fitness of each for 
 drawing-room representation. 
 
 ' Every amateur in polite society believes himself 
 able to play Charles Mathews's business,' he said, 
 laughing. ' It is a fixed delusion of the human mind. 
 Of course we shall set thera all by the ears, do what 
 we may. Perhaps it would be better to let them 
 draw lots for the characters, or we might put the 
 light comedy parts up to auction, and send the 
 proceeds to the poor box.' 
 
 He ran on in this strain gaily enough, writing 
 lists of the characters and pieces, and putting down 
 the names of the guests with a rapid pen as he talked, 
 until Gilbert Sinclair threw down his newspaper and 
 came over to the fireplace, politely requesting his 
 friend to ' stop that row.' 
 
 It was a hopelessly wet morning, and the master 
 of Davenant was sorely at a loss for amusement and 
 occupation. He had come to his wife's room in 
 rather a defiant spirit, determined that she should 
 favour him with a little more of her societv than it
 
 104 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 was her habit to give him, and he had found her 
 writing letters, which she declared were imperative, 
 and had sat by the fire waiting for her correspondence 
 to be finished, in a very sulky mood. 
 
 ' What's the last news, Wyatt ? * he asked, poking 
 the fire savagely. 'Anything stirring in London?' 
 
 'Nothing — in London. There is some news of 
 an old friend of mine who's far away from London — 
 news I don't altogether like.' 
 
 * Some client who has bolted, in order to swindle 
 you out of a long bill of costs, I suppose,' answered 
 Gilbert, indifferently. 
 
 ' No, the friend I am talking of is a gentleman 
 we all know — the late owner of this place.' 
 ' Sir Cyprian Davenant V cried Gilbert. 
 Constance looked up from her writing. 
 
 * Sir Cyprian Davenant,' repeated James Wyatt. 
 ' Has anything happened to him V 
 
 ' About the last and worst thing that can happen 
 to any man, I fear,' answered the lawyer. * For some 
 time since there have been no reports of Captain 
 Harcourt's expedition ; and that, in a negative way^ 
 was about as bad as it could be. But in a letter I
 
 ♦GREEN-EYED JEALOUSY.' 105 
 
 received this morning, from a member of the 
 Geographical Society, there is worse news. My 
 friend tells me there is a very general belief that 
 Harcourt and his party have been made away with 
 by the natives. Of course this is only club gossip as 
 yet, and I trust that it may turn out a false alarm.' 
 
 Constance had dropped her pen, making a great 
 blot upon the page. She was very pale, and her 
 hands were clasped nervously upon the table before 
 her. Gilbert watched her with eager angry eyes. It 
 was just such an opportunity as he had wished for. 
 He wanted above all things to satisfy his doubts 
 about that man. 
 
 'I don't see that it much matters whether the 
 report is true or false,' he said, * as far as Davenant 
 is concerned. The fellow was a scamp, and only 
 left England because he had spent his last sixpence 
 in dissipation.' 
 
 ' * I beg your pardon, Sinclair,' remonstrated Mr. 
 Wyatt, ' the Davenant property was impoverished by 
 Cyprian's father and grandfather. I don't say that 
 he was not extravagant himself at one period of his 
 life, but he had reformed long before he left Eagland.'
 
 106 WEAVERS AND ^\TEFT. 
 
 ' Eeformed, yes, when he had no more money to 
 spend. That's a common kind of reform. However* 
 I suppose you've profited so much by his ruin that 
 you can afford to praise him.' 
 
 * Hadn't you better ring the bell ? ' asked James 
 Wyatt, quietly, ' I think Mrs. Sinclair has fainted.' 
 
 He was right, Constance Sinclair's head had 
 fallen back upon the cushion of her chair, and her 
 eyes were closed. Gilbert ran across to her, and 
 seized her hand. It was deadly cold. 
 
 * Yes,' he said, ' she has fainted. Sir Cyprian 
 was an old friend of hers. You know that better 
 than I do, though you have never chosen to tell me 
 the truth. And now, I suppose, you have trumped 
 up this story in order to let me see what a fool I 
 have been.' 
 
 ' It is not a trumped-up story,' returned the other. 
 * It is the common talk amongst men who know the 
 travellers and their line of country.' 
 
 * Then for your friend's sake it is to be hoped it's 
 true.' 
 
 ' Why so ? ' 
 
 ' Because if he has escaped those black fellows to
 
 ' GREEN-EYED JEALOUSY.' 107 
 
 come my way it will be so much the worse for both 
 of us ; for as sure as there is a sky above us, if he 
 and I meet I shall kill him/ 
 
 'Bah!' muttered Mr. Wyatt, contemptuously, 'we 
 don't live in the age for that sort of thing. Here 
 comes your wife's maid ; I'll get out of the way. 
 Pray apologize to !Mrs. Sinclair for my indiscretion 
 in forgetting that Sir Cyprian was a friend of her 
 family. It was only natural that she should be 
 affected by the news.' 
 
 The lawyer went away as the maid came into the 
 room. His face was brightened by a satisfied smile as 
 he walked slowly along the corridor leading to the 
 bniiard-room. 
 
 ' I think this fellow is made of the right kind of 
 stuff for an Othello,' he said to himself. * I've fired 
 the train. If the news I heard is true, and Davenant 
 is oti his way home, there'll be nice work by and 
 
 by.'
 
 CHAPTER VIIT. 
 
 * HAD YOU LOVED ME ONCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED 1 ' 
 
 Gilbert Sinclair said very little to his wife about 
 the fainting fit. She was herself perfectly candid 
 upon the subject. Sir Cyprian was an old friend — a 
 friend whom she had known and liked ever since her 
 childhood — and Mr. Wyatt's news had quite over- 
 come her. She did not seem to consider it necessary 
 to apolofTjize for her emotion. 
 
 ' I have been over-exerting myself a little lately, 
 or I should scarcely have fainted, however sorry I 
 felt,' she said quietly, and Gilbert wondered at her 
 seK-possession, but was not the less convinced that 
 she had loved — that she did still love— Cyprian 
 Davenant. He watched herclosely after this to see if 
 he could detect any signs of hidden grief, but her man- 
 ner in society had lost none of its brightness ; and 
 when the Harcourt expedition was next spoken of she 
 bore her part in the conversation with perfect ease.
 
 'HAD YOU LOVED ME ONCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED ! ' 109 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair left Davenant early in ^lay 
 for a charming house in Park Lane, furnished through- 
 out with delicate tints of white and green, like a daisy- 
 sprinkled meadow in early spring, a style in which 
 the upholsterer had allowed full scope to the poetry 
 of his own nature, bearing in mind that the house 
 was to be occupied by a newly married couple. Mrs. 
 Sinclair declared herself perfectly satisfied with the 
 house, and Mrs. Sinclair's friends were in raptures 
 with it. She instituted a Thursday evening supper 
 after the opera, which was an immense success, and 
 enjoyed a popularity in her new position of matron 
 that excited some envy on the part of unmarried 
 beauties. Mrs. Walsingham heard of the Thursday 
 evening parties, and saw her beautiful rival very often 
 at the opera ; but she heard from James Wyatt that 
 Gilbert Sinclair spent a great deal of time at his 
 club, and made a point of attending all the race 
 meetings, habits that did not augur very well for his 
 domestic happiness. 
 
 * He will grow tired of her, as he did of me,' 
 thought Clara Walsingham. 
 
 But Gilbert was in no way weary of his wife. He
 
 llO WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 loved her as passionately as he had loved her at the 
 first ; with an exacting and selfish passion, it is true, 
 but with all the intensity of which his nature was 
 capable. If he had lived in the good old feudal days, 
 when a man could do what he liked with his wife, he 
 would have shut her up in some lonely turret, where 
 no one but himself could approach her. He knew 
 that she did not love him; and with his own affection 
 for her there was always mingled an angry sense of 
 her coldness and ingratitude. 
 
 The London season came to an end once more, 
 and Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair went back to Davenant. 
 Nothing had been heard of Sir Cyprian or his com- 
 panions throughout the summer, and Gilbert had 
 ceased to trouble himself about his absent rival. The 
 man was dead, in all probability, and it was some- 
 thing more than folly to waste a thought upon him. 
 So things went on quietly enough, until the early 
 spring gave a baby daughter to t?ie master of Dave- 
 nant, much to his disappointment, as he ardently 
 desired a son and heir. 
 
 The birth of this infant brought a new sense of 
 joy to the mind of Constance Sinclair. She had not
 
 'had you loved me once as you have not loved ! ' 11 i 
 
 thought it possible that the child could give her so 
 much happiness. She devoted herself to her baby 
 with a tenderness which was at first very pleasing 
 to her husband, but which became by and by 
 distasteful to him. He grew jealous of the child's 
 power to evoke so much affection from one who had 
 never given him the love he longed for. The exist- 
 ence of his daughter seemed to bring him no nearer 
 to his wife. The time and attention which she had 
 given to society she now gave to her child ; but her 
 husband was no more to her than he had ever been, — 
 a little less perhaps, as he told himself angrily, in 
 the course of his gloomy meditations. 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham read the announcement of the 
 infant's birth, in extreme bitterness of spirit, and 
 when James Wyatt next called upon her she asked 
 him what had become of his promise that those two 
 should be parted by his agency. 
 
 The lawyer shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. 
 * I did not tell you that the parting should take place 
 within any given time,' he said, ' but it shall go hard 
 with me if I do not keep my promise sooner or later. 
 
 He had hot been idle. The wicked work which
 
 112 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 he had set himself to do had progressed considerably. 
 It was he who always contrived, in a subtle manner, 
 to remind Gilbert Sinclair of his wife's coldness 
 towards her husband, and to hint at her affection for 
 another, while seeming to praise and defend her. 
 Throughout their acquaintance his wealthy client had 
 treated him with a selfish indifference and a cool 
 unconscious insolence that had galled him to the 
 quick, and he took a malicious pleasure in the discom- 
 fiture which Sinclair had brought upon himself by 
 his marriage. When the Sinclairs returned to 
 London, some months after the birth of the child, 
 James Wyatt contrived to make himself more than 
 ever necessary to Gilbert, who had taken to play 
 higher than of old, and who now spent four evenings 
 out of the six lawful days at a notorious whist 
 club, sitting at the card-table till the morning 
 sun shone through the chinks in the shutters. Mr. 
 Wyatt was a member of the same club, but too 
 cautious a player for the set which Gilbert now 
 affected. 
 
 ' That fellow is going to the bad in every way,' 
 the lawyer said to himself. ' If Clara Walsingham
 
 'HAD YOU LOVED ME ONCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED ! ' 1 13 
 
 wants to see Mm mined she is likely to have her wish 
 without any direct interference of mine/ 
 
 The state of affairs in Park Lane was indeed far 
 from satisfactory. Gilbert had grown tired of playing 
 the indulgent husband, and the inherent brutality of 
 his nature had on more than one occasion displayed 
 itself in angry disputes with his wife, whose will he 
 now seemed to take a pleasure in thwarting, even in 
 trifles. He complained of her present extravagance, 
 with insolent reference to the poverty of her girlhood, 
 and asked savagely if she thought his fortune could 
 stand for ever against her expensive follies. 
 
 ' I don't think my follies are so likely to exhaust 
 your income as your increasing taste for horse-racing, 
 Gilbert,' she answered, cooUy. ' What is to be the 
 cost of these racing stables you are building near 
 Newmarket ? I heard you, and that dreadful man 
 your trainer, talking of the tan gaUop the other da y 
 and it seemed to me altogether rather an expensive 
 affair, especially as your horses have such a knack of 
 getting beaten. It is most gentlemanlike of you to 
 remind me of my poverty. Yes, I was very poor in 
 my girlhood, — and very happy.' 
 
 VOL. L I
 
 114 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 * And since you've married me you've been miser- 
 able. Pleasant, upon my soul ! You'd have married 
 that fellow Cyprian Davenant'and lived in a ten-roomed 
 house in the suburbs, with a maid of all work to wait 
 upon you, and called that happiness, I suppose ? ' 
 
 * If I had married Sir Cyprian Davenant I should 
 at least have been the wife of a gentleman,' replied 
 Constance. 
 
 This was not the first time that Gilbert had men- 
 tioned Cyprian Davenant of late. A report of the 
 missing travellers had appeared in one of the news- 
 papers, and their friends began to hope for their safe 
 return. Gilbert Sinclair brooded over this probable 
 return in a savage frame of mind, but did not com- 
 municate his thoughts on the subject to his usual 
 confidant, Mr. Wyatt, who thereupon opined that 
 those thoughts were more than ordinarily bitter. 
 
 Before the London season was over Mr. Sinclair 
 had occasion to attend a rather insifrnificant meetincr 
 in Yorksliire where a two-year-old filly, from which 
 he expected great things in the future, was to try her 
 strength in a handicap race. He came home by way 
 of Newmarket, where he spent a few days pleasantly
 
 ' HAD YOU LOVED ME OXCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED ! '115 
 
 enough in tlie supervision of his new buildings, and 
 he had been absent altogether a week when he 
 returned to Park Lane. 
 
 It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when 
 he drove u^) to his own house in a hansom. He 
 found his wife in the drawing-room, occupied with 
 several visitors, amongst whom appeared a tall figure 
 which he remembered only too well. It was Sir 
 Cyprian Davenant, bronzed with travel, and looking 
 handsomer than when he left London. 
 
 G-ilbert stood at gaze for a moment, confounded 
 by the surprise, and then went through the ceremony 
 of handshaking with his wife's guests in a somewhat 
 embarrassed manner. 
 
 Constance received him with her usual cool 
 politeness, and he felt himself altogether at a disad- 
 vantage in the presence of the man he feared and 
 hated. He seated himself, however, determined to 
 see the end of this obnoxious visit, and remained 
 moodily silent until the caUers had dropped off one 
 by one, Sir Cyprian among the earliest departures. 
 
 Gilbert turned savagely upon his wife directly 
 the room was clear.
 
 116 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 'So your old favourite has lost no time in re- 
 newing his intimacy with you,' he said. 'I came 
 home at rather an awkward moment, I fancy.* 
 
 ' I did not perceive any particular awkwardness 
 in your return/ his wife answered, coolly, 'unless it 
 was your own manner to my friends, which was a 
 little calculated to give them the idea that you 
 scarcely felt at home in your own house.' 
 
 ' There was some one here who seemed a little 
 too much at home, Mrs. Sinclair ; some one who will 
 find my presence a good deal more awkward if I 
 should happen to find him here again. In plain 
 words, I forbid you to receive Sir Cyprian Davenant 
 in my house.' 
 
 ' I can no more close my doors upon Sir Cyprian 
 Davenant than on any other visitor,' replied Con- 
 stance, ' and I do not choose to insult an old friend 
 of my family for the gratification of your senseless 
 jealousy.' 
 
 * Then you mean to defy me ? ' 
 
 ' There is no question of defiance. I shall do 
 what I consider right, without reference to this 
 absurd fancy of yours. Sir Cyprian is not very likely
 
 HAD YOU LOVED ME ONCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED ! ' 117 
 
 to call upon me again, unless you cultivate his 
 acquaintance.' 
 
 ' I am not very likely to do that,' Gilbert answered, 
 savagely. His wife's tranquillity baffled him, and 
 he could find nothing more to say for himself. 
 But this jealousy of Sir Cyprian was in no manner 
 abated by Constance's self-possession. He remem- 
 bered the fainting fit in the morning-room at Da- 
 venant, and he was determined to find some means of 
 punishing her for her secret preference for this man. 
 An ugly notion flashed across his mind by and by as 
 he saw her with her child lying in her lap, bending 
 over the infant with a look of supreme affection. 
 
 ' She can find love for everything in the world 
 except me,' he said to himself, bitterly. He had 
 ceased to care for the child after the first month or 
 so of its existence, being inclined to resent its sex as 
 a personal injury, and feeling aggrieved by his wife's 
 devotion to the infant, which seemed to make her 
 indifference to himseK all the more obvious. 
 
 He left the house when Constance went out for 
 her daily drive in the park, and strolled in the same 
 direction, caring very little where he went upon this
 
 118 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 particular afternoon. The Ladies' Mile was thronged 
 with carriages, and there was a block at the Corner 
 when Gilbert took his place listlessly among the loun- 
 gers who were lolling over the rails. He nodded to the 
 men he knew, and answered briefly enough to some 
 friendly inquiries about his luck in Yorkshire. 
 
 ' The filly ran well enough,' he said, ' but I doubt 
 if she's got stay enough for the Chester.' 
 
 * Oh, of course you want to keep her dark, Sin- 
 clair. I heard she was a flyer, though.' 
 
 Mr. Sinclair did not pursue the conversation. 
 The carriages moved on for a few paces, at the insti- 
 gation of a mounted policeman, and then stopped 
 again, leaving a perfectly appointed miniature 
 brougham exactly in front of Gilbert Sinclair. The 
 occupant of the brougham was Mrs. Walsingham. 
 The stoppage brought her so close to Gilbert that 
 it was impossible to avoid some kind of greeting. 
 The widow's face paled as she recognised Gilbert* 
 and then with a sudden impulse she held out her 
 hand. It was the first time they had met since that 
 unpleasant interview in Half-moon Street. The 
 opportunity was very gratifying to Mrs. Walsingham.
 
 * HAD YOU LOVED ME ONCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED ! ' 119 
 
 She had most ardently desired to see how Gilbert 
 supported his new position, to see for herself how far 
 Mr. TVyatt's account of him might be credited. She 
 put on the propitiatory manner of a woman who has 
 forgiven aU past wrongs. 
 
 ' ^Miy do YOU never come to see me ? ' she asked. 
 
 * I scarcely thought you would care to receive 
 me, after what you said when we last met/ he re- 
 plied, rather embarrassed by her easy way of treating 
 the situation. 
 
 ' Let that be forgotten. It is not fair to re- 
 member what a woman says when she is in a 
 passion. I tliink you expressed a wish that we 
 might be friends after your marriage, and I was too 
 angry to accept that proof of your regard as I should 
 have done. I have grown wiser with the passage 
 of time ; and, believe me, I am still your friend.' 
 
 There was a softness in her tone which flattered 
 and touched Gilbert Sinclair. It contrasted so 
 sharply with the cool contempt he had of late suf- 
 fered at the hands of his wife. He remembered how 
 this woman had loved him; and he asj^ed himself 
 what good he had gained by his marriage with
 
 120 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 Constance Clanyarde; except the empty triumph of 
 an alliance with a family of superior rank to his 
 own, and the vain delight of marrying an acknow- 
 ledged beauty. 
 
 Before Mrs. Walsingham's brougham had moved 
 on he had promised to look in upon her that even- 
 ing, and at ten o'clock he was seated in the familiar 
 drawing-room, telling her his domestic wrongs, and 
 freely confessing that his marriage had been a failure. 
 Little by little she beguiled him into telling her 
 these things, and played her part of adviser and 
 consoler with exquisite tact, not once allowing him 
 to perceive the pleasure his confession afforded her. 
 He spoke of his child without the faintest expression 
 of affection, and laughed bitterly as he described his 
 wife's devotion to her infant. 
 
 * I thought as a woman of fashion she would 
 have given herself very little trouble about the^ 
 baby,' he said, 'but she contrives to find time 
 for maternal raptures in spite of her fashionable 
 friends. I have told her that she is killing her- 
 self, and yie doctors tell her pretty much the 
 same ; but she will have her own way.'
 
 ' HAD YOU LOTED ME ONCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED !' 121 
 
 * She would suffer frightfully if the child were 
 to die/ said Mrs. Walsingham. 
 
 * Suffer! Yes, I was thinking of that this 
 afternoon when she was engaged in her baby- 
 worship. She would take my death coolly enough, 
 I have no doubt, but I believe the loss of that 
 child would kill her/ 
 
 Long after Gilbert Sinclair had left her that night 
 Clara Walsingham sat brooding over all that he 
 had told her upon the subject of his domestic life. 
 
 'And so he has found out what it is to have 
 a wife -who does not care for him,' she said to 
 herself * He has gratified his fancy for a lovely 
 face, and is paying a heavy price for his 
 conquest. And I am to leave all my hopes 
 of revenge to James Wyatt, and am to reward 
 his services by marrying him ? No, no, Mr. 
 Wyatt ! It was all very weU to promise that in the 
 day of my despair. I see my way to something 
 better than that now. The loss of her child would 
 kill her, would it? And her death would bring 
 Gilbert back to me, I think. His loveless marriage 
 has taught him the value of a woman's affection.'
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF SOERO^V. 
 
 Sir Cyprian did not again call at the house in 
 Park Lane. He had heard of Constance Clan- 
 yarde's marriage during his African travels, and 
 had come back to England resolved to avoid 
 her as far as it was possible for him to do so. 
 Time and absence had done little to lessen his 
 love, but he resigned himself to her marriage 
 with another as an inevitable fact, only regret- 
 ting she had married a man of whom he had 
 by no means an exalted opinion. James "Wyatt 
 was one of the first persons he visited on his 
 arrival in London, and from him he heard a very 
 unsatisfactory account of the marriage. It was 
 this that had induced him to break through his 
 resolution and call in Park Lane. He wanted 
 to see for himself whether Constance was un- 
 happy. He saw little, however, to enlighten him
 
 THE BEGINNING OF SOEEOW. 123 
 
 on this point. He found the girl he had so 
 fondly loved transformed into a perfect woman of 
 the world ; and he could draw no inference from 
 her careless gaiety of manner, except that James 
 Wyatt had said more than was justified by the 
 circumstances of the case. 
 
 Instead of returnins: to Davenant for the 
 autumn months, Mr. Sinclair chose this year to 
 go to Germany; an extraordinary sacrifice of 
 inclination one might suppose, as his chief delight 
 was to be found at English race meetings, and 
 in the supervision of his stable at Xewmarket. 
 
 Mrs. Sinclair's doctor had recommended change 
 of some kind as a cure for a certain lowness of 
 tone, and general derangement of the nervous 
 system under which his patient laboured. The 
 medical man suggested Harrogate or Buxton — 
 or some Welsh water-drinking place, — but when 
 Gilbert proposed Schonesthal, in the Black Forest, 
 he caught at the idea. 
 
 'Nothing could be better for ]\Irs. Smclair and 
 the baby,' he said, ' and you'll be near Baden- 
 Baden if you want gaiety.'
 
 124 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' I don't care about brass bands and a lot 
 of people/ answered Gilbert. ' I can shoot caper- 
 cailzies. I shall get on well enough for a month 
 or so.' 
 
 Constance had no objection to offer to this 
 plan. She cared very little where her life was 
 spent, so long as she had her child with her. 
 A charming villa had been found, half hidden 
 among pine trees, and here Mr. Sinclair estab- 
 lished his Avife, with a mixed household of 
 English and foreign servants. She was very 
 glad to be so completely withdrawn from the 
 obligations of society, and to be able to devote 
 herself almost entirely to the little girl, who was 
 of course a paragon of infantine grace and intel- 
 ligence in the eyes of mother and nurse. The 
 nurse was a young woman belonging to the village 
 near Marchbrook, one of the pupils of the 
 Sunday school, whom Constance had known from 
 girlhood. The nursemaid who shared her duties 
 n London had not been brought to Schonesthal, 
 but in her place Mrs. Sinclair engaged a French 
 girl, with sharp dark eyes, and a very intelli-
 
 THE BEGINNING OF SORROT\'. 125 
 
 gent manner. ^lartha Briggs, the nurse, was 
 rather more renowned for honesty and good 
 temper than for intellectual qualifications, and 
 she seemed unusually slow and stolid in com- 
 parison with the vivacious French girl. This 
 girl had come to Baden with a Parisian family, 
 and had been dismissed with an excellent cha- 
 racter upon the family's departure for Vienna 
 with a reduced staff. Her name was Melanie 
 Duport, and she contrived very rapidly to ingra- 
 tiate herself with her mistress, as she had done 
 with the good priest of the little church she 
 had attended during her residence at Baden, who 
 was delighted with her artless fervour and un- 
 varying piety. Poor Martha Briggs was rather 
 inclined to be jealous of this new rival in her 
 mistress's favour, and derived considerable comfort 
 from the fact that the baby did not take kindly 
 to Melanie. 
 
 If the baby preferred her English nurse to 
 Melanie, the little French girl, for her part, seemed 
 passionately devoted to the baby. She was always 
 eager to carry the child when the two nurses were
 
 126 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 out together, and resented Martha's determination to 
 deprive her of this pleasure. One day when the 
 two were disputing together upon this subject, 
 Martha bawling, at the French girl, under the popular 
 delusion that she would make herself understood if 
 she only talked loud enough, Melanie repeating her 
 few words of broken English with many emphatic 
 shrugs and frowns and nods, a lady who was 
 strolling along the forest path, while her carriage 
 waited for her at a little distance, stopped to listen 
 to them, and to admire the baby. She spoke in 
 French to Melanie, and did not address Martha at 
 all, much to that young person's indignation. She 
 asked Melanie to whom the child belonged, and how 
 long she had been with it, and whether she was 
 accustomed to nursing children, adding, with a smile* 
 that she looked rather too ladylike for a nurse- 
 maid. 
 
 Melanie was quite subdued by this compliment. 
 She told the lady that this was the first time she had 
 been nursemaid. She had been lady's-maid in her 
 last situation, and had preferred the place very much 
 to her present position. She told this strange lady
 
 THE BEGINNING OF SORROW. 127 
 
 nothing about that rapturous affection for the baby 
 which she was in the habit of expressing in Mrs. 
 Sinclair's presence. She only told her how un- 
 comfortable she had been made by the English 
 nurse's jealousy. 
 
 * I am staying at the Hotel du Koi,' said the lady, 
 after talking to Melanie for some little time, * and 
 should like to see you if you can find time to call 
 upon me some evening. I might be able to be of 
 some use .to you in finding a new situation when 
 your present mistress leaves the neighbourhood.' 
 
 Melanie curtseyed, and replied that she would 
 make a point of waiting upon the lady, and then the 
 two nurses moved on with their little charge. 
 Martha asked Melanie what the foreign lady had 
 been saying, and the French girl replied carelessly 
 that she had only been praising the baby. 
 
 'And well she may,' answered Miss Briggs, rather 
 snappishly, 'for she's the sweetest child that ever 
 lived ; but for my own part I don t like foreigners, or 
 any of their nasty deceitful ways.' 
 
 This rather invidious remark was lost upon 
 Mademoiselle Duport, who only understood a few
 
 128 WEAVERS AND WELT. 
 
 words of English, and who cared very little for her 
 fellow-servant's opinion upon any subject. 
 
 In spite of Gilbert Sinclair's protestation of 
 indifference to the attractions of brass bands and 
 crowded assemblies, he contrived to spend the 
 greater part of his time at Baden, where the Goddess 
 of Chance was still being worshipped in the brilliant 
 Kursaal, while his wife was left to drink her fill of 
 forest beauty, and that distant glory of inaccessible 
 hills which the sun dyed rosy-red in the quiet even- 
 tide. 
 
 In these tranquil days, while her husband was 
 waiting for the turn of Fortune's wheel in the 
 golden salon, or yawning over " Galignani " in the 
 reading-room, Constance's life came far nearer 
 happiness than she had ever dared to hope it could 
 come, after her perjury at God's altar two years ago. 
 Many a time, while she was leading her butterfly 
 life in the flower-garden of fashion, making dissipa- 
 tion stand for pleasure, she had told herself, in some 
 gloomy hour of reaction, that no good ever could 
 come of her marriage ; that there was a curse upon
 
 THK BEGINNING OF SORROW. 129 
 
 it, a righteous God's anathema against falsehood. 
 And then her baby had come, and she had shed her 
 first happy tears over the sweet small face, the blue 
 eyes looking up at her full of vague wonder, and 
 she had thanked Heaven for this new bliss, and 
 believed her sin forgiven. After that time Gilbert 
 had changed for the worse, and there had been 
 many a polite passage-at-arms between husband and 
 wife, and these encounters, however courteously 
 performed, are apt to leave ugly scars. 
 
 But now, far away from all her frivolous 
 acquaintance, free from the all-engrossing duties of a 
 fine lady's existence, she put all evil thoughts out of 
 her mind, Gilbert amongst them, and abandoned 
 herself wholly to the delight of the pine forest and 
 baby. She was very gracious to Gilbert, when' he 
 chose to spend an hour or two at home, or to 
 drive with her in the pretty little pony-carriage 
 in which she made most of her explorations, but she 
 made no complaint about his long absences, she 
 expressed no curiosity as to the manner in which he 
 amused himself, or the company he kept at Baden- 
 Baden ; and though that centre of gaiety was only 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 WKAVKKS AND WEFT. 
 
 four miles off, she never expressed a wish to share 
 in its amusements. 
 
 Gilbert was not an agreeable companion at this 
 time. That deep and suppressed resentment against 
 his wife, like rancorous lago's jealousy, did * gnaw 
 him inwards ; ' and although his old passionate love 
 still remained, it was curiously interwoven with 
 hatred. 
 
 Once when husband and wife were seated opposite 
 each other in the September twilight after one of 
 their rare tete-a-tete dinners, Constance looked up sud- 
 denly andcaught Gilbert's brooding eyes fixed upon 
 her face with an expression which made her shiver. 
 
 * If you look at me like that, Gilbert,' she said, 
 with a nervous laugh, * I shall be afraid to drink 
 this glass of Chambertin you've just poured out 
 for me. There might be poison in it. I hope I 
 have done nothing to deserve such an angry look. 
 Othello must have looked something like that, I 
 should think, when he asked Desdemona for the 
 strawberry-spotted handkerchief. ' 
 
 ' Why did you marry me, Constance ? ' asked 
 Sinclair, ignoring his wife's speech.
 
 THE BEGINNING OF SORROW. 131 
 
 There was something almost piteous in this 
 question, wrung from a man who loved honestly, 
 according to his lights, and whose love was turned 
 to rancour by the knowledge that it had won no 
 return. 
 
 *What a question after two years of married 
 life ! Why did I marry you ? Because you wished 
 me to marry you, and because I believed you would 
 make me a good husband, Gilbert, and because I 
 had firmly resolved to make you a good wife.' 
 
 She said this earnestly, looking at him through 
 her tears. Since her own life had become so much 
 happier, since her baby's caresses had awakened all 
 the dormant tenderness of her nature, she had felt 
 more anxious to be on good terms with her husband. 
 She would have taken much trouble — made some 
 sacrifice of womanly pride — to win him back to that 
 amiable state of mind she remembered in their 
 honeymoon. 
 
 'I've promised to meet Wyatt at the Kursaal 
 this evening,' said Sinclair, looking at his watch as 
 he rose from the table, and without the slightest 
 notice of his wife's reply.
 
 l:V2 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 'Is J\Ir. Wyatt at Baden?' 
 
 ' Yes, he has come over for a little amusement at 
 the tables — deuced lucky dog — always contrives to 
 leave off a winner. One of those cool-headed fellows 
 who know the turn of the tide. You've no objec- 
 tion to his being there, I suppose ? ' 
 
 * I wish you and he were not such fast friends, 
 Gilbert. Mr. Wyatt is no favourite of mine.' 
 
 'Isn't he? Too much of the watch-dog about 
 him, I suppose. As for fast friends, there's not 
 much friendship between Wyatt and me. He's a 
 useful fellow to have about one, that's all. He has 
 served me faithfully, and has got well paid for his 
 services. It's a matter of pounds, shillings, and 
 pence on his side, and a matter of convenience on 
 mine. No doubt Wyatt knows that as well as 
 I do.' 
 
 * Don't you think friendship on such a basis 
 may be rather an insecure bond ? ' said Constance, 
 gravely, * and that a man who can consent to pro- 
 fess friendship upon such degrading terms is likely 
 to be half an enemy.' 
 
 'Ob, I don't go in for such high-flown ethics.
 
 THE BEGINNING OF SORROW. 133 
 
 Jim Wyatt knows that it's his interest to serve me 
 well, and that it's as much as his life is worth to 
 play me false. Jim and I understand one another 
 perfectly, Constance, you may be sure.' 
 
 ' I am sure that he understands you,' answered 
 Constance. 
 
 But Gilbert was gone before she had finished 
 her sentence. 
 
 Baby, christened Christabel after the late Lady 
 Clanyarde, was nearly a twelvemonth old, and had 
 arrived, in the opinion of mother and nurse, at the 
 most interesting epoch of babyhood. Her tender 
 cooings, her joyous chucklings, her pretty cluck- 
 clucking noises, as of anxious maternal hens calling 
 their offspring, her inarticulate language of broken 
 syllables, which only maternal love could interpret, 
 made an inexhaustible fountain of delight. She was 
 the blithest and happiest of babies, and every object 
 in creation with which she became newly acquainted 
 was a source of rapture to her. The flowers, 
 the birds, the insect life of that balmy pine 
 forest filled her with delight. The soft blue eyes 
 sparkled with pleasure, the rosebud lips babbled
 
 134 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 her wordless wonder, the little feet danced w4th 
 ecstasy. 
 
 ^ Oh,' cried the delighted mother, ' if she could 
 always be just like this, my plaything and my 
 darling ! Of course I shall love her just as dearly 
 when she is older — a long-armed lanky girl, in a 
 brown hoUand pinafore, always inking her fingers 
 and getting into trouble about her lessons — like my 
 sisters and me when we w^ere in the schoolroom ; 
 but she can never be so pretty or so sw^eet again, 
 can she, Martha ? * 
 
 'Lor, 'mum, she'll always be a love,' replied 
 the devoted nurse ; * and as for her arms being long 
 and her fingers inky, you won't love her a bit less 
 — and I'm sure I hope she won't be worried with 
 too many lessons, for I do think great folks' 
 children are to be pitied, half their time cooped up 
 in school-rooms, or stretched out on back-boards, or 
 strumming on the piano, while poor children are 
 running wild in the fields.' 
 
 ' Oh, Martha, how shocking !' cried Mrs. Sinclair, pre- 
 tending to be horrified, 'to think that one of my favour- 
 ite pupils should underrate the value of education ! '
 
 THE BEGINNING UF SORROW. 135 
 
 ' Oh , no, indeed, ma'am, I have no such thought. 
 I have often felt what a blessing it is to be able 
 to read a good book and write a decent letter. But 
 I never can think that Kfe was meant to be all 
 education.' 
 
 ' Life is all education, Martha,' answered her 
 mistress, with a sigh, 'but not the education of 
 grammars and dictionaries. The World is our 
 school, and Time our schoolmaster. No, Martha, my 
 Christabel shall not be harassed with too much 
 learning. We won't try to make her a paragon. 
 Her life shall be all happiness and freedom, and 
 she shall grow up without the knowledge of care 
 or evil, except the sorrows of others, and those 
 she shall heal ; and. she shall marry the man she 
 loves, whether he is rich or poor, for I am sure 
 my sweet one would never love a bad man.' 
 
 'I don't say that, ma'am,' remarked Martha, 
 'looks are so deceiving. I'm sure, there was my 
 own cousin, on the father's side, Susan Tadgers, 
 married the handsomest young man in Marchbrook 
 village, and before they'd been two years married 
 he took to drinking, and was so neglectful of him-
 
 13G WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 self, you wouldn't have kDown him ; and now she's 
 gone back to her friends, and his whiskers, that 
 he used to take such a pride in, are rusty-brown 
 and shaggy, like a stray Scotch terrier.' 
 
 Thi'ee days after that somewhat unpleasant tete- 
 a-tete between husband and wife Gilbert Sinclair 
 announced his intention of going back to England 
 for the Leger. 
 
 * I never have missed a Leger,' he said, as if 
 attendance at that race were a pious duty, like 
 the Commination service on Ash Wednesday, * and 
 I shouldn't like to miss this race.' 
 
 ' Hadn't we better go home at once then, 
 Gilbert ? I am quite ready to return.' 
 
 * Xonsense ! I've taken this place till the 20th 
 of October, and shall have to pay pretty stiffly for 
 it. I shall come back directly after the Doncaster.' 
 
 ' But it will be a fatiguing journey for you.' 
 'I'd just as soon be sitting in a railway train 
 
 as anywhere else.' 
 
 'Does Mr. Wyatt go back with you?' 
 
 'Xo, Wyatt stays at Baden for the next week 
 
 or zo. He pretends to be here for the sake of
 
 THE BEGI^NIKG OF SORROW. 137 
 
 the waters, goes very little to the Kursaal, and 
 lives quietly, like a careful old bachelor who wishes 
 to mend a damaged constitution : but 1 should 
 rather think he had some deeper game than water- 
 drinking.' 
 
 Gilbert departed, and Constance was alone with 
 her child. The weather was delightful, cloudless 
 skies, balmy days : blissful weather for the grape- 
 gatherers on the vine- clad slopes that sheltered 
 one side of this quaint old village of Schones- 
 thal. A river wound through the valley, a deep 
 and rapid stream narrowing in this cleft of the 
 hUls, and utilized by some saw-mills in the out- 
 skirts of the village, whence at certain seasons 
 rafts of timber were floated down the Khine. 
 
 A romantic road following the course of this 
 river was one of Mrs. Sinclair's favourite drives. 
 There were picturesque old villages and mediaeval 
 ruins to be explored, and many lovely spots to 
 be shown to baby, who, although inarticulate, was 
 supposed to be appreciative. 
 
 Upon the first day of Gilbert's absence ^Martha 
 Briggs came home from her afternoon promenade
 
 138 WKAVEUS AND WEIT. 
 
 looking flushed and tired, and complaining of sore 
 throat. Constance was quick to take alarm. The 
 poor girl was going to have a fever, perhaps, and 
 must instantly be separated from baby. There was 
 no medical man nearer than Baden, so Mrs. Sin- 
 clair sent the cjroom off at once to that town. 
 She told him to inquire for the best English 
 doctor in the place, or if there were no English 
 practitioner at Baden, for the best German doctor. 
 The moment she had given these directions, how- 
 ever, it struck her that the man, who was not 
 remarkable for intelligence out of his stable, was 
 likely to lose time in making his inquiries, and 
 perhaps get misdirected at last. 
 
 'Mr. Wyatt is at Baden,' she thought. 'I 
 dare say he would act kindly in such an extremity 
 as this, though I have no opinion of his sincerity 
 in a general way. Stop, Dawson,' she said to the 
 groom, 'I'll give you a note for Mr. Wyatt, who 
 is staying at the Badenscher Hof. He will direct 
 you to the doctor. You'll drive to Baden in the 
 pony carriage, and if possible bring the doctor 
 back with you.
 
 THE BEGINNING OF SOEEOW. 139 
 
 Baby was transferred to the care of Melanie 
 Duport, who seemed full of sympathy and kindli- 
 ness for her fellow- servant, a sympathy which 
 Martha Briggs' surly British temper disdained. 
 Mrs. Sinclair had Martha's bed moved from the 
 nursery into her own dressing-room, where she 
 would be able herself to take care of the invalid. 
 Melanie was ordered to keep strictly to her nurseries, 
 and on no account to enter Martha's room. 
 
 ' But if Martha has a fever, and Madame 
 nurses her, this little angel may catch the fever 
 from Madame,' suggested Melanie. 
 
 'If Martha's illness is contagious I shall not 
 nurse her,' answered Constance. 'I can get a 
 nursing sister from (me of the convents. But I 
 like to have the poor girl near me, that, at the 
 worst, she may know she is not deserted.' 
 
 'Ah, but Madame is too good! What happi- 
 ness to serve so kind a mistress ! ' 
 
 Mr. Wyatt showed himself most benevolently 
 anxious to be useful on receipt of Mrs. Sinclair's 
 note. He made all necessary inquiries at the office 
 of the hotel, and having found out the name of
 
 140 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 the best doctor in Baden, took the trouble to 
 accompany the groom to the medical man's house, 
 and waited until Mr. Paulton, the English sur- 
 geon, was seated in the pony carriage. 
 
 * I shall be anxious to know if Mrs. Sinclair's 
 nurse is seriously ill,' said Mr. Wyatt while the 
 groom was taking his seat. 'I shall take the 
 liberty to call at your surgery and inquire in the 
 course of the evening.' 
 
 ' Delighted to give you any information,' replied 
 Mr. Paulton, graciously ; ' I'll send you a line if 
 you like. Where are you staying ? ' 
 
 *At the Badenscher.' 
 
 'You shall know how the young woman is 
 directly I get back.' 
 
 'A thousand thanks.'
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 THE CRUEL EIVER. 
 
 Mrs. Sinclair's precautions had been in no wise 
 futile. Mr. Paulton pronounced that Martha's 
 symptoms pointed only too plainly to scarlet fever. 
 There could not be too much care taken to guard 
 against contagion. The villa was aiiy and spacious, 
 and Mrs. Sinclair's dressing-room at some distance 
 from the nursery. There would be no necessity, 
 therefore, Mr. Paulton said, for the removal of the 
 child to another house. He would send a nursing 
 sister from Baden — an experienced woman — to 
 whose care the sick room might be safely confided. 
 
 The sister came — a middle-aged woman — in the 
 sombre garb of her order, but with a pleasant, 
 cheerful face, that well became her snow-white 
 head-gear. She showed herself kind and dexterous 
 in nursing the sick girl, but before she had been 
 three days in the house ^Martha, who was now in a
 
 142 ^VE AVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 raging fever, took a dislike to the nurse, and raved 
 wildly about this black-robed figure at her bedside. 
 In vain did the sister endeavour to reassure her- 
 To the girl's wandering wits that foreign tongue 
 seemed like the gibberish of some unholy goblin. 
 She shrieked for help, and Mrs. Sinclair ran in trom 
 the adjoining room to see what was amiss. IMartha 
 was calmed and comforted immediately by the sight 
 of her mistress ; and from that time Constance 
 devoted herself to the sick room, and shared the 
 nurse's watch. 
 
 This meant separation from Christabel, and that 
 was a hard trial for the mother who had never yet 
 lived a day apart from her child ; but Constance 
 bore this bravely for the sake of the faithful girl — 
 too thankful that her darling had escaped the fever 
 which had so strangely stricken the nurse. Tlie 
 weather continued glorious, and baby seemed quite 
 happy with Melanie, who roamed about with her 
 charge all day, or went for long drives in the pony 
 carriage under the care of the faithful Dawson, who 
 was a pattern of sobriety and steadiness, and 
 incapable of flirtation.
 
 THE CRUEL KITER. 143 
 
 Mr. Wyatt rode over from Baden every other day 
 to inquire about the nurse's progress— an inquiry 
 which he might just as easily have made of the 
 doctor in Baden, — and this exhibition of good 
 feeling on his part induced Constance to think 
 that she had been mistaken in her estimate of his 
 character. 
 
 ' The Gospel says "judge not," ' she thought, ' and 
 yet we are always sitting in judgment upon one 
 another. Perhaps, after all, Mr. Wyatt is as kind- 
 hearted as his admirers think him, and I have done 
 wrong in being prejudiced against him. He was 
 Cyprian's friend, too, and always speaks of him with 
 particular affection.' 
 
 Constance remembered that scene in the morning- 
 room at Davenant. It was one of those unpleasant 
 memories which do not grow fainter with the 
 passage of years. She had been inclined to suspect 
 James Wyatt of a malicious intention in his sudden 
 announcement of Sir Cyprian's death — the wish to 
 let her husband see how strong a hold her first love 
 still had upon her heart. He, who had been Cyprian 
 Davenant's friend and confidant, was likely to have
 
 HI WEAVERS AND AVEFT. 
 
 known something of that early attachment, or at least 
 to have formed a shrewd guess at the truth. 
 
 * Perhaps I have suspected him wrongly in that 
 affair/ Constance thought, now that she was disposed 
 to think more kindly of Mr. Wyatt. * His mention 
 of Sir Cyprian might have been purely accidental.' 
 
 Four or five times in every day Melanie Duport 
 brought the baby Christabel to the grass-plat under 
 the window of ^Irs. Sinclair's bedroom, and there 
 were tender greetings between mother and child, 
 baby struggling in nurse's grasp, and holding up her 
 chubby arms as if she would fain have embraced 
 her mother, even at that distance. These interviews 
 were a sorry substitute for the long happy hours of 
 closest companionship which mother and child had 
 enjoyed at Schonesthal, but Constance bore the 
 trial bravely. The patient was going on wonderfully 
 well, ]Mr. Paulton said; the violence of the fever 
 was considerably abated. It had proved a lighter 
 attack than he had apprehended. In a week the 
 patient would most likely be on the high road to 
 recovery, and then Mrs. Sinclair could leave her 
 entirely to the Sister's care, since poor ^lartha was
 
 THE CRUEL RIVEK. 145 
 
 now restored to her right mind', and was quite 
 reconciled to that trustworthy attendant. 
 
 ' And then/ said Mr. Paulton, ' I shall send 
 you to Baden for a few days, before you go back 
 to baby, and you must put aside^the clothes that 
 you have worn in the sick room, and I think we 
 shall escape all risk of infection.' 
 
 This was a good hearing. Constance languished 
 for the happy hour when she should be able to 
 clasp that rosy babbling child to her breast once 
 more. Melanie Duport had been a marvel of 
 goodness throughout this anxious time. 
 
 'I shall never forojet how kind and thouditful 
 you have been, Melanie,' said Constance from her 
 window, as the French girl stood in the garden 
 below, holding baby up to be adored before setting 
 out for her morning ramble. 
 
 ' But it is a pleasure to serve Madame,' shrieked 
 Melanie, in her shrill treble. 
 
 * Monsieur returns this evening,' said Constance, 
 who had just received a hurried scrawl from Gilbert, 
 naming the hour of his arrival, ' you must take 
 care that Christabel looks her prettiest.* 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' Ah, but she is always ravishingly pretty. If 
 she were only a boy Monsieur would idolize her.' 
 
 * Where are you goiug this morning, Melanie ? ' 
 
 * To the ruined castle on the hill.* 
 
 ' Do you think that is a safe place for baby ? ' 
 
 * What could there be safer ? What peril can 
 Madame foresee ? ' 
 
 * No/ said Constance, with a sigh. ' I suppose 
 she is as safe there as anywhere else, but I am 
 always uneasy when she is away from me.' 
 
 * But the love of Madame for this little one is 
 a passion ! ' 
 
 Melanie departed with her charge, and Constance 
 went back to the sick room to attend to her patient, 
 while the Sister enjoyed a few hours' sleep. 
 
 One o'clock was Christabel's dinner-time, and 
 Christabel's dinner was a business of no small 
 importance in her mother's mind. One o'clock 
 come, and these was no sign of Melanie and her 
 charge, a curious thing, as Melanie was methodical 
 and punctual to a praiseworthy degree, and was 
 provided with a neat little silver watch to keep 
 her acquainted with the time.
 
 THE CRUEL RIVER. 147 
 
 Two o'clock struck, and still no ^lelanie. 
 Constance began to grow uneasy, and sent scouts 
 to look for the nurse and child. But when three 
 o'clock came and baby had not yet appeared, 
 Constance became seriously alarmed, and put on 
 her hat hastily, and went out to search for the 
 missing nurse. She would not listen to the servants, 
 who had just returned from their fruitless quest, 
 and who begged her to let them go in fresh direc- 
 tions while she waited the result at home. 
 
 ' ISTo,' she said, ' I could not rest. I must go 
 myself. Send to the police, any one, the proper 
 authorities. Tell them my child is lost. Let them 
 send in every direction. You have been to the ruins ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am.* 
 
 * And there was no one there ? You could hear 
 nothing ? ' 
 
 *No, ma'am,' answered Dawson the groom, 'the 
 place was quite lonesome. There w^s nothing but 
 grasshoppers chirruping.' 
 
 ' The river ! ' thought Constance, white with 
 horror. * The ruins are only a little way from the 
 river.'
 
 148 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 She ran along the romantic pathway which 
 followed the river bank for about half a mile, and 
 then ascended the steep hill on the slope of which 
 stood the battered old shell which had once been 
 a feudal castle, with dungeons beneath its stately 
 halls, and a deep and secret well for the safe 
 putting away of troublesome enemies. Very peace- 
 ful looked the old ruins on this balmy September 
 day, in the mellow afternoon sunshine, solitary, 
 silent, deserted. There was no trace of nurse or 
 child in the grassy court, or on the crumbling old 
 rampart. Yes, just where the rampart looked down 
 upon the river, just at that point where the short 
 sunburnt grass sloped steepest, Constance Sinclair 
 found a token of her child's presence, a toy dog, 
 white, fleecy, and deliciously untrue to nature — an 
 animal whose shapeless beauty and discordant yap 
 had been the baby Christabel's delight. 
 
 Constance gave a little cry of joy. 
 
 * They have been here, they are somewhere near,* 
 she thought, and then, suddenly, in the sweet 
 summer stillness, the peril of this particular spot 
 struck her— that steep descent — the sunburnt sward,
 
 THE CRUEL RIVER. 149 
 
 slippery as glass — the deep, swift current below; 
 the utter loneliDess of the scene — no help at hand. 
 ' Oh, God ! ' she cried. ' The river, the river ! ' 
 
 She looked round her with wild beseeching eyes, 
 as if she would have asked all nature to help her in 
 this great agony. There was no one within sight. 
 The nearest house was a cottage on the bank of the 
 river, about a hundred yards from the bottom of the 
 slope. A narrow footpath at the other end of the 
 rampart led to the bank, and by this path Constance 
 hurried down to make inquiries at the cottage. 
 
 The door was standing open, and there was a 
 noise of several voices w^ithin. Some one was lying 
 on a bed in a corner, and a group of peasant w^omen 
 were round her ejaculating compassionately, * Das 
 armes Madchen. Ach, Himmel ! Das ist schreck- 
 lich I Was gibt es ? ' and a good deal more of a 
 spasmodic and sympathetic nature. 
 
 A woman's garments, dripping wet, were hanging 
 in front of the stove, beside which sat an elderly 
 vinedresser with stolid countenance, smoking his 
 pipe. 
 
 Constance Sinclair put the women aside and
 
 150 WEAVERS AND WEYT. 
 
 made her way to the bed. It was Melanie who lay 
 there, wrapped in a blanket, sobbing hysterically. 
 
 * Melanie, where is my child ? ' 
 
 The girl shrieked and turned her face to the 
 wall. 
 
 * She risked her life to save it,' said the man in 
 German. ' The current is very rapid under the old 
 Schloss. She plunged in after the baby. I found 
 her in the water, clinging to the branch of a willow. 
 If I had been a little later she would have been 
 drowned.' 
 
 * And the child— my child ? » 
 
 'Ach, mein Gott,' exclaimed the man, with a 
 shrug, ' no one has seen the poor child. No one 
 knows.' 
 
 ' My child is drowned ! * 
 
 *Liebe Frau,' said one of the women, 'the 
 current is strong. The little one was at play on 
 the rampart. Its foot slipped, and it rolled down 
 the hill into the water. This good girl ran down 
 after it, and jumped into the water. My husband 
 found her there. She tried to save the child, she 
 could do no more. But the current was too strong-
 
 THE CRUEL RIVER. 151 
 
 Dear lady, be comforted. The good God will help 
 you.' 
 
 ' No, God is cruel,' cried Constance, ' I will never 
 serve Him or believe in Him any more.' 
 
 And with this blasphemy, wrung from her 
 tortured heart by the intolerable agony of that 
 moment, a great wave of blood seemed to rush over 
 Constance Sinclair's brain, and she fell senseless on 
 the stone floor.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 GETTING OVER IT. 
 
 Baby Christabel was drowned. Of that fact there 
 could be no shadow of doubt in the minds of those 
 who had loved her, although the sullen stream 
 which had swallowed her lovely form refused to 
 give it back. Perchance the Lurleys had taken 
 her for their playfellow, and transformed her mortal 
 beauty into something rich and strange. 
 
 The search for the dead was continued longer 
 than such searches generally are ; but the nets which 
 dragged the river bed did not bring up the gold hair, 
 or the sad drowned eyes that had once danced with 
 joyous life. And if anything could add to Constance 
 Sinclair's grief it was this last drop of bitter, 
 the knowledge that her child would never rest in 
 hallowed ground, that there was no quiet grave 
 on which she might lay her aching head and fee^ 
 nearer her darling, no spot of earth to which she
 
 GETTING OVER IT. 153 
 
 could press her lips and fancy she could be heard 
 by the little one lying in her pure shroud below, 
 asleep on Mother Earth's calm breast. 
 
 No, her little one was driven by winds and waves, 
 and had no resting-place under the weary stars. 
 
 Melanie Duport, when she recovered from the 
 horror of that one dreadful day, told her story 
 clearly enough. It was the same story she had 
 told the peasant woman whose husband rescued 
 her. Baby Christabel was playing on the rampart, 
 Melanie holding her securely, as she believed, when 
 the little one, attracted by the flight of a butterfly, 
 made a sudden spring — alas ! Madame knew how 
 strong and active the dear angel was, and how diffi- 
 cult it was to hold her sometimes — and slipped out 
 of Melanie's arms on to the rampart, and from the 
 rampart — which was very low just there — as Madame 
 might have observed — on to the grass, and rolled 
 and rolled down to the river. It was all quick as 
 thought, — one moment, and that angel's white frock 
 was floating on the stream. Melanie tore down, 
 she knew not how ; it was as if Heaven had given 
 her wings ^in that moment. The white frock was
 
 154 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 still floating. Melanie plunged into the river ! Ah, 
 but what was her life at such a time ? a nothing ! 
 Alas, she tried to grasp the frock, but the stream 
 swept it from her; an instant, and one saw it no 
 more. She felt herself sinking, and then her senses 
 left her. She knew nothing till she woke in the 
 cottage where IMadame found her. 
 
 Melanie was a heroine in a small way after this 
 sad event. The villagers thought her a wonderful 
 young person. Her master rewarded her hand- 
 somely, and promised to retain her in his house- 
 hold till she should choose to marry. Her mistress 
 was as grateful as despair can be for any benefit. 
 
 The light of Constance Sinclair's life had gone- 
 Her one source of joy was turned to a fountain 
 of bitterness. A dull and blank despair took 
 possession of her. She did not succumb utterly 
 to her grief. She struggled against it bravely, and 
 she would accept no one's compassion or sympathy. 
 One of her married sisters, a comfortable matron, 
 with haK a dozen healthy children in her nursery, 
 offered to come and stay with Mrs. Sinclair, but 
 this kindly offer was refused almost uncivilly.
 
 GETTING OVER IT. 155 
 
 * What good could you do me ? ' asked Con- 
 stance. ' If you spoke to me of my darling I 
 should hate you, yet I should always be thinking 
 of her. Do you suppose you could comfort me by 
 telling me about your herd of children, or by re- 
 peating little bits of Scripture, such as people quote 
 in letters of condolence ? No, there is no such 
 thing as comfort for ray grief. I like to sit alone 
 and think of my pet, and be wretched in my own 
 way. Don't be angry with me, dear, for writing 
 so savagely. I sometimes feel as if I hated every 
 one in the world, but happy mothers most of 
 aU.' 
 
 Gilbert Sinclair endured the loss of his little 
 girl with a certain amount of philosophy. In the 
 first place she was not a boy, and had offended 
 him ah initio by that demerit. She had been a 
 pretty little darHng, no doubt, and he had had his 
 moments of fondness for her; but his wife's idolatry 
 of the child was an offence that had rankled deep. 
 He had been jealous of his infant daughter. He 
 put on mourning, and expressed himself deeply 
 afflicted, but his burden did not press heavily. A
 
 156 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 boy would come, perhaps, by and by, and make 
 amends for this present loss, and Constance would 
 begin her baby- worship again. 
 
 Mr. Sinclair did not know that for some hearts 
 there is no such thinf^ as bef]:inninfr a train. 
 
 Martha Briggs recovered health and strength, 
 but her grief for the lost baby was very genuine 
 and unmistakable. Constance offered to keep her 
 in her service, but this favour Martha declined with 
 tears. 
 
 'No, ma'am, its best for both that we should 
 
 part. I should remind you of ' (liere a burst 
 
 of sobs supplied the missing name), 'and you'd 
 remind me. I'll go home. I'm more grateful than 
 words can say for all your goodness ; but oh ! I 
 hate myself so for being ill, and leaving my 
 precious one to anybody else's care. I never, 
 never shall forgive myself — never!' 
 
 So Martha went back to Davenant in her mis- 
 tress's train, and there parted with her to return to 
 the paternal roof, which was not very far off. It 
 was not so with Melanie. She only clung to her 
 mistress more devotedly after the loss of the baby.
 
 GETTING OVER IT. 157 
 
 If her dear lady would but let her remain with 
 her as her own maid, she would be beyond measure 
 happy. Was not hair-dressing the art in which 
 she most delighted, and millinery the natural bent of 
 her mind ? Gilbert said the girl had acted nobly, 
 and ought to be retained in his wife's service ; so 
 Constance, whose Abigail had lately left her to 
 better herself by marriage with an aspiring butler, 
 consented to keep Melanie as her personal attend- 
 ant. She did this, believing ^^th Gilbert that the 
 girl deserved recompence; but Melanie's presence 
 was full of painful associations, and kept the bitter 
 memory of her lost cliild continually before 
 her. 
 
 Constance went back to Davenant, and life 
 flowed on in its slow and sullen course, somehow, 
 without Baby Christabel. The two rooms that had 
 been nurseries — two of the prettiest rooms in the 
 big old house, one of them having French windows 
 and a wide balcony, with a flight of steps leading 
 down to a quaint old Dutch garden, shut in from the 
 rest of the grounds by a holly hedge, now became 
 temples dedicated to the lost. In these rooms Con-
 
 158 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 stance spent all the time she could call her own. 
 But the business of life still went on, and there was 
 a great deal of time she could not call her own. 
 Gilbert, having dismissed the memory of his lost 
 child to the limbo of unpleasant recollections, re- 
 sented his wife's brooding grief as a personal injury, 
 and was determined to give that sullen sorrow no in- 
 dulgence. When the hunting season was at its best, 
 and pheasant- shooting made one of the attractions of 
 Davenant, Mr. Sinclair determined to fill his house 
 with his own particular set — horsey men — men who 
 gave their minds to guns and dogs, and rarely opened 
 their mouths for speech except to relate some anec- 
 dote about an accomplished setter, or ' that liver- 
 coloured pointer of mine, you know ; ' or to dilate 
 upon the noble behaviour of * that central fire Lan- 
 caster of mine,' in yesterday's battue; men who 
 devoted their nights to billiards, and whose conversa- 
 tion was of breaks and flukes, pockets and cannons. 
 * You'd better ask some women, Constance,' said 
 Gilbert, one Sunday morning in November, as they 
 sat at their tetc-a-tetc breakfast, the wife reading 
 her budget of letters, the husband with the Field
 
 GETTING OVER IT. 159 
 
 propped up in front of his coffee cup, and the Sport- 
 ing Gazette at his elbow. ' I've got a lot of men 
 coming next week, and you might feel yourself de 
 trap in a masculine party.' 
 
 * Have you asked people, Gilbert ? So soon ! ' 
 said Constance, reproachfully. 
 
 ' I don't know what you call soon. The phea- 
 sants are as wild as they can be, and Lord 
 Highover's hounds have been out nearly a month. 
 You'd better ask some nice young women ; the right 
 sort, you know, no nonsense about them.' 
 
 * I thought we should have spent this winter 
 quietly, Gilbert,' said Constance, in a low voice, look- 
 ing down at her black dress with its deep folds of 
 crape, 'just this one winter.' 
 
 'That's sheer sentimentality,' exclaimed Gilbert, 
 giving the Field an impatient twist as he folded it 
 to get at his favourite column. ' What good would 
 it do you or me to shut ourselves up in this dismal 
 old house like a pair of superannuated owls ? 
 Would it bring back the poor little thing we've lost, 
 or make her happier in paradise ? No, Constance. 
 She's happy. "Nothing can touch her more," as
 
 160 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 Milton or somebody says. Egad, I think the poor 
 little darling is to be envied for having escaped all 
 the troubles and worries of life ; for life at" best is a 
 bad book, you can't hedge everything. Don't cry, 
 Constance. That long face of yours is enough to 
 send a fellow into an untimely grave. Let us get a 
 lot of pleasant people round us, and make the most 
 of this place while it's ours. We mayn't have it 
 always.' 
 
 This sinister remark fell upon an unheeding ear- 
 Constance Sinclair's thoughts had wandered far away 
 from that oak-panelled breakfast-room. They had 
 gone back to the sunny hill-side, the grassy rampart, 
 the swift and fatal river, the bright landscape which 
 had stamped itself upon her memory, indelibly, in 
 the one agonized moment in which she had divined 
 her darling's fate. 
 
 'Gilbert, I really am not fit to receive people/ 
 she said after a silence of some minutes, during 
 which Mr. Sinclair had amused himself by sundry 
 adventurous dips of his fork, like an old Jewish 
 priest's dive into the sacred seething-pot, into the 
 crockery case of a Perigord pie. ' If you have set
 
 GETTING OVER IT. 161 
 
 your heart upon having your friends this winter you 
 had better let me go away, to Hastings or some- 
 where. It would be pleasanter for you to be free 
 from the sight of my unhappiness.' 
 
 * Yes, and for you to find consolation elsewhere, 
 no doubt. You would pretty soon find a consoler if 
 I gave you your liberty.* 
 
 ' GHbert I ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't think to frighten me with your indig- 
 nant looks. I have not forgotten the scene in this 
 room when you heard of your old lover's supposed 
 death. Sir Cyprian Davenant is 'in London, in high 
 feather too, I understand ; for some ancient relation 
 of his has been obliging enough to die and leave him 
 another fortune. A pity you didn't wait a little 
 longer, isn't it? A pity your father should have 
 been in such a hurry to make his last matrimonial 
 bargain.' 
 
 ' Gilbert,' cried Constance, passionately, ' what 
 have I ever done that you should dare to talk to 
 me like this ? How have I ever failed in my duty 
 to you ? ' 
 
 • Shall I tell you ? I won't say that, having 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 accepted me for your husband, 'you ought to have 
 loved me. That would be asking too much. The 
 ethics of the nineteenth century don't soar so high 
 as that. But you might have pretended to care for 
 me just a little. It would have been only civil, and 
 it would have made the wheels of life go smoother 
 for both of us.' 
 
 *I am not capable of pretending, Gilbert,' 
 answered Constance, gravely. ' If you would only 
 be a little more considerate, and give me credit for 
 being what I am, your true and dutiful wife, I might 
 give you as much affection as the most exacting 
 husband could desire. I would, Gilbert,' she cried, 
 in a voice choked by sobs, * for the sake of our dead 
 chHd.' 
 
 * Don't humbug,' said Gilbert, sulkily. 'We 
 ought to understand each other by this time. As for 
 running away from this house, or any other house of 
 mine, to mope in solitude, or to find consolation 
 among old friends, please comprehend that if you 
 leave my house once you leave it for ever. I shall 
 expect to see you at the head of my table. I shall 
 expect you to surround yourself with pretty women.
 
 GETTING OVER IT. 163 
 
 I shall expect you to be a wife that a fellow may be 
 proud of. Didn't I marry you to be a credit and an 
 honour to me ? I might have married as handsome 
 a woman as you— one who understood me, and 
 worshipped the ground I walked upon. But I 
 wanted a wife whom all the world would 
 admire.' 
 
 * I shall do my best to oblige you, Gilbert ; but 
 perhaps I might have been a better wife if you had 
 let me take life my own way.' 
 
 From that time Constance Sinclair put aside all 
 outward token of her grief. She wrote to the gayest 
 and most pleasure-loving of her acquaintance — 
 young married women, whose chief delight was to 
 dress more expensively than their dearest friends, 
 and to be seen at three parties on the same evening, 
 and a few who were still spinsters, from no fault or 
 foolishness of their own, since they had neglected 
 neither pains nor art in the endeavour to secure an 
 eligible partner for the dance of life. To these 
 Constance wrote her letters of invitation, and the 
 first sentence in each letter was sufficient to ensure 
 an acceptance.
 
 164 weavers and weft. 
 
 * Dearest Ida, 
 
 'My husband is filling the house with 
 men for the hunting season. Do come and save 
 me from being bored to death by their sporting 
 talk. Be sure you bring your hunting habit. 
 Gilbert can give you a good mount/ &c., &c. 
 
 Whereupon dearest Ida, twisting about the little 
 note, meditatively remarked to her last bosom friend 
 and confidante, * Odd that they should ask people 
 so soon after the death of Mrs. Sinclair's baby, — 
 drowned, too, — it was in all the papers.^ Davenant 
 is a sweet house to stay at, quite liberty hall. Yes, 
 I think I shall go, and if there are plenty of people 
 I can finish out my ball dresses in the evenings.' 
 
 Before another Sunday came Davenant was full 
 of people, the attics noisy with strange lady's-maids, 
 the stables and harness-rooms full of life and bustle, 
 not an empty stall or an unoccupied loose box in 
 the long range of buildings, the billiard room and 
 smoking room resonant with masculine laughter, 
 unknown dogs pervading the out-buildings, and 
 chained up in every available corner. 
 
 Constance Sinclair had put away her sombre
 
 GETTING OVER IT. 165 
 
 robes of crape and cashmere, and met her friends 
 with welcoming smiles, radiant in black silk and 
 lace, her graceful figure set off by the latest Parisian 
 fashion, which being the newest was of course con- 
 sidered infinitely the best. 
 
 * I thought she would have been in deeper 
 mourning/ said one of Mrs. Sinclair's dearest friends 
 to another during a confidential chat in a dusky 
 corner at afternoon tea. 
 
 'The men were so noisy with their haw-haw 
 talk, one could say what one liked,' remarked 
 Mrs. Millamount afterwards to Lady Loveall. 
 
 ' Looks rather heartless, doesn't it ? — an only 
 child, too. She might at least wear paramatta 
 instead of that black silk, — not even a mourning 
 silk. I suppose that black net trimmed with jet she 
 wore last night was from Worth. He is so fond of 
 smothering things with jet. It's one of his few 
 weaknesses.' 
 
 *My dear, you couldn't have looked at it 
 properly. Worth wouldn't have made her such a 
 thing if she had gone down on her knees to him. 
 The sleeve was positively antediluvian. Nice
 
 166 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 house, isn't it ? — everything good style. What 
 matches all these Clanyardes have made!' 
 
 * Is it true that she was engaged to Sir Cyprian 
 Davenant ? ' 
 
 ' They say so. How sorry she must be ! He has 
 just come into quite a heap of money. Some old 
 man down in the Lincolnshire fens left it him, quite 
 a character, I believe. Never spent anything except 
 on black-letter books, and those have been sold for a 
 fortune at Sotheby's. Ah, Mr. Wyatt, how d'ye 
 do ? ' as the solicitor, newly arrived that afternoon, 
 threaded his way towards the quiet corner, * do come 
 and sit here. You always know everything. Is it 
 true that Sir Cyprian Davenant has come into a 
 fortune ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing can be more true, unless it is that Mrs. 
 Millamount looks younger and lovelier every season.' 
 
 *You horrid flatterer! You are worse than a 
 French milliner. And is it true that Mrs. Sinclair 
 and Sir Cyprian were engaged ? But no, it would 
 be hardly fair to ask you about that. You are a 
 friend of the family.' 
 
 * As a friend of the family I am bound to inform
 
 GETTING OVER IT. 167 
 
 you that rumour is false on that point. There was 
 no engagement.' 
 'EeaUy, now?* 
 
 * But Sir Cyprian was madly in love with ]Mis3 
 Clanyarde ! ' 
 
 * And she ' 
 
 ' I was not in the lady's confidence ; but I 
 believe that it was only my friend's poverty which 
 prevented their marriage.* 
 
 ' How horribly mercenary 1 ' cried Mrs. Milla- 
 mount, who came of an ancient Irish family, proud as 
 Lucifer and poor as Lazarus, and who had been sacri- 
 ficed in the blossom of her days — like Iphigenea, to 
 raise the wind — not to Diana, but to a rich stock- 
 broker. Perhaps, as the event had occurred a long 
 time ago, she may have forgotten how much more 
 Plutus had had to do with her marriage than Cupid.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 'THE SHACKLES OF AN OLD LOVE STRAITEN'D HIM.' 
 
 Cyprian Davenant had inherited a fortune. Com- 
 mon rumour had not greatly exaggerated the amount 
 of his wealth, though there was the usual disposition 
 to expatiate upon the truth. Needy men looked at 
 him with envy as he went in and out of his club, or 
 sat in a quiet corner composedly reading the last 
 Quarterly, or Edinburgh, and almost wondered that 
 he was so well able to contain his spirits, and was 
 not tempted to perform a savage dance of the Choctaw 
 character, or to give expression to his rapture in a 
 war-whoop. 
 
 ' Hang it all, you know,' remarked an impecunious 
 younger son, ' it aggravates a fellow to see Davenant 
 take things so quietly. He doesn't even look cheer- 
 ful. He doesn't invite the confidence of his necessi- 
 tous friends. Such a knight of the rueful countenance 
 would hardly stand a pony. And he won't play
 
 *THE SHACKLES OF AN OLD LOVE STKAITEN'D HIM.' 169 
 
 whist, or touch a billiard cue, — quite an unapproach- 
 able beast.' 
 
 A man cannot be lucky in all things. Sir Cyprian 
 had set his life upon a cast, and the fortune of the 
 game had been against him. The inheritance of this 
 unexpected wealth seemed to him almost a purpose- 
 less and trivial stroke of fate. What could it avail 
 him now ? It could not give him Constance Clan- 
 yarde, or even restore the good old house in which 
 his father and mother had lived and died. Time had 
 set a gulf between him and happiness ; and the 
 fortune that came too late seemed rather the stroke 
 of some mocking and ironical Fate than the gift of a 
 benevolent destiny. He came back from Africa like 
 a man who lives a charmed life, escaping all manner 
 of perils, from the gripe of marsh fever to the jaws of 
 crocodiles ; while men who had valued existence a 
 great deal more than he had done had succumbed 
 and left their bones to bleach upon the sands of the 
 Gold Coast, or to rot in a stagnant swamp. Cyprian 
 Davenant had returned to find the girl he loved the 
 wife of the man he most disliked. He heard of her 
 marriage more in sorrow than in anger. He had not
 
 170 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 expected to find her free. His knowledge of Lord 
 Clanyarde's character had assured him that his lord- 
 ship's beautiful daughter would be made to marry 
 well. No fair Circassian, reared by admiring and 
 expectant relatives in the seclusion of her Caucasian 
 home, fattened upon milk and almonds to the stand- 
 ard of Oriental beauty, and in due course to be 
 carried to the slave market, had ever been brought 
 up with a more specific intention than that which 
 had ruled Lord Clanyarde in the education of his 
 daughters. They had all done well. He spent very 
 little time at Marchbrook now-a-days, but dawdled 
 away life agreeably, at his daughters' country houses 
 out of the season, at his clubs in the season, and felt 
 that his mission had been accomplished. No father 
 had ever done more for his children, and they had 
 cost him very little. 
 
 ' What a comfort to have been blest with lovely 
 marriageable daughters, instead of lubberly sons' 
 squatting on a father's shoulders like the old man of 
 the mountain,' thought Lord Clanyarde, when he had 
 leisure to reflect upon his lot. 
 
 After that one visit in Park Lane, Sir Cyprian
 
 ' THE SHACKLES OF AN OLD LOYE STEAITEN'D HIM.' 171 
 
 Davenant had studiously avoided Mrs. Sinclair. He 
 had very little inclination for society, and, although 
 his friends were ready to make a fashionable lion of 
 him upon the strength of his African explorations, he 
 had strength of mind enough to refuse all manner of 
 flattering invitations, and innumerable introductions 
 to people who were dying to know him. 
 
 He took a set of chambers in one of the streets 
 between the Strand and the river, surrounded himself 
 with the books he loved, and set about writing the 
 history of his travels. He had no desire to achieve 
 fame by bookmaking, but a man must do something 
 with his life. Sir Cyprian felt himself too old or too 
 unambitious to enter one of the learned professions ; 
 and he felt himself without motive for sustained in- 
 dustry. He had an income that sufficed for all his 
 desires. He would write his book, tell the world the 
 wonders he had seen, and then go back to Africa and 
 see more wonders, and perhaps leave his bones along 
 the road, as some of his fellow-travellers had 
 done. 
 
 He heard of Constance Sinclair — heard of her 
 as one of the lights in fashion's sidereal system —
 
 172 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 holding her own against all competitors. He saw 
 her once or twice, between five and six on a June 
 afternoon, when the carriages were creeping slowly 
 along the Ladies' Mile, and the high-mettled horses 
 champing their bits and tugging at their bearing- 
 reins in that elegant martyrdom by wliich fashion 
 contrives to make the life of a three hundred 
 guinea pair of carriage horses a good deal worse 
 than that of a costmonger's donkey. He saw her 
 looking her loveliest, and concluded that she was 
 happy. She had all things that were reckoned 
 good in her world. Why should he suppose there 
 was anything wanting to her content ? 
 
 The lawyer's letter which told him of old Colonel 
 Gryffin's death, and the will which bequeathed to 
 him the bulk of the old man's fortune, found Sir 
 Cyprian in his quiet chambers near the river, 
 smoking the cigar of peace over the last new 
 treatise on metaphysics, by a German philosopher. 
 Lady Davenant had been a Miss Gryffin, and the 
 favourite niece of this ancient Anglo-Indian, Colonel 
 Gryffin, who had lived and died a bachelor. Sir 
 Cyprian had a faint recollection of seeing a testy
 
 ' THE SHACKLES OF AN OLD LOYE STEAITEN'D HIM/ 1 73 
 
 old gentleman, with a yellow complexion, at Dave- 
 nant Park, in his nursery days, and having been 
 told to call the old gentleman ' uncle,' whereupon 
 he had revolted openly, and had declined to confer 
 that honour upon such a wizened and tawny- 
 complexion ed atomy as the little old gentleman in 
 question. 
 
 * My uncles are big,' he said. ' You're too little 
 for an uncle.' 
 
 Soon afterwards the queer old figure had melted 
 out of the home picture. Colonel Gryffin had gone 
 back to the Lincolnshire fens, and his ancient missals 
 and incunabula, and had lived so remote an exist- 
 ence that the chief feeling caused by his death 
 was astonishment at the discovery that he had been 
 so long alive. 
 
 Messrs. Dott and Gowunn, a respectable firm 
 of family solicitors in Lincoln's Inn, begged to 
 inform Sir Cyprian Davenant that his great-uncle 
 on the maternal side, Colonel Gryfi[in, of Hobart 
 Hall, near Hammerfield, Lincolnshire, had appointed 
 him residuary legatee and sole executor to his will. 
 Sir Cyprian was quite unmoved by the announce-
 
 174 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 ment. Residuary legatee might mean a great deal, 
 or it might mean very little. He had a misty 
 recollection of being told that Colonel Gryffin was rich, 
 and was supposed to squander untold sums upon 
 Gutenberg Bibles, and other amiable eccentricities of 
 a bookish man. He had never been taught to expect 
 any inheritance from this ancient bachelor, and he had 
 supposed him for many years laid at rest under 
 the daisies of his parish churchyard. 
 
 The residuary legateeship turned out to mean 
 a very handsome fortune. The Colonel had not 
 spent a third of his income — despite his mania for 
 rare editions — and his money had been accumulat- 
 ing for the last thirty years. The missals and 
 Bibles, and antique Books of Hours, the Decameron, 
 and the fine old Shakespeare, were put up to auction 
 — by desire of the testator — and were sold for twice 
 and three times the sums the old Colonel had paid 
 for them. In a word, Sir Cyprian Davenant, who 
 had esteemed himself passing rich upon four hundred 
 a year, stood possessed of a hundred and twenty 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 It came too late to buy him the desire of his
 
 *THE SHACKLES OF AN OLD LOVE STEAITEN'D HIM.' 175 
 
 heart, and, not being able to win for him this one 
 blessing, it seemed almost useless. 
 
 James Wyatt was one of the first to congratu- 
 late Sir Cyprian upon this change of fortune. 
 
 ' A pity the old gentleman did not die before 
 you went to Africa/ he said, sympathetically. ' It 
 would have squared things for you and Miss 
 Clanyarde.' 
 
 ' ^liss Clanyarde made a very good marriage,* 
 answered C}T)rian, too proud to bare his old wound 
 even to friendly James Wyatt. * She is happy.' 
 
 Mr. Wyatt shrugged his shoulders dubiously. 
 
 ' Who knows ? ' he said. •' We see our friends' 
 lives from the outside, and, like a show at a fair, 
 the outside is always the best part of the per- 
 formance.' 
 
 This happened while Mr. and ]\Irs. Sinclair were 
 at Schonesthal. Soon came the tidings of Baby 
 Christabel's fate, briefly told in a newspaper para- 
 graph, and Cyprian Davenant's heart bled for the 
 woman he had once loved. He was not a little 
 surprised when James Wyatt called upon him one 
 day in November and told him he was going
 
 176 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 down to Davenant, where there was to be a house 
 full of company. 
 
 ' So soon after the little girl's death ! ' exclaimed 
 Sir Cyprian. 
 
 'Yes, it is rather soon, no doubt. But they 
 would be moped to death at Davenant without 
 people. Sackcloth and ashes are quite out of 
 fashion, you see. People don't go in for intense 
 mourning now-a-days.' 
 
 ' People have hearts, I suppose, even in the 
 nineteenth century ? ' said Sir Cyprian, somewhat 
 bitterly. 'I should have thought Mrs. Sinclair 
 would have felt the loss of her little girl ver}^ 
 deeply.' 
 
 'We don't know what she may feel,' returned 
 Wyatt. ' Gilbert likes his own way.' 
 
 * You don't mean to say that he ill-uses his wife V 
 asked Sir Cyprian, alarmed. 
 
 * Ill-usage is a big word. We don't employ it now- 
 a-days/ replied Mr. Wyatt, with his imperturbable 
 smile. * Gilbert Sinclair is my client, and an excellent 
 one, as you know. It would ill become me to disparage 
 him ; but I must admit that he and ^Mrs. Sinclair
 
 *THE SHACKLES OF AN OLD LOVE STIIAITE.ND UUL' 177 
 
 are not the ha2)piest couple whose domestic hearth 
 I have ever sat by. She had some secret grief, even 
 before the death of her child, and made up for being 
 very brilliant in society by being exceedingly dull at 
 home. I don't expect to find her very lively now 
 that she has lost the only being she really cared for. 
 She absolutely worshipped that child.' 
 
 This conversation gave Sir Cyprian Davenant 
 material for much sad thought. To know that 
 Constance was unhappy seemed to bring her nearer 
 to him. It brought back the thought of the old days 
 when those innocent eyes had looked into his, 
 eloquent with unconscious love, when Constance 
 Clanyarde had given him her heart without thought 
 for to-morrow, happy in the knowledge that she was 
 loved, believing her lover strong to conquer Fate and 
 Fortune. And he had brought the chilly light of 
 worldly wisdom to bear on this dream of Arcady. 
 He had been strong, self-denying, and had renounced 
 his own happiness in the hope of securing liers. 
 And now Fate laughed him to scorn with this gift of 
 vain riches ; and he found that his worldly wisdom 
 had been supreme folly. 
 
 VOL. T. X
 
 178 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 * What a self-sufficient fool, what an idiot I have 
 been ! ' he said to himself in an a^onj of remorse. 
 ' And now what atonement can I make to her for my 
 folly? Can I defend her from the purse-proud snob 
 she has been sold to ? can I save her wounded heart 
 one pang ? can I be near her in her hour of misery, or 
 offer one drop of comfort from a soul overflowing 
 with tenderness and pity ? No, to approach her is 
 to do her a wronii. But I can watch at a distance, 
 perhaps. I may use other eyes. My money may be 
 of some use in buying her faithful service from 
 others. God bless her ! I consecrate my days to 
 her service : distant or near, I will be her friend and 
 her defender ! ' 
 
 Two days later Sir Cyprian met Lord Clanyarde 
 at that nobleman's favourite club. It was a club 
 which Cyprian Davenant rarely used, although he 
 had been a member ever since his majority, and it 
 may be that he went out of his beaten track in the 
 hope of encountering Constance Sinclair's father. 
 
 Lord Clanyarde was very cordial and compli- 
 mentary upon his friend's altered fortunes. 
 
 'You must feel sorry for having parted with
 
 *THE SHACKLES OF -\^^ OLD LOVE STRAITENED HLM.' 179 
 
 Davenant/ he said, ' when you might so easily have 
 kept it.' 
 
 'Davenant is rather too big for a confirmed 
 bachelor.' 
 
 * True. It wcfuld have been a white elephant, I 
 dare say. Sinclair has improved the place con- 
 siderably. You ought to come down and have a look 
 at it. I'm going to Marchbrook to shoot next week. 
 Come and stay with me/ added Lord Clanyarde with 
 heartiness, not at all prepared to be taken at his 
 word. 
 
 *I shall be charmed,' said Sir Cyprian, to his 
 lordship's infinite astonishment. 
 
 People generally took his invitations for what 
 they were worth, and declined them. But here was 
 a man fresh from the centre of Africa, who hardly 
 understood the language of polite society.
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 ' AT merlin's feet THE WILY VIVIEN LAY.* 
 
 All went merrily at Davenant during the brief 
 bleak days of November and December, though the 
 master of the house was not without his burden of 
 secret cark and care. That magnificent iron and 
 coal producing estate in the north had not been 
 yielding quite so much hard cash lately as its 
 owner expected from it. Strikes and trade-unionism 
 had told upon Mr. Sinclair's income. The coal 
 market had fluctuated awkwardly. Belgium had 
 been tapping the demand for iron. There was plenty 
 of money coming in, of course, from Gilbert's large 
 possessions ; but unfortunately there was also a great 
 deal going out. The Newmarket stables had cost a 
 small fortune ; the Newmarket horses had been 
 unlucky ; and Gilbert's book for the last three or 
 four seasons had been a decided failure. 
 
 * The fact is, Wyatt,' he remarked to that con-
 
 *AT merlin's feet THE WILY VmEN LAY.' 181 
 
 fidential adviser one dull afternoon over a tete-a-tete 
 game at billiards, * I'm spending too much money/ 
 
 ' Have you only just found that out ? ' asked the 
 solicitor, with a calm sneer. 
 
 * The purchase of this confounded place took too 
 much of my capital, and these strikes and lock-outs 
 coming on the top of it ' 
 
 ' Not to mention your vicious habit of plunging/ 
 remarked ^Ir. Wyatt, parenthetically, taking a careful 
 aim at the distant red. 
 
 ' Have very nearly stumped me/ 
 
 * AYhy not sell Davenant ? You don't want such 
 a big barrack of a place, and — Mrs. Sinclair isn't 
 happy here.' 
 
 'Xo,' said Gilbert, with a smothered oath, 'the 
 associations are too tender/ 
 
 ' I could get you a purchaser to-moiTOw/ 
 
 ' Yes, at a dead loss, no doubt. You fellows live 
 by buying and selling, and you don't care how much 
 your client loses by a transaction that brings grist to 
 your mill.' 
 
 ' I can get you the money you gave for Davenant, 
 timber and all/
 
 182 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 * Who's your purchaser ? ' 
 
 * I'd rather not mention his name yet awhile. He 
 is a quiet party, and wouldn't like to be talked about.' 
 
 ' I understand. Some city cad, who has made his 
 money in the zoological line.' 
 
 ' How zoological ? ' 
 
 'Bulling and bearing. Well, if those beastly 
 colliers hold out much longer, he may have Davenant . 
 and welcome. But he must take my new furniture " 
 at a valuation. I've paid no end of money for it.' 
 
 ' What did you do with the Jacobean oak ? ' 
 
 *0h, the old sticks are put away somewhere, I 
 believe, in lofts and lumber-rooms, and servants' bed- 
 rooms.' 
 
 Some of Mr. Sinclair's other guests dropped into 
 the billiard-room at this juncture, and there was no 
 more said about the sale of Davenant. 
 
 Nobody — not even his worst enemy, and no doubt 
 among his numerous friends he had several foes — 
 could deny Mr. Wyatt's merits as a guest in a 
 country house. He was just the kind of man to keep 
 things going — a past master in all social accomplish- 
 ments, — and Gilbert Sinclair graciously allowed him
 
 'AT merlin's feet THE WILY VIVIEN LAY.' 183 
 
 to take the burden of amusing everybody upon his 
 shoulders, while the master of the house went his own 
 way, and hunted or shot at his own pleasure. Mr. 
 Sinclair liked to fill his house with people, but he 
 had no idea of sacrificing his own inclination to their 
 entertainment ; he thought he did quite enough for 
 them in giving them what he elegantly called * the 
 run of their teeth,' and the free use of his second-rate 
 hunters. 
 
 On Mr. Wyatt, therefore, devolved the duty of 
 keeping things going — devising the day's amuse- 
 ments, protecting the ladies of the party from the 
 selfishness of neglectful and unapjpreciative mankind, 
 arranging picnic luncheons in keepers' lodges, at 
 which the fair sex might assist — finding safe mounts 
 for those aspiring damsels who wanted to ride to 
 hounds — planning private theatricals, and stimu- 
 lating the musical members of the society to the 
 performance of part-songs in a business-like and 
 creditable manner. 
 
 He had done all these things last winter, and the 
 winter before, but on those occasions he had been 
 aided in his task. Constance Sinclair' had given him
 
 184: WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 her hearty co-operation. She had played her part of 
 hostess with grace and spirit — had allowed no cloud 
 of thought or memory to obscure the brightness of 
 the present moment. She had given herself up, heart 
 and soul, to the duties of her position, and her 
 friends had believed her to be the happiest of women, 
 as well as the most fortunate. To seem thus had 
 cost her many an effort ; but she had deemed this 
 one of her obligations as Gilbert Sinclair's wife. 
 
 Now all was changed. Her husband had been 
 obeyed, but that obedience was all which Constance 
 Sinclair's sense of duty could now compel. She sat 
 like a beautiful statue at the head of her husband's 
 table, she moved about among her guests with as 
 little part in their pleasures and amusements as if 
 she had been a picture on the waU — courteous 
 to all, but familiar with none. She seemed to 
 live apart from her surroundings — a strange and 
 silent life, whose veil of shadow even sympathy 
 failed to penetrate. Mrs. Millamount, not unfriendly, 
 despite her frivolity, had tried to get Constance to 
 talk of her bereavement, but the wounded heart was 
 galled by the gentlest touch.
 
 185 
 
 ' It's very kind of you, ' she said, divining her 
 friend's motive, ' but I'd rather not talk of her. 
 Nothing can ever lessen my grief, and I like best to 
 keep it quite to myself.' 
 
 ' How you must hate us all for being here ! ' said 
 Mrs. Millamount, moved with compunction at the 
 incongruity between that house full of company and 
 the mother's desolate heart. 'It seems quite abomi- 
 nable for us to be thinking of nothing but pleasure 
 while you bear your burden alone.' 
 
 * Nobody could divide it with me, or make it 
 lighter for me,' answered Constance, gently. 'Pray 
 do not trouble yourself about my sorrows. If I 
 could hide them better I would. Gilbert likes to be 
 sun-ounded with pleasant faces, and I am very glad 
 that he should be pleased.' 
 
 ' She's quite too good to live,' remarked the 
 sprightly Mrs. Millamount to her friend Lady Loveall 
 that evening. ' But do you know I'm afraid there's 
 something a Little wrong here/ and Flora ^lillamount 
 touched her ivory forehead suggestively with the tip 
 of her AYatteau fan. 
 
 James AVyatt was not a sportsman. He was an
 
 186 WEAYEKS AND WEFT. 
 
 excellent judge of a horsC; rode well, and knew as 
 much about guns as the men who were continually 
 handling them, but he neither shot nor hunted, and 
 he had never been known to speculate upon the turf. 
 These things were for his clients — a very pretty way 
 of running through handsome fortunes and bringing 
 their owner to the Jews — not for him. He could 
 take his amusement out of other men's follies and 
 remain wise himself. Life to him was an agreeable 
 and instructive spectacle, which he assisted at as 
 comfortably as he heard 'Don Giovanni' from his stall 
 in the middle of the third row ; and when the foul 
 fiend of insolvency whisked off one of his dearest 
 friends to the infernal regions where bankrupts and 
 outlaws inhabit, he felt what a nice thing it was to 
 be only a spectator of the great drama. 
 
 Xot being a sportsman, Mr. Wyatt had a good 
 deal of time to himself at Davenant despite his 
 general usefulness. There were rainy mornings 
 when the men were out shooting, and the 'bus had 
 not yet started for the point of rendezvous with the 
 ladies and the luncheon. These leisure hours Mr. 
 Wyatt improved by strolling about the corridors,
 
 'AT merlin's feet THE WILY AHYIEN LAY.' 187 
 
 looking at the old pictures — for the most part in that 
 meditative mood in which a man sees very little of 
 the picture he seems to contemplate — and occasionally 
 var}ang his meditations by a quiet flirtation with 
 Melanie Duport. That young person had plenty of 
 leisure for perambulating the corridors between 
 breakfast and dinner. Mrs. Sinclair was by no means 
 an exacting mistress, and Melanie's life at Davenaut 
 was one of comparative idleness. Her superiority of 
 mind showed itself in a calm contempt for her fellow- 
 servants, and she was rarely to be found in the 
 servants' rooms. She preferred the retirement of 
 her own bedchamber, and a French novel lent her 
 by that good-natured ]Mr. Wyatt, who had always a 
 supply of the newest and worst Parisian literature 
 in his portmanteau. On this dull December morn- 
 ing — a day of gray clouds and frequent showers 
 — Mr. Wyatt stood before a doubtful Vandyke^ 
 smoking meditatively, and apparently absorbed in 
 a critical examination of Prince Piupert's slouched 
 beaver and ostrich plume, when Melanie's light 
 quick step at the other end of the gaUery caught 
 his ear.
 
 188 ^VKAVEUS AND WEFT. 
 
 He turned slowly round to meet her, pufi&ng 
 lazily at his cigar. 
 
 *Eh, la belle,' he exclaimed, 'even an English 
 December does not dim the lustre of those Southern 
 eyes.' 
 
 ' I was born in the Quartier Latin, and my parents 
 were all that there is of the most Parisian/ answered 
 Melanie, scornfully. 
 
 * Then you must have stolen those eyes of yours 
 from one of the Murillos in the Louvre. What news, 
 little one ? ' 
 
 ' Only that I find myself more and more weary of 
 this dismal old barrack.' 
 
 * Come, now, Melanie, you must confess you have 
 a good time of it here.' 
 
 ' Oh, as for that, perhaps I ought not to complain. 
 My mistress is very gentle, too gentle ; it gnaws me 
 to the heart to see her silent grief. That preys upon 
 my mind.' 
 
 Here Melanie squeezed out a tear, which she 
 removed from her pearl-powdered cheek — a very 
 sallow cheek under the powder — daintily, with the 
 corner of a hem-stitched handkerchief.
 
 'AT merlin's feet THE WILY VITIEN LAY.' ISO 
 
 ' You are too compassionate, little one/ said Mr. 
 Wyatt, putting his arm round her waist consolingly. 
 Perhaps he had gone a little too far with these leisure 
 half-hours of flirtation. He had an idea that the girl 
 was going to be troublesome. Tears augured mischief. 
 
 ' C'cst dommagcy murmured Melanie, * I have the 
 heart too tender/ 
 
 * Don't fret, my angel. See here, pretty one, I 
 have brought you another novel,' taking a paper- 
 covered book from his pocket. 
 
 'Belot?' 
 
 ' Xo, Zola.' 
 
 ' I don't want it. I won't read it. Your novels 
 are full of lies. They describe men who will make 
 any sacrifice for the woman they love — men who 
 will take a peasant girl from her hovel, or a grisette 
 from her garret, and make her a queen. There are 
 no such men. I don't believe in them/ cried the girl, 
 passionately, her eyes flashing fire. 
 
 ' Don't be angry, Melanie. Novels would be dull 
 if they told only the truth.' 
 
 ' They would be very amusing if they described 
 men of your pattern,' retorted Melanie. * Men who
 
 190 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 say sweet things without meaning them — who flatter 
 every woman they talk to, who turn a foolish girl's 
 head with their pretty speeches and caressing ways, 
 and then laugh at her folly. Yes, as you are laughing 
 at me,' cried Melanie, exasperated by Mr. Wyatt's 
 placid smile. 
 
 ' No, my sweet, I am only admiring you,' he 
 replied, calmly. 'What have I done to raise this 
 tempest ? ' 
 
 ' What have you done ? ' cried Melanie, and then 
 burst into tears, real tears this time, which seriously 
 damaged the pearl powder. ' I am sure I don't 
 know why I should care so much for you. You are 
 not handsome. You are not even young.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not, but I am very agreeable,' said James 
 Wyatt, complacently. ' Don't cry, ma belle, only be 
 patient and reasonable, and perhaps I shall be able 
 to prove to you some day that there are men, real 
 living men, who are capable of any sacrifice for the 
 woman they love.' 
 
 Melanie allowed herself to be appeased by this 
 rather vague speech, but she was only half 
 convinced.
 
 *AT merlin's feet THE WILY VlTIEy LAY.' 191 
 
 * Tell me only one thing,' she said. ' Who is that 
 lady I saw at Schonesthal ? and why were you so 
 anxious to please her ? ' 
 
 James Wyatt's smooth face clouded at this 
 question. 
 
 " She is related to me, and I knew she had been 
 badly used. Hush, my dear ! walls have ears. There 
 are things we mustn't talk about here.' 
 
 * What is the lady's real name ? ' 
 
 * Madame Chose. She comes of the oldest branch 
 of the family, altogether grande dame, I assure you.' 
 
 ' I wish she would take me into her service.' 
 'Why, you are better off here than with her.' 
 ' I don't think so. I should see more of you if 
 
 I lived with that lady.' 
 
 ' There you are wrong. I see Madame Chose 
 
 Tery rarely.' 
 
 * I don't believe you.' 
 
 * Melanie, that's extremely rude.* 
 
 ' I believe that you are passionately in love with 
 that lady, and that is why ' 
 
 *Xot another word; exclaimed James Wyatt, 
 * there's the luncheon-bell, and I must be off. You'd
 
 192 WEAVERS AND AVEFT. 
 
 better take Zola. You'll find him more amusing 
 than the talk in the servants' hall.' 
 
 Melanie took the volume sullenly, and walked 
 away without a word. 
 
 ' What a little spitfire ! ' mused Mr. Wyatt, as he 
 went slowly down the wide oak staircase. 'She 
 has taken my pretty speeches seriously, and means 
 to make herself obnoxious. This comes of putting 
 one's self in the power of the inferior sex. If I had 
 trusted a man, as I trusted that girl, it would have 
 been a simple matter of business. He would hare 
 been extortionate, perhaps, and there an end. But 
 Mademoiselle Duport makes it an affair of the 
 heart, and I dare say will worry my life out before 
 I have done with her.'
 
 CHAPTEE XIY. 
 
 SIR CYPRIAN HAS HIS SUSPICIONS. 
 
 Sir Cyprian Dayenant had not forgotten that 
 dinner at Richmond given by Gilbert Sinclair a little 
 while before his departure for Africa, at which he 
 had met the handsome widow to whom Mr. 
 Sinclair was then supposed to be engaged. The 
 fact was brought more vividly back to his mind by 
 a circumstance that came under his notice the 
 evening after he had accepted Lord Clanyarde's 
 invitation to Marchbrook. 
 
 He had been dining at his club with an old 
 coUegfe friend, and had consented, somewhat un- 
 willingly, to an adjournment to one of the theatres 
 near the Strand, at which a popular burlesque was 
 being played for the three hundred and sixty-fifth 
 time. Sir Cyprian entertained a cordial detestation 
 of this kind of entertainment, in which the low 
 comedian of the company enacts a distressed 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 \YEAVEIIS AND WEFT. 
 
 damsel in short petticoats and a flaxen wig, -while 
 pretty actresses swagger in costumes of the cavalier 
 period, and ape the manners of the music-hall swell. 
 But it was ten o'clock. The friends had recalled all 
 the old Oxford follies in the days when they were 
 undergraduates together in Tom Quad. Tliey had 
 exhausted these reminiscences and a magnum of 
 Lafitte, and though Sir Cyprian would have gladly 
 Lione back to his chambers and his books, Jack 
 Dunster, his friend, w^as of a livelier temperament, 
 and wanted to finish the evening. 
 
 'Let's go and see "Hercules and Omphale " at the 
 Kaleidoscope,' he said. * It's no end of fun. Jeemson 
 plays Omphale in a red wig, and Minnie Vavasour 
 looks awfully fascinating in pink satin boots and a 
 lion-skin. We shall be just in time for the break- 
 down.' •• 
 
 Sir Cyprian assented with a yawn. He had seen 
 fifty such burlesques as * Hercules and Omphale,' 
 in the days when such things had their charm for 
 liim too, when he could be pleased with a pretty 
 girl in pink satin Hessians, or be moved to laugliter 
 by Jeemson'b painted nose and falsetto scieain.
 
 SIR CYPKLA^' HAS HIS SUSPICIONS. 195 
 
 They took a hansom and drove to the Kaleido- 
 scope, a bandbox of a theatre screwed into an 
 awkward corner of one of the narrowest streets in 
 London — a street at which well-bred carriage horses 
 accustomed to the broad thoroughfares of Belgravia 
 shied furiously. 
 
 It was December, and there was no one worth 
 speaking of in town ; but the little Kaleidoscope was 
 crowded notwithstanding. There were just a brace 
 of empty stalls in a draughty corner for Sir Cyprian 
 and Mr. Dunster. 
 
 The breakdown was on, the pretty little 
 Hercules flourishing his club, and exhibiting a 
 white round arm with a diamond bracelet above the 
 elbov/. Omphale was showing her ankles to the 
 delight of the groundlings, the violins were racing 
 one another, and the flute squeaking its shrillest in 
 a vulgar nigger melody, accentuated by rhythmical 
 bangs on the big drum. The audience was in 
 raptures, and rewarded the exertions of band and 
 dancers with a double recall. Sir Cyprian stifled 
 another yawn and looked round the house. 
 
 Among the vacuous countenances all intent on the
 
 196 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 spectacle, there was one face which was out of the 
 common, and which expressed a supreme weariness. 
 A lady was sitting alone in a stage box, with one 
 rounded arm resting indolently on the velvet cushion 
 — an arm that might have been carved in marble, bare 
 to the elbow, its warm human ivory relieved by the 
 yellow hue of an old Spanish point ruffle. Where 
 had Cyprian Davenant seen that face before ? 
 
 The lady had passed the first bloom of youth 
 but her beauty was of the character that does not 
 fade with youth. She was of the Pauline Borghese 
 type, a woman worthy to be modelled by a new 
 Canova. 
 
 ' I remember,' said Sir Cyprian to himself. ' It 
 was at that Richmond dinner I met her. She is 
 the lady Gilbert Sinclair was to have married.' 
 
 He felt a curious interest in this woman whose 
 name even he had forgotten. Why had not Sinclair 
 married her? She was strikingly handsome, with a 
 bolder, grander beauty than Constance Clanyarde's 
 fragile and poetic loveliness — a woman whom such a 
 man as Sinclair might have naturally chosen. Just 
 as such a iiiau would choose a high-stepping chestnut
 
 SIR CYPBIAX HAS HIS SUSPICIONS. 197 
 
 horse, without being too nice as to fineness and 
 delicacy of line. 
 
 *And I think from the little 1 saw that the lady 
 was attached to him/ mused Sir Cyprian. 
 
 He glanced at the stage box several times before 
 the end of the performance. The lady was qiute 
 alone, and sat in the same attitude, fanning herself 
 languidly, and hardly looking at the stage. Just as 
 the curtain fell. Sir Cyprian heard the click of the 
 box door, and looking up saw that a gentleman had 
 entered. The lady rose, and the gentleman came a 
 little forward to assist in the arrangement of her 
 ermine-lined mantle. 
 
 It was Gilbert Sinclair. 
 
 * What did you think of it ? ' asked Jack 
 Dunster as they went out into the windy lobby 
 where people were crowded together waiting for their 
 carriages. 
 
 * Abominable,' murmured Sir Cyprian. 
 
 * Why, jMinnie Vavasour is the prettiest actress 
 in London, and Jeemson's almost equal to Toole.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. I was not thinking of the 
 burlesque,' answered Sir Cyprian, hastily.
 
 198 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 Gilbert and his companion were just in front 
 of them. 
 
 * Shall I go and look for your carriage?' asked 
 Mr. Sinclair. 
 
 'If you like,' answered the lady. ' But as you 
 left me to sit out this dreary rubbish by myself all 
 the evening, you might just as well have let me 
 find my way to my carriage.' 
 
 * Don't be angry with me for breaking my 
 engagement. I was obliged to go out shooting with 
 some fellows, and I didn't leave Maidstone till nine 
 o'clock. I think I paid you a considerable compli- 
 ment in travelling thirty miles to hand you to your 
 carriage. No other woman could exact so much 
 from me.' 
 
 ' You are not going back to Davenant to-night ? * 
 
 'No, there is a supper on at the Albion. Lord 
 
 Colsterdale's trainer is to be there, and I expect 
 
 to get a wrinkle or two from him. A simple matter 
 
 of business, I assure you.' 
 
 * Mrs. Walsingham's carriage,' roared the water- 
 man. 
 
 'Mrs. Walsingham,' thought Sir Cyprian, who
 
 SIR CYPRIAN HAS HIS SUSPICIONS. 199 
 
 was squeezed into a corner with his friend, walled 
 up by opera-cloaked shoulders, and within ear-shot 
 of Mr. Sinclair. ' Yes, that's her name.' 
 
 ' That saves you all trouble,' said Mrs. Walsing- 
 ham. ' Can I set you down anywhere ? ' 
 ' No, thanks ; the Albion's close by.' 
 Sir Cyprian struggled out of his corner just in 
 time to see Gilbert shut the broucrham door 
 and walk off through the December drizzle. 
 
 ' So that acquaintance is not a dropped one,' he 
 thought. * It augurs ill for Constance/ 
 
 Three days later he was riding out Bamet way, 
 in a quiet country lane, as rural and remote in 
 aspect as an accommodation road in the shires, when 
 he passed a brougham with a lady in it — Mrs. 
 Walsingham again, and again alone. 
 * This looks like fatality,' he thought. 
 He had been riding Londonwards, but turned his 
 horse and followed the carriage. This solitary drive, 
 on a dull, gray winter day, so far from London^ 
 struck him as curious. There might be nothing 
 really suspicious in the fact. Mrs. Walsingham 
 might have friends in this northern district. But
 
 200 WEAVE KS AND WEFT. "^ 
 
 after what he had seen at the Kaleidoscope, Sir 
 Cyprian was inclined to suspect Mrs. Walsingham. 
 That she still cared for Sinclair he was assured. He 
 had seen her face light up when Gilbert entered the 
 box — he had seen that suppressed anger which is 
 the surest sign of a jealous, exacting love. Whether 
 Gilbert still cared for her was an open question. His 
 meeting her at the theatre might have been a 
 concession to a danoerous woman rather than a 
 spontaneous act of devotion. 
 
 Sir Cyprian followed the brougham into the 
 sequestered village of Totteridge, where it drew up 
 before the garden gate of a neat cottage, with green 
 blinds, and a half-glass door ; a cottage which looked 
 like the abode of a spinster annuitant. 
 
 Here Mrs. Walsingham alighted and went in, 
 opening the half-glass door with the aii- of a person 
 accustomed to enter. 
 
 He rode a little way further, and then walked his 
 horse gently back. The brougham was still stand- 
 ing before the garden gate, and Mrs. Walsingham 
 was walking up and down a gravel path by the 
 side of the house with a woman and a child, a
 
 SIR CYPKUN HAS HIS SUSPICIONS. 201 
 
 • 
 
 child in a scarlet hood, just able to toddle along 
 the path, sustained on each side by a supporting 
 hand. 
 
 'Some poor relation's child, perhaps/ thought 
 Cyprian. * A friendly visit on the lady's part.' 
 
 He had ridden further than he intended, and 
 stopped at the little inn to give his horse a feed of 
 corn and an hour's rest, while he strolled through 
 the village and looked at the old-fashioned church- 
 yard. The retired spot was not without its interest. 
 Yonder was Coppet Hall, the place Lord Melbourne 
 once occupied, and which at a later period passed 
 into the possession of the author of that splendid 
 series of novels which reflect, as in a magic mirror, 
 all the varieties of life from the age of Pliny to the 
 eve of the Franco-Prussian war. 
 
 ' Who lives in that small house with the green 
 blinds ? ' asked Sir Cyprian of the ostler, as he 
 mounted his horse to ride home. 
 
 ' It's been took furnished, sir, by a lady from 
 London, for her nurse and baby.' 
 
 ' Do you know the lady's name ? ' 
 
 * I can't say that I do, sir. They has their beer
 
 202 WEAVEUS AND WEFT. 
 
 • 
 
 from the brewer, and pays ready money for every- 
 think. But I see the lady's brougham go by not 
 above half an hour ago/ 
 
 ' Curious,' thought Sir, Cyprian. ' Mrs. Walsing- 
 ham is not rising in my opinion.'
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 'THEY LITE TOO LONG WHO HAPPINESS OUTLIVE.* 
 
 In accepting Lord Clanyarde's invitation C3rprian 
 Davenant had but one thought, one motive. He 
 wanted to be near Constance. Not to see her. 
 Dear as she still was to him, he had no desire to see 
 her. He knew that such a meetinor could brinor Avith 
 
 o o 
 
 it only bitterness for both. But he wanted to be 
 near her, to ascertain, at once and for ever, the 
 whole unvarnished truth as to her domestic life, the 
 extent of her unhappiness, if she was unhappy. 
 Rumour might exaggerate. Even the practical soli- 
 citor, James Wvatt, might- represent the state of 
 affairs as worse than it was. The human mind leans 
 to vivid colouring, and bold dramatic effect. An 
 iU-used wife and a tyrannical husband present one of 
 those powerful pictures which society contemplates 
 with interest. Society — represented generally by Lord 
 Dundreary— likes to pity, just as it likes to wonder.
 
 204 AVKAVKKS AND ^VEFT. 
 
 At Marchbrook, Sir Cyprian was likely to learn 
 the truth, and to Marchbrook he went, affecting an 
 interest in pheasants, and in Lord Clanyarde's con- 
 versation, which was like a rambling and unrevised 
 edition of the Greville Memoirs, varied with turf 
 reminiscences. 
 
 There was wonderfully tine weather in that 
 second week of December ; clear autumnal days, blue 
 skies and sunny mornings. The pheasants were shy, 
 and after the first day Sir Cyprian left them to their 
 retirement, preferring long lonely rides among the 
 scenes of his boyhood, and haK-hours of friendly chat 
 with ancient gaffers and goodies who remembered his 
 father and mother, and the days when Davenant had 
 still held up its head in the occupation of the old 
 race. 
 
 * This noo gentleman, he do spend a power o' 
 money ; but he'll never be looked up to like old Sir 
 Cyprian,' said a gray-headed village sage, leaning 
 over his gate to tsilk to young Sir Cyprian. 
 
 In one of his rounds Cyprian Davenant looked in 
 upon the abode of Martha Briggs, who was still at 
 home.
 
 ' THEY LIVE TOO LONG WHO HAPPINESS OUTLIVE.' 205 
 
 Her parents were in decent circumstances, and 
 not eager to see their daughter * suited ' with a new 
 service. 
 
 Martha remembered Sir Cyprian as a friend of 
 Mrs. Sinclair's before her marriage. She had seen 
 them out walking together in the days when 
 Constance Clanyarde was still in the nursery : for 
 Lord Clanyarde's youngest daughter had known no 
 middle stage between the nursery and her Majesty's 
 drawing-room. Indeed, Martha had had her own 
 ideas about Sir Cyprian, and had quite made up her 
 mind that Miss Constance would marry him. 
 
 She was therefore disposed to be confidential, and 
 with very slight encouragement told C}^rian all 
 about that sad time at Schonesthal, how her mistress 
 had nursed her through the scarlet fever, and how 
 the sweetest child that ever lived had been drowned, 
 owing to that horrid French girl's carelessness. 
 
 ' It's aU very well to boast of jumping into the 
 river to save the darling,' exclaimed Martha, 'but 
 why did she go and take the precious pet into a 
 dangerous place ? When I had her I could see 
 danger beforehand. I didn't want to be told that a
 
 206 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 hill was steep, or that grass was slippery. I never 
 did like foreigners, and' now I hate them like poison,* 
 cried Miss Briggs, as if under the impression that 
 the whole continent of Europe was implicated in 
 Baby Christabel's death. 
 
 ' It must have been a great grief to Mrs. Sinclair/ 
 said Sir Cyprian. 
 
 ' Ah, poor dear, she'll never hold up her head 
 again,' sighed Martha. ' I saw her in church last 
 Sunday, in the beautifullest black bonnet, and if ever 
 I saw any one going to heaven it's her. And Mr. 
 Sinclair will have a lot of company, and there are 
 all the windows at Davenant blazing with light till 
 past twelve o'clock every night — my cousin James 
 is a pointsman on the South-Eastern, and sees the 
 house from the line — while that poor sweet lady is 
 breaking her heart.' 
 
 ' But surely Mr. Sinclair would defer to his wife in 
 these things ? ' suggested Sir Cyprian. 
 
 * Not he, sir. For the last twelve months that I 
 was with my dear lady I seldom heard him say a 
 kind word to Ulm'. Always snarling and sneering 
 I do believe he was jealous of that precious innocent
 
 ' THEY LIVE TOO LONG WHO HAPPINESS OUTLIVE.' 207 
 
 because Mrs. Sinclair was so fond of her. I'm sure 
 if it hadn't been 'for that dear baby my mistress 
 would have been a miserable woman/ 
 
 This was a bad hearing, and Sir Cyprian went 
 back to Marchbrook that evening sorely depressed. 
 
 He had declined to visit Davenant with Lord 
 Clanyarde, owning frankly that there was no friendly 
 feeling between Gilbert Sinclair and himself Lord 
 Clanyarde perfectly understood the state of the case, 
 but affected to be supremely ignorant. He was a 
 gentleman whose philosophy was to take things easy. 
 Not to disturb Camerina, or any other social lake 
 beneath whose tranquil water there might lurk a 
 foul and muddy bottom, was a principle with Lord 
 Clanyarde. But the nobleman, though philosophic 
 and easy tempered, was not without a heart. There 
 was a strain of humanity in the sybarite and world- 
 ling, and when, at a great dinner at Davenant, he 
 saw the impress of a broken heart upon the statu- 
 esque beauty of his daughter's face, he was touched 
 with pity and alarm. To sell his daughter to the 
 highest bidder had not seemed to him in any wise a 
 crime; but he would not have sold her to age or
 
 208 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 deformity, or to a man of notoriously evil life. Gilbert 
 Sinclair had appeared to him a very fair sample of 
 the average young Englishman. Not stainless, 
 perhaps. Lord Clanyarde did not inquire too closely 
 into details. The suitor was good-looking, good- 
 natured, open-handed, and rich. What more could 
 any dowerless young woman require ? 
 
 Thus had Lord Clanyarde reasoned with himself 
 when he hurried on his youngest daughter's mar- 
 riage ; and, having secured for her this handsome 
 establishment, he had given himself no further 
 concern about her destiny. No daughter of the 
 house of Clanyarde had ever appeared in the 
 divorce court. Constance was a girl of high 
 principles — always went to church on saints' days, 
 abstained in Lent, and would be sure to go on 
 all right. 
 
 But at Davenant, on this particular evening. 
 Lord Clanyarde saw a change in his daughter that 
 chilled his heart. He talked to her, and she an- 
 swered him absently, with the air of one who only 
 half understands. Surely this argued something 
 more than grief for her dead child.
 
 * THEY LITE TOO LONG VmO HAPPINESS OL'TLIYE.' 209 
 
 He spoke to Gilbert Sinclair, and gave frank 
 utterance to his alarm. 
 
 ' Yes, she is very low-spirited/ answered Gilbert, 
 carelessly, 'still fretting for the little girl. I thought 
 it would cheer her to have people about her — pre- 
 vent her dwelling too much upon that unfortunate 
 event. But I really think she gets worse. It's 
 rather hard upon me. I didn't many to be miser- 
 able.' 
 
 * Have you had a medical opinion about her ? ' 
 asked Lord Clanyarde, anxiously. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, she has her own doctor. The little old 
 man who used to attend her at Marchbrook. She 
 prefers him to any other doctor, and he knows her 
 constitution, no doubt. He prescribes tonics, and so 
 on, and recommends change of scene by and by, 
 when she gets a little stronger ; but my own opinion 
 is that if she would only make an effort, and not 
 brood upon the past, she'd soon get round again. 
 Oh, by the way, I hear you have Sir Cyprian 
 Davenant staying with you.' 
 
 * Yes, he has come down to shoot some of my 
 pheasants.' 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 * I didn't know you and he were so thick/ 
 
 * I have known him ever since he was a boy, and 
 knew his father before him.' 
 
 'I wonder, as your estates joined, you did not 
 knock up a match between him and Constance.' 
 
 * That wouldn't have been much good, as he 
 couldn't keep his estate.' 
 
 'No. It's a pity that old man in Lincoln- 
 shire didn't take it into liis head to die a little 
 sooner.* 
 
 ' I find no fault with destiny for giving me you 
 as a son-in-law, and I hope you are not tired of the 
 position,' said Lord Clanyarde, with a look that 
 showed Gilbert he must pursue his insinuations no 
 further. 
 
 Lord Clanyarde went home and told Sir Cyprian 
 what he had seen, and his fears about Constance. 
 He reproached himself bitterly for his share in 
 bringing about the marriage, being all the more 
 induced to regret that act now that change of fortune 
 had made Cyprian Davenant almost as good a match 
 as Gilbert Sinclair. 
 
 * How short-sighted we mortals are ! ' thought the
 
 * THEY LIVE TOO LONG WHO HAPPINESS OUTLIVE.' 211 
 
 anxious father. ' I did not even know that Cyprian 
 had a rich bachelor uncle.' 
 
 Sir Cyprian heard Lord Clanyarde's account in 
 grave silence. 
 
 * What do you mean to do ? ' he asked. 
 
 * What can I do ? Poor child, she is alone, and 
 must bear her burden unaided. I cannot come 
 between her and her husband. It would take very 
 little to make me quarrel with Sinclair, and then 
 where should we be ? If she had a mother living it 
 would be different.' 
 
 ' She has sisters,' suggested Cyprian. 
 
 * Yes, women who are absorbed by the care of 
 their own faDiilies, and who would not go very far 
 out of their way to help her. With pragmatical 
 husbands, too, who would make no end of 
 mischief if they were allowed to interfere. No, 
 we must not make a family row of the business. 
 After all, there is no specific ground for complaint. 
 She does not complain, poor child. I'U go to 
 Davenant early to-morrow and see her alone. 
 Perhaps I can persuade her to be frank -svdth 
 me.'
 
 212 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' You might see the doctor, and hear his account 
 of her/ said Cyprian. 
 
 * Yes, by the way, little Dr. Webb, who attended 
 my girls from their cradles. An excellent little man. 
 I'll send for him to-morrow and consult him about 
 my ^cheumatism. He must know a good deal about 
 my poor child.' 
 
 Lord Clanyarde was with his daughter soon 
 after breakfast next morning. He found her in that 
 pretty old-fashioned apartment called the balcony 
 room, which had been Christabel's day nursery, 
 and which had a door of communication with Mrs. 
 Sinclair's dressing-room. It was the end of the 
 north wing, and was overlooked by the window of 
 Gilbert's study — study par excellence — but dressing 
 room and gunnery in fact. 
 
 Constance received her father with affection, 
 but he could not win her confidence. It might be 
 that she had nothing to confide. She made no 
 complaint against her husband. 
 
 ' Why do I find you sitting here alone, Con- 
 stance, while the house is full of cheerful people ? * 
 asked Lord Clanyarde. ' I heard the biUiard
 
 *THEY LIVE TOO LONG WHO HAPPINESS OUTLIVE.' 213 
 
 balls going as I came through the hall, early 
 as it is.' 
 
 ' Gilbert likes company and I do not/ answered 
 Constance, quietly. • We each take our o\\ti way.* 
 
 'That does not sound like a happy union, pet,' 
 said her father. 
 
 'Did you expect me to be happy — with Gilbert 
 Sinclair ? ' 
 
 *Yes, my love, or I would never have asked 
 you to marry him. No, Constance. Of course it 
 was an understood thing with me that you must 
 marry well, as your sisters had done before you ; 
 but I meant you to marry a man who would make 
 you happy ; and if I find that Sinclau' ill-uses you, 
 or slights you, egad, he shall have no easy reckon- 
 ing with me.' 
 
 'My dear father, pray be calm. He is very 
 good to me. I have never complained — I never 
 shall complain. I try to do my duty, for I know 
 that I have done him a wrong, for which a life of 
 duty and obedience can hardly atone.' 
 
 'Wronged him, child! How have you wronged 
 him?'
 
 214 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' By marrying him when my heart was given to 
 another/ 
 
 ' Nonsense, pet ; a mere school-girl penchant. If 
 that kind of thing were to count, there's hardly a 
 wife living who has not wronged her husband. 
 Every romantic girl begins by falling in love with 
 a detrimental ; but the memory of that juvenile 
 attachment has no more influence on her married 
 Kfe than the recollection of her favourite doll. 
 You must get such silly notions out of your head. 
 And you should try to be a little more lively, and 
 join in Sinclair's amusements. No man likes a 
 gloomy wife. And remember, love, the past is 
 past — no tears can bring back our losses. If they 
 could, hope would prevent our crying, as some- 
 body judiciously observes.' 
 
 Constance sighed and was silent, whereupon 
 Lord Clanyarde embraced his daughter tenderly 
 and departed, feeling that he had done his duty. 
 She was much depressed, poot child, but no doubt 
 time would set things right; and as to Sinclair's 
 maltreating her, that was out of the question. No 
 man above the working-classes ill-uses his wife
 
 ' THEY LIVE TOO LONG VTRO HAPPINESS OUTLRT:.' 215 
 
 now-a-days. Lord Clanyarde made quite light of 
 his daughter's troubles when he met Sir Cyprian 
 at lunch. Sinclair was a good fellow enough at 
 bottom, he assured Sir Cyprian; a little too fond 
 of pleasure, perhaps, but with no harm in him, 
 and Constance was inclined to make rather too 
 much fuss about the loss of her little sirl. 
 
 Sir Cyprian heard this change of tone in silence, 
 and was not convinced. He contrived to see Dr. 
 Webb, the Maidstone surgeon, that afternoon. He 
 remembered the good-natured little doctor as his 
 attendant in many a childish ailment, and was 
 not afraid of asking him a question or two. From 
 him he heard a very bad account of Constance 
 Sinclair. Dr. Webb professed himself fairly baffled. 
 There was no bodily ailment, except want of 
 strength ; but there was a settled melancholy, a 
 deep and growing depression for which medicine 
 was of no avail. 
 
 'You'U ask why I don't propose getting a 
 better opinion than my own,' said Dr. Webb, 'and 
 I'll tell you why. I might call in half the great 
 men in London and be no wiser than I am now.
 
 216 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. 
 
 They would only make Mrs. Sinclair more nervous^ 
 and she is very nervous already. I am a faithful 
 watch-dog, and at the first indication of danger I 
 shall take measures.' 
 
 * You don't apprehend any danger to the mind ? ' 
 asked Sir Cyprian, anxiously. 
 
 * There is no immediate cause for fear. But if 
 this melancholy continues, if the nervousness in- 
 creases, I cannot answer for the result.' 
 
 ' You have told Mr. Sinclair as much as this ? ' 
 
 'Yes, I have spoken to him very frankly.' 
 
 It would have been difficult to imagine a life 
 
 more solitary than that which Constance Sinclair 
 
 contrived to lead in a house full of guests. For 
 
 the first two or three weeks she had bravely tried 
 
 to sustain her part as hostess ; she had pretended 
 
 to be amused by the amusements of others, or, 
 
 when unable to support even that poor simulation, 
 
 had sat at her embroidery frame, and given the 
 
 j^race of her presence to the assembly. But now 
 
 she was fain to hide herself all day long in her 
 
 own rooms, or to walk alone in the fine old park 
 
 restricting her public appearance to the evening
 
 ' THEY LIVE TOO LONG WHO HAPPINESS OUTLIVE.' 217 
 
 when she took her place at the head of the dinner 
 table, and endured the frivolities of the drawing- 
 room after dinner. 
 
 Gilbert secretly resented this withdrawal, and 
 refused to believe that the death of Baby Christabel 
 was his wife's sole cause of grief. There was 
 something deeper — a sorrow for the past — a regret 
 that was intensified by Sir Cyprian's presence in 
 the neighbourhood. 
 
 'She knows of his being at Marchbrook, of 
 course,' Gilbert told himself. 'How do I know 
 they have not met ? She lives her own life, almost 
 as much apart from me as if we were in separate 
 houses. She has had time and opportunity for 
 seeing him, and in all probability he is at March - 
 brook only for the sake of being near her.' 
 
 But Sir Cyprian had been at March brook a 
 week, and had not seen Constance Sinclair. How 
 the place would have reminded him of her, had 
 not her image been always present with him in 
 allj times and places ! Every grove and meadow 
 had its memory, every change in the fair pastoral 
 landscape its bitter-sweet association.
 
 218 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 Marchbrook and Davenant were divided in 
 some parts by an eight-foot wall, in others by an 
 oak fence. The Davenant side of the land adjoin- 
 ing Marchbrook was copse and wilderness, which 
 served as covert for game. The Marchbrook side was 
 a wide stretch of turf, which Lord Clanyarde let 
 off as grazing land to one of his tenants. A railed 
 in plantation here and there supported the fiction 
 that this meadow land was a park, and for his 
 own part Lord Clanyarde declared that he would 
 just as soon look at oxen as at deer. 
 
 The only estimable feature of Marchbrook Park 
 was its avenues. One of these, known as the 
 Monk's Avenue, and supposed to have been planted 
 in the days when Marchbrook was a Benedictine 
 monastery, was a noble arcade of tall elms, planted 
 a hundred feet apart, with a grassy road between 
 them. The monastery had long vanished, leaving 
 not a wrack behind, and the avenue now led only 
 from wall to wall. The owners of Davenant had 
 built a classic temple, or summer-house, at the end 
 of this avenue, close against the boundary wall 
 between the two estates, in order to secure the
 
 ' THEY LIVE TOO LONG WHO HAPPINESS OUTLIVE.' 219 
 
 enjoyment of this vista, as it was called in the 
 days of Horace Walpole. The windows of the 
 summer-house looked do^vn the wide avenue to the 
 high road, a distance of a little more than a quarter 
 of a mile. 
 
 This summer-house had always been a favourite 
 resort of Mrs. Sinclair's. It overlooked the home 
 of her youth, and she liked it on that account, for 
 although Davenant was by far the more beautiful 
 estate, she loved Marchbrook best.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ' GRIEF FILLS THE ROOM UP OF MY ABSENT CHILD.' 
 
 Sir Cyprian had told himself that, in coining to 
 Marchbrook, nothing was further from his thoughts 
 than the desire to see Constance Sinclair ; yet now 
 that he was so near her, now that he was assured 
 of her unhappiness, the yearning for one brief 
 meeting, one look into the sweet eyes, one pressure 
 of the gentle hand that used to lie so trustingly in 
 his own, grew upon him hourly, until he felt that 
 he could not leave Marchbrook without having seen 
 her. No motive, no thought that could have 
 shadowed the purity of Gilbert Sinclair's wife, had 
 his soul's desire been published to the world, blended 
 with this yearning of Sir Cyprian's. Deepest pity 
 and compassion moved him. Such sorrow, such 
 loneliness as Constance Sinclair's were sacred to 
 the man who had loved and surrendered Constance 
 Clanyarde.
 
 * GRIEF FILLS THE ROOM UP OF MY ABSENT CHILD.' 221 
 
 Sir Cyprian lingered at Marclibrook, and spent 
 the greater part of his days in riding or walking 
 over familiar ground. He was too much out of 
 spirits to join Lord Clanyarde in the slaughter of 
 innocent birds, and was not a little bored by that 
 frivolous old gentleman's society in the winter 
 evenings by the fire in the comfortable bachelor 
 smoking-room — the one really snug apartment in 
 that great bare house. Every night Sir Cyprian 
 made up his mind to depart next morning; yet 
 when morning came he still lingered. 
 
 One bright bleak day, when there were flying 
 snowstorms and intervals of sun and blue sky, Sir 
 Cyprian — having actually packed his portmanteau 
 and made arrangements for being driven to the 
 station to catch an afternoon train — took a final 
 ramble in Marchbrook Park. He had not once put 
 his foot on the soil that had been his, but he could 
 get a peep at the old place across the fence. There 
 was a melancholy pleasure in looking at those wintry 
 glades, the young fir trees, the scudding rabbits, the 
 screaming pheasants, the withered bracken. 
 
 The sun had been shining a few minutes ago.
 
 222 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 Down came the snow in a tliick driving shower, 
 almost blinding Sir Cyprian, as he walked swiftly 
 along by the oak fence. Presently he found himself 
 at the end of the Monk's Avenue, and under that 
 classic temple which was said to be built upon the 
 very spot where the Benedictines once had their 
 chapel. 
 
 Ten years ago that temple had been Cyprian 
 Davenant's summer retreat. He had made it his 
 smoking-room and study— had read Thucydides and 
 the Greek dramatists there in the long vacation — 
 had there read those books of modern travel which 
 had fired his mind with a longing for the adventures, 
 perils, and triumphs of the African explorer. Twenty 
 years ago it had been his mother's chosen resort. 
 He had spent many a summer morning, many a 
 pensive twilight there, by his mother's side, watching 
 her sketch or hearing her play. The old-fashioned 
 square piano was there still, perhaps, and the old 
 engravings on the walls. 
 
 'Poor old place,' he thought, * I wonder if any one 
 ever goes there now, or if it is quite given up to bats 
 and owls, and the spirits of the dead ? '
 
 * GRIEF FILLS THE ROOM UP OF MY ABSENT CHILD.' 223 
 
 He stopped under the stone balcony which over- 
 hung Marchbrook, on a level with the eight-foot 
 wall. In Gilbert Sinclair's — or his architect's — plan 
 of improvements, this classic summer house, a relic 
 of a departed taste, had been forgotten. Sir Cyprian 
 was glad to find it unchanged, unchanged in any 
 wise, save that it had a more forlorn and neglected 
 air than of old. The stonework of the balcony was 
 green and gray with mosses and lichens. The frame- 
 work of the window had not been painted for a 
 quarter of a century. The ivy had wandered as 
 it listed over brickwork and stone, darting sharp 
 forked tongues of green into the crevices of the 
 decaying mortar. Sir Cyprian looked up at the 
 weU-remembered window, full of thoughts of the 
 past. 
 
 * Does she ever come here, I wonder ? ' he said to 
 himself; 'or do they use the old place for a tool- 
 house or an apple shed ? ' 
 
 Hardly, for there fell upon his ear a few bars of 
 plaintive symphony, played on a piano of ancient 
 tone — the pensive Broadwood dear to his childhood > 
 — and then a voice, the pure and sweet contralto he
 
 224 WEAVERS AND VfEYT. 
 
 knew too well, began Lord Houghton's pathetic 
 ballad, * Strangers yet.* 
 
 He listened as if he lived but to hear. Oh, what 
 profound melancholy there was in that voice, pouring 
 out its sweetness to the silent walls ! Regret, remorse, 
 sorrow too great for common language to express, 
 were breathed in that flood of melody. And when 
 the song was done the singer's hands fell on the 
 keys in a crashing chord ; and a wild cry— the sudden 
 utterance of uncontrollable despair — went up to 
 heaven. 
 
 She was there — so near him — alone in her 
 anguish. She, the only woman he had ever truly 
 loved, the woman for whom he would have given his 
 life as freely as he would have spilled a cup of water 
 upon the ground, and with as little thought of the 
 sacrifice. 
 
 The lower edge of the balcony was within reach 
 of his hand. The century-old ivy would have afforded 
 easy footing for a less skilled athlete. To climb the 
 ascent was simple as to mount the rigging of his 
 yacht. 
 
 lu a minute, before he had time to think, he was
 
 ' ORIEF FILLS THE ROOM UP OF MY ABSENT CHILD.' 225 
 
 in the balcony, he had opened the French window, 
 he was standing in the room ! 
 
 Constance Sinclair sat by the piano, her arms 
 folded on the old mahogany lid. her drooping head 
 resting on her arms, her face hidden. She was too 
 deeply lost in that agony of hopeless grief to hear 
 the rattling of the frail casement, the footstep on the 
 floor. 
 
 'Constance!' 
 
 She started up and confronted him, pale as ashes, 
 with a smothered scream. 
 
 ' My dearest, I heard your grief I could not keep 
 away. Only for a few minutes, Constance; only for 
 a few words, and I will leave you. Oh, my love, 
 how changed, how changed I ' 
 
 A flood of crimson rushed into the pale face, and 
 as quickly faded. Then she gave him her hand, with 
 an innocent frankness that went to his heart, so like 
 the Constance of old — the pure and perfect t)^e of 
 girlhood that knows not sin. 
 
 * I do not mind you hearing me in my sorrow,' 
 she said, sadly. ' I come here because I feel myself 
 away from all the world. At the hou^je servants 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 come to my room with messages, and worry me. 
 Would I like this ? Will I do the other ? What 
 carriage will I drive in ? at what time ? A hundred 
 questions that are so tiresome when one is tired of 
 life. Here I can lock my door, and feel as much 
 alone as in a desert.' 
 
 * But, dear INIrs. Sinclair, it is not good for you to 
 abandon yourself to such grief.' 
 
 * How can I help it ? " Grief fills the room up of 
 my absent child ! " ' with a sad smile. ' You heard of 
 my loss, did you not ? The darling who made life 
 so bright for me — snatched away in a moment — not 
 one hour's warning. I woke that morning a proud 
 
 and happy mother, and at night ! Xo, no one 
 
 can imagine such a grief as that.' 
 
 * I have heard the sad story. But be sure Heaven 
 will send comfort — new hopes ' 
 
 'Don't talk to me like that. Oh, if you knew 
 how I have had Heaven and the Bible thrown at 
 my head — by people who talk by rote. I can read 
 my Bible. I read of David and his great despair, how 
 he turned his face to the wall, how he wept again 
 for Absalom ; and of the Shunamiiiite woman who
 
 'GRIEF FILLS THE ROOM UP OF MY ABSENT CHILD.' 227 
 
 said, " It is well ; " but David had many children, and 
 the Shunammite's child was given back to her. God 
 will not give my darling back to me.' 
 
 * He will — in heaven.' 
 
 ' But my heart is breaking for want of her here. 
 She will be an angel before the throne of God — not 
 my Christabel. I want my darUng as she was on 
 earth, with her soft clinging arms — not always good 
 — naughty sometimes, but always dearer than my 
 life.' 
 
 What could Sir C}^rian say to comfort this 
 bereaved heart ? He could only sit down quietly 
 by Constance Sinclair's side, and win her to talk of 
 her sorrow, far more freely and confidingly than she 
 had talked to her father ; and this he felt was some- 
 thing gained. There was comfort in this free speech 
 — comfort in pouring her sorrow into the ear of a 
 friend who could verily sympathize. 
 
 ' Dear Mrs. Sinclair,' said Sir Cyprian, gravely, 
 when he had allowed her to tell the story of her 
 bereavement, * as a very old friend — one who has 
 your welfare deep at heart — I must entreat you to 
 struggle against this aborbing grief. I have seen
 
 22S WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 13r. Webb, and he assures me that unless you make 
 an effort to overcome this melancholy your mind as 
 well as your body will suffer. Yes, Constance, 
 reason itself may give way under the burden you 
 impose upon it. Perhaps no one else would have the 
 courage to speak to you so plainly, but I venture to 
 speak as a brother might to a fondly loved sister. 
 This may be our last meeting ; for I shall go back 
 to Africa as soon as I can get my party together 
 again. You will try, dear friend, will you not, for 
 my sake — for the sake of your husband ' 
 
 ' My husband ' ' she exclaimed, with a shudder. 
 * He has billiards, and guns, and race-horses, and 
 friends without number. What can it matter to 
 him that I grieve for my child ? Somebody had 
 need be sorry. He does not care.' 
 
 ' Constance, it would matter very much to your 
 father, to all who have ever loved you, to yourself 
 most of all, if you should end your life in a lanatic 
 asylum.' 
 
 This startled her, and she looked up at him 
 earnestly. 
 
 ' Unreasonable grief sometimes leads to madness.
 
 ' GRIEF FILLS THE ROOM UP OF MY ABSENT CHILD.' 229 
 
 Despair is rebellion against God. If the Shunammite 
 in that dark day could say, " It shall be weU," shall a 
 Christian have less patience — a Christian Tvho has 
 been taught that those who mourn are blessed, and 
 shall be comforted ? Yes, Constance, they shall be 
 comforted. Have faith in that divine promise, and 
 all will be well.' 
 
 ' I will try,' she answered, gently. ' It is very 
 good of you to reason with me. Xo one else has 
 spoken so frankly. They have only talked platitudes, 
 and begged me to divert my mind. As if acted 
 charades, or billiards, or bezique could fill up the gap 
 in my life. Are you reaUy going to Africa very soon ? 
 
 ' Early in the new year, perhaps ; but I shall 
 not go till I have heard from some reliable source 
 that you are happy.' 
 
 ' You must not wait for that. I shall never know 
 happiness again in this world. At most I can but 
 trv^ to bear my lot patiently, and put on cheerful 
 looks. I shall try to do that, believe me. Your 
 lesson shall not be wasted. And now, I suppose, we 
 must say good-bye,' looking at her watch. ' It is time 
 for me to go back to the house.'
 
 230 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' I will not detain you, but before I go I must 
 apologize for my burglarious entrance by that win- 
 dow. I hope I did not frighten you.' 
 
 * I was only startled. It seemed almost a natural 
 thing to see you here. I remember how fond you 
 were of this summer-house when I was a child. I 
 have so often seen you sitting in that window 
 smoking and reading.' 
 
 ' Yes, I have spent many an hour here puzzling 
 over the choruses in " Prometheus," and I have looked 
 up from my book to see you scamper by on your 
 pony.' 
 
 * Pepper, the gray one,' cried Constance, absolutely 
 smiling ; ' such a dear pony ! We used to feed him 
 with bread and apples every morning. Ah, what 
 happy days those were !' 
 
 It touched him to the core of his heart to see 
 the old girlish look come back in all its brightness. 
 But it was only a transient gleam of the old light, 
 which left a deeper sadness when it faded. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Constance,' he said, taking both her 
 hands. ' I may call you that for the last time.' 
 
 * Yes, and when you are in Africa — in another
 
 ' GRIEF FILLS THE ROOM UP OF MY ABSENT CHILD.' 231 
 
 world, far from all the false pretences and sham 
 pleasures that make up life in this — think of me as 
 Constance, the Constance you knew in the days that 
 are gone — not as Gilbert Sinclair's wife.' 
 
 He bent his head over the unresisting hands and 
 kissed them. 
 
 * God bless you and comfort you, my Constance,' 
 he said gravely, ' and give you as much happiness 
 as I lost when I made up my mind to live without 
 you.' 
 
 He opened the window, and swung himself lightly 
 down from the balcony to the turf below.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A BALCONY SCENE. 
 
 Gilbert Sinclair and his chosen set — the half- 
 dozen turfy gentlemen with whom he was united by 
 the closest bonds of sympathy — had] spent this 
 December morning agreeably enough at a rustic 
 steeplechase nine miles from Davenant. The race 
 was an event of the most insignificant order — 
 unchronicled in Euff, — but there was pleasu^ in the 
 drive to and fro on Mr, Sinclair's drag, through the 
 keen frosty air, with an occasional diversion in the 
 shape of a flying snowstorm, which whitened the 
 men's rough overcoats, and hung on their beards and 
 whiskers. 
 
 Just at the hour in which Sir Cyprian and 
 Constance were bidding each other a long good-bye, 
 Mr. Sinclair was driving his sorrel team back to 
 Davenant at a slashing pace. He and his friends had 
 enjoyed themselves very thoroughly at the homely
 
 A BALCONY SCENE. 233 
 
 farmers' meeting. The sharp north wind had given 
 a keen edge to somewhat jaded appetites, and game 
 pie, anchov}' sandwiches, cold grouse, and boar's 
 head had been duly appreciated, \vith an ad libitum 
 accompaniment of dry champagne, bitter beer, and 
 Copenhagen Kirschen Wasser, 
 
 The gentlemen's spirits had been improved by 
 the morning's sport, and the homeward drive was 
 hilarious. It was now between three and four o'clock. 
 There would be time for a quiet smoke, or a game at 
 pyramids, «ind a fresh toilet before afternoon tea, 
 opined such of the gentlemen as still held by that 
 almost exploded superstition, a taste for lacUes' 
 society. The more masculine spirits preferred to 
 smoke their Trabucas or Infantas by the harness- 
 room fire, with the chance of getting the " straight 
 tip " out of somebody else's groom. 
 
 James Wyatt was the only member of the party 
 whose spirits were not somewhat unduly elated ; but 
 then Mr. Wyatt was an outsider, only admitted on 
 sufferance into that chosen band, as a fellow who 
 might be useful on an emergency, and whom it was 
 well to " square " by an occasional burst of civility.
 
 234 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 He was one of those dangerous men who are always 
 sober, and who find out everj^body else's weak points, 
 without ever revealing their own. He was Sinclair's 
 amc damiiee, however, and one must put up with 
 him. 
 
 Gilbert was driving, with Sir Thomas Houndslow, 
 a gentleman of turf celebrity, and late captain of a 
 cavalry regiment, next him, smoking furiously, 
 while ]\Ir. Wyatt sat behind the two, and joined 
 freely in the conversation, which inclined to the 
 boisterous. How calm that smooth, level voice of his 
 sounded after the strident tones of his companions, 
 thickened ever so slightly by champagne and Kirschen 
 Wasser ! 
 
 The chief talk was of horses — the sorrels Gilbert 
 was now driving — the horses they had seen that 
 morning — with an inexhaustible series of anecdotes 
 about horses that had been bought and sold, and bred, 
 and exchanged, including the story of a rheumatic 
 horse, which was a splendid goer in his interval of 
 good health, and was periodically sold by his owner, 
 and taken back again at half-price when the fit came 
 
 OIL
 
 A BALCONY SCENE. 235 
 
 James Wyatt admired the landscape, an en- 
 thusiasm which his companions looked down upon 
 contemptuously from the serene height of a stolid 
 indifference to art and nature. 
 
 ' There's a glade ! ' cried the solicitor, pointing to 
 an opening in the undulating woodland, where 
 the snow-wreathed trees were like a picture of 
 fairyland. 
 
 ' Pretty tidy timber,' assented Sir Thomas Hound s- 
 low, ' but for my part I could never see anything in 
 trees to go into raptures about, except when you've 
 sold 'em to a timber merchant. Shouldn't like to see 
 cremation come into fashion, by-the-by. It would 
 spoil the cof&n trade and depreciate the value of my 
 elms and oaks.' 
 
 As they approached Marchbrook, Mr. Wyatt 
 began to talk about the Benedictines and their 
 vanished monastery. He had found out all about it 
 in the county history, its founder, the extent of its 
 lands, the character of its architecture. 
 
 ' That avenue must be six hundred years old,' he 
 said as they came in sight of the tall elms. 
 
 ' By Jove, that's queer,' cried Sir Thomas, pulling
 
 236 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 out liis race-glass. 'A fellow jumped out of that 
 balcony like Romeo in the play.' 
 
 'Except that Romeo never scaled the balcony,' 
 said Mr. Wyatt. 
 
 * That summer house is in your park, isn't it, 
 Gilbert ? Our friend's mode of exit suggests a flirta- 
 tion between one of your guests and somebody at 
 Marchbrook.' 
 
 ' There's nobody at Marchbrook but old Clanyarde 
 and Sir Cyprian Davenant/ said Sir Thomas, ' and 
 I'll lay any odds you like it wasn't Lord Clanyarde 
 jumped off that balcony. 
 
 Gilbert took the glass from his friend's hand 
 without a word. The man who had jumped off the 
 balcony was still in sight, walking at a leisurely pace 
 along the wide alley of turf between the two rows of 
 trees. The glass brought him near enough for recog- 
 nition, and Mr. Sinclair had no doubt as to his 
 identity. 
 
 * If you lay on to those leaders like that, you'll 
 have this blessed machine in a ditch,' cried Sir 
 Thomas Houndslow. ' What's the matter with you ? 
 The horses are stepping like clockwork.'
 
 A BALCONY SCENE. 237 
 
 ' Juno was breaking into a canter,' said Gilbert, 
 colouring. * Quiet, old lady, steady, steady.' 
 
 ' She's steady enough,' said Sir Thomas, ' I think 
 it's you that are wild. Memorandum, don't drink 
 Kirschen Wasser after champagne when you're 
 going to drive a team of young horses.' 
 
 Mr. Sinclair took the curve by the park gates in 
 excellent style, despite this insinuation, and pulled 
 up before the old Gothic porch with workmanlike 
 precision. 
 
 ' That's a very pretty bit of feather-edging,' said 
 Sir Thomas, approvingly. 
 
 Gilbert did not wait to see his friends alight, but 
 flung the reins to one of the grooms, and walked oft' 
 without a word to any one. 
 
 He was at the summer-house ten minutes after- 
 wards flushed and breathless, having run all the way. 
 A flight of stone steps, moss-grown and broken, led 
 up to the door of the temple. 
 
 Gilbert Sinclair tried the door, and found it 
 locked. 
 
 ' Is there any one in here ? ' he asked, shaking 
 the crazy old door savagely.
 
 238 WKAVEKS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' Who is that ? ' inquired Constance. 
 
 * Your husband.' 
 
 He heard her light footsteps coming towards the 
 door. She opened it, and faced him on the 
 threshold, with neither surprise nor fear in her calm, 
 questioning face. 
 
 ' Is there anything the matter, Gilbert ? Am I 
 wanted?' 
 
 * There is not much the matter, and I don't know 
 that you are wanted in my house,' answered her 
 husband, savagely. * It seems to me that your voca- 
 tion is elsewhere." 
 
 His flushed face, the angry light in his red-brown 
 eyes, told her that there was meaning in his reply, 
 incomprehensible as it seemed. 
 
 'I don't understand you, Gilbert. What has 
 happened to make you angry ? ' 
 
 * Not much, perhaps. It's bad form to make a 
 fuss about it. But I am vulgar enough to think that 
 when my wife plays Juliet to somebody else's Eomeo 
 it is time she should call herself by some other uaDie 
 than mine — which she disgraces. I admire the inno- 
 cence of your astonished look. Unfortunately tliat
 
 A BALCONY SCENE. 239 
 
 piece of finished acting is thrown away upon me. I 
 saw your lover leave you.' 
 
 ' Mr. Sinclair ! ' with a look of unspeakable indig- 
 nation. 
 
 ' Yes, your gentle Eomeo forgot that this summer- 
 house is seen from the high road. I saw him, I tell 
 you, woman — I saw him leap down from the balcony 
 — identified him with my field glass — not that I had 
 any doubt who jouy visitor was.' 
 
 * I am sorry that you should be so angry at my 
 seeing an old friend for a few minutes, Gilbert ; and 
 that you should make so very innocent an act an 
 excuse for insulting me.' 
 
 ' An old friend — a friend whom you meet clandes- 
 tinely — in an out-of-the-way corner of the park — 
 with locked doors.' 
 
 ' I have spent all my mornings here of late. I 
 lock my door in order to be undisturbed, so that 
 anybody happening to come this way may believe 
 the summer-house empty.' 
 
 'Any one except Sir Cyprian Davenant. He 
 would know better.' 
 
 ' Sir Cyprian's presence here to-day was ilie
 
 240 WKAVEHS AXD WEFT. 
 
 merest acuideut. He heard me singing, and climbed 
 up to the balcony to say a few kind words about my 
 bereavement, which he knows to be the one absorb- 
 ing thought of my mind just now. No friend, no 
 brother, could have come with kinder or purer 
 meaning. He gave me good advice, he warned me 
 that there was selfishness and folly in giving way to 
 sorrow. Not one word was spoken which you might 
 not have freely heard, Gilbert, which you would not 
 have approved.' 
 
 * Could any woman in your position say less ? 
 You all sing the same song. Once having made up 
 your mind to betray your husband the rest is a 
 matter of detail, and there is a miserable sameness 
 in the details. Do you think anything you can say 
 — oaths, tears — will ever convince me that you did 
 not come here on purpose to meet that man, or that 
 he came here to preach you a sermon upon your duty 
 to me ? ' 
 
 * Gilbert, as I stand here, before God who sees 
 and hears me, I have told you the truth ! We have 
 made a sad mistake in marrying ; there are few 
 things in which we sympathize; even our great
 
 A BALCONY SCENE. 241 
 
 sorrow has not brought us nearer together ; hut if 
 you will only be patient, if you will be kind and true 
 to me, I will still try, even more earnestly than I 
 have done yet, to make you a good wife, to make 
 your home life happy/ 
 
 She came to him with a sad, sweet smile, and laid 
 her hand gently on his shoulder, looking up at him 
 with earnest eyes, full of truth and purity, could he 
 but have understood their meaning. 
 
 Alas ! to his dogged, brutal nature, purity like this 
 was incomprehensible. Facts were against his wife, 
 and he had no belief in her to sustain him against 
 the facts. The lion of fable might recognise Una's 
 purity and lie down at her feet ; but Gilbert Sinclair 
 was a good deal more like the lion of reality, a by no 
 means magnanimous beast, who waits till he can 
 pounce upon his enemy alone in a solitary corner, 
 and has a prudent dread of numbers. 
 
 As the little hand alighted tremulously on his 
 breast Gilbert Sinclair raised his clenched fist. 
 
 *Let me alone,' he cried. 'You've made your 
 choice. Stick to it, ' 
 
 And then came a word which had never before 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 been spoken in Constance Sinclair's hearing, but 
 which some instinct of her woman's heart told her 
 meant deepest infamy. 
 
 She recoiled from him with a little cry, and then 
 fell like a log at his feet. 
 
 Lest that brutal word should too weakly express 
 an outraged husband's wrath, Mr. Sinclair had empha- 
 sized it with a blow. That muscular fist of his, 
 trained in many an encounter with professors of the 
 noble art of self-defence, had been driven straight at 
 his wife's forehead, and nothing but the man's blind 
 fury had prevented the blow being mortal. 
 
 In intention, at least, he had been for the moment 
 a murderer. His breath came thick and fast as he 
 stood over that lifeless form. 
 
 * Have I killed her ? ' he asked himself. ' She 
 deserves no better fate. But I had rather kill him!
 
 CHAPTER XVIIT. 
 
 CYPKIAN S VISITOR. 
 
 SiK Cyprian Davenant left Marchbrook an hour 
 after his interview with Constance Sinclair. He sent 
 his man home with the portmanteaus and gun-cases, 
 and went straight to his club, where he dined. It 
 was between eight and nine when he walked to his 
 chambers through the snowy streets. The walk 
 through the rough weather suited his present temper. 
 He could have walked many a mile across a Yorkshire 
 moor that night, in the endeavour to walk down the 
 anxious thoughts that crowded upon his mind. 
 
 His interview with Constance — like all such 
 meetings between those whom Fate has irrevocably 
 parted — had deepened the gloom of his soul, and 
 added to the bitterness of his regrets. It had 
 brought the past nearer to him, and made the 
 inevitable harder to bear than it had seemed 
 yesterday.
 
 244 WEAVERS AND '^^T.FT. 
 
 He had seen all the old loveliness in the innocent 
 face, changed though it was. He had heard all the 
 old music in the unforgotten voice. To what end ? 
 That brief greeting across the iron gate of Destiny's 
 prison-house only made it more agonizing to think of 
 the long future in which these two, who had so met 
 and touched hands across the gulf, must live their 
 separated lives in silent patience. 
 
 The snow lay thick in the quiet turning out of 
 the Strand. There was a hansom standing at the 
 corner by Sir Cyprian's chambers, the horse hanging 
 his head with a dejected air under his whitened rug; 
 the man stamping up and down the pavement, and 
 flapping his arms across his chest. The cab must 
 have been waiting some time, Sii* Cyprian thought, 
 idly. 
 
 His chambers were on the first floor, large and 
 lofty rooms facing the river. Since his inheritance 
 of Colonel Gryffin's fortune he had indulged himself 
 with that one luxury dear to men who love books, a 
 well-arranged library. This bachelor pied a terre 
 suited him better than lodgings in a more fashionable 
 quarter. It was central, and out of the way Of his
 
 CYPRIAN'S VISITOR. 245 
 
 fashionable acquaintance — an ineligible feature which 
 was to his mind an attraction. 
 
 Sir Cyprian admitted himself with his latch-key, 
 and went up the dimly lighted staircase. He opened 
 the outer door of his library, within which massive 
 oak barrier there hung a heavy crimson cloth curtain, 
 shutting out noise and draught. This curtain had 
 been dragged aside, and left hanging in a heap at one 
 end of the rod, in a very different style from the 
 usual neat arrangement of folds left by the middle- 
 aged valet. 
 
 The room was almost in darkness, for the fire had 
 burned low upon the hearth. There was just light 
 enough to show Sir Cyprian a figure sitting by the 
 fire in a brooding attitude, alone, and in the dark. 
 
 ' Who's that ? ' asked Sir Cyprian. 
 
 The man started up, a big man, tall and broad- 
 shouldered, whom for the first moment Sir Cyprian 
 took for a stranger. 
 
 ' I should have thought you would have known 
 Constance Sinclair's husband anywhere,' said the 
 intruder. * You and I have good reason to remember 
 each other.'
 
 246 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Mr. Sinclair,' Cyprian 
 answered, quietly, without noticing the sneer ; 'but 
 as I do not possess the gift of seeing in the dark you 
 can hardly wonder at my being slow to recognise 
 you.' 
 
 He was not going to invite a quarrel with this 
 man — nay, he would rather avoid one even at some 
 loss of personal dignity, for Constance's sake. He 
 went up to the hearth, where Gilbert had resumed 
 his seat, and put his hand on the bell. 
 
 * Don't ring for lights,' said Sinclair. * What I 
 have to say can be said in the dark.' 
 
 * Perhaps. But I prefer to see a man's face when 
 I'm talking to him. May I ask to what I am in- 
 debted for this unexpected pleasure ? I thought you 
 were at Davenant.' 
 
 * I left by the train after that in which you 
 travelled.' 
 
 The man came in with a lighted lamp, which *he 
 placed on the table in front of the fire — a large 
 carved oak table, loaded with classic volumes and 
 ponderous lexicons ; for a wealthy student is rarely 
 content with a single lexicographer's definition.
 
 Cyprian's visitor. 247 
 
 Having set down the lamp the valet replenished 
 the exhausted fire with that deliberate care so 
 frequently to be observed in a servant who is 
 slightly curious about his master's guest, and finally 
 retired, with soft footfall, shutting the door after 
 him very slowly, as if he expected to gather some- 
 thing at this last moment from the visitor's im- 
 patience to break covert. 
 
 In this case, however, the valet retired without 
 hearing a word. Gilbert Sinclair sat staring at the 
 fire, and seemed in no hurry to state his business. 
 He could not fly at his enemy's throat like a tiger ; 
 and that was about the only thing to which his spirit 
 moved him at this moment. Looking at his visitor 
 by the clear light of the lamp. Sir Cyprian was not 
 reassured by his countenance. Gilbert Sinclair's 
 face was of a livid hue, save on each high cheek 
 bone, where a patch of dusky red made the per- 
 vading pallor more obvious. His thick red brown hair 
 was rough and disordered, his large red-brown eyes, 
 prominently placed in their orbits, were bright and 
 glassy, and the sensual under Hp worked convulsively, 
 as in some inward argument of a stormy kind.
 
 248 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 For some minutes — three or four perhaps, and so 
 brief a space of time makes a longish pause in a 
 critical situation — Gilbert Sinclair kept silence. Sir 
 Cyprian, standing with his back against one end of 
 the velvet-covered mantelpiece, waited with polite 
 tranquillity. Not by a word or gesture did he 
 attempt to hurry his guest. 
 
 ' Look you here, Sir Cyprian Davenant,' Gilbert 
 began at last, with savage abruptness. ' If we had 
 lived in the duelling days — the only days when 
 Englishmen were gentlemen — I should have sent a 
 friend to you to-night instead of coming myself, and 
 the business might have been arranged in the easiest 
 manner possible, and settled decisively before break- 
 fast to-morrow. But as our new civilization does not 
 allow of that kind of thing, and as I haven't quite 
 strong enough evidence to go into the Divorce Court, 
 I thought it was better to come straight to you and 
 give you fair warning of what you may expect in the 
 future.' 
 
 * Let us suppose that duelling is not an exploded 
 custom. We have France and Belgium, and a few 
 other countries at our disposal, if we should make up
 
 CYPRIAN'S VISITOR. 249 
 
 our minds to fioht. But I should like to know the 
 ground of our quarrel before we go into details.' 
 
 ' I am glad you are man enough to fight me,' 
 answered the other, savagely. ' I don't think you 
 can require to be told why I should like to kill you — 
 or if you have been in doubt about it up to this 
 moment you will know pretty clearly when I tell 
 you that I saw you jump off the balcony of my 
 wife's summer-house this afternoon.' 
 
 *I am sorry that unceremonious exit should 
 offend you. I had no other way of getting back to 
 Marchbrook in time for my train. I should have 
 had to walk the whole width of Davenant Park and 
 about a mile of high road if I had left by the 
 summer-house door.' 
 
 * And you think it a gentlemanlike thing to be in 
 my neighbourhood for a fortnight, to avoid my house, 
 and to meet my wife clandestinely in a lonely corner 
 of my park ? ' 
 
 * There was no clandestine meeting. You insult 
 your wife by such a supposition, and prove — if proof 
 were needed of so obvious a fact — your unworthiness 
 of such a wife. My visit to the summer-house was
 
 250 WEAVERS AND WKFT. 
 
 purely accidental. I heard ^Irs. Sinclair singing — 
 heard the bitter cry which grief — a mother's sacred 
 grief — wrung from her in her solitude, and followed 
 the impulse of the moment, which prompted me to 
 console a lady whom I knew and loved when she 
 was a child.' 
 
 *And afterwards, when she had ceased to be a 
 child — a few months before she became my wife. 
 Your attachment was pretty well known to the world 
 in general, I believe. It was only I who was left in 
 ignorance/ 
 
 ' You might easily have known what the world 
 knew — all there was to be known — simply nothing.' 
 
 ' You deny that you have done me any wrong ? 
 that I have any right to ask you to fight me ? ' 
 
 * Most emphatically, and I most distinctly refuse 
 to make a quarrel on any ground connected with 
 your wife. But you will not find me slow to resent 
 an insult should you be so ill-advised as to provoke 
 me. As the friend of Constance Clanyarde I shall 
 be very ready to take up the cudgels for Constance 
 Sinclair, even against her husband. Eemember this, 
 Mr. Sinclair ; and remember that any vrrong done to
 
 CYPRIAN'S VISITOB. 251 
 
 Lord Clanyarde's daughter will be a ^^Tong that I 
 shall revenge with all the power God has given me. 
 She is not left solely to her husband's tender 
 mercies.' 
 
 Even the dull red hue faded from Gilbert 
 Sinclair's cheeks as he confronted the indignant 
 speaker, and left him livid to the very lips. There 
 was a dampness on his forehead, too, when he 
 brushed his large strong hand across it. 
 
 * Is the man a craven ? ' thought Sir Cyprian, 
 remarking these signs of agitation. 
 
 ' Well/ said Sinclair, drawing a long breath, * I 
 suppose there is no more to be said. You both tell 
 the same story — an innocent meeting, not precon- 
 certed — mere accident. Yes, you have the best of 
 me this time. The unlucky husband generally has 
 the worst of it. There's no dishonour in lying to 
 him. He's out of court, poor beggar.' 
 
 ' Mr. Sinclair, do you want me to throw you out 
 of that window ? ' 
 
 * I shouldn't much care if you did.' 
 
 There was a sullen misery in the answer, and in 
 the very look and attitude of the man as he sat
 
 252 
 
 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 beside his enemy's hearth, only looking up at inter- 
 vals from his vacant stare at the fire, which touched 
 Cyprian Davenant with absolute pity. Here was a 
 man to whom Fate had given vast capabilities of 
 happiness, and who had wantonly thrown away all 
 that is fairest and best in life. 
 
 * Mr. Sinclair, upon my honour I am sorry lor 
 you/ he said, gravely. ' I am sorry for your inca- 
 pacity to believe in a noble and pure-minded wife ; 
 sorry that you should poison your own life and your 
 wife's by doubts that would never enter your mind 
 if you had the power to understand her. Go home, 
 and let your wife never know the wrong you have 
 done her.' 
 
 'My wife! What wife ? I have no wife,' said 
 Sinclair, with a strange smile, rising and going to the 
 door. ' That's what some fellow says in a play, I 
 think. Good night, Sir Cyprian Davenant, and when 
 next we meet I hope it may be on a better defined 
 footing.' 
 
 He left the room without another word. Before 
 Sir Cyprian's bell had summoned the smooth-faced 
 valet, the street door shut with a bancj, and CJilbert
 
 253 
 
 Sinclair was gone. Sir Cyprian heard the doors of 
 the hansom clapped to, and the crack of the weary 
 driver's whip, as the wheels rolled up the silent 
 street 
 
 ' What did he mean by that speech about his 
 wife ? ' wondered Sir Cyprian. ' The man looked like 
 a murderer.' 
 
 He did not know that at this moment Gilbert 
 Sinclair was half afraid that brutal blow of his might 
 have been fatal.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MES. WALSINGHA3I BREAKS FAITH. 
 
 Christmas, which, in a common way, brings lil'e and 
 bustle and the gathering of many guests to good old 
 country houses, brought only gloom and solitude to 
 Davenant. Mr. Sinclair's visitors had departed sud- 
 denly, at a single flight, like swallows before a storm 
 in autumn. Mrs. Sinclair was very ill — seriously ill 
 — mysteriously ill. Her dearest friends shook their 
 heads and looked awful things when they talked of 
 her. It was mental, they feared. 
 
 ' Poor dear thing ! This comes of Lord Glan- 
 yarde's greediness in getting rich husbands for all 
 his daughters.' 
 
 * The old man is a regular harpy,' exclaimed Mrs. 
 Millamount, with a charming indifference to detail. 
 
 And then these fashionable swallows skimmed 
 away to fresh woods and pastures new — or rather 
 fresh billiard-rooms — and other afternoon teas,
 
 MRS. WALSINGHAM BREAKS FAITH. 255 
 
 evening part-songs, and morning rides in rustic 
 English lanes, where there is beauty and fragrance 
 even in mid- winter. 
 
 Constance had been missing at afternoon tea on 
 the day of Gilbert's sudden journey to London, bul 
 her absence in the cosy morning-room, where Mrs. 
 ^lillamount amused the circle by the daring eccen- 
 tricity of her discourse, was hardly a subject ol 
 wonder. 
 
 'She has one of her nervous headaches, ir» 
 doubt, poor child,' said !Mrs. Millamount, takin ,^ 
 possession of the tea-tray ; ' she is just the kind o: 
 woman to have nervous headaches.' 
 
 ' I'D. give long odds you don't have them,' sai I 
 Sir Thomas Houndslow, who was lolling with his 
 back against the mantelpiece, to the endangermentol' 
 the porcelain that adorned it. 
 
 * Never had headache but once in my life, and 
 that was when I came a cropper in the Quorn coun- 
 try,' replied !Mrs. ^lillamount, graciously. 
 
 Vapours have given way to feminine athletics, 
 and there is nothing now so dowdy or unfashionable 
 as bad health.
 
 256 WEA.VERS AND WEFT. 
 
 AVhen the dressing-bell ranj^ and Mrs. Sinclair 
 was still absent, Melanie Duport began to think there 
 was some cause for alarm. Her mistress was punc- 
 tual and orderly in all her habits. She had gone to 
 walk in the park immediately after luncheon, quite 
 three hours ago. She had no idea of going beyond 
 the park, Melanie knew, as she only wore her seal- 
 skin jacket and a garden hat. She might have gone 
 to Marchbrook, perhaps, in this careless attire, but 
 not anywhere else ; and her visits to Marchbrook 
 were very rare. 
 
 Melanie was puzzled. She went downstairs and 
 sent a couple of grooms in quest of her mistress. 
 The gardeners had all gone home at five o'clock. 
 
 * You had better look in the summer-house by the 
 fir plantation,' said Melanie ; ' I know Mrs. Sinclair 
 spends a good deal of her time there.' 
 
 The young men took the hint, and went straight 
 off to the summer-house together, too social to take 
 different directions, as Melanie had told them to do. 
 They had plenty to talk about, the furious pace at 
 which their master was going, the bad luck which 
 had attended his racing stable lately, and so on.
 
 Mi:S. WALiJlNGHAM BKEAKS FAITH. 257 
 
 ' I think there's a curse on them biiildinss at 
 Newmarket,' said one of the men. ' We haven't 
 pulled off so much as a beggarly plate since they 
 was finished.' 
 
 ' There's a curse on buying half-bred colts,' 
 retorted the older and wiser servant. ' That's where 
 the curse is, Eogers, mistaken economy.' 
 
 The classic temple was wrapped in darkness, and 
 Eogers, who entered first, stumbled over the pros- 
 trate form of his mistress. She lay just as she had 
 fallen at her husband's feet, felled by his savage 
 blow. 
 
 The elder man got a light out of his fusee box, 
 and then they lifted the senseless figure into a chair, 
 and looked at the white face, on which there were 
 ghastly streaks of blood. Mrs. Sinclair groaned 
 faintly as they raised her from the ground, and this 
 was a welcome sound, for they had almost thought 
 her dead. 
 
 There were some flowers in a vase on the table, 
 and the elder groom dipped a handkerchief in the 
 water and dabbed it on Mrs. Sinclair's forehead. 
 
 ' I wish I'd got a drop of spirit in my pocket,' he 
 VOL I. s
 
 258 AVEAVKIIS AND WVYT, 
 
 said ; ' a sup of brandy might bring her round, per- 
 haps. Look about if you can see anything in that 
 \\'ay, Ptogers.' 
 
 Eogers looked, but alcohol being an unknown 
 want to Mrs. Sinclair, there was no convenient 
 bottle to be found in the summer-house. She mur- 
 mured something inarticulate ; and the locked lips 
 loosened and trembled faintly as the groom bathed 
 her forehead. 
 
 "Poor thing, she must have had a fit,' said the 
 elder man. 
 
 * Apocalyptic, perhaps,' suggested Eogers. 
 
 ' We'd better carry her back to the house between 
 us. She's only a feather weight, poor little thing." 
 
 So the two grooms conveyed Mrs. Sinclair gently 
 and carefully back to Davenant, and contrived to carry 
 her up to her room by the servants' staircase without 
 letting all the house into the secret. 
 
 * If it was a fit she won't like it talked about,' 
 said the head groom to the housekeeper, as he re- 
 freshed himself with a glass of Glenlivat after his 
 exertions. 
 
 ' Master's gone up to London., too/ said the housf-
 
 MRS. WALSINGHAM BREAKS FAITH. 259 
 
 keeper; * that makes it awkward, don't it ? I should 
 think somebody ought to telegraph.' 
 
 Melanie Duport took charge of her mistress with 
 a self-possession that would have done credit to an 
 older woman. 
 
 She sent off at once for Dr. Webb, who came post 
 haste to his most important patient. 
 
 The doctor found Mrs. Sinclair weak and low, and 
 her mind wandering a little. He was much puzzled by 
 that contusion on the fair forehead, but his patient 
 could give him no explanation. 
 
 ' I think I fell,' she said. 'It was kind of him to 
 come to me, wasn't it, for the love of old times?' 
 
 *It must have been a very awkward fall,' said 
 Dr. Webb to Melauie. ' Where did it happen V 
 
 Melanie explained how her mistress had been 
 found in the summer-house. 
 
 *She must have fallen against some piece of 
 furniture — something with a blunt edge. It was 
 an awful blow. She is very low, poor thing. The 
 system has received a severe shock.' 
 
 And then Dr. Webb enjoined the greatest care, 
 and questioned Melanie as to her qualifications for
 
 260 -WEAVERS AND WKFT. 
 
 the post of nurse. Mrs. Sinclair was not to be left 
 during the night, and some one else must be got to- 
 morrow to relieve Melanie. It was altogether a 
 serious case. 
 
 Gilbert Sinclair returned next morning, haggard 
 and gloomy, looking like a man who had spent his 
 night at the gaming-table, with fortune steadily 
 adverse to him. He met Dr. Webb in the hall, and 
 was told that his wife was seriously ill. 
 
 * Not in danger ? ' he asked, eagerly. 
 
 * Not in immediate danger.' 
 'I thank God for that.' 
 
 It seemed a small thing to be thankful for, since 
 the surgeon's tone was not very hopeful, but Gilbert 
 Sinclair had been weighed down by the apprehension 
 of something w^orse than this. He found James 
 Wyatt alone in the billiard-room, and learned from 
 him that his guests were already on the wing. 
 
 Three days later and Mr. AVyatt had also left 
 Davenant, but not for good. He had promised to run 
 down again in a week or so, to cheer his dear friend, 
 who, although always treating him more or less 
 de havt en las, allowed him to see pretty plainly that
 
 MRS. WALSINGHAM BREAKS FAITH. 261 
 
 he was indispensable to his patron's contentment. 
 And your modern Umbra will put up with a 
 good deal of snubbing when he knows his patron 
 is under his thumb. 
 
 Unfashionable as was the season, Mrs. Walsing- 
 ham was still in town. She had no rustic retreat 
 of her own, and she was not in that charmed circle, 
 patrician or millionaire, which rejoices in country 
 houses. Furthermore she abhorred the beauties of 
 nature, and regarded winter residence in the coun- 
 try as an exile bleaker than Ovid's banishment to 
 chill and savage Tomi. If she had been rich enough 
 to have indulged her caprices, she would have liked 
 to spend the Kew Year in Paris; but she had an 
 income which just enabled her to live elegantly 
 without any indulgence of caprices. This winter, 
 too, she had peculiar reasons for staying in town, 
 over and above all other motives. She stayed in the 
 snug little house in Half-moon Street, therefore, and 
 was 'at home' on Saturday evenings just as if the 
 season had been at its flood. The society with which 
 she filled her miniature drawing-room was literar}-, 
 musical, artistic, dramatic, just the most delightful
 
 262 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 society imagiuable, with the faintest flavour of Bohe- 
 mianism. She had chosen Saturday evening, because 
 journalists, who were free on no other night, could 
 drop in then, and Mrs. Walsingham adored jour- 
 nalists. 
 
 On this particular Saturday, three days after 
 the scene in the summer-house, James Wyatt 
 had made his appearance in the Half-moon Street 
 drawing-room just when most people were going 
 away. He contrived to outstay them all, though 
 Mrs. Walsingham's manner was not so cordial as 
 to invite him to linger. She yawned audibly 
 behind the edge of her large black fan when Mr. 
 Wyatt took up his stand in front of the chimney- 
 piece, with the air of a man who is going to be 
 a fixture for the next hour. 
 
 * Have you heard the news ? ' he asked, after 
 a brief silence. 
 
 'From Davenant? Yes, I am kept pretty 
 well au courant! 
 
 *A sharp little thing, that Duport.' 
 
 'Very.' 
 
 Silence again, during which Mrs. Walsingham
 
 MnS. T\'ALSIXGHAM BREAKS FAITH. 2 63 
 
 surveyed her violet velvet gown and admired 
 the Venice point flounce which relieved its sombre 
 hue. 
 
 'Clara/ said James Wyatt, with a suddenness 
 which startled the lady into looking up at him, 
 ' I think I have performed my part of our bar- 
 gain. When are you going to perform yours ? ' 
 
 * I don't quite understand you.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, you do, Mrs. Walsingham. There are 
 some things that will hardly bear to be discussed, 
 even between conspirators. I am not going to 
 enter into details. When I found you in this 
 room three years ago, on Gilbert Sinclau^'s wed- 
 ding day, you had but one thought, one desire. 
 Your whole being was athirst for revenge. You 
 are revenged, and I have been the chief instru- 
 ment in the realization of your wish. A wicked 
 wish on your part. Doubly wicked on mine, with 
 less passion and weaker hatred, to be your aider 
 and abettor. Soit. I am content to bear the 
 burden of my guilt, but not to be cheated of 
 my reward. What I have done I have done for 
 your sake — to win your love.'
 
 264. WEAVERS AND WKFT. 
 
 ' To buy me/ she said, ' as slaves are bought 
 with a price. That's what you mean. You don't 
 suppose I shall love you for working Gilbert 
 Sinclair's ruin?' 
 
 ' You wanted to see him ruined.' 
 
 'Yes, when I was mad with rage and grief. 
 Did you think you were talking to a sane 
 woman that evening after Gilbert's marriage ? 
 You were talking to a woman whose brain had 
 been on fire with despair and jealousy through 
 the long hours of that agonizing day. What 
 should I long for hut revenge, then?' 
 
 'Well, you have had your heart's desire, and 
 it seems to me that your conduct since that 
 day has been pretty consistent with the senti- 
 ments you gave expression to then. Do you 
 mean to tell me that you are going to throw 
 me over now, — that you are going to repudiate 
 the promise you made me — a promise on which 
 I have counted with unflinching faith in your 
 honour ? ' 
 
 In ni}- honour ! ' cried !Mrs. Walsingham, with 
 a bitter sneer, all the more bitter because it
 
 MRS. WALSINGHAM BREAKS FAITH. 265 
 
 was pointed against herself. * In the honour of 
 a woman who could act as I have acted ? ' 
 
 ' I forgive anything to passion ; but to betray 
 me would be deliberate cruelty.' 
 
 * Would it ? ' she asked, smiling at him ; ' I 
 think it would be more cruel to keep my word 
 and make your life miserable.' 
 
 'You shall make me as miserable as you 
 please, if you will only have me/ urged Wyatt. 
 * Come, Clara, I have been your slave for the 
 last three years. I have sacrificed sentiments 
 which most men hold sacred to serve or to please 
 you. It would be unparalleled baseness to break 
 your promise.' 
 
 'My promise was wrung from me in a mo- 
 ment of blind passion,' cried Mrs. Walsingham. 
 *If the Prince of Darkness had asked me to 
 seal a covenant with him that day, I should 
 have consented as freely as I consented to your 
 bargain.' 
 
 ' The comparison is flattering to me,' replied 
 Mr. Wyatt, looking at her darkly from under bent 
 brows. There is a stage at which outraged love
 
 266 AVFWERS AND WEFT. 
 
 turns to keenest hate, and James Wyatt's feelings 
 were fast approaching that stage, ' In one word, 
 do you mean to keep faith with me ? Yes or 
 no?' 
 
 ' No,' answered Mrs. Walsingham, with a steady 
 look which meant defiance. 'No, and again no. 
 Tell the world what you have done, and how 
 I have cheated you. Publish your wrongs if you 
 dare. I have never loved but one man in my 
 life, and his name is Gilbert Sinclair. And now 
 good night, Mr. Wyatt, or rather, good morning, 
 for it is Sunday, and I don't want to be late 
 for church.'
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 DR. HOLLENDOKF. 
 
 The new year began with mucii ringing of parish 
 bells, some genuine joviality in cottages and servants' 
 halls, and various conventional rejoicings in polite 
 society; but silence and solitude still reigned at Dave- 
 nant. The chief rooms — saloon and dining-room, 
 library and music-room — were abandoned altogether 
 by the gloomy master of the house. They might as 
 well have put on their holland pinafores and shut 
 their shutters, as in] the absence of the family, for 
 nobody used them. Gilbert Sinclair lived in his snug- 
 gery at the end of the long gallery, ate and drank there, 
 read his newspapers and wrote his letters, or smoked 
 and dozed in the dull winter evenings. He rode a 
 good deal in all kinds of weather, going far afield, no 
 one knew where, and coming home at dusk splashed 
 to the neck, and with his horse in a condition pecu- 
 liarly aggravating to grooms and stable boys.
 
 268 \VEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 * Them there 'osses will 'ave mud fever before 
 long,' said the hirelings, dejectedly. 'There's that 
 blessed chestnut he set such store by a month ago 
 with 'ardly a leg to stand on for windgalls, and the 
 roan filly's over at knee a'ready.' 
 
 ' He ' meant ^Mr. Sinclair, who was riding his 
 finest horses with a prodigal recklessness. 
 
 Constance Sinclair lived to see the new year, 
 though she did not know why the church bells rang 
 out on the silence of midnight. She started up from 
 her pillow with a frightened look when she heard 
 that joy-peal, crying out that those were her wed- 
 ding bells, and that she must get ready for church. 
 
 * To please you, papa,' she said. ' For your sake, 
 papa. Pity my broken heart.' 
 
 There had been days and nights, towards the end 
 of the old year, when ])r. Webb trembled for the 
 sweet young life which he had watched almost from 
 its beginning. A great physician had come down 
 from London every day, and had gone away with a 
 fee proportionate to his reputation, after diagnosing 
 and prognosing the disease in a most wonderful 
 manner, but it was the little country apothecary mIio
 
 DK. HOLLEXDORF. 209 
 
 saved Constance Sinclair's life. His watchfulness, his 
 devotion, had kept the common enemy at bay. The 
 life current, which had ebbed very low, flowed gradu- 
 ally back, and, after lying for ten days in an utterly 
 prostrate and apathetic state, the patient was now 
 strong enough to rise and be dressed, and lie on the 
 sofa in her pretty morning-room, while Melanie, or 
 honest Martha BridfGfS, who had come back to nurse 
 
 CO ' 
 
 her old mistress, read to her, to divert her mind, 
 the doctor said ; but, alas ! as yet the mind seemed 
 incapable of being awakened to interest in the 
 things of this mortal life. When Constance spoke 
 it was of the past — of her childhood or girlhood, 
 of people and scenes familiar to her in that 
 happy time. Of her husband she never spoke; 
 and his rare visits to her room had a disturbiuo- 
 influence. So obvious was the disquietude caused 
 by his presence, that Dr. Webb suggested that for 
 the present Mr. Sinclair should refrain from seeing 
 his wife. 
 
 ' I can feel for you, my dear sir,' he said, sympa- 
 thetically. *I quite imderstand your anxiety, but 
 you may trust me and the nurses. You will have
 
 270 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 all intelligence of progress. The mind at present is 
 somewhat astray.' 
 
 * Do you think it will be always so ? ' asked 
 Sinclair. ' Will she never recover her senses ? ' 
 
 ' My dear sir, there is everything to hope. She 
 is so young, and the disease is altogether so mys- 
 terious; whether the efifect of the blow — that unlucky 
 fall — or whether simply a development of the brood- 
 ing melancholy which we had to fight against before 
 the accident, it is impossible to say. We are quite 
 in the dark. Perfect seclusion and tranquillity may 
 do much.' 
 
 Lord Clanyarde came to see his daughter nearly 
 every day. He had stayed at Marchbrook on pur- 
 pose to be near her. But his presence seemed to 
 give Constance no pleasure. There were days on 
 which she looked at him with a wandering gaze that 
 went to his heart, or a blank and stony look that 
 appalled him by its awful likeness to death. There 
 were other days whea she knew him ; on those days 
 her talk was all of the past, and it was clear that 
 memory had taken the place of intelligence. 
 
 Lord Clanyarde felt all the pangs of remorse as
 
 DR. HOLLENDORF. 271 
 
 he contemplated this spectacle of a broken heart — a 
 mind wrecked by sorrow. 
 
 ' Yet I can hardly blame myself for her sad 
 state, poor child/ he argued. ' She was happy enough, 
 bright enough, before she lost her baby.' 
 
 The new year was a week old, and since that first 
 rally there had been no change for the better in 
 Constance Sinclair's condition, and now there came 
 a decided change for the worse. Strength dwindled, 
 a dull apathy took possession of the patient, and even 
 memory seemed a blank. 
 
 Dr. Webb was in despair, and fairly owned his 
 helplessness. The London physician came and went, 
 and took his fee, and went on diagnosing with pro- 
 foundest science, and tried the last resources of the 
 pharmacopoeia, with an evident conviction that he 
 could minister to a mind diseased ; but nothing came 
 of his science, save that the patient grew daily 
 weaker, as if fate and physic were too much for one 
 feeble sufferer to cope withal. 
 
 Gilbert Sinclair was told that unless a change 
 came very speedily his wife must die. 
 
 * If we could rouse her from this apathetic state,'
 
 272 WEAVERS AXD WEFT. 
 
 said the physician — * any shock — any surprise — 
 especially of a pleasurable kind — that would act on 
 the torpid brain, might do wonders even yet ; but 
 all our attempts to interest her have so far been 
 useless.' 
 
 Lord Clanyarde was present when tliis opinion 
 was pronounced. He went home full of thought — 
 more deeply concerned for his daughter than he had 
 ever been yet for any mortal except himself. 
 
 ' Poor little Connie,' he thought, remembering her 
 in her white frock and blue sash, * she was always 
 my favourite — the prettiest, the gentlest, the most 
 high-bred of all my girls ; but I didn't know she had 
 such a hold upon my heart.' 
 
 At Marchbrook Lord Clanyarde found an un- 
 expected visitor waiting for him — a visitor whom he 
 
 received with a very cordial greeting. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Soon after dusk on the following evening Lord 
 Clanyarde returned to Davenant, but not alone. He 
 took with him an elderly gentleman, with white 
 hair, worn rather long, and a white beard — a person 
 of almost patriarchal appearance, but somewhat
 
 DK. HOLLENDORF. 273 
 
 disfigured by a pair of smoke-coloured spectacles of 
 the kind that are vulgarly known as gig lamps. 
 
 The stranger's clothes were of the shabbiest, 
 yet even in their decay looked the garments of a 
 gentleman. He wore ancient shepherd's plaid 
 trousers, and a bottle-green overcoat of exploded cut. 
 
 Gilbert Sinclair was in the hall when Lord Clan- 
 yarde and his companion arrived. jMr. Wyatt had 
 just come do\\Ti from London, and the two men 
 were smoking their cigars by the great hall fire — the 
 noble open hearth with brazen dogs, which had suc- 
 ceeded the more mediaeval fashion of a fire in the 
 centre of the hall. 
 
 * My dear Sinclair,' began Lord Clanyarde, with a 
 somewhat hurried and nervous air, which might be 
 forgiven in a man whose favourite daughter lan- 
 guished between life and death, 'I have ventured 
 to bring an old friend of mine, Dr. Hollendorf, a 
 gentleman who has a great practice in Berlin, and 
 who has had vast experience in the treatment of 
 mental disorders. Dr. Hollendorf — Mr. Sinclair, I 
 beg your pardon, Wyatt, how do ye do ? ' interjected 
 Lord Clanyarde, offering the solicitor a couple of 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 X 
 
 274 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 fingers. * Now, Gilbert, I should much like Dr. 
 Hollendorf to see my poor Constance. It may do 
 no good, but it can do no harm ; and if you have no 
 objection, with Dr. Webb's concurrence, of course, I 
 should like ' 
 
 * Webb is in the house/ answered Gilbert. ' You 
 can ask him for yourself I have no objection.' 
 
 This was said with a weary air, as if the speaker 
 had ceased to take any interest in life. Gilbert 
 hardly looked at the German doctor; but James 
 Wyatt, who was of a more observant turn, scruti- 
 nized him attentively. 
 
 * Here is Webb,' said Gilbert, as the little doctor 
 came tripping down the great staircase, with the 
 lightsome activity of liis profession, washing his 
 hands, in imaginary water, like Lady Macbeth, as 
 he came. 
 
 Lord Clanyarde presented Dr. Hollendorf to the 
 rural practitioner, and stated his wish. Dr. Webb 
 had no objection to ofier. Any wish of a father's 
 must be sacred. 
 
 ' You will come up and see her at once ? ' he 
 said, interrogatively.
 
 DR. HOLLENDORF. 275 
 
 * At once/ answered the stranger, with a slightly 
 guttural accent. 
 
 The three men went up the staircase, Gilbert 
 remaining behind. 
 
 ' Aren't you going ? ' asked Wyatt. 
 
 ' No, my presence generally disturbs her. Why 
 should I go ? I'm not wanted.' 
 
 ' 1 should go if I were you. How do you know 
 what this man is ? An impudent quack in all prova- 
 bility. You ought to be present.' 
 
 ' Do you think so ? ' 
 
 'Decidedly.' 
 
 ' Then I'll go.' 
 
 ' Watch your wife when that man is talking to 
 her/ said Wyatt, in a lower tone, as Gilbert moved 
 away. 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' asked the other, turning 
 sharply round. 
 
 * What I say. Watch your wife.' 
 
 Mrs. Sinclair's morning-room was a spacious old- 
 fashioned apartment, with three long windows, one 
 opening into a wdde balcony from which an iron 
 stair led down to a small and secluded garden, laid
 
 276 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 out in the Dutch style, a garden which had been 
 always sacred to the mistress of Davenant. There 
 were heavy oak shutters, and a complicated arrange- 
 ment of bolts and bars to the three windows ; but, as 
 these shutters w^ere rarely closed, the stair and the 
 balcony might be considered as a convenience 
 specially provided for the benefit of burglars. No 
 burglars had, however, yet been heard of at Dave- 
 nant. 
 
 There was a piano in the room. There were 
 well-filled bookcases, pictures, quaint old china — all 
 things that make life pleasant to the mind that is at 
 ease, and which may be supposed to offer some 
 consolation to the care-burdened spirit. The fire 
 blazed merrily, and on a sofa in front of it Constance 
 reclined, dressed in a loose white cashmere gown, 
 hardly whiter than the wasted oval face, from which 
 the dark brown hair was drawn back by a band of 
 blue ribbon, just as it had been ten years ago, when 
 Constance was 'little Connie,' flitting about the lawn 
 at Marchbrook like a white and blue butterfly. 
 
 'My pet,' said Lord Clanyarde, in a pleading 
 tone, * I have brought a new doctor to see you, a
 
 DK. HOLLENDOKF. 277 
 
 gentleman who may be able to understand your case 
 even better than our friend Webb.' 
 
 * No one ever knew her constitution as well as I 
 do/ commented Dr. Webb, sotto voce. 
 
 Constance raised her heavy eyelids and looked 
 at her father with a languid wonder, as if the figures 
 standing by her couch were far away, and she saw 
 them faintly in the distance without knowing what 
 they were. 
 
 The new doctor did not go through the usual 
 formula of pulse and tongue, nor did he ask the old 
 established questions, but he seated himself quietly 
 by Constance Sinclair's sofa and began to talk to her 
 in a low voice, while Dr. Webb and Lord Clanyarde 
 withdrew to the other end of the room, where Gilbert 
 was standing by a table, absently turning over the 
 leaves of a book. 
 
 * You have had a great sorrow, my dear lady,' 
 said the German doctor, in that low and confi- 
 dential tone which sometimes finds its way to the 
 clouded brain when a louder utterance conveys no 
 
 ' You have had a great sorrow, and have given
 
 278 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 way to grief, as if there were no comfort either in 
 earth or in heaven.' 
 
 Constance listened with lowered eyelids, but a 
 look of attention came into her face presently, which 
 the doctor perceived. 
 
 ' Dear lady, there is always comfort in heaven — 
 there is sometimes consolation on earth. Why can 
 you not hope for some sudden, unlooked-for happi- 
 ness, some great joy such as God has sometimes 
 given to mourners like you ? Your child was 
 drowned, you think. What if you were deceived 
 when you believed in her death ? What if 
 she was saved from the river ? I do not say that 
 it is so, but you cannot be certain. Who can 
 know for a certainty that the little one was really 
 drowned ? ' 
 
 The eyes were wide open now, staring at him 
 wildly. 
 
 * What's the old fellow about so long ? ' asked 
 Gilbert, impatiently. 
 
 * He is talking to her about her child,' replied 
 Lord Clanyarde. ' He wants to make her cry if he 
 can. He's a great psychologist.'
 
 DR. HOLLENDORF. 279 
 
 ' Does that mean a great humbug ? ' asked Gilbert. 
 * It sounds like it.* 
 
 * Hope and comfort are coming to you, dear Mrs. 
 Sinclair,' said the German doctor, * be sure of that.' 
 
 Again Constance looked at him curiously ; but 
 at sight of the smoke-coloured spectacles and the 
 sallow old face, half covered with white hair, she 
 turned away her eyes with a sigh. If she could 
 have seen eyes that looked honestly into hers, it 
 might have given force to that promise of comfort, 
 but this blind oracle was too mysterious. She gave 
 a long sigh, and answered nothing. 
 
 The doctor looked at the open piano on the other 
 side of the fireplace, and remained in thoughtful 
 silence for a few moments. 
 
 ' Does your mistress sing sometimes ? ' he asked 
 Martha Briggs, who sat on guard by the sofa. 
 
 * No, sir, not since she's been so ill, but she plays 
 sometimes, by snatches, beautiful. It would go to 
 your heart to hear her.* 
 
 ' Will you sing to me ? ' asked the doctor, ' if you 
 are stroiig enough to go to the piano. Pray, try to
 
 280 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. 
 
 Constance looked at liini with the same puzzled 
 gaze, and then tried to rise. Martha supported her 
 on one side, the doctor on the other, as she feebly 
 tottered to the piano. 
 
 ' I'll sing if you like,' she said, in a careless tone 
 that told how far the mind was from consciousness 
 of the present. ' Papa likes to hear me sing.' 
 
 She seated herself at the piano, and her fingers 
 wandered slowly over the keys — and wandered on in 
 a dreamy prelude that had little meaning. The 
 German doctor listened patiently for a few minutes 
 to this tangle of arpeggios, and then bending over 
 the piano, played the few notes of a familiar sym- 
 phony. 
 
 Constance gave a faint cry of surprise, and then 
 she struck a chord — the chord that closed the sym- 
 phony, and began, * Strangers yet,' in a voice that 
 had a strange hysterical power which was in curious 
 contrast with the feebleness of the singer. 
 
 She sang on till she came to the words, ' Child 
 and parent.' These touched a sensitive chord. She 
 rose suddenly from the piano and burst into tears. 
 
 'That may do good,' said Dr. Webb, approvingly.
 
 DR. HOLLENDUliF. 281 
 
 *My friend is no fool,' replied Lord Clauyarde. 
 
 ' Take your mistress to her room,' said Gilbert to 
 Martha, with an angry look. * This is only playing 
 upon her nerves, I wonder you can allow such 
 folly, Lord Clanyarde.' 
 
 * Your own doctors have asjreed that some shock 
 was necessary, something to awaken her from apathy. 
 Poor pet, those tears are a relief,' answered the 
 father. 
 
 He went to his daughter and assisted in arranojinsr 
 the pillows as she lay down on the sofa. Martha 
 calmly ignored her master's order. 
 
 The German doctor bent over Mrs. Sinclair for a 
 moment, and whispered the one word ' Hope,' and 
 then retired with the three other gentlemen. 
 
 ' Would you like to prescribe anything ? ' asked 
 Dr. Webb, taking the stranger into a little room, off 
 the hall. 
 
 * No, it is a case in which drugs are useless. 
 Hope is the only remedy for Mrs. Sinclair's disease. 
 She must be beguiled with hope, even if it be delu- 
 sive.' 
 
 * What ? ' cried Dr. Webb, ' would you trifle with
 
 282 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 her feelings ? — play upon the weakness of her mind, 
 and let her awaken by-and-by to find herself 
 deluded ? ' 
 
 ' I would do anything to snatch her from the 
 jaws of death,' answered the German doctor, unhesi- 
 tatingly. * If hope is not held out to her, she will 
 die. You see her fading day by day. Do you think 
 there is any charm in your medicines that will bring 
 her back to life ? ' 
 
 ' I fear not, sir,' answered Dr. Webb, despon- 
 dently. 
 
 * Then you, or those who love her, must find some 
 more potent influence. She is heart-broken for the 
 loss of her child. She must be taught to think that 
 her child is still living.' 
 
 ' But when her mind grows stronger it would be 
 a still heavier blow to discover that she had been 
 deceived.' 
 
 * She would be better able to bear the blow when 
 health and strength had returned; and she might 
 have formed an attachment in the meantime which 
 would console her in the hour of disillusion.' 
 
 * 1 don't understand,' faltered Dr. Webb.
 
 DK. HOLLENDORF. 283 
 
 • I'll make myself clearer. A child must be 
 brought to Mrs. Sinclair, a little girl of about the age 
 of her own baby, and she must be persuaded to 
 believe, now while her brain is clouded, that her own 
 child is given back to her.' 
 
 ' A cruel deception/ cried Dr. Webb. 
 
 ' Xo ; only a desperate remedy. Which are her 
 friends to do, deceive her, or let her die ? In her 
 present condition of mind she will ask no questions, 
 she will not speculate upon probabilities. She will 
 take the child to her breast as a gift from heaven. 
 A mind distraught is always ready to believe in the 
 marvellous, to imagine itself the object of super- 
 natural intervention.' 
 
 Dr. Webb looked thoughtful and half convinced. 
 This German physician, who spoke very good 
 English, by the way, seemed to have studied his 
 subject deeply. Dr. Webb was no psychologist; but 
 he had seen in the mentally afflicted that very love 
 of the marvellous which Dr. Hollendorf spoke 
 about. And what hope had he of saving his 
 patient ? Alas ! none. It would be a cruel thing to 
 put a spurious child in her arms — to trifle with si
 
 284 WEAVERS AND AVEFf. 
 
 mother's sacred feelings ; but if life and reason could 
 be saved by this means, and no other, surely the 
 fraud would be a pious one. 
 
 'Mr. Sinclair would never consent,' said Dr. Webb. 
 
 * Mr. Sinclair must be made to consent. I have 
 already suggested this step to Lord Clanyarde, and 
 he approves the idea. He must bring his influence 
 to bear upon Mr. Sinclair, who appears an indifferent 
 husband, and not warmly interested in his wife's 
 fate.' 
 
 * There you. wrong him,' cried the faithful Webb. 
 'His manner does not do him justice. The poor 
 man has been in a most miserable condition ever 
 since Mrs. Sinclair's illness assumed an alarming 
 aspect. Will you make this suggestion to him — 
 propose our introducing a strange child ? ' 
 
 ' I would rather the proposal should come from 
 Lord Clanyarde,' answered the strange doctor, look- 
 ing at his watch. 'I must get back to London by 
 the next train. I shall tell Lord Clanyarde my 
 opinion as he drives me to the station. I think I 
 have made my ideas sufficiently clear to you, Dr- 
 Webb ?'
 
 DR. HOLLENDORF. 285 
 
 * Quite so, quite so,' cried the little man, whose 
 mother was an Aberdeen woman. 'It is a most 
 extraordinary thing, Dr. Hollendorf, that although I 
 have never had the honour of meeting you before, 
 your voice is very familiar to me.' 
 
 ' My dear sir, do you suppose that nature can 
 give a distinctive voice to every unit in an over- 
 crowded world ? You might hear my voice in the 
 Fijis to-morrow. There would be nothing extra- 
 ordinary in that.' 
 
 * Quite so. An accidental resemblance,' assented 
 Dr. Webb. 
 
 The German would take no fee ; he had come as 
 Lord Clanyarde's friend, and he drove away in Lord 
 Clanyarde's brougham, without any further loss of 
 time. 
 
 Gilbert Sinclair and his solicitor devoted the rest 
 of the evening to billiards, with frequent refresh- 
 ment on Gilbert's part in the way of brandy and 
 soda. 
 
 ' You talked the other day about finding a pur- 
 chaser for this confounded old barrack,' said Mr. 
 Sinclair. ' I hate the place more every day, and it is
 
 286 WEAVEKS ASD WEFT. 
 
 costing me no end of money for repairs ; never saw 
 such a rickety old hole — always some wall tumbling 
 down, or drain getting choked up — to say nothing 
 of keeping up a large stable here as well as at New- 
 market. ' 
 
 'AVhy not give up Newmarket?' suggested Mr. 
 Wyatt, with his common -sense air. 
 
 * I am not such a fool. Newmarket gives me 
 some pleasure, and this place gives me none.' 
 
 ' You must keep up a home for Mrs. Sinclair ; 
 and a London house would hardly be suitable in her 
 present state.' 
 
 ' I can take her to Hastings, or Ventnor, or to my 
 box at Newmarket, if it comes to that.' 
 
 * Isn't it better for her to be near her father ? ' 
 ' What does she want with her father, an old 
 
 twaddler like Clanyarde, without a thought beyond 
 the gossip of his club ? Don't humbug, Wyatt. You 
 told me you could put your finger on a purchaser. 
 Was that bosh, or did you mean it ? ' 
 
 ' It was not bosh,' answered Wyatt, * but I wanted 
 to be quite sure you were in earnest before I pushed 
 my proposal any fiu'ther. You might consider it
 
 DR. HOLLEIJDORF. 287 
 
 an impertinence even for me to think of such a 
 thing.' 
 
 * What are you driving at V 
 
 ' Will you sell Davenant to me ? ' 
 
 Gilbert dropped his billiard cue, and stood staring 
 at his fi'iend in blank amazement. Here was a new- 
 state of things indeed. The professional man tread- 
 ing on the heels of the millionaire. 
 
 * You ! ' he exclaimed, with contemptuous surprise. 
 * I did not think fifteen per cent, and renewals 
 could be made so profitable.' 
 
 ' I am too thick-skinned to resent the insinua- 
 tion,' said James Wyatt, cushioning his opponent's 
 ball. 'I can afford to buy Davenant at the price 
 you gave for it. I've got just enough money dis- 
 engaged — I sold out of Palermos the other day when 
 they were up — to provide the purchase-money. I 
 brought down a deed of transfer, and if you are in 
 earnest we can settle the business to-morrow morn- 
 ing.' 
 
 * You're buj'ing the place as a speculation ? ' said 
 Gilbei-t, suspiciously. 
 
 ' Kot exactly. But what would it matter to you
 
 288 WEAVERS AND VTEVT. 
 
 if I were ? You want to get rid of the place. I 
 am ready to take it off your hands.' 
 
 ' You have heard of a bid from somebody else ? ' 
 
 ' Ko, I have not.' 
 
 * Well, you're a curious fellow ! Going to get 
 married, I suppose, and turn country squire ? ' 
 
 ' Never mind my plans. Do you mean to sell V 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 'Then I am ready to buy.' 
 
 The deed was executed next morning. Gilbert 
 stipulated that he was not to surrender the house 
 till the jMidsummer quarter, and that James Wyatt 
 was to take the furniture and give him something 
 handsome for his improvements. 
 
 Mr. Sinclair was much pleased at the idea of 
 getting back five-and-thirty thousand pounds of 
 ready money for a place the purchase of which had 
 been a whim, and of the occupation whereof he was 
 heartily tired. Those miners in the north were still 
 holding out, and money had not been flowing into 
 his coffers nearly so fast as it had been flowing out 
 during the last half-year. He had made unlucky 
 bargains in horse-flesh — squandered his money on
 
 DR. HOILENDORF. 289 
 
 second-rate stock — and on lunning small races that 
 were not worth his people's travelling expenses. 
 In a word, he had done all those foolish things 
 which an idle man who thinks liimself extremely 
 clever, and yet lends an ear to every new adviser, is 
 apt to do. 
 
 ' Five-and-thii'ty thou' will put me into smooth 
 water,* he said, as he signed the contract with a 
 flourish. 
 
 The one suspicion as to Mr. Wyatt's intentions, 
 which would have prevented Gilbert Sinclair agree- 
 ing to the bargain, had never presented itself to his 
 mind. 
 
 James Wyatt went back to London that after- 
 noon, promising to meet his client next day at tlie 
 ATgyle Street branch of the Union Bank, and hand 
 over the purchase-money. At eight o'clock that 
 evening he presented himself at Sir Cyprian 
 Davenant's chambers. He found Cyprian sitting 
 alone among his books, smoknig an Indian 
 hookah. 
 
 ' Wyatt, old fellosv,' this is a surprise,' said 
 Cyprian, as they shook hands. ' Have you dined ? ' 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 * Thauks, yes, I took a chop at the Garrick. I've 
 just come from Davenant.* 
 
 ' Indeed ! How is Mrs. Sinclair V 
 
 ' Pretty much the same, poor soul. How long is 
 it since you heard of her V 
 
 ' I saw Lord Clanyarde at his club about a week 
 ago.' 
 
 * Well, there's been no change lately. Something 
 wrong with the mind, you see, and a gradual 
 ebbing away of strength. She's not long for this 
 world, I'm afraid ; but she was too good for it. 
 Angels are better off in heaven than they are with 
 us. "We don't appreciate them.' 
 
 ' No more than swine appreciate pearls,' said Sir 
 Cyprian. 
 
 'What would you give to get Davenant back?' 
 asked Mr. Wyatt, without preface. 
 
 'What would I give? Anything— half my 
 fortune.' 
 
 * What is your fortune worth ?' 
 
 ' About a hundred and fifty thousand.' 
 
 * Well, then, I shan't want so nmch as half of it, 
 though your offer is tempting. Davenant is mine.'
 
 DR. HOLLEXDORF. 291 
 
 * Yours ! ' 
 
 * Yes, at the price you got for it, with another 
 five thousand as a sporting bid for the furniture and 
 improvements. Give me five-and-twenty per cent, 
 on my purchase, and Davenant is yours.' 
 
 * Willingly. But how about Mrs. Sinclair ? WiU 
 it not grieve her to lose the place V 
 
 ' Whether or no, the place is sold. I tell you, 
 Sir Cyprian, I stand before you the owner of 
 Davenant and all its appurtenances. I did not 
 buy it for myself, but on the speculation that, as I 
 bought it cheap, you would be glad to give me a 
 profit on my purchase. I knew Sinclair well enough 
 to be very sure that he would let the roof rot over his 
 head before he would consent to sell the place to you.' 
 
 * You have done a friendly thing, Wyatt, and I 
 thank you. I should hesitate, perhaps, in agreeing 
 to such a bargain were any other man than Mr. 
 Sinclair in question, but I do not feel myself 
 bound to stand upon punctilio with him.' 
 
 ' Punctilio, man ! There's no punctilio to stand 
 upon. Sinclair sold the estate to me unconditionally, 
 and I have an indisputable right to sell it to you.'
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 A RAPID THAW. 
 
 Sir Cyprian Davenant had ridden to Totteridge 
 several times after his discovery of ^Irs. Walsing- 
 ham's connection with the village, as tenant of that 
 small and unpretending house with the green 
 shutters, glass door, and square plot of garden. It 
 was his habit to put up his horse at the inn, and 
 20 for a rustic stroll while the animal rested after 
 his mid-day feed, and in these rambles he had made 
 the acquaintance of the nurse and baby at the green- 
 shuttered house. 
 
 The nurse was a German giil, fat-faced, good- 
 natured, and unintelligent. Sir Cyprian won her 
 heart at the outset by addressing her in her native 
 languasje, which she had not heard since she came 
 to England, and in the confidence inspired by his 
 kind manners and excellent German she freely 
 imparted her affairs to the stranger. Mrs. Walsing-
 
 A RAPID THAW. 293 
 
 ham had hired her in Brussels, aud brought her 
 home as nurse to the little girl, whose previous nurse 
 had been dismissed for bad conduct in that city. 
 
 ' Mrs. Walsingham's little girl ? ' inquired Sir 
 Cyprian. 
 
 'No. The darling is an orphan, the daughter 
 of a poor cousin of Mrs. Walsingham, who died 
 in Vienna, and the kind lady brought the little 
 one home, and is going to bring her up as her own 
 child.' 
 
 Sir Cyprian heard and was doubtful. He had 
 his own theory about this baby, but a theory wliich 
 he would not for worlds have imparted to any one. 
 He got on quite familiar terms with the little one 
 by-and-by. She was a chubby rosy infant of about 
 fifteen months old, with brown eyes and fair com- 
 plexion, and hair that made golden-brown rings upon 
 her ivory forehead. She made frantic efforts to talk, 
 but at present only succeeded in being loquacious in 
 a language of her own. 
 
 She was quite ready to attach herself to the wan- 
 dering stranger, fascinated by his watch-chain and 
 seals.
 
 294 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 ' What is her name ? ' asked Sir Cyprian. 
 
 * Clara, but we always call her Baby/ 
 
 'Clara? That's only her Christian name; she 
 has a surname, I suppose ? ' 
 
 The nursemaid supposed as much also, but had 
 never heard any surname, nor the profession of the 
 little dear's father, nor any details of the death of 
 father and mother. Mrs. Walsingham was a lady 
 who talked very little, but she seemed extremely 
 fond of baby. She came to see her twice a week, 
 and sometimes stayed all day, playing with her, and 
 superintending her dinner, and carrying her about 
 the garden. 
 
 On the morning after that interview with James 
 Wyatt, Sir Cyprian rode to Totteridge and put up his 
 horse, as usual, at the little inn. The nurse had told 
 him that Mrs. Walsingham was to be at the cottage 
 to-day, and he had special reasons for wishing to see 
 that lady. He might have called upon her in Half- 
 moon Street, of course, but he preferred to see her at 
 Baby's establishment, if possible. 
 
 It was noon when he walked up and down 
 the pathway before the cottage, waiting for Mrs.
 
 A KAPID THAW. 295 
 
 Walsingham's arrival, a bright winter day, with a blue 
 sky and a west wind. He had exchanged greetings 
 with Baby already, that young lady saluting him 
 from the nursery window with vivacious flourishes 
 of her pink arms. 
 
 The church clock had not lone: struck twelve 
 when Mrs. "Walsingham's neat brougham drove up. 
 She opened the door and let herself out, and had 
 scarcely stepped on to the pathway, when she recog- 
 nised Sir Cyprian. 
 
 She turned very pale, and made a little move- 
 ment, as if she would have gone back to her carriage, 
 but Sir Cyprian advanced, hat in hand, to greet her. 
 
 'You have not forgotten me, I hope, Mrs. Wal- 
 singham ? ' 
 
 * Sir Cyprian Davenant, I think ? * 
 
 * Yes. I had the pleasure of meeting you more 
 than three years ago at the " Star and Garter." ' 
 
 * I remember perfectly. You have been in Africa 
 since then. I have read some notices of your 
 adventures there. I am glad to see you so little 
 the worse for your travels. And now I must bid 
 you good morning. I have to see some people
 
 296 WKAVKRS AND WEFT. 
 
 here. You can wait at the inn, Holmes," to the 
 coachman. 
 
 * Will you give me lialf an hour — a quarter of an 
 hour's conversation, Mrs. "NValsingham ? ' asked Sir 
 Cyprian. 
 
 She looked at him uneasily, evidently puzzled. 
 
 ' Upon what subject ? ' 
 
 ' Upon a matter of life and death.' 
 
 'You alarm me. Have you come here on 
 purpose to waylay me ? 1 thought our meeting 
 was accidental ? ' 
 
 * Waylay is a disagreeable word ; but I certainly 
 came here this morning on purpose to see you. 
 I am going to make an appeal to your heart, 
 Mrs. Walsingham. I want you to do a noble 
 action.' 
 
 ' I am afraid you have come to the wrong- 
 quarter for that commodity,' she answered, with 
 a bitter smile; but she seemed somewhat reas- 
 sured by this mode of address. 
 
 * Shall we walk ? ' she asked, moving away 
 from the garden gate. 
 
 The wide high road lay before them, destitute
 
 A RAPID THAW. 297 
 
 of any sigu of human life, the leafless limes and 
 chestnuts standing up against the winter sky, the 
 far-off hills purple in the clear bright air. They 
 would be as much alone here as within any four 
 walls, and Mrs. ^Yalsingham was evidently disin- 
 clined to admit Sir Cyprian into Ivy Cottage, 
 as the house with the green shutters was called. 
 
 'Have you friends here? Do you often come?' 
 asked Mrs. Walsinghara, carelessly. 
 
 * I take my morning ride here occasionally, 
 and the other day, while resting my horse, I 
 made the acquaintance of your German nurse 
 and her charge. Baby is a most fascinating 
 little thing, and I take the warmest interest in 
 her.' 
 
 ' What a pity my small cousin is not old 
 enough to appreciate the honour ! ' sneered Mrs. 
 Walsingham. 
 
 Sir Cyprian ignored the sneer. 
 
 * My interest in that sweet little thing has 
 given rise to a strange idea — a wild one, 
 you will say, perhaps, when I have explained 
 myself. But 1 must begin at the beginning.
 
 298 WFAVEUS A.vn wf.ft. 
 
 1 told you that I was going to make an appeal 
 to your heart. T come here to ask you to lend 
 your aid in saving the life and reason of one 
 whom you may have deemed in somewise your 
 rival. Mrs. Sinclair is dying.' 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham was silent. 
 
 'You have heard as much from some one 
 else, perliaps ? ' 
 
 'I heard that she was seriously ill.' 
 
 ' And mentally afflicted ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. You do not expect me to be greatly shocked 
 or grieved, I hope ? I never saw the lady, except 
 in her box at the opera.' 
 
 * A.nd being a stranger you cannot pity her. 
 That is not following the example of the good 
 Samaritan.' 
 
 ' Tf I found her on the roadside I should try to 
 succour her, I dare say,' answered Mrs. Walsingham ; 
 'but as her distresses do not come in my path- 
 way, and as I have many nearer demands upon 
 my pity, T can hardly be expected to make 
 myself miserable on Mrs. Sinclair's account. No 
 doubt she has plenty of sympathy — a husband who
 
 A RAPID THAW. 299 
 
 adores her — and the chivalrous devotion of old 
 admirers, like yourself.' 
 
 'Spare her your sneers, Mrs. Walsingham. At 
 no moment of her married life has she been a woman 
 to be envied. In her present condition to refuse her 
 pity would be to be less than human. Constance 
 Sinclair is dying of a broken heart.' 
 
 ' Very sad,' sighed Mrs. Walsingham. 
 
 ' That is what you would say if one of your friends 
 related the untimely deatli of a favourite lapdog. 
 Have you ever thought what that phrase means, 
 Mrs. Walsingham ? People use it lightly enough. 
 A broken heart — the slow agony of a grief that kills ; 
 — a broken heart — not broken by some sudden blow 
 that shatters joy and life together; — happy those 
 whom sorrow slays with such merciful violence, — 
 but the slow wearing away, the dull, hopeless days, 
 the sleepless nights, the despair that eats into the 
 soul, yet is so slow to kill;— these are the agonies 
 which we sum up lightly, in our conventional phrase- 
 ology, when we talk about broken hearts.' 
 
 ' Is it the loss of her baby which Mrs. Sinclair 
 feels so deeply ? ' asked Mrs. Walsingham, who had
 
 300 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 listened thoughtfully to Sir Cyprian's appeal. She 
 no longer affected a callous indifference to her rival's 
 grief. 
 
 *Yes. That is the grief which is killing her. 
 She has never been really happy with her husband, 
 though she has been a good and dutiful wife. The 
 child brought her happiness. She gave it all her 
 love. She may have erred, perhaps, in concentrating 
 her affection upon this baby, but the baby repre- 
 sented her world of love. When that was taken 
 from her — suddenly, without a moment's warning — 
 she gave herself up to despair. 1 have talked to a 
 faithful servant who was with her in tliat bitter time, 
 who knew her measureless love for the child. I 
 have seen her in her grief, seen her the wreck of the 
 joyous girl I knew three years ago.' 
 
 Mrs. Walsingham was moved. No softening tear 
 veiled the hard brightness of her eyes, but her lower 
 lip worked nervously, and her increasing pallor 
 told of a mind deeply troubled. 
 
 * If her husband had by any act of his brought 
 her to this condition, I should call him something 
 worse than a murderer,' said Sir Cyprian, 'but,
 
 A PvAPlD THAW. 301 
 
 badly as I think of Gilbert Sinclair, I cannot blame 
 him here. It is destiny that has been cruel — an 
 inscrutable Providence which has chosen to inflict 
 this hopeless misery on the gentlest and most in- 
 nocent of victims. It is very hard to understand 
 why this should be.' 
 
 ' !Mrs. Sinclair is not the first,' said Mrs. Wal- 
 singham, struggling against some strong feeling. 
 ' Other women have lost children they loved — only 
 children — the idols of their hearts.' 
 
 ' Other women have had kinder husbands, per- 
 haps, to sympathize with and comfort them. Other 
 women have had sources of consolation which Mrs. 
 Sinclair has not.' 
 
 ' She has her piety — her church — her prayer- 
 book. I should have thought so pure and perfect a 
 woman would find consolation from those. I do not 
 profess to be religious — or to have treasures laid up 
 in heaven — and the loss of what I love most on 
 earth might bring me to madness. But Mrs. Sin- 
 clair's placid perfection should be above such human 
 weakness.' 
 
 * She is human enough and weak enough to
 
 302 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 break her heart for the loss of her child/ answered 
 Sir Cyprian, growing angry. * But }-ou seem to be 
 incapable of pity, and I fear I have been mistaken 
 in appealing to you. Yet I thought that your love 
 for that child yonder might inspire some feeling of 
 sympathy with an aftiicted mother.' 
 
 ' My affection for my poor little orphan cousin — 
 a waif thrown on my hands by misfortune — is not a 
 very absorbing sentiment,' answered Mrs. Walsing- 
 ham, with languid scorn, 
 
 *So much the better,' cried Sir Cyprian, 
 eagerly, ' for in that case you will the easier fall in 
 with my plan for saving Mrs. Sinclair's life and 
 reason.' 
 
 * You have a plan for saving her ? ' 
 
 * Yes, a plan recommended by her physicians, and 
 to which her husband and father have given their 
 consent. In a crisis in which nothing but hope 
 could save her she has been told to hope. It has 
 been even hinted to her that her child is stiJl 
 living.' 
 
 !^Irs. Walsingliam started, and looked at Mm 
 wonderingly.
 
 A RAPID THAW. 303 
 
 * A cruel deception, you think ; but the case was 
 desperate, remember. This false hope has already 
 done something. I have heard this morning that 
 there has been a faint rally — a flicker of returning 
 intelligence. She remembers that she has been told 
 to hope — remembers and looks forward to the reali- 
 zation of the promise that has been made. If we 
 fail her now, despair will again take possession of 
 her — more bitter because of this ray of light. The 
 plan formed by those who love her best is to give 
 her a child to love ; a child whom she will believe 
 at first to be her own, saved from the German river ; 
 but about which, in time to come, when reason and 
 strength have returned, she may be told the truth. 
 She will have given the little one her love by that 
 time, and the adopted child will fill the place of the 
 lost one.' 
 
 * A most romantic scheme, assuredly. Sir Cyprian. 
 And pray what part do you expect me to play in 
 this domestic drama ? Why choose me for your 
 confidante ? ' 
 
 'The little girl you have adopted is about the 
 SiCTQ of Mrs. Sinclair's babv. You admit that she
 
 oO-i -WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 is not very dear to you — a charge which you have 
 taken upon yourself out of charity. Let Gilbert 
 Sinclair adopt that child. He shall provide hand- 
 somely for her future, or, if you prefer trusting me, 
 I will settle a sum of money which you shall 
 approve, in trust for your little cousin, you your- 
 self choosing the trustees. Give me that dear child, 
 Mrs. Walsingham, and you will be the means of 
 saving Constance Sinclair's life.' 
 
 ' That child ? ' cried ^Irs. Walsingham, looking 
 at him with wide open eyes. ' I give you that child 
 — to be Constance Sinclair's solace and consolation 
 — to win Gilbert's wife back to life and happiness ? 
 1 surrender that child ! You must be mad to ask 
 
 it.' 
 
 * Did you not tell me just now that the child 
 was not especially dear to you ? ' 
 
 * She is dear to me/ answered i\Irs. Walsingham, 
 vehemently. *I have grown to love her. She is 
 all I have in the world to love. She reminds me 
 of one who once loved me. Why do you prate to 
 nie of ^Irs. Sinclair's loneliness? She cannot be 
 lonelier than I am. What is there but emptiness
 
 A RAPID THAW. 305 
 
 in my heart ? Yet I do not complain of a broken 
 heart. / do not abandon myself to madness or 
 imbecility. I bear my burden. Let her bear hers. 
 Give you that child, indeed ! That is asking too much.* 
 
 * Pardon me, Mrs. Walsingham. I thought I 
 was talking to a woman with a noble nature, whose 
 higher instincts only needed to be appealed to.' 
 
 ' It is so long since people have left off appealing 
 to my higher instincts that they have somewhat lost 
 their use. Do yoa think, Sir Cyprian Davenant, 
 that I have cause to love or pity, or sacrifice myself 
 for Constance Sinclair? You should know better 
 than that, unless you have lived all these years in 
 this world without knowing what kind of clay your 
 fellow-men and women are made of. I have the 
 strongest reason to detest Mrs. Sinclair, and I do 
 detest her, frankly. She has done me no wrong, 
 you will say. She has done me the greatest wrong 
 — robbed me of the man I love, of wealth, status, 
 name, and place in the world. Do you think it 
 matters to me that she was unconscious of that 
 wrong? She has done it, and I hate her for it, 
 and shall so hate her till my dying day.' 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 AVEAVFT^S AND ^^T.FT. 
 
 ' Your hatred will not reach her in her grave 
 or follow her beyond it/ answered Sir Cyprian. 
 * Your pity might save her life.' 
 
 ' Find some hospital brat to palm upon this dis- 
 tracted mother — some baby-farmer's protegee! 
 
 * I will find some respectably born child, be sure, 
 Mrs. Walsingham. It was only a fancy, perhaps, 
 which led me to propose taking your little kins- 
 woman. I counted too much upon the generosity 
 of a disappointed rival.' 
 
 And with this home-thrust Sir Cyprian bowed, 
 and walked away, leaving the lady to her own 
 reflections. 
 
 A woman of this kind, a being swayed by 
 passion, is often a mass of inconsistency and con- 
 tradiction, now hot, now cold. At a late hour that 
 evening Sir Cyprian received a letter, delivered by 
 a man-servant. It was from Mrs. Walsingham. 
 
 ' I am the most wretched of women,' she wrote, 
 * utterly weary of life. Mrs. Sinclair may have the 
 child. She would grow up a wretch if she grew up 
 under my influence, for every day makes me more 
 miserable and more bitter. What shall I be as an
 
 A RAPID THAW. 307 
 
 old woman? Send some tmstwortliy person to 
 fetch the little girl to-morrow. I give her up to 
 you entirely, but upon condition that Mrs. Sinclair 
 shall never know to whom she owes her adopted 
 child. May the adoption prosper ; but as I hear 
 that Mr. Sinclair is in a fair way to ruin, I do not 
 think you are giving my young kinswoman a very 
 brilliant start in life. Be this as it may, I wash my 
 hands of her. She has not brought me happiness; 
 and perhaps if I were to let her wind herself round 
 my heart it might prove by-and-by that I had 
 taught a serpent to coil there. I have not too good 
 an opinion of her blood. — Your's truly, 
 
 ' Clara Walsingham. 
 * Half-moon Street, 
 ' Wednesday night.'
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 KILL OR CURE, 
 
 Mr. Sinclair was told by Lord Clanyarde of the plan 
 which had been devised by the German physician 
 for his daughter's cure, and after a lengthy discus- 
 sion gave his suUen consent to the imposture. 
 
 *I don't like your German doctor — a thorough- 
 paced charlatan, I'll warrant,' he said, ' and I don't 
 like palming off an impostor upon my poor wife. 
 But if you see any chance of good from this experi- 
 ment let it be tried. God knows I would give my 
 heart's blood to bring Constance back to health and 
 reason.' 
 
 This was said with an unmistakable earnestness, 
 and Lord Clanyarde believed it. He did not know 
 what bitter reason Gilbert Sinclair had for desiring 
 his wife's recovery, in the guilty consciousness that 
 his brutality was the chief cause of her illness.
 
 KILL OR CURK. 309 
 
 ' You are not going to bring some low-born brat 
 into my house, I hope ? ' said Gilbert, with the 
 pride of a man whose grandfather had worked 
 in the mines, and whose father had died worth a 
 million. 
 
 *No, we shall find a gentleman's child — some 
 orphan of about Christabel's age — to adopt.' 
 
 Gilbert shrugged his shoulders, and said no 
 more. 
 
 That visit of the German physician had certainly 
 wrought a change in Constance Sinclair's condition, 
 and Dr. Webb declared that the change was for the 
 better. She seemed to have awakened from that 
 dull apathy, that utter inertness of mind and body, 
 which both the London physician and the faithful 
 country watch-dog had taken to be the precursor of 
 death. She was restless — fluttered by some expecta- 
 tion which kept her senses curiously on the alert — 
 wistful — watchful — listening — starting at every 
 opening of a door — at every coming footfall. 
 
 On the morning after Dr. Hollendorf's visit, she 
 asked for her Bible, and began to read David's Psalms 
 of thanksgiving and rejoicing aloud, like one who
 
 310 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 gave thanks for a great joy. Later in the same day- 
 she went to the piano and sang — sang as she had 
 never done since the beginning of her illness — sang 
 like one who pours forth the gladness of her heart 
 in melody. 
 
 When Dr. Webb came that afternoon, he found 
 his patient sitting in an arm-chair by the window, 
 propped up with pillows, much to the disgust of 
 Melanie Duport, who was on duty at this time. 
 
 'I know she isn't 'strong enough to sit up,' 
 said Melanie to the doctor, 'but she would do it. 
 She seems to be watching for something, or some 
 one.* 
 
 The long window opening upon the balcony 
 commanded a distant curve of the drive leading up 
 to the house, and it was on this point that Constance 
 Sinclair's eyes were fixed. 
 
 ' What are you watching for, dear lady ? ' asked 
 Dr. Webb, in his bland voice, that caressing tone in 
 which medical men address feminine and infantine 
 patients. In Dr. Webb's case the bland ness meant 
 more than it usually does, for he really loved his 
 patient.
 
 KILL OR CURE. 311 
 
 ' I am watching for my child. They will bring 
 her to-day, perhaps. The strange doctor told me 
 she was not drowned. It was true, wasn't it ? He 
 wouldn't deceive me. There was something in his 
 voice that made me trust him — something that went 
 to my heart. My darling was saved, and she is 
 coming back to me. You won't deceive me, I know. 
 She is coming — soon — soon— soon ! Dear, dearest 
 Dr. Webb, is it true ? ' 
 
 'Dear Mrs. Sinclair, you must not agitate your- 
 self in this way,' cried the doctor, flattered by this 
 address. ' Yes, yes. Lord Clanyarde is going to bring 
 you the little girl; and you'll be very fond of her, I 
 hope — and feel quite happy again.' 
 
 * Happy? ' cried Constance, * I shall be in heaven! 
 Ask papa to bring her soon.' 
 
 She was restless throughout that day — sleepless 
 all night. Sometimes her mind wandered, but at 
 other times she spoke clearly and reasonably of God's 
 goodness to her in saving her child. On the following 
 day the same idea was still paramount, but she was 
 somewhat weakened by her excitement and restless- 
 ness, and was no longer able to sit up at her post of
 
 312 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 observation by the window. As the day wore on 
 the old dull apathy seemed to be creeping over her 
 again. She lay on her couch by the fire, silent, 
 exhausted, noticing nothing that occurred around 
 her; her pulse was alarmingly weak, her eyes vacant 
 and heavy. 
 
 * If they don't bring the child soon, it will be too 
 late for their experiment,' thought Dr. Webb. 'And 
 if they do bring it, the excitement may be fatal. 
 God guide us aright ! ' 
 
 It was dusk when Lord Clanyarde's brougham 
 drove up to the porch, and his lordship alighted, 
 carrying a child, muffled in soft woollen shawls, 
 and fast asleep. Gilbert Sinclair had not yet 
 returned from his daily ride. The house was dark 
 and empty. 
 
 Lord Clanyarde went straight to his daughter's 
 room, where Dr. Webb was sitting, too anxious to 
 leave his patient till the crisis which the intended 
 experiment might produce had passed safely. Dr. 
 Webb was not particularly hopeful about the strange 
 doctor's plan. 
 
 'Such good news, my darling ! ' said Lord Clan-
 
 KILL OR CUKE. 313 
 
 yarde, with elaborate cheerfulness. ' Pray don't 
 agitate yourself, my dear Constance.' 
 
 She had started up from her sofa already, and 
 tottered towards him with outstretched arms. 
 
 'I have brought you your baby. The little pet 
 was not drowned aft^r all, and some good people in 
 Germany took care of her. You will find her changed, 
 of course ; three or four months makes such a differ- 
 ence in a baby.' 
 
 Constance neither heeded nor heard. She was 
 sitting on the floor with the newly awakened child 
 in her lap, hugging it to her breast, weeping sweetest 
 tears over the soft curly head, breathing forth her 
 rapture in low inarticulate exclamations. The fire- 
 light shone on the picture of mother and child 
 clinging together thus — the little one submitting 
 uncomplainingly to those vehement caresses. 
 
 ' Thank God ! ' ejaculated Lord Clanyarde within 
 himself. * She doesn't ask a question, poor child. 
 She hasn't the faintest suspicion that we're de- 
 ceiving her.' 
 
 He had chosen this hour for the introduction 
 of the infant impostor, so that Constance's first
 
 314 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 
 
 scrutiny of the baby features should take place 
 in a doubtful light. If first impressions were 
 but favourable, doubts could hardly arise after- 
 wards in that enfeebled mind. Only when reason 
 was fully restored would Constance begin to ask 
 awkward questions. 
 
 In this happy hour she did not even scrutinize 
 the baby face — she only covered it with tears and 
 kisses, and laid it against her bosom, and was 
 content. She accepted this baby stranger at once 
 as her lost Christabel. 
 
 Dr. Webb was delighted. Those tears, those 
 caresses, those gushes of happy love ! What medi- 
 cines could work such cure for a mind astray ? 
 
 ' Upon my word, I believe you have done the 
 right thing, and that your German doctor is not 
 such a quack as I thought him,' whispered the 
 little man to Lord Clanyarde. 
 
 He had still better reason to say this three 
 or four hours later, when Constance' was sleeping 
 tranquilly — a sound and healthy slumber such as she 
 had not known for many weary weeks — with the 
 baby nestling at her side.
 
 KILL OR CURE. 315 
 
 Mr. Sinclair heard of the success that had 
 attended the experiment, and seemed glad ; or as 
 glad as a man could be who had pressing cause 
 for trouble. 
 
 END OF VOL. L 
 
 J. ATfX) W. BIDBR, PBIKTlBg, LOXDON.