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 HONOUR'S WORTH 
 
 OR 
 
 THE COST OF A VOW.
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/honoursworthorco01orre
 
 HONOUR'S WORTH 
 
 OR 
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 
 ^ fowl 
 
 By META OEEEI), 
 
 ArTHOR OF "poems," "A LONG TIME AGO." 
 
 " I could not love Thee, dear, so much 
 Loved I not Honour more."— Richakd Lovelace, 
 
 •• Der seltne Mann will 
 Seltenes vertrauen.*'— Wallensteik. 
 
 Frospero. " Foolish wench ! 
 
 To the most of men this is a Calihan, 
 
 And they to him are angels. 
 Miranda, My affections 
 
 Are then most humble ; I have no ambition 
 
 To Bee a goodlier m&n."— Tempest. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1878. 
 
 {All rights reserved.)
 
 8^3 
 
 
 V- 
 
 i 
 
 4 
 
 C0 
 
 LADY WALLACE. 
 
 God sees completion where we only plan." 
 
 The Painter's Ideal.
 
 HONOUE'S WOETH; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 " Ernst liegt das Leben vor der ernsten Seele." 
 
 WalivEnstein. 
 
 " Why, Gladys ! what an armful ! Where are you 
 going ? " 
 
 "They are for Hermione's room," answered Gladys, 
 holding up to Colonel Myddleton the exquisite bouquet 
 of eucharis and gloire -de -Dijon roses which she had 
 gathered, in one hand, whilst the other arm was laden 
 with trails of ivy, sprays of myrtle, laurestinus, wild 
 briar, bramble, and a wealth of wild treasures. 
 
 " Wliat ! the Hermione ? Oh, she is fond of 
 flowers, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, she loves them. You should see her rooms 
 at home ; even in winter they are quite full of wonder- 
 ful treasures : scraps of things, that you would never 
 
 VOL. I. B.
 
 2 HONOURS worth; oe, 
 
 think were worth looking at till you see them in the 
 vases — * weeds,' as Philii^ calls them." 
 
 *' Do you know, Gladys, I am really curious to see 
 Miss St. John ; you all seem so very devoted to her." 
 
 *'Ah! there's nobody like her in all the world," 
 said Gladys, slowly. *' She is beautiful in every way 
 you can imagine. I know you will like her." 
 
 " I ? — why, I don't think I shall. I never like 
 peoj^le everybody likes." 
 
 " You will like her, because you like nobody," said 
 Gladys, looking gravely at him. ''You like such odd 
 things that most people don't care about, so I know 
 you will like her." 
 
 He laughed. ''Well, Miss Sixteen, that is the 
 reason I like you, I suppose. Odd things, indeed ! 
 It's complimentary to your friend, anyhow." 
 
 " Oh ! she is not my friend," said Gladys, quickly. 
 " She couldn't be my fiiend ; she is Dorothy's, just 
 like you are Philip's." 
 
 " And why couldn't she be your friend, too, as well 
 as Lady Clinton's ? " 
 
 " Because she is much older, and so clever, and so 
 good, and so different; she couldn't be my friend." 
 
 " Oh ! So you think friends ought to be of 
 equal age ? Well, I call that very unkind of you ; for 
 I am ever so much older than you are, and prob- 
 ably than Miss St. John is, and yet I always consider 
 you as my friend." 
 
 " Yes ! " with a glad, puzzled smile ; " but then
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 3 
 
 YOU have knovv^n me from a tiny baby, and that's 
 different." 
 
 " Yes, that is different, Gladys," he said, kindly. 
 *' You are right. Well, to please you, I mean to try 
 and like Miss St. John." 
 
 It was a most beautiful evening, still and dusking 
 fast ; one of those soft evenings v/e som^etimes have 
 vouchsafed to us in late September. The hall door 
 stood widely open, and Colonel Myddleton sauntered ^ 
 out and stood under the lofty portico, looking ip(]f 
 away into the dreamy quiet of the sky. As he stood 
 there, close to one of the great jpillars, his tall, power- 
 ful figm^e came out in strong relief. He had a fine 
 head, his hair was fast turning grey ; his eyes were 
 large and grave, and his mouth firm and yet gentle 
 in expression. There was an indescribable look of 
 repose, strength, and sadness about him; his very 
 attitude expressed readiness, without hurry — a waiting, 
 without expectancy. 
 
 The house stood on high ground, which sloped 
 from it in every direction. Immediately in front 
 of the portico it swept away, under groujDS of mag- 
 nificent Scotch firs, to the mere, beyond which were 
 belts and belts of trees — oaks, elms, and beeches 
 — fading away into the blue and grey of the dis- 
 tant hills. Here and there the smoke from the village 
 pierced the dusky masses, and went straight up to 
 Heaven like a soul released. It was wonderfully still ; 
 the rooks called lazily to each other as they swung
 
 4 HONOURS worth; or, 
 
 liomewarcls. There was hardly any colour in any- 
 thing ; it was a light in which only the greys and 
 yellows predominated. 
 
 The other gentlemen of the party staying in the 
 house had not yet come in from shooting. Colonel 
 Myddleton had returned early, on account of a slight 
 threatening of ague to which he was liable since his 
 fever in India. 
 
 Suddenly a water-wagtail flew close past his face, 
 and, with a curious clashing of ideas, he thought, 
 " Hermione ! How strange that she should have that 
 name, and I not know her ! Well, it' does not matter." 
 
 A carriage came up the distant diive. He caught 
 sight of it in one of the windings, and, guessing 
 it was Lady Clinton bringing Miss St. John from the 
 station, he beat a hasty retreat. 
 
 Gladys was busily wreathing ivy and myrtle round 
 the looking-glass, and filling the vases with flowers in 
 Hermione's room. She was tall and sKght, with a 
 sweet, young, bright face, and she arranged the flowers 
 with the most loving care and cleverness. Sir Philip 
 and Lady Clinton had no children, and this little sister 
 of his was their darling, and had always lived with 
 them since the death of her mother, and his marriage. 
 
 *' There!" she said, as she finished, and heard 
 the carriage drive up ; " that's beautiful. Oh ! here's 
 a dear little bud ; that will just do for him. It's very 
 odd that he doesn't know her. I know she said she 
 knew him — but I suppose she meant by sight ; she 
 said it was lonoj apfo."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 5 
 
 In the midst of her soliloquy she heard the hell, 
 and darted from the room. 
 
 Hermione was first down, in spite of having had to 
 unpack. She stood in the long drawing-room, hy the 
 great, open fireplace. She was leaning her head on 
 one hand, the other, which was ungloved, she held 
 towards the flame, showing the exquisite modelling 
 of wrist and arm, bare to the elbow, where it was 
 shrouded in filmy lace. She was in deep mourning, 
 and wore no ornaments excepting one jewel, which 
 glittered at her throat, yet shone hardly less than the 
 extreme whiteness of her skin, which showed clearly 
 against the square-cut dress. She was excessively 
 tall, and so slight in limb and stature as to resemble 
 more than anything a swaying, plumy reed. Her 
 figure was perfect, and you felt that all lines of 
 dress must necessarily fall in graceful folds against it. 
 Her head, like her hands and feet, was very small and 
 beautifully shaped and put on ; her hair was fair, with 
 a bright gold in it which shaded off almost into light 
 as it lay against her brow ; her eyes were dark violet, 
 and the lashes were much darker than her hair, 
 though not so dark as the eyes. Her mouth was 
 intensely grave, with a strange, quiet, unspeaking 
 look about the lips, that gave one a curious feeling of 
 quietude and self-control. 
 
 She was apparently absorbed in thought, for she 
 did not move when the door opened and Colonel 
 Myddleton came in. He at first did not see her, but
 
 6 HONOURS worth; or, 
 
 came Imrriedly forwards in the dimly lighted room 
 towards the fireplace, and saw her suddenly. He 
 started violently, but with a great effort he put out 
 his hand, and said, with only a shght trembling of 
 the upper lip, "Lady Carruthers, I didn't know I 
 was to meet you here ! " 
 
 She, too, had put out her hand, but at his words it 
 fell again ; a shadow of crimson, a dusky flush, flew 
 over her face and stained her very brow scarlet for a 
 second, a wild look contracted her ej-ebrows, and then 
 she said very slowly, with a grave dignity, " There is 
 some mistake. My name is St. John." 
 
 '' My God ! " 
 
 He did not see that she was trembling violently, 
 because she had turned away and was steadying 
 herself by holding a chair. A grey shadow, which 
 made him look as one dying, came over his face. He 
 tried to speak — no sound would come; he held out 
 his hand still, mechanically. 
 
 The door opened and Sir Philip Clinton came in ; 
 he only saw Colonel Myddleton. 
 
 *' Halloa! old fellow; what on earth's the matter 
 with you? It's all these confounded fogs after that 
 fever." 
 
 " Yes, it's the fever," said Colonel Myddleton, in 
 a husky, broken voice. " Let me go, Clinton, and take 
 some of that stuff, you know." 
 
 He groped along to the door like one half -blind, 
 and went out and shut it after him, just as Sir
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 7 
 
 Philip caugiit sight of Hermione, sitting in a great 
 chair, half hidden hy a screen. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! I don't think he will ever get over 
 that fever," he said, coming up to her. " He is such 
 a good fellow, do you know. Miss St. John. It was 
 all after the Mutiny — exhaustion and all that sort of 
 thing. Of course, because he is worth his weight in 
 gold, he'll go and die," he ended, discontentedly. 
 
 " Yes ! " said Hermione. She, too, had caught sight 
 of that death-like face as he left the room, and her 
 heart was beating wildly. What did it all mean? 
 What did he think ? How dared he insult her so ? 
 
 Just as the gong sounded, he came in again. At 
 dinner he sat on Lady Clinton's left, and she said, 
 " You can, hardly see her from here; but don't you 
 think Miss St. John very handsome ? " 
 
 It was one of those foolish questions that so 
 rarely gets a true answer. 
 
 ''I knew her forpaerly," he said; ^' but I thought 
 she had married Lord Carruthers. I was told so as a 
 positive fact, just as I was starting for India." 
 
 " That man ! " said Lady Clinton, vehemently, as 
 though any further expression of reprobation would 
 fail to convey her feeling about him. "How could 
 you believe it ? " 
 
 " He told me himself," said Colonel Myddleton, 
 quietly. 
 
 Lady Clinton was speechless. Then she burst out 
 again, " How could you believe it ? "
 
 8 honour's woeth; or, 
 
 ''How did she come to change her name, though?" 
 he asked, ahsently. 
 
 " Ah ! Of course, being in India and all that, you 
 did not hear. Well, poor Mark, her cousin, was killed 
 out hunting — at least he died from the fall. She came 
 into the property and everything, and he asked her to 
 take the name. You know he w^as always madly in 
 love with her. It was like a kind of marriage of 
 names, poor boy ! She did it at once, and now she lives 
 at the place. It is so lovely." 
 
 " I saw her mother died last year." 
 
 " Yes. Well, really, she was no loss to Hermione, 
 she was so worldly and hard." 
 
 Colonel Myddleton was silent. He was not even 
 looking at Hermione ; he was gazing stedfastly into 
 the flowers in front of him, going over in thought the 
 last six years of his life and hers. What had hers 
 been? what did she think of him? what could she 
 think of him? and now he had insulted her by 
 addressing her as the wife of a man he despised, and 
 one whom all men despised. Would she forgive him, 
 that proud, quiet, pale girl, whom he had so deeply 
 loved, whom he did so deeply love, and whom, he saw 
 now, he had so deeply wronged ? * ' She will forgive me, ' ' 
 he thought, " because I have wronged her. I shall 
 never forgive myself. How could I believe that lie, of 
 that pure, high-hearted woman ? how could I believe 
 she could marry that brute, that cur ? And yet, yes, 
 just because she is what she is, too good to know the
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 9 
 
 evil, slie could have, she might have, married him, as 
 the best and noblest of women have done." 
 
 " I su^Dpose she is a great heiress now ? " he said, 
 suddenly ; but Lady Clinton understood him, for she, 
 too, had been thinking about Hermione, and the error 
 of Colonel Myddleton had suddenly opened wide a gate 
 of conjectm-e to her. 
 
 " Yes ; eight thousand a year, and that splendid 
 deer forest in Aberdeenshire, beside the English 
 property." 
 
 " Ah ! I am very glad of that." 
 
 *^ Why ? I don't think it a good thing for a woman 
 to have so much in her own power." 
 
 " Is it entirely in her own power ? " 
 
 "Yes; stick and stock. Mark took care of that, 
 poor, generous fellow ! I always think if he had tried 
 she might have married him, and then the title 
 wouldn't have dropped." 
 
 " Ah ! yes, I forgot the title. How women love a 
 handle to their names ! " he said, absently. 
 
 Lady Clinton laughed. *' Now I call that unkind, 
 as if I cared whether Philip was Sir or Esquire, or 
 * Mister,' like a coal-heaver ! " 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, hurriedly. " I wasn't 
 thinking of you, believe me. I only meant that men 
 would think of the money, though women would only 
 think of the title." 
 
 *' In her favour, do you mean ? " said Lady 
 Clinton, mischievously.
 
 10 honour's worth; or, 
 
 " No, against it," lie said, rather sternly. " A man 
 dare not owe all to his wife if he mean to keep his own 
 self-respect." 
 
 *' The wife is very gla.d to get rid of the responsi- 
 bility, I should think," said she, earnestly. '^ I know 
 lone would be ; she feels it a terrible burden." 
 
 " I dare say many would gladly share it." 
 
 *' The question would be, would she ? " 
 
 *' That is indeed the question. I cannot imagine 
 it, can you?" 
 
 *' Hardly. She is so unlike other people, it is diffi- 
 cult to judge ; but I have known one or two whom I 
 think she might have liked." 
 
 " Might have ! " he said, with emphasis on the last 
 word. " Then there is no one now ? " 
 
 " No ; and let me say I never knew there was any one 
 even. People talked about Mark, of course, but it was 
 only talk ; no one ever dared to say anything to her." 
 
 " I should think not. It is strange how she has 
 always managed to keep so quiet and so cold," he 
 added. 
 
 '' Cold ? Ah ! you are like the rest of the world, 
 after all. Colonel Myddleton, and take reserve for 
 coldness ; when, a thousand times to one, it is the 
 consciousness of extreme power of feeling that forces 
 self-control to act." 
 
 He turned and smiled his rare and very beautiful 
 smile. ''Lady Clinton judges by her own heart," he 
 said.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 11 
 
 " I do not judge. I know," she said, in an intense 
 voice. ''And I know because I love Miss St. John 
 more than any woman I ever knew." 
 
 " You are a good friend," he said. 
 
 The long drawing-room at Charteriss was divided 
 as it were in the centre by the fireplace ; and at each 
 end was a deep alcove. In one stood a fine organ 
 between pillars of some rare marble ; in the other an 
 exquisite statue of Night. The room was hung with 
 leather, richly embossed and gilt, of a pale buff, with 
 here and there a boss of silver. It was very old 
 Spanish, and exceedingly harmonious and quaint in 
 design and colouring. Near the statue was a large 
 settee, grouped round a tall stand of camellias and 
 ferns, so arranged that they did not interfere in any 
 degree vvdth the view of the figure. 
 
 Hermione was crossing the room to look at the 
 statue, which was cunningly lighted from behind, by 
 some devise of Sir Philip's ; when Colonel Myddleton 
 came up to her and said, "I know everything now; 
 it was a lie. Will you forgive me ? I ought never to 
 
 have believed it — but " He stopped and caught 
 
 his breath, then ended hurriedly, " It was so 
 horrible I believed it." He held out his hand. 
 
 Again her eyebrows contracted, rising. Then, she 
 said with a faint, shadowy smile, "I dare say you 
 couldn't help it." She took his hand and shook it 
 slightly. 
 
 " Then now we will start as though I had never
 
 12 honour's worth; or, 
 
 said anything, and you will forget?" he said, 
 allowing her hand to di'op the instant she attem^^ted to 
 withdraw it. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You forgive me quite ? " 
 
 "Yes. It shall be just as it was before you went 
 to India, if you like." 
 
 ^' Hush ! " he said, turning abruptly round with a^ 
 ghastly pallor in his face. Then he said very slowly 
 and wistfully, and in a low, faint voice, " That was 
 six years ago ! I have died since then ! " He walked 
 away, leaving her with a thrill of terror at her heart. 
 Decidedly the fever still clung to him. 
 
 For the rest of the evening he did not come near 
 her, or speak to her. Gladys came and talked to her, 
 and all the others, too. Lady Clinton sang, and so did 
 one or two others, esi3ecially a Mr. Freeman, an odd 
 sort of grey-haired, wandering-Jew-looking person, a 
 great friend of Sir Philip's, a man who always said the 
 most bitter and unkind things and did the most 
 unselfish and kind ones. He was a strange sort of 
 friend and a still stranger enemy. 
 
 "I say. Miss Clinton, did you ever know any one 
 who had seen a ghost ? I don't mean a ' thought-I- 
 saw-you-know,' but a real * I-saw-it-with-my-eyes ' ? " 
 
 " No ; did you ? " said Gladys, laughing. She was 
 about the only person not afraid of him, "Quarl," 
 as he was called, in allusion to his friendship with her 
 brother (the monkey did exist but was kept locked up 
 in the stable).
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 13 
 
 " Well, then, you may see one now — the saturnine, 
 hatchet-faced colonel you are all so devoted to." 
 
 " No ! How do you know ? " 
 
 " I know he saw one this evening ; you go and ask 
 him." 
 
 Gladys went across at once to Colonel Myddleton. 
 He was listening to the music, with an absent, grey look 
 on his face. 
 
 "Mr. Freeman says you saw a ghost this evening. 
 Was it the little man in brown, or the lady who stands 
 weeping at the hall window ? " 
 
 " A ghost ? " he answered with a slight start — " a 
 lady weeping ? " 
 
 ''Yes; oh ! did you see her? They say she means a 
 marriage, which is odd, as she weeps ; she stands with 
 her head bent down, all in white, and long dark hair, 
 and her hands are all scarred, because, you know, she 
 broke the window to get out. But the marriage that 
 comes off after she is seen is always unlucky. Did you 
 see her?" 
 
 He stared a little wildly at her, frowned sternly, 
 then bm^st into a low, mocking laugh. " Gladys ! how 
 can you be so silly ? No, of course not. Who told 
 you I had ? " 
 
 ''Quarl," she said, disappointed. 
 
 " What made him say I had ? " 
 
 " He said suddenly you had seen a ghost." 
 
 Colonel Myddleton started, then looked coldly round 
 at Mr. Freeman, who was balancing himself on the
 
 ] 4 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 back of a chair. " I couldn't see anything more like 
 a ghost than he is sometimes," he said. " But tell 
 me, Gladys, what is the story, and where is the 
 window ? " 
 
 '' The great window on the oak stairs. She was 
 very unhappy; her husband beat her, he used to 
 drink and gamble and everything," said Gladys, 
 vaguely. " And then somebody was kind to her, and 
 she liked him — Sir Sydney Clinton, the old black 
 knight, who hangs up in the gallery. And one night 
 her husband staked her, and Sir Sydney won, and she 
 was glad ; and he went away and said he would come 
 the following evening to fetch her. And she waited. 
 She had put on all her white satin, and no ornaments, 
 because her husband had lost them all at pla}^ but 
 Sir Sydney had often said he did not care for them ; 
 and she went down and stood on the great staircase 
 waiting. Her husband didn't care ; he was drinking, 
 and said she might go to the devil for aught he cared. 
 And she waited and waited ; the night went on, the 
 dawn came, the day came, but — Sir Sydney never 
 came. And then her husband came out on her and 
 taunted her and beat her— beat her till she nearly died ; 
 but next night she went back and stood there, and 
 night after night, and day after day, and week after 
 week, and month after month, and year after year, — he 
 never came. But they beat her and locked her up ; 
 she broke the window and got out, and came and stood 
 where she had said she would sta.nd. And then at last
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 15 
 
 she heard he had married some one else, and gone 
 away from that part, and would never come again, 
 and the next day they fomid her dead, lying all in 
 white, at the top of the stairs ; her heart was hroken." 
 
 Gladys, who had slid into telling a real story, a story 
 she had heard over and over again from childhood, 
 was telling it now with pale cheeks and quivering lips 
 and eyes full of tears, to this man, who sat listening 
 with his soul in his eyes ; with working hands and 
 stone-cold heart. She stopped short at last. 
 
 '' Show me the window, Gladys," he said in an 
 unnatm-al voice, which made her look round. 
 
 ^' Yes, come ! " she said, greatly pleased by his 
 rapt attention. 
 
 They went out, crossed the great hall in the moon- 
 light, through the dining-room, lighted only by the 
 dying embers in the grate, through a long stone cor- 
 ridor, along the cloisters, and came suddenly into a 
 beautiful oriel chamber, the windows of which were 
 filled with stained glass, and from the centre of which 
 sprang a great branch oak staircase. 
 
 " There ! " she said ; then added, '' Poor, poor 
 thing ! " 
 
 "It was a lie!" he said, in a deep, husky voice. 
 " He never broke his w^ordtoher — his word of honour, 
 don't you see, Gladys — some one hilled him." 
 
 " The story does not say so," said Gladys, sadly. 
 ''I wish it had." 
 
 ''Because you never heard his side, don't you 
 see."
 
 16 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 When all was still, and only now and then a quiet 
 owl's hoot echoed from the distant hanging woods, a 
 tall figure stood, with folded arms, at the end of the 
 lime-tree avenue, looking hack on the Manor-house 
 glooming out against the dusky sky. It was a clear 
 night, and the colour of everything animate or inani- 
 mate was of a deep and somhre hue, indescribably 
 solemn. 
 
 " It is like looking at another's life," thought Mar- 
 maduke Myddleton. " And after all, that is the only 
 way to look at any goal ; to think how others would 
 act to win with honour. "What matter if one falls, 
 even breaks a limb, or — one's heart ? Life is not all, 
 thank God! Have I not seen that over and over 
 again in those nights in India ; in those scenes 
 through which women and children passed as through 
 fire, and came out with the very smell of blood and 
 death on them, and yet averred they would rather 
 have died ? I know it is not all, but — it is hard to 
 live sometimes because of others ; for oneself — re- 
 nounce and you win." 
 
 The cold night wind blew up his hair, and struck 
 sharply round the thin, worn cheek. He shuddered 
 slightly, for he was still weak from the fever. " Well," 
 he thought, "I have given up most things; I can give 
 up this. And after all, it's my own doing, like all one's 
 worst miseries. Of course I should not care half so 
 
 much if she knew why, and yet ." He turned 
 
 and walked slowly towards the house, losing words
 
 THE COST OF A YOW. 17 
 
 even in liis tlioiights, and with a melancholy smile 
 hovering round his mouth. A bat flew past with a 
 little, soft ^' cheep," and he stopped again irresolutely 
 half-way towards the house. ''Must I go to-morrow ? " 
 he thought. '' Go away and leave her, my darling, 
 the only woman I have ever loved, to marry some one 
 else, perhaps ? and yet, except a miracle — almost — in- 
 tervenes, I shall never, never dare to tell her I 
 love her ." He stopped again in his walk, fold- 
 ing his arms more tightly across his breast with a 
 wring. A star fell, shooting wildly down the zenith, 
 and the flash caught his eye. "Why, of all stories, 
 should Gladys tell me that ? and why, of all nights, 
 to-night ? and how well she told it ! Alas ! my God, 
 alas ! " Again a pause; the lime trees had come to 
 an end, tall hornbeams stood as hedges, and through 
 the rifts and chasms in their foliage, made by the 
 dying year, the wind swept with a dreamy and mourn- 
 ful undertone. " How strange it is that what one 
 tries to do as one's best and noblest so often seems to 
 be the undoing of every sort of happiness ! Yet, after 
 all, this will not touch her. Thank God for that; one 
 can suffer in silence — alone. Yes, I will go." 
 
 Leaning back in the window-seat of her room, 
 with the lights out, and the cold, passionless starlight 
 gleaming on her wealth of hair which fell nearly to 
 her feet, and glittered against the deep blue black of 
 her dressing-gown, Hermione remained lost in thought, 
 too. She was thinking of him. She had seen him 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 standing in the avenue when he first came out into 
 the Hght, and by a strange fascination she seemed 
 unable to withdraw her eyes from him. Her head 
 leaned back against the sloping panel of the window- 
 seat, her hands were clasped round her knees, her face 
 was extremely j)ale, and her dark eyes never moved 
 from his figure. She had been sitting there, thinking 
 of him, when he suddenly came before her bodily 
 vision, and now she could not withdraw her gaze. 
 
 "How strange life is!" she mused, for her 
 
 thoughts, by some magnetic current, perhaps, ran in 
 
 nearly the same groove as his. *' Why should I meet 
 
 him here, of all places ? and yet why not here, where 
 
 he often told me he used to come ? How changed he 
 
 is — how aged — how altered ! and yet, he has that same 
 
 clear way of going straight to the point ; that same 
 
 way, unlike any one else I ever knew, of looking 
 
 honestly and truly in your face when he is going to 
 
 say anything that is painful to himself. Yes, he is 
 
 unlike any one I ever knew ; and what he must have 
 
 gone through — from what Sir Philip and Dorothy say, 
 
 it must have been awful. He looks like that — he looks 
 
 as though he w^ould never think lightly of things again 
 
 or speak lightly of things either. Is it actually six 
 
 years since I saw him last ? It seems a lifetime, and 
 
 yet as yesterday." Here his figure moved, and she 
 
 paused in her thought and shrank a little. *' Shall I 
 
 ever forget his going to India so suddenly ? And yet 
 
 I knew he would go, I knew it directly I heard of it
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 19 
 
 •somehow, but I thought he would come and say Good- 
 bye. Why didn't he ? That is what I want to know." 
 A faint flush of colour swept over her face, it was like 
 carrying a light quickly past a casement. " And then 
 how could he think that I " She undid her hands 
 iind wrung them hard ; a half-stifled sob shook her. 
 ^'I didn't think he would; I didn't think Ite could go 
 and tell him that lie — for I know he told him, other- 
 wise he would never have believed it; he said he 
 would, but I thought he had more manhood. Well, 
 at least, it spoilt our lives. I see it spoilt his ; only 
 now, now he knows he did me wrong in believing it, 
 will he be happier ? He looked so strange to-night. 
 What did he mean by saying he had died since then ? 
 and he looked as though he actually had; and he 
 never spoke to me again, not even Good-night — and I 
 can do nothing; but I did say I forgave him. Did he 
 believe me, I wonder ? And I am so horribly rich. 
 Oh ! Mark, dear boy, if you only knew how miserable 
 it makes me ! it is horrible to be so rich — horrible ! '* 
 
 The quiet figure was coming slowly down the 
 avenue now, and she noticed for the first time that he 
 had no hat on. 
 
 " What madness, just after that fever, too ! " She 
 nearly held her breath, for she could hear his foot- 
 steps now faintly, and he was looking u^d, though not 
 at any window in particular, besides, her room was 
 dark and still as a grave. He passed on and turned 
 the angle of the house ; but she sat for long, long
 
 20 honour's worth; or, 
 
 after, gazing out towards the place where he had 
 stood, longing with impotent longing to bring some 
 gladness on that grave brow, a smile on the stedfast 
 face. And neither knew the other had thought alike. 
 If they had ?
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 21 
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 EuT Colonel Myddleton did not leave. Next morning 
 at breakfast tlie butler came in and spoke to Sir 
 Philip, wlio looked mieasily across at his wife, 
 hemmed and hawed, and finally got up and went out 
 of the room. He did not come back for some time, 
 and when he did he looked rather anxious. This time 
 he went straight up to Lady Clinton and said — 
 
 " I say, Dorothy, it's nonsense, you know. Here's 
 Myddleton, wanting to be off home, and looking like 
 death ; do come and stop him." 
 
 " He only wants to be begged to stay," said Mr. 
 Freeman, lifting up a saucer and covering up Lady 
 Clinton's tea as she hurried from the room. 
 
 *' How can you know what he wants ? " said Mrs. 
 Lane, with an angry flirt of a crumb at him. ** You 
 always say such cross things." 
 
 " Now do you suppose, my dear Mrs. Lane, that I 
 ever say anything of which I am not as fully convinced 
 as that you are always punctual for breakfast ? " he
 
 22 honour's worth; or, 
 
 said, lazily turning round, and allowing boiling water 
 to run into a cup and putting in an egg. 
 
 "I know you always say very rude things, "^^ 
 answered she, laughing. "I am never in time for 
 breakfast, you know." 
 
 '' But that is just the point," he said. 
 *'A very pointless remark indeed!" growled old 
 Sir Vere Temple. 
 
 ** Not to those who feel the stab," murmured 
 Quarl, getting up and going across to fetch a screen 
 for Mrs. Lane's chaii\ ''You shan't be roasted all 
 round," he said with a smile. 
 
 Hermione was just coming downstairs, and met 
 them in the hall — Sir Philip and Lady Clinton trying 
 to persuade Colonel Myddleton to stay. He stood, 
 looking very pale and ill, half steadying himself 
 against the hall door. '' Thank you very much, you 
 are most kind, but indeed, Lady Clinton, I think I 
 must go." 
 
 *' Now, why? It's very unkind," pleaded his hostess. 
 '' Has anybody offended you ? Is your room not com- 
 fortable ? I know you'll go away and say, ' Clinton 
 has got such a careless wife,' I couldn't stay ; the eggs 
 were bad in the fish sauce,' or something," and she 
 laughed and tried to pull the wrap off his arm. 
 
 *'You goose!" said Sir Philip. *^But now, look 
 here, Myddleton. Upon my word, you know, it's not 
 fair on a fellow. You're only just back from India, 
 after goodness knows how many years " ('* And'
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 23 
 
 horrible adventures." "Which you haven't told us ! " 
 from Lady Clinton and Gladys, who had come run- 
 ning in from the conservatory.) " Hush ! " said Sir 
 Philip ; " let me talk reason to him. Now, Myddleton, 
 do be sensible. Where was I, Dorothy ? Oh ! yes, 
 
 after years " ("And adventures," sotto voce from 
 
 his wife.) " And I want you to get to know Dorothy." 
 ("I'll be, oh, so good!") "And she wants to know 
 you, and Gladys wants to knov/ about India. What on 
 earth are you going off for again in a twinkle ? Why, 
 you've only been here five days, and we are going 
 to have those theatricals, and a ball, and everything ! 
 Nonsense ! you must stay." 
 
 Hermione had remained on the landing of the gal- 
 lery. At this moment wheels were heard coming up. 
 
 " A dog- cart ! " said the chorus. 
 
 " Yes, I ordered it, as I must go ! Good-bye, dear 
 Lady Clinton. The fact is, I — I — I don't feel very 
 well; this fever has caught me again, and I had 
 better go." 
 
 "Perhaps if they go down on their knees you will 
 stay?" said the sharp, thin tones of Quarl, who had 
 come suddenly on the scene. " Oh ! try it ; do, all 
 of you, and there is Miss St. John only waiting an 
 opportunity to throw herself downstairs, too." 
 
 "Freeman, really your jokes are imbearable," said 
 Sir Philip, angrily, as Colonel Myddleton turned sud- 
 denly to speak, and half fell over the chair. " I do 
 declare — why, hold up, Duke ! Heavens ! "
 
 24 honour's vn'orth; or, 
 
 There was a slight scream from Gladys, a scuffle, 
 and Mr. Freeman and Sir Philip caught him together, 
 as he fell back in a dead faint. 
 
 With one rapid swing, noiseless and swift as a 
 bird, Hermione was in the hall and by their side. He 
 looked very awful, quite grey. Lady CHnton held on 
 to the trembling Gladys. 
 
 *'Open the door — give him air — lay him flat, 
 quite," said Hermione and Quarl together. The butler 
 and footmen came in now as the dog-cart drove up. 
 
 " I say, Clinton, this isn't an ordinary faint ; better 
 send for the doctor, and look sharp," said Mr. Free- 
 man m a low voice; but Hermione heard, and the 
 next instant had gone to the door and given the 
 order. The dog-cart drove off full speed. 
 
 " Let's get him into the library," said Sir Philip, 
 not noticing who had given the order, but being aware 
 it was given. *' Dorothy, you'd better go to breakfast; 
 he'U be all right dkectly." 
 
 *' We've got him safe. Lady Clinton, he shan't fly 
 away now, I'll promise you. This all comes of his 
 nonsense; however, you may thank me for saving 
 your velvet gown on the hall floor, down on it you 
 must have gone otherwise. Look at Miss St. John, 
 she did stop his going, after all. Ha, ha ! " 
 
 Hermione was ghastly, and she felt that she hated 
 Mr. Freeman. 
 
 "I never saw a man faint before," said Lady 
 Clinton, in an awe -struck voice.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 25 
 
 " Oil ! it's nothing," said Hermione, lightly ; but 
 she was shivering from head to foot. She linked her 
 arm in her friend's and drew her towards the dining- 
 room. ** Come, Gladys ! " 
 
 " Well ! did Quarl stop his going ? " said Mrs. 
 Lane, as they came in. 
 
 *^He fainted," said Gladys, in a low voice. "He 
 can't go." 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "He is so stupid about going out late at night ; 
 so like all young fellows," grumbled Sir Vere, feeling 
 that fate was unkind in having taken away his hostess 
 before his second cup of tea had been poured out. 
 "A man after a fever like that goes on for years 
 with one foot in the grave." 
 
 " Oh, Sir Vere, really you do say such dreadful 
 things," pleaded Lady Clinton, looking across at 
 Hermione for comfort, who sat with a stony face, 
 pretending to cut a very tough piece of toast, but 
 whose fingers shook to such a degree as to be quite 
 powerless. 
 
 "Don't believe him!" said Mrs. Lane. "Men 
 often faint. I've " 
 
 " Oh, oh ! " from Sir Vere and her husband, who 
 had just come in. 
 
 " Well, you know, Charlie, you did once." 
 
 "Why, who has covered up my tea, and kept an 
 €gg hot for me ? " said Lady Clinton, laughing. "It 
 must be that odd Quarl, for he was sitting next to me ;
 
 26 honour's worth; or, 
 
 and, do see, he has run off in the middle of his 
 particular pet dish, and left all the kidneys to get 
 cold." 
 
 " But they shan't ! " said Gladys, pouncing on the 
 dish and running off to the fire with it. *'He is a 
 dear, good man, and I'll take some sugar to Disko." 
 
 " No, I'll have some more done for him. King the 
 hell, Gladys." 
 
 In ahout half an horn- the doctor arrived, and 
 very shortly afterwards in came Sir Philip and Mr. 
 Freeman. " He's all right now, come to, and gone 
 to hed. The fever has come on again slightly, nothing 
 to signify." 
 
 ''He's caught some chill or other, or shock or 
 something," added Mr. Freeman, passing close to 
 Hermione's chair. " Men are such a plague when 
 they're ill, falling ahout in that way, and spoiling all 
 one's meals. Those Mutiny men think they can do 
 anything and may he up to any pranks, and every- 
 body is only too proud to be put out for them. Why,, 
 where are the kidneys ? " 
 
 "Here, and don't be cross," said Gladys, putting 
 a fresh dish before him, hot and delicious -looking. 
 *'And I have got six lumps of sugar for Disko; 
 there ! " 
 
 " It's no joke, though ; it's a most ugly faint, I can 
 tell you," began Sir Philip, with a cup of hot tea in 
 one hand and a newspaper in the other. " It's all 
 very well, Freeman, talking like that, but the fact is 
 that "
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 27 
 
 *' Pisli ! " said Mr. Freeman. "How can you go on 
 like that, Clinton? You've said quite enough to make 
 us all think we're going to have the fever, too, and as 
 to what that fool of a doctor says, who would believe in 
 him — a village saw-bones ? He'll be all right in a day 
 or two, only he always did like to make a fuss and be 
 petted, and all that sort of tomfoolery." 
 
 '^ I'll tell you what, Freeman, you're wrong there • 
 he's the last man on earth to stand, much less like, 
 tomfoolery, and if he were to hear you " 
 
 " Oh ! I dare say," laughed the other. " Pas si 
 bete ! my friend. He'd eat me, I dare say, but I 
 prefer eating, so let's be silent about him, do ; it spoils 
 one's appetite." 
 
 Here he got up, stretched across for an egg and 
 gripped Sir Philip's shoulder hard, who shook his 
 shoulder free, and said shortly, "Eeally, Freeman, 
 you're impossible to manage; you're as peremptory 
 as a king." 
 
 ** Well, we all know the proverb about the one- 
 eye'd man ; don't go on," said Quarl. 
 
 "Let's go and see Disko get his sugar," said Mrs. 
 Lane, suddenly, and away went the others. 
 
 Directly they had left the room, Mr. Freeman 
 bm-st out. "I say, Clinton, how could you? Didn't 
 you see that girl was nearly fainting herself? and 
 when you began about the wound, I thought she 
 would go off quite." 
 
 ** What girl ? " said Sir Philip, angrily.
 
 "28 honour's worth; or, 
 
 "Why, Miss St. John." 
 
 *' What on earth should she care for ? why, she 
 hardly knows him." 
 
 " Oh ! doesn't she ? Well, I dare say she was 
 thinking of her cousin's death, you know ; she saw 
 him hrought in, all mangled and crushed ; and really 
 Myddleton did look bad. Anyhow, I wouldn't say 
 much before her about the wound." 
 
 ''Why, I never said the word 'wound,' " said Sir 
 Philip, bewildered. 
 
 ''Well, then, don't," retorted Freeman, getting up 
 and strolling out of the room. " Great ass ! " he 
 soliloquized, wandering off to the stables. " Blind 
 indeed ! twenty eyes wouldn't make some people see. 
 It's a pity she has so much money, for she has a 
 noble face, and what control ! Well, he is a lucky 
 devil."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 29 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DisKO was a tiny monkey, with a most sad face-, 
 creased and iDUckered till all expression Y\^as merged 
 in one deep line running just above the brow. He sat 
 contentedly now on the back of Gladys' pony, stuffing 
 sugar. She and Hermione stood stroking the pony ; 
 the others were wandering through the stable contain- 
 ing Sir Philip's hunters, fifteen splendid animals, all 
 chestnuts. The stables at Charteriss were a sight 
 indeed, even without the quadrupeds, so well built, so 
 wonderfully lighted, and so thoroughly well managed. 
 A border of flov^-ers ran round the inner quadrangle, 
 and flower-pots stood gaily in every window. Broom, 
 the head man, loved flowers, and swore that his 
 horses did too, and why not, he should like to know ? 
 
 "What is everybody going to do to-day?" said 
 Hermione, as she held a lump of sugar for Disko. 
 
 *' Going out shooting, I think," said Gladys, kissing 
 Prince just over his eye. *' You little darling, I shall 
 ride you, I think. Old Lady Dunstable and Miss
 
 so honour's worth; or, 
 
 ThorolcT are coming to-day, and of course Eobert 
 Watt and his father, the general, will come up in 
 consequence ; and I want to go down and see Mr. 
 Fairfax and Miss Barbara and Josline. Won't you 
 <iome too, Hermione ? you might ride Kuby." 
 
 '' But what is Dorothy going to do ? " 
 
 At this moment a servant brought Lady Clinton 
 SL telegram, and, after reading it, she called to them 
 to join her. 
 
 ''Gladys, will you tell Marton that Lady Dunstable 
 and Miss Thorold will come, dine, and sleep ; and that 
 General Watt and Piobert will also dine ? I haven't 
 asked them yet, but I know they will," she added, 
 laughing. " Poor Piobert ! and really, Miss Thorold is 
 very handsome." 
 
 "'Handsome is as handsome does,'" said Mrs. 
 Lane, shaldng Disko's paw rather u-relevantly. " And 
 all I can say is, if I were a man I should hate an 
 heiress being poked down my throat; they're bad 
 enough anyhow " 
 
 Here she came to a sudden pause, overwhelmed 
 with confusion on seeing her husband tm-n away in 
 fits of laughter, Gladj'-s become scarlet. Lady Clinton 
 draw herself up in haughty anger, and Hermione 
 plunge into a sudden discussion with Broom. She 
 hung her head and disappeared as Mr. Freeman came 
 sauntering through the quadrangle. Happy, indeed, 
 for her that he had not been present ! 
 
 " Feeding that little brute of mine ? How can
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 31 
 
 you?" lie said to Gladys. *' Nasty beast!" Here 
 Disko, with a plaintive cry, leapt suddenly into his 
 arms and nestled one black paw confidingly into his 
 waistcoat. ^'Ha! thou familiar ape, thy manners 
 are evil, and I misdoubt thy heart is as black as thy 
 pate." 
 
 *' You know you love him," said Gladys ; *' and he 
 is a dear, wee thing. See how he gives me his little 
 paw ! " 
 
 *^Yes; because he believes there's sugar in it. 
 Ha ! ha ! " laughed Freeman, sardonically, as Disko 
 withdrew an empty fist with a grimace of disgust, 
 and shook it at Gladys. " He has not mental calibre 
 enough to know that the way to get more is to appear 
 to be satisfied with what you have already." 
 
 Just before luncheon Lady Clinton and Miss 
 St. John were walking up and down the lime avenue, 
 when the former said abruptly — 
 
 '^ Hermione, don't you think you would like to 
 know something about the people who are coming 
 here, and those who live round us ? " 
 
 '* Yes, I think I should," was the answer, rather 
 absently given. 
 
 "lone, how quaint you are!" said her friend, 
 laughing. "You are really unlike any one I ever knew. 
 I don't believe you have any natural cmiosity." 
 
 " No, I don't think I am curious ; but never mind 
 me. Tell me about these people. Who is Lady 
 Dunstable ? "
 
 32 HONOurv's ^ohth; or, 
 
 "Well, she ia a most enclianting old lady; and 
 Miss Thorold is lier great-niece, brought up abroad, 
 very pretty, very silly, and will have a lot of money. 
 They are all rather oddly mixed up together. Lady 
 Dunstable was French, but married Sir George at 
 sixteen, and is quite English now. Then General 
 Watt is an old nonentity. He came here about three 
 months ago with Eobert, his only son. They are as 
 poor as chm-ch-mice, and live in the old Ked House, 
 about three miles off. Well, it's rather romantic. 
 Lady Dunstable was Kobert's mother's greatest friend, 
 and wants him to marry Mina. He is rather in love 
 with Gladys, I think ; but he is an odd young fellow, 
 and Gladys thinks of no one. Then the Fairfaxes 
 have lived here — at least, two miles off under the 
 Eidge — from time immemoriai. Old Mr. Fairfax is 
 a dear old man, so refined, so courteous, charming. 
 
 Miss Barbara is No, I can't describe her ; you 
 
 must know her for yourself. She is worth knowing, 
 really." 
 
 "And who is Josline, that Gladys spoke of? " 
 
 " Ah ! she is their niece ; his only brother's only 
 child, an orphan. There was a very sad story about her 
 mother being so miserable with her father, w^ho was 
 a terrible scamp, that- she died of a broken heart. 
 Now, Hermione, I know one thing, you will love 
 Josline." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Yes, you will. She has the most exquisite,
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 33 
 
 pathetic contralto voice I ever heard in my life. She 
 sings with her. very soul in her voice." 
 
 *' You seem to have a rather nice neighbourhood." 
 
 *'Yes," doubtfully. "I don't know about Robert 
 "Watt ; he is a rather dangerous young man ; he has 
 travelled a good deal, and he is very handsome, and 
 he pets Gladys and " 
 
 *' Pets Gladys ! " said Hermione, rather aghast. 
 
 *' Yes. Don't look so shocked," said Lady Clinton, 
 laughing. " They have known each other, more or 
 less, all their lives; his mother and Philip's were 
 cousins. I told you they were all rather mixed up, 
 you know. Old Lady Clinton was devoted to his 
 mother. Do you know, Hermione, I am sure that 
 young Mrs. Fairfax must have been just like Josline ; 
 everybody loved her so greatly, and she died of de- 
 cline quite young," ended Dorothy, with a pathetic 
 sequence. 
 
 " How very sad for the girl ! " said Hermione, 
 dreamily. 
 
 " Yes ; but the Fairfaxes adore her ; even Miss 
 Barbara does, though she pretends not to. I couldn't 
 answer for Colonel Myddleton even if he saw much 
 of her." 
 
 " Do you think him so hard to move, then ? " said 
 Hermione, looking back, and noticing involuntarily 
 that they were standing on the very spot she had 
 watched him occupy so long the preceding evening. 
 
 *' I think most hard ; but once moved — then I pity 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 honoue's worth; or, 
 
 him " Here Lady Clinton took Hermione gently 
 
 by the arm, just above the elbow, and added, with a 
 wicked smile, "Just like you, lone; and now you 
 both have met — well ! we know, ^ when Greek meets 
 
 Greek ' " 
 
 *'I can imagine the tug to be terrific," ended 
 Hermione, with a cold smile, because her heart 
 began beating wildly. *'But tell me a little more 
 about young Mr. "VVatt." 
 
 *' Ah ! you always care to know about iioor young 
 men," said Lady Clinton, laughing. *' Well, he is 
 interesting, and not easily led — for a young man. I 
 should like you to hear Gladys giving him good advice ; 
 it's very comical." 
 
 *' But what does he do ? Has he no profession ? " 
 
 *'No, none. Of course it's a great pity; but the 
 
 old general would never let him leave him. He did 
 
 not like it at all, and wanted very much to go into the 
 
 army. As it is, there he lives, doing nothing whatever, 
 
 though his father pretends to farm a little." 
 
 *' It does seem a pity. What a wasted life ! " 
 
 That evening, when General Watt and Mr. Eobert 
 
 Watt were announced, Hermione looked inquiringly 
 
 round. The general was exactly what Lady Clinton 
 
 had said — a nonentity : not very tall, ordinary figure, 
 
 shiny, silvery hair, no eyebrows, and weak eyes, with 
 
 a feeble mouth that seemed in a perpetual state of 
 
 gasp. But his son was very different ; very tall, with 
 
 long limbs, which hung easily ; the whole pose of his
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 35 
 
 body denoted strength, health, and manhood m its 
 prime ; his eyes were beautiful, very large and dark ; 
 his hair, that warm brown with almost blue shadows 
 and gold lights ; and the expression on the clear, open 
 countenance was full of frankness, gentleness of heart, 
 strength, and yet tenderness of will. 
 
 " No wonder Gladys likes him," thought Hermione. 
 "He is the handsomest young man I ever saw ; and 
 what a fine, straightforward face ! I am sure he is 
 nice." 
 
 Lady Dunstable also took her fancy very much. 
 She was a noble-looking old lady of about seventy- 
 nine, slender and upright as a dart, in spite of her 
 age. Her snowy hair was drawn tightly back and 
 gathered under a black lace Jichu, fastened under her 
 chin by a single diamond. She was dressed in black 
 satin and wore high-heeled shoes, and walked, slightly 
 lame, with the aid of an ebony stick inlaid with silver. 
 On coming into the room she made a stately reverence, 
 including in the sweep all those she did not know; and 
 Hermione, rising and returning the salute, felt as 
 though she had suddenly returned to the days of 
 history, and saw before her the unhappy Marie 
 Antoinette. 
 
 There was a general introduction of everybody to 
 everybody, and then they went in to dinner. 
 
 After dinner Hermione was standing by the organ, 
 looking over some music, when Miss Thorold, who 
 was lying back in a low chair, said in a drawling, 
 half-awake voice —
 
 86 honour's -wobte; or, 
 
 '* I wonder how people contrive to look so different 
 from what they are ? " 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Gladys, rather 
 crossly, for she didn't like Miss Thorold. 
 
 *' I was thinking of Miss St. John," said her guest, 
 in a languid tone. " Who would think she was a great 
 heiress ? She hasn't put on her gloves after dinner ; 
 it can't he to save them, and I don't think her hands 
 are pretty; " and she glanced down at her own very 
 small and beautifully formed hands and feet. 
 
 '' She hates wearing gloves," answered Gladys. 
 "And besides, she is a person who never thinks 
 how she looks ; she has other things to think of." 
 
 Miss Thorold opened her eyes rather wider. 
 "What's the good of thinking?" she murmured; 
 " it only makes you thin and your hair grey. But " — 
 with more energy — "you ought to think how you 
 look ; it's more ladj^like." 
 
 "How could Hermione look more ladylike than 
 she does ? " 
 
 " I don't know, I am sure. Wear gloves." 
 
 Gladys, in hot youthful indignation, got up with a 
 flounce, that made her friend turn round and smile 
 and say — 
 
 " Gladys, I can't find this symphony of Beethoven. 
 Do come and look." 
 
 She was so h'ate that she tossed about the pieces 
 wildly. 
 
 " Why, Gladys ! what is the matter ? "
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 37 
 
 " She wants you to wear gloves," said Gladys, in 
 a smothered voice of rage. 
 
 " She ? Who ? " said Hermione, laughing. " You 
 silly child, to mind." 
 
 " I don't care. She has no business, vulgar little 
 thing! " muttered Gladys, incoherently. 
 
 "1 su]3pose you mean Miss Thorold. I should 
 think she always wore gloves, Gladys; even came 
 down to breakfast in them. She looks like it, some- 
 how," said Hermione, calmly. " It's odd, for old 
 Lady Dunstable only wears those mittens, and what 
 beautiful hands she has ! they are so perfectly formed, 
 so white, so slender." 
 
 " I don't care for those sort of useless-looking 
 hands," said Gladys, still on the quiver. " I like strong, 
 noble-looking hands, like a face, don't you know." 
 
 "Yes; but you know, Gladys, Dresden china is very 
 pretty too, even in hands," said Miss St. John, 
 smiling. " And even you must say that Lady Dun- 
 stable's don't look useless." 
 
 " No, but she never would say such things." 
 
 " Well, never mind ; I am just going to carry this 
 to Dorothy, and ask her to play it to-night." 
 
 She lifted the symphony and was crossing the 
 room when she was arrested by the incoming of all 
 the gentlemen. She stopped short and sat down close 
 to Miss Thorold, who, half-lifting her oval, full lids, 
 said, ''What a handsome boy that is ! " 
 
 " Boy ! said Hermione, rather surprised. *' I don't 
 see any boy."
 
 38 honour's worth; oh, 
 
 '' Oil ! Robert Watt ; he is only five and twenty." 
 
 *' How pleased he would be to hear you say so ! " 
 answered Hermione, looking at the '' boy," who was 
 talking to Lady Dunstable. 
 
 *' I hate boys ! I don't hate him, much." Then, 
 as Hermione was silent she went on, "It's a great 
 nuisance being an heiress ; don't you think so. Miss 
 St. John? Everybody wants to marry one," she 
 ended plaintively, holding up one hand and looking 
 at each slender, rosy finger with the light shining 
 through it. 
 
 " I have not found it so," answered Hermione, 
 gravely, hardly knowing whether to laugh or be 
 disgusted. 
 
 " Oh, but then you are so fearfully rich ! I only 
 have two thousand a year." 
 
 " Quite enough to make you miserable, it seems," 
 said Hermione, lightly. 
 
 Miss Thorold looked up for an instant with keen 
 inquiry in those blue, limpid eyes. She longed to say, 
 " How much have you?" but she did not quite dare so 
 to question that queenly figure by her side. '* Don't 
 you hate men ? " she said at last with a sigh, relaps- 
 ing into her chair as Eobert Watt slowly approached 
 them. 
 
 " Why should I ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. I thought you would ; you look 
 like it." 
 
 " Because I wear no gloves ! " said Hermione,
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 39 
 
 maliciously. '' I am sure you think me very strong- 
 minded." 
 
 Miss Thorold coloured slightly and said, " You 
 would never like to give in, not even to pretend." 
 
 It was Hermione's turn to be disconcerted. 
 *' Eeally, Miss Thorold, you seem to be studying 
 your neighbours very closely." 
 
 " Oh, I never see anything," was the sleepy 
 answer. ** Aunt Dunstable says I am phlegmatic." 
 
 Here General Watt and his son came up together 
 — the father very fussy, the son absent. He sat down, 
 however, looking round the room till his eyes rested 
 on Gladys ; then he seemed more contented. Hermione 
 saw this and made a sign to Gladys to come, which she 
 did with alacrity ; then, seeing her cousin she said — 
 
 " Ah, Eobert, I just want to talk to you. Disko 
 has burnt his paw." 
 
 " Why didn't he employ you as usual to get any- 
 thing for him?" said Kobert, in playful allusion to 
 her name of " White Cat," that he had given her 
 as a boy. 
 
 Gladys shook her head at him and said, *' I won't 
 have you so impudent. Now do help me — I am in such 
 a fright for fear Quarl should find it out, and " 
 
 *'Miss Thorold, won't you sing?" said Disko's 
 master's voice behind her. Whereat Eobert went off 
 into such fits of laughter, silent and suppressed, that 
 Gladys could hardly sit still. 
 
 *'It's a great deal of trouble," answered Miss
 
 40 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 Thorolcl; "but I know Lady Clinton always expects 
 people to sing." 
 
 " Yes, one generally pays for one's dinner in one 
 way or another," said Mr. Freeman with a glance at 
 Ilermione. " If you can't sing or play, you have to 
 talk to people who bore you. Miss St. John, are you 
 bored?" 
 
 *' I think that is a very unkind speech to yourself, 
 Mr. Freeman," said Hermione, beginning to dislike 
 this odd man more and more. 
 
 "Ah! ha! ha! very neat, I declare; you mean 
 that as it is I who am speaking to you, I imply you 
 might be bored by me. Well, it's true, I am sure 
 you are." 
 
 "No, I am not," answered Hermione, laughing in 
 spite of herself. 
 
 He looked at her straight for a second or two, and 
 then said, " No, I shouldn't think you were easily 
 bored ; you would simply ignore people." 
 
 Gladys said, " That's just it." 
 
 " Miss Thorold, won't you sing, really ? " said 
 Hermione, disliking the personal turn of the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " My hands are cold," said that young lady, hold- 
 ing them out, as though to ask whether no one would 
 warm them. 
 
 " Shall I bring you some coals ? " said Mr. Free- 
 man, gravely ; but just then, tap, tap, came a gentle 
 sound over the thick carpet, and Miss Thorold rose 
 with alacrity as Lady Dunstable appeared, saying —
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 41 
 
 " Mina, sing the ' Pre aux clercs,' va mon enfant, 
 vite." 
 
 She had a sweet, clear, soprano voice, beautifully 
 trained, and sang with more expression than Hermione 
 could have believed possible. 
 
 " Have you heard Miss Fairfax sing yet, Eobert ? " 
 said Gladys, in a pause. 
 
 *'No." 
 
 " Have you seen her yet ? " 
 
 ''No." 
 
 " But why ? I tell you you must. Why, you've been 
 here three months." 
 
 " Well, it is funny, but I really have not seen her. 
 However, old Crosbie says he will take me there 
 directly he comes back. I say, Gladys, do you think 
 she might be my Fairy Princess ? " with a mysterious 
 glance towards Hermione. 
 
 "Foolish fellow; no,'' answered Gladys, drawing a 
 little closer to him. " She is too beautiful for any- 
 body but " She stopped suddenly. 
 
 " Who ? " and he bent forwards eagerly. ** Tell 
 me, there is a dear, good, little White Cat." 
 
 Hermione, who was speaking to Lady Dunstable, 
 looked up at this moment, and her beautiful clear 
 gaze rested on Gladys' face. The girl blushed to the 
 very roots of her hair, as though she had deliberately 
 insulted her, and she said hurriedly — 
 
 "Nobody; she's unlike anyone I ever knew. I 
 shouldn't dare to think of her marrying any one."
 
 42 honoue's worth; oh, 
 
 Her cousin laughed. *' Silly pussy-cat ! " lie said. 
 " Well, there ! I won't tease'you. She is very beauti- 
 ful, and what a figure ! and she has a sweet, kind, 
 good face. It's a pity you can't be her page, Gladys ; 
 with 3'Our short hair, you'd look very nice as a page." 
 
 " Thank you for nothing," retorted Gladys, in- 
 dignantly bending away from him, as he lifted a 
 jewelled dagger from the table and ran it through one 
 of the silken curls. 
 
 Gladys's hair was short, like a boy's, but it con- 
 trived to twine in delicate rings close to the open, pale 
 brow, and round the slender curve of her throat. Her 
 head had been shaved two years before, when she had 
 nearly died from scarlet fever. 
 
 "Where is Colonel Myddleton? By-the-by, isn't 
 he staying here ? " 
 
 *'Yes; he's got a return of fever; it's very un- 
 lucky," said Gladys. 
 
 "He is a thundering good shot, they'll miss him 
 out shooting. Now he would just match that tall Miss 
 St. John, don't " 
 
 " Hush— sh— sh ! " said Gladys. "I'll tell you what, 
 Kobert, you should never put people's names together; 
 you know you don't like it when people talk of you 
 and Miss Thorold." 
 
 "Well, one likes to have a choice," he said, ab- 
 sently; "but after all, Gladys, she isn't bad-looking 
 at all, and she has lovely hands and feet." 
 
 "I dare say," said Gladys, quickly. "But she
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 43 
 
 meant you to find that out ; she is always showing 
 them, and they are absurd ! " 
 
 " "Well, I dare say they couldn't make a ]3udding. 
 Now Miss St. John's are twice the size." 
 
 ** I should hope so ! Why, she is three times the 
 height of that puny thing ! " burst out Gladys. 
 
 *' Why, my Cat ! you really must put velvet gloves 
 on your little paws, or w^e shall have a battle royal. 
 What makes you so touchy to-night ? " 
 
 "I am not touchy, but you are so silly, taken in 
 by that girl." 
 
 *' And what are you, miss, but a cjirl ? and two years 
 younger too ! Never mind, Gladys, she's got a lot of 
 money, and of course I am to marry her. Don't you 
 see, my father and old Lady Dunstable have mad^e up 
 their minds ? and there is that old fogey. Sir Vere, 
 making the running; I'm off to cut him out." 
 
 He rose with a merry twinkle in his bright eyes, 
 and Gladys angrily took up a book. In a minute he 
 was back again. *' I say, dear little Cat, don't look so 
 cross ; you know I never mean to marry, but rest a 
 bachelor for thee ! " he ended, with a tragic air, 
 stooping so that no one saw his action and letting 
 a kiss fall gently on her hand. 
 
 "You may marry Josline, but not that girl," said 
 Gladys, very low. 
 
 " I thank you, my furry Highness ! "
 
 44 honour's worth; or, 
 
 CHAPTEE lY. 
 
 Under the shadow of a splenclicl walnut tree, in front 
 of the smithy, stood Tubal Partridge, talking to 
 Josline Fairfax ; to put it more correctly, he had been 
 speaking to her. At this "moment he was silent, 
 leaning on the huge hammer, with his rusty leather 
 aprqn twisted upward round his immense frame. 
 Tears were in his eyes, and one had gathered omi- 
 nously near the edge of the lid, like dew on a crater. 
 His face was grimy and strongly marked, but the 
 tightly curling hair tossed round a fine brow, and 
 though the mouth was large, there was nothing coarse 
 or hard in the man's face. He stood regarding Josline 
 with a strange and touching reverence, and presently, 
 shaking his head till the great tear rolled over and 
 hung on his cheek, he said — 
 
 " I do bless you, little madam, it is the first night 
 she has slept at all." 
 
 " I will send her some more, then," said a clear, 
 low voice. " And ask her when she would like to see 
 me."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 45 
 
 The girl moved slowly away, and the great hammer 
 came down with a will. 
 
 It was a dewy, cloudy evening. A damp odour 
 penetrated with flower scents met you softly, like an 
 embodied voice, touching with tender chord the 
 memories you loved the best ; over the hedgerows, 
 amongst the crimson buds of hawthorn, oak saplings, 
 hazel, and beech, a cow's head looked now and then, 
 and the great eyes pursued the girl's lonely figure as 
 she went quietly on her homeward way. A little bird 
 would start with a rustle and cry from the rank 
 herbage at her feet by the ditch-side ; a great moth 
 floated solemnly past ; a beetle stopped swinging on 
 the dock leaf and lifted inquiring antennae. 
 
 Suddenly the mist in the low-lying valley parted 
 like the sweep of a grey robe, and the evening star 
 shone palely in the dreamy sky. 
 
 Josline paused on the high ridge to which she had 
 reached, and folding her arms against the bank, leant 
 forward and looked down on her home in the hollow. 
 
 You could not see much of Old Court ; a few 
 twisted chimneys, a few gables curiously carved, a 
 few points of ironwork, a stone ball gleaming here 
 and there, a petrified moon against the old yews ; 
 but, towering over all stood the grand old walnut 
 trees, the pride of the country-sidCc Even in this 
 dim light you could see the exquisite v/hiteness of the 
 giant boles, the rich gem-like velvet of the moss and 
 lichens.
 
 46 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 In the hush of the eventide JosHne felt as though 
 she were passing into another Hfe ; as though her 
 spirit had shpped from its outward covering and was 
 floating far away in indistinguishable essence over 
 the home where she had spent most of her young life. 
 , She was not sad, yet the look of mingled yearning 
 and unacknowledged pathos on her face gave you the 
 impression of a grief subdued. She stood in her life 
 alone in spirit ; and, unknown even to herself, the 
 fact weighed heavily on her heart at times like these. 
 In these quiet hours, when none were by to mark the 
 droop in her limbs, the shade on her brow, she would 
 give way to fits of depression that would have been 
 hardly credited by those who only knew her in the 
 ordinary run of life's progress. 
 
 Those whom the world concur in calling blessed — 
 so joyous, so free from fret or stain, seem their lives — 
 are, perchance, the very souls who live most com- 
 pletely a quiet existence of sorrow of their own. It 
 is probably owing to this that we sometimes remark 
 with inward wonder that sudden shade and gloom 
 which fall on faces whose outward gaze is generally 
 so calm to the world. The world is often baffled by a 
 smile, though it forgives nothing to a tear. 
 
 A horseman came riding along the ridge, but the 
 tramp was not heard as he rode on the turf at the 
 side ; a great pollard oak stretched its branches pro- 
 tectingly between him and the girl. A few paces 
 more and his eye caught her figure.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 47 
 
 She was leaning against the bank, slightly side- 
 ways ; her dark grey dress outlined her slender form, 
 and the wiiite kerchief which covered her shoulders 
 was knotted carelessly just above her waist ; her arms 
 were closely shrouded by the tight sleeves buttoned at 
 the wrist, and her large beaver hat swung behind her 
 head, throwing it out in exquisite relief. The prim- 
 rose light in the sky shone on her upturned brow and 
 gave an unearthly transparency to the colouring of 
 her temples and cheeks. 
 
 A subtle delicacy of expression was peculiar in 
 Josline's face ; an expression penetrated with purity, 
 it appealed to the soul as well as to the human 
 tenderness of another, and inspired thoughts of and 
 desires for lofty ideals and noble aspirations. No 
 head I ever saw at all resembled hers, except, per- 
 haps, the head of the Madonna in Eaphael's picture 
 known as the '' San Sisto." 
 
 Eobert Watt was struck by its beauty at once and 
 for ever. In the light of those deep eyes he saw 
 reflected each noblest dream of his boyhood and 
 youth; in the delicate sea-shell tinted sldn, in the 
 coils of shadowy hair round the small, perfectly poised 
 head, he saw his unacknowledged ideal of beauty 
 in woman. He had checked his horse unawares, and 
 whilst it snuffed dehcately at the short growth on 
 the banks, he lifted his hat from his head and let it 
 swing at his knee, thus showing his fine brow and 
 the open frankness of his eyes.
 
 48 honour's worth; or, 
 
 The pause made Josline turn ; as sound ceasing will 
 always affect us, however undisturbed we may have 
 been during its continuance. The grave sweetness of 
 her face underwent a quick thrill as their eyes met, 
 and the electric spasm ran through all her limbs. 
 They both acted ahke, though from different motives. 
 He gathered his reins together and rode forward, still 
 keeping his hat lowered. She turned, drew her hat 
 on her head, and paced slowly on to the road again. 
 
 She held between her fingers a spray of myrtle, 
 and as she went it slipped from her grasp and lay 
 beneath her feet, unnoticed. She passed on. Eobert 
 was off his horse, had it in his hand, and had re- 
 mounted before she turned, missing it, and looked up 
 the road. He had a thousand minds in one minute of 
 time. Should he ? Should he not ? He waited. 
 Her eyes on the ground, she paced back by the way 
 she had gone, looking quietly and earnestly along the 
 track ; once or twice she shook her head softly. He 
 let her go up the ridge till her figure stood on the 
 verge of the downward dip. Then his heart smote 
 him ; he went after her, sprang down, and held it 
 towards her, saying — 
 
 ** Did you drop this ? " 
 
 *' Thank j^ou," she said. "Yes, it is mine," and 
 she stretched her small, white hand for it ; but he held 
 it, and, di^awing a little nearer, said — 
 
 " It was yours, but now may I keep it ? it is very 
 sweet," and he lifted the buds to his face.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 49 
 
 "Ah! no," she answered quickly, and with a 
 grave tremor in her voice. " I could not give that 
 spray to any one." 
 
 " Why not ? " and he held it more closely. 
 
 " Because it is from a grave." 
 
 A sudden pallor passed over the young man's face 
 as he gave it back to her, bowing very low. She 
 fastened it in her dress, bowed quietly in return, and 
 went on again. He remained, leaning on his horse's 
 neck, and watching her go from him with a strange, 
 sorrowful feeling, as of one who has gone through a 
 great grief, and with an intense yearning to have 
 at least touched her hand once. Her fair, sweet form, 
 dim and grey, half melting in the mist away, passed 
 on down the ridge ; and then, when he began to think 
 her appearance had been altogether a vision, a sudden 
 glory burst from the setting sun, turned the mists into a 
 golden lake of vapour, smote from the low-lying hills 
 around, and fell at his feet in floods of glamoured 
 light. She went into it : the light took her. 
 
 VOL.
 
 50 HONOUR S WORTH ; OR, 
 
 CHAPTEB V. 
 
 The cedar parlour at Old Court was a quaint old room ; 
 panelled to the ceiling with slabs of the sweet-scented 
 wood which gave it its name, and into which, at 
 intervals, were let old portraits of the Fairfaxes and 
 their ancestry. Two windows, with broad seats, 
 lighted it, and you gazed out on to a trim garden, 
 filled with sweet-smelling flowers. Within, the 
 curtains, the old damask furniture, the books, the 
 engravings, had all a perfume of rose-leaves and spice. 
 Before the fire, the "person of the house," yclept the 
 white cat, dozed the long days through, unless a robin 
 or a chaffinch sang too loudly at the casement and 
 roused too keen a longing for a dainty morsel, when 
 she would rise, and with a green light in her eyes, she 
 would stalk to the window, failing happily to find the 
 invitation, aught else save sound signifying nothing, 
 or just in time to see the flash of wings on the lowest 
 bough of the walnut tree. She had her revenges, 
 though — she would curl on the broad, warm sill in the
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 51 
 
 sun, stretch out her furry length, and straighten her 
 claws to the warmth with an ominous curl of her 
 whiskers, that held a world of repressed longing and 
 mischief. 
 
 A large banksia, whose pale globes of light shone 
 creamily in the dusk in their season, twined clinging 
 arms round the stone mullions — a sweet-scented 
 banksia, which bore wealth of buds to nod and toss 
 above the pussy's head, and whisper love secrets to 
 the butterflies and bees, in early summer. Then 
 came the stretch of velvet turf, with the old twisted 
 seat, on one of the arms of which was the carving 
 Josline so dearly and so curiously loved : two hands 
 clasped beneath a heart, from which sprang a daisy, 
 and this device beneath, *' Fleur de ma vie et de mon 
 amour," and the initials ^'M. F." and " J. F." Were 
 they, she used to wonder, the initials of those two 
 Fairfax cousins who had loved one another so dearly, 
 in the troubles preceding the Commonwealth, but 
 whose families had taken different sides in the war, 
 and who had been parted to — die ; he killed at Naseby, 
 she to pine away slowly for love and life ? 
 
 Leaning her head backwards against the old gnarled 
 seat, held together as it was by a kind of rude 
 masonry, part of a levelled terrace, she would dream 
 over those clasped hands. Or, standing in the cedar 
 parlour, gazing on the sweet face of Margaret Fairfax, 
 dead for love in her youth, Josline would sigh a 
 piteous sigh of sympathy and ruth ; though, indeed,
 
 52 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 the sweet anguish of love was as yet unknown to her. 
 It was but the dim forecasting which all the purest 
 and noblest hearts feel the earliest — that generous 
 exodus of the soul towards all those who suffer, which 
 is so divine in the tenderest natures, and almost the 
 strongest and most lasting possession of such lives. 
 
 Beyond the seat came the group of walnut trees, 
 old as the hills, or the Fakfax family; the largest 
 bole might well have been their very genealogical 
 stem, with its bark of pure silver gloss and coats of 
 moss of such hue, depth, and softness as are only to 
 be found on walnuts. They stood grandly and calmly 
 erect in the wildest storms ; not proudly, with flinging 
 arms, but restfully secure in their own tenure. They 
 were one of Miss Barbara's " prides." When we say 
 that the " person of the house " was another, we shall 
 have given a broad gauge of her sympathies. 
 
 Near them stood a bed of tiger lilies ; such a bed 
 as is never seen, save in very old gardens ; a kind of 
 blazon of armorial coats. They were splendid plants, 
 and towered in their scarlet bravery like sentinels of 
 an enchanted ground. On the border of their bed, sunk 
 in periwinkle leaves, stood various earthen pans, kept 
 always filled with water for Josline's doves, who would 
 come tumbling, on windy days, adown the garden 
 wall, like pearly clouds, cooing, bending their 
 painted throats, and casting soft shadows on the turf, 
 like fairy-boats with their sails filling. 
 
 Miss Barbara thought them "just like Josline ! so
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 63 
 
 foolish to care for siicli things, that made a rumbling 
 in their throats ; " but the doves were not afraid of 
 Miss Fairfax, nor had they reason to be. Little 
 winding paths, under dense masses of clematis, may, 
 ivy, and laurestinus, took you round to the back door, 
 or out to the front door, by the great wild sweetbriar 
 hedge, where the laburnums drooped golden water 
 over the wallflowers and violets. 
 
 It was a sweet old garden. When you stood on the 
 low, broad step of the old square porch, you saw a 
 peep of wind-rocked elms, blue valley, low-lying hills ; 
 and the ridge, with its sturdy pollard oaks and 
 sombre yews, at intervals. You turned, and your eye 
 fell over the low wall, with its stone balls, into the 
 thick-set blossoms of the garden, or caught the spire 
 that tipped the tower of the small grey church. 
 
 Shadowed by the trees, the cedar parlour caught 
 none of the glamour that had bathed the ridge, but 
 Miss Barbara recked little of that. She sat stiffly 
 erect in her high-backed chair, her face as grim and 
 nearly as dark as the lion heads that terminated the 
 short arms of her seat, overlooking a curious scene. 
 
 On the polished surface of an ebony table stood 
 three candlesticks ; by their side, in snowy whiteness, 
 lay three wax candles. In front of each sconce stood 
 a damsel, with face of different hue ; one was pale, 
 one was red, the third was nearly purple. 
 
 " Now, have I sufficiently impressed on you not to 
 be so rough, Mary?" said Miss Barbara's wrathful.
 
 54 honour's worth; or, 
 
 high-pitched voice, as she pointed with straight finger 
 like a dagger towards one wax taper, lying on the 
 table, snapped across. " Do you think you can be a 
 fit domestic for my brother's service, if you even lift 
 a candle with such force as to break it ? " 
 
 The pale maiden of sixteen summers gave an 
 inarticulate sob, made a forward grasp at the candle, 
 and then as hastily retreated beneath that lowering 
 gaze. 
 
 " Now, begin all of you, and put those candles in." 
 
 Dead silence in the room. The great white puss 
 stretched itself, yawned, and rose majestically to watch. 
 
 Mary seized her candle between finger and thumb, 
 and lifted it to its place. It fitted, but hung a little 
 waveringly on one side. She broadened her palm and 
 pressed ; it snapped, and rolled a white stem on the 
 floor, not paler in hue than the destroyer's face. 
 Puss advanced, and tapped daintily at it, with soft 
 paw. Miss Barbara's face darkened. 
 
 Zilpah seized hers, and forced it down in the 
 candlestick. A fringe of wax spluttered round the 
 edge, and stood appealing against such treatment. 
 
 Phoebe scratched at the ends of hers, till fragments 
 lay scattered round the candlestick, which she pressed 
 off the shining table, till long seamy lines told a dire 
 tale of mischief. Then it went neatly into the socket, 
 and she held it up triumphantly, with a crimson face 
 of exultation. 
 
 The ordeal was over.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 55 
 
 Miss Barbara rose with seventy. '' You are all of 
 you very careless, hard-handed, rough girls, unfit for 
 service. But it is my duty to help in some way in 
 the village, and as Eliza will go and marry John, I 
 must take on another servant." (Long pause.) 
 '' Mary, you may go ! " (Ketreat of Mary, sobbing.) 
 '' Zilpah, you may go ! " (Eetreat of Zilpah, glad to 
 get away, on any grounds, whatever.) "Phoebe, you 
 are very little better than the other two; show me 
 your hands ! " 
 
 Phoebe, more rosy than before, came forward, and 
 held out a pair of strong, bony hands, the nails of 
 which were thickly lined with wax. 
 
 "Dirty girl!" said Miss Barbara, "go to Mrs. 
 Turgoose, and beg her to give you soap and water ; 
 wash your hands, and then bring me back a damp 
 duster, a knife, and a piece of wash-leather." 
 
 Phoebe retreated, and Miss Barbara returned to 
 her chair, and waited for her in dignified disgust. 
 
 In about ten minutes, the little maid returned, 
 still glowing. Miss Barbara then wiped the table 
 carefully with the damp duster, rubbed it still more 
 carefully with the leather, till the surface was as bright 
 and unclouded as before, and finally, taking out the 
 wax candle, so cruelly maltreated by Zilpah, from its 
 tight socket, she pared it with the knife to the 
 requu'ed roundness, and showed Phoebe how to set it 
 firmly, then to sweep up the scrapings of wax on a 
 sheet of paper, and finally to range all the candlesticks
 
 66 honour's worth; or, 
 
 on the buffet, at the end of the room, in readmess for 
 the evening. 
 
 *' Has Miss Josline come in yet ? " she asked, 
 when all was done, and Phoebe was about to retire. 
 
 *' I believe so, madam." 
 
 ** Let her Imow I wish to speak to her, then." 
 
 Phoebe understood by this command that she was 
 henceforth enrolled on the much-thought-of list of the 
 Old Court servants. She had passed triumphantly 
 through the dreaded ordeal by candle. It was one of 
 Miss Barbara's whims that a servant could not be a fit 
 servant unless they could set in a wax candle properly 
 or approximately so, by instinct or otherwise. She 
 never deviated from this trial, and would aver with 
 extreme force and some asperity that the test had 
 never failed her. 
 
 Dimmer and more dim grew the light in the cedar 
 parlour. Miss Barbara had closed the open windows 
 and paced the floor, on the red pattern only — for she 
 had days for each colour in the carpet, and to-day the 
 blue and olive had a rest — till she was tired; but 
 Josline did not come ; and ever grew Miss Barbara's 
 wrath at such braving . of her displeasure, such wast- 
 ing of her time. 
 
 Miss Barbara had very severe ideas, which she 
 carried into practice, too, as to the subserviency of 
 youth. Josline, as young, should have no opinions, 
 no thoughts save such as flowed natm-ally from con- 
 tact with her aunt's strength and redundancy of
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 57 
 
 mind. Perfect submission of body and intellect was 
 the very essence of Miss Barbara's teaching, and in 
 some respects she had worked her will on her niece's 
 gentle nature — indeed, she had acknowledged this 
 even to others till quite lately ; but an uneasy sense 
 of laxity in Josline's mood had befallen her of late, 
 and began to steal with insidious power over Miss 
 Barbara's mind — she hardly knew how or why. 
 
 In this gloaming, so grave, so colourless, so calm, 
 there came to her a sudden conviction that a veil had 
 been lowered between her power over Josline and her 
 niece's will to obey. Such things come to us now 
 and again with a force that we cannot explain or 
 define ; an embodied sense takes us by storm, and 
 shows us what we cannot deny and yet cannot realize 
 fully till some further action has set in motion the 
 current of thought, and our minds have begun to 
 work in the new groove. 
 
 As the full conviction of this change in Josline 
 struck with ever-widening force on Miss Barbara's 
 mind, she stopped short in her march, looked up 
 without seeing, till the grim look on her brow cut like 
 a black knife between her eyes, and said severely to 
 herself, " Humph ! this is folly ! it will be the ruin 
 of her ! I will never give in." Yet stronger than her 
 will was her love for Josline, and stronger still, 
 though unknown and imacknowledged, her jealousy 
 of that love. '' The idea of keei^ing me waiting ! the 
 little chit."
 
 58 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 With care to tread only on the red, she went to 
 the door, opened it, and crossed the low, wide, and 
 nearly dark hall. A strain — it seemed from Heaven, 
 so far away, so sweet, so low it came — of violin 
 music, met her like a love look on a face. She 
 stopped, unknitted her brow, undid her hands behind 
 her back, brought them to a more womanly position 
 into the little pockets of her small black apron ; and 
 trod less heavily towards the opposite door, nearly 
 lost in the gloom below the oak staircase. She opened 
 it gently enough, in spite of her bony hand, and stood 
 on the threshold for a second, looking in. 
 
 In the large bay window stood Josline ; her head 
 had fallen slightly on one side, her slender fingers 
 were laced in front of her, one small foot beat un- 
 conscious time. The last dying rays of light smote 
 at her feet, striking a tender halo upwards from some 
 heads of the white lily, which reared their silvern 
 splendom- from out a great vase of dark blue porcelain 
 near her. Her eyes held and bm^nt with a dreamy 
 peace, the "Light that never was on sea or shore." 
 The iridescence of the flowers seemed reflected on her 
 pale, sweet brow, and round her floated, hke a spirit 
 raiment, the music Miss Barbara had heard without. 
 
 Seated on a low stool in the shadow was an old 
 man, a fine and stately figm^e, in spite of age; he 
 it was who was di-awing the soul of sound out of his 
 violin. His head was bent now over the instrument, 
 anon thrown gently back as some long, throbbing note
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 59 
 
 made his every nerve thrill. He was playing very 
 softly, utterly enwrapped in sound, and in the joy and 
 the peace of perfect harmony. The room was low, 
 wainscotted high, filled to profusion with gems of art, 
 exquisite cabinet pictures, here and there a bust, 
 books everywhere ; a cabinet of intaglios, cameos, 
 antique seals, and rings. A tall myrtle stood by the 
 window, barring half the light, its pearly buds show- 
 ing like eyes of silver on the sombre curtain of the 
 evening shade. 
 
 ''Dux!" 
 
 The violin stopped ; the small foot ceased beating 
 the measure ; the spell was broken. But so also was 
 Miss Barbara's exordium, for Phoebe announced at 
 the door ajar — '* Supper, and please, madam, Mr. 
 Crosbie."
 
 60 honour's worth ; on, 
 
 CHAPTiEE VI. 
 
 " Ah, Crosbie ! I am glad to see yon back at last 
 from your long holiday ; when did you come ? " 
 
 " Last night ; and here's a friend of mine, come 
 to live near us all. Eobert Watt, a fine specimen 
 of inches, eh ? " 
 
 " Well-favoured and welcome," said kindly Mr. 
 Fairfax, holding out his thin, white hand, which 
 Eobert grasped in some confusion on catching sight 
 of Josline in the shadow. 
 
 " Miss Fairfax, Mr. Watt. Josline, I've brought 
 you some one of your own standing at last, and not 
 only an old fogey like myself, to grumble and squeak 
 on wood and catgut," said Mr. Crosbie. 
 
 Josline smiled, and, clasping her hands round her 
 uncle's arm, said, in answer to the small, bright man, 
 "I don't think anything *can surpass the grumble 
 and squeak, though ! " 
 
 " Except, perhaps, the rumbling of doves, eh ? 
 my dear," he said, laughing.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 61 
 
 Here the " person of the house," who had seated 
 lierself in expectancy on a crimson leather chair close 
 to the table in the dining-room, and whose delicate 
 susce]3tibilities could no longer withstand the aroma 
 of a lobster, uttered an appeal ending in a high note, 
 which caused Mr. Crosbie to laugh still more and say, 
 "An appeal from the cat in another form; well, 
 pussy must be listened to." 
 
 Later, they went into the study, Mr. Crosbie 
 brought out his violin, and some exquisite music was 
 made. 
 
 Miss Barbara and Eobert made friends, wonderful 
 to relate. She found it impossible to resist the 
 com'tesy of his manner, the charm of his ready con- 
 versation, and, above all, the bright beauty of his 
 face. Miss Barbara, though stern in her code regard- 
 ing young men as well as maidens, was, nevertheless, 
 prone to be propitiated by the former, more especially 
 when, as was now the case, much was said and done 
 to win her favour and forbearance. Eobert was by 
 nature inclined to yield deference to elder men and 
 women, and this evening he was bent on being 
 peculiarly devoted to the grim-looking, rather harsh- 
 voiced guardian of the vision he had thus again so 
 strangely, and, he could not help thinking, so fatefuUy 
 met. 
 
 His whole being was pervaded by a sense of 
 holiness and peace whenever his eyes rested on 
 Josline. Each word that fell from her in that soft.
 
 62 honour's worth; or, 
 
 low-pitched voice thrilled him with a curious sensation 
 of having at last met with something long indefinably 
 yearned after. When she sang, as she did before the 
 evening was over, in that exquisite contralto that 
 Gladys had spoken of, as he watched the languor of 
 her pose, the droop at the corners of the sensitive 
 mouth, the absorbed look in the eyes which seemed 
 filled with dewy light ; he grew more and more 
 possessed with her image, more and more held by the 
 longing to know her well. 
 
 When the music ceased, it being a warm, soft 
 evening, they strolled into the garden. 
 
 " Where had you been to-day when I met you ? " 
 he asked, as they fell behind in the narrow walk. 
 
 "I had been to see Tubal Partridge's wife; he is 
 the blacksmith." 
 
 "Do you go often amongst those people?" he 
 asked, thinking how like a spirit of light this young 
 girl must seem to them when sick or sorrowful. 
 
 " I know a few of them very well. Poor Nan has 
 just lost her baby ; I went to tell her I had planted a 
 myrtle on its grave, and give her a spray." 
 
 " Was that the spray you would not give me ? 
 Why did you not give it to her ? " 
 
 " She was asleep, and so I brought it home. I 
 have it here for her," she answered, pressing it against 
 her breast, where it lay nestling in the folds of her 
 kerchief. 
 
 "I wish you would not wear it," he said, earnestly.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 63 
 
 ''Why?" she asked, looking up at him in the 
 moonhght. 
 
 "Oh, because " He paused, then said again, 
 
 " Oh ! I tcish you would not." 
 
 She smiled faintly. 
 
 *' You would not give it to me," he urged. 
 
 " Ah ! but that was different," she answered, 
 " and I am different." She ended in so low a voice 
 that he hardly caught her words. 
 
 Had there ever been any one like her before ? he 
 wondered, as they walked on in silence ; any one who 
 could so move, win, possess a man in so short a time 
 as to become his ideal of everything beautiful and 
 divine ? 
 
 " Do you like going to see poor peoj)le?" he asked 
 at last. 
 
 She stood still, looking quietly downwards, then 
 moved on more slowly, drawing each foot after her 
 as it were in a kind of glide. " I am not sure about 
 the liking, and at one time it used to make me ver}^ 
 sad, but I see now it is one of the best things I can do 
 for myself, so I suppose you will say that after all I 
 do like it ? " 
 
 ''Do you analyse your motives so much?" he 
 asked, rather surprised. 
 
 She looked up hastily at him with an intense 
 earnestness in her eyes, then said- — 
 
 " I try not. I should so often be afraid of acting 
 if I went too deeply into motives."
 
 64 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 *' Do you think, then, that actions are right or the 
 reverse according to the motives that prompt them ? " 
 
 " I think that actions are so far coloured by inten- 
 tion, as for it to be possible to mar the noblest, or 
 crystallize the lowest." 
 
 " How mar the noblest ? Do you think a good 
 action can be quite spoilt by a bad motive ? " 
 
 " Yes ; evil touching good is, to me at least, more 
 powerful for debasement than good touching evil 
 powerful for purification." 
 
 " How sad a creed!" he said with a sigh. "And 
 how young you are to have thought it ! " 
 
 She smiled. " I was a very merry little girl," she 
 said. 
 
 Something of intense pathos in those few words 
 smote on the young man's heart. " You were ? and 
 yet you are so young." 
 
 " I feel younger, indeed, since I began to think," 
 she answered smiling, but more gravely, and leaning 
 sideways till her lips touched a great white gloire- 
 de-Dijon rose. " I love more things, and with know- 
 ledge comes a strength for loving I would not part 
 with, though it may sadden me a little at times." 
 
 "It is very strange I should never have known 
 you before," he said, abruptly. " I have often stayed 
 at Charteriss." 
 
 " My uncle and aunt never go anywhere hardly, 
 and never by any chance when there are visitors stay- 
 ing at a place."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 65 
 
 " But you know Gladys Clinton and Lady 
 Clinton?" 
 
 " Yes, a little. They have been here a few times. 
 But I don't mind not knowing people," she said 
 brightly and yet absently ; " I am very happy as I am." 
 *' Gladys wanted me very much to know you, any- 
 how. But I have been away for a little, and besides, I 
 did not like to come until Mr. Crosbie said he would 
 introduce me. I only came back last night ; Gladys 
 will be glad to think I know you now." 
 
 Josline was silent. 
 
 "You will not mind knowing me, will you?" he 
 said desperately. 
 
 " No, I know so few people. Are you going to live 
 near here ? " 
 
 " Yes, my father has taken the old Ked House; 
 it's about five miles off." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 A sudden bend in the dusky walk brought them on 
 Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Crosbie. The tall, stately old 
 man was walking along with his hands clasped behind 
 his back, his head bent, and in his steps much of the 
 glide his niece possessed. The little, bright Mr. 
 Crosbie went along with short, crisp steps, like an 
 excited robin. They were discussing some subject 
 with extreme quietude on the part of the host and 
 exceeding volubility on the side of the guest. As the 
 two young people met them face to face, Mr. Crosbie 
 cried out — 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 honour's worth; or, 
 
 " Ah ! Bob ; come here and tell Fairfax about 
 Gabriel Vannier ; that man would be a painter after 
 his own heart." 
 
 " He must, indeed, be a rare genius if he is all 
 Crosbie tells me," said Mr. Fairfax, looking up 
 gravely, almost anxiously in the dim light. 
 
 "He is, I am sure, all Mr. Crosbie can tell you, 
 and more almost than any one can imagine," said 
 young Watt. "He is a rare fellow in everyway; I 
 fear not long for this world, either. His is a sad story ; 
 I hardly know the rights of it myself. I found him out 
 quite by chance ; the only artist I have ever met 
 whose ideal seems to me to be as high as must have 
 been that of the Old Masters ; who paints because he 
 cannot help trying to render his vision of beauty and 
 perfection, and thus beautify other lives than his own 
 merely, and not only as a means of income, though 
 he is awfully poor. I am sure you, sir, would 
 thoroughly appreciate his nature, his longings, his 
 ardent worship of all things good and beautiful." 
 
 "Where does he live? far away ? " 
 
 " In London ; he is coming down to stay with me 
 soon," said Mr. Crosbie. 
 
 " That is, you have kindly asked him," said 
 Eobert with a grave smile, whose full significance was 
 perhaps only grasped by Mr. Fairfax and Josline. 
 
 "If he is all you say, perhaps he might like to 
 come and see my antiques, and one or two of the 
 pictures," said Mr. Fairfax, thoughtfully.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 67 
 
 *' I am sure lie would, and thoroughly appreciate 
 them, sir," said the young man, eagerly. ''You don't 
 know what a rest and joy it would be to him. He is 
 very quiet and silent, too ; you would not be annoyed 
 by him in any way. Somehow his work impresses 
 my mind with the two attributes, repose and silence, 
 more than any others." 
 
 "Therein would lie a great strength," said Mr. 
 Fairfax. " Art in these days is too complex. We are 
 not content, as were the Greeks, and till the age of the 
 renaissance the Komans likewise, to render one idea 
 or feeling in our pictures or sculpture. Our souls and 
 intellects are so restless in thought, so manifold in 
 action, that we involuntarily imbue our ideals with 
 the many-sidedness of our modern experiences, and 
 thus must lack for ever the noble simplicity, the 
 grand repose of the ancients. Eepose is not in this 
 frantic rush of our lives, it is a feeling we have none 
 of us actually experienced — we are too breathless to 
 obey reverently and in silence, and thus our work is 
 never stamped with that severe self-control which, in 
 the art creations of old, still exercises so exquisite and 
 profound an influence over us." 
 
 " Obedience appears to me the primary element in 
 art," said Mr. Crosbie; "but not servitude, or we 
 become weak imitators only, not creators." 
 
 " How many of us are fit to do aught else than 
 serve ? " said Mr. Fairfax. " That, at least, we might 
 possibly do well, whereas, in striving beyond, we fail
 
 69 honour's worth; or, 
 
 every way, and hinder those who, deterred by the con- 
 sequences of our incompetency, stand idle and allow 
 precious gifts to lie fallow." 
 
 Kobert was looking at Josline. He saw her lips 
 move faintly and caught the words : *' * Those also 
 serve who only stand and wait.' " 
 
 Here Miss Barbara, in a large, black hood, came 
 upon tlie scene, with such warning of storm in her 
 eye, that Mr. Crosbie bid a hasty farewell and carried 
 off Robert.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 69 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 ''Wheee is that lazy, good-for-nothing Eobert Watt, 
 I wonder ? '' said Lady Clinton. " Why, he has not 
 been here for I don't know how long." 
 
 The odd fact was that everybody always abused 
 Eobert for doing nothing; but the instant he was 
 employed otherwise than talking to them they missed 
 him. 
 
 " He was going away for some days, he said, the 
 last time I saw him," answered Gladys, who was 
 holding Disko by a slender chain, and watching his 
 mcessant endeavours to climb and perch on the top of 
 a dahlia stick. 
 
 They were out in the Terrace garden. Miss 
 Thorold had gone out riding with Sir Philip. Mr. 
 Freeman had gone in to fetch out Colonel Myddleton 
 for the first time. Lady Clinton and Hermione 
 were walking slowly up and down, waiting. 
 
 At this moment, bounding down the slopes, came 
 the young fellow in question, with a triumphant air of 
 a ''very good boy."
 
 70 honour's worth; or, 
 
 "Eureka ! " lie called as he ran. " Found ! 
 found ! I told you I would, Lady Clinton ; the very 
 thing, or rather " 
 
 Here he stopped, breathless, as they all said : 
 " What ? what ? " 
 
 He dropped on to a stone seat at the end of one of 
 the terraces, under some large, deciduous firs. "Well, 
 you know, Philip wants an artist ? Well, I've found 
 one, such a fellow, and he shall come and paint 
 Gladys ! " 
 
 " What ! a real artist ?— paint me ? But perhaps 
 he won't want to," said Gladys, with a droop of eye- 
 lid and lip, 
 
 "Oh, yes, he will, for love's sake, too," said 
 Eobert. " He's devoted to me, and would paint even 
 a cat ! " 
 
 Gladys laughed, and jumped Disko at the end of 
 his chain. " But where have you been to find him ? " 
 she said. 
 
 " Ah ! in an enchanted land — in the Castle of the 
 Sleeping Beauty," he answered, with a merry twinkle 
 of his eyes. " But don't you want to know any more 
 about my painter ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes; do tell us all about him," said Lady 
 Clinton, drawing Hermione down by her side. 
 
 "Well, the truth is, all is very little. How- 
 ever " he began ; but Gladys interrupted — 
 
 " Now begin at the beginning. Where did you 
 first see him ? "
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 71 
 
 ''In an old shop, staring wistfully at a jDiece of 
 tapestry. He took out a pencil and outlined the 
 foliage carefully on the back of a bit of wall-paper. 
 The man saw him at last, and was so angry and 
 wouldn't let him take it away, and he yielded at once 
 and begged his pardon, and went quietly out with such 
 a hungry look on his face. Well, I bought the bit of 
 tapestry," said Robert, rather shyly, '' and went after 
 him and said I saw he was an artist, and I wanted 
 very much to have the foliage copied in colours, and 
 would he do it for me as a great favour, though I 
 didn't know him, and all that sort of thing." Here 
 he blundered and got very red. " Well, of course, 
 then we began to talk, and he took me back to where 
 he lived, liot far off, and he sketched rapidly in chalk 
 a sort of ideal of the Virgin and Child, and showed 
 me how the foliage would come in as a kind of 
 arabesque for her robe. It was beautiful, and then I 
 thought I would like to have it, and so — well, Gladys, 
 your eyes will certainly fall out if you make them so 
 big. Well, oh ! well, you always say I get all I want ; 
 so there, I ordered the picture." 
 
 Lady Clinton burst into a peal of merry laughter. 
 " You ordered a picture, Robert ! Why, I never 
 thought you cared a bit about those sort of things ; 
 
 besides " She stopped short, and bit her lip 
 
 hard, tmming scarlet. 
 
 " I know what you mean ; you mean where am I 
 to get the money ? " said the young man, with a burn-
 
 72 honour's worth; or, 
 
 ing flush. " It's all right, though ; I've paid for it," 
 he went on lightly. " I've taken it on trust ; I'm so 
 harum-scarum, I thought it better to make sure whilst 
 I happened to have the money ; and besides, I know 
 he will do it beautifully." 
 
 ** It is really very good of you," said Lady Chnton, 
 with an earnestness that thrilled all over her face. 
 
 " The great thing will be to get Philip to let him 
 paint Gladys," said Eobert, quickly. "An order like 
 that would do him no end of good. I'll tell you how 
 you would look well : in a great, black hood, and a 
 tall sunflower nid-nodding at you — so ! " and he made 
 a comical face at her and shook his head. 
 
 Gladys laughed. *' But perhaps he wouldn't like 
 it so." 
 
 " Yes, he would, it would be like light in a shady 
 place, your fair face under a black hood, and then we 
 could paint a long scroll waving elegantly out of your 
 mouth, with * As flowers to light, so I to my love.' " 
 
 Gladys threw a dahlia at him, and he immediately 
 gave chase, and she fled over the garden, Disko tucked 
 under one arm and emitting little shrieks of excite- 
 ment and joy. 
 
 *' How could I say such a thing?" said Lady 
 Clinton, laughing and remorseful. "I am sure it 
 hurt him, and he is so good and kind and so unselfish. 
 I wonder how on earth he got that money; he never 
 has a farthing." 
 
 *'Do look at them ! " said Hermione. " They are
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 73 
 
 most absurd ; but lie is a nice fellow. Eeally, 
 Dorothy, I think it's very dangerous." 
 
 " Oh, no ; they've known each other all their lives, 
 two children together. I wish I had not said that." 
 
 " I don't think he really minded ; he didn't seem 
 to." 
 
 " No, because he saw I was vexed. He is so good, 
 he made light of it, for my sake. I'll make Philip 
 give him a cheque for Christmas, and I'll double it." 
 
 " Pax ! " said Gladys, at last, breathless. *'Now, 
 Eobert, do be good, and come and tell me more about 
 your artist." 
 
 *' Vain atom ! " said her cousin, squeezing u^d the 
 monkey's face between his two hands. *'You know 
 you are dying to be painted, eh ! my monkey ? " 
 
 " Now, don't be silly ; what's his name ? " 
 
 " Gabriel Vannier." 
 
 *'What a beautiful name ! Well, tell me all about 
 him, do." 
 
 "I'll teU you what, Gladys, it's an awfully sad 
 vstory, that's all," he said, suddenly grave, and drop- 
 ping Disko's face he drove his two hands -into his 
 pockets and went on slowly. 
 
 This was the subject of his report : — 
 
 Gabriel Vannier was the son of a French father 
 and an English mother. His paternal grandmother 
 was Italian, and he had thus inherited all the 
 passions and some of the gifts of the South. 
 
 His father, an artist, had married his mother, an
 
 74 honour's worth; or, 
 
 English lacly, " for love." They had run away to- 
 gether ; both little more than children. His father 
 died suddenly whilst Gabriel was still a baby, leaving 
 his wife almost destitute ; but she was a noble and 
 all-enduring woman. She worked early and late, 
 and by selling slowly some of the poor artist's pic- 
 tures and early studies, she contrived to rear and 
 educate the child. He grew and throve on scanty 
 fare and much love, to be a noble-looking boy of 
 nineteen, when she died, went quietly home to her 
 first and only love, having " done what she could." 
 
 Gabriel had inherited all his father's love of art, 
 and was endowed with tenfold his power of creation. 
 On his mother's death he began studying in deep 
 earnest, and worked early and late till his fame was 
 becoming rapidly assured. 
 
 Suddenly the gifted and promising young artist 
 disappeared. A few weeks later and the Eoman 
 world knew why. He had married, after a few days 
 of wild and passionate courtship, a girl of sixteen, 
 beautiful as the morning. 
 
 She drank This was his history now. 
 
 Every effort he made to rise, she dragged him down. 
 Often and often, in fits of drunken fury, she had marred 
 or destroyed his pictures. He could not endm-e his 
 shame. He left Eome, where he was beginning to be 
 well known, and where a promising futm-e was open- 
 ing before him, and was lost to sight. Yet Gabriel 
 still loved Viola, because without love he could not
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 75 
 
 live, and because liis was a nature that having once 
 loved, loves for ever. Never once, even in her 
 wildest moods, had he spoken roughly to her, though 
 she was surely breaking his heart. 
 
 She was still beautiful, exceedingly, with a strange, 
 unearthly wildness that was inexpressibly saddening 
 to see. Viola loved her husband passionately with a 
 blind, adoring, animal affection, that wrought her 
 occasionally into fits of agonized remorse, which ex- 
 hausted her bodily without bringing any increase of 
 strength to resist the temptation. She did struggle 
 against her sin, too. Yet if after days, nay weeks, of 
 overcoming she seemed to be growing into a faint 
 reflection of her former self, suddenly the fiend within 
 would break forth and rage with redoubled force for 
 the temporary holding. 
 
 At such times her fits of fury were appalling. 
 Her passionate and unavailing remorse was as fearful. 
 She would creep to Gabriel's feet and kiss his hands 
 and dress, weeping wretched, bitter tears, and vowing 
 she would never yield again ; or she would threaten 
 to kill herself and so rid him for ever of her degrading 
 presence. Had she loved him less, she would have 
 done so long ago, but she could not tear herself from 
 his loved presence. She worshipped the ground he 
 trod on, the air he breathed, the inanimate things he 
 touched ; the very love he had for their child was a 
 grief to her jealous, craving nature. But stamina of 
 mind she had none ; she was like a soulless being, and
 
 76 honour's worth; or, 
 
 her only goodness and truth consisted in her belief 
 in her husband. Hers was a love without bounds, 
 indeed, and without restraint. 
 
 " There, it's awful ! I don't know why I told 
 you," he ended at last; 
 
 " It's all very sad," said Gladys, looking up with 
 wet eyes and pale cheeks. " What a noble man that 
 Gabriel Yannier is ! and oh ! Viola " 
 
 " But she loves him, too ; you should see her watch 
 him." 
 
 " Do you call that love ? " said Gladys, slowly, with 
 a curious tightening at her heart. 
 
 " Why, what do you know of love, White Cat ? " 
 he said, looking up with a roguish smile. 
 
 " I know this (Hermione said it once), love is the 
 most noble feeling on earth ; it makes life like God's," 
 answered Gladys, very low. " She was talking about 
 being kind to people and all that, only she put it 
 strongly." 
 
 Kobertwas silent. There was something in the tone 
 of Gladys' voice which struck a new yet aching chord 
 in the young man's heart. Involuntarily the pure, 
 passionless face of Josline rose before him, and he 
 wondered what she would have said^in Gladys' place. 
 He thought he would tell her Gabriel's life and 
 hear. 
 
 " I say, Gladys," he began presently, " you are 
 growing awfully old in your ideas." 
 
 *' I am obliged to keep pace with your grey hairs,"
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 77 
 
 retorted Gladys, holding Disko out at him to hide the 
 blush on her face. *' One never can be in earnest 
 with you without your thinking one is so old ; that's 
 just like a man. I suppose one may think, sir ? Not 
 that I do much ; just short, happy thoughts ; they 
 don't go on like a book, like Hermione's do." 
 
 "Bother Hermione ! Why can't you have your 
 own?" 
 
 *' I thought I wasn't to have any," meekly. 
 
 " Gladys," he said suddenly, " I have found the 
 Princess." 
 
 She stopped short. " Some horrid creature, I 
 daresay," she burst out. 
 
 " Child," he said with preternatural gravity, 
 " you yourself said I was to marry her." 
 
 Gladys turned very white. " Well ? " she said 
 shortly. 
 
 " Now, don't show your claws," he said, laughing, 
 " or I'll put on the gloves. Just fancy, if she saw how 
 fierce you look, how amused she would be." He 
 made a pounce at her, but with one quick bound 
 sideways, she avoided him, 
 
 " I don't think she would be amused," she said, 
 with a curious beating in her voice, that startled her. 
 ** Who is she?" 
 
 " I will be good," he said, grave again. " Come 
 and walk by me, little Cat, it is stupid of me to tease 
 you. It's Josline Fairfax." 
 
 Lady Dunstable stood on the verge of the upper
 
 78 honour's worth; or, 
 
 terrace. She had heard all the last part of the 
 conversation, and gave a start at the name pro- 
 nounced. Then she looked curiousty down on them, 
 and said softly, " Eohert, will you help me down the 
 steps ? " 
 
 Gladys, who had not had time to speak, looked 
 up in the grand, gentle, serene old face, and then 
 with a kind of quivering smile she turned away to 
 run after Disko, who had hy a sudden leap escaped 
 from her grasp. 
 
 Lady Dunstahle came down the sweeping steps, 
 and Eohert hastened to lend her his arm. She looked 
 very grave, and he did not speak. He knew not why, 
 but he felt as though a sudden bar had fallen between 
 himself and his unspoken, indeed hardly defined, 
 thoughts of Josline. 
 
 " And so you have been to see the Fairfaxes ? " 
 she said, at last. 
 
 ''Yes." 
 
 There was the slightest, almost imperceptible 
 pause. Lady Dunstable's head settled itself like 
 that of a bird when it lifts its steady eyes, so keen, 
 so deep, so beautiful, to fix the gaze of some intruder 
 on its nest. 
 
 " Ah ! and the family ? " 
 
 *' Mr. Fairfax is not married." Pause the second, 
 then a hasty rush of words. '' But his sister. Miss 
 Barbara, lives with him, and (more slowly) his niece, 
 Miss Jos , Miss Fairfax."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 79 
 
 " What a strange name for a young girl — Jos ! " 
 said the old lady, with a stateliness which covered the 
 absurdity of the thought. 
 
 ''Her name is Josline," said Kobert, hastily. 
 
 *' Ah ! " Then turning to look at him more fully, 
 she said, " I have heard of Miss Josline Fairfax ; is 
 she not very pretty ? " 
 
 "No, I should not call her pretty," answered he, 
 quietly, for he was beginning to steady his heart by 
 this time. 
 
 " Beautiful, perhaps ? " 
 
 "Yes, the most beautiful face I ever saw in my 
 life," he said, looking round at his questioner now, 
 and speaking in a full, earnest, reverential voice. 
 
 Lady Dunstable turned a little pale. He saw it 
 and said, " I fear you are suffering to-day, madam. 
 Will you not sit doAvn ? " 
 
 " I am much fatigued to-day," she answered, with 
 a saddened cadence in her voice. 
 
 They had reached the old stone seat under the 
 firs ; two or three dahlia buds, picked by Disko, and 
 thrown at him by Gladys, lay glittering in scarlet and 
 gold. Eobert tossed them on one side to make room 
 for Lady Dunstable, took out his pocket handkerchief 
 and dusted the stone, and then she sat down. 
 
 "Do you know anything else about the Fairfax 
 family ? " 
 
 " Mr. Fairfax plays the violin most beautifully. 
 He was very kind to me, and is going to ask a friend
 
 80 honour's worth; or, 
 
 of mine, Gabriel Vannier, a painter, down to stay 
 there." 
 
 " And Miss Barbara ? " 
 
 Kobert felt the chord tightening. " She is rather 
 like a dragon," he began, smiling; "but seems very 
 much attached to her brother, and — I su^Dpose — her 
 niece." 
 
 "And Miss Josline?" 
 
 " What of her ? " he said, smiling uneasily. 
 
 " Does she seem happy ? are they kind to her? " 
 
 *' Kind to her ! " he said gravely and surprised. 
 " Oh, yes, her uncle is devoted to her and she to him; 
 they could not help, she is so good," he ended in- 
 coherently. 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Why, Lady Dunstable!" he said in turn, startled 
 by her manner. 
 
 " They could not bear the brother's marriage ; he 
 married a Eoman Catholic, a Vavasour. There was 
 some great quarrel about the child." 
 
 " Is she too a Catholic ? " asked Eobert, a flash of 
 light, sinister and Imid, illuminating his idea of sorrow 
 being in some way connected with Josline. 
 
 " Ah ! that is what I was wondering," said Lady 
 Dunstable, musingly. Then she added half to herself, 
 "Quite in his power; he need leave her nothing or 
 everything. I remember the talk about it now ; but 
 if he loves her so, I suppose she will have Old Court, 
 and then — how curious ! the property will go back to
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 81 
 
 the Catholics and the curse will come true. Kobert " 
 (aloud), '' have you seen much of Josline Fairfax ? " 
 
 *^ No ; oh, no ; but I feel as though I had known 
 her all my life," said the young man, with a sudden 
 outburst of feeling. "I don't care if she is a thousand 
 
 times " Then recollecting himself he stopped, 
 
 overwhelmed with confusion. 
 
 Lady Dunstable laid her white hands gently one 
 over the other on the ebony handle of her stick. She 
 was pale as alabaster to the very lips, the blue veins 
 stood in lines of colour on her brow ; and she said 
 slowly, without looking at him, with her eyes fixed 
 far away on the distant hills, '^ Josline's mother was 
 my only child's greatest friend. She was the most 
 perfectly lovely being I ever knew, in body and soul, 
 yet she died of a broken heart because she married 
 out of her faith " 
 
 A dense mist seemed to fall on Eobert's heart, icy 
 cold, and heavy as a shroud. Once more the figure 
 of the young girl appeared to move from him over the 
 ridge down into the light, and the light took her — he 
 remained in the darkness. 
 
 The old lady rose and moved slowly back to the 
 house, on his arm. *^My only child's greatest friend," 
 she murmured, ''and they are both dead; and hoj)es 
 die like friendships." Then looking up in his face, 
 she said with grave sweetness, '' I shall like to know 
 Josline Fairfax — she must be very lovable." 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 honoub's worth ; or, 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 They met Colonel Myddleton and Mr. Freeman on the 
 steps. Colonel Mj-ddleton looked very pale and thin, 
 but his eyes were bright, and there was a general air 
 of relief on his face at being at last allowed out again. 
 Lady Dunstable greeted him warmly, and Kobert 
 shook hands for the first time since his arrival. 
 
 **We are going on to the terraces," said Mr. 
 Freeman. "Are you just going in. Lady Dunstable?" 
 
 ** Yes ; but Eobert will gladly go back, I am sure." 
 
 *' I shall have to go directly, so I may as well go 
 and say good-bye to Lady Clinton," he answered, and 
 they strolled slowly down the bank. 
 
 Lady Dunstable went quietly into the great con- 
 servatory, and sat down in a kind of hall running at 
 right-angles to it, with one or two statues in niches, 
 and goldfish in a fountain that sang on quietly to 
 itself the long days through. She drew from her 
 pocket a filmy handkerchief and shed a few quiet 
 tears. ''After all," she thought, ''if she is not a 
 Eoman Catholic, why should he not marry her instead
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 83 
 
 of Mina ? Though his mother was my great friend, 
 her mother was Lucille's ; only I had so set my heart 
 on it. Mina is a dear child, and then w^e could have 
 lived much together, and I still think marriages are 
 better arranged — but then I am only a silly old 
 woman after all." 
 
 At this moment some one came hurriedly into the 
 conservatory and passed rapidly across the front of 
 the recess. It was Hermione. She started violently 
 on seeing Lady Dunstable, and then passed on. 
 
 " I never saw any one so pale as that girl," mur- 
 mm-ed the old lady. " I am sure there is something 
 wrong with her heart. I dare say she never got over 
 the shock of her cousin's death." 
 
 Lady Clinton, Gladys, and Disko received Colonel 
 Myddleton rapturously. He looked round for Her- 
 mione. She was just disappearing into the conserva- 
 tory. " She can't go away to-night at dinner," he 
 thought with a throb of joy. 
 
 *' Good-bye, Lady Clinton," said Kobert. '' I must 
 run all the way home, or I shall be awfully late." 
 
 " Why ! Where's Eedskin ? " 
 
 *^0h, I've — I mean — he's gone," said the young 
 man, hurriedly shaking hands and looking flurried. 
 
 " Gone ! what do you mean ? -Surely, Robert, you 
 haven't sold him ? " 
 
 " Oh, weU ; a fellow wanted him, and — one never 
 knows, if I had refused he'd have got kicked or some- 
 thing horrid ; so there it is."
 
 84 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 Lacl}^ Clinton was silent ; Gladys buried her face 
 between Disko's paws. 
 
 '^ I hope you don't mind," he added. ''I forgot 
 you were all so fond of him. He was an awfully nice 
 beast, but," with a short laugh, ^'horses are no good, 
 and I was getting too fat, so now I mean to run." 
 
 *' Well, you'll never get anything like him again. 
 Watt," said Mr. Freeman. "I hope you got a good 
 round price ? " 
 
 " All right ; I got what I wanted. I know what I 
 am at," said he, rather savagely ; and then with a 
 *' Good-bye, Gladys," he was off up the bank and out 
 of sight in a few seconds, doing justice to his legs. 
 
 *' Extravagant dog ! Debts, I suppose," said Quarl, 
 writh a growl. 
 
 Gladys looked up mournfully. '' Such a dear 
 beast ! " she said. " I used to ride him." 
 
 Lady Clinton made no remark for a few seconds, 
 and then she lifted her head rather high, and said 
 slowly, *' He is the most noble, unselfish boy I 
 know." 
 
 " To pay debts of honour ? " 
 
 ''Don't joke!" she said. ''I will tell you. I 
 liiioic he sold Eedskin to pay Gabriel Yannier." 
 
 " Now, Gladys, my dear, don't weep," said Quarl, 
 with a pathetic blow of the nose. 
 
 Gladys's eyes were full of tears. She got up and 
 walked away, saying, *' No one knows how he loved 
 it ; he sat up with it two nights running when it was
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 85 
 
 ill last winter, got staked or something in a wonderful 
 run they had." 
 
 '' I shall tell Philip," said Lady Clinton decidedly; 
 *' and Hermione ; that is just the sort of thing to 
 make her fall in love." 
 
 " Let us all sell our horses," said Mr. Freeman, 
 grandly. ** Myddleton, you shall have mine." 
 
 '' You've nothing but a hobby," said the colonel, 
 grimly. ^' Lady Clinton, are you going in ? It seems 
 to me rather damp here." 
 
 " Yes, it is. "Won't you take a turn with me on 
 the upper terrace ? I dare say Hermione will come 
 out soon." 
 
 Quarl and his monkey departed to the stables, 
 and Dorothy and Colonel Myddleton went up on the 
 high terrace. 
 
 For some time they were silent ; and then Lady 
 Clinton said, "I wonder Hermione does not come out." 
 
 *'Does she always come out about this time?" 
 asked Colonel Myddleton. 
 
 " Yes, generally. I'll go and call her, and then we 
 will go down to the ^ head.' " 
 
 In about ten minutes they came back together, 
 and then all three started for the " head " ; it was not 
 very far from the house. On the right of the portico 
 you struck suddenly into a deep-cut road, overhung by 
 fine trees, which dipped rapidly towards the mere. 
 It was curiously wild and unkept-Iooking, but it was 
 one of Sir Philip's pet walks, and he never allowed it
 
 86 honour's woeth; oe, 
 
 to be much meddled with. Now their feet rustled 
 through the dying leaves, and the long ribbonlike 
 grasses swept over the edge of the bank, and showed 
 where the wild geraniums and strawberry leaves were 
 turning scarlet, with here and there a strawberry 
 plant coming into bloom again ; and here and there 
 three and four violets turning up pale faces, with their 
 snowy beards and bright pointed eye of scarlet. A 
 thrush was singing exquisitely not very far off, and 
 the dank, subtle scent of autumn seemed to follow and 
 clmg to them. 
 
 " What force ! " said Colonel Myddleton, as they 
 stood just by the ' head/ and saw the water coming 
 down, all foam and wildness. 
 
 "Oh! this is nothing," said Lady Clinton. "I 
 saw it once, three years ago, when it was within two 
 inches of the bridge ; everything seemed to shiver, the 
 au' was full of foam and spray. As to hearing your- 
 self speak, it was impossible. Philip stood by me and 
 roared in my ear, but it w^as just a kind of whisper, 
 meaning nothing. I am quite sure some day the 
 bridge will go." 
 
 " I like it," said Hermione, walking on to the frail, 
 rocking, little wooden bridge. ''It seems to be 
 carrying one away with it, in the rush and whirl. I 
 should like to stand here in a great storm, when the 
 w^aters are out." 
 
 ''Yes, you always like such odd things," said 
 Lady Clinton; "but I hope you never will, for I am
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 87 
 
 sure, if you came here, you would try to cross, and 
 then " 
 
 *' I wouldn't if I knew it was not safe,'* said 
 Hermione, "because that would be foolish. I only 
 meant I should like to feel the triumphant rush of the 
 water." 
 
 " I should think you liked everything with a dash 
 of conquering and danger in it?" said Colonel 
 Myddleton. 
 
 " Not for the mere reason of conquering, I think," 
 she answered, not looking at him, but watching the 
 swirl of the foam bells. "But when everything is 
 smooth in one's life, one does sometimes wonder 
 whether one would have strength if it were necessary. 
 And then I like to see things escape ; there is some- 
 thing so glad, and yet so lasting and so unconquerable, 
 in the rush of water. It seems as though it must go 
 on for ever." 
 
 " Yes, most things are so short-lived," he said. 
 " When you see people happy, when you are ha^Dpy, 
 you know it is for so short a time, and besides, you 
 wouldn't be happy, if you could know all." 
 
 "Ah ! there I don't agree. I think you would be 
 happy if you knew all ; it is because w^e only know in 
 part, that we grasp so hardly at our joys as to kill 
 them. The fact is, the minute you sai/, ' I am happy,' 
 the bubble bursts." 
 
 At this minute, a view halloa made them start. 
 Sir Philip and Miss Thorold were riding slowly across
 
 88 honour's worth; or, 
 
 the road and saw tliem, and Lady Clinton set off 
 running up to tliem. The other two stood still 
 watching, then slowly began to stroll back also. 
 
 Suddenly Colonel Myddleton said, " Do you 
 really think that it would be better for us to know 
 everything in its entirety ? " 
 
 ''I am not quite sure about everything," answered 
 Hermione, slowly. *' Perhaps I was generalizing too 
 largely — yet no, I think I would rather know a subject 
 in all its bearings." 
 
 " Stop, please," he said, hurriedly, almost step- 
 ping in front of her. '^ I wish — do you really mean 
 what you say ? Think before you answer me." 
 
 She stood still, outwardly as calm as marble, 
 though her heart began beating thickly. He was 
 breathing hard, and looked white ; and the keen 
 anxiety of his expression alarmed and startled her. 
 
 " There are some things we never can know in this 
 life," she said in a low and not very steady voice. 
 ^'I suppose it is intended we should not do so." 
 
 " But you would wish — you would like — you would 
 care to know ? For God's sake, answer me truly." 
 His hands, which were clasped on his stick, whitened 
 with the pressure of his grasp. 
 
 Hermione paused. The thrush was still singing, 
 a rabbit skurried across the road. She looked up, was 
 going to speak, but caught sight of his face ; something 
 in the dilation of his eyes, in the ghastly pallor of his 
 cheek, shocked her, and she said hurriedly, not
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 89 
 
 kno^Yiug wliat she bad said even till she had spoken, 
 and never afterwards being able to assign any reason 
 to herself why she had so spoken — 
 
 *' There are some things it is better never to 
 know." 
 
 '' You mean that ? " 
 
 '' Yes, I mean it," she answered, looking him full 
 and clearly in the face. 
 
 He was silent, then he bowed, and went slowly on 
 again. In front of them the thrush ceased singing, 
 the rabbit's tail spun through the tall, yellowing fern, 
 and the riders rode quietly forwards with Lady Clinton 
 holding on to her husband's saddle. 
 
 Hermione was wondering at herself. Hers was 
 a mind which often apparently leaned the most 
 strongly on the side actually opposed to her real 
 convictions ; more from a kind of unacknowledged 
 wish to balance the very force of her feeling than 
 from any definite desire- to contradict others. At this 
 moment, she was wondering at the whole tone of the 
 conversation ; for hers was not a nature to render up 
 her ideas easily. Back to her mind came days long 
 gone, when she had sometimes talked in the same 
 kind of strain to Colonel Myddleton, and then — well, 
 he had gone to India. 
 
 Colonel Myddleton was thinking over and over 
 again so mtensely, on one subject, that at last he said 
 it out loud. *' Would to God I had never gone to 
 India ! "
 
 90 honour's worth; or, 
 
 The thought expressed, startled Hermione so much, 
 that she said "Oh!" and then, hi utter confusion, 
 "was going to hurry on, when he said — 
 
 " It's no good thinking so. I did not mean to 
 speak." 
 
 *' Nor did I," said Hermione, with a shght tremble 
 on her face. 
 
 Their eyes met, and they both smiled a little sadly. 
 
 *' I wish you would tell me something, Miss St. 
 John. When you spoke just now, Vv^ere you thinking 
 of yourself, or ? " He stopped. 
 
 " You, you mean," she ended. " Neither ; I meant 
 it. I don't even know why I meant it — I mean it," 
 she added distinctly. ^' I will tell you something. We 
 think a great deal too much about ourselves. There 
 can be no justice, if you are judge, till you put yourself 
 out of court. The only way to get on at all is to 
 think of others." 
 
 "Hermione ! A strav.berry ! Do get it for me," 
 said Miss Thorold. 
 
 Hermione was so taken aback by hearing Miss 
 Thorold address her by her Christian name, iihat she 
 simply stared at her, and that young lady, suddenly 
 becoming aware of the circumstance, felt herself 
 coerced by the pale severity of the gaze to say, "I 
 beg your pardon ; but could you get it, root and all ? 
 I will wear it in my hair to-night." 
 
 Hermione obediently was going to fetch it, when 
 Colonel Myddleton hooked it out with his stick, and 
 then the conversation became general.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 91 
 
 They were met on the steps by old Lady Dunstable, 
 who carried off her great-niece to change her habit at 
 once, much to that young lady's discomfiture. The rest 
 went in to tea, which was round a blazing fire in the 
 morning-room, very snug, with plenty of plain leather 
 and deeply stuffed chairs, for the gentlemen, and 
 delicate silken seats for the ladies. Sir Philip, with a 
 large cup and some hot muffins, suddenly became 
 aware in the plentitude of his comfort of the absence 
 of Gladys. It had begun to rain, and he said — 
 
 ''Halloa ! that little puss will get wet. Where is 
 she, Dorothy?" 
 
 '' Oh ! she came in ever so long ago. The fact is-, 
 she is very low, for fancy, Phil, Eobert has sold 
 Eedskin." 
 
 '' Nonsense ! " said her husband, throwing half a 
 muffin to Jerks, the skye, in his horror at such 
 news. " What has he been up to ? Some stupid bet, 
 I suppose ; or, just as likely, some fool in distress has 
 got round him." 
 
 Then, of com'se, the whole story came out, and 
 Hermione heard it. Colonel Myddleton watched her 
 keenly. He was standing in the window, half hidden 
 by the cm*tain, and saw her face flush as she listened. 
 
 "Well, it's a stupid thing to do," grumbled Sir 
 Philip. " Why, he can't hunt at all now ; it's all very 
 well. Dor, but you know he'll be an awful bore hang- 
 ing about with nothing to do. I wish to goodness 
 men wouldn't have such inconvenient generosity fits.
 
 92 honour's worth; or, 
 
 Well, where is Gladys ? Just ring and send for her ; 
 it's pouring, and she'll catch cold again." 
 
 Just then came her voice singing along the gallery 
 overhead, and in a few seconds she opened the door, 
 with a basket of hothouse flowers in her hands. 
 "^'Come, all of you, and choose your flowers," she said, 
 in a kind of refrain ; and they went up to her — at 
 least several of them. " Here's one for you, Philip," 
 she said, bringing it to him, and holding it down over 
 Ms forehead, so that he could not see it i)roperly. 
 
 He stretched up and caught her wrist and drew 
 her down beside him. "Are you sorry Eedskin is 
 gone?" he asked. 
 
 *' Yes, very," she said, readily ; " but it was wonder- 
 fully good of Bob ; he is just always such a good old 
 fellow." 
 
 " Well, I think he's rather an ass in this case,'* 
 said her brother, angrily. ''Wh}^ Eedskin would 
 have carried you to perfection. I don't know where 
 I could get another like him, so high-couraged and 
 thoroughly broken. Why couldn't he let me have the 
 refusal of him ? I would have given him his own 
 price." 
 
 '' Oh, but Phil, he couldn't have let you, you know. 
 Why, you mightn't have wanted him, and it would 
 have been like a present." 
 
 *' Mightn't have wanted him! Just listen. In a 
 stable like this, at the beginning of the hunting 
 season, too. There, go along with you, silly child.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 93- 
 
 I tell you you may never get sucli a cliauce again. 
 Why, Mab to-day carried Miss Tliorold horribly.. 
 He is the very horse I wanted. I declare I'll give 
 Master Bob a good pitching into." 
 
 " You are just as cross as you can be," said Gladys, 
 smoothing his hair. " It is a i^ity, but we can't help- 
 it, and it would have been a great trial for Bob to 
 have seen him going out day after day, and " 
 
 "And you riding him! " said her brother, laughing. 
 
 *' No, I didn't mean that," said Gladys, laughing^ 
 too. 
 
 "Well, I hope the old general will give it him 
 well." 
 
 " He's sure to tease him, whether he deserves it or 
 not," said Lady Clinton. " Poor old thing ! he must 
 worry somebody." 
 
 "What do you think of it all?" said Colonel 
 Myddleton to Hermione. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! he must have minded very much. 
 I think it was very good of him." 
 
 "That is just a thing a woman would admire, and 
 a man cavil at," he answered. 
 
 " Yes, but you see a man did it," she said. " I 
 have the greatest faith in men doing noble, unselfish 
 things in a large way, though I think they are more 
 selfish than women in small ways." 
 
 " That is the foolish way women spoil us," he 
 said, with a restless sigh. " They let us be cross and 
 um-easonable, and say we are tired of this, that, and
 
 94: honoue's worth; or, 
 
 the other ; but I don't think they understand a great 
 worry that makes a man silent and moody." 
 
 " No, perha,ps not ; but I think the fault lies in 
 both. Men so rarely trust women fully ; they think 
 they can't and won't help them to bear anything, 
 when often and often a woman is only thinking pain- 
 fully how she can best aid and comfort a man, but 
 is afraid to speak for fear of making things worse 
 to bear, or seeming to be prying." 
 
 " I don't think there are many women like that, 
 Miss St. John, or I hope we should be better than we 
 are," he said, drawing a little closer to her chair. 
 
 " That is what I believe, though," she answered, 
 knowing without seeing that he was looking earnestly 
 at her, and feeling irresistibly inclined to look up ; 
 but she would not, but drew her brows tightly to- 
 gether instead, and looked out of the dim window 
 into the drifting rain. 
 
 He was silent for a little. They were nearly 
 alone ; the others had all gone into the hall through 
 the folding doors, and were examining the raised 
 dais at one end, with a view to the tableaux which 
 were to come off soon. 
 
 '* Do you think it a good thing to trust people, 
 then ? " he said abruptly. 
 
 '* Yes, if you want to — I mean if you must ; it is 
 safer to trust nobody." 
 
 ** But if you want to — if you have to ? " His voice 
 sank lower, and again that expression of tension came
 
 THE COST OP A VOW. 95 
 
 on his face ; but she was fitting Jerk's ears over his 
 eyes to hide a certain trembling in her mouth. 
 
 " I think it is a noble thing to trust people," she 
 said, suddenly sitting up straight. ''I have always 
 thought so ; only, trust them fully, tell them every- 
 thing. I don't think a real trust has ever been be- 
 trayed." 
 
 The firelight caught and held her small beauti- 
 fully poised head in a kind of glory, and lit into rare 
 softness the usually grave mouth, and her eyes looked 
 up clear as *' shining after rain." There was some- 
 thing wonderful, strong, womanly, divine about Her- 
 mione at that moment. The man was struck by it — 
 a shiver of emotion flew over his face, he took two 
 steps forwards, he held out his hands, and said in a 
 voice which was clear from extreme lowness — 
 
 " Oh ! do you remember before I went to India — 
 
 the last evening in Curzon Street ? " He stopped 
 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Yes," said Hermione, with a breathless gasp, 
 thinking in an agony that they would all, or some of 
 them, come back. 
 
 '* I did not trust you then," he went on, hurriedly. 
 
 " And now — now " His voice began to quiver and 
 
 break. He pointed to a magnificent half-hoop of 
 brilliants on her left hand. There was a pause. Her- 
 mione looked at her ring too. It was an heirloom that 
 Mark had begged her to wear. It seemed alive — every 
 separate facet sparkled like a point of fire. She felt
 
 96 honour's worth; or, 
 
 as though she were being pierced all over mth them. 
 ** You are so — rich ! " He turned and walked quickly 
 out of the room. 
 
 She was perfectly stunned. She had risen on his 
 hasty exit ; she had tried to speak, to call to him by 
 name ; not a sound would come. Then with a hasty, 
 violent movement, she tore the ring from her finger, 
 and held it as though about to fling it into the fire. 
 Jerks, expecting a game, sat up and begged. 
 
 "Ah, no!" she said, slowly, and the small dog 
 sat down again. But she was not speaking to him. 
 She gently put the ring back on her finger, and kissed 
 it. " Ah, no ! poor Mark ! I do owe you this, in spite 
 of all." 
 
 Then she wrung her clasped hands till her slender 
 fingers nearly snapped with the strain, and went 
 quickly into the hall to the others. Everybody was 
 in a great state of excitement. Mr. Freeman, high 
 up on two chairs, was measuring with a fishing-rod, 
 Avhilst Sir Philip was pacing out the distance from 
 pillar to pillar. Miss Thorold was leaning over the 
 balustrade, looking very pretty, and Gladys was help- 
 ing Sir Vere Temple to rummage in an old chest. 
 They were all talking and laughing merrily, and, 
 coming out of the dim morning-room into this hubbub 
 and glare, Hermione put her hand to her eyes. 
 
 "What a pity the Lanes had to go," said Miss 
 Thorold. " She was so merry, and so good-natured." 
 
 " And he was an uncommon bad shot. Seventeen,
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 97 
 
 eigliteen," said Sir Philip. "There, I've finished; 
 this will do capitally. Do come down, Miss Thorold, 
 and sing us a song. I am worn out." 
 
 *' And still in your wet things ! " remonstrated Lady 
 Clinton. 
 
 " Never mind. Do sing. Miss Thorold. I shall be 
 eternally grateful." 
 
 " Till you forget all about it," she laughed, coming 
 rapidly down, and going into the drawing-room. 
 
 Hermione went slowly upstairs after a little. As 
 she came out on to the long gallery, she saw a girl's 
 figure standing at the head of the haunted stairs ; it 
 was Gladys looking out at the rain. She went up to 
 her and touched her gently. Gladys turned round 
 with a start, and her eyes full of tears. Hermione 
 appeared to notice nothing, and said — 
 
 " What a wet evening ! I am going to read in 
 my room. Why don't you go down and listen to the 
 music? That girl sings well." 
 
 *' I don't want to go down," said Gladys, drearily. 
 
 *' Would you like to come and sit in my room ? " 
 said Hermione. 
 
 " Oh ! might I, really ? Wouldn't you mind ? " 
 
 Hermione smiled, and carried her off. They 
 installed themselves, Hermione in a large arm-chair, 
 and Gladys on the rug, leaning her head against 
 Hermione's knee. Hermione laid a gentle hand on 
 her head, and they sat silent a long time. Then she 
 said — 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 honour's worth; or, 
 
 *' Gladys, I wish you wouldn't cry, dear." 
 
 Gladys turned suddenly, laid her head against 
 Hermione's breast, and sobbed. 
 
 ''He was such a dear beast ! I loTed him so ! " 
 she said. 
 
 Hermione was silent. She felt convinced that 
 something far deeper than the sale of the hunter 
 had stirred the merry, light-hearted Gladys, to cause 
 such grief. But she knew there are things that are 
 better never put into words. Her conversation with 
 Colonel Myddleton flashed back to her ; so she only 
 stroked the soft hair lovingly, and drew the head a 
 little closer to her. Hermione was one of those rare 
 people who have the gift of silence. A rather dreary 
 sense of the whole world being out of joint came on 
 her, though, in the silence. 
 
 Gradually Gladys calmed down, and then she 
 expatiated on the merits of Eedskin, till she seemed 
 a little soothed ; and Hermione quite agreed with her 
 that it was very noble of Eobert to have sold him, 
 and that very few men would have done so. 
 
 Then they sat silent for a long time, and Her- 
 mione went incessantly over and over again those 
 few words, " And now you are so rich ! " Oh ! how 
 she longed to throw off the burden of these intoler- 
 able riches. If he were only rich, and she poor ! It 
 was counted nothing for a girl to marry a rich man. 
 People only said, " What a capital match ! " But if a 
 man married a great heiress, men said, " It was, of
 
 THE COST OP A VOW. 99 
 
 course, for her money." Why should it be so ? Why 
 should there be this strange, horrible injustice towards 
 men only ? Was it not a patent fact that girls married 
 every year solely for the sake of money, position, lands, 
 a title ; and yet how many cried shame on them ? 
 None. Whereas, how rarely men had the chance of 
 marrying for money, even if they wished ! and how 
 intensely men dreaded its being thought they had or 
 would do so ! — proud, noble, straightforward men like 
 Marmaduke Myddleton, above all. Of course, suppos- 
 ing she ever were married, the kindly world would 
 always say it was for her money. Then what did it 
 matter who it was, provided she cared for them, and 
 they for her ? What would she care what the world 
 said, as long as she knew in her heart it was she who 
 was married, not the money only. Staring into the 
 fire, she thought over the time when she had first 
 known him, when she, too, had been poor — at least 
 not rich. How they had always been friends, for 
 years back now; and then that going to India, and the 
 long blank, and this sudden meeting. She had heard 
 of him all through the Mutiny, as being one of the 
 most determined, courageous, daring of officers. She 
 had heard of his wonderful exploits and noble stead- 
 fastness ; and then of his being desperately wounded, 
 and the fever supervening ; and after that a blank, 
 dead silence of over two years. What had happened 
 to him during that time ? Lady Clinton said he had 
 gone a long torn- in the hill country, then into Persia,
 
 100 honour's worth; or, 
 
 then back again into China and Tartary, shooting and 
 hunting. He had had another attack of fever, she 
 knew, and had then come home. He never alluded 
 to the Mutiny himself ; it was impossible to get him 
 to talk about it : but Sir Philip and Dorothy had often 
 and often told her about him. 
 
 Meanwhile, he was walking up and down the 
 conservator^^ smoking and thinking what was to be- 
 come of him. If he stayed on here, he would be 
 obliged to speak — ^he felt it ; he felt he had gone too 
 far abeady not to have said more. Should he tell 
 her all and abide by her decision ? Was she not sure 
 to judge honourably and truly, and in the best and 
 highest way for them both ? And yet — and yet, as long 
 as he said nothing, they could go on being friends, if 
 nothing more ; but if he spoke, he must go away for 
 ever ; and could he bear that ? Perhaps not though ; 
 she might decide not^there was that chance. He 
 would, of course, abide by her decision. And then 
 there was another view of it. It was possible she did 
 not care for him. Possible ? It was horribly probable. 
 Probable ? It was almost certain ; and then he 
 needn't go at all. His brow darkened. Could he go 
 on bearing this slow fire day by day ? They were 
 going to have tableaux and this fancy ball. Could 
 he hold on through it all ? Would it not burst forth 
 in spite of him ? Certainty, certainty — he craved for 
 certainty at almost any price. What was she doing 
 now ? he wondered. Had she still that grave, sweet
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 101 
 
 look in her eyes, that was enough to madden any 
 man into desperate things? How could she speak 
 such gentle, nohle thoughts in such a clear, cold 
 voice ? But he knew she meant them and would act 
 uj) to them, too. She was a soldier's daughter, and 
 would make a noble wife. Ah ! his darling ! And yet 
 what right had he to think of her as his darling? 
 Oh ! just for once to hold her clasped in his arms, to 
 feel her heart beat against his, to hear her say, '' I 
 love you ! " It seemed that it might have been once. 
 She had not been rich then. He was far the richest 
 of the two, and they were both free. But now, there 
 was the barrier of great wealth, and — what he had 
 himself placed there, willingly. " I suppose I shall 
 get over it in time ; I did once before," he muttered, 
 with a half groan. " Of course, that was easier, for 
 I thought it was done for for ever, when I believed 
 her to be married. And isn't it now ? Yes ; God 
 knows it is," he said, with fierce and savage energy. 
 ^'Well, if I tell her anything, I'll tell her all. But 
 why couldn't I forget her in all I have gone through ? 
 "Why should I just hold to her and no one else — not 
 one ? I thought I had, to be sure ; but, of course, 
 
 there it all lay smouldering " 
 
 Here the great bell rang for dressing ; and, throw- 
 ing away his only half-smoked cigar, he went into the 
 house. Miss Thoroldwas still singing. Sir Philip was 
 dozing in his chair, Lady Clinton and Lady Dunstable 
 were going upstairs, and Sir Vere and Mr. Freeman
 
 102 honour's worth; or, 
 
 were standing in the hall. He went on through the 
 morning-room ; the chairs were still standing as they 
 had got up and left them. Jerks was worrying some- 
 thing on the rug close to Hermione's chair; it was 
 a glove. Colonel Myddleton lifted it quickly, with a 
 gesture full of passion and joy, rolled it up, and put it 
 in his pocket hurriedly, as the men came in to carry 
 away tea. 
 
 In his own room he took it out, smoothed it, kissed 
 the palm, and placed it in his pocket-book that never 
 left him. It was currently believed that Jerks had 
 eaten that glove. He danced round the ravisher all 
 the way to his room, believing it had been rolled up 
 for a better purpose, namely, to make a ball for him, 
 than merely to be laid carefully in a pocket-book. 
 Hermione thought she had lost it at the " head." One 
 does lose gloves in droll places at times. 
 
 She noticed that evening that Colonel Myddleton 
 held aloof rather from her, and seemed much en- 
 grossed by the music generally ; or, was it only her 
 fancy ?
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 103 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 It was late on in the night, but Josline stood at her 
 open window, leaning out into the quiet and soft 
 gloom. It was like looking deep into the heart of a 
 flower, so entirely were all things steeped in mystic, 
 warm, glowing fragrance, commg no soul might tell 
 whence, but pervading and tinging each thought as 
 it rose winged, as thoughts can only be in the entire 
 stillness of the night. 
 
 Scents of autumn, dying exhalations from the 
 flowers passing away with the months, stole up con- 
 founded in essence, piercing heart and brain with 
 subtle power. 
 
 Josline leant out still further, absorbed in thought. 
 She was clothed entirely in white ; her long, shadowy 
 hair hung fine and soft as silk — a cloud to her knee ; 
 her small, white feet and hands shone in the faint 
 starhght Hke mother-of-pearl in the purity of their 
 tinting. On her right hand was a ring — a ruby heart 
 with a coronet of diamonds, the one spark of colour 
 about her. 
 
 Dreams were in the deep, grave eyes ; dreams in
 
 104 honour's woeth; or, 
 
 the every fold of her robe, gathered like a stole about 
 her ; dreams in the falls of cloudy hair ; dreams in 
 the linked hands. Dreams, but not a girl's dreams of 
 love and a happy, intangible future. 
 
 She was praying — praying softly in words learnt 
 years ago at the knee of a young, dying mother. 
 When she had ended she drew from her bosom a 
 crucifix of ivory ; gazed earnestly in the exquisite sad- 
 ness of the pale, agonized face, kissed it reverently, 
 and murmured, " I remember, mother." 
 
 Then she leaned out once more, putting her hand 
 tightly over her heart as a little wind stole like the 
 sigh of some one near, through the creepers, stirring 
 them faintly like a hand on a weary quest ; but it was 
 only the Spirit of the Night ; and she closed the 
 window, and lay down to rest with one hand clasped 
 on the cross on her breast. 
 
 Early in the dewy freshness of the following morn- 
 ing, Josline was crossing the silvered lawn when she 
 was arrested by Miss Barbara's voice, and, looking 
 round, saw her aunt standing at the window of the 
 cedar parlour. 
 
 " Josline ! where are you going at this time of 
 day?" 
 
 " I was going to see Nan Partridge, aunt." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I can't think what you want to be 
 always running in and out of the smithy for ! it's not 
 very seemly, I think. In my day gnls were content to 
 stay at home, and not be so forward."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 105 
 
 " Ob, aunt, if you think — but I promised Tubal to 
 go as soon as I could again." 
 
 **A11 sentimental folly! and you are sure to be 
 late for breakfast again. I've no patience with these 
 new-fangled notions." 
 
 Bang went the window, causing the *' person of the 
 house " to jump hurriedly down from the window-seat 
 with a fluff and miau. 
 
 " Such silly things girls are ! " soliloquized Miss 
 Barbara, giving her gigantic morning cap a fierce 
 shake, very detrimental to that erection, and nearly 
 coming to grief over a footstool in her hurried effort to 
 avoid treading on a red square ; to-day being a " blue " 
 day in more senses than one apparently. " There she 
 goes, wasting all her strength on those sort of people," 
 continued Miss Barbara, saving herself with more 
 skill than dignity ; " when any one can see she is 
 not fit to do anything but drink new milk and eat 
 fresh eggs; and how she can live as she does, on 
 nothing at all but music and flowers, I'm sure I 
 can't think ! Such nonsense, and Dux is worse than 
 she is." 
 
 Josline stood as she had been left, smitten by 
 those words, " Sentimental folly ! " Was it really 
 that? 
 
 Just then came a few notes of the violin, and with 
 a sudden impulse she turned and went round by the 
 nut -walk, coming out by the study window. 
 
 " Dux ! "
 
 106 honour's worth; or, 
 
 " Anima mia ! " The violin stopped its throbbing 
 and ended in a faint wail. 
 
 ** I want to know what you think about my going 
 to Nan Partridge ? " 
 
 " How early you are out with your small feet in 
 the dew!" said Mr. Fairfax, gathering his Beloved 
 under his arm and coming up to the window. 
 
 *' It will not hurt me. Dux," said she, earnestly, 
 laying her cheek against the beautifully shaped hand 
 that was clasj)ing her shoulder. *' Nothing seems to 
 hurt me." 
 
 *^ A little Una who witches the heart out of things 
 evil," said her uncle, half-absently, stroking the hair 
 that lay as smooth as the glossy wings of her doves. 
 
 If he had one feeling more strongly developed than 
 another about Josline's personal appearance it was 
 about her hair, which he always would declare was 
 " duftend," like that of Schiller's Cassandra. " So 
 nasty ! " as Miss Barbara said, " smelling hair; " but 
 then her brother would dryly add that he knew she 
 had looked out the word in the dictionary, and did not 
 give it its proper signification relatively to Josline. 
 
 "What do you think, my Dux? " she asked again. 
 
 " I think you will be sure to decide rightly though 
 perhaps not wisely," he answered, still absently. 
 " There, you are quivering to be gone — go ! " 
 
 And she went. 
 
 She found Tubal, under the shadow of th^ great 
 tree, fashioning some instrument of iron. He gladly
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 107 
 
 went with lier to liis young wife's room. Tliey opened 
 the door gently. 
 
 Nan was sitting in a hard, wooden arm-chair. 
 She was dressed in a short stuff petticoat and a loose 
 bed-jacket. Her face was entirely colourless ; her 
 eyes were closed and sunk, and dark purple shadows 
 round the sockets made her cheeks look still more 
 hollow and wan. The strong man's voice shook and 
 his eyes filled with tears as he began — 
 
 " Nan, my dear " There he stopped. 
 
 Josline made him a sign to go out. Then she 
 went and sat down by the young mother, very little 
 older than herself, took one limp hand in hers and 
 said, laying the spray of myrtle on the cold, lifeless 
 fingers — 
 
 " This is from baby for you. Nan." 
 
 A strong shudder went through the woman's frame, 
 and she tried to withdraw her hand, but Josline held 
 it firmly, though softly, and she desisted. 
 
 The window was open, and you could hear a hen 
 clucking triumphantly, and the resonant stroke of 
 the hammer. Neither of them moved for some little 
 time. Nan kept her eyes closed, though two large 
 tears had pierced the lids and swam in the hollows 
 round them. Josline was looking out of the window 
 over the little orchard, waiting for the broken-hearted 
 mother to take her time. The young girl was think- 
 ing long thoughts about death, which it seemed to her 
 stood alone in its completeness ; for death has but one
 
 108 honour's worth; or, 
 
 country to which we must all go, and from whence 
 none can return till all have been there ; so that 
 actually those who are dead are more within the scope 
 of our comprehension than those who, though still 
 remaining on earth, may have been compelled to 
 wander in another hemisphere to which we may never 
 attain. 
 
 At length a faint voice said, '' I don't like to keep 
 you sitting here, young madam." 
 
 " I am quite content to stay a little longer, Nan," 
 said Josline, gently; *'but won't you try and look at 
 me once ? " 
 
 '' I fear me I shall weep if I do ; your face is 
 so " 
 
 She stoj)ped, quivering all over as a child's cry 
 rang down the road. She made a violent effort to 
 regain self-control. Josline held her hand tighter. 
 After a few seconds she said with a convulsive 
 gasp— 
 
 " I'm that tired of weeping, and he never wept 
 at all." 
 
 " But you would rather have it so. Nan, wouldn't 
 you ? You would rather grieve for him, than that he 
 should have cried for you ? " 
 
 She shook her head faintly. "He couldn't have 
 grieved this like," she said. 
 
 ''Ah, Nan! you don't know what it would have 
 been to have left him. I think so often and often of 
 my mother's agony when she had to leave me. I
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 109 
 
 believe it's worst of ail. She used to lie and look at 
 me, and you could see the sorrow killing her all the 
 quicker, and yet she grieved and grieved the more. 
 It's very lonely, Nan, to have no one to love you like 
 a mother does. Sometimes when I am tired, I think 
 if she could just be there once more and kiss me, all 
 the pain and grief would go. Nan, you would not 
 want baby to feel that, would you ? you can't realize 
 now that he would have grown up and wanted you ; 
 that he would have hurt himself and no one would 
 have looked after him or cared. You didn't mean 
 that, did you. Nan ? " 
 
 The simple words of the young girl, so simply 
 said, seemed to touch Nan deeply. She closed her 
 fingers tightly round the clasping hand, and unclosing 
 her eyes at last, she said, as the tears flowed gently — 
 
 "You are a very angel, dear young madam ; and 
 it's quite true as Tubal said, you'd know all about it ; 
 and I will try and think that my dear baby is spared 
 my grief, and that his mother bears it for him. 
 Perhaps," she added, timidly, "you will come and 
 speak to me about him whiles ? " 
 
 "Indeed, indeed I will, Nan," said Josline. "And 
 won't you come and lie down a little now, and try and 
 sleep ? See, I will shake up the pillows for you." 
 
 So Nan lay down, and Josline covered her up, 
 di-ew the white curtain across the window, and, laying 
 the spray by her, stole quietly from the room. And, 
 worn out and yet comforted, Nan fell asleep.
 
 110 honour's worth; or, 
 
 '' Nan is going to sleep," she said, as slie stepped 
 out into the blaze of light. " She is quieted now, 
 and I hope will wake more like herself." 
 
 She saw Kobert at this moment. He was standing 
 just behind the smith. 
 
 " Good morning," she said, feeling the thrill she 
 had felt before as their hands met. 
 
 He watched the delicate colour fly over her face, 
 and knew she was moved. 
 
 Then she turned and walked quickly away up the 
 lane. When, at breakfast, she mentioned Eobert's 
 name as having seen him at the forge, her uncle 
 said — 
 
 " "Why did you not ask him in, Josline ? I want 
 to inquire more about that Gabriel Vannier." 
 
 Josline was silent, but Miss Barbara said sharply — 
 
 " Dux ! What next ? Ask him in, indeed ! He 
 must have thought it odd enough to see her there; 
 then he would have thought her mad ! " 
 
 "With method then," answered Mr. Fairfax, " for 
 I shall go and fetch him myself." And out he went. 
 
 Eobert had gone on his way thoughtfully. Was 
 Josline a Koman Catholic ? How was he to find out ? 
 He could not ask any of her own people, since Lady 
 Dunstable had said it was a subject of disunion 
 amongst them. He wondered whether any one knew. 
 Did Mr. Crosbie ? Surely the clergyman of her village 
 would know. Did she go to church or not ? Was she, 
 perhaps, compelled to go ? Compelled ! but by whom?
 
 THE COST OF A YOW. Ill 
 
 Not by Mr. Fairfax, lie was far too much attached to 
 Josline evidently. By her aunt ? Yes, she might be 
 severe enough to drive a gentle creature to any 
 exiDedient, and yet there was a quiet peace about 
 Josline's look, in spite of her subdued melancholy, 
 which forbade any supposition of compulsory life. 
 After all, was he frightening himself at shadows? 
 Was there any real question of her faith at all ? Lady 
 Dunstable said there had been a great quarrel about 
 the child; doubtless it was all settled then. The 
 quarrel had been between the parents, or between the 
 father and uncle, or, maybe, between the mother and 
 aunt. He would not worry over it, and yet, if she 
 were a Eoman Catholic, would she have anything 
 to say to him ? any words of love for one of a different 
 creed ? Was hers not just the nature that would 
 cling deeply to a faith misprized by others, but 
 held to and suffered for by her young, dead mother, 
 who, doubtless, she had dearly loved and reverenced ? 
 If he could only know how she felt and thought on 
 the subject at all ! 
 
 He had been brought up in the faith of his parents. 
 He had gone to church, as a rule, because all 
 English gentlemen went ; it was the way and custom 
 of the land, and there was something nice and quiet 
 in it now he came to think of it. He said a prayer 
 night and morning, also as a rule — the simple prayer 
 he had learnt at his mother's knee as a child. He 
 read his Bible now and then, when he read any other
 
 112 honour's worth; or, 
 
 book which made reference to its teaching, or when 
 he heard discussions about the East and its customs. 
 He had often thought too, in so doing, how incon- 
 sistent seemed its deductions ; how impossible its 
 conchisions. He beheved what he had been taught, 
 and never troubled himself about the niceties of his 
 creed. In fact, his belief was summed up very much 
 thus : "Our Father which art in Heaven; my Father 
 who created me, and whom I am to serve as an 
 honourable, upright Englishman, speak the truth, 
 and forgive my enemies, and not despise them more 
 than I can help." 
 
 This sort of general belief had stood him in fair 
 stead till now ; but now he began to wonder what was 
 his creed ? how should he define it if asked ? What 
 would be her creed, supposing she were a Komanist ? 
 In what consisted the supreme difference of the two ? 
 His ideas of the Eoman creed were even more vague 
 than his conception of his own; a kind of vague 
 jumble of Purgatory, Virgin worship, confession, 
 penances, and doing pretty much as you liked, 
 provided you paid for it ! This could not be Josline's 
 creed, though. What was it ? What was the faith, 
 the beauty of which could give that calm peace, 
 purity, and strength to her expression? or had she 
 been born with that look on her face, and had her 
 religion nothing whatever to do with it ? Oh ! what 
 would he give to talk to her about herself, her 
 thoughts, her inner life. Should he ever dare ? If,
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 113 
 
 as Lady Dunstable said, there had been disunion 
 about her rehgion, or rather her mother's, would she 
 ever be likely to approach the subject, and with a 
 comparative stranger too ? Alas ! it was most unlikely. 
 And yet how tenderly, how reverentially he would 
 handle it; all her thoughts should be sacred to him 
 as the most holy things ; anything appertaining to 
 her soul should be as entirely her own as though 
 unlmown of save to the Almighty. Had her father 
 been thus lenient to her mother ? Ah ! there, he felt 
 at once, lay the great question ; the one bar, which 
 might utterly prevent any the very faintest possi- 
 bility of her caring for himself. The more he thought 
 over Josline, her life, her nature, the more imperative 
 became his longing for certitude. 
 
 The greatest longing of our souls, the yearning 
 towards God, receives the strongest reciprocal 
 guarantee, and this is why a great and unique love 
 must always partake more or less of the nature of 
 adoration. Nothing but the peace which follows 
 single-hearted, soul-absorbing worship can satisfy so 
 intense a feeling. 
 
 Striding over the fields, uplands, and fallows, 
 quickly towards home, he thought over these things 
 more deeply than he had ever thought over anything 
 in his life before, all becoming more confused in his 
 mind from the very efforts he made to disentangle 
 cause and effect. He strove hard to believe that all 
 his uneasiness was so much folly; but he became 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 honour's worth; or, 
 
 more and more convinced, against his will, that there 
 was only too much ground for anxiety. 
 
 " Father," he began at breakfast, *' had you 
 known Lady Dunstable long before I was born ? " 
 
 " Well, let me see. Oh, yes, a few years. She 
 was your mother's great friend, though she was 
 twenty years older, I should think. I liked her very 
 much ; she was a wonderful old lady always. 
 
 " She seems very kind to me now. I can re- 
 member her giving me tips when I was quite small." 
 ''Yes, she took to you tremendously when your 
 poor mother died. She wanted to adopt j^ou and 
 all sorts of things. ' Elle avait des idees,' as she 
 always said ; but my ideas were rather different, 
 you know ! " 
 
 " Had she no children ? " 
 
 " Yes, one daughter. Ah ! that's an odd story. 
 I don't think my lady had much religion personally, 
 brought up in that heathen France, and at that time, 
 too. She worshipped Marie Antoinette and the Prince 
 d'Artois ; but she had this girl brought up very 
 strictly in a convent with a lot of English girls, 
 amongst others that lovely Vavasour girl, who after- 
 wards married wild Jack Fairfax."^ 
 
 " What ! Jos Miss Josline's mother ? " 
 
 "Exactly so. She ivas beautiful; none of your 
 piny, dreamy, bread-and-butter misses ; but a tall, 
 elegant woman, more like Miss St. John than any one 
 I've ever seen. And deep ! I am sure she'll play
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 115 
 
 tliem a trick or two still, in her grave. She hadn't 
 those eyes and that mouth for nothing, I can tell 
 you — a little twist at each corner of her lips ; that 
 girl has got it. I saw her the other day. It's just 
 as well Jack died before her. Shot in a duel he 
 was, good-for-nothing dog; for I don't think she would 
 have kept quiet much longer, though she adored 
 him. He drove her nearly mad, though. It's all 
 very fine bringing up that girl as a Protestant. Mark 
 my words, she'll turn as soon as she gets the bit in 
 her mouth. She is a quiet little devil." 
 
 '' Father ! " 
 
 ** Oh, yes ! my boy, you'll find it out, I can tell 
 you. The quiet, gentle women are the ones who 
 never give in. Far better be content with Mina 
 Thorold." 
 
 Eobert got up violently, shoved his plate into the 
 very centre of the table, and said — 
 
 " I hate the very name of the girl," and strode 
 out of the room. 
 
 " How can he speak so ? " he thought, beating his 
 hat on to his head, lighting a cigar furiously, and 
 striding out to the gate. " It's revolting ! a sweet, 
 gentle, loving creature like that ; I don't believe she's 
 double, or would live a double life ; and how can she 
 help it if she does?" he urged to himself, with a 
 lover's Idndly sophistry. " I dare say they'd be out- 
 rageously cruel to her, poor darling ! " 
 
 At this moment horses came cantering down the
 
 116 hoxoub's worth; or, 
 
 lane, and Sir Philip and Gladys came up, followed by 
 a groom with a led horse. 
 
 '^HmTah!" shouted Sir Philip; *'this is luck. 
 I say. Bob, there's going to be an awfully jolly day at 
 Crumb's Corner, so I've brought over Piat-trap. Just 
 go and get on your things in a twinkle, and come 
 along with us." 
 
 Eobert gave one gulp of delight, nearly swallowing 
 his cigar, then flung his hat in the air with a " view 
 halloa," and dashed into the house. When he came 
 down again, which he did with wonderful rapidity, 
 he found that Sir Philip had ridden on to join the 
 rest, and Gladys was waiting for him. 
 
 "I say, this is good of Phil. What a stunner 
 he is ! " he said, red and hajDpy, vaulting on to Eat- 
 trap's back, and starting gently. '* Quiet, old fellow ! 
 I could kiss you, you splendid brute ! " and he stroked 
 the neck of his horse, who was anything but quiet, 
 but bucked and capered and curvetted in fine style. 
 At last they all steadied down, and then they had a 
 delightful ride through the keen, delicious air along 
 the ridge. Soon Eobert noticed how silent Gladys 
 was. *'Why, you look as melancholy as I felt just 
 now," he said, with a slightly forced laugh. " We 
 are a nice pair to be going out on a hunting morning ! 
 Yoicks ! " 
 
 Gladys laughed too ; she couldn't help it. "I am 
 so glad you are happy," she said. 
 
 "Well, but look here," he went on; ''I want to
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 117 
 
 know wliat did 3'ou mean by that mysterious threat 
 to me the other day that I was not to get all I 
 wanted?" 
 
 *'I think you have got it now," she answered. 
 '' You get too much what you want, you'll never be 
 really happy." 
 
 *' Come now, Gladys, I can't have you going on 
 philosophizing in this way. You won't be any more 
 my little cat ; and tabbies demure I can't endure." 
 
 Gladys smiled and was silent. He was silent too 
 for a little, and then he said suddenly — 
 
 " Tell me, Gladys, what you mean, really, by my 
 not being happy if I get all I want ? I surely shan't 
 be happy if I don't get what I want." 
 
 " Yes, you will," she said, earnestly. '' Don't you 
 see. Bob, if you had all you v^^ant, you would have 
 Redskin, and yet have paid for the picture, too." 
 
 " Gladys, you witch ! you blackest of white cats ! " 
 he said, colouring deeply. 
 
 " Well, you have now a sort of painful pleasure 
 about it, and nothing to regret." 
 
 *' Painful pleasure ! " 
 
 " Yes, you know you were thinking about it when 
 we rode up. I saw you did not want us," she said, 
 vehemently. 
 
 " I was thinking, certainly," he answered, gravely ; 
 '* but I don't know that it is good for me to think too 
 much on that subject, and it did not make me happy." 
 
 ''It wasn't about Redskin, then? Oh, Robert, I
 
 118 honour's woeth; or, 
 
 am so Sony," said Gladys, with quick sjmpatliy. " I 
 thought it ■^yas about him, and that Eat-traj) had 
 made it better to bear." 
 
 ^' But," he went on, with a change of tone, " you 
 don't want me to be happy, you say it is bad for me." 
 
 " Because I do want you to be happy, don't you 
 see ? " urged Gladj'S, flushed and eager. " If you 
 get all you want at once, quick, you won't care really. 
 I know you won't ; one never does — it's all jam and 
 no bread." 
 
 " Why do you think so, Gladys ? " 
 
 " Oh ! because I shouldn't — no one does." 
 
 He laughed out. " Ah, Cat, now you are general- 
 izing ; judging everybody by one standard." 
 
 She was silent, switching at the bushes in the 
 bank. Then she said, *^ Eobert, I knoio it is true, only 
 I can't say how ; you know it, too." 
 
 He made no answer. *' Disko is just the same," 
 she said again. '' If I take away his ball and hide it, 
 he tares all over the place and wants me to play ; but 
 if Heave it by him all day he doesn't care a bit." 
 
 *'I don't think I am quite like Disko," said Robert, 
 gravely. 
 
 " I think you are," said Gladj^s, with decision. 
 
 " You are very imj)ertinent, miss ! " 
 
 "Well, you'll believe me some day," she said. 
 *' You'll get all you want, and then you won't care ; 
 or else you won't get all you want, and then you will 
 care."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 119 
 
 ''But then, anyhow, I am to he wretched, had 
 Cat!" 
 
 She was silent; the hot tears hurnt in her hlue 
 eyes. 
 
 *'Well, anyhow, I'll always have you, my puss; 
 and I can revenge myself hy teasing you." 
 
 " No, you won't ! " she said hastily. '' I shan't let 
 you have me just when you don't want anything 
 else ! " Then, with a little defiant shake of her head 
 and reins, she cantered on and joined the rest of the 
 Charteriss party, who were just coming into sight 
 across the common. 
 
 *'Well," thought Eohert, ^'I wonder what has 
 come to Gladys ! what thoughts she has, and very 
 clever ones, too ! What was that phrase my old 
 dominie used to he for ever quoting, not at me, hut 
 ahout his own dusty old manuscripts, which never 
 were printed, poor dear old fellow? — hard reading 
 they would have heen, too ! What was it ? " 
 
 Here he lost the current of his thoughts, for he 
 joined the rest of the party. They were all there : 
 Lady Clinton and Lady Dunstahle and Mr. Freeman 
 in the carriage. Sir Vere, Hermione, and Miss Thorold 
 mounted, and Colonel Myddleton, too. Hermione was 
 too slight to look really well on horseback, but she sat 
 beautifully, and where she had contrived to hide her 
 masses of hair so as to show only one thick coil under 
 her hat, remained a mystery. She was on Euby, a 
 beautiful blood mare, that carried her to perfection ;
 
 120 honour's worth; or, 
 
 and her great height did not show at all too much 
 even in the perfectly fitting habit, on the tall chestnut. 
 Hermione had a power of making people feel she liked 
 them in the very way she held out her hand. Eobert 
 felt it now, and was quite inclined in consequence to 
 believe that Josline's mother might have resembled her. 
 
 " It is a very noble face," he thought. " Such 
 a fine brow — so frank ! and how she holds that mare, 
 soft as silk and nervous as steel ! " 
 
 Colonel Myddleton's horse was so troublesome that 
 he had to keep at some distance, and he was inwardly 
 fuming at not being able to stand alongside of the 
 rest. But his grave, quiet face showed no trace of dis- 
 composure, and as the animal wheeled and reared 
 and kicked, and finally tried to bolt, he sat with no 
 movement, keeping it well in hand, 
 
 *' That grey is quite wild to-day," said Sir Vere. 
 " I don't believe many men could stick on." 
 
 *' Oh ! he likes to show off," said Mr. Freeman. 
 
 *^ At any rate, he is not afraid,'' said Hermione, 
 with a slight tremble of her eyelids, as the grey gave 
 a side jump that would have unseated many a good 
 rider. 
 
 " No, he doesn't sit in carriages, for fear of break- 
 ing his neck," whispered Eobert, with a glance of 
 supreme contempt at Mr. Freeman. 
 
 " Nor ride other men's horses," said Quarl, who 
 had overheard the remark. 
 
 Happily at this moment the fox broke cover, and
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 121 
 
 in a few seconds every man and horse were doing their 
 best. Hermione and Gladys were to follow for a little; 
 and the grey had sobered down like magic to the 
 sound of the hounds in full cry, and was going along 
 like a gallant ship under full sail, neck and neck with 
 the chestnut mare. 
 
 ** This is glorious ! " said Hermione, as they rose 
 together at the first fence, went over it, and flew across 
 the broad pasture-land like birds released. The wind 
 whistled keenly in her small ears ; her eyes glittered 
 with excitement ; her colour, generally so evanescent 
 and faint, deepened into vivid carmine, as, with her 
 hands close together and well down, sitting well into 
 her saddle, steady as a young tree swayed gently in 
 the growing, she smiled for the joy of the rapid pace. 
 
 Colonel Myddleton was close to her, his every nerve 
 tingling with the excitement of the ride, and sympathy 
 with the intense eagerness of the noble animal he was 
 riding, who, hard held, was going along with his whole 
 heart in his stride. He looked up as Hermione spoke, 
 and their eyes met. She turned very pale, there was 
 something so intensely mournful in his look. 
 
 '' Once," he began, '' I rode for my life. I never 
 speak of it, but only — well, I didn't want to save my 
 life then ; I had a duty to do, though. I got through 
 all right." 
 
 ''I am glad," said Hermione, breathlessly, as he 
 paused. 
 
 ^'I should not ride for it now," he said.
 
 122 honour's worth; or, 
 
 Check ! and tliey were nearly into the hounds. 
 And then every one came gradually up ; and then off 
 again faster than ever. But it was over for Gladys 
 and Hermione ; the country was very severe, and Sir 
 Philip shouted to them to go home. It was easier 
 said than done so far, for hoth Euby and Prince were 
 quivering with excitement, and their riders little less 
 so. However, it had to be, and by degrees riders and 
 horses calmed down and the day was over. 
 
 " I tvish I were a man," said Gladys. "Look, 
 Hermione, there go the grey and Kat-trap ! " 
 
 Hermione looked, and far away went the grey like 
 a meteor. " It is glorious ! " she said. " Never mind; 
 w^e are only women ! " 
 
 Hours later, riding home in the cool grey twilight, 
 suddenly back to Piobert's memory came the phrase he 
 had forgotten, with a strange new meaning and force 
 — " I wish for myself, and for those for whom I care, 
 that sometimes we may succeed, sometimes fail, and 
 so pass through life, rather than succeed in all things. 
 For never did I hear of any one who succeeded in all 
 things, and did not at last end ill, utterly perishing." 
 He drew rein, and sat looking into the light of the 
 western sky ; and as he murmured the words to him- 
 self, he thought of his boyhood, and his mother, and 
 his kind old tutor in his snuff-coloured clothes, with 
 his big books, and his spectacles.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 123- 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Now when will you all settle about the tableaux ? '" 
 said Mr. Freeman. 
 
 "All settle?" said Lady Clinton. *' I think it 
 would be much better if you would settle the whole 
 thing. Give us our parts, and we'll do as we are 
 bid ! " 
 
 " Do you mean really ? " said Quarl, with a gleam 
 of joy on his harsh thin face. '^ Well, you couldn't, 
 do better ; I'll suit you ail, and you'll like your parts, 
 I can safely say." 
 
 " As long as you don't give me a solo piece," said 
 Sh' Philip, laughing. " I couldn't stand up and be 
 still, to be stared at." 
 
 " Now, don't begin at once to say what you 
 couldn't do. If I am to manage them, everybody 
 must oheyy 
 
 Hermione looked up curiously, and he said at once, 
 " Do you mean to obey me. Miss St. John ? " 
 
 "I don't mind," she answered. ''I dare say I 
 shall do to come in, in the crowd ? "
 
 124 honour's worth; or, 
 
 " Very usefully, you are so like the general mass," 
 lie said. *^But now, once for all, will every one 
 promise me to obey implicitly ? " 
 
 There was a general chorus of " Yes," and then he 
 said — 
 
 ** Very well. Now, I shan't speak about it again 
 for two days. I must think." 
 
 For the next two days he was very absent and odd, 
 often coming suddenly on each individual in turn, and 
 standing before them and contemplating them gravely, 
 making them laugh at each other. 
 
 ''What sort of thing will he choose, do you think?" 
 asked Miss Thorold, who was most anxious to be 
 dressed up. "I can't think ; he is so odd about 
 things — something that is not usual, I imagine." 
 
 A siDhinx could not have been more impenetrable 
 than the master-mind, though. He went with Sir 
 Philip into the gallery, and chose out wonderful 
 weapons; he went with Lady Clinton into the so- 
 called bower-chamber, and chose out marvellous 
 brocades ; he ransacked her jewel-case ; he then w^ent 
 down to the blacksmith, and much startled Tubal by 
 some orders ; then to the saddler, who was even more 
 amazed. Every one, though pretending they did not 
 much care, was excessively curious. 
 
 At last the decisive evening came ; and, after 
 dinner, they all collected in the hall to hear what 
 was to be the fate of each. He made them all go 
 on to the dais, and he stood at the other end con-
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 125 
 
 templating them. There was a little silence, and 
 then he said — 
 
 *'Ah ! — well, I'll tell you all the one large tableau; 
 but the others will only be known to the individuals, 
 who will act them." 
 
 *' Oh ! " General excitement and disappointment. 
 
 " It's no good ; I won't say. One has only just, 
 this moment come into my head. I see it. Now, if 
 only the saddler is worth his leather," he muttered, 
 seizing his chin in one hand with a curious rounded 
 snatch, peculiar to him. 
 
 "Well ! but what's the general one ? " from every- 
 body. 
 
 " Catherine Douglas barring the door. Hush ! 
 don't all speak at once. Here is everybody down : 
 Miss Thorold, Queen Joanna; Lady Clinton, Miss 
 Clinton, Lady Dunstable, ladies in waiting; Sir 
 Philip, Colonel Myddleton, young Watt, forcing the 
 door — pikemen ; Sir Yere Temple and myself^ 
 spectators." 
 
 " Catherine Douglas — Miss St. John," said Sir 
 Vere, bowing to her. 
 
 "Exactly," said Quarl. 
 
 Hermione colom-ed. "Well, of course, as you 
 order," she said, with a laugh; "but I hardly call 
 that one of the crowd, and I am too tall for Catherine 
 Douglas." 
 
 "Oh, you'll look perfect," said Gladys, much 
 relieved to find she was only one of three, as it were.
 
 126 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 " What are the others, and how many more ? " 
 i5aicl Lady Dmistahle. 
 
 " Oh ! there will be three more only ; it's no good 
 having too many. And now, will you all renew your 
 vows of obedience ? " 
 
 They did ; and he plunged into the library, and 
 summoned each in turn to consult over the dresses, 
 and generally lay a plan. They mutually came to 
 the conclusion that it would take a fortnight at least 
 to get everything arranged. 
 
 The only two who did not seem at ease were 
 Hermione and Colonel Myddleton. They were longer 
 with Mr. Freeman than anybody when it came to 
 their respective turns, and both came out looking 
 vexed and puzzled. Hermione went straight across 
 to Lady Clinton. 
 
 *' Dorothy," she said, ^^do you really think Mr. 
 Freeman is to be depended on? He is so odd. I 
 mean, don't let him turn us out as something 
 supremely ridiculous . ' ' 
 
 " Dear, I don't think he would do that, really ; he 
 has too true an appreciation of ever^-thing perfect and 
 beautiful. And really, I must say it, you are one of 
 the only people I ever knew him sincerely admire and 
 like. No, I am sure you at least are safe." 
 
 " But it is so odd ! " said Hermione, musingly. 
 
 '* What ? has he told you of a tableau all to your- 
 self ? " said Lady Clinton, curiously. 
 
 *' He won't say whether I am alone or not. I think
 
 THE COST OP A VOW. 127 
 
 not, from his manner. But the dress is too extra- 
 ordinary ; I don't Kke it." 
 
 " What is it ? Oh, do tell me." 
 
 " That's just it. I can't. I promised not, before 
 
 he told me. It seems stupid to make a fuss, but " 
 
 *' Oh, Hermione ! don't mind, please. I am sure 
 it "will be something beautiful." 
 
 But Hermione was anything but easy, and Mr. 
 Freeman was evidently not very sure of her, for he 
 was continually coming up to her that evening, and 
 during the rest of the time, to remind her that she 
 was "under orders," and on '^honour," not to dis- 
 appoint him. He was tremendously strict with every- 
 body's dresses and the grouping, and used to be having 
 constant rehearsals in the different ways he thought 
 would look best. Indeed, he was so earnest, and took 
 such pains, and was altogether so kindly and encourag- 
 ing, that they all grew quite fond of him and deferred 
 to his every wish. 
 
 " I've got it quite on my mind," he said to old 
 Lady Dunstable. '^I can see how it will all come. 
 I tell you what, it will be the most perfect thing of 
 its kind that ever was." 
 
 *' And what are the other tableaux going to be '? " 
 "Ah! that's my secret. Why, nobody knows, 
 except Colonel Myddleton." 
 " Why did you tell him ? " 
 
 " I only told him about one ; he doesn't know 
 what he's going to do in the other. By-the-by, I
 
 128 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 must be off after the saddler," and off he went, swing- 
 ing arms and legs down the approach. 
 
 ^' Now, I wonder if he is going to be with Hermione 
 in the one Dorothy says she is uneasy about," pon- 
 dered Lady Dunstable. ''Quarl is quite capable of 
 doing something allegorical between those two; and 
 they would make a wonderful match." 
 
 The funny thing was that, even in consulting 
 together, the different "figures" did not know what 
 they were going to be at relatively. It was a capital 
 idea of Mr. Freeman not telling them, as it caused 
 great excitement ; and so particular was he about 
 Hermione's dress, that it w^as ordered in London. 
 
 "What are you going to wear in your parts? " said 
 Hermione to Colonel Myddleton, when he came in late 
 one evening from the village. 
 
 "Principally leather," he said, "and then armour. 
 Freeman is gone wild on the subject of fit, and my 
 jerkin seems to be impossible. What are you going 
 to wear ? " 
 
 " As Catherine Douglas, a riding dress, and 
 then " 
 
 " Hush ! " said Mr. Freeman. " Come away, 
 Myddleton. Why, if you go on like that, you can't 
 get up the expression for your part. You are to 
 care for nothing, see nothing, hear nothing, look at 
 nothing." 
 
 "Then he is to be dead, I know!" said Gladys, 
 quick as lightning. Hermione gave a little shudder.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 129 
 
 **Not quite," said Mr. Freemau, with a curious 
 look at her. " You never can get up rigidity enough 
 for that sort of thing. No, my tableaux are to be 
 j)erfect ; and wiioever winks an eyelash shall have 
 Disko set at them." 
 
 ^' I know I am to be very nearly dead, anyhow," 
 whispered Eobert to Gladys. ^' I wonder who is going 
 to save my life ? Are you ? " 
 
 ** No ; I am only going to act in Catherine Douglas," 
 said Gladys, a little sadly now% on hearing her cousin 
 was going to have an extra part. " I do wish we could 
 get Josline Fairfax ujd here for the whole thing. How 
 she would enjoy it ! " 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said he, wishing quickly that 
 he might act with her, though the idea of her in any 
 character struck him at once as extraordinary and 
 incongruous. '' I am not sure, I think she would be 
 too shy ; and then Miss Barbara would never let her 
 come." 
 
 " I wonder if Dorothy went and asked her ? " mused 
 Gladys. 
 
 *' I'm afraid it's no go, Cat, and besides, they've 
 asked down Gabriel Vannier. I say, here's an idea ! 
 he'd better come up here, and paint us all." 
 
 ** And me, then ! for I am going to wear such a 
 dress ! " said Miss Thorold, holding up her little 
 hands, and spreading each finger wide. *'You don't 
 know how beautiful, and so becoming to me ; an^l they 
 are going to friz all my hair, and Lady Clinton has 
 
 VOL, I. K
 
 130 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 sent up for the emeralds and the rubies, both imrureSy 
 and all the diamonds are coming out, too, to be worn 
 down the front, white velvet and black satin." 
 
 " Oh ! but I don't understand," said Gladys. 
 " Queen Joanna would not wear those jewels in the 
 Catherine Douglas scene." 
 
 *' No, it's for another scene ; and I'll tell you 
 what," she added, a little pettishly ; " it's all the 
 fault of Miss St. John that we don't know our parts." 
 
 " Why ? " simultaneously from Gladys and 
 Eobert. 
 
 " Oh ! because Mr. Freeman thinks she wouldn't 
 do it, if she knew, and so he does not dare to tell her 
 till the last minute, and he does not like it to be 
 particular, and therefore, he won't tell anybody. 
 Heiresses are rather a plague ! " 
 
 " I don't think it's that, really." 
 
 *' Yes, it is ; he almost said as much. I don't see 
 why she should be so absurd. She told me she didn't 
 hate men, so I suppose she can't mind who she acts 
 with. And she is much too tall to look well with 
 any one." 
 
 " She is the most perfect and beautiful height,'* 
 said Gladys, hotly. '' Isn't she, Eobert ? " 
 
 ^'Well, I think both you and Miss Thorold would 
 look too tall, if you were her height ; but somehow, she 
 doesn't look too tall." 
 
 " She makes every man here look dwarfish," said 
 the fair little Mina.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 131 
 
 ^' Thank you ! " lie said, laughing. ^' Perhaps you 
 don't know I am six feet, and Colonel Myddleton is 
 six feet two ; and Phil is five feet eleven, and Sir Yere 
 Temple " 
 
 But Miss Thorold tucked her small hands up to 
 her ears, and shook herself angrily. " The fact is, I 
 don't like her. Can't you see it ? and she is too tall 
 for me," she said. 
 
 " Well, she is rather ahove you, I must confess," 
 said Mr. Freeman, wdio had been quietly listening to 
 everything, as usual. " You need not be afraid ; you're 
 not going to act with her." 
 
 '' Of course not, I wouldn't." 
 
 *' Yes, you'd have to, if I said so. Never mind, it 
 w^ould be a pity to eclipse you." 
 
 There was nothing for it but to laugh, as usual, at 
 Quarl. 
 
 "I have a suspicion, Miss St. John," said Colonel 
 Myddleton, coming up to her and sitting down by her, 
 a thing he had not done deliberately since that 
 evening, in the morning-room. 
 
 Hermione felt curiously glad. "Yes?" she said, 
 looking up, and laying her right hand over her left, to 
 hide the flash of those tiresome diamonds. 
 
 '* I wonder if it has struck you? I think we are 
 going to be in a tableau all to ourselves." 
 
 She was silent ; but a crimson flush mounted to 
 her forehead, and she dropped her eyes. 
 
 He looked at her keenly. " Shall you mind ? " he 
 said.
 
 132 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 " No, of course not ; why should I ? " she said^ 
 looking up, but as quickly letting her ejes fall again. 
 " I must do what I am bid, you know." 
 
 " Not at all," he said, earnestly. *' If you dislike 
 the idea, I'll refuse jDoint-blank, so you will have no 
 trouble." 
 
 She hesitated a little, and then said, "I think 
 that would be a pity, don't you ? He has so set his 
 heart on this tableau, evidently." 
 
 ^' This tableau ! "What? Which?" 
 
 " Well, I mean the only other I am going to act in 
 besides Catherine Douglas." 
 
 *' It shall be just as you like," he said. " Of 
 course, I like it. I wish you would tell me what you 
 are going to wear ; it might give us a clue." 
 
 " I don't like the dress ; it's too extraordinary," 
 she said, looking up again. " It's all white from my 
 head to my feet. I shall look like a ghost." 
 
 Colonel Myddleton started so violently that his 
 elbow upset a cup of coffee standing near him, and in 
 the confusion, consequent on wiping it up, made na 
 further allusion to the subject ; on the contrary, he 
 got up and moved hurriedly away. 
 
 " What can I have said now ? " thought Hermione. 
 " I'm always saying stupid things ; " and it was rather 
 wistfully that she looked towards the end of the 
 drawing-room, where Colonel Myddleton had drawn 
 Mr. Freeman, and was talking to him, evidently most 
 earnestly. Mr. Freeman looked round once or twice.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 18B 
 
 *' I say, Freeman ; you're not going to make me 
 act any tomfoolery, now, about that ghost story 
 here?" 
 
 ^'"Why?" 
 
 " Because, simply, I won't do it. I hate that sort 
 of thing, and frankly, my dear fellow, I won't do it." 
 
 " Ha ! hum ! Well " oracularly. 
 
 " Now, come, Freeman, out with it in time ; get 
 somebody else, but I won't do it." 
 
 Quarl was silent, holding his chin ; then he said, 
 '* Well, would it make any difference as to who was 
 the ghost ? " 
 
 " Yes — I mean no ; of course not, why ? " 
 
 " Oh ! j'ai mes idees voila tout ! " said he, looking 
 across at Hermione. Then suddenly, *' I'll tell you 
 what, Myddleton, it'll be an awful shame if you cut 
 out at the end. Now look here ; stop a bit ; listen ! 
 I've got such a scene in my head — it will be perfect — 
 there are only two people here who can do it ; you 
 are the man. Now then, be quiet, do ! Who do you 
 think looks in the least like the woman ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you what. Freeman, this is all very fine, 
 but I tvon't act in that scene. I hate such rubbish ; 
 it's a shame to bring a woman in as a ghost. I 
 couldn't stand it." 
 
 " Bah ! are you afraid, absolutely ? " Quarl said it 
 cmaously and slowly. 
 
 "Yes— well, I am— of that scene," answered. 
 Colonel Myddleton, in uncontrollable agitation.
 
 134 honoue's worth; or, ' 
 
 *' Well, then. Miss St. John is to act in it. Now 
 do you mind?" 
 
 "Just the same," with a spasm at the corners of 
 his mouth. 
 
 *' Then you would rather somebody else was the 
 old faithless Sir Sydney ? " 
 
 'a won't act in it." 
 
 *' Well, we must give it up, then," said Quarl, in a 
 quiet way, *' more especially as I had never thought 
 of it at all till you put it in my head." 
 
 '' Why, you said " 
 
 " Nothing at all," said he, impertm-bahly. " Only 
 you jumped to some extraordinary conclusion. Now 
 then, look here, who in this room, has a truly noble, 
 spiritual face ? " 
 
 '' They are all too young," said Colonel Myddleton, 
 coldly, turning deliberately away from looking at 
 Hermione. 
 
 " I don't agree with you. Miss St. John's face was 
 never young, and it will never grow old. She will act 
 the scene with you ; and I can tell you this — I think 
 she would be the one to object, if she knew, not you. 
 She will only be your good angel." Then he walked 
 off to make Gladys play. 
 
 Colonel Myddleton walked straight across to Her- 
 mione, as she had done to Dorothy, and said, *' You 
 are not going to be a ghost, only my good angel." 
 
 The excitement went on increasing. All the invi- 
 tations were written and despatched ; there was to be
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 135 
 
 a dance afterwards, and a fancy ball tlie next niglit 
 but one. The gardener was forcing flowers; the 
 housekeeper was nearly beside herself with anxiety 
 about the supper; the maids were working day and 
 night. The men under Sir Philip and Mr. Freeman 
 were arranging the hall and the dais. Temporary 
 pillars were raised in front of the dais, hung with 
 tapestry, and between them was slung the curtain. 
 A band was ordered down from London, and was to 
 be j)laced in the gallery that ran round the hall, at 
 half its height. Everybody worked for everybody 
 else, and nobody did what they ought to do. Mr. 
 Freeman had induced them to keep secret what they 
 were all going to wear at the fancy ball. 
 
 " The general world will think Charteriss has sud- 
 denly gone mad," said Gladys, dancing with glee. 
 
 " I think the general world has gone mad itself," 
 said Lady Clinton. *' Do listen ; Mr. Fairfax has 
 said Josline shall come with Mr. Crosbie, only not in 
 fancy dress ! " 
 
 Eobert Watt, w^ho was polishing a partizan, 
 coloured to the roots of his hair, 
 
 " I am sure Miss Barbara doesn't know, then," 
 said Gladys, "for I saw her yesterday, and when I 
 began about it, she sniffed and snuffed, and said 
 she didn't see what young people wanted with all 
 these pinkettings ! so I didn't dare say any more." 
 
 "Ah, but I went off to Mr. Crosbie, and he got 
 round that dear Mr. Fairfax ; but, of course, I shall
 
 136 honour's worth; or, 
 
 have to go in person, and ask Miss Barbara. It will 
 be rather fun, though. Hermione shall come, will 
 you, lone ? " 
 
 Meanwhile, day by day, Colonel Myddleton and 
 Hermione seemed to say less to each other. It was 
 not so much on her part as on his. He kept away as 
 much as he could, and when he could not refrain 
 from sitting near her, he hardly spoke. But there 
 was something so held down in his whole manner and 
 bearing, that Hermione was bound by it too. All the 
 old freedom of feeling that had had such charm for 
 her, the feeling that whatever she said he would 
 understand, was gone. She felt, instead, as though 
 he weighed and watched for her words, her inflection 
 of voice, with painful earnestness and often disap- 
 pointment; he seemed to her to hear what she was 
 saying through any buzz of talk — even if he were 
 speaking to others, in some way her voice appeared 
 to reach him; she knew it by some sudden turn of 
 shoulder and head. It made her restless and feverish; 
 but she had great self-control, and no one found it out, 
 unless perhaps Quarl. She and Mr. Freeman seemed 
 to have arrived at some strange unspoken alliance, 
 offensive and defensive, and she began to like the 
 strange man. 
 
 " Gabriel Vannier is coming to Old Court, and I 
 am going to stay there whilst he is there," said 
 Kobert Watt to Gladys. 
 
 ^' You will like that, won't you ? " said his cousin.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 137 
 
 " Yes, awfully. I say, Gladys, it's so odd — I think 
 I really have fallen in love at last." 
 
 " So it seems ; I knew you would with Josline. 
 What does it feel like ? " she said, wistfully. 
 
 " Oh, very horrid, hut rather jolly too. Of course 
 it will all he no good." 
 
 " I don't see that ! " indignantly. '' Why ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'm so poor. I say, I didn't mean to say all 
 this."
 
 138 honour's worth; or, 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A flood of light tlarougli the branches of the tallest 
 "walnut tree made golden mist in the small chamber 
 where, perched on a four-legged stool, Miss Barbara 
 was givmg out household linen to Mrs. Turgoose and 
 Phoebe. The carefully wired lattice window stood 
 wide open, letting in streams of warm air, thrills of 
 birds, and boom and hum of insects. Sweet scents 
 of rose and lavender and thyme came from each 
 press as Miss Barbara opened them in turn, and 
 handed carefully out the snowy and shining piles. 
 
 " These will go into the blue chamber, and these 
 into the west," she said, giving down some fine sheets. 
 
 *' Will Mr. Watt be in the blue chamber, madam ? " 
 
 *' Yes, that delicate artist must have the west, Mr. 
 Fairfax says." 
 
 '' My lady's own ! " ejaculated Turgoose, letting 
 Phoebe take the sheets from Miss Barbara. 
 
 '*Yes, Turgoose, my lady's own," answered Miss 
 Barbara, severely. *' Have you any objection ? " 
 
 The housekeeper turned round with an angry glare
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 139 
 
 at the sheets. *' Take care, Phoebe," she said, sharply ; 
 ''you are crumphng those fine pillow-cases; you're 
 not fit to carry such linen." 
 
 Phoebe, with an alarmed air, stroked the tiniest 
 crease out of the pillow-case, as you might touch a 
 gem in the Royal Crown. 
 
 *' Well, Turgoose, I think I have given you all you 
 require," said Miss Barbara, closing the presses with 
 an inward smile at the old woman's look of suppressed 
 anger. " You will see that the blue chamber and my 
 lady's own are prepared by this evening." 
 
 ''Will you give me some more sheets, please 
 madam, before you close that press ? " said Turgoose, 
 in a voice portendmg storm. 
 
 " I have given you all you want, I am sure," 
 answered Miss Barbara, carefully bolting the half of 
 the old press, and avoiding her housekeeper's eye. 
 " Phoebe, carry away that armful." 
 
 *' I beg your humble pardon, madam, but if Phoebe 
 may put them down here for a moment — girls are 
 that careless, and all that fine linen," she added, in a 
 voice of penetrating anxiety. 
 
 Miss Barbara closed the remaining door of the 
 press, and still Turgoose stood expectant. 
 
 " Come, now, you must both go," said her mistress,, 
 turning to the window. 
 
 Phoebe caught her superior's eye and went. 
 
 Miss Barbara leaned out in silence. She hated a 
 struggle with the housekeeper, and foresaw one now.
 
 140 honour's worth; or, 
 
 At the same time her own temper was rising like a 
 thermometer in the rays of Turgoose's heated feehngs. 
 
 " I hear the gate swing, madam." 
 
 " I have told you to go, Turgoose ; there is nothing 
 more for you to do." 
 
 *' If you please, madam," as she stooped, separated 
 the pile of linen, and came towards her mistress with 
 her arms full, " I am waiting for the sheets for my 
 lady's room." 
 
 " Now, Turgoose," said Miss Barbara, turning 
 round suddenly, sitting down on the four-legged stool, 
 and clasping her black mittened arms behind her in 
 her wonted manner, when she meant to be obeyed, 
 " I have given you that linen and I mean you to take 
 it away and use it." 
 
 " Certainly, madam, it shall be laid out in the 
 blue chamber most neat, as you would wish." 
 
 " Then what are you waiting for ? " 
 
 " Sheets for my lady's room." 
 
 " What sheets ? Your arms are full." 
 
 *' These are the fine sheets, madam, the best 
 pearled linen." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 ** And for my lady's room ? " 
 
 " You will put them on, and bring away the lace 
 counterpane, when I will give you out the quilted 
 Persian." 
 
 This was a fine stroke of malice on Miss Barbara's 
 part. She thought by rousing more anger to break 
 the force of the whole.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 141 
 
 " The quilted Persian ? Very well, madam ; and' 
 the lace for the blue room ? " 
 
 ''No. Mr. Watt will not want a counterpane at 
 all." 
 
 " There has always been a counterpane on the 
 blue room bed." 
 
 *' There has never been any but the finest linen 
 sheets on the west room bed," answered Miss Barbara. 
 *' NoWj-Turgoose, don't be such a foolish woman — you. 
 know it's of not the slightest use struggling with 
 me. My brother wishes that artist to have the west 
 room, and having the west room he must have the- 
 appurtenances thereof." 
 
 " My lady's own ! " murmured Turgoose. " In my 
 lady's time it never would have been." 
 
 " In my lady's time, Turgoose, you would no more 
 have dared to stand bandying words with your mistress. 
 than I choose to allow it now." 
 
 Miss Barbara rose and walked i3ast the house- 
 keeper to the door. " Follow me ! " she said. 
 
 Turgoose deposited her armful, gathered the 
 others, and followed. 
 
 Majestically her mistress passed the blue room 
 door and went on to the west chamber. Phcebe and 
 Mary were opening the windows, beating the rug, 
 settling the furniture generally. They were chattering- 
 like two birds, but the step of Miss Barbara caused 
 instant silence. She turned round to speak to- 
 Turgoose. No one was there.
 
 142 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 '' Tnrgoose ! " she called. A faint voice answered — 
 
 ''Yes, madam." 
 
 '' Where are you ? " 
 
 " Putting on the sheets in the blue room, madam.'* 
 
 " Phoebe, go and fetch the other pile of sheets 
 here," commanded Miss Barbara. 
 
 Phoebe went. Mary went on dusting and arrang- 
 ing. Down below came strains of the violin and 
 Josline's voice singing. Presently Phoebe came back. 
 
 " Put the sheets here, and tell Mrs. Turgoose I am 
 T/aiting." 
 
 The housekeeper came. 
 
 " Now, Turgoose, bring me the counterpane." 
 
 With careful hands, but rather shaking, the 
 housekeeper drew off the lace counterpane, folded it 
 carefully with Phoebe's help, and brought it to Miss 
 Barbara. 
 
 ''That's right. Now I have a little word for yon 
 all. Whilst I stand here, you Turgoose, and j^ou 
 Phoebe and Mary, will put the sheets on that bed." 
 
 " I will go and fetch them, if you will give me 
 your keys, madam," said the housekeeper. 
 
 " They are at your elbow, Turgoose," said Miss 
 Barbara. 
 
 The housekeeper turned with a start. There in 
 snowy freshness lay the sheets. She gulped, then 
 said, " Madam, I could not put them sheets upon this 
 bed for the artist gentleman." 
 
 " You could not ? " said Miss Barbara.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 143 
 
 *' No, madam." 
 
 " Then, not a servant shall touch them," said 
 Miss Barbara, with a sudden blaze of wrath. " Stand 
 where you are, all three of you. Oh, but this is too 
 much ! " 
 
 She stalked to the door and called in a voice whose 
 shrill clearness made the oak hall ring. 
 
 *' Dux ! Dux ! come here at once." 
 
 Mrs. Turgoose stood pale, silent, shaking in every 
 limb. Phoebe and Mary, appalled and aghast, held on 
 each to the opposite ends of the rug, mid air, as though 
 they were about to toss some victim to Miss Barbara's 
 wrath. 
 
 The violin sounds ceased, and Mr. Fairfax's voice 
 answered, " Yes, Barbara, I am coming." 
 
 Miss Barbara, with a pant, stalked to the window, 
 and called, " Josline ! " 
 
 A cloud of doves rose, wheeling, as Josline tossecT 
 them from her arms and shoulders and hastened in. 
 
 The astonished Mr. Fairfax and his niece found 
 themselves in the west room on obeying the summons. 
 
 Miss Barbara, with purple stains of anger on her 
 cheeks and forehead, and her cap tossed on one side, 
 stood glaring near the bed, drawing off her long 
 mittens. 
 
 " Dux ! " she began, " is this our mother's room ? " 
 
 ''Yes, my dear." 
 
 ** Did you wish the artist to be put here ? " 
 
 '' Yes, my dear."
 
 144 honour's worth; or, 
 
 '' Did yon give me that order ? " 
 
 *' Certainly, I asked you." 
 
 "Did you exi^ect everything to be as nice, as 
 thoroughly well-arranged, as though you yourself were 
 coming here — you, a Fairfax ? " 
 
 " Certainly," answered her brother, raising his 
 head a little loftily. '' My guest is before myself. 
 
 "Good; then sit in that chair, please. Now, 
 Josline, tuck away those hanging bobbins of yours, 
 and help me to make the bed." 
 
 Josline, with a hardly repressed smile, lifted the 
 sheets with her beautiful arms, and proceeded to make 
 the bed with Miss Barbara, and assuredly never was 
 couch more well-arranged. 
 
 Mr. Fau'fax was asked to inspect it, and gTavely 
 pronounced it perfect, and then Miss Barbara tm-ned 
 on Turgoose. 
 
 "Now, Turgoose," she said, sardonically. "As 
 you were quite unable to make a bed, your mistress 
 has taught you in her own mother's room, who was 
 the daughter of an earl." 
 
 The housekeeper's face twitched, and she suddenly 
 covered it with her hands and sobbed — "It was 
 because she was " 
 
 " Let me speak, Barbara," said Mr. Fairfax,, 
 quietly. " I don't think joii quite undei:^tand each 
 other." Miss Barbara heaved. "You both mean 
 much the same thing, only you look at it differently. 
 You, Barbara, give of your best to a guest, because
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 145 
 
 3-011 know j'oiir mother would have clone so, as being 
 the truest, noblest, only thing to do, no matter 
 whether they stand high or low in the social scale. 
 Tui'goose, loving my dear mother's memory and 
 reverencing her beyond all things and people, is 
 grieved to think any one should approach or in any 
 way be placed on the same footing " 
 
 '' Yes, yes, Master Giles ! " from Turgoose, now 
 quite softened and melted. 
 
 " Yes ; but you forget, Turgoose, that that is not 
 what she would have wished. Who so kind, so 
 thoughtful for others, so unselfish as my mother ? Did 
 it make any difference to her whether they were rich 
 or poor, high or low ? " 
 
 " No," murmured Turgoose. 
 
 " Did she ever speak more peremptorily or harshly 
 to you because you were her servant ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Did she ever tell you to do anything you would 
 have dreamed of questioning ? " 
 
 " No," still more low. 
 
 " Well, then, it is settled in this way : my mother 
 was by birth a lady, and by every feeling of her heart 
 and mind tenfold so. Knowing that the higher God 
 has chosen to place our rank, so much the more are 
 we bound to consult the feelings of those around us 
 with the true nobility of soul which comes from the 
 sense of how high above us all is the God who yet 
 took up His abode amongst the lowly." 
 
 Vol. I. L
 
 146 honour's worth; or, 
 
 A grave silence followed Mr. Fairfax's last words. 
 Miss Barbara had lost lier angry colour, and was 
 looking gently at the housekeeper. Phoebe and Mary 
 stood, with tearful eyes, nearly adoring their master 
 for his goodness. Josline was holding his hand. 
 Presently Miss Barbara drew on her mittens with a 
 jerk, and going across to Turgoose, held out her hand, 
 Slaying— 
 
 " If I was too severe with you, Turgoose, and you 
 not sufficiently obedient to me, we must forgive each 
 other. We were both working, as my brother says, 
 from the same motive, wrongly." 
 
 The old housekeeper kissed her mistress's hand 
 gratefully, and murmured, as Mr. Fairfax's footstep 
 died away down the passage with Josline's and Miss 
 Barbara's — " They are real, real gentlefolks." 
 
 Mrs. Turgoose, Phoebe, and Mary worked away 
 with a will to make the west chamber look quite at its 
 best. The Persian quilt made the bed look resplen- 
 dent. The bay-shaped windows stood wide open, 
 letting in warmth and flickering lights. A few deli- 
 cate flowers, sent in by the gardener, were arranged 
 in tall Venetian glasses, and a large chair, with side- 
 wings, stood in the angle of the window and table, to 
 rest weary limbs. 
 
 As she turned to leave the room, Mrs. Turgoose 
 gave a small sigh of regret that it was only an artist 
 who was to profit by such refinements and joys. 
 
 Gabriel Vannier's heart ached with lonofing for his
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 147 
 
 mother that night when sitting in the old chair, his 
 throbbing temples pressed in his hollow hand. The 
 refinement, the qniet, the serenity of sights and 
 scents, brought vividly back to his memory the mother, 
 who, through all her troubles and poverty, had yet 
 contrived always to surround her child with some- 
 thing of the subtle distinction and beauty of her 
 nature. 
 
 Could the housekeeper have known what perfect 
 rest and refreshment this room brought to the sad- 
 looking young man, whose slight, husky cough had 
 startled her kind heart that evening as she passed his 
 door late, she would have been repaid in full for her 
 struggles.
 
 148 HONOURS worth; or, 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 The church bells were ringing that melodious peal, 
 full and sweet, rarely heard out of England, or, indeed, 
 out of a village, which seems to say, with a silver 
 beat, like a sob of joy, " Come to chur — urch ! come 
 to chur — urch ! " 
 
 Eobert was walking up and down the velvet lawn 
 in a state of feverish anxiety. Gabriel Vannier was 
 watchmg the doves. The " person of the house " was 
 gravely parading, with dainty steps, down the nut- 
 walks ; her lifted, curling lips far from uttering prayer 
 or praise, I fear; her soft coat gleaming as though 
 she had donned a new dress in honour of the day she 
 fully intended desecrating with a slaughter of inno- 
 cents, might she but only entice some winged mes- 
 sengers on to the bough whereon she was about to 
 spring, curl up, and lie in wait. 
 
 One bell alone took up the strain now. Eobert's 
 head, which had been lifted, scanning each window of 
 the house in turn, fell as the garden door opened, and
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 149 
 
 Miss Barbara and her brother came out. His heart 
 sank with a bitter feeUng of disappointment, too great 
 for explanation, as, without further waiting, they 
 nodded to him to follow; and, passing along the 
 low wall, tm*ned the corner by the stone balls, and 
 went down the narrow path to church. 
 
 '* Then it is true," he thought to himself, standing 
 still and forcing his cane far into the turf at his feet. 
 '' I don't see why I should go to church at all, either. 
 I'll stay here with Gabriel, and perhaps I'll see her 
 that way." 
 
 " Are you not coming, Mr. Watt ? " said Gabriel, 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Are you going to church ? " said Eobert, amazed. 
 
 "Yes, I shall," answered he, with a slight hesita- 
 tion. " It will be so quiet." 
 
 " I should not have thought it much in your way," 
 said Eobert, laying a hand on his shoulder. 
 
 The artist smiled sadly. " It was my mother's," 
 he said. 
 
 How small a thing will sway us ? In five seconds 
 Eobert and Gabriel were hurrying along the narrow 
 pathway, to be in time ; and although Eobert was 
 growling and murmuring to himself about the " bother 
 of it," and "missing Josline," still he felt irresistibly 
 impelled to accompany the artist, whose will, however, 
 exceeding his powers, they were forced to pause to get 
 breath, at the old lych gate. 
 
 Mr. Fairfax and Miss Barbara had disappeared.
 
 150 honour's worth; or, 
 
 One or two villagers were hastening in. The bell had 
 stopped, and discordant screams of a trumpet, trom- 
 bone, bassoon, fiddle, and the occasional thump of a 
 drum, made the men look at each other, and Kobert 
 burst out laughing ; his companion was too exhausted 
 to speak or laugh. His extreme paleness made Eobert 
 stop and say, anxiously— 
 
 " I fear you are terribly weak, Vannier. Take my 
 arm." 
 
 The colour ebbed slowly back to his face, as they 
 sauntered into the porch, where they were met by a 
 small, fussy man with a blue wand, tipped with gold, 
 and led into a deep pew. 
 
 When Kobert looked up, he saw they were sitting 
 about the middle of the church, which was long and 
 very low, with thick, short pillars. Immediately in 
 front of them was a superb old tomb, surrounded by 
 carved angels bearing coats emblazoned ; and, on 
 their right, running at right-angles from the wall, 
 and raised above the body of the church about three 
 feet, was a small chapel, or rather what had been 
 such. It was now used as a pew by the Fairfax 
 family, and contained a large oak table, heavy oak 
 chairs, and an open fireplace, filled at this season of 
 the year with green boughs. 
 
 Kobert's heart gave a violent bound, for there 
 knelt Josline, her face buried in her hands. The 
 revulsion of feeling was almost painful. Miss Bar- 
 bara's stern glance met and reproved his ardent,
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 151 
 
 wistful gaze of joy, as she leant forward and said, 
 in a loud voice — 
 
 "You were very late, or you would have been 
 here ! " 
 
 He bowed deprecatingly, and only just in time to 
 stifle a smile, as the trombone gave a fearful moan in 
 the closing harmony. 
 
 Perhaps Eobert had never been so attentive in 
 church before. The sense that he was near Josline, 
 that she was praying with all her heart — she must be, 
 or how could she look so perfectly divine ? — the joy 
 and relief of knowing that thus she could not be a 
 Komanist, completely overcame him for the time 
 being, and filled heart and soul with gratitude and 
 worship, whether for the Creator or the creature he 
 did not care to define. Under Miss Barbara's watch- 
 ful gaze, he did not dare to look too often to his right ; 
 but dming Mr. Crosbie's sermon, which was delivered 
 with short, sharp emphasis, he kept his eyes fixed on 
 the beautiful east window, with the altarpiece below 
 it — the Holy Dove hovering, surrounded by angels' 
 heads, each small face between wings, bearing a dif- 
 ferent expression of joy and happiness. The warm 
 light from outside played up and down it, and one 
 face, with gleaming cui'ls and deep eyes, reminded him 
 so strongly of Gladys in a merry, half- serious mood, 
 that involuntarily he caught himself smiling at it. 
 
 The service was over, and they all met at the 
 lych gate.
 
 152 honour's wokth; or, 
 
 " I was afraid you were not coming, Miss Fairfax," 
 were the first words Kobert spoke, looking down at 
 Josline. 
 
 " I think I might have thought that of you," she 
 said, smihng. " You were so late, I began to think 
 the j)ainter had kept you." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " he answered, with hurried eagerness. 
 " It was entirely his doing that I came at all." 
 
 *^ Don't you go to church, then, as a rule ? " 
 
 " Yes, but I was waiting for you, and then I thought 
 you weren't going, and then I thought I wouldn't go 
 either." He stopped short, hitting at the brambles 
 hanging over the hedge. 
 
 Josline made no remark, a faint colour tinged 
 her cheek, and a new and vivid feeling shot through 
 her heart. 
 
 " Where w^ere you ? " he began again. *' I was in 
 the garden near your doves, but I never saw you go." 
 
 ^'Iwent first of all to Mr. Crosbie's, with some 
 flowers, for him." 
 
 " Do you put flowers in the church here ? " 
 
 *' No, they were for his room. I always take him 
 some on Sunday morning." 
 
 *' Who is that altarpiece by ? " 
 
 ^' Hudson ; it is thought rather good. Do you like 
 it?" 
 
 " Yes, it's an uncommon subject, too ; some of the 
 children's heads are charming. I saw Gabriel 
 Vannier looking at them for ever so long."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 153 
 
 *' And some one else too," she said, smiling. " I 
 saw you looking at them as though they were old 
 acquaintances." 
 
 " One was like my cousin Gladys," he said, with 
 a happy feeling to think she had noticed him. " She 
 is such a dear little thing." 
 
 In the evening there was some most beautiful 
 music; Mr. Fairfax drawing sounds from his violin 
 that Orpheus might have sought in vain to rival, and 
 Josline's exquisite voice, singing Mendelssohn's " Auf 
 Wiedersehen," till even Miss Barbara's eyes filled. 
 
 Strangely enough, Eobert, though perfectly en- 
 thralled and entranced, kept thinking more of Gladys 
 and the seraph's head in the altarpiece, than even 
 of the singer. 
 
 Gabriel Vannier leant out of the window, drinking 
 in scents and sounds with the peculiar powers of his 
 artist mind and soul. 
 
 After a short pause and silence, Josline began 
 " Che faro senza di te Eurydice." 
 
 Mr. Crosbie, who was talking to the " person of the 
 house," cm-led up on his knee, gave a start that pre- 
 cipitated 13USS between his legs, then got up and went 
 over to the window to Gabriel. 
 
 *' This is the very thing I wanted you most to 
 hear," he said, in an almost inaudible voice, '' though 
 I did not think she would have sung it to-night, with 
 me here, too, the little minx." 
 
 The artist did not move, his eyes were fixed on
 
 154 honoue's worth; or, 
 
 Josline ; he seemed drawing her with them on a mental 
 canvas. Her head was bent slightly on one side, her 
 eyes were half closed, her lips seemed to open only 
 enough to breathe gently ; so perfectly full of repose 
 was her whole figure, she might have been singing in 
 a picture, but that the full sorrowful anguish of sound 
 filled the room with waves of melody. 
 
 She held them all spell-bound, as that song should 
 always do, yet apparently by no volition of her own ; 
 it was as though her very life floated out in the cry, 
 " Eurydice ! Eurydice ! " 
 
 When she ceased at length, each person heard the 
 beating of their own heart ; a profound silence reigned 
 in the room, and then Mr. Crosbie noticed Gabriel's 
 head had sunk on his breast. He touched him, shook 
 him, the artist had fainted. 
 
 " It was the joy of that ineffable singing," he said, 
 when at last recovered he found himself lying on a 
 low settee by the open window. 
 
 " You had stood too long, I think," said Miss 
 Barbara, anxiously. ** I am sure you've looked 
 raady to faint all day, and all these flowers in the 
 room ; such nonsense of Josline, who will go on about 
 flowers and birds." And she gave a push to the great 
 blue vase full of the silvern lilies. 
 
 *' Oh ! I love flowers," said Gabriel, earnestly; 
 " they never hurt me." 
 
 " They made you faint, though, I'm sure," she 
 answered.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 155 
 
 He sat up linrriedly, very pale. *' I am so sorry 
 to have given you all so much trouble," he stammered. 
 " I will go up now. Will you thank Miss Josline, 
 oh ! so much for her great kindness in having sung 
 
 that song to me ? — the last time — my mother " 
 
 He broke off, got up and walked quickly to the door. 
 
 " Go after him, Mr. Watt, he'll faint again, poor 
 fellow." 
 
 But swiftly the artist had reached the landing, on 
 the top stair he stood gasping slowly, and as Eobert 
 bounded up to him, he heard him murmur to himself, 
 in a voice full of wistful misery, " Gran' Dio ! morir' si 
 giovine io che ho penato tanto ! "
 
 156 honour's worth; or, 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 The following day Gabriel Vannier came dovm early, 
 but not so early as Mr. Fairfax, who was already 
 playing softly in his den. 
 
 '' Ah ! up so early ! " said the host, laying aside 
 his bow, and holding out his hand to take and hold 
 that of his guest. " I fear you do not rest enough, 
 but I find as a rule that those who want most rest 
 take least." 
 
 " I have no time to rest, yet," answered Gabriel, 
 with a dim smile on his wan face. ^' Eest comes 
 only to the weary, and I have so much to do, I am 
 never weary." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mr. Fairfax, with dreamy terseness, 
 and as his fingers fell on the strings, he pressed and 
 drew out a long note, lifted his bow and fell back 
 again absently to music. 
 
 The artist leant against a tall-backed chair, the 
 colour flushing and fading; he saw again the singer
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 157 
 
 at the quaint but sweet-toned old piano, and as tlie 
 violin sounds rose, swelled, fainted, he drew towards 
 him the top of a cigar-box and a large brown chalk 
 pencil lying on the writing-table, and rapidly out- 
 lined her head, throat, and bust. 
 
 It was marvellously like, each delicate turn of lid 
 and lip, the small oval ear, the line of the hair, the 
 poise and droop of the head on the throat. 
 
 The colour deepened to vivid carmine on his thin 
 face, his hand quivered and burnt ; and ever the 
 picture grew as the violin music swelled, awoke, burst 
 into volume, melody, and grandeur. 
 
 As it died down into a wailing miserere, the sketch 
 was completed — a picture evolved from music with 
 minor closing. Gabriel held it out ; a look of joy 
 came on his brow, lighting his face like a lamp. 
 
 "It's worth it," he murmured, and placing it so 
 that the soft, full light from the window struck and 
 glorified it, he walked quietly away. 
 
 He strolled across the lawn till he was opposite the 
 bay window of the cedar parlour, where he became an 
 amused sj^ectator of the following scene. 
 
 The " person of the house " stood in fluffy dignity, 
 looking much discomposed on the window-seat ; Josline 
 was employed in smoothing her coat, and, it is to be 
 hoped, her ruffled cat-mind likewise, though at present 
 she was growling in an irate manner. 
 
 Miss Barbara, with her lustring dress carefully 
 tucked round her, a very high colour on her thin
 
 158 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 cheekbones, her dainty mittens thrown aside, and 
 every fold of her small apron denoting storm, was 
 kneeling on the floor with a small pair of bright brass 
 tongs, busily employed in carefully picking up some 
 silvery hairs from a large piece of brocade stretched 
 in front of the fire. 
 
 It was indeed a Sysiphus-like task ; no sooner did 
 the snapping tips of the tongs gather a hair than it 
 fell before it could be safely lifted on to a large sheet 
 of paper. Miss Barbara was kneeling on a green 
 square to-day, which of course was not large enough 
 to support her two knees properly, and every time she 
 bent forwards to seize a hair, she tipped up and nearly 
 fell on her face. All the time she kept on a voluble 
 stream of words, which came out in jets and jerks like 
 liquor out of a bottle partially unstoppered. 
 
 "Just to think of the cat lying on this piece of 
 brocade, my great-grandmother's best sacque ! so im- 
 pertinent ! She is getting beyond bearance ; you spoil 
 her so, Josline," shaking the tongs at the "person," 
 who fluffed and jumped, having been awoke from a 
 dreamless sleep by hearing them sna^Dped within an 
 inch of her round, soft face. 
 
 Josline was in a state of suppressed mirth, but 
 gravely said, " Fie, pussy! " with an admonitory tap 
 soft as silk on pussy's head. 
 
 " It's all of a piece nowadays," went on Miss 
 Barbara, " cats and girls go together. I bring down " 
 — tip up and nearly into the fire — " my precious
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 159 
 
 brocade just because Dux insists on my showing it to 
 that artist, who won't care to see it, I know, and then 
 — how these hairs do stick! there! two together! — 
 and then, what ? well, and then I find the cat asleep 
 in the very heart of the lotos flower, all amongst those 
 delicate petals. Ah ! "' Tip up number two. Miss 
 Barbara's pointed nose meets, with severe roughness, 
 the gold centre of the lotos ; she raises her head with 
 flaming nostrils, and weeping eye. "And there you 
 stand, Josline, not caring a bit, and stroking that 
 ridiculous mouser. Now just see ! six long draggling 
 hairs all on one leaf ! disgusting ! " Snip, snap of the 
 tongs, snip, snap, and up they came. *'I had just 
 gone up to get my little Italian, and iron it out 
 properly, and then these small tongs to. place coal on 
 
 without any dust, and then " Tip up number 
 
 three, but this time, quite overbalancing herself. Miss 
 Barbara's small curls lay delicately reposing on the 
 buds and blossoms, her tongs dug into the rug and 
 snapped upon air, and she lay prostrate. 
 
 The "person of the house " fluffed straight out of 
 the window, and Josline flew to lift her aunt, nearly 
 suffocated with laughter, and efforts to suppress it. 
 Miss Barbara tilted herself up, like a two-wheeled 
 cart, and not knowing the amount of damage she had 
 done, either to the brocade or herself, sat staring 
 in bewilderment for a second or so. Her first ex- 
 clamation, as Josline threw out her arms to raise 
 her, was —
 
 IGO honour's worth; or, 
 
 *' There, child, still on the red square, when I told 
 you to-day was green ! " 
 
 " Do let me help you up, aunt Barbara," urged 
 Josline, anxiously. 
 
 " Ah ! I'm on the blue myself! " she said, with a 
 little shriek. "Help me, Josline! Hump!" She 
 was erect and staring at the brocade, which, alas ! 
 was sorely creased by the fall. 
 
 " Never mind, dear aunt, and oh ! look, you have 
 hurt yourself with those horrid tongs." 
 
 *' Nothing to matter," answered Miss Fairfax, rue- 
 fully ; " but the brocade ! " 
 
 "Turgoose will put it all right," began her niece. 
 '' I'll run and fetch you some water to wash your 
 hand." 
 
 "Child, girl! the green squares, I say!" called 
 Miss Barbara after her, as Josline sped with light 
 leaps out of the room. 
 
 When, later on, Gabriel was shown the brocade 
 neatly smoothed out, and looking lustrous and infi- 
 nitely rich and beautiful, and thought with quick 
 retro-active amusement of Miss Barbara's downfall, he 
 could not refrain from smiling at Josline, and whis^Der- 
 ing, " ' Great was the fall thereof,' Miss Fairfax." 
 
 It was after breakfast. They were aU assembled 
 in the den, looking at and admiring the wonderfully 
 drawn head of Josline. She and Gabriel stood near 
 the window, deeply engrossed in a tray of gems, 
 intaglios, and cameos ; the painter was explaining to
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 161 
 
 her the meaning of some of them, and showing her 
 liow cleverly and with what exquisite skill the en- 
 gravers had seized on the veining of the gems to give 
 force to a certain expression or attitude. 
 
 *' How I should like to travel and see all these 
 beautiful things in their own lands ! " she said. " I 
 always think that seeing the actual places, living in 
 the same atmosphere, surrounded by the same colour- 
 ing, breathing the same air, would enable one to enter 
 so much more fully into the spirit of the worker." 
 
 "Yes, there is much in that," he answered, thought- 
 fully. " I have read a poem once, and found no clue 
 to its meaning — I mean the meaning it held in the 
 mind that wrote it, which, is after all, hardly ever the 
 signification the reader seizes at first sight ; and then 
 perhaps, after weeks, months, I have read it again not 
 trying for its secret, and suddenly, like a light in a 
 dark chamber, the whole mystery has penetrated my 
 mind in a flash ; then you feel that your mind has 
 met, has actually touched, the spirit that wrote." 
 He paused. *' It is most wonderful," he went on 
 slowly. "I suppose it is the divine brotherhood in us, 
 the real equality of our Father's spirit breathed in us 
 at our creation, that thus overflows at times the out- 
 ward boundaries of our different humanities, and 
 echoes soul to soul. I think this is how we shall know 
 each other in heaven, even as we are known." 
 
 " Our souls are like crystals that ring, it would 
 seem to me you think," said Josline. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 1G2 honour's worth; or, 
 
 '' Crystals under slime," he answered, with a faint 
 smile. *' God's finger touches us, and we vibrate; 
 each time that our spirit rings responsive and true to 
 another, without effort and without simulation, I 
 beheve God has touched us." 
 
 Josline was silent ; her eyes were fixed on Eobert, 
 who, standing back from the picture, with folded arms, 
 was intently regarding it. A slight shudder passed 
 over her frame. 
 
 "Do you think, then, that such minds would 
 naturally further and further incline towards each 
 other ? " 
 
 '' That depends. If they met much, I think it 
 would be so, and yet not invariably, for further know- 
 ledge might show that they only met on mutual 
 ground in one form." 
 
 They were both silent; Gabriel thinking of his 
 wife — Josline of Eobert Watt. 
 
 There was no question with herself; she liked him. 
 From the first day she had been drawn towards him 
 by a force she had not tried to gauge or resist. What 
 it was in him that so particularly attracted her, she 
 had never attempted to define; he was not in the least 
 the sort of person she had ever pictured to herself as 
 an ideal, even in her vague, girlish feelings ; but she 
 knew when he was in the room, even if he were not 
 speaking. She felt an undefined restlessness when he 
 was not in sight, she avoided his eye whenever it 
 might possibly be fixed on her, she found herself
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 1C3 
 
 barkening to liis tread, she heard his voice through 
 other voices ; and she knew, without words, that it was 
 the same with him. 
 
 The last few days he had been particularly in her 
 mind. He had never shown to such advantage as 
 now, in being careful to help Gabriel Vannier in many 
 small ways, in lifting or supporting heavy books or 
 portfohos, in bringing him without word or question 
 his warm muffler, in closing doors if he thought the 
 artist stood in a draught. Each and all of these small 
 things had been so delicately and simply done, that 
 the painter himself had, she thought, hardly been 
 aware of them, at any rate had not resisted them, and 
 that was the main gain. 
 
 There was something very wistful in her face v/hen 
 she again spoke to Gabriel, and a little paleness in 
 her cheek and blueness about her eyes that made her 
 look almost as though she had wept inwardly. 
 
 " Do you think both minds feel it at the same 
 time ? " she asked, with a slight quiver in her voice. 
 
 " I was speaking of a book," he said, smiling. " If 
 you mean two minds recognizing each other in the 
 same instantaneous manner as the spirit of a book 
 will flash on one's intellect, I think they do." 
 
 "Is it a ha^opy thing, do you think?" Her eyes 
 looked up into his, and he looked gravely dovvii on 
 her, and said — 
 
 " Not always ; but it implies a great gift for a 
 great jpurpose."
 
 164 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 Her colour faded yet more, and slie murmured to 
 herself, "A gift already given." 
 
 '*A11 gifts can be redeemed," he said, ** excepting 
 God's." 
 
 *' Yes," she answered. 
 
 Here Mr. Fairfax called him to come and look 
 at a most exquisite Zuccarelli — a little smiling land- 
 scape in Northern Italy ; on the right, a bank with 
 tall trees, two horsemen riding down a glade, and 
 a far-away vista of hills going back into snow. 
 
 Gabriel's face glowed with delight and recollection 
 of the landscape, and he began explaining to Mr. 
 Fairfax the scene of the picture. Josline stood for a 
 little quite alone ; Eobert was listening to the artist, 
 and Miss Barbara was cossetting the '' person of the 
 house," who, now quite forgiven, was rubbing gently 
 against the black mittens. 
 
 The girl was lost in reverie ; her eyes, though fixed 
 on the group near her, yet rested in reality on none of 
 their figures. 
 
 " How earnest you look. Miss Fairfax ! " said 
 Kobert's voice suddenly, close to her. " Were you 
 ever there ? " 
 
 "No, never. I should so like to go abroad. I 
 have ahvays longed to go," she answered, looking up 
 at him with a good deal of the earnest expression she 
 had been unconsciously infusing into her eyes. 
 
 " Howl should like to take you ! " he answered, as 
 earnestly in tone.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 165 
 
 ''Ah! that will never be," she said, absently. 
 " One never does what one most longs to do. Oh, 
 how I should like to go abroad ! When I look at all 
 these beautiful pictures and gems, I wonder how 
 any one loving art can ever live long severed from the 
 country which produces them." 
 
 '' Yes, I too used to think that, but it is a great 
 disaiDpointment in reality ; these are dead things, 
 not living art, and everything you see produced 
 there now is so infinitely below them in feeling 
 and execution." 
 
 "Do you think so ? Still I should like to go. How 
 can you stay here, if you can travel, Mr. Watt ? " 
 
 He looked earnestly at her, so earnestly that 
 again the colour faded in her sensitive face. 
 
 " Certainly, there would be the joy of coming back, 
 if my father would let me go," he said, slowly. 
 
 She moved a little ; her lips trembled. 
 
 '' Would you like me to — would you wish me to go. 
 Miss — Josline ? " 
 
 " I — if I were a man, I should go," she said. 
 
 "Do you think it would be well for me to go — 
 really — truly ? " His voice fell and trembled like hers 
 had done. 
 
 " There would always be the coming back you 
 spoke of," she said, faintly. 
 
 " Oh ! Then I might come back here to see — Miss 
 Barbara, your uncle ? " 
 
 " Yes, they are not likely to travel."
 
 166 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 ''And— and you?" 
 
 " This is my only home, I am not likely to 
 wander." 
 
 " But you would like to do so, you long to do so. 
 Do you like seeing new people, as well as new 
 places ? " 
 
 " I have never seen new places, and I hardly ever 
 see new people." 
 
 ''Do you get strongly attached to places and 
 people?" 
 
 " I grow accustomed to them, and then — no, I do 
 not like anything very new." 
 
 " But do you think you might grow to like even 
 indifferent people, if you got accustomed to them ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; yes, I suppose you always grow to 
 endure those you must live with, or else you die." 
 
 "But you would like to have the power of choosing 
 your — I mean those with whom you were to live ? " 
 
 " I am different to everybody you ever knew," 
 she said, with sudden tears floating in her eyes. "It 
 is quite impossible for you to judge, or generalize from 
 me, Mr Watt." 
 
 A passion of anxiety, he could never afterwards 
 define why, shook Piobert to the soul. " Why? " he 
 said, drawing closer, and laying a cold, trembling hand 
 as near her as he dared, which, after all, was only to 
 clasp and grasp with painful force the edge of the 
 heavy writing-table. 
 
 " Oh, because " said Josline, and stopped with 
 
 an effort, that made her shake like a leaf.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 167 
 
 " Do tell me," he leaned lower, till she felt his 
 agitated breathing lifting her hair. 
 
 She looked up at him with a wistful, grave, solemn 
 earnestness, that was like a benediction or a miserere. 
 
 "I dare not tell you," she said, and her lips 
 trembled, till he thought she would have wept. 
 
 " I won't ask you," he said, suddenly ; '' but, oh ! 
 Miss Fairfax " 
 
 Neither her voice nor his filled the pause.
 
 168 honour's worth; or, 
 
 CHAPTEK XIV. 
 
 " I know you could do it fast enough if you tried." 
 
 It was Eobert speaking. He was hanging with 
 feverish eagerness over Gabriel Vannier, who held in 
 both hands the picture of Josline on the rough box 
 lid. 
 
 "I don't know. I am not sure — I think not," 
 answered the artist, slowly, " This came to me sud- 
 denly. What a heavenly face it is ! " he ended, hold- 
 ing the picture further and further from him. *' You 
 
 might make anything of her. Madonna, angel, or " 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 *'"What?" said Eobert, half angrily, striding up 
 and down the room biting a pen, and now and then 
 coming back, seemingly by a stronger vohtion than 
 his own, to gaze at the picture. 
 
 " A woman who would love you to the very death." 
 
 ^'Ha! ha!" 
 
 Gabriel sighed, put the picture on the table, sat 
 down in front of it, and settHng his chin on one hand,
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 169 
 
 and shading Lis eyes with the other, looked long and 
 silently at it. 
 
 ** What is the good of yonr staring at it so ? " said 
 Eobert at last, coming behind him, and laying his 
 hand tightly over his eyes. *' How I wish you would 
 copy it for me." 
 
 ** I couldn't,'^ answered the artist, earnestly. 
 
 *' Do you think you could paint her again ? " said 
 his friend, after a pause. 
 
 " I'll try ; but she will never have that look." 
 
 Both of them remained looking at the picture. 
 
 " Do you really think her so capable ? Bah ! how 
 can you know ? " broke off Eobert, suddenly. 
 
 " Of loving, you mean ? " ended Gabriel, quietly. 
 *' Yes, but I don't think she would ever let herself 
 do it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " It would kill her." 
 
 *' Nonsense ! " 
 
 Gabriel drew a sheet of paper towards him, 
 sketched rapidly the blue vase and the silver lilies, 
 then shadowed in her head like the heart of one 
 of the large flowers, throwing the shadow of a petal 
 across her mouth, giving the wistful, earnest look 
 Eobert knew so well. 
 
 He stood breathless ; the picture grew. From 
 down in the garden they heard a distant voice, that 
 grew and grew likewise. 
 
 " Es ist bestimmt in Gottes Eath, das man vom
 
 170 honour's worth; or, 
 
 liebsten was man hat, muss Scheiden." A tm-n in 
 the walk caused the voice to fade away, then grow. 
 "Auf wiedersehen ! auf wiedersehen ! " 
 
 Dead silence in the room; the painter sighed 
 heavily, Eobert drew a gasping breath. 
 
 " Still I like the first one best," said the latter, 
 at last. 
 
 "We will take them both to Mr. Fairfax, and 
 let him choose, would you like that ? " proposed 
 Gabriel. 
 
 "Of course he will choose the one I want, but I 
 don't see any better way." 
 
 " I shan't say they are either for you." 
 
 Mr. Fairfax truly preferred the Eurydice portrait, 
 as Gabriel was well aware he would ; as any one 
 knowing and loving Josline would have done ; but he 
 was too kindly and anxious to gratify the artist to 
 press for the choice when he noticed a slight reluct- 
 ance on Gabriel's part to yield it, although nominally 
 he was given his preference. 
 
 " They are both very beautifully done," he said, 
 at last. ^' And perhaps — well, I know well how she 
 looks by her lilies, and, if I may, I will keep that, and 
 thank you many times for so valuable and beautiful 
 a gift." 
 
 Yet all the time he was holding and looking at 
 the Eurydice portrait, and Ptobert trembled for his 
 resolution. 
 
 Finally he banked up the lilies' heart with some
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 171 
 
 heavy folios, and said, "I shall put it into that old 
 Florentine ebony and tortoise-shell frame." 
 
 " That will be perfect," answered Gabriel. 
 
 So Eobert got his picture, and, when it was fairl}- 
 his, could do little else than sit and gaze at it. 
 
 Josline was quite startled to see another portrait 
 of herself, and admired infinitely the delicate drawing 
 of the lilies, although she did not think the likeness 
 very striking. 
 
 " Dux, I wish to speak to you," began Miss 
 Barbara, with much solemnity, coming in and sitting 
 down with palm pressed to palm. *' Do you know 
 what is going on here ? " 
 
 "Going on?" he said, rather vaguely, with his 
 head buried in old music, hunting for the score of 
 one of Haydn's canzonets. " No; anything serious ?" 
 
 " Eobert Watt has fallen in love with Josline." 
 
 ** Well, why not ? " he said, absently. '' Where is 
 that canzonet? Everything is so torn and pulled 
 about ! I think, dear, the cat must get in here 
 sometimes." 
 
 ''I wish she did," observed Miss Barbara, grimly. 
 "You think of four-legged cats, and I of two-legged 
 ones." 
 
 " Barbara ! when you know how sorry I was 
 about that kitten, now, and I told them to kill it 
 quickly, and " 
 
 " Nonsense, Dux ! Don't think of those nasty 
 things ! " broke in Miss Fairfax. " How puss could
 
 172 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 ever have had it, I don't know " (pathetically and 
 parenthetically). *'What I mean is about Eobert 
 Watt ; has he any money ? " 
 
 "Money? Money would not pay for all this 
 mischief." 
 
 " No, I'm well aware it w^on't. I don't suppose 
 Josline will have much. You with your ideas ; but I 
 tell you fairly, Dux, I ivill leave her my mother's 
 topazes," — this with some heat — ''they will be very 
 unbecoming to her, but " 
 
 " Barbara, I really cannot permit this " 
 
 " They are my own jewels. Dux," said Miss 
 Barbara, with superb dignity, " and she is your own 
 niece, though I know " 
 
 ''Barbara, will you listen to reason. These — Good 
 gracious ! " 
 
 There was a rustle, down fell a mass of music ; 
 there was a faint squeaking, and, lo, a whole nest of 
 young mice in the very heart of the canzonets ! 
 
 The tears actually rushed to Mr. Fairfax's eyes, 
 and he, ordinarily so calm and patient, stamped his 
 foot and waved his bow as though about to exter- 
 minate the whole brood at one fell swoop. 
 
 " There ! " said Miss Barbara, peering down over 
 his raised arm. " Now perhaps you will let puss 
 come in here again ; disgusting creatures ! Puss, 
 puss, puss ! " 
 
 " What ! before my eyes ? No, I can't see it," and 
 he fled.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 173 
 
 But his sister was not to be put off from lier news, 
 she came upon him in the hazel walk. 
 
 " What was I telling you this morning, Dux ? " 
 
 " TelKng me ? Oh ! about — no, I forget." 
 
 "What do you know about Eobert Watt, brother ? " 
 
 "He is a pleasant young fellow." 
 
 " So is Gabriel Vannier, the artist." 
 
 ** Yes, indeed," he said, warmly. " I have rarely 
 met any man with a truer, keener love of art." 
 
 " But you would not like him to marry Josline ? " 
 
 " Barbara ! " stopping short in his strolling walk 
 and flushing to his temples ; then he laughed a little 
 low laugh, and said, " Nonsense ! but you startled 
 me." 
 
 " Well, I did not mean that, certainly. But hov/ 
 about Eobert Watt ? " 
 
 "Oh ! as to that " a long pause ; then he said 
 
 slowly, " Why not ? " 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure ; it will be certainly 
 
 Why, yes." 
 
 "Well, Barbara, she must marry some day, I sup- 
 pose, dear child — they will always marry sooner or 
 later, somehow," he ended dreamily. 
 
 "You and I never did," said Miss Barbara, 
 jealously. " I don't see why she must." 
 
 " Oh, us ! But then she is so beautiful, Barbara ; 
 and after all " He stopped again. 
 
 "Well, after all?" 
 
 "Well, after all, I would have, if I could; and 
 you might have, if you would."
 
 174 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 ''But I would not, and why should she would?" 
 said Miss Barbara, in such sudden angry confusion 
 as to forget both sense and grammar. "I don't see 
 why we old people are to have all the anxiety and 
 care and plague of taking thought for them, and then, 
 just when they are beginning to know our ways and 
 be pleasant to us and companionable, and — and of 
 use, then they must just go away with some young 
 fellow, who is nobody knows who, and how he gets 
 hold over them I don't know." She stopped, out of 
 breath, red and quaking. 
 
 "Now, Barbara," began her brother, quietly, 
 *' you are jumping to conclusions very hastily, and 
 you are wrong in your premises. We do know who 
 Eobert Y/att is " 
 
 *' But has he any money ? " 
 
 " That, of course, we must discover, not that it 
 is of much consequence, as I have no children and 
 Josline will be my daughter." 
 
 "Oh, Dux!" 
 
 " Why not, Barbara ? after you, of course. Young 
 things must wait ; but she is the pearl and joy of my 
 old, withered life, and why should she not eventually 
 be happy ? I know she will always love all my old 
 things — my pictures, my gems, my violins. Dumps" 
 (his cob), "this dear, old place, and the walnut trees 
 — yes, she loves them better than you even, Barbara ; 
 she would never dream of cutting down one stick or 
 twig."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 175 
 
 '' It was only to give you more light, Dux," mur- 
 mured Miss Barbara, rutlifully, looking at the fine 
 tree she had once nearly sacrificed. 
 
 "And then you say, because we have been good to 
 them whilst they were young, the young should live 
 with us when we are old ? but then when would they 
 enjoy their own freshness a.nd powers ? I think the 
 old will always — as they have done always — live for 
 the young, and the young will live for themselves and 
 in themselves." 
 
 " Josline has been quite happy till now," said Miss 
 Barbara. 
 
 " She is quite happy still, I think," he answered. 
 *' And we do not know, because he cares for her, that 
 she cares for him. Ah, Barbara ! she has had a very 
 shadowed childhood ; will you blight her girlhood too, 
 from a vain idea of keeping her always all your own ? 
 But you could not do it." 
 
 His sister flushed darkly. 
 
 " I think women are the most generous ^nd un- 
 selfish creatures to men, and the most grasping and 
 jealous to each other." 
 
 "I am sure she does just as she likes always," 
 said Miss Barbara, hastily. " She has her birds, and 
 flowers, and singing, and — and " 
 
 " Her counterpart ? " 
 
 " I declare, Dux, it is not necessary for women to 
 marry." 
 
 "And yet 'it is not good for man to be alone.'
 
 176 honour's worth ; or. 
 
 Ah, Barbara ! you are on the edge of a great 
 mystery." 
 
 They wandered on slowly in silence. 
 
 The little birds sang east, 
 And the little birds sang west. 
 
 " Then you really mean to make Josline your 
 heiress ? " she asked, at length. 
 
 "If Robert Watt wants her to wife, means shall 
 not fail," he said, gravely. 
 
 " But, Dux, supposing she were to — I mean — sup- 
 posing she followed — fell back into — became like her 
 mother ? " she ended in a low, awful whisper. 
 
 '' Ah, that old pain ! " he said, then paused, bent 
 his head low on his breast, looked up quietly, moved a 
 few steps, and his eyes rested on the old dial. He said 
 slowly and in a deep, grave tone — " * There is one body, 
 and one Spirit, even as ye are called in one hope of 
 your calling ; one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one 
 God and Father of all, who is above all, and through 
 all, and in you all.' "
 
 THE COST OP A VOW. 177 
 
 CHAPTEK XV. 
 
 " Lady Clinton and Miss St. John, please, ma'am." 
 
 Upon this announcement the alarmed Phoebe re- 
 tired, and Miss Barbara rose from the straight-backed 
 chair, with the lion-headed arms, to receive her guests. 
 She stood up straight and tall, grim as cast-iron, and 
 with a most forbidding frown from sheer nervousness 
 and shyness. 
 
 Hermione sat down with her back to the light, 
 looking at the old pictures let into the panel, more 
 particularly did her eye fall on sweet Mistress 
 Margaret. 
 
 Lady Clinton soon set the conversation afloat in 
 spite of Miss Fairfax's monosyllabic answers. After a 
 few commonplaces she turned a little more towards 
 Hermione, as though to gather courage from her 
 extreme quietude, and said, with a kind of spasmodic 
 quickness of intonation — 
 
 " Sir Philip, Gladys, and I hope, so much, that 
 you will let your niece come to our tableaux later on. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 honouk's wokth ; or, 
 
 Mr. Crosbie thought, perhaps, if I came and asked, as 
 a great favour, you would allow it ? '* 
 
 With quick synthetic power Miss Barbara's mind 
 seized and surveyed the position. They had not dared 
 to come direct to herself ; they had gone to the god- 
 father ; they had, perhaps, gone to the uncle ; they 
 had laid a plan ; they had a plot ; they were gradually 
 going to take away the girl who was the one bright 
 thing in her life. No, it should not be ! She would 
 show that she still had power to refuse — to keep back 
 what no one living had so clear a right to — the fresh- 
 ness of this young life, its first impressions, its first 
 gladness. This loving, narrow-hearted woman would 
 cling and grasp, with claw-like force, to the last 
 vestige of her right, forgetting that what she thought 
 of did not exist ; for love has no rights, only longings, 
 which may or may not be satisfied; but which can 
 never be compelled into life or power. 
 
 Hermione saw instantly that Dorothy had made 
 a wrong move ; but it was too late to alter words or 
 expressions now. 
 
 Grasping the lion heads, whose sharp angles bit 
 into her hands and added thus to her irritation, Miss 
 Barbara said, shortly — 
 
 " Very kind, I am sure ; but Josline is delicate 
 and easily tired ; I never wish her to go into any ex- 
 citement. Girls are too fond of gadding about now." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Fairfax, I will take such care of her ; 
 it will be so pretty. Do let her come ! "
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 179 
 
 " Very pretty, indeed, I've no doubt; but her head 
 is full of nonsense already, and more than enough ; 
 since we have had that young artist here, there has 
 been nothing but music and sentiment and goings 
 on," ended Miss Barbara, rather vaguely, and actu- 
 ally against her own convictions, for she had begun 
 to take a real interest in Gabriel, and by no means 
 disliked either the music, the sentiment, or the 
 goings on. 
 
 "Oh! is he here still?" asked Hermione, seeing 
 it would be wise to urge no further at present about 
 Josline. 
 
 " No ; he left this morning," answered Miss 
 Barbara, tm-ning sharply on her other visitor, and 
 scanning her gravely from head to foot, and then 
 fi'om feet to head. 
 
 Now, if Miss Barbara had a weakness, it was for 
 very tall, very fair people ; and something in Her- 
 mione' s voice pleased and soothed her, as a quiet 
 sky will calm a troubled mood. 
 
 " Do you know him ? " she added. 
 
 ** No ; but I have heard a good deal about him. 
 I should so like to see some of his pictures," answered 
 Hermione, feeling that Miss Barbara was suddenly 
 mollified, though she did not define why. 
 
 " I can show you one, if you don't mind taking the 
 trouble to come into my brother's den." 
 
 They went across the hall in the semi-transparent 
 darkness, and, going into the den, found it empty.
 
 180 HONOUB*S WORTH ; OR, 
 
 The lilies' heart stood in its frame of ancient work- 
 manship, leaning against the melodies of the old 
 masters. So exquisitely was the head shadowed on 
 the glory of the flowers, that it gave the impression 
 of being painted on pearl. 
 
 *'How lovely!" said Lady Clinton; *' and how 
 exquisitely painted ! He must, indeed, be all Robert 
 Watt said of him as a painter. Wouldn't you like 
 to see the picture he is painting for Bob, Hermione ? " 
 " Yes. I hope to know your niece some day, Miss 
 Fairfax, if I may," said Hermione ; " I hear she sings 
 so beautifully; and somehow this picture looks as 
 though she might have been taken after singing." 
 
 "That is cm'ious," said Miss Barbara. "It was 
 not ; but one that the young man did at first, and 
 that was far more beautiful, was done after she sang 
 some Italian song." 
 
 "Is that here?" said Dorothy, looking round 
 eagerly. 
 
 " No. My brother had his choice, and why, I can't 
 think, with a man's whim he chose this. The other 
 was far more like." 
 
 " What wonderful eyes ! They seem to follow 
 one everywhere. I should like to know her ! " said 
 Hermione. 
 
 " I am sure she would be very pleased," said Miss 
 Barbara, unconsciously becoming more and more 
 fascinated. " I am afraid she is gone out now ; 
 she was going down to Nan Partridge, the black-
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 181 
 
 smith's wife, and was to meet her uncle afterwards. 
 He is gone botanizing in Crumb's Bottom." 
 
 " Ah ! that's where the bogbean grows, Hermione. 
 You'll have to stay on here into next summer, and go 
 and look for it," said Lady Clinton. " Gladys and 
 Eobert know all the paths about there." 
 
 *' Do you care about herbs ? " said Miss Barbara. 
 *' I have a fine collection. I thought no one cared in 
 these days ; no young x3eople, I mean." 
 
 "Yes ; I am very fond of plants and tveeds,^' said 
 Hermione ; " but I know very little about them. I 
 find it so difficult to get books about them." 
 
 " Dux has several— Giles, I mean. I am sure he 
 would tell you ; and I could show you some very 
 strange dried ones, if you like," 
 
 '^ I should be most grateful," said Hermione, 
 thinking Miss Barbara looked quite pleasant when 
 she smoothed out that knife-like frown. 
 
 As they were going away. Lady Clinton said— 
 
 *' You will let me know, then, whether you could 
 allow Miss Josline Fairfax to come or not ? " 
 
 " I think I may at once decline," said Miss Barbara, 
 stiffening where she stood, clasping her hands tightly 
 behind her back, and balancing inelegantly backwards 
 and forwards from her heels to her toes, and vice versa. 
 
 " I would take such care she didn't catch cold," 
 said Hermione, with her clear, grave eyes fixed on 
 the aunt's face. *' I really understand delicate 
 people."
 
 182 honour's worth; or, 
 
 *' Of course lier uncle must decide ; but I am 
 quite against it, quite ! " 
 
 The horses were just starting ; there was no time 
 for more ; when suddenly Miss Barbara picked a large 
 spray of sweet-briar, and putting it into Hermione's 
 hand, said — 
 
 *' We are famous for our sweet-briar; and you 
 said you liked weeds ! " 
 
 *' Oh ! thank you ! " and they were off. 
 
 " Cantankerous old person ! " whispered Dorothy. 
 *' That poor girl must have a very sad life of it. Now 
 just think of the difference between her and Lady 
 Dunstable." 
 
 ''Yes," said Hermione, thoughtfully; ''but there 
 is something very sincere about her, I should think, 
 inflexibly rigid and just ; but there is something 
 kindly, too, in her tone now and then." 
 
 " There you go again with your favourite virtue, 
 Justice ! I believe you could forgive anything to any 
 one you thought even meant to be just." 
 
 "But then, how many need I forgive anj^thing 
 to?" said Hermione. "I am quite sure it is the 
 supreme and rarest virtue." 
 
 " I don't know. I think men are generally just." 
 
 " To each other, perhaps ! " 
 
 " You are just, Hermione, even to — no, not to 
 yourself, I think." 
 
 " The less one thinks about oneself, the better," 
 said Hermione, quickly. " Though, I suppose, trying 
 to act rightly would help one to think rightly."
 
 THE COST OP A VOW. 183 
 
 " Why, that is rather putting the blade before the 
 haft, surely ? " 
 
 " Oh ! there they all are ! " said Hermione. 
 
 Standing under the walnut trees by the smithy, 
 were Mr. Fairfax, Josline, Mr. Crosbie, and Eobert 
 Watt. An old woman, looking like a gipsy in a 
 scarlet cloak, was vehemently declaiming, apparently 
 against Nan, who was standing clinging to her 
 husband's arm. 
 
 "Keeping the loaf from your neighbours that 
 fashion, will never fill your bodies or . minds "wi' 
 good ! " she said. 
 
 " Why, it's Polly from the gate lodge," said Lady 
 Clinton. '' What can she be so cross about ? I am 
 sure she can't want anything." 
 
 As they came nearer the old body hobbled off, 
 muttering furiously; and they saw that the others 
 were all laughing. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " said Dorothy, leaning out. 
 
 *' It's only Polly in a rage, because she knew 
 nothing of the goings on by which Charteriss is 
 going to astonish the world," said Mr. Crosbie. 
 ''They call that, namely, not repeating news or 
 gossip, keeping the loaf from your neighbours." 
 
 " Poor old thing ! I'll go down and have a talk 
 to her. Mr. Fairfax, I don't think you know Miss 
 St. John. Miss Josline Fairfax." 
 
 "We have been to see Miss Barbara, Mr. Fairfax, 
 and trying to induce her to allow your niece to come 
 next week."
 
 184 honour's worth; or, 
 
 The tall old gentleman bowed, with a side smile at 
 Josline, who stood quiet and silent by his side, in her 
 long grey dress and beaver hat. 
 
 " Oh, that's all settled," said Mr. Crosbie. " Fair- 
 fax knows all about it. I told him I was going to 
 take her. Bless the child, I forgot she does not know. 
 Josline, shall you like to go ? " 
 
 Josline colom^ed faintly, and looked in a rather 
 alarmed way at her uncle. 
 
 Robert had gradually slid round to her side. 
 He was looking at her with entreaty ; her eye caught 
 his, and she murmured something so low that Mr. 
 Fanfax bent towards her, and said— 
 
 " Shall we talk it over at home, Anima mia ? " 
 Then added aloud, ''It is very kind of you. Lady 
 Clinton. May I write to you ? " 
 
 " Oh, certainly. Do come," she said, bending 
 from the carriage. " We want you to see it all, it 
 will be very pretty." 
 
 *' Say yes ; do," said Robert, in a whisper which 
 made her colour deepen. 
 
 "It is very kind, thank you," said Josline, in a 
 tone that might mean anything. But under all those 
 eyes, and Robert's passionate presence, she could 
 hardly speak at all, and only leant nearer her uncle, 
 and felt her heart beat violently. 
 
 Then they all parted, Mr. Fairfax and Josline 
 going towards home, Robert Watt and Mr. Crosbie 
 sauntering up to the ridge, and Dorothy and Her- 
 mione driving to Charteriss.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 185 
 
 "Well, what do you think of her?" said Lady 
 Clinton. 
 
 *' What an exquisite face ! But how delicate -look- 
 ing ! She is far more lovely than that picture. What 
 a sweet face ! " 
 
 " I knew you would think that," said Dorothy, 
 delighted. " Don't you think even Colonel Myddle- 
 ton might be taken by that face ? " 
 
 *' Indeed I do. It's perfect; such an oval; and 
 what a strange, wistful, far-away look in her eyes ! and 
 then that- clearness of the skin — it's quite marvellous, 
 it's like the petal of a wood anemone ! But surely, 
 she must be exceedingly delicate ; she looks as though 
 very little would throw her into decline." 
 
 *' I don't think she's delicate, at least I never heard 
 of her being so. But really, she lives with those two 
 old people, and one knows nothing of her, except that 
 I have often heard of her wonderful singing." 
 
 *' Didn't her mother die of decline ? " 
 
 " Well, yes ; but then her husband broke her 
 heart." 
 
 They drove on silently ; at last, Hermione said, 
 " I wish you could have her more with Gladys ; she 
 looks as though she wanted lifting out of herself." 
 
 *'Ah! they would never allow it. Why, she sees 
 no one but Mr. Crosbie." 
 
 " And young Mr. Watt," said Hermione, gravely. 
 
 " Why, Hermione ! Why, how odd ! it never 
 struck me ! Of course. Why, how stupid ! Why, it's 
 the very thing; how delightful ! "
 
 186 honour's worth; or, 
 
 Hermione looked strangely and curiously at her 
 friend. *' Would you really wish it ? " she said. " I 
 thought you thought he liked Gladys ? " 
 
 " Oh, that's all nonsense, my dear, they are like 
 brother and sister." 
 
 Hermione was silent, and Lady Clinton ran on all 
 the way home about the charming couple Kobert and 
 Josline would make. 
 
 As they got out, Miss St. John laid her hand tightly 
 on Dorothy's arm. *' Dorothy," she said, very low 
 and gravely, " don't mention what I said about Mr. 
 Watt, I heg you, don't.' ' 
 
 *' Very well, Hermione. But, how odd of you ! " 
 
 Hermione went to look for Gladys with a curious 
 sensation of sympathy in her heart, feeling more drawn 
 to her than she had ever done, although she could 
 hardly have reasoned why, only she kept on thinking 
 of the wet evening when she had found Gladys stand- 
 ing on the ghost staircase with that miserable look in 
 her young face ; and in the quivering light on Eobert's 
 face to-day she had read, or thought she had read, 
 why.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 187 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 EoBEET and Mr. Crosbie sauntered on up the ridge. 
 Eobert was tired, he carried his gun over his shoulder 
 silently. They had had a bad day's hard shooting; 
 lie said to himself that was the reason of his depres- 
 sion ; but in his heart he was pondering over Josline's 
 manner, and he was weighing every turn of her head, 
 every inflection of voice, as to whether they were in 
 favour of her going to Charteriss or not. How could 
 he care so much whether she were to be there or not ? 
 It was all folly ; even if she were, she would not be 
 allowed to dance afterwards, he felt sure, and during 
 the tableaux he should see very little of her. Still to 
 know she was there ! His every pulse throbbed ; to 
 look across the room and see her dear head shining 
 out of the darkness in the pale radiance of her white 
 brow. 
 
 " There ! I knew you'd do it, if I left you alone," 
 said Mr. Crosbie, with a shout of laughter, giving 
 him a severe pull just as he was walking headlong 
 into the ditch. " What game are you after ? "
 
 188 honour's worth; or, 
 
 " Quite as much as I found to-day, I should 
 think," answered Kobert, with such savage energy 
 that Mr. Crosbie quite started. Then, recollecting 
 himself, the young fellow pulled himself together, and 
 said, *' I beg your pardon. I am so tired, I believe I 
 was half asleep." 
 
 ''Aye, and dreaming, too," said Mr. Crosbie, dryly. 
 
 " It isn't much good dreaming, anyhow," said 
 Eobert, *' one ought to work." 
 
 '' Well, I hope you are all hard at it up at 
 Charteriss, for I can tell you that the whole country- 
 side expects you to do your duty." 
 
 " Oh, it's sure to be a dead failure, those things 
 always are," said Eobert, digging his heavy boot into 
 the mud, and sparing a little starry flower that started 
 by a stone, and somehow made him think of Josline. 
 
 " Well, come, now, I hope not, for I do want 
 Josline to see something nice for once ; how she will 
 enjoy it ! She'll believe it's all real," and the kind old 
 godfather rubbed his hands. 
 
 *' Oh, she won't come," said Kobert, gloomily. 
 
 '^ Won't she, though ? " 
 
 '' No." 
 
 Now in his heart Eobert thought she would, and 
 was already meditating on the extra fit of his leather 
 jerkin, and trembling lest his boots should be too baggy. 
 And yet, in his mind and brain, he felt convinced she 
 could not, and would not, because she did not wish to 
 meet him. Did not wish ? Yes, did wish, but was
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 189 
 
 afraid. Why did he think all this? How he had 
 suddenly plunged into these subtle distinctions as to 
 Josline's thoughts, feelings, impulses — he didn't know. 
 He spoke because he wanted to be talked out of them ; 
 but Mr. Crosbie was so surprised at his negation, that 
 he was silent, wondering whether Eobert really knew 
 whether she would or not. At last, he said — 
 
 '* Did Miss Barbara refuse, then ? " 
 
 *' I don't know, how should I?" said Eobert, per- 
 plexed in turn. 
 
 " Then, why did you say she wouldn't go ? " 
 
 " Why, she never goes anywhere." 
 
 *'Pish! is that all? Why, she has never had a 
 chance, poor child. She'll be as merry as the rest of 
 them, if you give her her head." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said Eobert, feeling as if tons 
 had been lifted from his heart, and noticing for the 
 first time what a lovely soft evening it was — how 
 the mists were rolling away off the spurs of the ridge, 
 and the moon coming up like a silver cup over the 
 woods. 
 
 ** Of course I do. Why, she leads such an un- 
 healthy dead-alive existence, it's a perfect marvel how 
 she can be what she is. The sweetest bud on God's 
 earth would grow hollow and pale, and droop and 
 pine, growing near such a marsh as Miss Barbara's 
 mind." 
 
 Eobert brought his gun up cheerily, and lifted his 
 feet less draggingly; and in a sudden burst of con-
 
 190 honoub's worth; or, 
 
 iidence he blurted out, " I say, you know, I was told — 
 I mean Lady Dunstable implied to me, that Miss 
 
 Josline was a Koman Catholic " He got no further, 
 
 for— 
 
 *' Eoman Catholic ! " shouted Mr. Crosbie, making 
 the welkin ring. " I'll tell you what, I should like to 
 shake you. Bob Watt. My Josline a Eoman Catholic ! 
 I should just like to know what on earth put that in 
 her ladyship's head ! Eoman Catholic, indeed ! 
 "Why, she is my godchild ; I baptized her." 
 
 " Oh ! I know that now, I know she isn't now," 
 answered Eobert, hastily bringing his gun down on the 
 stock with a vehement bang. 
 
 " And pray how ? " asked Mr. Crosbie, suspiciously. 
 ''You don't mean to say you asked her? though 
 really I believe you young fellows would do any- 
 thing." 
 
 " I don't see why I should not have asked her," 
 
 retorted Eobert, hotly; "but I didn't, because " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " Well ? " said Mr. Crosbie, sharply. 
 
 " Because Lady Dunstable said there'd been a 
 row, or something about it, in the family." 
 
 " Ha ! well, I should just think there was, and 
 never been healed over either ; but wx aren't going to 
 let those old worries stand in the way of om' Josline." 
 
 Eobert was silent, and they went on again. Sud- 
 denly Mr. Crosbie stopped short, wheeled sharp round 
 in front of him, and said abruptly —
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 191 
 
 " What should it matter to you whether she is a 
 Eoman Cathohc or not — eh ? " 
 
 The young man coloured scarlet, and. said slowly, 
 '* What would it matter to me ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 There was a short silence. A waft of damp odours 
 from the woods below, of crushed moss from beneath 
 their feet, filled the air they were breathing ; a keen 
 small wind came whistling up, swaying over the tall 
 grasses and rank herbage and dock-leaves. 
 
 *' Nothing," said Eobert, slowly and bitterly. 
 '' Nothing. I don't know why I wanted to know." 
 
 Mr. Crosbie looked sharply at him in the 
 waning light, and then gave a short, quick laugh, 
 turning and going on in silence. They were on the 
 downward slope now. Eobert had to turn towards the 
 Eed House. 
 
 " Good night," he said, taking his gun in his left 
 hand and extending his right. 
 
 " Good night," said Mr. Crosbie. Then, hitting 
 him a hard blow on his shoulder he said, '' Look 
 here ! Work ! " 
 
 They separated. Long into the night Eobert sat 
 up with his temples hard held by his two hands, 
 apparently reading a ponderous tome on Italy and art. 
 But ever and ever the sense and words spun away from 
 him ; his thoughts circled round an impalpable form, 
 gracious and grave, that was filling every crevice of 
 his brain and heart — his ideal, his darling, his first
 
 192 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 love, his only love. Staring hard at the page, he 
 thought he was reading ; at last he dashed the book 
 together and rose. 
 
 " It's no good," he said, " I can't do anything, 
 I ean't think of anything. How am I to work ? My 
 father won't let me go ; he has spoilt my whole life 
 for me. I know I am an ass, a half-educated clod- 
 hopping do-nothing. What can she think of me in 
 contrast to her uncle, even though he is an old man, 
 dear old fellow ? And then that Gabriel, how stun- 
 ningly he paints, and how well he can talk ! Even an 
 artist fellow Hke that knows a thousand and one 
 things I never even heard of. Oh, my darling ! you 
 say, * Go, travel ! ' and Crosbie says, ' Work ! ' and 
 what can I do ? It's a perfect curse, this useless life of 
 mine. Why, look at Myddleton, he's been through 
 ever so much; and that old Sir Vere, even. There 
 are no end of fellows. Confound it aU ! If I had a 
 chance I'd be at it, too. I will, I must. I'll get hold 
 
 of Philip and make him talk to my father. I'll " 
 
 He stopped, drew a gigantic sigh, and said, *'Well, 
 yes ! I'll go away. It's no good staying here. I don't 
 believe she cares twopence about me. She'll come up 
 to the tableaux and see Myddleton, and then she'll 
 fall in love mth him." 
 
 He strode across to the cabinet by the fireiDlace, 
 tore open the door, and drew out the Eurydice por- 
 trait. Slowly the tossed passion of his face calmed, 
 his lips closed, his eyes softened, a smile came on his
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 193 
 
 mouth, and lie said very softly, not knowing he was 
 speakmg aloud, " My darling, I know you are too 
 
 good for me ; but if you only would " He stood 
 
 lookmg and looking till his eyes seemed to have 
 brought life into those wistful, wonderful, pictured 
 eyes. He put his hand quickly over them. " Some- 
 times," he thought, "I think — I think you will die, 
 and never care for any one." 
 
 A distant door banged, and with a sigh he laid the 
 j)icture back by his mother's miniature, and opening 
 his window leant out to smoke and think far on into 
 the cold autumn night ; and concoct many and divers 
 plans for making his fortune and becoming famous. 
 
 VOL. 1.
 
 194 honour's worth; or, 
 
 CHAPTEK XVII. 
 
 JosLiNE was very tired. She leaned more and more 
 against her uncle as they walked slowly towards home, 
 and her eyes followed with wistful longing, the easy 
 swinging flight of the starlings and fieldfares that 
 swept in twittering array from one field, over the 
 dewy hedges, into the next, at their approach. The 
 sheep were being folded for the night, and the shep- 
 herd and his dog went striding away over the ridge, 
 tall and weird-looking, like a phantom and a fiend 
 hound. The sharp bark died out ; the birds were set- 
 tling down with quiet little sounds and beat of wings ; 
 the dew fell coldly on the tasselled bh'ches and gemmed 
 the ruddy spikes of the spindle bushes. Each blade 
 of grass pierced a diamond or impaled a pearl, ac- 
 cording as the moonlight struck the drops or slanted 
 over them. There was the far-away sound of a 
 branch cracking here and there in the woods, as the 
 children went hurrying along the ''church path" to 
 the village, and now and then a merry call or whistle.
 
 THE COST OP A VOW. 195 
 
 Once a woodcock rose from a thicket and darted 
 past. 
 
 Mr. Fairfax went on without speaking, his head 
 slightly bent towards the left as though for ever 
 harkening to the divine melody of his beloved violin, 
 his slender hands clasped behind him. Josline had 
 linked hers through one of his arms. Her hat, as 
 usual, had swung back. She looked very tired, and 
 when a sudden sound roused her uncle, he said — 
 
 " Josline, how your feet beat ! a rapid and most 
 unconnected measure ! You are tired." 
 
 " A little," she said. " We shall soon be home now, 
 though. I love these quiet, dewy evenings." 
 
 He looked round at her. ''Ah!" he said, "I 
 hear the fatigue in your feet and in your voice, too." 
 He unlinked his hands and hers, passed one arm round 
 her waist, and almost lifted her along. '' Do you 
 know, my dear, when I was a boy I used sometimes to 
 help your mother so. Ay, and in after years, too, I 
 remember," he ended in a murmur. 
 
 " Did you, Dux ? Did you know her always ? " 
 
 " Well, it seems to me always; I suppose it wasn't. 
 I was nineteen, I think, and she was fourteen when I 
 first knew her. Do you remember her at all ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " said Josline quickly and low. " I 
 always think of her. You know, one could not forget 
 her." 
 
 " No, no ; I know. She was very beautiful, and 
 she had a will and a strength and a pride. My dear, 
 she had a pride ! "
 
 196 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 Josline hung her head. Some pride she had too. 
 Large tears began slowly falling down her face. 
 
 " Look here, my dear ! I want to say something 
 to yon, my child, my little Josline — girl. Look 
 here!" He broke off; his arm tightened romid her 
 slender, swaying waist. His head rose ; his eyes fixed 
 themselves on the radiant evening star, rising like 
 a passion-flower, purely, serenely against the sky. 
 " I want to say, Anima mia," — he brought round his 
 other hand and clasped it over hers, folded in front of 
 her — '^ I wanted to say — you know you are like my 
 own most beloved child, are you not, Anima ? you 
 love me ? " His voice sank. They were going down 
 into the valley, the great ridge shadow was taking 
 them ; our voices always fall in the twilight. 
 
 She raised her face. He saw the eyes swimming 
 in tears. 
 
 *'I know you love me!" he said. "When you 
 sing, I Imow it, my child, and most when I play for 
 you. I want to say, you are my child, and — and — 
 everything a father has belongs to his child ; so — so, 
 my Josline. Hush ! don't tremble so ! don't sob so ! " 
 He had both arms closely round her. " So — so you 
 will be rich, darling; rich — you may do what you like, 
 my little child, my heart's darling. And — and means 
 shall not fail." He stopped, choked; she was lying on 
 his breast, sobbing bitterly. He tried to bend back 
 her head to kiss her eyes and hair ; she would not. 
 
 She clung with a passionate force and frenzy
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 197 
 
 almost, that made him fear to hurt her ; her slight 
 frame quivered like a chord strung too tightly and 
 heavily strained. And then he became aware that she 
 was trying to speak, to say something ; but the words 
 would not come. He bent his head over her, folding 
 her closer and closer. 
 
 "You need not s^Deak," he said. "I know you 
 will be like my child to me, and let me be happy in 
 my own way. I understand all, Anima mia." 
 
 She bent back suddenly and looked up at him. 
 He never forgot the look on her face; it was her 
 whole generous, noble, pure, upright soul revolting 
 and tearing her heart up by the roots, by every cling- 
 ing tendril and fibre that had pierced and knotted 
 round her life. "Oh! let me speak," she gasped; 
 Oh ! let me speak." Her voice choked, a spasm flew 
 over her face ; she suddenly fell heavily forwards and 
 fainted away. 
 
 When she recovered consciousness, she was lying 
 on the damp, short stubble of a barley field, and Mr. 
 Fairfax hung over her in an agony of silent di-ead. 
 The first coming back of life in the lifeless face of one 
 we love is a very awful thing; the flutter of life 
 coming, going, waning, growing, then settling on a 
 face, is full of mystery and silence. 
 
 " Hush ! don't speak ; you are too tired. I ought 
 never to have taken you all round this long way. Lie 
 still a moment. See, here's my coat," tearing it off. 
 " I'll put it round you. Don't speak, it is so damp."
 
 198 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 He smoothed her hair and held her face for a second, 
 like a woman might have done. 
 
 Josline did not move; she had never fainted in 
 her Hfe, and didn't quite understand what had 
 happened. She only saw her uncle's anxious, 
 pale face ; she knew that to he like this, hatless 
 and coatless, was most dangerous for him in this 
 autumn damp, and that something terrible had come 
 to her which — oh, yes, she knew it all now. What 
 had she said before fainting ? it was imperative she 
 should know ; she sat up. 
 
 " What did I say ? " she said slowly and solemnly* 
 
 *' Nothing — nothing whatever, my dear, you only 
 said ' Let me speak.' " 
 
 " And I can't, I can't speak," she said more slowly 
 than before ; then rising by clinging to his arm, and 
 with a wrung intensity of expression that cut him to 
 the heart, she said, "I remember quite well what you 
 
 said. Dux, I shall never forget it; but — but " She 
 
 paused ; then slinging her slender arms tightly round 
 his neck she said, " Yes, you may know I love you, 
 dearly, dearly. I will always tell you so, you may 
 believe that; but — in everything else you may dis- 
 believe me utterly, and I will hold you scathless. Oh 1 
 Dux, Dux, it breaks my heart, it breaks my heart." 
 She was sobbing this against his mouth, as though 
 she would not let him answer ; and he was so entirely 
 startled and shaken that he absolutely said nothing. 
 " I shall never, never want any money ; I am unlike
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 199 
 
 any one, but if you will let me I will never leave you 
 till you die." 
 
 He still said nothing ; he was quite bewildered. 
 
 "Come home; you will catch cold," she said, 
 slipping on his coat again. " I will always sing to 
 you, always love you. I will never, never, never be 
 proud to you, Dux, if you will only not believe in me." 
 
 They w^ent out of the barley field. The moon was 
 quite up, shining coldly down on the peri^lexed, 
 grieved, startled face of Mr. Fairfax and on the ex- 
 quisite marble face of Josline, printing on hers a look 
 it never lost from that night, of a clasped secret. 
 Down the hill, past the great pond with the willows and 
 the broods of young ducks ; up the sandy lane, in at 
 the forest path, where the children had gone; along by 
 the deep rut ; over the stile on the small bridge,where 
 the stream w^as murmuring to the alders, hazels, and 
 elders ; up the stony road, past the farm, under great 
 elms, and home. 
 
 In the shadow of the deep old porch Josline leant 
 once more on his breast, and whispered, "I shall not 
 forget ; but we will never talk of it again, dear Dux ; 
 you will not need." And then they went in. 
 
 In the cedar parlour Miss Barbara was waiting 
 grim and hard. 
 
 " Cold as ice, I suppose, both of you ; just like 
 the tea ! What have you found ? " 
 
 "A herb or two; nothing much," said Mr. Fair- 
 fax, watching Josline going through the room to take
 
 200 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 off her things, and thinking how terribly, yes, terribly 
 like her mother she had looked whilst insensible. 
 
 " Nothing much ! so I thought. You look as 
 though you had gathered nothing but wool," with 
 cutting emphasis, "and lost — why, lost your wits." 
 
 '' I am very tired," said he, sittmg down ; then 
 suddenly getting up again. "I think, Barbara, I'll 
 go and play ; I quite forgot to practise that prelude 
 to-day." 
 
 '' Now, something has happened," said Miss 
 Barbara, leveUing a fork, two-pronged and green- 
 hafted, at him, as though he were a potato which she 
 intended conveying to her plate. " What is it ? Oh ! 
 you needn't say ' nothing much.' Josline looks like 
 my petticoat when Phcebe washes it and irons it the 
 wrong side, and you look like " 
 
 "We are both very tired. Now, Barbara, do not 
 tease the child, she actually fainted." 
 
 Miss Barbara's eyes nearly started out of her 
 head. Then she said, " Nonsense ! I suppose you 
 told her she couldn't go to this ridiculous party at 
 Charteriss, and she was pettish ; really what girls are 
 coming to ! " 
 
 Mr. Fairfax shook his head. "On the contrary, 
 I told her she might go." 
 
 " Then I won't have it. Dux; there ! she'll faint at 
 me next," said Miss Barbara, quaking with anxiety to 
 get at the rights of the story, and determined not 
 to show her feeling.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 201 
 
 " Very well ; of course you will say what you like, 
 Barbara. I don't think she will mind, my dear." 
 
 There being no one to contradict, Miss Barbara 
 sat, lost and silent, with a frenzied feeling of being ill- 
 used, and held of no account. Presently Josline came 
 back again, her hair smooth, her hands as white as 
 though there had been no faintings in stubbled fields, 
 but if you had looked closely, you would have seen a 
 slight scratch here and there, and a scarlet prick on 
 the palms. She was deathly pale, and her aunt, 
 watching her keenly, observed that she ate nothing. 
 Miss Barbara had a truly appalling facility for bring- 
 ing forward dangerous topics, and she at times could 
 not resist saying things that she knew would hurt 
 and stab to the quick, or at least that she thought 
 would do so. 
 
 *' I hear that young Eobert Watt is likely to get 
 into trouble again soon." She didn't Imow that he 
 had ever been in any, but young men were always 
 going into it, if they were not in it when spoken of. 
 
 ''Indeed? how?" said Mr. Fairfax, nervously. 
 
 "It isn't 'how,' Giles, it's 'why.' Why, he has 
 been obliged to sell his hunter, and just at the begin- 
 ning of the hunting season ; it's very odd to say the 
 least, I dare say some disgraceful debt. They are as 
 poor as church-mice, and old General Watt has always 
 spoilt him so." 
 
 There are occasions when people undergo extreme 
 torture heroically. This w\t.s one. Miss Barbara
 
 202 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 and Mr. Fairfax were both looking at Josline, who 
 sat quite quietly, trying to siDread an infinitesimal 
 IDiece of butter on a large square of toast ; the slender 
 trembling fingers nerved like steel, the small teeth set 
 hard as death behind those closed liiDS. The only sign 
 was a curious quick throbbing on the temples ; but who 
 should see that ? 
 
 *'Well! no one says anything," went on the 
 implacable Miss Barbara. "I dare say you know all 
 about it. Dux?" 
 
 '' I never heard anything about it at all, Barbara. 
 Well, I must go and play now." He got up, hoping to 
 break through the kind of weird spell of his sister's ill 
 temper, but that was not possible without a storm. 
 He passed Josline's chair. Still those small fingers 
 were spreading the butter neatly up to the edge and 
 not a hair's breadth beyond ; he laid a gentle touch 
 on her head — in some people a touch is always a 
 caress. " Will you come after tea and sing to me, 
 Anima ? " he said, softly. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, not looking up. 
 
 Then Miss Barbara burst out — " Oh ! go ! go now, 
 pray ! you are never content if you are not stringing 
 and thrumming on that absurd wind-box. You think 
 of nobody, care for nobody, but just you two together, 
 and then I have all the trouble ; and they come to 
 you and lay a plot, and I know that young Watt is at 
 the bottom of it, to get Josline away, and set her up, 
 and make her too fine to do anything. They came
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 203 
 
 here to-day. She was quite content till her picture 
 was painted. It's not what her mother would have 
 wished, that she should be gadding about lanes and 
 places, and talking to blacksmiths and rough-riding 
 idle fellows, and sitting to strange artists, and going 
 to see acting. But I hold myself irresponsible, only 
 you shan't go to Charteriss ; I wash my hands of you, 
 but you shan't go there. Lady Clinton, with her fine 
 ah's, trying to get round me ! No, you shan't go ; go 
 now, cry or faint, or anything you like. You'll just 
 turn round some day, I know." At last, panting, 
 fmious, out of breath, Miss Barbara who had risen, 
 a cup in one hand, an egg spoon in the other, sat 
 down suddenly, and crushed the '' person of the 
 house " nearly flat, who flew across the room, with a 
 discordant miau of terror and anger. 
 
 Josline had not moved ; her head bent lower and 
 lower, like a flower in a terrible storm, but Mr. Fairfax 
 suddenly brought down both hands closely, lightly, 
 and firmly on her shoulders, and spoke — 
 
 *' Barbara ! you don't know what you are saying. 
 Some folly has got into your head ; you are tired, and 
 so are we. I don't know wiiat Lady Clinton may 
 have said to you ; we met her, and she most kindly 
 asked Josline to go up to Charteriss. I think we keep 
 the child too much shut up here. For our sakes and 
 her own I think it would be better if she went about 
 more, and saw more people. I am her uncle, and 
 give her permission to do just as she likes in the
 
 204 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 matter. Speak, my child, if you like to go, I can take 
 you." 
 
 Miss Barbara choked. " You, Dux, go out again 
 after all these years ! " 
 
 ''I will take you if you like, Josline, my child. 
 Speak, shall I ? " 
 
 Josline stood up, she rocked slightly ; but he was 
 still holding her shoulders, that steadied her. Her 
 mouth quivered painfully. '' I will do just as you 
 both like," she said, with difficulty. I am very tired; 
 good night, dear Dux," she stooped her head and 
 kissed his hand ; she crossed the room and kissed the 
 petrified Miss Barbara, and then went out, and slowly 
 upstairs to her room. 
 
 And then Mr. Fairfax spoke, and spoke as his 
 sister had never heard him speak before to her. He 
 wound up by saying, '' Very well, Barbara, go on as 
 you are doing, but you will kill her, and then who — 
 who will there be left for us to love in the whole 
 world ? " 
 
 Miss Barbara made no answer. She sat with egg 
 spoon in hand, wondering whether Dux and Josline 
 had wandered into some fairy ring that afternoon, 
 and came home to glamour her. The facts remained, 
 that Josline had fainted and that Dux had offered to 
 go out at night ! 
 
 *' No, no, no ! " said she, tearing off the precious 
 lace mittens. " It must not be, that little chit winds 
 us all round her finger ! It will be the mother over 
 again."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 205 
 
 It was very late. The moon was behind flymg 
 clouds, the ram was begmning to drift, the wind was 
 wailing with a whistle, that somided like water 
 through a rift in rocks, when Miss Barbara suddenly 
 opened JosHne's door, and stood, in her huge nightcap, 
 staring in. Josline was kneeling by her bed, her arms 
 were flung wide across it, her nightgown clung round 
 her naked feet, her hair nearly swept the floor; a 
 j)oint of colour caught the candle with a flash, it was 
 the ruby ring; between her lips and the pillow lay 
 the crucifix. She did not move when her aunt 
 came in, and Miss Barbara said in an awe-struck 
 voice — 
 
 *' Josline!" 
 
 She got up at once, and stood there, white, 
 spirit-like, unearthly. For a second there was silence. 
 The rain was pouring now, the ivy went restlessly 
 tossing and bending against the window. 
 
 '' Josline ! " said Miss Barbara, again. " Why are 
 you not in bed ? " 
 
 " I was saying my prayers." 
 
 *' It's very late ; I am sure you are tired. I came to 
 
 say " Here a fierce gust shook the casement with 
 
 a grim rattle, and Miss Barbara said with a shiver, 
 as her large nightcap frills danced and nodded, '' I 
 came to say, I didn't mean to be unkind to-night ; you 
 may go to Charteriss if you like." 
 
 " I should like to do just as you like," said Josline, 
 in a faint, dreamy voice.
 
 206 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 " Don't you ca.re?" said Miss Barbara, uneasily. 
 " It's only that I don't want you to get into the way 
 of expecting gaiety and goings on, w^hen we can 
 return nothing. We were always too proud to do 
 that." 
 
 " I see. I do not want to go ; it will be better not, 
 I dare say." 
 
 "Keally, don't you mind ? " said the aunt, with a 
 leap of joy, to think she should keep her still all to 
 herself ; and a look of almost feline pleasure came in 
 the cold grey eyes. " You know I have always wished 
 to make you happy, Josline. You can go, if jou like," 
 said she, magnanimously, now the danger was 
 passing. 
 
 " I do not mind ; I will stay at home," said Josline, 
 still dreamily. 
 
 Miss Barbara thought her manner odd, and came 
 up to kiss her. Suddenly she saw on what Josline's 
 eyes were resting — the crucifix. A passion of anger 
 flew over her face. 
 
 "Josline!" she said, and put out her hand to 
 seize it. 
 
 "My mother's," said Joslme, lifting and holding 
 it against her warm, violently beating heart. 
 
 They stood facing each other, girl and woman. 
 Here was a love Miss Barbara could not counteract or 
 quench. The candle-light streamed full on Josline — on 
 her exquisite form, her marble face ; her great, bm-ning, 
 sad eyes ; her set lips, her braced head ; as, staglike,
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 207 
 
 ehe held it back, gazing with intense, awful earnest- 
 ness, at her amit. 
 
 Z The wind rose in a shriek, and then wailed away, 
 like a dying soul.
 
 208 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 Three days before the tableaux were to come off the 
 beautiful autumn weather broke up. It began to rain 
 the night that Mr. Fairfax and Josline were so late 
 home, and it never ceased from that hour, except at 
 very short intervals. 
 
 *'What are we to do with everybody?" said Sir 
 Philip, disconsolately. " The waters will be out soon, 
 and then they won't be able to ride ; and as to shoot- 
 ing, the covers are fetlock deep in mud." 
 
 Sir Vere, who was shivering over the library fire 
 under an incipient attack of gout, growled out, " Turn 
 them all into the conservatory and let them study 
 botany." 
 
 " Not half a bad idea," answered Colonel Myd- 
 dleton. ''I say, Clinton, do you know you have a 
 most deadly poison growing there ? " 
 
 ** Let them find it out and they will plague us no 
 more," muttered Sir Vere, as a twinge seized him. 
 
 "I've got something to propose," began Mr. Free-
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 209 
 
 man. " Suppose we light the conservatory and go in 
 there after the tableaux ; it will make a break whilst 
 they are getting the things straight again. None of 
 those vulgar coloured lamps, but a small chain of 
 white light running round the cornice the whole way. 
 It*s always warm and it would be something quite out 
 of the way of most of the people who are coming." 
 
 "And have oranges bobbing up and down under 
 glasses in the fountains, like they did in the first 
 exhibition," said Sir Vere, sardonically. 
 
 "Yes; I always thought that the prettiest thing 
 there — how they got in and why they should jump up 
 and down," said Sir Philip, innocently. 
 
 "Will you speak to Lady Clinton, sir ? " from a 
 footman, closed the roar of laughter with which their 
 host's speech had been received. 
 
 " What an absurd girl that Miss Thorold is ? " said 
 Quarl, as Sir Philip went out. " She is the most 
 jealous little wretch I ever knew ; because I said Miss 
 St. John was to have a tableau nearly to herself, she 
 must, too. Well, fehe is very pretty, I suppose. I 
 know Myddleton admires her excessively." 
 
 Colonel Myddleton raised his head quickly, and 
 then let it fall agahi with a quiet smile. " Quite my 
 style," he said. 
 
 "Yes, money and all," pursued Quarl. "I can 
 see Lady Dunstable has given up Bob Watt and is 
 coming round to somebody else." 
 
 Sir Vere's eyes glared angrily. "You always go 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 honour's worth; or, 
 
 on so, Freeman," lie said. "I don't see that it's 
 particularly good taste to discuss peo}3le like that.'* 
 He took up a newspaper, with a shaking hand, and 
 turned it over sharply. 
 
 Colonel Myddleton was still smiling; his eye 
 caught Quarl's, who raised his eyebrows and w^alked 
 silently to the window, evidently rebuffed. 
 
 " The rain is coming down. I shall go out and 
 look at the ^head.' You've never seen it up there, 
 have you, Myddleton? It will be a sight soon." 
 
 " I went up there one day with Lady Clinton. 
 She said she had seen it once when the water was 
 within an inch of the top bar of the bridge." 
 
 '^Ah, yes! I remember Clinton writing about it. 
 Well, they'll have it this time and no mistake." 
 
 Gladys was trying to calm her excited nerves by 
 playing the organ. The whole house was in supreme 
 confusion — maids and men running every way at 
 once. Sir Philip was superintending the arrange- 
 ment of the dais, and caught Mr. Freeman just as 
 he was crossing the hall. Colonel Myddleton stood 
 in the doorway of the drawing-room and looked in on 
 Gladys. Lady Clinton and Miss Thorold were un- 
 doing the jewels which had just come down from 
 London. Hermione and Lady Dunstable were talk- 
 ing by the fire. 
 
 /'What do you think of Eobert Watt ? " said the 
 old lady. 
 
 *' I think he seems a nice, bright, young fellow,"
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 211 
 
 said Hermione, looking round a little nervously. 
 Lady Dunstable fancied, at Mina ; but Hermione was 
 thinking of some one far different. However, the 
 organ tones reassured her. 
 
 ** I do wish, though, he could get something to do. 
 I think it is so very bad for him loitering about, 
 wasting his life, doing nothing, poor boy." 
 
 " He seems quite content and happy." 
 
 ** Then he shouldn't be," said the old lady, a little 
 sharply. " Life isn't meant to dawdle through like 
 that. He should go away; but that foolish, old 
 father will never allow it, I suppose." 
 
 " I certainly think he would do better to settle to 
 something ; but I don't quite see what he could do if 
 his father won't allow it." 
 
 " Why, he could marry," said Lady Dunstable. 
 
 " I suppose he could," said Hermione, thought- 
 fully. " Only he has no money." 
 
 *' Money is not everything, my dear," said the old 
 lady, laying one mittened hand gently on Hermione's, 
 *' and I know you don't think so." 
 
 " But most men do," said Hermione. *' They 
 won't marry without it, and they are afraid of women 
 who have it." 
 
 " It depends entirely on one thing," said Lady 
 Dunstable, smiling. "And that one thing is the 
 rarest thing on earth now — rarer even than money 
 with younger sons." 
 
 '* What ? " said Hermione, lifting her clear eyes.
 
 212 honour's worth; or, 
 
 ''Love, my dear. Ah, yes ! You blush ; but why ? 
 If a man really loved a woman he couldn't help telling 
 her he loved her, were she never so rich, and he 
 never so poor. Ah ! I have no patience with people 
 nowadays." 
 
 " I don't think I quite agree, though," broke in 
 Hermione. " I can imagine a case in which a man 
 would never speak." 
 
 " Then you are wrong, my dear. It means, simply, 
 he does not care enough. Somehow we have wandered 
 from om* point, though. I was talking of Eobert Watt. 
 It seems he has been up here, talking to Sir Philip 
 about getting something to do. Shall I tell you what 
 that means with him ? He is in love." 
 
 Hermione again glanced uneasily round. 
 
 *' Never mind; no one hears. And also that he 
 thinks she will have money. Now, I should like ta 
 help him. His mother was very dear to me. Could 
 you help him? " 
 
 Hermione drew her brows together. Somehow she 
 did not want to help him. '' I do not know," she said 
 slowly, but she knew quite w^ell she could ; she had 
 had a letter from her agent that very morning, saying 
 he must give up in a year from ill health, and begging 
 her to send him some young man to put in the way of 
 going on with the management of the property. There 
 was one thing in favour of giving this to Eobert ; it 
 would take him away ; but perhaps he would speak 
 all the more quicldy ; and yet, after all, why did she
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 213 
 
 wish to prevent his doing so ? Supposing that Jos- 
 line Fairfax cared for him, what then ? Could she be 
 the one to have it in her power to help two people to 
 be happy and yet hold her hand ? Yes, but there was 
 one other who was very dear to her, whose misery it 
 would make ; and yet, would anything prevent that ? 
 
 The organ swelled higher and higher. Gladys was 
 really playing beautifully to-day. Hermione moved 
 uneasily, trying to beat out her thought through the 
 rolling chords. 
 
 '* I will think it over," she said at last. *' If Sir 
 Philip can find nothing, I might perhaps think of 
 f3omethmg." 
 
 Mina here appealed to her great-aunt, and Lady 
 Dunstable moved away thinking. " How cold and 
 calm she is ! Even a love story does not touch her. 
 She never asked who." 
 
 Hermione was excessively startled to hear Colonel 
 Myddleton's voice say suddenly, close to her, " How 
 perplexed you look ! Can I do anything for you ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " she said, hurriedly, feeling infinitely 
 vexed on finding her colour rising in a tide. ** I 
 mean, thank you very much for offering, but it is 
 impossible." 
 
 *' I beg your pardon," he said, a little haughtily. 
 '*I thought it might be something you wanted about 
 the tableaux," and he moved away. 
 
 " Indeed, it was nothing any one could help, it's 
 only something to decide," she said, earnestly and in
 
 214 honour's worth; or 
 
 an agony, lest she should have hurt him by appearing 
 to refuse his aid ; and yet feeling as though of all 
 people she could not tell him. 
 
 He tm-ned back again and there was a short 
 silence. 
 
 "I do wish these tableaux were over," he said. 
 
 '' Well, they will be soon ; by to-morrow night you 
 will be free. Why do you wish they were over, 
 though ? " 
 
 " Shan't you ? " 
 
 *' No, I think not at least ; I like the excitement, 
 you know," looking up and smiling ; " and we shall 
 all look so odd in our dresses. I do wish, though, 
 I knew what my dress was for." 
 
 *' Do you mean to say you don't know yet ? " 
 
 ** No ; do you ? " 
 
 " Well, that's really wonderful. I thought all 
 women were so curious." 
 
 '^ WeU, I should like to know." 
 
 '^ Shall I teU you ? " 
 
 " Do you know ? Yes — no ; I mean it wouldn't 
 be quite fak to Mr. Freeman." 
 
 "I thought you would say that. Well, I don't 
 know either ; I did it to see what you would say." 
 
 Hermione tm-ned a little pale. " I don't think you 
 had any right to do that," she said. 
 
 "I knew I was right, I knew I was safe," he said, 
 very low. " Do not be angry, I did not mean to 
 vex you."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 215 
 
 ** I am not vexed, only a little surprised/' slie 
 answered, coldly ; but her heart beat violently. Why 
 did he want to Imow how she would answer ? 
 
 *^ Well, Miss St. John, are you consulting Colonel 
 Myddleton? I know he will say a kind word for 
 Kobert," said Lady Dunstable, suddenly returning. 
 
 " I have not thought any more about it at 
 present," answered Hermione, with so much hautem-, 
 that the old lady immediately said to herself — 
 
 *' She is angry with Mm about something. I shall 
 go away." 
 
 Hermione did not choose to move, though she 
 longed to go away, too. 
 
 "What is it about Eobert Watt?" said Colonel 
 Myddleton, wishing to change the conversation, and 
 little knowing that he had hit on the most difficult 
 subject he could have chosen ; some wilful spirit had 
 changed Hermoine's mood though, now. 
 
 *' Lady Dunstable wants me to find something for 
 him to do. She thinks he is in love, and wants to 
 become rich," and she looked him full in the face, and 
 laughed lightly. 
 
 *' It would not be difficult for you to help him," 
 said Colonel Myddleton, in a sombre tone. 
 
 *' Perhaps not, if I chose," she answered, stung 
 by something in the ring of his voice. She lifted her 
 foot and tapped Jerks's nose, who sat up directly. 
 
 " Why should you not choose ? Of course, though, 
 because you have the power."
 
 216 honour's worth; or, 
 
 Hermione looked up at him swiftly. ''No/' she 
 said, slowly and gravely, " you misjudge me ; that is 
 not the reason." 
 
 " Why then ? " He came a little nearer, looking 
 at her straight, his head a little thrown back. 
 
 " Because I ^dsh to be just," she said, quietly, 
 ''though I know very well that most men do not 
 believe in the justice of women." 
 
 He looked thrown completely out in his calcula- 
 tions. " Perhaps I do not judge you as I should 
 judge most women," he said, gravely. '' I have 
 always thought you very just. But what has justice 
 to do with this ? Has anything been said to young 
 Watt ? and do you find yourself bound in any way ? " 
 
 " No, not at all. I know nothing of his capabili- 
 ties as an agent, that is all ; and that would be the 
 only thing I could offer him. Of course I wish to 
 act justly to my own people, and one is bound not 
 to allow an estate to deteriorate." 
 
 He was silent. "I dare say you think I shall 
 make a great many mistakes about everythmg," she 
 said, nervously, " but I want not to do so. I was 
 just thinking that Eobert Watt seems to me very 
 young for such a responsibility." 
 
 She was evidently asking his opinion in a regular 
 womanly way. 
 
 "It is a great responsibility," he said, not looking 
 at her. " I wonder at any man liking to undertake 
 it."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 217 
 
 *'Well, it has not been offered yet," she said, 
 quickly; " but there is a very pretty house belonging 
 to it, and the General would be very comfortable, and 
 they could have the shooting." 
 
 " And everything else they wanted," he said, sud- 
 denly, with a look so penetrating and hard, that 
 Hermione drew back two steps. 
 
 " I don't know about everything else," she said, 
 rather puzzled. '* I dare say he could." Then suddenly 
 recollecting herself she coloured crimson to the roots 
 of her hair, for of course Colonel Myddleton knew 
 nothing of Josline Fairfax, and it seemed a kind of 
 vague betrayal. 
 
 He said nothing, but kept that penetrating gaze 
 fixed on her face as though he would read her very soul. 
 " Some men get everything," he said, in an intense 
 voice that shook her, she knew not why, with a great 
 longing to say, "I will do just as you like." But 
 she made no answer. ** Some men get everything 
 
 because they never try, and others " He broke off, 
 
 took up Jerks, and holding the dog as though he were 
 teaching it to beg, an operation Jerks resisted, know- 
 ing quite well how to do so, he said suddenly, *'Do 
 not give that to young Watt ! " His voice shook 
 loainfully. 
 
 " "Why ? " said Hermione. 
 
 '' Why ? " He looked up. "I ask you as a great 
 favour." 
 
 She was silent, trying to make up her mind. She
 
 218 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 longed to say, ** Very well, I won't." But something 
 independent and proud in her nature rose and said, 
 *'No, I can't give in, I will do just what I like." 
 Eefore she had made up her mind, he dropped Jerks, 
 rose to his full height, and said in his natural 
 voice — 
 
 *' Of course you will do just as you think hest, 
 though I believe he is a most thoroughly upright 
 straight -forward young fellow, and will make a most 
 capital man of business." He turned round and 
 walked up to the group at the table who were looking 
 over the jewels. He heard her say rapidly and 
 low, *' I shall decide nothing at present." But he 
 IDretended not to hear, and Hermione went upstairs. 
 
 *' I have thought of such a lovely plan ! " said 
 Lady Clinton to Sir PhiliiD that evening after dinner. 
 '* What do you think?" 
 
 ** Something about the tableaux, of course. I 
 begin to feel quite ill with anxiety," he said, laughing. 
 
 "I want you to ask down Eobert's friend, the 
 artist, and get him to take sketches of all the tableaux, 
 and of all the principal characters afterwards." 
 
 " But, my dear ! there is not time now. What a 
 pity ! it would have been pretty, certainly." 
 
 *' Oh, yes, there is time, I am sure. I've set my 
 heart on it. Don't you think there is time, Mr. Free- 
 man?" 
 
 " But it's such short notice, and perhaps he won't 
 come."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 219 
 
 " Yes, he will come, I know. Don't you tliink so,. 
 Mr. Freeman?" 
 
 *' Most people will come anywhere for money," 
 answered Quarl. ''And I suppose Gabriel Vannier is 
 like the rest of the world; and besides, if Lady 
 Clinton has set her heart on it, it must be managed 
 somehow. Is the post gone ? " 
 
 " Two good hours." 
 
 " But we could catch the post at N if we sent 
 
 a groom off quick," said Lady Clinton. "Do go, 
 Philip, and see about it ; I'll write the letter." 
 
 *' My dear, I couldn't really do anything in thai 
 hurry, you know," said Sir Philip, immovably, cross- 
 ing his legs and generally settling himself. 
 
 " Phil ! " said Dorothy, imploringly. 
 
 ''I know!" said Gladys, with a little jump. 
 " Write a note to Eobert to-night, and ask him to go 
 up to town to-morrow, and bring Mr. Vannier back 
 with him ! " 
 
 " Why, to-morrow is the best meet of the season ! " 
 said Sir Philip; ''it's downright cruel to expect a 
 man to go off to London instead." 
 
 " It's the only thing to be done, if we are really 
 to get him, though," said Quarl, going over to the 
 piano and opening it. " And to show you what young. 
 Watt will give up, I'll sing you 'John Peel.'" He sang 
 it splendidly. 
 
 Hermione was hstening with her heart hot and 
 heavy, and great tears in her eyes ; she never heard
 
 •220 honour's worth; or, 
 
 that song without thinking of poor Mark, when 
 Colonel Myddleton came up and said, addressing her 
 for the first time that evening — 
 
 '' Now, should you call this a great or small occa- 
 sion for unselfish acting ? Do you think he will go ? " 
 
 " I was not thinking about it," she said, in a low, 
 soft voice, created by her thought of her dead cousin ; 
 but which tortured Colonel Myddleton from giving 
 him quite another idea. 
 
 *' You said once that you thought men were very 
 unselfish in great things ; do you call this a great 
 thing?" he persisted. 
 
 "I don't know, I suppose men, hunting men, 
 would." 
 
 " Well, do you think he will go ? " 
 
 She had been leaning back, now she sat up 
 straight and looked at him fully and openly. "Yes, 
 I think he will." 
 
 He started. "Why?" he said slowly through his 
 teeth; "how can you tell? why should you think so 
 well of him ? " 
 
 " I don't know that it would be thinking well of 
 him, exactly," she said, still looking at him ; " but 
 I think he is a kind-hearted, unselfish fellow, and 
 I think he will go." 
 
 "You have thought a good deal about him," he 
 said, bitterly. " You know how he will act." 
 
 "I Imow how I should expect any one to act 
 towards a friend," she said, a little excitedly. "Mr.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 221 
 
 Watt has always siDoken of this artist as his friend, 
 and I think he will act accordingly." 
 
 ^' You have faith in friendship, then ? " he said. 
 
 "Yes, thorough; haven't you?" It was an un- 
 lucky question, she Imew it by a kind of instinct the 
 moment she had spoken. 
 
 ''None," he answered, briefly. 
 
 There was a pause. Mina Thorold was singing 
 "The Brook." Hermione felt greatly shaken, rest- 
 less, and excited. 
 
 "I do wish you would sit dovm," she said, sud- 
 denly, with a nervous laugh. "You are so tall, I 
 always expect you to knock that chandelier." 
 
 He sat down, lifting the dagger paper-knife and 
 balancing it on his fingers. She felt she must speak, 
 the silence got on her nerves. 
 
 " I — I — what you said to-day about Mr. Watt ; do 
 you think him too young ? " 
 
 " Oh, it doesn't matter, you will judge, of course, 
 for yourself, or rather, you have many cleverer ad- 
 visers than I am." 
 
 "But it does matter, very much," she said, be- 
 ginning to lose self-control under his hard, merciless 
 manner. " I wish for your advice; surely one may be 
 guided by one's friends ? " She stopped. 
 
 "Certainly, do I not say so?" he said. "You 
 have many friends, I know ; they will advise you." 
 
 She became very pale. "You wish to imply that 
 you are not amongst them ; you will not be a friend
 
 222 honour's worth; or, 
 
 to me, and yet " She stopped ; her voice would 
 
 tremble, and she was afraid he would notice it. 
 
 *' AVhat can it signify whether I am your friend or 
 not?" he said, slowly, and with a stern emphasis in 
 his voice, that, however, ended with a kind of pathetic 
 thrill. *'You have known me some years, I have 
 always spoken the truth, and now, you see, there are 
 many others only too thankful to give advice to you, 
 which also you are ready and willing — icilUng to 
 accept." 
 
 Hermione felt as though she were choking; she 
 half leaned forwards, grasping the arms of the chair 
 as though about to rise. " Do you mean to say that 
 you think I have changed, and that that is why you 
 don't believe in — in friendship ? " she said, brokenly, 
 for her white lips were so hot and dry she could 
 hardly form the words. '' You ha^ve misjudged me 
 once before, Colonel M^^ddleton; I never change." 
 
 " Nor I — would to God I could ! " he said, with 
 such force and passion, such hard-held intensity, that 
 Hermione shivered. " I will speak now once for all, 
 and tell you my whole story, and you shall see." 
 
 "Hush ! " she said, suddenly regaining self-control 
 in the imminence of peril, for the singing had ceased. 
 She saw he had snapped the gold dagger like a reed, 
 and she knew not what might be said. 
 
 "Hermione, come and sign the round-robin to 
 Eobert, to get him to go up for Mr. Vannier to-mor- 
 row," called Lady Clinton's laughing voice from the 
 other end of the room.
 
 THE COST OP A VOW. 223 
 
 "Yes, and come, too, Myddleton," called Sir Philip. 
 They went. "I don't think I can sign," said Colonel 
 Myddleton, holding out his right hand, shaking like 
 a leaf. ^' That horrible ague has come on again with 
 all this damp. What am I to do to-morrow for the 
 tableaux ? I shall never be able to keep quiet." 
 
 " What an awful bore ! " said Sir Philip. 
 
 " Oh, don't alarm yourself," said Mr. Freeman, 
 coolly. ''I shall give him chloroform for the chief 
 scene." 
 
 ** Very well, I'll take it," said he, grimly. 
 
 Hermione signed last, very steadily. Her firm, 
 close handwriting contrasted oddly with Lady Dun- 
 stable's flowing letters and Mina Thorold's " cramped 
 impossibilities," as Mr. Freeman called them. 
 
 " What an odd hand ! " said the little, fair Mina. 
 *' It's so clear, like a little child." 
 
 Hermione laughed, and Mr. Freeman said — 
 
 *'It looks like a hand that had carried a gun b, 
 good deal." 
 
 **I always walk with a stick, if that will help 
 you," she said.
 
 224 honour's worth; or, 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 Pouring wet met and nearly blinded Eobert on his 
 drive to the station the next morning early, to catch 
 the first up-train. He stood up in the dog-cart to 
 look at the mere as he passed the gates at Charteriss. 
 
 " It'll be over the banks soon," he said. *^ My 
 goodness ! what a thing that would be ! I wish I 
 had run up yesterday to look at the ' head ; ' it must 
 be coming doAvn there gloriously." 
 
 Then he settled back into his seat and covered 
 himself up again. Through the ford the horse was 
 nearly swimming; the station had water running 
 through it; the whole country looked half-drowned. 
 **A nice look-out for folks coming from far!" he 
 thought. *'It's lucky the tableaux are to-night, 
 and not any further on in the week. I wish I knew 
 whether the Fairfaxes are coming or not." 
 
 The train was just starting, when a groom ran 
 hurriedly along the carriages. He recognized the 
 Clinton livery, and looked out.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 225 
 
 ** For you, sir ! " breathlessly. 
 
 They were off. Kobert snatched the note and tore 
 it open; it was from Gladys. Three words: *'They 
 are coming ! " 
 
 Ofcom-se it was the Fairfaxes. "She is a dar- 
 ling! " he said, reading and re-reading the three words, 
 and seeing a whole evening of joy and gladness spread 
 out before him. *^ How awfully good of her to write ! 
 it's just like her." 
 
 Then he threw himself back in his seat and 
 thought over all the possible and impossible things 
 and scenes and conversations that might occur or 
 be done or said by himself and Josline. Then he 
 pulled out the bit of paper and read it again. 
 Finally, he folded it up tightly and put it in his 
 watch-case. 
 
 '' They are coming ! " was written all along the 
 hedges, in every distant copse, on the low-lying 
 down ridges, m the clouds in the sky. He had not 
 believed it. He felt now that it was not Josline's 
 doing ; he did not think she would have come if she 
 had been left unbiased. He had seen her the day 
 before. He had gone to Old Court with a message 
 from his father ; she was sitting in the cedar parlour 
 looking earnestly at Miss Barbara, who, with her 
 back to the fire, and balancing backwards and for- 
 wards from toe to heel, from heel to toe, was evidently 
 holding forth in no measured way. Josline knew he 
 passed the window, but never turned her head ; Miss 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 honoue's worth ; or, 
 
 Barbara had given him a httle nick of a nod. He 
 had spun out his time to the utmost, but neither had 
 come into the den, and Mr. Fairfax had said nothing 
 about his going into the i^arlour. He had admired 
 the Hly heart in its frame, and Mr. Fairfax had said, 
 quietly — 
 
 *'Yes; but the other was the beautiful head; it 
 had Josline's own look in the eyes. I can't think 
 what Vannier did with it." 
 
 Piobert had turned scarlet and felt like a robber ; 
 he stammered something unintelligible. 
 
 " I think he must have wanted it to idealize," said 
 the uncle, thoughtfully. 
 
 In thinking over this scene now, a sudden idea 
 came into the young man's head. Why should 
 not Gabriel take Josline for his model of the Virgin ? 
 He would certainly propose it ; and then think of the 
 joy of possessing such a picture ! Yes, indeed, then 
 he would be more than repaid for having parted with 
 Eedskin. 
 
 He found the artist hard at work. In this short 
 time Gabriel had painted till his life, his soul, the 
 essence of his purity, will, love, and reverence had 
 entered into the canvas. 
 
 There are times in an artist's life when the power 
 of creation and the knowledge that such power is on 
 him becomes too great for bodily control. Genius 
 rises triumphant, and body is subdued by the subtler 
 and more ethereal essence of spirit. Then, as it
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 227 
 
 Avere, a sublime possession seizes the tlireacl of liis 
 life, holds the throbs of pulse and brain in one 
 steady, bui'ning thrill, and the puiity and strength 
 of his soul pass from him unawares and impress 
 themselves with God-like force on some earthly form 
 or substance. It is at such times that a death-light 
 falls on his creation ; the intense penetrating struggle 
 between life and expression. The highest of all 
 meanings can only be conveyed by the effort that 
 slays in the utterance. The spirit too highly strung 
 must needs shiver with the force of its own conviction. 
 Perfect power of expression is perfect Divinity. 
 
 It was thus, now, with Gabriel Vannier ; he stood 
 transfigured, for the time being, in his love, his rever- 
 ence for his art. His struggling longings to express 
 his soul m his work were being fulfilled before his 
 eyes, and, as yet, he did not reahze this ; he hardly 
 knew what he was painting. He felt he was working 
 gloriously, but to what it might tend, he could not 
 divine — his spirit within him seemed working in the 
 gloom of semi- day. He would not be able to realize 
 till exhaustion brought reflection; and, being no 
 longer able to act, he could think. He had struck 
 the gold chord of his life, and it was ringing in such 
 perfect harmony with his highest aspirations, that it 
 sounded to him simply as the breath of his breathing, 
 the living of his life. 
 
 Eobert was startled by the beauty of the design, 
 even in its crude state ; he was startled, also, and
 
 228 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 greatly shocked by Gabriel's appearance. He was 
 deadly pale, his face was hollow as a mask ; he 
 looked like an old ivory carving of our Saviour on 
 the cross. His great eyes were luminous and shone 
 like "stars ; his hair was damp, his hands nervous 
 and restless. He held out his left hand to Eobert, 
 but went on painting with his right, and said, in a 
 voice that was low from exhaustion — 
 
 " I had a sort of idea you might be coming up to 
 town soon." 
 
 " Yes ; and well for you I have," said his friend, 
 sitting down on a tall-backed chair, across which was 
 swung some blue drapery arranged in exquisite folds, 
 " If you don't leave that picture of your own free will, 
 Vannier, you vvill be carried from it, I see." 
 
 "I can't leave it now; it's on me, I must work," 
 said Gabriel, with a hollow cough. "I see it's coming- 
 all right somehow ; the light is growing in it from day 
 to day. But, I will tell you something rather odd. 
 I can't see the Vngin's face," he bent his head back- 
 wards, and laid his hand over his eyes; ''that is to 
 say, I see only one face it could be. It would be most 
 perfect, but " 
 
 '*I know," said Eobert, eagerly. *'You mean 
 Josline Fairfax. Well now, look here, they want you to 
 to come back with me, to stay at Charteriss ; you would 
 have every opportunity of studying her head there. 
 I know she wouldn't mind. Don't you think that 
 would do?"
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 229 
 
 Gabriel turned impetuously towards liim. ''Oh ! '* 
 lie said, as a wonderful thrilling light came on his 
 <3maciated face. "That would be iDcrfect! She is 
 the only person I ever saw who came up to my idea 
 of the Madonna, don't you see ? Look ! " He seized 
 a bit of charcoal and sketched rapidly a kind of 
 shadowy likeness to Josline, but he had not quite 
 caught the expression. "It is just that which escapes 
 me," he said, with a fierce catch at his lower lip, and 
 a tremulous quiver in his eyelids. "I must see her 
 once more to get it ; but don't you know what I said 
 to you about her ? It is a face so full of angelic, no, 
 divine purity; so lofty in expression, so tender, so 
 loving, so gentle. Now the Virgin's face ought to 
 have all that. After all, she was a woman like any 
 mother of any of us, and must have humanity in her 
 face. That is where they fail, I think, the Old 
 
 Masters " He stopped, then went on rapidly, 
 
 "Yes, I wiU come back with you gladly." 
 
 " Well, I am glad," said Eobert, " for you look 
 awfully bad, and I do hope the rest and country air 
 ^.vill set you up again." 
 
 " Quite long enough. I only want to finish 
 this," he said, dreamily. "It would be an awful 
 thing to end one's days with nothing to show for it. 
 It's not so much that one does things badly after all, 
 as that one doesn't do them at all. And I always 
 meant to do something." 
 
 He was talking in a strange far-away voice, as
 
 230 honour's -worth; or, 
 
 tlioiTgli to some one not there, and Robert was rather 
 held by the tone than by the thought ex^^ressed. 
 
 "Do you really work for the pure pleasure of 
 doing something, anything, a thing ? " 
 
 The painter turned and looked at him with a 
 grave dignity. " All work brings its own blessing," 
 he said. " And how few of us have any one to whom 
 we can shovv' it, for the mere joy of hearing it appre- 
 ciated or judged at its fair value ! " 
 
 '' I dare say not," said Robert. " I never thought 
 of that before. In fact, I've never done anything 
 worth showing to any one." 
 
 "You've done a good work by me," said Gabriel, 
 fervently, stretching a wasted hand to. grasp the 
 strong, brown palm of his friend. "You heartened 
 me up when I wanted a few kind words, more than I 
 can say." Then as he wandered round the room 
 putting a few things together, he said, " It's like 
 a silent love, a few kind words coming at the right 
 time. It reminds me of what my mother used to say 
 about God's love for us, that when everything seemed 
 to end and draw into a tight knot of misery, then 
 God cut it with joy or — death." 
 
 Robert was silent, a little awed, a little puzzled ; 
 the mystic look on Gabriel's face reminded him 
 strangely of Josline. An uneasy sense of being with 
 some one whose whole tone of thought and compre- 
 hension lies above us is often more silencing than 
 convincing. At last he said, " Do you think there 
 is any good in a silent love then, Vannier ? "
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 231 
 
 " God loves us silently," said the artist, plucking 
 his cap from his brow and throwing it on a chair near 
 him. 
 
 ''Yes, of course. But that's different, you know; 
 He makes us feel it all the same," answered Eobert, 
 rather surprised at his own i^ower of continuing this 
 conversation. *'But don't you see with a person, 
 they can't know if j'OU don't speak, and how can they 
 tell you do ? " He looked up earnestly. 
 
 "I don't know — but, well I know not whether you 
 do others good by silently loving them, yet I think 
 unconsciously you do. It's a great thing for them 
 to hold, even unacknowledged, the belief in a silent, 
 deep affection, that waits ready for any lonely time. 
 The}^ hardly realize how much lovingness there is for 
 them till life is beginning to be very empty. But, 
 when all that is in them worth having, in their own 
 eyes, seems burnt out, then to find that there are 
 still those who will gladly take the remainder and 
 value it to the uttermost, is a salvation to their souls. 
 They strive to return it, and thus in wishing to 
 render others happy, they regain the power of happi- 
 ness themselves." He stopped, sat down heavily and 
 coughed in long gasps that brought the dew leaping 
 on his brow, and shook every limb in its socket. 
 '' My God ! " he said, as soon as he could speak again, 
 looking up at Eobert, who had risen in horror and 
 alarm. "Why do we not acce^Dt our lives, not only 
 bear them? for in accepting anything we itse it in the
 
 232 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 best way ; we carry it along, not only support it " 
 
 He stopped again, putting his hand to his mouth, and 
 brought it away wet with blood. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, Vannier, don't move ! " said 
 Eobert, helpless and desperate. " Let me get you 
 some w^ater, or what ? Don't speak, point, show me." 
 
 The painter motioned one hand towards a shelf 
 on which stood a small bottle. Eobert gave it to him, 
 he drank a mouthful, and gradually the ashy hue died 
 out of his face. 
 
 " NoY\r, do sit still ; I'll put your things together." 
 
 Gabriel leant back with a faint smile, one hand 
 holding Q-peii his painter's frock. 
 
 Steps came suddenly up the old wooden stairs, the 
 door was pushed open, and a slight, tall, and very 
 beautiful woman staggered in and reeled towards the 
 painter. 
 
 ''Ah, you fool!" she laughed, pointing at him; 
 "ha! ha! Ah! you fool! ha! ha! ha ! . . . " 
 
 The mocking jeer rang back mournfully from 
 the lonely roof and startled her. She stopped, turned 
 round, saw Eobert standing staring in surprise and 
 confusion, and said, " What was it ? Who is it ? 
 . . . ah ! " With a sudden cry she rushed across the 
 intervening space, seized Gabriel's arm, reeled back 
 against the easel and precipitated the still wet picture 
 on to the floor. 
 
 Echoing her cry, the painter shook himself free 
 from her grasp, and pushing her fiercely into his
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 233 
 
 vacant chair, lifted the picture, smeared from top to 
 bottom. He stood trembling, not wholly with rage, 
 but in a kind of dumb despair. *'Look! " he cried, 
 at last, with passionate utterance, holding it towards 
 her. ^'Look!" 
 
 *'Yes, I see. Very jDretty ! very pretty!" she 
 answered, shaking her head gravely, and smiling the 
 while. 
 
 He quivered from head to foot. Then suddenly 
 dropping the picture on the easel, he sank on to the 
 remaining chair in the room and hiding his face in 
 his hands, he said, *'It's of no use; you always drag 
 me down, always, always." 
 
 She stared stolidly at him, making no reply. 
 Eobert stood silently between them. 
 
 Going down in the dusk of the evening, through 
 the sodden land, Eobert's heart smote him that he 
 Vv'as taking this delicate artist into all this damp and 
 fog, and yet, too, he felt that it was actually better 
 for Gabriel than staying in town with that haunting 
 miser}', from which he could never be free. Gabriel 
 had led Viola from the room, and no words had 
 passed between the two men about the scene ; but 
 before leaving, the painter had turned the canvas 
 with its face to the wall with a sigh, and Eobert felt 
 incHned actually to cry. 
 
 They went straight to Charteriss, the close car- 
 riage meeting them at the station — a kind thought 
 of Lady Clinton's for Gabriel's sake. In the hall,
 
 234 honour's worth; oe, 
 
 Sir Philip came out to meet them, with a most 
 cordial and delighted welcome. But Gabriel was so 
 exhausted, that he had to go at once to his room and 
 lie down. 
 
 " I say, Bob; how awful he looks!" said Sir 
 Philip, who, after seeing that he had everything he 
 wanted, had persuaded Piobert to come into the 
 morning-room to tea. 
 
 " And how good of him to come ! " from Lady 
 Clinton. 
 
 " How good of you to go! " from Gladys. 
 
 "How delightful to be painted!" from Mina 
 Thorold. 
 
 " Another sick animal ! " from Quarl, ended the 
 chorus. " I tell you what, Colonel Myddleton has 
 got a most ugly touch of this fever again, I don't 
 know what we are to do with him to-night, really." 
 He looked so concerned that everybody became 
 uneasy. "I wonder whether I dare give him chlo- 
 roform, really?" he said. "What do you think, 
 SirVere?" 
 
 " Try it," said the old gentleman, laconically. 
 " I think if you do, you will have very little trouble 
 with him afterwards." 
 
 "What does everybody say ? " said Quarl. " Don't 
 all speak at once," as silent dismay was his only 
 
 response. " He is quite willing, but " He got up, 
 
 went and stood with his back to the fireplace, and 
 held his chin meditatively.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 235 
 
 *' Pliil, wliat do joii think?" said Dorothy, look- 
 ing anxiously at her husband. 
 
 "It's an awful bore!" uttered the oracle. "I 
 don't like to say. Suppose, Freeman, you give up 
 the scene with him in it." 
 
 " No, that I won't," said Quarl, shortly. "What 
 do you say, Lady Dunstable ? " 
 
 " Give it up," said the old lady, gravely. " It 
 can't matter, and I think it will be a great risk hi& 
 appearing at all. 
 
 " What a fuss about that stern, hard man ! " said 
 Miss Thorold to Hermione, who, with a face, the 
 tension of which was painful, sat clasping Jerks 
 against her knee. 
 
 " It would be a pity, though, to injure him just for 
 our amusement," she answered. 
 
 Mr. Freeman turned to her suddenly. "It's all 
 his own fault, he w^on't give up that scene." 
 
 " Can't you talk him out of it ? " she said, shortly. 
 
 "No." 
 
 Her brows contracted painfully ; she appeared 
 about to speak, then closed her lips again. 
 
 " Suppose you ask him. Miss St. John," said 
 Mina, looking only half up from under her large lids. 
 
 "What nonsense! " said Hermione, with the same 
 pale severity in her look that had once before awed 
 that young person. " Colonel Myddleton is the last 
 person to be persuaded by any one unless he 
 chose."
 
 ■236 honour's worth; or, 
 
 **Biit lie might choose in this case, you know," 
 persisted Miss Thorold. 
 
 " If Mr. Freeman has failed, I should not attempt 
 it" (very coldly and proudly); and she rose and walked 
 quietly into the hall. 
 
 *'I believe they are all afraid of him," murmured 
 Mina. "riltij:' 
 
 " We all know that angels rush in where fools fear 
 to tread," said Quarl, dryly. 
 
 ''Yes, yes; we all know Mr. Freeman is very 
 cross," she retorted, nodding her head gently at him, 
 *' so we forgive him." 
 
 Hermione stood in the hall, watching the gar- 
 deners bringing in rare exotics and palms. A bush 
 of evergreens on fire, falling close to her, made her 
 start; she helped to re-arrange them in their place 
 after the fire was put out, and all that she touched 
 seemed to stand up and fall together again gracefully. 
 
 " Will you let me help you ? " said a voice at her 
 elbow, and turning with confusion, she saw Colonel 
 Myddleton. It was the first time he had left his room 
 that day, and he certainly did look very pale and ill. 
 She spoke before she had time to think. 
 
 '■ Oh ! I wish you would not act to-night." 
 
 "Why?" he said, holding up the trailing creepers, 
 and twisting wire round the balustrade of the gallery. 
 
 ''Because Mr. Freeman seems to think you ought 
 not." 
 
 Their hands met in fastening the wire, and his
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 237 
 
 voice sank very low in answering. " I cannot give it 
 up ; it's only this one night ; you don't know what it 
 will be to me, it may alter my whole life." His voice 
 shook so that Hermione hardly heard the words, 
 though b}^ some strange instinct she caught their 
 meaning. 
 
 "It will make you ill," she said, very low. 
 
 " What does it matter — afterwards ? nothing will 
 
 matter much then. I thought, I meant " He 
 
 broke off, grasping the balustrade ; then he went on 
 with energy. "Do you know? no, of course, you 
 do not know ; but I mean, it's an awful thing to see — 
 to see all you want within your very grasp, and you 
 cannot, dare not put out your hand and take it." He 
 was looking at her a little wildly; his face looked 
 fierce and thin. He put out one hand, it was cold as 
 ice, and laid it on hers ; she did not withdraw it. 
 "You said once, about justice," he went on, brokenly, 
 " 'You must put self out of court.' I have tried, I am 
 trying — but there are things, feelings in one's nature ; 
 they must have play. Even a jury gives a recom- 
 mendation to mercy." His mouth, ordinarily so stern 
 and sharply cut, was quivering now. Her eyes were full 
 of tears. "I only ask for to-night," he said; "only 
 this one night to act with you, to be with you, near 
 you. Do not ask me to give it up, for I cannot refuse 
 you if you do ; give it me, will you ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said simply. 
 
 " God bless you ! I knew you would."
 
 238 honour's worth; or, 
 
 Hermione was in such an intense state of excite- 
 ment that she felt quite bHncl and giddy ; she could 
 not have said another word if her life had depended 
 on it. 
 
 The gardeners were all busy at the other end of 
 the hall, wreathing the pillars and the front of the 
 dais; presently they appealed to Colonel Myddleton 
 for advice, and he called Mr. Freeman out of the 
 morning-room. Hermione stood still by the gallery, 
 trying to think. What could it be ? w^hat could it 
 mean ? It could not be only because she was so rich. 
 Lady Dunstable had said if any man cared enough 
 they would speak. To think that he did not care now 
 would be sheer folly ; it was evident that he was 
 shaken to the very heart. But, what could she do ? 
 absolutely nothing, nothing ; tied by every sense from 
 helping the one person most dear to her in all the 
 world. She could have taken her heart out and 
 wrung it, as she did her slender fingers, till the 
 diamond ring cut into the palm, and brought the 
 blood springing. Oh ! for one hour of manhood to 
 speak and bid him speak ! for one hour of dire, 
 horrible peril that should shake or tear his secret 
 from him, and free her ! She almost prayed for it. 
 How glad, how thankful she was afterwards that she 
 had not ! She felt that she must be alone, must have 
 air, must think without walls round her. The front 
 door opened with a rush of icy, wet wind. She must 
 go out.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 239 
 
 She turned and walked slowly to the door ; they 
 were all busy raismg a " wmg" covered with splendid 
 creepers and orchids ; they did not notice her, she 
 thought. She went out, turned to the left, and beat 
 along under the terrace to the conservatory. Ah ! 
 there it was all quiet, warm, passionately scented, and 
 quite dark; they had not begun to light up. She 
 walked up and down, up and down, her hands clasped 
 behind her, thinking. 
 
 Hermione's was a grand, calm nature, quite 
 capable of waiting any time for a given action, but it 
 was this dead blank of uncertainty and powerlessness 
 which fretted her now ; it was like being bound with 
 spider's webs, and v/ho knew but that by waiting she 
 might not be allowing them to tighten and strengthen, 
 or that by moving she might not bring the whole 
 edifice crumbling around her ? If he had not seemed 
 to feel it all so greatly she could have borne to go on 
 any length of time, she thought, but it was the light 
 of misery in his eyes that had shaken her so to-night ; 
 the sort of look of a baffled hunted creature at bay. 
 It vfas altogether so unexpected from him, he who was 
 always so calm and so self-contained, that it worked 
 on her with tremendous power. Through all her 
 anxiety pierced the joy of feeling that she was very 
 much to him, must be far more than she had ever 
 di'eamed ; and yet with counter force came the con- 
 viction how dread, how all-powerful, must be the 
 barrier that kept him back. No mere question of
 
 240 honoue's worth ; or, 
 
 wealth could stay him thus. She knew by the very 
 pride and nobility of her o^vn nature that his love 
 would rise above that now ; it would become a low 
 and vulgar bar, that he could not allow to remain 
 between them. Then what could it be ? Something 
 that had occurred in India ? Something that in some 
 way bound him, or that he fancied did so ? It must 
 be. The only question was — was it irrevocable ? could 
 not even her wealth free him ? Doubtless, only there 
 — now she seemed to see why he did not speak. How 
 could he owe his freedom to her ? " Why not ? " she 
 thought, as the blood came leaping and tingling like 
 flame to her cheeks and brow. '' Oh ! my dear, my 
 dear, what is all my wealth worth in comparison with 
 your happiness ? " 
 
 She walked more slowly ; her heart beat so loudly 
 that she hardly heard the rain coming down in sheets 
 and torrents on the glass roof. Now and then a great 
 drop fell with startling reverberation on the marble 
 floor, or shook a flower on its stem, like a j^assionate 
 kiss. How hard it was to know what would be best 
 to do for him ! If, indeed, his happiness, his highest 
 hap]Diness, namely, his belief in her, and his respect 
 for himself, consisted in not spealdng, then would she 
 be of all most miserable if she urged him into utter- 
 ance. Whereas, on the other hand, if by spealdng, 
 by the truth being faced, " things " might be brought 
 straight — then, why, by some conventional inanity, 
 keep him back from it ? Hermione's lofty, noble
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 241 
 
 nature had a widespread belief in the strength, the 
 all-heahng power, of truth and Hght ; she had always 
 faced things herself, and from having done so strongly 
 and acted accordingly, forgot that often no one had 
 been aware of the fact save herself. 
 
 They were coming in now to light up, and Allan, 
 the head gardener, came up to her and asked her 
 whether she had looked out and seen the mere. No, 
 she had not. She went to the centre door and saw it 
 through the belt of trees ; it was white and swirling, 
 and looked like a sword drawn hastily and in anger. 
 
 *' It's coming down at the 'head ' most awful," he 
 said. "And do you see that thin white line, away 
 westward, miss ? That's the river breaking its banks." 
 The drift and swish of the rain was deafening now 
 on the glass, overhead. '* If so be you've never seen 
 the *head ' in flood-time, miss, I advise ye go down there 
 to-morrow, first thing." 
 
 " I will, indeed," she said. "It's the very thing 
 I most want to see." 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 242 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 *' There's -Josline ! " said Gladys, clutching Hermione 
 tight, and peering through the curtain hung in front 
 of the dais. " How sweet she looks ; and, oh ! there 
 is that dear old Mr. Fairfax. He is just like Lord 
 Strafford, that horrid Charles's Lord Strafford." 
 
 "Don't say 'horrid Charles,'" said Hermione, 
 laughing ; " though, certainly, that was horrid ! '* 
 
 There was a great buzz of excitement ; the band was 
 playing softly, " Could ye come back to me, Douglas ? " 
 up in the gallery. People were still arriving, and 
 every fresh person seemed more and more imbued with 
 the idea that they were the very last who would be 
 able to cross the ford, and that all succeeding visitors 
 would have to remain on the further side, which, as 
 the speakers were safely in the house and in the 
 midst of warmth and pleasure, added fresh zest to 
 their enjoyment of the whole scene. 
 
 Sir Vere Temple received the guests, in the absence 
 of Sir Philip, called twenty ways at once; which 
 caused a little. confusion.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 243 
 
 Presently, there was heard a loud command : " Take 
 your places-! " There was a bustle and settling in, the 
 hall darkened, the music died down. People began 
 whispering ; everybody got near those they wished to 
 speak to, and Josline found herself sitting next to 
 Gabriel Vannier, much to her astonishment and 
 pleasure. He was in a kind of loose frock of brown 
 velvet, and, with his fine peaked beard, oval face, large 
 eyes, and tossed hair, looked like a Vandyke stepped 
 out of its frame. Josline was entirely in white, 
 without a single ornament of any description. There 
 seemed to be a little hitch in the arrangement ; jDeople 
 began talking, when suddenly, a trumpet sounded 
 twice, and the curtain went up. It was the scene of 
 " Catherine Douglas barring the door." 
 
 The queen and her ladies were huddled at the end 
 of the dais ; Gladys was clasping Disko in her arms, 
 an afterthought of Quarl's, which had been received 
 with acclamation. Old Lady Dunstable, looking her 
 part most perfectly of all, perhaps, stood a little in 
 front of Mina, with her ebony stick extended in feeble 
 protest. 
 
 Lady Clinton was kneeling, fastening down the 
 trap-door on the king, whose hand only was seen. 
 The door was in the act of falling. " Catherine's " arm 
 was broken ; she was leaning back against the shivered 
 timbers ; her hair, partially undone, had slid across her 
 face ; her other hand was convulsively grasping the 
 iron of a partizan, which had pierced the wood close
 
 2^4 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 to her side ; her lips were unclosing in the act of 
 fainting ; her long dark riding-dress swung on one 
 side, showing her small feet, firmly planted in a kind 
 of despairing energy. Through the fissures you sav\^ 
 the faces of the pikemen — Sir Philip, Eobert, and 
 Colonel Myddleton. 
 
 The grouping was perfect, the energy of all the 
 figures was wonderful ; but Quarl's training had not 
 been in vain. His last words, "Now do try," had 
 braced them with a strange wish to please him, after 
 all his trouble ; they knew he really cared. 
 
 Eobert began to shake a little, even before the 
 curtain fell swiftly ; for he saw Josline and Gabriel, 
 side by side ; they had both risen to see better, and 
 those two beautiful heads in close juxtaposition would 
 have been remarkable anywhere, and by any one. 
 They had not recognized him behind his planks and 
 in his morion, but yet he felt as though his eyes had 
 met and held Josline's for one brief second of intense 
 feeling. She was a little stirred by something, at any 
 rate, for she turned involuntarily and touched her 
 uncle's hand, whose long fingers closed over hers 
 instantly, with that quick sympathy of intuition so 
 often noticeable in those who are highly gifted. 
 
 " Did you like it ? " he whispered, through the 
 ringing plaudits. 
 
 " Yes, very much, but she looked as though her 
 arm was really broken/' she answered, with a little 
 shudder.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 245 
 
 " She was Catherine Douglas for the time being," 
 said Gabriel ; *' every muscle in her arm was actually 
 braced. It's one of the finest pieces of still acting I 
 ever saw in my life ; and did you see the tightening 
 of the nerves under the eyes ? Marvellous ! " 
 
 The band was playing that sweet old song of 
 Paer's : " Helas ! c'est pres de vous, ma tant douce 
 amie, que mon ame a trouve nouvelle vie." 
 
 Mr. Fairfax turned round with joy in his fine face. 
 " I do love that air," he said. " It's so simple and so 
 touching. Eemind me Josline, when we go home, to 
 hunt it up." 
 
 A grave discussion was going on as to whether 
 the monkey were real or not ; and many criticisms 
 were being uttered about the whole scene, but admira- 
 tion predominated. 
 
 Again came the command to be seated, again the 
 trumpet sounded, and then there was a scene from 
 Dumas's novel, of the " Eeine Margot," where Du Mouy 
 had taken refuge in the queen's bed-chamber, on the 
 St. Bartholomew Night, and she was standing in front 
 of him, whilst all the guards were pouring in. And 
 now Josline saw Eobert. Half-dying, he had drawn 
 the magnificent dress of Marguerite round him, and 
 was lying half-insensible between her and the bed. 
 He did it fairly well, though, considering that his eyes 
 should have been shut, and that, instead, he was 
 gazing fixedly at Josline, his acting could not be 
 said to be perfect ; however, it was only for a moment,
 
 246 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 and, as his gaze never wavered, why, it did not so 
 much matter. Miss Thorold really surpassed herself ; 
 her tiny figure was drawn to its full height ; her 
 gorgeous dress added dignity to her manner. She was 
 supposed to be saying, " This is the bed-chamber of 
 the Queen of Navarre. Stop ! " and she looked as 
 though she could say it, too. 
 
 The furniture, the hangings, the whole arrange- 
 ment was marvellously in keeping. The jewels were 
 superb, and I do not think that that little fair person 
 who wore them so bravely had ever been so happy or 
 so elate in her life. Her French blood told wonder- 
 fully in the carrjdng out of the character, and she 
 looked all that Marguerite de Navarre might have 
 looked, with her small, childish face, beautiful, fair 
 hair, mignonne figure, and exquisite hands and feet. 
 
 The audience was generally enchanted, and there 
 was no criticism whatever. Eobert did not pay her 
 half compliments enough ; but she was so pleased 
 with herself that she forgave him. He was dying to 
 go amongst the audience, leather jerkin and all, though 
 really the fit of it was not quite what might have been 
 wished, as he said to himself, as he tore at the waist- 
 belt and tried in vain to screw the strap tighter. 
 " Confound that ass ! But she won't mind, I know; 
 perhaps she won't even see. I believe she doesn't see 
 things that other stupid girls think of." 
 
 " I know you're dying to be off," said Quarl, sud- 
 denly coming on him. *' Go then ! You look uncom- 
 monly odd in that get up."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 247 
 
 Eobert jumped. " What do you mean ? " he said, 
 with suppressed anguish. 
 
 " Never mind ! Go along ! I want everybody out 
 of the way now." 
 
 The band was now playing Beethoven's Symphony 
 in C minor. And one or two people said, loudly, 
 " What a horrible noise ! " But it was only at the 
 beginning. When it came to the part where the 
 great chords go slowly rolling, and the violins worked 
 up and held them and silence came down on the 
 audience, Josline drew closer to her uncle, whose 
 face was turned towards the orchestra. 
 
 " He has picked his men carefully," he murmured, 
 now quite at home and perfectly happy. '' What a 
 pleasure to hear it played like that ! " 
 
 The hall grew darker ; a strange, red, lurid light 
 shone below the cm-tain, and a kind of low, hissing 
 sound made every one start and hold their breath. 
 No need now to bid them take their seats, the music 
 had kept them still. 
 
 The cm'tain rose just as Eobert entered the door 
 and he stood transfixed; even Josline was forgotten for 
 that, moment. It was the scene of "the forsaken 
 sentinel in Herculseneum." The glare of flame came 
 do"^Ti a narrow gallery on the right, and struck on 
 Colonel Myddleton's face. He was standing with his 
 arms folded round his spear, very quiet, very calm ; 
 he had evidently made up his mind to die and was 
 waiting for it to come. It was the strange waiting
 
 248 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 without expectancy that struck every spectator with 
 such crushing force and made them feel as though 
 they were looking on at an actual sacrifice. 
 
 '^ And all for a word ! " said Gahriel, breathless. 
 " It's awful ! he must have felt that ! gone through 
 it actually ! What a face ! " He was leaning, saying 
 this in Josline's ear, who could hardly keep from a 
 sob of excitement and anxiety. 
 
 She was pressing up against her uncle, who was 
 too much moved himself to be aware how fast her 
 heart was beating. The mournful, grave, intense look 
 on Colonel Myddleton's face became graved in two 
 hearts that night. It was a longer time before the 
 curtain fell than any before and then the applause 
 was deafening. 
 
 " Out of the way, everybody ! " said Mr. Freeman. 
 " Come here, Myddleton ! Now for the scene of the 
 evening. Everybody not wanted go into the hall ; 
 everybody f " He hustled them all out, only Colonel 
 Mj^ddleton remained. 
 
 " Surely I am not going on again alone ? " he 
 said, rather wearily, looking round to see if Hermione 
 were there, and feeling his heart sink with a sick feel- 
 ing of disappointment. " 1 thought you said " 
 
 "Wait!" said Quarl, looking eager and very 
 anxious. " I'll teU you what, Myddleton, I'm in a 
 most horrid fright. I've never told Miss St. John 
 what it is she is to act, and now, supposing at the 
 last she should refuse, my dear fellow, I should be so 
 horribly vexed."
 
 THE COST OF A YOW. 249 
 
 " Well ; but is she even dressed ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, sometime ago, I went to see." Quaii 
 was striding up and down the room, snatching at his 
 chin violently, very red and nervous. " She looks 
 so awfully beautiful I didn't know what to do not to 
 tell her. Look here, do you think there is any 
 human being who could persuade her not to mind ? " 
 
 " But why doesn't she come ? " said Colonel 
 Myddleton, in a short, sharp voice. 
 
 " I told her not till the last minute. Oh, I wish I 
 weren't such a fool ! " 
 
 " But she said she would do just as you told her, 
 you know." 
 
 *' Yes, yes, that's all very fine ; but there are some 
 things I should never dare to urge her to do." 
 
 There was a little silence. Suddenly ^Colonel 
 Myddleton said slowly — 
 
 *' Look here. Freeman ! I think she will do it, if 
 you don't put it into her head that you dream of her 
 refusing." 
 
 ''Very well," said Quarl, desperately. "I'll call 
 her, then." 
 
 The band was playing the swan song in " Lohen- 
 grin ; " the sweet, sharp, reedy notes were beating 
 through the hall, with that piercing cry only known 
 to violins. Not a soul present knew what it was 
 excepting Mr. Freeman, who had heard it in Ger- 
 many, and had insisted on the band learning it for 
 this scene. They were playing it wonderfully ; from
 
 250 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 far, far away the exquisite lament seemed to come ; so 
 still was every one, that you could hear the rush and 
 beat of the rain outside, the wind rising and whistling- 
 like a demon chorus. 
 
 Colonel Myddleton leant hack against the side 
 wing, waiting. His heart beat thickly ; a great sad- 
 ness flooded his whole soul, under that mournful, be- 
 seeching wail. 
 
 Suddenly Quarl's voice said, in a rather shaky 
 tone, '' Look ! " 
 
 He did look. There stood Hermione ; but what a 
 Hermione ! 
 
 Clothed entirely in a white stole, which fell straight 
 from her throat to her feet ; her magnificent hair un- 
 done and falling in one wide, golden sheet to her 
 knee. She was looking at him with a strange, wistful 
 inquiry. She was so exceedingly beautiful and looked 
 altogether so unearthly, that the man who loved her 
 and the man who did not, were equally s^Deechless. 
 They were all a little unnerved — Hermione by not 
 knowing what she was going to do ; they by trying to 
 tell her. 
 
 *' Oh ! " said Colonel Myddleton, suddenly advanc- 
 ing and holding out both his hands. "Do not refuse ! 
 It would be such a pity." 
 
 " I j)romised to act mth you to-night," she said 
 quietly, looking straight at him. " And I never 
 change my mind or go from my word." 
 
 *' Hush ! " he said, in a voice dense and dull with
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 251 
 
 a fierce anguish and passion that startled both his 
 hearers. " You know no word holds good to me ; I 
 died just now ! I hold no one to their word ! " 
 
 Mr. Freeman thought he was iDlaying on the part 
 he had just acted ; but Hermione had seen the look 
 in his eyes when he first saw her — the look of a crea- 
 ture shot through the heart; they had seemed to 
 break, and that was one reason why she looked so 
 pale. 
 
 *'How long they are!" "Something has gone 
 wrong ! " " What is it ? " people were beginning to 
 murmm% when the band suddenly ceased ; there was 
 a profound hush and the curtain rose on a representa- 
 tion of Noel Paton's jDicture of " Mors janua Yitse." 
 On the left was a towering wall of creepers, exotics, 
 orchids, palms — drooping, lovely, faintly scented ; 
 down from above them, glittering through them, 
 bursting triumphantly through crevice, tendril, leaf, 
 and bud, struck light, white, intense, pure, wonderful ; 
 shedding its rays into the furthest recesses of the 
 hall, piercing and searching like an organ's tone or 
 the trumpet-call of an angel. On the right was dark- 
 ness, dying leaves, broken branches, stagnant water, 
 crawling things. 
 
 Immediately in front, knelt Colonel Myddleton, in 
 full armom-; bruised, pierced, broken; the straps 
 giving way, rust on everything ; a crushed helmet had 
 rolled against a gigantic thistle, and was full of down 
 from the seeding plant ; his broken sword was slipping
 
 252 honour's worth; or, 
 
 from liis grasp ; his face, full of a terrible heart-broken 
 anguish, was turned towards the streaming light, 
 every line came out as though carved in iron ; he was 
 dying, and of a broken heart, a wasted life, a trust 
 betrayed. Close to him, with one hand lifting his, 
 stood Hermione. The light fell over her, completely 
 transfiguring her as she stood looking almost trans= 
 parent ; there had been no need to powder her face, it 
 was pale as a sculptured angel. Behind her, actually 
 touching her (though she never knew it even after- 
 wards), was a gigantic representation of Death. Her 
 hair swept over the knight's figure, he felt it lying on 
 his neck, he let his hand lie in hers, not colder than 
 her own; for those brief seconds she was his good 
 angel, and they gave him strength to bear, to be true. 
 
 The curtain fell ; it was the last scene. There was 
 no applause, somehow the tableau had been too real, 
 every person present had more or less been overcome 
 by those two figm-es ; even the arrangement of the 
 scene was more perfect than any of the others. It was 
 still in everybody's mind, when the hall was quickly 
 relit, the band began to play a lively air, and each 
 spectator said— " AYell ! " or "The Last!" or 
 *' Wonderful!" 
 
 Gabriel was lost in thought, Josline was shivering 
 from head to foot.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 253 
 
 CHAPTEE XXL 
 
 In the warm, dimly lighted conservatory^ every one 
 was walking up and down, talking over the scenes 
 and dresses, whilst the hall was heing cleared for 
 dancing. Colonel Myddleton had been talking over 
 the scene to Mr. Freeman, who was perfectly satisfied, 
 radiant, and exultant. 
 
 *' Didn't I ask you to name the most noble-looking 
 woman you ever saw ? " he said, hugging Disko with 
 effusion, and stuffing him with sugar. "Did you 
 ever see any one look so grand as she did ? She is a 
 grand creature. God bless her ! I am grateful to her 
 for having made no fuss, but just taking her place 
 at once, and looking it to perfection. If that lath 
 of a painter isn't madly in love with her, he ought to 
 be. I never saw such a figure ; the sweep of her arm 
 was superb. And then that hair ! Heavens ! it would 
 have tingled to my finger-tips if it had fallen over my 
 shoulder, as it did over yours. She looked the good 
 angel. Yes, for such a woman, one might even be 
 content to die."
 
 254 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 " Or to live," muttered Colonel Myddleton, stoop- 
 ing to pick up his helmet, and trying to steady his 
 voice. 
 
 ''I thought it was all up with her once, though; 
 just when the curtain was coming down, her whole 
 face was as white as her dress, did you see ? " 
 
 Colonel Myddleton nodded. 
 
 '* And then how oddly it altered her ! her hair all 
 being down, eh ? Her face looked so small and sweet 
 and soft; one only knew her by her great eyes. 
 What hair ! " and he laughed. *' I can't get over it ; 
 now do you honestly think that's all her own ? It's 
 just like her, somehow, too," he added, musingly; 
 " so massive, so fine, so soft; for, do you know, I felt 
 it. I couldn't resist ; I took up a strand of it, it was 
 just like spun gold, and she never seemed to think 
 about it at all. My goodness ! what would the little 
 Eeine Margot give for that hair ? She acted well, too. 
 Well, I must go and look after my children, and if you 
 take my advice, Myddleton, you'll go off to your bed, 
 and not show till to-morrow ; you look uncommonly 
 beat." 
 
 " Ah ! well, yes ; I'll go, anyhow, and get rid of all 
 this toggery," he said, with a grave, tu^ed smile ; and 
 he walked away, with his head down 'over his gorget, 
 looking like one who has indeed fought a losing battle. 
 
 if Why the deuce he doesn't speak, I can't think. 
 Is it his health that stops him, I wonder ? " muttered 
 Quarl. " I thought I would prod him up by talking
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 255 
 
 SO about her, but the pride is gone out of the man. 
 Well ! ' How are the mighty fallen ! ' He doesn't look 
 much like a hero now. Not that she would care ; 
 she loves the ground he treads on, I believe. Why, 
 their eyes literally met when he said she must act, and 
 she said she had promised him and she would stand by 
 it. Well, Disko, my child, I'm mighty pleased, and in 
 a good temper for once. I'll see if nothing can help 
 them. I suppose there's nothing ugly in the back- 
 ground, no entanglement or anything. No, he doesn't 
 look like the man for that ; it's that confounded money, 
 or else he knows more about his health than he will 
 allow." 
 
 Colonel Myddleton went slowly across the great 
 hall, through the dining-room, through the long 
 stone corridor, along the cloisters from which he saw 
 the lighted conservatory, and heard the band playing 
 faintly, and into the beautiful oriel chamber. He had 
 been walking almost mechanically, thinking over the 
 scene, and now, finding himself suddenly at the foot 
 of the great staircase, he recollected the ghost story, 
 and thought of Hermione. His foot was on the first 
 step before he looked up, and then a thrill of super- 
 stitious dread shook him from head to foot. 
 
 Standing on the haunted landing, all in white, her 
 hair stiU floating round her, was a tall woman's 
 figure. She was looking down. There was hardly any 
 light, he could not see her face, but he knew it was 
 Hermione. For two breathless seconds they neither
 
 256 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 moved nor spoke ; it might have actually been Sir 
 Sydney and the hapless lady of the legend. They 
 both knew the story ; the strange significance struck 
 them both. She had left the hall immediately after 
 the last tableau, and had been crossing this quiet way 
 to her room. 
 
 " Do not move," he said, at last ; ''I am coming 
 to you." 
 
 He began slowly mounting the stairs, very slowly, 
 for he wanted to see what he was going to say. At 
 last he trod on the top step. He stood quite still, 
 looking at her ; her face was very pale and grave. 
 
 ''You see," he began, in a strange, hoarse voice, 
 ''they maligned Sir Sydney; it was a lie, he never 
 broke his word to her, his word of honour. They 
 killed him, but he came." 
 
 *' And she waited," said Hermione. 
 
 Doors opened and banged; a train of servants 
 came through the room below them, carrying lights, 
 fruit, and wine ; they were in darkness, no one saw 
 them. The doors closed again on distant laughter, 
 merry voices, stamping feet. 
 
 He stretched out one mailed arm towards her, and 
 spoke again, very low, but she heard every syllable, as 
 though it had been a voice of doom. 
 
 " God bless you for keeping your word to me, to- 
 night ! It has helped me at my utmost need. I am 
 going away to-morrow. I may never see you again 
 in this world ; I will say good-bye now ; but believe.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 257 
 
 believe — oh ! God grant that you may beheve — that 
 if I hve a long life, or a short few years, no woman on 
 the whole earth will ever be to me what you are, what 
 you have always been to me." He stopped, trying 
 hard to master his emotion, which half strangled him, 
 and with one hand he struggled to undo his gorget. 
 
 Hermione did not move. She stood as though 
 tm-ned to stone ; she felt as though dying. 
 
 He came a little nearer, he knelt down suddenly, 
 gathered her hair in his two hands, held it like golden 
 water to his lips, and then looking up with his eyes 
 dim with unshed tears, he said, " I have believed 
 in you, Hermione, all my life, will you believe in 
 me?" 
 
 She tried to speak. Oh ! what would she not have 
 given for power to utter, if only a few short words ? 
 She could not move her lips ; her heart beat so loudly, 
 he heard it. 
 
 ** Perhaps in a year, in a few short years, 
 you will have reason to think I have wilfully 
 deceived you," he went on; "but it will not be so. 
 I shall still hold to my thought of you as the one 
 woman in the whole of God's world whom I love — to 
 the death." His straining, eager look held her like 
 an arm of steel, otherwise she must have fallen. " I 
 am going now," he said. "Will you speak once — say 
 my name once — say you forgive me — say you will 
 believe in me ? that I may carry that thought with me 
 till I die, and can tell you the truth." She did not 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 move, or utter, or alter her look, rigid and cold as 
 stone. '' Oh, my God ! my God ! you cannot, then ! " 
 he said, breaking down suddenly, letting his head 
 fall on the hair in his clasped hands, and sobbing 
 frightful, tearless sobs. 
 
 She made a sound, her lips parted, she struggled 
 to speak, she lifted her hands vaguely, blindly towards 
 him ; an awful look of untold love, faith, misery 
 came into her beautiful, tearless eyes. She thought 
 she had spoken, she thought she had said, ** Tell 
 me, tell me why ! " but there was no sound. 
 
 " God bless you," he said, not looking at her, but 
 rising to his feet. " You are true even in not speaking ; 
 you said there were some things better never known, 
 but I thought you ought to know that — that I — I 
 mean what I think of you. Good-bye. God bless 
 you ! " He lifted her hair again, kissed it passion- 
 ately, then turned and walked slowly along the gallery 
 and through the great door at the end. 
 
 It was too late. 
 
 The instant he was actually gone Hermione re- 
 covered herself a little. She staggered to the window- 
 seat, still staring at the place where he had stood, 
 and she said, alas ! now out loud, " she had loved 
 him all her life ! " as though speaking of some one 
 else. ''She believed him! she — believed — him!" 
 She lifted her hair and looked at it, and then clasped 
 it tightly to her. Then on her came a passion of
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 259 
 
 anxiety to be dressed, to go down, to meet him again ; 
 for of course he would be amongst the others. She 
 got up and went to her room in a fever of excitement. 
 She was deadly pale, her eyes glittered, she looked 
 fearfully ill. But what did she care ? what did any- 
 thing matter ? who would look at her, or she at them ? 
 She hurried her maid frantically ; she caught up the 
 first jewels and flowers that came to hand ; she 
 twisted up her hair in long golden coils, fastened 
 her dress with trembling fingers, heard Gladys's voice 
 calling her, and went hurriedly to the door. Some- 
 how she couldn't find the handle ; everything rocked. 
 She tried to call, but failed, and sank into a chair as 
 Gladys ran in. 
 
 *' It's nothing ! " she said, as soon as she could 
 speak. " I often feel faint ; I think nothing of it, 
 I assure you. Don't look so ghastly, Gladys, you 
 foolish child ! Give me some cold water." She was 
 shivering, and deadly cold ; her teeth chattered in 
 her head. " Now let me get up ; here, give me your 
 hand, Gladys ; so ! I am all right. Now don't say 
 anything about it. Come along; Marton, give me 
 that flask ; it's horrible, but I must have something, 
 I suppose," as her voice failed her and she drooped 
 her head on Gladys' shoulder. " Pour it out, Marton, 
 a teaspoon, two." She was shivering, so that the 
 chair against which she leant rattled. She drank it 
 and the colour ebbed back to her cheeks, though her
 
 260 honour's worth; or, 
 
 lips looked thin and white, and her nostrils kept 
 quivering in. " Now, let us go," she said, with a 
 faint smile, ** I am all right, really. I am tired, yes, 
 very tired, but that's all." 
 
 Gladys didn't dare say anything ; they went down 
 to the hall.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 261 
 
 CHAPTEK XXII. 
 
 Mr. Fairfax and Josline were in tlie drawing-room 
 looking at the statue of Night. Eobert was with 
 them, longing to ask her to dance, but not daring to 
 do so. She seemed so strange and silent ; she clung 
 to her uncle with presistency, refusing to move a ste^D 
 without him, and looking confused and startled at 
 every word addressed to her. Gabriel Vannier was 
 sitting in a low chair watching her every movement, 
 noting every turn of her head, every expression of 
 her mobile face. She was quite unaware and un- 
 conscious of this, though; she felt no fear of him 
 whatever, and if he had talked to her, or watched 
 her aU night, would probably never have remarked it. 
 
 "What would aunt Barbara say to us?" said 
 Dux, smiling as they sat down under the grouped 
 shrubs. " She would be startled beyond all words." 
 
 " It must be nearly time to be returning," said 
 Josline, with flushing cheeks, as she caught the 
 passionate entreaty of Eobert's look.
 
 262 honour's worth; or, 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Fairfax, you really must wait for 
 supper — won't you even walk to the doorway and see 
 the dancing ? " 
 
 She shrank a little and Mr. Fairfax said directly — 
 " Ah ! Josline, yes, do go and see how they all 
 get on." 
 
 Eeluctantly she rose, and side by side they went to 
 the doorway. She made no attempt to take his arm, 
 and he was so abashed by her manner that he dared 
 not offer it to her. 
 
 They stood quietly looking on, when Lady 
 Dunstable came up on Sir Philip's arm and said — 
 
 " Eobert ! is that Miss Joshne Fairfax ? " There 
 was surprised pleasure in her voice and a little 
 tremor too. 
 
 ** Yes, madam," he said, bowing. 
 ''Ah! how like ! Will you let me kiss you, mon 
 enfant ? " she said, with stately kindness, and break- 
 ing into her native language, "Your mother was 
 Lucille's only friend. Grand Dieu, how it all comes 
 back to me ! I see her, tall, young, beautiful." 
 
 She stretched her two hands, drew the young girl's 
 head towards her, and kissed her gravely on the brow. 
 " Your hair grows with the same sweep," she said, 
 with tears in her voice ; " so smooth, so heavy ; I 
 loved her very much ! Alas ! poor child." She re- 
 mained looking gravely at Josline, who was looking 
 equally grave at her, with trembhng earnestness and 
 curiosity.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 263 
 
 Sir Philip and Eobert were talking together, the 
 latter hearing every word with keen double hearing. 
 The dancers whirled past, the music went on with 
 lively beat, the wind roared, and the waters came 
 down. 
 
 *' I say. Freeman, where are you going with that 
 ridiculous monkey ? Its looks bewray it ; it's terrified 
 to death and horribly sleepy." 
 
 " I am going to take it to bed," said Quarl. " It's 
 done its duty like every one else. When are you 
 going to have the supper room opened ? " 
 
 " Soon. Where's Myddleton ? " 
 
 *'I sent him where Disko is going, long ago," 
 returned Quarl. " He's dead beat." 
 
 " I wish I were there, too," said Sir Philip, stifling 
 a prodigious yawn. " Do listen to the rain ! I begin 
 to be horribly afraid half the people will have to stay 
 here." 
 
 *' Then Disko had better go at once, or they'll have 
 to steal his bed." 
 
 " Eobert ! where is Gladys ? " said Lady Clinton. 
 
 " Gone to fetch Miss St. John ; I suppose they got 
 talking," he answered, rather shortly, for he saw 
 Josline being carried off by Lady Dunstable. 
 
 "Here I am, if you want me," said Hermione's 
 low voice at then' elbow. " Gladys is dancing." 
 
 " My dear, how tired you look ! " " Do let me get 
 you a chair," from Lady Clinton and Eobert, simul- 
 taneously.
 
 264 honour's worth; or, 
 
 " No, thank you, I'm all right," she said, with a 
 smile that looked cut on her face. 
 
 '* Ah ! there's Gladys. I've caught her eye, she 
 must go and speak to old Mrs. Crompton." Lady 
 Clinton left them. 
 
 '* I don't see Colonel Myddleton, is he dancing ? " 
 said Hermione, with extreme quietude. 
 
 " No : he's gone to bed," said Kobert. " I heard 
 Quarl tell Philip so just now. Do you want anything ? 
 Do let me do it for you." 
 
 '* Oh ! it's nothing, thank you ; I only wanted to 
 answer a question he asked me, that's aU." 
 
 There was silence. The supper-room had opened, 
 and people were drifting towards it. Eobert felt he 
 ought to ask her to go in, but he didn't want to let 
 Josline out of his sight. Gladys came past them; she 
 too looked tired. 
 
 "Bob," she said, smiling, "why don't you ask 
 Josline to go into supper ? she knows no one. I'll 
 follow soon, if you go towards the left. Hermione, 
 will you let me introduce Lord Edward Morton to 
 you?" 
 
 There was no help for it. Hermione went into 
 supper. What she talked about she never knew. 
 What Lord Edward was like she never knew — tall 
 or short, or fair or dark. He said afterwards that 
 the great heiress was the most beautiful and the 
 most silly woman he had ever met, for she laughed at 
 everything, and said yes to everything, and talked so
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 265 
 
 fast he couldn't hear himself speak. There was a 
 slight discrepancy in this statement. 
 
 Hermione was only conscious of one miserable fact : 
 he evidently would not see her again ; he was going 
 away, and she should never, never speak to him more. 
 She watched the people coming in now in shoals ; every 
 one looked happy, excited, flushed, satisfied. Was 
 there then, indeed, only her own one miserable heart ? 
 She was vaguely glad to hope so, to think so; but yet, 
 oh ! if she could only see him once more, see his tall, 
 strong figure come in at that opposite doorway, for 
 example, come up to her, touch her, speak her name! 
 before all these people, yes, before them all, she would 
 have to speak ! So strong was the yearning on her that 
 she began to be afraid she was saying something. 
 She thought Lord Edward looked strangely at her, so 
 she smiled and said by a great effort — 
 
 *' We are all rather tired and stupid to-night, I 
 think." 
 
 **It must have been awfully hard work. Oh! I 
 say ! who is that lovely girl ? " 
 
 " That is Miss Fairfax. Would you like to know 
 her ? " 
 
 " Oh, I say ! yes, you know I should." 
 
 Hermione had no scruples, for she saw Gladys 
 talking to a man she knew she could not bear, and 
 determined to release her* The dancing went on 
 again after supper with renewed zest. It was not 
 every day that the county had an opportunity of
 
 266 honour's worth; or, 
 
 dancing on such a floor and to such a band, and they 
 certamly made the best of it. 
 
 Quarl was disconsolately leaning against the door- 
 way when Hermione slid past him. 
 
 "Goodnight," she said. "Don't betray me, I 
 must go to bed, I am so tired." 
 
 He started forwards. "Don't go," he said. "I 
 am going to get Miss Fairfax to sing." 
 
 "What now? to-night?" 
 
 "Yes; I mean, I know she will if you ask her 
 uncle. That young Watt has bothered her enough 
 for one night." 
 
 " Oh ! I don't think it would be kind, she is too 
 excited and tired; don't ask her." 
 
 " Do you think so, really ? Well, look here, will 
 you take one turn with me in the conservatory ? " 
 
 " If you wish, yes. I am rather tired." 
 
 " I won't keep you two minutes. Come along," 
 he said, rather unceremoniously. 
 
 They went in. One or two people were walking 
 about, the Fairfaxes amongst others. 
 
 " Do sit down," he said kindly. 
 
 " I would rather stand, I think," she said. 
 
 " Well, now. Miss St. John, I'm a very odd person, 
 you know. I am going to say something odd, shall 
 you mind ? " 
 
 " How can I possibly tell till I know ? " She drew 
 back rather coldly. 
 
 " Oh ! you needn't go off like that. It's only that
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 267 
 
 some one we know gets horribly hipped, and thinks 
 he's going to die or something, and he isn't a bit. 
 That's all ; don't you mind." 
 
 Hermione laughed. ''He never told me so, why 
 do you think he does ? " 
 
 " Well, he will tell you. Don't you mind." 
 *' I should mind very much if he did," she said. 
 " I have known him a long time, and should be very 
 sorry ; but I think you are mistaken. Was that all ? 
 Well, I am sm'e you meant very kindly. Good night, 
 now. By-the-by, he is going away to-morrow, isn't 
 he?" 
 
 " Yes ; he says so. I don't think he will." 
 "He generally does what he says," she answered. 
 '' Good night." 
 
 It was the last piece of heroism she was capable 
 of. She reached her own room safely, and then broke 
 down, and sobbed such passionate, bitter tears as she 
 had never wept before. " Oh ! why, why did he say 
 that ? Oh ! why, why did he not give me time to 
 
 answer ? Oh ! " with a long, low wail, stretching 
 
 her arms out across the darkness of the room to the 
 shadows cast on the wall like living things. " Oh, my 
 darling ! my darling ! come back to me ! give me 
 time ! do not leave me ! do not leave me ! I am so 
 alone in all the world — alone, alone ! " Then she hid 
 her head in her arms, and wrung her hands in im- 
 potent misery and despair. " I never could, I never 
 could say anything in a hurry. He might have
 
 268 honoue's worth; or, 
 
 known; he might have waited. I meant to speak; he 
 knew I would speak ; " and she sobbed and cried, like 
 a broken-hearted, beaten child* 
 
 Eobert and Gladys were putting Josline and Mr. 
 Fairfax into the lumbering old clarence that was to 
 take them home. 
 
 ** Are you quite sure the ford is passable ? shall I 
 not come with you ? I wish you would let me," he was 
 imploring ; and Josline was saying — 
 
 *' Quite sure. No, thank you," in a hushed whis- 
 per, like some one speaking in their sleep. 
 
 ** You will come soon, then? and I will play as you 
 wish," Mr. Fairfax was saying to Gladys, with whom 
 he had made great friends. *' But don't, please, 
 stand out here in the damp. I beg your pardon, but 
 I always look after Josline, and get an idea no one 
 ought to do anything." 
 
 They drove off, leaving Gabriel looking after them, 
 and Mr. Freeman saying, as he tapped the artist on 
 the shoulder — 
 
 *' *A chiel's amang ye, taking notes.' " Then he 
 strolled off through the rapidly emptying rooms, 
 thinking over Hermione's manner. '*I begin to think 
 she doesn't care, after all. And perhaps he knows it, 
 poor wretch ! Well, she's a mighty cool hand ; but 
 when she does care — my eye ! " with which adjuration 
 he bethought him that he had two, both of which were 
 heavy with sleep, and so betook him to his rest. 
 
 Sir Philip had just begun to wake up, and he and
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 269 
 
 Eobert walked the conservatory for ever so long, 
 smoking and talking over everything. 
 
 " Well, it all went off very w^ell, I think, don't you, 
 old fellow ? " This from Sir Philip. 
 
 ** Yes, very," from Eobert, who was utterly miser- 
 able, and had probably never passed so wretched an 
 evening in his life. 
 
 ''Everybody looked very nice, I think?" tenta- 
 tively. 
 
 *' Oh, very ; they all danced." Horrible falsehood, 
 for Eobert had not taken one turn. 
 
 "You're half asleep, and no wonder. I say, you 
 did look so odd in that jerkin, ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! did I ? " in feeble misery. 
 
 "Well, never mind, I heard that sweet, gentle 
 Fairfax girl tell Gabriel Vannier you looked just what 
 she fancied a pikeman would look." 
 
 "I wonder what that would be?" meditated 
 Eobert, flying up to Paradise again. 
 
 And so the evening ended. It left most of them 
 wondering what something would be, excepting little 
 Gladys, who lay down to sleep, quite certain how 
 something was gone from her for ever.
 
 270 honour's worth; or, 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIII. 
 
 The old clarence lumbered along the heavy rutted 
 lanes. Mr. Fairfax was humming softly to himself 
 " Helas ! c'est pres de vous." Josline was wondering 
 whether "going out" always meant this extraordinary 
 mixture of excitement, disappointment, scraps of con- 
 versation, rushes of music, beat of feet, snatches of 
 laughter, and above all, and over all, two eyes that 
 followed you everywhere. If so, she thought she 
 would never care to go anywhere again. She was 
 tired out. They splashed through the ford, just not 
 too high, and at last they stopped by the wicket gate, 
 and saw Mrs. Turgoose standing in the porch with 
 a lantern. How strange she looked, thought Josline, 
 in a scarlet flannel petticoat tied round her neck, and 
 both her arms stuck awkwardly out of the placket- 
 hole ! It was raining heavily. Josline, holding up 
 her delicate muslin dress, tripped lightly in, and Mr. 
 Fairfax followed, and was received with the cold 
 muzzle of a gun planted in his chest, and the words 
 " Come no further ! "
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 271 
 
 '* Nonsense ! Why, Barbara ! " 
 
 " Dux, is that really you ? " 
 
 ** Of course. "What is the matter ? " 
 
 "I thought the driver might come in and want 
 some beer, they always do on a wet night." 
 
 "How can you be so foolish ? We are dead tired. 
 Josline had better have something hot and go to bed 
 out of the damp and wet." 
 
 "Ah! starved? They always starve you at a rout; 
 that comes of going out." Here Miss Barbara brought 
 the gmi down with a bang and a click of the lock, 
 that made Mrs. Turgoose scream slightly. " Tur- 
 goose ! " said her mistress, angrily, " how often have 
 I told you to-night that a gun not loaded can't 
 possibly go off ? I assure you, Giles — I dare say you 
 thought the hall smelt horrible, this foolish woman 
 thought fit to go into hysterics when I brought out 
 the gun, and I was obliged to burn feathers to bring 
 her round." 
 
 "I don't wonder," said Mr. Fairfax; "that gun 
 looks deadly, and I believe it is loaded, for not long 
 ago, I was going round the wilderness with young 
 
 Watt, and I know I loaded it then, and " Here 
 
 he walked up to Miss Barbara, who, holding the gun 
 up by the stock, shook it well, as a dog would a rat. 
 "Take care!" he shouted, loudly. Mrs. Turgoose 
 had sunk on the floor, dropping the lantern with a 
 bang, and drawn her scarlet drapery over her head 
 with shrieks of terror, Josline turned a little pale;
 
 272 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 but Mr. Fairfax rescued the weapon, and said, after 
 an examination, '' No, fairly discharged. Now, do go 
 to bed. Just come to my room for a moment, 
 Joshne, you know where that air of Paer's is ? " 
 
 '' She must not sit up," said Miss Barbara. " I 
 shall come and see she does not." She stalked on 
 in front, looking a very spectre, her tall night-cap 
 making night hideous. Miss Barbara had no respect 
 whatever for people's ** feelings," and said that "You 
 were always yourself, no matter how you were 
 dressed," — a curious assertion, when thought over. 
 
 ** What are you going to do with that gun. Dux ? '' 
 said she, when the piece had been found, and the 
 uncle was saying good night to Josline. 
 
 " Keep it here," he answered, smiling. " I don't 
 want my lungs blown out, or rather in." 
 
 " It's a very heavy gun," said Miss Barbara, 
 meditatively. " I think it must be loaded." 
 
 "No, no, happily it's not; now good night." He 
 was tuning his violin already. 
 
 Miss Barbara was so accustomed to hear the 
 sounds penetrating faintly and dreamily all hours of 
 the night, that she didn't think of objecting to his 
 nocturnal harmonies. 
 
 " I shall come in whilst you are undressing," she 
 said to Josline, and accordingly she sat on the small 
 white bed. 
 
 " How did they all look, child ? You don't speak," 
 she said at last, sharply, for she was really dying to 
 know. " What did you think of it all ? "
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 273 
 
 Josline was holding lier slender arms high over 
 her head, and said in a tired, faint voice, " There was 
 a great deal of light, and some nice music, and they 
 danced ; it was rather like the Watteau in the den." 
 
 **I don't think you will care to go out again, 
 much," said Miss Barhara, curiously. 
 
 " I will do just what you and Dux like, always," 
 said Josline. 
 
 *'Well, you are a good child; hut Josline, you 
 know, the other night " She stopped. 
 
 Josline turned slowly round and faced her, not 
 speaking, but with a curiously blended expression of 
 intense terror, and yet intense determination. 
 
 Miss Barbara frowned. "You should not look 
 like that, child," she said, sternly. "I should never 
 have looked like that at my mother." 
 
 Josline began to tremble nervously, then she sud- 
 denly clasped her hands together, and held them out 
 to her aunt, trying to speak. At last she said — 
 
 *' Oh, please, please aunt Barbara — -j^Zc'^sc^ don't 
 say anything, I am so tired, and I do mean to do 
 what you would like, I do mean to try; but, but — 
 please aunt Barbara, I can't bear to hear anything 
 about — about mamma." 
 
 " Child ! I loved your mother," said Miss Barbara, 
 rather moved, in spite of her standing no *' feelings," 
 for if she had any leniency in her nature, it was for 
 this fragile creature, whom she had seen reared under 
 their roof. ''There, there, I will say no more to- 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 night ; you are tiredj as you say. But don't get up 
 to feed those doves so early in these cold mornings, 
 my dear, and do try and not wander about the lanes 
 so long by yourself. And if you would helx^ Turgoose 
 to darn the damask table napkins, I think you would 
 do it more neatly than Phcebe, and I would lend you 
 a ball to do it over, so that you need not prick those 
 small, thin fingers. Now, good night, and if you are 
 afraid of — of anything, why, come to my room; or 
 perhaps you would like to have the white puss to 
 sleep here. No ? Well, I will go now. There, kiss 
 me, like a good child; you know your old aunt is 
 really fond of you, in spite of your going about with 
 other people." 
 
 A little bewildered, Josline gave the required kiss, 
 and Miss Barbara left her in peace. As she stalked 
 along to her room, she muttered to herself, "What 
 a delicate look anxiety gives that child ! Ha ! hum ! 
 I don't think she had better go out any more. Any- 
 how, she will have more time to mend those napkins ; 
 the pattern of Pharoah's head is really quite going 
 out."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 275 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 All night long the rain came down in blinding tor- 
 rents ; the wind roared and drove the waters before it ; 
 both rivers had burst then- banks ; the " head " came 
 thundering; birds and beasts cowered, with fur and. 
 feathers rough and drenched. Twice before the dawn. 
 Sir Philip rose to watch from his window the conser- 
 vatory, which absolutely rocked, a circumstance which 
 probably saved it. It was a wild and fearful night, 
 but at eight o'clock in the morning wind and rain 
 ceased suddenly, so suddenly that the pause was 
 almost more alarming than the storm and whirl had. 
 been. 
 
 By nine o'clock Hermione was dressed and out. 
 Everything was drenched and dripping. There was an. 
 undefined restlessness and excitement in the movement 
 of the boughs ; tiny streams of water still raced and 
 tore along the gravel walks on the terraces. Great 
 (h-ops fell on her head, she could hardly have told from 
 where; the clouds were rending above her, leaving
 
 276 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 huge fissures between them, through which shone soft 
 gleams of a pale, stormy, sea-green ; adventurous 
 hhds were blown widely out of their course ; no one 
 was in sight as she stood for a few seconds undecided, 
 on the steps of the portico, looking right and left. Be- 
 hind her was a faint smell of burnt wax, singed leaves, 
 crushed flowers, old damask ; before her a wild, breezy 
 fragrance of all things washed pure of any scent, save 
 that of their own nature. The air tossed her fair hair 
 in wild tendrils round her pale, grave face, and tinged 
 with delicate rose the soft oval of her cheek. She 
 had a way of carrying her soft beaver hai in her hand 
 when her head throbbed, as it did now, and she went 
 down the steps and along the drive to the left, with 
 her hat in one hand and her stick in the other. 
 
 The exultant beating of the wet pure air was like 
 strong wings urging her on, down under the pines 
 to the mere, which was tossing and foaming and 
 fretting its banks away like an impetuous, ill -trained 
 heart. She v/ent quickly along, meaning to cross the 
 *4iead " and come home again by the hollow way. The 
 swans were on the bank, pluming themselves and 
 hissing softly. Broken branches, massed leaves, mud, 
 weeds torn up by the roots, strewed the path. A 
 squirrel darted across her path ; the little moor-hens 
 swam out with a rustle. On she went ; the air allured 
 her like a presence — soothing and loving and silent ; 
 it pressed against her, it wound her heavy dress 
 round her, it bore her along.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 277 
 
 She readied tlie "head" at last, and stood on the 
 bank, close to the bridge, lookmg at the water. It 
 certainly was what Allan had said, '' coming down 
 most awful;" one wide, blinding sheet of foam and 
 fmy. The roar was tremendous. She stood looking 
 on, and back in a flash came the memory of the day 
 she had stood there by Colonel Myddleton and he had 
 said, *' I should think you liked everything with a 
 dash of conquering and danger in it." And her 
 answer, "Not for the mere reason of conquering, I 
 think ; but when everything is smooth in one's life, 
 one does sometimes wonder whether one would have 
 strength if it were necessary." 
 
 She lent over now, watching the frightful turbu- 
 lence and unrest of the water, then looked on and saw 
 how smooth it was further in the pool, where it only 
 fled away with a great rush, sweep, and depth in un- 
 conscious and tremendous strength. " It really is 
 like life," she thought. " After all the struggle comes 
 the deeper knowledge of how to endure. He looks as 
 though he had been through fire and come out know- 
 ing how to bear it, whilst I " She looked up, to 
 
 sweep the spray from her face, and saw him coming- 
 down the hollow way. Her heart gave a tremendous 
 bound and then seemed to stand perfectly still. Then 
 her resolution was taken, the next instant she was on 
 the bridge. At this moment he saw her. She saw him 
 throw up his arms and heard him, even in that un- 
 earthly din, call something to her. She smiled and
 
 278 honour's worth; or, 
 
 lield ont one hand, and — the next minute the bridge 
 gave "v^Sij, with a cracking sound, and she disappeared 
 in the whelming and triumphant water ! 
 
 He didn't utter a sound after one shriek of piercing 
 agony ; but he tore his coat and waistcoat off as he 
 xushed madly down the bank. He knew she would, 
 she must come into the pool ; to have jumped in 
 where the bridge fell was only immediate death for 
 ■them both. In his heart was such terrible anguish 
 as only the strong can know. In those few seconds 
 his whole life rose before him. He was entirely 
 speechless, almost pulseless, all his energies braced, 
 as they had been several times in his life, to ivait and 
 gather for the coming struggle. There was an awful 
 silence in his heart, wrmig through and through as it 
 ^as, in which echoed only the cry of " God ! " So pro- 
 found and penetrating was the tension, outward utter- 
 ance would have slain him. He shivered like one in 
 extreme and mortal fear. 
 
 At last, yes, there came her head, pale, with the hair 
 sweeping over it. In he plunged. A fierce struggle 
 to reach her ; yes — no — yes, he held her, he had 
 her ; and then for the bank. He had to drift ; fiercely 
 he spat out the foam and surge, the slime, the foul wash 
 ,of weeds and mud. He Avas pra^dng now, and, God 
 knows, he wanted help. Her heavy dress was heavier 
 with wet, it clung round him ; her hair midone, coiled 
 round his throat — her beautiful, heavy, silken hair — 
 and nearly strangled him ; her head lay heavy on his
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 279 
 
 shoulder and kept down Lis breathing ; but they were 
 uot far from the bank, the very rush of the water 
 helped them. He was a magnificent swimmer. Once 
 he raised his voice in a vain attempt to "Coo-ee!" but 
 his voice died; he was too exhausted. Something 
 struck his arm down and both heads went under, but 
 they came up again ; he was nearly blind. Then- 
 was it shouts or was the water coming in his ears ? 
 One desperate effort ! What happened ? He was no 
 longer swimming, he was floating. He heard, surely 
 he heard, a voice saying, softly, '' Let go ! " Then 
 darkness, dense darkness — death 
 
 No, not death. Death is not so lightly come by. 
 
 * * ^. i\i * 
 
 They all walked up to the house, except Hermione, 
 who was carried, hurriedly, by four men — insensible ? 
 dead? Who knew? Not Colonel Myddleton, who, 
 though he walked straight on, leaving a track of slime 
 and foam behind him, was led by Sir Philip, held by 
 the arm, staring straight before him like one walking 
 in his sleep ; he had received a blow from the boat- 
 hook on being dragged out, and had been slightly 
 stumied. He was still praying in a dead kind of 
 hollow whisper, and as the Vv^ords fell from his blue, 
 cold lips they sounded almost horrible. No one else 
 spoke ; you only heard the panting of the gardeners, 
 as they went as fast as they could go, at a kind of 
 double, up the hollow way. As they turned the cor- 
 ner they were met by two grooms, on horseback,
 
 280 honour's worth; or, 
 
 laying their horses to the ground, in search of a 
 doctor, having been warned by a runner. The hall 
 door stood wide open ; in the hall a group of terrified 
 servants. 
 
 " This waj^" said Lady Dunstable. "Lady Clin- 
 ton is in Miss St. John's room." 
 
 Tramp, tramp across the marble floor. Sir Philip 
 paused; Colonel Myddleton nearly dragged his arm 
 out of the socket, still going mechanically forwards. 
 The butler and two footmen caught him, and pushed 
 a chair towards him, on a sign from their master. 
 
 " Let me go — on — on," he said, struggling. 
 
 '^ Stop a moment, Duke, for God's sake," said Sir 
 Philip, nearly exhausted himself. *' Sit down for a 
 second, my dear fellow. Oh, it's awful ! Brandy ! " 
 
 "Here," said Gladys's voice, and she held out a 
 glassful, with her small hand shaking. " He is so 
 wet ! after the fever ! " she ventured to add. 
 
 " Yes, yes. There, drink this ! We must get him 
 to bed. Order the big bath to be got ready." 
 
 **Itis, Phil; it's wwting; Piobert has everything 
 ready in his room." 
 
 " Come then; now, Duke. Here, take my arm.'* 
 
 Colonel Myddleton still stood in the middle of the 
 hall, staring straight in front of him, with that vague, 
 awful intensity of a corpse. 
 
 " Come, my dear fellow, do come," said Sir Philip. 
 '* Oh, Freeman, here you are ! Make him move, for 
 God's sake, make him move ; I feel quite sick at his 
 going on so."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 281 
 
 " Come, Mj^ddleton, come along," said Quarl, 
 quietly but firml}^ " I want to know all about it ; 
 come to yom* room." 
 
 Suddenly Colonel Myddleton turned round and 
 covering his face v/itli liis bands, he burst into tears. 
 
 " Go away, everybody ! " said Quarl, with an angry 
 stamp of his foot. 
 
 The servants went. Gladys ran into the library 
 and shut the door. Sir Philip shook from head to 
 foot. 
 
 ^' All right now, Clinton," said Quarl. *' Come 
 
 along ! " 
 
 i'i- * *• * * 
 
 "Well, what do the doctors say ? " 
 
 Sir Yere, Quarl, Eobert, and Gladys stood in the 
 library. 
 
 Sir Philip, who had just come in, walked to the 
 window. " She has just come round. They know 
 nothing, but " He stopped ; he was choldng. 
 
 "Philip!" Gladys was clinging round his neck, 
 sobbing, she couldn't help it, poor child. 
 
 He struggled for composure. " They think the 
 shock — I don't understand — the heart is somehow 
 
 affected. They fear — paralysis " He stopped ; 
 
 there was a dead horrified silence. " I can't — I can't 
 — I can't tell Myddleton ; he's nearly out of his mind 
 now ; they say he must be kept quite quiet, I " 
 
 " I heard," said Colonel Myddleton's voice in the 
 doorvray. " Then there's nothing for it but to wait."
 
 282 ^honour's avoeth; or, 
 
 He stood still in liis shirt sleeves, wringing wet, with 
 a ghastly grey pallor on his face. '' I have waited 
 before," he said, with a strange quivering smile, 
 looking round in each hushed avre-struck face. "I 
 had better have waited a little longer, and let her die 
 at once." 
 
 " Duke ! " Sir Philip was holding his arm, 
 choking back his tears. 
 
 " I think," he said, slowly, " my arm is broken. 
 I will go to my room now, if you will bring the 
 
 It was in the evening. The house had settled 
 down again, the London doctor had left, the country 
 doctor was to sleep in the house. Lady Clinton and 
 Gladys were still hard at work writing to put off the 
 fancy ball for the following evening. Lady Dunstable 
 was sitting in a large chair by the fire, looking 
 sorrowfully into it. Mina Thorold, grave, for perha^DS 
 the first time in her life, sat at her knee with her 
 hands linked. At last Lady Clinton gave a great 
 sigh, and pushing the writing materials together, 
 she said — 
 
 " I think that's the last, Gladys ; do come and 
 rest." 
 
 They both got up and came to the fire, very 
 silent, and Gladys trembling a good deal. Lady 
 Clinton i)ut her arm round her. 
 
 *' I wish 3"ou would tell me, Lady Clinton, how was
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 283 
 
 it all done ? " said Lady Dunstable, sliding into idioms 
 as she did when deeply thoughtful. 
 
 "I really hardly know, Phil is so confused, and 
 can't speak about it, scarcely ; but he said Allan came 
 to him and said he didn't think the bridge safe, and 
 supposing any one crossed and fell in ? So Philip 
 thought they had better go down and see, and if it 
 were dangerous they would fasten boards across so 
 that no one could go over ; and he and Allan, and five 
 of the men went down, and when they were in the 
 hollow w^ay they thought — they thought they heard a 
 cry, and — and — they ran, and they saw." Lady 
 Clinton stopped, crying bitterly, and hid her face 
 on Gladys's shoulder. 
 
 "Ah! yes, I see my dear, I see. Well," after a 
 pause, *' and how are they now ? " 
 
 "They've set his arm; it must have been struck 
 by the timbers of the bridge, they think, and he is 
 very quiet and calm, and they hope no fever will come 
 on. Philip says his head has swollen up frightfully 
 where they struck him with the boat-hook, but that is 
 a good thing, I believe, and he doesn't seem to want 
 to speak, he hasn't asked anything at all. When Phil 
 goes in, he just says, ' She's just the same,' and then 
 he closes his eyes again, but — but — Phil says he looks- 
 as though his heart was broken." 
 
 There was a little pause; no one spoke. Lady 
 Clinton cried quietly. Then Miss Thorold said — 
 
 "And how is she?"
 
 '284 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 '* She is in a kind of stupor, l3ut they think that is 
 the best thing at present. Sir Henry is coming down 
 again the day after to-morrow if we don't send before ; 
 he says the only thing is to wait, time will show, there 
 is nothing to be done. Oh ! it's horrible," she said, 
 breaking into a wail, and giving way entirely. " It's 
 horrible ! I love her so, and there is nothing to be 
 done, poor darling ! " 
 
 *' Dieu sait ! " said old Lady Dunstable. Then she 
 ^dded, *'We are going away to-morrow, my dear; the 
 house ought to be very quiet, you know, and every- 
 body will have plenty to do. Sir Vere says he will 
 .accompany us up to town." 
 
 *' Oh, no!" said Lady Clinton, piteously. "It 
 will be so lonely." She looked almost frightened. 
 
 "It will be best, my dear, really," said the old 
 lady, kmdly and gently holding out her hands. " We 
 will come back to you in the summer, if you will let 
 •us." 
 
 The truth vvas that, kindly and gentle as she was, 
 the old French lad}^ had the most intense terror of 
 death, and she firmly believed that one, if not both 
 of the " poor drowned ones " would die. 
 
 Just then the gentlemen came in, and Eobert 
 Watt came up to say good night ; he was going home. 
 Gladys went with him into the hall to find his coat. 
 
 " Eobert," she said, " how sadly it has all ended ! '* 
 
 "Yes, indeed," he answered, with a shiver, "he's 
 iiwfully bad, you know, Gladys ; jou should have seen
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 285 
 
 his arm, ugli ! — a horrible compound fracture, sticking 
 through the skin ; and he never said a word all the 
 time, for fear they should think of him and not her. 
 The agonies he must have gone through ! He fainted 
 twice when they were setting it." 
 
 " Eobert, you didn't see him cry, though ; that. 
 was most awful," said Gladys. " I never saw a man 
 cry before." 
 
 " Ah ! poor fellow, how horribly ashamed he must 
 be ! " said Eobert, sympathetically. '^ It was the 
 counter shock, of course. How horribly ashamed I 
 should be ! I remember once I got a most tremendous 
 cropper over a post and rail, and how I got home I 
 don't know. Eedskin took me, and when I got in and 
 got off my horse, I sobbed and cried like a baby. I 
 iras ashamed, I could have thrashed everybody," he 
 ended, his cheeks tingling at the recollection. 
 "Don't ever tell anybody, Gladys." 
 
 " No, of course not ; but I don't think he knew, 
 he was quite odd after that, Quarl said." 
 
 '' Well, perhaps not. It's altogether a bad look- 
 out for them both. Poor Miss St. John, she was as 
 nearly dead as possible ; fancy owing your life to any 
 one, eh. White Cat ? " 
 
 " I should not mind, I think, if it was any one 
 like Colonel Myddleton," said Gladys. "He is such 
 a grand, kind man." 
 
 " Well, he's saved lots of people before now in the 
 Mutiny, and killed lots, too," said Eobert, meditating.
 
 286 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 '' I think I shouldn't mind saving people's lives now 
 and then. Well, I must go, I hear the dog-cart 
 coming romid ; it's altogether rather sad. I say, 
 Gladys, I am awfully glad it wasn't you ! What 
 should I have done ? Just think ! " 
 
 Gladys smiled faintly. For one wicked moment she 
 almost wished it had been herself if he would have 
 cared so much. He was holding her hands and 
 looking down in her face, and he said, very softly — 
 
 *' I should have been sorry. You look so pale to- 
 night, Gladys, do go to bed soon. I do wish you'd 
 :smoke ; now don't you think you might try one little 
 pull ? it makes one feel so comfortable." 
 
 She shook her head, she felt too sad and anxious 
 to carry on the joke ; but he wasn't joking entirely. 
 
 " It's a great pity Gabriel A^annier went down to Old 
 'Court," he said. ''I don't beheve you'll ever get 
 painted now, Pussy ; and I had so set my heart on 
 your being done in the hood, and the scroll out of 
 your mouth." 
 
 "Don't Bob," she said, half crying, for his words 
 brought back the merry, dear, happy past, and now 
 everything seemed so sad and dreary. She was 
 thoroughly worn out, too, with the past excitement 
 and bustle ; and now the exceeding quiet and gloom 
 of the house weighed her down. They were standing 
 on felt, the whole house was laid down with it. The 
 bells were all blocked — such perfect quiet was con- 
 sidered necessary.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 287 
 
 *' My dear little Cat," lie said, tenderly. " Yon do 
 look so sad ! bnt yon mnst come down to the village, 
 and do go to Old Court, and Mr. Fairfax will play to 
 
 yon " 
 
 She interrupted him with a startled, nervous look. 
 ^* Oh ! Kobert, don't. I feel as though I never 
 wanted to hear music again. I keep on hearing the 
 Lohengrin, over and over and over, and seeing his 
 face; it was like a kind of foreshadowing of it all; 
 he dying, and Hermione being the angel, and Death 
 close to them. Oh ! it's horrible ! " and she hid her 
 face against his breast, for he still held her hands. 
 *'Do you know, he looked just like that this morning 
 when he came in here," she murmured, burying her 
 face lower and lower. 
 
 *'My darling," said the young man, tenderly. 
 *' You are worn out ; do go to bed. Good night, poor 
 little thing ! " and he softly kissed her hair — so softly, 
 she hardly felt it. 
 
 It was the first time he had ever kissed her 
 gravely, in comfort; though often in fun he had kissed 
 her hand. It broke her down quite — she began to 
 sob and cry, and he was in great distress. But the 
 hall door opened to show him the dog-cart was there, 
 and she went quietly away. 
 
 *'It's an awful ending," he thought, as he tucked 
 himself in. ''How upset she is! I do wish girls 
 smoked. What a gentle, loving little thing she is ! 
 Well, it is horrible altogether ! I am glad Freeman 
 is going to stop ; it will be somebody for Philip."
 
 288 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 It was a few weeks after the accident. Colonel 
 Myddleton was up and abont again, with his arm 
 still, of course, in a sling and useless. The enforced 
 rest had done him good in some ways, though the 
 great anxiety about Hermione had tended to diminish 
 his rapid recovery. He was a man vv^ho had gone 
 through desperate things in the way of wounds and 
 escapes, and thought comparatively little of his 
 broken arm, though it was a very ugly wound, and 
 not quick in the healing, and at times he suffered 
 frightfully ; but he never said anything about it, but 
 just bore the pain as he best might, going away by 
 himself when no longer able to bear up without its 
 being apparent that he was suffering. 
 
 Hermione had not yet seen any one but Lady 
 Clinton and Gladys, and they only once ; the slightest 
 excitement or exertion brought on fainting fits, which 
 were of all things the most to be avoided. Sir Henry 
 said it was the shock, and would, he hoped, wear off
 
 THE COST OF A YOW. 289 
 
 in time, but that the action of the heart had been so 
 lowered by the shock, the long immersion, and the 
 thorough chill, that it would probably be months, a 
 year, even more, before she really recovered. She 
 was worn to a complete shadow, and looked literally 
 " all eyes." Her hair had not been cut off, though, 
 and hung round her in all its beauty; making her face 
 look so sweet and soft and small, as Quarl had said 
 it did the night of the tableaux. She had never 
 mentioned any one by name yet. She had, indeed, 
 a very confused idea of the whole occurrence, and a 
 kind of nervous dread of trying to aid her memory. 
 
 Matters in the village went on much as usual. 
 Gabriel Vannier had gone back to London with a 
 most lovely sketch of Josline's head for his picture. 
 And if all went well, he was to come down in the 
 early spring to Charteriss, and do a picture of Gladys 
 and Lady Clinton together. 
 
 Although Miss Barbara watched Josline with lynx 
 eyes, nothing very remarkable occurred to strengthen 
 her daily-growing conviction, that Josline was taking 
 her own line, and was gradually drifting from under 
 her guidance and counsel. Eobert came very little 
 to Old Court, though most of his rides and walks 
 led somehow past the house. He could not keep 
 away; stronger and stronger became the longing 
 that drew and urged him to move in any line which 
 might, by any possible means, end in seeing Josline. 
 Yet in these weeks he had only seen her twice, and 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 honour's worth; or, 
 
 each time with others. Was it really the case that 
 she carefully avoided her old haunts ? or was it only 
 unlucky chance that was against their meeting ? On 
 Sunday mornings he always contrived now to be 
 within sight of the parsonage gate, when he thought 
 she would bring the flowers to her godfather ; but 
 these heavy rains had destroyed the few remaining 
 flowers, and Josline came no more. He was con- 
 stantly up at Charteriss, and saw a good deal of 
 Gladys, but Gladys was going up to London to stay 
 with Lady Dunstable for change, and then even that 
 indirect means of hearing of Josline would be gone. 
 He became so restless and easily irritated, or so 
 moody and silent, that old General Watt could not 
 divine what had taken the boy, as he still thought of 
 him and spoke of him ; and the father began to 
 ponder whether really it would not be as well that he 
 should allow him to try for some further employment 
 than looking after the few cows and sheep at the 
 Eed House Farm. Mr. Crosbie had several times 
 lately started the idea, " That all young things, men 
 and mice, and such small deer, should have work, my 
 dear sir. It makes their eyes bright, their coats 
 glossy," — C' and a tailor's bill then ! " from the 
 General, testily) — "and their appetites healthy," — 
 ("and a butcher's bill then!") — "and it's an infal- 
 lible cure for bad temper, gout, and dyspepsia." 
 
 Colonel Myddleton's arm did not heal satisfac- 
 torily, and the fever and ague still clung to him so
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 291 
 
 persistently that the doctors insisted on his wintering 
 iibroad, and starting at once for the South. Their 
 decision was first made known to him about two 
 months after the accident. In the beginning he would 
 not hear of it, but at length, when they told him that 
 it was his only chance of complete recovery, and that 
 otherwise he might, in all probability would, remain 
 an invalid for life, he decided to go. 
 
 He was in London at the time, and after the 
 consultation he went for a long, lonely, cold, and 
 damp stroll in the Park, which of course was not 
 likely to help him towards recovery. Then he went 
 home and wrote a letter to Sir Philip and one to 
 Lady Clinton. Both letters were answered by return 
 of post, begging him to come down to Charteriss at 
 once. He went on the following day but one. Lady 
 Clinton met him at the station, and they drove home 
 almost in silence through the dusky quiet lanes. 
 
 '^ She does not know you are coming, we are only 
 going to tell her to-morrow," said Lady Clinton, " as 
 we fear the least excitement might still give her a 
 sleepless night." 
 
 "Is she still so weak?" he said, in a quiet, level 
 tone. 
 
 *'Yes, but much, much better. Sir Henry had 
 come down by the very mail that brought your letter. 
 We asked him about your seeing her, and he said on 
 the whole he thought it might do her good, if she did 
 not know of it too long beforehand."
 
 292 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 " I am glad of that." 
 
 ''You know she has been talldng of you lately, 
 and of the accident, too ; she does not know much 
 about it, though; it's quite odd to see how little she 
 knows. She knows you saved her, and that is 
 about all." 
 
 '^ There is not much to know in that," he answered. 
 
 '' She thinks so," answered Lady Clinton, a little 
 vaguely as to sense and grammar. 
 
 Then they were silent again. It was very cold, 
 but the horses went fast ; and though Colonel 
 Myddleton was longing to be there, for the night to 
 be over, to have seen her once more for the last time, 
 as he kept on asseverating to himself, still he 
 almost wished the drive to be prolonged, too, for he 
 knew that he should soon be going back over the 
 same ground as fast — from her. He thought over 
 again that first night they had spent together at 
 Charteriss — how he had believed her to be married, 
 then been quickly undeceived, then remembered he 
 was no longer free, dared no longer love her ; how he 
 had gone out and walked up and down, and up and 
 down, said he would go away and yet had not gone. 
 On the whole, now, he was glad he had stayed, and he 
 would act fairly and honourably at last and tell 
 her all, if she wished, if even she would see him; 
 perhaps she would not wish to do so when the time 
 came. 
 
 But she did wish.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 293 
 
 It was Christmas Eve ; a bright, beautiful, mild 
 (lay. She was lying on the sofa, in the morning- 
 room, doing nothing, looking a little vaguely and 
 mournfully out of the window, across at the con- 
 servatory, which ran out at right-angles to the house. 
 It was a cheerful room, full of pleasant books and 
 pictures and flow^ers ; and the window near her sofa 
 was open, and you could hear a robin singing close 
 to it, in a weeping holly, with a loud and beautifully 
 rounded whistle. Lady Clinton came in, lifted the 
 shawl that was lying over her feet a little more to the 
 left, and then said, in a voice which slightly trembled, 
 '' Hermione, how do you feel to-day "? " 
 
 *' Very well, thank you, dear. You are all so good 
 and kind to me. I was just thinking I ought to be 
 gomg home again ; I am quite strong now ! " and she 
 gave a little quiet laugh, as she tried to lift the 
 heavy Indian wrap with her wasted hands, and failed. 
 
 "Don't, don't talk of going away!" said Lady 
 Clinton, in an agitated voice. " You are much better, 
 I know, but we can't spare you yet. Some one else 
 is going away — I mean Colonel Myddleton, and he is 
 come down here to ask how you are. Would you like 
 to see him ? " 
 
 The colour flew up to her very brow, then faded 
 even from her lips, leaving her ashy pale. 
 
 ''Yes — now — at once — alone," she said, in a voice 
 so faint that Dorothy hardly heard her, but alarmed 
 though she was, Lady Clinton knew quite well what
 
 294 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 to do. She poured out some drops given her by Sir 
 Henry, and put them to Hermione's lips. And in a 
 few seconds she said, much in her usual tone, "I 
 should like to see him now, please." 
 
 The door opened and closed ; they were alone. 
 
 Neither spoke; he came forward and took the 
 two hands she held out to him ; the last time he had 
 touched her they had both been at the very gate of 
 death. 
 
 He was the palest now ; a burning colour stained 
 her cheeks a vivid and beautiful hue, and her eyes 
 glittered with excitement. She spoke first. 
 
 "You have been very ill," she said, slowly, looking 
 at him solemnly and sorrowfully. "And all to save 
 my life ; and I have never even thanked you ! " 
 
 "You have thanked me," he said, in a low tone, 
 " by living." 
 
 She said nothing in answer. Under the heavy 
 shawls he satv her heart beating. He thought her 
 face had grown smaller, softer, and sweeter than 
 ever. She lifted one hand and pushed back a heavy 
 mass of hair that had fallen forward on her trying 
 to rise on his entrance, and her lips quivered. He, 
 too, was speechless. How could he go away and 
 leave her like this ? He had not counted on seeing 
 her look like this, somehow. She was trying to say 
 something, he saw, and he would not speak. As last 
 she said, in a broken gasp — 
 
 " Do you care, then ? Are you glad I am here ? "
 
 THE COST OF A YOW. " 295 
 
 "My God!" 
 
 The two words that had been wrung from him the 
 night he had first seen her. He found no others ; in 
 his beating throat, on his dry Hps, no other sounds 
 would come. He was kneeling by her now. She 
 lifted one hand and laid it on his shoulder. 
 
 '' Hush ! " she said, as though to still the con- 
 vulsive trembling that shook him, for he had not 
 said any more. '' I had wanted to say something 
 to you. I have tried — to live — for* that. I believe 
 you. You know you wanted to know." She said it 
 in a whisper, and held him off a little, trying to see 
 his face. " It would have been dreadful to die — 
 unanswered," she ended. 
 
 "Hermione," he said, as every muscle in his face 
 contracted, ''I am bound by my w^ord of honour 
 to — another! " 
 
 Her eyes dilated, then closed ; her hand relaxed ; 
 he didn't attempt to clasp it; he thought she was 
 dying. The beating of her heart v/as frightful, then 
 it seemed to stop ; but he saw the pulsation go slowly 
 and unevenly through her Avhole frame. He didn't 
 dare to move ; he felt as though the movement of a 
 finger w^ould kill her. The ashen colour spread over 
 her face and over her throat, and she lay quite still for 
 a few seconds. In his heart he said, " I have killed 
 her." But life returned ; she opened her eyes again ; 
 they looked dim and did not seem to see. Then she 
 said, in a voice like that of a person miles away —
 
 296 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 " I believe you. — God bless you! — Go ! " 
 
 He stood up ; he felt he must leave her ; she had 
 said it. He dropped her lifeless hand gently ; it slid 
 down and hung against the couch. She was looking 
 at him intensely, with an awful look of yearning heart - 
 agony. He went quietly to the door ; there he stood. 
 He could not go so. A strangled sob shook him ; and 
 yet — for her sake — he turned back. He did not 
 touch her; but he stretched his hands out towards 
 her, and he said — 
 
 "1 swear to you, before the Almighty God, I 
 believed you were married; and I did it for the 
 best ! " 
 
 ''I believe you ! " she said, and then he sa\v she 
 had fainted. 
 
 He sprang to her and raised her head ; he thought 
 she was dead. 
 
 ''Hermione!" he said. "Hermione! my love! 
 my darling ! God and my soul only know how I 
 love you ! " 
 
 He did not attempt to rouse her in any other way. 
 For a few seconds he knelt holding her so, and look- 
 ing at her. Then a wild terror of — he knew not what, 
 a feeling like murder, came over him. He laid her 
 down, and rushed for help, meeting Lady Clinton 
 in the doorway. 
 
 When he heard that she was recovered, and that 
 it had only been one of her bad fainting attacks, he 
 said good-bye to them all, and started just in time to 
 catch the up -train.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 297 
 
 CHAPTEK XXVI. 
 
 Old Court was quiet again. The lily's heart hung 
 in its ebony and tortoise-shell frame in Mr. Fairfax's 
 den ; and sometimes, when he was playing quietly to 
 himself, her uncle found his eyes fixed on Josline's 
 picture. 
 
 Mr. Crosbie came as usual on " odd evenings," as 
 he called them, ''to squeak on the fiddle," tease Miss 
 Barbara, and pet Josline, " the only godchild he had 
 ever had, the only child God Almighty had ever given 
 him." Josline would put his favourite chair for him, 
 prepare his tea, and have always a spray of some 
 shrub, or flower-bud, for him. - There had been no 
 more trouble with musically inclined mice, and Jos- 
 line had sewn together the torn canzonets, and blotted 
 in neatly the partially erased notes. 
 
 It was well into spring now. Nan Partridge was 
 learning the saddest of all lessons — that the dead die 
 quickly, in the gentlest way; for the myrtle had 
 hardly taken root on her baby's grave before there 
 was a new hope for her.
 
 298 honour's woeth; or, 
 
 Gabriel wrote occasional^ to Eobert, saying that 
 the picture was getting on well, and that he hoped 
 it might be finished by the early summer. 
 
 " Eobert has been talking to Phil again about 
 going away and getting something to do," said Lady 
 Clinton, one day, coming into the morning-room. 
 
 Hermione, who was writing, looked up with a 
 start. 
 
 " Now, that is odd ! " she said, brightly. '' I was 
 just thinking of him, and writing about him. Old 
 Mr. Doon is going to give up work altogether, and 
 I ought to have appointed some one long ago to help 
 him ; but being ill, I forgot about it. I heard again 
 to-day, though, and I really must settle. Do you 
 think, Dorothy, that Mr. Watt would accept it ? " 
 
 ''Oh, my dear! how delightful!" said Lady 
 Clinton, excitedly. " That would be nice. Why, it 
 wouldn't be so very far away; and under you, too. 
 Do let me go and tell Philip ! " 
 
 " Shall I come, too?" 
 
 " No. I'll go and fetch him ! " and Lady Clinton 
 literally ran out of the room. 
 
 Hermione sat still, looking out of the window, 
 which stood wide open. It was soft and warm ; the 
 crocuses and snowdrops starred the border, and peri- 
 winkles ran in and out in beautiful gleaming lines. 
 The window faced up the lime avenue ; a fine 
 tachamahac tree scented all the air with its bm^st- 
 ing, gummy buds ; and, somehow, the fragrance
 
 THE COST OF A YOW. 299'" 
 
 carried Hermione's tliouglit far, far away, to Southern 
 France. She seemed to see the waving pahiis, the 
 silver gre}^ of the oUves, with their lacy leaves ; the 
 tall iris blood-red sceptres, or standing like spears of 
 molten metal of pm*est white ; the geranium hedges, 
 the weird-looking cacti, the soft-coloured young euca- 
 lypti trees ; the clouded emerald and turquoise of the 
 water deepening into mystic purple, almost black 
 under the rocks; the tall heath, one sheet of silver 
 blossom, under the fragrant pines; and the melan- 
 choly cypresses, like shrouded statues, in the sloping 
 gardens. A hand seemed laid on her quickly beating 
 heart ; her eyes filled with tears. "What was he doing 
 all these weeks and months ? There had been na 
 word or sign. Somehow she had thought, had fancied, 
 he would write and explain ; and yet, would it have 
 been like him to do so ? If she only knew the rights 
 of it. The worst pain was not knowing how his after- 
 life might be affected by it, by the promise that held 
 him, held his honour. She had thought and thought 
 over it all these weeks and months, but could form no- 
 sort of idea as to what it could possibly be. Some- 
 thing that did not make him happy ; something that 
 gave that grave, absent look to his face, that cut that- 
 sharp, grey shadow on his temples, that drew such an 
 intense look round his mouth and eyes. She felt sure 
 that though he would abide by his word to the very 
 death, it was nothing that could make him happy. 
 She dropped her pen, and folded her hands in
 
 SOO honour's worth; or, 
 
 front of her. '' What is happmess ? " she pondered. 
 " Is anybody happy ? I suppose the great thmg is 
 to be content ; yon can be that without being happy, 
 though not happy without being content. I wonder 
 what the most perfect form of earthly happiness 
 would be. I suppose being able to make others so. 
 How well I remember his saying, down by the water 
 that day, that one was never happy long, because one 
 didn't know all. And now, it seems to me, that if 
 I did know all, I should be happy; no, not happy, 
 perhaps, but more content." She lost herself in 
 thought. " Well, I must wait " 
 
 The door opened, and Lady Clinton and Sir Philip 
 came in together. Hermione rose. 
 
 "Now, let us all sit down and be snug," said 
 Dorothy; "Hermione in the big chair, Phil on the 
 sofa, and let us talk." 
 
 " I was going to propose asking Mr. Watt if he 
 would like to become my agent," said Hermione, a 
 little nervously, feeling as though she were committing 
 a slight impertinence in proposing anything of the 
 sort to Sir Philip, for his cousin. " You know there is 
 a very pretty house, a small farm, and the income 
 is five hundred a year." 
 
 Sir Philip opened his eyes very wide, but made no 
 remark ; but Dorothy gave a little shriek, and said — 
 
 "Five hundred a year? why, that would be 
 wealth ! " 
 
 " I thought perhaps he wouldn't mind trying it ;
 
 THE COST OF A YOW. 301 
 
 and then, perhaps General Watt would like to look 
 after the shooting. It used to be first-rate in poor 
 Mark's time, and, of course, they won't care for a 
 lady," said Hermione, with a little quiver ; " but if 
 General Watt would be kind enough to see that they 
 didn't neglect it too much, it might get up again." 
 
 ''Ha!" from Sir Philip. 
 
 There was a little silence. Dorothy looked at him 
 anxiously, and pinched his arm now and then. Her- 
 mione sat motionless, her head resting on her hand. 
 
 ^' If you don't think it enough, sha;ll I say seven 
 hundred a year ? " ventured Hermione. 
 
 " Certainly not," from Sir Philip, bluntly. ''He 
 isn't worth it." 
 
 " Philip ! " from the indignant wife. 
 
 " Now, look here, Miss St. John. Bob Watt is as 
 good a fellow as lives, but whether he won't get the 
 whole of your affairs into inextricable confusion in a 
 few^ months — well ! As to the General, he is a 
 meddling old woman, though he can shoot very well ; 
 but, on the whole, it's an awful risk." 
 
 " One must risk something in everything. Mr. 
 Watt is just, and I should think not above being 
 taught, is he?" 
 
 " No, there he's safe enough ; but then he does 
 such idiotic things, only about his own interests, I 
 mean. Well, perhaps, after all, he would be all the 
 more careful about other people's." 
 
 " Then you wouldn't mind my offering it to him, 
 anyhow ?"
 
 302 honour's worth; or, 
 
 " I should think not, indeed. But I'll speak 
 seriously to him ; it may be the making of him. It's 
 very good of you. If he's under Doon for eight 
 months, he'll do, I think." 
 
 " And how about asking him ? would you mind ? " 
 said Hermione, shyly. 
 
 " Not at all, if you wish ; but why shouldn't you 
 and Dor drive round that w^ay this afternoon, and see 
 the General ? " 
 
 *' Oh ! " said Hermione, crimson and pale, by turns; 
 " I am rather afraid." 
 
 Sk Philip laughed. " I'll tell you what. Miss St. 
 John. He'll be so polite, you won't know what to do to 
 get away, that's all. He came up here yesterday 
 about Bob, who has been rather moody and short in 
 his temper lately, and his father is finding out at last 
 that my young gentleman is getting a little too much 
 out of discipline, I fancy." 
 
 *' And no wonder, with that old bore," said Lady 
 Clinton, sympathetically. 
 
 " It's funny though that being in love is so trying 
 to the temper ! " said Sir Philip. "Was I horribly 
 odious, Dor, when I was in love ? " 
 
 " Well, not to me ! I dare say Gladys found you 
 a trial. Mine has come since," said his wife. " I 
 always think the so-called easy-tempered people are 
 the most difficult to get on with." 
 
 " Why ? " said Sir Philip, laughing. 
 
 *' Because, of course, they never are out of temper.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 303 
 
 and if anything goes wrong, it must be your fault, and 
 that aggravates you, and makes everything worse." 
 
 ** You goose ! " said her husband. " What a good 
 thing it is that you don't live with Quarl ! " 
 
 ' ' Yes, indeed ! Now I never did see him out of 
 temper; he always controls himself, and only says 
 cutting things." 
 
 " Quarl in love would be an appalling spectacle ! " 
 said Sir Philip, solemnly. 
 
 Hermione, who had been sitting silent all this 
 time, said, " I couldn't imagine Mr. Freeman in 
 such a condition." 
 
 Sir Philip and Dorothy looked at each other. Sir 
 Philip began to laugh ; Lady Clinton pinched his arm 
 vehemently. He began to speak, and then stopped, 
 then began again — 
 
 '' I say, I heard from Myddleton to-day ; he is 
 getting on all right. Now, there is a fellow who will 
 never fall in love to his dying day." 
 
 Lady Clinton had never made up her mind as to 
 whether Colonel Myddleton was in love with Hermione 
 or not, though of course he ought to be, as he had 
 saved her life. She looked keenly at Miss St. John 
 now, with all a woman's quiet perception as to 
 change of colour, or intonation of voice ; but 
 Hermione's delicate colour never varied ; and as she 
 did not speak no change of voice betrayed her. She 
 remained looking stedfastly out of the window, and 
 Sir Philip went on —
 
 304 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 " Awfully dangerous liis going out to Cannes ; 
 everybody inarries out there ; nothing else to do." 
 
 "Then he won't," said Lady Clinton ; "he never 
 does what other i^eople do." 
 
 "Ah! he'll be caught some day. How do we 
 
 know what " Sir Philip stopped short. " The 
 
 worst is, that talking to you, Dorothy, I never know 
 when to stop," he said, good-humouredly, getting up 
 and walking to the door. " Well ! I suppose you'll 
 go and tell the General this afternoon? I've kei)t 
 Broom waiting all this time, about the chestnut." He 
 went off, whistling. 
 
 Lady Clinton got up, came to the window, near 
 which Hermione was sitting, and leaning against the 
 shutter, she looked out, and said, "I do wonder 
 about Colonel Myddleton, too, don't you, Hermione ? " 
 
 " I don't see any good in wondering," was the 
 quiet, matter-of-fact answer, but Hermione's heart was 
 beating quickly. Ah ! how she did wonder ! Yet a 
 curious thrill of subdued satisfaction ran through her, 
 too. She felt convinced that she knew more about him 
 than any one else did ; though how little that was ! 
 
 " I should like to know, though," persisted 
 Dorothy. " There are not many people one cares to 
 know about — I mean to know the ins and outs of their 
 lives ; but there is something about Colonel Myddleton 
 which makes you feel that he must have gone through 
 so much, so quietly ; even when he is talking of quite 
 common things, you feel as though he was enduring
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 305 
 
 something, there is something so unsatisfied in his 
 expression ; don't you think so, lone ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't know ; I dare say he often thinks of 
 all he has gone through." 
 
 *^He is so quiet. I often think, do you know, 
 
 Hermione- " Lady Clinton paused, for Miss St. 
 
 John raised her head, and fixed her beautiful, clear, 
 grave eyes on her friend's face. " Don't look so 
 entirely above everything and everybody, lone," said 
 she, kneeling down by her quicldy, and putting her 
 arms round her. " I don't care, though, how you 
 look, I tuill say it, there ! I often think you were 
 made for each other, and how happy you might be." 
 Lady Clinton bent backwards, and looked in Her- 
 mione's face, half-defiantly, half-fearfully. 
 
 If anything. Miss St. John grew a shade paler, but 
 she said quietly, " What a pity we did not think so 
 too, Dorothy ! that would have completed the idea, 
 wouldn't it?" 
 
 "You will never care for anyone, lone," said Lady 
 Clinton, sorrowfully. *' It is such a pity." 
 
 " ' The pity of it, lago ; the pity of it! ' " quoted 
 Hermione. 
 
 '^ Ah ! you needn't mock me, Hermione; you, too, 
 will be sorry, some day." 
 
 Miss St. John w^as silent for a few seconds, stroking 
 Dorothy's hair. At last Lady Clinton spoke again — 
 
 " Do you — is it that you find it so difficult to make 
 up your mind ? " she said, timidly. 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 honoue's worth; or, 
 
 '' I don't think it is difficult to make up one's mind 
 about great things, Dorothy." 
 
 '* Don't you ? " said Lady Clinton, surprised. 
 
 *' No ; they must be right or wrong. I mean, you 
 see it at once. The difficulty is in small things, 
 where it really matters very little, but where, perhaps, 
 you would like to please everybody." 
 
 ''Well, that is a funny idea. Why not please 
 yourself, then, in little things ? " 
 
 ''Because," said Hermione, gravely, " 'every little 
 makes a mickle,' my dear Dorothy; and if you begin 
 like that, why, it makes all great things difficult." 
 
 Lady Clinton sighed. "You live such a noble, 
 impossible life, lone," she said. " I do wish, oh ! I 
 do wish " 
 
 " You were not so foolish ! " finished Hermione. 
 " Come, and let us go after General Watt. If you 
 only knew the fright I am in ; I have no moral 
 courage whatever." 
 
 "Why, your hands are quite cold!" said Dorothy, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Yes ; I wish it were over ! "
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 807 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVII. 
 
 When Hermione was well wrapped up in furs, Sir 
 Philij) came to put her in the carriage. She was still 
 extremely weak and shaky. It was the first time she 
 had been out, and the fresh, sweet spring air seemed 
 to make her quite faint. As they drove along she 
 watched the first green glamour coming on the hedge- 
 rows, with here and there an adventurous spray, 
 stretching forth dehcate pink fingers to test the 
 warmth of the sun ; or brown buds, folding back on 
 themselves, like small brown hands. Everything was 
 growing in fragrance and strength and beautiful life 
 and joy. 
 
 The ponies were very cheerful, and Lady Clinton 
 had quite enough to do at first in guiding their way- 
 ward wiUs in some direction approximating to the 
 centre of the road. 
 
 " Hermione, you have such a strange look in your 
 eyes. What were you thinking of?" she said, sud- 
 denly, as they came to a severe rise, and the ponies
 
 308 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 thought fit to relax their strenuous efforts to run 
 away. 
 
 '^ How beautiful the spring is ! " said Hermione. 
 
 Lady Clinton smiled. "I don't think you were 
 only thinking that, you looked ever so far away. 
 That is so odd about you ; sometimes you look out of 
 you, as it were, as if you were looking through years, 
 through time, not siDace." 
 
 " Sometimes you think of so many things at 
 once, you don't know what you are thinking of, you 
 mean, and then you say 'nothing' — but that isn't true ; 
 and so I said I thought the spring beautiful." There 
 was a pause; then Hermione said, "Everything 
 seems so complete in nature, somehow. Did you 
 ever notice that, Dorothy ? " 
 
 " Wei], I don't know. How do you mean ? " 
 
 "Why, one thing leads on to another. You never 
 stop at a half thought in nature. I mean, if you see a 
 twig, you know a bud will come, and then a leaf, and 
 then fruit, and then seed. But, somehow, in human 
 nature that sequence is very unlikely. Lives stop some- 
 times so uncompleted, of course in the Hereafter 
 
 It is like a sudden early frost ; and yet the harvest 
 might have been worth the garnering." Hermione 
 was thinking deej)ly. " I think the best and noblest 
 lives never do end here ; at least, they seed and sow 
 other lives with noble germs, but their own never fill, 
 somehow, with golden grain." 
 
 " I do wish, lone, you would not look so dreadfully
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 309 
 
 far away," said Lady Clinton, uneasily. " And you 
 are so blue around your eyes, and look so pale. I 
 think we had better go home." 
 
 Hermione roused up directly. " I was only think- 
 ing hard. I am all right. Oh ! don't turn ; do let us 
 go round by the river, and then through the long pine 
 wood ; that will be delicious, Dorothy ; do ! " 
 
 So they turned to the left and went down into the 
 valley. 
 
 Conversation ceased now perforce. They had 
 turned in between some aged gate-posts, leaning 
 against mossy banks of gorse, and had come on to a 
 wild, waste land, better known as Crumb's Bottom, a 
 kind of di'ied marsh. There was only a faint track ; 
 the ground was very rough, springy, and full with 
 sprouting reeds and marshy growths of every sort ; 
 the ponies, feeling the rebounding turf, required real 
 handling to restrain their impetuosity, and the light 
 carriage swung and tossed almost like a ball of thistle- 
 down. Away on their right lay the ridge, with its 
 hanging woods. In front of them the land swept 
 away to the river. A distant gleam came now and 
 then in view through a broken line of willows, putting 
 on in haste their silver coats of palm. A faint cry 
 came from some wader or water-bird ; the little tufted 
 weeds or ruffled reeds sent out now and then a glearny 
 fly or moth. It was very still, warm, and fragrant. 
 Squish ! squish ! went the ponies, with tossing manes, 
 and jerking tails ; and Hermione leant back in her 
 furs, and thought it was " all very good."
 
 310 honoxjr's worth; or, 
 
 Now they went down a hollow ; the growths ceased, 
 they were on sand, part of the river-bed ; then over 
 the hollow, low, wooden bridge, up the other side, 
 through groups of wild-looking, small, velvet-coated 
 cattle, one or two sheep; then on over marsh-land 
 again ; then rising gradually and imperceptibly, the 
 reeds grew taller and more sparsely, gorse grew in 
 closer clumps, then heather, then withered fern, and 
 here and there rough curls of young bracken, then 
 trees — willows, birch, alders ; then up on to the track 
 again, under the hanging woods, with the river brawl- 
 ing over its stones on their right ; past the old mill 
 and farm, along the sandy road, and so on to the pine 
 woods; through the gates, and slowly along the 
 deeply rutted track, where, as a rule, only timber- 
 waggons went. It was so still, you heard a wood- 
 pecker tapping. The faint, gummy odour of the 
 resinous stems impregnated the air ; cones lay thickly 
 everywhere, with mysterious-looking fungi, scarlet 
 and pale yellow, black and imperial purple ; here 
 and there wood-sorel stood waving tiny veined cups in 
 sudden and precipitous little dells, caused by the up- 
 rooting of Some large tree ; moss hung on the stems, 
 with fairy scarlet spikes ready for war; the wood- 
 pigeons were cooing in a dreamy way ; and over all 
 brooded silence, like the wings of some great Angel of 
 Peace. 
 
 Both Lady Clinton and Hermione were quite 
 silent ; the ponies pulled no more, their small feet
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 311 
 
 slipped here and there on the needles, or cracked a 
 broken branch. The groom had got down, and was 
 running by their side to ease the springs. You could 
 see far, far away into the pine stems, as they stood in 
 their ranks, brown and slender ; and then at last, just 
 as you thought : there, your eye would pierce beyond 
 and gain the sky, one tall stem stood up in its bur- 
 nished armour of brazen flakes, and stopped all 
 egress, and somehow your eye travelled back along 
 the stems, and you were content it should be so. The 
 wind swayed softly, like a hand stirring the branches ; 
 and now and then there came a kind of pressure of 
 branches altogether, which was as though some mighty 
 arm had leaned upon them, and was pressing music 
 in a solemn undertone from out their power so held 
 and subdued. 
 
 " It is so peaceful, I should like to be going on for 
 ever," said Hermione, slowly and softly. '' I always 
 think that nothing in the world is like violin music 
 but a pine forest." 
 
 " My dear ! Well, the connection would never have 
 struck me, but now you say it, I seem to see it, too, 
 somehow. Oh ! it is a pity, a thousand, thousand 
 pities ! " Lady Clinton stopped suddenly, 
 
 *' What ? " said Hermione, in a dreamy voice. 
 
 " Why, you know Well, I don't care, but I 
 
 must say it. If only you could have liked Colonel 
 Myddleton ; he is just the man who would understand 
 all yom- ideas and everything. Now, honestly, don't 
 you think so ? "
 
 312 honour's worth; or, 
 
 " How can I tell ? " said Hermione. " I never 
 tried." 
 
 *' I know you didn't, but don't you see, I know 
 him very well, and if once you get over that cold, 
 hard, unimpassioned manner, he has such deep 
 feeling, and he is so very like you in many ways ; 
 but of com^se, I know it can't be helped, people can't 
 like each other because they want to." 
 
 " My dear Dorothy, why should he want to ? " 
 
 "Well, he ought to, then ; men are so tiresome. I 
 suppose he will just go and see some little miss at 
 Cannes, and get entangled in some ridiculous way, 
 for he is quite mad on the point of honour and all 
 that, and " 
 
 " But he is not the only person," said Hermione, 
 hurriedly, feeling as though a knife were being 
 slowly turned in her heart. " I suppose I might get 
 entangled with some little master." 
 
 " How absurd you are ! " said Lady Clinton, 
 laughing, but really vexed. ''I had set my heart 
 on it, and of course after saving your life and all." 
 
 *' Oh ! hush, Dorothy ! " broke in Miss St. John, 
 turning very pale. " It's nothing whatever in saving 
 my life ; why, any man would have done the same. 
 Why, you would not let a dog drown if you could save 
 it, and then on account of that to expect him to — 
 
 to It's quite cruel," she ended, with such a beat 
 
 of agony in her voice that Lady Clinton was silenced 
 and startled. At last she said —
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 813 
 
 ^' You have such a way of putting things, 
 Hermione. I never saw it in that hght; of course 
 not expected — only for his own sake." 
 
 "I don't think we can discuss it, Dorothy," said 
 Hermione, faintly. "One never knows a man's life. 
 
 He " She paused, then said very coldly and 
 
 quietly, " I should think he had cared all his life 
 probably for some one whom, for some reason, he 
 cannot marry." 
 
 Lady Clinton sat thinking. " Yes, he looks like 
 that, perhaps. I dare say Philip knows all about 
 it." 
 
 "I dare say he does," echoed Hermione. She 
 had said the very bare truth, and yet she knew there 
 was no danger of Lady Clinton ever striking on the 
 actual heart of the matter. They had reached the 
 edge of the wood before Lady Clinton spoke again, 
 then she turned rather flushed to her companion 
 and said — • 
 
 "If he had Hermione, would you ? " 
 
 " I never thought of anything so improbable,'* 
 said Hermione. There was something in her voice 
 that made Lady Clinton wish impotently that she had 
 not spoken ; then she said, half aloud, " Well, he said 
 he wondered how you had always contrived to be so 
 cold and unimpassioned." 
 
 "Did he?" 
 
 " Yes ; and I said I supposed it was because every- 
 body liked you, so you didn't care."
 
 314 honour's worth ; or, 
 
 ''When did all tbis conversation take place, 
 Dorothy ? " 
 
 *' The first night he came ; he was so odd. I did 
 think then he cared for some one, but then afterwards, 
 I don't know how, the impression died out." 
 
 They were out of the wood now, rmming rapidly 
 down to the valley again. 
 
 At the Eed House they were shown into the sitting- 
 room, and left for a little. 
 
 *'I am afraid the drive has th'ed you dreadfully, 
 lone," said Lady Clinton, undoing the heavy fm- wrap. 
 
 " No ; I like the spring air," was the answer. " I 
 am in such a fright about the General, though." 
 
 ** How cold and cheerless the room looks ! Well, 
 poor Kobert might be glad to go any where else, I am 
 sure." 
 
 ** Yes, it wants a woman to set the things straight, 
 certainly. Rooms look so dreary when no one cares 
 to live in them." 
 
 At this moment there was a loud cheery whistling, 
 and m came Eobert. " I've found it," he began, then 
 stopped short on seeing who it was. " Oh ! I thought 
 it was Mr. Fairfax," he said. " I've got the root he 
 wanted." 
 
 "Where is General Watt ? " said Dorothy. 
 
 ^' Gone off to Old Court. Do you want him ? " 
 
 *' Yes ; never mind, we'll go after him." 
 
 *'A11 right, then I'll come too; I must take this 
 root to Mr. Fairfax."
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 315 
 
 "We'll take it for you, if you like." 
 
 "No, thank you," said Eobert, getting rather red. 
 " I think a short trudge won't do me any harm." 
 
 Hermione pulled Lady Clinton's cloak, who said 
 suddenly, "Here's a good idea. Charles can follow 
 on foot ; Eobert, you shall go in front and drive 
 Hermione, and I'll sit behind, and then you two can 
 talk." 
 
 So it was settled, and by the time they had reached 
 Old Court, Eobert knew all about the agency, and was 
 partly in an ecstatic state of bliss at the idea of getting 
 work, and partly in depth of gloom at the thought of 
 leaving Josline. 
 
 " I am afraid I am awfully stupid. Miss St. John," 
 he said, scarlet with excitement and gratitude, " but 
 I'll work hard and try and get up everything, and a 
 fellow can always learn if he means to." 
 
 " I am sure you will get on all right ; I am so 
 glad you will come, it's very good of you," said 
 Hermione, devoutly hoping the old General would be 
 half as easy to talk to as she had found his son. 
 
 When they drew up at Old Court they found Miss 
 Barbara going round the windows with a little iron 
 rake ; hitching them to and fastening them outside as 
 well as in. 
 
 On her head, over her cap, was a gigantic hat- 
 bonnet, rather like a hen coop, of very coarse straw ; 
 it threw into fine relief her sharp nose; her small 
 black apron had got twisted on one side, her dress
 
 316 honour's woeth; or, 
 
 was tucked up very high, and she was standing in 
 a critical position on the verge of the violet bed. 
 
 " Ah ! it's you, Mr. Eobert," she said, sardonically, 
 and quite ignoring her other visitors. " Well, I am 
 just going out, so it's no use your coming in." 
 
 "How do you do. Miss Fairfax?" said Lady 
 Clinton, springing lightly down from the back seat, 
 and advancing in a^Dparently profound ignorance of 
 Miss Barbara's speech. 
 
 ''How do you do. Lady Clinton?" said Miss 
 Barbara, holding the small rake inelegantly at right 
 angles to her body with one hand, and letting a cold 
 and fish -like hand descend frigidly into Lady Clinton's 
 extended right. '' I am just going out, and am 
 closing the windows," she added undauntedly. 
 " There are so many tramps about and lazy people." 
 
 Here a short waterproof cape which clothed Miss 
 Barbara's gaunt shoulders became unfastened in some 
 mysterious manner and descended, slowly at first, 
 and then with a sudden pounce, on the " person of the 
 house," who fled, carrying round its portly person the 
 black cape. Even Miss Barbara had to laugh, as 
 pussy darted hither and thither, trying to get rid 
 of the cape, and scattering the pigeons in all direc- 
 tions. 
 
 By this time Miss Fairfax became aware of 
 Hermione's presence, and with a gentle look she went 
 solemnly forward and held out her hand, saying, 
 *' Oh, Miss St. John ! I didn't see you ; it is the first
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 317 
 
 time since joiiv accident. I am very glad to see you 
 out." Then she put her hands behind her in em- 
 barrassed silence, tippeting backwards and forwards 
 from heels to toes. 
 
 *' I have your sweet-briar still," said Hermione, 
 smiling. " I put it in water at first, and then I kept it 
 in memory of this dear old garden, and of your 
 kindness in giving it to me." 
 
 "Did you?" said Miss Barbara, really touched, 
 Then putting out one hand timidly, she said, " Won't 
 you come in ? or mayn't you ? " 
 
 " I should like very much, but aren't you going 
 out ? I should not like to stop you." 
 
 " Oh ! that doesn't matter at all. Do come in and 
 have some tea. Don't move ; I'll go, and get some- 
 thing," with which mysterious promise Miss Barbara 
 marched into the house, and presently reappeared, 
 rolling before her, with strong kicks, some mattings 
 which ran to the carriage. " There ! " she said. 
 " Young people are so careless, and damp is very bad 
 when you are weak. Here is my arm." 
 
 Hermione was privately laughing, but would not 
 have allowed Miss Barbara to know it for the world. 
 
 They all went into the cedar parlour, which was 
 quite stifling from being hermetically sealed on 
 account of robbers ; but Miss Barbara speedily re- 
 opened the windows, then turned to Eobert, and said, 
 with great asperity, " Well, young man, and what 
 brought you here ? "
 
 318 honour's worth; or, 
 
 " I have found the root Mr. Fairfax wanted." 
 
 " Take it to him, then ; he's in his study with your 
 father ; and tell Josline I want her." 
 
 Could anything have been more cleverly cruel ? 
 
 They sat talking for some little time after Eobert's 
 departure ; Miss Barbara not doffing her hat-bonnet, 
 but sitting on a high stool with glittering eye. 
 
 Now Eobert didn't mean to have all his woe for 
 nothing but the mere message to Josline. 
 
 He found Mr. Fairfax pasting carefully in some 
 rare botanical specimens, and his father reading out 
 the names to Josline, who was writing them in 
 delicate characters on small labels. He was joyfully 
 received, and even Josline looked delighted at his 
 ^^iind." 
 
 After a short discussion as to its merits, Mr. 
 Fairfax and General Watt went off to the cedar 
 parlour, and Josline was following, when Eobert 
 placed himself desperately in her way. He didn't 
 speak, but his whole face was so full of supplication, 
 so quivering with emotion, that Josline stood still and 
 trembled. 
 
 '' I want to tell you — I want to ask you — shall you 
 mind my going away ? " he said, in a burst. 
 
 *' Going away! No, of course not. Why?" she 
 said, puzzled and doubting. 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean the going away we spoke of 
 that you wished, that I said I would try for. This is 
 only work, plodding, dry work, and I am going to be
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 319 
 
 paid for it," he said, a little bitterly. '^You know, 
 
 I mean, I am very poor, I have nothing, I " He 
 
 stopped. Josline looked up at him, a slight quiver 
 came on her face; she made a little movement, so 
 slight, like a leaf blown sideways on its stem. *' I am 
 not rich, I never can be rich, but I am young and 
 strong, and I will work, and rise ; I am not afraid of 
 toil, I will work day and night, I will work for years ; 
 only say 'yes; do try.' " He stopped again ; he didn't 
 attempt to touch her, but he stretched his hands to 
 her, whilst a great surging longing to gather up that 
 little fragile, gentle creature shook him to the soul. 
 In one hand he was holding some of the dried speci- 
 mens ; they slid and fell rustling to her feet, withered 
 leaves. 
 
 She looked at him gravely and silently. Into her 
 great, stag-like eyes came a look of dumb misery, like 
 a creature being struck in the dark. 
 
 " Speak to me," he said, softly. " Will you not 
 speak to me, and say * work ? ' " 
 
 " Work ! " she said, softly too, like a child repeat- 
 ing a lesson. 
 
 His face lighted ; he came a little nearer, stooping 
 his head in the low doorway. " Will you say ^ work for 
 me ? '" His voice fell to an almost inaudible whisper. 
 The passion in his eyes swept over her heart and 
 found it cold, and left it cold. 
 
 She let her eyes fall, leant back a little, and said 
 slowly, " Work is always noble and good ; I am glad 
 you are going away."
 
 320 honour's worth; or, 
 
 *' Ah ! how can you ? " he said. 
 
 She was silent ; in her slight body you could see 
 the vibration of her heart. 
 
 " Then you are glad to be rid of me ? Oh ! I had 
 
 hoped " He stoiDped again. " Oh, Josline ! " he 
 
 burst out, suddenly, *^I love you, I love you; don't 
 you feel it, and know it ? I have loved you from the 
 very first moment I ever saw you ; oh, I love you so, 
 I don't know what to do ! Answer me, say you will 
 wait, say you care, say I may work for you ; oh, do, 
 do speak! " He was speaking rapidly now, in violent, 
 throbbing, beating rushes of sound; his eyes were 
 full of tears, his whole frame shook. "Oh, do say 
 * yes,' do say * yes ! ' " He would not have ' nay.' He 
 came close to her, he almost took her in his arms. 
 
 But quiet and still as a vision in a dream, she 
 made no return of sound or gesture, and something 
 in the supreme stillness, as in the silence of a dream, 
 struck him suddenly motionless and silent, too. 
 
 They stood looking at each other ; then she made 
 as though she would have passed him. " Ah, dearest ! " 
 he said, *' won't you answer? then, do you hate me so 
 much?" He paused. She sli^Dped her small hand 
 inside the front of her dress and held something, at 
 least, afterwards, he vaguely and dimly thought so ; 
 her lips moved, and he bent forwards to catch what 
 she said, but she did not speak aloud. She looked so 
 strange, so pale, so unearthly, that Eobert's heart 
 began to beat thickly.
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 321 
 
 **Are you faint?" he said. "Have I frightened 
 you ? Shall I go away ? I am so rough ! I did not 
 mean — if you would only say one word, only one 
 word, I will go." 
 
 " Go ! " she breathed. 
 
 He started; he had not meant that. *'0h, Jos- 
 line ! " he said, " do think; it is so hard to bear. I 
 love you so ! If you only could know how I love you ! 
 I will do anything you wish ; only couldn't you say 
 something ? " 
 
 "You have said enough — quite, quite enough," 
 she said, shivering. 
 
 " Are you angry, then, very angry ? " 
 
 She shook her head gently. 
 " Not angry ? Then — then — oh, Josline ! " 
 
 He held her two hands, he bent over her slight 
 fragile form, his breath shook on her forehead, he 
 trembled from head to foot, his every nerve and pulse 
 leapt and quivered. A feeling of such intense happi- 
 ness shook him that he felt quite faint. " Oh " 
 
 He couldn't speak, his voice choked. 
 
 She let her hands lie in his for one brief moment. 
 For one brief moment Kobert was happier than he had 
 ever dreamed he could be, to be for ever after more 
 sorrowful. Then she said — 
 
 "I did hope you did not care, would not go on 
 caring. I am very sorry. I can never, never be any 
 good to you ! " 
 
 He droj)ped her hands, a scarlet burning tide flew 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 honour's wobth ; or, 
 
 over his face, dyeing his very eyelids. She remained 
 deathly white. 
 
 *' There is something about me you do not know, 
 
 no one knows, I cannot tell you. Oh " For a 
 
 second she lost self-control, the sobs rang through her 
 voice. " I would if I could, I would, indeed." Then 
 as he lifted his head with a kind of start, she said, 
 as before, coldly, like a voice in a dream, again pulse- 
 less, " But I can't, it can never be ! I shall never 
 care for any one but my uncle ! " 
 
 ** But that — that is quite different," he said, pas- 
 sionately, feeling as though he mi:ght plead her out 
 of some strange, horrible glamour and possession. 
 " I assure you it is different. Oh ! I have frightened 
 you ! I am so. rough !- But, see, look ! I will be so 
 quiet and gentle, and I won't speak to you again for 
 a year, years — any time." 
 
 "Never!" she said, quietly ; "never; it can never 
 be ! Do not m^ge me ; it can never be ! " 
 
 He stood looking at her ; he saw she was shivering. 
 A strange idea seized on him. " Josline," he said, 
 slowly, " are you determined never to care for me ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am — determined," she answered, as though 
 constrained by his look. 
 
 " Is it because I am poor ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " she said, with a sort of cry, coming 
 forwards two steps, her whole face convulsed with 
 deep feeling. 
 
 She looked so infinitely sweet and lovely, that the
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 823 
 
 young man's heart rose in despair. " Oh, my dear ! " 
 he said>, taking her head suddenly in his two hands, 
 and kissing her reverently on her forehead, " I shall 
 never love any one but you ; can't you love me ? " 
 
 It did seem a little hard, he loved her so ! Her 
 touch seemed to create a change in him ; he said, 
 suddenly, " I believe — Josline^, is it possible ? I be- 
 lieve you could love me, and you won't ! " 
 
 The wonderful alchemy of lov-e had given him a 
 power of prophetic insight into h-er mind and heart. 
 She made no reply, she hung her head and stood 
 like a flower in the night, enwrapped in its own 
 essence, pure and untouched. 
 
 " Can you not answer me ? will you not ? dare you 
 not?" 
 
 Silence. A heavy step came through the hall, 
 a hand was laid on Robert's shoulder, and Mr. Fair- 
 fax's voice said— 
 
 " You must come now, Robert." 
 
 Josline came forwards. She put both her arms 
 round her uncle's neck, and said, with a sob, " Yes, 
 take me and keep me, I have only you." 
 
 She was shuddering violently, but tearless. Mr. 
 Fairfax made Robert a sign, and he went away 
 through the darkening hall — the darkness took him. 
 
 " I shall be ready to start to-morrow. Miss St. 
 John," he said, as they all parted on the ridge. 
 
 " That will be good of you ; you know you can 
 always be running backwards and forwards till we
 
 324 honoub's worth; oe, 
 
 do up the house for your father. I am so glad you 
 will come, and it is so good of General Watt to spare 
 you." 
 
 " Yes, very," answered Eobert, and strode away 
 down the hill, feeling as though a heavy waggon had 
 gone over him and crushed all life, and hope, and 
 youth, and strength out of him. 
 
 He was still young, though, for when he got home, 
 he went to the cabinet, took out the picture, the 
 Eurydice portrait, and sobbed bitterly over it ; then 
 he fetched some wash-leather and did it up tightly, 
 sewing it carefully together at the edges with huge 
 stitches of white silk, pricking himself horribly the 
 while, in his fierce niisery and distraction. 
 
 *^ The worst of it is, I don't know what she is at! " 
 he thought. " What can she mean ? and she looks so 
 delicate, and seems so miserable. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! " 
 Then he kissed the wash-leather where the face ought 
 to be, and put it away, and vowed a vow he wouldn't 
 look at it again till he was a rich man and didn't care 
 any more. Then he got into bed, and thought over 
 every word and gesture and expression, and more 
 and more he became convinced there was some 
 mystery; only what could it be? He wondered 
 whether Gladys could find out. He would write to 
 her ; both together they would try ; and then at last 
 some day they would all be happy. Perhaps he had 
 frightened her, but surely he had been very gentle ; 
 only she was so fragile and so easily frightened ; why,
 
 THE COST OF A VOW. 325 
 
 he had seen her jump at a moth, and he was a very 
 big moth, and how his wings did burn with a curious 
 frizzle, like sweetbriar hedges done up in matting, 
 which he knew could never possibly be put into so 
 small a pie-dish as Miss Barbara's hat-bonnet, and — 
 he was fast asleep. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 PRINTED AT THE CAXTON PRESS, BECCLES.
 
 ^K^