L I E> RAHY 
 
 OF THL 
 
 UN IVLRSITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 8Z3 
 
 v/
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/amusementsofmano01nuge
 
 
 THE AMUSEMENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 A MAN OF FASHION.
 
 TEE AMUSEMENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 A MAN OF FASHION. 
 
 % Sfofal. 
 
 BY 
 
 NOEMAN NUGENT. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STEEET, STRAND. 
 
 1873, 
 
 [All rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved.^
 
 LONDON : 
 
 SATIlIi, EDWARDS AND CO., PRINTERS, CHANDOS STBBBT, 
 
 COTENT GARDEN.
 
 8£3 
 
 K/8S1su 
 v.l 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAP. PAGB 
 
 I. THE GRANGE AND ITS INMATES .... 1 
 
 II. SIR FREDERICK MAKES TWO MORNING CALLS . 15 
 
 III. " ONLY A FACE AT A WINDOW " .... 29 
 
 IV. HOW LADY MORTON PLANNED TO MARRY HER 
 
 SON 34 
 
 V. COMPLICATIONS 44 
 
 VI. CROSS PURPOSES 56 
 
 VII. TOO LATE 65 
 
 VIII. DEATH OR LIFE 74 
 
 n^> IX. CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 80 
 
 X. THE EARL'S STORY 88 
 
 XI. LUCIA 96 
 
 XII. A STRANGE COINCIDENCE 104 
 
 XIII. MINNIE BROOKS 107 
 
 XIV. THE POST BRINGS UNWELCOME TIDINGS . . 122
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 xv. not much to tell 137 
 
 xvi. behind the scenes 150 
 
 xvii. ex parte 160 
 
 xviii. captain lenham goes down to donnington 171 
 
 xix. a shadow on the threshold 177 
 
 xx. foiled 189 
 
 xxi. shows how the past and the future are 
 
 bound in the chain of the present . 199 
 
 xxii. on earth peace 211 
 
 xxiii. tells who it was that looked from the 
 
 window in oxenten rectory . . . .219 
 
 xxiv. chit-chat 231 
 
 xxv. edith moorfdzld . 243 
 
 xxvi. tells how many sins were laid to sir 
 
 Frederick's account 258
 
 W^W0SW^S^< J Sf& :4: i : ==^-: ^K^' 
 
 THE AMUSEMENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 A MA^ OF FASHION, 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE GRANGE AND ITS INMATES. 
 
 ^ K the summit of a gentle hill 
 ;y near a pretty Tillage in one 
 of the central counties of 
 England stands a fine old 
 mansion called Donnington Grange. 
 
 The reminiscences of a proud eventful 
 past seem to speak in the fortressed wall 
 and antique gateway, the moss-grown 
 column, and the lions crouching on the 
 threshold ; links of a long chain which the 
 vol. i. 1
 
 2 THE GRANGE AND ITS INMATES. 
 
 hand of time is dexterously disconnecting, 
 though with a lingering, latent fondness, as 
 if the spirit of all that has been pleaded 
 with the present to forbear. Even the 
 breeze that murmurs amidst the giant oaks 
 and elms, relics of a bygone age which 
 breasted the storm in the days of the 
 Cavaliers and Eoundheads, seems to have a 
 history and lesson of its own. 
 
 Far to the east, embosomed in a lovely 
 vale through which a small stream pursues 
 its course, is a quaint-looking Gothic 
 church, within whose sacred precincts re- 
 pose the representatives of the Morton line, 
 the noble owners of the Grange. True, 
 some sleep apart. Many serving their 
 king and country in a soldier's or a sailor's 
 life, have found a resting-place beneath 
 the waves of ocean, or on the widespread 
 battle - fields of Europe. But thither 
 have the majority been borne in all the
 
 THE GRANGE AND ITS INMA TES. 3 
 
 "pomp and circumstance of woe," amidst 
 the tears and blessings of the neighbour- 
 hood, for the j were and are a generous- 
 hearted race, as renowned for large-handed, 
 discriminating charity as for old descent 
 and unblemished reputation. 
 
 Everything around bears witness to re- 
 fined and careful cultivation, for the Mortons 
 are wealthy, and spend much of their in- 
 come in adorning and beautifying their 
 ancestral home. 
 
 One bright morning in May Sir Frederick 
 Morton might have been seen standing on 
 the steps beneath the porch (over which were 
 deeply cut in stone the family arms and 
 motto, " Magni nominis umbra "), watch- 
 ing the paces of a splendid black charger 
 which the groom was gently leading up and 
 down the carriage-drive in front of the 
 house. Sir Frederick was a man of majestic 
 presence, tall and muscular, of that type 
 
 1—2
 
 4 THE GRANGE AND ITS INMATES. 
 
 not inaptly called robust, which at the first 
 glance conveys an impression of great 
 strength. He was apparently waiting for 
 some one. 
 
 Presently the door behind him opened, 
 and there appeared a lady long past the 
 prime of life, but still retaining traces of 
 great beauty. The young Baronet sprang 
 forward to offer her his arm with some- 
 thing of tender gallantry in his voice and 
 manner. 
 
 " My dear mother, I am so glad. You. 
 are just in time to go round the garden 
 with me before I start." 
 
 After some indifferent conversation, 
 Lady Morton made the inquiry — 
 
 " When do you return, Frederick ?" 
 
 " Well, when I have accomplished my 
 errand.'' 
 
 " And you will not fix the day ?" 
 
 " How can I ? Lawrence may be gone ;
 
 THE GRANGE AND ITS INMATES. 5 
 
 a thousand things may intervene. Ah, 
 my dear mother, you had much better 
 not send me away. You and Mary will be 
 moped to death, and the household go all 
 wrong." 
 
 "Oh, do not be conceited!" rejoined 
 Lady Morton, gazing fondly on the flush- 
 ing countenance of her only and idolized 
 son. Then in a lower tone, she added, 
 " I could almost fancy this reluctance 
 proceeded from another cause ; some 
 strong attraction? Confess, now, I am 
 right ?" 
 
 Her look was bright and cheerful. A 
 true love-tale would have found her no 
 unwilling listener. For years it had been 
 her wish to see him married. It was a 
 favourite maxim of hers that <c a Morton 
 should marry early, for he might die before 
 his prime," and a shade of anxiety had 
 more than once disturbed her mind, because
 
 6 THE GRANGE AND ITS INMATES. 
 
 the last of the race showed so little inclina- 
 tion to prolong it. 
 
 To judge by the short lives of the 
 majority, the good lady was not far wrong 
 in her idea. Few comparatively had lived 
 beyond the dawn of manhood, and for 
 many generations back the heir had been a 
 minor. Sir Frederick laughingly assured 
 her there was no need for hurry in his case, 
 as he had long since left the army, and 
 had not the slightest intention again to 
 travel by land or sea : but the wish 
 continued the same. It was a positive 
 offence against society that the last of 
 the Mortons should be a bachelor at 
 thirty. 
 
 Could he have seen how much she 
 reckoned on his answer, he might not have 
 had the heart to undeceive her. 
 
 " Nonsense, mother. Nay, on my honour, 
 this neighbourhood has no attractions
 
 THE GRANGE AXD ITS INMATES. 7 
 
 for me beyond the dear old Grange, 
 yourself, and our darling May." 
 
 He was too truthful to equivocate, and 
 yet the deep flush remained. It could not 
 be fancy on her part. She looked as she 
 felt — perplexed and disappointed. 
 
 A pause of some seconds followed. It 
 was broken by the Baronet himself. 
 
 "How is our dear invalid this morning?" 
 
 " I scarcely know. Dr. May hew persists 
 in declaring there has been some great 
 shock to the nervous system ; but I cannot 
 imagine anything of the kind. As for 
 Mary herself, neither commands nor re- 
 proof will induce her to confide in me." 
 
 " Of course not," muttered Sir Frederick, 
 uneasily, a sudden gloom overshadowing 
 his features. " Women never can have 
 patience with each other ! Reproof indeed ! 
 Rather pity and forbearance." 
 
 The last words only were audible.
 
 8 THE GRANGE AND ITS INMATES. 
 
 This was setting fire to tinder. Lady 
 Morton indignantly withdrew her arm. 
 
 " What do you mean, Frederick ? 
 Surely no daughter of our house would 
 ever place herself in a position to require 
 either ?" 
 
 " I mean nothing, dearest mother," 
 rejoined the Baronet, gravely, almost sadly, 
 " except that if poor Mary is ill, and 
 consequently depressed and irritable, she 
 needs the more consideration from us." 
 
 This could hardly be his real meaning ; 
 but Lady Morton did not think fit to 
 inquire any further. She could not brook 
 the humiliating notion of being called to 
 exercise a pitying forbearance towards any 
 members of her family, after they had 
 arrived at the years of discretion. Even 
 from their infancy " Magni nominis umbra " 
 had kept them out of many juvenile 
 absurdities, and surely in their wiser man-
 
 THE GRANGE AND ITS INMATES. g 
 
 hood and womanhood she had a right to 
 expect that they would fulfil the promise of 
 their childhood? The sorrows and faults 
 of the imagination she did not even under- 
 stand. It was her aim and wish to be able 
 to respect her children, and to be in turn 
 respected by them. Another of her 
 favourite maxims was that "the virtuous 
 and pure-minded have nothing to fear." 
 Sound morality, undoubtedly ; but as we 
 rarely sympathize save by experience, it 
 made her on some points hard. 
 
 Mother and son came back silently to 
 the spot where the black charger was 
 impatiently struggling to approach his 
 master. 
 
 A magnificent beast, with broad chest 
 and powerful limbs ; small, finely-turned 
 head, and a peculiarly clean look about the 
 hoofs, as if nature had bestowed especial 
 care on their formation.
 
 io THE GRANGE AND ITS INMATES. 
 
 Black Harry was the admiration of all 
 equestrian enthusiasts, particularly among 
 the ladies. " !No wonder," said the en- 
 vious, " they loved him for the sake of his 
 rider." 
 
 Requesting Lady Morton to wait for him 
 in the library, Sir Frederick ran upstairs. 
 Passing through a long corridor, he came 
 at last to a large crimson door. 
 
 Drawing this back, another door pre- 
 sented itself. Here he knocked gently once 
 or twice ; then tried the fastening and 
 entered. 
 
 The room beyond was spacious and well- 
 furnished. An oak wardrobe that might 
 have held the multitudinous garments of 
 Queen Bess, with full-length mirrors of 
 plate glass, stood exactly opposite the door, 
 producing a double reflection of Sir 
 Frederick as he stealthily advanced. The 
 windows were partially darkened, but
 
 THE GRANGE AXD ITS INMATES. n 
 
 sufficient light came through the half- 
 closed blinds to distinguish tolerably clearly. 
 The wainscot was curiously panelled with 
 allegorical devices, and over the fire-place 
 hung the likeness of a grim warrior- 
 ancestor, with penetrating eyes which 
 possessed the peculiarity observable in some 
 old pictures, of seeming to follow the 
 spectator's movements. Sir Miles always 
 looked at people with a scrutinizing, angry 
 expression ; perhaps it was remarkable in 
 life, or the painter did him an injustice. 
 
 A cabinet said to have belonged to Anne 
 Boleyn ; an escritoire with silver lamp 
 attached; a dressing table covered with 
 white muslin, on which were many lady- 
 like knick-knacks ; and a small spring couch, 
 were scattered round at convenient and 
 well-chosen intervals. A pretty French 
 bedstead stood in a recess some fourteen or 
 fifteen feet from the door.
 
 12 THE GRANGE AND ITS INMATES. 
 
 The fair occupant had fallen asleep, but 
 her brother's kiss aroused her, and with a 
 smile of recognition she drew him down to 
 her, until his great height rendering a 
 stooping position anything but easy, he 
 laughingly sank on his knees by the bed- 
 side. 
 
 "There, now you are down I can 
 look at you, my dear, tall, handsome 
 brother." 
 
 The Baronet had been too long accus- 
 tomed to this tender flattery to offer to 
 disclaim it. Perhaps as there is a species 
 of self-appreciation entirely distinct from 
 vanity, a keen perception of what is — the 
 glass of the strong-minded who need not to 
 be told of either deficiency or merit — the 
 tone of sisterly affection swept by as the 
 casual reflection of the truth ; or perhaps he 
 did not even hear, for he was very anxious 
 in more senses than one, and looked the
 
 THE GRANGE AND ITS INMATES. 
 
 13 
 
 question that delicacy of feeling forbade 
 liini to express. 
 
 Mary Morton read the inquiry, traced 
 the unspoken wish to soothe and cheer 
 and sympathize, and resolutely strove to 
 thrust it all aside. 
 
 And yet she dearly loved her brother ! 
 
 Silence is sometimes dangerous where 
 there is anything to conceal. 
 
 "Are you going to bring me a sister, 
 Fred?" 
 
 Sir Frederick shook his head with a faint 
 gesture of denial. 
 
 " I am very uneasy about you, darling, 
 and am more than half inclined to stay at 
 home." 
 
 "I — I am not ill, only lazy, and not 
 very strong, strong enough to keep you 
 prisoner, though, you dear giant." And 
 the other little hand stole round to meet its 
 fellow, drawing him so close that he could
 
 14 THE GRANGE AND ITS INMATES. 
 
 not look into her eyes without a resistance 
 which he would not use. 
 
 But he had read their secret, or thought 
 he had, and his heart failed him.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SIR FREDERICK MAKES TWO MORNING CALLS. 
 
 E must now introduce our 
 readers to the library of a 
 somewhat gloomy-looking 
 residence in Eaton Square. 
 The blinds were all down, but a stray sun- 
 beam danced hither and thither on the 
 rich Turkey carpet, and although the 
 middle of May, there w^as a fire burning 
 dimly in the low polished grate, perhaps a 
 necessary comfort to one long accustomed 
 to a warmer climate. 
 
 Seated in a large easy chair, intently 
 poring over several sheets of closely written 
 manuscript, w T as a man in a deep mourning
 
 SIR FREDERICK MAKES 
 
 dress, to judge by outward semblance 
 not more than five-and-twenty years of 
 age. 
 
 Masses of raven-black hair surmounting 
 the broad, open forehead, rendered still 
 more striking a marble-white complexion.' 
 The eyes and mouth were beautiful, but 
 the chin was too long and pointed, and 
 altogether the face was one that would 
 be considered rather intellectual and in- 
 teresting than regularly handsome. Every- 
 thing around him bespoke refinement and 
 high birth — the scholar and the gentleman. 
 Packages and portmanteaus scattered 
 round the room seemed to indicate the 
 eve of some far journey. On a table at 
 his side lay a thin red volume, apparently 
 connected with the manuscript, for his 
 right hand was firmly closed over it, while 
 his left rested on the copy he was reading. 
 
 Having turned over the last page, he
 
 TWO MORNING CALLS. 17 
 
 rose, evidently intending to consign it to 
 the flames ; but, changing his mind by a 
 sudden impulse, he folded the loose sheets 
 carefully together, secreting them in a 
 cabinet that stood in a corner of the room. 
 Then taking up the little volume before men- 
 tioned, which also proved to be a manuscript, 
 he was speedily engrossed in its contents. 
 
 It would have been a curious study to 
 note the fluctuations of feeling that swept 
 across that usually marble countenance, 
 amongst which, however, pain decidedly 
 predominated. The dragon-clock on the 
 chimney-piece struck the quarter thrice, 
 still he read on, and a knock was heard 
 without, thrice repeated, ere it arrested his 
 attention. 
 
 " Come in." 
 
 A servant entered, bearing a silver tray 
 with letters. The young Earl — for such 
 was his rank — carelessly glanced at the 
 
 vol. 1. 2
 
 1 8 SIR FREDERICK MAKES 
 
 address, and tossed them aside, impatient 
 of the interruption. Then seeing that the 
 man waited, he looked np. 
 
 " Sir Frederick Morton, my lord." 
 
 " Show him in." 
 
 Hastily concealing the book, the Earl 
 advanced to meet the visitor with the quiet 
 cordiality of finished breeding, tinctured 
 by a deep shade of melancholy. 
 
 " My dear Morton, this is an unexpected 
 pleasure. When did you arrive ?" 
 
 " Late last evening. I only heard of 
 your bereavement at the Clarendon, and at 
 once hastened to offer you my sympathy — 
 or congratulations." 
 
 " Both, dear Morton, in a certain sense. 
 It is something to be as Byron says, ' lord 
 of oneself,' although the death of a parent 
 can never be a subject of rejoicing. You 
 are only just in time. I start for Italy the 
 moment after the funeral."
 
 TWO MORNING CALLS. 19 
 
 " So soon !" exclaimed Sir Frederick, 
 with a gesture of extreme surprise. " Will 
 not the world " He hesitated. 
 
 " Make remarks, eh ? Oh, undoubtedly, 
 and welcome. Everybody naturally dis- 
 cusses everybody's business from the most 
 uncharitable point of view. The fact 
 is, a matter of life and death depends 
 upon my going; but as I do not intend 
 to enlighten the truth-loving public, 
 they must talk and they will, I can stand 
 it." 
 
 Sir Frederick Morton and Lord Dunorven, 
 now Earl of Oxenten, were old school- 
 fellows. In days when age took priority of 
 birth, and fagging was carried to excess, 
 fate chanced to consign the one to the 
 tender mercies of the other ; and Morton — 
 generous and gentle, as nature's giants 
 proverbially are, or should be — so far from 
 abusing the privileges of his position, took 
 
 2—2
 
 20 SIR FREDERICK MAKES 
 
 the proud, sensitive boy under bis especial 
 
 care and protection, invested bim witb the 
 
 prestige of bis own great influence and 
 
 superiority in all athletic exercises, and 
 
 effectually shielded him from insult and 
 
 annoyance. In return, Dunorven conceived 
 
 for his protector a romantic attachment that 
 
 grew with his growth and strengthened 
 
 with his strength, and in early manhood 
 
 became the master-charm of his existence. 
 
 The two friends travelled together through 
 
 Italy, Palestine, and Egypt, and although 
 
 the young nobleman remained abroad long 
 
 after Sir Frederick had quietly settled down 
 
 to the ordinary avocations of a country 
 
 gentleman, on his return to England, a 
 
 year previous to the date we are describing, 
 
 out of the twelve months, full six were 
 
 spent at Donnington. 
 
 The Baronet delighted to surround him- 
 self with old schoolmates and fellow colle-
 
 TWO MORNING CALLS. 21 
 
 gians. Some of these we may hereafter 
 have occasion to introduce. 
 
 There was Captain L en ham of the 
 Guards — good-looking, dashing, and extra- 
 vagant, but honest and straightforward to a 
 fault. Molyneux Temple, a rising lawyer. 
 The Eev. John Lawrence, a hard- working 
 curate ; and Sir Desborough Denton, a 
 dark handsome man of thirty-five, a com- 
 paratively recent acquaintance, and the 
 least deserving of all. 
 
 Apparently anxious to change the subject 
 of conversation, Lord Oxenten inquired — 
 
 " Are jou in town for long ?" 
 
 " No ; a few days at the most. By-the- 
 by, you may be able to render me a 
 service. You remember Lawrence — Saint 
 Lawrence as we used to call him in our 
 graceless schoolboy days? We have acci- 
 dentally heard that he is in great distress, 
 being in delicate health and without a
 
 SIR FREDERICK MAKES 
 
 curacy. My mother has commissioned me 
 to invite both him and Mrs. Lawrence to 
 stay at the Grange until we can get him a 
 presentation. It has just occurred to me 
 that you may have a better chance of 
 helping him than I." 
 
 "Not just at the present moment. St. 
 Osyth's was promised by my father, and I 
 must not break his pledged word. How- 
 ever, I will think the matter over. Lord 
 Glengary has several livings in his gift, and 
 may be willing to oblige me, should there 
 be a vacancy between this and the expira- 
 tion of Donnington hospitality." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, my mother and Mary 
 are so fond of Lawrence, that once there, 
 they will not care to part with him." 
 
 Lord Oxenten's brow perceptibly dark- 
 ened. 
 
 " You used to like him as a boy." 
 
 " I — I beg your pardon, Morton, I was
 
 TWO MORNING CALLS. 23 
 
 thinking of something else. Like him, 
 of course I did. There seemed to be a spell 
 against our meeting at your house, but I 
 trust the pleasure of renewing our ac- 
 quaintance is on]y postponed. Recollect I 
 have not seen him these seven years. Did 
 you ever meet Mrs. Lawrence during your 
 long friendship with her son?" 
 
 " Not until this morning, and now I am 
 completely bewitched. I never saw a more 
 fascinating woman. Although certainly 
 not less than forty-five she is positively 
 lovely." 
 
 "You are eloquent, Morton. How did 
 she receive your invitation ?" 
 
 " With a gratitude that made me 
 ashamed I had not sought her out before. 
 I quite long to introduce her to my 
 mother." 
 
 " When do you expect them ?" 
 
 " On Thursday evening. I shall go
 
 24 SIR FREDERICK MAKES 
 
 down early in order to be there on their 
 arrival." 
 
 " Thursday : and this is Saturday. The 
 funeral is to take place on Wednesday. 
 Will you attend, Morton ?" 
 
 " If you wish it." And with a mutually 
 warm grasp of the hand, the two friends 
 separated. 
 
 When again alone, Lord Oxenten 
 immediately resumed his previous occupa- 
 tion. After he had finished reading the 
 manuscript, he walked impatiently up and 
 down the room, the look of pained irresolu- 
 tion gradually deepening to a heavy frown. 
 
 At last. 
 
 " It must be done, and at once," he 
 murmured. " God grant I may not have 
 been cruel in my delay." 
 
 And hastily penning a few brief lines, 
 he signed, folded, and sealed the paper with- 
 out trusting himself to glance at it again.
 
 TWO MORXIXG CALLS. 
 
 Meanwhile Sir Frederick hurried from 
 that hot room into the cooler air with a 
 sensation of newly gained freedom. Not- 
 withstanding all the attractions of friend- 
 ship he longed to be alone. 
 
 A groom with difficulty able to restrain 
 the high-mettled charger resigned his care 
 with undisguised relief, and springing to 
 the saddle the Baronet leisurely proceeded 
 towards Hvde Park. Drawing bridle at 
 the corner of Piccadilly, he watched, with an 
 abstracted gaze, the busy swarm of eques- 
 trians ever undulating to and fro. Many 
 called to him by name ; others looked 
 inquiringly, expecting recognition. To 
 the former he scarcely replied ; the latter 
 he did not even see. He was in the 
 position of one who, having made a 
 desperate effort to escape from a maze of 
 enchantment, finds himself more and more 
 involved. What is the use of fighting with
 
 26 SIR FREDERICK MAKES 
 
 Destiny ? Better yield to it at once. 
 Turning his horse's head, he rode on quickly, 
 and dismounted before the porch of a large 
 house in Belgravia, consigning Black Harry 
 to the keeping of a gentleman's servant 
 who civillv tendered his assistance. A short 
 
 4/ 
 
 sharp ring, a brief question to the obse- 
 quious domestic, and the door was closed 
 behind him. 
 
 Another hour has come and gone. His 
 errand is over, and he descends the steps 
 once or twice, leaning heavily on the railings. 
 No change has taken place without ; the 
 sun still shines as cheeringly as ever, but 
 the heart of that man, so generally calm and 
 self-possessed, beats fast and fiercely with a 
 wild, unavailing sorrow. 
 
 Hark, he mutters something: to him- 
 self as he lays his hand on the saddle- 
 bow. 
 
 " Gone, gone, without a trace."
 
 TWO MORNING CALLS. 27 
 
 "Did } t ou speak, sir?" asks the man- 
 servant, respectfully touching his cap. 
 
 -Xo— no." 
 
 " Can I do anything more ?" 
 
 " No — nothing, thank you." 
 
 And the good-natured lackey goes his 
 way, wondering what makes the strange 
 gentleman so pale. . 
 
 There is a little street sweeper at the 
 corner to whom Sir Frederick has often 
 given a shilling with a few kind words. It 
 is a happy face that peers out of a mass of 
 tangled brown hair ; and the childish figure 
 is graceful and well made, despite the 
 evidences of poverty in the tattered 
 garment and attenuated features. "Willie 
 Grey wants to be spoken to again. Xot 
 to-day, little sweeper, he has no thought to 
 waste on such as thee. 
 
 What a contrast between the rider of that 
 proud steed, the owner of uncounted wealth,
 
 TWO MORNING CALLS. 
 
 the heir of a time-honoured name, whose 
 slightest wish is law to a whole village : 
 and the poor half- starved outcast of society, 
 who, fatherless and motherless, has neither 
 hgme nor kindred ; no friend in the world 
 save one well-nigh as friendless as himself. 
 
 Strange contrast between the two ! 
 
 And yet the one possesses information 
 which at that moment the other would give 
 half his fortune to acquire !
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 "only a face at a window." 
 
 s^HE Earl's decease occurred 
 in London, but the funeral 
 f^Sfc was arranged to take place 
 at a pretty country village 
 which formed part of the Oxenten estate. 
 The morning rose bright and cloudless, 
 consequently a large concourse of persons 
 of all ranks and ages assembled in and near 
 the churchyard ; less perhaps to do honour 
 to the memory of the departed than to 
 gratify the morbid curiosity that loves to 
 dwell on the gloomy accessories of death. 
 
 Morton w T as there according to promise, 
 and he and Sir Desborough Denton walked
 
 30 " ONLY A FACE AT A WINDOW." 
 
 after the young Earl, who, as chief 
 mourner, headed the procession. 
 
 Sir Frederick's worn and altered counte- 
 nance bore traces of much inward suffering. 
 A recent attack of illness served as an 
 excuse to the gay companion at his side 
 (who, by the way, seemed strangely out of 
 place in that lugubrious scene), but by 
 those who had no warrant save externals, 
 his evident depression was not unnaturally 
 attributed to grief at the loss of the 
 departed. On this occasion Morton was 
 unconsciously playing the role of a 
 hypocrite. His acquaintance with the late 
 Earl had been extremely slight, and his 
 being there at all was simply out of regard 
 to his friend. No other relatives were 
 present. Like Sir Frederick, Lord Oxenten 
 was the only known representative of his 
 race. 
 
 After the funeral solemnities were over,
 
 11 ONLY A FACE AT A WINDOW." 31 
 
 the three friends stood talking together at 
 a little distance from the hired train of 
 mourners. The rectory overlooked that 
 side of the churchyard, divided from it by 
 a narrow lawn, in breadth not more than 
 fifteen or twenty paces. At an upper 
 window, surrounded by a trellis- work of 
 jessamine, appeared three young faces of 
 the true Anglo-Saxon type, two girls and a 
 boy, the children of the rector, evidently 
 looking on with mingled awe and curiosity. 
 Behind them, half hidden by the curtain, 
 was a lady, with pale beautiful features. If 
 any one had been near enough to notice, he 
 might have observed a convulsive move- 
 ment in the lip, and a wild light in the full 
 dark eye, as the Earl and his companions 
 came up to the rectory grounds. The little 
 white hands clenched either in pain or dis- 
 pleasure, and one foot beat impatiently on 
 the carpet ; but nothing was heard without,
 
 32 " ONLY A FACE AT A WINDOW." 
 
 save the silvery voices of the children, and 
 the breeze softly murmuring around the 
 casement. Once, and once only, when Sir 
 Desborough made the remark, " What very 
 pretty, fairy -like creatures !" and the three 
 gentlemen simultaneously directed their 
 attention to the unconscious prattlers, the 
 pale face drew back into the shadow with 
 a sudden start, and a half- tittered moan. 
 Strange to say, that sound, faint as it was, 
 caught the ear of one of the spectators, and 
 a slight sympathetic shudder passed rapidly 
 from heart to brain. 
 
 At that moment the young Earl turned 
 to give some orders to his servant. 
 
 " How awfully white Oxenten is, and by 
 my faith, Morton, you do not seem much 
 better. Ugh, I hate coming to a funeral." 
 
 And the gay Baronet put up his glass to 
 have another look at the rector's children. 
 
 Could he have raised himself a step, he
 
 " ONL Y A FACE AT A WINDO W m n 33 
 
 might have seen a pair of dark passionate 
 eyes, one instant dry and tearless, the next 
 quenched by the pressure of an irresistible 
 tenderness, still, whether in sorrow or anger, 
 directed towards the little group of which 
 just then he chanced to form the centre. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 HOW LADY MORTON PLANNED TO MARRY 
 HER SON. 
 
 E. and Mrs. Lawrence were 
 warmly welcomed by the 
 hospitable owners of the 
 Grange. Greatly prepos- 
 sessed by her son's description, seconded by 
 her own generally correct impressions, it 
 seemed as if Lady Morton could scarcely 
 do enough to testify her regard for the in- 
 teresting widow, and a cordial friendship 
 soon sprang up between them. 
 
 There were several other visitors, some 
 of whom we must incidentally describe. 
 Lady Morton was bent on seeing her son
 
 LADY MORTONS PLAN. 35 
 
 married, and in pursuance of this desirable 
 end, had spent the short interval of his 
 absence in considering how she should 
 bring together a number of young ladies, 
 all of whom might more or less deserve 
 the distinguished honour of the Morton 
 alliance. Let us do her justice : she did not 
 look out for money. Her character, not- 
 withstanding some slight severity, was that 
 of a good and noble-minded woman. She 
 did not care that Sir Frederick's bride 
 should be an heiress ; indeed, her choice 
 could hardly fall on such a one, for hers 
 was that species of refined pride which 
 delights in giving rather than receiving. 
 It would ill beseem her son to be in any 
 sense indebted to his wife. 
 
 The future Lady Morton must be essen- 
 tially a lady, of good breeding and high 
 birth ; amiable, accomplished, and elegant. 
 As to money, that was quite another ques- 
 
 3—2
 
 36 HO W LADY MOR TON PLANNED 
 
 tion. Beauty ? Well, she did not much 
 think that Frederick would be likely to fall 
 in love with any girl who did not possess 
 considerable personal attractions, and ac- 
 cordingly only issued invitations to the 
 best-looking of her numerous acquaintance. 
 Among the first to accept the proffered 
 hospitality of Donnington, were the 
 Dowager Lady Glendon and her two un- 
 married daughters. Both these young 
 ladies were exceedingly pretty, and, which 
 in their case might be thought an ad- 
 vantage, a decided contrast to each other. 
 Gertrude, the elder, was a brilliant brunette 
 with pearly teeth and flashing eyes ; but 
 she had not sufficient softness of manner to 
 content the anxious mother. There was a 
 good deal of temper in her face, and the 
 doubt whether she would be likely to prove 
 a submissive and affectionate wife could 
 not be satisfactorily determined. Her
 
 TO MARRY HER SON. 37 
 
 sister Florence was unquestionably her 
 superior. Grecian features, wearing an 
 habitual expression of placidity and gentle- 
 ness, finely-arched eyebrows and deep 
 penetrating blue eyes, the very reflection of 
 tenderness itself, formed an exquisite pic- 
 ture set in a framework of gold. That soft 
 golden hair completed the conquest of 
 Lady Morton's heart. Might it only prove 
 equally successful with Sir Frederick ! 
 
 The last, and, in our opinion, the most 
 interesting-looking of the trio, was Marion 
 Hayes, the daughter of a retired London 
 banker, himself the grandson of a noble- 
 man. 
 
 Slightly but elegantly formed, Marion 
 Hayes was in the highest degree refined 
 and graceful. Eich chestnut hair sur- 
 rounded in a double roll a small well-shaped 
 head, while large hazel eyes, fringed by 
 lashes of the softest brown, looked shyly
 
 38 HO W LAD Y MOR TON PLANNED 
 
 out beneath a pure white brow. In the 
 evening, or when flushed by exercise and 
 excitement, she was radiantly beautiful; 
 at other times her complexion might be 
 thought by some rather wanting in colour ; 
 but her features were faultless, and her 
 powers of fascination irresistible, so that in 
 most instances, as Lady Morton expressed 
 it, " to see her was to love." 
 
 Her disposition would be difficult to 
 describe. She possessed one of those half- 
 formed characters that seem to require the 
 chisel of circumstance or time before the 
 closest observation can determine to what 
 order they belong. She was generally con- 
 sidered amiable — most young ladies of 
 beauty and fortune have little temptation 
 to be otherwise — she could be generous ; 
 gentle and outwardly unselfish she was 
 undoubtedly. Everything about her had a 
 touch and finish peculiarly her own; and
 
 TO MARRY HER SON. 39 
 
 we all know how man}" serious failings may 
 be kept out of sight by a polished and lady- 
 like exterior. As to the rest, our readers 
 must judge for themselves. 
 
 Kow it so happened that Sir Frederick 
 had invited three of his friends to follow 
 him to the Grange, exclusive of John 
 Lawrence and the fascinating widow. 
 These were Captain Lenham, Molyneux 
 Temple, and Sir Desborough Denton. 
 Lady Morton was much embarrassed: not 
 on account of the requisite accommodation, 
 but the presence of three dashing bachelors 
 would certainly not conduce to the further- 
 ance of her scheme. Either they would 
 attract the greater part of Sir Frederick's 
 attention to themselves, or, worse still, 
 by their devotion to the young ladies, more 
 or less throw him into the shade. How- 
 ever, she was too wise a tactician not to 
 conceal her mortification from the individual
 
 40 HO W LAD Y MORTON PLANNED 
 
 most interested, and she welcomed her son's 
 guests with natural urbanity. 
 
 The first few days passed without any- 
 thing deserving remark. The Baronet's 
 cheek may have been paler than its wont — 
 that was easily accounted for by the London 
 illness — but he exerted himself to the 
 utmost to render their stay agreeable to his 
 visitors, and apparently succeeded, for the dif- 
 ferent parts of the puzzle fitted to perfection. 
 
 Lady Morton, nevertheless, was scarcely 
 satisfied with the progress of events. 
 
 Her son's gallantry was so evidently the 
 result of pure kind-heartedness, that not a 
 single action under its most favourable 
 aspect could possibly be construed into an 
 approach to a more tender feeling. 
 
 One sultry afternoon, Lady Morton 
 having driven out alone to visit some of the 
 old cottagers on the Donnington estate, the 
 whole party, left to their own devices,
 
 TO MARRY HER SON. 41 
 
 adjourned to the "Wilderness, a miniature 
 forest a quarter of a mile distant from 
 the house. Here they dispersed, and when 
 their hostess returning from her drive, came 
 in search of the wanderers, the only infor- 
 mation she could obtain from any of them, 
 as to what had become of their companions, 
 was, " Oh, I daresay they are somewhere in 
 the wood." 
 
 The first of whom she asked this question 
 was her own daughter Mary, who was re- 
 clining on a low invalid's couch, which John 
 Lawrence had himself brought for her from 
 the Grange. The young curate's health was 
 already partially restored, and he looked as 
 he felt — thoroughly at home. The ques- 
 tioner's glance may have fallen searchingly 
 on both, but as they were perfectly uncon- 
 cerned and calm, merely enjoying each 
 other's society, she passed on without a 
 shade of apprehension.
 
 42 HO W LAD Y MORTON PLANNED 
 
 Lady Glendon, Marion Hayes, and 
 Gertrude were sketching through an 
 opening, while at a little distance Sir 
 Desborough Denton and Molyneux Temple 
 were carving initials on a tree. Lenham 
 had been with them half an hour before, 
 but had suddenly gone off by himself, no one 
 knew whither. Florence was supposed to 
 be with Mary. 
 
 Lady Morton's heart beat high with 
 hope and self-congratulation : Sir Frede- 
 rick was also missing. Were they, then, 
 together ? 
 
 Without saying anything to undeceive 
 her friend, she rambled on to the confines of 
 the wood, too engrossed by her pleasant 
 day-dream to indulge a thought of fatigue. 
 Presently the accents of a well-known voice 
 reached her through the foliage. 
 
 " Good, kind, and gentle as you are, you 
 would make any "
 
 TO MARRY HER SON. 43 
 
 The concluding part was lost ; but " you 
 would make any man happy," formed the 
 natural sequence in Lady Morton's imagina- 
 tion, of course in reply to some self- disparag- 
 ing remark. 
 
 Had matters progressed so favourably? 
 
 Involuntarily she listened for the answer. 
 It came very low and soft. The words 
 were indistinct, but the tone was unmis- 
 takably a woman's.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 COMPLICATIONS. 
 
 HEN Lady Morton reached 
 the Grange, she found the 
 dinner ready, and several of 
 her guests still absent. 
 Florence and Sir Frederick might be easily 
 excused. Captain Lenham had arranged to 
 dine out one evening ; this was probably the 
 day; but Mrs. Lawrence, dear gentle Mrs. 
 Lawrence, was nowhere to be found, and her 
 kind hostess took alarm at the idea that 
 perhaps the interesting widow might be ill. 
 However, as "John" did not manifest 
 much anxiety upon the subject, and no one 
 ever waited dinner at Donnington, after
 
 COMPLICATIONS. 45 
 
 two servants had been despatched in oppo- 
 site directions, the business of the hour 
 was proceeded with. 
 
 At dessert Sir Frederick came in. 
 
 "It was so hot, I did not want any 
 dinner, dear mother," said he, laughingly. 
 
 " I daresay not, you graceless boy, but 
 what have you done with Florence ? You 
 ought at least to show some consideration 
 for her appetite." 
 
 Lady Morton felt sure of her ground, 
 and was in extreme good humour. Very ill- 
 prepared for the look of blank astonishment 
 with which Sir Frederick greeted her 
 inquiry. 
 
 " Florence ! Miss Grlendon ? Is she not 
 here?" He glanced hastily round the 
 table. " Oh, Lenham is absent too. 
 Depend upon it, mother, they have lost 
 their way, and will come home together 
 presently."
 
 46 COMPLICATIONS. 
 
 This conjecture was hardly sufficient for 
 Lady Glendon, who had been frequently 
 assured that her daughter was safe under 
 Sir Frederick's escort. She was now 
 seriously anxious. 
 
 " And Mrs. Lawrence, Frederick ?" urged 
 Lady Morton, endeavouring to hide her dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 " Is dreadfully tired, and gone to lie 
 down. Dear Lady Glendon, pray be com- 
 forted. I will go in search of the runaways. 
 There is not the slightest occasion for 
 alarm ; we have no bad characters in the 
 neighbourhood. Lawrence — Temple, keep 
 your seats. Sir Desborough, I beg of 
 you 
 
 And having by a mixture of entreaty 
 and command succeeded in restoring some 
 degree of order he hurried from the room. 
 
 Florence and Lenham, as Sir Frederick 
 suggested, had contrived to lose their way,
 
 COMPLICATIONS. 47 
 
 and when, under the guidance of a cottager, 
 they regained the Park enclosure, both 
 were, or fancied themselves, so much fatigued 
 that they sat down to rest on the trunk of a 
 large tree. Dessert was over when they 
 reached the Grange, and Mary Morton 
 had retired for the night. After a hasty 
 greeting to Lady Grlendon, who was too 
 much delighted at her daughter's safety to 
 manifest any serious displeasure, Florence 
 rushed upstairs, only too glad to escape a 
 scolding for what the least rigid of our 
 readers may be tempted to regard as an 
 inexcusable breach of decorum. 
 
 Her mistake respecting Sir Frederick's 
 companion was not the only mortification 
 that Lady Morton was destined to endure 
 that afternoon and evening. During her 
 solitary ramble in the wilderness, her foot 
 accidentally struck against something in 
 the grass. Stooping down to see what it
 
 48 COMPLICATIONS. 
 
 was, she found a small green pocket-book. 
 In raising it, the clasp came unfastened in 
 her hand, and a slip of paper containing a 
 lock of soft dark hair fell to the ground. 
 Completely engrossed by her own reflections, 
 she took little notice of it at the time, but, 
 carefully replacing ths enclosure, put it in 
 her pocket, intending tD make inquiry for 
 the owner directly she returned to the 
 Grange. In her subsequent vexation she 
 had entirely forgotten it. 
 
 As she sat alone in her boudoir, en- 
 deavouring to collect her thoughts before 
 retiring to rest, it suddenly occurred to her. 
 In taking it out, the hasp became entangled 
 in the folds of her dress, and as if by a 
 fatality again flew open. 
 
 There lay the folded paper with the 
 glossy curl beneath — a woman's hair of 
 the richest, deepest brown. The bright 
 light of the lamp flashed across it as she
 
 CO MP LIC A TIONS. 49 
 
 held it in her hand, and some pencilled 
 writing met her eye. It was merely a date, 
 "April 14th, IS—." But Lady Morton 
 started and shivered as if stricken by an 
 unexpected blow : then looked again and 
 again, quickly and eagerly. The same bold 
 characteristic handwriting covered the pages 
 of the unpretending little volume. No, she 
 could not be mistaken. 
 
 Closing it hurriedly to drive away 
 temptation, she buried her face in her left 
 hand, vainly endeavouring to find a 
 satisfactory solution. Her back was to- 
 wards the door. There was a knock, but 
 she did not hear it. The knock was 
 repeated ; a third time with a similar result. 
 The next moment a hand was laid upon her 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Give me that, mother. It is mine." 
 The voice was Sir Frederick's. Low, 
 harsh, almost menacing, it differed strangely 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 5 o COMPLICATIONS. 
 
 from his accustomed tone. Involuntarily 
 she turned to look into his countenance. 
 
 The angry flush died out as his glance 
 met hers. 
 
 " I have not read it, Frederick. I found 
 it in the wood this afternoon, and forgot to 
 mention it on my return." 
 
 True in the main, though she had seen 
 enough to render her uneasy ; a mother's 
 anxiety to spare him unnecessary pain 
 straining the point with truth. Not right, 
 not wise, hut natural. 
 
 An indescrihahle expression of relief stole 
 over those haughty features. 
 
 One moment only. 
 
 Is he gone without a word — without 
 even wishing her good-night — her — his 
 mother ? 
 
 As Sir Frederick descended the stairs, 
 Lenham called to him by name.
 
 CO MP LIC A TIONS. 5 1 
 
 " Come out on the lawn ; it is a glorious 
 night." 
 
 And so it was. The moon had risen in 
 unexampled beauty. Far as the eye could 
 reach, the spire of the distant church, the 
 romantic little village, the quiet homesteads 
 and snow-white cottages dotting the land- 
 scape at intervals, were as clearly outlined 
 as in mid-day splendour, while the trees 
 and groves on either side of the house 
 seemed to have donned a purple robe in 
 their deep shade where the grey-blue sky 
 swept down to the horizon. 
 
 No sound of animated life above, around, 
 beneath. The very birds were gone to 
 sleep. Not all. 
 
 "Hark!" 
 
 The three calhnotes of the nightingale 
 rang shrilly and mournfully from a neigh- 
 bouring elm, followed by a rush of melody 
 such as no feathered songster in our 
 
 4—2
 
 52 COMPLICATIONS. 
 
 clime, nor perhaps, to English ears, in 
 any other clime can rival; so soft, so 
 touching, rising and falling in strange 
 melancholy cadence, a requiem for the by- 
 gone day. 
 
 It ceased, and then boom, boom, the 
 great clock in the hall struck twelve. 
 
 As the last clang died out, the surround- 
 ing stillness became almost oppressive by 
 the contrast ; but for some minutes neither 
 Sir Frederick nor Lenham seemed inclined 
 to interrupt it. Both were sunk in reverie, 
 gazing on that fairy-like scenery as though 
 spell-bound by its loveliness. 
 
 " A glorious heritage, Morton. Many a 
 peer in England might envy you an ances- 
 tral home like this." 
 
 " Possibly. Tis a fine old place. And 
 yet " 
 
 " And yet— what ?" 
 
 " I was thinking that which we hold
 
 COMPLICATIONS. 53 
 
 without effort is apt to lose half its charm 
 in possession." 
 
 " True in some cases, but surely not in 
 yours t 
 
 Sir Frederick did not answer. A weary 
 expression came into his face ; and then, for 
 the first time, Lenham noticed how very 
 pale he was. In the moonlight his features 
 looked drawn and haggard. 
 
 " Morton, you are not well ? What is 
 it?" 
 
 " Nothing, at least nothing that I can 
 tell you, Harry. Talk to me of something 
 else. Self is more or less a skeleton to us 
 all. Where did you go this morning?" 
 
 " Down to the Lower Farm, where I saw 
 a venerable old man with snow-white hair 
 and beard, who told me more about you 
 and yours than I might otherwise have 
 learnt in a lifetime. He seemed as if he 
 could talk of nothing but the Grrauge and
 
 54 COMPLICATIONS. 
 
 the Squire. In fact, his opinion of you 
 soared so far above the average that I 
 began to question with myself whether 
 such an exalted individual could be really 
 any friend of mine." 
 
 Sir Frederick laughed faintly. 
 
 " Poor old Brooks ! Did you see his 
 granddaughter Mary, or Minnie as they 
 generally call her ?" 
 
 "No. Why?" 
 
 " She is a perfect Hebe, light-hearted and 
 sure-footed as a mountain roe, and as in- 
 nocently graceful in her movements. A 
 true type of rustic beauty, a little softened 
 in the outline ; her parents belonged to the 
 better class of husbandmen. Earely shy, 
 for she has nothing to fear, frank and open, 
 but with an enchanting natural modesty 
 that beats all the affectation of the day. 
 You must go and see her, Lenham. How- 
 ever, take care what you say."
 
 COMPLICATIONS. 55 
 
 " "What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Only that I am the sworn enemy of 
 any man above her station who abstracts 
 more than a smile from my Donnington 
 Bose." 
 
 " Does he love her ?" thought Lenham, 
 as he wished his friend good-night. 
 " Surely not. Can it be Florence 
 Glendon ?"
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 T was the last evening in May. 
 The Donnington party and 
 their guests were all assem- 
 bled in the large drawing- 
 room, probably in olden times the ban- 
 queting-hall of the Grange, when Lady 
 Glendon and her daughters having ar- 
 ranged everything for their departure on 
 the morrow, Sir Frederick suddenly an- 
 nounced his intention of accompanying 
 them. 
 
 His mother's eye met his anxiously. 
 " I shall not be away long," he added, 
 in answer to her unspoken inquiry.
 
 CROSS PURPOSES. S7 
 
 "You will come with us to Glendon 
 Hall," eagerly interposed the Dowager. 
 " Hugh will be delighted." 
 
 "Thank you, dear Lady Glendon, but 
 I am going up on business, and do not 
 wish to be away beyond the 4th. " 
 
 " Cannot you dine with us one day?" 
 
 " I am afraid not. Business and pleasure 
 rarely fit together ; besides, my steward is 
 besieging me with petitions for repairs 
 which ought to have been seen to before. 
 I must be back as soon as possible." 
 
 Lady Morton's countenance brightened. 
 Notwithstanding a certain ambiguity of 
 language she had not heard him speak 
 so like himself for months. What this 
 business might be she did not ask, whereas, 
 had no positive anxiety existed, the inquiry 
 would have come out naturally. So dif- 
 ferent, even in minutiae, is the acted from 
 the real.
 
 58 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 "Cannot you put it off, Fred?" pleaded 
 Mary from a distant sofa, whither she and 
 Florence had recently retired : Mary 
 wearily reclining, while the golden-haired 
 beauty sat on a low stool at her feet. 
 " Cannot you put it off ? Must you go 
 at once ?" 
 
 This appeal instantly brought Sir 
 Frederick to the side of the two friends. 
 
 "My dear sister, I must; there is no 
 help for it. Miss Glendon, I wish you 
 could stay with us. Mary will miss you 
 sadly." 
 
 Sir Desborough Denton, his lip curled 
 by a half- sarcastic smile, stood watching 
 Morton with the air of a man who thinks 
 he sees farther than his fellows. Marion 
 Hayes in turn was watching him with the 
 natural bias for misinterpretation so in- 
 herent in humanity. 
 
 " You will be very lonely to-morrow."
 
 CPOSS PURPOSES. 59 
 
 " I ? No. Why ?" 
 
 Marion rashly attempted to look her 
 meaning, while a light jest rose to her 
 lip ; then meeting her companion's glance, 
 she faltered and turned pale. 
 
 The magnetism of the eye ; how little 
 recognised, and yet how potent in effect. 
 The window of the soul, corrupt or holy, 
 whence the stronger will looks out to in- 
 timidate the weaker. 
 
 " Absurd ! As if I could care for that 
 flaxen-haired doll. You know better, 
 Marion," he whispered in a lower tone, 
 bending over her till his dark moustache 
 almost swept her hair. " There is a 
 fatality in our being constantly thrown 
 together. You have regal loveliness, but 
 even you should think twice before you 
 throw away a chance like that." 
 
 At this moment Sir Frederick came up, 
 addressing them conjointly.
 
 60 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 " I hope you will not consider rne un- 
 courteous. Unfortunately, business must 
 be attended to, and mine is not of a nature 
 to bear delay. Denton, I rely on you and 
 Lawrence to entertain the ladies." 
 
 " To the best of my ability. Shall you 
 be away long, Morton ?" 
 
 " Three or four days at the most. There 
 is a parish meeting on the fifth, and I may 
 have to try my hand at arguing. I meant 
 to accomplish everything when last in town, 
 but through not being well and Dunorven's 
 leaving, my good intentions fell to the 
 ground." 
 
 " By-the-by, where is Lord Oxenten 
 . 
 
 " You know as much as I do. He 
 started for Florence without giving an 
 address, and I have not the slightest clue 
 to his whereabouts." 
 
 " When I last saw him he struck me as
 
 CROSS PURPOSES. 61 
 
 looking extremely ill. How terribly down 
 he was that morning !" 
 
 " Possibly," rejoined Morton, drily. 
 " The circumstances were not exactly cal- 
 culated to promote his cheerfulness." 
 
 "Granted: but I have very good grounds 
 for believing that the late Lord Oxenten 
 was no friend to his son, and Dunorven is 
 not the man to affect a sorrow that he does 
 not really feel." 
 
 " Denton !" exclaimed Sir Frederick, in 
 a hurried, almost angry whisper, as Marion 
 Hayes, with instinctive good-breeding, 
 crossed the room to speak to Lady Morton, 
 " how can you talk so in the presence of a 
 comparative stranger? Pray let the subject 
 drop. I know no more of the causes of 
 Dunorven's uneasiness than you do. A 
 discussion without any fact to support it is 
 both unkind and unwise." 
 
 Sir Desborough's answer was lost in a
 
 62 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 summons to tea, but a passing frown con- 
 tracted his handsome features. 
 
 Three days later. 
 
 With pale cheek and firmly compressed 
 lip, Sir Frederick Morton again stood 
 before the door of the aristocratic-looking 
 residence in Belgravia to which we have 
 previously referred. This time his stay 
 was not of long duration — he left in about 
 twenty minutes ; a cutting sarcasm, a few 
 cold words the sole result of an interview 
 on which he had unwittingly built so 
 much ! He did not, he would not believe 
 the half of what they told him, but he had 
 no means of disproving it, and the idea 
 stung him into madness. Heedless whither 
 he was going, he walked on mechanically 
 until he found himself in a narrow street at 
 some little distance from the noisy thorough- 
 fare of Holborn. Here he stopped, weary 
 and out of breath. If the end of his exer-
 
 CROSS PURPOSES. 63 
 
 tion was simply fatigue, he had amply 
 
 succeeded. 
 
 Presently he hailed a returning cab, and 
 
 promising the driver an extra shilling if he 
 
 would make good speed, sprang in hastily, 
 
 just as a ragged boy emerged from the 
 
 corner of a neighbouring alley. 
 " Hi, stop r 
 Vain call to a cabman who is sure of his 
 
 fare. 
 
 However, the boy was not discouraged. 
 Starting off as fast as his legs could carry 
 him, he might perhaps have come up with 
 the lumbering vehicle, had not his foot 
 unluckily struck against the kerb-stone, 
 occasioning a heavy fall, at the same time 
 upsetting an old woman's apple-stall, send- 
 ing her wares flying in all directions like a 
 tumbler's balls. It was our old friend 
 little Willie Grey, who thereupon was 
 incontinently assailed by a shower of un-
 
 64 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 courteous epithets and reproaches from the 
 bystanders, accompanied by several hearty 
 cuffs and kicks from the stout limbs of the 
 indignant dame, which, in his prostrate 
 condition, half smothered by the apples, he 
 was unable to avoid. When he at length 
 recovered his breath and his feet, the cab 
 had disappeared. 
 
 The little street - sweeper's sunshiny 
 face was overshadowed for a moment, but 
 the large intelligent brown eyes soon 
 flashed out again as brightly as ever. He 
 stood still awhile watching the old woman 
 gather up her merchandize, though without 
 venturing to offer his assistance, and then 
 with the philosophic reflection — 
 
 "Well, 'tain't no use," walked on briskly, 
 whistling as he went.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 E must now ask the reader to 
 accompany us to a very dif- 
 ferent scene. 
 In one of the apartments of 
 a beautiful Italian villa, a short distance 
 from Florence, Lord Oxenten stood alone. 
 He had only just arrived, and there 
 was an expression of feverish impatience 
 on his countenance, as every now and 
 then he glanced eagerly towards the 
 door. 
 
 Presently a woman entered. 
 " Will you come now, Signor ? There is 
 no immediate danger." 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 TOO LATE. 
 
 The Earl started and shuddered, then 
 followed her without reply. 
 
 In less than half an hour he returned, 
 closed the door abruptly, and throwing 
 himself on a couch lay like one suddenly 
 deprived of consciousness or life. He was 
 not asleep, though the heavy eyelids 
 drooped, and finally compressed, as if to 
 shut out some painful vision. He was not 
 asleep, but he was sick at heart, desolate 
 and alone. 
 
 " Too late, too late !" 
 
 Words that were felt rather than uttered, 
 but felt in all their torturing simplicity. 
 Tell us that happiness is forfeited for ever. 
 Tell us not that we have lost it by delay. 
 
 The evening was already far advanced, 
 and the open windows admitted a cooler 
 atmosphere from the vale of the Arno, 
 while the moon's silvery light falling on 
 the pale grey of the olive lent a visionary
 
 TOO LATE. 67 
 
 and Elysian appearance to the landscape. 
 The soft, melancholy music of some distant 
 serenade, followed by the accents of a fine 
 contralto voice, floated dreamily on the 
 breeze, gently whispering of love and 
 happiness and joy; but the sounds were 
 evidently distressing to Lord Oxenten, and 
 once or twice he turned aside, endeavouring 
 to avoid hearing them. 
 
 Hour after hour passed away unheeded. 
 Midnight gradually drew near ; midnight 
 in Italy — the land of dreams, melody, and 
 song ! The villa commanded a good view 
 of Florence and the whole vale of the Arno. 
 Florence the fair, surrounded by delicious 
 groves, gardens, and terraces, rising one 
 above another. Beautiful Florence, birth- 
 place of the immortal Dante, lovely at all 
 times, most so when seen at night beneath 
 the chastened splendour of an Italian 
 summer; but the young Earl, a prey to 
 
 5—3
 
 68 TOO LATE. 
 
 the most bitter recollections, had no sense 
 for anything external. 
 
 As the clock struck twelve an old servant 
 came in, bearing a tray with refreshments 
 and a lamp, which he placed on the table. 
 
 " I knocked twice, my lord." 
 
 Lord Oxenten took no notice, he did not 
 even seem to hear ; and the old servant, a 
 Dane who had played with him in child- 
 hood, and been the confidant of all his 
 boyish perplexities, looked on sorrowfully. 
 At last he knelt down by the side of the 
 couch, taking the Earl's hand between his 
 own, with a reverential tenderness entirely 
 devoid of undue familiarity. 
 
 " My dear, dear master, don't — pray 
 don't." 
 
 A large tear fell slowly. Age weeping 
 for the vicissitudes of youth. 
 
 "It is terrible, Christian. I can neither 
 reason nor think."
 
 TOO LATE. 69 
 
 " Don't try to do either, my dear lord, 
 only bear up as well as you can. Kemem- 
 ber it is God's will." 
 
 " I cannot remember anything except 
 that scene, that heartrending scene." 
 
 " My lady may recover." 
 
 " Christian, I dare not hope. It is said 
 to be hereditary. I knew it when I 
 married her. Any great mental excitement 
 might have brought it on, but my love — 
 my 
 
 He broke down, completely overcome ; 
 then after a pause — 
 
 " Poor injured Lucia, how faithfully she 
 kept my secret. Were it not that he is 
 gone to his account, there are times when, 
 God forgive me, I could almost curse my 
 father." 
 
 Faint from exhaustion and want of rest 
 and food, he could scarcely speak. Christian 
 rose, and poured out a glass of wine.
 
 7° TOO LATE. 
 
 Lord Oxenten would have refused, but, 
 noting the shadow of disappointment on the 
 old man's face, he took it silently. 
 
 " To think that a few weeks might have 
 saved her ! My guilty cowardice ! Oh, it is 
 horrible, horrible !" 
 
 And again he closed his eyes with a 
 shudder. 
 
 "My dear lord, do not harass yourself 
 by reflections on what might have been. 
 Trust to my fidelity, all that can be done 
 shall be done ; I implore you to take some 
 repose." 
 
 " I cannot, I cannot. You know what it 
 is, Christian ?" 
 
 "I do know, my dear lord, too well. If 
 you could only sleep " 
 
 " I thought to be so happy. I had 
 arranged everything, planned every- 
 thing " 
 
 " Too much, too much — God does it."
 
 TOO LATE. 71 
 
 " Christian, you will drive me mad." 
 He spoke fiercely, with the petulance of 
 a wronged child, raising himself upon his 
 elbow. Christian dared not attempt re- 
 monstrance, and had great difficulty in 
 persuading him to go to bed, where, though 
 still maintaining his inability to sleep, tired 
 nature finally asserted her rights, and he fell 
 into an uneasy slumber. 
 
 Satisfied on this point, the faithful 
 attendant stole softly downstairs, and 
 crossing a paved court with a marble 
 fountain in the centre, entered the opposite 
 side of the house. After listening for some 
 moments on the threshold he ascended 
 several steps, and passing through a long 
 corridor, came to a door fastened from 
 within. Here he knocked, and was speedily 
 admitted. It was a small room opening 
 into a larger one beyond. The same 
 woman who had previously spoken to Lord
 
 72 TOO LATE. 
 
 Oxenten was seated on a low chair gently 
 pushing a swing cradle. 
 
 " I thought you would never come. 
 Will you have the young master now ?" 
 
 "Yes. Is he asleep?" 
 
 " Asleep ! Not he : no signs of it either. 
 His great black eyes have been wandering 
 about the ceiling for the last half 
 hour." 
 
 And the baby Viscount set up a loud 
 cooing to certify them of his wakefulness. 
 
 " Hear him, the pretty dear." 
 
 Christian stepped forward, and leant over 
 the cot, smoothing down the coverlet with 
 his left hand. The little waxen fingers in 
 ever restless motion at once laid hold of the 
 intruder, and their soft, unconscious pressure 
 took the old man back full five and forty 
 years. 
 
 " How did you manage ?" 
 
 " The Signora asked for water : we had the
 
 TOO LATE. 73 
 
 mixture prepared, and she fell asleep in less 
 than twenty minutes. " 
 
 " Good. Are the rooms all ready ?" 
 
 " Everything but the crib. The child 
 may as well go in it. He wont be asleep 
 this hour." 
 
 u Xo, give him to me. 5 ' 
 
 And the baby face, with the large inqui- 
 sitive eyes, turned hither and thither in all 
 directions, mutely seeking an explanation of 
 
 the problem world, is laid lovingly on the 
 old man's breast.
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 DEATH OR LIFE ? 
 
 ANY times during the night 
 Christian stood anxiously at 
 the door of his master's 
 chamber, listening with 
 painful solicitude to the broken words and 
 incoherent sentences that every now and 
 then fell from the lips of the slumberer. 
 
 Morning dawned ; mid-day came with all 
 its brightness and glory ; still no summons. 
 At last, unable to bear the suspense, he 
 entered the room. 
 
 The Earl was evidently delirious. His 
 eyes were wide open, and without noticing 
 the presence of Christian, he continued
 
 DEA TH OR LIFE ? 75 
 
 talking to himself in a wild, unconnected 
 manner. Greatly alarmed, the faithful old 
 servant immediately sent for an English 
 physician who was fortunately staying with 
 his family at Florence. 
 
 The moment Dr. Carvell had made him- 
 self acquainted with the symptoms of his 
 patient, he pronounced him to be suffering 
 from a violent attack of brain fever. 
 
 " His present state ought to be instantly 
 made known to his relations. In a case 
 like this one must be prepared for emergen- 
 cies. I should strongly advise you to write 
 at once." 
 
 "Ah, sir, it is unnecessary. He is the 
 last of his race — save " 
 
 The old man started, and checked him- 
 self, but Dr. Carvell was intently gazing at 
 the unconscious object of his sympathy, 
 and took no notice of the implied exception. 
 
 "Poor young fellow! He is singularly
 
 76 DEATH OR LIFE? 
 
 handsome. I do not think I ever saw 
 a more interesting countenance. Are 
 
 you 
 
 He stopped, slightly embarrassed. Chris- 
 tian wore no livery, and his demeanour was 
 far above his station. 
 
 " His servant, sir ; only his faithful and 
 attached servant." 
 
 " Your master's name, I think you said 
 was Ellice?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. Mr. Arthur Ellice." 
 
 Lord Oxenten was travelling incognito. 
 
 " Ellice, Ellice. The name strikes me as 
 being familiar. I fancy I must have met 
 with some Ellices in Florence." 
 
 " They were not related to my master, 
 sir. 
 
 " Possibly not. Well, well, this is a sad 
 case — a very sad case; but we must do 
 what we can." 
 
 Christian drew his hand across his eyes.
 
 DEATH OR LIFE? 77 
 
 " My good friend," added the physician, 
 kindly, " I do not wish to needlessly 
 distress you. Much depends on careful 
 nursing. This I must leave entirely to 
 you. Are you in his confidence ?" 
 
 " Why, sir, I think I may honestly say 
 yes. Mr. Ellice has known and trusted me 
 from his infancy." 
 
 " That is fortunate. A confidential at- 
 tendant is a great boon. One can never 
 he on one's guard against delirium. All 
 secrets are unsafe when the mind has lost 
 its rudder.'" 
 
 " You may rely on me, sir. While my 
 strength lasts, I shall never leave him. 
 You think there is danger." 
 
 " Danger ? Why, yes. It is impossible 
 to say what turn the disease will take." 
 
 As Dr. Carvell rose to depart, a sudden 
 thought occurred to him. 
 
 " You are not an Englishman, are you?"
 
 78 DEATH OR LIFE? 
 
 " No, sir, a Dane. But the last five and 
 thirty years of rny life were spent in the 
 service of — Mr. Ellice's father." 
 
 " I see. My patient will be in good 
 hands. Should he recover you must be 
 careful to spare him any recurrence of 
 anxiety. A shock to the nervous system 
 might be fatal." 
 
 The kind physician then left a prescrip- 
 tion with sundry directions, promising to 
 call early in the morning. 
 
 Night and day succeeded each other with 
 feverish alternations of despair and hope. 
 Poor Christian could trace no visible 
 amendment — the Earl never once re- 
 cognised his faithful follower. No ray of 
 present consciousness flashed across the 
 darkness of delirium; no word of lucid 
 import met the ear of the anxious watcher 
 — all was miserable incoherency. 
 
 The ninth day there was a crisis. Dr.
 
 DEATH OR LIFE? 79 
 
 Carvell called at eight a.m., and, after a 
 moment's consideration, turned gravely to 
 Christian — 
 
 " Towards evening you must be prepared 
 for a change. If he wake in possession of 
 his senses, he will do well; if not, no 
 human skill can save him,"
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 
 
 v^^jgl HEISTIAN ANDERSEN, 
 the Earl's faithful and affec- 
 tionate attendant, was the 
 only son of a rich merchant of 
 Copenhagen, who failed when fortune seemed 
 to favour him most, and, unahle to bear the 
 disgrace of not fulfilling his engagements, 
 died of grief. Tims, suddenly translated from 
 sunshine to shade, the young man's heart 
 was crushed. An unhappy attachment em- 
 bittered his reverses, and powerless to 
 support existence in a neighbourhood 
 where all had once been for him so 
 different, he wandered from place to place,
 
 CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 
 
 seeking a precarious livelihood by hiring 
 himself to any who were willing to accept 
 his services. 
 
 Years passed, unmarked save by a long 
 career of misery, until, homeless and friend- 
 less in the streets of London, he had the 
 good fortune on one occasion to rescue the 
 late Lord Oxenten from robbery and murder. 
 The proud English peer was not ungrateful ; 
 he took the destitute foreigner into his 
 household, and relying on the proverbial 
 honesty of the Danish character, promoted 
 him by trust approved from one office to 
 another, and finally made him his steward 
 and confidential adviser in matters of 
 business. 
 
 But the Earl was naturally too stern to 
 long manifest any particular regard towards 
 an inferior in rank ; and not until the 
 infant Dunorven was put into his arms did 
 Christian feel that he had any one to love. 
 
 vol. i. 6
 
 82 CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 
 
 Lady Oxen ten died in giving birth to her 
 son ; the marriage had been anything but 
 happy, and perhaps this circumstance con- 
 tributed to create the breach between the 
 Earl and his young heir. Be that as it 
 may, it is certain that as the boy grew up 
 he regarded Christian with filial affection. 
 When scarcely four years old he would steal 
 away from the presence of his stern sire, his 
 nurse or governess, to show Christian the 
 bruised limb or broken toy, and solicit 
 his help. It was Christian who held his 
 head, and carried him for hours during 
 the maladies incidental to childhood : and 
 when he went to school, it was Christian 
 who accompanied him to the gate, who led 
 his little pony to meet him at the stage, and 
 caught him in his arms on his return. It 
 was Christian to whom he looked for pro- 
 ection in all his boyish escapades, who felt 
 he strongest interest in his juvenile prowess,
 
 CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 83 
 
 and, above all, shared and sympathized with 
 his romantic attachment to his friend 
 Morton, then the leader and champion of 
 the school. 
 
 The intense heat declined by slow 
 degrees, and the cool of evening fell on the 
 thirsty earth. 
 
 Lord Oxenten slept calmly and peace- 
 fully ; the breeze from the vale of the Arno 
 playing round his forehead. 
 
 Far as the eye could reach, a profusion of 
 aromatic flowers covered the slopes, and ex- 
 haled additional perfumes as the sun went 
 down. Near one of the bridges that 
 crossed the river lay the gardens of Boboli. 
 Terraces covered with bay and myrtle 
 (above which rose several towers almost 
 entirely concealed by ivy) looked down on 
 the white statues of fauns and sylvans 
 faintly glimmering below; while in the 
 
 6—2
 
 84 CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 
 
 distance frowned the ancient fort of Eelvi- 
 dere. Wherever the hum of life went on, 
 no sound was heard in the sick-room. For 
 a time Christian gazed mournfully on the 
 gorgeous scene around him, and then, 
 kneeling by the bedside of his beloved 
 master, he fell asleep, thoroughly worn out 
 by long watching and fatigue. His head 
 bowed in the attitude of prayer, he did not 
 know that the dark presence which had 
 haunted him for so many nights and days 
 was even then departing, while a single ray of 
 light falling full on his silvery hair, seemed 
 like a messenger of comfort from the borders 
 of the unknown land. 
 
 Presently a voice came through the still- 
 ness. 
 
 " Christian, Christian. " 
 
 Still he stirred not. 
 
 " Christian, dear old Christian." 
 
 Lord Oxenten was wide awake, looking
 
 CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 
 
 round him with the curious glance of long 
 unconscious illness. Finding words were 
 ineffectual, he laid his hand on the old 
 man's shoulder. The effect of that light 
 touch was instantaneous. Christian uttered 
 an exclamation of irrepressible joy as the 
 great weight crushing down his heart was 
 suddenly rolled away. 
 
 "Thank God'" 
 
 One thought of gratitude to heaven, then 
 back to earth again. 
 
 "My dear, dear master." 
 
 " Where am I, Christian ? This is not 
 England ?" 
 
 "No, my lord. Italy— Florence." The 
 last word was spoken with an effort, as if in 
 dread of what might follow. " Your lord- 
 ship has been very ill," he added, hurriedly. 
 
 "Ah! misery, now I begin to recollect. 
 Ill ! Good heavens, how long ? And 
 Lucia? The child?"
 
 86 CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 
 
 " Nine days, ray lord." 
 
 " Lucia, Lucia, what of her ?" 
 
 " My lady is — much about the same," 
 replied the old man reluctantly, alarmed at 
 the Earl's imperative and agitated tone. 
 
 11 1 must see her, see her at once, I want 
 to judge for myself." 
 
 " My dear lord," exclaimed Christian, 
 piteously, " if not for my sake nor your 
 own, yet for hers, for hers," he reiterated, 
 with emphasis, " I implore you to be calm. 
 Lady Oxenten's life is hanging by a thread. 
 Do not throw away your greatest chance of 
 happiness." 
 
 " Then there is hope ? Christian, tell me 
 there is hope!" And with a momentary 
 accession of strength he grasped the old 
 man's hand, looking into his face with 
 eager, ravenous eyes. 
 
 " There is hope," rejoined Christian, 
 speaking sadly against his own con vie-
 
 CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 87 
 
 tion, " there is hope if you will only try to 
 be patient." 
 
 " And the child — our child ?" There 
 was an indescribable pathos in the Earl's 
 voice as he lingered over the last two 
 words. 
 
 "My young lord is as well as can be, 
 and growing very fast. Your lordship 
 would be surprised to see how he takes 
 notice." 
 
 "Poor little fellow! Thank you, old 
 friend. " And with a deep sigh the young 
 nobleman turned away, either endeavouring 
 to conceal his feelings, or, as Christian 
 hoped, to sleep. 
 
 -q0&
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 THE EARLS STORY. 
 
 HEN Dr. Carvell arrived, he 
 was overwhelmed with bene- 
 dictions from Christian, and 
 on entering Lord Oxenten's 
 room, found they were not entirely un- 
 deserved. 
 
 The Earl extended his hand with a 
 gesture of gratitude and welcome. He 
 would have spoken, but the Doctor at once 
 forbade any approach to conversation. 
 
 " Best, quiet, freedom from anxiety, and 
 all will be well. Neglect these precautions, 
 and I cannot answer for the consequences." 
 Having thus, as he imagined, duly im-
 
 THE EARLS STOR Y. 89 
 
 pressed old Christian, lie turned to his 
 patient with a benevolent smile. 
 
 " Hard lines, Mr. Ellice, but I want to 
 see you soon restored to health." 
 
 Lord Oxenten started : the unfamiliar 
 name grated on his ear. Pressing one 
 hand to his head, he looked wistfully in 
 the physician's face. Although by no 
 means handsome, that face was well calcu- 
 lated to inspire confidence. The broad, 
 intellectual forehead, the penetrating glance 
 of the candid eyes, the thoughtful mouth, 
 compressed yet kind j the decided character 
 looming largely through the general suavity 
 of manner, impressed the beholder with an 
 involuntary feeling of respect. 
 
 None of these external signs were lost 
 upon Lord Oxenten. 
 
 " Christian, leave us." 
 
 "My dear sir, pray do not excite your- 
 self by talking. Cannot you put it off till
 
 90 THE EARL'S STORY. 
 
 to-morrow ? Be wise : wait till you are 
 stronger.' ' 
 
 " Dr. Carvell, I must speak with you. 
 The uncertainty of my recovery makes it 
 necessary that I should do so at once." 
 
 Without waiting a reply, he went on 
 hurriedly — 
 
 " I see you are not aware of my travelling 
 under an assumed name. My father, the 
 late Lord Oxenten, held the not uncommon 
 notion that a peer should marry his equal 
 in rank — a creed that was the indirect 
 cause of all my after unhappiness. When 
 last in Italy, now about eighteen months 
 ago, I stayed some weeks at Venice, and 
 one day, having nothing better to do, 
 strolled into the old church of San Giovanni 
 e Paolo, intending to inspect that master- 
 piece of Titian, the martyrdom of the 
 hermits St. Paul and St. Peter. High 
 Mass was being performed, and becoming
 
 THE EARLS STORY. 91 
 
 interested in the different groups of devo- 
 tees, I lost sight of my previous intention, 
 amusing myself by watching the many 
 beautiful faces scattered here and there 
 around me. One in particular attracted my 
 attention. It was that of a young girl, 
 apparently about fifteen, perfect in grace 
 and outline, still more remarkable for 
 angelic sweetness of expression. It is 
 useless to dwell upon what followed. Lucia 
 Tramaglino was an orphan destined for the 
 veil : but we loved one another. Mine was 
 not a disposition to delay, and after a few 
 stolen interviews I persuaded her to entrust 
 her happiness to my keeping, and fly with 
 me from Venice. We travelled all night, 
 and the next morning were privately 
 married by a village cure whom I had 
 heavily bribed to perform the ceremony. 
 The following day our marriage was again 
 solemnized before the British Consul at
 
 92 THE EARLS STORY. 
 
 Trieste. I loved her, oh, how I loved her ! 
 Grod help me, how passionately I love her 
 still. But I must tell you that before 
 we were married I accidentally ascertained 
 there was insanity in her family. She did 
 not know it, poor child; she was not 
 personally acquainted with any of her 
 relatives, and, for my own part, her isola- 
 tion from domestic ties seemed to rivet 
 my affection. Three months passed in a 
 delirium of happiness — happiness that made 
 me forgetful of everything on earth except 
 my wife. Then, like a thunderbolt 
 in the sanctity of Paradise, came a stern, 
 brief message from my father, demanding 
 my immediate return. How I tore myself 
 away, how I reached England, and went 
 through the various hollow ceremonies 
 imposed upon me by society, I will not 
 attempt to tell you. But my poor darling ! 
 We corresponded regularly until "
 
 THE EARLS STORY. 
 
 93 
 
 The thin white hands quivered and 
 clenched as if to gain a momentary 
 strength. 
 
 " During my father's last illness I 
 received a note from her confidential atten- 
 dant, informing me of the birth of a son, 
 and imploring me in her name to write at 
 once, and fix the time for our reunion. 
 My heart was torn. I ought to have been 
 with her at that time above all others, but 
 I had not courage to incur the displeasure 
 of my dying father by choosing such a 
 moment to reveal our secret. He lingered 
 many months. I wrote all that love and 
 tenderness could dictate, promising to be 
 with her very soon. I heard again and 
 again — several times from Lucia herself. 
 All seemed to be going on well. Un- 
 fortunately, my last letter never reached 
 her, and the anguish of suspense, and, as 
 her attendants told me afterwards, a dread of
 
 94 THE EARLS STORY. 
 
 my death, brought on a kind of low fever, 
 and ultimately affected her reason. I 
 started for Italy the moment after the 
 funeral, and arrived — too late ! When I 
 saw her she was insane, crying and laughing 
 by turns. When I spoke to her she did 
 not know me in the least ; when I offered to 
 caress her, she repulsed me with aversion." 
 
 There were great drops of agony on the 
 Earl's brow. Dr. Carvell wiped them away, 
 and as:ain entreated him to be calm. 
 
 "I will: but listen. What I have to 
 ask is this. I want you to spend some 
 weeks here as my guest (I do not care 
 about expense). I want you to watch the 
 charges in poor Lucia's illness. Save 
 her — spare her to me, if you can. Restore 
 her senses, if only for one short half hour, 
 that she may know that I was faithful, that 
 I adored her to the last, my beautiful 
 innocent love."
 
 THE EARLS STORY. 95 
 
 Dr. Carvell was much moved, but he 
 merely said, " I will try what I can do." 
 
 " The past, the irremediable past !" 
 
 "Do not dwell upon it, my dear young 
 friend, if you will allow me to call you so. 
 Try to keep yourself as quiet as possible, 
 for the Countess's sake as well as for your 
 own. Everything shall be arranged accord- 
 ing to your wishes. I will see Lady 
 Oxenten before I leave, and come to you 
 this evening." 
 
 Thus a new inmate was added to the 
 Villa.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 ^S^Uv^'f;. S soon as he could stand with- 
 out assistance, Lord Oxenten 
 insisted on being allowed to 
 see his unfortunate wife. An 
 affectionate Italian peasant who had lived 
 with Lucia ever since her marriage, attended 
 as nurse, but he hurried her away. There 
 must be no witness of his heart's great 
 agony. 
 
 The hour of frenzy had passed, and the 
 poor maniac was apparently calm and 
 gentle. She sat rocking herself backwards 
 and forwards in a chair murmuring in soft, 
 low tones, as if hushing some invisible
 
 LUCIA. 97 
 
 slumberer. A piteous sight — an angel's 
 beauty, with no mind, no soul ! 
 
 Scarcely able to control his feelings, Lord 
 Oxenten threw himself on a couch near her. 
 His newly acquired strength was failing 
 him. 
 
 " Lucia, my Lucia ! God help me," he 
 ejaculated, bitterly ; "it is I who have 
 brought her to this." 
 
 Lucia did not seem to hear. She went 
 on singing to herself, while ever and anon, 
 like a buoy slipped from its holdings tossed 
 hither and thither on the wildest waves of 
 ocean, his own name smote the ear of the 
 listener. " Arthur, Arthur," but no sense, 
 no coherency of meaning. 
 
 " Oh, Lucia," he exclaimed, in a burst of 
 passionate fondness, rising and throwing his 
 arm round her. " Speak to me, darling. 
 Cannot you recollect me? Don't you 
 remember Arthur?" 
 
 vol. i. 7
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 At the sound of that beloved name 
 imprinted even on the stony blank of 
 delirium, she looked round irresolutely. 
 
 " Arthur ! who speaks of Arthur ? 
 Arthur is dead/' 
 
 His lips sought hers, tremblingly, 
 passionately. Those fond warm kisses, 
 would they not convince her ? 
 
 For one moment Lucia suffered the caress, 
 then roughly started from his grasp. Her 
 strength was greater than his, and he had 
 not power to detain her. 
 
 " No, no. You must not do that. No 
 one must ever do that now." 
 
 She stood erect, defiant : her magnificent 
 black eyes gazing at him with the wild 
 glare of insanity. 
 
 Lord Oxenten was not prepared for the 
 suddenness of her movements. In trying 
 to soothe her, he lost his balance, and his 
 temple struck with violence against the edge
 
 LUCIA. 99 
 
 of a marble table. He fell, partially 
 stunned, bleeding and motionless : and Dr. 
 Carvell (who, dreading the result of the 
 interview, had been waiting anxiously with- 
 out), alarmed by the noise of the fall, rushed 
 into the room. 
 
 What a spectacle arrested his attention ! 
 
 A new mood had come over Lucia. She 
 looked changed and saddened, as if struck 
 by a remorseful pity. Sitting on the floor, 
 supporting the Earl's head upon her 
 shoulder, breathing soft kisses over the 
 wound, which left a sanguine stain on her 
 lips, few would have imagined her insane. 
 
 When Dr. Carvell entered, his first 
 thought was that of separation ; but a 
 moment's reflection convinced him it would 
 be nnwise, perhaps dangerous, to attempt 
 it. 
 
 Lucia appeared to catch some impression 
 of the kind, for she twined her arms closely 
 
 7—2
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 round her husband's neck, and turning her 
 glance full on the intruder, exclaimed, 
 angrily — 
 
 "Arthur is dead. You shall not take 
 him away." 
 
 It was a touching scene. Physical 
 strength and beauty had gradually re- 
 turned in proportion as the mind grew 
 weaker. Her raven hair, which in her 
 half recumbent position swept the ground, 
 floated round her in luxuriant disorder. 
 Ever since her illness she had resisted 
 every attempt to put it up, though she sub- 
 mitted to have it brushed with tolerable 
 patience. To any entreaty on the subject, 
 her reply was, " Arthur told me he liked to 
 see it down." For a similar reason she in- 
 sisted on being always dressed in white. 
 
 When Lord Oxenten regained his con- 
 sciousness, and felt Lucia's kisses on his 
 forehead, a wild hope of her recovery thrilled
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 every nerve. He would not stir lest it 
 should prove to be a dream — a dream so 
 infinitely sweet, that to go back to the 
 reality would be almost worse to him than 
 death. 
 
 " Lucia, my own, my wife I" 
 
 "Are you alive now, Arthur? Ah, I 
 forget, you will go away again and leave 
 me. 
 
 And the old look of weariness and pain 
 came into her face. 
 
 " Never, Lucia, never ! Let me rise, my 
 darling." 
 
 To Dr. Carvell's surprise and delight she 
 got up quietly, and then stood leaning her 
 head lovingly against her husband's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " You love me, Arthur ?" 
 
 " More than my life." 
 
 That night he would not leave her. 
 Even the physician thought it advisable for
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 him to remain, and so preparations were 
 immediately made for the Earl and Countess 
 to occupy the same suite of apartments, the 
 nurse being within call, and Dr. Carvell 
 himself sleeping in an adjoining room. 
 
 Day after day passed on, till weeks lost 
 themselves in months. 
 
 Poor Lucia ! Unconsciously soothed by 
 a beloved presence, it seemed as if her 
 senses were partially restored, though 
 everything connected with the past was an 
 absolute blank. But the long-suffering 
 spirit had worn away its tenement, and 
 with the first faint glimmerings of intel- 
 lect her health perceptibly declined. 
 
 Dr. Carvell noticed this with many sad 
 misgivings. The Earl did not or would 
 not see it, and no one had courage to 
 suggest to him that all was not going on 
 hopefully and well. Yet he might have 
 traced an undefined warning in the colour-
 
 LUCIA. io- 
 
 less lip and faded cheek, the drooping form 
 of his cherished wife, nestling for hours in 
 his arms, now strong enough to bear her 
 weight — alas, how easily borne ! 
 
 The good physician's heart smote him as 
 he watched the almost agonizing tenderness 
 with which the young nobleman hung over 
 the couch of his fragile treasure. 
 
 Was returning reason to usher in the 
 advent of the dark-browed king of terrors ? 
 Surely passing away : slowly withering like 
 the flower that is crushed by the heel of the 
 passer-by ! Strangers might look on in 
 wonder and pity, but his eyes were holden 
 that he could not see. 
 
 Alas ! for the love of earth.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A STRANGE COINCIDENCE. 
 
 N the fourth of June at 
 a quarter to eight p.m., 
 Sir Frederick Morton rode 
 slowly homewards. 
 A glorious sunset shed a thousand 
 charms over hill and dale and grove, 
 tinging earth and heaven with gold, and 
 surrounding the beautiful old Grange with a 
 picturesque halo. Tempted by the love- 
 liness of the evening, he dismounted 
 opposite the church, and consigning his 
 tired horse to the care of a shepherd, with 
 orders to lead him gently to the stables, deter- 
 mined to walk the remainder of the way. 
 Across the fields bearing off to the left,
 
 A STRANGE COINCIDENCE. 
 
 a narrow footpath led in a direct line from 
 the village to the Lower Farm, tenanted by 
 Thomas Brooks. A quarter of a mile 
 further on, and nearly a mile from the 
 Grange, was a grove of trees, whose dense 
 foliage almost excluded the daylight that 
 still lingered on their summits. Before 
 entering the deep shade, Sir Frederick 
 turned round to gaze upon the landscape. 
 As he did so, his glance suddenly rested on 
 two figures, a man and a girl, partly con- 
 cealed by a shrubbery belonging to the 
 farm. He could see that the man wore a 
 dark suit with a round hat slouched over the 
 eyes. The girl's hands were folded and her 
 face was partially averted, but he was too 
 far off to recognise the features of either. 
 Presently they separated, and the hat 
 disappeared behind a fir plantation which 
 adjoined the shrubbery. Through this plan- 
 tation a cart-road led by a circuitous route
 
 106 A STRANGE COINCIDENCE. 
 
 to the Grange. Sir Frederick's curiosity 
 was unpleasantly excited. There was 
 nothing extraordinary in a rustic love 
 affair ; but the stranger was undoubtedly a 
 gentleman, and that girl creeping stealthily 
 round by the back-door, with an evident 
 anxiety to get in unseen, bore a strong 
 resemblance to his favourite Minnie. 
 
 A feeling of salutary anger dispelled for a 
 time the look of gloom and weariness which 
 had gathered on his countenance. He was 
 disappointed and displeased that Minnie, 
 the guileless innocent Minnie, should be 
 induced to listen to the insidious love- 
 making of a man above her in position. 
 He fancied he had an inkling of this 
 mysterious individual, but it might be 
 rather difficult to ascertain the truth. 
 
 "When he reached the Grange, Sir 
 Desborough was out. The coincidence was 
 singular.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MINNIE BROOKS. 
 
 fe^^ HE gorgeous sunset is fol- 
 ^ jj lowed by a resplendent 
 morning : bright and soft, 
 fresh and sweet as an 
 
 English summer morning should be. 
 
 In the cheerful parlour of the Lower 
 Farm, the farmer's granddaughter is 
 engaged in her usual household avocations. 
 She is polishing the furniture, and singing 
 in a low clear voice like a forest bird. 
 Those dainty fingers, of which no lady need 
 to be ashamed, are used to work, and hard 
 work too. Not all day perhaps, for Minnie 
 is industrious, and has generally finished by
 
 io8 MINNIE BROOKS. 
 
 the evening. Then, while her grandfather 
 sleeps in the old arm-chair, a relic of by- 
 gone days, in which it is his somewhat 
 curious boast that his great-grandfather 
 slept before him, she steals out into the 
 little garden at the back of the house, or 
 wanders up and down the adjoining grove, 
 gathering wild flowers or reading to herself. 
 Having been accustomed to do this from 
 childhood — ever since her mother's death 
 left her doubly orphaned — she is allowed to 
 do it now, unquestioned. 
 
 Barely lovely in her sweet, rustic sim- 
 plicity. The soft rounded arms, with sleeves 
 tucked up above the elbow ; the trim short 
 gown of dark blue serge, yet made with some 
 regard to taste, and thoroughly becoming 
 to the wearer, displaying to advantage a 
 well-formed foot and ankle, clad in the 
 cleanest of white hose ; the large, inquiring, 
 brown eyes that flash upon you with a
 
 MINNIE BROOKS. 109 
 
 strange mixture of frankness and modesty ; 
 and the thick masses of chestnut hair, 
 rolled round and round in a kind of double 
 coronet, from which one tiny curl falls 
 over the pure white neck. Where all is 
 in such perfect harmony, one cannot well 
 imagine any change for the better. No 
 attempt at undue finery; no mimicry of 
 those beyond her station. Is this the girl 
 to be led astray by a few honeyed and 
 deceitful words ? 
 
 Presently Minnie pauses, and starts ; 
 then, laying aside her work, looks shyly 
 through the casement, which, opening at 
 the side, fills the room with a perfume of 
 jessamine and roses. Two men are walking 
 slowly down the village foot-path, the 
 taller of whom lingers behind as he passes 
 the swing-gate leading to the farm. Minnie 
 knows that face and form too well. Her 
 colour rises, and the cherry lips part in a
 
 MINNIE BROOKS. 
 
 smile of expectancy. The white hand, on 
 which glitters a plain seal ring, incessantly 
 playing with the dark moustache — she 
 cannot be mistaken — that hand has held 
 her own ere while. But will he not look 
 round ? Ah yes ; he raises his hat, and 
 the young heart throbs wildly with childish 
 but dangerous triumph. It is so nice to be 
 treated like a lady ! 
 
 ci Look here, Lawrence," says Sir Des- 
 borough, lazily leaning on the gate, " did 
 
 you ever see a prettier little nest than 
 
 this is ?" 
 
 " It is pretty, certainly." 
 
 John Lawrence is too much occupied 
 
 with his own thoughts to wonder what 
 
 makes the gay Baronet loiter as he has 
 
 done for the last ten minutes. 
 
 They stand there nearly a quarter of an 
 
 hour talking on indifferent subjects, but 
 
 Sir Desborough does not raise his eyes
 
 MINNIE BROOKS. 
 
 again until they leave. It is no part of his 
 plan to be seen watching Minnie, although 
 he may wish to give her the opportunity of 
 looking at him. 
 
 Directly they are out of sight Minnie 
 returns to her previous occupation, but her 
 light-heartedness is gone. The rest of the 
 clay she wanders about the house like 
 one in a dream. Will he speak to her 
 that evening? He knows her favourite 
 haunts, for the first time she saw him he 
 asked her whether she was fond of walking* 
 in the woods. And Minnie, foolish little 
 Minnie, told him that it was her one great 
 pleasure. Of course they only met by 
 chance, but those chance meetings have 
 occurred very frequently of late ; and last 
 night he called her " darling," and whispered 
 that he " cared for her." No wonder she 
 is absent and forgetful; no wonder the 
 intervening space seems long, and that she
 
 ii2 MINNIE BROOKS. 
 
 starts on her ordinary ramble with an un- 
 defined dread that perhaps she may not 
 meet him. 
 
 It will be remembered that Sir Frederick 
 had arranged to attend a parish meeting on 
 that day. In the afternoon he took Mrs. 
 Lawrence for a drive, and on his return a 
 consultation with his steward detained him 
 until dinner. Immediately after dinner Sir 
 Desborough decamped. Five minutes later, 
 determined not to be foiled, Morton left the 
 room on the plea of headache, which a walk 
 might remove, resolving to choose that par- 
 ticular time for his visit to the farm. The 
 rites of hospitality were held too sacred at 
 Donnington to admit a thought of quarrel- 
 ling with the supposed offender: but, if 
 occasion offered, he might quietly remon- 
 strate, talk to Minnie herself, and caution 
 her grandfather to watch over her more 
 carefully.
 
 MINNIE BROOKS. 1 1 3 
 
 If Minnie Brooks is, as he believes her, 
 thoroughly pure-minded, she will most 
 assuredly be warned. A woman's safest 
 shield is her own virtue. And yet, when 
 he thinks over the incident of the preced- 
 ing evening with all its probable contin- 
 gencies, he does not feel quite satisfied. 
 Probably few would in the case of a beauti- 
 ful unsophisticated girl of seventeen, and a 
 man nearly double her age, with all the 
 advantages of rank combined with great 
 personal attractions. Even if she repulse 
 him with well-merited indignation, his 
 dangerous love-making may disturb her 
 peace for many a long day. 
 
 Having reached the confines of the Park, 
 in a fit of abstraction he takes the wrong 
 turning, and soon becomes involved in a 
 part of the forest surnamed "the maze," on 
 account of its numerous and intricate paths. 
 Majestic trees, the growth of centuries, sur- 
 
 vol. 1. 8
 
 H4 MINNIE BROOKS. 
 
 rounded by multitudes of lesser date, from 
 live to fifteen feet in height, extend some 
 miles on either side. The sun in its 
 meridian splendour can hardly penetrate 
 that dark, deep coolness, or do more than 
 cast a brighter hue on the thousand 
 varieties of green. There is an outlet if 
 he could only find it, which would lead 
 him directly to the farm without taking 
 the trouble to go back. Yonder it lies 
 bordered by a multitude of wild flowers. 
 He has not advanced many steps before he 
 hears a low hum of voices apparently pro- 
 ceeding from a path alongside the one he is 
 pursuing. Another half-dozen paces bring 
 him to the level of the speakers. He can 
 now hear, without, however, being able to 
 see, or being seen by either. It is un- 
 necessary, for he instantly recognises both. 
 
 " You love me, Minnie ?" 
 
 A sweet childish voice murmurs some-
 
 MINNIE BROOKS, 115 
 
 thing inaudible, ending, however, with the 
 question — 
 
 "But why may I not tell my grand- 
 father?" 
 
 Sir Frederick grows hot and cold alter- 
 nately. Were he at that moment face to 
 face with the delinquent, the rules of 
 society might prove insufficient to restrain 
 his anger. 
 
 Not quite liking to play the eaves- 
 dropper, he endeavours to force a passage 
 through the wood, but the branches are too 
 thick and closely set. At last he recollects 
 seeing a path as he came which may 
 possibly lead into the other. Eetracing his 
 steps, a few short turnings bring him 
 to a point whence he can obtain a 
 view of Minnie and Sir Desborou^h, 
 without their being aware of his vicinity. 
 The latter, in the identical round hat and 
 dark evening dress, is leaning against a tree.
 
 n6 MINNIE BROOKS. 
 
 Spell-bound by a kind of fascination, 
 Morton stands rooted to the spot ; Minnie's 
 dubious and agitated manner grieves and 
 perplexes him. 
 
 Sir Desborough does not attempt much 
 demonstration ; he is too practised in the 
 wiles of betrayal. 
 
 Presently, slowly and cautiously, he lays 
 his hand upon her arm. She does not 
 remove it. 
 
 " Heavens, will she yield?" 
 
 Morton's suppressed irritation savours 
 something of disappointed trust. 
 
 The one hand lies there quietly; the 
 other is folded in the breast of its owner ; 
 and Minnie, the still innocent Minnie, 
 neither stirs nor speaks. He can bear it no 
 longer. Instinctively taking two strides 
 forward, another bound will place him at 
 her side. He can hear now. 
 
 He can hear, and what ?
 
 MINNIE BROOKS. 1 1 7 
 
 TJie cooing of the ringdove overhead, 
 soft and gentle, pleading reciprocated 
 tenderness. 
 
 The old tale of love, so called — unholy 
 passion, unpunishable wrong, deep-masked 
 in protestation of affection. 
 
 Does she not see ? Will she not under- 
 stand ? 
 
 Not immediately. The tempter's words 
 are crafty and well-chosen. Who dreams 
 of a pitfall covered over with flowers? 
 And yet, strange magnetism of idea made 
 manifest in touch, the imperceptible 
 pressure of that quiet hand sends a thrill 
 like liquid fire through heart and brain. 
 Neck, face, and arms flush rosy red; her 
 breath comes quick and short ; a gilded 
 glittering sin rises up bodily before her, and 
 beckons her to its embraces. She begins to 
 understand it now. 
 
 Not all at once, slowly and painfully, as
 
 1 1 8 MINNIE BROOKS. 
 
 one might wake to the probe of agony- 
 dealt by a beloved hand, searching deep, 
 deep down till it has grasped the innermost 
 fibres of our being ; and when the quivering 
 life lies disrobed, defenceless, and trembling, 
 acknowledging the reality of power, but self- 
 deluded to the last : " It cannot be meant, 
 it is only to try us." Then wrenching all 
 away. 
 
 Even so. 
 
 Her large eyes fix themselves upon his 
 countenance with a look ; such a look ! and 
 with a cry exceeding sharp and bitter, like 
 the wail of the spirit that is driven from its 
 Eden, she snatches away her arm, and flies 
 from him, despoiled not of that which is the 
 dearest heritage of woman, but of the child- 
 like trust and confidence, the guileless inno- 
 cence of evil, the unsuspecting, unsuspicious 
 judging of others by herself, that has passed 
 away for ever, and will not be recalled.
 
 MINNIE BROOKS. 1 1 9 
 
 On, on, in mad wild haste, to be quit of 
 his presence, out of hearing of his terrible 
 words. One moment's energy and strength. 
 In vain : she trembles and turns faint ; her 
 foot slips and she falls. Sir Desborough 
 follows with a smile of amused security. 
 But another is before him, another arm is 
 round the terrified girl, and a voice hoarse 
 with indignation tells plainly of undesirable 
 witness. 
 
 " Minnie, my child, come home with 
 me. 
 
 Now, this was about the last contingency 
 on which Sir Desborough had reckoned. 
 To take any farther steps in the matter 
 while he continued Sir Frederick's guest, 
 would be, he felt, impracticable, if indeed he 
 had not already made the Grange too hot 
 to hold him. As he walked back alone 
 he came to the conclusion that, all things 
 considered, it would be more prudent, under
 
 120 MINNIE BROOKS. 
 
 the plea of business, to take his departure 
 on the morrow, correctly surmising that, 
 rather than allow anything unpleasant to 
 transpire, Sir Frederick would accept his 
 conge, and keep the reason of it to himself. 
 Chance favoured him. Several letters, 
 affording a plausible excuse to Lady Morton 
 for his abrupt resolve, arrived by the 
 morning's post. He must be in town that 
 day : he was extremely sorry, and so forth ; 
 but unfortunately there was no help for 
 it. 
 
 With the exception of Sir Frederick, who 
 maintained an ominous silence, all warmly 
 expressed their disappointment. Sir Des- 
 borough was a' man of polished manners, 
 and a most entertaining companion. In 
 a retired country residence, amusing 
 qualifications are in great request, and the 
 ladies of the household who had no oppor- 
 tunity of judging otherwise than favourably,
 
 MINNIE BROOKS. 121 
 
 would naturally regret the loss of his 
 society. 
 
 He was too good a tactician to say any- 
 thing to Sir Frederick at the close of that 
 eventful evening ; but meeting him alone 
 next day, a shadow of vexation at his 
 evident estrangement, or perhaps some 
 touch of instinctive courtesy, brought out 
 the remark — 
 
 " Morton, if I had had the least idea that 
 in talking soft nonsense to that pretty little 
 country girl T was trespassing on your 
 preserves, nothing would have induced me 
 to offer you annoyance. Believe me, I am 
 heartily sorry." 
 
 Sir Frederick bit his lip. The apology 
 was almost worse than the offence. 
 
 " Say no more about it, Denton. When 
 do you start?"
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE POST BRINGS UNWELCOME TIDINGS. 
 
 E must pass over the interven- 
 ing months to the following 
 September. 
 
 Through Lord Oxenten's 
 influence, John Lawrence had recently been 
 
 appointed to the Vicarage of F . 
 
 The Dowager Lady Grlendon and her 
 daughters, Marion Hayes, Captain Lenham, 
 and Molyneux Temple, were again on a visit 
 at the Grange. 
 
 It was the day after their arrival, and the 
 three gentlemen had been out shooting. 
 On their return, after a hasty toilette, Sir 
 Frederick inquired for his sister. She had
 
 UNWELCOME TIDINGS. 
 
 not been seen since luncheon, and Lady 
 Morton appeared both hurt and angry at 
 her prolonged absence from the family 
 circle. 
 
 The preceding three months had brought 
 with them no visible improvement to Mary 
 Morton's health. Perhaps rather the re- 
 verse, for whenever there existed no abso- 
 lute necessity for assumed cheerfulness, the 
 ravages of sorrow and anxiety might be 
 easily traced in the pale cheek and sad 
 expression. 
 
 On this particular evening she stood 
 leaning against the broad old-fashioned 
 window-ledge, in the quietude of her own 
 room, gazing pensively into the far distance 
 over the forest-clad lands of her idolized 
 brother. Outwardly calm — and yet what 
 words were those which fell with such 
 harrowing distinctness on one listening 
 ear?
 
 124 THE POST BRINGS 
 
 " To die — to be at rest !" 
 
 After knocking several times without 
 getting a reply, Sir Frederick entered un- 
 perceived. 
 
 " Oh, May ! Is my love nothing?" 
 
 " How you startled me ! Fred, dear 
 Fred, do not look so pained. We all feel 
 sad sometimes." 
 
 " Sometimes," repeated the Baronet, look- 
 ing fondly into the altered, though still 
 beautiful face. " Sometimes, yes ; but with 
 certain wilful individuals it is every day 
 earnest May, you are making yourself 
 seriously ill. What do you think I should 
 do without my sister — my tiresome, 
 naughty little sister ?" 
 
 He spoke lightly, as men are wont to 
 speak to cover intense feeling. 
 
 "Fred, dearest, I am so sorry. Come, 
 kiss me, and pray don't be grave, or I shall 
 fancy you are angry."
 
 UNWELCOME TIDINGS. 125 
 
 " Never angry with you, May." 
 
 " Mamma is, though. I quite dread 
 going down when you are absent." 
 
 Sir Frederick sighed. There was some- 
 thing in all this which he did not under- 
 stand ; but, as we rarely ask questions (save 
 in anger) of those we love, if we imagine 
 their confidence withheld, he made no farther 
 comment. 
 
 The next morning the Donnington party 
 and their guests were all assembled at 
 breakfast, when the post-bag was brought 
 in. There was a rush of excitement, 
 followed by a sudden lull of conversation, 
 which last, however, was presently broken 
 by an impatient exclamation from Captain 
 Lenham. 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked £ir 
 Frederick. 
 
 " He has scalded his fingers with the tea- 
 urn," replied Molyneux Temple, coolly,
 
 126 THE POST BRINGS 
 
 without looking up from the long foreign 
 letter he was reading. 
 
 " I am very sorry/' began Mary, who 
 presided at that end of the table. 
 
 " It is nothing, thank you. How absurd 
 you are, Temple ! "Well, Morton, I have 
 got a step at last." 
 
 " Which seems to have put you rather 
 out of temper. I congratulate you." 
 
 " Ay, but it curtails my leave," growled 
 the Captain, in a tone of savage drollery, at 
 which everybody laughed. 
 
 The momentary amusement was suc- 
 ceeded by a general expression of regret 
 that he should be compelled to shorten his 
 visit. 
 
 After a pause Sir Frederick resumed — 
 
 " When do you join ?" 
 
 " The day after to-morrow." 
 
 " My dear Florence," said Lady Glendon, 
 " if you have finished your breakfast I wish
 
 UNWELCOME TIDINGS. 127 
 
 you would take these notes and answer 
 them at once. My kind compliments and 
 thanks, but we shall not be in town for a 
 week or ten days. You know what to 
 say. 
 
 After some conversation between Sir 
 Frederick and the ladies, Molyneux Temple 
 folded up his letter, and having taken a sip 
 of chocolate with the air of a connoisseur, 
 quietly observed — 
 
 " I rather think my news will astonish 
 you all. Morton, a great friend of yours 
 has been married more than a year ; and, so 
 far as English society is concerned, no one 
 but himself the wiser until now. Son and 
 heir to boot." 
 
 " Who ? What, Oxenten ? Never I" 
 
 " True, though : there can be no mistake 
 about it. Carvell has been staying with 
 his brother, who is a doctor residing on the 
 spot. The Countess is said to be an ex-
 
 128 THE POST BRINGS 
 
 ceedingly pretty woman; the worst of it 
 is 
 
 The remaining part of the sentence was 
 lost, for saying something indistinctly about 
 speaking to Florence, Mary Morton rose 
 to leave the room. As Lenham opened 
 the door, her extreme paleness struck him 
 with a kind of terror. There was no time 
 for reflection ; the next moment he was 
 standing in the hall. Mary had fallen in a 
 dead faint, half supported by the baluster to 
 which she still unconsciously clung. To 
 raise her in his arms, carry her upstairs to 
 Lady Grlendon's boudoir, and call for 
 Florence's assistance, was the work of a few 
 seconds. 
 
 " My poor May ! Captain Lenham, what 
 is the matter?" 
 
 She might well ask. Lenham was almost 
 as pale as his inanimate charge. 
 
 "May 1 come in?"
 
 UNWELCOME TIDINGS. 129 
 
 " Yes ; no, cany her to her own room ; 
 this way ; quick !" 
 
 Florence's ready tact divined that it was 
 not a matter for idle comment. Fortu- 
 nately, no one was about in that part of the 
 house. 
 
 Having gently placed Mary on a couch, 
 while Florence busied herself in applying 
 the usual restoratives, Lenham hastily 
 withdrew. 
 
 When Mary regained consciousness, she 
 looked round with a bewildered gaze. 
 
 " Where am I ? What has happened ?" 
 
 "Nothing, dear, only I suppose the heat 
 overcame you, and you fainted on the 
 stairs." 
 
 " Ah !" She shivered, and turned away. 
 
 With discretion be} r ond her years, 
 Florence went on bathing her friend's 
 temples with eau-de-Cologne, silencing 
 a curiosity that she could not help feeling. 
 
 vol. 1. 9
 
 i 3 o THE POST BRINGS 
 
 Presently Mary spoke again. 
 
 " If you would not mind, dear Florie, not 
 saying anything to my mother ; she is so 
 easily frightened. If any one asks for me, 
 say I am gone to lie down. I shall do very 
 well now. Thank you very much for 
 taking care of me. I need not keep you 
 longer." 
 
 " But, are you sure you feel equal to beirjg 
 left alone ?" 
 
 " Quite equal, dear, thank } T ou. I am not 
 in the least ill. Pray don't say anything to 
 Frederick, nor indeed to any one. You will 
 not refuse to oblige me in this ?" 
 
 " Certainly not, dear May." 
 
 But Florence Glendon looked a little 
 disappointed, and probably felt hurt. Mary 
 was evidently unhappy and determined not 
 to acknowledge it. 
 
 " Poor Florie, I am so sorry to have 
 frightened you/'
 
 UNWELCOME TIDINGS. 131 
 
 It is not that — but- 
 
 "But what, darling? How mysterious 
 you are !" 
 
 " I don't want to tease you, ^lay, but if 
 you are ever in any trouble, I wish you 
 would let me help you." 
 
 * Tou dear child," said Mary, kissing her 
 affectionately. " Of course you shall help 
 me, that is, if I am ever crushed under a 
 mountain that these little fingers can move. 
 I often wish you lived at Donnington, 
 Florie, so that we could see each other 
 every day, aud all the year round. How 
 long do you suppose Lady Glen don will let 
 you stay?" 
 
 " Only till to-morrow fortnight, if indeed 
 till then." 
 
 " So short a time ! Captain Lenham and 
 Mr. Temple both leave earlier. AYhen } T ou 
 are all gone there will be only Marion. 
 Did I tell you she is here for a month ?" 
 
 9—2
 
 132 THE POST BRINGS 
 
 "I heard Lady Morton say so yesterday. 
 How I envy her the privilege !" 
 
 " Never mind, darling, we shall meet 
 again at Christmas, perhaps before. 
 Marion has no mother. Lady Glen don 
 does not like you to visit without her. It 
 is that which makes it so difficult to arrange. 
 But you will be missed. Do run away ! I 
 will not allow you to stay another minute/' 
 
 Captain Lenham did not return to the 
 breakfast-room. Believing his friends were 
 too preoccupied to notice his absence, he 
 put on his hat, and proceeded to the filbert 
 walk, where, half an hour later, Temple 
 found him pacing restlessly up and down 
 with a harassed, anxious expression on his 
 countenance, most unlike his usually sunny 
 aspect. 
 
 " Thank heaven, you are come ! " 
 
 " Come ! of course I came to look for you, 
 though I don't see why you should thank
 
 UNWELCOME TIDINGS. 133 
 
 heaven for the fact of my arrival. What- 
 ever made you run away and hide in this 
 extraordinary manner? Harry, old fellow, 
 you seem confoundedly in the blues. 
 What's up ?" 
 
 " Why, that letter " 
 
 " What, from the Horse Guards ? You 
 don't mean to say the loss of a week's 
 holiday has cut you up like that ?'' 
 
 " Pshaw ! I was referring to your news, 
 not mine." 
 
 " What, about Oxenten's marriage ? My 
 dear fellow, how can it possibly concern 
 you? You were never in love with the 
 Countess, were you? Am I expected to 
 tender you my sympathy ?" 
 
 " Don't chaff, Temple. The matter is too 
 serious. Did you see Miss Morton ?" 
 
 The two friends exchanged glances. 
 
 " Phew ! Sits the wind in that 
 quarter ?"
 
 134 THE POST BRINGS 
 
 " I suspected the truth, and could not 
 help watching her. Her sudden paleness 
 alarmed me, and when she rose to leave the 
 room, I followed. It was fortunate I did. 
 She fainted on the stairs." 
 
 "Poor girl V 
 
 " I am afraid Lord Oxenten must he very 
 much to blame. When he was staying here 
 last autumn they were almost always to- 
 gether. As far as one could judge, he 
 seemed to prefer her society to that of any 
 one, and I am greatly mistaken if Morton 
 did not think so too.'' 
 
 "And all the while he was married? 
 Too bad!" 
 
 " Strange as it may sound, I believe the 
 fact of his marriage is the only palliation of 
 his conduct/' 
 
 " How do you make that out?'' 
 
 " Why, Oxenten is singularly free from 
 vanity, and feeling secure himself, would
 
 UNWELCOME TIDINGS. 135 
 
 never dream of danger to her. A vain man 
 would have been more alive to the probable 
 results of such close intimacy. Oxenten's 
 error is not the less to be deplored ; but he 
 must have erred from thoughtlessness 
 rather than premeditated wrong." 
 
 "Well, it is awfully unlucky. I wish 
 Carvell had not told me, or that I had been 
 wise enough to keep the news to myself. 
 Miss Morton looks anything but strong, 
 and if this makes her ill, I shall be 
 tempted to reproach myself as the indirect 
 cause." 
 
 " I do not think you need do that. It 
 must have transpired one way or another. 
 Poor Morton, I hope his impressions are 
 not the same as mine ; he perfectly adores 
 his sister ; the idea of her suffering would 
 drive him frantic, especially as he would 
 not unnaturally blame himself for having 
 thrown Oxenten so much in her society."
 
 136 UNWELCOME TIDINGS. 
 
 They stood talking some time longer, 
 when Sir Frederick's voice was heard 
 calling through the trees. 
 
 " Lenham ! Temple ! where are you ? I 
 have been hunting for you everywhere. 
 All the carriages are gone : I shall have to 
 drive you in the dog-cart." 
 
 A picnic had been arranged for twelve 
 o'clock that day. Lenham took out his 
 watch — it was nearly one. 
 
 " Where is Miss Morton ?" asked Temple, 
 drawing on his glove. 
 
 " Gone with Lady Grlendon."
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 NOT MUCH TO TELL. 
 
 t^-ms 
 
 IE FREDEEICK was deeply 
 wounded by all that he had 
 heard that morning. As 
 Lenham suggested, he had 
 long imagined the possibility of an attach- 
 ment between his sister and his friend, and 
 not unnaturally was inclined to regard the 
 latter as the destroyer of that sister's happi- 
 ness. His ready friendship found ample 
 excuse for the young Earl's silence during 
 his father's lifetime, but when the days of 
 mourning were ended, he somewhat prema- 
 turely allowed himself to expect proposals 
 in due form. In his first surprise at the
 
 138 NOT MUCH TO TELL. 
 
 intimation of Lord Oxenten's marriage, he 
 lost the opportunity of interrogating Mary's 
 countenance, though her abrupt departure 
 from the breakfast-table did not escape un- 
 noticed. And yet when he saw her start 
 for the picnic, with more tban wonted 
 animation of voice and manner, with a rich 
 colour on her cheek and a brilliant light in 
 her large dark eyes, his penetration seemed 
 to be at fault. After all, he might be 
 mistaken, and a gush of pity mingled 
 strangely with his indignation against the 
 supposed offender, as he recollected the close 
 of Temple's startling announcement. " The 
 worst of it is, the poor lady has not been 
 right in her mind since the birth of her son, 
 and the Earl is almost beside himself with 
 grief." 
 
 Such was the prima facie explanation 
 given by Dr. Carvell to his family. 
 
 Sir Frederick was unusually silent during
 
 NOT MUCH TO TELL. 139 
 
 the whole of a two hours' drive, and could 
 scarcely rouse himself sufficiently to take a 
 part in the general entertainment. A storm 
 was passing over the mind of more than 
 one in that festive assembly. Yet it would 
 be difficult to imagine a happier scene than 
 that which presented itself to the view of 
 the new-comers, as emerging from a winding 
 road between high banks and hedgerows, 
 they came in sight of their expecting friends. 
 Most of the county rank and fashion had 
 received invitations, and were scattered 
 round in groups, to all appearance in a 
 state of thorough enjoyment; while at a 
 little distance below, a number of servants 
 were engaged in making preparations for an 
 early dinner, beneath an open tent which 
 had been erected for the purpose. 
 
 The spot is picturesque and well chosen. 
 A sheltered glade between two miniature 
 woods on the side of a hill, with a tolerably
 
 i 4 o NOT MUCH TO TELL. 
 
 smooth landing-place of turf, overlooks some 
 miles of a cultivated valley. Close by a 
 pretty village runs a small silvery river, 
 which at the finest point of view sweeping 
 beneath a single arch, suddenly widens to a 
 broad expanse, divided far to the west by a 
 bold projecting tongue of black rock ; the 
 right arm forming a glorious water-fall, the 
 pride and chief attraction of the neighbour- 
 hood : the left, tumbling and roaring in vain 
 rivalry, a few yards farther down contracts, 
 and plunges into a hollow between two 
 dark, scooped- out walls of earth, where its 
 violence self- exhausted, degenerates into an 
 insignificant stream. Two swans are 
 lightly skimming the surface of the smooth 
 sheet of water, lifting their ruffled plumage 
 to the sun. There is a church facing the 
 spectators, and the rectory grounds slope 
 down to the edge of the river, where, 
 leaning against a tree, with eyes bent on
 
 NOT MUCH TO TELL. 141 
 
 his float, a juvenile angler, probably the 
 rector's son, waits anxiously for the long- 
 expected bite. 
 
 Attired with exquisite taste, her rich hair 
 falling heavily below the large sun-hat that 
 shades, but does not hide {he syren loveli- 
 ness of the wearer, Marion Hayes, 
 separated from the rest of her party, is 
 surrounded by gentlemen. But she is not 
 thinking of them. Her eyes wander rest- 
 lessly to the green winding line of hedge- 
 row, whence the sound of wheels and the 
 measured "horse's tramp" are becoming 
 gradually more distinct. " Ha ! they are in 
 sight now." She rises : the gentlemen rise 
 too, though some of them may not be 
 exactly well-pleased at this sudden manifes- 
 tation of interest on the part of the beautiful 
 heiress. 
 
 Sir Frederick delays a moment to give 
 some order to his servant, and it so happens
 
 142 NOT MUCH TO TELL. 
 
 that Marion Hayes is the first to greet his 
 arrival. 
 
 " Oh, Sir Frederick, I am so glad you are 
 come. We have been quite lost without 
 you. 
 
 Is she acting, or is it genuine delight 
 that beams in the liquid lustrous eyes ? 
 
 Sir Frederick was taken by surprise. 
 He looked pleased, and certainly felt 
 flattered. No man is insensible to the 
 implied preference of a young and lovely 
 woman. Granting this, it was but natural 
 that he should be drawn into paying her 
 more than customary attention. 
 
 After dinner the company dispersed. 
 Most of the chaperones became speedily 
 tired with the heat, and while they sat 
 down to rest in the shade, the juniors were 
 left to themselves. Far removed from 
 intrusion, Sir Frederick might have been 
 seen walking along an unfrequented path,
 
 NOT MUCH TO TELL. 143 
 
 his proud head bent, and his whole manner 
 denoting much inward perturbation. When 
 he had reached the confines of the wood, 
 he turned back, and repeated this several 
 times : — 
 
 " The last time he was not alone." 
 
 * * # * 
 
 The hours pass rapidly. 
 
 Crossing the range of hills beyond which 
 lies the London Road, is a boy apparently 
 not more than thirteen years of age. 
 Though shoeless and travel-stained, he can 
 hardly be considered to belong to the ordi- 
 nary class of beggars. There is something 
 too frank and independent in his walk, 
 something too honest in the speaking eye 
 and sunburnt, attenuated face ; and yet he 
 has had to beg his way for many a long 
 mile. Sleeping at night under a hedge- 
 row or a haystack : quenching his thirst in 
 primitive fashion at the river-brink or road-
 
 144 NOT MUCH TO TELL. 
 
 side spring; rarely getting more than a 
 solitary meal, and often going thirty hours 
 without food : he toils on contentedly and 
 even cheerfully. The end of his journey is 
 "before him, and hope is strong in the boyish 
 heart, gushing out from time to time in 
 fragments of a rude song or an animated 
 whistle. Born in a different sphere, cul- 
 tivated and cared for in mind and body, 
 he might be reckoned by many a singularly 
 handsome child; but want and poverty 
 have left their traces, and no beauty can 
 long withstand the pressure of starvation. 
 
 Skirting the little wood on the left, he 
 just misses Lady Glendon and her party ; 
 then slowly descending the hill, looks shyly 
 and hungrily at the open tent and group 
 of merry-hearted servants devouring the 
 remainder of the feast. 
 
 Sir Frederick's coachman, a bluff, portly 
 individual of sixty-five, born and bred on
 
 NOT MUCH TO TELL. 145 
 
 the Donnington estates, sees the new-comer, 
 and calls out cheerily — 
 
 " Halloa, my little man, you seem hungry. 
 Here, we've enough and to spare, there's no 
 good carryin' it home. 5, 
 
 And he throws the half-famished boy 
 some broken bread and three-fourths of a 
 chicken. 
 
 " There, sit ye down, and eat away to yer 
 heart's content. Jim, give the little lad a 
 glass o' beer." 
 
 No second invitation was required. 
 When the cravings of hunger were appeased, 
 one of the party asked him for his history. 
 
 " I ain't got much to tell/' said the boy, 
 sadly, a sudden gloom overshadowing his 
 sunshiny face, sunshiny still, notwith- 
 standing the visible ravages of hunger and 
 premature care. " I ain't got much to tell. 
 Mother died a long time ago." 
 
 " Well, and your father ?" 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 i 4 6 NOT MUCH TO TELL. 
 
 " I never seed un. Old Granny White as 
 lived in our alley kept me to run o' errands. 
 When she died I wer nearly ten, and 
 wanted to go out to sarvice ; but they 
 wonna ha' a boy without a character in 
 Lunnon, so I took to sweepin' crossin's/' 
 
 " And what made ye leave the crossin's, 
 my man?" asked the coachman, kindly, 
 signing to his companions not to laugh at 
 the poor boy's story. 
 
 " A leddy said, maj^be I'd get work aisy 
 in the country, so I'se agoin' down to try. 
 She wer allors kind to me, she wer." 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by a 
 shrill whistle from the under-groom. Two 
 of the horses had broken loose from their 
 temporary stable, and were wildly careering 
 over the hill. Forgetful of everything but 
 the momentary fun, all but the butler set 
 off in pursuit. The excited animals had 
 apparently no intention of being speedily
 
 NOT MUCH TO TELL. 147 
 
 coerced into submission. Driven back on 
 all sides they at length made direct for the 
 wood, creating no small alarm among the 
 ladies, and affording the greatest possible 
 amusement to the gentlemen, most of 
 whom heartily j oined in the chase. 
 
 The wandering boy stood silently watch- 
 ing for awhile, then turning to the butler, 
 inquired — 
 
 " Can you tell me, sir, the nearest way 
 to ?" 
 
 " Oh, my lad, you shouldn't have come 
 down here, though for the matter of that, 
 poor child, I am glad enough you did ; you 
 wont be quite so hungry this afternoon. 
 Stay, take something with yon." And he 
 packed a quantity of provision in the coarse 
 bundle which the boy carried on a stick 
 slung across his shoulder. " You must 
 go back by those trees, yonder, <Yye see? 
 till you get into the beaten road : they 
 
 10—2
 
 H8 not much to tell. 
 
 will direct you again at the turnpike- 
 gate. 
 
 " Thank yon, sir, thank yon kindly." 
 
 He trndged on merrily, climbing a rough 
 pathway that ran alongside a fir plantation 
 adjoining the wood. The sound of voices 
 caused him to look up. A lady and 
 gentleman were sitting on the bank above, 
 talking in a low earnest tone. 
 
 The boy started. A flash of sudden 
 recognition lighted up his countenance. 
 Involuntarily he touched his cap, and 
 hesitated, as if about to speak. 
 
 The Baronet (it was Sir Frederick him- 
 self), probably anticipating an appeal to his 
 charity, threw him a sixpence, and then 
 turned to resume his conversation with 
 Marion Hayes. 
 
 Forgotten ? Of course the great gentle- 
 man could not be expected to remember 
 him !
 
 NOT MUCH TO TELL. 149 
 
 Picking up the bright silver coin, the 
 little lad went on. Another opportunity of 
 unravelling a tangled web had passed away 
 for ever. But who knew anything about 
 it, and what possible connexion could there 
 be between those two ? 
 
 Ah, Sir Frederick, the past is asleep for 
 the moment. By-and-by it will rouse 
 itself to vengeance.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 ^Wl^nrSS^ ^ another fortnight Marion 
 Hayes was engaged to Sir 
 ATS M§ Frederick Morton. 
 .^ ^ How it came to pass no- 
 
 body knew. They had been riding together, 
 and something more than his usual courtesy 
 might be observed in Sir Frederick's 
 manner as he assisted her to dismount; a 
 grave and tender sympathy rather than 
 the ardour of a happy accepted lover. What 
 did it mean ? 
 
 Marion's countenance was flushed and 
 tearful. She clung to him for a moment, 
 and then hurried to her room. Sir
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 151 
 
 Frederick stood leaning against the balus- 
 trade watching her. She had taken off her 
 hat as they came in, and her lovely hair 
 unbound fell over her riding-habit in superb 
 disorder. 
 
 His own ! Whence that sigh ? 
 
 A fairy footstep crossed the hall. 
 
 " Dreaming, Frederick ?" 
 
 "My dear little sister!" He put his 
 arm round her ; then after a moment's hesi- 
 tation, " I may as well tell you now. 
 You must congratulate me, May." 
 
 " What ! Can it be true ?" She looked 
 at him with a searching tenderness. 
 
 " Quite true, May. I am engaged — 
 engaged to Marion Hayes." 
 
 He repeated it quietly, sententiously, as 
 if giving utterance to a fact that, once ad- 
 mitted, could never be disclaimed. 
 
 " My darling brother, I am so glad, so 
 very glad. It is everything to me to know
 
 152 BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 that you are happy. And you will be ; you 
 must be !" 
 
 Happy ! Was it a whisper of mockery 
 from the past that thrilled so painfully ? 
 Morton seemed to be fatigued, and his lips 
 were forcibly compressed. It was but for a 
 moment. When he spoke again his voice 
 was calm and clear, and the shadow of con- 
 straint passed over unobserved. 
 
 " I hope so, I trust so, God willing." 
 And with a brotherly kiss he went on to 
 bear the glad tidings to his mother. 
 
 Mary lingered in the porch. It was a 
 lovely evening. The autumn sun came 
 down brightly and warmly on the still rich 
 though fading garden glories : even the 
 breeze that drifted a few scattered leaves 
 to her feet was rather soft than cold. 
 Where were her thoughts ? Perhaps far 
 away in a distant land, on the banks of a 
 deep blue river, where, though she knew it
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 153 
 
 not, sorrow and death, and love stronger 
 than death, were striving for the mastery. 
 No one could tell. Neither by word nor 
 sign could the history be read : the few who 
 had any opportunity of judging, pronounced 
 her decidedly more cheerful; Sir Frederick 
 alone might not be entirely satisfied, but he 
 kept his suspicions to himself. 
 
 Let us now follow Marion to her room. 
 Laying down her riding- whip she paused, 
 and listened, evidently anxious to avoid 
 interruption : then locked the door, and 
 throwing herself on a couch began to think. 
 Fearfully hard work sometimes. Men and 
 women too grow old more inwardly than 
 outwardly. The feelings, the affections, the 
 fine and delicate machinery that constitutes 
 the framework of existence, the keynote of 
 a life-long harmony or discord, all these 
 may be overstrained, worn down, and 
 blunted in an hour. Paler and paler grew
 
 154 BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 that beautiful cheek ; but the eye was clear, 
 and the lip almost haughty iu repose. It 
 was the calm before the storm. 
 
 Presently she rose, and unlocking a small 
 portable writing-desk, took thence several 
 packets of letters and a miniature. The 
 letters were carefully tied, many of them of 
 recent date. The likeness was that of — 
 but we will not anticipate. Throwing 
 the costly trinket on the ground, Marion 
 made a movement as if about to trample it 
 beneath the heel of her riding boot : then, 
 by a varying impulse, raised it to her lips, 
 and covered it with wild passionate kisses. 
 A change had come over the proud spirit ; 
 the flash of anger and contempt died out ; 
 and hot blindiug tears, such tears as are 
 shed but seldom in a lifetime, fell thick and 
 fast over the Gralahad resemblance, and the 
 letters that were finally unfastened and 
 read.
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 At length they were all perused, and 
 gradually burnt by the aid of a small 
 taper, when a step was heard without. 
 
 "May I come in, dear?" 
 
 Hastily concealing the miniature in her 
 bosom, Marion unlocked the door, and 
 Mary Morton affectionately embraced and 
 congratulated her brother's betrothed. 
 
 "Oh, Marion, you do not know how 
 happy you have made us all ; how delighted 
 we are to think that Frederick will at last 
 be married ; I, more than any one, because 
 he has given me a sister; but you look 
 tired, dear," she added, anxiously, glancing 
 at her friend's pale cheeks and heavy eye- 
 lids. 
 
 Marion forced a smile. 
 
 " I did not feel very well when I came 
 in, and have been lying down. I wanted 
 to compose myself a little. It was so un- 
 expected ; so very, very sudden."
 
 156 BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 Not true, but plausible. Under any 
 circumstances she knew tbat he would 
 never lower her in the esteem of his family. 
 
 " Yes, it took us all by surprise ; but we 
 are so glad, so very glad, dear Marion. 
 Mamma would have come to you herself, 
 only Frederick kept her until it was almost 
 too late to dress for dinner." 
 
 Kind, thoughtful ! Conscience whispered 
 loudly of self-reproach. 
 
 Mary went on playfully — 
 
 " Thanks to this witching beauty, the 
 unconquerable is conquered at last," and 
 she smoothed down the long silky hair with 
 a feeling of sisterly pride. " You are very 
 lovely, Marion." 
 
 " So lovely/' rejoined the bride-elect, with 
 an attempted laugh, "that you are deter- 
 mined not to allow me any time for 
 improvement. I see you are dressed 
 already."
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 157 
 
 Her hand was on the bell. Mary caught 
 it, exclaiming, eagerly — 
 
 " Do not ring for Elise. Let me help you 
 to-night." 
 
 A most inopportune request. For many 
 reasons Marion wished to be alone. 
 
 M Do not send me away, dear sister. I 
 should so like to stay with you this 
 evening." 
 
 Thus urged, it was impossible to refuse, 
 and Marion reluctantly unfastened her 
 riding-habit. As she did so, the miniature, 
 which for the moment had escaped her re- 
 collection, slipped out and fell on the carpet. 
 Before Mary could assist her, she snatched 
 it up, and immediately crossed the room to 
 unlock her jewel-case. When she came 
 back to the table it was gone. Mary 
 Morton, not unnaturally imagining that it 
 was a gift from her brother, would have 
 been better pleased if Marion had shown it
 
 158 BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 to her ; but she was too well bred to say 
 anything about it. 
 
 They were to be married in six weeks. 
 Sir Frederick did not approve of long en- 
 gagements, and declared that space of time 
 sufficient for all needful preparations. 
 
 Lady Morton, notwithstanding the success 
 of her plans, was scarcely satisfied with the 
 progress of events. There was something 
 in her son's manner which she could not 
 understand. Involuntarily her thoughts 
 went back to the little green pocket-book 
 and the lock of dark brown hair ; while 
 with the undefined nervousness which wards 
 us off a disagreeable subject she forebore 
 either comment or inquiry. Her guests left 
 Donnington the day after the news was 
 suffered to transpire, and Marion with 
 them, ostensibly to see about her trousseau. 
 Indeed, etiquette forbade her to remain com- 
 paratively alone under the same roof with
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 159 
 
 her betrothed, Lady Morton having ar- 
 ranged to spend a week at Gflendon Hall. 
 It came out accidentally that Sir Frederick 
 wrote to Mr. Hayes to ask permission to 
 address his daughter some days before he 
 proposed to her himself. All was thus in 
 due form, and according to the most ap- 
 proved precedent. As regarded the eligibility 
 of the match, there was but one opinion. 
 Lady Morton and Bernardin Hayes were 
 overwhelmed with congratulations. 
 
 Whether Sir Frederick himself partici- 
 pated in the prevailing exuberance of satis- 
 faction nobody knew, and apparently no- 
 body would venture to inquire. 
 
 Yes, one. 
 
 -^
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 EX PARTE. 
 
 ENHAM was dining out that 
 evening, the very evening of 
 the engagement, when a 
 gentleman on his right vo- 
 lunteered the remark — 
 
 " So I hear Morton is to be married at 
 last I" 
 
 It was not addressed to him, but, after 
 listening some time to the turn of conversa- 
 tion, his curiosity got the better of polite- 
 ness. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Hargraves. Is it 
 Sir Frederick Morton, of Donnington, of 
 whom you are speaking ?"
 
 EX PARTE. 161 
 
 " Yes. Why ?" 
 
 " May I ask the lady's name ?" 
 
 " Certainly. It is no secret, or, if so now, 
 will not long remain one — Miss Marion 
 Hayes, the belle of the season." 
 
 " Strange. I have not heard of it." 
 
 " You could hardly have done so yet, un- 
 less through some member of the family. I 
 breakfasted with Mr. Hayes on Tuesday, 
 and he then told me he had just received 
 proposals. It is, as I said, no secret, although 
 it may not have generally transpired." 
 
 " Why I thought that Miss Hayes " 
 
 He stopped suddenly, conscious of indis- 
 cretion. 
 
 " I guess to what you allude," rejoined 
 the first speaker, an officer in the 6th Cara- 
 bineers. " The report that she was engaged to 
 Sir Desborough Denton, formerly of ' Ours.'" 
 
 Lenham started on hearing his own sha- 
 dowy suspicion thus put in a tangible form. 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 162 EX PARTE. 
 
 " You do not mean to say that such an 
 idea existed?" 
 
 " Did you never hear of it before ? It 
 was the general opinion among our set. 
 There must have been some foundation for 
 the rumour." 
 
 Before Lenham could reply another 
 officer, Major Lery, joined in — 
 
 " Never trust to report, Hargraves. I 
 was completely dumbfoundered at mess one 
 evening last spring, to hear it boldly asserted 
 bv several of those then present, that I, even 
 I, old as I am (he was not more than five or 
 six-and-forty), was said to be engaged to the 
 very lady in question ! And yet there was 
 never a shadow of truth in such a statement. 
 Now, I maintain that few things injure a 
 girl more than being reputed to have been 
 engaged once, or more than once, when on 
 each occasion the engagement has been 
 broken off. For a succession of non-results
 
 EX PARTE. 163 
 
 argues some imperfection in the one who is 
 subject to them, or believed to be so, which 
 is effectively the same. And if very idle, 
 though perhaps equally innocent conversa- 
 tion was the cause of producing such a 
 belief in one case, it is, I think, per- 
 fectly allowable to suppose that the same 
 cause alone produced the same effect in 
 another." 
 
 Major Lery spoke warmly. He was a 
 gallant, high-minded Irishman, one of those 
 who are ever ready to strike home in defence 
 of the absent or the weak. 
 
 Lenham and Hargraves bowed good- 
 humouredly. They did not care to interrupt, 
 for Lery's conversation was always at a 
 premium. 
 
 " I remember once half-quarrelling with a 
 friend of mine, then quartered at Dover. I 
 had written to him, asking his opinion of a 
 young lady. Well, I wont mention her 
 
 11— %
 
 1 64 EX PARTE. 
 
 name. She was the only one of the un- 
 married young ladies there to whom I never 
 talked nothings/' 
 
 « Oh, Major. What a satire !" 
 "On myself? Faith, it is true, then. 
 So few girls now-a-days care to talk sense; 
 that is, when they condescend to talk to you 
 at all," he continued, humorously. " Well, 
 in this letter, I spoke out rather too freely, 
 though without giving my friend any clue. 
 So far, good; but I unluckily chanced to 
 mention, as my reason for not writing further 
 particulars, the universal propensity for scan- 
 dal. He retaliated by a most angry reply, con- 
 cluding by an assurance that he was not in 
 the least annoyed by my ill-advised remarks. 
 Now, qui s excuse s accuse. Ergo, he must 
 have been, for I never even insinuated that 
 he would be. Now, if I had simply told 
 him who the girl was, it might have had 
 this result: that in ordinary conversation with
 
 EX PARTE. 165 
 
 any of his acquaintances (who were, I fancy, 
 nearly all amongst hers), someone might say — 
 
 " ' Miss So-and-so is to be married on the 
 34th of Octember. She is rather lucky, for 
 it is a much better match than if she had 
 married that man in the 6th, though she and 
 he did seem to get on pretty well together 
 last year.' 
 
 " ' Whom do you mean by that man in 
 the 6th ?' 
 
 " ' Why, Major So-and-so, of coarse.' 
 
 " ' ~No ! Was there really anything going 
 on there ?' 
 
 " ' Well, I don't know, but if you had 
 
 seen them together at and at , I 
 
 think, etc.' 
 
 " * Ah ! Now you mention the matter, I 
 remember I have some very good proof that 
 he did admire her.' 
 
 " ' Have you really ? May I ask what 
 it is ?'
 
 1 66 EX PARTE. 
 
 " ' That I cannot tell you : but certainly 
 nothing could be more genuine.' 
 
 "And so both would naturally get con- 
 firmed in the idea that the parties whose 
 movements they had been discussing, had 
 during the previous winter carried on a 
 greater or a less flirtation. Such chit-chat, 
 however injurious in isolated cases, being 
 amongst the recognised, perhaps necessary, 
 occurrences of every-day life, I will jump 
 at my conclusion, that a man cannot 
 be too cautious in alluding to a lady, 
 if his doing so could by any possi- 
 bility cause her character to be miscon- 
 strued. " 
 
 "May I ask one question, Major?" 
 mischievously interpolated Hargraves, when 
 the amusement and applause excited by the 
 animated ex-parte dialogue had in some 
 degree subsided. " Is the young lady en- 
 gaged now ?"
 
 EX PARTE. 167 
 
 "I believe so." He turned away abruptly, 
 tossing off a bumper of champagne. 
 
 There was a sudden lull, and then an 
 elderly gentleman entertained the company 
 by giving them the history of a celebrated 
 divine who, among other eccentricities, 
 having made up his mind not to marry, was 
 incontinently assailed by so many pressing 
 offers from young ladies, that the only 
 method he could, devise to put a stop 
 to their amorous effusions was to an- 
 nounce to his congregation that the 
 very next proposal which came to his 
 hands should be publicly pasted on the 
 church- door. 
 
 Major Lery did not join in the general 
 laugh. His thoughts were apparently pain- 
 fully engrossed. After an interval of silence, 
 he addressed himself to Lenham. 
 
 " Are you personally acquainted with Sir 
 Frederick Morton ?"
 
 1 68 EX PARTE. 
 
 " With Morton ? Intimately, he is my 
 greatest friend." 
 
 " Then, perhaps, when opportunity offers, 
 you will give me an introduction ?" 
 
 " I shall be most happy to do so. Morton 
 will be delighted to make your acquaintance. 
 He still retains a strong predilection for the 
 army. My father always tells him he is a 
 good soldier spoilt/' 
 
 u 1 am fortunate in having some little 
 knowledge of his bride that is to be. In 
 fact, when I was a young man I used to 
 visit at the house of her uncle Gerard, so 
 that my recollections of the family are of no 
 very recent date." 
 
 " I was not aware that Miss Hayes had 
 any near relations except her father." 
 
 " Nor has she now. Gerard Hayes died 
 more than twenty years ago, and his beau- 
 tiful young wife followed him to the grave 
 in less than twelve months."
 
 EX PARTE. 169 
 
 " How sad !" 
 
 "Ay, it was sad. I never heard the 
 whole story. Notwithstanding the conse- 
 quent increase of fortune, each death seemed 
 to be a terrible shock to the brother. 
 Soon afterwards he went abroad, and while 
 there married and lost his wife. When he 
 returned to England, he brought with him 
 an infant heiress, now the betrothed of your 
 friend." 
 
 " Do you recollect her mother's maiden 
 name r 
 
 " I am not sure'. I fancy it was Des- 
 borough. At any rate Sir Desborough 
 Denton is some sort of a connexion." 
 
 " Is Miss Hayes supposed to resemble 
 her mother ?" 
 
 " You may well ask the question," ex- 
 claimed Hargraves, who had again joined 
 the conversation. " Whenever I see Ber- 
 nardin Hayes in the company of his beautiful
 
 170 EX PARTE. 
 
 daughter, I iind it extremely difficult to 
 believe in their relationship." 
 
 " I think not," replied the Major, without 
 seeming to heed the interruption, though a 
 strange instantly suppressed smile crossed 
 his countenance. "I think not. Miss 
 Hayes is exceptionally gifted in personal 
 attractions. To the best of my recol- 
 lection, Mrs. Hayes was said to be immensely 
 rich, and only moderately good-looking." 
 
 " In fact, you mean to imply that, as a 
 poor woman, she would have been considered 
 remarkably plain. And this was the 
 mother of la belle Marion? Creclat Judasus ! "
 
 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 CAPTAIN LENHAM GOES DOWN TO DOXNINGTON. 
 
 HE information obtained that 
 evening did not tend to pro- 
 mote Lenham's good humour. 
 Marion Hayes had never stood 
 high in his esteem, and now he felt almost 
 tempted to dislike her. Many little instances 
 of by-play between her and Sir Desborough 
 recurred to his mind with startling distinct- 
 ness. Could she love Morton as a woman 
 ought to love her husband ? Impossible ! 
 Then why should she marry him ? " Con- 
 found it !" he muttered between his teeth. 
 " I must be at the bottom of this somehow." 
 And so the next w T eek he got leave for a
 
 172 CAPTAIN LENHAM GOES 
 
 day, and went down to Donnington, deter- 
 mined to find out the truth. During the 
 interval, Sir Frederick had written, but his 
 letter was not by any means satisfactory. 
 It did not say enough ; it was not eager, 
 sanguine, hopeful, not such as Lenham him- 
 self would have written when he had just 
 attained a man's dearest happiness in this 
 life. The wording was stiff and formal ; 
 there was no sentiment, no outpouring of 
 lover-like expression. Harry Lenham felt 
 in a rage. A proposal for himself, 
 Lawrence, and Temple to be groomsmen did 
 not tend to restore his equanimity. " I'll 
 be hanged first!" was his inward ejaculation, 
 as he unexpectedly presented himself at the 
 Grange. 
 
 " Sir Frederick is out, sir," said the man- 
 servant ; " but he will probably be home 
 within the hour. Lady Morton is at Grlendon 
 Hall."
 
 DOWN TO D0NN1NGT0N. 173 
 
 "Can I see Miss Morton?" 
 
 He was ushered into the drawing-room, 
 where he found the fair invalid listlessly 
 turning over the pages of a novel. At the 
 sight of the new-comer Mary rose, and 
 extended her hand with a smile of undis- 
 guised pleasure. Lenham was a universal 
 favourite. Few could withstand the winning 
 suavity of his voice and manner, and certainly 
 none of those who were privileged to know 
 him intimately. 
 
 " Captain Lenham ! This is kind. How 
 good of you to run down unannounced. 
 Frederick is out, but he will not be very 
 long. Do sit down. Eugene shall bring 
 you some refreshment." 
 
 " Thank you. No. I dined early. But 
 I am anxious to see Morton at once. Can 
 you tell me which way he is gone ?" 
 
 " Down to the Lower Farm. Poor old 
 Brooks is seriously ill, and Frederick goes
 
 174 CAPTAIN LENHAM GOES 
 
 to see him nearly every day. Shall I send 
 to tell him you are here ?" 
 
 " Thank you very much. With your 
 permission, I will walk across the Park. 
 We shall probably meet half-way, and can 
 discuss our business en route. But I am 
 neglecting my devoir. Pray pardon my 
 forgetful ness, and allow me to congratulate 
 you on the prospective fulfilment of a long- 
 cherished wish." 
 
 Mary hesitated. 
 
 " Yes. Mamma is very glad j we are all 
 glad, but " 
 
 There was a reserve then. Lenham looked 
 the question that he would not put in words. 
 
 " The fact is, we — that is — I — I am 
 afraid Frederick is not quite well — not quite 
 himself. It may be merely the excite- 
 ment." 
 
 She paused as though expecting a reply, 
 but Lenham's eyes were fixed on the ground.
 
 DOWN TO DONNINGTON. 175 
 
 "He always laughs at my anxiety, says 
 that he is all right, only there is so much to 
 do and think of in making preparations. 
 He is exerting himself to the utmost in order 
 that it may be a season of rejoicing to every 
 one on the estate. I cannot help wishing 
 he would not work so hard. I scarcely ever 
 see or speak to him alone. Captain 
 Lenham, you will fancy I am jealous." 
 
 "Not I," rejoiued Lenham, warmly. "And 
 if you were, with a brother such as Morton, 
 the feeling might be easily excused. 
 He was certainly not looking well when I 
 was staying here a few weeks back, but 
 I trust there is nothing to render you 
 uneasy." 
 
 Lenham's inward misgivings, partly per- 
 haps arising from the old conviction of a 
 something wanting, were assuredly not 
 diminished by Mary's unsought confidence. 
 This restless activity, hiding away the
 
 176 CAPTAIN LENHAM AT DONNINGTON. 
 
 need of human sympathy, could only be a 
 mask. Some secret unhappiness — of that 
 he felt quite sure — was trying to robe itself 
 in the happiness of others. Sir Frederick's 
 nearest and dearest were obviously afraid to 
 ask him any questions. 
 
 He would, though — he was not going to 
 be deterred from the fulfilment of friendship's 
 duty by a dread of being thought officious.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD. 
 
 HE farmhouse tenanted by 
 Thomas Brooks was a long 
 P low building, consisting of 
 only two stories, surrounded 
 on three sides by a garden which extended to 
 the Donnington forest. A quaint-looking 
 porch furnished with a couple of rustic 
 benches, and covered with a variety of 
 climbing plants, from the sturdy evergreen 
 to the delicate jessamine, whence the fragile 
 blossoms had long ago departed, seemed to 
 invite the passer-by to enter and taste the 
 hospitality of its venerable owner. The 
 farmyard and most of the farm build- 
 vol. i. 12
 
 178 A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD. 
 
 ings being hidden by the trees there 
 was nothing to detract from the picturesque 
 and cottage-like appearance of the house 
 itself. Far down the hill a flock of sheep 
 were quietly grazing in a meadow, their 
 scattered fleeces dotting the greensward, 
 and gleaming strangely white in the rays of 
 the setting sun, while beyond rose the cross- 
 surmounted spire of the village church. 
 
 In a pretty little sitting-room facing the 
 swing-gate which opened on the pathway 
 that led from the Grange to the village, were 
 two persons — Minnie and her grandfather. 
 Minnie was greatly altered ; her smile had 
 lost its brightness, and her step its elasticity, 
 and there was a sad expression about the 
 mouth, an undefined look of constraint, as if 
 it had something to hide, and was unaccus- 
 tomed to concealment. Some might consider 
 her more lovely than before. The shadow 
 of womanhood had fallen on the child face,
 
 A SHADOW OX THE THRESHOLD. 179 
 
 softening and refining the whole, though it 
 shut out a portion of the sunshine. There 
 was a nameless pleading in the deep hazel 
 eyes, which at the same time attracted sym- 
 pathy, and conveyed itself from inquiry. She 
 plied her needle as industriously as ever, but 
 there was something languid and spiritless 
 in the movement ; and as everv now and 
 then she looked up, turning to the aged 
 sufferer with an intensity of sorrowful affec- 
 tion, the long brown eyelashes were dewy 
 with unshed tears. 
 
 The hand of death was drawing closer and 
 closer to the old farmer. Day by day for 
 many months past he had felt its presence 
 darkening the windows of his earthly home, 
 and pointing him to the outer courts of the 
 unknown world. Now, as he lay asleep on 
 a large old-fashioned sofa, so still that more 
 than once the anxious watcher at his side 
 started, and listened to catch the sound of 
 
 12— s
 
 i So A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD. 
 
 his suppressed breathing, it seemed to be 
 very near indeed. Even Minnie began to 
 realize her prospective trial, and a bitter 
 sense of loneliness fell on the young girl's 
 heart as the presentiment of a second orphan- 
 age slowly dawned upon her. " I must lose 
 him too, my kind old grandfather," she 
 murmured, self-reproachfully. " Would that 
 I had never deceived him !" 
 
 Just then the swing-gate snapped ; a step 
 was heard without, and the next moment 
 Sir Frederick came in. His favourite com- 
 panion Ponto, a magnificent black retriever, 
 followed him to the door, gave a low wistful 
 whine, and, catching his master's glance, 
 stretched himself across the threshold. 
 
 " I am so glad you are come, sir," said 
 the old man, aroused by the sound of the 
 well-known voice, as with a few words of 
 tearful gratitude, Minnie hurried from the 
 room.
 
 A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD. i8r 
 
 " Why, my old friend ? Why more than 
 usual to-night ? I trust you are not feeling 
 worse." 
 
 "No, sir, thank ye kindly; but my time 
 is short, and I have not yet settled what to 
 do about my poor little grandchild. 'Twill 
 be a hard parting for her." 
 
 " Ah ! poor girl, yes. What do you 
 say to her coming up to the Grange ? I 
 have no doubt my mother would find her 
 very useful." 
 
 " You're truly kind, Sir Frederick. 
 'Twould be a great weight off my mind — 
 if " 
 
 " If what ?" 
 
 "Why, sir, I thought her ladyship was 
 going to live at Chesham. She told us so 
 last time she was here." 
 
 " I hope not — I trust not," replied the 
 Baronet. "Certainly not, if I can prevent it." 
 
 Sir Frederick's manner was slightly agi-
 
 1 82 A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD. 
 
 tated. The old man looked at him with an 
 earnest curiosity. 
 
 " I must say it, sir. Maybe 111 never 
 have another chance. You've been a good 
 landlord and a kind friend, and many and 
 many a blessing do I owe to you and yours. 
 From the day when I first hollowed you out 
 a bit of a boat to float on the pond, d'ye 
 remember, sir ? 'Tis four-and-twenty years 
 ago, come last March." 
 
 " Perfectly ; the nurse left me to talk to 
 her lover. Go on." 
 
 " You fell in, and, as Heaven willed it, I 
 was nigh enough to save you, and brought 
 you into this very room ; and you put your 
 little arms round my neck, and said, ' Papa 
 and mamma '11 be so glad.' From that day 
 to this you've always seemed to me like one 
 o' my own." 
 
 With an involuntary warmth of feeling, 
 Sir Frederick bent down, and touched the
 
 A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD. 183 
 
 old man's forehead, where the brown hue 
 of toil had lost itself in the whiteness of 
 approaching dissolution. 
 
 "And now that you're going to be married, 
 you don't look -as cheerful like as should be. 
 I can't bear to see it, and I've thought so 
 much about it lately. My dear young 
 master — you'll forgive an old man's bold- 
 ness, sir — don't, pray don't marry unless 
 you can be happy." 
 
 A fit of coughing came on, and he fell 
 back exhausted. The Baronet did not reply, 
 but he got him a glass of water, and arranged 
 his pillow. 
 
 " You're not angry, Sir Frederick?" 
 
 "Angry? My good old friend, how 
 
 could I be angry?" 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 As Sir Frederick departed, Minnie re- 
 turned to her former post by her grand- 
 father's side. It was growing dusk, and
 
 1 84 A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD. 
 
 she thought he ought to be in bed, though 
 with an intuitive perception of how the case 
 stood, the doctor said it did not really 
 signify. He appeared to be asleep ; it was 
 too dark to see to work, but a candle would 
 probably disturb him, so she sat there in the 
 gathering twilight until the surrounding 
 stillness oppressed her with a superstitious 
 terror. The house was long and rambling, 
 the cattle sheds were far removed, and the 
 farm labourers quite at the other end, so 
 that Minnie was comparatively alone. Alone, 
 or worse than alone, with the white face 
 and shrouded form seen dimly through the 
 deepening shade, with a something ghastly 
 in its aspect. The different articles of fur- 
 niture took a strange and unnatural appear- 
 ance. Monsters of huge form and grotesque 
 outline seemed to be mocking her with 
 noiseless laughter, while the large Dutch 
 clock in the corner tormented her with its
 
 A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD. 185 
 
 wearisome monotony. There it went on 
 with its remorseless tick, tick — " for ever, 
 never "I as it did yesterday and the day 
 before, and would do to-morrow, and the 
 day after, when perhaps she only would be 
 left to hear it. To her excited fancy it was 
 calling her grandfather away. "Come, come; 
 come, come." He might not be with her 
 many hours, and still the seconds sped on 
 unpityingly, falling like stones in the fathom- 
 less well of eternity. It would surely drive 
 her mad ! She could bear it no longer, and 
 involuntarily rose, intending to take off the 
 weights, when a shadow suddenly interposed 
 between her and the fast-fading light that 
 came in under the porch. There was no 
 mistaking the intruder; she felt rather 
 than recognised the presence of her evil 
 genius, and, too much startled to scream, 
 stood rooted to the spot, pale and 
 trembling.
 
 1 86 A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD. 
 
 Sir Desborough, for it was he, did not 
 immediately come forward. He had evi- 
 dently feigned an errand. 
 
 " Miss Brooks, is it not ? I thought I 
 could not be mistaken. Would you kindly 
 tell me whether '' 
 
 Finding that Minnie neither spoke nor 
 moved, he concluded she was alone, and 
 entered the room, probably attributing her 
 speechless emotion to a nattering cause. 
 Still she did not appear to shun him, in 
 truth, she was paralysed and had scarcely 
 breathed since her heart, or rather instinct, 
 told her he was near. Emboldened by her 
 seeming passiveness, he threw his arm 
 round her, and kissed her passionately again 
 and again. It was too late to resist; a 
 slight girl's strength is as nothing in a 
 strong man's grasp. 
 
 " At last, sweet one, darling !" The 
 words were soft, but there was a savage
 
 A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD. 1S7 
 
 triumph in their tone. Strange that the old 
 farmer did not awake from his long sleep ! 
 Half- fain ting, Minnie roused herself to call 
 him. " Grandfather, grandfather, help !" a 
 deep-drawn sob beneath each breath, as 
 if her whole soul were escaping in the 
 struggle. And no wonder that she 
 suffered. Minnie was virtuous, but she had 
 once loved that bold bad man, and now 
 in the treacherous darkness, clasped to his 
 breast, with his lips pressed to hers, and his 
 words of insidious tenderness sounding in 
 her ears, the old love came back with terrible 
 distinctness. That demonstrative affection 
 would be such happiness to her if only it 
 were not all sin ! Alas, alas, for the reality ! 
 There was a wild self-abandonment in that 
 piteous appeal, " Grandfather, grandfather, 
 help !" And help was granted, though not 
 in the way expected. " God, he does 
 not hear me !" she exclaimed, in a tone
 
 1 88 A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD. 
 
 of such heart-rending agony, that Sir 
 Desborough unwittingly relaxed his hold. 
 Breaking from him, she threw herself on her 
 knees by the couch, and laid her face on the 
 old man's hand. It was cold !
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 FOILED. 
 
 ^^tJL^OK a moment Sir Desborough 
 stood spell-bound, even his 
 selfish nature touched and 
 softened by the sad scene 
 before him, of which he took in the details 
 at a glance ; then, going up to the weeping 
 girl, he attempted to soothe her by caresses. 
 But she shrank from him, as though his 
 touch were that of heated iron, moaning in 
 wild agony. 
 
 " He is dead, he is dead, and I never told 
 him, never asked him to forgive me!" 
 " Minnie, dear Minnie, listen." 
 "No, no, go away and leave me. Don't
 
 190 FOILED. 
 
 you see he is dead, my kind old grand- 
 father ? But for you I should never have 
 deceived him. Have you no heart that you 
 can look on without shame — shame for you, 
 shame, oh, double shame for me ! I, who never 
 knew what it was to tell a lie before !" said 
 the poor child, growing eloquent as the tide 
 of self-reproach waxed stronger. 
 
 " Have I no heart ?" muttered Sir Des- 
 borough, under his breath. "No heart, 
 indeed ! If I hadn't, my pretty censor, I 
 should certainly not be lingering on this 
 dangerous ground. It wont do for me to 
 stay much longer ; some one may come, 
 and then the fact of my being in the neigh- 
 bourhood will get blown at the Grange. 
 
 D Morton's Quixotism ! Why need he 
 
 constitute himself the protector of damsels 
 in distress ? Distress, forsooth ! The little 
 fool, she'd be a deal better off with me ! If 
 I only knew for certain, that "
 
 FOILED. 191 
 
 He looked back irresolutely through the 
 porch, where the daylight still lingered, 
 faintly blended with the brightness of the 
 harvest moon ; then aloud — 
 
 " Minnie, darling, you are alone in the 
 world now. Come to me. Let me try what 
 I can do to make you happy. I will take 
 you abroad. No one need know anything 
 about it. There will be no one to censure 
 or find fault with you there j and I — well, 
 you know how I love you. Look up, my 
 pretty one. Say yes. In a fortnight I 
 shall return and claim you. Then no one 
 shall separate us. Say yes, darling. 
 You could not possibly love that poor old 
 man as I shall teach you to love me." 
 
 So pleaded Sir Desborough in the half 
 light of the autumn evening. And, at the 
 time, he thought that he was speaking the 
 truth. He did care for Minnie Brooks as 
 much as it was possible for him to care for
 
 [92 FOILED. 
 
 anybody besides himself. A fortnight ? 
 Why should he wait a fortnight ? It would 
 be cruel to leave her alone with the dead ! 
 Surely the kindest thing that he could do 
 would be to take her away with him at 
 once. 
 
 And again, heedless of the awful presence 
 of death, he put his arm around the trem- 
 bling girl, and with tender words and soft 
 caresses, strove eagerly to bend her to his 
 purpose. 
 
 But Minnie would not be persuaded. Her 
 good angel was in the ascendant, and for 
 awhile she had courage to stand firm. 
 
 " Gro away !" she exclaimed, passionately. 
 " Go away. I hate you !" 
 
 Sir Desborough smiled : her tone would 
 change by-and-by. His standard of 
 women was not a high one. With him 
 every little spurt of resistance served as an 
 incentive to the chase.
 
 FOILED. 
 
 193 
 
 It is probable that he would have at- 
 tempted to accomplish his desire by force — 
 carrying her off, so to speak, from under the 
 very windows of the Grange — if the sound 
 of approaching footsteps had not warned 
 him to desist. With a suppressed oath he 
 withdrew, promising himself to succeed 
 better on the morrow, 
 
 As he left the room the strain on his 
 listener's nerves relaxed, and when the 
 woman who had been hired to superintend 
 the household came in to assist in putting 
 the invalid to bed, she found Minnie on the 
 floor in a deep swoon, still clinging to her 
 grandfather's hand. 
 
 The next day she was removed to the 
 Grange, but no one ever knew the secret of 
 that evening. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 After taking leave of the old farmer. Sir 
 Frederick walked slowly and thoughtfully in 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 FOILED. 
 
 the direction of the Park, Passing the 
 second gate he caught sight of Lenham, who 
 had been down to the farm, and was now 
 leisurely retracing his steps. Ponto imme- 
 diately sprang after him, nearly bringing 
 him to the ground in his delighted recogni- 
 tion. 
 
 " Halloa, Morton. So there you are at 
 last 1" 
 
 " Why, Harry ! "Who on earth would 
 dream of seeing you here ? Did you get my 
 letter?" 
 
 " Yes, on Tuesday morning." 
 
 On this particular occasion, Sir Frederick 
 appeared determined to keep all the conver- 
 sation to himself. A school feast; a ball 
 for the tenantry ; decorations and improve- 
 ments, with other subjects of apparently 
 interminable interest, came up one after the 
 other in quick and animated succession ; 
 but without a word of individual rejoicing.
 
 FOILED. 1 95 
 
 After vainly endeavouring to " edge in," 
 Lenham exclaimed, t abruptly — 
 
 "Do stop, Morton. Another time I 
 shonld be only too happy to listen ; but I 
 came down expressly to talk to you, and 
 shall be off again to-morrow morning be- 
 fore breakfast. You must give me a few 
 moments, and better here than else- 
 where." 
 
 "Well — what is it? Down, Ponto, 
 down, sir 1" 
 
 And then there was an ominous silence, 
 which made even the blunt soldier feel 
 excessively uncomfortable ; while Ponto, un- 
 accustomed to rebuff, slunk behind with a 
 cowed, dissatisfied air. 
 
 " You, Morton, are the dearest friend I 
 have ; but to tender you my congratulations 
 on your approaching marriage would be a 
 simple mockery." 
 
 " Let it pass," replied Sir Frederick, with 
 
 13—2
 
 196 FOILED. 
 
 a faint attempt at a smile. " I know Marion 
 is no favourite of yours." 
 
 " It isn't that alone. This sudden fancy 
 of yours puzzles me. I feel as if you 
 had somehow got yourself into a scrape. 
 Dear old fellow, don't be angry. Do you 
 really care for her ?" 
 
 " Do you suppose I would marry her if I 
 did not ?" 
 
 There was a touch of reproach in the cold 
 penetrating tone. Lenham felt as if he had 
 gone a little too far. 
 
 "But you do not love her as you are 
 capable of loving — not as I shall love if 
 ver I chance to marry ?" 
 
 It was a cruel thrust. Comparisons 
 generally are. 
 
 " Perhaps not. Such love is not given to 
 many.'' 
 
 " Oh, Morton, do not think so. Why 
 should it not be in store for you, as well as
 
 FOILED. 197 
 
 for others ? You are still young ; there is 
 time enough to wait. Pray don't marry 
 unless you can be happy. Marriage is no 
 light matter ; there is no getting away from 
 it; however galling the chain, you must 
 wear it." 
 
 " It is too late, Lenham, My honour is 
 pledged," 
 
 If Lenham swore inwardly, he no longer 
 attempted to argue. The latter half of 
 the sentence completely staggered him. 
 To his keen sense of justice, it altered the 
 case entirely. Honour before happiness. 
 Morton was right. 
 
 " You are satisfied she loves you ?" 
 
 " Perfectly satisfied. My dear Harry, 
 don't try to infect me with the blues. 
 Depend upon it, we shall be very happy — 
 in time." 
 
 " The last two words were spoken aside. 
 
 Was Captain Lenham uncharitable
 
 198 
 
 FOILED. 
 
 when, in the face of his friend's emphatic 
 declaration, he perversely muttered to 
 himself — 
 
 " She love Morton. Bosh !" 
 We shall see.
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 SHOWS HOW THE PAST AND THE FUTURE ARE 
 BOUND IN THE CHAIN OF THE PRESENT. 
 
 HILE preparations for this ill- 
 omened marriage are trans- 
 acting at the Grange, let us 
 for a brief period revisit the 
 banks of the Arno. 
 
 Lord Oxenten's health was outwardly re- 
 established, but the unacknowledged shadow 
 of depression had gradually grown deeper, 
 though at the same time perhaps, it was 
 less distinguishable on account of the sur- 
 rounding gloom. Day after day he would 
 sit motionless for hours, holding Lucia in 
 his arms. Lingering through months of 
 painful suspense, she became at length too
 
 200 THE PAST AND THE FUTURE 
 
 weak to walk across the room. The last 
 great change was approaching step by step. 
 Surely he must have seen it ! 
 
 Whatever his secret impression, no word 
 of despondency was ever suffered to escape 
 him. Lucia's reason was partially restored, 
 but no effort of science or affection could 
 aronse in her a distinct recollection of the 
 past. At times conscious of her husband's 
 presence, clinging to him with an apprehen- 
 siveness that proved how great had been 
 her terror of desertion ; and murmuring his 
 name in loving tones, which at such seasons 
 made the tide of self-reproach unbearable : 
 at others estranged, delirious, turning from 
 him with a shrinking almost equivalent to 
 positive aversion — she gave no ground on 
 which to build a hope for the future. How 
 much the young Earl had dwelt on the 
 thought of her ultimate recovery was only 
 casually revealed.
 
 BOUND IN THE PRESENT. 
 
 Dr. Carvell had long since returned to his 
 family, but he continued to call at the villa 
 every morning and evening. On one of 
 these occasions Lord Oxenten met him with 
 an unusually animated countenance. 
 
 " Lucia is better." 
 
 The physician looked very grave and 
 sad. 
 
 " You do not think so ? Come and see." 
 
 He led the way with an eager, agitated 
 haste. Dr. Carvell followed slowly, so 
 slowly that the Earl turned back more than 
 once, as though chiding his delay. 
 
 Lucia was lying down; her rich hair 
 clustering in dark masses over her neck and 
 shoulders. She had fallen asleep. A shadowy 
 smile floated over her child-like features ; 
 her lips were slightly parted, and there 
 was a faint colour on her cheek. That 
 calm and placid slumber could hardly be 
 the precursor of the dreamless rest that
 
 202 THE PAST AND THE FUTURE 
 
 knows no waking this side heaven. So 
 reasoned unreasoning affection. 
 
 " She has been much more like her natural 
 self to-day," whispered the Earl, seemingly 
 afraid of disturbing Lucia, and yet, he 
 knew not why, irresistibly impelled to break 
 that ominous silence. 
 
 Dr. Carvell hesitated ; his face was in the 
 shade, and something very like a tear glis- 
 tened in the keen grey eyes. Presently he 
 leant over the couch, and gently, so gently 
 that one might wonder how he did it, took 
 one of the small emaciated hands in his own 
 broad palm. 
 
 " Do you not think she looks much 
 better ?" exclaimed the young nobleman at 
 last, in a tone of fretful impatience, checked 
 in the moment of utterance, but sufficient 
 to betray the uncertain nature of his hopes ; 
 the little ripple on the surface, while the 
 tempest surged beneath.
 
 BOUND IN THE PRESENT. 203 
 
 There was no reply in words, but Dr. 
 Carvell turned and faced his interlocutor. 
 
 Lord Oxenten became deadly pale. Mo- 
 tioning the physician to follow him, he 
 entered an adjoining apartment, and closing 
 the door, sat down. A sudden fit of trem- 
 bling came on ; it passed as quickly as it 
 came, and the next minute he looked up 
 sternly, terribly calm. 
 
 " Now then, tell me." 
 
 It was soon told. We all know what it 
 is. There are few of us who have not felt 
 it in its heartrending reality. The Earl 
 buried his face in his hands until a circle of 
 unnatural white marked the pressure of his 
 fingers ; but no other sign, neither voice nor 
 sigh bore witness to the avalanche of sorrow 
 which had fallen on the shrine of his house- 
 hold treasures. By- and-by he staggered to 
 his feet, gazing wildly around him, like a 
 man aroused from some horrible dream.
 
 204 THE PAST AND THE FUTURE 
 
 The doctor took a phial from his pocket, 
 and filling a wineglass with water, poured 
 into it a few drops of a cordial that he was 
 accustomed to carry with him. Lord Oxen- 
 ten drank it off mechanically. 
 
 " I will stay and watch with you to- 
 night." 
 
 " Ay, do : but remain here for the present. 
 I have much to do, much to say — and — 
 and " 
 
 He broke down • then, mastering his emo- 
 tion by a violent effort — 
 
 " I will call you if any change takes place. 
 Meanwhile, Christian will get you anything 
 you may require." 
 
 It had come at last. The grim spectre 
 that had so long played fast and loose for 
 the wrecks of his earthly happiness, now 
 looked him in the face, the winner. Vain 
 all the tumult of affection, the agonized en- 
 treaty, the drowning grasp at the straw that
 
 BOUND IN THE PRESENT. 205 
 
 could not save. Nevertheless this one 
 dark day had the advantage over many 
 months preceding, in that he knew the 
 worst, and was in a certain sense prepared 
 for it. 
 
 Presently Lucia opened her eyes, and 
 fixed them on her husband with a glance of 
 mute inquiry. His lips quivered, he could 
 not be the first to break that silence j but 
 when her hand sought his, he caught it 
 passionately, and kneeling down by the side 
 of the couch, laid his cheek close to it. 
 His ark of comfort, his beautiful beloved one, 
 drifting far out on the fathomless ocean of 
 eternity, leaving him alone upon the strand ! 
 It was hard, very hard to flesh and blood, 
 and tenderness and manhood. A storm 
 of love and anguish raged fiercely in the 
 young Earl's breast, though he succeeded in 
 restraining himself for awhile. The time to 
 indulge his grief would come — but not now.
 
 206 THE PAST AND THE FUTURE 
 
 The sands of his twin life ran low, and 
 the moments were too precious to be 
 wasted. 
 
 "Where am I, Arthur? When did you 
 return ? >J 
 
 Lord Oxenten's heart smote him as he 
 listened. During the past four months, 
 Lucia had seldom spoken anything but 
 English ; now, in the closing hours of 
 existence, the rich native tongue came 
 back. It was a cheerless omen. With 
 a stifled sigh, he put his arm round 
 her, resting her head upon his shoulder. 
 In this position she could not see the 
 traces of uncontrollable remorse that 
 every now and then swept across his 
 countenance. 
 
 "Have I been dreaming, Arthur? I 
 thought we had a child; a pretty little 
 bright-eyed boy. He was like you, and I 
 called him by your name ; his baby kisses
 
 BOUND IN THE PRESENT. 207 
 
 cheered me in your absence, till — till- 
 It is all dark — I cannot recollect." 
 
 She put her hand to her head, pushing 
 back the masses of dark hair. 
 
 " Was it true, Arthur ?" 
 
 " Quite true, my darling. Our little one 
 is well. Shall I send for him ?" 
 
 " Yes, please, dear." And she nestled in 
 his arms with a quiet content, as though the 
 consciousness of his presence were to her the 
 fulness of happiness. Lord Oxenten's eyes 
 grew dim. The confiding gentleness of 
 Lucia's disposition, to him seemed to make 
 the task of resignation harder. Scarcely 
 daring to trust himself to speak, he rang 
 a small silver bell, which stood upon the 
 table. Dr. Car veil, whose ear was strained 
 to catch the faintest summons, entered 
 the room before the nurse, overpowered 
 by long watching, could rouse herself to 
 the exertion of moving.
 
 208 THE PAST AND THE FUTURE 
 
 " Would you ask Christian to bring the 
 child in five or ten minutes ?" 
 
 He was probably anxious to prolong the 
 interval. Little Arte's untutored inno- 
 cence would only smile when his father's 
 heart was breaking. 
 
 After a pause, Lucia tried to raise herself 
 in order to look into her husband's face. 
 
 "Why did you stay away so long, dear 
 Arthur ? And why did you not write to 
 me? Ah, you made me so unhappy. I 
 wonder I did not die." 
 
 " My father would not consent to my 
 leaving England," replied the Earl, hoarse 
 with agitation ; " then he became very ill, and 
 died. I could not start till the day after 
 the funeral ; but I did write to you, my 
 darling, I did indeed ; only by some 
 strange fatalitv the letters never reached 
 you." 
 
 There were large heat drops on his fore-
 
 BOUND IN THE PRESENT. 209 
 
 head, and a great sob of agony rose to his 
 lips. 
 
 " Lucia, my precious Lucia, I was a 
 coward, a mean-spirited coward. My father 
 might have disinherited me, for the estates 
 were not entailed, and I was afraid to brave 
 his anger. That was the reason I left my 
 pet dove alone so long. But my heart never 
 wandered from you, my own dear wife. 
 Never, Lucia, never once in that terrible year 
 of separation had I a thought or wish for 
 any one but you ! My own, my darling, say 
 that you forgive me." 
 
 A large tear forced its way, and fell on the 
 pale face beneath. Lucia started. 
 
 " Forgive you ? Arthur, my husband, 
 dearer to me than all the world. Forgive 
 you, yes, yes, a thousand times." 
 
 Their lips met in a long passionate em- 
 brace, and then a smile of ineffable happiness 
 illumined the features of the dying girl, 
 vol. 1. 14
 
 210 THE PAST AND THE FUTURE. 
 
 as her head fell back into its original position. 
 Yes, she was dying. He did not know it ; 
 but there was a something unearthly in her 
 expression that made him hold his breath, 
 and draw her closer to his breast in fear. 
 
 The entrance of the baby Yiscount recalled 
 a momentary animation. 
 
 "My child, my pretty one," she murmured, 
 feebly extending her arms. "Bless — 
 bless " 
 
 Vainly struggling for utterance, she turned 
 her eyes towards the Earl with a look of deep 
 love and pity, such as perchance the angels 
 wear. It would be worse for him ! 
 
 The next moment he called aloud. 
 
 Dr. Carvell hurried to the room, but it 
 was too late. The fragile beautiful house 
 was tenantless, and the spirit had returned 
 to its Creator, God.
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 ON EARTH PEACE. 
 
 to RIEF lias many varied mani- 
 festations. Lord Oxenten 
 neither wept nor resisted 
 when the inanimate form of 
 his departed wife was taken from him to be 
 prepared for its final resting-place, and, 
 during the days that followed, his bearing 
 was unusually composed and stern. He 
 got up at his accustomed hour, dressed with 
 his wonted regard to neatness and elegance, 
 and, though he ate but little, went through 
 the ceremony of breakfast and dinner as if 
 all things 'were as they had been, or as if 
 he imagined them unchanged. He gave 
 
 14—2
 
 212 ON EARTH PEACE. 
 
 the necessary orders for the funeral, took 
 his station as chief mourner, leaning heavily 
 on Dr. Carvell's arm, returned alone to the 
 villa, largely recompensed and then dis- 
 charged the nurse and other attendants of 
 his lost love, locked up the suite of apart- 
 ments that had been appropriated to her 
 use, and relapsed into a solitary style of 
 living, without the least external evidence 
 of deeply-rooted sorrow. He devoted an 
 hour every morning to his child, but at 
 such seasons he chose to be alone, and no 
 traces of emotion were visible when the 
 nurse came in to relieve him of his charge. 
 There was one who viewed this apparent 
 apathy with a dissatisfaction akin to terror. 
 That one was Christian Andersen. " Any- 
 thing but that — anything but that," he 
 would cry despairingly, when returning 
 from some useless errand in Lord Oxenten's 
 study, invented merely to ascertain what he
 
 ON EARTH PEACE. 213 
 
 was doing. The pale, grave countenance, 
 the stern set eyes that never seemed to see 
 anything before them ; the thin nervous 
 hands, white and delicate as a woman's, 
 holding some book or paper, of which the 
 absent mind was obviously unconscious — 
 haunted the old servant with an undefined 
 presentiment of evil. Of all that had so 
 recently transpired, there was but one dis- 
 cernible result : the Earl's hair had suddenly 
 grown grey, not grey entirely, but here 
 and there a streak of silver parting the 
 raven clusters of which in earlier days his 
 faithful dependent was wont to be so proud. 
 It was about a fortnight after poor Lucia's 
 death. Contrary to his usual practice, Lord 
 Oxenten had been writing nearly the whole 
 day. Long after the household had retired 
 to rest, Christian lay awake, pondering the 
 late sad events in his master's history, and 
 vainly endeavouring to account for his own
 
 214 ON EARTH PEA CE. 
 
 increasing anxiety. Between twelve and 
 one, he fancied he heard a step in one of the 
 neighbouring apartments ; then the same 
 step stealing quietly downstairs, an ominous 
 click, the sound of a door gently opened, 
 and, as it appeared to his excited imagina- 
 tion, the echo of less guarded movements in 
 the distance. The old man was very tired 
 and nearly asleep. Perhaps it was only 
 the influence of an unquiet dream ; he would 
 close his eyes, and think no more about it. 
 Then, all at once, a horrible dread rose up 
 before him. He gasped for breath as the 
 bare possibility of its realization suggested 
 itself ; and, hastily rising, struck a light, and 
 dressed himself with what speed his trembling 
 fingers would allow. Passing the intervening 
 corridors with cautious tread, he approached 
 Lord Oxenten's chamber, and listened eagerly. 
 Not a breath, not a sound, disturbed the 
 quietude of night. In the first instance, the
 
 ON EARTH PEACE. 215 
 
 noise seemed to proceed from the deserted suite 
 of rooms once appropriated to the deceased 
 Countess. Had lie been there, and why ? 
 
 Christian hesitated, then knocked gently 
 two or three times. 
 
 " My lord." 
 
 There was no answer, and unable to bear 
 the suspense, he opened the door. It was 
 as his fears foreboded ; the bed had not been 
 slept in, and the room was empty. Eeturn- 
 ing, he tried to enter the Countess's apart- 
 ment. It was locked ; but, just without, 
 there lay a glove. Terror- winged, he reached 
 the hall, put down his lamp, and hurried out. 
 It was not dark, but, even if it had been, he 
 kuew the way too well. Through the pale 
 grey olives, down the side of the hill, winding 
 along the valley at its base, where the Italian 
 wife and mother slept among her own people 
 where the new moon faintly silvered the sad 
 earth, and the chill night-dew fell heavily
 
 216 ON EARTH PEACE. 
 
 on the dank grass, and the wreaths of ever- 
 lasting flowers, where the Parian marble 
 cross marked the resting-place of the beauti- 
 ful and young — surely he recognised that 
 prostrate figure. 
 
 " My lord, my dear, dear master !" 
 
 A start of shuddering consciousness, a 
 stifled sigh, almost a groan, told him that 
 he had arrived in time. 
 
 "Thank God!" 
 
 " Is it you, Christian ? Why are you 
 here? Go away ; leave me ; I wish tobe alone." 
 
 It was no season for unquestioning obe- 
 dience. The horrible dread rose up again 
 before him — there, by that new-made grave. 
 
 " My lord." 
 
 The Earl only responded by an angry 
 gesture. 
 
 " My lord, I am an old man. Have 
 pity on me. I cannot, I dare not go away 
 and leave you."
 
 ON EARTH PEACE. 217 
 
 He did not say why. He left that to 
 keen-eyed conscience ; to the Grod above ; 
 to the angel of mercy who might haply 
 rend aside the veil from the unforgivable sin 
 before it was too late. 
 
 Lord Oxenten did not seem to hear, or 
 hearing took no heed, as he lay stretched 
 across the sod, his head resting on the tomb 
 of his lost wife. Oh, to live over again 
 the past two years ! Perish wealth and 
 honours and position, only give back that 
 cherished life to modulate and sanctify his 
 own ! It might not be ! 
 
 The pale moonlight fell on the old man's 
 snow-white hair, as he stood with clasped 
 hands by the side of the prostrate Earl ; it 
 shimmered and shivered over the distant urns 
 and tablets with a strange ethereal lustre, and 
 rested, or appeared to rest, with a steadier 
 radiance on the slab of a neighbouring 
 monument, where a sculptured angel with
 
 2i8 ON EARTH PEACE. 
 
 palm-branch and crown seemed to be ascend- 
 ing heavenward from a shronded bier, below 
 which was engraven with startling distinct- 
 ness, as it struck Christian in such a scene, 
 and at such an hour — 
 
 " Glory to Grod in the highest, and on 
 earth peace." 
 
 On earth peace ! And from the grave 
 came the pitiful cry of despair. 
 
 " To die — only to die ! Lucia ! My lost 
 Lucia!"
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 TELLS WHO IT WAS THAT LOOKED FROM THE 
 WINDOW IN OXENTEN RECTORY. 
 
 IE FREDERICK MORTON 
 sat alone in the old library 
 at Donnington, an open 
 letter in his hand. It was 
 within three weeks of the day appointed for 
 his marriage, and that very morning he 
 had arranged to go to London to consult 
 his solicitor respecting the settlements- 
 There was a look of mingled perplexity and 
 vexation on his countenance, which deepened 
 as he re-read the letter. 
 
 Presently Lady Morton came into the room. 
 " My dear Frederick, you will lose the
 
 220 WHO LOOKED FROM THE 
 
 train. I heard you say you could not afford 
 to waste a whole day in riding." 
 
 " Nor can I," replied the Baronet. " How- 
 ever, I shall not go to town to-day. Oxen- 
 ten has written to ask me to see his agent 
 on business that he cannot trust to another." 
 
 " Lord Oxenten ! Does he give any reason 
 for his long silence, or tell you anything 
 about his marriage ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Well, I must say what I think. Such 
 conduct is anything but friendly. And then 
 he coolly asks you to put yourself out of the 
 way to do him a service ! How does he at- 
 tempt to excuse himself?" 
 
 " His note is only remarkable for its 
 brevity," rejoined Sir Frederick, dryly. 
 " You had better read it, and then you can 
 judge for yourself." 
 
 Lady Morton perused it without com- 
 ment.
 
 WINDO W IN OXENTEN RECTOR Y. 221 
 
 " What do you intend to do ?" 
 
 " Gro down immediately. I must write 
 to Fearon, and get him to make another 
 appointment." 
 
 " And Marion ?" 
 
 " Ah ! It is certainly vexatious. Well, 
 I must tell her the truth. There is no 
 help for it." 
 
 " But, my dear boy, why need you disap- 
 point her? I do not think Lord Oxenten 
 has treated you properly. Why should you 
 put yourself out of the way for him ?" 
 
 " There is no quarrel between us, mother. 
 Every man has a right to give or withhold 
 his confidence." 
 
 "It is very kind of you to excuse him ; 
 but you see, dear, you might take your 
 week in town, and go down there after- 
 wards. It could not make much difference." 
 
 " I am not so sure of that. At all 
 events, I have made up my mind; and
 
 WHO LOOKED FROM THE 
 
 while I write my letters, perhaps, as you 
 are going out, you will tell Hawley to take 
 the horses back to the stables. I shall 
 want the travelling carriage, and my port- 
 in anteau — and 
 
 "Why, Frederick, you are surely not 
 going to stay ?" 
 
 " In all probability I shall be away some 
 days. What does it matter where I spend 
 them ?" 
 
 " But it may make Marion unhappy?" 
 
 " I trust Marion is too sensible to grieve 
 about anything so trivial." 
 
 His tone was slightly abrupt, and evi- 
 dently intended to close the conversation. 
 Strange that her thoughts should again revert 
 to the little green pocket-book and the lock 
 of soft dark hair. 
 
 The village of Oxenten lay about thirty 
 miles to the west of Donnington. Sir 
 Frederick did not arrive at the Castle until
 
 WINDO W IN OXENTEN RECTOR Y. 223 
 
 late that evening. The next morning he 
 was up at daybreak, had a consultation with 
 the steward before breakfast ; and then, 
 taking one of the Earl's horses, rode over 
 unattended to the agent's. 
 
 Mr. Macfarlane was out, and not ex- 
 pected home for some hours. Not knowing 
 exactly what to do with himself ad interim, 
 the Baronet resolved to pay a visit to the 
 Eector, whom he had not seen since the late 
 Lord Oxenten's funeral. As he dismounted 
 at some distance from the house, before 
 a white gate, which he found rather difficult 
 to open, a boy, who was working in the 
 garden, ran forward to tender his assistance. 
 As he came nearer, the little fellow's face 
 lighted up with a joyous welcome. 
 
 "You 'ere, sir. Ben'tl glad. 'Ope you're 
 well, sir." Then seeing the Baronet look 
 puzzled, " Beg yer honour's pardon, you've 
 forgotten you'se so kind to me, maybe?"
 
 224 WHO LOOKED FROM THE 
 
 Sir Frederick had forgotten ; but he was 
 essentially good-natured, and without re- 
 proving the boy's volubility, inquired where 
 and how he had met him. 
 
 lc You give me a shillin' once when I'se 
 sweepin' a crossin' in Belgravy. Yer honour 
 wer' talkin' wi' a lady/' 
 
 Sir Frederick started as if he had been 
 shot. Kecollection flashed upon him in a 
 moment. If he had ever deluded himself 
 with a belief in the possibility of forgetful - 
 ness, those words had undeceived him. The 
 boy, though naturally observant, was just 
 then too much engrossed by the interest of 
 his own narrative, and the amusement of 
 stroking the pretty horse's neck, to per- 
 ceive that his auditor turned deadly pale, 
 and grasped the pommel of the saddle for 
 support. 
 
 " The lady told me, afore she went away, 
 maybe I'd get work aisy in the country, and
 
 WIN DO W IN OXENTEN RECTOR Y. 225 
 
 when she come here, I come too as soon as 
 I could. Yer honour give me sixpence on 
 the way. I know'd yer agin at once. The 
 master's werry kind, and when Miss Moor- 
 field axed un, he give me odd jobs in the 
 garden, run on errands like, and he lets me 
 sleep in the stebbles wi' the 'osses." 
 
 Sir Frederick's nerves were strung almost 
 to agony, which the boy seemed pertina- 
 ciously determined to lengthen, though to 
 do the little fellow justice he was totally un- 
 conscious of the effect of his words. 
 
 " You speak of Miss Moorfield as if she 
 w r ere here, boy. Where is she ?" 
 
 The voice was low and husky, and no 
 wonder. The Baronet was nearly choking in 
 the struggle to maintain his self-command. 
 
 Willie Gre} r 's large brown eyes opened 
 wider in suddenly-aroused perception. Lon- 
 don-bred, he was sharper than most of his 
 years. 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 WHO LOOKED FROM THE 
 
 " Why, sir, she's the guv'ness." 
 
 " Do you mean to say Miss Moorfield is 
 there — there in that house ?" And he turned 
 towards the Eectory with a defiantly-longing 
 though agonized expression. 
 
 " Please, yer honour, she ben't there 
 'sackly at this werry minnit. She be gone 
 to take the childer to spend the day wi» 
 their aunt at Eosenby Willa, t'other side of 
 the Castle." 
 
 " Is she going to stay with them at 
 Eosenberg ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; I know she be a comin' 'ome, 
 cos she said as how she'd teach me to read 
 a bit this arternoon." 
 
 " Can you take a message ?" 
 
 " Maybe I could, sir, if ye'd jest tell the 
 master." 
 
 "I will tell him; that is, if he says 
 anything about it. Now, listen — no, 
 stay."
 
 WINDOW IN OXENTEN RECTORY. 227 
 
 Tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, he 
 wrote — 
 
 " Edith, — For God's sake see me. "Wait 
 in the Park Avenue. I will join you there. 
 — F. M." 
 
 He folded and directed the tiny slip of 
 paper ; then putting it, with half-a-crown, 
 into the boy's hand, asked him — 
 
 " Can you read?" 
 
 " No, sir ; can't read 'ritin' no 'ow ; only 
 knows my letters on a book. Miss Moor- 
 field's a teachin' on me now." 
 
 Again and again that name ! The Baronet 
 put his hand to his forehead. 
 
 " There, run ! Take that to Miss Moor- 
 field ; you need not say anything ; there is 
 no answer. She can only come back one 
 way, can she?" 
 
 " Why, sir, she could ; but none on 'em 
 ever do. They allors come round the 
 Close, and through the Park Avingue, 
 
 15 — 2
 
 228 WHO LOOKED FROM THE 
 
 unless Miss Moorfield should chance to go 
 to ony o' the cottagers ; howsomever, if she 
 do, I'll find her." 
 
 " That will do. Now run." 
 
 The little fellow started at full speed, 
 winged by the bright half-crown, and not 
 less by the hope of pleasing the kind gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Sir Frederick stood for some seconds in a 
 state of breathless agitation ; then, by a 
 violent effort, mastering his emotion, walked 
 up the carriage drive, the horse's bridle 
 hanging on his arm. He would gladly have 
 avoided meeting any of the Eector's family, 
 but as in all probability he had been seen 
 from the house, to depart without calling 
 might give rise to remark ; the boy would 
 naturally be questioned, and suspicion alight 
 on another. It was with great difficulty he 
 could force himself to answer the many 
 kind inquiries that were showered upon
 
 WINDOW IN OXENTEN RECTORY. 229 
 
 him with unremitting perseverance. The 
 young Earl's protracted absence, his unac- 
 countable neglect of letters (which hurt tht 
 Eector sorely, though he was too guarded 
 to express any feelings of annoyance), and 
 various unpleasant rumours that had got 
 afloat respecting his intention of residing 
 on the Continent, furnished other topics 
 of apparently interminable interest. What 
 Sir Frederick knew he kept to himself; but 
 it was not so easy to be calm and agreeable 
 when the conversation veered round to his 
 own approaching marriage, and common 
 politeness compelled him to make a suitable 
 reply to the warm congratulations that 
 were called forth by the prospect of his 
 contracting so desirable a union. Those 
 kind words fell upon his tortured ears like 
 coals of fire. To prolong the interview 
 would drive him wild, so, pleading an im- 
 portant engagement, he rose to take leave,
 
 230 THE WINDOW IN OXENTEN RECTORY. 
 
 tormented to the last by the Rector, who 
 with good-humoured obtuseness, insisted on 
 accompanying him to the gate, and would 
 doubtless have detained him there another 
 quarter of an hour if he had not abruptly 
 broken from him.
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 CHIT-CHAT. 
 
 FINE young 
 
 very fine young man 
 
 man ! A 
 
 observed Mr. Seagraves, 
 returning to Ins pretty 
 wife, who stood at the window in a fit of 
 abstraction. " Don't you think so, my 
 dear?" 
 
 "I What did you say, Eobert? 
 
 Oh yes ; he is good-looking enough," re- 
 joined the lady, drily; "but the more I 
 think of him the more he puzzles me. 
 I really cannot understand the formal court- 
 ship of these days." 
 
 "To what does that sapient remark
 
 232 CHIT-CHAT. 
 
 tend?" inquired the Bector, passing his 
 arm round her waist. 
 
 " Why, this Sir Frederick Morton, whom 
 you admire so much, on the eve of being 
 married to the woman whom he professes 
 to love above all others, looks for all the 
 world as if he were going to be buried 
 alive !" 
 
 " Nelly ! Nelly ! don't be uncharitable ; 
 though to tell the truth, I noticed it too. 
 He is certainly paler, and more grave than 
 he used to be ; and yet, do you know, on 
 the whole, I think he looks better than 
 he did at the Earl's funeral.' ' 
 
 " Very likely," laughed Mrs. Seagraves, 
 " considering that on that particular oc- 
 casion you came home and said you were 
 afraid both Sir Frederick Morton and Lord 
 Oxenten were in a decline ! Now, Eobert, 
 it is no good denying it. You know 
 you said so."
 
 CHIT-CHAT. 233 
 
 " Well, well, my dear, I am glad I 
 was mistaken. Where are the children, 
 Kelly ?" 
 
 " What a memory you have ! Gone ta 
 spend the day with Jane, of course, or I 
 should have sent for them to see our 
 visitor. Perhaps, though, it was as well 
 not : he would only have frightened them 
 with his grave looks." 
 
 " Poor Sir Frederick ! he has certainly 
 not succeeded in making a favourable im- 
 pression !" 
 
 " I don't believe he is one bit in love 
 with the girl he is engaged to marry. 
 Didn't you say she had a deal of money?" 
 
 " My dear wife, you are really too severe. 
 Sir Frederick is far too proud a man to sell 
 himself for gold. Besides, there is no 
 need for it. He has enough and ta 
 spare. The Mortons are known to be 
 exceedingly wealthy. Why should their
 
 234 CHIT-CHAT. 
 
 last representative look out for a rich 
 bride V 
 
 " I don't know, certainly ; but I pity 
 Miss Hayes." 
 
 " Eeserve your sympathy, my dear. I 
 doubt not she will be exceedingly happy." 
 
 " That is because you have such an 
 absurdly high opinion of this Sir Frederick. 
 Well, I know I should not like to change 
 places with his fiancee." 
 
 " Nor should I like you to do so," said 
 the Eector, with an amused laugh ; " but 
 a truce, Nelly. Where is Miss Moor- 
 field?" 
 
 " Crone with the children." 
 
 "Is she going to spend the day at 
 Eosenberg ?" 
 
 " No. As usual she excused herself, say- 
 ing she would far rather stay at home and 
 help me with some of the parish work. 
 What a treasure that girl is ! And yet,
 
 CHIT-CHA T. 235 
 
 somehow or other, Robert, do you know she 
 often puzzles me?" 
 
 '''Another enigma, Nelly. Well, this' 
 time I am decidedly at fault. I don't 
 recollect anything incomprehensible in 
 Edith Moorfield." 
 
 " Why, to begin with, she is so pretty 
 and " 
 
 " Women can't help being pretty." 
 
 Her husband's voice and smile brought a 
 soft girlish blush to the young wife's face. 
 She was scarcely five-and- twenty ; and there 
 was almost that number of years difference in 
 their respective ages ; yet, strange to say, 
 both had married from affection. 
 
 " How tiresome you are, Robert. You 
 always will laugh at everything I say. 
 What I mean is this. It is odd that, 
 being so attractive, she should show such an 
 utter aversion to men's society." 
 
 " Not more odd than the dislike she shows
 
 236 CHIT-CHAT. 
 
 to society in general. Circumstanced as she 
 is, I consider her exclusiveness not only 
 justifiable, but necessary. I never yet told 
 you, Nelly, that when I went to London to 
 engage a governess during your illness, 
 Miss Moorfield confided to me a great 
 portion of her history." 
 
 " Oh, Robert, why did you not tell me 
 before ? You know how fond I am of her 
 — how much I liked her from the first." 
 
 " Partly, my dear, because you never 
 asked me any questions after I told you that 
 she was an orphan ; and partly because, had 
 I named it at the time, or before you had 
 learnt to value her as she deserves, it might 
 have left an unfavourable impression on 
 your mind." 
 
 " Surely there is nothing to conceal — 
 nothing wrong ? Oh, Eobert, our chil- 
 dren." 
 
 " Are quite safe in her charge. My
 
 CHIT-CHAT. 
 
 darling wife, I think most highly of Edith 
 Moorfield. She is merely an unfortunate 
 child; one of those whom society bans, 
 visiting the sins of the parents on their 
 unoffending offspring. She was born with- 
 out wedlock, and orphaned in her birth : in- 
 debted even for her life to the charity of a 
 stranger, who brought her up and educated 
 her as her own daughter. The death of this 
 good Samaritan, whose name by courtesy 
 she bears, cast her again upon the world at 
 the early age of fifteen/ ' 
 
 " Oh, how dreadful ! Who was her 
 father ?" 
 
 "Nobody knows; and yet, to judge by 
 
 her refined and gentle bearing, the most 
 
 commonplace observer would imagine her 
 
 well-born. " 
 
 " Poor girl ! How she must have suffered 
 
 in telling you all this." 
 
 "Yes, indeed; but to do so was her
 
 238 CHIT-CHAT. 
 
 only safe plan. Nothing less than 
 this outspoken confidence would have 
 induced me to engage her without refe- 
 rences." g 
 
 " I thought I understood from you that 
 she had been a governess before." 
 
 " True, but she lost her situation (through 
 no fault of her own, poor child), and her 
 hard-hearted employers told her not to 
 apply to them for a reference. I heard some- 
 thing of the story through a young medical 
 friend. He said Miss Mooriield was sent 
 away because her good looks attracted the 
 notice of some rich landowner, whom 
 Mrs. Elliot, that was the lady's name, 
 had fixed on as a husband for her own 
 eldest daughter." 
 
 "What a shame! And then to think 
 that Edith's own father is probably moving 
 in the very circle from which she is ex- 
 cluded !"
 
 CHIT-CHAT. 239 
 
 " A strange, sad thought for her. To 
 my mind it is comparatively easy to 
 forgive a man whose passions lead him 
 astray in a single instance, repented of as 
 soon as committed, and repaired as far as it 
 can be. (God knows how he will be judged 
 hereafter, with that we have nothing to 
 do) ; but I can neither forgive nor excuse 
 those men — and they are legion — who 
 brand the innocent with the stain of their 
 crime, and then leave them to suffer and 
 starve." 
 
 " Poor girl ! poor Edith ! I am glad you 
 have told me, Eobert. I shall try to be 
 even kinder to her now." 
 
 The Park Avenue consisted of a long 
 double line of fine old elms that bordered 
 the Castle grounds, and which, since the 
 decease of the late Lord Oxenten, had 
 been thrown open to the public. As Sir 
 Frederick passed through the first gate,
 
 .240 CHIT-CHAT. 
 
 he caught sight of little Willie Grey 
 running breathlessly homewards. 
 
 " I seed her, sir, and give her the note. 
 She wer a long way t'other side o' the 
 Close." 
 
 The Baronet forced himself to ejaculate, 
 " All right," and then got off his horse. 
 He might meet her any moment. 
 " Shall I 'old un for 'ee, sir ?" 
 "No, boy, no." 
 
 Seeing that his services were no longer 
 required, Willie respectfully doffed his cap 
 and went on ; thinking on the road how 
 many nice things he could purchase for a 
 whole half-crown, and wishing he had a 
 mother or a sister to share in his good 
 fortune. 
 
 Sir Frederick was left alone, his arm 
 across the horse's neck, walking with a slow 
 constrained movement, like one who feels 
 that the crisis of his fate is come. What
 
 CHIT-CHAT. 241 
 
 should he do ? Break his engagement with 
 Marion Hayes, laugh the trammels of 
 society to scorn, and be free ? 
 
 The temptation rose up vividly before 
 him, the whole strength of his fiery, pas- 
 sionate manhood armed itself against the 
 solitary plea of honour, and he groaned in 
 bittercess of spirit as the inward strife 
 waxed fiercer and fiercer. A few short 
 months ago he could not resolve to face the 
 sneers and inuendo of the world. Now, if 
 he had these alone to deal with, happiness 
 would be already in his grasp ; but fettered 
 by his own unutterable folly, bound hand 
 and foot by a dim consciousness of right, 
 and the proud, though torturing remem- 
 brance that a Morton was never yet known 
 to break his word — the pointed rock to 
 which (like the shipwrecked mariner) he 
 despairingly clung to save his higher nature 
 at the expense of the lower — what he 
 
 yol. 1. 16
 
 242 CHIT-CHAT. 
 
 suffered in that brief half hour would have 
 brought most men to the verge of insanity. 
 It was telling even on his iron nerves, when, 
 raising his eyes, he saw at the farther end 
 of the avenue a veiled figure coming steadily 
 towards him.
 
 CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 EDITH MOORFIELD. 
 
 S Sir Frederick came nearer, 
 Edith threw back her veil. 
 To all appearance she was 
 much the less agitated of the 
 two ; though her extreme paleness and the 
 visible trembling of the small delicately- 
 gloved hands, might perhaps have told a 
 different story. The Baronet, however, saw 
 only the clear beautiful features gradually 
 settling in a fixed rigidity of purpose, the 
 calm, almost haughty glance of the deep 
 dark eyes gleaming beneath a broad white 
 forehead, which was rendered still more 
 striking by the finely-lined sweep of the 
 
 16-2
 
 244 EDITH MOORFIELD. 
 
 arched eyebrows, and there was a pas- 
 sionate reproach in his voice as he addressed 
 her. 
 
 " Edith, Edith ! No word, no welcome ? 
 Have you nothing to say to me after a six 
 months' separation ? Are we strangers ? 
 "Wont you shake hands with me ?" 
 
 The tone went to her heart ; yet she drew 
 back, and the slight fingers closed over 
 each other with a nervous pressure. She 
 felt that her firmness was fast deserting 
 her, and his touch might be fatal to them 
 both. 
 
 The Baronet clutched the handle of his 
 riding-whip till it broke like a reed in his 
 grasp. 
 
 " Do you wish to drive me mad ?" he 
 ejaculated, hoarsely. " Do you think we are 
 to meet like this, after the agony I have 
 endured ever since I lost all trace of you in 
 London ? Edith, we are alone ; I am no
 
 EDITH MOORFIELD. 2.' 5 
 
 longer rny own master : in pity to me, in 
 pity to yourself, do not try me too far." 
 
 He was close to her now ; his great height 
 towering above her. She could see the 
 broad chest heaving tumultuously, and 
 could hear the labouring catch of the 
 heavily drawn breath, like the surge of the 
 distant storm. 
 
 " Edith, are you ice ? Because, if so, I'm 
 fire." 
 
 The words fell hissing almost in her ear. 
 He had given the rein to his passion, and 
 who could tell where it would end ? Edith's 
 low silvery accents faltered perceptibly as 
 she replied — 
 
 " Sir Frederick, is this just ? Is it kind, 
 or right, thus to terrify me by your vio- 
 lence ; you a man, and 1 a defenceless girl ? 
 I fear I have done very wrong in meeting 
 you. They told me you were engaged to 
 be married. Is it true ?"
 
 246 EDITH MOORFIELD. 
 
 The Baronet grew suddenly quiet. The 
 sound of her voice appeared to exercise a 
 soothing influence over him ; but he did not 
 attempt an answer, and his silence was 
 " confirmation strong." Edith looked at 
 him sorrowfully. 
 
 i( I could hardly have believed this of 
 you. When we parted in April last, and I 
 gathered from several expressions which 
 you incidentally let fall, that my birth was 
 likely to prove an insuperable bar to our 
 union ; when I saw that the conflict of 
 feeling between your love for me — for I 
 knew you did love me, and that thought 
 has been a comfort to me since, though now 
 perhaps it is sin — when I saw that the con- 
 flict of feeling between your love for me, 
 and the thousand antagonistic influences 
 which surrounded your position, made you 
 ill and miserable, and subjected me to mis- 
 representation and remark, my only safety
 
 EDITH MOORFIELD. 247 
 
 was in flight. We could not be married ; 
 and nothing but madness or misery could 
 possibly result from our intercourse. Why 
 seek to renew it ?" 
 
 " But, oh, Edith, had you no pity for me, 
 no thought of what I should suffer, when I 
 heard of your departure ? Why did you not 
 trust me ? I would have married you, 
 would have braved everything, and placed 
 my fate in your hands." 
 
 Edith's lips moved faintly. They might 
 have framed the words " Not then," but 
 sound died in the utterance. 
 
 " I went to London twice. The first time 
 I called on the Elliots ; not seeing you with 
 the children, I asked the nurse where you 
 were. She told me you had left a fortnight 
 previously, without giving an address. For 
 three days I sought you in town, shunning 
 all my own friends, and haunting every spot 
 where I had seen you. For a long time I
 
 248 EDITH MOORFIELD. 
 
 could not resolve to say anything to Mrs. 
 Elliot, knowing that she regarded you in 
 some degree as her daughter's rival. Besides, 
 why should I unnecessarily proclaim our 
 secret ? How could I for one moment 
 imagine that you would not even write to 
 me ? Day after day passed, and week after 
 week, and still no letter. Driven to despera- 
 tion, I determined to set scandal at defiance, 
 and by openly acknowledging my interest 
 in your movements, find out what had be- 
 come of you. I asked and obtained a pri- 
 vate interview with Mrs. Elliot ; and natu- 
 rally concluding you must apply to her for 
 references, implored her to aid me in the 
 search. Misery ! what did I hear ? That 
 you had left of your own accord, and the 
 last time you had been seen by any of the 
 family, you were in Kensington Park 
 Gardens in the company of Harvey Len- 
 nox.
 
 EDITH MOORFIELD. 249 
 
 A deep flush suffused Edith's counte- 
 nance. 
 
 " ]\Irs. Elliot should have told you the 
 whole truth. I did not quit her employ- 
 ment entirely of my own accord, though I 
 intended to leave in order to avoid a tempta- 
 tion which I had not strength to resist. 
 She said she thought my conduct extremely 
 prejudicial to her daughter's interests, and 
 that unless I could in some way alter it, I 
 must consider our engagement at an end. 
 I shall always count her harshness a mercy. 
 Coming as it did, it drove me to do what 
 was right." 
 
 " And the other part of the story, Edith 
 — was that also an invention ? I will not 
 dwell upon her base insinuations ; but tell 
 me you were not seen talking to that 
 man f 
 
 " I may have been seen. I cannot say. 
 At any rate, he was talking to me. It was
 
 250 EDITH MOORFIELD. 
 
 the day before I came down here. I had a 
 wish to revisit the spot where we had met 
 so often to say good-bye to it for your sake. 
 On my way home (I had taken lodgings for 
 a fortnight) Mr. Lennox joined me. He 
 saw I was unhappy, and taking advantage 
 of my misery, insisted on accompanying me 
 as far as Hyde Park Corner, where, to 
 escape his persecution, I got into a cab. 7 ' 
 
 Edith's tears were falling fast. He had 
 mistrusted her, and suspicion from the man 
 she loves is a woman's sorest trial. 
 
 " I did not believe all I heard, Edith, but 
 as month after month passed, and brought 
 no tidings, I became sick at heart and rest- 
 less. My mother wanted me to marry. I 
 had unwittingly won the affection of a 
 beautiful and amiable girl, and shrank from 
 inflicting on another the anguish I was en- 
 during myself. I had lost all hope of your 
 discovery ; doubt of your fidelity, indigna-
 
 S 
 
 EDITH MOORFIELD. 251 
 
 tion at your silence, drove me to despair, 
 and, in an unguarded moment, my honour 
 was pledged j but oh, Edith, say that you 
 forgive me ; tell me that I have not wrecked 
 your happiness as well as my own l" 
 
 A hectic flush rose to Edith's cheek. 
 
 " I daresay I shall be very happy in 
 time." 
 
 ' ' And you will not hate me ? You will 
 think of me as a friend ? You will pray 
 — that — that " 
 
 " I will pray for you and for her." 
 
 He came nearer, took both her hands in 
 his, and bent down to kiss her forehead. 
 Edith trembled and turned very white. 
 
 " Leave me, Sir Frederick, I implore you. 
 Be merciful ; do not prolong this torture. 
 Let me go home." 
 
 " I will, I will ; but, Edith, say that you 
 forgive me \" 
 
 " I do ; we must forgive each other. I
 
 EDITH MOORFIELD. 
 
 may have wronged }^ou ; I cannot tell. I 
 did it for the best. It is useless to dwell 
 upon the past. Farewell." 
 
 Drawing down her veil, she turned from 
 him. The Baronet made no further effort 
 to detain her. He stood motionless, watch- 
 ing her until she left the avenue, and was 
 lost to view in the windings of the road ; 
 then, suddenly recollecting his appointment 
 with Mr. Macfarlane, he mounted and rode 
 on slowly, the reins on his horse's neck. 
 The way he chose was rather circuitous, but 
 it might give him time to regain his self- 
 command. However, he had not ridden far 
 before some one called to him by name. 
 
 " Morton, is that brute to be trusted ?" 
 
 The startled animal swerved aside, as a 
 man jumped off a stile on the right, and 
 placed himself in the middle of the road. 
 
 "Not in cases like that," replied the 
 Baronet, forcing a laugh, though he wished
 
 EDITH MOORFIELD. 253 
 
 the intruder a hundred miles off. " Temple, 
 is it really you ? Where did you spring 
 from ?" f 
 
 " I might ask you the same question, my 
 friend, seeing that you are supposed to be in 
 town." 
 
 " I ? I came down yesterday to see about 
 some business for Oxenten." 
 
 "Ha! Then he has written at last! 
 What news?" 
 
 " None ; that is, he says nothing about 
 his marriage." 
 
 " Strange ! I should have thought " 
 
 " You have not yet favoured me with an 
 answer," interposed Sir Frederick, wishing 
 to avoid discussion. " What brought you 
 here, of all places in the world ? Is it a 
 secret ?" 
 
 " Yes, rather ! I am trying to solve a 
 mystery," rejoined the young lawyer, twirl- 
 ing his moustache with an air of impor-
 
 254 EDITH MOORFIELD. 
 
 tance ; " but as I have been puzzling my 
 brain to no purpose for the last three 
 hours, I may as well walk on with you. 
 A friend's society may sharpen my 
 wits." 
 
 The Baronet flung himself from his 
 horse, and passed his arm through the 
 bridle-rein. Molyneux Temple glanced at 
 him narrowly. 
 
 " Morton, you do not look well. What 
 is the matter ?" 
 
 " Nothing. My head aches." 
 
 " Ah, Lenham told me you had been 
 doing too much. How absent I am. You 
 got my letter, of course ; but I might have 
 had the grace to congratulate you in person. 
 When is it to be?" 
 
 " This side of Christmas," returned Sir 
 Frederick, almost driven mad by his own 
 thoughts. 
 
 Molyneux Temple was silent for awhile ;
 
 EDITH MOORFIELD. 
 
 then, without looking up, he exclaimed 
 abruptly — 
 
 "Morton, should you care much about 
 money ? I mean in a wife ?" 
 
 " I ! Certainly not." 
 
 " And yet they say your bride that is to 
 be is one of the richest heiresses in Eng- 
 land. Suppose it were to turn out a myth, 
 what then ?" 
 
 "It would make no difference to me/ 7 
 replied the Baronet, briefly, too miserable 
 to express any surprise at this odd ques- 
 tion, and longing to be left to himself. 
 
 As the remainder of the conversation 
 between the two friends does not tend to 
 elucidate our story, we will pass it over, 
 and return to the Eectorv. 
 
 As Edith came through the white gate 
 she was met by the Kector's wife, who, in a 
 large straw hat and gardening gloves, was 
 endeavouring to nail up some creepers
 
 256 EDITH MOORFIELD. 
 
 which had been rather roughly handled 
 by the autumn winds. 
 
 " I'm so glad you are come, dear. You 
 are taller than I am, and may perhaps be 
 able to manage this tiresome branch without 
 the help of a ladder." 
 
 Edith took the hammer and essayed a few 
 strokes ; but the exertion was beyond her 
 strength. She had kept up to the last, 
 and the interview with Morton exhausted 
 her powers of endurance. Kow that she 
 was no longer exposed to the terrible trial 
 of his presence, the overwrought nerves 
 gave way. 
 
 " Forgive me, dear Mrs. Seagraves, I 
 am so dizzy. I cannot see to do it. I— 
 I " 
 
 And then the kind-hearted little woman 
 first noticed how ill her young friend looked, 
 and hurried her into the house. 
 
 "Edith, you are faint. "Why did you
 
 EDITH MOORFIELD. 257 
 
 not tell me before ? You must have a glass 
 of wine, or sal- volatile ; something to 
 revive you. Dear, where are my salts ? 
 Quick, Willie, open the door." 
 
 The boy, who had been picking up small 
 stones under the direction of his mistress, 
 hastened to obey, gazing after the two 
 retreating figures with open mouth and a 
 stare of bewilderment. He loitered about 
 for some time ; but Mrs. Seagraves did not 
 return to the garden again that day ; and 
 "Willie went to bed in the stables, curling 
 himself up on the fresh sweet hay, with a 
 slice of bread for his supper, and the new 
 half-crown tied up in an old red handker- 
 chief under his pillow, without being able 
 to get any tidings of Miss Moorfield. 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 CHAPTER XXYI. 
 
 tells how many sins were laid to sir 
 Frederick's account. 
 
 HE next morning at breakfast 
 Edith's place was empty, and 
 at ten o'clock the children 
 were sent out with a servant. 
 The Eector and his wife, left to them- 
 selves, immediately began to talk over the 
 occurrences of the preceding clay. 
 
 " Have you succeeded in obtaining any 
 clue to that poor girl's illness, Nelly ?" 
 
 " I have thought of one ; but the sup- 
 position seems so unlikely to prove correct, 
 that I scarcely like to acknowledge it. You 
 will laugh at me, Robert."
 
 SINS LAID TO SIR FREDERICK. 259 
 
 " Never mind ; tell me." 
 
 " Well, I cannot help connecting Edith's 
 unhappiness (for her indisposition is more 
 mental than physical) with the visit of Sir 
 Frederick Morton." 
 
 " Strange ; the same thought occurred to 
 me last night, though I could not account 
 for it. It may be because in our quiet 
 little village there are so few incidents 
 worthy of remark that we naturally link 
 one with another." 
 
 At this juncture their tete-a-tete was in- 
 terrupted by the entrance of Edith herself. 
 She was very pale, but retained her usually 
 quiet and ladylike demeanour. Mrs. Sea- 
 graves rose to greet her, while the Eector 
 drew a large easy-chair to the fire. 
 
 " My dear Edith, why did you get up ? 
 I told you the children should have a holi- 
 day. It is excessively naughty of you. 
 Why did you do it?" 
 
 17—2
 
 2 6o SINS LAID TO 
 
 " Because, dearest Mrs. Seagraves, I have 
 a painful task before me. For my future 
 peace of mind it is necessary that I should 
 leave this neighbourhood at once ; and I 
 want you to let me go away quietly, and 
 not make the parting needlessly hard." 
 
 " Parting I" exclaimed the Eector and his 
 wife in the same breath. " Leave us ? 
 Edith, you must be dreaming ! Why 
 should you wish to go away ? Are you not 
 happy here ?" 
 
 " So happy, at least I have been, that 
 the thought of leaving you almost breaks 
 my heart. I shall never love any other 
 friends so well; but I go to avoid worse 
 misery. It would be wicked of me to 
 remain." 
 
 " Go to avoid worse misery ? "Wicked 
 to remain," repeated the Rector to himself; 
 " there is something in all this which I 
 cannot understand." Then aloud, " Dear
 
 SIR FREDERICK'S ACCOUNT. 261 
 
 Miss Moorfield, we are your true friends. 
 Treat us with confidence ; tell us what has 
 given rise to such a sudden resolution." 
 
 There was no answer. Edith hid her 
 face and wept, while Mrs. Seagraves stood 
 leaning over the back of her chair in sorrow- 
 ful perplexity. 
 
 " Forgive me if I pain you j but circum- 
 stanced as you are, without parents or rela- 
 tions, I should not be doing my duty in 
 allowing you to depart unquestioned. I 
 may be wrong, yet it strikes me forcibly 
 that the visit of Sir Frederick Morton may 
 have had something to do with your re- 
 solve." 
 
 Edith's whole frame shook with sup- 
 pressed sobs. Mr. and Mrs. Seagraves 
 looked at each other, and the latter laid 
 her hand caressingly on her young friend's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Edith, poor child, I have heard some-
 
 262 SINS LAID TO 
 
 thing of your history, and can partly guess 
 the remainder ; but granting that this Sir 
 Frederick Morton is the man on whose 
 account (as my husband tells me) you were 
 obliged to leave your previous situation, I 
 do not see why his casual visit here need 
 drive you away. You forget he is now 
 engaged to be married/' 
 
 " No, no !" cried Edith, wildly, starting 
 from her chair ; " it is just because I do not 
 forget it that I dare not risk meeting him 
 again/' 
 
 " But, my dear child," indignantly ex- 
 claimed the Hector's wife, " he will not 
 venture to persecute you here. Mr. Sea- 
 graves will see to that. It is disgraceful ! 
 An engaged man — as good as married ! He 
 ought to be ashamed of himself." 
 
 " You do not understand," moaned 
 Edith; "he is miserable too. Oh, what 
 have I said ? He will think I have betrayed
 
 SIR FREDERICK'S ACCOUNT. 263 
 
 him — made him contemptible in the eyes of 
 the world." Then, throwing herself on her 
 knees before the Hector, "Pity me — send 
 me away — or I shall go mad." 
 
 Mr. Seagraves gently replaced her in her 
 seat by the fire, while his wife knelt down 
 to chafe the cold damp hands. 
 
 "Nelly, she is right. It would not be 
 wise for her to remain. We must let her 
 go, and the sooner the better. In a few 
 months there may be a change. Dear 
 Miss Moorfield, be calm, I entreat you ; you 
 shall go to-day if you wish it ; only tell us 
 where you are going, and what you intend 
 to do." 
 
 Drying her tears, Edith tried to smile, 
 though it was not a very successful effort. 
 
 " You may remember my speaking of 
 Jane Wilmot, an old servant of my adopted 
 mother. She married a journeyman car- 
 penter, and is now a widow, keeping a little
 
 264 SINS LAID TO 
 
 worsted shop in London. I had better not 
 give you her address, yet in case " 
 
 A choking sob prevented the completion 
 of the sentence. 
 
 " You are right," said the Eector, warmly. 
 " We can trust you without it ; and if any 
 questions are asked, the answer will be easy 
 — gone to spend some time with a friend. 
 I see — not a bad idea." 
 
 " I would rather not go out as a governess 
 again/' continued Edith, mournfully. " I 
 can help Jane with her worsted work, and 
 perhaps sell some of my drawings. It does 
 not much signify how I get a living. I 
 have no one to care for me ; no one to injure 
 by lowering my position." 
 
 Innocent victim of the world's stern code 
 of so-called morality — a morality which 
 visits the offence on the defenceless, and 
 lets the offender go free. Truly it did not 
 " signify much."
 
 .577? FREDERICK'S ACCOUNT. 265 
 
 The Hector rose abruptly, apparently 
 looking for something that was nowhere to 
 be found. Had it a name ? It might have 
 been justice. 
 
 " You will want money to commence 
 with." 
 
 " The whole of my last quarter's salary 
 is as yet untouched, and I do not intend to 
 be idle. The more I have to do the 
 better." 
 
 " There is another quarter nearly due," 
 said the reverend gentleman, unlocking his 
 cash-box, and taking thence a ten pound 
 note, to which, after a moment's reflection, 
 he added one of half the value. " You must 
 accept this as a parting gift from Mrs. 
 Seagraves and myself. In a few months 
 you may be willing to return to us. Now, 
 although we shall all be very sorry to lose 
 you, I cannot help feeling your decision is 
 a wise one."
 
 266 SINS LAID TO 
 
 " I can never thank you sufficiently," 
 began Edith, clinging to Mrs. Seagraves, 
 who, on her part, could scarcety help crying. 
 The Hector thinking this painful scene was 
 likely to prove too much for them both, 
 cut it short by saying — 
 
 " As soon as you are ready, I will drive 
 you to the station." 
 
 His wife understood the implied admoni- 
 tion, and restrained herself for the moment, 
 only to exclaim with greater vehemence, 
 when Edith had left the room — 
 
 " I declare it has quite upset me ! And 
 to think that man should be the cause of 
 it all ! I really do not like to tell the 
 children. They are so fond of her." 
 
 " Better spare them and her the pain of 
 saying good-bye, dear Nelly. The poor 
 girl looks wretchedly ill already. I 
 am out of all patience with Sir Frederick, 
 though it can hardly have been premeditated
 
 SIR FREDERICK'S ACCOUNT. 267 
 
 on his part. I cannot understand it. 
 He always seemed to me to be a man of 
 very high principle ; but to make love 
 to one woman while engaged to another is 
 more than inexcusable." 
 
 " Don't talk of it, Eobert. You see I was 
 not far wrong in my judgment." 
 
 Mr. Seagraves would not appear to notice 
 the implied reproof. 
 
 "He must have met her returning from 
 Rosenberg. Young Deverell told me he 
 saw somebody talking to Miss Moorfield. 
 I thought it odd at the time ; but the idea 
 of the stranger being Sir Frederick himself 
 never struck me till late last evening/' 
 
 " You do not surely intend to invite him 
 here again?" 
 
 " He is not likely to put himself in the 
 way of receiving any future invitation, when 
 he hears (as in a place like this he is sure 
 to hear from some of the villagers or
 
 268 SINS LAID TO 
 
 servants) that Miss Moorfield has left us. 
 You may be quite sure he would never 
 dream of applying to me for any informa- 
 tion respecting her movements. If he did 
 I should know how to receive him." 
 
 " But you asked him to dine with us one 
 day during his stay at the Castle." 
 
 " I cannot help that now, my dear. 
 In all probability he will send an excuse." 
 
 In passing to another subject, we may 
 observe that this supposition of the Bector's 
 proved to be correct. 
 
 When Edith left the breakfast-room she 
 went into the garden, intending to gather 
 a few sprigs of evergreen to preserve as 
 reminiscences of a home to which (according 
 to her own impression) she was about to 
 bid adieu for ever. As her step sounded on 
 the gravel walk between the shrubberies, 
 little Willie Grey, who had just returned 
 from the village blacksmith's, looked up
 
 SIR FREDERICK'S ACCOUNT. 269 
 
 from the lock that he was carefully polish- 
 ing on his torn sleeve, and quickened his 
 pace to meet her. 
 
 " Hope yer better, Miss ? I'se so sorry 
 to 'ear you was ill last night." 
 
 Poor Edith ! her colour came and went 
 as she thought of yesterday's errand, and 
 all the after suffering of which the warm- 
 hearted little fellow had been the uncon- 
 scious instrument. She was too just to 
 connect him with her causes of unhappi- 
 ness ; but would it do for her to say " good- 
 bye" to him before she went away ? Eeason 
 said " No," so with a kind word she passed 
 on, gathered her sprigs of evergreen, and 
 then, going back to the house, walked 
 calmly upstairs to prepare for her journey. 
 
 Yes, she was calm for the time. Her 
 long pent-up misery had found a temporary 
 relief in the burst of passionate weeping 
 which had been drawn from her by the win-
 
 270 SINS LAID TO 
 
 ning kindness of the Eector and his wife. 
 Sorrow might he humoured in the future ; 
 hut now she must reserve her strength for 
 exertion. 
 
 At half-past two the Hector's large " four- 
 wheel'' was "brought round to the front- 
 door, the luggage having heen put in at 
 the stables to avoid observation ; and with 
 a few whispered words of gratitude, Edith 
 Moorfield left Oxenten for London. 
 
 Willie Grey (in all probability intention- 
 ally) had been sent to a farm at some little 
 distance, and did not return till the evening. 
 When he came to fetch his supper from the 
 kitchen, he heard the servants talking over 
 Miss Moorfield's departure, and speculating 
 as to what could possibly be the reason of 
 her leaving. 
 
 " 'Twarn't a quarrel," said the cook, " for 
 the mistress cried when she bid her ' good- 
 bye;' and the master and her too were
 
 SIR FREDERICK'S ACCOUNT. 271 
 
 quite grave over their dinner, and didn't 
 talk and laugh half as much as they do 
 gen'lly. I was 'most ready to cry myself, 
 when she came and told me, and give me 
 that pretty blue ribbon to trim my new 
 straw bonnet." 
 
 " Yes, and she give me a book, and a 
 shillin' to put by, cos she knew I wanted to 
 save," chimed in the little schoolroom 
 maid, with a glance at the footman which 
 left no doubt of their prospective relation- 
 ship. " Dear now, if I wasn't going to 
 forget it ; there's a shillin' for you, Willie, 
 and a Testament, and Miss Moorfield said 
 I was to tell you she hoped you'd learn to 
 read it yourself some day." 
 
 " And didn't she say ' good-bye ' to me ?" 
 sobbed the boy. 
 
 " Of course she did ; she told us to say 
 it for her. You was gone to Farmer Duf- 
 ferin's.' ,,
 
 272 SINS LAID TO 
 
 " Poor little chap/' said the cook to her- 
 self; "he's terr'bly cut up. I must try and 
 find him something nice for his supper." 
 Then aloud, " 'Tis queer she should ha' 
 left like that all of a sudden. I can't 
 make it out." 
 
 Willie Grey knew, or imagined he knew, 
 more of the causes of Edith's disappearance 
 than the rest ; but, in the first place, he was 
 too unhappy to talk ; and, in the second, he 
 had an instinctive dread of incurring Sir 
 Frederick's displeasure, should he even 
 venture to allude to the mysterious slip of 
 paper. So he crept back sorrowfully to his 
 compartment in the stables, and soon cried 
 himself to sleep. 
 
 The whole of that day Sir Frederick 
 spent at the Castle in a state of the most 
 miserable incertitude. One moment, resolved 
 by a desperate effort to free himself from 
 his present entanglement, and marry Edith
 
 SIR FREDERICK'S ACCOUNT. 273 
 
 at all hazards, let society say what it chose ; 
 the next, horror-struck at his own meditated 
 treachery. He, a Morton, break his plighted 
 word and disgrace himself for ever ? No ! 
 ten thousand times no ! he had played the 
 fool, and must bear the penalty of his 
 folly. Nevertheless, on the third day 
 of his arrival, he was unable to resist the 
 temptation of wandering up and down in 
 the vicinity of the Rectory grounds. He had 
 no definite object; indeed, he felt persuaded 
 that Edith would avoid seeing him again ; 
 but the restlessness and agitation of his 
 mind drove him to do that which his judg- 
 ment disapproved. It chanced that he met 
 the Eector and his wife, who had just started 
 on their accustomed afternoon's walk. Mr. 
 Seagraves lifted his hat, and Mrs. Seagraves 
 bowed distantly, but neither made any at- 
 tempt to detain him, and he was much too 
 pre-occupied to notice their extreme reserve. 
 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 274 SINS LAID TO 
 
 A little farther on he saw Willie Grey carry- 
 ing a parcel. The Baronet's heart beat faster. 
 Should he ask for any news of Edith ? 
 Conscience whispered that to do so would be 
 worse than foolish; but he could not help say- 
 ing " Good day," as the boy was about to pass 
 him without even a bow of recognition. 
 
 " Oh, sir ; I never seed you." The little 
 fellow touched his cap ; but the accustomed 
 smile was wanting ; and on looking closer, 
 Sir Frederick perceived he had been 
 crying. Natural kind-heartedness, and per- 
 haps a sort of reflected interest, prompted 
 him to inquire the cause. 
 
 " What is the matter, my man ?" 
 " Miss Moorfield's gone, and I know that 
 bit o' paper druv her away. I know it 
 did," said the boy, with a fresh burst of 
 tears, not lessened by a certain spitefulness 
 against his former favourite for his share in 
 the transaction.
 
 SIR FREDERICK'S ACCOUNT. 275 
 
 " Miss Moorfield gone, boy ? Where ?" 
 asked the Baronet, who at the moment 
 experienced that painful sensation which 
 the French call " un serrement de cceur," 
 accompanied, however, by a strange feeling 
 of relief that Providence had removed temp- 
 tation from the thorny path that lay before 
 him. 
 
 " Dunno, sir.' Only wish I did." 
 
 END OF vol. r.
 
 LONDON : 
 lATTLi, EDWABD8 AND CO., PRINTERS, CHANPOS 6TBFIT, 
 COVEKT GARDEN.