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 a I B R.A RY 
 
 OF THE 
 U N IVLRSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 HBd2yn 
 
 v.\ 
 
MY LADY COQUETTE. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 BY 
 
 " E I T A," 
 
 AUTHOR OF "VIVIENNE," " LIKE DIAN's KISS, 
 " COUNTESS DAPHNE," ETC. 
 
 AY THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 
 
 CATHERINE STREET, STRAND, 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 1881. 
 
 All Ili(/hts reserved. 
 
COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURCH. 
 

 r 
 
 f 
 
 i 
 
 TO 
 
 §enrrr Jfruittig, ®sq». 
 
 WHOSE MARVELLOUS IMPERSONATION OP 
 
 ■5 
 
 MATTHIAS 
 
 
 IN 
 
 > 
 
 "THE BELLS" 
 
 SUGGESTED THE LEADING IDEA IN THE STORY, 
 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 
 BY 
 
 ) 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 London, March 1881. 
 
MY LADY COQUETTE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EIGHTLY gleams the morning sun- 
 shine, this fourteenth of February, 
 186 — , on the latticed casements 
 and the quaint old gables of Mervyn Court. 
 It peers through the dry framework of 
 creepers and rose-bushes, it gives the dingy 
 ivy a new and brighter sheen, and finally pours 
 in a warm triumphant flood over the face 
 and figure of a girl standing in the shabby 
 breakfast-room, with flushed cheeks and angry 
 eyes gazing at a mass of lace and flower- 
 
 VOL. I. A 
 
My Lady Coquette. 
 
 wreathed paper which she holds in her 
 hand — a valentine! 
 
 It has come by the morning post, in 
 company with various other envelopes and 
 boxes, all bearing missives from admirers and 
 friends of her own. But, of all the many, 
 this one only has a special attraction for her ; 
 to it alone does she give the thoughts of 
 her wilful capricious little heart, the look of 
 those lovely gleaming long-lashed eyes, that 
 have, even in the short space of seventeen 
 summers, done so much damage to mankind, 
 youthful and mature. 
 
 She is very lovely this girl. From the 
 warm rich gold of her hair to the tiny arched 
 feet which her dress just allows to be seen, 
 she is faultless — faultless in form and figure 
 and colouring, with a face wonderfully win- 
 ning in its changes of expression, in its 
 mobile, passionate, wilful beauty that never 
 seems quite the same, but varies with her 
 varying moods, as the sea takes its colours 
 from the changing sky. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 
 
 It is a face too fair to escape notice, where - 
 ever it may be, a face like that of which the 
 poet sung — 
 
 *' Thine eyes are stars of morning, 
 Thy lips are crimson flowers." 
 
 But now the eyes, deep, dark, and purple, 
 like the heart of a violet, are positively flash- 
 ing with wrathful indignation, and the sweet 
 red lips are expressing all the disdain and 
 contempt that silent lips can. 
 
 The object of all this anger and indignation 
 is seemingly the lace-edged paper on which 
 are penned the following lines : — 
 
 *' I do confess thou'rt young and fair, 
 
 And I might have been brought to love thee, 
 Had I not found the slightest pray'r 
 
 That breath could frame had pow'r to move thee. 
 But I can let thee now alone, 
 As worthy to be loved by none. 
 
 I do confess thou'rt sweet, but find 
 Thee such an unthrift of they sweets, 
 
 Thy favours are but like the wind 
 That kisseth everything it meets." 
 
 *' Who could have sent it 1 " she says, as 
 
My Lady Coquette. 
 
 she throws the luckless valentine furiously 
 down. ** What impudence ! Oh, if ever I 
 find out ! " 
 
 The speech is cut short by a noise and 
 bustle in the hall, followed immediately by 
 the appearance of two other girls and a tall 
 boy of that delightful hobbledehoy age which 
 is so trying to sisters and other feminine 
 members of a household. 
 
 ** Holloa ! Why, here's Yolande making 
 free with all our valentines ! " shouts the 
 youth. " Enid, Vi, look out, or you won't 
 have a chance of seeing any ! " 
 
 *' Don't be so absurd, Arthur ! " says his 
 sister, sharply. " I never touch anything 
 that's not my own. In that respect I differ 
 strongly from you." 
 
 ** But are there any for us, Yolande ? " the 
 other girls cry eagerly, as they press close to 
 their beautiful elder sister and peer over her 
 shoulder at the scattered Cupid-offerings which 
 lie on the breakfast-table. 
 
 " They are by your own plates," she answers 
 
My Lady Coquette, 
 
 impatiently, as she puts tlie paper she has 
 been reading into its outer cover and then 
 tries to slip it surreptitiously into her pocket. 
 
 This manoeuvre is speedily discovered by 
 Arthur, who in true brotherly fashion proceeds 
 to draw the attention of the others to it. 
 
 " What's in that one you're hiding — a 
 secret ? " he asks quickly. " Why can't you 
 let us see it as well as these ? " 
 
 " Because I don't choose," answers his sister, 
 with a rising flush on her cheeks and a vain 
 attempt to disguise her wrath at this discovery 
 on his part. *' It's no business of yours what 
 I get!" 
 
 " Hoity-toity ! " says Arthur, with an ag- 
 gravating expression of intense amazement. 
 ** Girls, what has happened to our fair Yolande? 
 Who has dared to ruffle her sweet serenity, 
 and barbed a Cupid's missive with a shaft 
 that stings her gentle breast ! " 
 
 *' Arthur, how can you be so ridiculous ? " 
 exclaims his sister, half laughing even in her 
 most natural desire to inflict upon the sharp- 
 
My Lady Coquette. 
 
 eyed youth that condign punishment popularly 
 known as " a box on the ears." '* Come, girls, 
 let me see yours," she adds hurriedly, in the 
 vain hope of turning attention from herself. 
 
 " No ; don't you do anything of the sort," 
 interposes the incorrigible Arthur. " Make 
 her confess what she's concealing from her 
 affectionate and sympathising relatives first. 
 Confidence deserves confidence, Yo." 
 
 " Don't call me that ! You know I hate 
 it ! " cries Yolande hastily. 
 
 ** Ever since — ahem — " 
 
 *' Will you be quiet, you torment ? " 
 
 " Ever since Signor Eoderigo Brabante mis- 
 took it for a boy's name — eh, sis % " persists 
 the unabashed youth. 
 
 "Oh, Yolande, is not this lovely? Who 
 can it be from ? " comes now from the clear 
 treble of the twin-sisters, who are poring over 
 their treasures with the delight and excitement 
 of bashful fifteen. 
 
 Yolande turns to them relieved, and bends 
 down unnecessarily low in the attempt to 
 
My Lady Coquette. 
 
 cool the hot cheeks, the sudden flame of 
 colour of which is to be attributed only to 
 some hidden meaning beneath Arthur's jok- 
 ing allusion to Signor Eoderigo. 
 
 " Very pretty ! '* she says. *' I wonder 
 who sent them ? " 
 
 *' And I have nothing ! " exclaims Arthur 
 ruefully. "Well, considering how I danced 
 with that fat Judith Hargreaves the whole 
 of last evening, and how I devoted myself 
 to her amusement, I must say I did expect 
 a — a something. I am disappointed in that 
 young lady ; I really am." 
 
 *' Perhaps she heard of your flattering re- 
 marks afterwards," suggests Yolande. " You 
 are so indiscreet in your confidences, you 
 know, Arthur." 
 
 " My sweet sister, I stand rebuked. Very 
 likely it has come to her ears that I likened 
 her to a keg of butter, or a sack of flour, or 
 something equally suitable. By Jove ! how I 
 could have stood it I don't know ! The very 
 memory of those waltzes makes my arms ache." 
 
8 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 *' Better your arms than your heart," says 
 Yolande softly ; and then, as if fearful of 
 retort, she turns away to the breakfast-table 
 and begins with nervous haste to rattle the 
 teacups and arrange the plates. 
 
 " Papa is late," she says. " Vi, you had 
 better go and tell him breakfast is ready." 
 
 Vi, otherwise Vivien, puts down her valen- 
 tines reluctantly, and leaves the room to do 
 her sister's bidding. 
 
 Enid and Arthur seat themselves at the 
 table, and with the healthy appetite of youth 
 proceed to attack the pile of bread-and-butter. 
 With well-assumed indifference Yolande sweeps 
 away the heap of missives from her plate, and 
 devotes herself to the task of pouring out coffee. 
 
 '' I believe somebody has sent Yo a rude 
 valentine," asserts her brother presently ; he 
 has far too much of the talent of teasing to 
 drop a subject which he has found to be 
 unwelcome. '' Come, Yo, confess, there's a 
 good girl, and then I'll call him out and 
 have satisfaction, even at the pistol's mouth." 
 
My Lady Coquette, 
 
 " The best satisfaction you could give would 
 be to hold your tongue," says Yolande sharply. 
 
 '* It's a moral as well as a physicial impossi- 
 bility to do that, especially when employing 
 one's gastronomic organs, as I am at present 
 doing," answers Arthur, with his mouth full 
 of bread-and-butter. 
 
 ** I wish you were back at school again ! " 
 exclaims his sister sharply. ** There has 
 been no such thing as peace or quietness in 
 the house since you came home." 
 
 "" So much for sisterly affection ! " cries 
 Arthur theatrically. " Leaving gratitude out 
 of the question, this is the return I get for 
 my hours of self-denial, my incessant care 
 for your amusement and entertainment, my — " 
 
 " Oh, do be quiet, you tiresome boy ! " 
 exclaims Yolande, losing all patience at last. 
 " Thank goodness, here's papa ! " 
 
 Looking at her face now as she rises to 
 welcome the white-haired bent old man who 
 enters the room, no one could have helped 
 being struck by its perfection. Such tender- 
 
lo My Lady Coquette, 
 
 ness, sucli welcome, such perfect protecting 
 love, shiDe in the deep humid eyes that even 
 her lips are hardly more eloquent as she 
 utters her morning greeting. 
 
 Her fathers glance is equally loving. 
 Very precious indeed to his heart is this 
 lovely first-born, born to him late in life, as 
 all his children were, and then left from very 
 early childhood to his sole care and love. 
 The pretty delicate young wdfe had gladdened 
 his home but a very few years, when death 
 claimed her for himself, and the three girls 
 and Arthur have been brought up almost 
 entirely at home. 
 
 Hence perhaps the perfect confidence, the 
 entire absence of fear and restraint that reigns 
 between them and their father, and gives rise 
 to many taunts and objections on the part 
 of other heads of families in the neighbour- 
 hood. The young Mervyns are usually looked 
 upon as spoilt, useless, and self-indulged. 
 The girls — Yolande especially — are pro- 
 nounced conceited, frivolous, and far too fond 
 
My Lady Coquette. 1 1 
 
 of admiration. Notwithstanding, they are 
 more admired and more popular than any 
 other of the female members of society in 
 Ashbourne ; and Yolande has all the youth 
 of the county at her dainty feet. 
 
 Poor Yolande ! With her warm heart, her 
 passionate fancies, her marvellous loveliness, 
 her indulged caprices, it is a wonder she is 
 not even more spoiled than she is. Of con- 
 trol she knows nothing. Her father always 
 allows her to do just as she pleases ; and, 
 as much as lies in his power, ministers to 
 her wants and desires. 
 
 They are not very numerous luckily ; for 
 the Mervyns are by no means a wealthy 
 family, and the old court is generally looked 
 upon as dilapidated and shabby in the ex- 
 treme. Yet many among the nouveaux riches, 
 the wealthy proprietors of new-bought estates 
 and lordly mansions abounding in Ashbourne, 
 would have gladly sacrified their pretentious 
 abodes for the antique grandeur and nobility 
 of Mervyn Court. Yolande loves it dearly. 
 
1 2 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 Every ivy-crowned gable, every quaint old 
 lattice, every nook of the old shadowy hall, 
 the carved oak staircase, the great dreary 
 drawing-rooms, so seldom used now, the pic- 
 ture-gallery, with its host of dead and gone 
 Mervyns, are precious and beautiful exceed- 
 ingly in her eyes. They have histories of 
 their own that have charmed her childish 
 fancy and coloured her gay bright youth. 
 They have fostered in her some pardonable 
 pride in and love for those bygone ancestors 
 who had been noble and true and "faithful 
 unto death " to those they served and those 
 they loved. They have told her of brave 
 deeds, of sacrifices rendered, of chivalrous 
 actions, of tender thoughts, of grave duties ; 
 and, despite the lightheartedness and coquetry 
 and superficial brilliance of her character, 
 there lies beneath it a true and steadfast 
 nobility, fostered by such associations, and 
 built upon such records as these. 
 
 The breakfast goes on cheerfully now. none 
 of the young Mervyns being at all afflicted 
 
My Lady Coquette. 
 
 with bashfulness in the presence of their 
 respected progenitor, but employing their 
 tongues as freely before him as they are 
 accustomed to do when by themselves. 
 
 ''Father," remarks Arthur presently, "you 
 will be losing some of your lambs if you don't 
 look out. Are you. aware how many suitors 
 are at hand already ? Look there ! " 
 
 Mr Mervyn glances amusedly at the pile of 
 valentines on the side table, and then looks 
 at Yolande. 
 
 ** All yours, my dear ? " he asks. 
 
 '' Oh, no ! Some are Enid's and Yi's," 
 answers Yolande hurriedly. " Stupid things ! 
 I wonder how people can trouble to send such 
 rubbish ! " 
 
 ** It occurs to my memory that not so very 
 long ago Miss Mervyn took a considerable 
 interest in those same stupid things," remarks 
 Arthur. " I have a distinct remembrance of 
 her waylaying the postman on St Yalentiiie's 
 morn with a zeal that was highly creditable. 
 By Jove, how girls do change ! Only two or 
 
14 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 three years ago you were up to anything, 
 Yolande, and could climb a tree and play a 
 game at cricket almost as well as if you were 
 a boy, and now — " 
 
 Arthur's face is expressive of such intense 
 disgust that Yolande goes ofif into a peal of 
 delicious silvery laughter. 
 
 « Why don't you finish ? " she asks, when 
 her mirth has a little subsided. 
 
 '* Well, now," continues her brother in- 
 dignantly, ^'you think only of long tails to 
 your gowns and all the young fools you can 
 catch and bring philandering about you. 
 What they see in you I'm sure I don't know. 
 You were rather a jolly girl once ; but that 
 was ages ago, before your head was turned 
 with spooning and valentines." 
 
 *' I had valentines even in those ages ago," 
 remarks Yolande. 
 
 " Yes ; and even then you always had 
 three to our one," chimes in Enid. 
 
 " Oh, but two were always from Lance and 
 Dick ; and they don't count ; " interrupts Vi. 
 
My Lady Coquette, 1 5 
 
 " Well, whatever fellows can see in girls to 
 waste their money on them in valentines 
 beats my comprehension ! " says Arthur ener- 
 getically. "■ I never should do it." 
 
 " Wait a while, my boy, and you'll tell a 
 different story," his father puts in. " At your 
 age boys have a strong antagonism towards 
 the opposite sex — probably because a few 
 years later they are bound to pay for that 
 indifference whether they will or no." 
 
 " I'm sure I never shall," asserts Arthur 
 vehemently. " When one has horses and 
 guns and lots of fun, and can see life and 
 travel about the world, what's the use of 
 tying yourself to a woman's apron-strings ? 
 Such bosh ! " 
 
 " Don't talk of what you know nothing 
 about, Arty," says Vi, with dignity. 
 
 *' You go and learn grammar and mind 
 your own business ! " retorts her brother. 
 *' Hang it all, I'm not going to be lectured by 
 a parcel of girls ! Father, I must go to school 
 again. I'm sick of idleness." 
 
1 6 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 " What a laudable resolve ! " says Yolande. 
 ** It is rather a pity that constant reiteration 
 has made it sound somewhat stale in our ears. 
 If your actions were only equal to your in- 
 tentions, Arty ! " 
 
 " So they are, only — Well, you see, there's 
 always something turning up, and it seems a 
 pity to go away just then." 
 
 " I think the rabbits are all shot now," 
 remarks Mr Mervyn ; " and the broken arm is 
 mended — eh, Arthur % " 
 
 *' Oh, yes," says the boy shamefacedly, 
 " that's all right ! But, you see, governor, I 
 had to look after the fences, and I wanted to 
 see the tennis-courts made ; and — " 
 
 "Don't trouble your brain for any more 
 excuses, my dear boy," says Yolande placidly. 
 " We all know how far your intentions go, and 
 where they fall short." 
 
 " In that respect we are alike," returns 
 Arthur, with a grin. "You also have been 
 known to have good intentions. Miss Flirt; 
 and — Why, positively you are blushing ! Was 
 
My Lady Coquette, 1 7 
 
 the arrow drawn at a venture so well shot that 
 it hit the mark % " 
 
 " You and Yolande are always nagging at 
 each other," remarks quiet Enid. *' I don't 
 think it's good taste to introduce your dis- 
 putes in the family circle so constantly." 
 
 " Oh, of course you girls all stick up for one 
 another ! " says Arthur, rising and pushing 
 back his chair. ** Well, I'll relieve you of my 
 presence. Go to your gowns and frills and 
 fal-als. You little know what you lose by 
 such nonsense. Thank Heaven, I'm not a girl ! 
 Bye, bye, Yo. Take care of that secret hillet- 
 doux in your pocket." And with this parting 
 shaft he leaves the room. 
 
 '' Yolande," says her father presently, ''you 
 won't forget that the Hargreaves dine here 
 to-night, and Mr and Mrs Adair and their 
 friends also ? " 
 
 *' No, I won't forget," answers the girl, stoop- 
 ing low over her cup in order to hide the soft 
 rose-pink of her cheek and brow. 
 
 ** And, my dear, please impress upon the 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
1 8 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 cook to be more careful with the soup. It 
 was quite spoilt on the last occasion." 
 
 " Very well, papa." 
 
 '' Are Enid and I to come to dinner ? " asks 
 Vivien. 
 
 " Yes, if Yolande thinks there will be room." 
 
 " Oh, yes, plenty ! " says Yolande, still pain- 
 fully conscious of hot cheeks and uneven pulse. 
 " Have you finished, girls ? " 
 
 ** Yes ! " cry the twins simultaneously. 
 
 And then they rise in their turn, and, 
 collecting their valentines, retire from the 
 room with their arms clasped around each 
 other's waist, their normal way of moving 
 about. 
 
 Yolande rings the bell for the removal of 
 the breakfast equipage, and then, with a kiss 
 to her father and a remark that his morning 
 paper is cut and ready for his perusal, opens 
 the window and steps out upon the smooth 
 green lawn. 
 
CHAPTEK 11. 
 
 |T is a mild sweet morning, this four- 
 teenth of February, a morning 
 that brings visions of coming spring 
 in its bright glints of sunshine, its soft cool 
 winds, its intense blue sky, its tints of violets 
 from the hedgerows. But Yolande wanders 
 over the lawn and on to the quaint old garden 
 paths, taking but languid interest in all the 
 beauty^around her. 
 
 At other times the changing shadows, the 
 fragrant air, the breath of the spring-time on 
 her cheek, the dazzling green of the new- 
 grown, grass as the sun-rays fall over it in 
 warm and loving radiance would have touched 
 the poetic faculty within her heart, and stirred 
 her to that sympathy with all things bright 
 
20 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 and beautiful in nature which was usual to 
 her. But now her mind is troubled ; a vague 
 unrest had stolen away the peaceful calm so 
 long her own ; and all the more, in that such 
 a feeling is inexplicable and strange, she rebels 
 at its pain and marvels at its pertinacity in 
 recurring. 
 
 '' If I only knew," she says impatiently, as 
 she gazes with perfect unconsciousness up at 
 the great wide boughs of a spreading yew-tree, 
 '' oh, how I would pay him out ! " 
 
 " In what botanical researches are you 
 now employed % " suddenly demands a voice 
 behind her. 
 
 She starts and turns round angrily. 
 
 *' Arthur, you plague, why don't you find 
 something to do ? You are getting quite 
 unbearable about the house ! " 
 
 '* The house is as much mine as yours, Miss 
 Yolande," he retorts. '* What were you look- 
 ing at — birds' nests ? I'll just give you a 
 specimen of your appearance." And he 
 strikes an attitude, the exaggerated absurdity 
 
My Lady Coquette. 2 1 
 
 of which makes Yolande laugh despite her 
 annoyance. 
 
 Then, unable to stand his teasing any- 
 longer, she hastens away to the house and 
 proceeds to interview the cook and give the 
 necessary instructions for the evening, not 
 forgetting that caution as to the soup which 
 her father had suggested. 
 
 Yolande has no great talent for housekeep- 
 ing. It seems but the other day that she 
 was running wild with Arthur, bird-nesting, 
 cricketing, fishing, doing all such things as 
 seemed good to her vagrant fancy, and en- 
 joying life fully and utterly as any young 
 unfettered creature can. But now things are 
 changed. A governess has been introduced 
 to teach the young lady various arts and 
 accomplishments, and, in company with Enid 
 and Vi, she has to read, study, and practise 
 for three or four hours daily. This same 
 directress has also insisted that Yolande shall 
 be instructed in the management of household 
 afiairs, as befits the eldest daughter of the 
 
2 2 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 family ; and, rebel as she may, at certain 
 times and seasons she has to give in to Miss 
 Skipton's decrees, and under her guidance and 
 direction interview cook and housekeeper. 
 
 In these employments the morning hours 
 speed away rapidly, and Yolande has no 
 leisure to re-peruse the missive in her pocket, 
 though its touch and the consciousness of its 
 proximity can flush her cheek and light her 
 eyes with remembered wrath. At intervals 
 her thoughts also seem wandering, for, when 
 cook suggests various side-dishes for the din- 
 ner, she listens absently, and once murmurs, 
 " Tomato sauce — oh, yes — and valentines ! " 
 
 *' My dear Miss Mervyn ! " says the gover- 
 ness, shocked and amazed. 
 
 Yolande starts, colours, and then, with a 
 vigorous efi*ort, returns to the subject in 
 question, and manages without further mis- 
 takes to settle the debate. She gives a sigh of 
 intense relief as she re-enters the schoolroom. 
 
 '* Oh, dear, why must people eat % " she 
 exclaims wearily. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 23 
 
 Miss Skipton, delighted at the opportunity 
 afforded for a display of learning, hereupon 
 launches forth into so many reasons, excellent 
 and needful, moral and argumentative, for the 
 necessity of human nature making use of 
 those gastronomic organs wherewith it is 
 supplied that poor Yolande is nearly driven 
 to distraction. She knows Miss Skipton's 
 proclivities only too well, and generally em- 
 ploys her time in dodging warily around any 
 subject likely to produce such an array of 
 logic as that learned lady possesses. In this 
 instance however she has failed lamentably, 
 and submits with a very ill grace to the 
 deluge that follows. 
 
 In the schoolroom Vi and Enid are seated, 
 with books and papers before them, and a 
 look of such sweet placid innocence and un- 
 consciousness upon their faces as leads Yo- 
 lande to wonder what mischief they have just 
 been practising. 
 
 She is very distrait this morning. Her 
 thoughts go wandering off from French his- 
 
24 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 tory to various other incongruous subjects 
 that certainly have nothing to do with 
 the life of Bonaparte or the Court of 
 Charles le Douze. Her eyes are more con- 
 stantly occupied in gazing at the soft sweep 
 of sky stretching in blue and cloudless beauty 
 over the outer world than in perusing the 
 dry and instructive works lying open before 
 her. Very thankful indeed does she feel 
 when the clock strikes one, and at last they 
 are able to shut up books and do ** whatever 
 seemeth good unto them " for the remainder 
 of the day. She hurries off as swiftly as her 
 light feet can bear her to her own pretty 
 dainty room, and heaves a sigh of intense 
 relief as, with locked door, and a sense of 
 perfect security from intrusion, she sets her- 
 self to study the unwelcome valentine once 
 more. 
 
 " Am I such a flirt ? " she thinks, as her 
 soft starlike eyes look up from the hateful 
 words and meet their own lustrous reflection 
 in the opposite mirror. "I know I like 
 
My Lady Coquette, 25 
 
 dancing and fun and — well, a little admira- 
 tion ; but surely there's no great harm in 
 that ? Oh, I hope he did not send it ! And 
 yet it must have been he ! No one else 
 would mind what I did ; they are so used 
 to me and my ways. Well, I don't care, and 
 I won't care ! " — with a stamp of the little 
 foot. *' Who is he that I should mind his 
 opinion ? I have seen him only three times, 
 and—" 
 
 Here she pauses. A tide of crimson sweeps 
 over her fair low brow, her lovely cheeks. 
 She flings the luckless valentine to the 
 farthest corner of the room. 
 
 " I hate him ! " she cries, rising and pacing 
 up and down the soft-carpeted floor. " Oh, 
 if only I had not said that ! Perhaps he 
 thought it was a hint. A hint ! Just as if 
 Lance and Dick and young Tempestown 
 and Jack Fortescue, and — and — heaps of 
 fellows weren't glad enough of the oppor- 
 tunity of sending me valentines ! And to 
 think that I wanted one from him ! Oh, 
 
2 6 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 how shall I meet him to-night ? If I could 
 only look perfectly cool and unconcerned it 
 would be all right ; but I am sure the mo- 
 ment he looks at me it will be all over — 
 and — he will know ! " 
 
 Another abrupt pause. Then she goes 
 slowly over to the corner where the valentine 
 has fluttered and smoothes out the crumpled 
 paper, and once more peruses it. 
 
 " * To my Lady Coquette,' " she reads. 
 " Oh, Mr Denzil Charteris, if you mean that, 
 it will go hard with me if I don't make you 
 rue the day you wrote or said it ! No ; I 
 won't throw this away. It shall be kept 
 as a memento of this day and of my vow — 
 the vow I make over this senseless paper 
 that you have made so cruel a weapon — 
 if it lies in woman's power to bring you to 
 my feet, there you shall be brought — if it 
 lies in my power to pay you back in such 
 coin the insult and the shame you have given 
 me to bear, then assuredly I shall pay it — 
 every farthing ! I never did aught to you, 
 
My Lady Coquette. 
 
 27 
 
 Denzil Charteris, that deserved such treat- 
 ment as this ; but now it shall be guerre d 
 outrance between us ; and, if I wait for my 
 vengeance, even twenty years, it shall be 
 mine at last ! " 
 
 Ah, poor passionate, foolish child, smarting 
 under the first bitterness of an undeserved 
 WTong, could you but have looked forward 
 over half that space of twenty years, your 
 vow would surely have never been spoken, 
 or, being spoken, would have been cancelled 
 even in its first rash moment of utterance ! 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 lOLANDE," exclaims Enid, as slie 
 and Vi enter their sister's room, 
 where she is putting the finish- 
 ing touches to her toilet for dinner, " What 
 do you think Skippy is going to appear in 
 this evening ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know," says Yolande 
 carelessly, as she fastens a white rose among 
 the lovely ripples of her golden hair. " Not 
 white muslin, I hope." 
 
 '* No ! " laughs Vi. *' Shall you ever forget 
 that occasion ? I thought I should have a 
 fit every time I looked at her ; and papa's 
 face of amazement too — wasn't it rich ? " 
 
 " I wonder," remarks Yolande musingly, 
 "whether a very fat woman or a very thin 
 one looks worse in white." 
 
My Lady Coquette. 29 
 
 "A thin one in my experience," says Enid. 
 " Yolande, how nicely you have done your 
 hair to-night ! I wish I was old enough to 
 wear mine turned up. It must be jolly to 
 be grown up after all. Don't you think 
 so?" 
 
 "• I haven't found it particularly agreeable 
 yet," answers Yolande, still scrutinising her 
 lovely little person in the glass. " But you 
 haven't told me what Skippy's dress is to 
 be." 
 
 "It is all red silk," chime in both girls 
 simultaneously ; and then Vi adds, "It is 
 an orange-red that makes one shudder to 
 behold ; and she's got a turban-cap to match 
 it, made by herself, Yolande. I know I shall 
 never be able to look at her without laugh- 
 ing. And the dress is so straight and narrow 
 she looks just like a long bolster. How is 
 it some people never know what colours to 
 wear, or what will suit them ? " 
 
 " You both look very nice," Yolande ob- 
 serves, as she surveys her young sisters in 
 
30 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 turn. ''Mind you must go in together, as 
 there are so few gentlemen." 
 
 " Who's going to take you in ? " asks Vi. 
 
 '* Mr Hargreaves, of course." 
 
 *' And Judith?" 
 
 *' Oh, Mr Charteris ! Papa will have to 
 take Mrs Adair," says Yolande hurriedly. 
 
 " And Mr Adair will have to put up with 
 Mrs Hargreaves. Poor fellow ! " laughs Enid 
 merrily. 
 
 " Fair, fat, and forty," comments Vi. '* Mr 
 Charteris is the best off after all. Judith is 
 very nice, and she knows how to dress herself. 
 She is rather fat, but — " 
 
 " Oh, men like fat girls ! " asserts Yolande, 
 with the experience of her seventeen years. 
 " They call them ' crumby.' " 
 
 " Gracious ! " exclaims Vi, looking ruefully 
 at her slender proportions and the angularity 
 of undeveloped girlhood so plainly apparent 
 in the figures of herself and Enid. "There 
 is not much hope for us then ! " 
 
 " You surely are not thinking of conquests 
 
My Lady Coquette. 3 1 
 
 already ? " laughs Yolande. ''Or is it the 
 valentines that have set you to consider your 
 respective charms ? " 
 
 '* You had plenty of sweethearts at our 
 age," retorts Vi indignantly ; " and in two 
 years we shall be as old as you are 
 now." 
 
 " Was that the bell % " exclaims Yolande, 
 with a nervous start that sends all the blood 
 to her face. 
 
 ** Yes ; and you ought to be down, oughtn't 
 you ? You're quite ready, Yolande. Why 
 do you stand fidgeting there ? " 
 
 *' Do I look — I mean — am I all right ? " 
 asks Yolande hurriedly, as she glances from 
 one bright face to the other. 
 
 " I should have worn a red rose with all 
 that white," remarks Vi. *' What do you 
 say, Enid ? " 
 
 ** I should have done the same," agrees 
 Enid. " But then, Vi, we're not Yolande ; 
 and somehow — " 
 
 Both pause and look critically at their 
 
My Lady Coquette, 
 
 lovely elder sister, who does indeed look 
 *' faultily faultless " to-night. 
 
 " Somehow," agrees Vi, continuing the 
 parable for her other self, as Enid is always 
 called, *' Yolande never looks like us ; and 
 what we would wear mightn't suit her." 
 
 '' Well, I suppose that's all the satisfaction 
 I am likely to get from you," says Yolande. 
 *' Let us therefore take the light of our 
 countenances to the drawing-room." And, 
 with one bashful reluctant glance at the mirror, 
 she floats away, followed by the girls. 
 
 The great dim drawing-room is lighted by 
 the soft glow of lamps, and a bright wood- 
 fire burns in the old tiled fireplace. The per- 
 fume of hot-house flowers, of which Yolande 
 has that morning robbed the conservatories, 
 throws a faint subtle fragrance around. It 
 is a beautiful old room — a room where all is 
 harmonious, and no modern upholstery and 
 incongruous colouring are to be found. 
 
 Mr Mervyn is standing by the fireplace 
 
My Lady Coquette, 33 
 
 talking to a gentleman who is portly and 
 elderly, and lias a loud voice and good- 
 liumoured face. A lady, also portly, but with, 
 brown hair instead of grey, and fewer wrinkles 
 in her good-humoured face than her spouse 
 possesses, is holding an apparently interesting 
 conversation with Miss Skipton, whose radiant 
 orange tints make a bright spot of colour in 
 the dim surrounding hues. A pretty fair- 
 haired girl, with a marked resemblance to the 
 obesity and good-humour of her elders, which 
 proclaims their relationship unmistakably, sits 
 by a small table turning over the leaves of an 
 album. She advances with alacrity as she sees 
 Yolande, and greets her most affectionately. 
 
 ** What a love you look ! " she whispers, with 
 a good-natured appreciation that does her 
 infinite credit, considering that all her hard- 
 won admirers have been deserting her of late 
 for Yolande 's superior attractions. 
 
 Yolande gives her a smile of thanks, and 
 then hastens to greet her father and mother. 
 In the midst of the questions and answers that 
 
 VOL. I. C 
 
34 ^y Lady Coquette. 
 
 follow, the door opeus and some more guests 
 are announced. 
 
 " Now ! " says Yolande inwardly, and draws 
 her breath sharply and sets her lovely mobile 
 face into stern composure. 
 
 No one can see beneath the surface — no 
 one can tell how fast and painfully her heart 
 throbs, or what a superhuman effort is re- 
 quired before she can utter naturally the 
 commonplace formula, — 
 
 " Good evening, Mr Charteris." 
 The man to whom this greeting is given 
 is not very different from the ordinary run of 
 men. He is handsome certainly ; but so are 
 dozens of his sex. He is very tall and well- 
 made ; but his face is too stern and grave to 
 find favour with most of the fair sex. It is 
 the face of a man who has known life and 
 lived and suffered ; there are lines of care on 
 the grave brow and round the firm-set mouth, 
 which the thick moustache shades, yet does 
 not quite conceal. The eyes are the best 
 features in the whole rugged unyouthful face ; 
 
My Lady Coquette. 35 
 
 they are large and soft, of darkest brown in 
 colour, and shaded by long lashes that give 
 them a certain look of languor and pathos 
 strangely at variance with the stern expression 
 of brow and lip. 
 
 He does not look stern now, though, as he 
 glances down at the slim flower-faced maiden 
 before him ; there is a faint quizzical amuse- 
 ment in the depths of his splendid eyes, a 
 quiver of a smile round the corners of the 
 grave lips. But Yolande sees neither. Her 
 own orbs are veiled from sight by the white 
 blue-veined lids. She withdraws her hand as 
 soon as possible, and enters at once into con- 
 versation with pretty little Mrs Adair, and 
 continues it until the announcement of dinner. 
 
 Then they pair off" as Yolande has arranged, 
 and she tries her best to listen and to appear 
 interested in her own companion's conversation. 
 
 The dining-room is pleasantly warm, dim 
 with wax-lights and perfumed with flowers. 
 The dinner is satisfactory, and Mr Hargreaves 
 is far too devoted a gourmand to waste time 
 
36 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 on an unappreciative companion. Yolande, 
 who is too young and too engrossed to care 
 very much for the pleasures of the table, 
 makes use of her eyes and ears instead. 
 
 She is separated by Arthur and Vi from Mr 
 Charteris and Judith ; but she can see his 
 dark stately head bending towards Judith's 
 fair one, and every now and then catches a 
 word or two of his deep mellow voice. 
 Judith is flirting as lightly and brilliantly as 
 she can ; for the admiration of any man or 
 youth seems good unto her ; and it is a rare 
 chance that has given Denzil Charteris over 
 to her fascinations to-night. She is seldom 
 critical, and, as a rule, knows how to be 
 thankful for 
 
 "Any gifts the gods may send." 
 
 But she knows full well that Mr Charteris is 
 accounted one of the handsomest and richest 
 men in the county, and that his estate, the 
 Priory, is a prize which many a maiden would 
 be glad to win, even were its master far less 
 
My Lady Coquette. 37 
 
 fascinating than he is. She does her best, 
 therefore, '* according to her lights," to make 
 herself bewitching, and fails lamentably in 
 her endeavour ; but of this she is ignorant. 
 
 Yolande, however, does not know this ; 
 she sees only the bright smiles, the appeal- 
 ing glances, the hundred little arts that a 
 feminine armoury supplies as weapons, and 
 she cannot perceive that, though on one 
 side the admiration is open and revealed, 
 on the other it is forced and unnatural. 
 
 " What a pity Judith makes herself so con- 
 spicuous ! " she thinks. *'And how hot and 
 vulgar she looks with all that colour ! When- 
 ever she eats soup her face gets scarlet. I 
 wonder if she knows it ? I am sure he cannot 
 admire her. I remember he told me once — " 
 
 The thought is cut short abruptly by a 
 word that falls clearly and distinctly on her 
 ear, and makes her start and crimson from 
 brow to throat — " Valentines." 
 
 " Oh, I had so many valentines ! " says 
 Judith ; and the lull of the voices around 
 
J 
 
 8 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 makes her clear tones doubly distinct. " I 
 suppose you never get anything so frivolous, 
 or send them either, Mr Charteris ? " 
 
 Oh, how Yolande strains her ears to catch 
 the answer ! But, alas, all the silent voices 
 break into sudden eager speech, and, try how 
 she may, she cannot hear the longed-for words ! 
 
 ''What a poor dinner you are making, 
 Yolande ! " says Mr Hargreaves at this junc- 
 ture. '' Do try some vol-au-vent ; won't 
 you ? " 
 
 Yolande acquiesces, though she knows that 
 to eat it is impossible. Will dinner never be 
 over ? she thinks. Slowly course succeeds 
 course ; at last she is able to draw on her 
 gloves, catch the glance of the ladies at table, 
 and rise. 
 
 " You know we are going to have a dance 
 presently when the others look in ? " she says 
 to Arthur as she passes behind his chair. 
 
 " All right," answers the hopeful youth. 
 " If we don't come soon enough, hop by 
 vourselves." 
 
My Lady Coquette. 39 
 
 "■ I shall not forget," says Denzil Charteris 
 softly, as lie glances up at the fair young 
 face. 
 
 She does not deign a word or glance in 
 answer, but with all the dignity she can 
 summon, sweeps on and out of the room. 
 
 *' Perhaps he will think that a hint too," 
 she mutters angrily. " Why does that man 
 always misunderstand and annoy me so ? " 
 
 In the great 'drawing-room the ladies all 
 settle themselves down in various attitudes 
 of comfort, ease, and nonchalance. Yolande 
 has coffee brought in ; and then the staid 
 butler and a pretty housemaid are directed 
 to clear the lower half of the room for the 
 prospective dance. 
 
 Presently a few more arrivals drop in — 
 three or four young men, a couple of pretty 
 girls, neighbours of the Mervyns, and much 
 given to social gatherings of this description. 
 
 Yolande is speedily surrounded. When the 
 gentlemen enter from the dining-room, she 
 is the centre of a little court ; and a dark 
 
40 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 frown rests on Mr Charteris's brow as he 
 notes the devoted attentions and ardent 
 glances of her special admirer, Lance Staple- 
 ton. Now comes Yolande's long-looked for 
 opportunity. 
 
 '* If he thinks that odious thing has made 
 the slightest impression upon me, he shall 
 see his mistake," she says, and forthwith 
 gives such smiles and looks and attentions 
 to her devoted swains as might indeed have 
 turned the heads and bewildered the brains 
 of far more susceptible youths than the elite 
 of Ashbourne. 
 
 Miss Skipton, in her radiant orange-hued 
 garments, advances presently to the piano. 
 The elder members of the company settle 
 down to cards at the firelit end of the long 
 room ; the younger make bows and *' request 
 the pleasure," and finally form without more 
 ado into sets for the Lancers. Yolande and 
 Lancelot Stapleton are vis-d-vis to Judith and 
 Mr Charteris ; and Yolande puts forth all 
 her witcheries, indulges in such pretty coque- 
 
My Lady Coquette, 41 
 
 try of glance and manner, that her partner 
 becomes utterly oblivious to the figures of 
 the dance, and calls down upon himself the 
 anger and rebuke of the other more rational 
 members of the set. 
 
 While threading the intricacies of the 
 '* grand chain " Yolande and Denzil meet, 
 and their fingers touch ; involuntarily his 
 hand clasps her own more closely and 
 warmly than is needful. 
 
 She snatches it away, and flashes such a 
 look of burning indignation upon the ofi'ender 
 as might well have punished a graver ofi*ence. 
 When next they meet, she ofi'ers only one 
 finger for his touch. He notes the change, 
 and, with a cool proud bow, declines the 
 profiered favour. 
 
 When the dance is over Yolande is speedily 
 besought for others, and with true feminine 
 arrogance laughs and teases her little court. 
 But Denzil Charteris never once approaches 
 nor seeks to claim a waltz out of the many 
 that follow. It is true he dances with no 
 
42 
 
 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 one else, if that is any consolation ; but poor, 
 proud, hurt Yolande is conscious that this 
 evening is the most miserable one her glad 
 young life has yet known. 
 
CHAPTEE lY. 
 
 ALTZ after waltz goes merrily on. 
 If no one else is happy in that 
 circle of dancers, at least Lance 
 Stapleton is in the seventh heaven of bliss. 
 Never has his lady-love smiled so sweetly 
 on him, never has she been so gracious of 
 word and kind of look as she is to-night ; 
 and Lance, who has worshipped her secretly 
 and openly since ever he can remember, 
 begins to cherish wild and ambitious hopes, 
 built upon her unusual kindness. 
 
 Oftener she laughs at him than at any- 
 thing else — laughs at, and mocks at and 
 teases him in a gay capricious fashion all her 
 own ; but to-night she is different. If he 
 only knew why ! 
 
44 -^y Lady Coquette. 
 
 " Yolande,"- whispers Lance, as in a pause 
 of the waltz they stand side by side, a 
 wonderfully handsome pair in their youth 
 and grace, *' did you like my valentine ? " 
 
 The words bring back a memory so sharp 
 and pain-fraught that for the life of her 
 Yolande cannot help the nervous flush, the 
 sudden quiver of lip that follows the ques- 
 tions. 
 
 Lance sees the signs of agitation, and in- 
 terprets them in his own way. Denzil 
 Charteris, who is standing opposite, with his 
 eyes fixed on the bright girlish face, sees 
 them also, and is conscious of a sudden pang, 
 a'feeling of hot anger and indignation. 
 
 ''Is it real or make-believe ? " he asks 
 himself. " If the latter, she is indeed a born 
 coquette.'! 
 
 " Oh, yes," Yolande answers at last, though 
 she is quite unaware which of her many 
 valentines she owes to Lance, " it was very 
 pretty ! " 
 
 '' And the poetry ? Did you find that ? " 
 
My Lady Coquette. 45 
 
 asks Lance, emboldened by his inamorataJs 
 graciousness. 
 
 Yolande crimsons ; her eyes flash angrily. 
 
 ''No," she says sharply; '' and if I had I 
 should have torn it up ! You know I hate 
 poetry ! " 
 
 '' Oh, Yolande — and only the other day 
 you told me you loved it ! " 
 
 " Did I ? " she says absently, as she bends 
 her head over the buttons of her glove and 
 fastens them with trembling fingers. '' Well, I 
 have changed my mind since ' the other day.' " 
 
 This is so like a speech of the old Yolande, 
 the capricious, hard-to-please damsel of Lance'^ 
 long worship, that he is abashed and silent. 
 
 " Had you very many ? " he asks hesitat- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Heaps! More than I could, count!" 
 returns his partner, warming into vivacity 
 again. '' I'm sure I don't know why people 
 trouble themselves to send me so many. T 
 don't care a fig for one of them ! " 
 
 " Oh, Yolande," sighs poor Lance lugubri- 
 
46 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 ously — *' and I did so hope mine might 
 please you a little ! " 
 
 " Well, it didn't — not one of them was up 
 to much," answers his lady-love with candid 
 cruelty. '' Shall we go on with our waltz ? " 
 
 *' I would much rather talk. It is so 
 seldom I get a chance of having a talk to 
 you now, Yolande." 
 
 " I don't want to talk. I want to dance," 
 says Yolande quickly. ** If you are tired I 
 daresay I shall find some one else." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! " cries Lance imploringly. 
 '' I will waltz till midnight if you wish it. 
 I only thought — " 
 
 ** Never mind the thought," rejoins Yolande 
 hastily ; " that will do at any time — dancing 
 wont. 
 
 They float off again and round the room 
 to the strains of the plaintive German waltz 
 which Miss Skipton is playing. Yolande 
 dances exquisitely, and long practice has 
 tutored Lance Stapleton into her step and 
 style, so that it is quite a pleasure to watch 
 
My Lady Coqttette. 47 
 
 the " poetry of motion " as exemplified by 
 both. They pass Denzil Charteris ; and, as 
 Yolande glides by with the slow, swinging 
 movement so peculiar to herself, she raises 
 her little head and looks full at him. 
 
 There is something so proud and defiant 
 in the glance that it seems to bewilder him 
 as he meets it. Half puzzled, half admiring, 
 yet strangely reluctant, is the look with which 
 he answers. Then the white lids droop, the 
 fair face is turned away. She floats on and 
 away up the long dim lamp -lit room with 
 her young lover's arm around her slender 
 waist, and his dark-blue eyes resting ador- 
 ingly on the crown of her golden head, which 
 barely reaches his shoulder. 
 
 Denzil Charteris bites his lip hard, and 
 turns away with a smothered sigh. 
 
 " I wish I had never seen her ! " he says. 
 
 This is the last dance. The card-party 
 break up. The elderly ladies remark that 
 it is very late, and the young ones are be- 
 
48 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 ginning to be shawled and cloaked by attend- 
 ant cavaliers, whose duty it is to escort them 
 homewards now. A chorus of good-byes and 
 kisses resounds. Yolande is conscious of 
 promising to meet and walk with three 
 different individuals at the same time on 
 the morrow, and knows in her own heart 
 that she has no intention of meeting any. 
 Then she watches them defile away down 
 the long avenue, exclaiming on the wonderful 
 mildness and beauty of the night. 
 
 It is indeed very lovely, thinks Yolande. 
 The grass sward, all turned to silver by the 
 moon-rays, slopes invitingly before her. Not 
 a breath of air is stirring. The stars are 
 thickly studded in the dim deep blue of 
 the sky, like jewels strewn and scattered by 
 a royal hand. The girl looks and longs — 
 looks again, and then snatches up a white 
 thick fleecy shawl from a stand close by 
 and steps forth, alone and unseen, into the 
 calm, still, moon-lit grounds. 
 
 Her fevered pulse grows calm, her heart 
 
My Lady Coquette. 49 
 
 throbs less fitfully and painfully, a great 
 peace and softness comes over her, and her 
 eyes lose the hard passionate glitter they have 
 hitherto held. She cannot quite analyse the 
 reasons for the change ; but she feels it and 
 rejoices in it. Slowly she moves over the 
 dewy grass, with the pale light on her white 
 figure, and so on till she finds herself in the 
 dark dim avenue where the branches stretch 
 ghostlike overhead. 
 
 " Miss Mervyn ! " a voice suddenly says, 
 in close proximity to herself. 
 
 Yolande starts and cries out in faint alarm. 
 
 " Don't be frightened ; it is only I ; " and, 
 glancing up, she sees Denzil Charteris beside 
 her. 
 
 " Have you come for a moonlight walk % " 
 he asks. 
 
 At sight of his face, at sound of his 
 voice, all the hardness and coldness come 
 back to Yolande. She draws her slight 
 figure up to its full height, her eyes look 
 straight before her. 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 " Yes," she says curtly. 
 
 " It is a beautiful night, wonderfully mild for 
 this time of the year," resumes her companion. 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 He looks at her with keen scrutiny. He 
 knows full well how unusual it is for her to 
 frame such curt cold sentences as these. 
 
 ** You enjoyed yourself very much to-night, 
 I suppose ? " he says next. 
 
 " Very much indeed," answers Yolande, 
 with agressive heartiness. 
 
 '* I suppose you think there is nothing so 
 delightful as dancing ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I think there are many other things 
 I like as well," returns Yolande. 
 
 " Flirting, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Solitude, when I have a disagreeable 
 companion," she retorts. 
 
 '' I beg your pardon," he says haughtily. 
 *' I suppose I am to take that as a hint. 
 Unfortunately our paths lie together if you 
 are going to the lodge gates, as seems to be 
 vour intention." 
 
My Lady Coquette. 5 1 
 
 *' Yes, I am," says Yolande, a little ashamed 
 of her rudeness. 
 
 " Then how shall we manage ? Shall I go 
 first, or will you ? " 
 
 '' Don't be so ridiculous," answers the girl, 
 with an involuntary smile. " I wonder," she 
 continues rapidly, as she looks up at the 
 dark gloomy face beside her — '* I wonder, Mr 
 Charteris, why you and I always disagree ? " 
 
 *' I am singularly unfortunate," he says, 
 with chill politeness. " I suppose you never 
 quarrel with other people ? " 
 
 '' Never ! " affirms Yolande heartily. " I 
 hate quarrelling ! " 
 
 " Can we not make a compact of amity 
 then ? " he asks, his voice softening involun- 
 tarily as he looks down at the lovely face 
 with the soft fleecy wool framing the ruffled 
 golden hair. 
 
 Her eyes look up quickly, a little wilfulness 
 and animosity flashing in their glance. 
 
 "We should never keep it," she says. ''I don't 
 think you and I could ever agree — for long." 
 
 vi....^, 
 
52 My Lady Coqtiette. 
 
 " And why ? " 
 
 " Because — oh, well, it is difficult to say ! — 
 because we have been antagonistic from the 
 very first, I suppose." 
 
 '* And whose fault was that ? " he asks very 
 softly. 
 
 ** Certainly not mine," is the hasty an- 
 swer ; and the little wilful beauty flashes 
 new defiance at her companion's questioning 
 eyes. 
 
 " Nor mine," he says coldly. *' I certainly 
 took upon myself to give you a piece of advice 
 — for which you asked, remember — and, it 
 not being quite sugared enough for your taste, 
 you forthwith said some of the very rudest 
 things it has ever been my lot to hear." 
 
 ** You annoyed me so," pouts Yolande. " I 
 — I hate being lectured." 
 
 He smiles faintly. 
 
 " I should not think of taking it upon my- 
 self to lecture you. Miss Yolande ; I merely 
 gave you — " 
 
 ** Yes, yes, I know ! " exclaims Yolande 
 
My Lady Coquette. 53 
 
 hurriedly, wondering in lier heart all the 
 time how it is that her name never sounded 
 so sweet before as it did just now when his 
 lips uttered it. " We won't go over the old 
 ground again, please. Of course I know you 
 despise all girls, and think us a frivolous, silly 
 set of beings ; but all the same — " 
 
 '* Why don't you finish your very untrue 
 remarks ? " 
 
 '' All the same there are other people who 
 hold difi"erent views," Yolande continues 
 angrily, '' and don't expect to find old heads 
 on young shoulders." 
 
 *^ That is an anomaly of which I have not 
 the faintest expectation," he says, smiling. 
 " I am afraid the combination would be 
 lamentable in its results. Are not you ? " 
 
 " I — I — know I am not clever," persists 
 Yolande, with a dangerous break in her 
 clear young voice, ** or accomplished, or any- 
 thing of that sort ; but still no one ever 
 appeared to think I was quite so hateful 
 and useless a being before." 
 
54 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 "And who thinks anything so improbable 
 now ? " 
 
 " Why you ! " she cries, forgetful of dignity 
 and composure and everything else. " You 
 know you do — at least you manage to convey 
 such sentiments with tolerable clearness." 
 
 " Good Heaven, child ! " he exclaims in un- 
 feigned astonishment, *' what do you mean ? " 
 
 His voice and look bring Yolande back to 
 her senses. She struggles hard for composure, 
 inwardly furious that she has so far forgotten 
 herself as to let him see that his opinions are 
 of any value. 
 
 '* Not that I care the least bit in the world 
 what you think," she adds with slight em- 
 phasis. " We are not likely to be anything 
 more than ordinary acquaintances ; and it is 
 only my friends' opinions for which I care." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 The sarcastic tone cuts her to the quick. 
 Her face turns very white. 
 
 " I must be going back now," she says 
 quietly. " We are almost at the gates." 
 
My Lady Coquette. 55 
 
 He stops and confronts her, looking down 
 at her face with a strange and wistful expres- 
 sion on his own. 
 
 " I suppose you are right," he says quietly. 
 " We could never be — friends ! " 
 
 Then he takes her reluctant hand, presses 
 it for a second's space between his own, and 
 turns away abruptly. 
 
 Yolande stands quite still where he has 
 left her. All the colour has gone out of her 
 sweet face and trembling lips. She clasps 
 her small hands tightly together, as if in 
 sudden pain. 
 
 " What is it ? " she murmurs unconsciously. 
 " Whenever we meet we cannot agree for a 
 moment ; yet, when he leaves me, something 
 — the best part of myself, I think — goes with 
 him." 
 
 And she too turns away and is lost in the 
 shadows. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 |HE Mervyns are not a very remark- 
 able family. They are certainly 
 possessed of a name ancient and 
 worthy of honour, and Mervyn Court is con- 
 sidered a fine old place by all admirers of 
 Elizabethan architecture. Its present pos- 
 sessor, however, is not overburdened with 
 means, and finds it no easy matter to keep 
 up the Court and its surroundings, as tradi- 
 tion has decreed they ought to be kept up. 
 The stables have fewer horses than of yore ; 
 the carriages have been reduced to one old- 
 fashioned barouche. The staff of men-ser- 
 vants have fallen to the butler, gardener, 
 and coachman. 
 
 Money-troubles are not unknown to the 
 
My Lady Coquette. 57 
 
 venerable owner of Mervyn Court, though he 
 keeps them to himself, and never seeks to 
 deny any of his children one single desire of 
 their hearts in consequence. 
 
 ** Yolande will marry well," he thinks often, 
 as he looks at the brilliant beauty of his 
 cherished first-born, '' and for the others 
 I can manage." 
 
 He thinks it again one bright spring morn- 
 ing as the three girls are standing on the steps 
 leading to the terrace, awaiting the arrival of 
 a waggonette in which Mr Hargreaves and 
 Judith have promised to convey them to a 
 pic-nic in Beechhampton Woods. 
 
 They are all in high spirits. Miss Skipton 
 is not required to chaperon them, as Mrs 
 Hargreaves has promised to ^do all that is 
 needful in that line. Enid and Vivien are 
 brimful of excitement, as this is the first 
 "grown-up" gaiety in which they have yet 
 participated, and they expect great things 
 from it. Yolande is quieter, but even she 
 is conscious of a pleasurable thrill at the 
 
58 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 thought of long lovely hours in wood and 
 field — even she feels her cheeks flush, her 
 eyes brighten, as she stands drinking in 
 the warm scented air and revelling in the 
 bounteous wealth of sunshine. 
 
 Spring has come early this year, following 
 close on those mild soft February days. It is 
 April now, but April rich in tints and colours, 
 lavish in leaf and blossom, full-handed with 
 floral treasures and fragrant scents. Every 
 bank is starred with purple-hearted violets 
 and dainty hyacinths, trees are bursting into 
 leaf, delicate blossoms sway in the soft warm 
 air. All the young leaves wave and the 
 young birds sing, and the pulse of life beats 
 Strom? and rich in the veins of the blossom- 
 ing earth as well as in those of human life. 
 
 Yolande and her father are pacing, arm 
 in arm, over the smooth green sward. She 
 looks like an embodiment of spring herself, 
 for her dress is of white muslin over the 
 palest most delicate shade of green, and her 
 hat is wreathed with daisies, while a bunch 
 
My Lady Coquette. 59 
 
 of the same flowers are fastened at her throat. 
 The faint misty hues of her robe contrast to 
 perfection with her delicate face, her bright 
 hair, her sweet crimson lips. No wonder is 
 it that her father's eyes rest so admiringly 
 on her, as they move side by side in the 
 warm rich flood of sunshine that is poured 
 so lavishly over earth and sky to-day. 
 
 " There is the waggonette at last," he says, 
 as the sound of wheels comes up the drive. 
 *' I hope you will enjoy yourself, my darling. 
 Take care that the girls don't get into mis- 
 chief." 
 
 " Oh, yes," smiles Yolande, as she glances 
 up towards the two restless blue-gowned 
 maidens who are eagerly watching the ap- 
 proach of the looked-for vehicle, '' I will take 
 care of them, papa ! I see you are beginning 
 to look upon me as a staid elderly sister. Not 
 so very long ago you would have asked some 
 one to look after me." 
 
 "You used to be so very wild in those 
 days," he answers, looking tenderly at the 
 
6o My Lady Coquette. 
 
 bright face. " You have grown much quieter 
 of late, Yolande. Do you know that ? " 
 
 " I am sure you ought to be thankful," she 
 says, turning slightly away from the anxious, 
 questioning eyes that are bent upon her face. 
 " I believe you thought I should always be 
 a perfect hoyden, papa." 
 
 " No, my dear ; I judged you better than 
 that. Your faults were only those of exuber- 
 ant youth and perfect health and buoyant 
 spirits. You will be never the worse woman, 
 Yolande, though you were once so wild and 
 mischievous a girl ! " 
 
 She is silent. Deep down in her young 
 untutored heart is a well of intense feeling. 
 When strongly moved her glib and heedless 
 tongue is slow to find words ; and she is so 
 moved now. 
 
 She clasps her father's arm with a sudden 
 closer pressure. 
 
 " Darling," she says softly, *' you are always 
 much too good to me." 
 
 Then the waggonette stops close beside 
 
My Lady Coquette. 6i 
 
 them, and Mrs Hargreaves's hearty voice 
 rings cheerily out in welcome. 
 
 After much talking, laughing, and advising, 
 the party settle down. The luncheon-basket, 
 which the Court party contribute to the 
 festive gathering, is handed in. The girls 
 kiss their hands, the old white-haired man 
 waves his in response ; then they are off, 
 whirling away through the delicious sunshine, 
 over smooth white roads, through shady lanes, 
 where primroses bloom in grassy tufts, and 
 tender fronds of young green ferns uncoil 
 themselves, past cottages where rose-thorns 
 bud and trailing creepers are stirred by the 
 wings of nesting birds — on and on, with the 
 blue sky overhead and the loveliness of nature 
 strewn broadcast over wood and lane and 
 hedgerow — on and on, till the road grows 
 narrower and the shade denser, and they 
 pause at length by the appointed rendezvous, 
 where the other members of the pic-nic party 
 are awaiting them. 
 
 They are rather a large party, and there is 
 
62 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 a goodly sprinkling of the eligible youth of 
 the neighbourhood, and also a small com- 
 plement of the military from the adjacent 
 town of Colston. Plenty of pretty girls are 
 scattered about, anxious dowagers are giving 
 longing glances at the provision-basket, a few 
 elderly gentlemen discuss the weather, with 
 that proverbial disbelief in its fair promises 
 born of many pic-nics. Then an excursion to 
 the ruins of Beechhampton Castle is agreed 
 upon, and the pleasure-seekers are forthwith 
 marshalled into pairs or parties, as seems 
 most desirable to all concerned ; and, having 
 agreed upon a place and hour for luncheon, 
 they depart. 
 
 Yolande is attended by her faithful adorer 
 Lance Stapleton, but she foils his intention 
 of securing a tete-a-tete by a glance of invita- 
 tion at a certain Captain Deringham, who has 
 been recently introduced to her, and who is 
 by no means backward in responding to her 
 unspoken command for his society. In his 
 private opinion she is by far the loveliest girl 
 
Aly Lady Coquette. 63 
 
 there ; and he is not a little pleased and 
 flattered that she should favour him. 
 
 He is a little man, with an abnormally 
 large opinion of himself and his fascinating 
 qualities. It does not therefore surprise him 
 when Yolande appears to enjoy his frivolous 
 conversation and vapid compliments. It adds 
 only one more feather to his cap, one more 
 laurel to his already plentiful assortment. 
 
 Poor Lance has a bad time of it ! Yolande 
 is employing her mischievous wits in what 
 is popularly known as ''trotting out" her 
 by no-means backward admirer, and fools him 
 so exquisitely that even Lance grows dis- 
 gusted with his conceit and affectation, and 
 feels half angered at Yolande's wicked enjoy- 
 ment of it all. It is with a sigh of intense 
 relief that he at last hails the sio^ht of the 
 ruins, and sees the other members of the 
 party exploring them in every direction. 
 
 He waits for a moment to disentangle some 
 forlorn damsel's train from the embraces of a 
 wild rose-bush near by, and then hastens to 
 
64 My Lady Coqtiette. 
 
 rejoin his former companions. They are no- 
 where to be seen. Vexed and impatient at 
 losing Yolande — for he had made up his 
 mind to be her guide through the deserted 
 chambers of the old castle — he hurries on, 
 looking right and left for the radiant figure 
 of his enchantress — but in vain. Nowhere 
 can he see her ; and with a hopeless sigh he 
 resigns himself to his fate and pilots Enid 
 and Yi in her stead. After all it is some- 
 thing to have the scent of the rose, if not 
 the rose itself. 
 
 Meanwhile Yolande has, by an ingenious 
 stratagem, got rid of her enamoured captain ; 
 and, light as a l)ird on the wing, she flits in 
 soHtary delight through the ruined hall, the 
 moss - grown corridors and gloomy broken 
 stairways of the castle. 
 
 It is an eerie place — a place of which 
 many a legend ghastly and terrible has been 
 told. Yolande knows little enough about it, 
 save that in by-gone years it had belonged 
 to the Charteris family, and had been wrested 
 
My Lady Coquette. 65 
 
 from their possession by foul and treacherous 
 means. From one tower can be seen the 
 more modern dwelling-place of its whilom 
 owners — a lofty, stately pile, built on the 
 west side of the park, and now belonging 
 to Denzil Charteris, the last of his line. 
 It may be for these reasons that Yolande 
 wishes to make her investigations in soli- 
 tude ; in any case she feels that the vapid 
 commonplace talk and endless love-making 
 which always seem to be her lot would 
 here be out of place. 
 
 '' I should like to have gone over it all 
 with — him," she says softly, as she flits 
 with light steps up the moss-grown stairway 
 leading to the tower. "■ I wonder where he 
 is. I have not seen him for so long. Not 
 that I care for his absence, but — " 
 
 The thought is checked abruptly. She 
 finds herself in a narrow gloomy turret with 
 loop-holes of windows that give a bird's-eye 
 view of all the country round. So striking 
 and beautiful does the scene look that the 
 VOL. I. E 
 
66 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 girl stands in breathless admiration, gazing 
 before her with tireless eyes. 
 
 Presently she glances round. The turret 
 is quite bare and desolate enough to chill any 
 venturesome spirit that has wandered hither in 
 search of adventure. 
 
 '' Just a place for ghosts," thinks Yolande, 
 and laughs aloud. 
 
 As the pretty silvery sound echoes through 
 the silent space, she starts at the incongruous- 
 ness of it in contrast with the nature of her 
 surroundings. The echo has scarcely died away 
 when she hears a strange noise behind her. 
 She starts and turns swiftly. Her cheeks 
 blanch, her blood seems curdling, a fearful 
 numbing horror seizes her. She sees a small 
 door opened in the wall, which reveals a tiny 
 room, furnished more like a prison cell than 
 aught else. But it is not the room or the 
 unexpected discovery of its existence that 
 holds her spell-bound and powerless in her 
 terrible fear. It is the sight of a face looking 
 at her through the doorway — a face bloodless, 
 
My Lady Coquette, 67 
 
 ghastly, with nothing human or lifelike about 
 it — a face with fierce, dark gleaming eyes that 
 hold her own in a fascinated horrible gaze — 
 a face with matted hair hanging in loose un- 
 kempt locks over a haggard brow and around 
 ghastly cheeks. 
 
 Yolande stands silent, still, powerless. In 
 that one moment all the horror and agony of 
 a lifetime seem pent up. If she could only 
 scream, or move, or speak ! But she cannot. 
 
 Suddenly the awful figure advances — the 
 long: claw-like hands are outstretched as if to 
 seize her. The sight gives her back some 
 faint strength amid this fearful paralysis of 
 horror. She makes one frantic spring, pursued 
 by the awful being behind her ; a shriek wild 
 and agonising bursts from her lips ; then she 
 is clutched as in a vice, and a horrible gibing, 
 mocking voice grates on her ear. She feels 
 herself falling, falling, she knows not whither. 
 Then all is blank. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HEN Yolande recovers consciousness 
 she finds herself still in the turret. 
 Her brow is wet, her hair is un- 
 loosed, and ripples over her shoulders and 
 half way to her feet, like a shower of molten 
 gold. 
 
 She starts and shivers. Her frightened 
 eyes gaze wildly round, and finally rest on 
 the grave, anxious face that is bent so tenderly 
 over her. It is the face of Denzil Charteris. 
 
 Swiftly she withdraws herself from his sup- 
 porting arm and springs to her feet. 
 
 " You here ? " she exclaims in amazement. 
 
 " I am afraid youhave been frightened," 
 he says, eagerly. " How imprudent of you to 
 leave the others and come here by yourself ! " 
 
My Lady Coquette, 69 
 
 Her wild eyes glance round, with still the 
 awful fear in their depths. 
 
 " What was it ? " she asks timidly. " What 
 awful thing did I see ? Oh, take me away 
 from here ! I shall die with terror if it 
 comes again ! " 
 
 He turns very pale at the words. 
 
 ** You — what did you see % " he stammers. 
 
 Yolande shudders. 
 
 " See ? " she exclaims. " Oh, it was hor- 
 rible ! Is this tower inhabited, Mr Charteris, 
 or — haunted ? " 
 
 " Try to compose yourself," he says sooth- 
 ingly. ** There is nothing to fear now. Per- 
 haps it was the bats you heard, or the mice 
 — the walls are full of them." 
 
 " Bats ! " cries Yolande indignantly. ** Do 
 you think I am a baby, to be frightened by 
 mere sounds ? No, Mr Charteris ; bats haven't 
 faces and hands like claws, and — Oh, take 
 me away, take me away ! " she breaks off 
 imploringly. ** I wish I had never come 
 here ! " 
 
70 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 Without a word lie draws her trembling 
 hand through his arm and leads her away, 
 speaking only soothing words to win her 
 back to calmness once more. 
 
 At the foot of the staircase he pauses. 
 
 ** Pardon me," he says, '' but do you not 
 think it would be better to be silent as 
 regards your — your alarm — to the others ? 
 I should not like the ruins to be turned 
 into a show for idle curiosity, or form food 
 for the tales of gaping rustics. It would be 
 doing me a great favour if you would not 
 mention this to any one else." 
 
 Yolande looks at him in undisguised amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " I don't know why I should do you a 
 favour," she says slowly and defiantly. *' You 
 have but little right to ask it. Besides, if I 
 am questioned as to what I saw in the 
 turret—" 
 
 " You are quite sure you did see something 
 then ? " he asks, nervously. 
 
 "Mr Charteris, what do you take me for ?" 
 
My Lady Coquette. 7 1 
 
 demands the girl indignantly — " a fool or an 
 idiot % Of course I saw something ! I was 
 frightened out of my senses ! What is the 
 mystery about that horrible place ? I am 
 sure there is something, or you would not be 
 so anxious for me to conceal it." 
 
 He draws a long breath ; his dark face 
 grows strangely white and stern. 
 
 '' You are right," he says — " there is a 
 mystery ; but it is hardly fair, I suppose, to 
 expect one of your sex to keep silent re- 
 specting it, merely because I ask it as a 
 favour to myself. I cannot give any reasons. 
 I can only trust to your generosity — if you 
 have any," he adds bitterly. 
 
 The momentary softness dies out of Yo- 
 lande's face ; her eyes glow darkly and de- 
 fiantly once more. 
 
 " As you have such a bad opinion of me, 
 I wonder you condescend to make such a 
 request," she says coldly. 
 
 " A bad opinion of you ! " he echoes, 
 looking with burning, passionate eyes down 
 
72 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 at the white proud beauty of her face. ** If 
 I had, I should be a happier man than I 
 am to-day ! " 
 
 The words are so startling that Yolande 
 is speechless. Her eyes droop, the colour 
 comes and goes with nervous speed in her 
 downcast face. Suddenly she remembers her 
 hair, and with crimson cheeks begins to plait 
 up the shimmering fleece that enfolds her 
 like a mantle. Her trembling fingers can 
 scarcely hold its weight ; but at last she 
 manages to twist it round and round her 
 little head. 
 
 Denzil Charteris looks on silently, with 
 eyes in which reluctant admiration lingers. 
 He does not say a word in praise of its 
 beauty, and Yolande is "conscious of being 
 disappointed that he is thus reticent. 
 
 *' Do I look like a reasonable being again ? " 
 she asks, as she fastens her hat and glances 
 shyly up at her companion. 
 
 " Quite," he says coldly. " I hope you 
 are ready to face your party again ? " 
 
My Lady Coquette. 73 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " answers the girl hurriedly. " I 
 am sure they must wonder what has become 
 of me all this long time." 
 
 '* Shall we go ? " he asks ; but he does 
 not offer his arm or hand now, and the fire 
 and warmth have all died out of his face; 
 leaving it sterner, colder, harder than ever. 
 
 Yolande merely gives a nod of acquies- 
 cence ; and they emerge together into the 
 radiant sunshine and hear the voices and 
 laughter of their fellow-beings around them 
 once more. 
 
 " I feel as if I had been in some ogre's 
 castle ! " laughs Yolande, looking back at the 
 frowning walls and mildewed steps and broken 
 windows behind them. ** By-the-way, Mr 
 Charteris, I quite forgot to ask how you 
 came here, and — " 
 
 *' How I found you % I will tell you later 
 on," he says hurriedly. 
 
 Yolande looks up with a mischievous smile. 
 All her spirits and gaiety have returned again; 
 her alarm is almost forgotten. 
 
74 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 " Don't forget," she says. '' And now, 
 good-bye. I am going to retail my adven- 
 tures in the turret to everybody." 
 
 She flashes one provoking brilliant glance 
 at his offended face, and then hurries off to 
 join her sisters. 
 
 " Does she mean it ? " mutters Denzil 
 Charteris to himself. " Oh, Heaven, to think 
 that she, of all persons, should have seen 
 —that ! " 
 
 His eyes grow dark with pain ; a heavy 
 sigh leaves his tight-pressed lips. 
 
 '' How lovely she is ! " he thinks, as his 
 unwilling gaze follows the beautiful little 
 figure. ** Will a day ever come when I shall 
 be to you what you have all unwittingly 
 become to me — my Lady Coquette % " 
 
 " Did he think I was in earnest ? " says 
 Yolande to herself, an hour after her ad- 
 venture. 
 
 The whole party are sitting at luncheon. 
 It is spread on the cool green sward, under 
 
My Lady Coquette. 75 
 
 the shade of a group of beech-trees. Yolande 
 leans against the trunk of one, her hat tossed 
 negligently beside her, her eyes fixed on a 
 tiny glade that opens on the opposite side 
 of the wood, all thickly powdered now with 
 dainty forest flowers, and gay with falling 
 bars of sunshine that play at hide-and-seek 
 among the pale green leaves. 
 
 Coming up this glade are Denzil Charteris 
 and a lady — a lady whom Yolande never 
 remembers to have seen before, but who 
 looks as beautiful a vision as the eye 
 could desire to rest upon, so stately is she 
 and so fair. 
 
 " Who is that ? " inquires Yolande sharply 
 of her neighbour, Doctor Deane. 
 
 " Who ? What ? " exclaims the gentleman 
 addressed, with a nervous start that sends 
 the spoonful of lobster salad to which he is 
 helping himself on to the dish instead of 
 his plate. 
 
 *' That lady over there in the white dress, 
 walkinof with Mr Charteris ? " 
 
76 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 Doctor Deane puts up his eyeglass and 
 looks in the direction indicated. 
 
 '* That lady ? '' he says. *' Don't you know ? 
 She is Mrs Eay. She is on a visit at the 
 Priory. She is a cousin of Mr Charteris." 
 
 " Oh, married ! " remarks Yolande, relieved, 
 she scarcely knows why, by the infor- 
 mation. 
 
 ** She is a widow now," says her companion. 
 ** She was a very beautiful girl. Every one 
 said Charteris and she were to make a match 
 of it. ' However, they never did. Can I give 
 you some pigeon-pie, Miss Mervyn ? " 
 
 " Thanks," says Yolande languidly, as she 
 toys with the contents of her plate, and for 
 a moment relapses into silence. 
 
 " I suppose she is his ideal," she thinks 
 half angrily — " calm, cold, stately ; there is 
 no fear of his ever calling her a coquette." 
 
 " Do you know all the history of the 
 Charteris family, Doctor Deane ? " she says 
 aloud presently. 
 
 ** Oh, yes, my dear, yes ! " answers the 
 
My Lady Coquette. 77 
 
 good-humoured old doctor, who has lived at 
 Ashbourne for the greater part of his life, 
 and attended the little Mervyns in every 
 illness that it has been their lot to suffer. 
 
 *' Was the Priory really theirs once ? " 
 
 '' Certainly it was. It belonged to a Sir 
 Hubert Charteris, who was a Royalist, and 
 fell in the battle of Worcester. Then Crom- 
 well took it and gave it to one of his 
 followers ; and it never came back again to 
 the Charteris line for nearly two centuries." 
 
 '' How is it that the title is extinct ? " 
 inquires Yolande. 
 
 " It is a long story. The last owner of it, 
 Sir Denzil Charteris — you start ! — yes, it is 
 the same name. Well, he was a great man 
 in his day, and fought loyally for king and 
 country. He had wedded a lady of great 
 rank and wonderful beauty. He loved her 
 very fondly. That love cost him dear ; for 
 her family held opposite sides to his own. 
 They were troublous times those, and often 
 a man's foes were the members of his own 
 
78 Afy Lady Coquette. 
 
 household. This was a case. The Lady 
 Edythe had a lover, and for his sake she 
 won a great State secret from her husband 
 and betrayed it. He was flung into the 
 Tower, and languished there for long. While 
 he was there his wife fled to a foreign land 
 with the villain, whose treachery was doubled 
 by the fact of kinship. Sir Denzil had a 
 son, a little lad of seven years ; and his one 
 prayer was that the child might be given 
 him to cheer his last moments of solitude 
 and durance. They " granted him the re- 
 quest ; and the boy came, and for many 
 dreary months was the solace of his bitter 
 hours and hopeless inertion. Meanwhile his 
 trial went on. Those w4iom he had served 
 and honoured, those in whose cause his blood 
 had been shed, his whole possessions given, 
 were now only too ready to disbelieve and 
 speak ill of him. At last his sentence was 
 pronounced — the scafi"old ! One day he loosed 
 his child's arms from around his neck and 
 told him, as best he could, his bitter history. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 79 
 
 * A time will come/ he said, ' when my 
 honour will be cleared, when those who 
 condemn so readily now will know who is 
 traitor and who not. Of this, my son, be 
 sure — that the titles we lose to-day and the 
 possessions we forfeit, will yet be pressed 
 back upon our race as atonement for the 
 wrongs I have suffered. Take this, my last 
 charge. What is ours by right you may 
 claim and keep ; but not one title they have 
 withdrawn, not one rood of land they have 
 confiscated, shall heir of mine accept from 
 his fathers murderers.' And no Charteris 
 has ever done so. The little child lived to 
 see justice rendered to the name he had 
 loved and honoured ; but no entreaty would 
 induce him to accept compensation for the 
 undeserved wrong. All the lands and titles 
 that had been added to their original pos- 
 sessions were declined thenceforward. The 
 Priory fell to ruins, as you see, and the 
 lands that the Charteris's now hold are not 
 one-tenth of their original possessions." 
 
So My Lady Coquette. 
 
 Yolande had listened with intense eager- 
 ness to the story. 
 
 " How sad ! " she says at last ; and the 
 old doctor wonders why her face is so pale 
 now. He does not know what strong and 
 touching interest that recital of by-gone 
 wrongs possessed, invested as it was with 
 the name that held so singular a charm for 
 her, despite all efforts at rebellion. 
 
 With an unwonted softness in their depths 
 her eyes turned towards Denzil Charteris. 
 Looking up at that moment he catches the 
 musing glance, wdth all its silent, eloquent 
 appeal. But now no answering softness 
 speaks back from his own. 
 
 *' It is only another art," he says, and 
 sighs, and devotes himself more assiduously 
 than ever to his companion. 
 
 ^ 
 
^^^^^p 
 
 ^^M 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 |T is by no means the most comfort- 
 able thing in the world to eat one's 
 food on the grass. Picturesque 
 and unusual it may be, and therefore pos- 
 sessing charms for youth and inexperience — 
 certainly not for age and reason. The pic- 
 nic party are fairly gay; the usual con- 
 tretemps are perpetrated and laughed over ; 
 the champagne is exhilarating, and makes 
 amends for other drawbacks. The sun still 
 continues to warm with benignant bounty 
 the old, who rejoice in its comforting beams, 
 and the young, who let its rays^ flicker un- 
 guardedly over uncovered heads and bright 
 cheeks and delicate complexions. 
 
 Luncheon is over at last; and the party 
 VOL. I. p 
 
82 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 get up and stroll about, or linger under the 
 trees, or stray off in couples, as suits best 
 their respective ideas of comfort and enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 Yolande sits thoughtfully in her place, 
 declining all offers and invitations to ex- 
 change it, or walk off with an attendant 
 swain, as most of the Dulcineas and Chloes 
 are doing. 
 
 " I want to be alone," she says, pettishly ; 
 and at last she gets her wish. 
 
 She leans back with half-closed eyes ; the 
 sunbeams play on her bright hair ; a butter- 
 fly, tempted by the warmth to make an early 
 debut in life, flutters idly up and down before 
 her, now poised on a leaf, now revelling in 
 the sunlight, or mounting high into mid-air 
 on some golden ladder formed by the slanting 
 rays. It is all so bright and fair and still 
 that Yolande hardly wonders at the somni- 
 ferous tendencies of the elder members of 
 the party, and even closes her own white 
 lids — " only to think," she says. 
 
My Lady Coquette, 83 
 
 The thouglit must have been a long one, 
 for at last she opens them with a start. 
 Voices in the rear are talking eagerly. 
 
 ** Is it really true ? It seems too horrible ! " 
 says one. 
 
 "It is perfectly true. I had it on the 
 best authority," answers another. " The two 
 brothers were very fond of each other, and 
 they both lived together always. Denzil was 
 the younger, as you know. But when Hubert 
 brought his wife home to the Priory, all the 
 old love and friendship was broken up. She 
 and Denzil fell in love. How far things had 
 gone no one knew ; but at last Hubert 
 discovered it, and the shock was so awful 
 that he killed himself — was found, with the 
 pistol in his hand, lying dead one summer 
 morning." 
 
 " And the wife ? " interrogates the first 
 voice eagerly. 
 
 "That is the mysterious part of it, my 
 dear. She disappeared from that moment. 
 No one ever knew what became of her. It 
 
84 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 was a terrible scandal, of course, and the 
 Priory was shut up and Denzil went away for 
 years and years. He has been quite changed 
 ever since. They say he will never marry. 
 He hates women." 
 
 Yolande rises to her feet weak and faint. 
 
 The story she has unwittingly heard seems 
 horrible. She longs to get away from human 
 voices and' human eyes, and all the cruel 
 necessary conventionalities of life. She longs 
 for solitude as she never has longed for it 
 before. Blindly she rushes on through the 
 woodland glades, her heart throbbing wildly 
 her pulses quivering. Her light skirts brush 
 the tapestry of delicate flowers and emerald 
 moss, her hair catches the sunbeams and re- 
 flects their brightness, the birds twitter and 
 call from bough to bough — but she is heedless 
 of every sight and sound. 
 
 Suddenly she pauses in her headlong career, 
 as if turned to stone. Not half-a-dozen yards 
 ahead she sees the figure of a man lying face 
 downwards on the cold screen sward — a man 
 
My Lady Coquette. 
 
 whose frame is shaken by voiceless sobs, whose 
 whole attitude betokens a tearless, terrible 
 despair. She knows only too well who he is. 
 
 Awed and trembling and abashed, the girl 
 stands and looks through the parted boughs. 
 Her face pales, her lips quiver. Never in her 
 life has she seen grief like this borne or 
 suffered by living man. 
 
 Then she draws back and goes away with 
 noiseless steps and dry and burning eyes. 
 
 "Is it for her he grieves — even now 1 " she 
 says. 
 
 '' Yolande ! Where is Yolande ? " asks Enid 
 impatiently. 
 
 The stragglers are being collected, and the 
 various conveyances are in waiting to bear 
 their respective freights homewards in the 
 cool evening hour. Vi and Enid stand by 
 Mrs Hargreaves's side, waiting somewhat im- 
 patiently for their truant sister. 
 
 **Eeally Yolande has behaved very badly 
 to-day," says the fair plump Judith, as she 
 
86 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 stands drawing on her gloves. *' She has been 
 constantly disappearing at odd moments, and 
 just when she's most wanted." 
 
 " Perhaps she is going home with some one 
 else ? " suggests Mrs Hargreaves, who is tired 
 and a little cross, and beginning to long for 
 her comfortable chair and customary cup of 
 tea. "Do you think we ought to wait, my 
 dears ? Everyone else is going, you see." 
 
 '* Oh, but we cannot leave without Yo- 
 lande ! " cry the twins simultaneously. 
 
 " Still it is very tiresome," adds Vi. "I 
 can't think where she can be. She knew we 
 were all to leave at six o'clock." 
 
 ** There is some one coming now," exclaims 
 Enid. 
 
 **It is only Mr Charteris," says Judith, 
 quietly. '* Perhaps he will go and look for 
 her. I will ask him." 
 
 *' Oh, no ! There she is at last ! " cries Vi, 
 eagerly. " I can see her dress in the opening 
 of that glade opposite." 
 
 " They are close upon each other's heels at 
 
My Lady Coquette, 87 
 
 all events," says Judith, a little ill-naturedly, 
 for Denzil Charteris has not bestowed on her 
 to-day any of the attentions which her soul 
 loveth, and she is inclined to resent the ab- 
 sence of those 'petits soins to which he has 
 accustomed her of late. 
 
 " And here comes Mrs Eay, too," interposes 
 Enid. ** I suppose Mr Charteris will drive 
 her back. I wonder why her mother did 
 not come with her to-day. She is also at 
 the Priory." 
 
 " Because she was a sensible woman, I 
 suppose," answers Mrs Hargreaves, a little 
 bitterly. 
 
 " Now don't be cross, mamma," interposes 
 her daughter ; ''I am sure you have had a 
 very pleasant day, and no single cause for 
 complaint. Well, Yolande," she adds loudly, 
 as that young lady comes up, " so here you 
 are at last 1 " 
 
 " I hope I have not kept you waiting 
 long," says Yolande, apologetically. ** I am 
 sorry. I forgot all about the time." 
 
SS My Lady Coquette, 
 
 *' You are only half-an-hour late," remarks 
 Judith composedly. 
 
 *' I really am very sorry," begins Yolande, 
 blushing and confused. 
 
 " Oh, never mind ! We all know time is 
 apt to play strange tricks when one is pleas- 
 antly occupied ! " Judith interrupts with a 
 meaning glance at Denzil Charteris, who is 
 standing close beside them now. 
 
 " I was quite alone," says Yolande, indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 ** Oh, indeed ! " answers Judith, with polite 
 incredulity. '' Well, suppose you get in, 
 instead of arguing the reasons of your late 
 arrival. We are to go home as we came, I 
 suppose % " she adds interrogatively. 
 
 ** Yolande," says an eager voice at this 
 juncture, " I have been looking every- 
 where for you ! Do let me drive you 
 back!" 
 
 " Oh, no ! " cries Yolande, shrinking away 
 from the touch and voice of her fervent 
 admirer Lance, with instinctive dislike of 
 
My Lady Coquette. 89 
 
 his suggestion. *' I would much rather go 
 with Mrs Hargreaves." 
 
 At this moment Denzil Charteris ap- 
 proaches, his beautiful cousin by his side. 
 
 " Mrs Hargreaves," he says, *' I am going 
 to ask a great favour of you. The wheel of 
 my trap is loose, and I am obliged to ride 
 home. Have you a spare seat in your wag- 
 gonette for Mrs Eay ? You would oblige us 
 exceedingly if you would drop her at the 
 Priory." 
 
 " Oh, certainly ! " acquiesces Mrs Har- 
 greaves, only too eager to oblige so important 
 a personage as Mr Charteris. " Yolande can 
 go with Lance Stapleton, and your cousin is 
 welcome to her seat." 
 
 ** I hope it will not inconvenience Miss 
 Mervyn," begins Denzil Charteris hesitatingly; 
 '' if so—" 
 
 " Oh, not in the least ! " exclaims Yolande, 
 with feigned cheerfulness. *' I shall be de- 
 lighted to go with Mr Stapleton." 
 
 '' Of that I have no doubt," returns Denzil 
 
90 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 haughtily ; but a keen pang runs through 
 his heart as he sees the girl turn away with 
 a careless nod to the surrounding group and 
 disappear, under the delighted escort of her 
 youthful adorer. 
 
 Lance possesses a gig with a high-stepping 
 horse, and into this vehicle he helps Yolande 
 with a speed and alacrity which look as if he 
 feared she would change her mind. Then he 
 springs in beside her. 
 
 " Crack goes the whip, 
 Round go the wheels," 
 
 and they are off. They pass the waggonette 
 where beautiful Mrs Ray is occupying Yo- 
 lande' s place ; they pass Denzil Charteris 
 astride on his black hack Eblis. Lance whips 
 up his steed, and off they fly at a sharp trot 
 over the white stretching road, while the cool 
 evening air sweeps by, fanning Yolande's hot 
 cheeks and rustling the young leaves over- 
 head. 
 
 She likes the rapid motion, and with a 
 
My Lady Coquette, 91 
 
 little satisfied sigh leans back on her high 
 perch. 
 
 '*Are you comfortable?" asks Lance pre- 
 sently. 
 
 ** Oh, yes — quite ! " answers his companion. 
 ** Why are you slackening speed ? " 
 
 " I am afraid we shall be home too soon," 
 he says tenderly. 
 
 *' We can't be home too soon to please me," 
 rejoins Yolande. " I am so tired.'* 
 
 *' Tired ! I never heard you complain of 
 that before, whatever you have gone through. 
 Did you not enjoy yourself ? " 
 
 ** Oh, yes," answers the girl, with forced 
 cheerfulness, ** very much ! But pic-nics are 
 rather a bore, don't you think % " 
 
 " Once you said they were the most de- 
 lightful form of enjoyment. How fickle you 
 are, Yolande ! Do you ever hold the same 
 opinion for two days together ? " 
 
 " I am afraid not. I can't help it. I get 
 tired of everything and everybody." 
 
 " Oh, Yolande ! " 
 
92 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 One of her little nands lies uno^loved on 
 the leather apron of the gig. Lance suddenly 
 shifts the reins to his right hand and seizes it 
 in his left. An angry light flashes into the 
 girl's face. She hurriedly snatches it away. 
 
 " Don't ! " she says sharply. 
 
 '* Do you grudge me even so small a favour 
 as that ? " he asks sadly, looking down at 
 her with a pained, humble look in his grey 
 eyes. ''Yolande, why are you so changed 
 from what you were a year ago ? " 
 
 " Am I changed ? " she says wearily. 
 
 " Indeed, yes. You were so kind and true ; 
 and, though you did tease me sometimes — " 
 
 ** Oh, for goodness' sake, Lance, don't talk 
 such nonsense ! " cries Yolande impatiently. 
 '' A year ago ! Why, I was a child then ! " 
 
 " Were you ? " he says sadly. '' I don't 
 know. I suppose you were ; but I loved you 
 just as dearly as I do now, Yolande." 
 
 " I am sure I wish you wouldn't," the girl 
 returns nervously. "You know I have told 
 you again and again it is of no use. I look 
 
My Lady Coquette. 93 
 
 upon you as a brother, Lance ; you have 
 seemed to me just like one ever since we 
 played cricket together in the meadows at 
 Mervyn. Why can't you be satisfied with 
 things as they are, and not want to change 
 them ? " 
 
 " You know very well — why. If you cared 
 for me as I do for you, Yolande, you would 
 not be able to let things remain as they are." 
 
 ** I can't help my feelings. Liking and 
 loving are not in one's own hands," answers 
 Yolande pettishly. 
 
 " And you don't like me at all ? " 
 *' Oh, yes, I do — better than anyone else 
 I know ! " she says cheerfully. 
 
 " But not as I mean — not as I love you, 
 Yolande ? " 
 
 " It is quite impossible for me to gauge 
 the depth and extent of your feelings, Lance," 
 she says lightly. " I certainly never think 
 of you when you are out of sight ; neither 
 do I care very much whether you are with 
 me or not. But I know yoa are very good 
 
94 ^y Lddy Coquette. 
 
 and kind, and I know too/' she adds, with 
 sudden bitterness, " that it would be a hun- 
 dred times better for me if I could care for 
 you than — " 
 
 ''Than what?" he asks fiercely. ''Not 
 anyone else, Yolande ? Oh, don't say there 
 is anyone else ! " 
 
 " That is so very likely ! " exclaims Yo- 
 lande sarcastically. "Ashbourne abounds with 
 eligible swains, men for whom one could care 
 even if one tried. Pshaw, Lance, don't sup- 
 pose anything so utterly impossible ! " 
 
 " I am glad it is impossible," answers the 
 unfortunate wooer, with intense relief — " glad, 
 because as long as you care for no one else, 
 Yolande, I shall never quite despair. It 
 seems impossible that all the love I bear for 
 you should have no return. And I can be 
 very patient, dear." 
 
 " You poor boy ! " exclaims Yolande pity- 
 ingly. " I wish I could give you some hope ; 
 but I am sure I shall never alter." 
 
 " But you are so young, Yolande ; and to 
 
My Lady Coquette. 95 
 
 some natures love does not come all at once ; 
 its approach is gradual and imperceptible." 
 
 " Is it \ " says Yolande, with, a strange 
 bitter little laugh. " Well, with me love is 
 decidedly in the imperceptible stage just 
 
 now." 
 
 " I wonder if I could do anything to make 
 you care for me ? " says Lance, musingly. 
 
 " I think if you were to go away and 
 never bother me it would be best," suggests 
 Yolande ; " or perhaps you could be very un- 
 kind, or fickle, or — make me jealous even. 
 But you see it is rather wearying, this one- 
 sided courtship, and you have always been 
 so absurdly fond of me ! " 
 
 " Heaven knows, Yolande, I would alter 
 if I could ! It is cruel of you to mock at 
 a man's honest lifelong devotion. Perhaps 
 a day may come when you will value a true 
 heart as it deserves, and then — " 
 
 *' Then shall I come to you, Lance ? " she 
 says softly. 
 
 "Oh, my darling, my darling," he cries 
 
g6 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 rapturously, "if you only would, if you only 
 would ! " 
 
 He has checked the horse suddenly, and 
 the gig stands motionless on the moonlit 
 road. He bends towards Yolande in the 
 impulse of the moment ; his eyes gaze pas- 
 sionately on the lovely flower-like face ; then 
 he snatches the little white ungloved hands 
 and kisses them with swift tremulous kisses 
 — not once or twice, but many times. Ere 
 Yolande can recover from the surprise and 
 suddenness of such behaviour, the sharp 
 quick trot of a horse's hoofs sounds in their 
 rear. An instant afterwards Mr Charteris 
 passes the waiting vehicle, having been an 
 evident witness of the little scene enacted 
 therein. 
 
 Yolande's face grows crimson with vexa- 
 tion and annoyance. She snatches her hands 
 away from her lover's grasp, and her soft 
 eyes flash bitter wrath at his pleading face. 
 
 " How dare you make such an exhibition of 
 me out here in the open road ? " she cries 
 
My Lady Coquette, ^"j 
 
 furiously. " I wish I had never come with 
 you at all I " 
 
 Poor Lance draws back, white and hurt and 
 penitent. 
 
 '* I beg your pardon," he says humbly. " I 
 really could not help it. You looked so — so 
 lovely ! " 
 
 ** Will you be kind enough to leave my 
 looks alone and drive on ? " says Yolande 
 icily. " I think your conduct is most imper- 
 tinent." 
 
 The young man gnaws his fair moustache 
 in silent vexation. He fears he must indeed 
 have given dire offence to his lady-love before 
 she could speak in those cold measured tones 
 to him. He drives on in silence ; and Yolande 
 is too angiy and indignant at the thought of 
 what has occurred to take the slightest notice 
 of his presence for the rest of the drive. 
 
 "What must he think? What must he 
 think ? " she says to herself over and over 
 again. 
 
 And the '' he " alluded to is certainly not 
 VOL. I. G 
 
gS My Lady Coquette. 
 
 the man in such close proximity to her own 
 fair self. 
 
 The vexed question is still far from settled 
 when they reach the lodge gates and she finds 
 herself at home once more. She scarcely 
 deigns to touch Lance's proffered hand as he 
 assists her down, and with a curt '* Good 
 night " she passes into the house. 
 
 ** I have never spent such a miserable day 
 in my life ! " she says, as, with hot cheeks and 
 shaking hand, she divests herself of her hat 
 and jacket in the welcome solitude of her 
 own room. 
 
CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 OE a week after the pic-nic Yolande 
 sees nothing of Denzil Charteris. 
 Matters go on quietly and unevent- 
 fully at the Court. Miss Skipton still per- 
 severingly endeavours to initiate Yolande into 
 the mysteries of housekeeping. Vi and Enid 
 still persist in playing tricks and ingeniously 
 tormenting their faithful monitress. Arthur 
 has gone back to school, and peace and quiet 
 reign in his stead. 
 
 One morning Yolande is employed in what 
 she terms " practising," but it is nothing 
 better than an idle occasional touch of the 
 keys, while her thoughts are busy dreamiag 
 over far different subjects from those that the 
 music presents. 
 
lOO My Lady Coquette, 
 
 Quite suddenly the door is opened, and Mr 
 Charteris is announced. With sudden haste, 
 a haste that sends the warm blood to her 
 cheeks, she rises from the piano. Her voice 
 takes the cold, almost aggressive tone it so 
 invariably assumes when she speaks to him. 
 
 " I am rather an early visitor, I fear," he 
 says apologetically ; *' but I am the bearer of 
 a letter from my aunt, and that must be my 
 excuse." 
 
 With a stately little bow Yolande receives 
 the missive he hands her. She sees it is 
 addressed to herself, and lays it down quietly. 
 
 '* Won't you open it ? " asks Denzil. " I 
 believe I am to take back your answer. We 
 are going to have a ball at the Priory, and 
 I have come specially to beg the favour of 
 your presence." 
 
 " Did you suppose your request would be 
 more powerful than Mrs Eay's invitation ? " 
 asks Yolande scornfully, as she takes up the 
 missive with its elaborate crest, and opens 
 it with slow and careless fingers. 
 
My Lady Coquette, loi 
 
 " I was not so conceited," he answers, 
 looking keenly, almost sadly, at the beauti- 
 ful face bent now over the open letter in 
 her hand, a face where the fluctuating colour 
 comes and goes, a face at which he has 
 gazed so often, yet never found less beauti- 
 ful or less provocative of the admiration it 
 so universally meets. 
 
 *' You will come ? " he asks, as she lays 
 down the letter and looks up at his earnest 
 eyes. 
 
 " A ball always has an attraction for me 
 beyond all other forms of enjoyment or — 
 occupation," she remarks ; " but I must ask 
 permission before this special one is graced 
 by my presence." 
 
 "Just as if you don't always get what 
 you desire ! " he says, laughing at her grave 
 tone, the very gravity of which only makes 
 the saucy lips and mirthful eyes more irre- 
 sistibly attractive. 
 
 *' That shows how little you know of me," 
 she answers, meeting his quizzical glance 
 
I02 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 now with a fearlessness that her beating 
 heart and flushing cheeks belie. 
 
 " Do I know so little of you ?" he says 
 tenderly. * I think — not." 
 
 "It is only at rare moments/* Yolande 
 remarks, rising and ringing the bell as she 
 speaks, '' that even our best friends can 
 have a glimpse of our real characters. We 
 but move about masked and cloaked — morally 
 - — now-a-days." 
 
 ** There is not much concealment about 
 you, at all events," he says gravely. " It 
 is easy to know when you are vexed or 
 pleased, glad or grieved, sad or gay. I don't 
 think you could ever be deceitful." 
 
 *' Is that a very great virtue ? " she asks 
 coolly. ** Yes, James, I rang," — as the door 
 opens and the servant stands within. "Ask 
 papa to come in. Tell him Mr Charteris 
 would be glad to see him." 
 
 " I told you I came to see you ! " he says, 
 a little vexed at this abrupt termination to 
 their tete-d-tete. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 103 
 
 " And I believe you can do so still if you 
 use your eyes," she rejoins. " Papa is not 
 an extinguisher, I suppose ? " 
 
 *' No ; of course I am glad to see him — 
 always ; but I wanted to ask you — " 
 
 " How I enjoyed the pic-nic ? Very much 
 indeed," she says, as he hesitates, unwill- 
 ing or unable to frame the question he 
 wishes. 
 
 '' I don't doubt that. I suppose the drive 
 home was equally felicitous ? " 
 
 '* If such a word can be applied to the 
 shaky motion of a vehicle, where one's back 
 is in imminent risk of being broken at any 
 moment, owing to the horse and driver 
 being unable to come to terms, it certainly 
 was," agrees Yolande. 
 
 " Perhaps the driver and some one else 
 found it more easy to come to terms than 
 the steed did," he says, with a sudden flash 
 of jealous light in his eyes which Yolande 
 is quick to notice. 
 
 " Perhaps so," she says calmly, her glance 
 
I04 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 turning restlessly to the door, in the hope of 
 seeing her father enter. 
 
 **You need not be in such a great hurry 
 to terminate our interview surely," he re- 
 marks, gnawing angrily at the thick mous- 
 tache which shades his upper lip. ''You 
 look so longingly at the door ; it is not 
 polite." 
 
 " No ? " questions Yolande, raising her 
 pretty brows in assumed surprise. '' Had 
 you not better tell Miss Skipton that she 
 has neglected one most important branch in 
 my education — how to entertain gentlemen 
 poHtely ? " 
 
 " I scarcely think you need much instruc- 
 tion in that art," he says angrily. *'You seem 
 very well up in it, as a rule." 
 
 " Then this is the exception, I suppose ? " 
 
 " You certainly take very little trouble to 
 entertain me," he says ; *' and yet you are 
 agreeable enough to — to others." 
 
 " Instance and example, please ? " she says 
 demurely. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 105 
 
 " Oh, there are plenty, but I won't instance 
 them just now ! I will wait — " 
 
 " Till you are one of them ? I -do hope 
 your politeness won't be too severely tried. 
 I am not usually considered disagreeable; 
 but some people try my temper more than 
 others." 
 
 *'So I should suppose," he says, laughing 
 involuntarily at the quaint impertinence of 
 the girl's tone. *' I need not look very far 
 for instance and example in that case. Ah, 
 here is your father ! " 
 
 " Papa," says Yolande, leaning lightly over 
 her father's chair when the usual greetings 
 have been exchanged, " Mr Charteris has 
 come to ask me to a ball." 
 
 '' Well, my dear," answers Mr Mervyn, 
 looking lovingly at the bright face, *' of course 
 you said you would be delighted to go — " 
 
 " She referred me to you for permission ? " 
 interrupts Denzil Charteris. 
 
 ** Which of course was a mere matter of 
 form," answers the old gentleman, laughing. 
 
io6 My Lady Coqztette, 
 
 '' Yolande knows very well that she accepts 
 what she likes and goes where she likes. She 
 is a sad tyrant, Mr Charteris." 
 
 ** There are some tyrannies — " begins 
 Denzil hastily. 
 
 " Exactly," interposes Yolande, w^ith ready 
 mischief. That is such an opening for a 
 compliment, that Mr Charteris would be more 
 than mortal could he withstand the tempta- 
 tion. " I know just what you are going to 
 say, Mr Charteris, so I shall save you the 
 trouble. Now, please entertain papa ; for I 
 am going to write my note." 
 
 '* Can you not write it here ? " asks Denzil, 
 with a strange longing for further sight of 
 the beautiful figure that imparts so sweet a 
 charm to the quaint old room. 
 
 *' No ; it is impossible," she says, shaking 
 her head gravely ; '' I should be sure to do 
 it wrong. I must seek Miss Skipton's advice 
 and assistance." 
 
 *' He looked vexed," the girl says to herself 
 as she closes the door and goes slowly on to 
 
My Lady Coquette. 107 
 
 the schoolroom. "Is he beginning to feel 
 already ? Something tells me I shall not 
 have to wait so very long — now." 
 
 But the expression on the fair young face 
 is not good to see ; and Denzil Charteris 
 would have been strangely perplexed had 
 he caught sight of the girl's look of triumph. 
 
 The ball-room at the Priory is a splendid 
 room — wide, cool, and lofty. It is brilliant 
 on this night, with the delicate tasteful beauty 
 of flowers and plants, the lustre of lights, 
 and dazzle of women's faces and women's 
 toilets. 
 
 The musicians are playing in a hidden 
 gallery ; a few early couples are boldly join- 
 ing in the opening quadrille. Old Mrs Kay, 
 a stately dowager in rich grey satin and 
 point-lace, is receiving her guests, and Denzil 
 Charteris stands beside her, looking hand- 
 somer, nobler than ever ; so many a romantic 
 damsel thinks as she meets the bow and 
 smile of her host to-night. 
 
io8 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 *' Where is Pauline \ She is late," he 
 says to his aunt. 
 
 Mrs Ray murmurs some hasty apology ; 
 she knows full well that her lovely daughter 
 has no intention of putting in an appear- 
 ance until the company is assembled, and there 
 are enough admiring eyes to be dazzled and 
 made envious by her presence and her — dress. 
 
 " You will keep some waltzes for me, 
 Miss Mervyn ? " Denzil whispers eagerly as 
 Yolande enters at last, chaperoned by the 
 orange-clad Miss Skipton, who is indeed 
 fearful and wonderful to behold. 
 
 ** Certainly," says Yolande graciously. 
 
 "Let me enter them down now," he en- 
 treats. " If you once go away I shall not 
 have a chance, I know." 
 
 With a laugh Yolande hands him her 
 programme. 
 
 "■ Not too many," she says, as she watches 
 the pencil move from place to place. 
 
 ** Only three," he answers. " I am very 
 self-denying. But then these will be all 
 
My Lady Coquette. 109 
 
 I shall have to look forward to. I am 
 marked out for nothing but duty-dances 
 for the rest of the evening." 
 
 Yolande makes no answer, unless the 
 sudden sweet glance she gives him is one. 
 Then she moves off, and is speedily sur- 
 rounded and beset by importunate partners. 
 
 It is a very pleasant ball. There are 
 plenty of nice people, a great number of 
 pretty girls, a few lovely ones — first and 
 foremost is Yolande — and a superabundance 
 of men — young, old, handsome, or ugly, as 
 the case may be. Pauline Eay and Yolande 
 Mervyn share the honours of the evening. 
 Both are lovely in their respective styles — 
 the one graceful, haughty, languid, the other 
 daintily beautiful, fresh and sweet, wonder- 
 fully fascinating in look and gesture. 
 
 It is not till after supper that Denzil 
 Charteris comes to claim the three waltzes 
 he has asked for ; and Yolande acknowledges 
 to herself, as they float away over the 
 polished floor, that none of her partners has 
 
1 lo My Lady Coquette. 
 
 in any degree approached him in perfection 
 of dancing. 
 
 "You have enjoyed yourself, I hope?" 
 he asks presently, as they pause and stand 
 looking at the other couples gliding, shuffling, 
 or labouring through the mazy dance in 
 their respective styles. ' 
 
 «< Very much," she says gaily. 
 
 *' Are you not tired % You have danced so 
 much." 
 
 " Oh, no, not in the least ! " 
 
 " Whom are you looking at so admiringly ?" 
 he asks abruptly. 
 
 '"■ Mrs Eay. How exquisitely lovely she looks 
 to-night ! " says Yolande enthusiastically. 
 
 " Her dress is very pretty," remarks Denzil 
 Charteris. 
 
 *' Pretty ! Oh, Mr Charteris ! " cries Yo- 
 lande in horror. '' Why, there is not such 
 a dress in the room ! It is absolutely per- 
 fection ! " 
 
 " How much you ladies think of dress ! " 
 he says, laughing. *' I believe you would 
 
My Lady Coquette. 1 1 1 
 
 rather be well dressed than good-looking if 
 you had the choice." 
 
 " Happily it is possible to combine the two 
 sometimes," Yolande remarks demurely. 
 
 "So I see," he answers with a meaning 
 glance. '* An instance — " 
 
 " Is Mrs Eay," she says quickly. 
 
 *' True ! " he laughs. " But I was not 
 thinking then of — Mrs Eay." 
 
 " You are a lazy partner, Mr Charteris. 
 Are you not going to finish this waltz ? " 
 
 '' If you particularly wish it," he answers. 
 " But I have had no time to speak a word 
 to you this evening, and — well, I have had 
 many waltzes." 
 
 " We had much better dance than talk," says 
 Yolande readily. " We can't quarrel then." 
 
 '' And is quarrelling a necessary result of 
 our talking ? " he asks gravely. 
 
 " Cast your memory back, and then answer 
 that question yourself," laughs Yolande, a 
 little nervously. 
 
 " Well, as I don't wish to quarrel to- 
 
1 1 2 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 night, I must take refuge in dancing," he 
 answers. 
 
 And once more his arm is around the 
 slender supple waist, and they sweep o£f and 
 round the room in perfect unison of step and 
 motion. 
 
 " I am sorry that is over," says Denzil 
 Charteris, as the music stops and he gives 
 Yolande his arm. " But I shall live in hope 
 of the next." 
 
 " Hope is an inestima^ble blessing," remarks 
 Yolande coolly. " Are you going to give 
 another ball soon ? " 
 
 " No. Why do you ask V he answers, 
 puzzled by her tone and look. 
 
 *' Simply because you must live on the hope 
 you speak of till then. I am going now." 
 
 '' Going ! And my two waltzes not 
 granted ! Miss Mervyn, you are joking ! " 
 
 " I never joke," she says seriously. " In 
 that respect I difiPer from the elderly naval man 
 in the Boh Ballads. He at least had one." 
 
 '' You are always trying to elude my mean- 
 
My Lady Coquette. 113 
 
 ing," he tells her, with a dangerous soften- 
 ing in his voice. '' But to-night I will not 
 be angry with you. I am determined you 
 shall not vex me." 
 
 '' You are very kind," she says ironically. 
 
 *' I would say the same of you if only it 
 would induce you to give me the two waltzes." 
 
 " Even that inducement," remarks Yolande 
 placidly, ** is not sufficient to make me break 
 a resolution." 
 
 " You wish to annoy me, I see," he answers, 
 in a tone of visible impatience, " or — to make 
 your favours doubly precious by not cheapen- 
 ing them." 
 
 *' My favours," laughs the girl mischievously, 
 ** are usually sued for as a boon, not demanded 
 as a right, Mr Charteris." 
 
 *' Would it be of any use for me to sue for 
 the privilege you have refused ? " 
 
 "■ I fear not ; because — well, it would be no 
 privilege to you — and I have made up my 
 mind to go home now." 
 
 *' You are, without exception, the most 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
1 14 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 provoking little lady I have ever met," he 
 says, with a vexed laugh. '' But you know 
 how to make yourself of value, I must say." 
 
 " I am glad to hear that," the girl answers, 
 her eyes wandering idly from group to group 
 of the hurrying crowd. *' It is always best to 
 put a good price on oneself, I have been told." 
 
 " I wonder what your price is," he says, his 
 voice softening, his eyes looking into hers 
 with passionate intensity. 
 
 " It is too high for any man to pay," she 
 replies, with a forced laugh, but with mount- 
 ing colour that flushes and fades away on 
 her beautiful face. 
 
 ''I think not," he says gently. *' Perhaps 
 — some day — I will ask it again." 
 
 *' You may ask," the girl rejoins, wondering 
 why the momentary rapture that fills her 
 heart should change and fade away into a 
 new and passionate sorrow, '' but I shall 
 never answer such a question from you, Mr 
 Charteris." 
 
 He only smiles, and his hand closes tenderly 
 
My Lady Coquette. 1 1 5 
 
 on tlie little fingers that rest so lightly on 
 his arm. 
 
 " I will wait," he whispers softly. "It is 
 a lesson I learnt long ago, and I do not fear 
 failure when I apply it." 
 
 " Faith is a beautiful virtue," rejoins Yo- 
 lande, keeping her eyes still averted from the 
 eyes whose searching glance she dares not 
 meet. " I should always practise it were I a 
 man, with but one exception in the objects 
 practised upon." 
 
 " And that is—" 
 
 " Woman ! " 
 
 *' Have you such a poor opinion of their 
 deserts?" he asks gravely. '* I have not. 
 Yolande, you kept the promise I asked ouce, 
 although you would not give it at the time. 
 Why?" 
 
 " I never analysed my motives," she says 
 coolly. " I suppose I did not speak of my 
 adventure because I did not want a fuss 
 made about it. Certainly it was not from 
 any consideration for you, Mr Charteris." 
 
I 1 6 Afy Lady Coquette. 
 
 '' You are pleasantly frank, Miss Mervyn," 
 he returns angrily. " I wonder why I am 
 specially singled out for all your harsh and 
 disdainful speeches ? " 
 
 "Is there not a couplet about 'many a 
 shaft at random sent ' ? " queries the girl 
 laughingly. " I am not to blame if you 
 set yourself up for a target, Mr Charteris. 
 Now here we are at the cloak-room. If you 
 will be kind enough to bring Miss Skipton 
 here, I shall be much obliged. I will wait 
 till she comes." 
 
 " If you knew how disappointed I am ! " — he 
 begins, gazing longingly at the lovely face 
 that looks strangely white and weary now. 
 
 '' I can imagine it in your absence," she 
 says lightly, " when I picture you making 
 just such speeches and dancing just such 
 dances with — Pauline Eay." 
 
 ** You think so lightly of me as that ? " 
 he questions, with sudden passion. " You 
 believe I am in no way different from the 
 butterfly idlers who whisper the same vapid 
 
My Lady Coquette. 1 1 7 
 
 compliments in the ears of every girl they 
 meet ? " 
 
 '' I find very little difference in men," she 
 answers, her eyes fixed on the buttons of her 
 glove, which she is nervously unfastening ; 
 " and I am sure it would be too much to 
 expect that they should tax their brains 
 afresh to flatter the vanity or further the en- 
 tertainment of every new partner they seek." 
 
 '* And I am to you only an ordinary partner 
 in a ball-room ? " 
 
 '^ What more should you be," she asks 
 lightly — " except an unusually good one. I 
 give you your due as a dancer, Mr Chart eris." 
 
 " I wish you would give me my due as 
 something else," he says earnestly — " some- 
 thing that your words and smiles have made 
 me, despite all struggles on my own part to 
 resist the fascination you wield. Yolande — " 
 
 " Oh, please go and find Miss Skipton ! " 
 she cries entreatingly. "You have no idea 
 how tired I am of — talking." 
 
 He draws back suddenly. The blood 
 
1 1 8 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 rushes in a fierce hot torrent to his brow, 
 then, receding, leaves him pale as herself. 
 He makes no answer ; he only bows low 
 and leaves her there. 
 
 In the ball-room he searches among the 
 poor nodding patient wall-flowers until he 
 finds Miss Skipton and gives her Yolande's 
 message. Then at the cloak-room door he 
 
 o 
 
 leaves her, and with a cold farewell bow to 
 Yolande, he turns and saunters away into the 
 cool grounds, leaving the noise and brilliance 
 of the ball-room behind him.. 
 
 As he stands under the shadow of the trees, 
 his eyes unheeding the^beauty of the night, 
 his heart full of bitter loughts and anxious 
 doubts, a figure glides towards him all robed 
 in shining costly satin, the face and form and 
 robe bathed in a flood of pure silvery light. 
 
 ** Pauline ! " he says with a start. *' Why 
 have you left the ball-room ? " 
 
 " Perhaps for the same reason as yourself," 
 she says, — " a desire for solitude." 
 
 " That is rather an unusual desire on your 
 
My Lady Coquette. 1 1 9 
 
 part. What will your court yonder do with- 
 out their queen ? " 
 
 " Denzil," she says earnestly, '* I have not 
 come here for empty compliments. I have 
 had a surfeit of them, as you might know." 
 
 *' Can a woman ever have a surfeit of food 
 so desirable ? " 
 
 " Denzil," she says, with a strange plead- 
 ing softness in her voice, *' do not be cold 
 and harsh to me to-night. Do you remem- 
 ber what night this is — what anniversary it 
 represents ? " 
 
 " Perfectly well — the anniversary of the 
 day Pauline Eay found there were more 
 desirable things -*:!' life than love, faith, 
 or honour." 
 
 " Oh, hush ! Don't be so hard on me 
 now, Denzil. Remember how young I was, 
 how beset on all sides by temptation ; and 
 then — my mother — " 
 
 ** Your mother ? Oh, yes ! " he says, with 
 a bitterer sarcasm in his voice than before. 
 * ' How wise she was for you ! " 
 
I20 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 "But, though I wedded my cousin," she 
 says tremulously, '' you know I never loved 
 him, you know that only one man has ever 
 had my heart. Oh, Denzil, on just such 
 a night as this, five summers ago, we 
 stood here betrothed lovers ; and now — " 
 
 '* Now," he says, looking at her with a 
 face in which scorn, hate, longing, loathing, 
 seem all mingled in a moment's passionate 
 remembrance — " now, Pauline, you are noth- 
 ing to me, nor am I anything to you." 
 
 For a moment she turns very white, as 
 she meets his scornful gaze and hears his 
 bitter words. 
 
 He looks at her standing before him, a 
 living picture, all white and gold, like a tall 
 sweet garden-lily, a woman whose sensuous 
 beauty might win any man's heart, and yet 
 who is to him no more than the grass is 
 to the feet of the treader, than the passing 
 of yesterday is to to-day. 
 
 " What I am to you," she answers, at last 
 lifting her down-bent face and gazing at him 
 
My Lady Coqtcette. 1 2 1 
 
 with eyes a world too eloquent, " I cannot 
 help ; but what you were to me once you 
 have always been — you are — still." 
 
 Despite himself, the anger in his face dies 
 out, the hardness softens. After all, this 
 woman was once dear to him, and he had 
 cared for her very fondly ; but his heart was 
 cast aside for her caprice, and he learnt the 
 bitter lesson that has made him distrustful, 
 almost cruel, to women ever since. 
 
 "Your words are flattering," he says at 
 last ; " but they come too late. Between us 
 lies for ever now the gulf of your perjury. I 
 can never forget that, even if you have found 
 it possible." 
 
 '' You are so hard upon me," she returns, 
 with a passion of tears in her broken voice 
 and pleading eyes. " Any other man would 
 have forgiven me, because — because I have 
 so sorely repented — because even now I have 
 humbled myself, as few women could have 
 borne to do, only to show you I w^as anxious 
 to make amends for the past. And on this 
 
1 2 2 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 night you might surely have some softer feel- 
 ing towards me ; for, oh, Denzil, the past is 
 only as a dream — I am the same Pauline still!" 
 
 " The same Pauline ! " he says slowly, 
 almost harshly, as he lays his hands upon 
 her shoulders and gazes with calm searching 
 eyes at the loveliness of face and form that 
 was once so nearly his. *' Yes, you have the 
 same eyes — blue and sweet and beguiling — 
 the same soft colouring, the same curves, 
 dimples, smiles, glances, which once drove 
 me mad with longing and with love. Yes, 
 you are the same — fairer, perhaps, than of old ; 
 but it is all nothing to me — now ; so the 
 change must be in me, not in you, Pauline." 
 
 *' Then you care for me no more ? " she 
 falters, her lips quivering, her eyes sinking 
 slowly, as though the heavy tears that glisten 
 on their lashes weighed them down. 
 
 " I care for you," he says, with a heavy 
 sigh, releasing her from his clasp, "just so 
 much as a man can care for the woman who 
 once won his love and then — betrayed it." 
 
My Lady Coquette. i i 
 
 o 
 
 The calm, cold speech causes her to shiver 
 as with sudden cold; her clasped hands are 
 wrung together with a passionate gesture of 
 despair. 
 
 " I wish I could hate you," she says slowly. 
 " What right have you to stab me with your 
 cruel words — me, who have loved you so well 
 —so well ? " 
 
 " And I loved you too — once," he answers, 
 with a heavy sigh. *' Once ? Oh, yes, but 
 long ago, Pauline — long ago ! I am a man 
 now, with new hopes, new feelings, new 
 ambitions. I could not count the world well 
 lost for your love now." 
 
 " But for — another's ? " she says, and then 
 stops and looks with keen scrutiny at his 
 troubled face, noting how her words have 
 altered all its cold serenity. 
 
 "There can be no discussion between us," 
 he answers coldly, ** about any future act 
 or intention of mine. And now shall we 
 go in 1 " 
 
 " I will remain here," she says, turning 
 
124 ^y Lady Coquette. 
 
 away so that he cannot see the deadly pallor 
 of her face, the wild agony in her eyes. 
 
 '' As you please," he returns calnily. '' But 
 the night air is chill, and you are but thinly 
 clad." 
 
 "It is my concern," she says haughtily. 
 " You have no right to interfere with my 
 actions or myself ! Leave me ! " 
 
 He bows and obeys. As his footsteps die 
 away, as the tall figure and its stately height 
 are lost to her watching gaze, she suddenly 
 draws herself up and lifts one white arm 
 towards the glittering sky above her head. 
 
 " Let him beware I '^ she says. " He loves 
 that little coquette — now. Well, her turn 
 shall come. She shall know the humiliation 
 I have known, and drink of the cup that I 
 have drunk of I wdll visit his scorn on her 
 head, and live to make him rue the day he 
 gave my place to her. Since I have lost his 
 love I will w^ork out his misery, as surely as 
 Heaven hears me to-nio^ht ! " 
 
My Lady Coquette. 125 
 
 When Yolande reaches home she finds the 
 household in wild distress. Lights flash to 
 and fro, anxious faces greet her on every side. 
 
 " Oh, Yolande," cries Enid tearfully, *' how- 
 glad I am that you have come ? We have 
 just sent for you. Papa is so ill ! Doctor 
 Deane has been with him for the last hour. 
 He has had a fit." 
 
 '* Good Heaven ! " gasps Yolande. 
 
 " Hush ! Calm yourself, dear Miss Yolande ! " 
 entreats the voice of the kind old doctor. 
 ''Your father is better now. The danger is 
 over for the present. Now, be a brave girl, 
 and do your best. A cheerful face and good 
 nursing are all he needs. I leave him in 
 your hands." 
 

 
 
 11 
 
 
 ^Wi 
 
 ^u^i^^^kj''^ iH^n^D'^V' \ji^*^- 
 
 m^ 
 
 
 ^<^kS^ 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 E MERVYN is indeed very ill. For 
 long weeks after the eventful ball 
 does Yolande watch and nurse and 
 tend him with a love and devotion that few 
 would have credited her with possessing — 
 few at least who had judged her as Denzil 
 Charteris had — from the frivolous gay exterior 
 she usually showed to the outer world. 
 
 It is the middle of June before the old 
 man is pronounced convalescent at last, 
 and, leaning on Yolande's arm, is able to 
 totter feebly round the flower-bordered garden 
 walks of the Court. 
 
 One afternoon Yolande leaves him sitting 
 on the lawn in his easy-chair, a pile of 
 newspapers beside him, and the faithful 
 
My Lady Coquette, 1 2 7 
 
 Skipton hovering within call. She is going 
 for a walk — a walk through the shady lanes 
 and past the ripe gold corn-fields — a walk 
 which she has longed for many days, and 
 is at last able to accomplish. The long con- 
 finement to the house, and her many sleep- 
 less nights and long watching and anxiety 
 have made the fair brillant face far thinner 
 and paler than it used to be ; but yet that 
 very shadow on its brightness serves only 
 to add a rarer charm and make it infinitely 
 more lovable than of old. 
 
 She saunters slowly along, keeping close 
 under the shadows of the boughs. She is 
 bound for a favourite nook of her own — a 
 cool, fragrant, shady place, shut in by oak 
 and beech, with a brook running through it 
 merrily, over clear stones and silvery sands 
 on its way to a far-ofi" river. The very 
 thought of its babble is delicious on this 
 hot June day. And, when Yolande at length 
 reaches it, she gives one long deep sigh of 
 relief, and throws herself down upon the 
 
128 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 cool mossy carpet by the side of the 
 water. 
 
 It is all so tranquil, and lovely, and still, 
 that a sense of deep restful delight enfolds 
 the girl, who is sole occupant of the retreat. 
 With half-closed eyes she leans against the 
 trunk of a beech-tree, her hands clasped 
 above her head, her whole attitude expressive 
 of thorough indolence and enjoyment. 
 
 A full half-hour passes and she neither 
 moves nor stirs. She is busy solving, or 
 trying to solve, a problem in her own mind, 
 and is still only conscious that her efforts 
 are a failure. 
 
 All at once she opens her eyes and looks 
 up, to meet the fierce reluctant admiration 
 of another pair, that are taking in every 
 line of the beautiful figure in its indolent 
 grace, every tint of the sweet fair face that 
 now is flushed to crimson as she springs to 
 her feet and confronts the intruder. 
 
 ** How ever did you come here ? " is the 
 not very polite greeting he receives. 
 
My Lady Coquette, 129 
 
 '* Do you mean have I walked, or ridden, 
 or been transported ? " is the answer, as 
 Danzil Charteris advances and proffers his 
 hand. " I lost my way in the woods, and 
 came quite suddenly on this delectable little 
 spot. I thought for a moment that you 
 were the nymph of the stream — you looked 
 so picturesque and so in keeping mth your 
 surroundings." 
 
 '' I thought you never paid compliments, 
 Mr Charteris,'' remarks Yolande, as she gives 
 him her hand in cold greeting. 
 
 "No more I do. I hope you don't con- 
 sider that a compliment ? It was meant for 
 sober earnest." 
 
 '' I can hardly believe that," says Yolande, 
 growing scarlet beneath his earnest scrutiny. 
 " I have not seen you for a long time," she 
 adds, as he makes no answer to her observation. 
 
 " I have been away — travelling in Italy," 
 he answers curtly. 
 
 "Indeed! And how is Mrs Ray?" in- 
 quires Yolande, with composure. 
 
 VOL. 1. I 
 
1 30 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 " She is quite well," he says, in surprise. 
 " What makes you take an interest in her, 
 may I ask ? " 
 
 " Oh, she was very kind, and called so 
 often when papa was ill," the girl answers 
 readily. " I — I liked her very much." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," says Denzil 
 Charteris, a little confused. ** She is a 
 general favourite. I hope your father is 
 better at last, Miss Mervyn ? " 
 
 " Thank you — yes. He is stronger, and 
 is able to walk about in the garden. But 
 his illness has altered him terribly." 
 
 " You are altered too," he says, looking 
 wistfully at the pallor of cheek and lip, 
 which shows plainly now under the agitation 
 she is trying so bravely to control. 
 
 '' I — I have not been quite well lately," 
 answers Yolande, flushing hotly again under 
 the fire of his searching eyes. 
 
 *' And I am keeping you standing," he 
 says, apologetically. *' Do, pray, sit down 
 again. I am so sorry to have disturbed you." 
 
My Lady Coquette. 131 
 
 " Are you going ? " falters Yolande in 
 surprise, as be extends his hand. 
 
 " Have I your permission to stay ? This 
 little retreat seems to be a secret resort of 
 your own, and I have all unwittingly stum- 
 bled upon it." 
 
 *' The woods are free to all," says Yolande. 
 ** Don't hurry away for me, pray." 
 
 " Then will you sit down again and make 
 yourself comfortable, as you were before ? " 
 
 " Oh, certainly ! " she says, with a faint 
 laugh, that is neither so mirthful nor so 
 natural as she could have desired. 
 
 For a few moments they are both silent ; 
 but the silence is full of uncomfortable 
 thoughts to Yolande, and she is longing to 
 break it. 
 
 ** I suppose you enjoyed yourself very much 
 when you were away ? " she says at last. 
 
 " Not so very much," he answers, with a 
 faint smile. " I fear I am beyond the age 
 for keen enjoyment of anything — even travel 
 and strange lands." 
 
132 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 " You have seen so many,? " 
 
 '' Yes ; you are right. I have gone over 
 a good deal of ground in my time." 
 
 " What a cold-blooded way to speak of 
 the delights of travelling ! " laughs Yolande. 
 ** To me it seems the most enviable thing 
 in the world to be able to go from place to 
 place and country to country. For that 
 reason I often wish I was a man. Women 
 are so helpless. They are obliged to stay 
 at home and stagnate, while you — " 
 
 ''It is quite possible that your wish may 
 be attained without the drawback a change 
 of sex might prove," interrupts Denzil. 
 
 " How ? " questions Yolande, lifting her 
 eyes to his. 
 
 '' The moment after she would have given 
 anything to recall that question ; something 
 in his glance answers it so plaijily, and 
 makes her flush with shame from head to 
 foot. 
 
 " I should think Mr Stapleton could answer 
 that," he says quietly. 
 
My Lady Coquette, 133 
 
 " I don't understand you," returns Yolande 
 haughtily, moved to fierce unreasonable anger 
 by the insinuation his words convey. 
 
 " No ? " he questions, raising his eyes 
 with pretended surprise. ** Shall I put my 
 meaning into plainer words ? I thought your 
 conduct on the last occasions that I saw you 
 together left little doubt of the terms on 
 which you stood." 
 
 ** You are rather premature in your con- 
 clusions then," retorts Yolande, with visible 
 annoyance. *' I — I can't help Lance making 
 himself ridiculous — he always does." 
 
 ** Ridiculous ! " echoes Denzil bitterly. 
 " Well, I suppose there is something ridi- 
 culous in a man's utter subjugation to a 
 woman's charms. The fact of security 
 lessens your sex's appreciation directly. But 
 I thought — I understood that you and Mr 
 Staple ton were engaged." 
 
 '* Not to my knowledge certainly," says 
 Yolande, an angry spot glowing in her 
 cheeks at this confused explanation. 
 
134 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 "He is very fond of you," persists Mr 
 Chart eris ; " and you have given him plenty 
 of encouragement." 
 
 " I don't know what right you have to 
 interfere with or question my actions," says 
 Yolande, angrily. 
 
 " True," he answers calmly ; " I have no 
 right, as you say. I even remember how 
 once you said it would be impossible for us 
 to be — friends." 
 
 '* It was you who said that ! " exclaims 
 Yolande. 
 
 "But you who forced me to come to the 
 conclusion." 
 
 " iVre you going to favour me with 
 another lecture ? " she asks, half perplexed, 
 half angry at the turn the conversation is 
 taking. 
 
 " No ; " and he looks full at the pouting, 
 defiant face — looks with eyes that hold her 
 own and force them to answer the question 
 in his gaze — a question that makes her heart 
 throb wildly and painfully, and brings the 
 
My Lady Coquette, 135 
 
 tell-tale colour to cheek and brow in a swift 
 and lovely tide. 
 
 '"You think me very intrusive and dis- 
 agreeable, do you not ? " he says softly. 
 
 " I don't know what you are like to — to 
 other people," stammers Yolande ; " but I 
 am quite sure you have never tried to make 
 yourself agreeable to me ! " 
 
 '' Perhaps I had a reason," he says, still in 
 that soft low voice that thrills to her heart 
 like some sweet strain of music. " Perhaps 
 I thought that making myself agreeable to 
 you might have consequences the very reverse 
 to — me ! " 
 
 Yolande is silent. Her colour comes 
 and goes. Her heart beats so fast and 
 loud that she thinks he must almost hear 
 it. 
 
 '' You know," he goes on presently, not 
 looking at her now, but away through the 
 green woodland vista stretching into dim 
 shadow far beyond — "you know that there 
 are some people one must either cling to or 
 
136 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 avoid — either love or hate I saw you first 
 at that ball at Colston — you remember, I 
 suppose ? You were the admired of all 
 beholders. You lavished smiles and glances 
 on scores of devoted swains. You — to use 
 a familiar phrase — ' turned the heads ' of half 
 the men in the room ! The women of course 
 called you an unscrupulous flirt. I was intro- 
 duced. I thought to myself, ' I will see if she 
 is the same to me as to all others.' You 
 were — just the same. It pained me to dis- 
 cover it. I did not care for smiles that were 
 cheapened by being free to all — for looks and 
 words that were showered on every fool who 
 flattered your vanity and paid you vapid com- 
 pliments. ' Still,' I said to myself, * she is 
 very young ; it is her first ball. I will not 
 judge her to-night.' We met again — many 
 times. The last — shall I speak of that ? No, 
 not now — not now ! It can be no pleasant 
 memory for either of us — it has been a very 
 painful one to me ! " 
 
 *'Mr Charteris," interupts Yolande, tremb- 
 
My Lady Coquette. 137 
 
 ling with passionate indignation at these 
 rebukes, *' how dare you — " 
 
 " Hush — hear me out ! " he says sternly ; 
 and something on his face forces back the 
 angry words on the girl's proud parted lips. 
 " After to-day you shall never say I have 
 lectured or found fault with you. I know you 
 are indignant that I dare to question your 
 conduct — that I alone see faults where others 
 extol virtues. But, oh child, if you only 
 knew ! Can you not see it is because I would 
 have you so perfect that I lament the imper- 
 fections that mar your dangerous fascination ? 
 Men often go mad for a woman's loveliness. I 
 think I have ; but, in spite of the madness, 
 there is something in you better worth win- 
 ning than even your peerless beauty — and it 
 is that which I have tried so hard to discover. 
 No mere empty beauty could satisfy me ; I 
 have set my ideal higher. But I think that 
 with me you are oftener playing a part than 
 showing your real self. And, present or absent, 
 I cannot forget you. Yet — Oh, Yolande, 
 
138 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 you have made me suffer cruelly often and 
 often!" 
 
 She turns and looks at him, the colour all 
 gone out of her face — a great wonder and a 
 fierce joy lighting it with triumph. 
 
 '* I ? " she says. 
 
 *' Yes, you ! You could not guess — how 
 should I suppose it possible, when only 
 absence and silence taught me the painful 
 truth at last. Only after long struggles and 
 weary days did love conquer pride, and 
 bring me back to you again ; for, Yolande, 
 I love you ! " 
 
 The words are spoken at last — the words 
 for which she has craved and longed so 
 often, and at last despaired of ever winning. 
 Even now she scarcely believes her ears. She 
 fears this is but some dream that mocks 
 her sleeping senses. 
 
 Stupefied and bewildered she gazes at him 
 as he kneels at her feet and draws both her 
 hands within his own and looks with long- 
 ing, questioning eyes into the face which has 
 
My Lady Coquette. 139 
 
 haunted every hour of his existence since first 
 he saw its loveliness. 
 
 Now it is white as the lilies floating upon 
 the stream's quiet breast ; the hands in his 
 eager clasp are cold as ice. Suddenly she 
 springs to her feet and confronts him, with 
 all the softness and beauty gone from her 
 flashing eyes. 
 
 ** As you have judged me," she says, " so 
 I am ! You believe I care only for triumphs, 
 for conquests ? You are right. I am sorry, 
 Mr Charteris, that you should at last have 
 formed an opinion so opposite to that with 
 which you first favoured me ; for I believe 
 I have to thank you alone for teaching me 
 to play the part of ' My Lady Coquette ' ! " 
 
 He rises and confronts her, pale even 
 through the sun-bronzed darkness of his 
 face ; in his eyes a great wonder and a 
 great dread have gathered. 
 
 " "What do you mean ? " he asks hoarsely. 
 
 " Mean ? " — and Yolande's scornful laugh 
 rings through the stillness, clear and cruel 
 
140 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 as death. " I scarcely thought you would 
 play the hypocrite, Mr Charteris. Have you 
 forgotten the insult of the fourteenth of 
 February ? If so, I have not. I vowed 
 then to bring you to my feet sooner or 
 later, and give back to you the humiliation 
 you dealt me. Of late I did not think it 
 possible I should ever do so, for you have 
 treated me with scant courtesy ; and, to 
 your credit, I must confess I never dreamed 
 you would declare yourself a lover of mine. 
 Doubtless you think you have done me a 
 great honour — and I suppose you have ; but 
 it is one I cannot appreciate. I was but a 
 thoughtless child when you first saw me. 
 My faults were only the faults of youth and 
 lightheartedness. When you let me see your 
 opinion of these and of myself on that — 
 that morning, I grew hardened. I almost 
 hated you then. No one had ever said 
 such things to me before. Oh, why do I 
 speak of it ? " she goes on passionately, as 
 she looks at the stern, cold face before her. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 141 
 
 " No one ever dared find fault with me 
 before, not even those who had the right. 
 And I am not a flirt, whatever you may 
 please to think ! If people like me and 
 care for my society, that is their look-out. 
 I have never tried to catch any one yet. 
 How can I help it if they make fools of 
 themselves ? " 
 
 *' As I have done," he interposes quietly. 
 " One half of what you have said, Miss 
 Mervyn, I do not understand ; the other 
 half is the unreasonable utterance of an 
 angry child. In any case I ought to thank 
 you for opening my eyes to your real opinion 
 of me. I feel flattered to think your vow 
 — whatever it was — has been at last ac- 
 complished through my instrumentality. I 
 suppose there is nothing more to be said 
 between us now % " 
 
 *' Nothing," says Yolande, feeling so miser- 
 ably small and crushed beneath those cold 
 icy words that she has hard work to keep 
 the tears back from her eyes. 
 
142 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 He looks at her standing there, the gold 
 of the sunlight on the richer gold of her 
 hair, the quivering lips pale, the lovely- 
 face lovely still, even in the pride and 
 anger that mar its soft childlike beauty. 
 Involuntarily his own softens, his voice 
 grows less hard and firm. 
 
 " Nothing," he repeats slowly. '' No ; it 
 is all over and done with. I suppose I shall 
 forget in time the bitter pain you have 
 given me to-day. I have never loved any 
 woman, I have never wanted any woman, 
 as I have loved and wanted you. I may 
 have seemed harsh and cold often, and so 
 you misjudged me. And this is my punish- 
 ment. Well, I will not complain. You 
 will be happy some day. For me it does 
 not matter. I have always been an un- 
 fortunate man. Fate has been very bitter 
 against me." 
 
 He sighs and looks again at the troubled, 
 downcast face of the girl who has wronged 
 him so cruelly, misjudged him so basely. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 143 
 
 " Perhaps it is as well," he goes on, in 
 a strange dreamy voice, as of one who talks 
 in his sleep. *' We should never have been 
 happy, even — even if you had loved me. 
 I do not think you could be constant, even 
 if you tried." 
 
 " Your opinions of me are always flatter- 
 ing," says Yolande, scornfully. 
 
 He smiles faintly. 
 
 " You have been fed on sugar so long 
 that all honest food is distasteful,'' he re- 
 marks. " I wish I could feel more angry 
 with you than I do ; for Heaven knows 
 your little hand has stabbed me deep 
 enough to-day ! How deep you will never 
 know, unless you to'o learn what it is to 
 lay your whole life down at the foot of 
 one being in the world, and see the folly 
 and uselessness of such an action." 
 
 Yolande shivers, as if the breath of 
 winter were upon her instead of the warm 
 luxuriance of summer. Does she not feel 
 even now in her heart's depths the truth of 
 
144 ^y Lady Coquette. 
 
 his words ? Does she not know that even 
 at this very moment their truth is being 
 painfully realised in the bitter agony that 
 fills her proud and wilful heart ? 
 
 " There is one question I should like to 
 ask you," he continues. " What did you 
 mean by the fourteenth of February ? I am 
 not aware that I even saw you on that day." 
 
 '* There is little use to explain now," 
 Yolande says icily, pressing her cold locked 
 fingers tightly together, as if to nerve her 
 for the struggle still before her. '' I only 
 wonder that, having through all our inter- 
 course treated me as a heartless coquette, 
 you should suddenly seem to expect I am 
 anything else. You told me my character 
 plainly enough once. You have only your- 
 self to blame if I verify it." 
 
 " You are right," he answers calmly. " I 
 
 have but added one more name to your 
 
 list of triumphs. I should have remembered 
 
 how incapable you must be of appreciating 
 
 a true man's true love." 
 
My Lady Coquette, 
 
 145 
 
 Then he moves away, with no other 
 word, or look at the motionless figure and 
 lovely face that in all his days, be they 
 long or short, he knows he can never 
 forget. 
 
 VOL. T. 
 
CHAP TEE X. 
 
 OLANDE stands where Denzil Char- 
 teris has left her, listening to the 
 last echo of his footsteps as they 
 die away in the distance. A curious faint 
 smile comes over her face — a smile that 
 has no mirth, and looks strangely out of 
 place on those sweet red lips. 
 
 ''So I have won my triumph and kept 
 my vow after all ! " she says, in a slow, 
 harsh voice, all unlike her own. " But I 
 seem to understand now w^hat people mean 
 by Dead-Sea fruit." 
 
 A shamed streak of red tinges her pale 
 cheeks. Her eyes wander aimlessly over the 
 green moss, the bubbling water, the sun- 
 cast shadows. A strange dull pain fills 
 
My Lady Coquette. 147 
 
 her heart and racks her with an agony she 
 has never before known. 
 
 " What have I done — oh, what have 1 
 done ? " she moans, and straightway throws 
 herself down upon the cool soft grass and 
 buries her face in her hands. 
 
 She does not weep now ; only long shiver- 
 ing sighs shake her from head to foot. She 
 knows that to the latest moment of her life 
 she will never be able to recall the joy she 
 has thrown away, the love she has scorned, 
 the peace she has lost. 
 
 " I am only seventeen," she says wearily, 
 *' and all my life seems ended to-day. No 
 other man can ever be to me what he has 
 been. And I must live and smile and pre- 
 tend, and all the time I shall think of him ; 
 every hour I shall know I have spoilt my own 
 future and his. Oh, why did I do it — why ? " 
 
 Only her own heart can give the answer 
 to that question, the heart to whose prompt- 
 ings she has mven the lie for the sake of a 
 foolish vengeance, a passionate vow. 
 
14B My Lady Coquette, 
 
 The evening shadows are falling softly 
 across the woodland as Yolande at last 
 takes her way home. The leaves rustle 
 overhead, the birds' songs are silent. 
 Through the interstices of the closely-woven 
 boughs the sky looks darkly down, over- 
 shadowed by heavy clouds, the portents of 
 a storm. A low heavy roll of distant thunder 
 comes pealing across the stillness. Yolande 
 starts and shivers as she hears it, and hurries 
 on with quicker steps. 
 
 The darkness grows deeper, the thunder 
 peals out more distinctly. In her haste 
 she strikes into a side-path, thinking it a 
 shorter way to the main road beyond. The 
 path gets narrower and narrower; fright- 
 ened, she pauses and looks around. She 
 has no knowledge of this place ; never 
 before has she seen it. A belt of trees 
 hem in a dark pool, all set with noxious 
 weeds and thick with slime, and full of 
 loathsome, sluggish creeping things that 
 
My Lady Coquette. 149 
 
 crawl and wriggle about the noisome 
 depths. 
 
 Yolande turns pale with terror. A tongue 
 of lightning suddenly leaps from the black 
 heavy clouds and plays in ghastly brilliance 
 over the dark water at her feet. Involun- 
 tarily she starts back. At the same moment 
 the boughs part on the opposite side of the 
 pool, and a face looks at her through the 
 screen of leaves — the same awful face, with 
 wild eyes and unkempt locks that once 
 before met her terrified gaze in the turret 
 of the ruined castle. For a moment she 
 stands spell-bound — paralysed. Then, with 
 a wild fearful shriek that echoes over the 
 silent woods and is drowned by the crashing 
 thunder, she turns and flies in maddening 
 terror along the path she has just trodden. 
 
 How long she has run, how much ground 
 she has traversed, she does not know. Terror 
 lends wings to her steps — a terror greater even 
 than that which the peals of thunder or the 
 flashes of lightning carry in their train. Gasp- 
 
1 50 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 ing, trembling, quivering like a hunted deer, 
 she flies on and on, taking no heed of where 
 she goes, blind with fear of the awful thing 
 that she fancies is on her track, never daring 
 to look behind for dread of its pursuit. 
 
 Flying in headlong speed she comes full 
 tilt against the figure of a man advancing 
 to meet her. Recoiling, she cries aloud. Her 
 nerves are all unstrung, her face is white, her 
 eyes are wild. 
 
 " Yolande ! — good Heaven ! Yolande, what 
 is it % " exclaims a familiar voice. 
 
 The girl looks up ; her lips quiver, her 
 cheeks flush. 
 
 " Oh, Lance, dear Lance," she cries, as she 
 clings like a frightened child to his strong 
 young arm, " save me, for Heaven's sake ! 
 It is coming — I know it is ! " 
 
 " What is coming % " he exclaims in be- 
 wilderment, looking from the girl's terrified 
 face to the path up which she points. 
 
 '* That thing — that face ! " she cries, hiding 
 her eyes on his shoulder, and shuddering 
 
My Lady Coquette. 151 
 
 from head to foot. ** Oh, Lance, I have been 
 so terrified ! " 
 
 " Poor child, poor Yolande ! " he says pity- 
 ingly, '' My dear, come with me ; there is 
 nothing to frighten you now." 
 
 He places his arm round her and half- 
 carries, half-leads her away, marvelling in 
 his own mind what can have occurred to 
 alarm her so much. 
 
 " I came to look for you," he says gently 
 at last. " They were all so alarmed at the 
 Court about your long absence especially 
 when the storm threatened. Dear, how you 
 tremble ! Lean more on me. We are not 
 very far from home now." 
 
 He is too sensible to ask any questions ; 
 in her overwrought hysterical state he sees 
 it would be dangerous. With quiet soothing 
 words he leads her on until they are out of 
 the wood and close to the lodge. 
 
 The rain begins to fall now, and there is 
 still a long distance to traverse before they 
 can reach the house. 
 
152 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 *' I tell you what we must do," says Lance 
 gently — " wait here at the lodge till the storm 
 is over. You will be drenched to the skin in 
 that light dress if you attempt to go any 
 farther. I will send a message up to the 
 house to say you are safe." 
 
 Yolande acquiesces silently. She is too 
 spent and exhausted to speak, and it is 
 pleasant to have some one who will take 
 all trouble of her hands. They go into the 
 pretty tidy little house, and Lance begs the 
 woman to make some tea for the wearied 
 girl, while he pencils a hasty missive which 
 one of her boys bear to the Court. 
 
 This done, he comes back to Yolande once 
 more, and bends tenderly over her as she 
 leans back in her chair. 
 
 ''For all the world just like a lover," 
 thinks cheery Mrs Hailing, as she busies 
 herself over the preparation of tea. 
 
 ** You are better now, are you not ? " he 
 says gently. 
 
 ** Oh, yes ! " answers Yolande, keeping her 
 
My Lady Coquette. 153 
 
 eyes closed, and thoroughly enjoying the 
 rest and quiet of the pretty flower-scented 
 parlour. " Lance, how glad I am I met 
 you! 
 
 '' I am glad too," he says quietly. " No ; 
 don't try to tell me about It yet. Wait till 
 you have had your tea." 
 
 *' I know you think me very foolish," she 
 remarks, with a strange wistfulness in the 
 pretty trembling voice ; '' but I really saw 
 something, and I got so frightened. I don't 
 know where I should have run to if you 
 had not met me." 
 
 " You ought not to go for long, solitary 
 rambles in the woods," declares Lance, al- 
 most sternly. " It is not safe. I shall tell 
 your father." 
 
 '* No ; please don't," she says pleadingly, 
 unclosing her eyes and looking up into his 
 face. ** He would be so distressed. Promise 
 me, Lance, that you won't say anything 
 about this to — to anybody." 
 
 " But, Yolande," begins Lance, sorely 
 
154 -^y Lady Coquette. 
 
 puzzled by such an unexpected desire, *' you 
 forget—" 
 
 ** No," she says hurriedly ; '' I don't forget. 
 I — well, perhaps I was nervous, and — and 
 fancied I saw it. The storm frightened me 
 so." 
 
 " No mere fancy could have thrown you 
 into such a state of nervous terror as that 
 in which I found you," rejoins Lance sternly. 
 *' Why do you wish to conceal what has 
 happened ? " 
 
 '' Ah, why ? " the girl asks herself wearily. 
 Only from some dim foolish sense of loyalty 
 to the man she has wronged, remembering 
 how once before he had prayed her to be 
 silent respecting the mystery of the ruined 
 turret. 
 
 "There is nothing to conceal," she says, 
 looking up at Lance with brave unshrinking 
 eyes. '* But to please me, Lance, don t say 
 anything about this until — I — give you leave." 
 
 '' To please you," he returns softly, *' you 
 know I would do anything." 
 
My Lady Coquette. 155 
 
 ** Then do this," she entreats eagerly — 
 *' promise me." 
 
 He looks at her once more, puzzled by 
 this persistence, puzzled still more by the 
 fear and anxiety on her white face and in 
 her wide sorrowful eyes. 
 
 ** Very well," he says ; " I promise." 
 
 And, in a sudden abandonment of grati- 
 tude and relief, Yolande seizes his hand and 
 presses it to her lips. 
 
 He flushes and trembles like a girl. 
 
 " Such thanks would repay any service, 
 my sweet," he says passionately. 
 
 "■ Ahem ! I have brought the tea, miss," 
 interrupts the voice of Mrs Hailing apolo- 
 getically. 
 
 Yolande drinks the tea in a leisurely 
 fashion, growing quieter and graver as the 
 time goes on ; and Lance waits on her and 
 hovers about her in a way that makes the 
 lodge-keeper smile, so plainly does it be- 
 speak the state of afiairs on one side at 
 least. 
 
15^ ^y Lady Coquette. 
 
 *' Does it still rain ? " the girl asks at 
 length, as she places the empty cup upon 
 the table. 
 
 " Yes ; but I don't think it will last much 
 longer," answers Lance, going over to the 
 window and looking out at the rapidly- 
 clearing sky. 
 
 " I hope papa has not been frightened 
 about me," continu^es Yolande, as she leaves 
 her chair and also walks over to where Lance 
 stands — walks with slow and languid steps, 
 he notices with sudden pain. 
 
 '' How tired you must be, dear ! " he says 
 involuntarily. " Oh, Yolande, I wish I had 
 been with you this afternoon ! I am sure 
 something has upset you ; your face is so 
 white, and you look quite diflferent from 
 what you usually do ! " 
 
 " Yes ; if you had been with me," con- 
 fesses Yolande, in quick pained accents, *' it 
 would have been all different now." 
 
 ** What do you mean ? " he says quickly. 
 
 " I think I hardly know myself," answers 
 
My Lady Coquette. 1 5 7 
 
 the girl, as she moves restlessly away from 
 his side. " I suppose there are times in 
 every one's experience when even a little 
 thing may turn the scale of fate, when 
 half-an-hour in a day may affect a whole 
 future, when the swerving aside from a 
 path, or the choice of one particular road, 
 may alter life entirely. Heaven, what a 
 mockery of human wisdom is the little 
 commonplace thing men call chance ! " 
 
 " What odd things you have said to-day, 
 Yolande, " says Lance, looking more and 
 more puzzled by her strange ways. " Dear, 
 I wish you would trust me, and tell me 
 what happened in the woods. You know 
 surely by this time, Yolande, how staunch a 
 friend I am to you and yours." 
 
 " Hush ! " — and the girl turns suddenly 
 towards him, her face blanched to the very 
 lips. ** Lance, what was that ? Did you 
 not hear something — a cry ? " 
 
 " Nonsense, dear ; it is only your fancy," 
 he says soothingly, as he comes to her side 
 
15^ My Lady Coquette, 
 
 once more. " Why, how you tremble ! 
 What frightens you now ? " 
 
 " I thought I — heard — But no ; it could 
 not be ! Don't look so alarmed, Lance," she 
 continues, trying to speak lightly. '' I am 
 full of fancies to-night. I suppose the 
 thunder is the cause. A storm always 
 unsettles me." 
 
 But Lance wonders how any fear could 
 so unnerve her as to give such a frightened, 
 hunted look to her eyes, and make her start 
 and quiver like a leaf at every sound and 
 step. 
 
 " Something has happened," he says again 
 to himself, noting every change in the pale 
 young face, every tremor in the slight figure 
 — " something. By Heaven, it shall go hard 
 with me if 1 don't find out what, before 
 another twelve hours are over my head ! ^' 
 
 The rain still falls in soft plashing drops ; 
 now and then a faint and far-ofi" echo of the 
 passing thunder rolls through the cool sweet 
 air. But the lurid gleam of the storm is 
 
My Lady Coquette. 159 
 
 all gone, and the earth smiles, refreshed 
 and gladdened for its rough and rude 
 caresses. 
 
 Yolande stands by the open window, her 
 face still bearing the deadly pallor, her 
 eyes still dark and troubled with the un- 
 forgotten dread. Somehow, in all the years 
 Lance has known her, he has never seen 
 her look as she does to-night. He marvels 
 at it more and more. This is not the bright 
 
 o 
 
 changeful Yolande who has laughed at and 
 coquetted with and teased him so often ; it 
 is a sorrowful, wan-faced girl, over whom 
 the shadow of some heavy trouble seems to 
 have fallen. 
 
 As he stands watching her in pained per- 
 plexity, she turns suddenly and meets his 
 eyes. The tender look, the yearning pity 
 move her as no words could have done. A 
 mist of tears springs suddenly to her eyes ; 
 her lips quiver like the lips of a grieving 
 child. 
 
 ''Don't Lance," she cries; "I — I cannot 
 
i6o My Lady Coquette. 
 
 bear it ! " And straightway she leans her 
 head upon her clasped fingers and sobs as 
 if her heart would break. 
 
 " Yolande," he says — and his voice trembles 
 pitifully — '' what is it, dear ? Can't I help 
 you ? " 
 
 ** No," she answers wildly, as she shrinks 
 away from his touch — '^ no one can help me ! 
 Oh, Lance, don't waste your brave, strong 
 heart on me ! You little know what a vile, 
 guilty wretch I feel to-night ! " 
 
 The wild words scarcely bear any real 
 meaning to his heart ; he looks upon them 
 as the fevered utterance of an overwrought 
 brain. He little thinks that ere the twelve 
 hours he has spoken of are over they will 
 recur to him again and again, sharp and 
 stinging as serpents' fangs, full of a dread 
 too horrible for any lips to utter. 
 
 When the wild burst of weeping is over, 
 he brings her hat and tells her gently that it 
 is better to go home now. Yolande says 
 nothing. She takes the hat from his hand 
 
My Lady Coquette. i6i 
 
 and, with cold shaking fingers, fastens the 
 elastic ; and then, with a few words of thanks 
 to the lodge-keeper, they leave together. 
 
 Not one sentence of all the many her lips 
 frame does Yolande utter during the quiet 
 homeward walk. She feels dimly that some 
 great change has come to her, that never 
 ao^ain can she lauo^h and talk and behave 
 herself in the free, lighthearted, foolish 
 fashion she has hitherto done. 
 
 Is it only a few hours, she wonders, since 
 she left home and wandered off in happy 
 idleness for that saunter through the woods — 
 only a few hours since she held her life's 
 happiness in her hands and threw it carelessly, 
 thanklessly away, as a child throws away a 
 toy he is wearied of — only a few hours, since 
 without word of pity or forgiveness, she said 
 farewell to the face whose very look haunts 
 her still, said it when it had passed from her 
 sight, said it amidst bitter weeping and 
 undying remorse ? It seems as if weeks, 
 months, had intervened since then — as if 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
i62 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 their passage was marked on her own face 
 as well as in her aching heart, marked so 
 that all eyes might read it and smile at her 
 
 folly. 
 
 Alas, alas for the regrets that come too 
 late, for the remorse that can never bring 
 atonement in its train ! Like the trail of the 
 serpent it lies on every bright and joyous 
 gift of life, breathing its poison over human 
 souls and turning rejoicing into grief and 
 love into bitterness ! 
 
 
CHAP TEE XL 
 
 fND you were out in the woods 
 in all that storm, Yolande ? 
 Oh, how frightened you must 
 have been ! " 
 
 It is Enid who says this — Enid, who, 
 sitting by Yolande's bedside, has not yet 
 done wondering over her bright sister's 
 sudden indisposition and hasty retirement to 
 her own room. Still more bewildered is 
 she when, coming in with some wine a 
 little later, she finds Yolande in bed, her 
 face white as the pillows on which she is 
 lying back with such utter weariness, her 
 eyes circled by dark rims of pain. 
 
 '* What made you stay out so long ? " 
 persists Enid. ** I am sure any one could 
 
164 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 have seen the storm coming on a full hour 
 before it burst." 
 
 " Oh, Enid," Yolande says wearily, *' have 
 I not told you enough % If you only 
 knew how my head aches, you would be 
 quiet." 
 
 *' I'm sure I don't want to make it 
 worse ! " cries Enid, jumping up with an 
 alacrity that sets every nerve quivering in 
 Yolande's excited frame. '' But it must be 
 a very bad headache if you won't talk 
 yourself, and can't bear to be spoken to 
 either." 
 
 '' Don't be cross, dear," pleads her sister, 
 with a gentleness altogether rare in her soft 
 voice. " I know I am bad company to- 
 night ; but I really cannot help it." 
 
 *' Papa was dreadfully anxious about you 
 this afternoon," remarks Enid, as she crosses 
 over to the toilet-table and begins fingering 
 the pretty knick-knacks scattered there ; 
 '* and then Lance Stapleton called and 
 went off to look for you. What do 
 
My Lady Coqiiette. 165 
 
 you think Skippy told papa afterwards, 
 Yolande ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know/' says the girl 
 wearily, longing — oh, so intensely ! — for soli- 
 tude and peace, yet not liking to bid 
 her bright young sister leave her. 
 
 " She said Lance was so much attached 
 to you that it was quite certain he would 
 propose, and what a good thing it would be 
 for you to marry him, as the properties were 
 so near, and he was so well off. You 
 should have seen how astonished papa 
 looked. I believe he thinks we are not 
 half grown up yet, and the bare idea of 
 lovers and suitors is a terrible bugbear." 
 
 *' He need not fear I shall leave him for 
 any lover or suitor in the world," answers 
 Yolande calmly, yet with a certain pain in 
 the clear tones that would have betrayed 
 itself to ears keener and more loving than 
 those of a sister. 
 
 *' Why ? I'm sure you're not in earnest," 
 returns Enid quickly. ** The idea of your 
 
1 66 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 being: lono^ at home — it's too absurd ! You're 
 like the Widow Malone, you know, Yolande, 
 that papa used to sing about, — 
 
 * Of lovers she had a full score or more, 
 And all of them fortunes galore in store.' " 
 
 "But even the Widow Malone was a 
 long time making up her mind," says Yo- 
 lande, with a faint little smile breaking the 
 sad curves of her pretty mouth and light- 
 ing its unusual gravity. 
 
 '* Yes ; and when she did give in, it was 
 to a very rough wooer, was it not % I'm 
 sure I should be very sorry for any man 
 to take consent for granted in the cool 
 fashion of ' Mr O'Brian from Clare ! ' " and 
 Enid laughs merrily. 
 
 " But then you are not a widow ; that 
 makes all the difference. Doesn't the moral 
 of the song point out that fact very plainly ? " 
 
 ** Yes ; that's true," says Enid, removing 
 the stopper from a glass scent-bottle and 
 sniffing gratefully at its fragrant contents. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 167 
 
 *' Yolande," she adds abruptly, '' Mr Char- 
 teris lias come back." 
 
 " How did you know ? " asks Yolande, 
 thankful that the engrossing nature of 
 scents and essences still keeps her sisters 
 back turned towards her. 
 
 '' Mrs Deane was calling and told us," 
 returns Enid, replacing the bottles at last, 
 and sauntering slowly over to the broad 
 bay-window. '' I wonder if he will stay 
 long this time ? The way that man does 
 Hy about is most extraordinary. He sets 
 a very bad example to the county generally. 
 Mrs Deane says he ought to marry his 
 cousin, Mrs Eay. She is awfully in love 
 with him ! " 
 
 Yolande is silent. Her heart is throbbing 
 painfully. The hot blood rushes wildly 
 through her veins, and changes all the pallor 
 of her face to warmth and brilliance. Enid 
 does not look at her fortunately ; she is 
 busy speculating on the chances of the match 
 she has mentioned. 
 
1 68 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 " I'm sure it would be a very good thing 
 for them both," she goes on presently ; " and 
 it would be nice to have a mistress at the 
 Priory. A place like that ought to be pre- 
 sided over by a lady. What jolly balls 
 they would give ! " 
 
 ** Is — is Mrs Eay at the Priory now, did 
 Mrs Deane say ? " asks Yolande presently. 
 
 " Yes ; she and her mother are still there. 
 I think Mr Charteris is an odd sort of man. 
 I can't say I like him. I hate those stern, 
 severe-looking men who always seem to be 
 rebuking more easily-contented people for 
 enjoying life and taking it easily. If I had 
 the choice, I should infinitely prefer Lance 
 Stapleton ; wouldn't you ? " 
 
 A bitter laugh is all Yolande' s answer. 
 The idea of contrasting good - humoured 
 boyish Lance with Denzil Charteris seems 
 too absurd even for consideration. 
 
 ** But of course you would," chatters Enid 
 placidly. " You hate grave, stern people 
 even more than I do. Yolande, I don't 
 
My Lady Coquette, 169 
 
 wish you to marry just yet a while ; but, 
 when you do, mind and pick out a nice jolly 
 fellow for a brother-in-law — some one up to 
 lots of fun, and who'll invite us to your 
 place — for of course he'll have a place, 
 Yolande — and let us do just what we like. 
 If he had a brother or two," she goes on 
 musingly, " it wouldn't be bad. It would 
 do to amuse me and Vi. But no sisters — 
 mind that ! A husband's sisters are a nuis- 
 ance, only a degree less than his mother." 
 
 " How you do rattle on, dear ! " says 
 Yolande, with faint rebuke. *' No one would 
 think you were fifteen, to hear you talk." 
 
 " I am nearly sixteen now," declares Enid, 
 with dignity ; " and many girls are married 
 at sixteen." 
 
 " Married, married — how you do harp on 
 that string ! " exclaims Yolande pettishly. 
 " I should recommend you to read the last 
 joke in Punch ^ 
 
 " What was that ? " asks Enid curiously. 
 
 *' A little boy asks his mother if men 
 
I 70 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 want to get married as much as women do. 
 ' Why do you ask ? ' she says. ' Because, 
 ma, the ladies who call on you are always 
 talking about getting married ; but the men 
 don't ! ' " 
 
 " What a horrid child ! " laughs Enid. '' I 
 wonder if children ever do say those smart 
 things that are written about them, or if 
 they are only invented ? " 
 
 " Oh, I daresay they say them ! " answers 
 Yolande, turning wearily on her pillows. 
 *•' The enfant terrible is no myth, I assure 
 you. 
 
 *'Are you going to sleep?" asks Enid, 
 turning away from the window and noticing 
 her sister's change of position. 
 
 " Yes, if I can." 
 
 " Well, I won't stand here chattering any 
 longer," returns Enid graciously. " Can I 
 do anything more for you ? " 
 
 " No, thank you," answers Yolande, in 
 faint accents. " I only want quiet and rest." 
 
 " Well, good night then," says the younger 
 
My Lady Coquette. 171 
 
 girl, bending over the golden head and press- 
 ing her lips to Yolande's hot brow. " Sleep 
 well, and wake up bright and merry to- 
 morrow." 
 
 *' To-morrow ! " thinks Yolande, as the door 
 closes and the solitude she has longed for is 
 hers at last. '* Oh, what will any to-morrow 
 be to me now ? " 
 
 And the cool slow hours of the night pass 
 on, and the faint pale daybreak lights the sky 
 before that question is answered, or the aching 
 brain and heart find respite from the misery 
 of thought in the blessed oblivion of sleep. 
 
 The morning sun is flooding all the 
 dainty pink-and-white chamber when Yo- 
 lande awakes. 
 
 At first the pretty eyes look wistfully 
 round, then the languid lids close over them 
 once more. 
 
 "What has happened since yesterday?" 
 she asks herself. '' Why does my heart feel 
 so heavy, my spirit so sad ? " 
 
172 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 Soon enough the answer comes. The waves 
 of sorrow roll back in freshly- weighted num- 
 bers, breaking over memory, and dashing 
 fiercely and swiftly against the self-erected 
 barriers of pride. 
 
 She springs up and goes over to the window. 
 A dim reflection in her toilet-glass catches 
 her eye as she passes — the image of a slim 
 white figure, with a face from which all the 
 blood has fled, and where a sudden pallid 
 shadow has fallen. She starts in fear. 
 
 ''Oh, how ill I look!" she says wildly. 
 " What will they think ? " 
 
 Without another glance at the face that 
 looks so strange and unfamiliar ^now, she 
 draws up the blind and proceeds hurriedly 
 with her toilet. The fresh cool air comes in 
 through the window she has opened ; and 
 that and the cold water, which she dashes 
 over her face and shoulders, seem to revive 
 her a little. 
 
 " I must try to be like my old self," she 
 says, as with trembling fingers she fastens 
 
My Lady Coquette, 173 
 
 her cambric morning- dress and knots the 
 pale-blue ribbon round her snowy slender 
 throat. " No one must see, no one must 
 know. It is my secret ; and I shall keep it 
 as long as I live." 
 
 As she turns away, and is about to leave the 
 room, a sound strikes upon her ear that seems 
 to transfix her with horror. It is the great 
 bell of Beechhampton ringing loud and clear 
 in the golden sunny beauty of the early day. 
 
 Floating over the dark green woods, echo- 
 ing over the quiet fields, the grassy meadows, 
 comes that strange mournful warning sound. 
 Yolande hears it, and shivers from head to 
 foot. Never does that bell ring except for 
 death or disaster to some member of the 
 Charteris household. Only once before in 
 her memory has that sound been heard, and 
 then death and woe lay heavy on their home. 
 Whiter than the folds of her gown, Yolande 
 stands and listens, a wild look of horror in 
 her fixed eyes, a sobbing sigh bursting from 
 her pale quivering lips. 
 
1 74 ^y Lady Coqiiette. 
 
 ** Is it for him ? " she gasps, and staggers to 
 a chair and kneels down in agony unutter- 
 able, burying her face in her hands as if to 
 shut out the mournful note, which ever and 
 anon floats in through the open window like 
 an omen of ill. 
 
 In a moment the door is thrown open. 
 Enid and Yi rush in wildly. 
 
 " Yolande, Yolande, do you hear the bell ? 
 Something must have happened at the Priory ! 
 Yolande—" 
 
 '' Hush ! " says Yi softly. *' Don't you see, 
 Enid, she is saying her prayers ? " 
 
 " They stand quite still, hand locked in 
 hand, gazing at the kneeling figure so silent 
 and so still now. The stillness awes them. 
 They look at each other in pale wonder. 
 
 "■ Is she ill ? " whispers one softly. 
 
 Then Enid approaches and lays her hand 
 upon the shoulder of the kneeling girl. She 
 never moves. Frightened and bewildered, 
 she beckons to Yi, and they draw away the 
 hands from Yolande's face. 
 
My Lady Coquette, i 75 
 
 It is white and cold as death. 
 
 " She has fainted ! '* cries Enid in terror. 
 And they lay her down with gentle hands 
 and dash water over her face ; and Vi runs 
 off in haste for assistance. 
 

 CHAPTEK XII. 
 
 -OLANDE'S trance of insensibility 
 lasts so long that the whole house- 
 hold are filled with fear and anxiety. 
 Never before in the remembrance of any one 
 has she been known to faint. When she 
 at last recovers, they lay her back gently on 
 her pretty white bed ; and Enid promises 
 to bring up her breakfast, if she will only 
 lie still and rest and not attempt to come 
 down stairs again. This Yolande promises 
 gladly enough. She feels thoroughly ill and 
 worn out. Her nerves are unstrung. Her 
 head throbs as if a hammer were beating 
 within her aching brain. A great dread 
 has seized her heart. She cares for nothing 
 now but to be left in peace, bearing her 
 
My Lady Coquette. 177 
 
 misery as best she can, fearing to have her 
 fears realised. 
 
 For she never doubts but that ill of some 
 sort has chanced to Denzil Charteris. She 
 pictures him again and again as lying dead 
 and cold in his stately home — the last of 
 his race, the one man in all the world of 
 men around her for whom she could ever 
 feel love and longing and remorse. 
 
 Ere the day is many hours older, news 
 comes from Beechhampton Priory. Denzil 
 Charteris is missing. He had gone out after 
 luncheon on the previous day, and no one 
 has seen or heard of him since. There had 
 been a dinner-party at the Priory in the 
 evening, and the guests had waited for a 
 full hour in expectation of the arrival of 
 the master of the house. He had not come. 
 The whole night long had he been waited 
 for, and sought, yet still no tidings had 
 reached any one. 
 
 His aunt and cousin are frantic with fear. 
 Messages are sent in every direction to the 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
178 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 houses of all his friends and acquaintances, 
 in the faint though unlikely hope that he 
 may have forgotten the dinner-party, and 
 stayed at some house for the night. 
 
 The answer is always the same. No one 
 has seen him or heard anything of him 
 since noon of the day on which he so 
 unaccountably disappeared. 
 
 All this Yolande hears at intervals — hears 
 with a white set face, the agony of which 
 makes every one wonder — hears with the 
 dull throbs of her heart, making her sick 
 with an intolerable anguish as she lies still 
 and holds her peace. 
 
 For no word does she speak of the meet- 
 ing in the woods — it could do no good, 
 she tells herself wearily. It could not give 
 any clue to his fate, and she could not 
 face the questions and remarks that would 
 be showered upon her in consequence. 
 
 So through the long miserable hours of 
 that most miserable day she lies in her 
 darkened chamber, too worn and wretched for 
 
My Lady Coquette, 1 79 
 
 speech ; and without, in the silent woods 
 and leafy glades, the searchers search for 
 track or trace of the missing man, and ever 
 and anon at stated times they meet with 
 still the same hopeless tale on every lip — 
 ** No tidings yet." 
 
 The sunlight dies in the west, and still 
 far and near the news is spreading, and 
 excitement and wonder wax deeper and 
 more painful. All through the dusk, as 
 through the day, the woods echo to the 
 sound of hurrying feet, and the startled 
 birds flutter into denser shade. There come 
 a pause and stillness with the approach of 
 night, and the stars shine over anxious faces 
 still turned to one another for suggestion 
 or for hope, until sadly they separate and 
 go their way at last, saying, ** To-morrow 
 may bring tidings." 
 
 Alas, the next day and the next pass, and 
 still with no result ; and the only tongue 
 that could have given some faint clue to the 
 disheartened seekers is now locked in insen- 
 
i8o My Lady Coquette. 
 
 sibility by the delirium and exhaustion of 
 fever. 
 
 Yolande is very ill. Of time she has no 
 knowledge, of days she has no count. The 
 hours sweep by, and the shadows of anxiety 
 deepen with each, and her young sisters' 
 voices lose their gay ring, and her father's 
 face is lined with heavier care ; and her 
 young lover comes and departs like a rest- 
 less spirit, with all the light and gladness 
 gone out of his sad eyes and once cheery 
 face. 
 
 But at length she grows better. One 
 night, when the heat and stillness of the 
 summer air still brood over the outer world, 
 when a cool faint breeze rustles the roses 
 at her window with a soft rush of melan- 
 choly music, when solitude and silence, star- 
 lighted and full of peace and rest as only a 
 summer night can be, brood ever earth and 
 sky, she opens her eyes and sees it all, and 
 smiles. 
 
 A great weakness is upon her still ; but 
 
My Lady Coquette. 1 8 1 
 
 the fire and torture of fever have passed 
 from her throbbing brain, and lightened 
 some of its heavy burden. The sights and 
 sounds around grow familiar to her once 
 more, strength comes slowly back, but with 
 it are memory and pain. 
 
 For she remembers all — the lover she has 
 rejected, the anguish she has borne, the horror 
 of that hour when she heard his doom in 
 the clanging sound of the warning bell. 
 And then, at last, when courage comes to 
 her to ask the question that ever trembles 
 on her lips, she learns that the mystery of 
 his disappearance is still unsolved, that of 
 his fate no certain news has reached the 
 ears of any one since that fatal summer 
 day. 
 
 Then a doubt creeps into her heart and 
 blanches her cheeks to yet deeper pallor. 
 
 " Should I have told ? " she thinks. " Was 
 I wrong in concealing it so long ? " 
 
 She wonders if she has courage and 
 strength to tell it still, knowing how the 
 
1 82 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 memories that torture, tlie regrets that mad- 
 den her, must be bared to stern eyes and 
 spoken to strangers ears. 
 
 " Oh, I cannot — I cannot ! " she sobs, and 
 buries her face in the cushions of her couch, 
 weeping as only women weep in the aban- 
 donment of a great woe. 
 
 " Yolande," says a kindly voice beside her 
 — " dear Yolande, what is it ? " 
 
 The girl raises her tear-stained face, and 
 sees Lance Stapleton's sj^mpathetic counten- 
 ance bending over her. 
 
 " Lance," she says, in faint surprise, and 
 gives him her little thin hand in greeting. 
 
 It looks so white and tiny in his great 
 brown palm, so like a fragile snowdrop, he 
 thinks, that for the life of him he can give 
 her no greeting — he only stands beside her, 
 holding her wee white fingers, and looking 
 with sorrowful and most loving eyes at 
 the changed and saddened beauty of her 
 face. 
 
 '* It is good of you to come so soon," 
 
My Lady Coquette. 183 
 
 she says, gently. "And I am all alone 
 just now. Vi and Enid are out." 
 
 " I know," he returns, quietly. *' Are you 
 getting better ? Do you feel stronger ? " 
 
 He seats himself by her side. 
 
 ** Oh, yes ! " she answers, languidly. " I 
 suppose you see a great change in me, 
 Lance 1 " 
 
 He looks at her. A great ball seems to 
 rise in his throat, his eyes grow dim. No 
 words will come through his white lips, 
 strive how he may to form them. 
 
 " Every one tells me how altered I am," 
 she goes on presently, turning her eyes 
 from his sad face to the glowing splendour 
 of the summer's ripe luxuriance, as it rests 
 on wood and flower and leaf of the beauti- 
 ful grounds without. " Even Arty does 
 not tease me now. I must be altered if he 
 can find no heart to chaff and torment 
 me, mustn't I ? " 
 
 ** After such an illness as yours," he says, 
 with slow and painful effort, " of course you 
 
184 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 must be changed. It is only to be expected. 
 But you will be all right again by-and-by, 
 when you get away to the sea — which, of 
 course, you will do." 
 
 ** The sea ? " interrogates Yolande, languidly. 
 *'Yes, I should like that, I think. Do 
 you know, Lance," she goes on, passionately, 
 '' there are days when I positively hate this 
 place ; when the sight of the woods yonder, 
 and the songs of the birds by the window- 
 panes, and all the old familiar scents and 
 sounds about us sicken me % And always 
 I hear that bell ; just as it rang on that 
 morning, just as it rang all through those 
 weary weeks when I was ill, so now it rings, 
 still." 
 
 " You are over-excited, dear," he says, 
 soothingly. " Naturally it was a great shock 
 to you, as to us all ; but, for my own part, 
 I still think he will turn up. I am sure 
 he is not dead. There would have been 
 some trace found before this — if — if that had 
 been the case." 
 
My Lady Coquette. 185 
 
 She lifts her head. A bright crimson 
 spot glows in either cheek. She puts one 
 little hand on his. He starts at the touch, 
 for it burns like a coal of fire, and but a 
 few moments ago it was so cold. 
 
 " Lance," she says, excitedly, *' I must tell 
 you now. I have never told any one before. 
 I saw him — on — that — afternoon." 
 
 Slowly and falteringly the words leave 
 her w^hite lips. Slowly and distinctly they 
 reach her listener's ear. 
 
 He turns and gazes at her, as if he doubted 
 her sanity. 
 
 *' You saw Charteris that day ! " he ex- 
 claims. '' And you have said nothing all 
 this time ! Oh, Yolande ! " 
 
 " What would have been the use % " she 
 cries, passionately. "If he be dead, as they 
 say, it could have proved nothing. If he 
 lives, why should I give myself the shame, 
 the misery of proclaiming my own mistake 
 to those who care nothing. for the suffering 
 I bear ? " 
 
1 86 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 " Yolande " — and Lance's voice grows stern, 
 while his face is colourless and cold as a 
 marble mask — " what is it you mean ? What 
 has been between you and — and Charteris ? 
 Why have you concealed it all this time ? " 
 
 " Because I was a coward % " answers the 
 girl in a sad shaken voice. " Because I put 
 my own feelings before his ; because I dared 
 not let all the world know my poor pitiful 
 revenge on him ! And now — oh, Heaven, he 
 is dead and lost to me for ever ! " 
 
 For a moment there is a strange sudden 
 silence ; and then, — 
 
 *' You loved him ! " cries a fierce hoarse 
 voice. " All this time you cared for him ! 
 Dear Heaven, have mercy on me ! " And 
 Lance falls by her side, with his head on the 
 folds of her soft white dress and his hands 
 clenched in agony above his bright brown curls. 
 
 Yolande looks at him in his bitter sufier- 
 ing, and her heart goes out to him in pity. 
 Does she not know, only too well, too pain- 
 fully, what it is to bear torture like this ? 
 
My Lady Coquette, 187 
 
 ** I have loved you all this time," he 
 goes on, in a voice so strange that Yolande 
 can scarcely recognise it — ** loved you and 
 thought of you only ! And I never for one 
 moment imagined that — that there was any 
 one else ! " 
 
 " Did I hide it so well ? " she asks, with 
 a despair that echoes his own. 
 
 He is silent ; only a tremor shakes the 
 strong young form, and the sound of a 
 choking sob escapes his lips. Yolande bends 
 over the prostrate figure ; her tears fall like 
 rain upon the short crisp curls. 
 
 " Lance," she says — " oh. Lance, don't 
 grieve! I — I am not worth it. You don't 
 know what a wicked girl I am ! " 
 [^" If you were the vilest woman in the 
 world, it could make no difference to me ! " 
 he answers, hoarsely. " I have loved you all 
 my life. Can I change now ? " 
 
 Yolande is silent, shaken to her very 
 heart's core. 
 
 She looks at him with wide sorrowful 
 
1 88 3Iy Lady Coquette. 
 
 eyes, while the heavy tears run slowly 
 down her cheeks. At last he lifts his face, 
 all haggard and passion-marred, and sees 
 her own distress. 
 
 " Don't fret," he says, bravely. " You will 
 make yourself ill again, Yolande." 
 
 The kind unselfish words stir the girl's 
 heart to passionate remorse. 
 
 *• Oh, Lance, Lance," she sobs, " you are 
 so brave, so good ! Why did you waste 
 your heart on such a thankless, foolish girl 
 as I am ? " 
 
 ** Love is not in any man's control," he 
 answers, sadly. ** I loved you because I 
 could not help it ; and you — you did the 
 same to him ! " 
 
 " Yes," she says, simply. " And yet I 
 sent him from me with bitter words — I 
 refused his love 1 " 
 
 "Yolande!" 
 
 "You see," she goes on, trying to speak 
 steadily despite the piteous quiver of the 
 poor pale lips — "you see, Lance, I was 
 
My Lady Coquette, 189 
 
 angry because he had offended me once ; 
 and I vowed to bring him to my feet and 
 repay him to the uttermost farthing. I did 
 it at last ; but at what a cost only Heaven 
 and my own heart know ! Lance, we bear 
 the same burden, you and I ! I don't know 
 which is the heavier ; mine is, I think, for, 
 when I remember how I sent him away that 
 afternoon with such bitter, scornful words, I 
 could not know that that act would bring 
 me a life's remorse. Oh, Lance, to think 
 that he is dead — dead, and lost for ever ! 
 that never in all the years to come can I 
 see his face or hear his voice, or know he 
 has forgiven ! When I think of the future 
 — of all the long blank years when, in 
 summer or winter, by day or night, I shall 
 never meet him, watch how I may — when, 
 in vain remorse, in heart-broken agony, I 
 shall hold out my arms, despairing, waiting, 
 and only shadows can fill them — when I call 
 and call and there comes no answer — oh. 
 Lance, how can I bear it ? Why did not 
 
IQO My' Lady Coquette, 
 
 Heaven let me die when death was so 
 near ? " 
 
 The poor young lover hears these pas- 
 sionate plaints, and his heart grows faint 
 within him. He has lost her so utterly 
 now — lost her as though indeed the death 
 for which she craves had folded her in icy 
 arms which no power on earth could ever 
 unloose again ! 
 
 When the wild sobs cease, when the quiver- 
 ing form lies back exhausted on the pillows, 
 he breaks the bitter silence that has held 
 them both so long. 
 
 '* Yolande," he says, slowly. " I shall 
 always be your friend. I shall always, 
 through good and evil, through joy and 
 sorrow, be true to you as ever I have been. 
 But of all dearer hope there can be no 
 question now. That is all — finished. If 
 your heart is given to another, even though 
 he be dead, there is no place in it for me. 
 I cannot say I will try to forget you — 
 that is impossible — but at least I will never 
 
My Lady Coquette, 191 
 
 pain you by any recurrence to — this. Do 
 you believe me ? " 
 
 ** Yes, Lance," she answers, softly, " I do. 
 You are so good and true, I would believe 
 you always — before any one. And will you 
 forgive me all the pain I have caused you, 
 Lance, to-day and other days ? " 
 
 He looks at her with yearning eyes. A 
 quiver of pain passes over the handsome 
 boyish face. 
 
 " Would not you forgive — him ? " he says, 
 softly. 
 
 And Yolande sees how far nobler this 
 love is than her own. 
 
 " One word more," he says at last, as he 
 prepares to leave her side. '' Yolande, I 
 must tell what you mentioned ; it is not fair 
 to conceal it any longer. Jdi course your 
 illness would be a good excuse for your not 
 speaking sooner. . "What time did — he — leave 
 you ? " 
 
 " It must have been ^^^, or a little after," 
 answers Yolande, turning her white face away. 
 
192 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 " And in what direction did he go ? " 
 
 "He took the path that leads from the 
 brook into the heart of the wood," she 
 answers, with painful effort at self-command. 
 
 " That is all you know then," he interro- 
 gated — "nothing that gave you any clue 
 to his intentions ? I do not want to pain 
 you, dear ; but, if I don't ask these ques- 
 tions, others will. This mystery must be 
 solved, if possible." 
 
 " I know you mean it for the best," she 
 says, mournfully, "but I can give you no 
 clue to his after-intentions. We quarrelled 
 and — parted. That is all." 
 
 But looking at the change in every line 
 of the lovely smiling face, at the havoc 
 which pain and suffering have wrought in 
 the fresh sweet beauty of this girl to whom 
 all his loving passionate heart is given, 
 Lance murmurs, with terrible foreboding, — 
 
 " All ? Oh, Heaven, if it only was ? " 
 
 mmmm: 
 
CHAPTER XII I. 
 
 ANCE STAPLETON leaves the Court 
 with a heavier heart than he has 
 known for many a long day. All 
 hope of winning Yolande's love is over now. 
 Even though Denzil Charteris be no longer a 
 living rival, he feels that his place can never 
 be taken. It is not in the girl's nature to 
 love again as she has loved the man she 
 wronged. " And how that love has changed 
 her ! " thinks Lance, despairingly. ** She looks 
 as though earth would not hold her long. 
 Oh, my poor little darling, if only I could 
 suffer for you ! " 
 
 Lance walks on rapidly to the village. He 
 knows he has a distasteful duty to perform, 
 and he longs to get it over. As he walks 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
194 ^y Lady Coquette. 
 
 through the narrow streets many a hat is 
 touched, many a hearty greeting follows him, 
 for the young man is a favourite everywhere. 
 At the Mervyn Arms a group of men are 
 standing, among them the police inspector, 
 who, since the mystery of Denzil Charteris's 
 disappearance, has been burrowing for infor- 
 mation in every direction, likely and unlikely. 
 
 To him Lance addresses himself without 
 loss of time. 
 
 *' I have some news for you, Budd," he 
 says. ** Come into the inn parlour with 
 me." 
 
 The inspector touches his hat, and with no 
 expression of surprise follows the young man 
 as he has directed. 
 
 Once in the clean little parlour, which is 
 good Mrs Hobson's special pride, Lance 
 throws himself into a chair by the window 
 and bids his companion take another. 
 
 ** Have you heard anything more since 
 yesterday ? " he asks. 
 
 "No, sir," answers the man, in the calm 
 
My Lady Coquette. 195 
 
 oily voice peculiar to him. " Nothing of any 
 consequence, so to speak." 
 
 Inspector Budd is a middle-aged man, 
 with a serene, placid countenance, and an 
 habitual smile so full of goodwill and peace 
 to all mankind, that it is difficult to imagine 
 his undertaking any office not beneficial to 
 their interests and well-being. He looks as 
 if not only the milk, but the cream of human 
 kindness was overflowing in his cherubic 
 visage and rippling over his full and ever- 
 smiling lips. There are many people who 
 have an unconquerable prejudice against this 
 smooth and smiling individual, and declare 
 that his hypocritical face is a covering to a 
 mean and merciless nature, and a hard, un- 
 feeling heart. But by the short-sighted and 
 easy-going judges of character who never 
 look below the surface — of whom Lance 
 Stapleton is one — that placid visage is con- 
 sidered both good-natured and intelligent ; 
 they look upon Budd as a man useful in 
 his sphere, far-seeing in his judgment, and 
 
196 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 by no means unskilful in that branch of his 
 profession to which the ignoble word " spy " 
 is sometimes attached. 
 
 This individual listens with great atten- 
 tion to Lance Stapleton's account of what 
 Yolande has told him — listens with a cruel 
 glitter in the downcast green eyes that 
 seldom look any one in the face, and with 
 a suspicion awakening and prejudicing his 
 mind which, if Lance had but known it, 
 would have insured the oily spy a sound 
 kicking from that impetuous young man. 
 
 **This is very important," he says at 
 last — " very important indeed, sir ! Why 
 has the young lady suppressed these facts 
 so long ? " 
 
 " She has been ill, you know," answers 
 Lance. 
 
 " Humph — ill ! The illness was rather 
 sudden, was it not ? " asks the inspector, 
 affably ; and forthwith he draws out a greasy 
 note-book, and proceeds to take down the 
 young man's reply. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 197 
 
 " Yes ; she was out in that dreadful 
 thunder-storm on that day in June, and the 
 fear and exposure upset her, and ended in a 
 serious indisposition." 
 
 ''Exactly, exactly!" says the gentle Budd, 
 more soothingly and silkily than ever. 
 ** Young ladies have delicate nerves ; and, 
 even though perfectly healthy and strong 
 one day, a sudden alarm — such as a thunder- 
 storm, for instance — may render them quite 
 incapable of giving information even in an 
 important case for six — is it not six weeks ? 
 Yes, six weeks. What a pity! What a 
 pity ! " 
 
 "What do you mean?" asks Lance, 
 sharply, finding something in the words 
 and tone of the man not altogether 
 pleasant. 
 
 " Mean ? Nothing I " replies Inspector 
 Budd, in a voice as innocent as a child's. 
 " Just a few more questions, sir, if you 
 please," — for Lance is preparing to leave. 
 "Did any one see the young lady after her 
 
198 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 return from her walk — when she was so 
 nervous and excited, you know ? " 
 
 "How do you know she was nervous and 
 excited ? " asks Lance, suspiciously. 
 
 " Oh, I merely conjecture, sir ! I naturally 
 suppose that the storm, which had such 
 serious consequences, must have left traces 
 of ao;itation at the time." 
 
 " I met her in the wood," commences Lance, 
 and then he stops abruptly. 
 
 Before him rises the vision of the terrified 
 girl fleeing wildly through the dark glades. 
 He remembers her frightened face, her wild 
 eyes, her clinging arms. He remembers her 
 words too of the awful face she had seen, or 
 fancied she had seen, and then her strange 
 excitement, her entreaties to him to promise 
 silence on the subject. All these things flash 
 like lightning through his mind, and he turns 
 very pale. The sharp green eyes note the 
 sudden change in his face, the pallor of the 
 healthy young cheeks, the hesitancy in his 
 words. With pencil poised between fore- 
 
My Lady Coquette. 1 99 
 
 finger and thumb, with the benignant smile 
 on the thick lips more benignant still, In- 
 spector Budd says gently, — 
 
 *' Your answer, sir ? I am waiting." 
 
 *'Then you may wait," answers Lance, 
 brusquely. *' I have nothing more to tell." 
 
 ** Nothing more ? " insinuates Mr Budd, 
 sweetly. *' You are quite sure, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes," says Lance, rising and shaking 
 himself somewhat in the fashion of his own 
 favourite retriever Lion. 
 
 *'As you please, Mr Stapleton, as you 
 please," returns the inspector ; " but I fear, 
 if ever this matter comes before a court of 
 inquiry, you will have to use your tongue 
 a little more freely. No offence, sir, no 
 offence ! " — for Lance turns sharply on 
 him with a look on his fearless young face 
 that is not so expressive of Christian 
 charity as Mr Budd could have desired. 
 
 ** If you give vent to any more of your 
 infernal insinuations, Budd," says young 
 Stapleton, hoarsely, " you'll have a taste of 
 
200 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 my fist before you're many hours older. I'm 
 an easy-going enough fellow anyone knows ; 
 but, by Jove ! there are things that even I 
 can't stand, and your rascally suspicion is one 
 of them ! Now, remember that caution, or 
 you may regret it ! " 
 
 " Mr Stapleton — sir," expostulates Budd 
 with remarkable forbearance, " in the cause 
 of duty we are sometimes obliged to make 
 ourselves unpleasant. I am very sorry that 
 anything I have said should hurt your feelings 
 — very sorry indeed, sir. I hope you won't 
 bear malice, I'm sure. You see I hold a re- 
 sponsible place here, and it's my duty to 
 find out all I can about this sad afiair." 
 
 " Yes, yes," interposes Lance, hurriedly. " I 
 know. I didn't mean to ofi'end you, Budd. 
 Of course you must do your duty. But your 
 words pointed suspicion at some one whose 
 honour is as dear to me as my own. I can't 
 stand that Budd ; so don't do it again." 
 
 " I see, sir, I see," says Budd, with his most 
 •^iffable smile. '* That's the way the land lies. 
 
Aly Lady Coquette, 201 
 
 Very well, sii- ; depend on me. I won't say 
 another word that'll hurt your feelings on 
 that point." 
 
 '* Where are you going now ? " asks Lance, 
 sharply, as the inspector replaces his greasy 
 pocket-book and takes up his hat. 
 
 "I am going to the wood/' he answers, 
 urbanely. " I must follow up the clue the 
 young lady has given, and search in a new 
 direction." 
 
 '' Are you going alone % " inquires Lance, 
 uneasily. 
 
 " Yes, sir — certainly. I have a special 
 object in searching this matter out for my- 
 self. I mean to do it single-handed if 
 possible, Mr Stapleton." 
 
 With a strange fascination Lance watches 
 him. The smiling visage, the averted eyes, 
 the coarse fat hands that are rubbed so 
 silently and contentedly together, all give 
 him a curious feeling of repulsion and dis- 
 like such as he has never before experienced. 
 He sees the inspector leave the inn and go 
 
202 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 down the sunny village street, a seraphic 
 smile on his lips, a wonderful elation in his 
 step. 
 
 Suddenly an impulse seizes Lance, an im- 
 pulse which he will regret to his dying day, 
 yet which now he blindly obeys. He snatches 
 up his hat and rushes from the inn parlour, 
 past the groups of idlers still standing 
 about the door, past the good hostess 
 chatting with neighbourly familiarity at the 
 bar, past — no — not past, the sauntering figure 
 that is walking so leisurely down the quiet 
 street. He pauses, and halts by the in- 
 spector's side. 
 
 '* Mr Budd," he says, with a voice that 
 he strives vainly to make cool and natural, 
 '' if you have no objection, I — I think I 
 will come too." 
 
 ** De-lighted, I'm sure, Mr Stapleton ! '' 
 responds the worthy Budd. " Shall esteem 
 it an honour to have your society." 
 
 Lance makes no answer, and for some 
 moments they walk on in silence. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 
 
 ''Why are you going this way?" asks 
 the young man abruptly, as they turn into 
 the road leading past his fathers grounds, 
 and he sees the old grey mansion gleaming 
 through the trees. 
 
 " It is a shorter cut," answers the inspector, 
 
 *' I think it is much the longer way," says 
 Lance. " Beechhampton Woods lie there " — 
 pointing to the right. 
 
 " True, sir ; but it all depends on which 
 part you're going to.' 
 
 " Oh, have it your own way ! " exclaims 
 Lance, with growing impatience. " I suppose 
 you know what you're about ! " 
 
 '* I hope I do, sir," says smiling Budd, with 
 deep humility. " This road leads by the 
 stables, doesn't it, sir ? " he asks presently. 
 
 *' Yes," says Lance, in an absent tone of 
 voice — he is thinking out the perplexing 
 doubts that will persist in troubling him now. 
 
 " I suppose you don't keep that fine dog 
 of yours anywhere about here ? " insinuates 
 Budd. 
 
204 My Lady Coquette 
 
 " Oh, yes ; he's close to the stable-yard ! '^ 
 returns Lance, carelessly. " If I was to give 
 a" whistle, he'd be over the wall and here in 
 no time." 
 
 "Dear me !" exclaims the inspector. "You 
 don't say so, sir ! What a wonderful animal ! 
 How I should like to see him do that ! " 
 
 " Would you ? Well, it's soon done," says 
 unsuspecting Lance ; and he gives a long 
 shrill whistle as he speaks. 
 
 In another moment there is a rustle among 
 the herbage, the sound of hurrying feet, and 
 then a large black retriever appears in sight 
 and greets his master with noisy gratification. 
 
 " There," says Lance—" didn't I tell you ? 
 Down, Lion — down, good dog % " he goes on, 
 trying to calm the animal's exuberant over- 
 tures of delight. 
 
 "He would like a walk evidently," suggests 
 the diplomatic Budd. " What a handsome 
 fellow he is, to be sure ! " 
 
 " Come to heel, Lion! " says Lance, sharply. 
 " Follow ! " 
 
My Lady Coquette. 205 
 
 The inspector gives a quiet chuckle, and 
 bestows some more invisible soap on his 
 smooth fat hands. 
 
 *'Now, if I had told him why I wanted 
 that dog," he says to himself, " I should 
 never have had him following here at our 
 heels, for all the world like a blessed lamb. 
 Oh, how precious blind these outspoken, 
 honest young chaps like Mr Stapleton are ! 
 You can lead 'em by the nose, and they 
 never see it — only think all the time as how 
 they're a-leading you." 
 
 Then they plunge into deeper shadow and 
 leave the sunlight and the brightness behind 
 them. Is it an omen of the dark mystery 
 slowly and surely weaving its evil web around 
 the future of both ? In the quiet woods all 
 is solitary and still. The shadows fall in 
 cool patches over the sward, the soft moss 
 looks green and fresh, the birds rustle the 
 branches as they flit from bough to bough. 
 
 Shut in from sight and sound by its close 
 belt of beech and tangled shoots of briar- wood 
 
2o6 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 lies the dark pool, rendered difficult of access 
 by the labyrinth of trees and underwood 
 around it. No one has yet come to that 
 lonely spot throughout these weeks of search- 
 ing. It is unknown to most of the villagers, 
 and in all the anxiety and wonder caused 
 by Denzil Charteris's disappearance, no one 
 has ever suggested looking for him here. 
 
 Even in the mid-day heat a strange cold- 
 ness and gloom rest on this spot. The 
 great trees ward off all the efforts that the 
 sunshine makes to pierce their depths — only 
 some stray glint, fiercer or bolder than its 
 sister rays, manages at times to dart through 
 the thick screen of branches in a triumphant 
 flash, and mingle with the fluttering shadows 
 of the leaves. 
 
 But over the black bosom of the pool no 
 glance or ray of sunlight ever falls. It seems 
 to lie apart, in its loathsomeness and corrup- 
 tion, from even the gloom of its surroundings ; 
 it seems to hold some horror or some mystery 
 in its depths which the very sunlight dreads, 
 
My Lady Coquette. 207 
 
 and no ray is bold enough to dawn on those 
 green and stagnant waters or irradiate their 
 gloomy depths. 
 
 Suddenly, in the hushed and unearthly 
 silence that reigns around the spot, there 
 comes a sound as of pattering feet, a hoarse 
 loud bay, and springing through the under- 
 wood, and bringing a strange sense of life 
 into the I shadowy gloom, appears a large 
 black retriever. 
 
 Voices break on the air now — astonish- 
 ment in the one, disgust in the other. 
 
 '' The devil is in that dog of yours, Mr 
 Staple ton," says the voice of Inspector Budd, 
 not smooth and oily now, but hoarse and 
 angry, and with a ring almost of fear in its 
 tones. " Where is he taking us ? " 
 
 ''I'm sure I don't know," answers Lance 
 Stapleton. *' I have never seen this place 
 in my life." 
 
 "Nor I," says the inspector, boldly; but, 
 even as the words pass his lips, he looks 
 through the space where Lance has parted 
 
2o8 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 the branches, and a ghastly change comes 
 over his rubicund visage — a change scarcely 
 warranted even by the lonely gloom and 
 chilling darkness of this most gloomy 
 spot. 
 
 He draws back swiftly, his white lips 
 shaking, his eyes full of an awful horror 
 and loathing. 
 
 '* Here ! " he says — and his very voice 
 has now in it a terror beyond all words. 
 
 His companion does not notice his agita- 
 tion. He follows the dog into the open 
 space and stands looking down into the 
 dark waters of the pool. 
 
 ** What an awful place ! " he says, with 
 an involuntary shudder. *' It looks just fit 
 for a murder ! ' 
 
 *' Murder I — Ha, ha, ha ! " And, with a 
 sharp and jarring sound, the inspector's laugh 
 rings out in that haunted stillness. '' A good 
 joke, Mr Stapleton ! — Ha, ha ! Yes, a good 
 joke ! " 
 
 *' Don't be a fool, Budd ! " cries young 
 
My Lady Coquette, 209 
 
 Stapleton, angrily. " I don't see anything 
 to laugh at, if you do." 
 
 " No, no ! Yes — exactly ! " stammers the 
 inspector. "You see, sir, your words came 
 in so appropriate that I — that you — " 
 
 '' Have you gone off your head entirely ? " 
 asks the young man, looking at him with 
 rising curiosity. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," answers the man, 
 recovering himself by a violent effort. ** I 
 — well, as you say, this is an awful place. 
 It gives one the creeps to look at it." 
 
 "And yet you must have seen many such 
 places, or even more awful, in your time, 
 Budd," pursues Lance, as he leans negligently 
 against one of the trees. 
 
 *'Yes, sir; you're right. I've seen many a 
 stranger place than this in my hunts after 
 criminals and — " 
 
 " And crimes, Budd ? " puts in Lance, as he 
 hesitates. 
 
 " And crimes, sir, as you say," echoes the 
 inspector, with a nervous glance at Lion, who 
 
 VOL. I. O 
 
2IO My Lady Coquette. 
 
 is rushing about in restless eagerness from 
 side to side of the thorny underwood. 
 
 ** Lion ! " says his master. " Here ! '* 
 
 The dog turns back reluctantly and comes 
 to his side as if entreating permission to renew 
 his researches. 
 
 Lance regards him for a moment with great 
 perplexity ; then he says quietly, — 
 
 "Seek!" 
 
 The dog rushes off with a bark of delight, 
 and plunges into the thicket on the opposite 
 side of the pool. 
 
 "Follow him if you like," says Lance to 
 the inspector. " I'm too tired. I shall stay 
 here and have a smoke." 
 
 '' Stay here ? " questions the inspector, with 
 an apprehensive glance. 
 
 ** Certainly ! Why not ? " is the cool re- 
 joinder. 
 
 " Oh, nothing, sir — nothing ! " says Budd, 
 cheerfully. '* It's a lonesome place ; but, if 
 you like — " 
 
 "I do like; and I mean to stay," persists 
 
My Lady Coquette, 2 1 1 
 
 Lance. " I don't suppose the place is 
 haunted. At least, I'm not afraid of ghosts, 
 even if it is." 
 
 " Ghosts ! Ha, ha ! " and the inspector's 
 laugh rings out so wildly and mirthlessly that 
 even Lance starts as he hears its weird echoes. 
 " Well, good morning, Mr Stapleton. I'm 
 going to see after Lion. I'll leave you to 
 the ghosts, sir." 
 
 But Lance's face has no such pallid shadow 
 on its grave thoughtfulness as the face of the 
 man who has left him, and, with white lips 
 and unsteady feet, is now making his way 
 through the tangled briars and over the thick 
 damp moss. 
 
 Lance lights his cigar, and seats himself on 
 the gnarled and knotted roots of a great 
 beech. His eyes look thoughtfully into the 
 waters round which the dank weeds and ugly 
 nightshade are so thickly set. Then his gaze 
 turns to the belt of trees and the heavy screen 
 of underwood that fence in this ill-omened 
 spot. What is it that, suddenly catching his 
 
212 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 eye, turns him suddenly so pale and stiff, 
 that chains him to his seat with powerless 
 limbs, over which he seems to have lost all 
 control? 
 
 With a violent effort he staggers to his 
 feet, and then suddenly drops back again. 
 
 *' I won t look — I won't touch it ! " he says, 
 and straightway re -lights his cigar, and turns 
 away his eyes in the opposite direction. 
 
 In vain — in vain ! 
 
 It seems as if some hideous fascination 
 draws them back — back slowly and surely — 
 back to that same object. Such a little thing 
 too — a piece of loose pale-coloured muslin, 
 caught and held by the tangled branches — a 
 fragment of some girl's dress may be — a little, 
 foolish, fluttering thing, blown thither by 
 some chance wind, caught and held perhaps 
 by the rude rough briars as the penalty of 
 some feminine intrusion into this desolate 
 place ! 
 
 Of course that is all. 
 
 ** What more can it, shall it be?" thinks 
 
My Lady Coquette. 2 1 3 
 
 Lance, passionately, as he springs to his 
 feet and rushes towards the fatal bit of 
 muslin, and takes it from its place with 
 trembling fingers, and conceals it in the 
 pocket of his coat. Yet, even as he thrusts 
 the careless fragment in, a voice arrests him, 
 and holds him there mute, abased, as 
 though the simple action were criminal. 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr Stapleton," says the 
 slow oily voice of the police spy; ** nothing 
 found here must be concealed. It will all 
 be wanted in evidence," 
 
 " What do you mean?" asks Lance, hoarsely, 
 as he confronts his smiling face. 
 
 ''Mean sir? Only this. Your dog has 
 found a hat with Mr Charteris's name inside 
 it ; and — pardon me, sir — I have grave 
 suspicions — very grave — that we are not 
 so far off from the scent as we were. I 
 think if this pool were searched it would 
 be as well, for 'tis my belief now that Mr 
 Charteris has been — murdered." 
 
 As the horrible word that so well suits 
 
2 1 4 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 the horrible place hisses from the man's 
 pale lips and fall on Lance Stapleton's ear, 
 a sudden tongue of sunlight leaps through 
 the darkness and shines and quivers over 
 the silent pool. 
 
 At the same moment the dog looks down 
 into the loathsome depths, and then lifts 
 up his voice in one long melancholy howl 
 that fills the woods around with hideous 
 echoes. 
 
 1^1 
 
CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 ANCE STAPLETON stands with 
 his hand in his pocket, into 
 which he had thrust the torn 
 scrap of muslin that the briars had held 
 in their senseless grasp for six long weary 
 weeks. The veins in his temples stand out 
 like cords ; intense loathing of the smiling 
 smooth-faced watcher takes possession of 
 him. He feels as if a net of suspicion were 
 being slowly woven around the simplest 
 action he performs or word he utters. 
 
 With half-closed merciless eyes the in- 
 spector remains quietly beside him, reading 
 all the doubt and anger of the frank young 
 face. He knows so well for whom that 
 rash action was just now performed, and, 
 
2 1 6 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 rejoicing in its non-accomplishment, builds 
 up upon its basis a fabric the terrible 
 strength of which only time can prove or 
 falsify. 
 
 "You will be kind enough to tell me 
 what you have found, sir % " he says. 
 
 The slow soft words fire the young man's 
 brain with impotent rage. He swings round 
 fiercely and flashes an indignant glance at 
 the speaker. 
 
 " Found ? " he repeats, scornfully. "" A 
 scrap of stuff like this ! That's all I've 
 found ! Make what you can of it ! " And 
 he flings it upon the ground. But, even 
 as he does so, a memory sharp as a winged 
 arrow darts through his mind, the memory 
 of a day when, while soothing a girl's fright 
 and striving to pacify her fears, he had 
 noted the fresh-made rent in her pretty 
 muslin dress, and she had told him it had 
 been torn in the woods. 
 
 With hasty fingers Inspector Budd picks 
 up the fluttering fragment, and examines it 
 
My Lady Coquette. 217 
 
 with a close attention that is absolutely 
 maddening to Lance. 
 
 " What mountain is there coming out of 
 that mole-hill ? " he asks, contemptuously. 
 
 " Time will show, sir — time will show," 
 answers the man, with that mild reiteration 
 of words that always irritates impatient 
 Lance. ** Now, sir, will you please look at 
 this ? " 
 
 He hands him the hat that all this time 
 he has been holding in his hands. It is a 
 broad felt hat of foreign manufacture, one 
 that Denzil Charteris has particularly affected 
 — a hat the like of which no one else in 
 the neighbourhood round has ever been seen 
 to wear. But, even if this had not been 
 conclusive as to the ownership, it bears on 
 the white silk lining the initials " D. C." 
 
 Lance looks at it in a sort of stupor for 
 several moments. 
 
 " This does not prove anything," he says, 
 in a low unsteady voice. " He — might have 
 lost it." 
 
2i8 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 A faint smile wavers in sickly mirth over 
 the face of his companion. 
 
 '' Lost it ? " he repeats. '' Hardly possible, 
 sir. Gentlemen don't go about bare-headed 
 as a rule ; and even — " 
 
 The words are cut short by another prolonged 
 howl from the dog, who still moves restlessly 
 to and fro beside the pool — a howl which makes 
 them both start, it is so weird and ominous. 
 
 " Lion ! " calls Lance ; but for once the 
 dog refuses to obey the summons. He only 
 utters a low whine and peers down into the 
 stagnant waters. 
 
 "Will you send him in, sir?" asks the 
 man ; and Lance does not notice how anxious 
 is the voice, how pale are the shaking lips 
 of his questioner. 
 
 " In there % Faugh ! " And he turns with 
 a shudder of disgust away from the noisome 
 place. " No," he says, curtly ; *' if you wish 
 the place searched, send for drags and have 
 it done. I don't choose to have my dog 
 poisoned for your suspicions." 
 
My Lady Coqtiette. 219 
 
 '' Very good, sir," answers Budd with 
 alacrity ; we will return and let them know 
 in the village what weVe found. Nothing 
 can happen here while we're away, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 A curious fancy crosses Lance Stapleton's 
 mind as he hears these words — a fancy that 
 the man's voice sounded almost as though 
 he hoped something would happen in the 
 meantime ; but he says nothing — only in 
 his own mind he thinks, — 
 
 ** After all, Budd is a coward ; in the 
 presence of real responsibility he loses all 
 self-control." 
 
 It is quite two hours before they both 
 return ; and with them come men with 
 cords and lanterns and drags, their faces 
 eager with excitement — an excitement that 
 changes to a dread and silent gravity as 
 they come into the still and mournful 
 place. 
 
 To Lance's great annoyance Arthur Mer- 
 vyn has insisted upon accompanying the 
 
2 20 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 men in their ghastly journey. He had 
 been loitering in the village, and, hearing 
 of what had occurred, declared his inten- 
 tion of seeing the mysterious spot where 
 these new discoveries had been made. In 
 vain Lance had entreated and besought him 
 to remain behind. He was determined to 
 " see the thing out," as he termed it ; and 
 now first and foremost of the pale and 
 awestruck faces around appears the usually 
 jovial visage of the wild school-boy. 
 
 It is a weird scene. The gloom is so deep 
 that the lanterns are lit, although it is 
 bright afternoon beyond the thick dense 
 woods. The uncertain wavering lights fall 
 with strange gleams over the faces of the 
 men, and the hoarse hushed whispers that 
 from time to time accompany their labours 
 mingle mournfully with the loud bays or 
 plaintive howls of the restless dog. 
 
 Lance Stapleton stands a little aloof from 
 the group of searchers, his eyes with sicken- 
 ing horror watching their exertions, his 
 
My Lady Coquette. 221 
 
 strong young hands trembling like a 
 woman's as he holds them tightly clasped 
 behind his back. 
 
 Again and again the drag stirs the 
 noisome waters ; again and again the word 
 flies from lip to lip—" Nothing ! " The 
 dread begins to leave the young man's mind, 
 the deadly faintness no longer numbs his 
 heart and creeps with death - like chill 
 through his glad young veins. 
 
 " A false alarm ! Oh, thank Heaven, thank 
 Heaven ! " he says, and leans back against 
 the great beech by which he has stood so 
 long, closing his eyes in the momentary 
 faintness of this glad reaction. 
 
 As he opens them again a hoarse murmur 
 breaks upon his ear. The crowd sway and 
 move in one direction. Then a strange 
 whisper steals through the stranger silence 
 of the horror that holds them now. In an 
 agony of fear — a fear that must know the 
 worst at any cost — he rushes forward. 
 
 The men strain and pull at the laden drag. 
 
2 22 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 How strangely, fearfully heavy, it has 
 become ! 
 
 Slowly, slowly — each second of time seem- 
 ing hours long to those who watch and 
 wait for the revelation so near at hand now 
 — the dreadful burden comes in sight. 
 
 Lance gives one look of shuddering horror, 
 and then falls face downwards upon the 
 turf, hearing nothing, seeing nothing — faint 
 and chilled to the bone, with a mist before 
 his eyes that shuts out everything except 
 that fleshless mass of corruption, which only 
 a few weeks before had been a loving, 
 breathing, living man. 
 
 Presently a hand touches him, a trem- 
 bling voice falls upon his ear. 
 
 '' Lance," says Arthur Mervyn, '' Lance, 
 old fellow, are you better % It was horrible, 
 I know. I never had such a turn in my 
 life as the sight gave me. Let us go home 
 now. We can do no good." 
 
 Lance looks up and staggers to his 
 feet. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 223 
 
 "What do they — think — it is?" he asks, 
 faintly. " Accident or — " But his lips 
 cannot frame that other word. It is too 
 full of horror now. 
 
 " No one says yet," answers Arthur, tak- 
 ing his arm and hurrying him away from 
 the ghastly spot. *' I suppose the inquest 
 will have to decide that." 
 
 " The inquest ! " cries Lance, in a voice 
 of horror. 
 
 ** Of course there will have to be an in- 
 quiry," continues Arthur, as if proud of the 
 superior knowledge he is displaying. " But 
 how they're to prove anything goodness 
 knows ; for the man's past all recognition ! 
 Even his clothes are rotted away." 
 
 Lance shudders. They are leaving the 
 glade now ; a path has been formed through 
 the tangled underwood by the tramp of the 
 numerous feet, the passage of many bodies. 
 Involuntarily the young man glances back 
 as he leaves the horrible spot. In that 
 glance he sees the pale triumphant face of 
 
2 24 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 the inspector looking back at his own ; and ^ 
 something in the malice and cunning of that 
 smooth and smiling visage sends a thrill of 
 fear to the stout young heart. As plain as 
 speech could have told it, he reads the 
 man s intention, the plan of his future con- 
 duct ; and he curses his own blindness and 
 folly in having been the first to pave the 
 way for such suspicions, so deep a dread has 
 he of their future results. 
 
 ** Oh, my darling, my darling," he murmurs, 
 passionately, " am I, who would lay my life 
 down to give you a moment's happiness — 
 am I the unfortunate wretch who has led 
 that vile spy's viler thoughts to you ? But 
 no — they shall not touch you ! If human 
 power can avert the storm, the approach of 
 which I can plainly read, that power shall 
 never rest till you are safe — I swear it ! " 
 
 " What are you muttering there, Lance ? " 
 asks Arthur, in wonder. 
 
 " Was I muttering ? " he says, with sudden 
 effort. *' Well, perhaps so ; Arthur, do you 
 
My Lady Coquette. 225 
 
 know no one has so much cause to rejoice 
 over Denzil Charteris's death as I ? " 
 
 ** What do you mean ? " asks the boy, in 
 perplexity, surveying his companion as though 
 he entertained grave doubts of his sanity. 
 
 "You see," goes on Lance, in a strange, 
 measured voice, " I have always cared for 
 your sister Yolande ever since I can re- 
 member. Now of late Charteris has been 
 my rival. We — we had a fearful quarrel 
 about her lately. Now you see what I 
 mean, Arthur, don't you ? " he continues, in a 
 forced, feverish voice. '' Now — well, the coast 
 is clear for me ! — Ha, ha ! A live dog, you 
 know, Arthur, is better than a dead lion ! " 
 
 *' Lance," says the boy, slowly and sternly, 
 as he pauses and surveys the white, strange 
 face before him, " always up to this time I 
 have looked upon you as a right good fellow 
 and a true gentleman ; but, by Jove ! if any 
 other man said such words to me as you 
 have said just now, I should tell him to his 
 face he was a cad ! " 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
2 26 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 The indignation in tone and features of 
 the boy who speaks so honestly and bravely 
 seems only to give Lanee Stapleton a sense 
 of relief, not of shame. 
 
 *' I don't care," he says, doggedly ; " I have 
 spoken out what I feel. You are at liberty 
 to make what use you like of it." 
 
 " Good Heaven ! Lance, are you mad % " 
 cries the boy, furiously. " Do you want 
 people to believe you have had a hand in 
 this black day's work ? You must be mighty 
 careless of your reputation all of a sudden ! " 
 
 Lance says nothing — he only passes on 
 through the narrow path, while the sunlight 
 slants through the parted boughs and lights 
 up his pale young face, stern and set now 
 in the martyrdom of a nobler sacrifice than 
 the seemingly careless words represented. 
 . In mute perplexity Arthur follows. He 
 still thinks that the horror of the past hours 
 has afi"ected Lance Stapleton's brain. How 
 otherwise can he account for such wild words 
 as those he has just heard ? " 
 
My Lady Coquette. 227 
 
 " I suppose I must tell them about this 
 at home, Lance," he says, hesitatingly ; for 
 silence is by no means Arthur s strong point, 
 and he prefers hearing his own voice to walk- 
 ing along by his now speechless companion. 
 
 Lance starts, and by a vigorous effort 
 forces himself to pay attention. 
 
 " On no account ! I mean, mention it 
 only to your father. For Heaven's sake, 
 don't tell Yolande ; it will kill her ! " 
 
 *' What, in Heaven's name, makes you 
 think Yolande cared for Charteris ? " asks 
 Arthur, impatiently. ''If you're spoons on 
 her, do you suppose every other fellow must 
 be the same ? " 
 
 '' I know he cared for her," answers Lance, 
 steadily ; " and I fear she is mourning for 
 him too." 
 
 " But she must learn this sooner or later," 
 persists Arthur ; " so, if one person doesn't 
 tell her, another will." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so;" and poor faithful 
 Lance shudders and turns pale as he speaks. 
 
2 28 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 " Well, if some one must tell her, I will. 
 Keep silence till to-night, Arthur, and I will 
 come round and break it to her as care- 
 fully as I can. If she was only not so ill ! " 
 he adds, mournfully. 
 
 " Do you think fretting after Charteris has 
 been the cause of all this illness ? " asks 
 Arthur, curiously. " By Jove ! none of us 
 ever thought a jolly, flirting girl like Yolande 
 would care two pins about any man, least 
 of all a gloomy, stuck-up fellow like he was ! 
 I gave her credit for better taste ; I did 
 indeed." 
 
 Every foolish word goes like a dagger to 
 Lance Stapleton's heart. How little this 
 rash boy knows of the agony his silent 
 companion is suffering ! 
 
 All further attempts at conversation fail 
 now, and Arthur comes to the conclusion 
 that there is certainly a screw loose about 
 Lance, or that his quarrel with Denzil Char- 
 teris has been more serious than any one 
 suspects. 
 
My Lady Coquette, 229 
 
 At the cross-roads they part, Arthur to go 
 homewards in all the importance of pos- 
 sessing such a terrible secret, Lance to bury 
 himself in solitude and loneliness, there to 
 think out some way of evading the com- 
 plications which fate is slowly and surely 
 weaving around his darling's path. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 HE long hot day has come to a close 
 at last. 
 
 At Mervyn Court the windows 
 are all open. The roses are drenched with 
 dew, and their sweet scents come up on 
 the wings of every little breeze that faintly 
 breathes its languid sighs to the approaching 
 night. A great peace, a great stillness is 
 everywhere, falling as the light of the stars 
 falls on the leafage, the gleam of dew on the 
 flowers. Within, a faint glow of lamplight 
 shows the occupants of the room scattered 
 about in groups, or sitting alone, as they 
 prefer. Mr Mervyn is reading the newspaper ; 
 the faithful Skipton hovers in close proximity 
 to him. Arthur is bending over a solitaire 
 
My Lady Coquette. 231 
 
 board, an uneasy expression on his handsome 
 boyish face. Vi and Enid are reading the 
 same book — a fashion they much afiect. On 
 \h^ couch by the window Yolande is lying, 
 her white filmy dress floating around her, the 
 beautiful masses of her hair gleaming like 
 dusky gold in the faint lamplight, her eyes 
 looking out on the dark, still, fragrant night 
 with a wistful shadow in their violet depths. 
 
 Presently Arthur saunters up to the couch 
 and stands beside her, looking out as she 
 herself is looking — wistfully, waitingly. 
 
 *'It is a lovely night," he says, presently. 
 "Don't you think, Yolande, you might take 
 a turn in the garden ? " 
 
 His sister looks at him in surprise. Such 
 an offer is indeed a novelty on Arthur s part. 
 
 "Yes, I think I should like it," she answers, 
 rising languidly from her couch, " if you won't 
 mind giving me your arm." 
 
 " All right," says Arthur, chuckling quietly 
 over his own diplomacy. *' Here, put this 
 on," he adds, catching up a lace shawl and 
 
232 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 wrapping it round the slender figure. " Now 
 let's be off." 
 
 " Yolande, my dear Yolande," exclaims the 
 voice of Miss Skipton, '' you surely are not 
 going to venture out in the night air — in your 
 delicate state too ? " 
 
 ''Yes, she is," answers Arthur, abruptly. 
 " It won't do her any harm either. Fresh 
 air is a thousand times better for her than 
 molly-coddling and medicines ! " 
 
 " It won't hurt me, Miss Skipton," says 
 Yolande, gently. " The night is so warm ; 
 and I will put something over my head." 
 
 "But your feet, my dear ! " persists the 
 anxious duenna. "Such thin shoes as those 
 are not fit for — " 
 
 But further remonstrance is drowned by a 
 fierce " Bother ! " from Arthur, and the sum- 
 mary ejection of his sister through the open win- 
 dow by a movement more forcible than polite ; 
 " We won't go on the grass," he says ; 
 "just keep on the path. We'll stroll down 
 to the lodge gates." 
 
My Lady Coquette. 233 
 
 Yolande acquiesces, and, leaning on his 
 strong young arm, she moves like a shadow 
 under the starlit leafage of the avenue. 
 
 They are not half way down the long 
 gravelled drive when the sound of an ap- 
 proaching footstep falls on their ears — a quick 
 hasty footstep, as of some one speeding to 
 meet them. Yolande halts involuntarily. 
 
 '' Who can be coming % " she says. 
 
 " Perhaps it's Lance," suggests Arthur, inno- 
 cently. " He often looks in about this time." 
 
 '* Lance ! " repeats -Yolande, in faint wonder. 
 " He has been here once already to-day. I 
 scarcely think he would come again." 
 
 As she speaks she hears the great clock in 
 the tower strike slowly and distinctly. She 
 finds herself counting each stroke as it booms 
 heavily on the still sweet summer night — 
 " One, two, three," and so on, up to nine. 
 
 " Nine o'clock ! " she says. '' No ; Lance 
 never comes so late as that." 
 
 But, as the words pass her lips, she sees it 
 is Lance. He comes straight up the avenue 
 
2 34 -^y Lady Coquette, 
 
 towards them, the starlight on his white hag- 
 gard face, a look in his eyes that Yolande has 
 never seen in them before through all the years 
 they have been playmates and companions. 
 
 He stands before her; he gives her no 
 greeting ; he only looks at her pale sweet 
 face with an infinite sorrow, a yearning ten- 
 derness in his own. 
 
 Somehow — Yolande never quite knows how 
 — she finds herself standing alone with him 
 under the elm shadows. Arthur has gone. 
 For a moment she looks at Lance in silent 
 w^onder ; then her voice breaks the stillness, 
 all its music changed to pain and fear. 
 
 ** You bring tidings ? " she says. " I see 
 it in your face." 
 
 " Yes," he answers simply, and draws a 
 step nearer. 
 
 She waves him back. 
 
 *' No ; don t touch me ! " she cries, wildly. 
 " I — I can bear it now. Tell me all ! " 
 
 Lance looks at her, half in fear, half in sur- 
 prise ; yet, as he meets her eyes, he sees her 
 
My Lady Coquette. 235 
 
 shrink, and all the horror that fills her heart 
 speaks out in those speaking orbs, and over 
 her face creeps the grey shadow of an inde- 
 scribable change. 
 
 ** He is found ? " she whispers slowly ; and 
 Lance bows his head in faint assent. 
 
 " Where ? " is the next question her white 
 lips form, but strive in vain to utter. 
 
 '' They found him in a lonely pool in a part 
 of the woods unknown to any one," Lance 
 continues — '' drowned. Oh, Yolande ! " — for 
 she sways towards him like a reed. 
 
 " Hush ! " she says, holding up her hand 
 and looking at him with the pallor of death 
 on her own cheeks and brow. " Don't pity me. 
 I drove him to his death that day. Oh ! Heaven 
 be merciful ; for I am indeed his murderess ! " 
 
 " Yolande ! " But the sharp cry in its 
 agonised dread is silenced and cut short by 
 another ; for through the dark close trunks of 
 the trees a figure glides, and a white face, 
 with a cruel smile on the parted lips, comes 
 between the girl and her lover. 
 
236 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 ** Excuse me, Mr Stapleton. Sorry to see 
 you here, sir, under such circumstances. 
 Again I must request you to bear in mind 
 the words you have just heard. The case 
 against Miss Mervyn was grave enough 
 before ; but her own words just now make it 
 doubly so." 
 
 " You hound ! " shouts Lance Stapleton, 
 fiercely. " You infernal spy ! How dare you 
 come dogging my steps and listening behind 
 trees ! Get out of my sight, unless you 
 wish—" 
 
 '' Take care — take care, Mr Stapleton ! '* 
 says the inspector, drawing back a few yards 
 from the infuriated young man. " Don't 
 make matters worse, sir, by assaulting me in 
 the exercise of duty. It'll only make things 
 all the blacker for you and the young lady 
 that you stand up for — of course that being 
 only natural, for all the countryside knows that 
 you're sweet on her ; but, if she's innocent — " 
 
 He never finishes that sentence ; for, with 
 a fiercer oath than ever his brave young lips 
 
My Lady Coquette. 237 
 
 have uttered, Lance Stapleton thrusts his 
 fists into the bully's face, and knocks him 
 to the ground like a felled log. 
 
 *' Lance — oh, Lance ! " 
 
 That pitiful cry recalls him to his senses. 
 The frightened face, the clinging arms, un- 
 nerve him as nothing else could have done. 
 He draws the girl away, and hurries her 
 homewards. 
 
 '* This is no place for you, Yolande," he 
 says. '' Oh, my dear, my dear, what pos- 
 sessed you to say those wild rash words ? " 
 
 " Because I felt them," she answers, 
 solemnly. *' If it had not been for me 
 this would never have happened." 
 
 " Oh, hush — for Heaven's sake, hush ! " he 
 cries in agony. " Yolande, you little know 
 what a horrible network of suspicion that 
 wretch is weaving round your innocent head. 
 Oh, my dear, be careful ! Promise me this — 
 that you will not say to any one what you 
 have said to me. There are cases where even 
 innocence takes the semblance of guilt." 
 
238 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 ** Guilt ! " cries Yolande, amazed ; and then 
 she stops and confronts him. " Lance," she 
 says, " I remember now — that man's words ; 
 at first I could not understand. Now I see. 
 Oh, Lance, is it possible he suspects me — a 
 weak girl — of this ? " 
 
 " He does, the foul-mouthed idiot ! The 
 idea of placing a fool like that at the head 
 of the county police ! Can they wonder if 
 everything's muddled by his addled brains ? " 
 vituperates Lance in red-hot fury. " Come, 
 Yolande, I must take you home, and then 
 see to that — ox. I suppose he'll lie bleeding 
 there till some one picks him up. Now 
 mind, dear, what I'm going to say. Keep 
 up a brave heart, and don't be alarmed, no 
 matter what rumours and stories get afloat. 
 All will come right in the end — it must. 
 There's the house. Now run in, there's a 
 dear! Don't forget what I've said, and 
 Heaven bless you ! " 
 
 He wrings her hand hard as he speaks, 
 and then suddenly a thought seems to come 
 
My Lady Coquette. 239 
 
 to him. He turns and stops her trembling 
 steps. 
 
 '' Yolande," he whispers, hoarsely, *' if you 
 have still the dress you wore — that day — 
 destroy it ! " And, ere she can recover 
 from the amazement caused by his words, 
 he hurries away and returns to the avenue 
 where he has left his senseless foe. 
 
 He finds it vacant. Evidently Budd has 
 recovered more speedily than his assailant 
 deemed likely, for there is no trace of 
 him now. Lance hurries on, and comes in 
 contact with Arthur. They both stop. 
 
 " What's the row now % " asks that hopeful 
 youth. " You look as if you were pursued 
 by Tam 0' Shanter's witches, Lance ! " 
 
 "■ Hush, Arthur ! I'm in no mood for 
 fooling," says the young man, sternly. 
 "Listen. Affairs are getting serious. That 
 idiot of an inspector, Budd, has taken it into 
 his addled head that because Yolande was 
 last with Chart eris she must know something 
 about — about his death. In any case, I 
 
240 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 fear she will be called as a witness at the, 
 inquest to-morrow. It's to be at my father s, 
 luckily, as he's the nearest justice ; and 
 you may trust him to make matters as easy 
 as possible for her." 
 
 " But, come, I say," interrupts Arthur, 
 " it's a beastly shame to mix her up in the 
 affair ! And, if she was fond of Chart eris, 
 why, she'll faint, or make a scene, or some- 
 thing. Confound that meddling old Budd ! 
 ril punch his head for him ; see if I 
 don't ! " 
 
 *' I fear I've already complicated matters 
 by doing something of that kind myself," 
 says Lance, ruefully. **You see he insulted 
 your sister to her face, and my blood was 
 up, and I forget all about his being a sacred 
 being, as I suppose a guardian of the peace 
 is. I therefore gave him a taste of my 
 fists that I don't think he'll soon forget. I 
 suppose he'll accuse me of assault to- 
 morrow. But I don't care." 
 
 Arthur looks admiringly at his companion's 
 
My Lady Coquette, 241 
 
 face. This is a way of settling difficulties with 
 which he ardently sympathises ; and Lance 
 Stapleton goes up a good many degrees in 
 his estimation for the deed he has just 
 performed. 
 
 " Where are you off to now ? " he asks. 
 
 '* Oh, I've lots to do ! " answers Lance, 
 evasively. "You go home now, Arthur, 
 like a good fellow, and break the news to 
 your governor as gently as you can ; and, 
 for Heaven's sake, don't let them worry 
 Yolande with questions ! She's got a hard 
 time before her, poor girl ; and she'll want 
 all the sympathy and encouragement she 
 can get." 
 
 "You're a right good fellow, Lance, upon 
 my honour ! " says Arthur, looking sym- 
 pathisingly at the face on the sunny bright- 
 ness of which so grave a shadow has lately 
 fallen. " It's a thousand pities Yolande didn't 
 care for you instead of Charteris. But then 
 girls have no sense. They don't seem to know 
 a good fellow when they see him." 
 
 VOL. I. Q. 
 
242 My Lady Coqziette. 
 
 "My dear boy, it's of no use crying over 
 spilt milk," answers Lance, with a poor 
 attempt at philosophy. "You see it wasn't 
 to be. Now I can't stand chattering here any 
 longer. You must be off. You'll remember 
 all I've told you, won't you ? " 
 
 "Yes," says Arthur, with unusual quiet- 
 ness ; and forthwith he takes his way up the 
 avenue, wondering what in the world fellows 
 could see in Yolande to go mad about, as 
 these two had done. " She's a pretty enough 
 girl ; I won't deny that," muses the young 
 philosopher ; " but so are dozens of other 
 girls. There's Judith Hargreaves now — a 
 nice jolly girl, full of fun and life, and 
 lots of her too ; and yet she never seems 
 to nail a sweetheart as Yolande does. Odd, 
 I must say ! However, I don't mind ; she 
 can wait for me, and I needn't have any 
 jealous twinges like — well like Lance and 
 Charteris and all those other young spooneys 
 seem to suffer from." 
 
 When he reaches home he finds Yolande 
 
My Lady Coquette, 243 
 
 has gone to bed, and the rest of the family- 
 are still in blissful ignorance of the day's 
 events. It is with a tremendous sense of 
 importance therefore that Arthur begins to 
 inform them of matters, dwelling very lightly 
 on Yolande's share in the tragedy, and 
 merely hinting that, as she had chanced to 
 meet Denzil Charteris in the woods on that 
 day, she might be asked to give evidence 
 at the inquest. 
 
 Amazement and horror are rife for the 
 space of the next hour ; and Arthur is over- 
 whelmed with questions. 
 
 Could it have been a suicide or an acci- 
 dent ? Who did he think could have mur- 
 dered Charteris ? "Was he robbed ? What 
 did they say at the Priory ? That poor 
 Mrs Eay — she would be broken-hearted ! 
 
 Arthur parries these inquiries as best he 
 can, and launches forth into vague descrip- 
 tions of how he would trace the guilty 
 person, supposing the powers of justice were 
 in his experienced hands. 
 
244 ^y Lady Coquette. 
 
 At last they have talked themselves out, 
 and, with a parting injunction to the excited 
 twins on no account to disturb Yolande any- 
 more that night, Arthur dismisses the sub- 
 ject and takes himself off to bed. 
 
 Night and darkness fall slowly down upon 
 the grey old Court, bringing peace and sleep 
 to all save one of its inmates. 
 
 For her there are no sleep and no peace. 
 A strange fear creeps over her sad young 
 heart — a fear that deepens with the deepen- 
 ing night and chills her with miserable fore- 
 bodings. The words of the cruel spy still 
 ring in her tortured ears ; the memory of 
 the horrible suspicion uncoiling itself like 
 a snake from amidst the doubts and terrors 
 of one evil mind recurs again and again. 
 She thinks of the shame, the suffering, the 
 horror that will fall on those she loves, 
 among whom the name her own folly has 
 tarnished has ever been an honoured and 
 a sacred thing. Was she to be the first to 
 bring discredit on its repute ? And all for 
 
My Lady Coquette. 
 
 245 
 
 what ? A foolish vanity, a rash vow that 
 now all the remorse and anguish of a life- 
 time can never unsay. She throws herself 
 upon her knees, the hot tears streaming 
 down her cheeks, her bosom racked and 
 tortured by bursting sobs. 
 
 '* Heaven have pity on me, have pity on 
 me ! '' she cries in her agony and despair. 
 " This burden is greater than I can bear ! " 
 
CHAPTEK XVI. 
 
 HE inquest is to be held at the 
 Mervyn Arms, and a jury have 
 been hastily summoned. 
 
 It is a notable fact, however, that both 
 coroner and jury are all on the friendliest of 
 terms with the affable Inspector Budd, and 
 that he has been flitting from one to the 
 other on the previous night, whispering his 
 doubts, murmuring his sad regrets, and al- 
 together leaving a track of strong prejudice 
 behind him. 
 
 " Such a clever man, Budd ! " the farmers 
 and friendly tradesmen murmur over their 
 glasses at the bar. '' He's always got his eyes 
 in the right place. Trust Budd to ferret out 
 this mystery ; he's the man." 
 
My Lady Coquette. 247 
 
 But they look graver and more doubtful as 
 the hours creep by, and a strange whisper 
 circulates, no one quite knows how, among 
 them. 
 
 " A lovers' quarrel " — '' The last person who 
 saw anything of the unfortunate man " — 
 " Fragments of dress found near the place 
 where the body was discovered " — ** Strange 
 silence all this long while — sudden illness, 
 when she'd been well and strong enough on 
 the day of the disappearance — better to call 
 it that just now." So the rumours run from 
 mouth to mouth, whispered with bated breath, 
 and as the night advances they increase and 
 grow wilder and strano;er. 
 
 " Some one trying to screen her — another 
 sweetheart in the case. Good Heaven ! what 
 wouldn't those hot-headed young fellows be 
 after?" "Who? The squire's son? Oh, 
 that's another matter ! Must be careful not 
 to offend him." " Taking the girl's part of 
 course — only natural he should — knows more 
 than any one suspects." "Well, it's a sad 
 
248 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 affair altogether. No one likes to bring clis- 
 yrace on a good old family ; and, after all — " 
 
 "After all, friends," says a rough, hardy 
 voice, " suppose it's only a mare's nest as 
 we've stumbled on ? Who can swear that the 
 body we've found is the body of Mr Charteris ? 
 Not his best friend, I'll warrant ! " 
 
 This bold and extraordinary assertion quite 
 takes away the breath of Farmer Dawson's 
 audience. No shadow of doubt as to the 
 identity of the discovered body witb that of 
 the missing man has entered any one's mind 
 since the discovery of the morning. 
 
 '' Oh, but Budd says so ! " chorus the dis- 
 ciples of that illustrious being. 
 
 *' True eno' — and Budd's sharp a fellow, and 
 he knows what's what." 
 
 " Besides, if it's not Mr Charteris, who could 
 it be ? " asks another. " No one has been 
 missed from here but him." 
 
 "Ay, for certain, Budd knows. He bean t 
 inspector and head of all the other police for 
 nothing," interposes a fresh voice. 
 
My Lady Coquette, 249 
 
 ''Well, we'll see to-morrow," says Farmer 
 Dawson, oivinix in to the decision of the 
 majority. " Perhaps coroner '11 be wiser nor 
 us and identify the body ; though how he's to 
 do it is a moral mystery to me." 
 
 "Bean't there the hat found close to the 
 pool \ And, if Mr Charteris warn't drownded 
 there, where is Mr Charteris now ? That's 
 what I says," remarks a rubicund jolly-visaged 
 farmer, a noted friend and ally of the worthy 
 Budd. 
 
 " True — true," acquiesces another. '' Where 
 he's he now % Gentlemen, don't go off all 
 in a moment with no notice to anybody 
 unless something's at the bottom of it. 
 And if this ain't Mr Charteris, why, where's 
 Mr Charteris that he don't come and show 
 himself ? He's got no cause for to be hiding 
 of himself all this time. The peelers ain't 
 after him, I suppose 1 " 
 
 " Well, it's a queer affair altogether ; that's, 
 my opinion," says Farmer Dawson. " Any- 
 how, I'm a-going home now. So good night, 
 
250 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 friends, and don't be too ready to go a- 
 burrowing with your noses in the warren 
 that's set afore ye ; " and, with this ambi- 
 guous caution, the sturdy farmer departs. 
 
 The next morning, however, when the jury 
 are assembled and the business commences, it 
 is remarked with some surprise that outspoken 
 Farmer Dawson is not one of the number. 
 Another juror has been called in his place. 
 The incident is so slight that few notice it 
 at the time amidst the graver duties that 
 crowd upon their attention ; but in after 
 days it is remembered, and goes to the 
 score of grave suspicions that point to a 
 criminal of whose guilt none know now. 
 
 The process of identification is well-nigh 
 impossible ; for not a feature of the body is 
 recognisable now. In that horrible pool the 
 work of corruption has been rapid ; and no 
 clue, even in clothing or linen, is forth- 
 coming. But then there is no doubt in the 
 
 o 
 
 mind of any one there that this body is 
 the body of the missing man, and the find- 
 
My Lady Coquette. 251 
 
 ing of the hat near the pool, and the fact of 
 Mr Charteris having been seen in the neigh- 
 bourhood of the spot being clearly proved, 
 the coroner declares himself satisfied that this 
 is no other than the long-sought-for man. 
 
 Now come the depositions of witnesses. 
 First and foremost appears Budd himself, 
 whose pale face and swollen lips make his 
 benign physiognomy less pleasing than usual. 
 But his voice is as oily, his smile as sweet 
 as ever. 
 
 He relates the fact of tracing the missing 
 man to the almost-unknown spot by means of 
 Lance Stapleton's retriever, he — the inspector 
 — having furnished the animal with a glove 
 belonging to the deceased ; then came the 
 finding of the hat, the persistence of the dog 
 in keeping to the pool, the dragging of the 
 water, and subsequent finding of the body. 
 These facts Lance Stapleton is called upon to 
 corroborate, which he does. 
 
 At the conclusion of his curtly-given evidence, 
 he observes that he has a remark to make — 
 
252 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 namely, that Doctor Deane, who is well-known 
 in the village, and perfectly acquainted with 
 the missing man, has expressed an opinion 
 that the body found is of shorter stature than 
 that of Mr Charteris. 
 
 Upon this Doctor Deane is summoned. He 
 repeats the statement he has made to Lance, 
 and with it another to the effect that the 
 evidences of decomposition in the discovered 
 corpse are surprisingly great for the lapse of 
 time since Denzil Charteris has been missed. 
 
 " It looks as if it had been six months, 
 instead of six weeks, in the water ? " he says, 
 in conclusion. 
 
 '' Could you swear that this body has been 
 in the water longer than six weeks ? " asks 
 the coroner. 
 
 The worthy doctor hesitates, fidgets, and 
 then says doubtfully, — 
 
 " I could not swear to it ; but I give it as 
 my opinion. It is difficult to speak with 
 absolute certainty in a case of this kind." 
 
 ** Taking into consideration the state of the 
 
My Lady Coquette. 253 
 
 water and the abundance of vegetable and 
 animal substance contained in it, would you 
 give it as your opinion that this body could 
 not have been reduced to such an unrecog- 
 nisable condition in the space of six weeks ? " 
 jDersists the coroner. 
 
 "' I could not absolutely say it is impos- 
 sible," answers Doctor Deane. 
 
 "Would you swear to that?" asks his 
 interrogator, triumphantly ; and again comes 
 the hesitating reply, — 
 
 " I could not swear to it ; but I think so." 
 
 "Well, gentlemen," says the coroner, 
 blandly, " I really don't see that we have 
 any grounds to go upon in refusing to be- 
 lieve that this is the body of Mr Charteris. 
 Of course we should be glad of more ab- 
 solute proof ; but, in its absence — Who 
 is that ? Oh, you, Budd ! " 
 
 *' I beg your pardon, sir," says the polite 
 inspector, *' but a fact has escaped my 
 memory that is very important indeed. You 
 spoke of proof. I think I can offer very 
 
254 ^^ Lady Coquette, 
 
 conclusive proof. In drawing the unfortu- 
 nate gentleman out of the water, I seized 
 one of the hands to help. As I took hold 
 of it something slipped from the fingers. I 
 looked at it, and found it was a ring. I put 
 it hastily into my waistcoat-pocket, intend- 
 ing, of course, to produce it at the inquest. 
 Strange to say, it never occurred to me till 
 this moment." 
 
 " Produce the ring," orders the coroner, 
 eagerly. 
 
 ''It is here, sir — in my pocket, just as I 
 put it ; " and Mr Budd hands it up as he 
 speaks. 
 
 " The ring is in a filthy state ; it must be 
 cleaned," declares the coroner ; and this is 
 accordingly done. 
 
 With the stains and mildew washed ofi" its 
 broad surface, the ring is brought back and 
 handed to the court. It rests in the coroner's 
 hands a moment, and Budd's face grows 
 paler and his white lips twitch more nerv- 
 ously as he awaits the forthcoming decision. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 255 
 
 A momentary gleam of triumph flashes in the 
 coroner's face ; he hands the ring to the jury. 
 
 ''Gentlemen," he says, *'you have heard 
 Inspector Budd's evidence. Are any of you ac- 
 quainted with the seal and motto on that ring?" 
 
 One or two declare they are ; the others 
 maintain a discreet silence. 
 
 " Then it is my duty to inform you, Mr 
 Budd, that this is indeed the most impor- 
 tant evidence you could have supplied. 
 This rino' bears the seal and motto of the 
 Charteris family." 
 
 For a moment dead silence reigns in the 
 room ; then a unanimous murmur breaks 
 forth, half of pity, half of relief. In any case 
 it is pleasant to know there can no longer 
 be any doubt as to whom they have found ; 
 and the business of the inquiry proceeds. 
 
 Lance Stapleton draws a long quivering 
 breath, and his hands grasp tightly the rail 
 of the chair against which he leans. The 
 worst ordeal of all is at hand now ; and he 
 will need all his courage to undergo it. 
 
256 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 The inspector whispers to the coroner. 
 There is a moment's silence, a hush of ex- 
 pectation, and then the order echoes through 
 the court, — 
 
 " Call Miss Mervyn." 
 
 A thrill of surprise, amazement, fear, runs 
 through the crowded room. Involuntarily all 
 eyes turn to where, with slow and languid 
 steps, still weak from recent illness, the slight 
 veiled figure of a girl appears. As she throws 
 back her veil, and faces the gazing throng, a 
 strange feeling of pity fills their hearts. The 
 girl looks so young, so fair ; and on her face is a 
 shadow of grief so intense, of agony so great, as, 
 in all the years they have known and admired 
 its brilliant beauty they have never seen. 
 
 Yet the clear sweet voice answers all the 
 questions unhesitatingly — questions so strange 
 that a vague uneasiness steals upon the listen- 
 ing crowd, and makes them turn and look, 
 with wondering eyes, at each other's faces, 
 mutely asking what all this means, what new 
 horror is to be revealed. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 257 
 
 For, led and blinded by Budd's artful hints 
 and cunningly-gathered evidence, a horrible 
 suspicion is directed against Yolande. 
 
 Her father's face grows grey with fear and 
 unspeakable wrath as he hears the base in- 
 sinuations levelled at his fair young daughter's 
 head. That anything so improbable, so un- 
 reasonable, could have entered the minds of 
 mortal men — men in possession of reason and 
 common-sense — he cannot imagine possible. 
 Yet what is the meaning of all these questions 
 — questions which the brave young voice 
 answers so unfalteringly, let them point to 
 what they will? What mean the pitying 
 looks, the averted glances, the mysterious 
 whispers, that he sees and hears on every side ? 
 Is he dreaming ? Are these people real ? Is 
 it Yolande who speaks — Yolande, his pretty 
 loving, laughing child, who has never before 
 looked or spoken as looks and speaks this pale 
 unshrinking martyr, facing this terrible ordeal 
 for the sake of her dead lost love ? 
 
 The old man trembles in every limb ; his 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
258 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 eyes gaze beseechingly, blindly, at the strange 
 and awestruck faces around. Amidst them 
 all he sees but one — the face with his dead 
 wife's beauty on the beautiful features, but 
 with a look that never was worn by wife or 
 child in all his fond remembrances — the face 
 of a young, pale, resolute girl, with a halo of 
 suffering about her golden head, and at her 
 feet a sea of blood. 
 
 As that red stream flows before his sight 
 his brain suddenly reels, and a cord seems to 
 snap and break. He stretches out his arms 
 to the darkness that engulphs him ; then light 
 and sense and feeling are utterly gone. 
 
 Of all that happens and all that follows he 
 never has sight or knowledge again. 
 
CHAPTER XVI I. 
 
 |UDD has forgotten one thing in the 
 blind animosity that has led him on 
 to persecute Yolande Mervyn, and 
 that is the fact that many of the jurors are 
 her father's tenants, born and bred on the 
 Mervyn property, loving and honouring the 
 Mervyn house with dogged and faithful at- 
 tachment. 
 
 When the evidence has been all given, 
 when the Charteris household have deposed 
 as to Denzil's mysterious disappearance after 
 his arrival from the Continent, and his an- 
 nounced declaration of staying at least a 
 month at the Priory, the coroner sums up the 
 case, and the jury retire to an adjoining room 
 to consider their verdict. 
 
26o My Lady Coquette. 
 
 " 'Tis impossible it's a murder ! Far more 
 like it's an accident," says the foreman, de- 
 cisively. 
 
 " Yes, for sure ! Could a young weak 
 thing like that go for to throw a man i' the 
 water and drownd him ? There be no reason 
 o* the face o' it." 
 
 " And she as kind and merry a young lady 
 as ever stepped. Haven't we known her since 
 she could toddle over the fields yonder, playin' 
 and peepin', and full of the sauciest wiles as 
 ever a little lass could be \ She ha'n't had 
 no hand in this for certain." 
 
 " But what about the quarrel ? " asks a 
 gloomy-faced man who holds strong religious 
 views and preaches at a chapel in the village, 
 and is universally supposed, to be working in 
 the good cause in season and out of season — 
 more often the latter. 
 
 " The quarrel — ay ! Well, lots of young 
 ladies quarrel with their sweethearts ; but 
 that don't go to prove they'll be murderin' 
 them the next minnit." 
 
My Lady Coquette. 261 
 
 " In any case it's not for us to go making 
 enemies of the gentry at the Court," chimes 
 in the owner of one of Mr Mervyn's farms. 
 " If so be as anything's wrong, let the Char- 
 teris people take it up and prosecute. It'll 
 go to the 'sizes at Colston then, and we 
 needn't burn our fingers by thrusting them 
 into the fire. Mr Budd seems mighty hard 
 on the young lady ; and I s'pose that's only 
 natural, seein' as how he's got to ferret out all 
 he can and make the most of it. Let him 
 find out, I say ! We've got no reason for to 
 do it." 
 
 '* Shall we say * Accidental Death ' then ? " 
 asks the foreman. " I don't see what else we 
 can do. There's no marks of violence. Least- 
 ways, they're not to be discovered, if there 
 are. It'll save a deal of trouble, and get 
 nobody into hot water." 
 
 '' How would it do to say, * Murder against 
 some person or persons unknown ? ' I should 
 reconcile it better to my conscience to bring 
 that verdict in," suggests the gloomy-faced one. 
 
262 My Lady Coqii^ette, 
 
 " Or suicide ? He'd quarrelled with his 
 sweetheart, you know, and then p'raps just 
 went and throw'd himself into the water," 
 adds another. 
 
 " * Accidental Death ' be the safest ; and 
 we don't give offence to the parties con- 
 cerned. That's what I think," persists the 
 foreman. 
 
 " Well, well, let it be as you will ! Arter 
 all, Mr Charteris a'n't of much account to us. 
 A gloomy, strange sort of gentleman, that's 
 wot I always thought ; and never carin' to 
 stop at home and do his huntin' and shootin' 
 like a Christian, but for ever rushin' off to 
 furrin parts, and comin' back no one knew 
 when or how." 
 
 ** And what could he ha' gone to that lone- 
 some place for ? " chimes in another bright- 
 witted bumpkin. "■ No Christian would ha 
 thought of peerin' and pryin' about such a 
 spot as that. It's temptin' Providence, sez I. 
 You wouldn't cotch me goin' within half-a- 
 mile o' Dead Man's Pool, I know ! " 
 
My Lady Coquette. 263 
 
 ** Be's that the name o't ? " 
 
 *' 'Tis the fittingest name. And I've chris- 
 sened it so for my part," answers the loqua- 
 cious farmer. 
 
 "Well, well, time's getting on," interposes 
 the foreman. '' Have you decided on the 
 verdict?" 
 
 " Ye-es," they murmur, doubtfully, looking 
 from one face to another. 
 
 " And I'll say ' Accidental Death ' then ? " 
 
 "Ay, 'twere best," echo the bewildered 
 eleven, while the gloomy man shakes his 
 head and murmurs of " wrath and the day of 
 wrath," and other agreeable and suitable sub- 
 jects ; and then they shuffle and elbow one 
 another back to the other room ; and, in 
 answer to the coroners question, the fore- 
 man announces the verdict — " Accidental 
 Death, though how come by there is no evi- 
 dence to show." 
 
 A sense of intense relief runs through the 
 court. To so many there, it has seemed that 
 something far graver, more dreadful, would 
 
264 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 have been said. To the pale girl leaning 
 so listlessly back in her chair the words come 
 as though they have been expected. What 
 other verdict was indeed possible ? Then a 
 hand touches her shoulder, and a voice, glad 
 and eager, whispers in her ear, — 
 
 " Come away, dear, now. It is all over." 
 
 As one in a dream walks, so she rises and 
 walks through the crowd that part and shrink 
 away — why they scarcely know. 
 
 Her hands are idly linked together, her 
 pretty arched brows drawn close in a curious, 
 puzzled way, and the soft eyes underneath 
 look out in wistful appeal, in a sorrow mute 
 and yet so deep. 
 
 As she passes along something — is it a 
 whisper, a sigh ? — she can hardly tell what — 
 seems to sound in her ear, *' It is not all 
 over yet." That is what she hears, or seems 
 to hear ; but it brings no such shadow of 
 dread upon her face as falls over her life 
 thenceforward. One swift glance back she 
 gives — a glance that shows her, in one vivid 
 
My Lady Coquette. 265 
 
 flash, the curious gaze and pitying looks bent 
 upon her retreating figure. 
 
 But, foremost among all the faces there 
 stands out the smiling, triumphant visage of 
 the police inspector. What is it in the 
 merciless eyes, the cruel smile, that sends a 
 thrill of sudden fear through the girl's heart ? 
 
 '' Why does he hate me so ? " she asks her- 
 self in wonder, as she moves away. 
 
 Ah, why ? For in her frank young nature 
 no remembrance lives of a childish jest uttered 
 in the very presence of that smiling spy — 
 an opinion the candour of which was free from 
 all ulterior malice, but which the man's re- 
 lentless heart has treasured ever since. 
 
 ** Come, Yolande," says Lance, impatiently. 
 " Don't look back, dear. It's all over now ; 
 we've nothing to do but forget it." 
 
 She looks at him as though his words were 
 strange and unintelligible. 
 
 *' Nothing to do but forget it ! " she says. 
 " Oh, Lance, if I only could — if I only 
 could ! " 
 
266 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 ''And so you will, Yolande, in time," he 
 answers, soothingly. '' You have been so 
 brave. I can't tell you how I admired you — 
 you were so quiet and calm. My dear, what 
 is it ? " 
 
 '' I — I was looking for papa," she says, with 
 faltering lips. 
 
 "You forget, dear, that he was taken ill 
 in court. The — the heat and excitement 
 were too much for him. He is at home 
 now, Yolande, and resting. Come, dear, here 
 is the carriage. Let us get away from all 
 this crowd." 
 
 " And Arthur ? " she says, still looking with 
 waiting, wistful gaze into his anxious face. 
 
 *' Arthur went home with your father. 
 Come." 
 
 He helps her into the carriage as he 
 speaks. 
 
 ''This has been a sad time for you, 
 Yolande," he says, pityingly, as the carriage 
 rolls swiftly along in the hot bright sunshine. 
 " You must get away from here as soon as 
 
My Lady Coquette. 267 
 
 possible. This shock, coming just after your 
 long illness, must be doubly trying." 
 
 She sits quite silent, her eyes on the hot 
 white road, her hands still clasped in that 
 listless clasp which is so common a trick of 
 hers now. 
 
 " Do you think papa is going to be ill 
 again % " she asks, irrelevantly. 
 
 Lance starts. 
 
 " I hope not — I don't know," he says, wdth 
 vague uneasiness. " You must remember, 
 Yolande, that he has reached a great age, 
 and—" 
 
 " Don't," she says piteously, as she turns 
 her sad face to him once more — ''please 
 don't say that. Lance ! It is all my doing 
 again — my foolish, mad, unwomanly action ! 
 Oh, Lance, to recall one hour of that terrible 
 day, to stand before him free ard guiltless 
 once more, I would consent to die ! " 
 
 '* Hush— oh, hush!" he entreats. "My 
 darling, don't be so hard on yourself. It was 
 not so much your fault after all." 
 
268 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 "Yes," she says, sorrowfully; '* it was all 
 mine — all mine. Don't speak of it any more. 
 Lance. Nothing you can say will make it 
 seem less vile. I shall bear the brand of that 
 day's doings all my life." 
 
 " Yolande, you must not look at it in that 
 morbid way. It is absurd. Heavens ! " he 
 cries, impatiently, '' how many girls quarrel 
 with men or refuse men without a tragedy 
 like this arising." 
 
 The brave young face is very earnest ; the 
 bright eyes dart wrath and defiance all in 
 one at a world of imaginary enemies. But 
 Yolande 's eyes are hopeless as ever, her face 
 is as sad. 
 
 For a few moments they are both silent. 
 There are trees by the road-side now, and 
 their grateful shadows shut out the blinding 
 sunshine and weave strange patterns on the 
 smooth white road. 
 
 The girl turns at last, and her eyes rest 
 with wistful, solemn gaze on Lance's earnest 
 face. 
 
My Lady Coquette, 269 
 
 *' Do you think it is all over yet % " she 
 asks. 
 
 '' Of course," he says, speaking out with a 
 brave, steady voice that will not betray the 
 fear lying deep within his loving heart. 
 '* What more can there be ? " 
 
 ** I don't know. I only thought — " 
 
 ** Think of it no more, Yolande," he entreats. 
 *' Put it away as some bad dream, some hor- 
 rible nightmare." 
 
 *' If I could — if I only could ! " she wails. 
 " Lance, was it very long ago that you said I 
 was too fond of laughing — I turned every- 
 thing to jest ? It seems years now since I 
 really laughed." 
 
 " It has been such a sad time — such an 
 anxious, trying time," Lance answers, with a 
 voice that grows less steady with every word. 
 '' But it will all pass, Yolande, and then — " 
 
 *' Yes," she murmurs, softly, while some 
 faint shadow of the old sweet smile breaks 
 over her pale lips ; *' and then I do not think 
 I shall have to bear the burden very long. 
 
270 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 Heaven is too kind. I shall be relieved in 
 some way, I feel sure." 
 
 Lance does not answer — he cannot ; a lump 
 in his throat chokes his words. A convulsive 
 sigh parts his lips. A hateful fear, sharp as a 
 serpent's tooth, gnaws at his heartstrings. 
 He knows what alone can release that heavy 
 burden, what alone can calm that suffering 
 soul ; and his whole nature seems to rise and 
 cry out in mute, intolerable anguish against 
 the meaning of her sorrowful words. 
 
 " If I could only comfort you ! " he whispers, 
 passionately, as he takes the small white hands 
 in his loving clasp and presses them against 
 his throbbing heart. 
 
 '' You cannot," she says, gently. " No one 
 can ; for no one can give me back the old 
 time before — that day." 
 
 \m^mm 
 
CHAPTEK XVIII. 
 
 HE night closes in, and silence broods 
 over the anxious, aching hearts at 
 Mervyn Court. 
 
 Its master is doomed — not to death, as was 
 at first feared, but to that life in death which 
 is so inexpressibly awful in its pitiful imbe- 
 cility and childish helplessness. 
 
 The shock to the old man's brain has been 
 too severe for recovery. He is dead now to 
 all the sorrows, suflferings, and anxieties which 
 may follow — dead to the sorrow and remorse, 
 the piteous prayers and beseechings of his 
 best-loved child. He is calm, placid, helpless; 
 and so he is doomed to remain — in mercy, so 
 many think, though Yolande is not of the 
 number. She has shed no tears — has given 
 
272 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 way to no outward sign of anguish ; but there 
 is something in her face which no one has 
 seen there before through all the bright un- 
 troubled years of her girlhood — years which 
 look so terribly far away now as she turns to 
 them in wondering retrospect. 
 
 It is late when Lance Stapleton leaves the 
 Court. As he hurries swiftly through the 
 avenue, his eyes glance to the right and left, 
 his brow is knit in gloomy, anxious thought. 
 Before he is quite out of sight of the house 
 he suddenly pauses and looks back ; then 
 cautiously screens himself behind one of the 
 tree-trunks near by, and keeps up the same 
 vigilant scrutiny for the space of some 
 moments. The bright moonlight floods all the 
 sloping lawn and the flower-bordered terraces, 
 leaving only one side of the grey old mansion 
 in shadow. It is towards that shadow that 
 Lance Stapleton's eyes are directed. Some- 
 thing moves to and fro, keeping stealthy watch 
 on the house — something dim and indistinct, 
 yet which the keen young eyes, sharpened by 
 
My Lady Coquette. 273 
 
 love and distrust, make out to be the figure 
 of a man. He breathes quickly. Involun- 
 tarily his hand grasps the bough against which 
 he leans. 
 
 *' It is as I feared," he mutters. ''That 
 wretch is not satisfied yet. He means more 
 mischief. No time is to be lost now. I must 
 do as I resolved at first — see Herrick and ask 
 his advice." 
 
 He turns away abruptly, restraining, for 
 prudence' sake, a wild longing to return and 
 kick the cunning, malicious spy out of his 
 place of concealment. 
 
 ** He cannot do any harm to-night, at all 
 events," the young man thinks ; ** and to- 
 morrow — well, at least I shall know her case 
 is in safe hands if the worst comes." 
 
 Within half-an-hour he reaches his own 
 house, and amazes the groom by a visit to 
 the stable-yard, and a request for the imme- 
 diate saddling of his favourite horse Devil- 
 hoof. Then, without a word of explanation, 
 he mounts and rides away, increasing his pace 
 
 VOL. I. S 
 
2 74 ^y Lady Coquette. 
 
 to a furious gallop the moment he is out 
 on the high road. 
 
 The moonlight lies calm and silvery on tree 
 and leaf, on wood and field. Gradually the 
 country grows wilder and more sombre. Great 
 hills and bleak bare plains give place to deep 
 rocky glens, all thickly clothed with ash and 
 fir and elm ; and there, shut in by the thick 
 screen of woods, stands a solitary house. 
 
 It is all dark now, save for one window, out 
 of which gleams a single light. Lance sees it, 
 and utters an exclamation of pleasure. Hastily 
 dismounting, he throws the reins over an 
 adjacent railing and rings the bell. 
 
 A sleepy-looking man-servant answers tke 
 summons, and looks with mingled astonish- 
 ment and disgust at the late visitor. 
 
 " Master's gone to bed," he announces in 
 answer to young Stapleton's questions. 
 
 " But give him my card, and pray tell him my 
 business is of the utmost importance," urges 
 Lance, slipping half a sovereign into the man's 
 palm as a means of expediting his movements. 
 
My Lady Coquette. 275 
 
 The man hurries off, well pleased at the un- 
 expected douceur^ and leaves Lance standing 
 in the hall to await the success of his message. 
 
 Before long he returns and conducts him 
 into a gloomy-looking study, announcing at 
 the same time that Mr Herrick will be 
 down immediately. 
 
 " Now, what is it, Mr Stapleton ? " asks a 
 harsh cynical voice as, a few moments after, 
 Mr Herrick enters his study. 
 
 Lance starts, and comes forward eagerly. 
 
 " Mr Herrick, pray excuse me," he says, 
 '' but this is a serious affair, and I want a 
 friend on whose advice I can rely with con- 
 fidence. I trust you will excuse my want of 
 ceremony in coming at such an hour as this 
 to see you ; but once before — " 
 
 *' Exactly," chimes in the gruff voice, which 
 certainly does not accord with the owners 
 kind and quizzical-looking face. '' Once before 
 I was fool enough to establish a precedent, 
 and now — " 
 
 '' But really, Mr Herrick, this is — " 
 
276 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 " Who is she ? " asks the old man, abruptly, 
 interrupting his explanation. 
 
 Lance stops, and colours all over his boyish 
 bashful face. 
 
 ** I — I never said," he stammers. 
 
 " No," interposes Mr Herrick, with a quiet 
 chuckle, " you never said ; but you forget you 
 are talking to an Old Bailey lawyer, my boy ; 
 and he can see just a little bit through a stone 
 wall still. Now sit down," he adds, pushing 
 the young man into an easy old-fashioned 
 arm-chair and taking one opposite to it for 
 himself, "and tell me all about it in as few 
 words as possible. I can't afford to sacrifice 
 beauty-sleep even on the shrine of friendship, 
 young fellow." 
 
 " Well then," says Lance, plunging without 
 more ado into the midst of his subject, " it's 
 a case of suspected murder ; and the most 
 blundering, addle-pated fool of a police in- 
 spector ever known, has thought fit to fasten 
 his suspicions on the most unlikely person 
 as the guilty party ? " 
 
Aly Lady Coquette. 277 
 
 " She's a friend of yours naturally ? " 
 
 " How do you know it's a * she ' ? " asks 
 Lance, colouring again, and with a curious 
 disregard of grammar. 
 
 " Do you deny it ? " 
 
 ** Oh, no — you're right enough! The young 
 lady is beautiful and highly connected — a 
 daughter of Mervyn of Mervyn Court, in fact.* 
 
 " And the murdered person % " interrogates 
 Mr Herrick. 
 
 '' No other than Denzil Charteris of Beech- 
 hampton. He disappeared mysteriously, and 
 has been fished out of a pool in the loneliest 
 part of the woods. The coroner's jury brought 
 it in ' Accidental Death ' ; but Budd — " 
 
 *' Oh, this is one of Budd's cases, is it ? " 
 asks Mr Herrick, chuckling more than ever. 
 
 " Yes. You know him, I suppose ? " 
 
 '' I have had dealings with him," says the 
 old lawyer, in a voice of sly enjoyment, his 
 eyes gleaming with the fire of old and well- 
 remembered frays. " What mare's nest has 
 he got hold of now % " 
 
278 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 Lance repeats the case, and lays bare the 
 evidence accumulated by Budd, and made 
 the most of by that clever luminary of the 
 law at the inquest. 
 
 " Humph ! " says the old lawyer, at the 
 conclusion of the statement. " So that's how 
 the land lies ! And you want my help, do 
 you ? Why, isn't the case over as far as the 
 girl's concerned ? " 
 
 *' No," answers Lance, sadly ; " that fool is 
 still spying and prying about the place. He 
 won't let the matter rest, I know. What I fear 
 is that he will apply for a warrant against her." 
 
 *' Pooh ! " ejaculates Mr Herrick, contemp- 
 tuously. *' On what grounds ! The case is 
 preposterous. How could a young weak girl 
 drown a strong man like Charteris ? And, 
 even if they did quarrel, as you say the 
 provocation was hers, not his, a girl would 
 not be likely to kill a lover unless from 
 jealousy, hatred, or rivalry. There is only 
 the evidence of the fragment of dress and 
 the quarrel, I suppose ? " 
 
My Lady Coquette. 279 
 
 " Yes. Of course Budd made the most of 
 the suppression of facts for so long, and Miss 
 Mervyn's strange and sudden illness directly 
 after that meeting in the wood with Char- 
 teris. I could see that some of the jury were 
 inclined to look very doubtfully on her. In 
 any case," he adds bitterly, " he has eflfectu- 
 ally damaged the girl's reputation in Ash- 
 bourne. Every one will look coldly and 
 hardly on her now." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! She will live that down," 
 answers Mr Herrick, cheerfully. '*No one 
 could credit such a preposterous story as 
 this for long. I wonder," he continues smil- 
 ingly, " that Budd did not try to fix upon 
 you as the guilty party. You and Char- 
 teris were rivals ; consequently you had the 
 strongest motive to get rid of him. Then, 
 from all accounts, you were also in the wood 
 at the same time as the young lady herself." 
 
 '*I wish to Heaven he had!" ejaculates 
 Lance, earnestly. *' I would sooner a thou- 
 sand times have borne the weight of the 
 
2 8o My Lady Coquette. 
 
 most horrible suspicions than have suffered 
 a breath to pass on her." 
 
 " What a pity she won't marry you ! " 
 exclaims Mr Herrick, with gruflf heartiness. 
 ''You are a good young fellow, Lance Staple- 
 ton, and deserve a better fate than you have 
 met with at her hands ! " 
 
 '* Things must be as they must," sighs 
 Lance, wearily. *' I am not the sort of man 
 she could ever care for ; I know that. But, 
 to return to our subject, Mr Herrick. What 
 I want to know is this — if the worst comes 
 to the worst, will you fight for her '? There 
 is no one I know to whom I could trust her 
 case with safety but yourself, and, if — " 
 
 " But you know I have given up practis- 
 ing ! " exclaims the old lawyer, with surprise. 
 
 ** Yes ; but in an extreme case like this ? " 
 urges Lance, beseechingly. 
 
 ** Why don't you say, ' and for my sake, Mr 
 Herrick, because 1 once saved your life' ? " 
 asks the old man, good-humouredly. ** Ah, 
 my boy, you are too generous to urge that 
 
My Lady Coquette. 281 
 
 plea, even for the sake of the woman you 
 love ! Well, well, don't trouble yourself. I'll 
 think about it." 
 
 To " think about it," in the old lawyer's 
 phraseology, is to do it ; so Lance gives a 
 deep sigh of satisfaction, and wrings Mr 
 Herrick's hand with a force that expresses 
 his feelings better than words. 
 
 " It is curious that Budd should show such 
 animosity in this matter," remarks Mr Her- 
 rick presently, after Lance has vainly tried 
 to put his gratitude into appropriate phrase- 
 ology. " I must watch him. He has either 
 a spite against the girl which he wishes to 
 gratify, or else — " 
 
 " Well ? " asks Lance, as he pauses. 
 
 " Or else he knows too much about the 
 murder himself," is the curt rejoinder. 
 
 With an exclamation of astonishment 
 Lance springs to his feet. 
 
 " You don't surely think — " he begins. 
 
 " I think — nothing — at present," says Mr 
 Herrick. " If there is one thing more than 
 
282 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 another I like to consider as my own ex- 
 clusive property, it is an opinion." 
 
 " I see," answers Lance, smiling, despite 
 his anxiety. ** Then I am to hear no more ? " 
 
 " To-morrow," continues the lawyer, ** I will 
 see the young lady myself. I will also look 
 up the worthy Budd ; he has recollections of 
 me not very gratifying to his professional 
 acumen ; " and a grim smile hovers over the 
 speaker's cynical old lips. 
 
 "Do you think he could procure a warrant 
 on the grounds I have stated ? " asks Lance, 
 anxiously. 
 
 "There is circumstantial evidence enough 
 for such a warrant to be granted, I fear ; 
 and country magistrates, as a rule, are thick- 
 headed blunderers. Budd would have no 
 difficulty in getting what he wants ; but, if 
 it ever came to a trial, no jury would hang 
 the girl, if that's what you're afraid of." 
 
 " Oh, Heaven ! " groans the young man, 
 with sudden agony. " It is the shame, the 
 scandal, the exposure that I dread. She is 
 
My Lady Coquette. 283 
 
 so young, so innocent ; and already she has 
 suffered so cruelly. It would kill her to go 
 through such torture again ! " 
 
 ''Then get her away," urges Mr Herrick — 
 " get her away till suspicion has died out, 
 or — or I've caught the criminal. You look 
 astonished. Humph ! My blood's up. I 
 feel I shall like this case. It's a puzzler, 
 and has a deeper meaning than has yet come 
 to the surface. Leave all to me, my boy. 
 Not a hair of the girl's head shall be 
 touched. As for Budd — " 
 
 A low expressive chuckle foretells the des- 
 tiny in store for that luckless blunderer, as 
 Mr Herrick rises and bids Lance good-night, 
 declaring that he will not hear another word 
 on the subject. 
 
 When the door has closed on the young 
 man, shutting out the worn weary face with 
 the new look of anxious fear on its youthful 
 brightness, the lawyer returns once more to 
 his study, and, seating himself at the table, 
 proceeds to jot down with a rapid hand the 
 
284 My Lady Coquette, 
 
 heads of the information gathered from Lance 
 Stapleton. Despite his avowed predilection 
 for " beauty-sleep," it is a full hour after his 
 visitor has left him before the old man re- 
 tires to his room ; and then his face bears a 
 complacent satisfaction that shows he is well 
 satisfied with his evening's work. 
 
 At an early hour next morning Lance Stap- 
 leton and Mr Herrick find themselves at 
 Mervyn Court. All the village is astir as 
 they pass through it, for to-day the body of 
 the unfortunate owner of Beechhampton is to 
 be buried ; and from far and near the county 
 is flocking to swell the retinue of the mourning 
 train. Lance is to be among them later on ; 
 but for this half-hour he is free to serve and 
 help Yolande, as his loving, loyal heart would 
 serve and help her all his life long if she but 
 spoke the word. 
 
 They are shown into the library, having 
 sent up their cards to Miss Skipton in the 
 first instance. 
 
 Lance stands looking out into the shrubbery, 
 
My Lady Coquette. 285 
 
 and watching the slow monotonous drip of 
 the rain as it falls from the heavy clouds. It 
 is a dull, cheerless day, a day that almost blots 
 out all memory of summer, so dreary and 
 colourless are sky and earth. 
 
 The opening of the door makes him start. He 
 turns round hurriedly, and sees Miss Skipton. 
 
 ** Dear Miss Skipton," he says, advancing 
 and taking the limp hand of that worthy lady, 
 " I have taken the liberty of bringing a friend 
 of mine here to see Yolande ; but I thought I 
 would ask you to tell her first, as she might 
 wonder I should bring a stranger here at such 
 a time." 
 
 " It is a trying time indeed ! " exclaims Miss 
 Skipton, tearfully. '* Everything is upset. 
 Management and method have become alike 
 impossible. My pupils cannot give their 
 minds to my instructions. Poor old Mr 
 Mervyn is quite childish and helpless, and 
 Miss Yolande — I have not seen anything of 
 her since last night." 
 
 " Could you kindly send her a message 
 
2 86 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 requesting her presence here ? " interposes Mr 
 Herrick, gruffly. 
 
 The handkerchief is abruptly withdrawn 
 from Miss Skipton's eyes, and with no small 
 amazement she surveys the speaker. 
 
 '' Oh, certainly ! " she gasps, feebly, retreat- 
 ing as she speaks to the bell, and keeping 
 vigilant watch on the stranger, as though she 
 feared he would offer violence in some shape 
 or other. 
 
 The message is despatched to Yolande in 
 her room, and the three remain awaiting her 
 presence in the library, with various degrees 
 of agitation. 
 
 Some five minutes elapse, and then the 
 door opens, and three eager pairs of eyes turn 
 swiftly and instantly towards it. There stands 
 there only Enid — Enid, with face white as the 
 paper she holds in her hand — Enid, with eyes 
 from which the swift tears rain, as she flies 
 in terror and anxiety to the side of her 
 governess. 
 
 "Oh, read this!" she cries. "Whatever 
 
My Lady Coquette. 287 
 
 can it mean % I cannot believe it — yet I 
 found it in her room just now ! " 
 
 Ere Miss Skipton can take the paper from 
 her outstretched hand, Lance is by her side. 
 
 " Let me see ! " he cries, hoarsely, and then, 
 without apology or explanation, snatches the 
 little note, and reads it with eyes where a 
 great agony and an intense bewilderment 
 struggle for supremacy at every fatal line. 
 
 " Darling Enid," — so runs the letter, — 
 
 " Don't think too hardly of me for what I am 
 
 going to do. I cannot stay here any longer. 
 
 It will kill me to look upon my father's face 
 
 and know what I have given him to bear, to see 
 
 the shadows of suspicion creeping daily closer 
 
 and closer around me, and estranging all love 
 
 and confidence from hearth and home. I 
 
 have brought all this upon you. I alone 
 
 should bear the punishment. I cannot write 
 
 clearly and coherently, for I feel as if my 
 
 brain were on fire to-night, as if the agony 
 
 and shame of this day were burnt in living 
 
My Lady Coquette, 
 
 letters on my memory and my heart ; but, 
 oh, remember I love you, all of you, so dearly 
 that I cannot bear to bring further suffering 
 on your innocent heads. Some cruel venge- 
 ful fate pursues me still. It is that which 
 drives me from home now ; it is that which 
 nerves me for this last desperate resolve. 
 Tell Lancc-^oh, but words can never tell 
 him ! — how deeply I feel all his goodness and 
 kindness. He must not trouble about me 
 now. I have formed a plan, and I shall fol- 
 low it out. From time to time you shall 
 hear of me, I promise you ; and, when I can 
 bear it, I should like news of home — the home 
 I never loved as I love it now, when I am 
 leaving it perhaps for ever. You will know 
 soon enough why I take this desperate resolve, 
 know that I — your sister — am watched, sus- 
 pected, hunted like a criminal. I cannot bear 
 again what I bore to-day. You know that 
 my heart is innocent, that my lips are truth- 
 ful. Your love will never misjudge me, oh, 
 dear ones, whom I leave so sorrowfully now ! 
 
My Lady Coquette. 289 
 
 A thousand words can say no more. Fare- 
 well ! YOLANDE." 
 
 For an instant Lance stands with the 
 letter in his hand, all the colour and life 
 gone from his young healthy face, his lips set 
 sternly and fiercely in fixed and terrible despair ; 
 then he thrusts the paper into Miss Skipton's 
 hands, and turns to the waiting lawyer. 
 
 *' She is gone % " questions that imperturb- 
 able person, with a rapid glance at the changed 
 and sufi'ering face before him. 
 
 " Yes," is the brief response. *' May 
 Heaven's curse fall on the hound who has 
 driven her forth in her defenceless youth to 
 sufi'er and endure what lies before her ! " 
 
 *' Hush ! " says the old man solemnly, as 
 he rises and lays his hand on the lifted arm 
 upraised in the mad longing for vengeance, 
 which is the outcome of sufi'ering and despair. 
 '* Call down no curse. The fate that follows 
 crime is sure, even though slow. Trust to 
 time and Heaven for the justice you would 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
290 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 blindly seek." , Then with kindly words he 
 soothes the weeping women, and shows them 
 how, after all, Yolande has done the best and 
 wisest thing she conld have done. " If that 
 blundering fool intends to follow up his sus- 
 picions," he says in conclusion, "he will have all 
 his work cut out for him. Let it be our task 
 to lead him off the scent, so that your sister 
 may be unmolested till the right time comes." 
 
 Then they go away, the kind-hearted law- 
 yer and the almost despairing lover, who sees 
 in Yolande's rash act but fresh complica- 
 tions for her fresh suffering: for himself. 
 
 How Lance gets through that terrible day he 
 never knows. He sees the long dreary array 
 of draped horses and dark dingy coaches and 
 nodding plumes ; he is dimly conscious of the 
 long drive, the mournful service while the rain 
 falls in dreary heavy drops on the mourners' 
 heads, and the moist clay descends in a dull 
 dead mass over the lowered coffin. Then he 
 is driven home, and sits through the lonely 
 drive opposite his father, whose cheery words 
 
My Lady Coquette. 291 
 
 and smiles seem to jar with fretful pertinacity 
 on the young man's irritated nerves, and has 
 to listen to reiterated expressions of wonder 
 and regret with respect to all the sad events 
 of the last few weeks. 
 
 " By the way, Lance," says the old squire at 
 last, as his son rises impatiently from the scarce- 
 tasted meal, " I forgot to tell you Budd was here 
 to-night — for a strange purpose, it seemed to 
 me. He asked me, as the nearest magistrate, 
 to make out a warrant for the apprehension of 
 Yolande Mervyn. I thought the man must have 
 taken leave of his senses, and told him so." 
 
 " You did not give it ? " interrogated Lance, 
 eagerly and indignantly. 
 
 ** Give it ? Not I ! " ejaculates the old 
 squire, wrathfuUy. " I told him his evidence 
 didn't justify my granting such a thing, and 
 sent him off objecting and complaining in fine 
 style. But, seriously. Lance," he adds — his 
 tone growing graver as he notes how anxious 
 and disturbed is his son's face, how weary 
 looks the listless young figure — "seriously, 
 
292 My Lady Coquette. 
 
 my boy, this is growing a more difficult and 
 Complicated business than we could have sus- 
 pected. Budd is determined to get his war- 
 rant, and so I suppose he'll go to Colston ; and 
 in that case he will put it in execution to-mor- 
 row. Would it not be as well to warn Yolande ? 
 If we got her out of the way for a time — And 
 yet — well, I suppose that would look suspicious. 
 It's a sad affair, my boy, very sad, and she such 
 a sweet girl and such a favourite with us all — a 
 girl I've had in my mind's eye for a daughter- 
 in-law. Lance, ever since you were children to- 
 gether. Ah, well, 'tis a strange world this ! " 
 
 "Budd can save himself the trouble of 
 getting his warrant," says Lance, calmly. 
 " Yolande has left home, and no one knows 
 where she has gone." 
 
 Then, with the old squire's w^ondering 
 ejaculation of surprise in his ears still, he 
 abruptly leaves the room. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.