IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) /. A ^c? U.. 1.0 If* I.I 1.25 28 25 mi III 1.8 14 ill 1.6 ♦ V] /a cl ^M. ' :> '/ w Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. MS80 (716) 872-4503 & CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICIVIH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques Tachnical and Bibliographic Notas/Notas tachniquas at bibliographiquaa Tha Instituta hos attampteH to obtain tha bast orioinai copy avaiiabia for filming. Faaturas of this copy which may ba bibliographically uniqua, which may altar any of tha imagat in tha raproduction, or which may significantly changa tha usual mathnd of filming, ara chacicad balow. D D D n D Colourad covars/ Couvartura da coulaur I I Covars damagad/ Couvartura andommagia Covars restored and/jr laminated/ Couverture restaur69 et/ou pellicul6a I I Cover title missing/ Le titre de couverture manque I I Coloured maps/ Cartes gAographiques en couleur Coloured ink (I.e. other than blue or black)/ Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire) I I Coloured plates and/or Illustrations/ Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur Bound with other material/ Rali6 avac d'autres documents Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion along interior margin/ La reliure serr^e peut causer de I'ombre ou de la distortion le long de la marge intirieure Blank leaves added during restoration may appear within the text. Whenever possible, these have been omitted from filming/ II se peut que certainas pages blanches ajout6es lors d'une restauration apparalssent dans la taxte, mais, Icrsque cela Atait possible, ces pages n'ont pas M filmies. Additional comments:/ Commentaires suppldmentaifas: L'inatitut a microfilm^ la maillaur axamplaira qu'il lui a 4t4 possible da sa procurer. Les details da cat axemplaira qui sont paut-Atra uniques du point de vue bibliographiqua, qui pauvant modifier una image reproduita, ou qui pauvant axiger une modification dans la mAthoda rormala de filmaga sont indiqute ci-dessous. I I Coloured pages/ D Pages de couleur Pages damaged/ Pages endommagAas Pages restored and/oi Pages restaur6as et/ou pellicultes Pages discoloured, stained or foxai Pages d^coiortes, tachaties ou piquias Pages detached/ Pages d^tachies Showthrough/ Transparence Quality of prir Quality intgala de I'impression Includes supplementary materii Comprend du material sr, pi^mantaire Only edition available/ Sauie 6dition disponibia □ Pages damaged/ Pages I — I Pages restored and/or laminated/ rTn Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ [771 Pages detached/ [771 Showthrough/ I I Quality of print varies/ I I Includes supplementary material/ I — I Only edition available/ Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata slips, tissues, etc., have been ref limed to ensure the best possible imiage/ Ler, pages totalement ou partiailoment obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure, etc., ont 6tA filmAes A nouveau da fa^on A obtenir la meilleure image possible. This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ Ce document est filmi au taux dt* reduction indiqu6 ci-dessous. 10X 14X 18X 22X 26X aox y 12X 16X 20X 24X 28X 32X The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanks to the generosity of: National Library of Canada L'exemplaire film6 fut reproduit grflce A la g6n6rosii6 de: Bibliothdque nationale du Canada The images appearing here are the best quality possible considering the condition and legibility of the original copy and in iteeping with the filming contract specifications. Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed beginning with the front cover and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All other original copies are filmed beginning on the first page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impression. The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall contain the symbol — »> (meaning "CON- TINUED"), or the symbol V (meaning "END"), whichever applies. Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illusrrate the method: Les images suivantes ont 6t6 reproduites avec le plus grand soin, compter tenu de la condition et de la netteti de l'exemplaire film6, et en conformity avec les conditions du contrat de filmage. Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en papier est imprimto sont filmds en commenpant par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la dernidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second plat, selon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont filmis en commenpant par la premidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symbolos suivants apparaftra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbols — •► signifie "A SUIVRE ", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre filmds d des taux de reduction diff6rents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pou dtre reproduit en un seul clich6, il est film6 d partir de Tangle supdrieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 n ■l'..,,,,jpl„.. APRIL'S LADY. 7 f A 9(OVSl«. BY "THE DUCHESS," ; AutAor of '\ Molly Bawn^ '' Phyllh,'' '' Lady B ranks- mere;' " Beauty s Daughters;' etc., etc. Montreal ; JOHN LOVELL & SON, 23 St. Nicholas Street. Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1890, by John Lovcll <&* Son, in the office of the Minister of Agrioakure and Statistics at Ottawa. APRIL'S LADY. •' ** Must we part ? or may I linger? ' Wax the shadows, wanes the day.* Then, with voice of sweetest singer. That hath all but died away, ** Go,'* she said, but tightened finger Said articulately, " Stay ! " CHAPTER I. " Philosophy triumphs easily over past and over future evils, but present evils triumph over philosophy." " A LETTER from my father," says Mr. Monkton, flinging the letter in question across the breakfast-table to his wife. " A letter from Sir George ! " Her dark, pTetty face flushes crimson. " And such a letter afte** eight years of obstinate silence. There ! read it," says her husband, contemptuously. The contempt is all for the writer of the letter. Mrs. Monkton taking it up, with a most honest curiosity, that might almost be termed anxiety, reads it through, and in turn flings it from her as though it had been a scorpion. " Never mind, Jack ! " says she with a great assumption of indifference that does not hide from her husband the fact that her eyes are full of tears. " Butter that bit of toast for me before it is quite cold, and give Joyce some ham. Ham, darling ? or an egg ? " to Joyce, with a forced smile that makes her charming face quite sad. ** Have you two been married eight whole years ? " asks Joyce laying her elbows on the table, and staring at her sister with an astonished gaze. " It seems like yesterday 1 What a swindler old Time is. To look at Barbara, one '"'ould not believe she could have been born eight years ago." APRWS LADY. " Nonsense ! " says Mrs. Monkton laughing, and looking as pleased as married women — even the happiest — always do, when they are told they look ««married. " Why Tommy is seven years old." . " Oh 1 That's nothing ! " says Joyce airily, turning her dark eyes, that are lovelier, if possible, than her sister's, upon the sturdy child who is sitting at his father's right hand. "Tommy, we all know, is much older than his mother. Much more advanced ; more learned in the wisdom of this world ; aren't you. Tommy ? " But Tommy, at this present moment, is deaf to the charms of conversation, his young mind being nobly bent on proving to his sister (a priceless treasure of six) that the salt-cellar planted between them belongs not to her, but to him ! This sounds reasonable, but the difficulty lies in making Mabel believe it. There comes the pause eloquent at last, and then, I regret to say, the free fight ! It might perhaps have been even freer, but for the swift intervention of the paternal relative, who, swooping down upon the two belligerents with a promptitude worthy of all praise, seizes upon his daughter, and in spite of her kicks, which are noble, removes her to the seat on his Icfl hand. Thus separated hope springs within the breaf>ts of the lookers-on that peace may soon be restored ; and indeed, after a sob or two from Mabel, and a few passes of the most reprehensible sort from Tommy (entirely of the facial order), a great calm falls upon the breakfast-room. "When I was your age, Tommy," says Mr. Monkton addressing his son, and striving to be all that the ortho- dox parent ought to be, " I should have been soundly whipped if I had behaved to my sister as you have just now behaved to yours ! " " You haven't a sister," says Tommy, after which the argument falls flat. It is true, Mr. Monkton is innocent of a sister, but how did the lutle demon remember that so apropos. " Nevertheless," said Mr. Monkton, "if I had had a sister, I know I should not have been unkind to her." " Then she'd have been unkind to you," says Tommy, who is evidently not afraid to enter upon a discussion of the rights and wrongs of mankind with his paternal relative. " Look at Mabel ! And I don't care what she says," with a vindictive glance at the angelic featured APRIL* S LADY, Mabel, who glares back at him with infinite promise of a future settlement of all their disputes in her ethereal eyes. ** 'Twas my salt-cellar, not hers I " " Ladies first — pleasure afterwards," says his father somewhat idly. " Oh Freddy /" says his wife. ** Seditious language / call it," says Jocelyne with a laugh. " Eh ? " says Mr. Monkton. " Why what on earth have I been saying now. I quite believed I was doing the heavy father to perfection and teaching Tommy his duty." " Nice duty," says Jocelyne, with a pretence of indig- nation, that makes her charming face a perfect picture. " Teaching him to regard us as second best ! I like that." " Good heavens ! did I give that impression ? I must have swooned," says Mr. Monkton penitently. "When last in my senses 1 thought I had been telling Tommy that he deserved a good whipping ; and that if good old Time could . so manage as to make me my own father, he would assuredly have got it." " Oh ! your father 1 " says Mrs. Monkton in a low tone ; there is enough expression in it, however, to convey the idea to everyone present that in her opinion her husband's father would be guilty of any atrocity at a moment's notice. " Well, Hwas my salt-cellar," says Tommy again stoutly, and ^s if totally undismayed by the vision of the grand- fatherly scourge held out to him. After all we none of us feel things much, unless they come personally home to us. " Was it ? " says Mr. Monkton mildly.* " Do you know, I really quite fancied it was mine." ** What ? " says Tommy, cocking his ear. He, like his sister, is in a certain sense a fraud. For Tommy has the face of a seraph with the heart of a hardy Norseman. There is nothing indeed that Tommy would not dare. " Mine, you know," says his father, even more mildly still. " No, it wasn't," says Tommy with decision, " it was at my side of the table. Yours is over there." " Thomas ! " says his father, with a rueful shake of the (( It IS head that signifies his resignation of the argument ; indeed a pity that I am not like my father ! " " Like him ! Oh «od seems never to have left her, but — as though in love of her beauty — has clung to her day by day. So that now, when she has known eight years of married life (and some of them deeply tinctured with care — the cruel care that want of money brings), she still looks as though the morning of womanhood was as yet but dawning for her. And this is because love the beautifier went with her all the way 1 Hand in hand he has traveled with her on the stony paths that those who marry must undoubtedly pursue. Never once had he let go his hold, and so it is, that her lovely face has defied Time (though after all vhat obnoxious Ancient has not had yet much opportunity given him to spoil it), and at twenty-five she looks but a little older than her sister, who is just eighteen, and seven years younger than she is. Her pretty soft grey Irish eyes, that are as nearly not black as it is possible for them to be, are still filled with the dews of youth. Her mouth is red and happy. Her hair — so distinctly chesnut as to be almost guilty of a shade of red in it here and there — covers her dainty head in rippling masses, that fall lightly forward, and rest upon a brow, snow-white, and low and broad as any Greek's might be. She had spoken a little hurriedly, with some touch of anger. But quick as the anger was born, so quickly does it die. " I shouldn't have said that, perhaps," says she, sending a little tremulous glance at her husband from behind the urn. " But I couldn't help it. I can't bear to h(qar you say you would like to be like him." She smiles (a little, gentle, " don't-be-angry-w:th-me " smile, scarcely to be resisted by any man, and certainly not by her husband, who adores her). It is scarcely 1" APRIVS LADY, f necessary to record this last fact, as all who run may read it for themselves, but it saves time to Dut it in black and white. " But why not, my dear ? " says Mr. Monkton, magis- terially. " Surely, considering all things, you have reason to be deeply grateful to Sir George. Why, then, abuse him ? " '* Grateful 1 To Sir George ! To your father 1 " cries his wife, hotly and quick, and " Freddy ! " from his sister-in-law brings him to a full stop for a moment. ** Do you mean to tell me," says he, thus brought to bay> "that you have nothing to thank Sir George for ? " He is addressing his wife. ** Nothing, nothing ! " declares she, vehementW, th ? remembrance of that last letter from her husband's faihei that still lies within reach of her view, lending a suspicion of passion to her voice. " Oh, my dear girl, consider /^^ says Mr. Monkton, lively reproach in his tone. " Has he not given you mej the best husband in Europe ? " *' Ah, what it is to be modest," says Joyce, with her little quick brilliant laugh. "Well, it's not true," says Mrs. Monkton, who has laughed also, in spite of herself and the soreness at her heart. " He did not give you to me. You made me that giii of your own free will. I have, as I said before, noth- ing to thank him for." " I always think he must be a silly old man," says Joyc^, which seems to put a fitting termination to the conver- sation. The silence that ensues annoys Tommy, who dearly loves to hear the human voice divine. As expressed by himself first, but if that be impracticable, well, then by somebody else. Anything is better than dull silence. " Is he that ? " asks he, eagerly, of his aunt. Though I speak of her as his aunt, I hope it will not be misunderstood for a moment that Tommy totally declines to regard Wbr in any reverential light whatsoever. A playmate, a close friend, a confidante, a useful sort of person, if you will, but certainly not an aunt^ in the general acceptation of that term. From the very first year that speech fell on them, both Mabel and he had refused to APRWS LADY, regard Miss Kavanagh as anything but a confederate in all their scrapes, a friend to rejoice with in all their triumphs ; she had never been aunt, never, indeed, even so much as the milder '' auntie " to them ; she had been "Joyce," only, from the very commencement of their acquaintance. The united commands of both father and mother (feebly enforced) had been insufficient to compel them to address this most charming specimen of girlhood by any grown up title. To them their aunt was just such an one as themselves — only, perhaps, a little more so. A lovely creature, at all events, and lovable as lovely. A little inconsequent, perhaps, at times, but always amen- able to reason, when put into a corner, and full of the glad laughter of youth. " Is he what ? " says she, now returning Tommy's eager gaze. " The best husband in Europe. He says he's that," with a doubtful stare at his father. " Why, the very best, of course," says Joyce, nodding emphatically. ** Always remember that. Tommy. It'-s a good thing to be^ you know. You'll want to be that, won't you?" But if she has hoped to make a successful appeal to Tommy's noble qualities (hitherto, it must be confessed, carefully kept hidden), she finds herself greatly mistaken. " No, I won't," says that truculent person distinctly. " I want to be a big general with a cocked hat, and to kill people. I don't want to be a husband at all. What's the good of that?" " To pursue the object would be to court defeat," says Mr. Monkton meekly, He rises from the table, and, see- ing him move, his wife rises too. •'You are going to your study?" asks she, a little anxiously. He is about to say " no " to this, but a glance at her face checks him. " Yes, come with me," says he instead, answering the lovely silent appeal in her eyes. That letter has no doubt distressed her. She will be happier when she has talked it over with him — they two alone. " As for ydti, Thomas," says his father, " I'm quite aware that you ought to be consigned to the Donjon keep after your late behavior, but as we don't keep one on the premises, I let you off this time. Meanwhile I haste to my study to pen, with the , * r APRIL'S LADY, 9 assistance of your enraged mother, a letter to our landlord that will induce him to add one on at once to this building. After which we shall be able to incarcerate you at our pleasure (but not at yours) on any and every hour of the day." " Who's Don John ? " asks Tommy, totally unimpressed, but filled with lively memories of those Spaniards and other foreign powers who have unkindly made more diffi- cult his hateful lessons off and on. CHAPTER II. '* No love lost between us." " Well," says Mr. Monkton, turning to his wife as the study (a rather nondescript place) is reached. He has closed the door, and is now looking at her with a distinct- ly quizzical light in his eyes and in the smile that parts his lips. " Now for it. Have no qualms. I've been pre- paring my self all through breakfast, and I think I shall sur- vive it. You are going to have it out with me, aren't you?" " Not with you,^^ says she, returning his smile indeed, but faintly, and without heart, " that horrid letter ! I felt I must talk of it to someone, and " " /was that mythical person. I quite understand. I take it as a special compliment." " I know it is hard on you, but when I am really vexed about anything, you know, I always want to tell you about it." " I should feel it a great deal harder if you didn^t want to tell me about it," says he. He has come nearer to her and has pressed her into a chair — a dilapidated affair that if ever it had a best day has forgotten it by now — and yet for all that is full of comfort. " I am only sorry" — mov- ing away agaia and leaning against the chimney piece — " that you should be so foolish as to let my father's absurd prejudices annoy you at this time of day," ".He will always have it in his power to annoy me," says she quickly. " That perhaps," with a little burst of feeling, " is why I can't forgive him. If I could ibrget, 'k'- nvM^tf ■«■«« ^: lO APRIL* S j^ADY. or grow indifferent to it all, I should not have this hurt feeling in my heart. But he is your father, and though he is the most unjust, the cruellest man on earth, I still hate to think he should regard me as he does." " There is one thing, however, you do forget," says Mr. Monkton gravely. " I don't want to apologize for him, but I would remind you that he has never seen you." " That's only an aggravation of his offence," her color heightening ; '' the very fact that he should condemn me unseen, unheard, adds to the wrong he has done me in- stead of taking from it." She rises abruptly and begins to pace up and down the room, the hot Irish blood in her veins afire. ** No " — with a little impatient gesture of her small hand — " I can^t sit still. Every pulse seems throb- bing. He has opened up all the old wounds, and " She pauses and then turns upon her husband two lovely flashing eyes. " Why, why should he suppose that I am vulgar, lowly born, unfit to be your wife ? " " My darling girl, what can it matter what he thinks ? A ridiculous headstrong old man in one scale, and " " But it does matter. I want to convince him that I am not — not — ^what he believes me to be." " Then come over to England and see him." "No — never! I shall never go to England. I shal stay in Ireland always. My own land ; the land whose people he detests because he knows nothing about them. It was one of his chief objections to your marriage with me, that I was an Irish girl ! " She stops short, as though her wrath and indignation and contempt is too much for her. " Barbara," says Monkton, very gently, but with a cer- tain reproach, ." do you know you almost make me think that you regret our marriage." "No, I don't," quickly. "If I talked for ever I shouldn't be able to make you think thai. But " She turns to him suddenly, and gazes at him through large eyes that are heavy with tears. " I shall always be sorry for one thing, and that is — that you first met tte where. you did." " At your aunt's ? Mrs. Burke's ? " " She is not my aunt," with a little frown of distaste ; *> she is nothing to me so far as blooc' is concerned. Oh ! Freddy." She stops close to him, and gives him a grief* - ■• ■ifc 4 APRIL'S LADV, It stricken glance. " I wish my poor father had been alive when first you saw me. That we could have met for the first time in the old home. It was shabby — faded " — her face paling now with intense emotion. " But you would have known at once that it had been a fine old place, and that the owner of it " She breaks down, very slightly', almost imperceptibly, but Monkton understands that even one more word is beyond her. "That the owner of it, like St. Patrick, came of decent people," quotes he with an assumption of gaiety he is far from feeling. " My good child, I don't want to see anyone to know that of you. You carry the sign manual. It is written in large characters all over you." " Yet I wish you had known me before my father died," says she, her grief and pride still unassuaged. " He Was so unlike anybody else. His manners were so lovely. He was offered a baronetcy at the end of that Whiteboy business on account of his loyalty — that nearly cost him his life — but he refused it, thinking the old name good enough with- out a handle to it." " Kavanagh, we all know, is a good name." ** If he had accepted that title he would have beeH 9A — the same — as your father ! " There is defiance in this sentence. " Quite the same ! " " No, no, he would not,'*^ her defiance now changes into sorrowful honesty. " Your father has been a baronet for centuries^ my father would have only been a baronet for a few years." " For centuries ! " repeats Mr. Monkion with in alarmed air. There is a latent sense of humor (or rather an appre- ciation of humor) about him that hardly endears him to the opposite sex. His wife, being Irish, condones it, because she happens to understand it, but there are moments, we all know, when even the very best and most appreciative women refuse to understand anything. This is r>ne of them. "Condemn my father if you will," says Mr. Monkton, "accuse him of all the crimes in the calendar, but for my sake give up the belief that he is the real and original Wan- dering Jew. Debrett — Burke — either of those immaculate people will prove to you that my father ascended his throne in " " You can laugh at me if you like, Freddy," says Mrs. Monkton with severity tempered with dignity ; " but if - '!l \ i :;f: ft APRWS LADY, you laughed until this day month you couldn t make me forget the things that make me unhappy." ** I don't want to," says Mr. Monktoh, still disgracefully frivolous. **/'w one of the things, and yet " " Don't ! " says his wife, so abruptly, and with such j,n evident determination to give way to mirth, coupled with an equally strong determination to give way to tears, that he at once lays down his arms. *' Go on then," says he, seating himself beside her. Sht is not in the arm-chair now, but on an ancient and re- spectable sofa that ^ives ample room for the accommodation of two ; a luxury denied by that old curmudgeon the arm- chair. " Weil, it is this, Freddy. When I think of that dread- ful old woman, Mrs. Burke, I feel as though you thought she was a fair sample of the rest of my family. But she is not a sample, she has nothing to do with us. An uncle of my mother married her because she was rich, and there her relationship to us began and ended." « Still- >» '* Yes, I know, you needn't remind me, it seems burnt into my brain, I know she took us in after my father's death, and covered me and Joyce with benefits when we hadn't a penny in the world we could call our own. I quite understand, indeed, that we should have starved but for her, and yet — yet — " passionately, " I cannot forgive her for perpetually reminding us that we had not that penny ! " " It must have been a bad time," says Monkton slowly. He takes her hand and smoothed it lovingly between both of his. " She was vulgar. That was not her fault ; I forgive her that. What I can't forgive her, is the fact that you should have met me in her house." "A little unfair, isn't it?" " Is it ? You will always now associate me with her ! " "I shan't indeed. Do you think I have up to this? Nonsense ! A niore absurd amalgamation I couldn't fancy." " She was jiot one of s," feverishly. ** I have never spoken to you about this, Freddy, since that first letter your father wrote to you just after our marriage. You remember it ? And then, I couldn't explain somehov/ — but \% #: V +' » APRIL'S LADY. «l now — ^this last letter has upset me dreadfully ; I feel as if it was all different, and that it was my duty to make you aware of the real truth. Sir George thinks of me as one beneath him ; that is not true. He may have heard that I lived with Mrs. Burke, and that she was my aunt ; but if my mother's brother chose to marry a woman of no family because she had money," —contemptuously, '* that might disgrace him^ but would not make her kin to us. You saw her, you — " lifting distressed eyes to his — "you thought her dreadful, didn't you ? " ** I have only had one thought about her. That she was good to you in your trouble, and that but for her I should never have met you." " That is like you," says she gratefully, yet impatiently. " But it isn't enough. I want you to understand that she is quite unlike my own real people — my father, who was like a prince," throwing up her head, " and my uncle, his brother." " You have an uncle, then ? " with some surprise. " Oh no, had^^' sadly. "He.is dead then?" " Yes. I suppose so. You are wondering," says she quickly, " that I have never spoken to you of him or my father before. But I could not. The thought that your family objected to me, despised me, seemed to compel me to silence. And you — you asked me very little." " How could I, Barbara ? Any attempt I made was repulsed. I thought it kinder to " " Yes — I was wrong. I see it now. But I couldn't bear to explain myself. I told you what I could about my father, and that seemed to me sufficient. Your people's determination to regard me as impossible tied my tongue." " I don't believe it was that," says he laughing.' ** I be- lieve we were so happy that we didn't care to discuss any- * thing but each other. Delightful subjects full of infinite variety ! We have sat so lightly to the world all these years, that if my father's letter had not come this morning I honestly think we should never have thought about him again." This is scarcely true, but he is bent on giving her mind a happier turn if possible. " What's the good of talking to me like that, Freddy," says she reproachfully. **You know one never forgets V V, I APRIVS LADY. \^ anything of that sort. A slight I mean ; and from one's own family. You are always thinking of it ; you know you are" " Well, not always, my dear, certainly — " says Mr. Monk- ton temporizing. " And if even I do give way to retro- spection, it is to feel indignant with both my parents." " Yes ; and I don't want you to feel like that. It must be dreadful, and it is my fault. When 1 think how I felt towards my dear old dad, and my uncle — I " " Well, never mind that. I've got you, and without meaning any gross flattery, I consider you worth a dozen dads. Tell me about your uncle. He died ? " " We don't know. He went abroad fifteen years ago. He must be dead I think, because if he were alive he would certainly have written to us. He was very fond of Joyce and me ; but no letter from him has reached us for years. He was charming. I wish you could have known him." " So do I — if you wish it. But — " coming over and sitting down beside her, " don't you think it is a little absurd, Barbara, after all these years, to think it necessary to tell itie that you have good blood in your veins ? Is it not a self-evident fact; and — one more word dearest — surely you might do me the credit to understand that I could never have fallen in love with anyone who hadn't an ancestor or two." ** And yet your father " " I know," rising to his feet, his brow darkening. ** Do you think I don't suffer doubly on your account ? That I don't feel the insolence of his behavior toward yon four- fold? There is but one excuse for him and'iny mother, and that lies in their terrible disappointment about my brother—their eldest son." ** I know ; you have told me," begins she quickly, but he interrupts her. " Yes, I have been more open with you than you with me. / feel no pride where you are concerned. Of course my brother's conduct towards them is no excuse for their conduct towards you, but when one has a sore heart one is apt to be unjust, and many othe things. You knoSv what a heart-break he has been to the old people, and is ! A gambler, a dishonorable gambler ! " He turns away from her, and his nostrils dilate a little ; his right hand grows r .. APRIVS LADY, 15 r clenched. " Every spare penny they possess has been paid over to him or his creditors, and they are not over- burdened with riches. They had set their hearts on him, and all their hopes, and when he failed them they fell back on me. The name is an old one ; money was wanted. They had arranged a marriage for me, that would have been worldly wise. I /^^ disappointed them ! " " Oh ! " she has sprung to her feet, and is staring at him with horrified eyes. " A marriage ! There was someone else ! You accuse me of want of candor, and now, you— did you ever mention this before ? " I V * " Now, Barbara, don't be the baby your name implies,** / . says he, placing her firmly back in her seat. ^^ldidn*t marry that heiress, you know, which is proof positive that I loved you, not her." ; * "But she — she — "she stammers and ceases suddenly, looking at him with a glance full of question. Womanlike, everything has given way to the awful thought, that this unknown had not been unknown to him, and that perhaps he had admired — loved " Couldn't hold a candle to you," says he, laughing in spite of himself at her expression which, indeed, is nearly * tragic. " You needn't suffocate yourself with charcoal be- cause of her. She had made her pile, or rather her father had, at Birmingham or elsewhere, I never took the trouble > to inquire, and she was undoubtedly solid in every way^ but I don't care for the female giant, and so I — you know the rest, I met you ; I tell you this only to soften your heart, if possible, towards these lonely, embittered old people of mine." '?,t -„ "Do you mean that when your brother disappointed them that they " she pauses. "No. They couldn't make me their heir. The property is strictly entailed (what is left of it) ; you need not make yourself miserable imagining you have done me out of . ^ . anything n^^re than their good-will. George will inherit whatever he has left them to leave." ^ ** It is sad," says she, with downcast eyes. "Yes. He has been a constant source of annoyance to them ever since he left Eton." " Where is he now ? ** "Abroad, I believe. In Italy, somewhere, or France— ^ not far from a gaming table, you may be sure. But I know ^St«. i6 APRIL'S LADY, / nothing very exactly, as he does not correspond with me, and that letter of this morning is the first I have received from my father for four years." * He must, indeed, hate me," says she, in a low tone. «* His elder son such a failure, and you — he considers you a failure, too." ** Well, / don't consider myself so," says he, gaily. " They were in want of money, and you — ^you married a girl without a penny." " I married a girl who was in herself a mine of gold," returns he, laying his hands on her shoulders and giving her a little shake. Come, never mind that letter, darling ; what does it matter when all is said and done ? " " The first after all these years ; and the last-^yo\x remember it ? It was terrible. Am I unreasonable if I remember it ? " " It was a cruel letter," says he slowly ; " to forget it would be impossible, either for you or me. But, as I said just now, how does it affect us ? You have me, and I have you; and they, those foolish old people, they have " He pauses aoruptly, and then goes on in a changed tone, "their memories." ** Oh ! and sad ones 1 " cries she, sharply, as if hurt. " It is a terrible picture you have conjured up. You and I so happy, and they — Oh ! poor old people ! " " They have wronged you — slighted you — ill-treated you," says he, looking at her. " But they are unhappy ; they must be wretched always about your brother, ihtii first child. Oh ! what a grief is theirs I" *' What a heart is yours /'* says he, drawing her to him. " Barbara ! surely I shall not die until they have met you, and learned why I love you." \ i'- ■•^'■:. APRILS LADY, «7 CHAPTER III. *< It was a lover and his lass With a hey and a ho, and a hey^nonino t That o'er the green cornfield did pass In the Spring-time, the only pretty ring-time, . . When birds do sing hey-ding-a-ding, Sweet lovers love the Spring.'* Joyce is running through the garden, all the sweet wild ; winds of heaven playing round her. They are a little wild still. It is the end of lovely May, but though languid Summer is almost with us, a suspicion of her more spark- ling sister Spring fills all the air. Miss Kavanagh has caught up the tail of her gown, and is flying as if for dear life. Behind her come the foe, fast and furious. Tommy, indeed, is now dangerously close at her heels, armed with a ferocious-looking garden fork, his face crimson, his eyes glowing with the ardor of the chase ; • Mabel, much in the background, is making a bad third. Miss Kavanagh is growing distinctly out of breath. In another moment Tommy will have her. By this time he has fully worked himself into the belief that he is a Red Indian, and she his lawful prey, and is prepared to make a tomahawk of his fork, and having felled her, to scalp her somehow, when Providence shows her a corner round a rhododendron bush that may save her for the moment. She makes for it, gains it, turns it, dashes round it, and all but precipitates herself into the arms of a young man who has been walking leisurely towards her. He is a tall young man, not strictly handsome, but de- .cidedly good to look at, with honest hazel eyes, and a shapely head, and altogether very well set up. As a rule he is one of the most cheerful people alive, and a tremen- dous favorite in his regiment, the Hussars, though just now it might suggest itself to the intelligent observer that he considers he has been hardly used. A very little more haste, and that precipitation must have taken place. 2 (it APRILS LADY, He had made an instinctive movement towards her with protective arms outstretched ; but though a little cry had escaped her, she had maintained her balance, and now stands looking at him with laughing eyes, and panting breath, and two pretty hands pressed against her bosom. Mr. Dysart lets his disappointed arms fall to his sides, and assumes the aggrieved air of one who has been done out of a good thing " You ! " says she, when at last she can speak. " I suppose so," returns he discontentedly. He fnight just as well have been anyone else, or anywhere else — such a chance — and gone t " Never were you so welcome ! " cries she, dodging behind him as Tommy, fully armed, and all alive, comes tearing round the corner. "Ah, ha, Tommy, W^/ I've got a champion now. I'm no longer shivering in my shoes. Mr. Dysart will protect me — woti't you, Mr. Dysart?" to the young man, who' says " yes " without stirring a muscle. The heaviest bribe would not have induced him to move, because, standing behind him, she has laid her dainty fingers on his shoulders, from which safe position she mocks at Tommy with security. Were the owners of the shoulders to stir, the owners of the fingers might remove the delightful members. Need it be said that, with this awful possibility before him, Mr. Dysart is prepared to die at his post rather than budge an inch. And, indeed, death seems imminent. Tommy charging round the rhododendron, finding himself robbed of his expected scalp, grows frantic, and makes desperate passes at Mr. Dysart's legs, which that hero, being determined, as I have said, not to stir under any provocation, circum- vents with a considerable display of policy, such as : " I say. Tommy, old boy, is that you ? How d'ye do ? Glad to see me, aren't you ? " This last very artfully," with a view to softening the attacks. " You don't know what I've brought you ! " This is more artful still, and distinctly a swindle, as he has brought him nothing, but on the spot he determines to redeem himself with the help of the small toy-shops and sweety shops down in the village. " Put down that fork like a good boy, and let me tell you how " " Oh, bother you ! " says Tommy, indignantly. " I'd have had her only for you ! What brought you here now ? Couldn't you have waited a bit ? " i- I ^'..4^ % ■^*v^ APRIL'S I.ADW ^ ** Yes ! what brought you ? " says Miss Kavanagh, most disgracefully going over to the other side, now that danger is at an end, and Tommy has planted his impromptu toma- hawk in a bed close by. " Do you want to know ? " says he quickly. The fingers have been removed from his shoulders, and he is now at liberty to turn round and look at the charm- ing face beside him. " No, no ! " says she, shaking her head. " I've been hide, I suppose. But it is such a wonderful thing to see you here so soon again." '* Why should I not be here ? " " Of course ! That is the one unanswerable question. But you must confess it is puzzling to those who thought of you as being elsewhere." " If you are one of ' those ' you fill me with gratitude. That you should think of me even for a moment " " Well, I haven't been thinking much," says she, frankly, and with the most delightful if scarcely satisfactory little smile : " I dont t believe I was thinking of you at all, until I turned the corner just now, and then, I confess, I was startled, because I believed you at the Antipodes." "Perhaps your belief was mother to your thought." " Oh, no. Don't make me out so nasty. Well, but were you there ? " " Perhaps so. Where are they ? " asks he gloomily. " One hears a good deal about them, but they comprise so many places that nowadays one is hardly sure where they exactly lie. At all events no one has made them clear to me." " Does it rest with me to enlighten you ? '' asks she, with a little aggravating half glance from under her long lashes ; " well — the North Pole, Kamtschatka, Smyrna, Timbuctoo, Maoriland, Margate " " We'll stop there, I think," says he, with a faint grimace. " There ! At Margate ? No, thanks. You can, if you like, but as for me " " I don't suppose you would stop anywhere with me," says he. " I have occasional glimmerings that I hope mean common sense. No, I have not been so adventurous as to wander towards Margate. I have only been, to town and back again." "What town?" jft ■m ^ APRWS LADY, m- " Eh ? What town ? " says he astonished. " London, you know." " No, I don't know," says Miss Kavanagh, a little petu- lantly. " One would think there was only one town in the world, and that all you English people had the monopoly of It. There are other towns, I suppose. Even we poor Irish insignificants have a town or two. Dublin comes under that head, I sui)pose ? " " Undoubtedly. Ol course,'* making great hast to abase himself. "It is mere snobbery our making so much of London. A kind of despicable cant, you know." " Well, after all, I expect it is a big place in everyway," says Miss Kavanagh, so far mollified by his submission as to be able to allow him something. '* It's a desert," says Tommy, turning to his aunt, with all the air of one who is about to imparl to her useful infor- mation. " It's raging with wild beasts. They roam to and fro and arc at their wits' ends " here Tommy, who is great on Bible history, but who occasionally gets mixed, stops short. " Father says they're there," he winds up defiantly. " Wild beasts ! " echoes Mr. Dysart, bewildered. ** Is this the teaching about their Saxon neighbors that the Irish children receive at the hands of their parents and guardians. Oh, well, come now, Tommy, really, you know " " Yes ; they are there," says Tommy, rebelliously. ^^ Frightful beasts ! Bears ! They'd tear you in bits if they could get at you. They have no reason in them, father says. And they climb up posts, and roar at people." " Oh, nonsense ! " says Mr. Dysart. " One would think we were having a French Revolution all over again in En- gland. Don't you think," glancing severely at Joyce, who IS giving way to unrestrained mirth, ** that it is not only wrong, but dangerous, to implant such ideas about the English in the breasts of Irish children? There isn't a word of truth in it. Tommy." ^ ** There /f/" says Monkton, junior, wagging his head indignantly. " Father told me." " Father told us," repeats the small Mabel, who has just come up. " And father says, too, that the reason that Ihey are so wicked is because they want their freedom ! " says Tommy, as though this is an unanswerable argument. N + i .*: -»- ; ..^'■".c- ¥0*mm!msr——- V >t APRIL'S LADY, •i 1 ** Oh, I see ! The socialists ! " says Mr. Dysart. " Yes ; a troublesome pack ! But still, to call them wild beasts " " They are wild beasts," says Tommy, prepared to defend his position to the last. ** They've got manes^ and horns^ and tails ! " " He's romancing," says Mr. Dysart looking at Joyce. " He's not," says she demurely. " He is only trying to describe to you the Zoological Gardens. His father gives him a graphic description of them every evening, and — the result you see." Here both she and he, after a glance at each other, burst out laughing. " No wonder you were amused," says he, " but you might have given me a hint. You were unkind to me — as usual." " Now that you have been to London," says she, a little hurriedly, as if to cover his last words and pretend she hasn't heard them, " you will find our poor Ireland duller than ever. At Christmas it is not so bad, but just nowt and in the height of your season, too, " " Do you call this place dull?" interrupts he. "Then let me tell you you misjudge your native land ; this little bit of it, at all events. I think it not only the loveliest, but the liveliest place on earth." "You are easily pleased," says she, with a rather embarrassed smile. " He isn't I " says Tommy, breaking into the conversa- tion with great aplomb. He has been holding on vigor- ously to Mr. Dysart's right hand for the last five minutes, after a brief but brilliant skirmish with Mabel as to the possession of it — a skirmish brought to a bloodless conclu- sion by the surrender, on Mr. Dysart's part, of his left hand to the weaker belligerent. " He hates Miss Mali- phant, nurse says, though Lady Baltimore wants him to marry her, and she's a fine girl, nurse says, an' raal smart, and with the gift o' the gab, an* lots o' tin " " Tommy /" says his aunt frantically. It is indeed plain to everybody that Tommy is now quoting nurse, au naturely and that he is betraying confidences in a perfectly reckless manner. " Don't stop him," says Mr. Dysart, glancing at Joyce's crimson cheeks with something of disfavor. " * What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba ? ' I defy you," a little as APRIL'S LADY, stormily, ** to think I care a farthing for Miss Mahphant or for any other woman on earth — save one /" •' Oh, you mustn't press your confidences on me," says she, smiling and dissembling rather finely ; •* I know nothing. I accuse you of nothing. Only, Tommy, you were a little rude, weren't you ? " " I wasn't," says Tommy, promptly, in whom the inborn instinct of self-defence has been largely developed. " It's true. Nurse says she has a voice like a cow. Is that true ? " turning, unabashed to Dysart. " She's expected at the Castle, next week. You shall come up and judge for yourself," says he, laughing. "And," turning fojoyce^ "you will come, too, I hope." " It is manners to wait to be asked," returns she, smil- ing. " Oh, as for that," says he, *' Lady Baltimore crossed last night with me and her husband. And here is a letter for you." He pulls a note of the cocked hat order out of one of his pockets. CHAPTER IV. *• Tell me where is fancy bred. Or in the heart, or in the head ? How begot, how nourished ? Reply, reply." ** An invitation from Lady Baltimore," says Joyce, look- ing at the big red crest, and coloring slightly. " Yes." *' TTow do you know ? " asks she, rather suspiciously. TJ' - young man raises his hands and eyes. " I swear I had nothing to do with it," says he, " I didn't so much as hint at it. Lady Baltimore spent her time crossing the Channel in declaring to all who were well enough to hear her, that she lived only in the expectation of soon seeing you again." " Nonsense ! " scornfully ; " it is only a month ago since I was staying there, just before they went to London. By the bye, what brings them home now ? In the very begin- ning of their season ? " A PR IV S LADY, "/don't know. And it is as well not to inquire per- haps. Baltimore and my cousin, as all the world knows, have not hit it off together. Yet when Isabel married him, we all thought it was quite an ideal marriage, they were so much in love with each other." " Hot love soon cools," says Miss Kavanagh in a general sort of way. " I don't believe it," sturdily, " if it's the right sort of love. However, to go back to your letter — which you haven't even deigned to open — you loill accept the invita- tion, won't you ? " ^ "I don't know," hesitating. " Oh ! I say, do come ! It is only for a week, and even if it does bore you, still, as a Christian, you ought to con- sider how much, even in that short time, you w'll be able to add to the happiness of your fellow creatures.' " Flattery means insincerity," says she, tilting her chin, '' keep all that sort of thing for your Miss Maliphant ; it is thrown away upon me." " My Miss Maliphant ! Really I must protest against your accrediting me with such a possession. • But look here, dorCt disappoint us all ; and you won't be dull either, there are lots of people coming. Dicky Brown, for one." " Oh ! will he be there ? " brightening visibly. " Yes," rather gloomily, and perhaps a little sorry that he has said anything about Mr. Browne's possible arrival — though to feel jealousy about that social butterfly is indeed to sound the depths of folly ; " you like him ? " " I love him," says Miss Kavanagh promptly and with sufficient enthusiasm to restore hope in the bosom of any man except a lover. " He is blessed indeed," says he stiffly. " Beyond his deserts I can't help thinking. I really think he is the big- gest fool I ever met." " Oh ! not the biggest, surely," says she, so saucily, and with such a reprehensible tendency towards laughter, that he gives way and laughs too, though unwillingly. " True. I'm a bigger," says he, " but as that is your fault, you should be the last to taunt me with it." "Foolish people always talk folly," says she with an assumption of indifference that does not hide her red cheeks. " Well, go on, who is to be at the Court besides Dicky ? " iS 'V>' ••■..■r. m %' APRIL'S LADY. ** Lady Swansdown." V "I like her too." ' " But not so well as you like Dicky, you love him accord- ing to your own statement." " Don't be matter-of-fact ! " says Miss Kavanagh, giving him a well-deserved snub. " Do you always say exactly what y'>u mean ? " "Always — to you." " I daresay you would be more interesting if you didn't," says she, with a little, lovely smile, that quite spoils the harshness of her words. Of her few faults, perhaps the greatest is, that she seldom knows her own mind, where her lovers are concerned, and will blow hot and cold, and merry and sad, and cheerful, and petulant all in one breath as it were. Poor lovers ! they have a hard time of it with her as a rule. But youth is often so, and the cold, still years, as they creep on us, with dull common sense and deadly reason in their train, cure us all too soon of our pretty idle follies. Just now she was bent on rebuffing him, but you see her strength ftiiled her, and she spoiled her effect by the smile she mingled with the rebuff. The smile indeed was so charming that he remembers nothing but it, and so she not only gains nothing, but loses something to the other side. *• Well, I'll try to mend all that," says he, but so loving- ly, and with such unaffected tenderness, that she quails beneath his glance. Coquette as undoubtedly Nature has made her, she has still so gentle a soul within her bosom that she shrinks from inflicting actual pain. A pang or two, a passing regret to be forgotten the next hour — or at all events in the next change of scene — she is not above imparting, but when people grow earnest like — like Mr. Dysart for example — they grow troublesome. And she hasn't made up her mind to marry, and there are other people " The Clontarfs are to be there too," goes on Dysart, who is a cousin of Lady Baltimore's, and knows all about her arrangements ; " and the Brownings, and Norman Beauclerk." "The — Clontarfs," says Joyce, in a hurried way, that might almost be called confused ; to the man who loves her, and who is watching her, it is quite plain that she is ■^■'W' ■ ■■. ... J',.. APRWS LADY. 25 not thinking of Lord and Lady Clontarf, who are quite an ordinary couple and devoted to each other, but of that last name spoken — Norman Beauclerk ; Lady Baltimore's brother, a man, handsome, agreeable, aristocratic — the man w.hose attentions to her a month ago had made a little topic for conversation amongst the country people. Dull country people who never go anywhere or see anything beyond their stupid selves, and who are therefore driven to do something or other to avoid suicide or the murder- ing of each other ; gossip unlimited is their safety valve. " Yes, and Beauclerk," persists Uysart, a touch of de- spair at his heart ; " you and he were good friends when last he was over, eh ? " " I am generally very good friends with everybody ; not an altogether desirable character, not a strong one," says she smiling, and still openly parrying the question. *' You liked Beauclerk," says he, a little doggedly per- haps. " Ye — es — very well." ^^Y try much! Why can't you be honest/^' says he flashing out at her. . " I don't know what you mean," coldly. " If, however, you persist on my looking into it, I — " defiantly — "yes, I do like Mr. Beauclerk very much." " Well, I don't know what you see in that fellow." " Nothing," airily, having now recovered h'drself, " that's his charm." " If," gravely, " you gave that as your opinion of Dicky Browne I could believe you.'* She laughs. " Poor Dicky," says she, "what a cruel judgment ; and yet you are right ; " she has changed her whole manner, and is now evidently bent on restoring him to good humor, and compelling him to forget all about Mr. Beauclerk. " I must give in to you about Dicky. There isn't even the vaguest suggestion of meaning about ////;/. I — " with a deliberate friendly glance flung straight into his eyes — " don t often give in to you, do I ? " On this occasion, however, her coquetry — so generally successful — is completely thrown away. Dysart, with his dark eyes fixed uncompromisingly upon hers, makes the next move — an antagonistic one. ri? 36 ^ APRIL'S LADY, " You have a very high oj^inion of Beauclerk/' says he. . " Have I ? " laughing uneasily, and refusing to let her risitig temper give way. " We all have our opinions on every subject that comes under our notice. You have one on this subject evidently." ** Yes, but it is not a high one," says he unpleasantly. " After all, what does that matter ? I don't pretend to understand you. I will only suggest to you that our opin- ions are but weak things — mere prejudices — no more." ** I am not prejudiced against Beauclerk, if you mean that," a little hotly. ** I didnt," with a light shrug. " Believe me, you think a g jat deal more about him than I do." Are you sure of that ? " '' I am at all events sure of one thing," says she quickly darting at him a frowning glance, '' that you have no right to ask me that question." " I have not indeed," acknowledges he stiffly still, but with so open an apology in his whole air that she forgives him. " Many conflicting thoughts led me astray. I must ask your pardon." " Why, jfjranted ! " says she. " And — I was cross, wasn't- I ? After all an old friend like you might be allowed a little laxity. There, never mind," holding out her hand. " Let us make it up." Dysart grasps the little extended hand with avidity, and peace seems restored when Tommy puts an end to all things. To anyone acquainted with children I need hard- ly remark that he has been listehing to the foregoing con- versation with all his ears and all his eyes and every bit of his puzzled intelligence. " Well, go on," says he, giving his aunt a push when the friendly hand-shake has come to an end. " Go on ? Where ? " asks she, with apparent uncon- cern but a deadly foreboding at her breast. She knows her Tommy, " You said you were going to make it up with him ! " says that hero, regarding her with disapproving eyes. " Well, I have made it up." " No, you haven't ! When you make it up with me you always kiss me ! Why don't you kiss him ? " ^-^■"^ APRIL'S J.ADY. ^7 Consternation on the part of the principal actors. Dysar*^, strange to say, is the first to recover. " Why indeed ? " says he, giving way all at once to a fatal desire for laughter. This, Miss Kavanagh, being vexed with herself for her late confusion, recents strong- ly. ** I am sure, Tommy," says she, with a mildness that would not have imposed upon an infant, " that your les- son hour has arrived. Come, say good-bye to Mr. Dysart, and let us begin at once. You know I am going to teach you to-day. Good-bye, Mr. Dysart — if you want to see Barbara, you will find her very probably in the study." " Don't go Hke this," says he anxiously. ** Or if you will po, at least tell me that you will accept Lady Baltimore's invitation." •* I don't know," smiling coldly. " I think not. You see I was there for such a long time in the beginning of the year, and Barbara always wants me, and one should not be selfish you know." " One should not indeed ! " says he, with slow meaning. " What answer, then, must I give my cousin ? You know," in a low tone, " that she is not altogether happy. You can lighten her burden a little. She is fond of you." ** I can lighten Barbara's burden also. Think me the iVery incarnation of selfishness if you will," says she rather unjustly, " but still, if Barbara says * don't go,' I shall stay here." " Mrs. Monkton won't say that." 'f " Perhaps not," toying idly with a rose, in such a care- less fashion as drives him to despair. Brushing it to and fro across aer lips she seems to have lost all interest in the question in hand. " If she says to you * go,' how then ? " " Why then — I may still remain here." " Well stay then, of course, if you so desire it ! " cries he angrily. " If to make all your worH w«happy is to make you happy, why be so by all means." ** All my world ! Do you suppose then that it will make Barbara and Freddy unhappy to have my company ? What a gallant speech ! " says she, with a provoking little laugh and a swift lifting of her eyes to his. " No, but it will make other people (more than twice Xyio) miserable to be deprived of it." :'*; ■''?*■ -til? ^. APRJVS LADY. " Are you one of that quartette ? " asks she, so saucily, yet withal so merrily that the hardest-hearted lover might forgive her. A little irresistible laugh breaks from her lips. Rather ruefully he joins in it. " I don't think I need answer that question," says he. " To you at all events." " To me of all people rather," says she still laughing, " seeing I am the interested party." "No, that character belongs to me. You have no interest in it. To me it is life or death — to — you " " No, no, you mustn't talk to me like that. You know I forbid you last time we met, and you promised me to be «good." " I ^^romised then the most difficult thing in the ^ i^rld. But nevc ' mind me ; the principal thing is, your acceptance or rejection of that note. Joyce ! " in a low tone, " say ' you will accept it." *' Well," relenting visibly, and now refusing to meet his eyes, " I'll ask Barbara, and if she says I may go I " pause. " You will then accept ? " eagerly. " I shall then— think about it." " You look like an angel," says he, " and you have the heart of a flint." This remark, that might have presumably annoyed another girl, seems to fill Miss Kavanagh with mirth. " Am I so bad as that ? " cries she, gaily. " Why I shall make amends then. I shall change my evil ways. As a beginning, see here. If Barbara says go to the Court, go I will. Now, stern moralist ! where are you ? " ' In the seventh heaven," says he, promptly. *' Be it a Fool's Paradise or otherwise, I shall take up my abode there for the present. And now you will go and ask Mrs. Monkton ? " " In what a hurry to get rid of me ! " says this coquette of all coquettes. " Well, good-bye then " "Oh no, don't go." '' - " To the Court ? Was ever man so unreasonable ? In one breath * do ' and * don't ' ! " . - " Was ever woman so tormenting ? " (( so- Tormenting? No, so discerning if you will, or else »» You can't find fault with that at all " Adorable ! events." APRIL'S LADY, ^ '* And therefore my mission is at an end 1. Good-bye, again." "Good-bye." He is holding her hand as though he never means to let her have it again. " That rose," says he, pointing to the flower that had kissed her lips so often. " It is nothing to you, you can pick yourself another, give it to me." " I can pick you another too, a nice fresh one," says she. '* Here," moving towards a glowing bush ; " here is a biid worth having." " Not that one," hastily. " Not one this garden, or any other garden holds, save the one in your hand. It is the only one in the world of roses worth having." ** I hate to give a faded gift," says she, looking at the rose she holds with appaient disfavor. "Then I shall take it," returns he, with decision. He opens her pretty pink palm, releases the dying rosebud from it and places it triumphantly in his coat. "You haven't got any manners," says she, but she laughs again as she says it. " Except bad ones you should add." " Yes, I forgot that. A point lost. Good-bye now, good-bye indeed." She waves her hand lightly to him and calling to the children runs towards the house. It seems as if she has carried all the beauty and brightness and sweetness of the day with her. As Dysart turns back again, the afternoon appears grey and gloomy. CHAPTER V. . ** Look ere thou leap, see ere thou go." " Well, Barbara, can I go ? " ' " I don't know " — doubtfully. There is a cloud on Mrs. Monkton's brow, she is staring out of the window instead of into her sister's face, and she is evidently a little dis- tressed or uncertain. "You have been there so lately, and " " You want to say something," says the younger sister, ••#• '■>w- 36 APRIL'S LADY. seating herself on the sofa, and drawing Mrs. Monkton down beside her. " Why don't you do it ? " ** You can't want to go so very much, can you now?" asks the latter, anxiously, almost entreatingly. " It is I who don't know this time 1 " says Joyce, with a smile. " And yet " " It seems only like yesterday that you came back after spending a month there." *' A yesterday that dates from six weeks ago," a little reproachfully. " I know. You like being there. It is a very amusing house to be at. I don't blame you in any way. Lord and Lady Baltimore are both charming in their ways, and very kind, and yet " " There, don't stop ; you are coming to it now, the very heart of the meaning. Go on," authoritatively, and seizing her sister in her arms, " or I'll shake it out of you." " It is this then," says Mrs. Monkton slowly. " I don't think it is a wise thing for vju to go there so often." " Oh Barbara ! Owl of Wisdom as thou art, why not ? " The girl is laughing, yet a deep flush of color has crept into each cheek. " Never mind the why not. Perhaps it is unwise to go anywhere too often ; and you must acknowledge that you spent almost the entire spring there." " Well, I hinted all ^hat to Mr. Dysart." " Was he here ? " " Yes. He came down from the Court with the note." " And — who else is to be there ? " ** Oh ! the Clontarfs, and Dicky Browne, and Lady Swansdown and a great many others." " Mr. Beauc!erk ? " she does not look at Joyce as she asks this question. « Yes." A little silence follows, broken at last by Joyce. " May I go ? " " Do you think it is the best thing for you to do ? " says Mrs. Monkton, flushing delicately. " Thinks darling ! You know — you must know, because you have it always before you," flushing even deeper, " that to marry into a family where you are not welcomed with open heart is to know much private discomfiture." " I know this too," ■nys the girl, petulantly, " that to be married to a man like Freddy, who consults your ■'* APRWS LADY, 3« lightest wish, and is your lover always, is worth the en- during of anything." " I think that too," says Mrs. Monkton, who has now grown rather pale. " But there is still one more thing to know — that in making such a marriage as we have de- sdribed, a woman lays out a thorny path for her husband. She separates him from his family, iind as all good men have strong home ties, she naturally compels him to feel mahy a secret pang." "But he has his compensations. Do you think if Freiddy got the chance, he would give you up and go back to his family ? " " No — not that. But to rejoice in that thought is to be selfish. Why should he not have my love and the love of his people too ? There is a want somewhere. What I wish to impress upon you, Joyce, is this, that a woman who marries a man against his parents ' wishes has much to regret, much to endure." " I think you are ungrateful," says the girl a little vehemently. " Freddy has made you endure nothing. You are the happiest married woman I know." " Yes, but I have made him endure a great deal," says Mrs. Monkton in a low tone. She ripes, and going to the window, stands there looking out upon the sunny land- scape, but seeing nothing. " Barbara ! you are crying," says Joyce, going up to her abruptly and folding her arms round her. " It is nothing, dear. Nothing at all, darling. Only — I wish he and his father were friends again. Freddy is too good a man not to regret the estrangement." " I believe you think Freddy is a little god ! " says Joyce laughing. ** O ! not a little one," says Mrs. Monkton, and as Freddy stands six foot one in his socks, they both laugh at this. " Still you don't answer me," says the girl presently. " You don't say * you may ' or * you shan't ' — which is it to be, Barbara?" Her tone is distinctly coaxing now, and as she speaks she gives her sister a little squeeze that is plainly meant to press the desired permission out of her. Still Mrs. Monkton hcsitat :s. APRIL'S LADY. • " You see," says she temporizing, " there are so many reasons. The Court," pausing and fluf.hing, " is not quite the house for so young a girl as you." '- * " Oh Barbara ! " " You can't misunderstand me," says her sister with agitation. ** You know how I like, love Lady Baltinipre, and how good Lord Baltimore has been to Freddy. When his father cast him off there was very little left to us for beginning housekeeping with, and when Lord Baltimore gave him his agency — Oh, well ! it isn't likely we shall either of us forget to be grateful for that. If it was only for ourselves I should say nothing, but it is for you, dear; and — this unfortunate affair — this determined hostility that exists between Lord and Lady Baltimore, makes it unpleasant for the guests. You know." nervously, " I hate gossip of any sort, but one must defend one's own." " But there is nothing unpleasant ; one sees nothing. They are charming to each other. I have been staying there and I know." " Have I not stayed there too ? It is impossible Joyce to fight against facts. All the world knows they are not on good terms." " Well, a great many other people aren't perhaps." " When they aren't the tone of the house gets lowered. And I have noticed of late that they have people there, who " " Who what, Barbara ? " " Oh yes, I know they are all right ; they are received everywhere, but are they good companions for a girl of your years ? It is not a healthy atmosphere for you. They are rich people who think less of a hundred guineas than you do of five. Is it wise, I ask you again,^ to accus- tom yourself to their ways ? " " Nonsense, Barbara ! " says her sister, looking at her with a growing surprise. " That is not like you. Why should we despise the rich, why should we seek to emulate them ? Surely both you and I have too good blood in our veins to give way to such follies." She leans towards Mrs. Monkton, and with a swift gesture, gentle as firm, turns her face to her own. ** Now for the real reason," says she. Unthinkingly she has brought confusion on herself. Barbara, as though stung to cruel car^^.or, gives her the real reason in a sentence. APRIL'S LADY. 33 uot •f I rself. the "Tell me this," says she, '* which do you like best, Mr. Dysart, or Mr. Beauclerk ? " Joyce, taking her arm from round her sister's neck, moves back from her. A deep color has flamed into her cheeks, then died away again. She looks quite calm now. " What a question," says she. " WtU," feverishly, " answer it." " Oh, no," says the girl quickly. "Why not? Why not answer it to me, your chief friend? You think the question indelicate, but why should I shrink from asking a question on which, perhaps, the happiness of your life depends ? If — if you have set your heart on Mr. Beauclerk " She stops, checked by something in Miss Kavanagh's face. " Well, what then ? " asks the latter coldly. " It will bring you unhappiness. He is Lady Balti- more's brother. She already plans for him. The Beau- cierks are poor— he is bound to marry money." " That is a good deal about Mr. Beauclerk, but what about the other possible suitor whom you suppose I am madly in love with ? " " Don't alk to me like that, Joyce. Do you think I have anything at heart except your interests ? As to Mr. Dysart, if you like him^ I confess I should be glad of it. He is only a cousin of the Baltimores, and of such mode- rate means that they would scarcely object to his marry- ing a penniless girl." " You rate me highly," says Joyce, with a sudden rather sharp little laugh. '* I am good enough for the cousin — I am not good enough for the brother, who may reason- ably look higher." " Not higher," haughtily. " He can only marry a girl of good birth. You are that, but he, in his position, will look for money, or else his people will look for it for him. Whereas, Mr. Dysart " " Yes, you needn't go over it all. Mr. Dysart is about on a level wiih me, he will never have any money, neither shall I." Suddenly she looks round at her sister, her eyes very bright. " Tell me then," says she, " what does it all come to ? That I am bound to refuse to marry a man because he has money, and because I have none." *•' That is not the argument," says Barbara anxiously. ' " I think it is." Mwiwi 34 APKIVS LADY. I '. ./'" " It is not. I advise you strongly not to think of Mr. Beauclerk, yet he has no money to speak of." " He has more '.han Freddy." " But he is a different man from Freddy — with different tastes, different aspirations, different He's different," emphatically, " in every way 1 " " To be different from the person one loves is not to be a bad man," says Joyce slowly, her eyes on the ground. " My dear girl, who has called Mr. Beauclerk a bad man?" '' You don't like him," says Miss Kavanagh, still more slowly, still with thoughtful eyes downcast. " I like Mr. Dysart better if you mean that." "No, I don't mean that. And, besides, that is no answer." *• Was there a question ? " " Yes. Why don't you like Mr. Beauclerk ? " " Have I said I didn't like him ? " " Not in so many words, but Well, why don't you ? '* *M don't know," rather lamely. Miss Kavanagh laughs a little satirically, and Mrs. Monkton, objecting to m;rth of that description, takes fire. " Why do you like him? " asks she defiantly. ** I don't know either," returns Joyce, with a rueful smile. " And after all I'm not sure that I like him so very much. You evidently imagine me to be head over ears in love with him, yet I, myself, scarcely know whether I like him or not. " " You always look at him so kindly, and you always pull your skirts aside to give him a place by your side." " I should do that for Tommy." " Would you ? That would be too kind," says Tommy's mother, laughing. " It would mean ruin to your skirts in two minutes." "But, consider the gain. The priceless scraps of wisdom I should hear, even whilst my clothes were being demolished." This has been a mere interlude, unintentional on the part of either, and, once over, neither knows how to go on. The question must be settled one way or the other. " There is one thing," says Mrs. Monkton, at length, '* You certainly prefer Mr. Beauclerk to Mr. Dysart," # of Mr. different fferent," lot to be ound. k a bad till more at IS no tyou?" id Mrs. n, takes a rueful so very ears in er I like ays pull ommys skirts in raps of e being on the go on. > length, ■•t" t ^ APRIL'S LADY, ' H " Do I ? I wish I knew as much about myself as you know about me. And, after all, it is of no consequence whom I like. The real thing is Come, Barbara, you who know so much can tell me this " "Well?" says Mrs. Monkton, seeing she has grown very red, anJ is evidently hesitating. " No. This absurd conversation has gone far enough. I was going to ask you to solve a riddle, but " "But what?" ^ " You are too serious about it." " Not too serious. It is very important." "Oh, Barbara, do you know \w\\2l\. you are saying?" cries the girl with an angry little stamp, turning to her a face pale and indignant. " You have been telling me in so many words that I am in love with either Mr. Beauclerk or Mr. Dysart. Pray now, for a change, tell me which of them is in love with me.^* " Mr. Dysart," says Barbara quietly. Her sister laughs angrily. " You think everybody who looks at me is in love with me." " Not every out ! " " Meaning Mr. Beauclerk." " No," slowly. " I think he likes you, too, but he is a man who will always think. You know he has come in for that property in Hampshire through his uncle's deaths but he got no money with it. It is a large place, ini- possible to keep up without a large income, £ind his unclie left every penny away from him. It is in great disrepiii*, the house especially. I hear it is falling to pieces. Mr. Beauclerl^ is an ambitious man, he will seek means to rebuild his house." " Well what of that? It is an interesting bit of history, but how does it concern me ? Take that troubled look out of your eyes, Barbara. I assure you Mr. Beauclerk is as little to me as I am to him." She speaks with such evident sincerity, with such an un- deniable belief in the truth of her own words, that Mrs. Monkton, looking at her and reading her soul through her clear eyes, feels a weight lifted from ber heart. " That is all right then," says she simply. She turns as if to go away, but Miss Kavanagh has still a word or twc to say. ■■ ."■:. ,;o-?:' , ■■''''";■';■•' ,'. r 36 APRIL'S LADY, " I may go to the Court ? " says she. •* Yes ; I suppose so." " But you won't be vexed if I go, Barbie ? " " No ; not now." " Weil," slipping her arm through hers, with an audible sigh of delight. " Thafs settled." ** Things generally do get settled the way you want them to be," says Mrs. Monkton, laughing. " Come, what about your frocks, eh ? " From this out they spend a most enjoyable hour or two. CHAPTER VI. •* Or if they sing, 'tis witli so dull a cheer, That leaves look pale, thinking the winter's near." The visit to the Court being decided on. Miss Kavanagh undertakes life afresh, with a joyous heart. Lord and Lady Baltimore are the best host and hostess in the world, and a visit to them means unmixed pleasure while it lasts. The Court is, indeed, the pleasantest house in the county, the most desirable in all respects, and the gayest. Yet, strange and sad to add, happiness has found no bed within its walls. This is the more remarkable in that the marriage of Lord and Lady Baltimore had been an almost idealistic one. They had been very much in love with each other. All the hosts of friends and relations that belonged to either side had been delighted with the engagement. So many imprudent marriages were maae, so many ^disastrous ones ; but here was a marriage where birth and money went together, and left no guardians or parents lamenting. All Belgravia stood still and stared at the young couple with genuine admiration. It wasn't often that love, pure and simple, fell into their midst, and such a satisfactory love too ! None of your erratic darts that struck the wrong breasts, and created confusion for miles round, but a thoroughly proper, respectable winged arrow that pierced the bosoms of those who might safely be congratulated on the reception of it. They had, indeed, been very much in love with each other. Few people have known such extreme happiness APRWS LADY, 37 audible unt them at about r or two. n avanagh ord and ;s in the e while it se in the e gayest, no bed rriage of dealistic :h other. mged to ent. So isastrous I money nenting. couple ve, pure sfactory uck the und, but ; pierced lated on ith each ppiness I ■ .' as fell to their lot for two whole years. They were wrapt up in each other, and when the little son came at the end of that time, nothing seemed wanted. They grew so strong in *'ieir belief in the immutability of their own relations, one to the other, that when the blow fell that separated them, it proved a very lightning-stroke, dividing soul from body. Lady Baltimore could be at no time called a beautiful woman. But there is always a charm in her face, a strength, an attractiveness that might well defy the more material charms of a lovelier woman than herself. With a soul as pure as her face, and a mind entirely innocent of the world's evil ways — and the sad and foolish secrets she is compelled to bear upon her tired bosom from centurv to century — she took with a bitter hardness the revelations of her husband's former life before he mr.rried her, related to her by — of course — a devoted friend. Unfortunately the authority was an undeniable one. It was impossible for Lady Baltimore to refuse to believe. The past, too, she might have condoned ; though, believ- ing in her husband as she did, it would always have been bitter to her, but the devoted friend — may all such meet their just reward ! — had not stopped there ; she had gone a step further, a fatal step ; she had told her something that had not occurred since their marriage. Perhaps the devoted friend believed m her lie, perhaps she did not. Anyway, the mischief was done. Indeed, from the beginning seeds of distrust had been laid, and, buried in so young and unlearned a bosom, had taken a fatal grip. The more fatal in that there was truth in them. As a fact, Lord Baltimore had been the hero of several ugly passages in his life. His early life, certainly ; but a young wife who has begun by thinking him immaculate, would hardly be the one to lay stress upon that. And when her friend, who had tried unsuccessfully to marry Lord Balti- more and^had failed, had in the kindliest spirit, of course^ opened her eyes to his misdoings, she had at first passion- ately refused to listen, then had listened, and after that was ready to listen to anything. One episode in his past history had been made much of. The sorry heroine of it had been an actress. This was bad enough, but when the disinterested friend went on to 38 APRr ^ LADY. say that Lord Baltic .»re had been seen in her company only so long ago as last week, matters came to a climax. That was a long time ago from to-day, but the shock when it came shattered all the sacred feelings in Lady Balti- more's heart. She grew cold, callous, indifferent. Her mouth, a really beautiful feature, that used to be a picture of serenity and charity personified, hardened. She be- came austere, cold. Not difficult, so much as unsympa- thetic. She was still a good hostess, and those who had known her bf,fore her misfortune still loved her. But she made no new friends, and she sat down within herself, as it were, and gave herself up to her fate, and would prob- ably have died or grown reckless but for her little son. And it was after the birth of this beloved child that she had been told that her husband had agam been seen in company with Madame I stray ; that seemed to add fuel to the fire already kindled. She could not forgive that. It was proof positive of his baseness. To the young wife it was all a revelation, a horrible one. She had been so stunned by it, that she accepted it as it stood, and learning that the stories of his life before mar- riage were true, had decided that the stories told of his life after marriage were true also. She was young, and youth is always hard. To her no doubt remained of his infidelity. She had come of a brave old stock, who, if they could not fight, could at least endure in silence, and knew well the neces- sity of keeping her nam^ out of the public mouth. She kept herself well in hand, therefore, and betrayed nothing of all she had been feeling. She dismissed her friend with a gentle air, dignified, yet of sufficient haughtiness to let that astute and now decidedly repentant lady know that never again would she enter the doors of the Court, or any other of Lady Baltimore's houses ; yet she restrained herself all through so well that, even until the very end came, her own husband never knew how horribly she suffered through her disbelief in him. He thought her heartless. There was no scandal, no public separation. She said a word or two to him that told him what she had heard, and when he tried to explain the truths of that last libel that had declared him unfaith- ful to her since her marriage, she had silenced him with so cold, so scornful, so contemptuous a glance and word, that, ohilled and angered in his turn, he had left her. APRIVS LADY. 39 »mpany climax, k when yr Balti- . Her picture >he be- isympa- ho had But she rself, as d prob* son. :hat she seen in I fuel to lat. It 3le one. it as it Ve mar- his life youth )he had >t fight, neces- She nothing d with a et that it never y other rself all ler own ugh her dal, no im that explain Linfaith- with so d, that, Twice afterwards he had sought to explain matters, but it was useless. She would not listen ; the treacherous friend, whom she never betrayed, had d( ne her work well. Lady Baltimore, though she never forgave her^ would not forgive her husband either ; she would make no formal attempt at a separation. Before the world she and he lived together, seemingly on the best terms ; at all events on quite as good terms as most of their acquaintances ; yet all the world knew how it was with therti. So long as there are servants, so long will it be impossible to effec- tually conceal our most sacred secrets. Her friends, when the Baltimores went to visit them, made arrangements to suit them. It was a pity, everybody said, that such complications should have arisen, and one would not have expected it from Isabel, but then she seemed so cold, that probably a climax like that did not affect her as much as it might another. She was so en- tirely wrapped up in her boy — some women w^ere like that — a child sufficed them. And as for Lord Baltimore — Cyril — why Judgment was divided here ; the women taking his part, the men hers. The latter finding an at- traction hardly to be defined in her pure, calm, rather impenetrable face, that had yet a smile so lovely that it could warm the seemingly cold face into a something that was more effective than mere beauty. It was a wonderful smile, and, in spite of all her troubles, was by no means rare. Lady Baltimore, they all acknowledged, was a delightful guest and hostess. As for Lord Baltimore, he — ^well, he would know how to console himself. Society, the crudest organization on earth, laughed to itself about him. He had known how to live before his marriage ; now that the marriage had proved a failure, he would still know how to make life bearable. In this they wrongsd him. 40 JPRWS LADY, CHAPTER VII. **Ils n'empioyent les paroles qu6 pour d^guiser leurs pens6es." —Voltaire. Even the most dyspeptic of the guests had acknowledged at breakfast, some hours ago now, that a lovelier day could hardly be imagined. Lady Baltimore, with a smile, had agreed with him. It was, indeed, impossible not to agree with him. The sun was shining high in the heavens, and ' a soft, velvetty air blew through the open windows right on to the table. ** What shall we do to-day ? " Lady Swandown, one of the guests, had asked, addressing her question to Lord Baltimore, who just then was helping his little son to • porridge. Whatever she liked. "Then nothing !'* says she, in that soft drawl of hers, and that little familiar imploring glance of hers at her hostess, who sat behind the urn, and glanced back at her over so kindly. " Yes, it was too warm to dream of exertion ; would 7-ady Swansdown like to remain at home then, and dream away the afternoon in a hammock ? " " Dreams were delightful ; but to dream alone " "Oh, no ; they would all, or at least most of them, stay with her." It was Lady Baltimore who had said this, after waiting in vain for her husband to speak — to whom, in- deed, Lady Swansdown's question had been rather point- edly addressed ' So at home they all had stayed. No one being very ^ keen about doing anything on a day so sultry. Yet now, when luncheon is at an end, and the day still heavy with heat, the desire for action that lies in every ' breast takes fire. They are all tired of doing nothing. The Tennis-courts lie invitingly empty, and rackets thrust themselves into notice at every turn ; as for the balls, worn APRIVS LADY, 41 6es.» FAIRE. irledged y could ile, had o agree ns, and s right one of Lord son to >f hers, at her at her would dream » m, stay s, after Dm, in- point- ig very ay still every )thing. thrust i; worn ,. out from ennuiy they insert themselves under each arched instep, threatening to bring the owners to the ground unless picked up and made use of. " Who wants a beating ? " demands Mr. Browne at last, unable to pretend lassitude any longer. Taking up a racket he brandishes it wildly, presumably to attract atten- tion. This is necessary. As a rule nobody pays any attention to Dicky Browne. He is a nondescript sort of young man, of the negative order ; with no features to speak of, and a capital opinion of himsfilf. Income vague. Age unknown. " Well i That's one way of putting it," says Miss Kava- nagh, with a little tilt of her pretty chin. " Is it a riddle ? " asks Dysart. " If so I know it. The answer is — Dicky Browne." " Oh, I like that ! " says Mr. Browne unabashed. " See here, I'll give you plus fifteen, and a bisque, and start my- self at minus thirty, and beat you in a canter." " Dear Mr. Browne, consider the day ! I believe there are such things as sunstrokes," says Lady Swansdown, in her sweet treble. " There are. But Dicky's all right," says Lord Balti- more, drawing up a garden chair close to hers, and seating himself upon it. " His head is safe. The sun makes no impression upon graaite ! " " Ahj, granite ! that applies to a heart not a head," says Lady Swansdown, resting her blue eyes on Baltimore's *br just a swift second. It is wonderful, however,what her eyes can do in a second. Baltimore laughs lightly,, returns her glance fourfold, and draws his chair a quarter of an inch closer to hers. To ./icve it more than that v/ould have been an impossibility. Lady Swansdown makes a slight movement. With a smile seraphic as an angel's, ^he pulls her lace skirts a little to one side, as if to prove to Baltimore that he has encroached beyond his privileges upon her domain. " People should not crush people. And why do you want to get so very close to me ? " This question lies within the serene eyes she once more raises to his. She is a lovely woman, blonde, serene, dangerous ! In each glance she turns upon the man who happens at any moment to be next to her, lies an entire chapter on the " Whole Art of Flirtation." Were she reduced to penury, 'sa ai.ii ii ini iiii i 11 -■J JiV-.' i^jjiui 42 APRWS LADY. and the world a little more advanced in its fashionable ways, she might readily make a small fortune in teaching young ladies ** How to Marry Well." No man could resist her pupils, once properly finished by her and turned out to prey upon the stronger sex. '* The Complete Angler " would be a title they might filch with perfect honor and call their own. She is a tall beauty, with soft limbs, graceful as a panther, or a cat. Her eyes are like the skies in summer time, her lips sweet and full. The silken hair that falls in soft masses on her Grecian brow is light as corn in harvest, and she has hands and feet that are absolutely faultless. She hr.s even more than all these — a most convenient husband, who is not only now but apparently always in a position of trust abroad. Very much abroad. The Fiji, 6r the Sand- wich Islands for choice. One can't hear from those centres of worldly dissipation in a hurry. And after all, it really doesn't very much matter where he is ! There had been a whisper or two in the County about her and Lord Baltimore. Everybody knew the latter lad been a little wild since his estrangement with his wife, but nothing to signify very much— nothing that one could lay one's finger on, until Lady Swansdown had come down last year to the Court. Whether Baltimore was in love with her was uncertain, but all were agreed that she was in love with him. Not that she made an esclandre of any sort, but one could see ! And still ! she was such a friend of Lady Baltimore's — an old friend. They had been girls together — that was what was so wonderful ! And Lady Baltimore made very much of her, and treated her with the kindliest observances, and But one had often heard of the serpent that one nourished in one's bosom only that it might come to life and sting one ! The County grew wise over this complication ; and perhaps when Mrs. Monkton had hinted to Joyce of the "odd people" the Baltimores asked to the Court, she had had Lady Swans- down in her mind. " Whose heart ? " asks Baltimore, d propos of her last remark. " Yours ? ' It is a leading remark, and something in the way it is uttered strikes unpleasantly on the ears of Dysart. Balti- more is bending over his lovely guest, and looking at her with an adruiration too open to be quite respectful. But APRIL'S LADY. 49 } ■ she betriys no resentment. She smiles back at him indeed in that little slow, seductive way of hers, and makes him an answer in a tone too low for even those nearest to her to hear. It is a sort of challenge, a tacit acknowledgment thit they two are alone even in the midst of all these tire- some people. Baltimore accepts it. Of late he has grown a little reck-r less. The battling against circumstances has been too much for him. He has gone under. The persistent cold- ness of his wife, her refusal to hear, or believe in him, has had its effect. A man of a naturally warm and kindly dis- position, thrown thus back upon himself, he has now given a loose rein to the carelessness that has been a part of his nature since his mother gave him to the world, and allows himself to swim or go down with the tide that carries his present life upon its bosom. . . ,. Lady Swansdov^n is lovely anc' kind. Always with that sense of injury full upon him, that half-concealed but ever-present desire for revenge upon the wife who has so coldly condemned and cast him aside, he flings himself willingly into a flirtation, ready made to his hand, and as dangerous as it seems light. His life, he tells himself, is hopelessly embittered. The best things in it are denied him ; he gives therefore the more heed to the honeyed words of the pretty creature near him, who in truth likes him too well for her own soul's good. • That detested husband of hers, out there somewhere^ the only thought she ever gives him is when she remembers with horror how as a young girl she was sold to him. For years she had believed herself heartless — of all her numer- ous love affairs not one had really touched her until now, and now he is the husband of her oldest friend ; of the one woman whom perhaps in all the world she really respects. At times her heart smites her, and a terrible longing to go away — to die — to make an end of it — takes possession of her at other times. She leans towards Baltimore, her lovely eyes alight, her soft mouth smiling. Her whispered words, her only half-averted glances, all tell their tale^. Presently it is clear to everyone that a very fully developed flirtation is well in hand. Lady Baltimore coming .across the grass with a basket in one hand and her little «?on held fondly by the other, sees and grasps the situation. Baltimore, leaning over WfW*Tn 'ir-f ifuff.-rg-ja- ■.•. AFRWS LADY, Lady Swansdown, the latter lying back in her lounging chair in her usual indolent fashion, swaying her feather fan from side to side, and with white lids lying on the azure eyes. Seeing it all. Lady Baltimore's mouth hardens, and a contemptuous expression destroys the calm dignity of her face. For the moment only. Another moment and it is gone : she has recovered herself. The one sign of emotion she has betrayed is swallowed up by her stern determina- tion to conceal all pain at all costs, and if her fingers tighten somewhat convulsively on those of her boy's, why, who can be the wiser of that ? No one can see it. Dysart, however, who is honestly fond of his cousin, has mastered that first swift involuntary contraction of the calm brow, and a sense of indignant anger against Baltimore and his somewhat reckless companion fires his blood. He springs quickly to his feet. Lady Baltimore, noting the action, though not under- standing the motive for it, turns and smiles at him — so controlled a smile that it quiets him at once. " I am going to the gardens to try and cajole Mclntyre out of somes roses," says she, in her sweet, slow way, stopping near the first group she reaches on the lawn — the group that contains, amongst others, her husband, and her friend. She would not willingly have stayed where they were, but she is too proud to pass them by without a word. " Who will come with me ? Oh ! no" as several rise to join her, laughing, though rather faintly. " It is not compulsory — even though I go alone, I shall feel that I am equal to Mclntyre." Lord Baltimore had started as her first words fell upon his ears. He had been so preoccupied that her light foot- falls coming over the grass had not reached him, and her voice, when it fell upon the air, gave him a shock. He half rises from his seat : ^' Shall I ? " he is beginning, and then stops short, some- thing in her face checkmg him. . "yi>«/" she conquers herself a second later; all the scorn and contempt is crushed, by sheer force of will, out of look and tone, and she goes on as clearly, and as entirely without emotion, as though she were a mere machine — a thin^, she has taught herself to be. " Not you," she says gaily, waving him lightly from her. " You yH ir. APRIL'S LADY. 45 ■^r II ■m. are too useful here " — as she 'jays this she gives him the softest if fleetest smile. It is a masterpiece. ** You can amuse one here and there, whilst I — I — I want a girl, I think," looking round. •' Bertie," — with a fond, an almost passionate glance at her little son — " always likes one of his sweethearts "(and they are many) to accompany him when he takes his walks abroad." " Like father, like son, I daresay. Ha, ha ! " laughs a fatuous youth — a Mr. Courtenay — who lives about five miles from the Court, and has dropped in this afternoon, very unfortunately, it must be confessed, to pay his re- spects to Lady Baltimore. Fools always hit on the truth ! Why^ nobody knows, except the heavens above us — but so it is. Young Courtenay, who has heard nothing of the unpleasant relations existing between his host and hostess, and who would be quite incapable of understanding them if he had heard, now springs a remark upon the assembled five or six people present that almost reduces them to powder. Dysart casts a murderous glance at him. ** A clever old proverb," says Lady Baltimore lightly. She is apparently the one unconcerned person amongst them. " I always like those old sayings. There is so much truth in them." She has forced -herself to say this ; but as the words pass her lips she blanches perceptibly. As if unable to control herself she draws her little son towards her; her arms tighten round him. The boy responds gladly to the em- brace, and to those present who know nothing, it seems the simplest thing m the world. The mother — the child ; naturally they would caress each other on each and every occasion. The agOLy of the mother is unknown to them ; the fear that her boy, her treasure, may inherit something of his father, and in his turn prove unfaithful to the heart that trusts him. It is a very little scene, scarcely worth recording, yet the anguish of a sttong heart lies embodied in it. ♦• If you are gping to the gardens. Lady Baltimore, let me go with you, says Miss Maliphant, rising quickly and going toward her. She is a big, loud girl, with money written all over her in capital letters, but Dicky Browne watching her, tells himself she has a good heart. I should love to go there with you and Bertie." •v:. ■ • 46 APRIVS LADY, " Come, then," says Lady Baltimore graciously. She makes a step forward; little Bertie, as though he likes and believes in her, thrusts his small fist into the hand of the Birmingham heiress, and thus united, all thi .e pass out of sight. CHAPTER VIII. ** I have no other but a woman's reason : I think him so, because I think him so." When a corner near the rhododendrons has concealed them from view, Dysart rises from his seat and goes deliber- ately over to where Lady Swansdown is sitting. She is an old friend of his, and he has therefore no qualms about being a little brusque with her where occasion demands it. " Have a game ? " says he. His suggestion is full of playfulness, his tone, however, is stern. ** Dear Felix, why? " says she, smiling up at him beau- tifully. There is even a suspicion of amusement in her smile. " A change ! " says he. His words this time might mean something, his tone anything. She can read either z;a she pleases. " True ! *' says she laughing. " There is nothing like change. You have wakened me to a delightful fact. Lord Baltimore," turningr languidly to her companion, who has been a little distrait since his wife and son passed by him. " what do you say to trying a change for just we two. Variety they say is charming, shall we try if shade and coolness and comfort are to be found in that enchanting glade down there ? " She points as si e speaks to an open- ing in the wood where perpetual twilight seems to reign, as seen from where they now are sitting. " If you will," says Baltimore, still a little vaguely. He gets up, however, and stretches his arms*? indolently above his head, as one might who is flinging from him the remem- brance oifan unpleasant dream. ^ " The sun here is intolerable," says Lady Swansdown, rising too. ** More than one can endure. Thanks, dear ly. She ikes and d of the 5S out of I '■■ APRIVS LADY, 47 > because ncealed deliber- She is s about emands full of I beau- : in her might either ig like Lord lio has yhim. ; two. e and mting open- reign, tte ibove nem- own, dear I Felix, for your suggestion. I should never have thought of the glade if you hadn't asked me to play that impossible game." She smiles a little maliciously at Dysart, and, accompa- nied by Lord Baltimore, moves away from the assembled groups upon the lawn to the dim recesses of the leafy glade. *^ Sold r' says Mr. Browne to Dysart. It is always impossible to Dicky to hold his tongue. " But you needn't look so cut up about it. 'Tisn't good enough, my dear fellow. I know 'em both by heart. Baltimore is as much in love with her as he is with his Irish tenants, but his imagination is his strong point, and it pleases him to think he has found at last for the twentieth time a solace for all his woos in the disinterested love of somebody, it really never much matters who." " There is more in it than you think," says Dysart gloomily. " Not a fraction ! " airily. " And what of her ? Lady Swansdown ? " " Of her ! Her heart has been in such constant use for years that by this time it must be in tatters. Give up thinking about that. Ah ! here is my beloved girl again 1 " He makes an elaborate gesture of delight as he sees Joyce advancing in his direction. " Dear Joyce ! ." beaming on her, '' who shall say there is nothing in animal magne- tism. Here I have been just talking about you to Dysart, and telling him what a lost soul I feel when you're away, and instantly, as if in answer to my keen desire, you appear before me." " Why aren't you playing tennis ? " demands Miss Kavanagh, with a cruel disregard of this flo^frery speech. " Because I was waiting for you." " Well, I'll beat you," says she, " I always do." " Not if you play on my side," reproachfully. " What ! Have you for a partner I Nonsense, Dicky, you know I shouldn't dream of that. Why it is as much as ever you can do- to put the ball over the net." " * 'Twas ever thus,' " quotes Mr. Browne mournfully. " The sincerest worship gains only scorn and contumely. But never mind ! the day will come ! " " To an end," says Miss Kavanagh, giving a finish to his sentence never meant. ** That," cheerfully, " is just what 4» APRIL'S LADY. . / I think. If we don't have a game now, the shades of night will be on us before we can look round us." " Will you play with me ? " says Dysart. " With pleasure. Keep your eye on this near court, and when this game is at an end, call it ours ; " she sinks into a chair as she speaks, and Dysart, who is in a silent mood, flings himself on the grass at her feet and falls into a reverie. To be conversational is unnecessary, Dicky Browne is on the spot. Hotter and hotter grows the sun ; the evening comes on apace ; a few people from the neighboring houses have dropped in ; Mrs. Monkton amongst others, with Tommy in tow. The latter, who is supposed to entertain a strong affection for Lady Baltimore's little son, no soon- er, however, sees Dicky Browne than he gives himself up to his keeping. What the attraction is that Mr. Browne has for children has never yet been clearly defined. It is the more difficult to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion about it, in that no child was ever yet left in his sole care for ten minutes without coming to blows, or tears, or a deter- mined attempt at murder or suicide. His mother, seeing Tommy veering towards this uncer- tain friend, .turns a doubtful eye on Mr. Browne. " Better come with me, Tommy," says she, " I am going to the gardens to find Lady Baltimore. She will have Bertie with her." " I'll stay with Dicky," says Tommy, flinging himself broadcast on Mr. Brown's reluctant chest, that gives forth a compulsory " Wough " as he does so. " He'll tell me a story." " Don't be unhappy, Mrs. Monkton," says the latter, when he has recovered a little from the shock — Tommy is a well-grown boy, with a sufficient amount of adipose mat- ter about him to make his descent felt. '' I'll promise to be careful. Nothing French I assure you. Nothing that could shock the young mind, or teach it how to shoot in the wrong direction. My tales are always strictly moral." " Well, Tommy, be good ! " says Mrs. Monkton with a last imploring glance at her son, who has already forgotten her existence, being lost in a wild wrestling match with his new friend. With deep forebodings his mother leaves him ■/ lades of T court, he sinks a silent alls into , Dicky g comes houses rs, with ntertain 10 soon- nself up Browne 1. It is iclusion ole care a deter- ) uncer- I am le will limself >s forth tell me latter, mmyis se mat- nise to ■ig that loot ia tioral." with a gotten ith his s him V APRIVS LADY, 49 and goes upon her way. Passing Joyce, she says in a low whisper : ** Keep an eye on Tommy." " Both eyes if you like," laughing. " But Dicky, in spite of his evil reputation, seldom goes to extremes." " Tommy does, however," says Mrs. Monkton tritely. « Well— I'll look after him." And so perhaps she might have done, had not a light step sounding just behind her chair at this moment caused her to start — to look round — to forget all but what she now sees. He is a very aristocratic-looking man, tall, with large limbs, and big indeed in every way. His eyes are light, his nose a handsome Roman, his forehead massive, and if not grand in the distinctly intellectual way, still a fine forehead and impressive. His hands are of a goodly size, but exquisitely proportioned, and very white, the skin almost delicate. He is rather like his sister. Lady Balti- more, and yet so different from her in every way that the distinct resemblance that is surely there torments the observer. " Why .'" says Joyce. It is the most foolish exclama- tion and means nothing, but she finds herself a little taken off her guard. " I didn't know you were here ! " She has half risen. ** Neither did I — how d'ye do, Dysart? — until half an hour ago. Won't you shake hands ? " He holds out his own hand to her as he speaks. There is a quizzical light in his eyes as he speaks, nothing to offend, but one can see that he finds amusement in the fact that the girl has been so much impressed by his unex- pected appearance that she has even forgotten the small usual act of courtesy with which we greet our friends. She had, indeed, been dead to everything but his com- ing. " You came " falters she, stammering a little, as she notes her mistake. " By the mid-day train ; I gave myself just time to snatch a sandwich from Purdon (the butler), say a word or two to my sister, whom I found in the garden, and then came on here to ask you to play this next game with me f) " Oh ! I am so sorry, but I have promised it \xi- tf I ft APRWS LADY, The words are out of her mouth before she has reaNzed the fact that Dysart is listening — Dysart, who is lying at her feet, watching every expression in her mobile face. She colors hotly, and looks down at him confused, lovely. " I didn't mean — that /" says she, trying to smile in- differently, " Only " " Don't !^' says Dysart, not loudly, not curtly, yet in so strange and decided a way that it renders her silent. ** You mustn't mind me," says he, a second later, in his usual calm tone. ** I know you and Beauclcrk are wonder- ful players. You can give me a game later on." " A capital arrangement," says Beauclerk, comfortably sinking into a ch/ir beside her, with all the lazy manner of a man at peace with himself and his world, '* especially as I shall have to go in presently to write some letters for the evening post." He places his elbows on the arms of the chair, brings the ends of his fingers together, and beams admiringly at Joyce over the tops of them. " How busy you always are," says she, slowly. " Well you see, this appointment, or, rather, the promise of it, keeps me going. Tremendous lot of interest to work up. Good deal of bother, you know, but then, beggars — eh ? — can't be choosers, can they ? And I should like to go to the East ; that is, if " He pauses, beams again, and looks boldly into Miss Kavanagh's eyes. She blushes hotly, and, dropping her fan, makes a little attempt to pick it up again. Mr. Beau- clerk makes another little attempt, and so manages that his hand meets hers. There is a' slight, an almost benevolent pressure. Had they looked at Dysart as they both resumed their places, they could have seen that his face is white as death. Miss Kavanagh, too, looks a little pale, a little uncertain, but as a whole nervously happy. " I've been down at that old place of mine," goes on Mr. Beauclerk. "Terrible disrepair — take thousands to put it in any sort of order. And where's one to get them? That's the one question that has got no answer nowadays. Eh, Dysart ? " ** There is an answer, however," says Dysart, curtly, not looking at him. " Ah, well, I suppose so. But I haven't heard it yet.'* / / APKIVS LADY. 5« " Oh, yes, I think you have," says Dysart, quite polite- ly, but grimly, nevertheless. "Dear fellow, how? where? unless one discovers a • mine or an African diamond-field ? " *• Or an heiress," says Dysart, incidentally. " Hah ! lucky dog, that comes home to you,*^ says Beau- clerk, giving him a playful pat on his shoulder, and stoop- ing from his chair to do it, as Dysart still sits upon the . grass. " Not to me." " No? You wi//be modest ? Well, well ! But talking of that old place, I assure you. Miss Kavanagh, it worries me — it does, indeed. It sounds like one's (/uty to restore it, and still " " There are better things than even an old place/' says Dysart. *' Ah ! you haven't one you see," cries Beauclerk, with the utmost geniality. " If you had I really think if you had you would understand that it requires a sacrifice to give it up to moths and rust and ruin." '* I said there were better things than old places," says Dysart doggedly, never looking in his direction. " And if there are, make a sacrifice." " Pouf ! Lucky fellows like you — ^gay soldier lads — ^wlth hearts as light as sunbeams, can easily preach ; but sacri- fices are not so easily made. There is that horrid word, Duty ! And a man must sometimes /Aink /" Joyce, as though the last word has struck some answer- ing chord that wounds her as it strikes, looks suddenly at him. IVAat was it Barbara had said ? " He was a man who would always think" — is he thinking now — even now — at this moment ? — is he weighing matters in his mind ? ** Hah ! " says Beauclerk rising and pointing to the court nearest them ; ** that game is over. Come on, Miss Ka- vanagh, let us go and get our scalps. I say, Dysart, will you fight it out with us ? " "No thanks." ' ^ . . "Afraid?" gaily. - . " Of you — no," smiling ; the smile is admirably donC) and would be taken as the genuine article anywhere. " Of Miss Kavanagh, then ? " For a brief instant, and evidently against his wish, Dysart's eyes meet those of Joyce. " Perhaps," says he. s* APRIL'S LADY. I " A poor complimoit to me," says Beauclerk, with his pleasant laugh that always rings so softly. " Well, never mind ; I forgive you. Get a good partner, my dear fellow, and she may pull you through. You see I depend entirely upon mine," with a glance at Joyce, full of expression. " There's Miss Maliphant now — she'd make a good partner if you like." " I shouldn't," says Dysart, immovably. " She plays a good game, I can tell you." "So do you," says Dysart. " Oh, now, Dysart, don't be sarcastic," says Beauclerk laughing. ' I believe you are afraid of me, net of Miss Kavanagh, and that's why you won't play. But if you were to put yourself in Miss Maliphant's hands, I don't say but that you would have a chance of beating me." '* I shall beat you by myself or not at all," says Dysart suddenly, and for the first time looking fair at him. " A single, you mean ? " " Yes, a single." " Well — we shall see," says Beauclerk. ** Hah, there is Courtenay. Come along. Miss Kavanagh, we must make up a set as best we may, as Dysait is too lazy to face us." " The next game is ours, Mr. Dysart, remember," says she, glancing at Dysart over her shoulder. There is a touch of anxiety in her eyes. " I always remember," says h^j, with a rather ambiguous smile. What is he remembering now ? Joyce's mouth takes a grave curve as she follows Beauclerk down the marble steps that lead to the tennis-ground below. •! The evening has grown very still. The light wind thAt all day long has sung among the leaves has gone to sleep. Only the monotonous countings of the tennis players can be heard. Suddenly above these, another sound arises. It is not the voice of the charmer. It is the voice of Tommy in full cry, and mad with a desire to gain the better of the argument now going on between him and Mr. Browne. Mr. Browne is still, however, holding his own. He gener- ally loes. His voice grows eloquent. All can hear. " ) shall tell my story, Tommy, in my own way, or I shall not tell it at all ! " The dignity thac Mr. Browne throws into this threat is hardly to be surpassed, ,:^'.."-* ^U.. APRIVa LADY. V SI CHAPTER IX. •* Sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge.*' " 'Tisn't right," says Tommy. ** / think it is. If yOu kindly listen to it once again, and give your entire attention to it, you will see how faulty is the ignorant conclusion to which you have come." " I'm not one bit ignorant," says Tommy indignantly. " Nurse says I'm the dickens an' all at my Bible, and that I know Genesis better'n she does." " And a very engaging book it is too," says Mr. Browne, " but it isn't everything. What you want to study, my good boy, is natural history. You are very ignorant about that, at all events." ** A cow couldrCt do it," says Tommy. " History says she can. Now, listen again. It is a grand old poem, and I am grieved and distressed, Thomas, to find that you refuse to accept it as one of the gems of truth thrown up to us out of the Dark Ages. Are you ready? '■ •^ * Diddle-dee, diddle-dee dtimpty, The cow ran up the plum-tree : Half-a-crown to fetch her » » , " She didn't — 'twas the ^a/," cries Tommy. , " Not in my story," says Mr. Browne, mildly but firmly. ' " A cow couldn't go up a plum-tree," indignantly. " She could in my story," persists Mr. Browne, with all the air of one who, even to avoid unpleasantness, would not consent to go against the dictates of his conscience. " She couldn't^ I tell you," roars Tommy, now thoroughly incensed. " She couldn't climb. Her horns would stick in the branches. She'd be too heavy / " * > ** I admit, Thomas," says Mr. Browne gravely, " that your argument sounds as though there were some sense in it. But who am I that I should daie to disbehcvc ancient ^^ APRWS LADY, history ? It is unsafe to throw down old landmarks, to blow up the bulwarks of our noble constitution. Beware, Tommy ! never tread on the tail of Truth. It may turn and rend you." " Her name isn't Truth," says Tommy. " Our cow's name is Biddy, and she never ran up a tree in her life." " She's young," says Mr. Browne. " She'll learn. So are you — you II learn. And remember this, my boy, always respect old legends. A disregard for them will so unsettle you that finally you will find yourself — at the foot of the gallows in all human probability. 1 suppose," sadly, " that you are even so far gone in scepticisiti as to doubt the glorioufe truth of the moon's being made of green cheese ? " " Father says that's nonsense," says Tommy promptly, and with an air of triumph, ** and father always knows." " I blush for your father," says Mr. Browne with increas- ing melancholy. " Both he and you are apparently sunk in heathen darkness. Well, well ; we will let the question of the moon go by, though I s appose you know, Tommy, that the real and original moon first rose in Cheshire." "No, I don't," says Tommy, with a militant glare. *' There was once a Cheshire cat; there nev6r was a Cheshire moon." ** I suppose you will tell me next there never was a Cheshire cheese," says Mr. Browne severely. " Don't you see the connection ? But never mind. Talking of cats brings us back to our mutton, and from thence to oar cow. I do hope, Tommy, that for the future you will, at all events, try to believe in that faithful old animal who skipped so gaily up and down, and hither and thither, and in and out, and all about, that long-suffering old plum-tree." " She never did it," says Tommy stamping with rage and now nearly in tears. " I've books^ — I've books, and 'tisn't in any oC them,". " it is in my book," says Mr. Browne, who ought to be ashamed of himself. " I don't believe you ever r^j// a book," screams Tommy furiously. " 'Twas the cat — the cat— the cat ! " ** No ; 'twas the horned cow," says Mr. Browne, in a sepulchral tone, whereat Tommy goes for him. There is a wild and desperate conflict. Tooth and nail Tommy attacks the foe, fists and legs doing very gallant APRIL'S LADY, 55 cow's name service. There would indeed have been a serious case of assault and battery for the next Court day, had not Provi- dence sent Mrs. Monkton on the scene. " Oh, Tommy ! " cries she, aghast. It is presumably Tommy, though, as he has his head thrust between Mr. Browne's legs, and his feet in mid air, picking with all their might, there isn't much of him by which to prove identification. And — " Oh, Dicky," says she again, " how could you torment him so, when you know how easy it is *to excite him. See what a state he is in ! " " And what about me ? " demands Mr. Browne, who is weak with laughter. " Is no sympathy to be shown mel See what a state rm in. I'm black and blue from head to heel. I'm at the point of death ! " " Nonsense ! you are all right, but loook at him ! Oh ! Tommy, what a terrible boy you are. And you promised me if I brought you, that you Just look at his clothes ! " " Look at mine .'" says Mr. Browne. " My best hat is done for, and I'm afraid to examine my trousers. You might tell me if there is a big rent anywhere. No ? Eh ? Well — if you won't I must only risk it. But I feel tattered and torn. By-the-bye, Tommy, that's part of another old story. I il tell you about it some day." " Come with me. Tommy," says his mother, with awful severity. She holds out her hand to her son, who is still glaring at Dicky with an undying ferocity. " You are a naughty boy, and I'm sure your father will be angry with you when he hears of this." " Oh, but he must not hear qf it, must he, Tommy ? " says Mr. Browne, with decision, appealing to his late an- tagonist as airily, as utterly without arriire pensie as though no unpleasant passages have occurred between them. "It's awfully good of you to desire our company, Mrs. Monkton, but really on the whole I think " ** It is Tommy I want," says Mrs. Monkton still with a meaning eye. ** Where Tommy goes, I go," says Mr. Browne, firmly. '* We are wedded to each other for the day. Nothing shall part us ! Neither law nor order. Just now we are going down to the lake to feed the swans with the succu- lent bun. Will you come with us ? " " You ase very uncertain, Dicky," says Mrs. Monkton, 56 APRIL'S LADY, regarding Mr. Browne with a gravity that savors of dis approval. ** How shall I be sure that if you take him to the lake you will not let him drown himself? " " He is far more likely to drown me," says Mr. Browne. " Come along, Tommy, the biscuits are in the hall, and the lake a quarter of a mile away. The day waneth ; let us haste — let us haste ! " " Where has Dicky gone ? " asks Joyce, who has just returned victorious from her game. " To the lake with Tommy. I have been imploring him not to drown my son," says Mrs. Monkton with a rather rueful smile. " Oh, he won't do that. Dicky is erratic, but pretty safe, for all that. And he is fond of Tommy." " He teases him, however, beyond endurance." *' That is because he does like him." ** A strange conclusion to arrive at, surely." says Dysart, looking at her. " No. If he didn't like him, he wouldn't take the trouble," says she, nonchalantly. She is evidently a little distrait. She looks as though she wanted something. " You won your game ? " says her sister, smiling at her. "Yes, quite a glorious victory. They had only two games out of the six ; and you know Miss Connor plays very well." *' Where is Mr. Beauclerk ? " " Gone into the house to write some letters and tele- grams." " Norman, do you mean ? " asks Lady Baltimore, com- ing up at this moment, hf r basket full of flowers, and minus the little son and the heiress ; " he has just gone into the house to hear Miss Maliphant sing. You know she sings remarkably well, and that last song of Milton Wellings suits her so entirely. Norman is very fond of music. Have you had a game, Joyce ? " " Yes, and won it," says Joyce, smiling back at her, though her face has paled a little. Had she won it ? ^ " Well, I must take these into the house before they fade. Righton wants them for the dinner-table," says Lady Baltimore. A little hurried note has crept into her voice. She turns away somewhat abruptly.. Lord Balti- more and Lady Swansdown have just appeared in view, Lady Swansdown with a huge bunch of honeysuckle in her hand, looking very picturesque. / APRIL'S LADY, 57 Baltimore, seeing his wife move towards the house, and Lady Swansdown displaying the s; ils of her walk to Dysart, darts quickly after her. " Let me carry that burden for you," says he, laying his hand upon the basket of flowers. " No, oh ! no, thank you," says Lady Baltimore, glan- cing up at him for just a moment, with a little curious ex- pression in her eyes. " I have carried it quite a long time. I hardly feel it now. No ; go back to the lawn to Lady Swansdown — see ; she is quite alone at this moment. You will be doing me a real service if you will look after our guests." " As you will," says Baltimore, coldly. He turns back with a frown, and rejoins those he had left. Joyce is talking to Lady Swansdown in her prettiest way — she seems, indeed, exceptionally gay even for her, who, as a rule, is the life of every party. Her spirits seem to have risen to quite an abnormal height, and her charming laugh, soft as k is sweet, rings gaily. With the advent of Baltimore, however, Lady Swansdown's attention veers aside, and Joyce, feeling Dysart at her elbow, turns to him. " We postponed one game, I think," says she. " Well — shall we play the next ? " " I am sorry," says he, deliberately, " but I think pot." His eyes are on the ground. ** No ? " says she, coloring warmly. There is open sur- prise in her glance. That he should refuse to accept an advance from her seems truly beyond belief. " You must forgive me," says he, deliberately still. He had sworn to himself that he would not play second fiddle on this occasion at all events, and he holds himself to his word. *' But I feel as if I could not play to-day. I should disgrace you. Let me get you another partner. Captain Grant is out there, he " " Thank you. I shall be able to provide myself with a partner when I want one," interrupts she, haughtily, turn- ing abruptly away. AmWS LADY. CHAPTER X. *' Nature has sometimes made a fool/* « ,< The fiddles aie squeaking, the 'cellos are groaning, the man with the comet is making a most ungodly row. As yet, the band have the ballroom all to themselves, and are certainly making the most of their time. Such unearthly noises rarely, if ever, have been heard in it before. Why they couldn't have tuned their instruments before coming is a question that fills the butler's mind with wrath, but perhaps the long journey down from Dublin would have untuned them all again, and left the players of them dis- consolate. '^ The dismal sounds penetrate into the rooms right and left of the ballroom, but fail to kill the melancholy sweet- ness of the dripping fountains or the perfume of the hundred flowers that gave their sleeping draughts to all those who chose to come and inhale them. Mild draughts that please the senses without stealing them. The sounds even penetrate to the library, where Joyce is standing before the low fire, that even in this July even- ing burns upon the hearth, fastening her long gloves. She had got down before the others, and now, finding the room empty, half wishes herself back again upstairs. But she is so young, so full of a fresh delight in all the gaiety around her, that she had hurried over her dressing, and, with the first dismal sounds of the tuning, had turned her steps its way. The library seems cold to her, bare, unfriendly. Had she expected to meet somebody there before her— some- body who had promised to get a fresh tie in a hurry, but who had possibly forgotten all about it in the joy of an after-dinner cigar ? It seems a long time since that first day when she had been startled by his sudden reappearance at the Court. A longi long time. Soon this last visit of hers to the Court APRWS LADY, 59 must come to an end. The Baltimores will be going abroad in a fortnight or so — and he with them. The sum- mer is waning — dreary autumn coming. He will go — and A sense of dissatisfaction sits heavily on her, toning down to rather a too cruel a degree the bright expectancy of her fade. He had said he would come, and now She drums in a heavy-hearted listless fashion on the table with the tips of her pale gloves, and noticing, half con- sciously in so doing, that they have not been sufficiently drawn up her arm, mechanically fits them closer to the taper fingers. Certainly he had said he would be here. " Early you know. Before the others can get down." A quick frown grows upon her forehead, and now that the fingers are quiet, the little foot begins to beat a tattoo upon the ground. Leaning against the table in a graceful attitude, with the lamplight streaming on her pretty white frock, she gives a loose rein to her thoughts. They are a little angry, a little frightened perhaps. Dur- ing the past week had he not said many things that in the end proved void of meaning. He had haunted her in a degree, at certain hours, certain times, had loitered through gardens, lingered in conservatories by her side, whiiipered many things — looked so very many more. But There were other times, other opportunities for philan- dering {she does not give it this unpleasant name) ; how has he spent them ? A vague thought of Miss Maliphant crosses her mind. That he laughs at the plain, good- natured heiress to her (Joyce), had not prevented the fact that he is very attentive to her at times. Principally such times as when Joyce may reasonably be supposed to be elsewhere. Human reason, however, often falls short of the mark, and there have been unsuspected moments dur- ing the past week when Miss Kavanagh has by chance appeared upon the scene of Mr. Beauclerk's amusements, and has found that Miss Maliphant has had a good deal to. do with them. - But then — " That poor, good girl you know ! " Here, Beauclerk's joyous laugh would ring forth for Joyce's benefit. " Such a good girl ; and so — er — don't you know ! " He was certainly always a little vague. He didn't explain himself. Miss Kavanagh, looking back ,.-„- J ^ A PR IV S LADY, on all he had ever said against the heiress, is obliged to confess to herself that the great " er " had had to express everything. Contempt, dislike, kindly disdain — he was always kindly — he made quite a point of that. Truly, thinks Miss Kavanagh to herself after this retrospective glance, " er " is the greatest word in the English language I And so it is. It declares. It conceals. It conveys a laugh. It suggests a frown. It helps a sorrowful confes- sion. It adorns a lame one. It is kindly, as giving time. It is cruel, as being full of sarcasm. It In fact what is it it cannot do ? Joyce's feet have grown quite steady now. She has placed her hands on the table behind her, and thus com- pelled to lean a little forward, stands studying the carpet without seeing it. A sense of anger, of shame against her- self is troubling her If he should not be in earnest ! K he should not — like her as she likes him ! She rouses herself suddenly as if stung by some thought. "•Like " is the word. It has gone no deeper yet. It shall not. He is handsome, he has his charm, but if she is not all the world to him, why, he shall not be all the world to her. If it is money he craves, for the restoration of that old home of his, why money let it be. But there shall not be the two things, the desire of one for filthy lucre, the desire of the other for love. He shall decide. She has grown very pale. She has drawn herself up to her full height, and her lips are pressed together. And now a strange thought comes to her. If — if she loved him, could she bear thus to analyze him. To take him to pieces, to dissect him as it were ? Once again that feeling of fear oppresses her. Is she so cold, so deliberate in her- self that she suspects others of coldness. After all — ^if he does love her — if he only hesitates because . i A step outside the door I Instinctively she glances at one of the long mirrors that line the walls from floor to ceiling. Involuntarily her hands rush to her head. She gives a little touch to hex gown. And now is sitting in a lounging-chair, a little pale still perhaps, but in all other respects the very picture of unconsciousness. It is — it must be r . It isn't, however. Mr. Browne, opening the door in his own delightfully breezy fashion that generally plays old Harry with the J: A PR IV S I.ADY, «t hinges and blows the ornaments off the nearest tables, advances towards her with arms outspread, and the liveliest admiration writ upon his features, which, to say the truth, are of goodly proportions. " Oh 1 Thou wonder of the world ! " cries he in accents ecstatic. He has been reading " Cleopatra " (that most charming of books) assiduously for the past few days, dur- ing which time he has made himself an emphatic nuisance to his friends : perpetual quotations, however apt or salu- tary, proving as a rule a bore. " That will do, Dicky 1 We «//know about that," says Miss Kavanagh, who is a little unnerved, a little impatient perhaps. Mr. Browne, however, is above being snubbed by anyone. He continues on his way rejoicing. "Thou living flame I" cries he, making what he fondly supposes to be a stage attitude. " Thou thing of beauty. 1\ioyx%\ifle5hpot of Egypt / " He has at last surpassed himself! He stands silent waiting for the plaudits of the crowd. The crowd, however, is unappreciative. •* Nonsense ! " says Miss Kavanagh shortly. ** I won- der you aren't tired of making people tired. Your eternal quotations would destroy the patience of an anchorite. And as for that last sentence of yours, you know very well it isn't in Rider Haggard's book. He'd have been ashamed of it." " Would he ? Bet you he wouldn't ! And if it isn't in his book, all I can say is it ought to have been. Mere oversight leaving it out. He will be sorry if I drop him a line about it. Shouldn't wonder if it produced a new edition. But for my part, I believe it is in the book. Fleshpots, Egypt, you know ; hardly possible to separate 'em now from the public mind." " Well ; he could separate them any way. There isn't a single word about them in the book from start to finish." " No ? D'ye say so ? " Here Mr. Browne grows lost in thought. Fleshpots — pots — hot pots ; hot potting ! Hah 1 " He draws himself together with all the manner of one who has gone down deep into a thing, and comes up from it full of knowledge. *' I've * mixed those babies up/ " says he mildly. *' But still I can hardly believe that that last valuable addition to Mr. Haggard's work is all my own. %% .Jj 63 APRIVS LADY. 1 : " Distinctly your own," with a suggestion of scorn, com- pletely thrown away upon the receiver of it. ** D'ye say so ! By Jove I And very neat too ! Didn't think I had it in me. After all to write a book is an easy matter ; here am I, who never thought about it, was able to form an entire sentence full of the most exquisite wit and humor without so much as knowing I was doing it. Tell you what, Joyce, I'll send it to the author with a card and my compliments you know. Horrid thing to be mtan about anything, and if I can help him out with a 999th edition or so, I'll be doing him a good turn. Eh ? " " I suppose you think you are amusing," says Miss Ka- vanagh, regarding him with a critical eye. '* My good child, I know that expression,", says Mr. Browne, amiably. " I know it by heart. It means that you think I'm a fool. It's politer now-a-days to look things than to say them, but wait awhile and you'll see. Come ; I'll bet you a shilling to a sovereign that he'll be delighted with my suggestion, and put it into his next edition without delay. No charge ! Given away ! The lot for. a penny- three-farthings. In fact, I make it a present to him. Noble, eh? Give it to him for nothing t^* " About its price," says Miss Kavanagh thoughtfully. '* Think you so ? You are dull to-night, Jocelyne. Flashes of wit pass you by without warming you. Yet I tell you this idea that has flowed from my brain is a price- less one. Never mind the door — he's not coming yet. Attend to me." " Who^s not coming ? " demands she, the more angrily in that she is growing miserably aware of the brilliant color that is slowly but surely bedecking her cheeks. '^ Never mind I It's a mere detail ; attend to me and I entreat you," says Mr. Browne, who is now quite in his element, having made sure of the fact that she is expecting somebody. It doesn't matter in the least who to Mr. Browne, expectation is the thing wherein to catch the embarrassment of Miss Kavanagh, and forthwith he sets himself gaily to the teazing of her. " Attend to what ? " says she with a little fVown. " If you had studied your Bible, Jocelyne, with that care that I should have expected from you, you would have remembered that forty odd years the Israelites hankered after those very fleshpots of Egypt to which I have been APRIVS LADY, «3 /. alluding. Now I appeal to you, as a sensible girl, would anybody hanker after anything for forty odd years {very odd years as it happens), unless it was to their advantage to get it ; unless, indeed, the object pursued was price- less I'' " You ask too much of this sensible girl," sayg Miss Kavanagh, with a carefully manufactured yawn. " Really, dear Dicky, you must forgive me if I say I haven't gone into it as yet, and that I don't suppose I shall ever see the necessity for going into it." ** But, my good child, you must see that those respect- able people, the Israelites, wouldn't have pursued a mere shadow for forty years.'* "That's just what I don't see. There are such a num- ber of fools everywhere, in every age, that one couldn't tell." " This is evasion," says Mr. Browne sternly. " To bring you face to face with facts must be my very unpleasant if distinct duty. Joyce, do you dare to doubt for one mo- ment that I speak aught but the truth ? Will you deny that Cleopatra, that old serpent of the " " Ha — ha — ha," laughs Joyce ironically. " I wish she could hear you. Your life wouldn't be worth a moment's purchase." " Mere slip. Serpent of old Nile. Doesn't matter in the least," says Mr. Br9wne airily, " because she couldn't hear me as it happens. My dear girl, follow out the argu- ment. Cleopatra, metaphorically speaking, was a fleshpot, because the world hankered after her. And — you're an- other." " Really, Dicky, I must protest against your talking slang to me." " Where does the slang come in ? You're another flesh- pot I meant to say — or con\ey— because we all hanker after youi' " Do you ? " with rising wrath. " May I ask what hankering means ? " " You had better not," says Mr. Browne mysteriously.. " It was one of the. rites of Ancient Kem ! " " Now there is one thing, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, her wrath boiling over. " I won't be called names. I won't be called 2i fleshpot. You'll draw the line there if you please," v - * ,. J % APXWS LADY, ' « " My dear girl, why not ? Those delectable pots must have been bric-d-brac of the most recherchi dccription. Of a most delicate shape, no doubt. Of a pattern, tint, formation, general get up — not to be hoped for in these prosaic days." " Nonsense," indignantly. She is fairly roused now, and Mr. Browne regarding her with a proud eye, tells himself he is about to have his reward at last. " You know very well that the term ' fleshpots ' referred to what was in the pots, not to the pots themselves." " That's all you know about it. That's where your fatal ignorance comes in, my poor Joyce," says he, with im- mense compassion. " Search your Bible from cover to cover, and I defy you to find a single mention of the con- tents of those valuable bits of bric-d-brac. Of flesh/>(?/j — heavy emphasis on \\\^ pots — and ten finders down at once if you please — we read continually as bemg hankered after by the Israelites, who then, as now, were evidently avid collectors." " You've been having champagne, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him with a judicial eye. " So have you. But I can't see what that excellent beverage has got to do with the ancient Jews. Keep to the point. Did you ever hear that they expressed a long- ing for the flesh of Egypt ? No. So far so good. The pots themselves were the objects of their, admiration. During that remarkable run of theirs thiough the howling wilderness they, one and all, to a tnan^ i Grayed the true aesthetic tendency. They raved incessantly for the girl — I beg pardon — tlje land they had left behind them. The land that contained those priceless jars." " I wonder how you can be so silly," says Miss Kava- nagh disdainfully. Will he nev.r go away ! If he stays^ and if — the other — comes " Silly ! my good child. How silly ! Why everything goes to prove the probability of my statement. The taste for articles of vertu — for antiquities — for fossils of all de- scriptions that characterized them then, has lived to the present day. Then they worried after old china, and who shall deny that now they have an overwhelming affection for old clo'." "Well; your folly doesn't concern me," says Miss Ka- vanagh, gathering up her skirts with an evident intention / APRWS LADY. 65 s must iption. 1, tint, these w, and limself w very in the ir fatal ith im- )ver to le con- \pot5 — It once 2d after ly avid s Miss cellent eep to long- The ration, owling le true girl— The Kava- stays, ything taste ■allde- o the who ction of shaking off the dust of his presence from her feet and quitting him. ♦* I am sorry that you should consider it folly," says Mr. Browne sorrowfully. " I should not have said so much about it perhaps but that I wanted to prove to you that in calling you a ffeshpot I only meant to " ** I won't be called that," interrupts Miss Kavanagh angrily. " It's horrid ! It makes me feel quite /ouare too stern a judge. How shall I convince you, xclaims he — " of what he leaves open ? If I » were to swear " " Do not," says she quickly. " Weil, I won't. But Joyce ! " He pauses, purposely. It is the first time he has ever called her by her Christian name, and a little soft color springs into the girl's cheeks as she hears him. " You know," says he, " you do know ? " It is a question ; but again what ? What does she know ? He had accredited her with remarkable intelli- gence a moment ago, but as a fact the girl's knowledge of life is but a poor thing in comparison with that of the man of the world. She belies her intelligence on the spot. " Yes, I think I do," says she shyly. In fact she is long- ing to believe, to be sure of this thing, that to her is so plain that she has omitted to notice that he has never put it into words. " You will trust in me ? " says he. ^ " Yes, I trust you," says she simply. Her pretty gloved hand is lying on hei lap. Raising it, he presses it passionately to his lips. Joyce, with a little nervous movement, withdraws it quickly. The color dies from her lips. Even at this supreme moment does Doubt hold her in thrall ! Her face is marvelously bright and happy, however, as she rises precipitately to her feet, much to Beauclerk's relief. It has gone quite far enough he tells himself — five minutes more and he would have found himself in a rather embarrassing position. Really these pretty girls are very dangerous. " Come, we must go back to the ballroom," says she gaily. ** We have been here an unconscionable time. I am afraid my partner for this dance has been looking for me, and will scarcely forgive my treating him so badly. If I had only told him I wouldn't dance with him he might have 'got another partner and enj jyed himself." " Better to have loved ar d lost," quotes Beauclerk in his airiest manner. It is so a try ♦nat it strikes Joyce unpleas- antly. Surely after all — after She pulls herself together angrily. Is she a/ways to find fault Vith him ? Must she have his whol ; nature altered to suit her taste ? APRirS LADY. 77 " Ah, there is Dicky Browne," says she, glancing from where she is now standing at the door of the conservatory to where Mr. Browne may be seen leaning against a curtain with his lips curved in a truly benevolent smile. CHAPTER XIII. I - « Now the nights are all past over Of our dreaming, dreams that hover In a mist of fair false things : Night's ailoat on wide wan wings." " Why, so it is ! Our own Dicky, in the flesh and an admirable temper apparei ily," says Mr. Beauclerk. ''Shall we come and interview him ? " They move forward and present'y find themselves at Mr. Browne's elbow ; he is, however, so far lost in his kindly ridicule of . ihe poor silly revolving atoms before him, that it is not until Miss Kavanagh gi\'es his arm a highly suggestive pinch that he learns that s^e is beside him. " Wough /" says he, shouting out this unclassic if highly expressive word without the slightest regard for decency. *' What fingers you've got ! I really think you might reserve that kind of thing for Mr. Dysart. He'd like it." This is a most infelicitous speech, and Miss Kavanagh might have resented it, but for the strange fact that Beau- clerk, on hearing it, laughs heartily. Well, if he doesn't mind, it can't matter, but how silly Dicky can be ! Mr. Beauclerk continues to laugh with much enjoyment. - " Try him ! " says he to Miss Kavanagh, with the liveli- est encouragement in his tone. If it occurs to her that, perhaps, lovers, as a rule, do not advise their sweethearts to play fast and loose with other men, she refuses to give heed to the warning. He is not like other men. He is not basely jealous. He knows her. He trusts her. He had hinted to her but just now, so very, very kindly that she was suspicious, that she must try to conquer that fault — if it is hers. And it is. There can be no doubt of that. She had even distrusted him ! '* Is that your advice?" asks Mr. Browne, regarding him with a rather piercing eye. ** Capital, under the cir- 78 APRIL'S LADY, ' i ! i! I' ' cumstancest but rather, eh ? Has it ever occurred to you that Dysart is capable of a good deal of feeling ? " " So few things occur to me, I m ashamed to say," says Beauclerk, genially. " I take the present moment. It is all-sufficing, so far as I'm concerned. Well \ and so you tell me Dysart has feeling ? " ' x " Yes ; I shouldn't advise Miss Kavanagh to play pranks with him," says Dicky, with a pretentiously rueful glance at the arm she has just i)inched so very delicately. '• You're a poor soldier ! " says she, with a little scornful uptilting of her chin. "You wrong Mr. Dysart if yoii think he would feel so slight an injury. What ! A mere touch from me / " " Your touch is deadlier than you know, perhaps," says Mr. Browne, lightly. " What a slander ! " says Miss Kavanagh, who, in spite of herself, is growing a little conscious. *' \ ; • isn't it ? " says Beauclerk, to whom she has appealed. " As for me " He breaks off suddenly and fastens his gaze severely on the other side of the room. " By Jove ! I had forgotten ! There is my partner for this dance looking daggers at me. Dear Miss Kavanagh, you will excuse me, won't you ? Shall I take you to your chaperone, or will you let Browne have the remainder of this waltz ? " ** I'll look after Miss Kavanagh, if she will allow me," says Dicky, rather drily. '* Will you ? " with a quizzical glance at Joyce. She makes a little affirmative sign to him, returns Beau- clerk's parting bow, and, still with a heart as light as a feather, stands by Mr. Browne's side, watching in silence the form of Beauclerk as it moves here and there amongst the crowd. What a handsome man he is ! How distin- guished ! How tall ! How big ! Every other man looks dwarfed beside him. Presently he disappears into an ante- room, and she turns to find Mr. Browne, for a wonder, as silent as herself, and evidently lost in thought. " What are you thinking of? " asks she. ' "Of you!" " Nonsense ! What were you doing just then when I spoke to you ? " "I have told you." ' " No, you haven't. What were you doing ? " y irred to >r," says . It is so you pranks glance scornful if yoii A mere 5," says in spite she has :nly and e room. for this [gh, you o your inder of )W me," [uizzical iS Beau- Iht as a silence |mongst distin- In looks .n ante- fder, as rhen I i APRIL'S LADY. 79 i **//i///t she had been dancing a good deal," says Dicky. ** Thanks. I dare say I'll find her," says Baltimore, with an air of indifference, hurrying on. " I hope he will," says Joyce, looking after him. " I hope so too — and in a favorable temper ' " You're a cynic, Dicky, under all that airy manner of yours," says Miss Kavanagh severely. "Come out to the gardens, the air may cool your brain, and reduce you to milder judgments." "Of Lady Baltimore?" "Yes." " Truly I do seem to be sitting in judgment on her and her family." " Htx family ? What has Bertie done ? " " Oh, there is more family than Bertie," says Mr. Browne. " She has a brother, hasn't she ? " Meantime Lord Baltimoic, <^aking Joyce's hint, makes his way to the library, to find his wife there lying back in a huge arm-chair. She is looking a little pale. A little ennuyie ; it is plain that she has sought this room — one too public to be in much request — ^with a view to getting away for a little while from the noise and heat of the ball- room. " Not dancing ? " says her husband, standing well away from her. She had sprung into a sitting posture the moment she saw him, an action that has angered Baltimore. His tone is uncivil ; his remark, it must be confessed, super- fluous. Why does she persist in treating him as a stranger ? Surely, on whatever bad terms they may be, she need not feel it necessary to make herself uncomfortable on his appearance. She has evidently been enjoying that stolen lounge, and now The lamplight is streaming full upon her face. A faint color has crept into it. The white velvet gown sl\e is wearing is hardly whiter than her neck zxA arms, and her eyes are as bright as her diamonds ; yet there is no feature APRIL'S LADY. ^I i fi I i in her face that could be called strictly handsome. This, Baltimore tells himself, staring at her as he is, in a sort of insolent defiance of the cold glance she has directed at him. No ; there is no beauty about that face ; dis inctly bred, calm and pure, it might possibly be called charming by those who liked her, but nothing more. She is not half so handsome as — as — any amount of other women he knows, and yet It increases his anger towards her tenfold to know that in her secret soul she has the one lace that to Aim is beauti- ful, and ever wi// be beautiful. "You see," says she gently, and with an expressive gesture, " I longed for a raoment'f pause, so I came here. Do they want me ? " She rises from her seat, looking very tall and graceful. If her face is not strictly lovely, there is, at all events, no lack of loveliness in her form. " I can't answer for * they,' " says Baltimore, " but " he stops dead short here. If he /tad been going to say anything, the desire to carry out his intention dies upon the spot. " No, I am not aware that * they ' or anybody wants you particularly at this moment. Pray sit down again." " I have had quite a long rest already." " You look tired, however. Are you? " " Not in the least." " Give me this dance," then says he, half mockingly, yet with a terrible earnestness in his voice " Give it to j^ou ! Thank you. No." " Fearful of contamination ? " with a smiling sneer. " Pray spare me your jibes," says she very coldly, her face whitening. " Pray spare me your presence, you should rather say. Let us have ^he truth at all hazards. A saint like you should be careful." To this she makes him no answer. " What ! " cries he, sardonically ; '* and will you miss this splendid opportunity of giving a sop to your Cerberus ? Of conciliating your bugbear ? your bite noire ? your fear of gossip ? " , " I fear nothing " — icily. " You do, however. Forgive the contradiction," with a sarcastic inclination of the head. "But for this fear of ^ours you would have cast me off long ago, and bade me 82 APRWS LADY, go to the devil as soon as — nay, the And indeed if it were not for the child- sooner the better. By the bye, do you forget I have a hold on him — a stronger than yours ? " " \ forget nothing either," returns she as icily as before; but now a tremor, barely perceptible, but terrible in its intensity, shakes her voice. " Hah ! You need not tell me thai. You are relentless as — well, 'Fate ' comes in handy," with a reckless laugh. " Let us be conventional by all .neans, and it is a good old simile, well worn ! You decline my proposal then ? It is a sensible one, and should suit you. Dance with me to-night, when all the County is present, and Mother Grundy goes to bed with a sore heart. Scandal lies slain. All will cry aloud : * There they go ! Fast friends in spite of all the lies we have heard about them.' Is it possible you can deliberately forego so great a chance of puzzling our neighbors ? " ** Wii>, where is your sense of humor? One trembles for it ! To be able to deceive them all so deliciously ; to send them home believing us on good terms, a veritable loving couple " — he breaks into a curious laugh. " This is too much," says she, her face now like death. " You would insult me ! Believe me, that not to spare myself all the gossip with which the whole world could hurt me would I endure your arm around my waist ! " His short-lived, most unmirthful mirth has died from him, he has laid a hand upon the table near him to steady himself. " You are candid, on my soul," says he slowly. She moves quickly towards the door, her velvet skirt sweeping over his feet as she goes by — the perfume of the violets lying in her bosom reaches him. Hardly knowing his own meaning, he puts out his hand and catches her by her naked arm, just where the long glove ceases above the elbow. ** Isabel, give me this dance," says he a little wild.y. ''No!'' She shakes herself free of him. A moment her eyes blaze into his. ** No ! " she ^ays again, trembling from head to foot. Another moment, and the door has closed behind her. APML\Sj£IllY, 4 CHAPTER XIV. **The old, old pain of earth." It is now close upon midnight — that midnight of the warmer months when day sets its light finger on the fringes of it. There is a sighing through the woods, a murmur from the everlasting sea, and though Diana still rides high in heaven with her handmaiden Venus by her side, yet in a little while her glory will be departed, and her one rival, the sun, will push her from her throne. The gleaming lamps among the trees are scarcely so bright as they were an hour ago, the faint sighing of the wind that heralds the morning is shaking them to and fro. A silly bird has waked, and is chirping in a foolish fashion among the rhododendrons, where, in a secluded path, Joyce and Dicky Browne are wandering somewhat aimlessly. Before them lies a turn in the path that leads presumably injto the dark wood, darkest of all at this hour, and where presumably, too, no one has ventured, though one should never presume about hidden corners. " I can't think what you see in him," says Mr. Browne, after a big pause. ** I'd say nothing if his face wasn't so fat, but if I were you, that would condemn him in my eyes." '* I can't see that his face is fatter than yours," says Miss Kavanagh, with what she fondly believes perfect in- difference. " Neither is it," says Mr. Browne meekly, " but my dear girl, there lies the gist of my argument. You have con- demned me. All my devotion has been scouted by you. I don't pretend to be the wreck still that once by your cruelty you made me, but " r " Oh, that will do," says Joyce, unfeelingly. "As for Mr. Beauclerk, I don't know why you should imagine I see anything in him." ~^ APRJVS LADY, '* Well, I confess I can't quite understand it myself. He couldn't hold a candle to — er — well, several other fellows I could name, myself not included. Miss Kavanagh, so that supercilious smile is thrown away. He may be good to look at, there is certainly plenty of him on which to feast the eye, but to fall in love with " " What do you mean, Dicky ? What are you speaking about — do you know? You," with a deadly desire to insult him, " must be in love yourself to — to maunder as you are doing ? " " I'm not," says Mr. Browne, " that's the queer part of it. I don't know what's the matter with me. Ever since vou blighted me, I have lain fallow, as it were. I," de- jectedly, *' haven't been in love for quite a long, long time now. I miss it — I can't explain it. I can't be well, can I ? I," anxiously, *• I don't look well, do I ? " " I never saw you looking better," with unkind force. "Ah ! " sadly, " that's because you don't give your at- tention to me. It's my opinion that I'm fading away to the land o' the leal, like old What-you-may-call-'em." " If that's the way he did it, it must have taken him some time. In fact, he must be still at it," says Miss Kavanagh, heartlessly. By this time they had come to the end of the walk, and have turned the corner. Before them lies a small grass plot surrounded by eveigreens, a cosy nook not to be suspected by any one until quite close upon it. It bursts upon the casual pedestrian, indeed, as a charming sur- prise. There is something warm, friendly, confidential about it — something safe. Beyond lies the gloomy wood, embedded in night, but here the moonbeams play. Some one with a thoughtful care for loving souls has placed in this excellent spot for flirtation a comfortable garden seat, just barely large enough for two, sternly indicative of being far too small for the leanest three. Upon this delightful seat four eyes now concentrate themselves. As if by one consent, although unconsciously, Mr. Browne and his companion come to a dead stop. The unoffending seat holds them in thrall. Upon it, evidently on the best of terms with each other, are two people. One is Miss Maliphant, the other Mr. Beauclerk. They are whispering " soft and low." Misr Maliphant is looking, perhaps, a little confused— fur hei APRIL'S LADY. 85 c, and grass to be bursts sur- ential wood, Some :ed in seat, being other, r Mr. Misr r he I — and the cause of the small confusion is transparent. Beauclerk's hand is tightly closed over hers, and even as Dicky and Miss Kavanagh gaie spellbound at them, he lifts the massive hand of the heiress and impnnis a linger- ing kiss up^ . it. •* Come away," says Dicky, touching Joyce's arm. " Run for your life, but softly." He and she have been standing in shadow, protected from the; view of the other two by a crimson rhododendron. Joyce starts as he touches her, as one might who is roused from an ugly dream, and then follows him swiftly, but lightly, back to the path they had forsaken. She is trembling in a nervous fashion, that angers her- self cruelly, and something of her suppressed emotion be- comes known to Mr. Browne. Perhaps, being a friend of hers, it angers him, too. •* What strange freaks moonbeams play," says he, with a truly delightful air of saying nothing in particular. " I could have sworn that just then I saw Beauclerk kissing Miss Maliphant's hand." No answer. There is a little silence, fraught with what angry grief who can tell ? Dicky, who is not all froth, and is capable of a liking here and there, is conscious of, and is sorry for, the nervous tremor that shakes the small hand he has drawn within his arm ; but he is so far a philo- sopher that he tells himself it is but a little thmg in her life ; she can bear it ; she will recover from it ; " and in time forget that she had been ever ill," says this good- natured skeptic to himself. Joyce, who has evidently been struggling with herself, and has now conquered her first feeling, turns to him. " You should not condemn the moonbeams unheard," says she, bravely, with the ghost of a little smile. " The evidence of two impartial witnesses should count in their favor." " But, my dear girl, consider," says Mr. Browne, mildly. *• If it had been anyone else's hand ! I could then accuse the moonbeams of a secondary offense, and say that their influence alone, which we all know has a maddening effect, had driven him to so bold a deed. But not madness itself could inspire me with a longing to kiss her hand." " She is a very good girl, and I like her," says Joyce, with a suspicious. vehemence. k»*'.%¥. APRWa LADY. ** So do I ; so much, indeed, that I should shrink from calling her a good girl. It is very damnatory, you ki w. You could hardly say anything more prejudicial. It at once precludes the idea of her having any such minor virtues as grace, beauty, wit, etc. Well, granted she is * a good girl,' that doesn't give her pretty hands, does it ? As a rule^ I think that all good girls have gigantic points. I don't think I would care to kiss Miss Maliphant's hands, even if she would let me." "She is a very honest, kind-hearted girl," says Miss Kavanagh a little heavily. It suggests itself to Mr. Browne that she has not been listening to him. "And a very rich one." " I never think about that when I am with her. - I couldn't." " Beauclerk could," says Mr. Browne, tersely. There is another rather long silence, and Dicky is be- ginning to think he has gone a trifle too far, and that Miss Kavanagh will cut him to-morrow, when she speaks again. Her tone is composed, but icy enough to freeze him. " It is a mistake," says she, " to discuss people towards whom one feels a natural antagonism. It leaf's one, per- haps, to say more than one actually means. One is apt to grow unjust. I would never discuss Mr. Beauclerk if I were you. You don't like him." " Well," says Mr. Browne, thoughtfully, " since you put it to me, I confess I think he is the most rubbishy person I ever met ! " After this sweeping opinion, conversation comes to a deadlock. It is not resumed. Reaching the stone steps leading to the conservatory, they ascend them in silence, and reach that perfumed retreat to find Dysart on the threshold. "Oh, there you are ! " cries he to Miss Kavanagh. " I thought you lost for good and all ! " His face has lighted up. Perhaps he feels a sense of relief at finding her with Dicky, who is warranted harmless. He looks almost hand- some, better than handsome ! The very soul of honesty shines in his kind eyes. " Oh ! it is hard to lose what nobody wants," says Joyce in a would-be playful tone, but something in the drawn, pained lines about her mouth belies her mirth. Dysarl, after a swift examination of her face, takes her hand and draws it within his arm. V- - ii APRIVS LAJ>Y, 8f " The last was our dance,*' says he. *• Speak kindly of the dead," says Mr. Browne, as he beats a hasty retreat. . ' ' CHAPTER XV. <* Heigh ho I sing heigh ho I unto the green hollT { Most friendship is feigning, most loving is folly." " Did you forget ? " asks Dysart, looking at her. "Forget?" " That the last dance was mine ? '* "Oh, was it? I'm so sorry. You must forgive me," with a feverish attempt at gayety, " I will try to make amends. You shall have this one instead, no matter to whom it may belong. Come. It is only just begun, I think." " Never mind," says Dysart, gently. " We won't dance this, I think. It is cool and quiet here, and you are tired." " Oh, so tired," returns she with a little sudden pathetic cry, so impulsive, so inexpressible that it goes to his heart " Joyce ! what is it ? " says he, quickly. *' Here, come and sit down. No, I don't want an answer. It was an absurd question. You have overdone it a little, that is all." " Yes, that is all ! " She sinks heavily into the seat he has pointed out to her, and lets her head fail back against the cushions. " However, when you come to think of it, that means a great deal," says she, smiling languidly. '* There, don't talk," says he. " What is the good of having a friend if you can't be silent with him when it so pleases you. That," laughing, and arranging the cushions behind her head, ** is one for you and two for myself. I, too, pine for a moment when even the meagre ' yes ' and * no ' will not be required of me," " Oh, no," shaking her head. " It is all for me and nothing for yourself ! " she pauses, and putting out her hand lays it on his sleeve. " I think, Felix," says she, softly, "you are the kindest man I ever met." " I told you you felt overdone," says he, laughing as if to hide the sudden emotion that is gleaming m his eyes. He presses the hand resting on his arm very gently, and .JSLS APRIL'S LADY, then replaces it in her lap. To take advantage of any little kindness she may show him now, when it is plain that she is suffering from some mental excitement, grief or anger, or both, would seem base to him. She has evidently accepted his offer of silence, and lying back in her soft couch stares with unseeing eyes at the bank of flowers before her. Behind her tall, fragrant shrubs rear themselves, and somewhere behind her, too, a tiny fountain is making musical tinklings. The faint, ten- der ^low of a colored lamp gleams from the branches of a tropical tree close by, and round it pale, downy moths are flitting, the sound of their wings, as every now and then they approach too near the tempting glow and beat them against the Japanese- shade, mingling with the silvery fall of the scented water. The atmosphere is warm, drowsy, a little melancholy. It seems to seize upon the two sitting within its seductive influence, and threatens to waft them from day dreams into dreams born of idle slumber. The rustle of a coming skirt, however, a low voice, a voice still lower whispering a reply, recalls them both to the fact that rest, complete and per- fect, is impossible under the circumstances. A little opening among the tall evergreens upon their right shows them Lord Baltimore once more, but this time not alone. Lady Swansdown is with him. She is looking rather lovelier than usual, with that soft tinge of red upon her cheeks born of her last waltz, and her lips parted in a happy smile. The subdued lights of the many lamps falling on her satin gown rest there as if in love with its beauty. It is an old shade made new, a yel- low that is almost white, and has yet a tinge of green in it. A curious shade, difficult, perhaps, to wear with good effect ; but on Lady Swansdown it seems to reign alone as queen of all the toilets in the rooms to-night. She looks, indeed, like a perfect picture stepped down from its can- vas, *' a thing of beauty," a very vision of delight. She seems, indeed, to Joyce watching her — Joyce who likes her — that she has grown beyond herself (or rather into her own real self) to-night. There is a touch of life, of passionate joy, of abandonment, of hope that has yet a sting in it, in all her air, that, though not understood of the girl, is still apparent. The radiant smile that illumines her beautiful face as she glances up at Baltimort; — who is bending over her in more APRWS LADY, «9 lover-like fashion than should be — is still making all her face a lovely fire as she passes out of sight down the steps that lead to the lighted gardens — the steps that Joyce had but just now ascended. The latter is still a little wrapt in wonder and admira- tion, and some other thought that is akin to trouble, when Dysart breaks in upon her fancies. " I am sorry about that," says he, bluntly, indicating with a nod of his head the departing shadows of the two who have just passed out. There are no fancies about Dysart. Nothing vague. " Yes ; it is a pity," says Joyce, hurriedly. " More than that, I think." " Something ought to be done," nervously. ** Yes," flushing hotly ; " I know — I know what you mean " — she had meant nothing — " but it is so difficult to know what to do, and — I am only a cousin." *' Oh, I wasn't thinking of you. I wasn't, really," says she, a good deal shocked. " As you say, why should you speak, when " " There is Beauclerk," says Dysart, quickly, as if a little angry with somebody, but certainly not with her. " How can he stand by and see it ? " " Perhaps he doesn't see it," says she in a strange tone, her eyes on the marble flooring. It seems to herself that the words are forced from her. " Because — because he has " She brings her hands tightly together, so tightly that she reduces the feathers on the fan she is holding to their last gasp. Because she is now disappointed in him ; because he has proved himseii, perhaps, unstable, deceptive to the heart's core, is she to vilify- him ? A thousand times, no ! That would be, indeed, to be base herself " Perhaps not," says Dysart, drily. In his secret heart this defence of his rival is detestable to him. Something in her whole manner when she came in from the garden had suggested to him the possibility that she had at last found him out. Dysart would have been puzzled to ex- plain how Beauclerk was supposed to be ** found out " or for what, but that he was liable to discovery at any moment on some count or counts unknown, was one of his Christian beliefs. " Perhaps not," says he. '' And yet I cannot help thinking that a matter so open to all must be patent to him." ,v . . f ^HM f» APRWS LADY, ** But," anxiously, " is it so open ? " " I leave that to your own judgment," a little warmly. "You," with rather sharp question, "are a friend of Isabel's?" " Yes, yes," quickly. " You know that. But " "But?" sternly. '* I like Lady Swansdown, loo," says she, with some determination. " I find it hard to believe that she can — can " " Be false to her tiiend," supplements he. "Have you yet to learn that friendship ends where love begins ? " "You think ?" " That she is in love with Baltimore." " And he ? " " Oh ! " contemptuously ; " who shall gauge the depth of his heart ? What can he mean ? " he has risen and is now pacing angrily up and down the small space before her. " He used to be such a good fellow, and now Is he dead to all sense of honor, of honesty ? " " He is a man," says Joyce, coldly. '* No. I deny that. Not a true man, surely." " Is there a true man ? " says she. " Is there any truth, any honesty to be found in the whole wide world ? " She too has risen now, and is standing with her large dark eyes fixed almost defiantly on his. There is some- thing so strange, so wild, so unlike her usual joyous, happy self in this outburst, in her whole attitude, that Dysart regards her with an - IIIIIM 1.4 1.6 e ^ V] /] "c»^ V v: WJ> > mT^^ ^3 Photographic Sdences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 « J ■■\ ^ I w 9a APRWS LADY. ^' It is not because of the walk that I ask you to go there with me," says Dysart, the innate honesty that dis- tirguishes him compelling him to lay bare to her his secret meaning. " I have something to say to you. You will listen?" ** Why should I not ? " returns she, a little pale. He might, perhaps, have said something further, but that now the footsteps sound close at hand. A glance towards the door that leads from the fragrant night into the still more perfumed air within reveals to them two figures. Mr. Beauclerk and Miss Maliphant come leisurely for- ward. The blood receding to Joyce's heart leaves her cold and singularly calm. CHAPTER XVI. ** Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight." ** Life, I know not what thou art. it " You two," cries Miss Maliphant pleasantly, in her loud, good-natured voice. She addresses them as though it has been borne in upon her by constant reminding that Joyce and Dysart are for the best of all reasons generally to be found together. There is something not only genial, but sympathetic in her tones, something that embarrasses Dysart, and angers Joyce to the last degree. " Well, I'm glad to have met you for one moment out of the hurly- burly," goes on the massive heiress to Joyce, with the friendliest of smiles. ** I'm off at cock-crow, you know, and so mightn't have had the opportunity of saying good- bye to you, but for this fortunate meeting." '* To-morrow ? " says Joyce, more with the manner of one who feels she must say something than from any de- sire to ;>ay it. " Yes, and so early that I shall not have it in my power to bid farewell to any one. Unless, indeed," with a glance at Beauclerk, meant, perhaps, to be coquettish, but so elephantine in its proportions as to be almost anything in the world but that, *' some of my friends may wish to see the sun rise." APRIL'S LADY. 03 "We shall miss you," says Joyce, gracefully, though with an effort. "Just what I've been saying," breaks in Beauclerk at this juncture, who hitherto has been looking on, with an altogether delightful smile upon his handsome face. " We shall all miss Miss Maliphant' It is not often that one meets with an entirely genial companion. My sister is to be congratulated on securing such an acquisition, if only for a short time." Joyce, lifting her eyes, stares straight at him. " For a short time ! " What does that mean ? If Miss Maliphant is to be Lady Baltimore's sister-in-law, she will undoubt- edly secure her for a lifetime I " Oh, you are too good," says Miss Maliphant, giving him a playful flick with her fan. " Well, what would you have me say ? " persists Beau- clerk still lightly, with wonderful lightness, in fact, con- sidering the weight of that playful tap upon his bent knuckles. ** That we shall not be sorry ? vVould you have me lie, then ? Fie, fie, Miss Maliphant ! The truth, the truth, and nothing but the truth ! At all risks and hazards ! " here he almost imperceptibly sends flying a shaft from his eyes at Joyce, v;ho receives it with a blank stare. " We shall, I assure you, be desolated when you go, specially Isabel." This kst pretty little speech strikes Dysart as being specially neat. This putting the onus of the regret on to Isabel's shoulders. All through, Beauclerk has been care- ful to express himself as one who is an appreciative friend of Miss Maliphant, but nothing more ; yet so guarded are these expressions, and the looks that accomj^any them, that Miss Maliphant might be pardoned if she should read a warmer feeling in them. A sensation of disgust darkens his brow. , " I must say you are all very nice to me," says the heiress complacently. Poor soul ! No doubt, she believes in every bit of it, and a large course of kow-towing from the world has taught her the value of her pile. " How- ever," with true Manchester grace, " there's no need for howling over it. We'll all meet again, I dare say, some time or other. For one thing. Lady Baltimore has asked me to come here again after Christmas ; February, I dare say." -:/V:^:.-.. ,.,; . ■ . . .. w APRIVS LADY. \ " So glad ! " murmurs Joyce rather vaguely. " So you see/' said Miss Maliphant with ponderous gayety, " that we are all bound to put in a second good time together ; you're coming, I know, Mr. Dysart, and Miss Kavanagh is always here, and Mr. Beauclerk " — with a languishing glance at that charming person, who returns it in the most open manner — *' has promised me that he will be here to meet me." " Well, if I can, you know," says he, now beaming at her. " How's that ? " says the heiress, turning promptly upon him. It is strange how undesirable the very richest heiress can be at times. " Why, it's only just this instant that you told me nothing would keep you away from the Court next spring. What d'ye mean ? " She brings him to book in a most uncompromising fashion ; a fashion that betrays unmistakably her plebeian oriein. Dysart, listening, admires her for it. Her rough and ready honesty seems to him preferable to the best bred shuffling in the world. " Did I say all that ? " says Beauclerk lightly, coloring a little, nevertheless, as he marks the fine smile that is curl- ing Joyce's lips. " Why, then," gayly, " if I said it, I meant it. If I hesitated about indorsing my intentions publicly, it is because one is never sure of happiness be- forehand ; believe me. Miss Maliphant," with a little bow to her, but with a direct glance at Joyce, " every desire I have is centered in the hope that next spring may see me here again." " Well, I expect we all have the same wish," says Miss Maliphant cheerfully, who has not caught that swift glance at Joyce. " I'm sure I hope that nothing will interfere with my coming here in February." ** It is agreed, then," .says Beauclerk, with a delightfully comprehensive smile that seems to take in every one, even the plants and the dripping fountain and the little marble god in the corner, who is evidently listening with 'all his might. " We all meet here again early next year if the fates be propitious. You, Dysart, you pledge yourself to join our circle then? " " I pledge myself," says Dysart, fixing a cold gaze on him. It is so cold, so distinctly hostile, that Beauclerk grows uncomfortable beneath it. When uncomfortable ■w APRIVS LADY, 91 e on clerk fable his natural bias leads him towards a display of bonhomie. " Here we have before as a prospect to cheer the soul of any man," declares he, shifting his eyes from Dysart to Miss Maliphant. " It cheers me certainly," responds that heavy maiden with alacrity. " I like to think we shall all meet again.' " Like the witches in Macbeth," says Joyce, indifferently. " But not so malignantly, I hope," says the heiress bril- liantly, who, like most worthy people, can never see beyond her own nose. " For my part I like old friends much bet- ter than new." She looks round for the appreciation that should attend this sound remark, and is gratified to find Dysart is smiling at her. Perhaps the cote of that smile might not have been altogether to her taste — most cores are difficult of digestion. To her, to whom all things are new, where does the flavor of the old come in ? BeauclerL is looking at Joyce. " I hope the prospect cheers you too," says he a little sharply, as if nettled by her determined silence, and bent on making her declare herself. " You, I trust, will be here next February." " Sure to be ! " says she with an enigmatical smile. " Not a jot or tittle of your enjoyments will be lost to you in the coming year. Both your friends — Miss Maiiphant and I — will be here to welcome you when you return." Something in her manner, in the half-defiant light in her eyes, puzzles Beauclerk. What has happened to her since they last were together ? Not more than an hour ago she had seemed — er — well. Inwardly he smiles complacently. But now. Could she ? Is it possible ? Was there a chance that " Miss Kavanagh," begins he, moving toward her. But she makes short work of his advance. " I repent," says she, turning a lovely, smiling face on Dysart. *' A while ago I said I was too tired to dance. I did myself injustice. That waltz — listen to it" — lifting up an ^ager finger — " would it not wake an anchorite from his ascetic dreams ? Come. There is time." She has sprung to her feet — life is in every movement. She slips her arm into Dysart's. Not understanding — yet half understanding, he moves with her — his heart on fire for her, his puzzlement rendering him miserable. Beauclerk, with that doubt of what she really knows full upon him, is wiser. Without hesitation he offers his 96 APRIL'S LADY. arm to Miss Maliphant ; and, so swift is his desire to quit the scene, he passes Dysart and Joyce, the latter having paused for a moment to recover her fan. " You see ! " says Beauclerk, bending over the heiress, when a turn in the conservatory has hidden him from the view of those behind. " I told you ! " He says nothing more. It is the veriest whisper, spoken with an assump- tion of merriment very well achieved. Yet if she would have looked at him, she could have seen that his very lips are white. But as I have said. Miss Maliphant's mind has not been trained to the higher courses. " Yes. One can see ! " laughs she happily. " And it is charming, isn't it ? To find two people thoroughly in love with each other now-a-days, is to believe in that mad old world of romance of which we read. They're very nice too, both of them. I do like Joyce. She's one in a thousand, and Mr. Dysart is just suited to her. They are both thorough ! There's no nonsense about them. Now that you have pointed it out to me, I think I never saw two people so much in love with each other as they." Providentially, she is looking away from him to where a quadrille is forming in the ballroom, so that the deadly look of hatred that adorns his handsome face is unknown to her. .t^i Meantime, Joyce, with that convenient fan recovered, is looking with sad eyes at Dysart. " Come ; the music will soon cease," says she. ** Why do you speak to me like that ? " cries he vehe- mently. " If you don't want to dance, why not say so to me ? Why not trust me ? Good heavens ! if I were your bitterest enemy you could not treat me more distantly. And yet — I would die to make you happy." " Don't ! " says she in a little choking sort of way, turn- ing her face from him. She struggles with herself for a moment, and then, still with her face averted, says fheekly : " Thank you, then. If you don't mind, I should rather not dance any more to-night." " Why didn't you say that at first ? " says he, with a last remnant of reproach. " No ; there shall be no more dancing to-night for either you or me. A worH, Joyce ! " turning eagerly toward her, " you won't foiget your promise about that walk to-morrow ? " /PRIL'S LADY, " No. No, indeed/* ♦'Thank you!" They are sitting very close together, and almost in- sensibly his hand seeks and finds hers. It was lying idle on her lap, and lifting it, he would have raised it to his lips, but with a sharp, violent action she wrests it from him, and, as a child might, hides it behind her. " If you would have me believe in you No, no, not that," says she, a little incoherently, her voice render- ing her meaning with difficulty. Dysart, astonished, stands back from her, waiting for something more ; but nothing comes, except two large tears, that steal heavily, painfully, down her cheeks. She brushes them impatiently away. " Forgive me," she says, somewhat brokenly. ** To you, who are so good to me, I am unkind, while to those who are unkind to me I " She is trying to rally. *' It was a mere whim, believe me. I have always hated demon- strations of any sort, and why should you want to kiss my hand?" " I shouldn't," says he. " If " His eyes have fallen from her eyes to her lips. " Never mind," says she ; '' I didn't understand, per- haps. But why can't you be content with things as they are ? " "Are you content with them?" ** I think so. I have been examinin^j myself, anU honestly I think so," says she a little feverishly. " Well, I'm not," returns he with decision. ** You must give me credit for a great private store of amiability, if you imagine that I am satisfied to take things as they now ex- ist — between you and me ! " ** You have your faults, you see, as well as another," says she with a frown. '' You are persistent ! And the worst of it is that you are generally right." She frowns again, but even while frowning glances sideways from un- der hei*long lashes with an expression hardly uncivil. "That is the worst crime in the calendar. Be wrong sometimes, an' you love me, it will gain you a world of friends." ** If it could gain me your love in return, I might risk it," says he boldly. " But that is hopeless I'm afraid," shaking his head. '* I am too often in the wrong not to 7 APRIL'S LADY. I ,■ r, : h ' . ■J' v '..? ■ %:■ k.iow that neither my many frailties nor my few virtues can ever purchase for me tlie only good thing on which my soul is set." " I have told you of one fault, now hear another," says she capriciously. ** You are too earnest ! What," turning upon him passionately, as if a little ashamed of her treat- ment of him, " is the use of being earnest? Who cares ? Who looks on, who gives one moment to the guessing of the meaning that lies beneath ? To be in earnest in this life is merely to be mad. Pretend, laugh, jest, do any- thing, but be what you really are, and you will probably get through the world in a manner, if not satisfactory to yourself, at all events to * Us atitres.^ " " You preach a crusade against yourself," says he gently. '* You preach against your own conscience. You are the least deceptive person I know. Were you to follow in the track you lay out for others, the cruelty of it would kill you. " To your own self be true, And ' " " Yes, yes ; I know it all," says she, interrupting him with some irritation. " I wish you knew how — how un- pleasant you can be. As I tell you, you are always right. That last dance — it is true — I didn't want to have anything to do with it ; but for all that I didn't wish to be told so. I merely suggested it as a means of getting rid of— — " " Miss Maliphant," says Dysart, who is feeling a little sore. The disingenuousness of this remark is patent to her. ** No ; Mr. Beauclerk," corrects she, coldly. '* Forgive me," says Dysart quickly, " I shouldn't have said that. Well," drawing a long breath, **we have got rid of them, and may I give you a word of advice? It is disinterested because it is to my own disadvantage. Go to your room — to your bed. You are tired, exhausted. Why wait to be more so. Say you will do as I suggest." ^^ You want to get rid of me," says she with a Ifttle weary smile. "That is unworthy of an answer," gravely; **but if a * yes ' to it will help you ^o follow my advice, why, I will say it. Come," rising, '* let nic take you to the hall." ** You shall hr.ve your way," says she, rising too, and following him. APRIVS LADY, ¥i A side door leading to the anteroom on their left, and thus skirting the ballroom without entering it, brings them to the foot of the central staircase. *' Good-night," says Dysart in a low tone, retaining her hand for a moment. All round them is a crowd separated into twos and threes, so that it is impossible to say more than the mere commonplace. " Good night," returns she in a soft tone. She has turned away from him, but something in the intense longing and melancholy of his eyes compels her to look back again. *' Oh, you have been kind ! I am not ungrateful," says she with sharp contrition. " Joyce, Joyce ! Let me be the gratefu one," returns he. His voice is a mere whisper, but so fraught is it with passionate appeal that it rings in her brain for long hours afterward. Her eyes fall beneath his. She moves silently away. What can she say to /him ? It is with a sense of almost violent relief that she closes the door of her own room behind her, and knows herself to be at last alone. CHAPTER XVII. <* And vain desires, and hopes dismayed, And fears that cast the earth in shade. My heart did fret." Night is waning ! Dies pater, Father of Day, is makfng rapid strides across the heavens, creating havoc as he goes. Diana faints ! the stars grow pale, flinging, as they die, a last soft glimmer across the sky. Now and again a first call from the birds startles the drowsy air. The wood dove's coo, melancholy sweet — the cheep-cheep of the robin — the hoarse cry of the sturdy crow. ** A faint dawn breaks on yonder sedge, And broadens in that bed of weeds; A bright disk shows iis radiant edge. All things bespeak the coming mom, Yet still it lingers." loo APRIL'S LADY, th As Lady Swansdown and Baltimore descend the stone steps that lead to the gardens beneath, only the swift rush of the tremulous breeze that stirs the branches betrays to them the fact that a new life is at hand. "You are cold?" says Baltimore, noticing the quick shiver that runs through her. " No : not cold. It was mere nervousness." " I shouldn't have thought you nervous." " Or fanciful ? " adds she. " You judged me rightly, and yet — coming all at once from the garish lights within into this cool sweet darkness here, makes one feel in spite of oneself." " In spite ! Would you never willingly feel ? " " Would you ? " demands she very slowly. " Not willingly, I confess. But I have been made to feel, as you know. And you ? " " Would you have a woman confess ? " says she, half playfully. " That is taking an unfair advantage, is it not ? See," pointing to a seat, ** what a charming resting place ! I will make one confession to you. I am tired." " A meagre one ! Beatrice," says he suddenly, " tell me this: are all women alike? Do none really feel? Is it all fancy — the mere idle emotion of a moment — the evanes- cent desire for sensation of one sort or another — of anger, love, grief, pain, that stirs you now and then ? Are none of these things lasting with you, are they the mere strings on which you play from time to time, because the hours lie heavy on your hands ? It seems to me " " It seems to me that you lardly know what you are saying," said Lady Swansdown quickly. " Do you thmk then that women do not feel, do not suffer as men never do ? What wild thoughts torment your brain that you should put forward so senseless a question ? — one that has been answered satisfactorily thousands of years ago. All the pain, the suffering of earth lies on the woman's shoulders ; it has been so from the beginning — it shall be so to the end. On being thrust fotth from their Eden, which suffered most do you suppose, Adam or Eve ? " " It is an old story," says he gloomily, " and why should you, of all people, back it up ? You — ^who- " Better leave me out of the question." "Youl" tt APRIVS LADY, lol " I am outside your life, Baltimore," says she, laying her hand on the back of the seat beside her, and sinking into it. " Leave me there 1 " " Would you bereave me of all things," says he, " even my friends ? I thought — I believed, that you at least — understood me." " Too well 1 " says she in a low tone. Her hands have met each other and are now clasped together in her lap in a grip that is almost hurtful. Great heavens I if he only knew — could he then probe, and wound, and tempt ! " If you do " begins he — then stops short, and pass- ing her, paces to and fro before her in the dying light of the moon. Lady Swansdown leaning back gazes at him with eyes too sad for tears— eyes " wild with, all regret." Oh 1 if they two might bit have met earlier. If this man — this man in all the vor d, had been given to her, as her allotment. " Beatrice ! " says he, stopping short before her, "were you ever in love ? " There is a dead silence. Lady Swansdown sinking still deeper into the arm of the chair, looks up at him with strange curious eyes. What does he mean ? To her — to put such a question to her of all women ! Is he deaf, blind, mad — or only cruel ? A sort of recklessness seizes upon her. Well, if he doesn't know, he shall know, though it be to the loss of her self-respect forever ! " Never," says she, leaning a little forward until the moonbeams gleam upon her snowy neck and arms. ** Never — ^never — until " The pause is premeditated. It is eloquence itself 1 The light of heaven playing on her beautiful face betrays the passion of it — the rich pallor ! One hand resting on the back of the seat taps upon the iron work, the other is now in Baltimore's possession. " Until now ^? " suggests he boldly. He is leaning over her. She shakes her head. But in this negative there is only affirmation. His hand tightens more closely upon hers. The long slender fingers yield to his pressure — ^nay more — return it ; they twine round his. ** If I thought " begins he in a low, stammering tone 5i— he moves nearer to her, nearer still. Does she move 109 APRWS LADY. toward him ? There is a second's hesitation on his part, and then, his lips meet hers ! It is but a momentary touch, a thing of an instant, but it includes a whole world of meaning. Lady Swansdown has sprung to her feet, and is looking at him with eyes that seem to burn through the mystic darkness. She is trem- bling in every limb. Her nostrils are dilated. Her haughty mouth is quivering, and there — are there honest, real tears in those mocking eyes ? Baltimore, too, has risen. His face is very white, very full of contrition. That he regrets his action toward her is unmistakable, but that there is a deeper contrition be- hind — a sense of self-loathing not to be appeased betrays itself in the anguish of his eyes. She had accused him of falsity, most falsely up to this, but now — now His mind has wandered far away. There is something so wild in his expression that Lady Swansdown loses sight of herself in the contemplation of it. " What is it, Baltimore ? " asks she, in a low, frightened tone. It rouses him. " I have offended you beyond pardon," begins he, but more like one seeking for words to say than one afraid of using them. " I have angered you " " Do not mistake me," interrupts she quickly, almost fiercely. ** I am not angry. I feel no anger — nothing — but that I am a traitor." " And what am I ? " " Work out your own condemnation for yourself," says she, still with that feverish self-disdain upon her. " Don't ask me to help you. She was my friend, whatever she is now. She trusted me, believed in me. And after all And you," turning passionately^ ** you are doubly a traitor, you are a husband." " In name ! " doggedly. He has quite recovered himself now. Whatever torture his secret soul may impress upon him in the future, no one but he shall know. " It doesn't matter. You belong to her, and she to you." > " That is what she doesn't think," bitterly. -^ " There is one thing only to be said, Baltimore," says she, after a slight pause. " This must never occur again. I like you, you know that. I " she breaks off" abruptly, APRWa LADY, 103 and suddenly gives way to a sort of mirthless laughter. " It is a farce ! " she says. " Consider my feeling anything. And so virtuous a thing, too, as remorse ! Well, as one lives, one learns. If I had seen the light for the first time in the middle of the dark ages, I should probably have ended my days as the prioress of a convent. As it is, I shouldn't wonder if I went in for hospital nursing presently. Pshaw ! " angrily, " it is useless lamenting. Let me face the truth. I have acted abominably toward her so far, and the worst of it is " — with a candor that seems to scorch her — " I know if the chance be given me, I shall behave abominably toward her again. I shall leave to-morrow— the day after. One must invent a decent excuse." ** Pray don't leave on Lady Baltimore's account," says he slowly, " she would be the last to care about this. I am nothing to her." " Is your wish father to that thought ? " regarding him keenly. *' No. I assure you. The failing I mention is plain to all the world I should ha>re thought." " It is not plain to me," still watching him. " Then learn it," says he. '* If ever she loved me, which I now disbelieve (I would that I had let the doubt creep in earlier), it was in a past thr. now is irretrievably dead. I suppose I wearied her — I confess," with a meagre smile, " I once loved her with all my soul, and heart, and strength — or else she is incapable of knowing an honest affection." " That is not true," says Lady Swansdown, some gener- ous impulse forcing the words unwillingly through her white lips. " She can love ! you must see that for yourself. The child is proof of it." " Some women are lu .* that," says he gloomily. " They can open wide their hearts to their children, yet close it against the fathers of them. Isabel's whole life is given up to her child : she regards it as hers entirely ; she allows me no share in him. Not," eagerly, " that I grudge him one inch the affection she gives him. He has a father worthless enough. Let his mother make it up to him." " Yet he loves the father best," says Lady Swansdown quickly. " I hope not," with a suspicion of violence. " He does, believe me. One can see it. That saintly mother of his his not half the attraction for him that you 'V.i^: n !«# APRWS LADY, have. Why, look you, it is the way of the world, why dis- pute it ? Well, well," her triumphant voice deepening to a weary whisper. " When one thinks of it all, she is not too happy." She draws her hand in a little bewildered way across her white brow. " You don't iftiderstand her," says Baltimore frigidly. " She lives in a world of her own. No one would dare penetrate it. Even I — her husband, as you call me in mockery — am outside it. I don't believe she ever cared for me. If she had, do you think she would have given a thought to that infamous story ? " " About Madame Istray ? " " Yes. You, too, heard of it then ? " " Who hasn't heard. Violet Walden was not the one to spare you." She pauses and looks at him, with all her heart in her eyes. " Was there no truth in that story ? '* asks she at last, her words coming v/ith a little rush. " None. I swear it ! You believe me I " He has come nearer to her and taken her hand in the extremity of this desire to be believed in by somebody. " I believe you," says she, gently. Her voice is so low that he can catch the words only ; the grief and misery in them is unknown to him. Mercifully, too, the moon has gone behind a cloud, a tender preparation for an abdi- cation presently, so that he cannot see the two heart- broken tears that steal slowly down her cheeks. " That is more than Isabel does," says he, with a laugh that has something of despair in it. " You tell me, then," says Lady Swansdown, " that you never saw Mme. Istray after your marriage ? " " Never, willingly." " Oh, willingly 1 " ** Don't misjudge me. Hear the whole story then — if you must," cries he passionately — " though if you do, you will be the first to hear it. I am tired of being thought a liar!" '* Go on," says she, in a low shocked tone. His singu- lar vehemence has compelled her to understand how severe have been his sufferings. If ever she had doubted the truth of the old story that has wrecked the happiness of his married life she doubts no longer. " I tell you, you will be the first to hear it," says he, advancing toward her. " Sit down there," pressing her APRIL* S LADY, 105 into the garden seat. " I can see you are looking over- done, even by this light. Well — " drawing a long breath and stepping back from her — " I never opened my lips upon this subject except once before. That was to Isabel. And she " — he pauses — " she would not listen. She be- lieved, then, all things base of me. She has so believed ever since." " She must be a fool ! " says Lady Swansdown impetu- ously, " she could not " " She did, however. She," coldly, " even believed that I could lie to her ! " His face has become ashen ; his eyes, fixed upon the groi:nd, seemed to grow there with the intensity of his * regard. His breath seems to come with difficulty through his lips. " Well," says he at last, with a long sigh, " it's all over I The one merciful thing belonging to our life is that there must come, sooner or later, an end to everything. The worst grief has its termination. She has been unjust to me. But you," he lifts his haggard face, " you, perhaps, will grant me a kindlier hearing." " Tell it all to me, if it will maRe you happier," says she, very gently. Her heart is bleeding for him. Oh, if she might only comfort him in some way ! If — if that other fails him, why should not she, with the passion of love that lies in her bosom, restore him to the warmth, the sweetness of life. That kiss, half developed as it only was, already begins to bear fatal fruit. Unconsciously she permits herself a license in her thoughts of Baltimore hitherto otrenuonsly suppressed. " There is absurdly little to tell. At that time we lived almost entirely at our place in Hampshire, and as there were business matters connected with the outlying farms round there, that had been grossly neglected during my grandfather's time, I was compelled to run up to town . almost dailiy. As a rule I returned by the evening train, . in time for dinner, but once or twice I was so far delayed that it was out of my power to do it. I laugh at myself now," he looks very far from laughter as he says it, " but I assure you the occasions on which I was compulsorily kept away from my home were " He pauses, *' oh, well, there is no use in being more tragic than one need be. They were, at least, a trouble to me/' lo6 APRIVS LADY, ** Naturally," says she, coldly. " I loved her, yon see," says Baltimore, in a strange jerky sort of way, as if ashamed of that old sentiment. ** She- »> '^ I quite understand. I have heard all about it once or twice," says Lady Swansdown, with a kind of slow haste, if such a contradiction may be allowed. That he has for- gotten her is evident. That she has forgotten nothing is more evident still. ♦ " Well, one day, one of the many days during which I went up to tov/n, after a long afternoon with Goodman and Smale, in the course of which they had told me they would probably require me to call at their office to meet one of the most influential tenants at nine the next morn- ing, I met, on leaving their office, Marchmont — March- mont of the Tenth, you know." "Yes, I know." " He and a cc"ple of other fellows belonging to his regiment were going down to Richmond to dine. Would I come? It was dull in towr, toward the close of the season, and I was glad of any mvitation that promised a change of programme — anything that would take me away from a dull evening at my club. I made no inquiries ; I accepted the invitation, got down in time for dinner, and found Mme. Istray was one of the guests. I " He hesitates. " Go on." " You are a woman of the world, Beatrice ; you will let me confess to you that there had been old passages be- tween me and Mme. Istray — well, I swear to you I had never so much as thought of her since my marriage — nay, since my engagement to Isabel. From that hour my life had been clear as a sheet of blank paper. I had forgotten her j I verily believe she had forgotten me, too. At that dinner I don't think she exchanged a dozen words with me. On my soul," pushing back his hair with a slow, troubled gesture from his brow, " this is the truth." " And yet- K And yet," interrupting her with now a touch of vehe- ment excitement, '' a garbled, a most cursedly false ac- count of that dinner was given her. It came round to her ears. She listened to it — believed in it — condemned with- out a hearing. She, who has sworn, not only at the altar, but to me alone, that sh^ loved me." APRWS LADY, 107 ** She wronged you terribly," says Lady Swansdown in a low tone. " Thank you," cried he, a passion of gratitude in his tone. " To be believed in by someone so thoroughly as you believe in me, is to know happiness indeed. What- ever happens^ I can count on you as my friend." " Your friend, always," says she, in a very low voice — a voice somewhat broken. " Come," shie says, rising sud- denly and walking toward the distant lights in the house. He accompanies her silently. Very suddenly she turns to him, and lays her hand upon his arm. " Be my friend," says she, with a quick access of terri- ble emotion. Entreaty and despair mingle in her tone. *' Forever ! " returns he, fervently, tightening his grasp on her hand. "Well," sighing, "it hardly matters. We shall not meet again for a long, long time." " How is that ? Isabel, the last time she condescended to speak to me of her own accord," with an unpleasant laugh, " told me that she had asked you to come here again next February, and that you had accepted the in- vitation. She, indeed, made quite a point of it." " Ah ! that was a long time ago." " Weeks do not make a long time." " Some weeks hold more than years. Yes, you are right ; she made quite a point abort my coming. Well, she is always very civil." ** She has always perfect manners. She is, as you say, very civil." " She is proud," coldly. " You will come? " " I think not. By that time you will in all probability have made it up with her." " The very essence of improbability." " While I— shall not have made it up with my husband." " One seems quite a? possible as the other." " Oh, no. Isabel is a good woman. You would do well to go back to her. Swansdown is as bad a man as I know, and that," with a inirthless laugh, " is saying a great deal. I should gain nothing by a reconciliation with him. For one thing; an important matter, I have a great deal more ml APRILS LADY. money than he has, and, for anoth 3r, there are no children.'* Her voice changes here ; an indescribable alteration not only hardens, but desolates it. '' I have been fortunate there," she says, '' if in nothing else in my unsatisfactory life. There is no smallest bond between me and Swans- down. If I could be seriously glad of anything it would be of that. I haye nothing belonging to him." " His name." " Oh, as for that — does it belong to him ? Has he not forfeited a decent right to it a thousand times ? No ; there is nothing. If there had been a child he would have made a persecution of it — and so I am better off as it is. And yet, there are moments when I envy you that little child of yours. However " ** Yet if Swansdown were to make an overture- i> *' Do not go on. It is of all speculations the most use- less. Do not pursue the subject of Swansdown, I entreat you. Let " — with bitter meaning — " * sleeping dogs lie.' " Baltimore laughs shortly. i ** That is severe," says he. ** It is how I feel toward him ; the light in which I regard him. If," turning a face to his that is hardly recogniz- able, so pale it is with ill-suppressed loathing, ** he were lying on his deathbed and sent for me, it would give me pleasure to refuse to go to him." She takes her hand from his arm and motioni; him to ascend the steps leading into the conservatory. *• But you ? " says he, surprised. " Let me remain here a little while. I am tired. My head aches, I " " Let me stay with you." " No," smiling faintly. " What I want is to be alone. To feel the silence. Go. Do not be uneasy about me. Believe me you will be kind if you do as I ask you."- " It is a command," says he slowly. And slowly, too, he turns away from her. Seeing him so uncertain about leaving her, she steps abruptly into a dar]^ side path, and finding a chair sinks into it. ' -■'"''- ['•''■':/■■'. The soft breaking of the dawn over the tree tops far away seems to add another pang to the anguish that is consuming her. She covers her face with her hands. Oh ! if it had all been different. Two lives 'sacrificed 1 nay, three ! For surely^ Isabel cannot care for him. Oh ! APRIL* S LADY, 109 ■ildren/' Bion not B>rtunate H ■sfactory ■ Swans- Bt nrould ■ he not '•'"■"* H 1? No; lild have wbI las it is. ^% |at little - 1 i> ost use- entreat js he.'" f regard w^ ecogniz- he were " afive me *■ him to i. My if it had been she, she herself — what is there she could not have forgiven him ? Nay, she must have forgiven him, because life without him would have been insupportable. If only she might have loved him honorably. If only she might ever love him — successfully — dishonorably ! The thought seems to sting her. Involuntarily she throws up her head and courts the chill winds of dawn that sweep with a cool touch her burning forehead. She had called her proud. Would she herself, then, be less proud ? That Isabel dreads her, half scorns her of late, is well known to her, and yet, with a very passion of pride, would dare her to prove it. She, Isabel, has gone even so far as to ask her rival to visit her again in the early part of the coming year to meet her present friends. So far that pride had carried her. But pride — was pride love ? If she herself loved Baltimore, would she, even for pride's sake, entreat the woman he singled out for his Attentions to spend another long visit in her country house ? And if Isabel does not honestly love him, why then — is he not lawful prey for one who can, who does not love him ? One — who loves him. But he — whom does he love ? Torn by some last terrible thought she starts to her feet, and, as though inaction has become impossible to her, draws her white silken wrap around her, and sweeps rapidly out of all view of the waning Chinese lamps into the gray obscurity of the coming day that lies in the far gardens. alone. It me. • too, he steps sinks ps far lat is • iced I Oh I . ./ CHAPTER XVIII. •* Song have thy day, and take thy fill of light Before the night be fallen across thy way ; Sing while he may, man hath no long delight." " What a delicious day ! " says Joyce, stopping short on the hill to taike a look round her. It is the next day, and indeed far into it. Luncheon is a thing of the past, and both she and Dysart know that it will take them all their time to reach St. Bridget's Hill and be back again for afternoon tea. They had started on their expedition in defiance of many bribes held out to them. For one thing, there was to be a reception at the Court at five ; many of no APRWS LADY. those who had danced through last night having been asked to come over late in the afternoon of to-day to talk over the dance itself and the little etceteras belonging to it. The young members of the Monkton family had been specially invited, too, as a sort of make up to Bertie, the little son of the bouse, who had been somewhat aggrieved at being sent to bed without his share of the festivities on hand. He had retired to his little cot, indeed, with his arms stuffed full of crackers, but how could crackers and cakes and sweets console any one for the loss of being out at an ungodly hour and seeing a real live dance ! The one thing that finally helped him to endure his hard lot was a promise on his mother's part that Tommy and Mabel Monk- ton should come down next day and revel with him among the glorious ruins of the supper table. The little Monk- tons had not come, however when Joyce left for her walk. ** Gomg out ? " Lady Swansdown had said to her, meet- ing her in the hall, fully equipped for her excursion. " But why, my dear girl ? We expect those amusing Burkes in an hour or so, and the Delaneys, and " " Yes, why go ? " repeats Beauclerk, who has just come up. His manner is friendly in the extreme, yet a very careful observer might notice a strain about it, a deter- mination to be friendly that rather spoils the effect. Her manner toward him last night after his interview with Miss Maliphant in the garden and her growing coldness ever since, has somewhat disconcerted, him mentally. Could she have heard, or seen, or been told of anything ? There might, of course, have been a little contretemps of some sort. People, as a rule, are so beastly treacherous ! " You will make us wretched if you desert us," says he with em- pressement. As he speaks he goes up to her and lets his eyes as well as his lips implore her. Miss Maliphant had> left by the early train, so that he is quite unattached, and able to employ his whole battery of fascinations on the subjugation of this refractory person. " I am sorry. Don't be more wretched than you can help ! " says Joyce, with a smile wonderfully unconcerned. " After a dance I want to walk to clear my brain, and Mr. Dysart has been good enough to say he will accompany me." having been 0-day to talk belonging to pyhad been P Bertie, the lat aggrieved festivities on [eed, with his T:^rackers and o^ being out •e I The one trd lot Was a Tabel Monk- him amonc httle Monk- lleft for her o her, meet- rsion. <'But g Burkes in ts just come yet a very ^t a deter- fect. Her ^ with Miss dness ever 'y- Could ?? There •f of some us ! " Vou - with em- Id lets his •hant had. :hed, and ns on the you can ncerned. and Mr. 'Ompany APRWS LADY. ftl " Is he accompanying you ? " says Beauclerk, with an Unpardonable supercilious glance around him as if in search of the absert Dysart. " You mustn't think him a laggard at his post," says Miss Kavanagh, still smiling, but now in a little provoking way tha* seems^o jest at his pretended suspicion of Dysart's constancy and dissolve it into the thinnest of thin air. " He was here just now, but I sent him to loose the dogs. I like to have them with me, and Lady Baltimore is pleased when they get a run." " Isabel is always so sympathetic," says he, with a quite new and delightful rush cf sympathy toward Isabel. " I suppose," glancing at Joyce keenly, " you would not care for an additional escort ? The dogs — and Dysart — will be sufficient?" " Mr. Dysart and the dogs will be," -ays she. ** Ah I Here he comes," as Dysart appears at the open doorway, a litt'o pack of terriers at his heels. " What a time you've been ! " cries she, moving quickly to him. '* I thought you would never come. Good-bye, Lady Swansdown ; good- bye," glancing casually at Beauclerk. " Keep one teapot for us if you can ! " She trips lightly up the avenue at Dysart's side, leaving Beauclerk in a rather curious frame of mind. " Yes, she has heard something ! " That is his first thought. How to counteract the probable influence of that " something " is the second. A little dwelling upon causes and effects shows him the way. For an effect there is often an antidote ! "Delicious indeed!" says Dysart, in answer to her remark His answer is, however, a little distrait. His determination of last night to bring her h^re, and compel her to listen to the honest promptings of his heart is still strong within him. They have now ascended the hill, and, standing on its summit, can look down on the wild deep sea beneath them that lies, to all possible seeming, as calm and passive at their feet as might a thing inanimate. Yet within its depths what terrible — what mournful tra- gedies lie ! And, as if in contrast, what ecstatic joys I To lis APRIL'S LADY. • ■' ■■ '3J> one it speaks like death itself — to another : ** The bridegroom sea Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride. And in the fullness of his marriage joy He decorates her tawny brow with shells. Retires a pace to see how fair she looksi Then, proud, runs up to kiss her." " Shall we sit here ? " says Dysart, indicating a soft mound of grass that overlooks the bay. " You must be tired after last night's dancing." " I am tired," says she, sinking upon the soft cushion that Nature has provided with a little sigh of satisfaction. " Perhaps I should not have asked — have extracted — a promise from you to come here," says Dysart, with contri- t'on in his tone. " I should have remembered you would be overdone, and that a long walk like this " " Would be the very thing to restore me to a proper state of health," she interrupts him, with the prettiest smile. " No, don't pretend you are sorry you brought me here. You know it is the sheerest hypocrisy on your part. You are glad that you brought me here, I hope, and I " — deliberately — " am glad that you did." ** Do you mean that ? ' says Dysart, gravely. He has not seated himself beside her, and is now looking down at her from a goodly height. *' Do you know why I brought you ? " ** To bring me back a^ain as fresh as a daisy," suggests she, with a laugh that is spoiled in* its birth by a glance from him. " No, I did not think of you at all. I thought only of myself," says Dysart, speaking a little quickly now. " Call that selfish if you will — and yet " He stops short, and comes closer to her. ** To think in that way was to think of you too. Joyce, there is at all events one thing you do know — ^that I love you." Miss Kavanagh nods her head silently. • " There is one thing, too, that I know," says Dysart noW with a little tremble in his voice, " that you do not love me!" She is silent. "You are honest," says he, after a pause. "Still" — looking at her — " if there wasn't hope one would die. Though the present is empty for me, I cannot help dwell* APRIL'S LADY, 113 *mg on the thought that the future may contain — some- thing ! " " The future is so untranslatable," says she, with a little evasion. "Tell me this at least," says Dysart, very earnestly, bending over her with the air of one determined to sift his chances to the last grain, " you like me ? " " Oh, yes." <* Better than Courtenay, for example ? " with a fleeting smile that fails to disguise the real anxiety he is enduring: " What an absurd question 1 " " Than Dicky Brown ? " "Yes." But here she lifts her head and gazes at him in a startled way that speaks of quick suspicion. There is some- thing of entreaty, too, in her dark eyes, a desire that he will go no further. But Dysart deliberately disregards it. . " Than Beauclerk ? " asks he in a clear, almost cruel tone. A horrible red rushes up to dye her pretty cheeks, in spite of all her efforts to subdue it. Great tears of shame and confusion suffuse her eyes. One little reproachful glance she casts at him, and then : : ' " Of course," says she, almost vehemently, if a little faintly, her eyes sinking to the ground. Dysart Stands before her as if stricken into stone. Then the knowledge that he has hurt her pierces him with a terrible certainty, overcomes all other thoughts, and drives him to repentance. *' I shouldn't have asked you that," says he bluntly. " No, no ! " says she, acquiescing quickly, " and yet," raising an eager, lovely face to his, ** I hardly know any- thing about — about myself. Sometimes I think I like him, sometimes " She stops abruptly and looks at him with a pained and frightened gaze. "Do you despise me for betraying myself like ♦his? " " No — I want to hear all about it." " Ah ! That is what I want to hear myself. But who is to tell me? Nature won't. Sometimes I hate him. Last night " " Yes, I know. You hated him last night, I don't wish to know why. I am quite satisfied in that you did so." 8 . • v:^- :.-* ,rf;. f 114 APRWS LADY, " But shall I hate him to-morrow ? Oh, yes, I think so —I hope so," cries she suddenly. " I am tired of it all. He is not a real person, not one possible to class. He is false — naturally treacherous, and yet " She breaks off again very abruptly, and turns to Dysart as if for help. " Let us forget him," she says, and then in a little fright- ened way, " Oh, I wish I could be sure I could forge^ him ! " " Why can't you ? " says Dysart, in his downright way. " It means only a strong effort after all. If you feel honestly," with an earnest glance at her, " like that toward him, you must be mad to give him even a corner in your heart." " That is it," says she, " there the puzzle begins. I don't know if he ever has a corner in my heart. He attracts me, but attraction is not affection, and the heart holds only love and hatred. Indifference is nothing." '•You can get rid of him finally," says Dysart, boldly, " by giving yourself to me. That will kill all " AU he may be going to say is killed on his lips at this moment by two little wild shrieks of joy that sound right behind his head. Both he and Joyce turn abruptly in its direction — he with a sense of angry astonishment, she with a fell ki^iowledge of its meaning. , It is, indeed, no surprise to her when Tommy and Mabel appear suddenly from be- hind the rock just close to them, that hides the path in part, and precipitates themselves into her arms. '* We saw you, we saw you ! " gasps Tommy, breathless from his run up the hill ; " we saw you far away down there on the road, and we told Bridgie " (the maid) " that we'd run up, and she said * cut along,' so here we are." " You are, indeed," says Dysart, with fefeling. *' We knew you'd be glad to see us," goes on Tommy to Joyce in the beautiful roar he always adopts when ex- cited ; ** you haven't been home for Years, and Bridgie says that's because you are going to be married to " " Get up, Tommy, you are too heavy, and, besides, I want to kiss Mabel," says Tommy's aunt with prodigious haste and a hot cheek. " But mammy says you're a silly Billy," says Mabel in her shrill treble, " an' that " " Mammy is a shockingly rude person," says Mr. Dysart, hurrying to break into the dangerous confidence^ APRIL'S LADY, ««5 think so of it all. He is to Dysart Itle fright- |ld forget fght way. I you feel at toward r in your Jgins. I art. He he heart pg." , boldly, . Is at this ', ind right - tly in its she with surprise • !rom be- path in eathless y down ) " that ire." - rommy len ex- Bridgie » ides, I ligious y ibeli in no matter at what cost, even at the expense of the adored mammy. His remark is taken very badly. " She's not," says Tommy, glowering at him. " Father says she's an angel, and he knows. I heard him say it, and angels are never rude 1 " ■ " 'Twas after he made her cry about something," says Mabel, lifting her little flower-like face to Dysart's in a miniature imitation of her brother's indignation. "She was boo-booing like anything, and then father got sorry — oh ! — dreadful sorry — and he said she was an angel, and she said " " Oh, Mabel ! " says Joyce, weakly, ** you know you oughtn't to say such' 5 Mr. lence. " Well, 'twas your fault * 'twas all about you,' says Tomiay, defiantly. " Why don't you come home ? Father says you ought to come, and mammy says she doesn't know which of 'em it'll be ; and father says it won't be any of them, and — what's it all about ? " turning a frankly inquisitive little face up to hers. " They wouldn't tell us, and we want to know which of *em it will be." " Yes, an' is it jints ? " demands Mabel, who probably means giants, and not cold meats. " I don't know what she means," says Miss Kavanagh, coldly. " I say, you two," says Mr. Dysart, brilliantly, "wouldn't you like to run a race ? Bridget must be tired of waiting for you down there at the end of the hill, and " " She isn't waiting, she's talking to Mickey Daly," says Tommy. " Oh, I see. Well, look here. I bet you, Tommy, strong as you look, Mabel can outrun you down the hill." " She ! she ! " cries Tommy, indignantly ; " I could beat her in a minute." •* You can't," cries Mabel in turn. " Nurse says I'm twice the child that you are." " Your legs are as short as a pin," roars Tommy ; " you couldn't run." * " I can. I can. I can," says Mabel, on the verge of a violent flood of tears. " Well, we'll see," says Mr. Dysart, who now begins to. think he has thrown himself away on a silly Hussar regi- ment, when he ought to have taken rank as a distinguished diplomat. " Come, I'll start you both down the hilli and whichever reaches Bridget first wins the day.'* 116 APRIVS LADY, Instantly both children spring to the front of the path. " You're standing before mc, Tommy." " No, I'm not." ** You're cheating — you are 1 " •* Cheat yourself ! Mr. Dysart, ain't I all right ? " " I think you should give her a start ; she's the girl, you know," says Dysart. •' There now, go. That's very good. Five yards. Tommy, is a small allowance for a little thing like Mabel. Steady now, you two 1 One — Good gracious, they're off," says he, turning to Miss Kavanagh with a sigh of relief mingled with amusement. " They had no idea of waiting for more than one signal. I hope they will meet this Bridget, and get back to their mother." " They are not going to her just now. They are going on to the Court to spend the afternoon with Bertie," says Joyce ; " Barbara told me so last night. Dear things ! How sweet they looked ! " " They are the prettiest children I know," says Dysart — a little absent perhaps. He falls into silence for a moment or two, and then suddenly looks at her. He ad- vances a step. CHAPTER XIX. '* A continual battle goes on in a child's mind between what it knows and what it comprehends." «* Well ? " says he. He advances even nearer, and dropping on a stone close to her, takes possession of one of her hands. " As you can't make up your mind to him ; and, as you say, you like me, say something more." "More?" " Yes. A great deal more. Take the next move. Say — boldly — that you will marry me ! " * Joyce grows a little pale. She had certainly been pre- pared for this speech, had been preparing herself for it all the long weary wakeful night, yet now that she hears it, it seems as strange, as terrible, as though it had never sug- gested itself to her in its vaguest form. ' ^ T " Why should I say that ? " says she at last, stammering a little, and feeling somewhat disingenuous. She had APRIL'S LADY. 117 known, yet now she is trying to pretend that she did not know. " Because I ask you. You sec I put the poorest re;»son at first, and because you say I am not hatefial to you, and because " "Well?" " Because, when a man's last chance of happiness lies in the balance, he will throw his very soul into the weigh- ing of it — and knowing this, you may have pity on me." As though pressed down by some insupportable weight, the girl rises and makes a little curious gesture as if to free herself from it. Her face, still pale, betrays an inward ruggle. After all, why cannot she give herself to him ? ^hy can't she love him ? He loves her ; love, as some >oor fool says, begets love. And he is honest. Yes, honest ! A pang shoots through ler breast. Thai, when all is told, is the principal thing. |He is not uncertain — untrustworthy — double-faced, as some Jen are. Again that cruel pain contracts her heart. To [be able to believe in a person, to be able to trust implicitly (in each lightest word, to read the real meaning in every sentence, to see the truth shining in the clear eyes, this is ' to know peace and happiness ; and yet — " You know all," says she, looking up at him, her eyes compressed, her brow frowning ; " I am uncertain of my- self, nothing seems sure to me, but if you wish it " " Wish it 1 " clasping her hands closer. "There is this to be said, then. I will promise to answer you this day twelve-month." " Twelve months," says he, with consternation ; his grasp on her hands loosens. " If the prospect frightens or displeases you, there is nothing more to be said," rejoins she coldly. It is she who is calm and composed, he who is nervous and anxious. " But a whole year ! " " That is nothing," says she,, releasing her hands, with a little determined show of strength, from his. " It is for you to decide. I don't care ! " Perhaps she hardly grasps the cruelty that lies in this half-impatient speech, until she sees Dysart's face flush painfully. " You need not have said that," says he. " I know it. I am nothing to you really." He pauses, and then says again in a low tone, " Nothing." f? f'. - U'- S;,J liS APRIVS LADY. " Oh, you mustn't feel so much ! " cries she, as if tor* tured '* It is folly to feel at all in this world. What's the good of it. And to feel about me, I am not worth it. If you would only bear that in mind, it might help you." " If I bore that in mind I should not want to make you my wife ! " returns he steadily, gravely. ** Think as you will yourself, you do not shake my faith in you. Well,' with a deep breath, " I accept your terms. For a year I shall feel myself bound to you (though that is a farce, for I shall always be bound to you, soul and body) while you shall hold yourself free, and try to " " No, no. We must both be equal — both free, while I — " she stops short, coloring warmly, and laughing, ** what is it I am to try to do ? " " To love me ! " replies he, with infinite sadness in look and tone. " Yes," says Joyce slowly, and then again meditatively, "yes." She lifts her eyes presently and regards him strangely. " And if all my trying should not succeed ? If I never learn to love you ? " " Why, then it is all over. This hope of mine is at an end," says he, so calmly, yet with such deep melancholy, such sad foreboding, that her heart is touched. " Oh ! it is a hopa of mine too," says she quickly. ** If it were not would I listen to you to-day ? But you must not be so downhearted ; let the worst come to the worst, you will be as well off as you are at this instant." He shakes his head. " Does hope count for nothing, then ? " ** You would compel me to love you," says she, growing the more vexed as she grows the more sorry for him. " Would you have me marry you even if I did not love you ? " Her soft eyes have filled with tears, there is a suspicion of reproach in her voice. • . "No. I suppose not." He half turns away from her. At this moment a sense of despair falls on him. She will never care for him, never, never. This proposed probation is but a mournful farce, a sorry clinging to a hope that is built on sand. When in the future she marries, a3 so surely ^he will, he will not be her husband. Why not give in at once ? Why fight with the impossible? Why not break all links (frail as they are sweet), r^nd let her go her way, and he his, while yet there is time } To falter is to court destruction. fes she, as if tor- IS world. What's am not worth it] might help you.'j vant to make youl " Think as yoi in you. WeII,"| |iis. For a year ij lat is a farce, for] body) while you )oth free, while I laughing, *' what s sadness in look ain meditatively, •nd regards him not succeed ? If of mine is at an leep melancholy, ched. ^ he quickly. '< if ^ut you must "le to the worst, stant." ys she, growing sorry for him. i did not love -ars, there is a loment a sense for him, never, :>urnfulfarce,a nd. When in he will not be ^hy fight with ail as they are bile yet there APRWS LADY. 119 Then all at once a passionate reaction sets in. Joyce, )king at him, sees the light of battle, the warmth of love le unconquerable, spring into his eyes. No, he will not ive in ! He will resist to the last ! dispute every inch of le ground) and if finally only defeat is to crown his efforts ill And why should defeat be his ? Be it Beauclerk fr another, whoever declares himself his rival shall find lim a formidable enemy to overcome. *' Joyce," says he quickly, turning to her and grasping ;r hands, " give me my chance. Give me those twelve lonths ; give me your thoughts now and then while they ist. I brought you here to-day to say all this know- ig we should be alone, and without- »> <{ Tommy? " says she, with a little laugh. ' " Oh, well ! You muot confess I got rid of him," says he, [smiling too, and glad in his heart to find her so cheerful. ]** I think if you look into it, that my stratagem, the inciting ihim to the overcoming of his sister in that race, was [the work of a diplomatist of the first water. I quite felt [that " A war whoop behind him dissolves his self-gratulations into nothing. Here comes Tommy the valiant, trium- phant, puffed beyond all description with pride and want of breath. *' I beat her, I beat her," shrieks he, with the last note left in his tuneful pipe. He staggers the last yard or two and falls into Joyce's arms, that are opened wide to receive him. Who shall say he is not a happy interlude ? Evidently Joyce regards him as such. " I came back to tell you," says Tommy, recovering himself a little. " I knew," with the fearless confidence of childhood, " that you'd be longing to know if I beat her, and I did. She's down there now with Bridgie," point- ing to the valley beneath, " and she's mad with me because I didn't let her win." " You ought to go back to her," says Dysart, " she'll be madder if you ddn't." - y " She won't She's picking daisies now." " But Bridget will want you." " No," shaking his lovely little head. " Bridgie said : * ye may go, sir, an* ye needn't be in a hurry back, me an' Mickey Daily have a lot to say about me mother's daugh- then' " I30 APRWS LADY. W It would be impossible to describe the accuracy with which Tommy describes Bridget's tone anc' manner, " Oh ! I daresay," says Mr. Dysart. " Me mother's daughter must be a truly enthralling person." " I think Tommy ought to be educated for the stage," says Joyce in a little whisper. " He'll certainly make his mark wherever he goes," says Dysart, laughing. " Tommy," after a careful examination of Monkton, Junior's, seraphic countenance, " don't you think you ought to take your sister on to the Court ? " " So I will," says Tommy, " in a minute or two." He has climbed into Joyce's lap, and is now sitting on her with his arms round her neck. To make love to a young woman and to induce her to marry you with a barnacle of this sort hanging round her suggests diffi^-^lties. Mr. Dysart waits. " All things come to those who wait," says a wily old proverb. But Dysart proves this proverb a swindle. ** Now, Tommy," says he. " the two minutes are up." " I don't care," says Tommy. " I'm tired, and Bridgie said I needn't hurry." " The charms of Mr. Mickey Daly are no doubt great," says Dysart, mildly, "yet I think Bridget must by this time be aware that she wasn't sent out by your mother to tattle to him, but to take you and your sister to play with Bertie. Here, Tommy," decisively, " get off your aunt's lap and run away." ** But why ? " demands Tommy, aggressively. " What harm am I doing ? " " You are tiring your aunt, for one thing." " " I'm not 1 She likes to have me here," defiantly. ** I ride a * cock horse ' every night when she's at home, don't I, Joyce ? I wish you'd go away," wrathfully, " because then Joyce would come home and play with us again. *Tisyou," glaring at him with deep-seated anger in his eyes, " who are keeping her here ! " " Oh, no ; you are wrong there," says Dysart with a sad smile. ** I could not keep her anywhere, she would not stay with me. But really, Tommy, you know you ought to go on to the Court. Poor little Bertie is looking out for you eagerly. See," plunging his hand into his pocket, " here is half a crown for you to spend on lollipops. I'll give it to you if you'll go back to Bridget." APRIL'S LADY. 121 Tommy's eyes brighten. But as quickly the charming blue in them darkens again. There is no tuck shop be- tween this and the Court. " 'Tisn't any good," says he mournfully, " the shop's away down there," pointing vaguely backward on the journey he has come. " You look strong in wind and limb ; there is no reason to believe that the morrow's sun may not dawn on you," says Mr. Dysart. *' And then think, Tommy, think what a joy you will be to old Molly Brien." " Molly gives me four bull's-eyes for a penny," says Tommy reflectively. " That's two to Mabel and two to me, because mammy says baby mustn't have any for fear she'd choke. If there's four for a penny, how many is there for this ? " holding out the half crown that lies upon his little brown shapely palm. " That's a sum," says Mr. Dysart. ** Tommy, you're a cruel boy ; " and having struggled with it for a moment, he says " one hundred and twenty." " No ! " says Tommy in a voice faint with hopeful un- belief " Joyce, 'tisn't true, is it ? " " Quite true," says Joyce. " Just fancy, Tommy, one hundred and twenty bull's-eyes, all in one day ! " There is such a genuine support of his desire to get rid of Tommy in her tone that Dysart's heart rises within him. "Tie it into my hankercher/' says Tommy, without another second's hesitation. ** Tie it tight, or it'll slip out and I'll lose it. Good-bye, and thank you, Mr. Dysart," thrusting a hot little fist into his. " I'll keep some of the hundred and twenty ones for you and Joyce." He rushes away down the hill, eager to tell his grand news to Mabel, and presently Joyce and Dysart are alone again. > • .; . ^ ** You see you were not so clever a' diplomatist as you thought yourself," says Joyce, smiling faintly ; " Tommy came back." ** Tommy and I have one desire in common ; we both want to be with you." " Could you be bought off like Tommy ? " says she, half playfully. ** Oh, no ! Half-a crown would not be good enough." "Would all the riches the world contains be good enough ? " says he in a voice very low, but full of emotion. 133 APRIL'S LADY, ** You know it would not. But you, Joyce — twelve months is a long time. You may see others — if not Beauclerk — others — and " *' Money would not tempt me," says the girl slowly. " If money were your rival, you would indeed be safe. You ought to know that.". " Still— Joyce—" He stops suddenly. " May I thinki of you as Joyce ? I have called you so once or twice,! but " I " You may always call me so," says she gently, if indif- ferently. *' All my friends call me so, and you — are my friend, surely ! " The very sweetness of her manner, cold as ice as it is, drives him to desperation. " Not your friend — your lover ! " says he with sudden passion. " Joyce, think of all that I have said — all you have promised. A small matter to you perhaps — the whole world to me. You will wait for me for twelve months. You will try to love me. You — ' — " " Yes, but there is lomething more to be said," cries the girl, springing to her feet as if in violent protest, and confronting him with a curious look — set — determined- little frightened perhaps. CHAPTER XX. " * I thought love had been a joyous thing,' quoth my uncle Toby." " He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper: For what his heart thinks his tongue speaks." " More ? " says Dysart startled by her expression, and puzzled as well. " Yes ! " hurriedly. " This ! " The very nervousness that is consuming her throws fire into her eyes and speech. ** During all these long twelve months I shall be free. Quite free. You forgot to put that in I You must remem- ber that ! If — if I should, after all this thinking, decide on not having anything to do with you — you," vehemently, ** will have no right to reproach me. Remember," says she going up to him and laying her hand upon his arm, APRWS LADY, las expression, and lile the blood receding from her face leaves her very lite ; *' remember should such a thing occur — and it is likely," slowly, " I warn you of that — you are not to I'sider yourself wronged or aggrieved in any way," F Why should you talk to me in this way ? " begins he, jrieved now at all events. f* You must recollect," feverishly, " that I have made no promise. Not one. I refuse even to look upon IS matter as a serious thing. I tell you honestly," her rk eyes gleaming with nervous excitement, " I don't ^eve I ever shall so look at it. After all," pausing, rou will do well if you now put an end to this farce be- feen us ; and tell me to take myself and my dull life out of mrs forever." " I shall never tell you that," in a ley tone. "■ Well, well," impatiently ; " I have warned you. It will |ot be my fault if O ! it is foolish of you ! " she blurts out iddenly. " I have told you I don't understand myself : [nd still you, waste yourself — you throw yourself away. In le end you will be disappointed in me, if not in one way, len in another. It hurts me to think of that. There is Kme still ; let us be friends — friends " Her hands are lightly clasped, she looks at him with a world of entreaty m her beautiful eyes. " Friends, Felix ! " breathes she softly. Let things rest as they are, I beseech you," says he, iking her hand and holding it in a tight grasp. " The iture — who can ever say what that great void will bring I will trust to it ; and if only loss and sorrow be my )rtion, still As for friendship, Joyce ; whatever hap- ;ns I shall be your friend and lover." " Well — you quite know," says the girl, almost sul- lenly. " Quite. And I accept the risk. Do not be angry with ^ le, my beloved." He lifts the hand he holds and presses it to his lips, wondering always at the coldness of it. ** You lare free, Joyce ; you desire it so, and I desire it, too. I pould not hamper you in any way." " I should not be able to endure it, if— afterward — I thought you were reproaching me," says she, with a little weary smile. " Be happy about that," says he : "I shall never re- proach you." He is silent for a moment; her last speech I I 134 APRWS LADY, has filled him with thoughts that presently grow into extremely happy ones : unless — unless she liked him — cared for him, in some decided, if vague manner, would his future misery be of so much importance to her ? Oh ! surely not 1 A small flood of joy flovs over him. A radiant smile parts his lips. The light of a coming triumph that shall gird and glorify his whole life illumines his eyes. She regarding him grows suddenly uneasy. " You — you fully understand," says she, drawing back from him. " Oh, you have made me do that," says he, but his radiant smile still lingers. ** Then why," mistrustfully, " do you look so happy ? " She draws even further away from him. It is plain she resents that happiness. " Is there not reason ? " says he. " Have you not let me speak, and having spoken, do you not still let me linger near you? It is more than I dared hope for ! Therefore, poor as as is my chance, I rejoice now. Do not forbid me. I may have no reason to rejoice in the future. Let me, then, have my day." " It grows very late," says Miss Kav^nagh abruptly. ** Let us go home." Silently they turn and descend the hill. Halfway down < he pauses and looks backward. " Whatever comes of it," says he, " I shall always love this spot. Though, if the year's end leave me desolate, I hope I shall never see it again." " It is unlucky to rejoice too soon," says she, in a low whisper. " Oh ! don't say that word * Rejoice.' How it reminds me of you. It ought to belong to you. It does. You should have been called * Rejoice ' instead of * Joyce ' ; they have cut off half your name. To see you is to feel new life within one's veins." " Ah ! I said you didn't know me," returns she sadly. Meantime the hours have flown ; evening is descending. It is all very well for those who> traveling up and down romantic hills, can find engrossing matters for conversation in their idle imaginings of love, or their earnest belief :.^„: APRIVS LADY. "5 ^s she, in a low therein, but to the ordinary ones of the earth, mundane comforts are still of some worth. Tea, the all powerful, is now holding high revelry in the library at the Court. Round the cosy tables, growing genial beneath the steam of the many old Queen Anne ** pots," the guests are sitting singly or in groups. ** What delicious little cakes ! " says Lady Swansdown, taking up a smoking morsel of cooked butter and flour from the glowing tripod beside her. " You like them ? " says Lady Baltimore in her slow, earnest way. " So docs Joyce. She thinks they are the nicest cakes in the world. By the by, where is Joyce ? " " She went out for a walk at twenty minutes after two," says Beauclerk. He has pulled out his watch and is steadily consulting it. -- " And it is now twenty minutes after five," says Lady Swansdown, maliciously, who detests Beauclerk and who has read his relations with Joyce as clear as a book. ** How she must have enjoyed herself ! " " Yes ; but where ? " says Lady Baltimore anxiously. Joyce has been left in her charge, and, apart from that, she likes the girl well enough to be uneasy about her when occasion arises. " With whom would be a more appropriate question," says Dicky Browne, who, as usual, is just where he ought not to be. " Oh, I know where she is," cries a little, shrill voice from the background. It comes from Tommy, and from that part of the room where Tommy and Mabel and little Bertie are having a game behind the window curtains. Blocks, dolls, kitchens, farm yards, ninepins — all have been given to them as a means of keeping them quiet. One thing only has been forgotten : the fact that the human voice divine is more attractive to them, more replete with delightful mystery, fuller of enthralling possibilities than all the toys that ever yet were made. " Thomas, are you fully alive to the responsibilities to which you pledge yourself?" demands Mr. Browne severely. " What ? " says Tommy. " Do you pledge yourself to declare where Miss Kav- anagh is now ? " " Is it Joyce ? " says Tommy, coming forward and stand- lad APRWS LADY. ing undaunted in his knickerbockers and an immaculate collar that defies suspicion. ** Yes — Joyce," says Mr. Browne, who never can hold his tongue. "Well, I know." Tommy pauses, and an unearthly silence falls on the assembled company. Half the county is present, and as Tommy, in the character of recon*eury is widely known and deservedly dreaded, expectation spreads itself among his audience. Lady Baltimore moves uneasily, and for once Dicky Browne feels as if he should like to sink into his boot. " She's up on the top of the hill with Mr. Dysart," says Tommy, and no more. Lady Baltimore sighs with relief, and Mr. Browne feels now as if he should like to give Tommy something. " How do you know ? " asks Beauclerk, as though he finds it impossible to repress the question. " Because I saw her there," says Tommy. " when Mabel and me was coming here. I like Mr. Dysart, don't you ? " addressing Beauclerk specially. " He is a very kind sort of man. He gave me half a crown." ** For what, Tommy ? " asks Baltimore, idly, to whom Tommy is an unfp.iling joy. " To go away and leave him alone with Joyce," says Tommy, with awful distinctness. Tableau! Lady Baltimore lets her spoon fall into her saucer, making a little quick clatter. Everybody tries to think of something to say ; nobody succeeds. Mr. Browne, who is evidently choking, is mercifully de- livered by beneficent nature from a sudden death. He gives way to a loud and sonorous sneeze. " Oh, Dicky ! How funny you do sneeze," says Lady Swansdown. It is a safety valve. Everybody at once ' affects to agree with her, and universal laughter makes the room ring. \ " Tommy, I tnink it is time for you and Mabel to go home," says Lady Baltimore. " I promised your mother to send you back early. Give her my love, and tell her I am so sorry she couldn't come to me to-day, but I suppose last night's fatigue was too much for her." *' Twasn't that," says Tommy ; " 'twas because cook »i APRIL'S LADY, 127 " Yes, yes ; of course. I know," says Lady Baltimore, hurriedly, afraid of further revelations. " Now, say good- bye, and, Bertie, you can go as far as the first gate with them." The children make their adieus. Tommy reserving Dicky Browne for a last fond embrace. " Good-bye, old man ! So-long ! " " What's that ? " says Tommy, appealing to Beauclerk for information. " What's what ? " says Beauclerk, who isn't in his usual amiable mood. ' " What's the meaning of that thing Dicky said to me ? " ** * So-long ? ' Oh that's Browne's charming way of say- ing good-bye." " Oh ! " says Tommy, thoughtfully. He runs it through his busy brain, and brings it out at the other end satis- factorily translated. ** I know," says he; " Go long I That's what he meant ! But I think," indignantly, "he needn't be rude, anyway." The children have hardly gone when Joyce and Dysart enter the room. " I hope I'm not dreadfully late," cries Joyce, carelessly, taking off her cap, and giving her head a little light shake, as if to make her pretty soft hair fall into its usual charm- ing order. " I have no idea what the time is." " Broken your watch, Dysart ? " says Beauclerk, in a rather nasty tone. " Come and sit here, dearest, and have your tea," says Lady Baltimore, making room on the lounge beside her for Joyce, who has grown a little red. " It is so warm here," says she, nervously, that one re- mark of Beauclerk's having, somehow, disconcerted her. " If— if I might " " No, no ; you mustn't go upstairs for a little while," says Lady Baltimore, with kindly decision. " But you may go into the conservatory if you like," pointing to an open door off the library, that leads into a bower of sweets. " It is cooler there." ** Far cooler," says Beauclerk, who has followed Joyce with a sort of determination in his genial air. " Let me take you there, Miss Kavanagh." It is impossible to refuse. Joyce, coldly, almost disdain- .\ ia8 APRIL'S LADY, fully, and with her head held higher than usual, skirts the groups that line the walls on the western side of the room and disappears with him into the conservatory. I # % CHAPTER XXI. " Who dares think one thing and another tell, My heart detests him as the gates of hell." "A LITTLE foolish going for that walk, wasn't it?*' says he, leading her to a low cushioned chair over which a gay magnolia bends its white blossoms. His manner is inno- cence itself; ignorance itself would perhaps better express it. He has decided on ignoring everything ; though a shrewd guess that she saw something of his passages with Miss Maliphant last night has now become almost a cer- tainty. " I thought you seemed rather played out last night — fatigued — done to death. I assure you I noticed it. I could hardly," with deep and affectionate concern, " fail to notice anything that affected you." " You are very good ! " says Miss Kavanagh icily. Mr. Beauclerk lets a full minute go by, and then " What have I done to merit that tone from you ? " asks he, not angrily, only sorrowfully. He has turned his handsome face full on hers, and is regardi: g her with proud, reproachful eyes. " It is idle to deny," says he, with some emotion, half of which, to do him justice, is real, " that you are changed to me ; something has happened to alter the feelings of — of — friendship — that I dared to hope you entertained for me. I had hoped still more, Joyce — but What has happened ?" demands he sud- denly, with all the righteous strength of one who, free from guilt, resents accusation of it. " Have I accused you ? " says she, coldly. " Yes, a thousand times, yes. Do you think your voice alone can condemn ? Your eyes are even crueller judges." " Well I am sorry," says she, faintly smiling. " My eyes must be deceivers then. I bear you no malice, be- lieve me." " So be it," says he, with an assumption of relief that is very nvell done. " After all, I have worried myself, I dare- >:■•':, APRIL'S LADY, 129 ts the room *' says 1 a gay s inno- xpress >ugh a ;s with : a cer- ut last loticed )ncern, Mr. " asks ed his r with lys he, is real, )pened tred to more, le sud- \t from |r voice idges." "My [ce, be- I that is I dare- say, very unnecessarily. Let us talk of f;omething else, Miss Maliphant, for example," with a p;lance at her, and a pleasant smile. " Nice girl eh ? I miss her." " She went early this morning, did she ? " says Joyce, scarcely knowing what to say. Her lips feel a little dry ; an agonized certainty that she is slowly growing crimson beneath his steady gaze brings the tears to her eyes. " Too early. I quite hoped to be up to see her off, but sleep had made its own of me and I failed to wake. Such a good, genuine girl ! Universal favorite, don't you think ? Very honest, and very," breaking into an apparently irre- pressible laugh, " ugly ! Ah ! well now," with smiling self condemnation, " that's really a little too bad ; isn't it ? " " A great deal too bad," says Joyce, gravely. " I shouldn't speak of her if I were you." " But why, my dear girl ? " with arched brows and a little gesture of his handsome hands. " I allow her every- thing but beauty, and surely it would be hypocrisy to mention that in the same breatfi with her." "It isn't fair — it isn't sincere," says the. girl almost passionately. " Do you think I am ignorant of everything, that I did not see you with her last night in the garden ^ Oh ! " with a touch of scorn that is yet full of pain, "you should not. You should not, indeed ! " In an instant he grows confused. Something in the lovely horror of her eyes undoes him. Only for an instant — after that he turns the momentary confusion to good account. " Ah 1 you did see her, then, poor girl ! " says he. " Well, I'm sorry about that for her sake." " Why for her sake ? "still regarding him with that charm- ing disdain. " For your own, perhaps, but why for hers ? " Beauclerk pauses: then rising suddenly, stands before her. Grief and gentle indignation sit upon his massive brow. He looks the very incarnation of injured rectitude. " Do you know, Joyce, you have always been ready to condemn, to misjudge me," says he in a low, hurt tone. " I have often noticed it, yet have failed to understand why it is. I was right, you see, when I told myself last night and this morning that you were harboring unkindly thoughts toward me. You have not been open vith me, you have been willfully secretive, and, believe roe, that is a mistake. Can- dor, complete and perfect, is. the only great virtue that will 9 ty) APRWS LADY, I Steer one clear through all the shoals and rocks of life. Be honest, above board, and, I can assure you, you will never regret it. You accused me just now of insincerity. Have you been sincere ? " There is a dead pause. He allows it to last long enough to make it dramatic, and to convince himself he has im- pressed her, and then, with a very perceptible increase o. dignified pain in his voice, he eoes on. " I feel I ought not to explam under the circumstances, but as it is to you " — heavy emphasis, and a second affected silence. " You have heard, perhaps, of Miss Maliphant's cousin in India ? " " No," says Joyce, after racking her brain in vain for some memory of the cousin question. And, indeed, it would have been nothing short of a miracle if she could have remembered anything about that apocryphal person. ** You will understand that i speak to you in the strictest confidence," says Beauclerk, earnestly : " I wouldn's for anything you could offer me, that it should get back to that poor girl's ears that I had been discussmg her and the most sacred feelings of her he^rt. Well, there is a cousin, and she — you may have no deed that she and I were great friends ? " "Yes," says Joyce, whose heart is beating now to suffo- cation. Oh ! has she wronged him ? Does she still wrong him? Is this vile, suspicious feeling within her one to be encouraged? Is all this story of his, this simple explana^ tion — false — false ? '* I was, indeed, a sort of confidant of hers. Poor dear girl ! it was a relief to her to talk to somebody." "There were others." _ " But none here who knew him." '-'■ You knew him then? Is his name Maliphant, too?'* asks Joyce, ashamed of her cross-examination, yet driven to it by some power beyond her control. " You mustn't ask me that," says Beauclerk playfully. " There are some things I must keep even from you. Though you see I go very far to satisfy your unjust sus- picions of me. You can, however, guess a good deal ; you — saw her crying ? " " She was not crying," says Joyce slowly, a little puzzled. Miss Maliphant had seemed at the moment in questioq well pleased. APRIL'S LADY, tfl " No ! Not when you saw her? Ah I that must have been later then," with a sigh, " you sec now I am betraying more than I should. However, I can depend upon your silence. It will be a small secret between you and me." " And Miss Maliphani," says Joyce, coldly. ** As for me, what is the secret ? " " You haven't understood ? Not really ? Well, between you and me and the wall,'' with delightful gaiety, ** I think she gives a thought or two to that cousin. I fancy," whis- pering, " she is even in — eh ? you know." " I don't," says Joyce slowly, who is now longing to believe in him, and yet is held steadily backward by some strong feeling. " I believe she is in love with him," says Beau^lcrk, still in a mysterious whisi)er. " But it is a sore subject," with an expressive frown. " Not best pleased when it is mentioned lo her. Mauvais sujet, you understand. But girls are ofccn foolish in that way. Better say nothing about it." " I shall say nothing, of course," says Joyce. **Why should I ? It is nothing to me, though I am sorry for her. Yet as she says this, a doubt arises in her mind as to whether she need be sorry. Is there a cousin in India? Could that big, jolly, lively girl, who had come into the conservatory with Beauclerk last night, with the light of triumph in her eyes, be the victim of an unhappy love affair? Should .she write and ask her if there is a cousin in India ? Oh, no, no I She could not do that I How horrible, how hateful to distrust him like tnis I What a detestable mind must be hers. And besides, why dwell so much upon it. Why not accept him as a pleasing acquaint- ance. One with whom to pass a pleasant hour now and then. Why ever again regard him as a possible lover I A little shudder runs through her. At this moment it seems to her that she could never really have so regarded him. And yet only last night And now. What is it? Does she still doubt? Will that strange, curious, tormenting feeling that once she felt for him return no more. Is it gone forever ? Oh 1 that it might be so J . APRWS LADY, CHAPTER XXII. " So over violent, or over civil \ ** - "A man so various.*' " Dull looking day," says Dicky Browne, looking up from his broiled kidney to glare indignantly through the window at the gray sky. It can't be always May," says Beauclerk cheerfully, whose point it is to take ever a lenient view of things. Even to heaven itself he is kind, and holds out a helping hand. " I expect it is we ourselves who are dull," says Lady Baltimore, looking round the breakfast table, where now many vacant seats make the edges bare. Yesterday morn- ing Miss Maliphant left. To-day the Clontarfs, and one or two strange men from the barracks in the next town. Desertion indeed seems to be the order of the day. ** We grow very small," says she. '* How I miss people when they go away." Do you mean that as a liberal bribe for the getting rid of the rest of us," says Dicky, who is now devoting him- self to the hot scones. " If so, let me tell you it isn't good enough. I shall stay here until you choose to cross the channel. I don't want to be missed." '* That will be next week," says Lady Baltimore. " I do beseech all here present not to forsake me until then." " I must deny your prayer," says Lady Swansdown. ** These tiresome lawyers of mine say they must see me on Thursday at the latest." '* I shall meet you in town at Christmas, however," says Lady Baltimore, making the remark a question. " I hardly think so. I have promised the Barings to join them in Italy about then." Well, here then in February." Lady Swansdown smiles at her hostess, but makes no audible reply. APRIL'S LADY. m " I suppose we ought to do something to-day," says Lady Baltimore presently, in a listless tone. It is plain to every- body, however, that in reality she wants to do nothing. '* Suggest something, Dicky." " Skittles," says that youth, without hesitation. Very properly, however, no one takes any notice of him. " I was thinking that if we went to ' Connor's Cross,' it would be a nice drive," says Lady Baltimore, still strug- gling with her duties as a hostess. *' What do you say, Beatrice ? " " I pray you excuse me," says Lady Swansdown. '* As I leave to-morrow, I must give the afternoon to the answer- ing of several letters, and to other things besides." " Connor's* Cross," says Joyce, idly. " I've so often heard of it. Yet, oddly enough, I have never seen it ; it is always the way, isn't it, whenever one lives very close to some celebrated spot." " Celebrated or not, it is at least lovely," says Lady Baltimore. ** You really ought to see it." " I'll drive you there this afternoon. Miss Kavanagh," says Beauclerk, in his friendly way, that in public has never a tincture of tenderness about it. '' We might start after luncheon. It is only about ten miles off. Eh ? " to Baltimore. ** ten," briefly. " I am right then," equably ; " we might easily do it in a little over an hour." " Hour and a half with best horse in the stables. Bad roafd," says Baltimore. " Even so we shall get there and back in excellent time,'* says Beauclerk, deaf to his brother-in-law's gruffness. " Will you come. Miss Kavanagh ? " " I should like it," says Joyce, in a hesitating sort of way ; ** but " " Then why not go, dear ? " says Lady Baltimore kindly. "The Morroghs of Creaghstown live not half a mile from it, and they will give you tea if you feel tired ; Norman is a very good whip, and will be sure to have you back here in proper time." Dysart lifting his head looks full at Joyce. " At that rate " says she, smiling at Beauclerk. " It is settled then," says Beauclerk pleasantly. " Thank yon ever so much for helping me to get rid of iny after- noon in so delightful a fashion.". m APRWS LADY, " It is going to rain. It will be a wet evening,'* says Dyfjart abruptly. *• Oh, my dear fellow I You can hardly be called a weather prophet," says Beauclerk banteringly. "You ought to know that a settled gray sky like that seldom means rain.'* No more is said about it then, and no mention is made of it at luncheon. At half-past two precisely, however, a dog cart comes round to the hall door. Joyce running lightly down stairs, habited for a drive, meets Dysart at the foot of the staircase. " Do not go," says he abruptly. " Not go — now," with a glance at her costume. " I didn't believe you would go," says he vehemently. " I didn't believe it possible — or I shouM have spoken sooner. Nevertheless, at this last moment, I entreat you to give it up." " Impossible," says she curtly, annoyed by his tone, which is perhaps, unconsciously, a little dictatorial. " You refuse me ? " " It is not the question. I have said I would go. I see no reason for not going. I decline to make myself foolish in the eyes of everybody by drawing back at the last moment." « " You have forgotten everything then." " I don't know," coldly, " that there is anything to remember." " Oh 1 " bitterly, " not so far as I am concerned. I count for nothing. I allow that. But he — I fancied you had at least read him." " I think, perhaps, there was nothing 'o read," says she, lowering her eyes. " If you can think that, it is useless my aa^'ing anything further." He moves to one side as if to let her pass, but she hesi- tates. Perhaps she would have said something to soften her decision — but — a rare thing with him, he loses his temper. Seeing her standing there before him, so sweet, so lovely, so indifferent, as he tells himself, his despair overcomes him. "I have a voice in this matter," says he, frowning heavily. " I forbid you to go with that fellow." A sharp change crosses Miss Kavanagh's face. All the sudden softness dies out of it. She stoops leisurely, and APRIL'S LADY, «3S disengaging the end of the black lace round her throat from an envious banister that would have detained her, without further glance or word for Dysart, she goes up the hall and through the open doorway. Beauclerk, who has been waiting for her outside, comes forward A little spring seats her in the cart. Beauclerk jumps in beside her. Another moment sees them out of sight. The vagrant sun, that all day long had been coming and going in fitful fashion, has suddenly sunk behind the thunderous gray cloud that, rising from the sea, now spreads itself o'er hill and vale. The light has died out of the sky ; dull muttering sounds come rumbling down from the distant mountains. The vast expanse of barren bog upon the left has become almost obscure. Here and there a glint of its watery wastes may be seen, but indistinctly, giving the eye a mournful impression of *' lands forlorn." A strange hot quiet seems to have fallen upon the trembling earth. ** We often see, against some storm, A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, The bold wind speechless, and the orb below Is hushed as death." Just now that " boding silence reigns." A sense of fear falls on Joyce, she scarcely knows why, as her companion, with a quick lash of the whip, urges the horse up the steep hill. They are still several miles from their destination, and, though it is only four o'clock, it is no longer day. The heavens are black as ink, the trees are shivering in expectant nnisery. "What'is it?" says Joyce, and even as she asks the question it is answered. The storm is upon them in all its fury. All at once, without an instant's warning, a violent downpour of rain comes from the bursting clouds, threat- ening to deluge them. " We are in for it," says Beauclerk in a sharp, short tone, so unlike his usual dulcet accents that even now, in her sudden discomfort, it startles her. The rain is de- scending in torrents, a wild wind has arisen. The light has faded, and now the day resembles nothing so much as the dull beginning of a winter's night. F' 1^6 APRIVS LADY. " Have you any idea where we are ? " asks Beauclb/le presently. '' None. You know I told you I had never been here before. But you — you must have some knowledge of it." " How should I ? These detestable Irish isolations are as yet unknown paths to me." " But I thought you said — you gave me the impression that you knew Connor's Cross." " I regret it if I did," shortly. The rain is running down his neck by this time, leaving a cold, drenched collar to add zest to his rising ill temper. " I had heard of Connor's Cross. I never saw it. I devoutly hope," with a snarl, " I never shall." " I don't think you are likely to," says Joyce, whose own temper is beginning to be ruffled. " Well, this is a sell, " says Beauclerk. He is buttoning up a heavy ulster round his handsome form. He is very particular about the fastening of the last button — that one that goes under the chin — and aving satisfactorily accom- plished it, and found, by a careful moving backward and forward of his head, that it is comfortably adjusted, it occurs to him to see if his companion is weather-proof. *' Got wraps enough ? " asks he. " No, by Jove ! Here, put on this," dragging a war'n cloak of her own from under the seat and offering it to her with all the air of one making a gift. ''What is it? Coat — cloak — ulster? One never knows what women's clothes are meant for." " To cover them,'' says Joyce calmly. " Well, put it on. By Jove, how it pours I All right now ? "having carelessly flung it round her, without regard for where her arms ought to go through the sleeves. " Think you can manage the rest by yourself? So beastly difficult to do anything in a storm like this, with this brute tugging at the reins and the rain running up one's sleeve." " I can manage it very well myself, thank you,'* says Joyce, giving up the finding of the sleeves as a bad job ; after a futile effort to discover their whereabouts she buttons the cloak across her chest and sits beside him, silent but shivering. A little swift, wandering thought of Dysart makes her feel even colder. If he had been there I Would she be thus roughly entreated? Nay, rather would she not have been a mark for tenderest care, a precious ->,'.A. APRWS LADY. »37 A thing beloved and charge entrusted to his keeping, therefore to be cherished. ** Look there," says she, suddenly lifting her head and right. ** Surely, even through this Is it a village?" should say," grimly. " A hamlet ungraciously, " suggest our seeking pointing a little to the denseness, I see lights. '< Yes — a village, I rather. Would you, shelter there ? " " I think it must be the village called ' Falling,' " says she, loo pleased at her discovery to care about his gruff- ness, " and if so, the owner of the inn there was an old servant of my father's. She often comes over to see Bar- bara and the children, and though I have never come here to see her, I know she lives somewhere in this part of the world. A good creature she is. The kindest of women." " An inn," says Beauclerk, deaf to the virtues of the old servant, the innkeeper, but altogether alive to the fact that she kejps an inn. "What a blessed oasis in our wilder- ness ! And it can't be more than half a mile away. Why," recovering his usual delightful manner, "we shall find our- selves housed in no time. I do hope, my dear girl, you are comfoi table ! Wrapped up to the chin, eh ? Quite right — qyite right. After all, the poor driver has the worst of it. He must face the elements, whatever hap- pens. Now you, with your dear little chin so cosily hidden from the wind and rain, and with hardly a sus- picion of the blast I am fighting, make a charming picture — really charming ! Ah, you girls ! you have the best of it beyond doubt ! And why not ? — weak woman and strong man ! quisite lines " "Can't that horse go faster?" breaking in on this little speech manner. " Lapped in luxury, as It is the law of nature You know those ex- said Miss Kavanagh, in a rather ruthless you evidently believe me, I still assure you I should gladly exchange my present condition for a good wholesome kitchen fire." " Always practical. Your charm — one of them," says Mr. Beauclerk. But he takes the hint, nevertheless, and presently they draw up before a small, dingy place of shelter. Not a man is to be seen. The village, a collection of fifty houses, when all is told, is swept and garnished. A few geese are stalking up the street, uttering creaking i t38 APRWS LADY, noises. Soi-^e ducks are swimming in a glad astonishment down the muddy streams running by the edges of the curbstones. Such a delicious wealth of filthy water has not been seen in Falling for the past three dry months. "The deserted village with a vengeance," says BeAu- clerk. He has risen in his seat and placed his whip in the stand with a view of descending and arousing the inhabitants of this Sleepy Hollow, when a shock head is thrust out of the inn (*' hotel," ramer, as is painted on a huge sign over the door) and being instantly withdrawn again with a muttered ** Och-a-yea," is followed by a shriek for : " Mrs. Connolly — Mrs. Connolly, ma'am ! Sure, 'tis yourself that's wanted ! Come down, I tell ye ! There's ginthry at the door, an' the rain peltin' on em like the divil. Come down, I'm tellin' ye ! Or fegs they'll go on to Paddy Sheehan's, an' thin where'll ye be ? Och, murdher ! Where are ye, at all, at all ? Tis ruined ye'll be intirely wid the stayin' of ye I " " Arrah, hould yer whisht, y'omadhaun o' the world," says another voice, and in ?. second a big, buxom, jolly, hearty-looking woman appears on the threshold, peering a little suspiciously through the gathering gloom at the dog cart outside. First she catches sight of the crest and coronet, and a gleam of pleased intelligence brightens her face. Then, lifting her eyes, she meets those of Joyce, and the sudden pleasure gives way to actual and honest joy. . ** It is Mrs. Connolly," says Joyce, in a voice that is supposed to accompany a smile, but has in reality some- thing of tears in it. Mrs. Connolly, regardless of the pelting rain and her best cap, takes a step forward. ■•»'**^ - .f Mt ,*?>'. ) ■^^:, '-\ AFRIVS LADY. «3f S' . CHAPTER XXIII. "All is not golde that outward shewith bright." " I love everything that's old — old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine." " An' is it you, Miss Joyce ? Glory be ! What a day to be out ! 'Tis drenched y'are, intirely ! Oh ! come in, me dear — come in, me darlin' ! Here, Mikey, Paddy, Jerry I — come here, ivery mother's son o' ye, an' take Mr. Beau- clerk's horse from him. Oh I by the laws 1 — but y'are soaked ! Arrah, what misfortune dhrove y'out to-day, of all days, Miss Joyce ? Was there niver a man to tell ye that 'twould be a peltin' storm before nightfall ? " There had been one. How earnestly Miss Kavanagh now wishes she had listened to his warning. " It looked so fine two hours ago," says she, clamberinj^' down from the dog cart with such misguided help from the ardent Mrs. Connolly as almost lands her with the ducks in the muddy stream below. ** Och ! there's no more depindince to be placed upon the weather than there is upon a man. Ho\irever, 'tis welcome y'are, any way. Your father's daughter is dear to me — ^yes, come this way — up these stairs. 'Tis Anne Connolly is proud to be enthertainin' one o' yer blood inside her door." " Oh ! I'm so glad I found you," says Joyce, turning when she has reached Mrs. Connolly's bedroom to im- print upon that buxom widow's cheek a warm kiss. " It was a long way here — long, and so cold and wet." . "An' where were ye goin' at all, if I may ax?" says Mrs. Connolly, taking off the girl's dripping oiiter gar- ments. ** To see Connor's'Cross " "Faith, 'twas little ye had to do ! A musty ould tomb like that, wid nothin but broken stones around it. Wouldn't the brand-new graveyard below there do ye? 140 AFRIVS LADY, Musha ! but 'tis quare the ginthry is ! Och ! me dear, 'tis wet y'are ; there isn't a dhry stitch on ye." " I don't t^ink I'm wet once my coats are off/* says Joyce ; and indeed, when those invakiable wraps are removed) it is proved beyond doubt — even Mrs. Con- nolly's doubt, which is strong— that her gown is quite dry. " You see, it was such a sudden rain," says Joyce, "and fortunately we saw the lights in this village almost imme- diately after it began." " Fegs, too suddint to be pleasant," says Mrs. Connolly^ " 'Twas well the early darkness made us light up so quickly, or ye might have missed us, not knowin' yer road. An* how's all wid ye, me dear — Miss Barbara, an' the masther, an' the darlmg childher? I've a Brammy cock and a hen that I'm thinkin' of takin' down to Mas- ther Tommy this two weeks, but the ould mare is mighty quare on her legs o' late. Are ye all well ? " ** Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Connolly." " Wisha — God keep ye so." ** And how are all of you ? When did you hear from America ? " " Last month thin — divil a less ; an' the greatest news of all ! A letther from Johnny — me eldest boy — wid a five-pound note in it, an' a picther of the girl he's goin* to marry. I declare to ye when that letther came I just fell into a chair an' tuk to laughin' an' cryin' till that ounchal of a girl in the kitchen began to bate me on the back, thinkin' I was bad in a fit. To think, me dear, of little Johnneen I used to nurse on me knee thinkin' of takin' a partner. An' a sthrappin' fine girl too, fegs, wid cheeks like turnips. But there, now, I'll show her to ye by-and- by. She's a raal beauty if them porthraits be thrue, but th'i'e's a lot o' lies comes from over the wather. An' what'll ye be takin' now, Miss Joyce dear ? " — with a return to her hospitable mood — '*a dhrop o' hot punch, now? Whiskey is the finest thing out for givin' the good-bye to the cowld." "Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Connolly" — hastily — "if I might have a cup of tea, I " " Arrah, bad cess to that tay ! What's the good of it at all at all to a frozen stomach ? Cowld pison, I calls it. Well, there ! Have it yer own way ! An* come along dov/n wid me, now, an' give yerself to the enthertainin' of /" APRIL'S LADY. t4» Misther Beauclerk, whilst I wet the pot. Glory ! what a man he is ! — the size o' the house ! A fine man, in air- nest. Tell me now," with a shrewd glance at Joyce, " is there anything betwixt you and him? " ** Nothing ! " says Joyce, surprised even herself by the amount of vehement denial she throws into this word. " Oh, well, there's others ! An' Mr. Dysart would be more to my fancy. There's a nate man, if ye like, be me fegs I " with a second half sly, wholly kindly, glance at the girl. "If 'twas he, now, I'd give ye me blessin' wid a heart and a half. An' indeed, now. Miss Joyce, 'tis time ye were thinkin' o' settlin'." *' Well, I'm not thinking of it this time," says Joyce, laughing, though a little catch in her throat warns her she is not far from tears. Perhaps Mrs. Connolly hears that little catch, too, for she instantly changes her tactics. " Faith, an' 'tis right y'are, me dear. There's a deal o' trouble in marriage, an' 'tis too young y'are intirely to undertake the likes of it," says she, veering round with a scandalous disregard for appearances. " My, what hair ye have, Miss Joyce ! 'Tis improved, it is, even since last I saw ye. I'm a great admirer of a good head o' hair." "I wonder when will the rain be over?" asks Joyce, wistfully gazing through the small window at the threaten- ing heavens. " If it's my opinion y'are askin'," says Mrs. Connolly, " I'd say not till to-morrow morning." " Oh ! Mrs. Connolly ! " turning a distressed face to that good creature. "Well, me dear, what can I say but what I think?" flinging out her ample arms in self-justification. " Would ye have me lie to ye ? Why, a sky like that always " Here a loud crash of thunder almost shakes the small inn to its foundations. " The heavens be good to us ! " says Mrs. Connolly, crossing herself devoutly. " Did ye iver hear the like o' that?" . " But — it can't last — it is impossible," says Joyce, vehe- mently. " Is there no covered car in the town ? Couldn't a man be persuaded to drive me home if I promised him to " " If ye promised him a king's ransom ye couldn't get a covered car to-night," says Mrs. Connolly. " There's 149 APRIVS LADY, only one in the place, an' that belongs to Mike Murphy, an' 'tis off now miles beyant Skibbereen, attindin* the funeral o' Father John Maguire. Twon't be home till to-morrow any way, an' faix, I wouldn't wondher if it wasn't here then, for every mother's son at that wake will be as dhrunk as fiddlers to-night. Father John, ye know, me dear, was greatly respected." " Are you sure there isn't another car ? " " Quite positive. But why need ye be so unaisy, Miss Joyce, dear ? Sure, 'tis safe an' sure y'are wid me." ♦' But what will they think at home and at the Court? '* says Joyce, faltering. " Arrah ! what can they think, miss, but that the rain was altogether too mastherful for ye ? Ye know, me dear, we can't (even the best of tis) conthrol the illimints ! " This incontrovertible fact Mrs. Connolly gives forth with a truly noble air of resignation. " Come down now, and let me get ye that palthry cup o' tay y'are cravin' for." She leads Joyce downstairs and into a snug little parlor with a roaring fire that is not altogether unacceptable this dreary evening. The smell of stale tobacco smoke that pervades it is a drawback, but, if you think of it, we can't \\i\y(t everything in this world. Perhaps Joyce has more than she wants. It occurs to her, as Beauclerk turns round from the solkary window, that she could well have dispensed with his society. That lurking distrust of him she had known vaguely, but kept under during all their acquaintance, has taken a permanent place in her mind during her drive with him this after- noon. " Oh ! here you are. Beastly, smoky hole 1 " he says, taking no notice of Mrs. Connolly, who is doing her best curtsey in the doorway, ** I think it looks very comfortable," says Joyce, with a gracious smile at her hostess, and a certain sore feeling at her heart. Once again her thoughts fly to Dysart. Would that have been his first remark when she appeared after so severe a wetting ? " 'Tis just what I've been sayin' to Miss Kavanagh, sir," says Mrs. '^onnolly, with unabated good humor. " The heavens above is always too much for us. We can't turn off the wather up there as we can the cock in the kitchen sink. Still, there's compinsations always, glory be ! An' APRIVS LADY, Ml what will yc plajic have wid yer tay, Miss ? *' turning to Joyce with great respect in look and tone. In spite of all her familiarity with her upstairs, she now, with a looker-on, proceeds to treat " her young lady ' as though she were a stranger and of blood royal. " Anything you have, Mrs. Connolly," says Joyce ; " only don't be long ! " There is undoubted entreaty in the re- quest. Mrs. Connolly, glancing at her, concludes it is not so much a desire for what will be brought, as for the bringer that animates the speaker. " Give me five minutes. Miss, an' I'll be back a^ain," says she pleasantly. Leaving the room, she stands m the passage outside for a moment, and solemnly moves her kindly head from side to side. It takes her but a little time to make up her shrewd Irish mind on several points. " While this worthy person is getting you your tea I think I'll take a look at the weather from the outside,'* says Mr. Beauclerk, turning to Joyce. It is evident he is eager to avoid a tdte-a-tdte, but this does not occur to her, "Yes — do — do," says she, nevertheless with such a liberal encouragement as puzzles him. Women are kittle cattle, however, he tells himself; better not to question their motives too closely or you will find yourself in queer street. He gets to the door with a cheerful assumption of going to study the heavens that conceals his desire for a cigar and a brandy and soda, but on the threshold Joyce speaks again. " Is there no chance — would it not be possible to get home ? " says she, in a tone that trembles with nervous longing. '' I'm afraid not. I'm just going to see. It is impossible weather for you to be out in." " But you ? It is clearing a little, isn't it? " with a despairing glance out of the window. " If you could manage to get back and tell them that " She is made thoroughly ashamed of her selfishness a moment later. " But my dear girl, consider ! Why should I tempt a severe attack of inflammation of the lungs by driving ten or twelve miles through this unrelenting torrent ? We are very well out of it here. This Mrs. — er— Connor — Con- nolly seems a very respectable person, and is known to you. I shall tell her to make you as comfortable as her *■ limited ■44 APRILS LADY, liabilities,' " with quite a laugh at his own wit, "will allow." " Pray tell her nothing. Do not give yourself so much trouble," says Joyce calmly. " She will do the best she can for me without the intervention of any one." " As you will, au revoir I " says he, waving her a grace- ful farewell for the moment. He is not entirely happy in his mind, as he crosses the tiny hall and makes his way first to the bar and afterward to the open doorway. Like a cat, he hates rain 1 To drive back through this turmoil of wind and wet for twelve long miles to the Court is more than his pleasure-loving nature can bear to look upon. Yet to remain has its drawbacks, too. If Miss Maliphant, for example, were to hear of this escapade there might be trouble there. He has not as yet finally made up his mind to give inclination the go by and surrender himself to sordid considerations, but there can be no doubt that the sordid things of this life have, with some natures, a charm hardly to be rivaled successfully by mere beauty. The heiress is attractive in one sense ; Joyce equally so in another. Miss Maliphar charms are golden — are not Joyce's more golden still ? i yet, to give up Miss Mali- phant — to break with her finally — to throw away deliber- ately a good X 1 0,000 a year 1 He lights his cigar with an untrembling hand, and, hav- ing found it satisfactory, permits his mind to continue its investigations. Ten thousand pounds a year I A great help to a man ; yet he is glad at this moment that he is free to accept or reject it. Nothing definite has been said to the heiress — nothing definite to Joyce either. It strikes him at this moment, as he stands ^n the dingy doorway of the inn and stares out at the descending rain, that he has shown dis- tinct cleverness in the way in which he has manoeuvred these two girls, without either of them feeling the least suspicion of the other. Last night Joyce had been on the point of a discovery, but he had smoothed away all that. Evidently he was born to be a successful diplomatist, and if that appointment he has been looking for ever comes his way, he will be able to show the world a thing or two. How charming that little girl in there can look ! And never more so than when she allows her temper to over- APRirS LADY. MS come her. She had been angry just now. Yes. But he can read between the lines ; angry — naturally that he has not come to the point — declared himself — proposed as the saying is. Well, puffing complacently at his cigar, she must wait — she must wait — if the appointment comes off, if Sir Alexander stands to him, she has a very good chance, but if that falls through, why then And it won't do to encourage her too much, by Jove ! If Miss Maliphant were to hear of this evening's adventure, she is headstrong, stolid enough, to mark out a line for herself and fling him aside without waiting for judge or jury. Much as it might cost her, she would not hesitate to break all ties with him^ and any that existed were very slight. He, himself, had kept them so. Perhaps, after all, he had better order the trap round, leave Miss Kavanagh here, and And yet to go out in that rain ; to feel it beating against his face for two or three intolerable hours. Was anything, even £10,000 a year, worth that ? He would be a drowned rat by the time he reached the Court. And, after all, couldn't it be arranged without all this bother ? He might easily explain it all away to Miss Mali- phant, even should some kind friend tell her of it. That was his role, He had quite a talent for explaining away. But he must also make Joyce thoroughly understand. ,She was a sensible girl. A word to her would be sufficient. Just a word to show that marriage at present was out of the question. Nothing unpleasant ; nothing finite ; but just some little thing to waken her to the true state '*r the case. Girls, as a rule, were sentimental, and would expect much of an adventure such as this. But Joyce was proud — he liked that in her. There would be no trouble ; she would quite understand. " Tea is just comin' up, sorr ! " says a rough voice be- hind him, " The misthress tould me to tell ye so ! " The red-headed Abigail who attends on Mrs. Connolly beckons him, with a grimy forefinger, to the repast with* ilk. He accepts the invitation. v:-. 'W;i ;. ''■: '^i' 10 tmemf^mmmmm -.-.-.-U-_ 146 APRIVS lAVY, -iJ * 1 '< ■^ - f-rl > CHAPTER XXrV. " It is ihe mynd that maketh good or ill, That mftlctith vrretch or happy, rich or poore; As he enters the inn parlor he finds Joyce sitting by the fire, listening to Mrs. Connolly, who, armed with a large tray, is advancing up the room toward the tabie. Noboay but the " misthress " herself ic allowed to wait upon " the young lady." *' An' I hope, Miss Joyce, 'twill be to your liking. An' sorry I am, sir," with a courteous recognition of Beauclerk's entrance, "that 'tis only one poor fowl I can give ye. But thim commercial thravellers are the divil. They'd lave nothing behind 'em if they could help it. Still, Miss,** with a loving smile at Joyce, " I do think ye'll like the ham. *Tis me own curing, an' I brought ye just a taste o' this year's honey ; ye'd always a sweet tooth from the time ye Were born." '* I could hardly have had a tooth before that," says Joyce, laughing. " Oh, thank you, Mrs. Connolly ; it is a lovely tea, and it is very good of you to take all this trouble." " Who'd be welcome to any trouble if 'twasn't yerseff, Miss ? " says Mrs. Connolly, bowing and retreating to- ward the door. A movement on the part of Joyce checks her. The girl has made an impulsive step as if to follow her, and now, seeing Mrs. Connolly stop short, holds out to her one hand. " But, Mrs. Connolly," ^ lys she, trying to speak natu- rally, and succeeding very well, so far as careless ears are in tjuestion, but the " misthress " marks the false note, ** you will stay and pour out tea for us ; you will ? " There is an extreme treaty in her tone ; the stronger in that it has to be suppressed. Mrs. Connolly, halting midway between the table and the door with the tray in her hands, hears it, and a sudden light comes, not only into her eyes, but her mind. AFRWS LADY, M7 « Why, if you wish it, Miss," says she directly. She lays down the tray, standing it up against the wall, and coming back to the table lifts the teapot and begins to fill the cups. " Ye take sugar, sir ? " asks she of Beauclerk, who is a little puzzled, but not altogether displeased at the turn affairs have taken. After all, as he has^ told himself a thousand times, Joyce is a clever girl. She is determined not to betray the anxiety for his society that beyond question she is is feeling. And this prudence on her part will relieve him of many small embarrassments. Truly, she is a girl not to be found every day. He is accordingly most gracious to Mrs. Connolly ; praises her ham, extols her tea, says wonderful things about the chicken. When tea is at an end, he rises gracefully, and expresses his desire to smoke one more cigar and have a last look at the weather. "You will be able to put us up? " says he. " Oh yes, sir, sure." He smiles beautifully, and with a benevolent request to Joyce to take care of herself in his absence, leaves the room. " He's a dale o* talk," says Mrs. Connolly, the moment his back is turned. She is now sure that Joyce has some private grudge against him, or at all ev 's is not what she herself would call " partial to him." " Yes," says Joyce. ** He is very conversational. How, it rains, still." "Yes, it does," says Mrs. Connolly, comfortably. She is not at all put out by the girl's reserved manner, having lived among the '* ginthry " for many ysars, and being well up to their " quare ways." A thought, however, that had been formulating in her mind for a long time past— > ever since, indeed, she found her young lady could not return home until morning — now compels her to give the conversation a fresh turn. ' . v . - ^ ** I've got to apologize to ye, Miss, but since ye must stay the night wid me, I'm bound to tell ye I have no room for ye but a little one leadin' out o' me own." " Are you so very full, then, Mrs. Connolly ? I'm glad to hear that for your sake." " Full to the chin, me dear. Thim commercials al)r^s dhrop down upon one just whin laste wante<|.^" MS APRWS LADY, 11 " Then I suppose I ought to be thankful that you can give me a room at all," says Joyce, laughing. " I'm afraid I shall be a great trouble to you." " Ne'er a scrap in life, me dear. 'Tis proud I am to be ^of any sarvice to ye. An' perhaps 'twill make ye aisier in yer mind to know as your undher my protection, and that no gossip can gome nigh ye." The good woman means well, but she has flown rather above Joyce's head, or rather under her feet. " I'm delighted to be with you," says Miss Kavanagh, with a pretty smile. " But as for protection — well, the Land Leaguers round here are not so bad as that one should fear for one's life in a quiet village like this." " There's worse than Land Leaguers," says Mrs. Con- nolly. "• There's thim who talk." '* Talk — of what ? " asks Joyce, a little vaguely. " Well now, me dear, sure ye haven't lived so long widout knowin' there's cruel people in the world," says Mrs. Connolly, anxiously. ** An' the fact o' you goin' out dhrivin' wid Mr. Beauclerk, an' stayin' out the night wid him, might give rise to the talk I'm fightin' agin. Don't be angry wid me now. Miss Joyce, an' don't fret, but 'tis as well to prepare ye." Joyce's heart, as she listens, seems to die A^ithin her. A kind of sick feeling renders her speechless ; she had never thought of that — of — of the idea of impropriety' being suggested as part of this most unlucky escapade. Mrs. Connolly, noting the girl's white face, feels as though she ought to have cut her tongue out, rather than have spoken, yet she had done all for the best. " Miss Joyce, don't think about it," says she, hurriedly. " I'm sorry I said a word, but — An', afther all, I am right, me dear. 'Tis betther for ye when evil tongues are wag- gin' to have a raal friend like me to yer back to say the needful word. Ye'll sleep wid me to-night, an' I'll take ye back to her ladyship in the morning, an' never leave ye till I see ye in safe hands once more. If ye liked him," pointing to the door through which Beauclerk had gone, '* Td say nothing, for thin all would come right enough. But as it is, I'll take it on meself to be the nurse to ye now that I was when ye were a little creature creeping along the floor." Joyce smiles at her, but rather faintly. A sense of terror is oppressing her, Lady Baltimore, what will she think? APRIVS LADY, 149 I can ifraid to be ier in dthat rather inagh, 11, the it one Con- ) long ," says )in' out ht wid Don't ibut 'tis in her. had opriety' apade. hough n have riedly. I right, e wag- jay the II take iave ye him," gone, nough. ye now along If terror think? And Freddy and Barbara 1 They will all be angry with her 1 Oh ! more than angry — they will think she has done something that other girls would not have done. How is she to face them again ? The entire party at the Court seems to spread itself before her. Lady Swansdown and Lord Baltimore, they will laugh about it ; and the others will laugh and whimper, and Felix— Felix Dysart. What will he think ? What is he thinking now ? To follow out this thought is intolerable to h^r ; she rises abruptly. " What o'clock is it, Mrs. Connolly ? " says she in a hard, strained voice. '' I am tired, I should like to go to bed now." " Just eight. Miss. An' if you are tired there's nothing like the bed. Ye will like to say good-night to Mr. Beau- clerk ? " " Oh, no, no 1 " with frowning sharpness. Then recover- ing herself. '' I need not disturb him. You will tell him that I was chilled — tired." " I'll tell him all that he ought to know," says Mrs. Con- nolly. " Come, Miss Joyce, everything . is ready for yc. An' a lie down and a good sleep will be the makin' of ye before morning." Joyce, to her surprise, is led through a very well- appointed chamber, evidently unused, to a smaller but scarcely less carefully arranged apartment beyond. The first is so plainly a room not in daily use, that she turns involuntarily to her companion. " Is ,this your room, Mrs. Connolly ? " '* For the night, me dear," says that excellent woman mysteriously. " You have changed your room to suit me. You mf^an something," says the girl, growing crimson, and feeling as if her heart were going to burst. " What is it ? " **No, no. Miss I No, indeed 1 " confusedly. " But, Miss Joyce, I'll say this, that 'tis eight year now since Misther Monkton came here, an' many's the good turn he's done me since he's been me lord's agint. An' that's nothing at all, Miss, to the gratitude I bear toward yer poor father, the ould head o' the house. An' d'ye think when occasion comes I wouldn't stand up an' do the best I could for one o' yer blood? Fegs, I'll take care that it won't be in the power of any one to say a word agin you." ?t» SB 150 APRIL'S LADY, "Against me ?r " You're young, Miss. But there's people ould enough to have sinse an' charity as haven't it. I can see ye couIdn'( get home to-night through that rain, though I'm not sayin' " — a little spitefully — " but that he might have managed it. Still, faith, 'twas bad thravellin' for man or baste," with a view to softening down her real opinion of Beauclerk's behavior. How can she condemn him safely ? Is he not my lady's own brother ? Is not my lord the owner of the very ground on which the inn is built, of the farm a- mile away, where her cows are chewing t.hf cyd by thj* time in peace and safety? ^ - -: "You have changed your room to oblige me," says Joyce, still with that strange, miserable look in her eyes. " Don't think about that, Miss Joyce, now. An' don't fret yerself about anything else, ayther ; sure ye can re- mimber that I'm to yer back always." She bridles, and draws up her ample figure to its fullest height. Indeed, looking at her, it might suggest itself to any reasonable being that even the forlornest damsel with any such noble support might well defy the world. But Joyce is not to be so easily consoled. What is support to her ? Who can console a torn hearf ? The day has been too eventful 1 It has overcome her courage. Not onlv has she lost faith in her own power to face the angry authorities at home, she has lost faith, too, in one to whom, against her judgment, she had given more of her thoughts than was wise. The fact that she had recovered from that folly does not render the memory of the recovery less painful. The awakening fjom a troubled dream is hill of anguish. - Rising from a sleepless bed, she goes down ntTuX morn- ing to find Mrs. Connolly standing on the lowest step of the stairs, as if awaiting her, booted and spurred for the journey. " I tould him to order the thrap early, me dear, for I knew ye'd be anxious," says the kind woman, squeezing her hand. "An* now," with an anxious glance at her, "I hope ye ate yer breakfast. I guessed ye'd like it in yer room^ so I sint it up to ye. Well — come on, dear. Mr. Beauclerk is outside waitin'. I explained it aU to him. Said ye were tired, ye know, an' eager to get back. And so all's ready an' the horse impatient." APRIL'S LADY, «S» enough ouldn't sayin; " Eiged it. with a uclerk's 1 he not r of the 1 a- mile time in f> e," says ler eyes. n' don't can re- ts fullest itself to [)sel with 3 support J day has ^e. Not le angry o whom, thoughts rom that ery less is full of Xt morn- $tep of for the |ar, for I lue^zing her, " I in yer ir. Mr. to him. And In spite of the storm yesterday, that seemed to shake ear 'i and heaven, to-day is beautiful. Soft glistening steams are rising from every hill and bog and valley, as the hot sun's rays beat upon them. The world seetns wrapped in one vast vaporous mist, most lovely to behold. All the woodland flowers are holding up their heads again, after their past smiting from the cruel rain ; the trees are swaying to and fro in the fresh morning breeze, thousands of glittering drops brightening the air, as they swing them- selves from side to side. All things speak of a new birth, a resurrection, a joyful waking from a terrifying past. The grass looks greener for its bath, all dust is laid quite Ibw, the very lichens on the walls as they drive past them look washed and glorified. The sun is flooding the sky with gorgeous light ; there are " sweete smels al arowijd." The birds in the woods on either side of the roadway are singing high carols in praise of this glorious day. All nature seems joyous. Joyce alone is silent, unappreciative, unhappy. The nearer she gets to the Court the more perturbed she grows in mind. How will they receive her there? Barbara had said that Lady Baltimore would not be likely to encourage an attachment between her and Beauclerk, and now, though the attachipent is impossible, what will she think of this unfortunate adventure ? She is so de- pressed that speech «"?ems impossible to her, and to all Mr. Beauclerk's sallies she scarcely returns an arswer. His sallies are many. Never has he appeared in gayer spirits. The fact that the girl beside him is in unmistak- ably low spirits has either escaped him, or he has decided on taking no notice of it. Last night, over that final t^igar, he had made up his mind that it would be wise to say to her some little thing that would unmistakably awaken her to the fact that there was nothing between him and her of any serious importance. Now, having covered half the distance that lies between them and th« Court, he feels will be a good time to say that little thing. She is too distrait to please him. She is evidently brooding over something. If she thinks Better crush ail such hopes at once. ** I wonder what they are thinking about us at home ? " he says presently, with quite a cheerful laugh, suggestiveiof amusement. ; V isa APRWS LADY. No answer. ** I daresay," with a second edition of the laugh, full now of a wider amusement, as though the comical fancy that has caught hold of him has grown to completion, ** I shouldn't wonder, indeed, if they were thinking we had eloped." This graceful speech he makes with the easiest air in the world. **They may be thinking you have eloped, certainly,'* says Miss Kavanagh calmly. " One's own people, as a rule, know one very thoroughly, and are quite alive to one's little failings ; but that they should think it of me is quite out of the question." "Well, after all, I daresay you are right. I don't sup- pose it lies in the possibilities. They could hardly think it of me either," says Beauclerk, with a careless yawn, so extraordinarily careless indeed as to be worthy of note. " I'm too poor for amusement of that kind." " One couldn't be too poor for that kind of amusement, surely. Romance and history have both taught us that it is only the impecimious who ever indulge in that folly." "I am not so learned as you are, but Well, I'm an * impecunious one,' in all conscience. I couldn't carry it out. I only wish," tenderly, " I could." " With whom ? " icily. As she asks the question she turns deliberately and looks him steadily in the eyes. Something in her regard disconcerts him, and compels him to think that the following up of the '* little thing " is likely to prove difficult. " How can you ask me ? " demands he with an assump- tion of reproachful fondness that is rather overdone. " I do, nevertheless." " With you, then— if I must put it in words," says he, lowering his tone to the softest whisper. It is an eminently loverlike whispef ; it is a distinctly careful one, too. It is quite impossible for Mrs. Connolly, sitting behind, to hear it, however carefully she may be attending. " It is well you cannot put your fortune to the touch," says Joyce quietly ; " if you could, disappointment alone would await you." " You mean ? " ask he, somewhat sharply. " That were it possible for me to commit such a vul- garity as to run away with any one, you, certainly, would not be that one. You are the very last man on earth I I I, full fancy n, *'I e had easiest linly," , as a 3 one's i quite I't sup- hink it ,wn, so )f note. lement, that it Dlly." I'm an :arry it lion she eyes, els him s likely Issump- lays he, linently It is Ito hear |ouch," alone APRWS LADY. 153 a vul- would iarthi should choose for so mistaken an adventure. Let me also add," says she, turning upon him with flashing eyes, though still her voice is determinately low and calm, " that you forget yourself strangely when you talk in this fashion to me." The scorn and indignation in her charming face is so apparent that it is now impossible to ignore it. Being thus compelled to acknowledge it he grows angry. Beauclerk angry is not nice. *' To do myself justice, I seldom do that ! " says he, with a rather nasty laugh. " To forget myself is not part of my calculations. I can generally remember No. One." « You will remember me, too, if you please, so long as I am with you," says Joyce, with a grave and very gentle dignity, but with a certain determination that makes itself felt. Beauclerk, conscious c*" be'V.g somewhat cowed, is bully enough to make one more thrust. " After all, Dysart was right," says he. " He prophesied there would be rain. • He advised you net to undertake our ill-starred journey of — ^yesterday." There is distinct and very malicious meaning 'n the emphasis he throws into the last word. " I begin to think Mr. Dysart is always right," says Joyce, bravely, though her heart has begun to beat furiously. That terrible fear of what they will say to her when she gets back — of their anger — their courteous anger — their condemnation — has been suddenly presented to her again and her courage dies within her. Dysart, what will he say? It strikes even herself as strange that his view of her conduct is the one that most disturbs her. **Only beginning to think it? Why, I always under- stood Dysart was immaculate — the * couldn't err ' sort of person one reads of but never sees. You have been slow, surely, to gauge his merits. I confess I have been even slower. I haven't gauged them yet. But then — Dysart and I were never much in sympathy with each other." **No.' One can understand that," says she. " One can, naturally," with the utmost self-complaisance. " I confess, indeed," with a sudden slight burst of vin- dictiveness, ''that I never liked Dysart; idiotic sort of fool in my estimation, self-opinionated like all fools, and deucedly impertinent in that silent way of his. I believe,** with a contemptuous lavgh, '' he has ^iven it as his opinion that there is very little to liJce in me either.'* ..if-' tS4 APRWS LADY, '* Has he ? We wcic sayiog just now he is ajways right," says Miss Kavanagh, absently, and in a tone so low thfi^t Beauderk may be excused for scarcely believing his ei^fs. " Eh ?*' says he. But there is no answer, and presently both fall into a silent mood — Joyce because conversation is terrible to her, and he because anger is consuming him. He had kept up a lively converse all through the earlier part oi their drive, ignoring the depression that only too plainly was crushing upon his companion, with a view to putting an end to sentimentality of any sort. Her discom- fort,, her unhappiness, was as nothing to him— ^he thought only of himself. Few men, under the circumstances, would have so acted, for most men, in spite of all the old maids who so generously abuse them, are ' ' ivalrous and have kindly hearts ; and indeed it is only a melancholy specimen here and there who will fail to feel pity for a woman in distress. Beauclerkisa " melancholy specimen." , •<' " . *' CHAPTER XXV. << Man, &lse mao, smiling, destructive man." *< Who breathes, must suffer, and who thinks, must mourn; Aikd he alone is blessM who ne'er was bom." ** Oh 1 my dear girl, is it you at last ? " cries Lady Bal- timore, running out into the hall as Joyce enters it. " We have been so frightened ! Such a storm, and Baltimore says that mare you had is very uncertain. Where did you get shelter ? " The very warmth and kindliness of her welcome, the utter absence of disapproval in it of any sort, so unnerves Joyce ^hat she can make no reply ; can only cling to her kindly hostess, and hide her face on her shoulder. "Is that you, Mrs. Connolly?" says Lady Baltimore, snuling at mine hostess of the Baltimore Arms, over the girl's shoulder. ** YeSi my lady," with a curtsey so \o\^ that one won- ders how she ever comes up again. '' I made so bould, Q>y ladyt as to bring ye home Miss Joyce myself. I know Misther Beauclerk to be a good support in himself, but I i I right/' >w th^t lU ei^rs. resently srsation i$mning ^ earlier only too , view to discom- thought s, would lids who e kindly len here distress. urn; ady Bal- "We [i^timore did you tmef the Jnnerves Ig to her [itimore, }ver the je won- bouldy I know llf, but I APRWS LADY, t55 thought it would be a raisonable thing to give her the com- pany of one of her own women folk besides." '* Quite right. Quite," says Lady Baltimore. ** Oh ! she has been so kind to me," says Joyce, raising now a pale face to turn a glance of gratitude on Mrs. Con- nolly. ** Why, indeed, my lady, I wish I might ha' bin able to d") more for her ; an' I'm sorry to say I'd to put her up in a small, most inconvenient room, just inside o' me own." " How was that ? " asks Lady Baltimore, kindly. " The inn so full then ? " " Pegs 'twas that was the matther wid it," says Mrs. Connolly, with a beaming smile. " Crammed from cellar to garret." r " Ah I the wet night, I suppose." *'Just so, my lady," composedly, and with another deep curtsey. Lady Baltimore having given Mrs. Connolly into the care of the housekeeper, who is an old friend of hers, leads Joyce upstairs. , " You are not angry with me ? " says Joyce, turning oh the threshold of her room. " With you, my dear child? No, indeed. With Nor- man, very ! He should have turned back the moment he saw the first symptom of a storm. A short wetting would have done neither of you any harm." " There was no warning ; the storm was on us almost immediately, and we were then very close to Falling." " Then, having placed you once safely in Mrs. Connolly's care, he should have returned himself, at all hazards." ** It rained very hard," says Joyce in a cold, clear tone. Her eyes are on the ground. She is compelling herself to be strictly just to Beauclerk, but the efltort is too much for her. She fails to do it naturally, and so gives r, false impression to her listener. Lady Baltimore casts a quick glance at her. " Rain, what is rain ? " says she'. ' ^ ' " There was storm, too, a violent storm ; you must have felt it here." -v ■ " No storm should have prevented his return. He should have thought only of you." A iittle bitter smile curls the girl's lips : it seems a farce te suggest that he should have thought of her. He ! Now t i I i5« APRIVS LADY, with her eyes efTectually opened, a certain scorn of her- self, in that he should have been able so easily to close them, takes possession of her. Is his sister blind still to his defects, that she expects so much from him ; has she not read him rightly yet ? Has she yet to learn that he will never consider any one, where his own interests, com- forts, position, clash with theirs ? " You look distressed, tired. I believe you are fretting about this," says Lady Baltimore, with a little kindly ban- tering laugh. " Don't be a silly child. Nobody has said or thought anything that has not been kindly of you. Did you sleep last night ? No. I can see you didn't. There, lie down, and' get a little rest before luncheon. I shall send you up a glass of champagne and a biscuit ; don't refuse it." She pulls down the blinds, and goes softly out of the room to her boudoir, where she finds Beauclerk awaiting her. He is lounging comfortably on a satin fauteuil, looking the very beau ideal of pleasant, careless life. He makes his sister a present of a beaming smile as she enters. ** Ah ! good morning, Isabel. I am afraid we gave you rather a fright ; but you see it couldn't be helped. What . an evening and night it turned out ! By Jove ! I thought the water works above were turned on for good at last and for ever. We felt like the Babes in the Wood — abandoned, lost. Poor, dear Miss Kavanagh ! I felt so sorry for her ! You have seen her, I hope," his face has now taken the correct lines of decorous concern. ** She is not over fatigued ? " " She looks tired ! depressed ! " says Lady Baltimore, regarding him seriously. " I wish, Norman, you had come home last evening." " What I and bring Miss Kavanagh through all that storm ! '" " No, you could have left her at Falling. I wish you had come home." « v^hy j> " vvith an amused laugh. " Are you afraid I have compromised myself? " " I was not thinking of you. I am more afraid," with a touch of cold displeasure, '* of your having compromised . Miss Kavanagh. There are such things as gossips in this curious world. You should have left Joyce in Mrs. Com- nolly's safe deeping, and come straight back here." APRIVS LADY. »S7 [more, had that you [raid I ritha lised this COE- " To be laid up with rheumatism during the whole of the comins winter 1 Oh ! most unnatural sister, what in it you would have desired of me ? " " You showed her great attention all this summer," says Lady Baltimore. " I hope I showed a proper attention to all your guests." " You were very specially attentive to her." " To Miss Kavanagh, do you mean ? " with a puzzled air. " Ah I well, yes. Perhaps I did give more of my time to her and to Miss Maliphant than to the others." " Ah I Miss Maliphant ! one can understand that," says his sister, with an intonation that is not entirely compli- mentary. " Can dUe ? Here is one who can't, at all events. I confess I tried very hard to bring myself to the point there, but I failed. Nature was too strong for me. Good girl, you know, but — er — awful ! " " We were not discussing Miss Maliphant, we we retalk- ing of Joyce," icily. " Ah, true ! " as if just awakening to a delightful fact. " And a far more charming subject for discussion, it must be allowed. Well, and what of Joyce — vou call her Joyce?" ** Be human, Norman ! " says Lady Baltimore, with a sudden suspicion of fire in her tone. " Forget to pose once in a way. And this time it is important. Let me hear the truth from you. She seems unhappy, uncertain, nervous. I like her. There is something real, genuine, about her. I would gladly think, that Do you kn jw," she leans towards him, " I have sometimes thought you were in love with her." " Have you ? Do you know, so have I," with a frank- ness very admirable. " She is one of the most agreeable girls of my acquaintance. There is something very special about her. I'm not surprised that both you and I fell into a conclusion of that sort." " Am I to understand by that ? " " Just one thing. I am too poor to marry." " With that knowledge in your mind, you should not have acted towards her as you did yesterday. It was a mistake, believe me. You should have come home alone, or else brought her back as your promised wife." i5« APnWS LADY. 1/ '* Ah I what a delightful vista you open up before me, but whaf an unkind one, too," says Mr. Beauclerk, with a little reproachful uplifting of his hands and brows. " Have you no bowels of compassion ? You know how the charms of domestic life have always attracted me. And to be able to enjoy them with such an admirable companion as Miss Kavanagh ! Are you soulless, utterly without mercy, Isabel, that you open up to me a glorious vision such as that merely to taunt and disap- point me ? " " I am neither Joyce nor Miss Maliphant," says Lady Baltimore, with ill-suppressed contempt. " I wish you would try to remember that, Norman; it would spare time and trouble. You speak of Joyce as if s^ were the woman you love, and yet — would you subject the woman you love to unkind comment ? If you cared you would not have treated her as " " Ah, if I did care for her," interrupts he. ** Well, don't you ? " sternly. She -has risen, and is looking down at him from the full height of her tall, slender figure, that now looks taller than usual. ** Oh, immensely 1 " declares Mr. Beauclerk, airily. " My dear girl, you can't have studied me not to know that ; as I have told you, I think her charming. Quite out of the common — quite." " That will do," shortly. " You condemn me," says he, in an aggrieved tone that has got something of amused surprise in it. " Yet you know — you of all others — how poor a devil I am ! So poor, that I do not even permit the idea of marriage in my head.** " Perhaps, however, ^ou have permitted it to enter into hers ! " says Lady Baltimore. " Oh, my dear Isabel ! " with a light laugh and a-pro- testing glance. " Do you think she would thank you for that Suggestion ? " " You should think. You 'should think," says Lady Baltimore, with some agitation. " She is a very young girl. She has lived entirely in the country. She knows nothing — nothing," throwing out her hand. " She is not awake to all the intriguing, lying, falsity," with a rush of bitter disgust, " that belongs to the bigger world beyond — the terrible world outside her own quiet one here." APRIL'S LADY. 159 the that ;t you poor, lead." [r into lapro- lou for Lady [young Lnows lis not lush of leyond 1»» '* She is quiet here, isn't she ? " says Beauclerk, with admirable appreciation. "Pity to take her out of it. Eh ? And yet, so far as I can see, that is the cruel task you would impose on me." " Norman/' says his sister, turning suddenly and for the first time directly toward him. " Well, my dear. What ? " throwing one leg negligently over the other. "It really comes to this, doesn't it? That you want me to marry a certain somebody, and that I think I cannot afford to marry her. Then it lies in the proverbial nutshell.'' " The man who cannot afford to marry should not afford himself the pleasures of flirtations," says Lady Baltimore, with decision. '' No ? Is that your final opinion ? Good heavens I Isabel, what a brow ! What a terrible glance 1 If^" smil- ing, " you favor Baltimore with this style of thing when- ever you disapprove of his smallest action I don't wonder he jibs so often at the matrimonial collar. You advised me to think just now ; think yourself, my good Isabel, now and then, and probably you will find life easier." He is still smiling delightfully. He flings out this cruel gibe indeed in the most careless manner possible. " Ah ! forget me," says she in a manner as careless as his own. If she has quivered beneath that thrust of his, at all events she has had strength enough to suppress all signs of it. " Think — not of her — I daresay she will outlive it — but of yourself." ' " What would you have me do then ? " deman4s he, rising here and confronting her. There is a good deal of venom in his handsome face, but Lady Baltimore braves it. " I would have you act as an honorable man," says she, in a clear, if icy tone. " You go pretty far, Isabel, very^ far, even for a sister," says' he presently, his face now white with rage. " A mo- ment ago I gave you some sound advice. I give you more now. Attend to your own affairs, which by all account require looking after, and let mine alone." He is evidently furious. His sister makes a little ges- ture towards the door. \ *' Your taking it like this does not mend matters," she says calmly, " it only makes them, if possible, worse, Leavcmc r^ ., ^ 16« AFKWii LADY, CHAPTER XXVI. **AT SIXES AND SEVENS." Pol. — *' What do you read, my lord ?" Ham. — " Words, words, words." She sighs heavily, as the door closes on her brother. A sense of weakness, of powerlessness oppresses her. She has fought so long, and for what ? Is there nothing to be gained ; no truth to be defended anywhere, no standard of right and wrong. Are all men- all — base, selfish, cow- ardly, dishonorable ? Her whole being seems aflame with the indignation that is consuming her, when a knock sounds a*- the door. There is only one person in the house who knocks at her boudoir door. To every one, servants, guests, child, it lu a free land ; to her husband alone it is forbidden ground. " Como m," says she, in a cold, reluctant tone. ** I know I shall be terribly in your way." says Balti- more, entering, " but I must beg you to give me five minutes. I hear Beauclerk has returned^ and that you have seen him. What kept him ? " Now Lady Baltimore — who a moment ago had con- demned her brother heartily to his face — feels, as her hus- band addresses her, a perverse desire to openly contradict all that her honest judgment had led her to say to Beau- clerk. That sense of indignation that was burning so hotly in her breast as Baltimore knocked at her door still stir;: within her, but now its fire is directed against this latest comer. Who is he, that he should dare to question the honor of any man ; and that there is annoyance and condemnation now in Baltimore's eyes is not to be denied." " The weather," returns she shortly. "' By your tone I judge you deem that an adequate ex- cuse for keeping Miss Kavanagh from her home for half a day and a night." •* Ther;; was a terrible storm," says Lady Baltimore calmly ; "the worst we have had for months." APRJVS LADY, l6i I ,; \ *^ If it had been ten times as bad he should, in my opinion, have come home.'' The words seem a mere repetition to Lady Baltimore. She had, indeed, used them to Beauclerk herself, or some such, a few minutes ago. Yet she seems to repudiate all sympathy with them now. ; " On such a night as that ? I hardly see why. Joyce was with an old friend. Mrs. Connolly was once a ser- vant of her father's, and he " " Should have left her with the old friend and come home." Again her own argument, and again perversity drives her to take the opposite side — the side against her con- science. " Society must be in a very bad state i^ a man must perforce encounter thunder, rain, lightning ; in fact, a chance of death from cold and e:iposure, all because he dare not spend one night beneath the roof of a respectable woman like Mrs. Connolly, with a girl friend, without bringing down^on him the censures of his entire world." " You can, it appears, be a most eloquent advocate for the supposed follies of any one but your husband. Never- theless, I must persist in my opinion that it was, to put it very charitably indeed, inconsiderate of your brother to study his own comfort at the expense of his — girl friend. I believe that is your way of putting it, isn't it? " " Yes," immoViably. She has so far given way to move- ment, however, that she has taken up a feather fan lying near, and now so holds it between her and Baltimore that he cannot distinctly see her face. " As for the world you speak of — it v/ill not judge him as leniently as you do. It can talk. No one," bitterly, "is as good a witness of that as I am." "But seldom," coldly, " without reason." " And no one is a better witness of that than you are ! That is what you would say, isn't it ? Put down that fan, can't you?" with a touch of savage impatience. "Are you ashamed to carry out your argument with me face to face ? " " Ashamed ! " Lady Baltimore has sprung suddenly to her feet, and sent the fan with a little crash to the ground. "Oh t shame on you to mention buch a word." |6f APRWS LADY. " Am I to be forever your one scapegoat ? Now take another one, I beseech you." says Baltimore with that old, queer, devilish mockery on his face that was never seen there until gossiping tongues divided him from his wife. " Here is your brother, actually thrown to you, as it were. Surely he will be a proof that I am not the only vile one among all the herd. If nothing else, acknowledge him selfish. A man who thought more of a dry coat than a young, a very young, girl's reputation. Is that nothing? Oh ! consider, I beseech you ! " his bantering manner, in which there is so much misery that it should have reached her but does not, grows stronger every instant. " Even a big chill from the heavens above would not have killed him, whereas we all know how a little breath from the world below can kill many a " " Oh 1 you can talk, talk, talk," says she, that late un- usual burst of passion showing some hot embers stilL " But can words alter facts ? " She pauses ; a sudden chill seems to enwrap her. As if horrified by her late descent into passion she gathers herself together, and defies him once again with a cold look. " Why say anything more about it? " she says. " We do not agree." " On this subject, at least, we should," says he hotly. " I think your brother should not have left us in ignor- ance of Miss Kavanagh's safety for so many hours. And you," with a sneer, " who are such a martinet for pro- priety, should certainly be prepared to acknowledge that he should not have so regulated his conduct as to make her a subject for unkind comment to the County. Badly," looking at her deliberately, " as /ou think of me, I should not have done it." *' No ? " says she. It is a cruel — an unmistakable in- sulting monosyllable. And, bearing no other word with it — is the more detestable to the hearer. "No," says he loudly. "Sneer as you will — my con- science is at rest there, so I can defy your suspicions." " Ah ! there ! " cays she. " My dear creature," says he, " we all know there is but one villain in the world, and you are the proud pos- sessor of him — as a husband. Permit me to observe, however, that a man of your code of honor, and of mine for the matter of that — but I forget that honor and I have no cousinship in your estimation — would have chosen to APRIL'S LADY. I»J be wet to the skin rather than imperil the fair name of the girl he loved." " Has he told you he loved her?" " Not in so many words." " Then from what do you argue ? '* " My dear, I have told you that you are too much for me in argument ! I, a simple on-looker, have judged merely from an every-day observance of little unobtrusive facts. If your brother is not in love with Miss Kavanagh, I think he ought to be. I speak ignorantly, I allow. I am not, like you, a deep student of human nature. If) too, he did not feel it his duty to bring her home last night, or else to leave her at Falling and return here himself, I fail to sympathize with him. I should not have so failed her." *• Oh but you ! " says his wife, with a little contemptu- ous smile. " You who are such a paragon of virtue. It would not be expected of you that you should make such a mistake ! " She has sent forth her dart impulsively, sharply, out of the overflowing fullness of her angry heart — and when too late, when it has sped past recall — perhaps repents the speeding ! Such repentances, when felt too late, bring vices in their ^ train ; the desire for good, when chilled, turns to evil. The mind, never idle, if debarred from the best, leans inevitably toward the worst. Angry with herself, her very soul embittered within her. Lady Baltimore feels more and more a sense of passionate wrong against the man who had wooed and won her, and sown the seeds of gnawing distrust within her bosom. Baltimore's face has whitened. His brow contracts. " What a devilish unforgiving thing is a good woman," says he, with a reckless laugh. " That's a compliment, my lady — take it as you will. What ! are your sneers to outlast life itself? Is that old supposed sin of mine never to be condoned ? Why — say it was a real thing, instead of being the myth it is. Even so, a woman all prayers, all holiness, such as you are, might manage to pardon it ! " Lady Baltimore, rising, walks deliberately toward the door. It is her usual method of putting an end to all . discussions of this sort between them — of terminating any allusions to what she believes to be his unfaithful past— that past that has wrecked her life. 164 APR IV S LADY. As a rule, Baltimore makes no attempt to prolong the argument. He has always let her go, with a sneerii^g word, perhaps, or a muttered exclamation ; but to-day he follows her, and stepping between her and the door, bars her departure. " By heavens ! you shall hear me," says he, his face dark with anger. " I will not submit any longer, in silence, to your insolent treatment of me. You condemn me, but I tell you it is I who should condemn. Do you think I believe in your present attitude toward me ? Pre- tend as you will, eveii to yourself, in your soul it is impossible that you should give credence to that old story, false as it is old. No I you cling to it to mask the fact you have tired of me." *' Let me pass." " Not until you have heard me ! " With a light, but determined grasp of her arm, he presses her back into the chair she has just quitted. '* That story was a lie, I tell you. Before our marriage, I confess, there were some things — not creditable — to which I plead guilty, bul- « Oh ! be silent ! " cries she, putting up her hand impul- sively to check him. There is open disgust and horror on her pale, severe face. " Before, before our marriage," persists he passionately. " What ! do you think there is no temptation — no sin — no falling away from the stern path of virtue in this life? Are you so mad or so ignorant as to believe that every man you meet could show a perfectly clean record of " " I cannot — I will not listen," interpdses she, springing to her feet, white and indignant. ** There is nothing to hear. I am not going to pollute your ears," says he, with a curl of his lip. " Pray be re- assured. What I only wish to say is that if you condemn me for a few past sins you should condemn also half your acquaintances. That, however, you do not do. For me alone, for your husband, you reserve all your resentment." " What are the others to me ? " ** What am I to you, for the matter of that ? " with a bitter laugh, " if they are nothing I am less than nothing. You deliberately flung me aside all because Why, look here I " moving toward her in uncontrollable agita- tion, '< say I had sinned above the Galileans — say that lie APRIVS LADY. 165 face was true — say I had out-Heroded Herod in evil courses, still am I past the pale of forgiveness ? Saint as you are, baye you no pity for me ? In all your histories of love and peace and perfection is there never a case of a poor devil of a sinner like me being taken back into grace — absolved — pardoned ? " " To rave like this is useless. There is no good to be got from it. You know what I think, what I believe. You deceived — wronged Let me go, Cecil ! " " Before — before," repeats he, obstinately. " What that woman told you since, I swear to you, was a most idamhed lie." " I refuse to go into it again." She is deadly pale now. Her bloodless lips almost refuse to let the words go through them. " You mean by that, that in spite of my oath you still cling to your belief that I am lying to you ? " • His face is livid. There is something almost dangerous about it, but Lady Baltimore has come of too old and good a race to be frightened into submission. Raising one small, slender hand, she lays it upon his breast, and, with a little haughty upturning of her shapely head, pushes him from her. " I have told you I refuse to go into it," says she, with superb self-control. " How long do you intend to keep me here ? When may I be allowed to leave the room ? ' There is distinct defiance in the clear glance she casts at him. Baltimore draws a long breath, and then bursts into a strange laugh. " Why, when you will," says he, shrugging his shoulders. He makes a graceful motion of his hand toward the door. " Shall I open it for you ? But a word still let me say — if you are not in too great a hurry ! Christianity, now, my fair saint, so far as ever I could hear or read, has been made up of mercy. Now, you are merciless ! Would you mind letting me know how you reconcile one " " You perversely mistake me — I am no saint. I do not " — coldly — "profess to be one. I am no such earnest seeker after righteousness as you maliciously represent me. All I desire is honesty of purpose, and a decent sense of honor — ^honor that makes decency. That is all. For the rest, I am only a poor woman who loved once, and was — i66 APRWS LADY. ^. how many times deceived ? That probably 1 shall never know." Her sad, sad eyes, looking at him, grow suddenly full of tears. " Isabel ! My meeting with that woman — that time " — vehemently — " in town was accidental ! I It was the merest chance " " Don't ! " says she, raising her hand, with such a pain- ful repression of her voice as to render it almost a whisper ; " I have told you it is useless. I have heard too much to believe anything now. I shall never, I think," very sadly, " believe in any one again. You have murdered faith in me. Tell this tale of yours to some one else — some one willing to believe — to" — ^with a terrible touch of scorn — " Lady Swansdown, for example." \ " Why do you bring her into the discussion ? " asks he, turning quickly to her. Has she heard anything ? That scene in the garden that now seems to fill him with self- contempt. What a bitise it was ! And what did it amount to? Nothing I Lady Swansdown, he is honestly con- vinced, cares as little for him as he for her. And at this moment it is borne in upon him that he would give the embraces of a thousand such as she for one kind glance from the woman before him. " I merely mentioned her as a possible person who might listen to you," with a slight lifting of her shoulders. " A mere idle suggestion. You will pardon me saying that this has been an idle discussion altogether. You began by denouncing my brother to me, and now " •* You have ended by denouncing your husband to me ! As idle a beginning as an end, surely. Still, to go back to Beauclerk. I persist in saying he has behaved scan- dalously in this affair. He has imperilled that poor child's good name." "You can imperil names, almost fiercely on him. "Lady Swansdown again, I bored uplifting of his brows. too I " says she, turning » sufficient, then ; you must have a new one. must disappoint you. Lady Swansdown, cares nothmg at all for me, amount for her." " Since when?" suppose," says he, with a ** The old grievance is not I am afraid I I assure you, and I care just the same ■) APRWS LADY, 167 « Since the world began — if you want a long date I " " What a liar you are, Baltimore 1 " says his wife, turn- ing to him with a sudden breaking out of all the pent-up passion within her. involuntarily her hands clench th'im- selves. She is pa!e no longer. A swift, hot flush has dyed her cheeks. Like an outraged, insulted queen, she holds him a moment with her eyes, then sweeps out of the room. I me I back scan- poor rning CHAPTER XXVII. * Since thou art not as these are, go thy ways ; Thou hast no part in all my nights and days. Lie still — sleep.on — be glad. As such things be r" • Thcu couldst not watch with me,*' ♦ Luncheon has gone off very pleasantly. Joyce, per- suaded by Lady Baltimore, had gone down to it, feeling a little shy, and conscious of a growing headache. But everybody had been charming to her, and Baltimore, in especial, had been very careful in his manner of treating her, saying little nice things to her, and insisting on her sitting next to him, a seat hitherto Lady Swansdown's own. The latter had taken this so perfectly, that one might be pardoned for thinking it had been arranged beforehand between her and her host. At all events Lady Swans- down was very sympathetic, and indeed everybody seemed bent on treating her as a heroine of the highest order. Joyce herself felt dull — nerveless. Words did not seem to come easily to her. She was tired, she thought, and of course she was, having spent a sleepless night. One little matter gave her cause for thankfulness. Dysart was ab>ent from luncheon. He had gone on a long walking expedition, Lady Baltimore said, that would prevent his rcwurning home until dinner hour — until quite 8 o'clock. Joyce told herself she was glad of this — though why she did not tell herself. At all events the news left her very silent. But her silence was not noticed. It could not be, indeed, so great and so animated WuS the flow of Beau- i6f APRIL'S lADY. n f\ clerk's eloquence. Without addressing anybody in pai> ticular, he seemed to address everybody. He kept the whole table alive. He treated yesterday's adventure as a tremendously amusing affair, and invited everyone to look upon it as he did. He insisted on describing Miss Kavanagh and himself in the same light as he had de- scribed, them earlier to his sister, as the modern Babes in the Wood, Mrs. Connolly being the Robin. He made several of the people who had dropped in to luncheon roar with laughter over his description of that excellent inn keeper. Her sayings — her appearance — her stem notions of morality that induced her to bring them home, " personally conducted " — the size of her waist — and her heart — and many other things. He was extremely funny. The fact that his sister smiled only when she felt she must to avoid comment, and that his host re- fused to smile at all, and that Miss Kavanagh was evident- ly on thorns all the time did not for an instant damp his overflowing spirits. "^ It is now seven o'clock ; Miss Kavanagh, on her way upstairs to dress for dinner, suddenly remembering that there is a book in the library, left by her early in the after- noon on the central table, turns aside to fetch it. . ■ She forgets, however, what she has come for when, hav- ing entered the room, she sees Dysart standing before the fire, staring apparently at nothing. To her chagrin, she is conscious that the unmistakable start she had made on seeing him is known to him. " I didn't know you had returned," says she awkwardly, yet made a courageous effort to appear as natural as usual. " No ? I knew you had returned," says he slowly. " It is very late to say good-morning," says she with a poor little attempt at a laugh, but still advancing toward him and holding out her hand. " Too late ! '' replied he, ignoring the hand. Joyce, as if struck by some cruel blow, draws back a step or two. *' You are not tired, I hope ? " asks Dysart courteous- " Oh, no." She feels stifled ; choked. A desire to get to the door, and escape — lose sight of him forever — is the ■ 4-: ><.-■■ APRWS LADY. 169 y in pai^ kept the enture as Tyone to ing Miss had de- Babes in ie made luncheon excellent er stern tn home, -and her ictremely hen she host re- evident- amp his ler way ng that e after- n, /lav- )re the » she is ide on ardly, 'al as mha ►ward :e, as 1^0. eous- >get i the one strong longing that possesses her ; but to move re- quires strength, and she feels that her limbs are trembling beneath her. * "It was a long drive, however. And the storm was severe. I fear you must have suffered in some way." " I have not suffered," says she, in a dull, emotionless way. Indeed, she hardly knows what she says, a repeti- tion of his own words seems the easiest thing to hor, so she adopts it. "No?" There is a considerable pause, and then " No ! It is true ! It is I only v>rho have suffered," says Dysart with an uncontrollable abandonment to the misery that is destroying him. " I alone." " You mean something," says Joyce. It is by a terrible effort that she speaks. She feels thoroughly unnerved — iijistrung. Conscious that the nervous shaking of her hands will betray her, she clasps them behind her tightly, " You meant someting just now when you refused to take my hand. But what? What?" *: " You said it was too late," replies he. " And I— agreed with you." " That was not it ! " says she feverishly. " There was more — much more ! Tell me " — passionately — *' what you meait. Why would you not touch w ( What am I to understand " " That from hencefortlf you are free from the persecution of my love," says Dysart deliberately. " I was mad ever to hope that you could care for me — still — I did hope. That has been my undoing. But now " " Well ? " demands she faintly. Her whole beinct seems but en. ier- .ler eli- as stunned. Something of all this she had anticip the reality is far worse than any anticipation ! She had seen him in her thoughts, angry, indign able, but that he should thus coldly set her aside an everlasting adieu— be able to make up his r berately to forget her — this — had never occurred being even probable. " Now you are to understand that the idiotic played between us two the day before yesterday an end! The curtain is down. It is over. It failure — neither you, nor I, nor the public will ever hear of it ag^." farce is at was a > iyo APRIL'S LADY. " Is this — because I did not come home last evening in the rain and storm?" Some small spark of courage has tome back to her now. She lifts her head and looks at him. " Oh 1 be honest with me here, in our last hour together," cries he vehemently. *' You have cheated me all through — be true to yourself for once. Why pretend it is my fault that we part? Yesterday I implored you not to go for that drive with him, and yet — you went. What was I — or my love for you in comparison wuh a few hours' drive with that lying scoundrel ? " " It was only the drive I thought of," savs she piteously. *' I — there was nothing else, indeed. And you ; if " — rais- ing her hand to her throat as if suffocating — " if you had not spoken so roughly — so " ** Pshaw ! " says Dysart, turning from her as if disgusted. To him, in his present furious mood, her grief, her fear, her shrinkings, are all so many movements in the game of coquette, at which she is a past mistress. *' Will you think me a fool to the end? " says he. " Sec here," turni..g his angry eyes to hers. " I don't care what you say, I know /ou now. Too late, indeed — but still I know you ! To the very core of your heart you are one mass of deceit." A little spasm crosses her face. She leans back heavily against the table behind her. ** Oh, no, no," she says in a voice so low as to be almost unheard. " You will deny, of course," says he mercilessly. " You would even have me believe that you regret the past — but you, and such as you never regret. Man is your prey 1 So many scalps to your belt is all you thinkabout. Why," with an accent of passion, " what am I to you? Just the filling up of so many hours' amusement — no more ! Do you think all my eloquence would have any chance against one of his cursed words ? I might kneel at your feet from morning until night, and still I should be to you a thing of naught in comparison with him." She holds out her hands to him in a little dumb fashion. Her tongue seems frozen. But he repulses this last attenapt at reconciliation. . " It is no good. None ! I have no belief in you left, so you can no longer cajole me. I know that I am tiothing to you. Nothing ! If," drawing a deep breath through his closed teeth, '' if a thousand years were to go by I APRWS LADY, 171 vcning in urage has looks at ogether," 1 through it is my •u not to t. Wliat iw hours' iteously. "»> • — rais- you had sgusted. er fear, game of * 3u think nii.g his I know u! To :eit." heavily tys in a "You t— but prey! Why," 1st the Do gainst from thing hion. empt left, hing )ugh by! should still be nothing to you if he were near. I give it up. The battle was too strong for me. I am defeated, lost, ruined." ** You have so arranged it," says she in a low tone, sin- gularly clear. The violence of his agitation had subdued hers, and rendered her comparatively * ilm. " You must permit me to contradict you. The arrange- ment is all your own." " Was it so great a crime to stay last night at Falling? " ** There is no crime anywhere. That you should have made a decision between two men is not a crime." *' No ! I acknowledge I made a decision — but " " When did you make it ? " " Last evening — and though you " " Oh ! no excuses," says he with a frown. " Do you think I desire them ? " He hesitates for a minute or so, and now turas to her abruptly. ** Are you engaged to him finally ? " «' No." " No I " In accents suggestive of surprise so intense as to almost enlarge into disbelief. " You refused him then?" • • - " No," says she again. Her heart seems to die within her. Oh, the sense of shame that overpowers her. A sudden wild, terrible hatred of Beauclerk takes her into possession. Why, why, had he not given her the choice of saying ves, instead of no, to that last searching ques- tion? - *' *' You mean — that he " He stops dead short as if not knowing hOw to proceed. Then, suddenly, his wrath breaks forth. " And for that scoundrel, that fellow with- out a heart, you have sacrificed the best of you — your own heart ! For him, whose word is as light as his oath, you have flung behind you 1 love that would have surrounded you to your dying day. Good heavens 1 What are* women made of? But " He sobers himself at once, as if smitten by some sharp remembrance, and, pale with shame and remorse, looks at her. " Of course," says he, " it is only one heartbroken, as 1 am, who would have dared thus to address you. And it i? plain to me now that there are reasons why he should not have spoken before this. For one thing, you were alone with him ; for another, you are tired, exhausted. No doubt to-morrow he ". 171 APRIL'S LADY, ** How dare you ? " says she in a voice that startles him, a very low voice, but vibrating with outraged pride. " How dare you thus in&ult me? You seem to think — to think — that because — last night — he and I were kept from our home by the storm " She pauses ; that old, tFrst odd sensation of choking now again oppresses her. She lays her hand upon the back of a cliair near her, and presses heavily upon it. " You think I have disgraced myself," says she, the words coming in a little gasp from her parched lips. ** That is why you speak of things being at an end between us. Oh " " You wrong me there," says the young man, who has grown ghastly. " Whatever I may have said, I " " You meant it ! " says she. She draws herself up to the full height of her young, slender figure, and, turning abruptly, moves toward the door. As she reaches it, she looks back at him. "You are a coward ! " she says, in a low, distinct tone alive with scorn. " A coward 1 " CHAPTER XXVni. • • "I have seen the desire of mine eyes, The beginning of love, The season of kisses and sighs, . And the end thereof." Miss Kavanagh put in no appearance at dinner. " A chill," whispered Lady Baltimore to everybody, in her kindly, sympathetic way, caught during that miserable drive yesterday. She hoped it would be nothing, but thought it better to induce Joyce to remain quiet in her own room for the rest of the evening, safe from draughts and the dangers attendant on the baring of her neck and arms. She told her small story beautifully, but omitted to add that Joyce had refused to come downstairs, and that she had seemed so wretchedly low-spirited that at last her hostess had ceased to urge her. She had, however, spent a good deal of time arguing with heron another subject — the girl's fixed determination to go home — " to go back to Barbara" — next day. Lady Balti- more had striven very diligently to turn her from this pur- pose, but all to no avail. She had even gone so far as to APRIL'S LADY, '73 Startles him, ride. "How -to think — >t from our Id, flVst odd • She lays md presses ed myself," ler parched % at an end "f who has •self up to id, turning hes it, she says, in a 11" Pr. « A in her iiserabJe ng, but 't in her raughts Bck and itted to nd that ast her ^Z with n to go Balti- is pur- r as to point out to Joyce that the fact of her thus leaving the Court before the expiration of her visit might suggest itself to some people in a very unpleasant light. They might say she had come to the end of her welcome there — been given her congd, in fact — on account of that luckless adventure with her hostess' brother. Joyce was deaf to all such open hints. She remained obstinately determined not to stay a mlbment longer there than could be helped. Was it because of Norman she was going ? No ; she shook her head with such a look of con- temj)tuous indifference that Lady Baltimore found it im- possible to doubt her, and felt her heart thereby lightened. Was it Felix ? - Miss Kavanagh had evidently resented that question at first, but finally had broken into a passionate fit of tears, and when Lady Baltimore placed her arms round her had not repulsed her. *' But, dear Joyce, he himself is leaving to-morrow." " Oh, let me go home. Do not ask me to sta/. I am more unhappy than I can tell you," said the girl brokenly. " You have had a quarrel with him ? " Joyce bowed her head in a little quick, impatient way. " It is Felix then, Joyce ; not Norman ? Let me say I am glad — for your sake ; though that is a hard thing for a sister to say of her brother. But Norman is selfish. It is his worst fault, perhaps, but a bad oiie. As for this tittle misunderstanding with Felix, it will not last. He loves you, dearest, most honestly. You will make up this tiny ^" ** Nevet ! " said Joyce, interrupting her and releasing herself from her embrace. Her young face looked hard and unforgiving, and Lady Baltimore, with a sigh, decided on saying no more just then. So she went downstairs and told her little tale about Joyce's indisposition, and was believed by nobody. They all said they were sorry, as in duty bound, and perhaps they were, taking their own view of her absence ; but dinner went off extremely well, never- theless, and was considered quite a success. Dysart was present, and was apparently in very high spirits ; so high, indeed, that at odd moments his hostess, knowing a good deal, stared at him. He, who was usually so silent a member, to-night outshone even the versatile B'^auclerk in the lightness and persistency of his conver- sation. '74 ^P^WS LADY, This sudden bur«8f «r the more carelSr hn» °"* '"'^^^ taJk, and even I.. ^ ^°^'' Then it died ^^^f^d themselves risMg to h s feet « '' 8^*"' "'ng do^n hl'^'r f »°'« mental than h^°i sleepless fatieue Z, • *"** '" ^n been of an enth^J ?• 9"ce the Set „? ,1,' fT"" ""^ him. He h!^ f J"«' '"'"est to him t '^" "^""k had abstrusea™ll°""'^ '""self unequal.o ,?^°""'f''.' « bores dulled all SsH "^°'?""'»''- oTe houl, f"'"'"^ "^ ""e her to-morro 7> • otr 't ''^"e 'o-morrof i' hTIs' T ^^^ APRIL'S LADY. »r5 1 throi^ghout 5SS the hour sn lasting till 'have come a themselves t^ prove it exhilaration leed now to • their coup- •vering the ^. the room, :»ve himself e him ; the dread lest lil through to do with nse of go- rary, and, rmined, if the old 'is work, startling sy note, k, and, in an more ok had t bores ■ of the o have eaving rt pro- hours, upon ig his , n- till . / ■'■'/ The increasing stillness of the house seems to weigh upon him, rendering even gloomier his melancholy thoughts. How intolerably quiet the night is, not even a breath of wind is playing in the trees outside. On such a night as this ghosts might walk and demons work their will. There is something ghastly in this unnatural cessation of all sound, all movement. " What a strange power," says Emerson, " there is iii silence." An old idea, yet always new. Who is there who has not been affected by it — has not known that curious, senseless dread of spirits present from some un- known world that very young children often feti ? " Fear came upon me and trembling, which made all my bones to shake," says Job in one of his most dismal moments ; and now to Dysart this strange, unaccountable chill feeling comes. Insensibly, born of the hour and the silence only, and with no smallest dread of things ir. tangible. The small clock on the mantel-piece sends forth a tiny chime, so delicate that in broad daylight, with broader views in the listeners, it might have gone unheard. Now it strikes upon the motionless air as ioudly as though it were the crack of doom. Poor little clock ! struggling to .. be acknowledged for twelve long years of nights and days, now is your revenge — the fruition of all your small am- bitious desires. Dysart starts violently at the sound of it. It is of importance, this little clock,. It hai> wakened him to real life again. He has taken a step toward the door and the bed, the very idea of which up to this has beeij treated by him with ignominy, when — a sound in the hall outside , stays him. An unmistakable step, but so light as to suggest the idea of burglars. Dysart's spirits rise. The melancholy of a moment since deserts him. He looks round for the poker — that nation.il, universal mode of defence when our castles are invaded by the " masked man." He has not time, however, to reach it before the handle : of the door is slowly turned — before the door is as slowly opened, and ; "What is this?" _ ,- ■f--^-'-:-:-:'-^:^^-:^f'^'^'-^'..:-:: For a second Dysart's heart seems to stop beating. He . can only gaze cpellbound at this figure, clad all in white, that walks deliberately into the room, and seemingly ; directly toward him. It is Joyce 1 Joyce 1 ';« '^^PHWs LADY, CHAPTER XXIX. Is she dead or stiJJ r • the flesh „^ '''* 'ooks, and yeSt ^'eat heaven fallen down h^r k ■' i ^^^ brown hat „ . °''" Sieam ■ '•''ngingTa soft h?' ""?' '°°»e„ed from 77"°.' .^''ogether fyes are looktg s ^^.^^t^^r 'oo IhUe face "^^ ^ "» .'he ex^S: e'dge" U.^^'-r' "P- ^ edg^.J^'lr "^l:^" ■ ">g in a dreamlf „.j .? "* '"'ows she is ,»!. ™e «able, Silently, tnd ,1 """ '° 'taking ^'ul-^^' '""^ '^''k- Moves toward fh/^^^f '''■"• »hat me hi" '!'^''""''"«- she slandro„,t,!''PH'=^'^d still ate' ^'ep, she her hands a litflTl ^","S '^at past seen.' i, °"'' ™ her .'not being where yX""'y. a little WinX 1 „!?' f"'" °« ' gropes vfguelyVr ;^''-^'''°"''''e befc^' /^e chair \trembling SanI ™' :' '» a troubled f7,M„ '° •>«. she "is a ver^ sad L^?'''?8 ''^"'ously from tt! °"' ""e little that -crosses fh.f'"' *= sadder L ?[" "<^^ to side, ft melancroT/ctle'-^f/"* ^'eept^ g^, '"°C''r' ^''1"«e ^ '^S?. a lon^, sad^ght^-S ^^es Irlop ovenh S' " -ate' "tUT Sg^'if^i, „ . "^'""' "■•sturSs her &' "-e sf„„d o?'h'?/f2''.'"'-'^^'"«'>' to- APRIL'S LADY, >77 ardon, re to live i give >i i now, indeed, Grreat heaven I ^s she is still in A dull gleam lot altogether hairpins, and sad— gives an -€• The open ig- Her step indeed when of the table, P, and walk- inaccessible, al step, she further, until given up all »• There is some hours the chair on it, trying to ^ow, in her e puts out the chair *o be, she the little > side. It [Ul change pips take a k sightless |ement to- footstep Ifingers in sudden contact with the edge of the table does it, who can tell ; she starts and wakens. At first she stands as if not understanding, and then, with a terrified expression in her now sentient eyes, looks hurriedly around her. Her eyes meet Dysart's. " Don't be frightened," begins he quickly. " How did I come here ? " interrupts she, in a voice panic-stricken. ** I was upstairs ; I remember nothing. It was only a moment since that I Was I asleep ? " She gives a hasty furtive glance at the pretty loose white garment that enfolds her. "I suppose so," says Dysart. "You must have had some disturbing dream, and it drove you down here. It is nothing. Many people walk in their sleep." ** But I never. Oh ! what is it ? " says she, as if appeal- ing to nim to explain herself to herself. •* Was," faintly flushing, " any one else here ? Did any one see me ? ' " No one. They are in bed ; all asleep." " And you ? " doubtfully. " I couldn't sleep," returns he slowly, gazing fixedly at her. ** I must go," says she feverishly. She moves rapidly toward the door*; her one thought seems to be to get back to her own room. She looks ill, unstrung, frightened. This new phase in her has alarmed her. What if, for the future, she cannot even depend upon herself? — cannot know where her mind will carry her when deadly sleep has fallen upon her ? It is a hateful thought. And to bring her here. Where he was. What power has he over her ? Oh ! the sense of relief in thinking that she will be at home to-morrow — s^fe with Barbara. Her hand is on the door. She is going. " Joyce," says Dysart suddenly, sharply. All his soul is in his voice. So keenly it rings, that involuntarily she turns to him. Great agony must make itself felt, and to Dysart, seeing her on the point of leaving him forever, it seems as though his life is being torn from him. In truth she is his life, the entire happiness of it — if she goes through that door unforgiving, she will carry with her all that makes it bearable. She is looking at him. Her eyes are brilliant with ner- vous excitement ; her face pale. Her very lips have lost their color. 178 APRIL'S LADY. " Yes ? * says she intcrrogatively> impatiently. "I am going away to morrow— I shall not " , "Yes, yes — I know. I am going, too." " I shall not see you again ? " :. . '' " I hope not — I think not." She makes another step forward. Opening the door with a little light touch, she places one hand before the candle and peers timidly into the dark hall outside. " Don't let that be your last word to me," says the young man, passionately. " Joyce, hear me ! There must be some excuse for me." " Excuse ? " says she, looking back at him over her shoulder, her lovely face full of curious wonder. " Yes — yes ! I was mad i I didn't mean a word I said —I swear it ! I Joyce, forgive me ! " ^. The words, though whispered, burst from him with a despairing vehemence. He would have caught her hand but that she lifts her eyes to his — such eyes ! There is a little pause, and then : •> L "Oh, no ! Never — never ! " says she. • ' Her tone is very low and clear — not angry, not even hasty or reproachful. Only very sad and certain. It kills all hope. \ ' She goes quickly through the open doorway, closing it behind her. The faint, ghostly sound of her footfalls can be heard as she crosses the hall. After a moment even this light sound ceases. She is indeed gpne ! Ic is all over I " » . . With a kind of desire to hide herself, Joyce has crept into her bed, sore at heart, angry, miserable. No hope that sleep will again visit her has led her to this step, and, indeed, would sleep be desirable? WI at a treacherous part it had played when last it fell on her ! How grieved he looked — how white ! He was evidently most honestly sorry for all the unkind things he had said to her. Not that he had said many, indeed, only — he had looked them. And she, she had been very hard — oh ' too hard. However, thcic vq-? r , end to it. To-morrow would place mors series bo^fv, s : n them, in every way, than APRWS LADY, «7? would ever be recrossed. He would not come here again until he had forgotten her — married, probably. Tjiey would not meet. There should have been comfort in that certainty, bui, alas ! when she sought for it, it eluded her —it was not there. In spite of the trick Somnus had just played her, she would nov gladly have courted him again, if only to escape from ever growing regret. But though she turns from side to side in a vain endeavor to secure him, that cruel god persistently denies her, and with mournful memories and tired eyes, she lies, watching, waiting for the tender break- ing of the dawn upon the purple hills. Slowly, slowly comes up the sun. Coldly, and with a tremulous lingering, the light shines en land and sea. Then sounds the bursting chants of birds, the rush of streams, the gentle sighings of the winds through herb and foliage. Joyce, thankful for the blessed daylight, flings the clothes aside, and with languid step, and eyes, sad always, but grown weary, too, with sleeplessness and thoughts unkind, moves lightly to the window. Throwing wide the casement, she lets the cool morning air flow in. A new day has arisen. What will it bring her ? What can it bring, save disappointment only and a vain regret ? Oh ! why must she, of all people, be thus unblessed upon this blessed morn ? Never has the sun seemed brighter — the whole earth a greater glow of glory. " Welcome, the lord of light and lamp of day : Welcome, fosterer of tender herbis green ; Welcome, quickener of flourish'd flowers' sheen. Welcome «3 social artillery of gossip. There is only on^ thing in the whole affair," says Mr. Monkton, seriously, ** that has given me a moment's uneasiness." " And that ? " says Joyce, nervously. ** Is how I can possibly be second to both of them. Dy- sart, I confess, has my sympathies, but if Beauclerk were to appear first upon tlie field and implore my assistance I feel I should have a delicacy about refusing him." " Freddy," says his wife, reprovingly. ** Oh, as for that," says Joyce, with a frown, " I do think men are the most troublesome things on earth." She burst out presently. " When one isn't loving them, one is hating them." " How many of them at a time ? " asks her brother-in-law with deep interest. " Not more than two, Joyce, please. I couldn't grasp any more. My intellect is of a very limited order." " So is mine, I think," says Joyce, with a tired little sigh. Monkton, although determined to treat the matter lightly, looks very sorry for her. Evidently she is out of joint with the whole world at present. *' How did Lady Baltimore I'ake it ? " asks he, with all the careless air at one asking a question on some unim- portant subject, " She was angry with Mr. Beauclerk for not leaving me at the inn, and coming home himself." *' Unsisterly woman ! " " She was quite right, after all," says Mrs. Monkton, who had defended Beauclerk herself, but cannot bear to hear another take his part. "And, Dysart — how did he take it?" asks Monkton, smiling. " I don t see how he should take it, anyway." says Joyce, coldly. ** Not even with soda water ? " says her brother-in-law. " Of course, it would be too much to expect him to take it neat. You broke it gently to him I hope." " Ah, you don't understand Mr. Dysart," says the girl^ rising abruptly. " I did not understand him until yester- day." " Is he so very abstruse ? " ,. *• He is very insolent," says Miss Kavartagh, with a« sudden touch of fire, that makes her sister look at her with some uneasiness. r«o«' mi ■»!■— M^—r»^»yr- 184 APRIVS LADY. " I see," says Mr. Monkton, slowly. He still, unfor- tunately, looks amused. " One nsver does know anybody until he or she gives way to a towering passion. So he gave you a right good scolding for being caught in the rain with Beauclerk. A little unreasonable, surely ; but lovers never yet were famous for their common sense. That little ingredient was forgotten in their composition. And so he gave you a lecture ? " " Well, he is not likely to do it again," says she slowly. " No ? Then it is more than likely that I shall be the one to be scolded presently. He won't be able to con- tent himself with silence. He will want to air his griev- ances, to revenge them on some one, and if you refuse to see him, I shall be that one. There is really only one small remark to be made about this whole matter," says Mr. Monkton, with a rueful smile, " and it remains forme to make it. If you will encourage two suitors at the same time, my good child, the least you may expect is trouble. You are bound to look out for * breakers ahead,' but (and this is the remark) it is very hard lines for a fourth and most innocent person to have those suitors dropped straight on him without a second's notice. I'm not a bom warrior ; the brunt of the battle is a sort of gayety that I confess myself unsuited for. I haven't been educated up to it. I " " There will be no battle," says Joyce, in a strange tone, " because there will be no combatants. For a battle there must be something to fight for, and here there is nothing. You are all wrong, Freddy. You will find out that after awhile. I have a headache, Barbara. I think," raising her lovely but pained eyes to her sister, " I should like to go into the garden*for a little bit. The air there is always so sweet." " Go, darling," says Barbara, whose own eyes have filled with tears. " Oh, Freddy," turning reproachfully to her husband as the door closes on Joyce, " how could you so have taken her ? You must have seen how unhapi y she was. And all about that horrid Beauclerk." Monkton stores at her. " " So that is how you read it," says he at last. " There is no difficulty about the reading. Could it be in larger print?*' l*^ Large enough, certainly, as to the unhappiness, but h'tt swil incj pre] me "A kee{ agrc APRWS LADY, 185 be in 5, but for 'Beauclerk' I should advise the printer to insert Dysart.'* "Dysart? Felix?" " Unless, indeed, you could suggest a third." " Nonsense ! " says Mrs. Monkton, contemptuously. " She has never cared for poor Felix. How I wish she had. He is worth a thousand of the other; but girls are so perverse." " They are. That is just my point," says her husband. " Joyce is so perverse that she won't allow herself to see that it is Dysart she preferred. However, there is one comfort, she is paying for her perversity." " Freddy," says his wife, after a long pause, " do you really think that ? " " ** What ? That girls are perverse ? " " No, no ! That she likes Felix best?" ; " That is indeed my fixed belief." " Oh, Freddy I " cries his wife, throwing herself into his arms. " How beautiful of you. I've always wanted to think that, but never could until now — now that " " My clear judgment has been brought to bear upon it. Quite right, my dear, always regard your husband as a sort of demi-god, who " " Pouf ! " says she. " Do you think I was born with- out a grain of sense ? But really, Freddy Oh ! if it might be ! Poor, poor darling ! how sad she looked. If they have had a serious quarrel over her drive with that detestable Beauclerk — why — I " Here she bursts into tears, and with her face buried on Monkton's waistcoat, makes little wild dabs at the air with a right hand that is only to be appeased by having Monkton's handkerchief thrust into it. * ** What a baby you are ! " says he, giving her a loving little shake. " I declare, you were well named. The swift transitions from the tremendous ' Barbara * to the inconsequent * Baby ' takes but an inst?*^t, and exactly ex- presses you. A moment ago you were bent on withering me : now, I am going to wither you." " Oh, no 1 don't," says she, half laughing, half crying. " And besides, it is you who are inconsequent. You never keep to one point for a second." " Why should I ? " says he, " when it is such a dis- agreeable one. There let us give up for the day. We •I ^p IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) ^O ^J^.% :/. 1.0 I.I us lU Hi 1^ 1^ 1^ 2.0 1.8 1-25 1 1.4 1 1.6 V^. W Photographic Sdences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. MS80 (716) 872-4503 w. ^v iV !V |86 APRIL'S LADY. can write To be continued' after it, and begii^ a fresh chapter to-morrow." Meantime, Joyce, making her way to the garden with a hope of finding there, at all events, silence, and oppor- tunity for thought, seats herself upon a garden chair, and gives herself up a willing prey to melancholy. She had desired to struggle against this evil, but it had conquered her, and tears rising beneath her lids are falling on her cheeks, when two small creatures emerging from the sum- mer house on her left catch sight of her. They had been preparing for a rush, a real Redshank, painted and feathered, descent upon her, when something in her sorrowful attitude becomes known to them. Fun dies within their kind little hearts. Their Joyce has come home to them — that is a matter for joy, but their Joyce has come home unhappy — that is a matter for grief. Step by step, hand in hand, they approach her, and even at the very last, with their little breasts overflowing with the delight of getting her back, it is with a very gentle precipitation that the* throw themselves upon her. And it never occurs to them, either, to trouble her fo.r an explanation ; no probing questions issue from their lips. She is sorry, that is all. It is enough for their sympathies. Too much. Joyce herself is hardly aware of the advent of the little comforters, until two small arms steal around her neck, and she finds Mabel s face pressed close against her own. " Let me kiss her, too," says Tommy, trying to push his sister away, and resenting openly the fact of her having secured the first attempt at consolation. " You mustn't tease her, she's sorry. She's very sorry about something," says Mabel, turning up Joyce's face with her pink palm. " Aren't you, Joyce ? There's drop- pies in your eyes ? " " A little, darling," says Joyce, brokenly. " Then I'll be sorry with you," says the child, with all childhood's divine intuition that to sorrow alone is to know a double sorrow. She hugs Joyce more closely with her tender arms, and Joyce, cifter a battle with her braver self, gives way, and breaks into bitter tears. " There now ! you've made her cry right out ! You're a naughty girl," says Tommy, to his sister in a raging APRIVS LADY. 187 sh t\ a lor- and had ered her sum- lank, thing Joyce t their grief, i even g with r gentle j her for m their )r their the liuie ;r neck, ler own. push his ir having lery sorry 'ce's face re's drop- \ with all « me is to [osely with ler braver I You're a raging tone, meant to hide the fact that he too, himself is on ihc point of giving way ; in fact, another moment sees him dissolved in tears. " Never mind, Joycie. Never mind. We love you ! " sobs he, getting up on the back of the seat behind her, and making a very excellent attempt at strangulation. "Do you? Tiiere doesn't seem to be any one else, then, but you ! " says poor Joyce, dropping Mabel into her lap, and Tommy more to the front, and clasping them both to her with a little convulsive movement. Perhaps the good cry she has on top of those two loving little heads does her more good than anything else could possibly have done. CHAPTER XXXI. ** A bitter and perplexed ' What shall I do ? ' Is worse to man than worse necessity." Three months have come and gone, and winter is upon us. It is close 0:1 Christmastide indeed. All the trees lie bare and desolat<-', the leaves have fallen from them, and their sweet denizens, the birds, flown or dead. Evening has fallen. The children are in the nursery, having a last romp before bed hour. Their usual ha])py hunting ground for that final fling is the drawing-room, but finding the atmosphere there, to-night, distinctly cloudy, they had beaten a simultaneous retreat to Bridget and the batt'^red old toys upstairs. Children, like rats, dislike dis- comfort. Mrs. Monkton, sitting before the fire, that keeps up a continuous sound as musical as the rippHng of a small stream, is leaning back in her chair, her pretty forehead puckered into a thousand doubts. Joyce> near her, is as silent as she is ; while Mr. Monkton, after a vain pretence at being absorbed in the morning paper (diligently digested at 1 1 this morning), flings it impatiently on the floor, " What's the good of your looking like that, Barbara? If you were compelled to accept this invitation from my mother, I could see some reason for your dismal glances, but when you know I am as far from wishing you to accept it as you are yourself, why should " ;■ ■ ti ■ 'Lm i iS8 APRIL'S LADY, '' Ah ! but are you ? " says his wife with a swift, dissatis- fied glance at him. The dissatisfaction is a good deal directed toward herself. " If you could make her sure of that," says Joyce, softly. " I have tried to explain it to her, but " " 1 suppose I am unreasonable," says Barbara, rising, with a little laugh that has a good deal of grief in it. ** I suppose I ought to believe," turning to her husband, " that you are dying for me to refuse this invitation from the peo- ple who have covered me with insult for eight years, when I know well that you are dying for me to accept it." " Oh ! if you know that," says Monkton rather feebly, it must be confessed. This fatally late desire on the part of his people to become acquainted with his wife and children has taken hold of him, has lived with him through the day, not for anything he personally could possibly gam by it, but because of a deep desire he has that they, his father and mother, should see and know his wife, and learn to admire her and love her. " Of course I know it," says Barbara, almost fiercely. " Do you think I have lived with you all these years and cannot read your heart ? Don't think I blame you, Fred- dy. If the cases were reversed I should feel just like you. I should go to any lengths to be at one with my own peo- ple." ** I don't want to go to even the shortest length," says Mr. Monkton. As if a little nettled he takes up the dull old local paper again and begins a third severe examination of it. But Mrs. Monkton, feeling that she cannot survive another silence, lays her hand upon it and captures it. " Let us talk about it, Freddy," says she. " It will only make you more unhappy." **0h, no. I think not. It will do her good," says Joyce, anxiously. " Where is the letter ? I hardly saw it. Who is asked ? " demands Barbara feverishly. " Nobody in particular, except you. My father has ex- pressed a wish that we should occupy that house of his in Harley street for the winter months, and my mother puts in, accidentally as it were, that she would like to see the children. But you are the one specially alluded to." ** They are too kind ! " says Barbara rather unkindly to herself. . thii frif bit] waj chel thaf Wq] APRWS LADY. 1S9 says dull Ltion :vive says led ? " las ex- ibis in puts tee the idly to *' I quite see it in your light. It is an absolute imperti- nence," says Monkton, with a suppressed sigh. " I allow all that. In fact, I am with you, Barbara, all through : why keep me thinking about it ? Put it out of your head. It requires nothing more than a polite refusal." " I shall hate to make i*^ polite," says Barbara. And then, recurring to her first and sure knowledge of his secret desires, " you want to go to them ? " " I shall never go without you," returns he gravely. " Ah ! that is almost a challenge," says she, flushing. ** Barbara ! perhaps he is right," says Joyce, gently ; as she speaks she gets up from the fire and makes her way to the door, and from that to her own room. " Will you go without me ? " says Barbara, when she has gone, looking at her husband with large, earnest eyes. ** Never. You say you know me thoroughly^ Barbara ; why then ask that question ? " " Well, you will never go then," says she, *' for I — I will never enter those people's doors. I couldn't, Freddy. It would kill me ! " She has kept up her defiant attitude so successfully and for so long that Mr. Monkton is now electrified when she suddenly bursts into tears and throws herself into his arms. " You think me a beast ! " says she, clinging to him. " You are tired ; you are bothered. Give it up, darling," says he, patting her on the back, the most approved mod- ern plan of reducing people to a state of common sense. " But you do think it, don't you ? " " No, Barbara. There now, be a good sensible girl, and try to realize that I don't want you to accept this invita- tion, and that I am going to write to my mother in the morning to say it is impossible for us to leave home just now — as — as — eh ? " ** Oh, anything will do." " As baby is not very well ? That's the usual polite thing, eh ? " . ** Oh I no, don't say that," says Mrs. Monkton in a little frightened tone. " It — it's unlucky ! It might — I'm not a bit superstitious, Freddy, but it might affect baby in some way — do him some harm." " Very well, we'll tell another lie," says Mr. Monkton cheerfully. " We'll say you've got the neuralgia badly, and that the doctor says it would be as much as your life is worth to cross the Channel at this time of year." ;J:' ■■•4 V* . ■"iff '■>\ \V']- 190 APRWS LADY. " That will do very well," says Mrs. Monkton readily. " But — I'm not a bit superstitious," says he solemnly. " But it might affect you in some way, do you some harm, and " " If you are going to make a jest of it, Freddy *' " It is you who have made the jest. Well ; never mind, I accept the responsibility, and will create even another taradiddle. If I say we are disinclined to leave home just now, will that do ? '' " Yes," says she, after a second's struggle with her better self, in which it comes off the loser. " That's settled, then," says Mr. Monkton. " Peace with honor is assured. Let us forget that unfortunate letter, and all the appurtenances thereof." " Yes : do let us, Freddy," says she, as if with all her heart. But the morning convinces Monkton that the question of the letter still remains unsettled. Barbara, for one thing, has come down to breakfast gowned in her very best morn- ing frock, one reserved for those rare occasions when people drop in over night and sleep with them. She has, indeed, all the festive appearance of a person who expects to be called away at a second's notice into a very vortex of dissipation. Joyce, who is quite as impressed as Monkton with her appearance, gazes at her with a furtive amazement, and both she and Monkton wait in a sort of studied silence to know the meaning of it. They aren't given long to possess their souls in patience. " Freddy, I don't think Mabel ought to have any more jam," says Mrs. Monkton, presently, "or Tommy either." She looks at the children as she speaks, and sighs softly. ** It will cost a great deal," says she. " The jam ! " says her husband. " Well, really, at the rate they are consuming it — I " " Oh, no. The railway — the boat — the fare — the whole journey," says she. " The journey? " says Joyce. " Why, to England, to take them over there to "26 their grandmother," says Mrs. Monkton calmly. he cl d( n( ski IS •7Wp_f»->lW. APRJVS LADY, 191 rnore litber." softly. at the whole je their " But, Barbara- n " Well, dear ? " "I thought " '* Barbara ! I really consider that question decided," says her husband, not severely, however. Is the dearest wish of his heart to be accomplished at last ? "I thought you had finally made up your mind to refuse my mother's in- vitation ? " ** I shall not refuse it," says she, slowly, " whatever you may do." "I?" " You said you didn't want to go," says his wife severely. " But I have been thinking it over, and " Her tone has changed, and a slight touch of pink has come into her pretty cheeks. " After all, Freddy, why should I be the one to keep you from your people ? " " You aren't keeping me. Don't go on that.'* " Well, then, will you go by yourself and see them ? « Certainly not." ^ " Not even if I give you the children to take ove]^ '* " Not even then." " You see," says she, with a sort of sad triumph, " I am keeping you from them. What I mean is, that if you had never met me you would now be friends with them." "I'd a great deal rather be friends with you," says he struggling wildly but firmly with a mutton chop that has been done 10 death by a bad cook. " I know that," in a low and troubled tone, " but I know^ too, that there is always unhappiness where one is on bad ternis with one's father and mother." * My dear girl, I can't say what bee you have got in your bonnet now, but I beg you to believe, I am perfectly happy at this present moment, in spite of this confounded chop that has been done to a chip. ' God sends meat, the devil sends cooks.' That's not a prayer. Tommy, you needn't commit it to memory." " But there's * God ' and the * devil ' in it," says Tommjj, skeptically : " that always means prayers." " Not this time. And you can't pray to both ; your mother has taught you that ; you should teach her some- thing in return. That's only fair, isn't it ? " " She knows everything," says Tommy, dejectedly. It is quite plain to his hearers that he regrets his mother'^ "'*; ^'■*r- m APHIVS LADY, universal knovledge — that he would have dearly liked to give her a lesson or two. " Not everything," says his father. " For example, she cannot understand that I am the happiest man in the world ; she imagines I should be better off if she was somebody else's wife and somebody else's mother." " Whose mother ? " demands Tommy, his eyes growing round. *' Ah, that's just it. You must ask her. She has evidently some arriire pensie." " Freddy," says his wife in a low tone. " Well ! What am I to think ? You see," to Tommy, who is now deeply interested, " if she wasn't your mother, • she'd be somebody else's." " No, she wouldn't," breaks in Tommy, indignantly. " I wouldn't let her, I'd hold on to her. I — " with his mouth full of strawberry jam, yet striving nobly to overcome his difficulties of expression, " I'd beat her ! " " You shouldn't usurp my privileges," says his father, mildljT "'Barbara ! " says Joyce, at this moment. *' If you have decided on going to London, I think you have decided wisely ; and it may not be such an expense after all. You and Freddy can manage the two eldest children very well on the journey, and I can look after baby until you return. Or else take nurse, and leave baby entirely to me.'' Mrs. Monkton makes a quick movement. II:; CHAPTER XXXII. J ** And I go to brave a world I hate, And woo it o'er and o'er ; And tempt a wave and try a fate Upon a stranger shore.'* " I SHALL take the three children and you, too, or I shall not go at all," says she, addressing her sister with an air of decision. " If you have really made up your mind about it," says Mr. Monkton, " I agree with you. The house in Harley street is big enough for a regiment, and my mother says the servants will be in it on our arrival, if we accept the APRWS LADY. ■93 invitation. Joyce will be a great comfort to us, and a help on the journey over, the children are so fond of her." Joyce turns her face to her brother-in-law and smiles in a little pleased way. She has been so grave of late that they welcome a smile from her now at any time, and even court it. The pretty lips, erstwhile so prone to laughter, are now too serious by far. When, therefore, Monkton or his wife go out of their way to gain a pleased glance from her and succeed, both feel as if they had achieved a victory. " Why have they offered us a separate establishment ? Was there no room for us in their own house? " asks Mrs. Monkton presently. " I dare say they thought we should be hapoier, so — in a place of our own." " Well, I dare say we shall." She pauses for a moment. " Why are they in town now — at this time of year? Why are they not in their country house ? " " Ah ! that is a last thorn in their flesh,'' says Monkton, with a quick sigh. " They have had to let the old place to pay my brother's debts. He is always a trouble to them. This last letter points to greater trouble still." '* And in their trouble they have turned to you — to the little grandchildren," says Joyce, softly. " One can under- stand it." " Oh, yes. Oh, you should have told me," says Barbara, flushing as if with pain. " I am the hardest person alive, 1 think. You think it ? " looking directly at her husband. " I think only one thing of you," says Mr. Monkton, rising from the breakfast table with a slight laugh. " It is what \ have always thought, that you are the dearest and loveliest thing on earth." The bantering air he throws into this speech does not entirely deprive it of the truthful tenderness that formed it. " There," says he, " that ought to take the gloom off" the brow of any well-regulated woman, coming as it does from an eight-year-old husband." " Oh, you must be older than that," says she, at which they all laugh together. " You are wise to go, Barbara," says Joyce, now in a livelier way, as if that last quick, unexpected feeling of amusement has roused her to a sharper sense of life. " If once they see you ! — No, you mustn't put up your shoulder like that — I tell you, if once they looked at you, they would feel the measure of their folly." 13 il 10 194 APRIL'S LADY, " I shall end by fancying myself," says Mrs. Monkton, impatiently, "and then you will all liave fresh work cut out for yod ; the bringing of me back to my proper senses. Well," with a sigh, " as 1 have to see them, 1 wish " "What?" '* That I could be a heartier believer in your and Joyce's flattery, or else, that they, your people, were not so pre- judiced against me. It will be an ordeal." '' When you are about it wish them a few grains of com- mon sense," says her husband wrathfully. •' Just fancy ihe folly of an impertinence that condemned a fellow being on no evidence whatsoever ; neither eye nor ear were brought in as witnesses." " Oh, well," says she, considerably mollified by his defamation of his people, " I dare say they are not so much to be blamed after all. And," with a little, quick laugh at her sister, "as Joyce says, my beauties are still unknown to them ; they will be delighted when they see me. "They will, indeed," returns Joyce stolidly. "And so you are really going to take me with you. Oh, I am glad. I haven't spent any of my money this winter, Barbara ; I have some, therefore, and I have always wanted to see London." " It will be a change for the children, too," says Bar- bara, with a troubled sigh. " I suppose," to her husband, " they will think them very countrified." **Who?" " Your mother " ; " What do you think of them ? " "Oh, that has got nothing to do with it." " Everything rather. You are analyzing tnem. You are exalting an old woman who has been unkind to you at the expense of the children who love you ! " " Ah, she analyzes them because she too loves them," says Joyce. " It is easy to pick faults in those who have a, real hold upon our hearts. For the rest — it doesn't concern us how the world regards them." " It sounds as if it ought to read the other way round," says Monkton. " No, no. To love is to see faults, not to be blind to them. The old reading is wrorig," says Joyce. " You are unfair, Freddy," declares his wife with dignity : I APRWS LADY, ildren. «95 " I would not decry the cnuaren. i am only a little ner- vous as to their reception. When I know that your father and mother are prepared to receive them as my children, I know they will get but little mercy at their hands." **That speech isn't like you," says Monkton, *' but it is impossible to blame you for it." "They are the dearest children in the world," says Joyce. ** Don't think of them. They must succeed. Let them alone to fight their own battles." " You may certainly depend upon Tommy," says his father. '' For any emergency that calls for fists and heels, where battle, murder and sudden death are to be looked for. Tommy will be all there." " Oh I I do hope he will be good," says his mother, half amused, but plainly half tefiifie*' as well. iitv : Two weeks later sees them settled in town, in the Harley street house, that seems enormous and unfriendly to Mrs. Monkton, but delightful to Joyce and the children, who wander from room to room and, under her guidance, pre- tend to find bears and lions and bogies in every corner. The meeting between Barbara and Lady Monkton had not been satisfactory. There had been very little said on either side, but the chill that lay on the whole interview had never thawed for a moment. Barbara had been stiff and cold, if entirely polite, but not at all the Barbara to whom her husband had been up to this accustomed. He did not blame her for the change of front under the circumstances, but he could hardly fail to regret it, and it puzzled him a great deal to know how she did it. He was dreadfully sorry about it secretly, and would have given very much more than the whole thing was worth to let his father and mother see his wife as she really is — the true Barbara. Lady Monkton had been stiff, too ; unpardonably so — as it was certainly her place to make amends — to soften and smooth down the preliminary embarrassment. But then she had never been framed for suavity of any sort ; and an old aunt of Monkton's, a sister of hers, had been present during the interview, and had helped considerably to keep up the frigidity of the atmosphere. 19^ APh'ir:.^ LADV. She was not a bad old woman at heart, this aunt. She had indeed froir time to time given up all her own small patrimony to help her sister to get the eldest son out of his many disreputable difficulties. She had done this, partly for the sake of the good old family names on both sides, and partly because the younger George Monkton was very dear to her. From his early boyhood the scapegrace of tne family had been her admiration, and still remained so, m imagin- ation. For years she had not seen him, and perhaps this (that she considered a grievance was a kindness vouch- safed to her by Providence. Had she seen the pretty boy of twenty years ago as he now is she would not have recog- nized him. The change from the merry, blue-eyed, daring lad of the past to the bloated, blear-eyed, reckless-looking man of to-day would have been a shock too cruel for her to bear. }3ut this she was not allowed to realize, and so remained true to her belief in him, as she remembered him. In spite of her many good qualities, she was, neverthe- less, a dreadful woman ; the more dreadful to the ordinary visitor because of the false front she wore, and the flashing purchased teeth that shone in her upper jaw. She lived entirely with Sir George and Lady Monkton, having indeed given them every penny that would have enabled her to live elsewhere. Perhaps of all the many spites they owed their elder son, the fact that his iniquities had inflicted upon them his maternal aunt for the rest of her natural days, was the one that rankled keenest. She disliked Frederic, not only intensely, but with an openness that had its disadvantages — not for any ereater reason than that he had behaved himself so far in his jour- ney through life more creditably than his brother. She had always made a point against him of his undutiful mar- riage, and never failed to add fuel to the fire of his father's and mother's resentment about it, whenever that fire seemed to burn low. Altogether, she was by no means an amiable old lady, and, being very hideous into the bargain, was not much run after by society generally. She wasn't of the least consequence in any way, being not only old but very poor ; yet people dreaded her, and would slip away round doors and comers to avoid her tongue. She succeeded, in spite of all drawbacks, in making herself felt ; and it was only I \ APRWS LADY. T97 one or two impervious beings, such as Dicky Browne for example (who knew the Monktons well, and was indeed distantly connected with them through his mother), who could endure her manners with any attempt at equanimity. mar- .1 spite \ only CHAPTER XXXIII. ** Strength wanting judgment and policy to rule overtumeth itself." It was quite impossible, of course, that a first visit to Lady Monk ton should be a last from Barbara. Lady Monkton had called on her the very day after her arrival in town, but Barbara had been out then. On the occasion of the latter's return visit the old woman had explained that going out was a trial to her, and Barbara, in spite of her unconquerable dislike to her, had felt it to be her duty to go and see her now and then. The children, too, had been a great resource. Sir George, especially, had taken to Tommy, who was quite unabashed by the grandeur of the stately, if faded, old rooms in the Belgravian mansion, but was full of curiosity, and spent his /isits to his grand- father cross-examining him about divers matters — ques- tionable and otherwise — that tickled the old man and kept him laughing. It had struck Barbara that Sir George had left off laugh- ing for some time. He looked haggard — uneasy — miser- ably expectant. She liked him better than she liked Lady Monkton, and, though reserved with both, relaxed more to him than to her mother-in-law. For one thing, Sir George had been unmistakably apprecictive of her beauty, and her soft voice and pretty manners. He liked them all. Lady Monkton had probably noticed them quite as keenly, but they had not pleased her. They were indeed an offence. They had placed her in the wrong. As for old Miss L'Estrange, the aunt, she regarded the young wife from the first with a dislike she took no pains to conceal. This afternoon, one of many that Barbara has given up to duty, finds her as usual in Lady Monkton's drawing room listening to her mother-in-law's comments on this and that, and trying to keep up her temper, for Frederic's sake, when the old lady fmds fault with her management of the children. -f 198 APRWS LADY, I ' The latter (that is, Tommy and Mabel) nave been sent to the pantomime by Sir George, and Barbara with her husband have dropped in towards the close of the day to see Lady Monkton, with a view to recovering the children there, and taking them home with them, Sir George having expressed a wish to see the little ones after the play, and hear Tommy's criticisms on it, which he promised himself would be lively. He had already a great belief in the powers of Tommy's descriptions. In the meantime the children have not returned, and conversation, it must be confessed, languishes. Miss L'Estrange, who is present in a cap of enormous dimen- sions and a temper calculated to make life hideous to her neighbors, scarcely helps to render more bearaole the dull- ness of everything. Sir George in a corner is buttonholing Frederic and saddening him with last accounts of the Scapegrace. Barbara has come to her final pretty speech — silence seems imminent — when suddenly Lady Monkton flings into it a bombshell that explodes, and carries away with it all fear of commonplace dullness at all events. " You have a sister, I believe," says she to Barbara in a tone she fondly but erroneously imagines gracious. " Yes," says Barbara, softly but curtly. The fact that Joyce's existence has never hitherto been alluded to by Lady Monkton renders her manner even colder than usual, which is saying everything. *' She lives with you? " " Yes," says Barbara again. Lady Monkton, as if a little put out by the determined taciturnity of her manner, moves forward on her seat, and pulls the lace lappets of her dove-gray cap more over to the front impatiently. Long, soft lappets they are, falling from a gem of a little cay, made of priceless lace, and with a beautiful old face beneath to frame. A face like an old miniature; and as stern as most of them, but charming for all that and perfect in every line. " Makes herself useful, no doubt," growls Miss L'Es- trange from the opposite lounge, her evil old countenance glowing with the desire to offend. ** That's why one har- bors one's poor relations — to get something out of them." This is a double-barrelled explosion. One barrel for the detested wife of the good Frederic, one for the sister she has befriended — to that sister's cost. ' • e - I APRWS LADY, 199 « True, Lady Monkton, with L'Es- nance le har- hem." rel for sister I 1 uncivil little up- ward glance at Barbara. For once — because it suits her — she has accepted her sister's argument, and determined to take no heed of her scarcely veiled insult. " She helps you, no doubt. Is useful with the children, I hope. Money- less girls should remember that they are born into the world to work, not to idle." " I am afraid Fhe is not as much help to me as you evi- dently think necessary," says Barbara smiling, but not pleasantly. " She is very seldom at home ; in the summer at all events." It is abominable to her to think that these hateful old people should regard Joyce, her pretty Joyce, as a mere servant, a sisterly maid-of-all-work. " And if not with you — where then ? " asks Lady Monk- ton, indiiferently, and as if more with a desire to keep up the dying conversation than from any acute thirst for know- ledge. " She stays a good dead with Lady Baltimore," says Barbara, feeling weary, and rather disgusted. " Ah ! indeed ! Sort of companion — a governess, I sup- pose ? " A long pause. Mrs. Monkton's dark eyes grow danger- ously bright, and a quick color springs into her cheeks. " No ! " begins she, in a low but indignant tone, and then suppresses herself. She can't, she mustn't quarrel with Freddy's people ! *' My sister is neither companion nor governess to Lady Baltimore," says she icily. " She is only — her friend." " Friend ? " repeats the old lady, as if not quite under- standing. " A great friend," repeats Barbara calmly. Lady Monk- ton^s astonishment is even more insulting than her first question. But Barbara has made up her mind to bear all things. " There are friends, and friends," puts in Miss L'Es- trange with her most offensive air. A very embarrassing silence falls on this, Barbara would say nothing more, an inborn sense of dignity forbidding her. But this does not prevent a very natural desire on her part to look at her husband, not so much to claim his support as to know if he has heard. One glance assures her that he has. A pause in the conversation with his father has enabled him to hear every- 200 APRIL'S LADY, thing. Barbara has just time to note that his brow is black and his lips ominously compressed before she sees him advance toward his mother. "You seem to be very singularly ignorant of my wife's status in society " he is beginning is a rather terrible tone, when Barbara, with a little graceful gesture, checks him. She puts out her hand and smiles up at him, a won- derful smile under the circumstances. " Ah ! that is just it," she says, sweetly, but with deter- mination. " She is ignorant where we are concerned — Joyce and I. If she had only spared time to ask a little question or two ! But as it is " The whole speech is purposely vague, but full of contemptuous rebuke, deli- cately veiled. **It is nothing, I assure you, Freddy. Your mother is not to be blamed. She has not understood. That is all." " I fail even now to understand," says the old lady, with a somewhat tremulous attempt at self-assertion. " So do I," says the antique upon the lounge near her, bristling with a wrath so warm that it has unsettled the noble structure on her head, and placed it in quite an art- ful situation, right over her left ear. " I see nothing to create wrath in the mind of any one, in the idea of a young — er " She comes to a dead pause ; she had plainly been going to say young person — but Frederic's glare had been too much for her. It has frightened her into good behavior, and she changes the obnoxious word into one more complaisant. " A young what ? " demands he imperiously, freezing his aunt with a stony stare. " Young girl ! " returns she, toning down a little, but still betraying malevolence of a very advanced order in her voice and expression. " I see nothing derogatory in the idea of a young girl devoid of fortune taking a " Again she would have said something insulting. The word " situation " is on her lips ; but the venom in her is suppressed a second time by her nephew. " Goon," says he, sternly. " Taking a — er — position in a nice family," says she, almost spitting out the words like a bad old cat. " She has a position in a very nice family," says Monk- ton readily. " In mine ! As companion, friend, playfellow, in fact anything you li"i;e of the light order of servitude. ^1 !.?. A PR TVS LADY. so I We all serve, my -dear aunt, though that idea doesn't seem to have come home to you. We must all be in bondage to each other in this world — the only real freedom is to be gained in the world to come. You have never thought of tnat ? Well, think of it now. To be kind, to be sympa- thetic, to be even commonly civil to people is to fulfil the law's demands." " You go too far ; she is 'old, Freddy," Barbara has scarcely time to whisper, when the door is thrown open, and Dicky Browne, followed by Felix Dysart, enters the room. It is a relief to everybody. Lady Monkton rises to re- ceive them with a smile. Miss L'Estrange looks into the teapot. Plainly she can still see some tea leaves there. Rising, she inclines the little silver kettle over them, and creates a second deluge. She has again made tea. May she be forgiven ! ** Going to give us some tea, Miss L'Estrange ? " says Dicky, bearing down upon her with a beaming face. She has given him some before this. *' One can always depend upon you for a good cup. Ah, thanks. Dysart, I can recommend this. Have a cup ; do." " No, thank you," says Dysart, who has secured a seat next to Barbara, and is regarding her anxiously, while replying to her questions of surprise at seeing him in town at this time of year. She is surprised too, and a little shocked to see him look so ill. Dicky is still holding a brilliant conversation with Miss L'Estrange, who, to him, is a joy for ever. '' Didn't expect to see me here again so soon, eh ? " says he, with a cheerful smile. " There you are wrong," returns that spinster, in the hoarse croak that distinguishes her. " The fact that you were here yesterday and couldn't reasonably be supposed to come again for a week, made it at once a certainty that you would turn up immediately. The unexpected is what always happens where you are concerned." " One of my many charms," says Mr. Browne gayly, hiding his untasted cup by a skillful movement behind the sugar bowl. " Variety, you know, is ever charming. I'm a various person, therefore I'm charming." " Are you ? " says Miss L'Estrange, grimly. "Can you look at me and doubt it?" demands Mr, Browne, deep reproach in his eyes. ^ -i*^ ■ ^.^ r ■ 3oa APRIL'S LADY 1 1 ir ■>^. ** I can," returns Miss L'Estrangc, presenting an uncom- promising front. "I can also-'^suggest to you that those lumps of sugar are meant to put in the cups with the tea, not to be consumed wholesale. Sugar, plain, is ruinous to the stomach and disastrous to the teeth." ** True, true," says Mr. Browne, absently, " and both mine are so pretty.' Miss L'Estrange rises to her feet and confronts him with a stony glare. " Both what? " demands she. " Eh? Why, both of them," persists Mr. Browne. " I think, Richard, that the sooner you return to your hotel, or whatever low haunt you have chosen as your present abode, the better it will be for all present." ** Why so ? " demands Mr. Browne, indignantly. " What have I done now ? " " You know very well, sir," says Miss L'estrange. "Your language is disgraceful. You take an opportunity of turning an innocen*^ remark of mine, a kindly warning, into a ribald " " Good heavens ! " says he, uplifting brows and hands. *• I never yet knew it was ribaldry to talk about one's teeth." " You were not talking about your teeth," says Miss L'Estrange sternly. ** You said distinctly ' both of them.' " " Just so," says Dicky. " I've only got two." "Is that the truth, Richard?" with increasing majesty. "Honest Injun," says Mr. Browne, unabashed. "And they are out of sight. All you can see have been pur- chased, and I assure you, dear Miss L'Estrange," with anxious earnestness, " paid for. One guinea the entire set ; a single tooth, two-and-six. Who'd be without 'em ? " "Well, I'm sorry to hear it," says Miss L'Estrange reseating herself and regarding him still with manifest dis- trust. " To lose one's teeth so early in life speaks badly for one's moral conduct. Anyhow, I shan't allow you to destroy your guinea's worth. I shall remove temptation from your path." Lifting the sugar bowl she removes it to her right side, thus laying bare the fact that Mr. Browne's cup of tea is still full to the brim. It is the last stroke. " Drink your tea," says she to the stricken Dicky in a tone that admits of no delay. He drinks it. j.^mw mt u. '^ t mmum »a ^ j«*»a ' APRWS LADY, ao3 Meantime, Barbara has been very kind to Felix Dysart, answering his roundabout questions that always have Joyce as their central meaning. One leading remark of his is to the effect that he is covered with- astonishment to find her and Monkton in London. Is he surprised. Well, no doubt, yes. Joyce is in town, too, but she has not come out with her to-day. Have they been to the theatre ? Very often ; Joyce, especially, is quite devoted to it. Do they go much to the picture galleries ? Well, to one or two. There is so much to be done, and the children are rather exigeant, and demand all the afternoon. But she had heard Joyce say that she was going to-morrow to Dore's Gallery. She thought Tommy ought to be shown something more improving than clowns and wild animais and toy shops. Mr. Dysart, at this point, said he thought Miss Kava- nagh was more reflective than one taking a careless view of her might believe. Barbara laughed. •* Do you take the reflective view? " says she. " Do you recommend me to take the careless one?" demands he, now looking fully at her. There is a good deal of meaning in his question, but Barbara declines to recognize it. She feels she has gone far enough in that little betrayal about Dor^''s Gallery. She refuses to take another step ; she is already, indeed, a little frightened by what she has done If Joyce should hear of it — oh And yet how could she refrain from giving that small push to so deserving a cause ? " No, no ; I recommend nothing," says she, still laugh- ing. " Where are you staying ? " '* With my cousins, the Seaton Dysarts. They had to come up to town- about a tooth, or a headache, or neu- ralgia, or something ; we shall never quite know what, as it has disappeared, whatever it is. Give me London smoke as a perfect cure for most ailments. It is astonish- ing what remarkable recoveries it can boast. Vera and her husband are like a couple of children. Even the pantomime isn't too much for them." " That reminds me the children ought to be here by this time," says Mrs. Monkton, drawing out her watch. " They went to the afternoon performance. I really think," anxiously, " they are very late " ir ■\ "f^ 204 APRIL'S LADY, She has hardly spoken when a sound of little running feet up the stairs outside sets her maternal fears at rest. Nearer and nearer they sound ; they stop, there is a dis- tant scuffle, the door is thrown violently open, and Tommy and Mabel literally fall into the room. CHAPTER XXXIV. " Then seemed to me this world far less in size, Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far ; Like points in heaven I saw the stars arise, And longed for wings that I might catch a star." Least said, soonest mended ! Tommy is on his feet again in no time, and has picked up Mabel before you could say Jack Robinson, and once again, nothing daunted by their ignominious entry, they rush up the room and precipitate themselves upon their mother. This pious act being per- formed, Tommy sees fit to show some small attention to the other people present. " Thomas," says Mr. Browne, when he has shaken hands with him, " if you wait much longer without declaring your- self you will infallibly burst, and that is always a rude thing to do in a friend's drawing-room. Speak, Thomas, or die — you are evidently full of information ! " " Well, I won't tell you ! " says Tommy, naturally in- dignant at this address. He throws a resentful look at him over his shoulder while making his way to his grand- father. There is a queer sort of sympathy — understand- ing — what you will — between the child and the stern old man. " Come here," says Sir George, drawing Tommy to him. " Well, and did you enjoy yourself? Was it all your fancy painted it ? " Sir George has sunk into a chair with all the heaviness of an old man, and the boy has crept between his knees and is looking up at him with his beautiful little face all aglow. " Oh ! 'twas lovely*! " says he. " 'Twas splendid ! There was lights all over the house. 'Twas like night — only 'twasn't night, and that was grand ! And there were heaps of people. A whole town was there. And there APRlVa LADY, M>S were Grandpa ! why did they have lamps there when it was daytime ? " " Because they have no windows in a theatre," says Sir George, patting the little hot, fat hand that is lying on his arm, with a strange sensation of pleasure in the touch of it. " No windows ? " with big eyes opened wide. " Not one." " Then why have we windows ? " asks Tommy, with an involuntary glance round him. *' Why are there windows anywhere ? It's ever so much nicer without them. Why can't we have lamps always, like ihe theatre people ? " " Why, indeed ? " says Mr. Browne, sympathetically. "Sir George, I hope you will take your grandson s advice to heart, and block up all these absurd windows, and let a proper ray of light descend upon us from the honest burner. Who cares for strikes ? Not I ! " " Well, Tommy, we'll think about it," says Sir George. " And now go on. You saw " ' • " Bluebeard ! " says Tommy, almost roaring in the ex- citement of his delight. " A big Bluebeard, and he was just like the pictures of him at home, with his toes curled up and a red towel round his head and a blue night-gown and a smiter in his hand." " A cimeter. Tommy?" suggests his mother, gently. " Eh ? " says Tommy. " Well, it's all the same," says he, after a pause, replete with deep research and with a truly noble impartiality. " It is, indeed !" says Mr. Browne, open encouragement in his eye. " And so you saw Mr. Bluebeard ! And i^id he see you? " •• t; " Oh ! he saw me ! " cries Mabel, in a little whimpering» tone. " He looked straight into the little house where we ^ were, and I saw his eye — his horrid eye ! " shaking her small head vigorously — *' and it ran right into mine, and he began to walk up to me, and I " She stops, her pretty red lips quivering, her blue eyes full of tears. '-'' " Oh, Mabel was so frightened ! " says Tommy, thej Bold. *• She stuck her nose into nurse's fur cape and roared ! " " I didn't ! " says Mabel promptly. " You did ! " says Tommy, indignant at being contra- dicted, "and she said it would never be worth a farthing APRIVS LADY, I i Well, any way, you know, Mabel, 906 ever after, and you didn't like the heads." " Oh, no ; I didn't— I hated them ! They were all hanging to one side ; and there was nasty blood, and they looked as if they was going to waggle," concludes Mabel, with a terrified sob, burying her own head in her mother's lap. " Oh ! she is too young," says Barbara, nervously clasp- ing her little woman close to her in a quiet, undemonstra- tive way, but so as to make the child herself feel the protection of her arms. " Too young for so dismal a sight," says Dysart, stooping over and patting Mabel's sunny curls with a kindly touch. He is very fond of children, as are all men, good and bad. " I should not have let her go," says Mrs. Monkton, with self-reproach. '* Such exhibitions are painful for young minds, however harmless." " When she is older " begins Dysart, still caressing the little head. '* Yes, yes — she is too young — far too young," says Mrs. Monkton, giving the child a second imperceptible hug. " One is never too young to learn the miseries of the world," says Miss L'Estrange, in her most terrible tone. " Why should a child be paripered and petted, and shielded from all thoughts of harm and wrong, as though they never existed ? It is false treatment. It is a wilful deceiving of the growing mind. One day they must wake lo all the horrors of the world. They should therefore be prepared for it, steadily, sternly, unyieldingly ! '' ^* What a grand — what a strong nature ! " says Mr. Browne, uplifting his hands in admiration. " You would, then, advocate the cause of the pantomime ? " says he, knowing well that the very name of theatre stinks in the nostrils of Miss L'Estrange. " Far be it from me ! " says she, with a violent shake of her head. " May all such disreputable performances come to a bad end, and a speedy one, is my devout prayer. But," with a vicious glance at Barbara, " I would con- demn the parents who would bring their children up in a dark ignorance of the woes and vices of the world in which they must pass their lives. I think, as Mabel has been permitted to look at the pernicious exhibition of this afternoon, she should also be encouraged to look with calm- -.:A . APkIVS XADY. io; tiess upon it, if only to teach her what to expect from life." ** Good heavens ! " says Mr. Browne, in a voice ol horror. " Is that what she has to expect ? Rows of de- capitated heads I Have you had private information, . Miss L'Estrange ? Is a rehearsal of the French Revolu- tion to be performed in London ? Do you really believe . the poor child is doomed to behold your head carried past the windows on a pike ? Was there meaning in the art* less prattle of our Thomas just now when he condemned windows as a social nuisance, or " " I suppose you think you are amusing 1 " interrupts the spinster, malignantly. It is plain that she objects to the idea of h head being on a pike. " At all events, if you must jest on serious subjects, I desire you, Richard, to leave me out of your silly maunderings." ** Your will is my law," says Dicky, rising. " I leave you ! " He makes a tragic retreat, and finding an empty chair near Monkton takes possession of it. " I must protest against your opinion," says Dysart, addressing Miss L'Estrange with a smile. ** Children should be regarded as something better than mere lumps of clay to be experimentalized upon ! " *' Oh, yes," says Barbara, regarding the spinster gently but with ill-concealed aversion. ** You cannot expect any one to agree with you there. I, for one, could not." " I don't know that I ever asked you to," says Miss L'Estrange with such open impertinence that Barbara flushes up to the roots of her hair. Silence falls on the room, except for a light conversation being carried on between Dicky and Monkton, both of whom have heard nothing. Lady Monkton looks uncom- fortaMe. Sir George hastens to the rescue. " Surely you haven't tojd us everything. Tommy ? " says he giving his grandson a pull toward him. " Besides Mr. Bluebeard, what else was there ? * ** Lots of things," says Tommy, vaguely, coming back from an eager attention to Miss L'Estrange's evil sugges- tion to a fresh remembrance of his past delights. " There was a band and it shouted. Nurse said it took the roof off her head, but I looked, and her bonnet didn't stir. And there was the harlequin, he was beautiful. He shined like anything. He was all over scales, like a trout." " A queer fish," says his grandfather. ao8 APRIVS LADY. "He jumped about an(J beat things with a Jittle stick he had. And he danced, and there was a window and he sprang right through it, and he came up again and wasn't a bit hurt, not a bit. Oh ! he was lovely, grandpapa, and so was his concubine " " His what ?" says Sir George. " His concubine. His sweetheart. That was her name," says Tommy confidently. There is a ghastly silence. Lady Monkton's pale old cheeks color faintly. Miss L'Estrange glares. As for Barbara, she feels the world has at last come to an end. They will be angry with the boy. Her mission to London will have failed — that vague hope of a reconciliiation through the children that she had yet scarcely allowed to herself. Need it be said that Mr. Browne has succumbed to secret but disgraceful mirth. A good three-quarters of a full-size^ handkerchief is already in his mouth — a little more of the cambric and " death through suflfocatiop " will adorn the columns of the Times in the morning. Sir George, too, what is the matter with him ? He is speechless — from ip'ignation one must hope. *' What ails you, .rframi^^a ? " demands Tommy, after a full minute's strict examination of him. "Oh, nothing, notlung," says Sir George, choking ; "it is only — that I'm glad you have so thoroughly enjoyed yourself and your harlequin, and — ha, ha, ha, your Col- umbine. Columbine, now mind. And here's this for you, Tommy, because you are such a good boy." He opens the little grandson's hand and presses into the pink palm of it a sovereign. '* Thank you," says Tommy, in the polite regulation tone he has been taught, without a glance at his gift — a touch of etiquette he has been taught, too. Then the curious eyes of childhood wander to the palm, and, seeing the unexpected pretty gold thing lying there, he colors up to the tips of his ears with surprise and pleasure. Then sudden compunction seizes on the kindly little heart. The world is strange to him. He knows but one or two here and there. His father is poor. A sovereign — that is, a gold piece — would be rare with him, why not rare with another? Though filled with admiration and gratitude for the giver of so big a gift, the child's heart commands hifn not to accept it. ! I APRIL'S LADY. 909 >f "Oh, it is too much," says he, throwing his arms round Sir George's neck and trying to press the sovereign back into his hand. *' A shilling I'd like, but that's such a lot of shillings, and maybe you'd be wanting it." This is all whispered in the softest, tenderest way. " No, no, my boy," says Sir George, whispering back, and glad that he must whisper. His voice, even so, sounds a little queer to himself. How often he might have glad- dened this child with a present, a small one, and until now " Keep it," says he ; he has passed his hand round the little head and is pressing it against his breast. " May I ? Really ? " says Tommy, emancipating his bead with a little j. "k, and looking at Sir George with searching eyes " You may indeed ! " " God bless you ! " says Tommy, solemnly. It is a startling remark to Sir George, but not so to Tommy. It is exactly what nurse had said to her daughter the day before she left Ireland with Tommy aod Mabel in charge, when her daughter had brought her the half of her wages. Therefore it must be correct. To supplement this blessing Tommy flings his arms around Sir George's neck and gives him a resounding kiss. Nurse had done that, too, to her daughter. " God bless you too, my dear," says Sir George, if not quite as solemnly, with considerably more tenderness. Tommy's mother, catching the words and the tone, cheers up. All is not lost yet ! The situation is saved. Tommy has won the day. The inconsequent Tommy of all peo- ple ! Insult to herself she had endured, but to have the children disliked would have been more than she could bear ; but Tommy, apparently, is not disliked — by the old man at all events. That fact will be sweet to Freddy. After all, who could resist Tommy ? Tears rise to the mother's eyes. Darling boy ! Where is his like upon the whole wide earth ? Nowhere. She is disturbed in her reverie by the fact that the origin- ator of it is running toward herewith one little closed fist outstretched. How he runs ! His fat calves come twink- ling across the carpet. " See, mammy, what I've got. Grandpa gave it to me. Isn't he nice ? Now I'll buy a watch like pappy's." " You have made him very happy," says Barbara^ smil- 14 Ml i ! 210 APRIL'S LADY, I .--^ ing at Sir George over her boy's head. She rises as she speaks^ and goes to where Lady Monkton is sitting to bid her good-bye. " I hope you will come soon again/' says Lady Monk- ton, not cordially, but as if compelled to it; '* and I hope, too," pausing as if to gather herself together, "that when you do come you will bring your sister with you. It will give me — us — pleasure to see her." There is such a dearth of pleasure in the tone of the invitation that Barbara feels her wrath rising within"^ her. " I thank you," she manages to say very calmly, not committing herself either way, and presently finds herself in the street with her husband and her children. They had declined Lady Monkton's offer of the brougham to take them home. " It was a bad time," says Monkton while waiting at a crossing for a cab to come to them. " But you must try and not mind them. If the fact that I am always with you counts for apything, it may help you to endure it." '* What help could be like it ? " says she, tightening her hand on his arm. " That old woman, my aunt. She offended you, but you must remember that she offends everybody. You thought her abominable ? " " Oh no. I only thought her vulgar," says Mrs. Monk- ton. It is the one revenge she permits herself. Monkton breaks into an irresistible laugh. " It isn't perfect ; il couldn't be unless she heard you," says he. The cab has come up now, and he puts in the children and then his wife, finally himself. ** Tommy crowns all ! " says he with a retrospective smile. " Eh ? " says Tommy, who has the ears of a Midas. ** Your father says you are a social success, and so does your mother," says Barbara, smiling at the child's puzzled face, and then giving him a loving little embrace. t APRTVS LADY. SI I CHAPTER XXXV. "Why should two hearts in one breast lie And yet not lodge together ? Oh, love I where is thy sympathy If thus oiir brea.-ts you sever ?" "Well, did you like the gallery?" asks Mrs. Monkton, throwing aside her book to greet Joyce as she returns from Dor6's. It is next i'ay, and Barbara had let the girl go to see the pictures with "tut telling her of her meeting with Felix the evening before ; she had been afraid to say any- thing about him lest that guilty secret of hers might trans- pire — that deliberate betrayal of Joyce's intended visit to Bond street on the morrow. If Joyce had heard that, she would, in all probability, have deferred her going there for ever — and — it was such a chance. Mrs. Monkton, who, in her time, had said so many hard words about match makers, as most women have, and who would have scorned to be classed with them, had promoted and desired this meeting of Felix and Joyce with all the energy and enthu- siasm of which she was capable. But that Joyce should suspect her of the truth is a fear that terrifies her. " Very much. So did Tommy. He is very graphic in his remarks," says Joyce, sinking listlessly into a chair, and taking off her hat. She looks vexed and preoccupied. " I think he gave several very original ideas on the sub- jects of the pictures to those around. They seemed impressed. You know how far above the foolish feeling, mauvaise honte, he is ; his voice * like a silver clarion rung.* Excelsior was outdone. Everybody turned and looked at him with " " I hope he wasn't noisy," says Mrs. Monkton, nervous- " With admiration, I was going to say, but you wouldn't let me finish my sentence. Oh, yes, he was quite a success. One old gentleman wanted to know if he would accept the part of art critic on his paper. U was very exciting." She snt APRWS LADY, 1 ,; ■ leans back in her chair, the troubled look on her face grow- ing intensified. She seems glad to be silent, and with downcast eyes plays with the gloves lying in her lap. "Something has happened, Joyce," says her sister, go- ing over to her. " Something is happening always," returned Joyce, with a rather impatient smile. " Yes, but to you just now." " You are sure to make me tell you sooner or later," says Miss Kavanagh, '' and even if I didn't, Tommy would. I met Mr. Dysart at that gallery to-day." ** Felix? " says Mrs. Monkton, feeling herself an abomi- nable hypocrite, yet afraid to confess the truth. Something in the girl's whole attitude forbids a confession, at this moment at all events. "Yes." "Well?" "Well?"' " He was glad to see you, darling ? " very tenderly. " Was he ? I don't know. He looked very ill. He said he had had a bad cough. He is coming to see you." " You were kind to him, Joyce ? " '* I didn't personally insult him, if you mean that." " Oh, no, I don't mean that, you know what I mean. He was ill, unhappy ; you did not make him more unhap- *' It is always for him 1 " cries the girl, with jealous an- ger. " Is there never to be a thought for uie ? Am I nothing to you ? Am I never unhappy ? Why don't you ask if he m as kind to me ? " " Was he ever unkind ? " " Well, you can forget ! He said dreadful things to me — dreadful. I am not likely to forget them if you are. After all, they did not hurt you." "Joyce!" " Yes, I know — -I know everything you would say. I am ungrateful, abominable, but He was unkind to me ! He said . what no girl would ever forgive, and yet you have not one angry word for him." " Never mind all that," says Mrs. Monkton, soothingly. "Tell me what you did to-day — ^what you said." " As little as possible," defiantly. " I tell you I don't >^ant ever to see him again, or heaf of him j I think I hate V APRIL'S LADY, 213 ace grow- and with lap. ister, go- yce, with >r later," y would. n abomi- ►mething , at this ;rly. ill. He Je you." t." mean, unhap- ous an- Aml ii t you to me |>u are. ay. I ind to id yet lingly. don't I hate him. And he looked dying." She stops here, as if find- ing a difficulty about saying another word. She coughs nervously; then, recovering herself, and as if determined to assert herself anew and show how real is the coldness that she has declared—" Yes, dying, I think," she says, stubbornly. " Oh, I don't think he looked as bad as that ! '' says Barbara, hastily, unthinkingly filled with grief, not only at this summary dismissal of poor Felix from our earthly sphere, but for her sister's unhappiness, which is as plain to her as though no little comedy had been performed for the concealment of it. " You don't ! " repeats Joyce, lifting her head and direct- ing a piercing glance at her. " You ! What do you know about him ? " ** Why — ^you just said " stammers Mrs. Monkton, and then breaks down ignominiously. " You knew he was in town," says Joyce, advancing to her, and looking down on her with clasped hands and a pale face. " Barbara, speak. You knew he was here, and never told me ; you," with a sudden, fresh burst of inspir- ation, " sent him to that place to-day to meet me." *' Oh, no, dearest. No, indeed. He himself can tell you. It was only that he— — " " Asked where I was going to, at such and such an hour, and you told him." She is still standing over poor Mrs. Monkton in an attitude that might almost be termed men- acing. " I didn't J assure you, Joyce, you are taking it all quite wrongly. It was only " " Oh ! only — only," says the girl, contemptuously. " Do you think I can't read between the lines ? I am sure you believe you are sticking to the honest truth, Barbara, but still Well," bitterly, " I don't think he profited much by the information you gave him. Your deception has given him small satisfaction." " I don't think you should speak to me like that," says Mrs. Monkton, in a voice that trembles perceptibly. " I don't care what I say," cries Joyce, with a sudden burst of passion. " You betray me ; he betrays me ; all the world seem arrayed against me. And what have I done to anybody ? " She throws out her hands protest- ingly. ai4 APRWS LADY, ll* " Joyce, darling, if you wauld only listen." " Listen ! I am always listening, it seems to me. To him, to you, to every one. I am tired of being silent ; I must speak now. I trusted you, Barbara, and you have been bad to me. Do you want to force him to make love to me, that you tell him on the very first opportunity where to find me, and in a place where I am without you, or any one to- ll "Will you try to understand?" says Mrs. Monkton, with a light stamp of her foot, her patience going as her grief increases. " He cross-examined me as to where you were, and would be, and I — I told him. I wasn't going to make a mystery of it, or you, was I ? I told him that you were going to the Dor6 Gallery to-day with Tommy. How could I know he would go there to meet yv^a ? He never said he was going. You are unjust, Joyce, both to him and to me." " Do you mean to tell me that for all that you didn'n know he would be at that place to-day ? " turning flashing eyes upon her sister. " How could I know ? Unless a person says a thing right out, how is one to be sure what he is going to do ? " " Oh ! that is unlike you. It is unworthy of you," says Joyce, turning from her scornfully. "' You did know. And it is not," turning back again and confronting the now tl >roughly frightened Barbara with a glance full of pathos, " it is not that — your insincerity that hurt me so much, it is- II " I didn't mean to be insincere ; you are very cruel — you do not measure your words." "You will tell me next that you meant it all for the best," with a bitter smile. " That is the usual formula, isn't it ? Well, never mind ; perhaps you did. What I object to is you didn't tell me. That I was kept designedly in the dark both by him and you. Am I," with sudden fire, " a child or a fool, that you should seek to guide me so blindly? Well," drawing a long breath, " I won't keep you in the dark. When I left the gallery, and your protege, I met — Mr. Beauclerk ! " Mrs. Monkton. stunned by this intelligence, remains silent for a full minute. It is death to her hopes. If she has met that man again, it is impossible to know how things have gone. His fatal influence — her unfortunate infatuation for him — all will be ruinous to poor Felix's hopes. APRIL'S LADY. 215 ne. To iilent; I oil have ike love ;y where , or any onkton, I as her ere you t going iim that "ommy. i? He both to Li didn'r. flashing ng right >» )> J, says IV. And he now pathos, nuch, it cruel — for the ormula, What I ignedly sudden lide me I't keep •rot^gd, emains If she things tiiatioii " You spoke to him? " asks she at last, in an emotionless tone. "Yes." " Was Felix with you ? " " When ? " ** When you met that odious man ? " " Mr. Beauclerk? No ; I dismissed Mr. Dysart as soon as ever I could." " No doubt. And Mr. Beauclerk, did you dismiss him as promptly." *' Certainly not. There was no occasion." " No inclination, either. You were kind to him at all events. It is only to the man who is honest and sincere that you are deliberately uncivil." ** I hope I was uncivil to neither of them." " There is no use giving yourself that air with me, Joyce. You are angry with me ; but why ? Only because I am anxious for your happiness. Oh ! that hateful man, how I detest him ! He has made you unhappy once — he will certainly make you unhappy again." " I don't think so," says Joyce, taking up her hat and furs with the evident intention of leaving the room, and thus putting an end to the discussion. " You will never think so until it is too late. You haven't the strength of mind to throw him over, once and for all, and give your thoughts to one who is really worthy of you. On the contrary, you spend your time comparing him favorably with the good and faithful Felix,' " You should put that down. It will do for his tomb- stone," says Miss Kavanagh, with a rather uncertain little laugh. "At all events, it would not do for Mr. Beauclerk's tombstone — though I wish it would — and that I could put it there it once." " I shall tell Freddy to read the commandments to you," says Joyce, with a dreary attempt at mirth — '* you have forgotten your duty to your neighbor." " It is all true, however. You can't deny it, Joyce. You are deliberately — willfully — throwing away the good for the bad. I can't bear to see it. I can't look on in silence and see you thus miserably destroying your life. How can you be so blind, darling? " appealing to her with hands, and voice, and eyes. " Such determined folly would be strange m i 2l6 APRWS LADY. ^ A) hi ! 1 in any one ; stranger far in a girl like you, whose sense has always been above suspicion." " Did it ever occur to you," asks Joyce, in a slightly bantering tone, that but ill conceals the nervousness that ia consuming her, " that you might be taking a wrong view of the situation ? That I was not so blind after all. That I — What was it you said ? that I spent my nights and days comparing the merits of Mr. Beauclerk with those of your friend, Felix Dysart — to your friend's discomfiture ? Now, suppose that I did thus waste my time., and gave my veto in favor of Mr. Dysart? How would it be then? It might be so, you know, for all that he, or you, or any one could say," " It is not so light a matter that you should trifle with it," says Mrs. Monkton, with a faint suspicion of severity in her soft voice. "No, of course not. You are right.'* Miss Kavanagh moves towards the door. " After all, Barbara," looking back at her, " that applies to most things in this sad old world. What matter under heaven can we poor mortals dare to trifle with ? Not one, I think. Ail bear withii: them the seeds of grief or joy. Sacred seeds, both carrying in their bosoms the germs of eternity. Even when this life is gone from us we still face weal or woe." " Still — we need not make our own woe," says Barbara, who is a sturdy enemy to all pessimistic thoughts. " Wait a moment, Joyce. She hu^-iies after her and lays her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Will you come with me next Wednesday to see Lady Monkton ? '' " Lady Monkton ! Why I thought " " Yes, I know. I would not take you there before, because she had not expressly asked to see you. But to-day she made a — she sent you a formal message — at all events she said she hoped I would bring you when I came n again " Is that all of it ? " asks Joyce, gazing at her sister with a curious smile, that is troubled, but has still some growing sense of amusement in it. " What an involved statement ! Surely you have forgotten something. Tha* Mr. Dysart was standing near you, for example, and will probably find that it is absolutely imperative that he should call on Lady Monkton next Wednesday, too. Don't set your heart on that, Barbara. I think, after my interview APRIVS LADY, ««r se sense slightly ness that ong view ,11. That jhts and those of mfiture ? gave my hen? It any one ifle with severity avanagh looking sad old mortals lii: them carrying len this Barbara, " Wait er hand ne next before, U. But -at all I came r sister 1 some volved Tha* nd will hat he Don't erview with him to-day, he will not want to see Lady Monkton next Wednesday." " I know know nothing about whether he is to be there or not," says Barbara steadily. " But as Sir George likes to see the children very often, I thought of taking them theite on that day. It is Lady Monkton's day. And Dicky Browne, at all events, will be there, and I dare say a good many of your old friends. Do ?ay you will come." " I hate old friends ! " says the girl fractiously. " I don't believe I have any. I don't believe anybody has. I " She pauses as the door is thrown open, and Tommy comes prancing into the room accompanied by his father. CHAPTER XXXVI. '* Children know very little ; but their capacity of comprehennon U great." '* I've just been interviewmg Tommy on the subject of the pictures," says Mr. Monkton. " So far as I can make out he disapproves of Dor6." " Oh ! Tommy J and all such beautiful pictures out of the Bible," says his mother. " I did like them," says Tommy. "Only some of them were queer. I wanted to know about them, but nobody would tell me — and " ** Why, Tommy, I explained them all to you," says Joyce, reproachfully. " You did in the first two little rooms and in the big room afterward, where the velvet seats were. They," looking at his father and raising his voice to an indignant note, " wouldn't let me run round on the top of them ! " " Good heavens ! " says Mr. Monkton. *' Can that be true ? Truly this country is going to the dogs." ** Where do the dogs live ? " asks Tommy, " What dogs ? Why does the country want to go to them ? " " It doesn't want to go," explains his father. " But it will have to go, and the dogs will punish them for not letting you reduce its velvet seats to powder. Never mind, go on with your story ; so that unnatural aunt of yours would- n't tell you about the pictures, eh ? " ;! . J 'I iitij 1 li fe- ■: 2l8 APRIVS LADY. ** She did in the beginning, and when we got into the big room too, a little while. She told me about the great large one at the end, ' Christ and the Historian,' though I couldn't see the Historian anywhere, and " ** She herself must be a most successful one," says Mr. Monkton, sotto voce. " And then we came to the Innocents, and I perfectly hated that," sayr Tommy. " Twas frightful ! Everybody was as large as that," stretching out his arms and puffing out his cheeks, ** and the babies were all so fat and so hor- rid. And then Felix came, and Joyce had to talk to him, so I didn't know anymore." " I think you forget," says Joyce. '' There was that picture with lions in it. Mr. Dysart himself explained that to you." *' Oh, that one ! " says Tommy, as if dimly remember- ing, " the circus one ! The one with the round house. I didn't like that either." *' It is rather ghastly for a child," says his mother. " That's not the one with the gas," puts in Tommy. " The one with the gas is just close to it, and has got Pilate's wife in it. She's very nice." " But why didn't you like the other ? " asks his father. " I think it one of the best there." ** Well, I don't," says Tommy, evidently grieved at hav- ing to differ from his father ; but filled with a virtuous determination to stick to the truth through thick and thin. " No ? " " 'Tis unfair," says Tommy. "That has been allowed for centuries," says his father. " Then why don't they change it ? " " Change what ? " asks Mr. Monkton, feeling a little p izzled. " How can one change now the detestable cruel- ties — or the abominable habits of the dark ages? " " But why were they dark ? " asks Tommy. "Mammy says they had gas then." " I didn't mean that, I " his mother is beginning, but Monkton stops her with a despairing gesture. " Don't," says he. " It would take a good hour by the slowest clock. Let him believe there was electric light then if he chooses." " Well, but why can't they change it?" persists Tom- my, who is evidently full of the picture in question. I APRILS LADY, ai9 )t into the ; the great n,' though Siiys Mr. [ perfectly Everybody nd puffing nd so hor- Ik to him, was that ained that emember- house. I )ther. my. " The ot Pilate's his father. ;d at hav- virtuous md thin. lis father. a little Die cruel- » Mammy eginning, Lir by the trie light ts Tom- h " I have told you." " But the painter man could change it." " I am afraid not, Tommy. He is dead." " Why didn't he do it before he died then ? Why didn't somebody show him what to do ? " " I don't fancy he wanted any hints. And besides, he had to be true to his ideal. It was a terrible time. They dfd really throw the Christians to the lions, you know." " Of course I know that," says Tommy with a superior air. " But why didn't they cast another one ? " '• Eh ? " says Mr. Monkton. •' That's why it's unfair ! " says Tommy. " There is one poor lion there, and he hasn't got any Christian I Why didn't Mr. Dorv give him one ? " Tableau ! " Barbara ! says Mr. Monkton faintly, after a long pause. " Is there any brandy in the house ? " But Barbara is looking horrified. •' It is shocking," she says. " Why should he take such a twisted view of it. He has always been a kind-hearted child ; and now " " Well. He has been kind-hearted to the lions," says Mr. Monkton. " No one can deny that." " Oh ! if you persist in encouraging him. Freddy I ** says his wife with tears in her eyes. " Believe me, Barbara," breaks in Joyce at this moment, " it is a mistake to be soft-hearted in this world." There is something bright but uncomfortable in the steady gaze she directs at her sister. " One should be hard, if one means to live comfortably." " Will you take me soon again to see pictures ? " asks Tommy, running to Joyce and scrambling upon the seat she is occupying. " Do ! " '' But if you dislike them so much." ^' Only some. And other places may be funnier. What day will you take me ? " '•' I don't think I shall again make an arrangement beforehand," says Joyce, rising, and placing Tommy on the ground very gently. '* Some morning just before we start, you and I, we will make our plans." She does not look at Barbara this time, but her tone is eloquent. Barbara looks at her, however, with eyes full of re- proach. jt 220 MPJiW:i LADY, i CHAPTER XXXVII. ** Love is its own great loveliness alway, And takes new beauties from the touch of time j Its bough owns no December and no May, fiut bears its blossoms into winter's clime. '* ** I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be with- out children." " Oh, Felix — is it you ! " says Mrs. Monkton in a dis- mayed tone. Her hansom is at the door, and, arrayed in her best bib and tucker, she is hurrying through the hall when Dysart, who has ju:>t come, presents himself. He was just coming in, in fact, as she was going out. " Don't mind me," says he ; " there is always to-mor- row." " Oh, yes,— but " " And Miss Kavanagh ? " " It is to recover her I am going out this afternoon." It is the next day, so soon after her rupture with Joyce, that she is afraid to even hint at further complications. A strong desire to let him know that he might wait and try his fortune once again on her return with Joyce is oppres- sing her mind, but she puts it firmly behind her, or thinks she does. " She is lunching at the Brabazons'," she says ; " old friends of ours. I promised to lunch there, too, so as to be able to bring Joyce home again." " She will be back, then." " In an hour and a half at latest," says Mrs. Monkton, who after all is not strong enough to be quite genuine to her better judgments. " But," with a start and a fresh determination to be cruel in the cause of right, *' that would be much too long for you to wait for us." '* I shouldn't think it long," says he. Mrs. MonVton smiles suddenly at him. How charming — how satisfactory he is. Could any lover be more de^ voted ! « ! :'>-.. APRILS LADY, 321 "Well, it would be for all that," says she. "But"— hesitating in a last vain effort to dismiss, and then losing herself — " suppose you do not abandon your visit altoge- ther ; that you go away, now, and get your lunch at your elub — I feel," contritely, " how inhospitable I am — and then come back again here about four o'clock. She — I — will have returned by that time." " An excellent plan," says he, his face lighting up. Then it clouds again. " If she knows I am to be here ? " " All ! that is a difficulty," says Mrs. Monkton,her own pretty face showing signs of distress. " But anyhow, risk it." ** I would rather she knew, however," says he steadily. The idea of entra^Dping her into a meeting with him is abhorrent to him. He had had enough of that at the Dor6 Gallery; though he had been innocent of any intentional deception there. " I will tell her then," says Mrs. Monkton; " and in the meantime go and get your " , At this moment the door on the right is thrown open, and Tommy, with a warhoop, descends upon them, followed by Mabel. ''Oh! it's Felix!" cries he joyfully. "Will you stay v.'ith us, Felix ? We've no one to have dinner with us to- day. Because mammy is going away, and Joyce is gone, and pappy is nowhere ; and nurse isn't a bit of good — she only says, * Take care you don't choke yourselves, me dearies ! * " He imitates nurse to the life. "And dinner will be here in a minute. Mary says she's just going to bring it upstairs/* " Oh, do — do stay with us," supplements little Mabel, thrusting her small hand imploringly into his. It is plain that he is in high favor with the children, however out of it with a certain other member of the family — and feeling grateful to them, Dysart hesitates to say the " No " that is on his lips. How hard it is to refuse the entreaties of these little clinging fingers — these eager, lovely, upturned faces ! " If I may ? " says he at last, addressing Mrs. Monkton, and thereby giving in. " Oh ! as for that ! You know you may," says she. " But you will perfectly hate it. It is too bad to allow you to accept their invitation. You will be bored to death, and you will detest the boiled mutton. There is only that ■M. . aaa APRWS LADY, and — rice, I think. I won't even be sure of the rice. It may be tapioca — and that is worse still." " It's rice," says Tommy, who is great friends, with the cook, and knows all her secrets. " That decides the question," says Felix gravely. " Every one knows that I adore rice. It is my one weak- ness." At this, Mrs. Monkton gives way to an irrepressible laugh, and he, catching the meaning of it, laughs, too. *' You are wrong, however," says he ; " that other is my one strength. I could not live without it. Well, Tommy, I accept your invitation. I shall stay and lunch — dine with you." In truth, it seems sweet in his eyes to remain in the house that she (Joyce) occupies ; it will be easier to wait, to hope for her return there than elsewhere. " Your blood be on your own head," says Barbara, solemnly. " If, however, it goes too far, I warn you there are remedies. When it occurs to you that life is no longer worth living, go to the library ; you will find there a revol- ver. It is three hundred years old, I'm told, and it is hung very high on the wall to keep it out of Freddy's reach. Blow your brains out with it — if you can." *' You're awfully good, awfully thoughtful," says Mr. Dysart, '* but I don't think, when the fin&l catastrophe arrives, it will be suicide. If I must murder somebody, it will certainly not be myself ; it will be either the children or the mutton." Mrs. Monkton laughs, then turns a serious eye on Tommy. " Now, Tommy," says she, addressing him with a gravity that should have overwhelmed him, " I am going away from you for an hour or so, and Mr. Dysart has kindly accepted your invitation to lunch with him. I do hope," with increasing impressiveness, ** you will be good." V I hope so, too," returns Tommy, genially. There is an astonished pause, confined to the elders only, and then, Mr. Dysart, unable to restrain himself any* longer, bursts out laughing. " Could anything be more candid ? " says he ; ** more full of trust in himself, and yet with a certain modesty withal ! There ! you can go, Mrs. Monkton, with a clear conscience. I am not afraid to give myself up to the open- handed dealing of your son." Then his tone changes — he A PR IV S LADY, aaa . i' follows her quickly as she turns from him to the children to bid them good-bye. " Miss Kavanagh," says he, " is she well — happy ? ' ** She is well," says Barbara, stopping to look back at him with her hand on Mabel's shoulder — there is reserva- tion in her answer. " Had she any idea that I would call to-day ? " This question is absolutely forced from him. ** How should she? Even I — did I know it? Certainly I thought you would come some day, and soon, and she may have thought so, too, but — ^you should have told me. You called too soon. Impatience is a vice," says Mrs. Monkton, shaking her head in a very kindly fashion, how- ever. " I suppose when she knows — when," with a rather sad smile, " you tell her — I am to be here on her return this afternoon she will not come with you." " Oh, yes, she will. I think so — I am sure of it. But you must understand, Felix, that she is very peculiar, dif- ficult is what they call it nowadays. And," pausing and glancing at him, " she is angry, too, about something that happened before you left last autumn. I hardly know what ; I have imagined only, and," rapidly, " don't let us go into it, but you will know that there was something." " Something, yes," says he. " Well, a trifle, probably. I have said she is difficult. But you failed somewhere, and she is slow to pardon — where " *' Where I What does that mean ? " demands the young man, a great spring of hope taking life within his eyes. "Ah, that hardly matters. But she is not forgiving. She is the very dearest girl I know, but that is one of her faults." " She has no faults," says he, doggedly. And then : " Well, she knows I am to be here this afternoon ? " " Yes. I told her." "I am glad of. that. If she returns with you from the Brabazons," with a quick but heavy sigh, " there will be no hope in that." " Don't be too hard," says Mrs. Mo!\kton, who in truth is feeling a little frightened. To come back without Joyce, and encounter an irate young man, with Freddy goodness knows where — " She may have other engagements," she .i-V aa^ AFKIVS LADY, says. She waves him an airy adieu as she makes this cruel suggestion, and with a kiss more hurried than usual to the children, and a good deal of nervousness in her whole manner, runs down the steps to her hansom and disap> pears. Felix, thus abandoned, yields himself to the enemy. He gives his right hand to Freddy and his left to Mabel, and lets them lead him captive into the dining-room. " I expect dinner is cold," says Tommy cheerfully, seat- ing himself without more ado, and watching the nurse, who is always in attendance at this meal, as she raises the cover from the boiled leg of mutton. " Oh I no, not yet," says Mr. Dvsart, quite as cheerful- ly, raising the carving knife and fork. Something, however, ominous in the silence that has fallen on both children makes itself felt, and without being able exactly to realize it he suspends operation for a mo- ment to look at them. He finds four eyes staring in his direction with astonish- ment, generously mingled with pious horxor shining in their clear depths. " Eh ? " says he, involuntarily. " Aren't you going to say it ? " asks Mabel, in a severe tone. " Say what ? " says he. " Grace," returns Tommy with distinct disapprobation. " Oh — er — yes, of course. How could I have forgotten it ? " says Dysart spasmodically, laying down the carvers at once, and preparing to distinguish himself. He succeeds admirably. The chiliiren are leaning on the table cloth in devout expectation, that has something, however, sinister about it. Nurse is looking on, also expectant. Mr. Dysart makes a wild struggle with his memory, but all to no eflfct. The beginning of various prayers come with malignant readi- ness to his mind, the ends of several psalms, the middles of a verse or two, but the graces shamelessly desert him in his hour of need. Good gracious ! What is the usual one, the one they use at home — the — er ? He becomes miserably conscious that Tommy's left eye is cocked sideways, and is regarding' him with fatal understanding. In a state of desperation be bends forward as low as he well can, wondering vaguely APRIL'S LADY, 335 where on earth is his hat, and mumbles something into his plate, that might be a bit of a prayer, but certainly it is not a grace. Perhaps it is a last cry for help. " What's that? " aemands Tommy promptly. " I didn't hear one word of it," says Mabel with indig- nation. Mr. Dysart is too stricken to be able to frame a reply. " I don't believe you know one," continues Tommy, still fixing him with an uncompromising eye. " I don't believe you were saying anything. Do you, nurse ? " ** Oh, fie, now. Master Tommy, and I heard your ma telling you you were to be good." " Well, so I am good. 'Tis he isn't good. He wo:»'t say his prayers. Do you know one ? " turning again to Dysait, who is covered with confusion. What the deuce did he stay here for ? Why didn't he go to his club ? He could have been back in plenty of time. If that con- founded grinning woman of a nurse would only go away, it wouldn't be so bad ; but " Never mind," says Mabel, with calm resignation. " I'll say one for you." " No, you shan't," cries Tommy ; " it's my turn." " No, it isn't.' " It is, Mabel. You said it yesterday. And you know you said * relieve ' instead of * received,' and mother laughed, and " " I don't care. It is Mr. Dysart's turn to-day, and he'll give his to me ; won't you, Mr. Dysart ? " " You're a greedy thing," cries Tommy, wrathfully, " and you shan't say it. I'll tell Mr. Dysart what you did this morning if you do.' '• I don't care," with disgraceful callousness. " I will say it." " Then, I'll say it, too," says Tommy, with sudden in- spiration born of a determination to die rather than give in, and instantly four fat hands are joined in pairs, and two seraphic countenances are upraised, and two shrill voices at screaming pitch are giving thanks for the boiled mutton, at a racing speed, that censorious people might probably connect with a desire on the part of each to be first in at the finish. Manfully they fight it out to the bitter end, without a break or a comma, and with defiant eyes glaring at each 15 ■-" ■m-ffi* .-/■ - .26 APRIL'S LADY. if ■ J, k Other across the table. There is a good deal of th* grace ; it is quite a long one when usually said, and yet very little grace in it to-aay, when all is told. " You may go now, nurse," says Mabel, presently, when the mutton had been removed and nurse had placed the rice and jam on the table. " Mr. Dysart will attend to us." It is impossible to describe the grown-up air with which this command is given. It is so like Mrs. Monk- ton's own voice and manner that Felix, with a start, turns his eyes on the author of it, and nurse, with an ill-sup- pressed smile, leaves the room. ** That's what mammy a ways says when there's only her and me and Tommy," (ixplains 'Mabel, confidentially. Then. ** You," with a doubtful glance, " you will attend to us, won't you ? " " I'll do my best," says Felix, in a depressed tone, whose ^irits are growing low. After all, there was safety in nurse ! ** I think I'll come up and sft nearer to you," says Tommy, affably. He gets down from his chair and pushes it, creaking hideously, up to Mr. Dysart's elbow — right under it, in fact. " So will I," says Mabel, fired with joy at the prospect of getting away from her proper place, and eating h'ir rice in a forbidden spot. " But," begins Felix, vaguely, " do you think your mother would " " We always do it when we are alone with mammy," says Tommy. " She says it keeps us warm to get under her wing when the weather is cold," says Mabel, lifti/ig a lovely little face to his and bringing her chair down on the top of his toe. " She says it keeps her warm, too. Are you warm now ? " anxiously. " Yes, yes — burning ! " says Mr. Dysart, whose toe is not unconscious of a com. " Ah ! I knew you'd like it," says Tommy. " Now gq on ; give us our rice — a little rice and a lot of jam." "Is that what your mother does, too? " asks Mr. Dy- sart, meanly it must be confessed, but his toe is very bad stilli The silence that follows his question and the look of the two downcast little faces is, however, punishment enough. APR'WS LADY, 227 i( Well, so be it," says he. ** But even if we do finiih ■ the jam — I'm awfully fond of it myself — we must promise faithfully not to be disagreeable about it ; not to be ill, that is " " 111 ! We're never ill," says Tommy, valiantly, where- upon they make an end of the jam in no time. CHAPTER XXXVIII. ^» . **'Tis said the rose is Love's own flower, Its blush so bright — its thorns so many." There is no mistake in the joy with which Felix parts from his companions after luncheois. He breathes afresh as he sees them tearing up the staircase to get ready for their afternoon walk, nurse puffing and panting behind them. The drawing-room seems a bower of repose after the turmoil of the late feast, and besides, it cannot be long now before she — they — return. That is if they — she — re- turn at all ! He has^ indeed, ample time given him to imagine this last horrible possibility as not only a pro- bability, but a certainty, before the sound of coming foot- steps up the stairs and the frou-frou of pretty frocks tells him his doubts were harmless. Involuntarily he rises from his chair and straightens himself, out of the rather forlorn position into which he has f^Jlen, and fixes his eyes im- movably upon the door. Are there two of them ? That is beyond doubt. It is only mad people who chat- ter to themselves, and certainly Mrs. Monkton is not mad. Barbara has indeed raised her voice a little more than ordinary, and has addressed Joyce by her name on her hurried way up the staircase and across the cushioned recess outside the door. Now she throws open the door and enters, radiant, if a little nervous. " Here we are," she sayj, very pleasantly, and with all the put-on manner of one who has made up her mind to be extremely joyous under distinct difficulties. " You are still here, then, and alone. They didn't murder you. Joyce and I had our misgivings all along. Ah, I forgot, you haven't seen Joyce until now." *--T..: 32S APRIL'S LADY, W " How d'ye do ? " says Miss Kavanagh, holding out her hand to him, with a calm as perfect as her smile. ** I do hope they were good," goes on Mrs. Monkton, her nervousness rather increasing. "You know I have always said they were the best children in the world." " Ah ! said, said," repeats Mrs. Monkton, who now seems grateful for the chance of saying anything. What is the meaning of Joyce's sudden amiability — and is it amiabihty, or " It is true one can say almost anything," says Joyce» quite pleasantly. She nods her head prettily at Dysart. '• There is no law to prevent them. Barbara thinks you are not sincere. She is not fair to you. You always do mean what you say, don't you ? " But for the smile that accompanies these words Dysart would have felt his doom sealed. But could she mean a stab so cruel, so direct, and still look icimd? " Oh ! he is always sincere," says Barbara, quickly ; ** only people say things about one's children, you know, that " She stops. " They are the dearest children. You are a bad mother ; you wrong them," says Joyce, laughing lightly, plainly at the idea of Barbara's affection for her children being im- pugned. '* She told me," turning her lovely eyes full on Dysart, with no special expression in them whatever, " that I should find only your remains after spending an hour with them." Her smile was brilliant. " She was v/rong, you setf. I am still here," says Felix, hardly knowing what he says in his desire tc; read her face, which is strictly impassive. " Yes, still here," says Miss Kavanagh, snii!ing, always, and apparently meaning nothing at all ; yet to Felix, watch- ing her, there seems to be something treacherous in her manner. " Still here ? " Had she hoped he would be gone ? Was that the cause of her delay ? Had she purposely put off coming home to give him time to grow tired and go away ? And yet she is looking at him with a smile ! " I am afraid you had a bad luncheon and a bad time generally," says Mrs. Monkton, quickly, who seemed hurried in every way. " But we came home as soon as ever we could. Didn't we, Joyce?" Her appeal to her w APRIL'S LADY. 229 sister is suggestive of fear as to the answer, but she need not have been nervous about that. " We flew ! " declares Miss Kavanagh, with delightful zeal. " We thought we should never get here soon enough. Didn't we, Barbara ? " There is the very barest, faintest imitati(l!i of her sister's voice in this last question ; a sub- tle touch of mockery, so slight, so evanescent as to leave one doubtful as to its ever having existed. " Yes, yes, indeed," says Barbara, coloring. " We flew so fast indeed that I am sure you are tho- roughly fatigued," says Miss Kavanagh, addressing her. "Why don't you run away now, and take off" your bonnet and lay down for an hour or so ? " " But," begins Barbara, and then stops short. What does it all mean ? this new departure of her sister's puzzles her. To so deliberately ask for a t^e-d-tete with Felix ! To what end ? The girl's manner, so bright, filled with such a ghttering geniality — so unlike the usual listlessness that has characterized it for so long — both confuses and alarms her. Why is she so amiable now ? There has been a little difficulty about getting her back at all, quite enough to make Mrs. Monkton shiver for Dysart's reception by her, and here, now, half an hour later, she is beaming upon him and being more than ordinarily civil. What is she going to do ? # " Oh ! no * buts,' " says Joyce gaily. " You know you said your head was aching, and Mr. Dysart will excuse you. He will not be so badlj off even without you. He will have me ! " She turns a full glance on Felix as she says this, and looks at him with lustrous eyes and white teeth showing through her parted lips. The soupfon of mockery in her whole air, of which all through he has been faintly but uncomfortably aware, has deepened. " J shall take- care he is not dull." " But," says Barbara, again, rather helplessly. " No, no. You must rest yourself. Remember we are going to that *at home,' at the Thesigers' to-night, and I would not miss it for anything. Don't dwell with such sad looks on Mr. Dysart, I have promised to look after him. You will let me take care of you for a little while, Mr. Dysart, will you not ? " turning another brilliant smile upon Felix, who responds to it very gravely. ». 230 APRILS LADY. I:' ; i He is regarding her with a searching air. with her ? Some old words recur to him : How is it (C There is treachery, O Ahaziah I *' Why does she look at him like that? He mistiflsts her present attitude. Even that aggressive mood of hers at the Dor6 gallery on that last day when they met v,'as pre- ferable to this agreeable but detestable indifference. "It is always a pleasure to be with you," says he steadily, perhaps a little doggedly. " There ! you see ! " says Joyce, with a pretty little nod at her sister. "Well, I shall take half an hour's rest," says Mrs. Monkton, reluctantly, who is, in truth, feeling as fresh as a daisy, but who is afraid to stay. " But I shall be back for tea." She gives a little kindly glance to Felix, and, whh a heart filled with forebodings, leavcu the room. " What a glorious d^y it has been ! " says Joyce, con- tinuing the conversation with Dysart in that new manner of hers, quite as if Barbara's going was a matter of small importance, and the fact that she has lefL them for the first time ^or all these months alone together of less importance still. She is standing on the hearthrug, and % slowly taking the pms out of her bonnet. She seems utterly uncon- cerned. He might be the veriest stranger, or else the oldest, the most uninteresting friend in the world. She has taken out all the pins now, and has thrown her bonnet on to the lounge nearest to her, and is standing before the glass in the overmantel patting and pushing into order the soft locks that lie upon her forehead. CHAPTER XXXIX. ** Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair.** ** Life's a varied, bright illusion, Joy and sorrow — light and shade." " It was almost warm," says she, turning round to him. She seems to be talking all the time, so vivid is her face, so intense her vitality. " I was so glad to sec the Braba- APRIL'S LADY. 231 zons again. You know them, don't you? Kit looked perfect. So lovely, so good in every way — voice, face, manners. I felt I envied her. It would be delightful to feel that every one must be admiring one, as she does." She glances at him, and he leans a little toward her. "No, no, not a compliment, please. 1 know I am as much behind Kit as the moon is behind the sun." " I wasn't going to pay you a compliment," says he, slowly. " No ? " she laughs. It was unlike her to have made that remark, and just as unlike her to have taken his rather discourteous reply so good-naturedly. " It was a charming visit," she goes on, not in haste, but idly as it were, and as if words are easy to her. " I quite enjoyed it. Barbara didn't. I think she wanted to get home — she is always thinking of the babies — or Well, I did. I am not ungrateful. I take the goods the gods provide, and find honest pleasure in them. I do not think, indeed, I laughed so much for quite a century as to-day with Kit." "She is sympathetic," says Felix, with the smallest thought of the person in question in his mind. " More than that, surely. Thougl^ that is a hymn of praise in itself. After all it is a relief to meet Irish people when one has spent a week or two in stolid England. You agree with me ? " " I am English," returns he. " Oh ! Of course ! How rude of me ! I didn't mean it, however. I had entirely forgotten, our acquaintance having been confined entirely to Irish soil until this luck- less moment. You do forgive me ? " She is leaning a little forward and looking at him with a careless expression. ** No," returns he briefly. " Well, you should," says she, taking no notice of his cold rejoinder, and treating it, indeed, as if it is of no moment. If there was a deeper meaning in his refusal to grant her absolution she declines to acknowledge it. " Still, even that betise of mine need not prevent you from seeing some truth in my argument. We have our charms, we Irish, eh'?" " Your charm ? *' " Well, mine, if you like, as a typoj- and " — recklessly -f^ APRIVS LADY. *'* V i^.r._"jfyou wish to be andwith,_a shrug of her shoulders- .fy P"cwe"has gone a little too far. „ ^ coldly, f/ think I have f ''"""'^ff^^ *he're shl is sUn^ng He ises abruptly and goes ove to wh^^^ ^^^ ^'^ *'* f. on the hearthrug-shadu g her . ^^^j^^ , charm? huee lapanese fan. ^'"'^ •„ intensif, , and now becomes Ws tone has been growing n "^t«^"\^i, j what is the """• ''^ri?:nou' au"^ern.anner--everyth.ng? '^trdTdyl grant .4 this inte^^^^^^^^ <. Perhaps because -s" ' "' (hat little soapy boy 1 and cold as early rost- hke ^.^^ ^^^ ^^,„ thought you would n°'^^ ",i^J'i, is the outcome of the She laughs Ughtly. .J^e '^"f"is perfectly .successful, smile, and its f =/ J"There U no heart in it. but on the surface only. 1 " „ " .. You think I 'i"''"g,ir You have just said I arranged -.r/of^'m^er-Sl S" asks he, gravel,. ^^^P^Cn^e^^ouldtharyou unhappy always." Her tone is jesting throughout. ^^^j j^e fan and '°..You think," takmg *e J'ar.a „ ^^^ jf j do speak I • restraining its mouon for a moment, l-routrmTstiUrdfaUcome totheconclusion-- ::wr;iT:oo,.'aiittieir.^^^^^^^^^^ is you Who want to speak^ S>l«"ce> ^^ ^,^^ ,,j R„t it occurred to me m the sHent w ^, ^^^^^ ^^ y„„ r 'anV. n^w -.^J forced, h^^^^^^^^^^ ;^^ ,, eon- once said to me an >u ^le me any more. flecDlv wounded. .'Can you ? " ,,,e„tlessly on his. Is there magtc Her eyes are restnng elenttesiy ,^p,ession. in them? Her mouth has taken APRWS LADY. 233 >e L a ?" nes the ng? ■ight I the ssful, mged want ravely, Her in and peak I t-yesj argued er all, it golden. night, ,t if yo^^ be con- says he evidently ere magic ;ssion. " I might have known how it would be," says Dysart, throwing up his head. '* You will not forgive ! It was but a moment — a few words, idle, hardly-considered, and " " Oh, yes, considered," says she slowly. '* They were unmeant ! " persists he, fiercely. " I defy you to think otherwise. One great mistake — a second's madness — and you have ordained that it shall wreck my whole life ! You ! — That evening in the library at the court. I had not thought of " " Ah I " she interrupts him, even more by her gesture — which betrays the first touch of passion she has shown — than by her voice, that is still mocking. " I knew you would have to say it ! " " You know me, indeed ! " says he, with an enforced calmness that leaves him very white. " My whole heart and soul lies bare to you, to ruin it as you will. It is the merest waste of time, I know ; but still I have felt all along that I must tell you again that I love you, though I fully understand I shall receive nothing in return but scorn and contempt. Still, to be able even to say it is a relief to me." *' And what is it to me ? " asks the girl, as pale now as he is. " Is it a relief — a comfort to me to have to listen to you?" She clenches her hands involuntarily. The fan falls with a little crash to the ground. " No." He is silent a moment, " No — it is unfair — unjust ! You shall not be made uncomfortable again. It is the last time. ... I shall not trouble you again in this way. I don't say we shall never meet again. You" — pausing and looking at her — " you do not desire that? " " Oh, no," coldly, politely. " If you do, say so at once," with a rather peremptory ring in his tone. " I should," calmly. ** I am glad of that. As my cousin is a great friend of mine, and as I shall get a fortnight's leave soon, I shall probably run over to Ireland, and spend it with her. After all " — bitterly — " why should I suppose it would be disagreeable to you ? " "It was quite a natural idea," says she, immovably. " However," says he, steadily, *' you need not be afraid I. I I •*. ■ fa i 'ii: . ::-■ ! ,..■ ■ ►• «34 APRIL'S LADY. that, even if we do meet, I shall ever annoy you in this way again " " Oh, I am never afraid," says she, with that terrible smile that seems to freeze him. " Well, good-bye," holding out his hand. He is quite as composed as she is now, and is even able to return her smile in kind. " So soon ? But Barbara will be down to tea in a few minutes. You will surely wait for her ? " " I think not." '* But really do ! I am going to see after the children, and give them some chocolate I bought for them." " It will probably make them ill," says he, smiling siill. " No, thank you. I must go now, indeed. You will make my excuses to Mrs. Monkton, please. Good-bye.'* " Good-bye," says she, laying her hand in his for a second. She has grown suddenly very cold, shivering : it seems almost as if an icy blast from some open portal has been blown in upon her. He is still looking at her. There is something wild — strange — in his expression. " You cannot realize it, but I can," says he, unsteadily. " It is good-bye forever, so far as life for me is concerned.'* He has turned away from her. He is gone. The sharp closing of the door wakens her to the fact that she is alone. Mechanically, quite calmly, she looks around the empty room. There is a little Persian chair cover over there all awry. She rearranges it with a critical eye to its proper appearance, and afterv/ard pushes a small chair into its place. She pats a cushion or two, and, final!'- taking up her bonnet and the pins she had laid upon the chimney-piece, goes up to her own room. Once there With a rush the whole thing comes back to her. The entire meaning of it — what she has done. That word — forever. The bonnet has fallen from her fingers. Sinking upon her knees beside the bed, she buries her face out of sight. Presently her slender frame is torn by those cruel, yet merciful sobs ! APRWS LADY, •35 ible [uite I her few Idren, g still. ,u will 1-bye." \ for a ing *. it rtal has at ber. on. teadiljr.^ erned." The bat sbe around \x cover ical eye a small wo, and, had laid |m. ■ler. The t word — Sinking r face out by those CHAPTER XL. ** The sense of death is most in apprehension." '* Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure*" It is destined to be a day of grief ! Monkton who had been out all the morning, having gone to see the old people, a usual habit of his, had not returned to dinner — a very unusual habit with him. It had occurred, however, once or twice, that he had stayed to dine with them on such occasions, as when Sir George had had a troublesome letter from his elder son, and had looked to the younger to give him some comfort — some of his time to help him to bear it, by talking it all over. Barbara, therefore, while dressing for Mrs. Thesiger's " At Home," had scarcely felt anxiety, and, indeed, it is only now when she has come down to the drawing-room to find Joyce awaiting her, also in gala garb, so far as a gown goes, that a suspicion of coming trouble takes possession of her. " He is late, isn't he ? " she says, looking at Joyce with something nervous in her expression. " What can have kept him ? I know he wanted to meet the General, and now What can it be ? " " His mother, probably," says Joyce, indifferently. '* From your description of her, I should say she must be a most thoroughly uncomfortable old person." " Yes. Not pleasant, certainly.- A little of her, as George Ingram used to say, goes a long way. But still And these Thesiger people are friends of his, and " " You are working yourself up into a thorough belief in the sensational street accident," says Joyce, who has seated herself well out of the glare of the chandelier. " You want to be tragic. It is a mistake, believe me." Something in the bitterness of the girl's tone strikes on her sister's ear. Joyce had not come down to dinner, had pleaded a headache as an excuse for her non-appearance, and Mrs. Monkton and Tommy (she could not bear to dine alone) had devoured that meal a deux. Tommy had certainly been anything but dull company. 1 1 ( .iit.::.'^ 236 AFRWS LADY. ' A Tnvce?" asks her iistcr .X r«haWsiifc. of course, butter r'e of the vaguest order. • Tovce laughs. j of order," says she. r/iold you your n";«;^f ! °u" stiU dwelling on the ..What should happen? Are X ^ y jdy running over bu«'"?,^,^„f';ta crossing as we 1 as anoth« «^ "^^ !f t «"' Even a hansom, I am convmced, could "^^^^^ Hm," says Barbara, a little re- "I wasnt tninKi"b "^ ., proachfully, perhaps. 1 ashamed of yourself I ^ - No. Then you °^^g^^,i°w springing to her feet as now be distinctly heard. 1 hope X through the i^aj tllfleK tSraVall o^u^tside, as Monltton enters. „,,rtdv " says his wife, the reproach 'r:r Su:;Jdt'cVe 'of the -iet^Vh^l ITeerendur" g \ I thou^.^; ^^X^^"- ^^^ r ^•" kit ? What has happened ? f^^^^';'';:n|^ing into a chair. '^iJ^e^ery bad," says Monto^^^^^^^ he has .. Your brother . ,^'ff" be expected from him. "^?Dead ! " says she in an awestruck Jo-. ^^ ..Yes. Killed himself! bhot ^ ^^^^ „ot came this mo^""f " ^.^ imp^ssMe to leave them^ come home soo""'! sorry you left them even now , a .'Oh, Freddy, I am sorry y j^^at a horrible thing, line to me would have done, un, and to die like that. , ^ ^nd then, nsing, 1. Well*' ,, ,- : letter filled with << From him I . ^- \ APRIVa LADY, 237 istcr they she. a the eddy, lother could tic re- urself \ feet as Lirs can yourself Ligh the lonkton eproach she had . What d news." chair. she has him. fcs quickly round his telegram could not hem." ;n now ; a ible thing, hen, nsmg, „ « It was " When received a " Yes. That is what seemed to make it so much worse later on. Life in the morning, death in the afternoon ! " His voice grows choked. " And such a letter as it was, filled with nothing but a most scandalous account of his Oh ! " he breaks off suddenly as if shocked. " Oh, he is dead, poor fellow." " Don't take it like that," says Barbara, following him and clinging to him. " You know you could not be unkind. There were debts then ? " " Debts ! It is difficult to explain just no./, my head is aching so; and those poor old people? Well, it means ruin for them, Barbara. Of course his debts must be paid, his honor kept intact, for the sake of the old name, but — they will let all the houses, the two in town, this one, and their own, and — and the old place down in Warwickshire, the home, all must go out of their hands." "Oh, Freddy, surely — surely there must be some way " " Not one. I spoke about breaking the entail. You know I — his death, poor fellow. I " " Yes, yes, dear." ** But they wouldn't hear of it. My mother was very angry, even in her grief, when I proposed it. They hope that by strict retrenchment, the property will be itself again ; and they spoke about Tommy. They said it would be unjust to him " " And to you," quickly. She would not have him ignored any longer. " Oh, as for me, I'm not a boy, you know. Tommy is safe to inherit as life goes." " Well, so are you," said she, with a sharp pang at her heart. " Yes, of course. I am only making out a case. I think it was kind of them to remember Tommy's claim in the midst of their own grief." " It was, indeed," says she remorsefully. " Oh, it was. But if they give up everything where will they go i^ " " They talk of taking a cottage — a small house some- where. They want to give up everything to pay his infamous There ! " sharply, '* I am forgetting again ! But to see them makes one forget everything else." He begins his walk up and down the room again, as if inaction is impossible to him. " My mother, who has been accustomed to a certain luxury all her life, to be now, at the very close n Ki \ ism »38 APRWS LADY, f It would break your heart to of it, condemned to— see her. And she will let nothing be said of him." . "Oh, no." "Still, there should be justice. I can't help feeling that. H«r blameless life, and his and she is the one to suffer." " It is so ofteii so," says his wife in a low tone. " It is an old story, dearest, but I know that when the old stories come home to us individually they always sound so terribly new. But what do they mean by a small house ? " asks she presently in a distressed tone. " Well, I suj)pose a small house," said he, with just a passing gleam of his old jesting manner. '* You know my mother cannot bear the country, so I think the cottage idea will fall through." " Freddy," says his wife suddenly. " She can't go into a small house, a London small house. It is out of the question. Could they not come and live with us?" She is suggesting a martyrdom for herself, yet she does it unflinchingly. ** What 1 My aunt and all ? " as' e, regarding her earnestly. " Oh, of course, of course, poor old thing," says she, un- able this time, however, to hide the quaver that desolates her voice. " No," says her husband with a suspicion of vehemence. He takes her suddenly in his arms and kisses her. *' Be- cause two or three people are unhappy is no reason why a fourth should be made so, and I don't want your life spoiled, so far as I can prevent it. I suppose you have guessed that I must go ove~ to Nice — where he is — my father could not possibly go alone in his present state." ** When must you go ? " ~ ** To-morrow. As for you " " If we could go home," says she uncertainly. *' That is what I would suggest, but how will you man- age without me ? The children are so troublesome when taken out of their usual beat, and their nurse — I often wonder which would require the most looking after, they or she ? It occurred to me to ask Dysart to see you across." " He is so kind, such a friend," says Mrs. Monkton. But " APRIL'S LADY, «S^ »» man- when often r, they ee you >nkton. She might have said more, but at this instant Joyce appears iii the doorway. " We shall be late," cries she, " and Freddy not even dressed, why Oh, has anything really happened?" " Yes, yes," says Barbara hurriedly — a few words ex- plains all. " We must ^o home to-morrow, you see ; and Freddy thinks that Felix would look after us until we reached Kensington or North Wall." *' Felix — Mr. Dysart ? " The girl s face had grown pale during the recital of the suicide, but now it looks ghastly. " Why should he come ? " cries she in a ringing tone, that has actual fear in it. " Do you suppose that we two can- not manage the children between us? Oh, nonsense. Bar- bara ; why Tommy is as sensible as he can be, and if nurse does prove incapable, and a prey to seasickness, well — I can take baby, and you can look after Mabel. It will be all right 1 We are not going to America, really. Freddy, please say you will no^ trouble Mr. Dysart about this matter." " Yes, I really think we shall not require him," si^s Barbara. Something in the glittering brightness of her sister's eye warns her tc give in at once, and indeed she has been unconsciously a little half-hearted about having Felix or any stranger as a travelling companion. " There, run away, Joyce, and go to your bed, darling ; you look very tired. I must still arrange some few things with Freddy." " What is the matter with her ? " asks Monkton, when Joyce has gone away. " She looks as if she had been cry- ing, and her manner is so excitable." " She has been strange all day, almost repellant. Felix called — and — I don't know what happened ; she insisted upon my leaving her alone with him ; but I am afraid there was a scene of some sort. I know she had been crying, because her eyes were so red, but she would say nothing, and I was afraid to ask her." " Better not. I hope she is not still thinking of that fellow Beauclerk. However " he stops short and sighs heavily. " You must not think of her now," says Barbara quickly ; *' your own trouble is enough for you. Were your brother's affairs so very bad that they necessitate the giving up of everything? " I!i li I i t 240 APRIL'S LADY. . ** It has been going on for years. My father has had to economize, to cut down everything. You know the old place was let to a Mr. — Mr. — I quite forget the name now," pressing his hand to his brow ; **a Manchester man, at all events, but we always hoped my father would have been able to take it back from him next year, but now ^" "But you say they think in time that the property will " " They think so. I don't. But it would be a pitr to undeceive thern. I am afraid, Barbara," with a sad look at her, " you made a bad match. Even when the chanre comes in your way to rise out of poverty, it proves a thor oughly useless one." " It isn't like you to, talk like that," says she quickly. " There, you are overwrought, and no wonder, too. Come upstairs and let us see what you will want for your jour- ney." Her tone had grown purposely brisk ; surely, on an occasion such as this she is a wife, a companion in a thousartd. " There must be many things to be con- sidered, both for you and for me. And the thing is, to take nothing unnecessary. Those foreign places, I hear, are so ^" " It hardly matters what I take," says he wearily. " Well, it matters what I take," says she briskly. " Come and give me a help, Freddy. You know how I hate to have servants standing over me. Other people stand over their servants, but they are poor rich people. I like to see how the clothes are packed." She is speaking not quite truthfully. Few people like to be spared trouble so much as she does, but it seems good in her eyes now to rouse him from the melancholy that is fast growing on him, '* Come/' she says, tucking her arm into his. ■'*'■ A APRJVS LADY. 341 jdto leold , name > man, I have Dperty )itv to d look change a thor [uickly. Come Lir jour- ^, on an )n in a t>e con- ig is, to , I hear, y- « Come hate to nd over like to cing not )uble so J now to on him* ■V.. CHAPTER XLI. "It is not to-morrow ; ah, were it to-day ! There are two that I know that would be gay. Gocd-by I Good-by I Good-by I Ah I parting wounds so bitterly 1 " It is six weeks later, " spring has come up this way," and all the earth is glad with a fresh birth. " Tantarara I the joyois Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms ; not a bird Of evil augury is seen or heard I Come now, like Pan's old crew we'll dance and sing. Or Oberon's, for hill and valley ring To March's bugle horn — earth's blood is stirred." March has indeed' come ; boisterous, wild, terrible, in many ways, but lovely in others. There is a freshness in the air that rouses glad thoughts within the breast, vague thoughts, sweet, as undefinable, and that yet mean life. The whole land seems to have sprung up from a long slumber, and to be looking with wide happy eyes ;-on the fresh marvels Nature is preparing for it. Rather naked she stands as yet, rubbing her sleepy lids, having just cast from her her coat of snow, and feeling somewhat bare in the frail garment of bursting leaves and timid grass growths, that as yet is all she can find wherein to hide her charms ; but half clothed as she is, she is still beautiful. Everything seems full of eager triumph. Hills, trees, v^dleys, lawns, and bursting streams, all are overflowing with a wild enjpyment. AH the dull, dingy drapery in which winter had shrouded them has now been cast aside, and the resplendent furniture with which each spring de- lights to deck her home stands revealed. All these past dead months her house has lain desolate, enfolded in death's cerements, but now uprising in her vigorous youth, she flings aside the dull coverings, and lets the sweet, brilliant hues that lie beneath, shine forth in all their beauty to meet the eye of day. Earth and sky are in bridal array, and from the rich recesses of the woods, and froir each shrub and branch 16 ; APRIVS LADY, I ! !l I ! I hi ! li the soft glad paeans of the mating birds sound like x wedding chant. . / Monk ton had come back from that sad journey to Nice some weeks ago. He had had very little to tell on his return, and that of the saddest. It had all been only too true about those iniquitous debts, and the old people were in great distress. The two town houses should be let at once, and the old place in Warwickshire — the home, as he called it — well ! there was no hope now that it would ever be redeemed from the hands of the Manchester people who held it ; and Sir George had been so sure that this spring he would have been in a position to get back his own, and have the old place once more in his possession. It was all very sad. " There is no hope now. He will have to let the place to Barton for the next ten years," said Monkton to his wife when he got home. Barton was the Manchester man. ** He is still holding off about doing it, but he knows it must be done, and at all events the •reality won't be a bit worse than the thinking about it. Poor old Governor ! You wouldn't know him, Barbara. He has gone to skin and bone, and such a frightened sort of look in his eyes." " Oh ! poor, poor old man ! " cried Barbara, who could forget everything in the way of past unkindness where her sympathies were enlisted. Toward the end of February the guests had begun to arrive at the Court. Lady Baltimore had returned there during January with her little son, but Baltimore had not put in an appearance for some weeks later. A good many new people unknown to the Monktons had arrived there with others whom they did know, and after awhile Dicky Browne had come and Miss Maliphant and the Brabazons and some others with whom Joyce was on friendly terms, but even though Lady Baltimore had made rather a point of the girls being with her, Joyce had gone to her but sparingly, and always in fear and trembling. It was so impossible to know who might not have arrived last night, or was going to arrive this night 1 Besides, Barbara and Freddy were so saddened, so upset by the late death and its consequences, that it seemed unkind even to pretend to enjoy oneself. Joyce graspe4 at this excuse to say " no " very often to Lady Baltimore's kindly longings to have her with her. That, up to this, neither Dysart nor Beauclerk had come to the Court, had V APRIL'S LADY. M like a ) Nice on his ily too le were ; let at ;, as he lid ever people Kat this jack his isession. he place n to his ster man. knows it ; be a bit rovernor I B to skin his eyes." rho could ivhere her begun to ned there I had. not ood many Lved there lile Dicky ferabazons jidly terms, ler a point [to her but It was so last night, ed, so upset J it seemed |ce grasped [Baltimore's lup to this, Court, had been a comfort to her ; but that they might come at aD|r momenv kept her watchful and uneasy. Indeed, only yesterday she had heard from Lady Baltimore that both were expected during the ensuing week. That news leaves her rather unstrung and nervous to- day. After luncheon, having successfully eluded Tommy, the lynx-eyed, she decides upon going for a long walk, with a view to working off the depression to which she has become prey. This is how she happens to be out of the way when the letter comes for Barbara that changes altogether the tenor of their lives. The afternoon post brings it. The delicious spring'day has worn itself almost to a close when Monkton, entering his wife's room, where she is busy at a sewing machine altering a frock for Mabel, drops a letter over her shoulder into her lap. " What a queer looking letter," says she, staring in amazement at the big official blue envelope. "Ah — ha, I thought it would make you shiver," says he, lounging over to the fire, and nestling his back comfort- ably against the mantle-piece. " What have you been up to I should like to know. No wonder you are turning a lively purple." " But what can it be ? " says she. " That's just it," says he teazingly. " I hope they aren't going to arrest you, that's all. Five years' penal servitude is not a thing to hanker after." Mrs. Monkton, however, is not listening to this tirade. She has broken open the envelope and is now scanning hurri2dly the contents of the important-looking document within. There is a pause — a lengthened one. Presently Barbara rises from her seat, mechanically, as it were, always with her eyes fixed on the letter in her hand. She has grown a little pale — a little puzzled frown is contract- ing her forehead. " Freddy ! " says she in a rather strange tone. ** What ? " says he quickly. " No more bad news I hope." " Oh, no I Oh, yes ! I can't quite make it out— but — I'm afraid my poor uncle is dead." "Your uncle?" " Yes, yes. My father's brother. I think I told you about him. He went abroad years ago, and we — Joyce and I, believed him dead a long tii3(Xe ago, lon^ before I I' i ' II ;l ill 244 APRWS LADY. / married you even — but now- Come here and read it. It is worded so oddly that it puzzles me." I ,, " Let me see it," says Monkton. He sinks into an easy chair, and drags her down on to his knee, the better to see over her shoulder. Thus satis- factorily arranged, he begins to read rapidly the letter she holds up before his eyes. " Yes, dead indeed," says he sotto voce. " Go on, turn over; you mustn't fret about that, you know. Barbara — er— er — " reading. " What's^ this ? By Jove ! " " What ? " says his wife anxiously. ** What is the mean- ing of this horrid letter, Freddy ? " " There are a few people who might not call it horrid," says Monkton, placing his arm round her and rising from the chair. He is looking very grave. " Even though it brings you news of your poor uncle's death, still it brings you too the information that you are heiress to about a quarter of a million ! " " What ! " says Barbara faintly. And then, " Oh no. Oh ! nonsense ! there must be some mistake ! " " Well, it sounds like it at all events. * Sad occurrence,* h'm — h'm " reading. ** ' Co-heiresses. Very consider- able fortune.' " He looks to the signature of the letter. " Hodgson & Fair. Very respectable firm ! My father has had dealings with them. They say your uncle died in Sydney, and has left behind him an immense sum of money. Half a million, in fact, to which you and Joyce are co- heiresses." '* There must be a mistake," repeats Barbara, in a low tone. " It seems too like a fairy tale." *' It does. And yet, lawyers like Hodgson & Fair are not likely to be led into a cul-de-sac. If " he pauses, and looks earnestly at his wife. " If it does prove true, Barbara, you will be a very rich woman." " And you will be rich with me," she says, quickly, in an agitated tone. " But, but-— — " "Yes; it does seem difficult to believe," interrupts he, slowly. " What a letter ! " His eyes fall on it again, and she, drawing close to him, reads it once more, carefully. "I think there is truth in it," says she, at last. "It sounds more like being all right, more reasonable, when read a second time. Freddy " She steps a little bit away from him, and rests her beauti- ful eyes full on his, APRIVS LADY. i4S " Hare you thought," says she, slowly, « that if there is truth in this story, how much we shall be able to do for your father and mother ! " Monkton starts as if stung. For them. To do anything for them. For the two who had so wantonly offended and insulted her during all her married life. Is her first thought to be for them ? " Yes, yes," says she, eagerly. " We shall be able to help them out of all their difficulties. Oh ' I didn't say much to you, but in their grief, their troubles have gone to my very heart. I couldn't bear to think of their being obliged to give up their houses, their comforts, and in their old age, too 1 Now we shall be able to smooth matters for them I " CHAPTER XLII. ** It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, AH the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay, Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride ! All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side." The light in her eyes is angelic. She has laid her hands upon both her husband's arm: as if expecting him to take her into them, as he always does only too gladly on the smallest provocation. Just now, however, he fails her, for the moment only, however. " Barbara," says he, in a choked voice : he holds her from him, examining her face critically. His thoughts are painful, yet proud — proud beyond telling. His ex- amination does not last long : there is nothing but good to be read in that fair, sweet, lovable face. He gathers her to him with a force that is almost hurtful. " Are you a woman at all, or just an angel ? " says he, with a deep sigh. "What is it, Freddy?" " After all they have done to you. Their insults, cold- ness, abominable conduct, to think that your first thought should be for them. Why, look here, Barbara," vehe- mently, " they are not worthy that you should " "Tutl" interrupts she, lightly, yet with a little sob in her throat. His praise is so sweet to her. " You over- rate me. Is it for them I would do it or for you? *";•. * t 246 APRJVS LADY, There, take all the thought for yourself. And, besides, are not you and I one, and shall not your people be my people ? Come, if you think of it, there is no such great merit after all." " You forget " " No ; not a word against them. I won't listen," thrusting her fingers into her ears. " It is all over and done with long ago. And it is our turn now, and let us do things decently and in order, and create no heart- burnings." " But when I think— »» ft If thinking makes you look like that, doa't think." " But I must. I must remember how they scorned and slighted you. It never seems to have come home to me so vividly as now — now when you seem to have forgotten it. Oh, Barbara ! " He presses back her head and looks long and tenderly into her eyes. " I was not mistaken, indeed, when I gave you my heart. Surely you are one among ten thousand." "Silly boy," says she, with a little tremulous laugh, glad to her very soul's centre, however, because of his words. " What is there to praise me for ? Have I not warned you that I am purely selfish? What is there I would not do for very love of you? Come, Freddy," shaking herself loose from him, and laughing now with honest delight. " Let us be reasonable. Oh ! poor old uncle, it seems hateful to rejoice thus over his death, but his memory is really only a shadow after all, and I suppose he meant to make us happy by his gift, eh, Freddy ? " " Yes, how well he remembered during all these years. He could have formed no other ties." "None, naturally." Short pause. "There is that black mare of Mike Donovan's, Freddy, that you so fancied. You can buy it now." Monkton laughs involuntarily. Something of the child has always lingered about Barbara. " And I should like to get a black velvet gown," says she, her face brightening, " and to buy Joyce a Oh ! but Joyce will be rich herself." " Yes. I'm really afraid you will be done out of the joy of overloading Joyce with gifts. She'll be able to give you something. That will be a change, at all events. As for the velvet gown, if this," touching the letter, " bears any APRIL'S LADY. 247 ■ ■ . meaning, I should think you need not confine yourself to one velvet gown." " And there's Tommy," says she quickly, her thoughts running so fast that she scarcely hears him. ** You have always said you wanted to put him in the army. Now you can do it." " Yes," says Monkton, with sudden interest. " I should like that. But you — you shrank from the thought, didn't you ? " '♦Well, he might have to go to India," says she, nervously. " And what of that ? " • "Oh, nothing — that is, nothing rtally- only there are lions and tigers there, Freddy ; aren't there, now ? " " One or two," says Mr. Monkton, -'■ if we are to believe travelers' tales. But they are all proverbially frise. I don't believe in lions at all myself. I'm bure tney are myths. Well, let him go into the nr /y, then. Lions and tigers don't as a rule inhabit the gre ,t deep." " Oh, no ; but sharks do," says she, with a visible shudder. " No, no, on the whole I had rather trust him to the beasts of the field. He could run away from them, but you can't run in the sea." " True," says Mr. Monkton, with exemplary gravity. " I couldn't, at all events." Monkton had to run across to London about the extra- ordinary legacy left to his wife and Joyce. But further investigation proved the story true. The money was, indeed, there, and they were the only heirs. From being distinctly poor they rose to the height of a very respect- able income, and Monkton being in town, where the old Monktons still were, also was commanded by his wife to go to them and pay off their largest liabilities — debts con- tracted by the dead son, and to so arrange that they should not be at the necessity of leaving themselves houseless. The Manchester people who had taken the old place in Warwickshire were now in.brmed that they could not have it beyond the term agreed on ; but about this the old people had something to say, too. They would not take back the family place. They had but one son now, and the sooner he went to live there the better. Lady Monk- APRIL'S LADY. ton, completely broken down and melted bj Barbara's generosity, went so far as to send her a long letter, telling her it would be the dearest wish of her and Sir George's hearts that she should preside as mistress over the beautiful old homestead, and that it would give them great happi- ness to imagine the children — the grandchildren — running riot through the big wainscoted rooms. Barbara was not to wait for her — Lady Monkton's — death to take up her position as head of the house. She was to go to Warwickshire at once, t!ie moment those detestable Manchester people were out of it; and Lady Monkton, if Barbara would be so good as to make her welc( -ie, would like to come to her for three months every year, to see the children, and her son, and her daughter ! The last was the crowning touch. For the rest, Barbara was not to hesitate about accepting the Warwickshire place, as Lady Monkton and Sir George were devoted to town life, and never felt quite well when away from smoky London. This last was true. As a fact, the old people were thoroughly imbued with the desire for the turmoil of city life, and the three months of country Lady Monkton had stipulated for v/ere quite as much as they desired of rustic felicity. Barbara accepted the gift of the old home. Eventually, of course, it would be hers, but she knew the old people meant the present giving of it as a sort of return for her liberality — ^for the generosity that had enabled them to once more lift their heads among their equals. The great news meanwhile had spread like wildfire through the Irish coimtry where the Frederic Monktons lived. Lady Baltimore was unfeignedly glad about it, and came down at once to embrace Barbara, and say all sorts of delightful things about it. The excitement of the whole affair seemed to dissipate all the sadness and de- pression that had followed on the death of the elder son, and nothing now was talked of but the great good luck that had fallen into the paths of Barbara and Joyce. The poor old uncle had been considered dead for so many years previously, and was indeed such a dim memory ^o his nieces, that it would have been the purest affectation to pretend to feel any deep grief for his demise. APRIL'S LADY. \ «49 Perhaps what grieved Barbara most of all, though she said very litlle about it, was the idea of having to leave the old house in which they were now living. It did not not cheer her to think of the place in Warwickshire, which, of course, was beautiful, and full of possibilities. This foolish old Irish home — rich in discomforts — ^was home. It seemed hard to abandon it. It was not a palatial mansion, certainly; it was even dismal in many ways, but it contained more love in its little space than many a noble mansion could boast. It seemed cruel- ungrateful — to cast it behind her, once it was possible to mount a few steps on the rungs of the worldly ladder. How happy they had all been here together, in this foolish old house, that every severe storm seemed to threaten with final dissolution. It gave her many a secret pang to think that she must part from it for ever before another year should dawn. CHAPTER XLIII. '* Looks the heart alone discover, If the tongue its thoughts can tell, : *Tis in vain you play the lover. You have never felt the spell." Joyce, who had been dreading, with a silent but ter- rible fear, her first meeting with Dysart, had found it no such great matter after all when they were at last face to face. Dysart had met her as coolly, with apparently as little concern as though no former passages had ever taken place between them. His manner was perfectly calm, and as devoid of feeling as any one could desire, and it was open to her comprehension that he avoided her whenever he possibly could. She told herself this was all she could, or did, desire ; yet, nevertheless, she writhed beneath the certainty of it. Beauclerk had not arrived until a week later than Dysart ; until, indeed, the news of the marvelous fortune that had come to her was well authenticated, and then had been all that could possibly be expected of him. His manner was perfect. He sat still and gazed with 250 APRWS LADY, delightfully friendly eyes into Miss Maliphant's pleased countenance, and anon skipped across room or lawn to whisper beautiful nothings to Miss Kavanagh. The latter's change of fortune did not, apparently, seem to affect him in the least. After all, even now she was not as good a parti as Miss Maliphant, where money was concerned, but then there were other things. Whatever his outward manner might lead one to suspect, beyond doubt he thought a great deal at this time, and finally came to a conclusion. Joyce's fortune had helped her in nany ways. It had helped many of the poor around her, too ; but »t did even more than that. It helped Mr. Beauclerk to make up his mind with regard to his matrimonial prospects. Sitting in his chambers in town with Lady Baltimore's letter before him that told him of the change in Joyce's fortune — of the fortune that had changed her, in fact, from a pretty penniless girl to a pretty rich one, he told himself that, after all, she had certainly been the girl for him since the commencement of their acquaintance. She was charming — not a whit more now than then. He would not belie his own taste so far as so admit that she was more desirable in any way now, in her prosperity, than when first he saw her, and paid her the immense compliment of admiring her. He, permitted himself to grow a little enthusiastic, how- ever, to say out loud to himself, as it were, all that he had hardly allowed himself to think up to this. She was, beyond question, the most charming girl in the world I Such grace — such finish ! A girl worthy of the love of the best of men — presumably himself! He had always loved her — always ! He had never felt so sure of that delightful fact as now. He had had a kind of knowledge, even when afraid to give ear to it, that she was the wife best suited to him to be found any- where. She understood him ! They were thoroughly en rapport with each other. Their marriage would be a suc- cess in the deepest, sincerest meaning of that word. He leant luxuriously among the cushions of iiis chair, lit a fragrant cigarette, and ran his mind backward over many things. Well ! Perhaps so ! But yet if he had refrained from proposing to her until now — now when fate smiles upon her — it was simply because he dreaded dragging her into a marriage where she could not have APRJI'S I. ADV. «$l had all ihose little best things of life that so peerless a creature had every right to demand. Yes ! it was for her sake alone he had hesitated. He feels sure of that now. He has thoroughly persuaded himself of the purity of the motives that kept him tongue tied when honor called aloud to him for speech. He feels himself so exalted that he metaphorically pats him- sflf upon the back and tells himself he is a righteous being — a very ^Brutus where honor is concerned ; any other man might have hurried that exquisite creature into a squalid marriage for the mere sake of gratifying an over- powering affection, but he had been above all that ! He had considered her ! The man's duty is ever to protect the woman 1 He had protected her — even from herself; for that she would have been only too willing to link her sweet fate with his at any price was patent to all the world. Few people have felt as virtuous as Mr. Beau- clerk as he comes to the end of this thread of his imagin- ings. Well I he will make it up to her ! He smiles benignly through the smoke thai rises round his nose. She shaill never have reason to remember that he had not fallen on his knees to her — as a less considerate man might have done — when he was without the means to make her life as bright as it should be. The most eager of lovers must live, and eating is the first move toward that conclusion. Yet if he had given way to selfish desires they would scarcely, he and she, have had sufficient bread (of any delectable kind) to fill their mouths. But now all would be different. She, clever girl ! had supplied the blank ; she had squared the difficulty. Having provided the wherewithal to keep body and soul together in a nice, respectable, fashionable, modern sort of way, her constancy shall certainly be rewarded. He will go straight down to the Court, and declare to her the sentiments that have been warming his breast (silently !) all these past months. What a dear girl she is, and so fond of him ! That in itself is an extra charm in her very delightful character. And those fortu- nate thousands ! Quite a quarter of a million, isn't it ? Well, of course, no use saying they won't come in handy — no use being hypocritical over it — horrid thing a hypo- crite ! — well, those thousands naturally have their charm, too. i i H!ll{ • 2S2 APRIVS /.ADV. He rose, flung his ':igarette aside (it was finished as far as careful enjoyment would permit), and rang for his ser- vant to pack his portmanteaux. He was going to the ^ Court by the morning train. Now that he is here, however, he restrains the ardor, that no doubt is consuming him, with altogether admir< able patience, and waits for the chance that may permit him to lay his valuable affections at Joyce's feet. A dinner to be followed by an impromptu dance at the Court suggests itself as a very fitting opportunity. He grasps it. Yes, to-morrow evening will be an excellent and artistic opening for a thing of this sort. All through luncheon, even while conversing with Joyce and Miss Maliphant on various outside topics, his versatile mind is arranging a picturesque spot in the garden enclosures wherein to make Joyce a happy woman ! Lady Swansdown, glancing across the table at him, laughs lightly. Always disliking him, sh'j has still been able to read him very clearly, and his determination to now propose to Joyce amuses her nearly as much as it annoys her. Frivolous to the last degree as she is, an honest regard for Joyce has taken hold within her breast. Lord Baltimore, too, is disturbed by his brother's present. CHAPTER XLIV. " Ijovt took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with might ; Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in mutic out of sight." * Lady Swansdown is startled into a remembrance of the present by the entrance of somebody. After all Dicky, the troublesome, was right — this is no spot in which to sleep or dream. Turning her head with an indolent impatience to see who has come to disturb her, she meets Lady Balti- more's clear eyes. Some sharp pang of remorse, of fear, perhaps, compels her to spring to her feet, and gaze at her hostess with an expression that is almost defiant. Dicky's words had so APRIVS LADY, AH far taken effect that she now dreiads and hates to meet the woman who once had been her stanch friend. Lady Baltimore, unable to ignore the look in her rival's eyes, still advances toward her with unfaltering step. Per- haps a touch of disdain, of contempt, is perceptible in her own gaze, because Lady Swansdown, paling, moves toward her. She seems to have lost all self-control — she is trembling violently. * It is a crisis. " What is it ? " says Lady Swansdown, harshly. *' Why do you look at me like that? Has it come to a close be- tween us, Isabel ? Oh ! if so " — vehemently — " it is better so." " I don't think I understand you," says Lady Baltimore, who has grown very white. Her tone is haughty ; she has drawn back a little as if to escape from contact with the other. " Ah ! That is so like you," says Lady Swansdown with a rather fierce little laugh. " You pretend, pretend, pre- tend, from morning till night. You intrench yourself be hind your pride, and " " You know what you are doing, Beatrice," says Lady Baltimore, ignoring this outburst completely, and speaking in a calm, level tone, yet with a face like marble. " Yes, and you know, too," says Lady Swansdown. Then, with an overwhelming vehemence : " Why don't you do something ? Why don't you assert yourself? " " I shall never assert my.self," says Lady Baltimore slowly. " You mean that whatever comes you will not interfere." " That, exactly ! " turning her eyes full on to the other's face with a terrible disdain. *' I shall never interfere in this — or any other of his flirtations." , It is a sharp stab ! Lady Swansdown winces visibly. " What a woman you are ! " cries she. " Have you ever thought of it, Isabel? You are unjust to him — unfair. You " — passionately — '* treat him as though he were the dust beneath your feet, and yet you expect him to remain immaculate, for your sake — pure as any acolyte — a thing of ice " " No," coldly. " You mistake me. I know too much of him to expect perfection — nay, common decency from him. But you — it was you whom I hoped to find itn- maculate." '' . . A X vK: ''i^:i 254 AP/iIVS LADY, u You expected too much, then. One iceberg in your midst is enough, and that you have kindly suggested in your own person. Put me out of the discussion altogether." ** Ah ! You have made that impossible ! I cannot do that. I have known you too long, I have liked you too well. I have," with a swift, but terrible glance at her, " loved you ! " " Isabel ! " "No, nv> ! Not a word. It is too late now." . . t " True," says Lady Swansdown, bringing back the arms she had extended and letting them fall into a sudden, dull vehemence to her sides. Her agitation is uncontrolled. " That was so long ago that, no doubt, you have forgotten all abort it. You," bitterly, ♦* have forgotten a good deal." "And you " says Lady Baltimore, very calmly, "what have you not forgotten — your self-respect,'* deliberately, " among other things." " Take care ; ta^e care ! " says Lady Swansdown in a • low tone. She has turned furiously upon her. ** Why should I take ctre? " She throws up her small head scornfully. " Have I said one word too much ? " " Too much iiidced," says Lady Swansdown distinctly, but faintly. She turns her head, but not her eyes in Isa- bel's direction. " I'm afraid you will have to endure for one day longer," she says in a low voice ; " after that you shall bid me a farewell that shall last forever ! " "You have come to a wise deci>.ion," says Lady Balti- more, immovably. There is something so contemptuous in her whole bear- ing that it maddens the other. " How dare you speak to me like that," cries she with sudden violence not to be repressed. " You of all others ! Do you think you are not in fault at all — that you stand blameless before the world ? " The blood has flamed into her pale cheeks, her eyes are on fire. She advances toward Lady Baltimore with such a passion of sngry despair in look and tone, that involun- tarily the latter retreats before her " Who shall blame me ? " demands Lady Baltimore haughtily. * ^ . " I — I for one ! Icicle that you are, how can you know what love means ? You have no heart to feel, no longing to forgive. And what has he done to you ? Nothing- nothing that any other woman would not gladly condone." your ed in her." )t do )U too t her, : arms 1, dull rolled. ^ gotten deal/' '♦what rately, n in a • r small ?" tinctly, in Isa- ire for at you Balti- bear- with )thers ! stand les are such ^volun- Itimore know mging ling- lone." APRIL'S LADY, «5S " You are a partisan," says Lady Baltimore coldly. " You wo a Id plead his cause, and to me ! You are violent, but til at does not put you in the right. What do you know of Baltimore that I do not know ? By what right do you defend him ? " *' There is such a thing as friendship ! " '* Is there ? " says the other with deep meaning; " Is there, Beatrice? Oh! think— think ! " A little bitter smile curls the corners of her lips. ** That you should advocate the cause of friendship to me," says she, her words falling with cnael scorn one by one slowly from her lips. V " You think me false," says Lady Swansdown. She is terribly agitated. " There was an old friendship between us — I know that — I feel it. You think me altogether false to it?" '^ I think of you as little as I can help," says Isabel, contemptuously. " Why should I waste a thought on you? " " True ! Why indeed 1 One so capable of controlling her emotions as you are need never give way to superfluous or useless thoughts. Still, give one to Baltimore. It is our last conversation together, therefore bear with me — hear me. All his sins lie in the past. He " *• You must be mad to talk to me like this," interrupts Isabel, flushing crimson. " Has he asked you to intercede for him ? Could even he go so far as that ? Is it a last insult? What are you to him that you thus adopt his cause. Answer me ! " cries she imperiously ; all her cold- ness, her stern determination to suppress herself, seems broken up. " Nothing ! " returns Lady Swansdown, becoming calmer as she notes the other's growing vehemence. " I never shall be anything. I have but one excuse for my interference " — ohe pauses. " And that ! " **"I love him ! " steadily, but faintly. Her eyes have sought the ground. " Ah ! " says Lady Baltimore. > ** It is true " — slowly. " It is equally true — that he — does not love me. Let me then speak. All his sins, believe me, lie behind him. That woman, that friend of yours who told you of his renewed acquaintance with Madame Istray, lied to you ! There was no truth in what she said I " 11 856 APRIVS LADY. ** I can quite understand your not wishing to believe in that story," says Lady Baltimore with an undisguised sneer. " Like all good women, you can take pleasure in inflict- ing a wound," says Lady Swansdown, controlling herself admirably. " But do not let your detestation of me blind you to the fact that my words contain truth. If you will listen I can " " Not a word," says Lady Baltimore, making a move- ment with her hands as if to efface the other. " I will have none of your confidences." " ^■■^y-<> " It seems to me" — quickly — " you are determined not to believe." " You are at liberty to think as you will." " The time may come," says Lady Swansdown, " when you will regret you did not listen to me to-day." " Is that a threat ? " " No ; but I am going. There will be no further oppor- tunity for you to hear me." " You must pardon me if I say that I am glad of that," says Lady Baltimore, her lips very white. " I tfould have borne little more. Do what you will — go where you will — with whom you will " (with deliberate insult), " but at least spare me a repetition of such a scene as this." She turns, and with an indescribably haughty gesture leaves the room. CHAPTER XLV. » '* The name of the slough was Despond. Dancing is going on in the small drawing-room. A few night broughams are still arriving, and young girls, accom- panied by their brothers only, are making the room look lovely. It is quite an impromptu affair, quite informal. Dicky Browne, altogether in his element, is flitting from flower to flower, saying beautiful nothings to any of the girls who are kind enough or silly enough to waste a moment on so irreclaimable a butterfly. He is not so entirely engrossed by his pleasing occupa- tions, however, as to be lost to the more serious matters that are going on around him. He is specially struck by APKIVS LADY, aS7 the fact that Lady Swansdown, who had been in charming spirits all through the afternoon, and afterward at dinner, is now dancing a great deal with Beauclerk, of all people, and making herself apparently very delighful to him. His own personal belief up to this had been that she detested Beauclerk, and now to see her smiling upon him and favor- ing him with waltz after waltz upsets Dicky's power of penetration to an almost fatal extent. ** I wonder what the deuce she's up to now," says he to himself, leaning against the wall behind him, and giving voice unconsciously to the thoughts within him. " Eh ? " says somebody at his ear. He looks round hastily to find Miss Maliphant has come to anchor on his left, and that her eyes, too, are directed on Beauclerk, who with Lady Swansdown is standing, at the lower end of the room. " Eh, to you," says he brilliantly. " I always rather fancied ihat Mr. Beauclerk and Lady Swansdown were antipathetic," says Miss Maliphant in her usual heavy, downright way. " There was room for it," says Mr. Browne gloomily. " For it ? " ' " Your fancy." *' Yes, so I think. Lady Swansdown has always seemed to me to be rather — raiher — eh ? " " Decidedly so," agrees Mr. Browne. ** And as for Beauclerk, he is quite too dreadfully * rather,' don't you think?" " I don't know, I'm sure. He has often seemed to me a little light, but only on the surface." *' Vou've read him," says Mr. Browne with a confiden- tial nod. " Light on the surface, but deep, deep as a» draw well ? " ** I don't think I mean what you do," says Miss Mali- phant quickly. " However, we are not discussing Mr. Beauclerk, beyond the fact that we wonder to see him so genial with Lady Swansdown. They used to be thorough- ly antagonistic, and now — why they seem quite good friends, don't they? Quite thick, eh?" with her usual graceful phraseology. " Thick as thieves in Vallambrosa," says Mr. Browne with increasing gloom. Miss MaUphant turns to r^ard him doubtfully. 17 t »5« APRIL'S LADY, '"^i- " Leaves ?" suggests she. - • " Thieves/* persists he immovably. '* Oh ! Ah ! It's a joke perhaps," says she, the doubt growing. Mr. Browrne fixes a stern eye upon her. '* Is thy servant a dog ? " says he, and stalks indignantly away, leaving Miss Maliphant in the throes of uncertainty. " Yet I'm sure it wasn't the right word/' says she to herself with a wonderful frown of perplexity. " However, I may be wrong. I often am. And, after all, Spain we're told is full of 'em." Whether " thieves " or " leaves " she doesn't explain, and piosently her mind wanders entirely away from Mr. Browne's maundering to the subject that so much more nearly interests her. Beauclerk has not been quite so empress^ in his manner to her to-night — not so altogether delightful. He has, indeed, it seems to her, shirked her society a good deal, and has not been so assiduous about the scribbling of his name upon her card as usual. And then this sudden friendship with Lady Swansdown — what does he mean by that ? What does she mean ? If she had only known. If the answer to her latter ques- tion had been given to her, her mind would have grown easier, and the idea of Lady Swansdown in the form of a rival would have been laid at rest forever. As a fact. Lady Swansdown hardly understands herself to-night. That scene with her hostess has upset her men- tally and bodily, and created in her a wild desire to get away from herself and from Baltimore at any cost. Some idle freak has induced her to use Beauclerk (who is detest- able to her) as a safeguard from both, and he, unsettled in his own mind, and eager to come to conclusions with Joyce and her fortune, has lent himself to the wiles of his whilom foe, and is permiting himself to be charmed by her fascinating, if vagrant, mood. Perhaps in all her life Lady Swansdown has never looked so lovely as to-night. Excitement and mental disturbance have lent a dangerous brilliancy to her eyes, a touch of color to her cheek. There is something electric about her that touches those who gaze on her, and warns herself that a crisis is at hand. Up to this she has been able to elude all Baltimore's attempts at conversation — has refused all his demands for a dance, yet this same knowledge that the night will not go by without a denouement of some kind between her and him APRIVS LADY, a59 Some etest- ed in with •f his id by ioked )ance :h of her that lore's Is for )tgo him is terribly present to her. To-night ! The last night she will ever see him, in all human probability ! The exalta- tion that enables her to endure this thought is fraught with such agony that, brave and determined as she is, it is almost too much for her. Yet she — Isabel — she should learn that that old friend- ship between them was no fable. To-night it would bear fruit. False, she believed her — ^well, she should see. In a way, she clung to Beauclerk as a means of escaping Baltimore — throwing out a thousand wiles to charm him to her side, and succeeding. Three times she had given a smiling " No " to Lord Baltimore's demand for a dance, and, regardless of opinion, had flung herself into a wild and open flirtation with Beauclerk. But it is growing toward midnight, and her strength is failing her. These people, will they never go, will she never be able to seek her own room, and solitude, and despair without calling down comment on her head, and giving Isabel — that cold woman — the chance of sneering at her weakness ? A sudden sense of the uselessness of it all has taken possession of her ; her heart sinks. It is at this moment that Baltimore once more comes up to her. '* This dance ? " says he. " It is half way through. You are not engaged, I suppose, as you are sitting down ? May I have what remains of it ? " She makes a little gesture of acquiescence, and, rising, places her hand upon his arm. . ,. CHAPTER XLVI. ,,^ .' • . ** O life t thou art a galling load '' Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I." The crisis has come, she tells herself, with a rather grim smile. Well, better have it and get it over. That there had been a violent scene between Baltimore and his wife after dinner had somehow become known to her, and the marks of it still betrayed themselves in the former's frowning brow and sombre eyes. s6b APRWS LADY. It had been more of a scene than usual. Lady Balti- more, generally so calm, had for once lost herself, and given way to a passion of indignation that had shaken her to her very heart's core. Though so apparently unmoved and almost insolent in her demeanor toward Lady Swans- down during their interview, she had been, nevertheless, cruelly wounded by it, and could not forgive Baltimore in that he had been its cause. As for him, he could not forgive her all she had said and looked. With a heart on fire he had sought Lady Swans- down, the one woman whom he knew understood and believed in him. It was a perilous moment, and Beatrice knew it. She knew, too, that angry despair was driving him into her arms, not honest affection. She was strong enough to face this and refused to deceive herself about it. " I didn't think you and Beauclerk h?d anything in common," says Baltimore, seating himself beside her on the low lounge that is half hidden from the public gaze by the Indian curtains that fall at each side of iT. He had made no pretence of finishing the dance. He had led the way and she had suffered herself to be led into the small anteroom that, half smothered in early spring flowers, lay oflf the dancing room. " Ah ! you see you have yet much to learn about me,'* says she, with an attempt at gayety — that fails, however. ** About you ? No ! " says he, almost defiantly. " Don't tell me I have deceived myself about you, Beatrice ; you are all I have left to fall back upon now." His tone is reckless to the last degree. " A forlorn pis-aller," she says, steadily, with a forced smile. " What is it, Cyril ? " looking at him with sudden intentness. " Something has happened. What ? " " The old story," returns he, " and I am sick of it. I have thrown up my hand. I would have been faithful to her, Beatrice. I swear that, but she does not care for my devotion. And as for me, now " He throws out his arms as if tired to death, and draws in his breath heavily. " Now ? " says she, leaning forward. " Am I worth your acceptance ? " says he, turning sharply to her. " I hardly dare to think it, and yet you have been kind to me, and your own lot is not altogether a h^ppy one, and " He pauses. . ■ -' • - ,-' - '"' - :'-v- 'w^ rt'- .-^ i APRIL'S LADY, a6t i» 1 to my kt his [vily. irply )een ippy ** Do you hesitate ? " asks slie very bitterly, although her pale lips are smiling. " Will you risk it all ? " says he, sadly. " Will you come away with me ? I feel I have no friend on earth but you. Will you take pity on me ? I shall not stay here, whatever happens ; I have striven against fate too long — it has over- come me. Another land — a different life — complete for- getfulness " . ., ** Do you know what you are saying ? " asks Lady Swans- down, who has grown deadly white. " Yes ; I have thought it all out. It is for you now to decide. I have sometimes thought I was not entirely in- different to you, and at all events we are friends in the best sense of the term. If you were a happy married woman, Beatrice, I should not speak to you like this, but as it is — in another land — if you will come with me — we " ** Think, think ! " says she, putting up her hand to stay him fioin further speech. " All this is said in a moment of angry excitement. You have called me your friend — and truly. I am so far in touch with you that I can. see you are very unhappy. You have had — forgive me if I probe you — but you have had some — some words with your wife ? " " Final words ! I hope — I think." ** I do not, however. All this will blow over, and — come Cyril, face it ! Are you really prepared to deliber- ately break the last link that holds you to her ? " "There is no link. She has cut herself adrift long since. She will be glad to be rid of me." " And you — will you be glad to be rid of her ? " " It will be better," says he, shortly. , " And— the boy ! " " Don't let us go into it," says he, a little wildly. " Oh ! but we must — we must," says she. " The boy — you will — — ? " ** I shall leave him to her. It is all she has. I am noth- ing to her. I cannot leave her desolate." " How you consider her ! " says she, in a choking voice. She could have burst into tears ! '^ What a heart ! and that woman to treat him so — whilst — oh ' it is hard — hard ! " " I tell you," says she presently, " that you have not i MS APRIL'S LADY, gone into this thing. To-morrow you will regret all that you have now said." " If you refuse me — yes. It lies in your hands now. Are you going to refuse me ? '' " Give me a moment," says she faintly. She has risen to her feet, and is so standing that he cannot watch her. Her whole soul is convulsed. Shall she ? Shall she not ? The scales are trembling. That woman's face ! How it rises before her now, pale, cold, contemptuous. With what an insolent air she had almost ordered her from her sight. And yet — and yet She can remember that disdainful face, kind and tender and loving ! A face she had once delighted to dwell upon ! And Isabel had been very good to her once — when others had not been kind, and when Swansdown, her natural protector, had been scandalously untrue to his trust. Isabel had loved her then ; and now, how was she about to requite her? Was she to let her know her to be false — not only in thought but in reality ! Could she live and see that pale face in imagination filled with scorn for the desecrated friendship that once had been a real bond between them ? Oh ! A groan that is almost a sob breaks from her. The scale has gone down to one side. It is all over, hope and love and joy. Isabel has won. She has been leaning against the arm of the lounge, now she once more sinks back upon the seat as though stand- ing is impossible to her. " Well ? " says Baltimore, laying his hand gently upon hers. His touch seems to burn her, she flings his hand from her and shrinks back. " You have decided," says he quickly. " You will not come with me ? " " Oh ! no, no, no 1 " cries she. "It is impossible ! " A little curious laugh breaks from her that is cruelly akin to a cry. ** There is too much to remember," says she, sud- denly. " You think you would be wronging her," says Balti- more, reading her correctly. " I have told you you are at fault there. She would bless the chance that swept me out of her life. And as for me, I should have no regrets. You need not fear that." " Ah, that is what I do fear," says she in a low tone. r APRIVS LADY. 263 not V * A to 5ud- lalti- le at me ^ets. ■ ,\- ** Well, you have decided," says he, after a pause. " After all why should I feel either disappointment or surprise ? What is there about me that should tempt any woman to cast in her lot with mine ? " "Much!" says Lady Swansdown, deliberately. "But the one great essential is wanting — you have no love to give. It is all given." She leans toward him and regards him earnestly. " Do you really think you are in love with me ? Shall I tell you who you are in love with ? " She lets her soft cheek fall into her hand and looks U]> at him from under her long lashes. * " You can tell me what you will," says he, a little im- patiently. " Listen, then," says she, with a rathei broken attempt at gayety, " you are in love with that good, charming, irritating, impossible, but most lovable person in the world — your own wife ! " " Pshaw ! " says Baltimore, with an irritated gesture. "We will not discuss her, if you please." ^ ^^ " As you will. To discuss her or leave her name out of it altogether will not, however, alter matters." " You have quite made up your mind," says he, present- ly, looking at her searchingly. " You will let me go alone into evil?" . . " You will not go," returns she, trying to speak with conviction, but looking very anxious. " I certainly shall. There is nothing else left for me to do. Life here is intolerable." " There is one thing," says she, her voice trembling. "You might make it up with her." " Do you think I haven't tried," says he, with a harsh laugh " I'm tired of making advances. I have done all that man can do. No, I shall not try again. My one re- gret in leaving England will be that I shall not see you again ! " " Don't ! " says she, hoarsely. " I believe on my soul," says he, hurriedly, " that you do care for me. That it is only because of her that you will not listen to me." "You are right. I " (in a low tone) — " I — " Her voice fails her, she presses her hands together. " I confess," says she, with terrible abandonment, " that I might have listened to you — had I not liked her so well." 1 •^ APRIL'S LADY. << She ** Better than nr.-;, n^jparently." says he, bitterly, has had the best of it all through." "There we arc quits, then," says she, quite as bitterly. Because you like her better than mc." •' If so — do you think I would speak to you as I have spoken ? " " Yes. I think that. A man is always more or less of a baby. Years of discretion he seldom reaches. You are angry with your wife, and would be revenged upon her, and your way to revenge yourself is to make a second woman hate you." "A second?" " I should probably hate you in six months," says she, with a touch of passion. " I am not sure that I do not hate you now." Her nerve is fast failing her. If she had a doubt about it before, the certainty now that Baltimore's feeling for her is merely friendship — the desire of a lonely man for some sympathetic companion — anything but love, has entered into her and ished her. He would devote the rest of his life tc her. She is sure of that — but always it would be a life filled with an unavailing regret. A horror of the whole situation has seized upon her. She will never be any more to him than a pleasant memory, while he to her must be an ever-growing pain. Oh ! to be able to wrench herself free, to be able to forget him to blot him out of her mind forever. " A second woman 1 " repeats he, as if struck by this thought to the exclusion of all others. "Yes!" . '-■ ^ - * " You thinic, then," gazing at her, " that she — hates me ? " Lady Swansdown breaks into a low but mirthless laugh. The most poignant anguish rings through it. *' She ! she 1 " cries she, as if unable to control herself, and then stops suddenly placing her hand to her forehead. " Oh, no, she doesn't hate you," she says. " But how you betray yourself I Do you wonder I laugh ? Did ever any man so give himself away ? You have been declaring to me for months that she hates you, yet when I put it mto words, or you think I do, it seems as though some fresh new evil had befallen you. Ah ! give up this role of Don Juan, Baltimore. It doesn't suit you." ix APRIL'S LADY, 265 i< I have had Vf lates desire to play the part," says he, with a frown. " No ? And yet you ask a woman tor whom you scarcely bear a passing affection to run away with you, to defy public opinion for your sake, and so forlli. You &liould advise her to count the world well lost for love — such love s yours ! You pour every bit of the old rubbish into one's ears, and yet — " She stops abruptly. A very storm of anger and grief and despair is shaking her to her heart's core. . > ** Well ? " says he, still frowning. ** What have you to offer mc in exchange for all you ask me to give ? A heart filled with thoughts f another ! No more ! " " If you persist in thinking " " Why should I not think it? When I tell you there is danger of m> hating you, as your wife might — perhaps — hate you — your first thought is for her I * You think then that she hates me ' ? " (She imitates the anxiety of his tone with angry truthialness.) ** Not one word of horror at the thought that I might hate you six months hence." *' Perhaps I did not believe you would," says he, with some embarrassment. *' Ah 1 That is so like a man ! You think, don't you, that you were made to be loved ? There, go 1 Leave me!" He would have spoken to her again, but she rejects the idea with such bitterness that he is necessarily silent. She has covered her face with her hands. Presently she is alone. - lugh. rself, lead, you any jg to into fresh I Don CHAPTER XLVII. ■^- *< But there are griefs, ay, griefs as deep t »• ^ •' The friendship turned toliate. . ••«. .\ And deeper still, and deeper still Repentance come too late, too late I " Joyce, on the whole, had not enjoyed last night's dance at the Court. Barbara had been there, and she had gone home with her and Monkton after it, and on waking this morning a sense of unreality, of dissatisfaction, is all that 266 <«■ AFFILES LADY. comes to her. No pleasant flavor is on her mental palate ; there is only a vague feeling of failure and a dislike to looking into things — to analyze matters as they stand. Yet where the failure came in she would have found it difficult lo explain even to herself. Everybody, so far as she was concerned, had behaved perfectly ; that is, as she, if she had been compelled to say it out loud, would have desired them to behave. Mr. Beauclerk had been polite enough ; not too polite ; and Lady Baltimore had made a great deal of her, and Barbara had said she looked lovely, and. Freddy had said something, oh I absurd of course, and not worth repeating, but still flattering ; and those men from the barracks at Clonbree had been a perfect nuisance, they were so pressing with their horrid attentions, and so eager to get a dance. And Mr. Dysart Well ? That fault could not be laid to his charge, there- fore, of course, he was all that ^ould be desired. He was circumspect to the last degree. He had not been pressing with his attentions ; he. had, indeed, been so kind and nice that he had only asked her for one dance, and during the short quarter of ^n hour that that took to get through he liad been so admirably conducted as to restrain his conver- sation to the most commonplace, and had not suggested that the conservatory was a capital place to get cool in between the dances. The comb she was doing her hair with at the time caught in her hair as she came to this point, and she flung it an- grily from her, and assured herself that the tears that had suddenly come into her eyes arose from the pain that that hateful instrument of torture had caused her. Yes, Felix had taken the right course ; he had at least learned that she could never be anything to him — could never — forgive him. It showed great dignity in him, great strength of mind. She had told him, at least given him to understand when in London, that he should forget her, and — he had forgotten. He had obeyed her. The comb must have hurt her again, and worse this time, because now the tears are running down her cheeks. How hor- rible it is to be unforgiving ! People who don't forgive never go to heaven. There seems to be some sort of vicious consolation in this thought. In truth, Dysart's behavior to her since his return has been all she had led him to understand it ought to be. He APRWS LADY. 367 an- had that • -«■ 11 so changed toward her in every way that sometimes she has wondered if he has forgotten all the strange, unhappy past, and is now entirely emancipated from the torture of love unrequited that once had been his. It is a train of thought she has up to this shrank from pursuing, yet which, she being strong in certain ways, should have been pursued by her to the bitter end. One small fact, however, had rendered her doubtful. She could not fail to notice that whenever he and she are together in the morning room, ballroom, or at luncheon or dinner, or breakfast, though he will not approach or voliiiuariiy address her unless she first makes an advance toward him, a rare occurrence ; still, if she raises her eyes to his, any- where, at any moment, it is to find his on her ! And what sad eyes ! Searching, longing, despairing, angry, but always full of an indescribable tenderness. Last night she had specially noticed this — but then last night he had specially held aloof from her. No, no ! It was no use dwelling upon it. He would not forgive. That chapter in her life was closed. To attempt to open it again would be to court defeat. Joyce, however, had not been the only one to vfhom last night had been a disappointment. Beauclerk's determina- tion to propose to her — to put his fortune to the touch and to gain hers — failed. Either the fates were against him, or else she herself was in a willful mood. She had refused to leave the dancing room with him on any pretext what- ever, unless to gain the coolness of the crowded hall out- side, or the still more inhabited supper room. He was not dismayed, however, and there was no need .to do things precipitately. There was plenty of time. There could be no doubt about the fact that she preferred him to any of the other men of her acquaintance ; he had discovered that she had refused Dysart not only once, but twice. This he had drawn out of Isabel by a mild and apparently meaningless but ne^rtheless incessant and ab- struse cross-examination. Naturally ! He could see at once the reason for that. No girl who had been once honored by his attentions could possibly give her heart to another. No girl ever yet refused an honest offer unless her mind was filled with the image of another fellow. Mr. Beauclerk found no difficulty about placing " the other fellow " in this case. Norman Beauclerk was his name 1 a68 APRWS LADY, What woman in her senses would prefer that tiresome Dy- sart with his " downright honesty " business so gloomily developed, to him, Beauclerk ? Answer? Not one. Well, she shall be rewarded now, dear little girl 1 He will make her happy for life by laying his name and pros- pective fortune at her feet ! To-day he will end his happy bachelor state and sacrifice himself on the altar of love. Thus resolved, he walks up through the lands of the Court, through the valley filled with opening fronds of ferns, and through the spinney beyond that again, until he comes to where the Monktons live. The house seems very silent. Knocking at the door, the maid comes to tell him that Mr. and Mrs. Monkton and the children are out, but that Miss Kavanagh is within. Happy circumstance ! Surely the fates favor him. They always have, by the by — sure sign that he is deserving of good luck. Thanks. Miss Kavanagh, then. His compliments, and hopes that she is not too fatigued to receive him. The maid, having shown him into the drawing-room, retires with the message, and presently the sound of little high-hedled shoes crossing the hall tells him that Joyce is approaching. His heart beats high — not immoderately high. To be uncertain is to be none the less unnerved — but there is no uncertainty about his wooing. Still it pleases him to know that in spite of her fatigue she could not bring herself to deny herself to him. " Ah ! How good of you ! " says he as she enters, meet- ing her with both hands outstretched. " I feared the visit was too early ! A very betise on my part — but you are the soul of kindness always." " Early ! " says Joyce, with a little laugh. ** Why you might have found me chasing the children round the garden three hours ago. Providentially," giving him one hand, the ordinary one, and ignoring his other, "their father andmo- ther were bound to go to nsdown this morning or I should have been dead long before this." " Ah ! " says Beauclerk. And then with increasing tenderness. " So glad they were removed ; it would have been too much for you, wouldn't it ? " « Yes — I dare say — on the whole, I believe I don't mind them," says Miss Kavanagh. " Weli — and what about last night? It was delightful, wasn't it?" Secretly she sighs heavily, as she makes this most untrutiiful assertion. f r APRIL'S LADY. 269 " I tell you as if not " Ah ! Was it ? " asks he. " I did not find it so. How could I when you were so unkind to me ? " " I ! Oh, no. Oh, surely not ! " says she anxiously. There is no touch of the coquetry that might be about this answer had it been given to a man better liked. A slow soft color has crept into her cheeks, born of the knowledge that she had got out of several dances with him. But he, seeing it, gives it another, a more flattering meaning to his own self love. " Can you deny it? " asks he, changing his seat so as tc get nearer to her. "Joyce!" He leans toward her. " May i speak at last ? Last night I was foiled in my pur- pose. It is difficult to say all that is in one's heart at a public affair of that kind, but now — now " Miss Kavanagh has sprung to her feet. " No ! Don't, don't ! " she says earnestly. — I beg you — I warn you " She pauses, knowing what else to say, and raises her pretty hands as if to enforce her words. ^ . " Shy, delightfully shy ! " says Beauclerk to himself. He goes quickly up to her with all the noble air of the con- queror, and seizing one of her trembling hands holds it in his own. " Hear me ! " he says with an amused toleration for her girlish mauvaise honte. " It is only such a little thing I have to say to you, but yet it means a great deal to me — and to you, I hope. I love you, Joyce. I have come here to-day to ask you to be my wife." " I told you not to speak," says she. She has grown very white now. " I warned you I It is no use — no use, indeed." " I have startled you," says Beauclerk, still disbelieving, yet somehow loosening the clarp on her hand. " You did not expect, perhaps, that I should have spoken to-day, and yet " " No. It was not that," says Miss Kavanagh, slowly. " I knew you would speak — I thought last night would have been the time, but I managed to avoid it then, and now " " Well ? " " I thought !t better to get it over," says she, gently. She stops as if struck by something, and heavy tears rush to her eyes. Ah ! she had told another very much the same as that. But she had not meant it then — and yet 270 APRIL'S LADY. had been believed — and now, when she does mean it, she is not believed. Oh ! if the cases might be reversed ! Beauclerk, however, mistakes the cause of the tears. ** It — get what over ? " demands he, smiling. " This misunderstanding." " Ah, yes — that ! I am afraid," — he leans more closely toward her, — •' I have often been afraid tliat you have not quite read me as I ought to be read." "Oh, I have read you," says she, with a little gesture of her head, half confused, half mournful. " But not rightly, perhaps. There have been moments when I fear you may have misjudged me " " Not one," says she quickly. " Mr. Beauclerk, if I might implore you not to say another word- " Only one more," pleads he, coming up smiling as usual. " Just one, Joyce — let me say my last word ; it may make all the difference in the world between you and me now. I love you — nay, hear mc ! " She has risen, and he, rising too, takes possession of both her hands. *' I have come here to-day to ask you to be my wife ; you know that already — but you do not know how I have worshiped you all these dreary months, and how I have kept silent — for your sake." ''And for 'my sake* why do you speak now?" asks she. She has withdrawn her hands from his. *' What have you to offer me now that you had not a year ago ? " After all, it is a great thing to be an accomplished liar. It sticks to I3eauclerk now. ** Why ! Haven't you heard ? " asks he, lifting aston- ished brows. " I have heard nothing ! " "Not of my coming appointment? At least" — modestly — " of my chance of it ? " " No, Nothing, nothing. And even if I had, it would make no difference. I beg you to understand once for all, Mr. Beauclerk, thi*i I cannot listen to you." " Not now, perhaps. I have been very sudden " " No, never, never." " Are you telling me that you refuse me ? " asks he, looking at her with a rather strange expression in his eyes. *' I am sorry you put it that way," returns she, faintly. ** I don't believe 'you know what you are doing," cries he, losing his self-control for once in his lif<^ " You will regret this. For a moment of spite, of ill-tempcf, you '* APRIL'S LADY, 27 1 "Why should I be ill-tempered about anything that concerns you and me ? " says she, very gently still. She has grown even whiter, however, and has lifted her head so that her large eyes are directed straight to his. Some- thing in the calm severity of her look chills him. " Ah ! you know best ! " says he, viciously. The game is up — is thoroughly played out. This he acknowledges to himself, and the knowledge does not help to sweeten his temper. It helps him, however, to direct a last shaft at her. Takirg up his hat, he makes a movement to depart, and then looks back at her. His overweening vanity is still alive. ** When you do regret it," says he — " and I believe that will be soon — it will be too late. You had the goodness to give me a warning a few minutes ago — I give you one now." " I shall not regret it," says she, coolly. " Not even when Dysart has sailed for India, and then * the girl he left behind hiia ' is disconsolate?" asks he, with an insolent laugh. " Ha ! that touches you I " It had touched her. She looks like a living thing stricken suddenly into marble, as she stands gazing back at him, with her hands tightly clenched before her. India ! To India ! And she had never heard. Extreme anger, however, fights with her grief, and, overcoming it, enables her to answer her adversary. *' I think you, too, will feel regret," says she, gravely, " when you look back upon your conduct to me to-day." There is such gentleness, such dignity, in her rebuke, and her beautiful face is so full of a mute reproach, that all the good there is in Beauclerk rises to the surface. He flings his hat upon a table near, and himself at her feet. " Forgive me ! " cries he, in a stifled tone. (( Have mercy on me, Joyce ! I love you — I swear it ! Do not cast me adrift ! All I have said or done I regret now I You said I should regret, and I do." Something in his abasement disgusts the girl, instead of creating pity in her breast. She shakes herself free of him by a sharp and horrified movement. " You must go home," she says calmly, yet with a frowning brow, '* and you must not come here again. I told you it was all useless, but you would not listen. No, no j not a word I " He has risen to his feet, and would 2J1 APRIL'S LADY. have advanced toward her, but she waves him from her with a sort of troubled hatred in her face. " You mean " begins he, hoarsely. " One thing — one thing only," feverishly — " that I hope I shall never see you again ! " CHAPTER XLVIII. ** When a man hath once forfeited the reputation of his sincerity he is set fast', and nothing will then serve his turn, neither truth nor falsehood." When he is gone Joyce draws a deep breath. For a moment it seems to her that it is all over — a disagreeable task performed, and then suddenly a reaction sets in. The scene gone through has tried her more than she knows, and without warning now she finds she is crying bitterly. How horrible it all had been. How detestable he had looked — not so much when offering her his hand (as for his heart — pah !) as when he had given way to his weak exhibition of feeling and had knelt at her feet, throwing himself on her mercy. Slie placed her hands over her eyes when she thought of that. Oh ! she wished he hadn't done it ! She is still crying softly — not now for Beauclerk's be- havior, but for certain past beliefs — when a knock at the door warns her that another visitor is coming. She has not had time or sufficient presence of mind to tell a servant that she is not at home, when Miss Maliphant is ushered in by the parlor maid. '* I thought I'd come down and have a chat with you about last night," she begins in her usual loud tones, and with an assumption of easiness that is belied by the keen and searching glance she directs at Joyce. " I'm so glad," says Joyce, telling her little lie as bravely as she can, while trying to conceal her red eyelids from Miss Maliphant's astute gaze by pretending to rearrange a cushion that has fallen from one of the lounges. " Are you ? " says her visitor, drily. " Seem? lo me I've come at the wrong moment. Shall t g> hv ay " " Go ! No," says Joyce, n.'d«.l';'ang, a'n• APRIL'S LADY, 275 1 " I tell you I never liked him much," says Joyce, wijh A touch of displeasure. *' He was handsome, suave, agree- able—but " ** He was, and is, a hypocrite ! " interrupts Miss Mali- phant, with truly beautiful conciseness. She has never learned to mince matters. "And, when all is told, per- haps nothing better than a fool ! You are well out of it, in my opinion." "I don't think I had much to do with it," says Joyce, unable to refrain from a smile. " 1 fancy ray i)oor uncle was responsible for the honor done me to-day." Then a sort of vague feeling that she is being ungenerous distresses her. " Perhaps, after all, I misjudge him too far," she says. " Could you? " with a bitter little laugh. " I don't know/' doubtfully. " One often forms an opinion^ of a person, and, though the groundwork of it may be just, still one is too inclined to build upon it and to rear stories upon it that get a little beyond the aclual truth when the structure is completed." " Oh ! I think it is he who tells all the stories," said Miss Maliphant, who is singularly dull in little unnecessary ways, and has failed lo follow Joyce in lier upstairs flight. "In my opinion he's a liar; I was going to say ^ pur it simple^ but he is neither pure nor simple." " A liar ! " says Joyce, as if shocked. Some old thought recurs to her. She turns quickly to Miss Maliphant. The thought grows into words almost before she is aware of it. " Have you a cousin in India ? " asks she. "In India?" Miss Maliphant regards her with some surprise. 'Why this sudden absurd question in an interest- ing conversation about that "Judas"? I regret to say this is what Miss Maliphant has now decided upon HMuning Mr. Beauclerk when talking to herself. " Yes, India." " Not one. Plenty in Manchc5iter aux. liirmingham, but not one in India," Joyce leans back in her chair, and a strange laugh breaks from her. She gets up suvKWnU and goes tv> the other and leans over her, as ihou^gh the belter to s«.v her. "Oh, think — thi^k," says she. "Not a cousin you loved? Dearly loved? A cousin f that he Drethren^ lodgings Sfo pain I [ life and the fast t wilder- the bank leir soft, \ ^hey ;. Some nemory : lure, that There ws such he trees hes into them ? erpetual 1 demon ^es ; she the pink ps them lar them s follow aiTodils,, nor birds, nor trees, give her some little of their joy to chase the sorrow from her heart ? Her soul seems to fling itself outward in an appeal to nature ; and nature, that kind mother of us all, responds to the unspoken cry. A step upon the bridge behind her ! She starts >*nto a more upright position and looks round her without much interest. A dark figure is advancing toward her. Through the growing twilight it seems abnormally large and black, and Joyce stares at it anxiously. Not Freddy — not one of the laborers — they would be all clad in flannel jackets of a light color. " Oh, is it you ? " say i Dysart, coming closer to her. He had, however, known it was she from the first moment his eyes rested upon her. No mist, no twilight could have deceived him, for — Lovers' eyes are sharp to see And lovers' ears in hearing." " Yes," says she, advancing a little toward him and giving him her hand. A coid little hand, and reluctant. " I was coming down to Mrs. Monkton with a message — a letter — from Lady Baltimore." "This is a very long way round from the Court, isn't it ? " says she. " Yes. But I like this calm little corner. I have come often to it lately." Miss Kavanagh leis her ey s wander to the stream down below. To this little spot of all places ! Her favorite nook I Had he hoped to meet her there ? Oh, no ; im- possible ! And besides she had given it up for a long, long time until this evening' It seems weeks to her now since last she was here. " You will find Barbara at home," says she gently. " I don't suppose it is of very much consequence," says he, alluding to the message. He is looking at her, though her averted face leaves him little to study. " You are cold," says he abruptly. " Am I ? " turning to him with a little smile. " I don't feel cold. I feel dull, perhaps, but nothing else." Amd in truth if she had used the word "unhappy" ! 394 APRIL'S LADY. instead of '^ dull " she would have been nearer the mark. The coming of Dysart thus suddenly into the midst of her mournful reverie has but served to accentuate the reality of it. A terrible sense of loneliness is oppressing her. All things have their pl?cc in this world, ye^ where is hers ? Of what account is she to anyone ? Barbara loves her ; yes, but not so well as Freddy^ and the children I Oh, to be first with someone ! *< I find no spring, while spring is well-nigh blown ; I find no nest, while nests are in the grove ; Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone— My Heart that breaketh for a little love." Christina Rosetti's mournful words seem to suit her. Involuntarily she lifts her heavy eyes, tired of the day's weeping, and looks at Dysart. " You have been crying," says he abruptly. • - (. - (. CHAPTER LII. '* My love has sworn with sealing kiss With me to live — to die; I have at last my nameless bliss-— As I love, loved am I." There is a pause : it threatens to be an everlasting one, as Miss Kavanagh plainly doesn't know what to say. He can see this ; what he cannot see is that she is afraid of her own voice. Those troublesome tears that all day have been so close to her seem closer than ever now. ** Beauclerk came down to see you to-day," says he presently. This remark is so unexpected that it steadies her. ** Yes," she says, calmly enough, but without raising the tell-tale eyes. ** You expected him?" " No." Monosyllables alone seem possible to her. So great is her fear that she will give way and finally disgrace herself, that she forgets to resent the magisterial tone he has adopted. . , „ APRWS LADY. a95 " He asked you to marry him, however ? '* There is something almost threatening in his tone now, as if he is defying her to deny his assertion. It overwhelms her. " Y^s," she says again, and for the first time is struck by the wretched meagreness of her replies. " Well?" says Dysart, roughly. But this time not even the desolate monosyllable rewards the keenness of his examination. . • ' " Well ? " says he again, going closer to her and resting his hand on the wooden rail against which she, too, was leaning. He is so close to her now that it is impossible to escape his scrutiny. " What am I to understand by that? Tell me how you have decided." Getting no answer to this either, he says, impatiently, " Tell me, Joyce," " I refused him," says she at last in a low tone, and in a dull sort of way, as if the matter is one of indifference to her. "Ah!" He draws a long breath. "It is true?" he says, laying his hand on hers as it lies on the top of the woodwork. "Quite true." " And yet — you have been crying ? " " You can see that," says she, petulantly. " You have taken pains to see and to tell me of it. Do you think it is a pleasant thing to be told? Most people," glancing angrily toward him — " everyone, I think — makes it a pomt nowadays not to see when one has been making a fool of oneself; but you seem to take a delight in tortur- ing me." " Did it," says he bitterly, ignoring — perhaps not even hearing — ^her outburst. " Did it cost you so much to refuse him ? " " It cost me nothing ! " with a sudden effort, and a flash from her beautiful eyes. "Nothing?" " I have said so ! Nothing at all. It was mere ner- vousness, and because — it reminded me of other things." " Did he see you cry ? *' asks Dysart, tightening uncon- sciously his grasp upon her hand. " No. He was gone a long time, quite a long time, before it occurred to me that I should like to cry. I," with a frugal smile, " indulged myself very freely then, as you have seen." l! 296 APRIL'S LADY. : Dysart draws a long breath of relief. It would have been intolerable to him that Beauclerk should have known of her tears. He would not have understood them. He would have taken possession of them, as it were. They would have merely helped to pamper his self-conceit and smooth down his ruffled pride. He would inevitably have placed such and such a construction on them, one entirely to his own glorification. *' I shall leave you now with a lighter heart," says Felix presently — " now that I know you are not going to marry that fellow." " You are going, then ? " says she, sharply, checking the monotonous little tattoo she has been playing on the bridge rail, as though suddenly smitten into stone. She had heard he was going, she had been told of it by several people, but somehow she had never believed it. It had never come home to her until now. "Yes. We are under orders for India. We sail in about a month. I shall have to leave here almost imme- diately." " So soon ? " says she, vaguely. She has begun that absurd tattoo again, but bridge, and restless little fingers, and sky and earth, and all things seem blotted out. He is going, really going, and for ever ! How far is India away? '' It is always rather hurried at last. For my part I am glad I am going." . * "Yes?" _ ' " Mrs. Monkton will — at least I am sure she will — let me have a line now and then to let me know how you— how you are all getting on. I was going to ask her about it this evening. You think she will be good enough ? " " Barbara is always kind." '* I suppose " — he hesitates, and then goes on with am effort — " I suppose it would be too much to ask of you f» "What?" " That you would sometimes write me a letter^iow- ever short." " T am a bad correspondent," says she, feeling as if she were choking. " Ah ! I see. I should not have asked, of course. Yes, you are right. It was absurd my hoping for it." APRWS LADY, «f7 " When people choose to go away so far as that- she is compelling herself to speak, but her voice sounds to herself a long way off. "They must hope to be forgotten. 'Out of sight out of mind,' I know. It is such an old proverb. Well You are cold,'* says he suddenly, noting the pallor of the girl's face. ** Whatever you were before, you are certainly chilled to the bone now. You look it. Come, this is no tim? of year to be lingering out of doors without a coat or hat." " I have this shawl," says she, pointing to the soft white, fleecy thing t\^at covers her. "I* distrust it. Come." " No," says she, faintly. " Go on \ you give your mes- sage to Barbara. As for me, I shall be happier here." " Where I am not," says he, with a bitter laugh. " I suppose I ought to be accustomed to that thought now, but such is my conceit that it se^ms ever a fresh shock to me. Well, for all that," persuadingly, " come in. The evening is very cold. I shan't like to go away, leaving you behind me suffering from a bad cough or something of that kind. We have been friends, Joyce," with a rather sorry smile. " For the sake of the old friendship, don't send me adrift with such an anxiety upon my mind." *' Would you really care ? " says she. " Ah ! That is the humor of it," says he. " In spite of all I should still really care. Come." He makes an effort to unclasp the small, pretty firgers that are grasp- ing the rails so rigidly. At first they seem to resist his gentle pressure, and then they give way to him. She turns suddenly. " Felix," — her voice is somewhat strained, somewhat harsh, not at all her own voice, — " do you still love me ? " . " You know that," returns he, sadly. If he has felt any surprise at the question he has not shown it. ** No, no," says she, feverishly. *• That you like me, that you are fond of me, perhaps, I can still believe. But is it the same with you that it used to be ? Do you," with a little sob, " love me as well now as in those old days ? Just the same ! Not," going nearer to him, and laying her hand upon his breast, and raising agonized eyes of inquiry to his — " not one bit less? " " 1 love you a thousand times more," says he, very quietly, but with such intensity that it enters into her very \,\ ] ' . I i 298 APRIL'S LADY. He has lying on laid his his own hand over the breast, and his face has soul. "Why?" small nervous one grown very white. " Because I love you too ! " She stops short here, and begins to tremble violently. With a little shamed, heartbroken gesture she tears her hand out of his and covers her face from his sight. " Sa> that again ! " says he, hoarsely. He wai|s a moment, but when no word comes from her he deliberately drags away the sheltering hands and compels her to look at him. " Say it ! " says he, in a tone that is now alniost a command. ** Oh ! it is true — true ! " cries she, vehemently. " I love you ; I have loved you a long time, I think, but I didn't know it. Oh, Felix ! Dear, dear Felix, forgive me ! '* " Forgive you ! " says he, brokenly. " Ah ! yes. And don't leave me. If you go away from me I shall die. There has been so much of it — a little more — and " She breaks down. ** My beloved ! " says he in a faint, quick way. He is holding her to him now with all his might. She can feel the quick pulsations of his heart. Suddenly she slips her soft arms around his neck, and now with her head pressed against his shoulder, bursts into a storm of tears. It is a last shower. They are both silent for a long time, and then he, raising one of her hands, presses the palm against his lips. Looking up at him, she smiles, uncertainly but happily, a yery rainbow of a smile, born of sunshine, and, raindrops gone, it seems to beautify her lips. But Felix, while acknowledging its charm, cannot smile back at her. It is all too strange, too new. He is afraid to believe. As yet there is something terrible to him in this happiness that has fallen into his life. ** You mean it ? " he asks, bending over her. " If to- morrow I were to wake and find all this an idle dream, how would it be with me then ? Say you mean it ! " "Am I not here?" says she, tremulously, making a slight but eloquent pressure on one of the arms that are round her. He bends his face to hers, and as he feels that first glad eager kiss returned — he knows I APRWS LADY. 499 d over the kis face has B violently. e tears her [ht. [e waj|s a ieliberately her to look r almost a intly. " I link, but I give me ! '■ away from it— a little ly. He is e can feel e slips her d pressed . It is a he, raising his lips, happily, a raindrops lix, while ler. It is As yet iness that " If to- earn, how naking a i that are he feels ^ CHAPTER UII. *' True love's the gift which God has given To man alone beneath the heaven : , « • • iti * • It is the secret sympathy, The silver link, the silken tie, Which heart to heart and mind to mind In body and in soul can bind." Op course Barbara is delighted. She proves charming as a confidante. Nothing can exceed the depth of her sym- pathy. When Joyce and Felix came in together in the darken- ing twilight, entering the house in a burglarious fashion through the dining-room window, it so happens that Barbara is there, and is at once struck by a sense of guilt that seems to surround and envelop them. They had not» indeed, anticipated meeting Barbara in that room of all others, and are rather taken aback when they come face to face with her. " I assure you we have not come after the spoons," says Felix, in a would-be careless tone that could not have deceived an infant^ and with a laugh so frightfully careleai^ that it would have terrified the life out of you. '* You certainly don't look like it," says Mrs. Monkton, whose heart has begun to beat high with hope. She hardly knows whether it is better to fall upon their necks forth- with and declare she knows all about it, or else to pre- tend ignorance. She decides upon the latter as being the easier ; after all they mightn't like the neck process. Most people have 'a fancy for telling their own tales, to have them told for one is annoying. " You haven't the re- quisite murderous expression," she says, unable to resist a touch of satire. "You look rather frightened you two. What have you been doing ? " She is too good natured not to give them an opening for their confession. " Not much, and yet a great deal," says Felix. He 1i»» advanced a little, while Joyce, on the contrary, has mean* 300 APRIL'S LADY, i I 1 i> 'I !• ly receded farther into the background. She has rather the appearance, indeed, of one who, if the wall could have been induced to give way, would gladly have followed it into the garden. The wall, however, declines to budge^ " As for burglary," goes on Felix, trying to be gay, and succeeding villainously. *' You must exonerate your sister at all events. But I — I confess I have stolen something belonging to you." " Oh, no ; not stolen," says Joyce, in a rather faint tone. " Barbara, I know what you will think, but " *' I know what I do think I " cries Barbara, joyously. " Oh, is it, can it^be true ? " It never occurs to her that Felix now is not altogether a brilliant match for a sister with a fortune — she remem- bers only in that lovely mind of hers that he had loved Joyce whr.n she was without a penny, and that he is now what he had always seemed to her, the one man that could make Joyce happy. " Yes ; it is true ! " says Dysart. He has given up that unsuccessful gayety now and has grown very grave ; there is even a slighl tremble in his voice. He comes up to Mrs. Monkton and takes both her hands. " She has given herself to me. You are rerUy glad ! You are not angry about it ? I know I am not good enough for her, but " Here Joyce gives way to a little outburst of mirth that is rather tremulous, and coming away from the unfriendly wall, that has not been of the least use to her, brings her- self somewhat shamefacedly into the only light the room receives through the western window. The twilight at all events is kind to her. It is difficult to see her face. '* I really can't stay here," says she, " and listen to my own praises being sung. And besides," turning to Felix a lovely but embarrassed face, " Barbara will not regard it as you do ; she will, on the contrary, say you are a great deal too good for me, and that I ought to be pilloried for all the trouble I have given through not being able to make up my own mind for so long a time." ** Indeed, I shall say nothing but that you are the dearest girl in the world, and that I'm delighted tfiings have turned out so well. I always said it would be like thii," cries Barbara exultantly, who certainly never had said it, and had always indeed been distinctly doubtful aboHt it. APRIL'S LADY, 301 " Is Mr. Monkton in ? " says Felix, in a way that leads Monkton's wife to imagine that if she should chance to say he was out, the news would be hailed with rapture. "Oh, nevermind him," says she, beaming upon the happy but awkward couple before her. " I'll tell him al about it. He will be just as glad as I am. There, go away you two ; you will find the small parlor empty, and I daie say you have a great deal to say to each other still. Of course you will dine with us, Felix, and give Freddy an opportunity of saying something ridiculous to you." " Thank you," says Dysart warmly. " I suppose I can write a line to my co sin explaining matters." " Of course. Joyce, take some writing things into the small parlor, and call for a lamp as you go." She is smiling at Joyce as she speaks, and now, going up to her, kisses her impulsively. Joyce returns the caress with fervor. It is natural that she should never have felt the sweetness, the content of Barbara so entirely as she does now, when her heart is open and full of ecstasy, and when sympathy seems so necessary. Darling Barbara ! But then she must love Felix now just as mach as she loves her. She rather electrifies Barbara and Felix by saying anxiously to the former : *' Kiss Felix, too." It is impossible not to laugh. Mrs. Monkton gives way to immediate and unrestrained mirth, and Dysart follows suit. '' It is a command," says he, and Barbara thereupon kisses him affectionately. " Wellj now I have got a brother at last," says she. It is indeed her first knowledge of one, for that poor suicide in Nice had never been anything to her — or to any one else in the world for the matter of that — except a great trouble. *' There, go," says she. " I think I hear Freddy coming." They fly. They both feel that further explanations ate beyond them just as present ; and as for Barbara, she is quite determined that no one but she shall let Freddy into the all-important secret. She is now fully convinced in her own mind that she had always had special prescience of this affair, and the devouring desire we all have to say " I told you how 'twould be " to our unfortunate fellow- travellers through this vale of tears, whether the cause for 303 APRIL'S LADY. If .11 I; I the hateful reminder be for weal or woe, is strong upon her now. She goes to the window, and seeing Monkton some way off, flings up the sash and waves to him in a frenzied fashion to come to her at once. There is something that almost approaches tragedy in her air and gesture. Monk- ton hastens to obey. •' Now, what — what — what do you think has happened ? " cries she, when he has vaulted the window sill and is standing beside her, somewhat breathless and distinctly uneasy. Nothing short of an accident to the children could, in his opinion, have warranted so vehement a call. Yet Barbara, as he examines her features carefully, seems all joyous excitement. After a short contemplation of her beaming face he tell himself that he was an ass to give up that pilgrimage of his to the lower field, where he had been going to inspect a new-born calf. " The skys are C\ right," says he, with an upward glance itt them through the window. " And — you hadn't another uncle, had you ? " " Oh, Freddy," says she, very justly disgusted. '* Well, my good child, what then ? I'm all curiosity." '' Guess," says she, too happy to be able to give him the round scolding he deserves. " Oh ! if it's a riddle," says he, " you might remember I am only a little one, and unequal to the great things of life." •* Ah ! but, Freddy, I've something delicious to tell you. There sit down there, you look quite queer, while I " " No wonder I do," says he, at last rather wrathfuUy. *' To judge by your wild gesticulations at the window just now, any one might have imagined that the house was on fire and a hostile race tearing en masse into the back yard. And now — why, it appears you are quite pleased about something or other. Really such disappointments are enough to age any man— or make him look * queer,' that was the word you used, I think ? " " Listen," says she, seating herself beside him, and slip- ping her arm around his neck. " Joyce is going to marry Felix— after all. There ! " Still with her arm holding him, she leans back a little to mark the effect of this as- tonishing disclosure. I! APHWS LADY, y>3 ng upon ome way frenzied "'ng that Monk- )ened ? " and is istinctJy children t a call. > seems » of her ?ive up fie had glance nother osity." im the tiberl »gs of I you. u tidow ! was back ased lents eer/ slip- irry Jing as- CHAPTER LIV. ** Well said } that was laid on with a trowel." " Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice." ** After all, indeed ; you may well say that," says Mr. Monkcon, with indignation. " If those two idiots meant matrimony all along, why on earth didn't they do it all before. See what a lot of time they've lost, and what a disgr£.ceful amount of trouble they have given all round." " Yes, yes, of course. But then you see, Freddy, it takes some time to make up one's mind about such an important matter as that." "It didn't take you long," says Mr. Monkton most unwisely. " It took me a great deal longer than it took you," replies his wife with dignity. '* You have always said that it was the very first day you ever saw me — and I'm sure it took me quite a week ! " This lucid speech she delivers with some severity. " More shame for you," says Monkton promptly. " Well, never mind," says she, too happy and too en- grossed with her news to enjoy even a skirmish with her husband. " Isn't it all charming, Freddy ? " " It has certainly turned out very well, all things con- sidered." " I think it is the happiest thing. And when two people who love each other are quite young " ** Really, my dear, you are too flattering," says Monkton. ** Considering the gray hairs that are beginning to make themselves so unpleasantly at home in my head, I, at all events, can hardly lay claim to extreme youth." "Good gracious ! I'm not talking of us ; I'm talking of them," cries she, giving him a shake. " Wake up, Freddy. Bring your mind to bear upon this big news of mine, and you will see how enchanting it is. Don't you think Felix has behaved beautifully— so faithful, so constant, and li 304 APRIL'S LADY, against such terrible odds ? You know Joyce is a little difficult sometimes. Now hasn't he been perfect all through ? " " He is a genuine hero of romance," says Mr. Monkton with conviction. ** None of your cheap articles — a regular bonafide thirteenth century knight. The .country ought to contribute its stray half-pennies and buy him a pedestal and put him on the top of it, whether he likes it or not. Once there Simon Stylites would be forgotten in half an hour. Was there ever before heard of such an heroic case 1 Did ever yet living man have the prowess to propose to the girl he loved! It is an entirely new departure, and should be noticed. It is quite unique!" *' Don't be horrid," says his wife. " You know exactly what I mean — that it is a delightful ending to what promised to be a miserable muddle. And he is so charming ; isn't he, now, Freddy ? " " Is he ? " asks Mr. Monkton, regarding her with a thoughtful eye. *' You can see for yourself. He is so satisfactory. I always said he was the very husband for Joyce. He is so kind, so earnest, so sweet in every way." " Nearly as sweet as I am, eh ? " There is stern inquiry now in his regard. " Pouf ! I know what you are, of course. Who W'ould, if I didn't ? But really, Freddy, don't you think he will make her an ideal husband ? So open. So frank. So free from everything — everything — oh, well, everything — you know ! " " I don't," says Monkton, uncompromisingly. " Well — everything hateful, I mean. Oh ! she is a lucky girl ! " *' Nearly as lucky as her sister/' says Monkton, growing momentarily more stern in his determination to uphold his o>vn cause. " Don't be absurd. I declare," with a little burst of amusement, " when he — they — told me about it, I never felt so happy in my life." ** Except when you married me." He throws quite a tragical expression into his face, that is, however, lost upon her. " Of course, with her present fortune, she might have made what the world would call a more distinguished % APRirS lADY. 305 matci). But his family arc unexceptionable, and he has some money — not mucii, I know, but still some. And even if he hadn't siie has now enough for both. After all " — with noble disregard of the necessaries of iife — •• what is money ? " , " Dross — mere dross !" says Mr. Monkton. " And he is just the sort of man not to give a thought to it." " He couldn't, my dear. Heroes of romance are quite above all that sort of thing." '* Well, he is, certainly," says Mrs. Monkton, a little offended. " You may go on pretending as much as you like, Freddy, but I know you think about him just as I do. He is exactly the sort of charming character to make Joyce happy." " Nearly as happy as .^ have made you ! " says her husband, severely. " Dear me, Freddy — I really do wish you would try and forget yourself for one moment ! " " I might be able to do that, my dear, if I were quite sure that you were not forgetting me, too." *' Oh, as to that ! 1 declare you are a perfect baby ! You love teasing. Well — there then!" The "there" represents a kiss, and Mr. Monkton, having graciously accepted this tribute to his charms, condescends to come down from his mental elevation and discuss the new en- gagement with considerable affability. Once, indeed, there is a dangerous lapse back into his old style, but this time there seems to be occasion for it. "When they stood there stammering and stuttering, Freddy, and looking so awfully silly, I declare I was so glad about it that I actually kissed him ! " " What ! " says Mr. Monkton. " And you have lived to tell the tale ! You have, therefore, lived too long. Per- fidious woman, prepare for death." "' I declare I think you'd have done it," says Barbara, eloquently. Whereupon, having reconsidered her speech, they both give way to mirth. " I'll try it when I see him," says Monkton. " Even a hero of romance couldn't object to a chaste salute from me." " He is coming to dinner. I hope when you do see him, Freddy," — anxiously this — " you will be very sober about it." 20 3o6 APRIL'S LADY. It I' I 1 I I "Barbara! You know I never get — er — that is — not before dinner at all events." " Well, but promise me now, you will be very serious about it. They are taking it seriously, and they won't like it if you persist in treating it as a jest." " I'll be a perfect judge." "I know what that means" — indignantly — "that you are going to be as frivolous as possible." " My dear girl ! If the bench could only hear you. Well, there then ! Yes, really ! I'll be everything of the most desirable. A regular funeral mute. And/' seeing she is still offended, " I am glad about it, Barbara. Honestly I think him as good a fellow as I know — and Joyce another." Having convinced her of his good faith in the matter, and argued with her on every single point, and so far per- jured himself as to remember perfectly and accurately the very day and hour on which, three months ago, she had said that she knew Joyce preferred Felix to Beauclerk, he is forgiven, and presently allowed to depart in peace with another " there," even warmer than the first. But it is unquestionable that she keeps a severe eye on him all through dinner, and so forbids any trifling with the sacred topic. " It would have put the poor things out so ! " she had said to herself; and, indeed, it must be confessed that the lovers are very shy and uncomfortable, and that conversation drifts a good deal, and is only carried on irregularly by fits and starts. But later, when Felix has unburdened his mind to Monkton during the quarter of an hour over their wine — when Barbara has bee^i compelled, in fear and trembling, to leave Freddy to his own devices — things grow more genial, and the extreme happiness that dwells in the lovers' hearts is given full play. There is even a delightful half hour granted them upon the balcony, Barbara having — like the good angel she is — declared that the night is almost warm enough for June. \ 1 •aammm, ^Yi^-f. APRWS LADY. W ^ CHAPTER LV. " Great discontents there are, and many murmurs.'' ** There is a kind of mournful eloquence In thy dumb grief." - , Lady Baltimore, too, had been very pleased by the news when Felix told her next morning of his good luck. In all her own great unhappiness she had still a kindly word and thought for her cousin and his fiancee. " One of the nicest girls," she says, pressing his hands warmly. '* I often think, indeed, the nicest girl I know. You are fortunate, Felix, but " — very kindly — " she is for- tunate, too." , • - ^ ** Oh, no, the luck is all on my side," says he. ** It will be a blow to Norman," she says, presently. " I think not," with an irrepressible touch of scorn. "There is Miss Maliphant." ''You mean that he can decline upon her. Of course I can quite understand that you do not like him," says she with a quick sigh. " But, believe me, any heart he has was really given to Joyce. Well, he must devote himself to ambition now." " Miss Maliphant can help him to that." *' No, no. That is all knocked on the head. It appears —this is in strict confidence, Felix — but it appears he asked her to marry him last evening, ana sije refused." Felix turns to her as if to give utterance to some vehe- ment words, and then checks himself. After all, why add to her unhappiness ? Why tell her of that cur's baseness ? Her own brother, too ! It would be but another grief to her. To think he should have gone from her to Miss Mali- phant ! What a pitiful creature ! Beneath contempt ! Well, if his pride survives those two downfalls — both in one day — it must be made of leather. It does Felix good to think of how Miss Maliphant must have worded her ■■w\ yi APRIL'S LADY, '^-.. ! - I i 1 i i refusal. She is not famous for grace of speech. He must have had a real bad time of it. Of course, Joyce had told him of her interview with the sturdy heiress. " Ah, she refused ? " says he hardly knowing what to say. "Yes; and not very graciously, I'm afraid. He gave me the mere fact of the refusal — no more, and only that because he had to give a reason for his abrupt departure. You know he is going this evening? " ' " No, I did not know it. Of course, under the circum- stances " Yes, he could hardly stay here. Margaret came tome and said she would go, but I would not allow that. After all, every woman has a right to refuse or accept as she will." " True." His heart gives an exultant leap as he remem- bers how his love had willed. " I only wish she had not hurt him in the refusal. But I could -see he was wounded. He was not in his usual careless spirits. He struck me as being a little — well, you know, a little " She hesitates. " Out of temper," suggests Felix involuntarily. "Well, yes. Disappointment takes that course with some people. After all, it might have been worse if he had set his heart on Joyce and been refused." » " Much worse," says Felix, his eyes on the ground. . ** She would have been a severe loss." *' Severe, indeed." By this time Felix is beginning to feel like an advanced hypocrite. " As for Margaret Maliphant, I am afraid he was more concerned about the loss of her bonds and scrips than of herself. It is a terrible world, Felix, when all is told," says she, suddenly crossing her beautiful long white hands over her knees, and leaning toward him* There is a touch of misery so sharp in her voice that he starts as he looks at her. It is a momentary fit of emotion, however, and passes before he dare comment on it. With a heart nigh to breaking she still retains her composure and talks calmly to Felix, and lets him talk to her, as though the fact that she is soon to lose forever the man who once had gained her heart — that fatal '* once " that means for always, in spite of everything that has come and gone — is as little or nothing to her. Seeing her sitting there, strangely pale i ..- '■H APRWS LADY, 300 indeed, but so collected, it would be impossible to guess at the tempest of passion and grief and terror that reigns v^ithin her breast. Women are not so strong to bear as men, and therefore in the world's storms suffer most. " It is a lovely world," says he smiling, thinking of Joyce, and then, remembering her sad lot, his smile fades. " One might make — perhaps — a bad world — better," he says, stammering. " Ah ! teacn me how," says she with a melancholy glance. " There is such a thing as forgiveness. Forgive him ! " blurts he out in a frightened sort of way. He is horrified at himself — at his own temerity — a second later, and rises to his feet as if to meet the indignation he has certainly courted. But to his surprise no such indignation betrays itself. ** Is that your advice?" says she, still with the thin white hands clasped over the knee, and the earnest gaze on him. " Well, well, well ! " Her eyes droop. She seems to be thinking, and he, gazing at her, refrains from speech with his heart sad with pity. Presently she lifts her head and looks at him. *' There ! Go back to your love," she says with a glance that thrills him. " Tell her from me that if you had the whole world to choose from, I should still select her as your wife. I like her ; I love her ! There, go ! " She seems to grow all at once very tired. Are those tears that are rising in her eyes ? She holds out to him her hand. Felix, taking it, holds it closely for a moment, and pre- sently, as if moved to do it, he stoops and presses a warm kiss upon it. She is so unhappy, and so kind, and so true. God deliver her out of her sorrow ! # ^ . • J APRIL'S LADY. "*.' ( CHAPTER I.VI. " I would that I were low laid in my grave." She is still sitting silent, lost in thought, after Felix's de- parture, when the door opens once again to admit her husband. His hands ar> full of papers, " Are you at liberty? " says he. " Have you a moment ? These," pointing to the papers, *' want signing. Can you give your attention to them now ? " " What are they ? " asks she, rising. " Mere law papers. You need not look so terrified." His tone is bitter. " There are certaii: matters that must be arranged before my departure — matters that concern your welfare and the boy's. Here," laying the papers upon the davenport and spreading them out. " You sign your name here." ' But," recoiling, " what is it ? What does it all mean ? " " It is not your death warrant, I assure you," says he, with a sneer. " Come, sign ! " T'.eing her still hesitate, he turns upon her savagely. Who shall say what hidden storms of grief and regret lie within that burst of anger? Do you want your son to live and die a poor man ? " says he. " Come ! there is yourself to be considered, too ! Once I am out of your way, you will be able to begin life again with a light heart ; and this." tapping the paper heavily, " will enable you to do it,^ I make over to you and the boy everything — at least, as nearly everything as will enable me to live." " It should be the other way," says she. " Take every- thing, and leave us enough on which to live." " Why? " says he, facing round, something in her voice that resembles remorse striking him. " We — shall have each other,' says she, faintly. " Having happily got rid of such useless lumber as the father and husband. Well, you will be the happier so," APRIL'S LADY. 3" does it all 1 her voice rejoins he with a laugh that hurts him more than it hurts her, though she cannot know that. '* ' Two is company,' you know, according to the good old proverb, ' three trum- pery.' You and he will get on very well without me. no doubt." . • " It is your arrangement," says she. " If that thought is a salve to your conscience, pray think so," rejoins he. ** It isn't worth an argument. We are only wasting time." He hands her the pen \ she takes it mechanically, but makes no use of it. ** You will at least tell me where you are going ? " says she. "Certainly I should, if I only knew myself. To America first, but that is a big direction, and I am afraid the tenderest love letter would not reach me through it. When your friends ask you, say I have gone to the North Pole ; it is as likely a destination as another." ** But not to know ! " says she, lifting her dark eyes to his — dark eyes that seem to glow like fire in her white face. '• That would be terrible. It is unfair. You should think — think — " Her voice grows husky and uncertain. She stops abruptly. " Don't be uneasy about that," says he. " I shall take care that my death, when it occurs, is made known to you as soon as possible. Your mind shall be relieved on that score with as little delay as I can manage. The welcome news shall be conveyed to you by a swift messenger." She flings the pen upon the writing table, and turns a*vay. " Insult me to the last if you will ! " she says ; " but consider your son. He loves you. He will desire news of you from time to time. It is impossible that you can put him out of your life as you have put me." ''It appears you can be unjust to the last," says he, flinging her own accusation back at her. " Have I put you out of my life ? " " Ah ! was I ever in it ? " says she. " But — you will write ? " " No. Not a line. Once for all I break with you. Should my death occur you will hear of it. And I have arranged so, that now and after that event you and the boy will have your positions clearly defined. That is all 313 APRrVS LADY. you can possibly require of me. Even if you marry again your jointure will be secured to you." " Baltimore ! " exclaims she, turning upon him passion- ately. She seems to struggle with herself for words. " Has marriage proved so sweet a thing ? " cries she presently, "that I should care to try it again ? Theie ! Go ! I shall sign none of 'these things." She makes a disdainful gesture towards the loose papers lying on the table, and moves angrily away. " You have your son to consider." " Your son will inherit the title and the property with- out those papers." . r; " There are complications, however, that perhaps you do not understand." " Let them lie there. I shall sign nothing." " In that case you will probably find yourself immersed in troubles of the meaner kinds after my departure. The child cannot inherit until after my death, and " " I don't care," says she, sullenly. ** Go, if you will. I refuse to benefit by it." " What a stubborn woman you are," cries he, in great wrath. " You have for years declined to acknowledge me as your husband. You have by your manner almost com- manded my absence from your side ; yet now when I bring you the joyful news that in a short time you will actually be rid of me, you throw a thousand difficulties in my path. Is it that you desire to keep me near you for the purposes of torture ? It is too late for that. You have gone a trifle too far. The hope you have so clearly expressed in many ways that time would take me out of your path is at last about to be fulfilled." " I have had no such hope." " No ! You can look me in the face and say that ! Saintly lips never lie, however, do they ? Well, I'm sick of this life ; you are not. I have borne a good deal from you, as I told you before. I'll bear no more. I give in. Fate has been too strong for me." .-:.;.' *' You have created your own fate." " You are my fate ! You are inexorable ! There is no reason why I should stay." Here the sound of running, childish, pattering footsteps can be heard outside the door, and a merry little shout of APKIVS LADY. 313 YO\x marry again 311 him passion- self for words, tig?" cries she igain? Theie! She makes a "s lying on the property with- t perhaps you rself immersed jparture. The id " io, if you will. s he, in great knowledge me 2r almost com- now when I time you will difficulties in near you for »r that You ve so clearly ike me out of id say that ! eli, I'm sick »d deal from I give in. There is no ■i. ng footsteps ttle shout of laughter. The door is suddenly burst open in rather unconventional style, and Bertie rushes into the room, a fox terrier at his heels. The dog is evidently quite as much up to the game as the boy, and both race tempestuously up the room and precipitate themselves against Lady Balti- more's skirts. Round and round her the chase continues, until the boy, bursting a>yay from his mother, dashes toward his father, the terrier after him. There isn't so much scope for talent in e pair of trousers as in a mass of dainty petticoats, and presently Bertie grows tired, flings himself down upon the ground, and lets the dog tumble over him there. The joust i& virtually at an end. Lady Baltimore, who has stood immoveable during the attack upon her, always with that cold, white, beautiful look upon her face, now points to the stricken child lying panting, laughing, and playing with the dog at his father's feet. " There is a reason ! " says she, almost inaudibly. Baltimore shakes his head. " I have thought all that out. It is not enough," says he. " Bertie ! " says his mother, turning to the child. " Do you know this, that your father is going to leave you ? " •' Going? " Fays the boy vaguely, forgetting the dog for a moment and glancing upward. " Where ? " " Away. Forever." "Where?" says the boy again. He rises to his feet now, and looks anxiously at his father ; then he smiles and flings himself into his arms. "Oh, no!" says he, in a little soft, happy, sure sort of a way. " Forever ! Forever ! " repeats Isabel in a curious monotone. " Take me up," says the child, tugging at his father's arms. "What does mamma mean? Where are you going ? " " To America, to shoot bears," returns Baltimore with an embarrassed laugh. How near to tears it is. " Real live bears ? " "Yes." ** Tak:; me with yoiT ? " says the child, excitedly. " And leave mamma ? " "Oh, she'll come, too," says Bertie, confidently. 21 3»4 APRWS LADY. *' She'll come where I go." Where he would go — the child ! But would she go where the father W'jnt ? Balti- more's brow darkens. " I am afraid it is out of the question," he says, putting Bertie back again upon the carpet where the fox terrier is barking furiously and jumping up and down in a frenzied fashion as if desirous of devouring the child's legs. " The bears might eat you. When you are big and strong " ** You will come back for me ? " cries Bertie, eagerly. *' Perhaps." ** He will not," breaks in Lady Baltimore violently. " He will come back no more. When he goes you will never see him again. He has said so. He is going forever ! " These last two terrible words seem to have sunk into her soul. She cannot cease from repeating them. " Let the boy alone," says Baltimore angrily. The child is looking from one parent to the other. He seems puzzled, expectant, but scarcely unhappy. Child- hood can grasp a great deal, but not all. The more un- happy the childhood, the more it can understand of the sudden and larger ways of life. But children d^^licately brought up and clothed in love from their cradle LuJ it hard to realize that an end to their happiness can ever come. ** Tell me, papa ! " say^ he at last in a vague, sweet little way. " What is there to tell ? " replies his father with a most meagre laugh, " except that I saw Beecher bringing in some fresh oranges half an hour ago. Perhaps he hasn't eaten them all yet. If you were to ask him for one " " I'll find him," cries Bertie brightly, forgetting every- thing but the present moment. ** Come, Trixy, come." to his dog, " you shall have some, too." " You see there won't be much trouble with him," says Baltimore, when the boy has run out of the room in pur- suit of oranges. " It will take him a day, perhaps, and after that he will be quite your own. If you won't sign these papers to-day you will perhaps to-morrow. I had better go and tell Hansard that you would like to have a little time to look them over." He walks quickly down the room, 'opens the door, and closes it after him. APRIL'S LADY. 315 CHAPTER LVII. "This is that happy morn — That day, long-wished day Of all my lite 1 o dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates, my hopes betray) Which, purely white, deserves An everlasting diamond should it mark.*' He has not, however, gone three yards down the cor- ridor when the door is again opened, and Lady Balti- more's voice calls after him : " Baltimore ! " Her tone is sharp, high-agonized — the tone of or»e strung to the highest pitch of despair. It startles him. He turns to look at her. She is stand- ing, framed in by the doorway, and one hand is grasp- ing the woodwork with a hold so firm that the knuckles are showing white. With the other hand she beckons him to approach her. He obeys her. He is even so frightened at the strange gray look in her face that he draws her bodily into the room again, shutting the door with a pressure of the hand he can best spare. " What is it ? " says he, looking down at her. She has managed to so far overcome the faintness that has been threatening her as to shake him off and stand free, leaning against a chair behind her. " Don't go," says she, hoarsely. It is impossible to misunderstand her meaning. It has nothing whatever to do with his interview with the lawyer waiting so patiently 4own below, but with that final wandering of his into regions unknown. She is as white as death. " How is this, Isabel ? " asks he. He is as white as she is now. " Do you know what you are saying ? This is a moment of excitement ; you do not compre- hend what your words mean." " Stay ! Stay for his sake." " Is that all ? " says he, his eyes searching hers. "For mine, then." The words seem to scorch her. She covers her face 3i6 APRIL'S LADY, !l If with her hands and stands before him, stricken dumb, miserable — confessed. "For yours!" He goes closer to her, and ventures to take her hand. It is cold— cold as death. His is burning. " You have given a reason for my staying, indeedf says he. " But vviiat is the meaning of it ? " "This!" cried she, throwing up her head, and show- ing him her shamed and grief-stricken face. "I am a coward ! In spite of everything I would not have you go — so far I " "I see. I understand," he sighs, heavily. "And yet that story was a foul lie ! It is all that stands between us, Isabel. Is it not so ? But you will not believe." There is i long silence, during which neith'er of them stirs. They seem wrapt in thought — in silence — he still holding her hand. " If it was a lie," says she at last, breaking the quiet around them by an effort, "would you so far forgive my distrust of you as to be holding my hand like this?" " Yes. What is there I would not forgive you ?" says he. " And it was a lie ! " "Cyril," cries she in great agitation, "take care ! It is a last moment ! Do you dare to tell me that still ? Supposing your story to be true, and mine — that woman's — false, how would it be between us then ?" "As it was in the first good old time when we were married." "You could forgive the wrong I have done you all these years, supposing " " Everything— all." "Ah ! " This sound se§ms crushed out of her. She steps backward, and a dry sob breaks from her. " What is it ?" asks he, quickly. " Oh, that I could — that I dared — believe," says she. " You would have proofs," says he, coldly, resigning her hand. " My word is not enough. You might love me did I prove worthy ; your love is not strong enough to endure the pang of distrust. Was ever real love so poor a thing as that ? However, you shall have them." " What ? " asks she, raising her head. " The proofs you desire," responds he, icily. " That APRIL'S LADY, 3»7 woman — your friend — the immaculate one — died the the day before yesterday. What ? You never hef.rd ? And you and she " "She was nothing to me," says Lady Baltimore. "Nothing since." "The day she reviled me ! And yet" — with a most joyless laugh — " for the sake of a woman you cared so little about, that even her death has not caused you a pang, you severed the tie that should have been the closest to you on earth ? Well, she is dead. ' Heaven rest her sowl ! ' as the peasants sjiy. She wrote me a letter on her bed of death." ""Yes?" Eagerly. "You still doubt?" says he, with a stern glance at her. " So be it ; you shall see the letter, though how will that satisfy you ? For you can always gratify your desire for suspicion by regarding it as a forgery. The woman herself is dead, so, of course, there is no one to contradict. Do think this all out," says he, with a con- temptuous laugh, "before you commit yourself to a fresh belief in me. You see I give you every chance. To such a veritable * Thomas ' in petticoats every road should be laid open. Now" — tauntingly — "will you wait here whilst I bring the proof?" He is gazing at her in a heart-broken sort of way. Is it the end ? Is it all really over ? There had been a faint flicker of the dying candle — a tiny glare — and now for all time is it to be darkness ? As for her. Ever since he had let her hand go, she had stood with bent head looking at it. He had taken it, he had let it go ; there seemed to be a promise of heaven — was it a false one ? She is silent, and Baltimore, who had hoped for one word of trust, of belief, makes a gesture of despair. " I will bring you the letter," he says, moving toward the door. When he does bring it — when she had read it and satisfied herself of the loyalty so long doubied, where, he asks himself, will they two be then ? Fur- ther apart than ever ? He has forgiven a great deal — much more than this — and yet, strange human nature, he knows if he once leaves the room nnd her presence now, he will never return again. Thj letter she will see — but hioi^-never ! 3i8 APRIL'S LADY, The door is open. He has almost crossed the thresh- old. Once again her voice recalls him, once again he looks back, she is holding out her arms to him. ♦' Cyril ! Cyril ! " she cried. " I believe you." She staggers toward him. Mercifully the fountain of her tears breaks loose, she flings herself into his will- ing arms, and sobs out a whole world of grief upon his bosom. It is a cruel moment, yet one fraught with joy as keen as the sorrow — a fire of anguish out of which both emerge purified, calmed — gladdened. \ CHAPTER LVTII. " Lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone ; the flowers appear on the earth ; the time of the singing of theoirds has come." The vague suspicion of rain that ha^^ filled their thoughts at breakfast has proved idle. Tue sun is shin- ing forth again with redoubled vigor, as if laughing their silly doubts to scorn. Never was there so fair a day. One can almost see the plants growing in the garden, and from every bough the nesting birds are singing loud songs of joy. The meadows are showing a lovely green, and in the glades and uplands the "Daffodils That come before the swallow dares," are upreaiing their lovely heads. Xhe air is full of sweet scents and sounds, and Joyce, jumping down from the drawing-room window, that lies close to the ground, looks gladly found her. Perhaps it is not so much the beauty. pf^thQ scene as the warmth of happi- ness in her own heart that brings the smile to her lips and eyes. ;f v, y; He will be here- torday ! Involuntarily she raises one hand and looks at the ring that encircles her en- gaged finger. A charming ring of pearls and sapphires. It evidently brings her happy thoughts, as, after gazing At it for a moment or two, she stoops and presses her i I i APRIL'S LADY, 3«9 lips eagerly to it. It is his first gift (though not his last), and therefore the most precious. What girl does not like receiving a present from her lover ? The least mercenary woman on earth must feel a glow at her heart and a fonder recognition of her sweetheart's worth when he lays a love-offering at her feet. Joyce, after her one act of devotion to her sweetheart, runs down the garden path and toward the summer house. She is not expecting Dysart until the day has well grown into its afternoon ; but, book in hand, she has escaped from all possible visitors to spend a quiet hour in the old earwiggy shanty at the end of the gar- den, sure of finding herself safe there from interrup- tions. The sequel proves the futility of all luiman belief. Inside the summer house; book in hand likewise, sits Mr. Browne, a picture of studious virtue. Miss Kavanagh, seeing him, stops dead short, so great is her surprise, and Mr. Browne, raising his eyes, as if with difficulty, from the book on his knee, surveys her with a calmly judicial eye. " Not here. Not here, my child," quotes he, incor- rectly. "You had better try neitt door." " Try for what ?" demands she, indignantly. " For whom ? You mean-^ " " No, I don't," with increasing anger. "Jocelyne ! " says Mr. Browne, severely. "When one forsakes the path of truth it is only to tread in " " Nonsense ! " says Miss Kavanagh, irreverently. "As you will!" says he, meekly. "But I assure you he is not here." " I could have told you that," says she, coloring, however, very warmly. " I must say, Dicky, you are the most ingeniously stupid person I ever met in my life." "To shine in even the smallest line in life is to achieve something," says Mr. Browne, complacently. " And so you knew he wouldn't be here just now ? " This is uttered in an insinuating tone. Miss Kava- nagh feels she has made a false move. To give Dicky an inch is, indeed, to give him an ell. '* He ? Who ?" says she, weakly. " Don't descend to dissimulation, Jocelyn," advises he, severely. ** It's the surest road to ruin, if one is to ¥18^ ^r APRIL'S LADY. believe the good old copy bookf^ By he— you see I scorn subterfuge — I mean Dysart, the person to whom in a mistaken moment you have affianced yourself, as though I — I were not ready at any time to espouse you." "I'm not going to be espoused," says Miss Kava- nagii, half laughing. '• No ? I quite understood " " I won't have that word," petulantly. "It sounds like something out of the dark ages." "So does he," says Mr. Browne. "'Felix,' you know. So Latin ! Quite like one of the old monks. I shouldn't wonder if he turned out a " " I wish you wouldn't tease me, Dicky," says she. "You think you are amusing, you know, but I think you are one of the rudest people I ever met. I wish you would let me alone." " Ah ! Why didn't you leave me alone ? " says he, with a sigh tliat would have set a furnace ablaze. " However ! " with a noble determination to overcome his grief. ** Let the past lie. You want to go and meet Dysart, isn't that it ? And I'll go and meet him witii you. Could stlf-sacrifice further go? *Jim along Josy,' no doubt he is at the upper gate by this time, flying on the wings (/f love." " He is not," says Joyce ; "and I wish once for all, Dicky, that you wouldn't call me * Josy.' *Jocelyne' is bad enough, but 'Josy!' And I'm not going to *jim' anywhere, and certainly" — with strong de- termination — "not with you." She looks at him with sudden curiosity. "What brought you here to-day?" asks she, most inhospitably it must be confessed. "What brings me here every day? To see the un- kindest girl in the world." "She doesn't li*e^here," says Miss Kavanagh. " Dicky " — changing hi^r tone suddenly and looking at him with earnest; eyes? r." What is this I hear about Lady Baltimore aii'dhftr husband ? Be sensible now, do, and tell me." .' ' " They're going abroad together — with Bertie. " They've made it up," says he, growing as sensible as even she can desire. " It is such a complete make up all round that they didn't even ask me logo with them. APRIL'S LADY, 321 . you see I [on to whom yourself, as to espouse Miss Kava- " It sounds P'elix,' you I old monks. says she. 3i't J think »et. J wish 1 M says he, ice ablaze. overcome tc^ go and "leet him ?o? *Jim ite by this ce for all, 'Jocelyne' goings to trong de- him with to-day ? " !sed. e the un- avanagh. Joking at ar about ible now, Bertie, nsible as Make up th them. However, I'm determinad to join them at Nice on their return from Egypt. Too much billing and cooing is bad for people." " I'm so glad," says Joyce, her eyes filling with tears. " They are two such dear people, and if it hadn't been for Lady — By the by, where is Ladv Swansdown ?" " Russia, I think." "Well, I liked her, too," says Joyce, with a sigh ; " but she wasn't good for Baltimore, was she ? " " Not very ! " says Mr. Browne, dryly. " I should say, on the whole, that she disagreed with him. Tonics are sometimes dangerous." ** I'm so delighted," says Joyce, still thinking of Lady Baltimore. "Well," smiling at him, "why don't you go in and see Barbara ?" " I have seen her, talked with her a long while, and bid her adieu. I vvraj on my way back to the Court, having failed in my hope of seeing you, when I found this delightful nest of earwigs, and thought I'd stay and confabulate with them a while in default of better companions." "Poor Dicky!" says she. "Come with me. tlien, and I'll talk to you for half an hour." " Too late ! " says he, looking at his watch. " There is only one thing left me now to say to you, and that is, ' Good-by.' " " Why this mad haste ? " "Ah, ha! I can have my little secrets, too," says he. *' A whisper in your ear," leaning toward her. "No, thank you," says she, waving him of! with de- termination. " I remember your last whisper. There ! if you can't stay, Dicky, good by indeed. I'm going for a walk." She turns away resolutely, leaving Mr. Browne to sink back upon the seat and continue his reading, or else to go and meet that secret he spoke of. " I say," calls he, running after her. " You may as well see me as far as the gate, any way." It is evident the book at least has lost its charms. Miss Kavanagh not being stony hearted so far gives in as to walk with him to a side gate, and having finally bidden him adieu, goes back to the summer house he has quitted, and, opening her book, prepares to enjoy herself. I M f pi I ill 322 APRIL'S LADY. Vain preparation ! It is plain that the fates are against her to-day. She is no sooner seated, with he/ book of poetry open on her knee, than a little flying form turns the corner and Tommy precipitates himself upon her. *' What are you doing ? " asks he. CHAPTER LIX. " Lips are so like flowers » I might snatch at those ^ Redder than the rose leaves, Sweeter than the rose." '* Love is a great master." " I AM reading," says she. " Can't you ?ee that ? " •* Read to me, then," says Tommy, scrambling up on the bencli beside her and snuggling liimself under her arm. *' I love to hear people." " Well, not this, at all events," says Miss Kavanagh, placing the dainty copy of " The Muses of Mayfair," she has been reading on the rustic table in front of her. '* Why not that one ? What is it ? " asks Tommy, staring at the book. '* Nothing you would like. Horrid stuff. Only poetry." "What's poetry?" " Oh, nonsense. Tommy, you know very well A''hat poetry is. Your hymns are poetry." This slic jon- siders will put an end to all desire for the book ii. ques- tion. It is a clever and skilful move, but it fails sig- nally. There is silence for a moment while Tommy cogitates, and then — — "Are those hymns?" demands he, pointing at the discarded volume. "N-o, not exactly." This is scarcely disingenuous, and Miss Kavanagh has the grace to blush a little. She is the further discomposed in that she becomes aware presently that Tommy sees through her per- fectly. " Well, what are they ? " asks he. APRIL'S LADY. 3*3 ^ates are with her jttle flying es himself at ? " "& up on nder her avanagh, It of her. ToniDiy, . Only su vvhat ^c -on- lils sig- rommy at the nuous^ little. comes »" per- "Oh— er — well— just poetry, you know." "I don't," says Tommy, flatly, who is nothing if not painfully truthful. " Let me hear them." He pauses here and regards her with a searching eye. " They " ■—with careful forethought — " they aren't lessons, are they ? " "No ; they are not lessons," says his aunt, laughing. " But you won't like them for all that. If you are athirst for literature, get me one of your own books, and I will read 'Jack the Giant Killer' to you." "I'm sick of him," says Tommy, most ungratefully. That tremendous hero having filled up many an idle hour of his during his short lifetime. " No," nestling closer to her. ** Go on with your poetry one ! " "You would hate it. It is worse than 'Jack,'" says^ she. " Let me hear it," says Tommy, persistently. " Well," says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh, "if you will have it, at least, don't interrupt." She has tried very hard to get rid of him, but, having failed in so signal a fashion, she gives herself up with an admirable resignation to the inevitable. " What would I do that for ? " asks Tommy, rather indignantly. "I don't know, I'm sure. But I thought I'd warn you," says she, wisely precautious. " Now, sit down there," pointing to" the seat beside her ; "and when you feel you have had enough of it, sa> so at once." *' That would be interrupting," says Tommy, the Con- scientious. "Well, I give you leave to interrupt so far," says Joyce, glad to leave him a loophole that may insure his departure before Felix comes. " But no further — mind that." "Oh, I'm minding !", says Tommy, impatiently. "Go on. Why don't you begin ? " Miss Kavanagh, taking up her book once more, opens it at random. All its contents are sweetmeats of the prettiest, so she is not driven to a choice. She commences to read in a firm, soft voice : "The wind and the beam loved the rose, And the roses loved one : For who recks the " 324 APRIL'S LADY, I I ; ! " What's that ? " says Tommy. "What's what ? " *' You aren't reading it right, are you ? " •' Certainly I am. Why ? " " I don't believe a beam of wood could love any- thing," says Tommy ; "it's too heavy." " It doesn't mean a beam of wood." " Doesn't it ? " staring up into her face. "What's it mean, then — 'The beam that is in thine own eye ?'" He is now examining her own eye with great interest. As usual, Tommy is strong in Bible lore. '• I have no beam in my eye, I hope," says Joyce, laughing ; " and, at all events, it doesn't mean that either. The poet who wrote this meant a sunbeam." '* Well, why couldn't he say so ? " says Tommy, gruffly. " I really think you had better brini^ me one of your own books," says Joyce. " I told you this would " " No," obstinately, " I like this. It sounds so nice and smoothly. Go on," says Tommy, giving her a nudge. Joyce, with a sigh, reopens the volume, and gives herself up for lost. To argue with Tommy is always to know fatigue, and nothing else. One never gains anything by it. '* Well, do be quiet now, and listen," says she, pro- testing faintly. "I'm listening like anything," says Tommy. And, indeed, now at last it seems as if he were. So silent does he grow as his aunt reads on that you might have heard a mouse squeak. But for the low, soft tones of Joyce no smallest sound breaks the sweet silence of the day. Miss Kavanagh is beginning to feel distinctly flattered. If one can captivate the flit- ting fancies of a child by one's eloquent rendering of charming verse, what may one not aspire to ? There must be something in her style if it can reduce a boy of seven to such a state of ecstatic attention, consider- ing the subject is hardly such a one as would suit his tender years. But Tommy was always thoughtful beyond his age. A dear, clever little fellow ! So appreciative ! Far, far beyond the average ! He The mild sweetness of the spring evening and her APRIL'S LADY. 3*5 love any. J ''What's it P eye ? > " |at interest. Jays Joyce, niean that "beam." ne of your oil Id ^" is so nice ^»g her a tnd gives is always ^'^^i- gains sJie, pro- r- And, that you the lowr, le sweet ning to the flit- ring of Tiiere a boy nsider- "it his is age. ar, far d her own thoughts are broken in upon at this instant by the "dear, clever little fellow." " He has just got to your waist now," says he, with an air of wild if subdued excitement. "He ! Who ! What ! " shrieks Joyce, springing to her feet. A long acquaintance with Tommy has taught her to dread the worst. "Oh, there! Of course you've knocked him down, and I did want to see how high he would go. ^ was tickling his tail to make him hurry up," says Tommy, in an aggrieved tone. " I can't see him anywhere now," peering about on the ground at her feet. " Oh ! What was it, Tommy ? Do speak ! " cries Joyce, in a frenzy of fear and disgust. "Twas an earwig ! " says Tommy, lifting a seraphic face to hers. " And such a big one ! He was racing up your dress most beautifully, and now you've upset him. Poor thing — I don't believe he'll ever find his way back to you again." " I should hope not, indeed ! " says Miss Kavanagh, hastily. " He began at the very end of your frcck," goes on Tommy, still searching diligently on the ground, as if to find the earwig, with a view to restoring it to its lost hunting ground ; "and it wriggled up so nicely. I don't knowwherehe is now" — sorrowfully — " unless," with a sudden brightening of his expressive face, " he is up your petticoats." " Tommy ! What a horrid, bad boy you are ! " cries poor Joyce, wildly. She gives a frantic shake to the petticoats in question. " Find him at once, sir ! He must be somewhere down there. I shan't have an in- stant's peace until I know where he is." "I can't see him anywhere," says Tommy. "Maybe you'll feel him presently, and then we'll know. He isn't on your leg now, is he ? " " Oh ! don't ! " cries Joyce, who looks as if she is go- ing to cry. She gives herself another vigorous shake, and stands away from the spot where Tommy evidently thinks the noxious beast in question may be, with her petticoats held carefully up in both hands. "Oh, Tommy, darling ! Do find him. He can't be up my pct« ticoats, can he ? " 3a6 APRIL'S LADY. |i,; I ; : "He can. Tkore's nothing they can't do," says Tommy, who is plainly revelling in the storm he has raised. Her open fright is beer and skittles to him. " Why did you stir ? He was as good as gold, until then ; and there wasn't anything to be afraid of. I was watching him. When he got to your ear I'd have told you. I wouldn't like him to make you deaf, but I wanted to see if he would go to your ear. But you spoiled all my fun, and now — where is he now ? " asks Tommy, with an awful suggestion in his tone. "On the grass, perhaps," says Joyce, miserably, look- ing round her everywhere, and even on her shoulder. ^' I don't feel him anywhere." " Sometimes they stay quite a long time, and then they crawl ! " says Tommy, the most horrible anticipa- tion in his tone. "Really, Tommy," cries his aunt, indignantly, " I do think you are the most abominable boy I ever met in my life. There, go away ! I certainly shan't read an- other line to you — either now — or — ever ! " " What is the matter ? " asks a voice at this moment, that sounds close to her elbow. She turns round with a start. ** It is you, Felix ! " says she, coloring warmly. " Oh — oh, it's nothing. Only Tommy. And he said I had an earwig on me. And I was just a little unnerved, you know." • "And no wonder," says her lover, with delightful sympathy. " I can't bear that sort of wild animal myself. Tommy, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. When you saw him why didn't you rise up and slay the de- stroyer of your aunt's peace ? There ; run away into the hall. You will find on one of the tables a box of chocolate. I told Mabel it was there ; perhaps she " Like an arrow from the bow, Tommy departs. " He has evidently his doubts of Mabel," says Joyce, laughing rather nervously. She is still a little shy with Felix. " He doesn't trust her." " No." He has seated himself and now draws her down beside him. "You were reading ?" he says. "Yes." "To Tommy?" " Yes," laughing more naturally this time. APRIL'S LADY 327 tt o, says fn he has to him. old, until f« I was lave told if, but I But you r ? " asks ly, look- loulder. nd then ^nticipa- i^, <' I do met in ead an- ^oment, id with "Oh I I had nerved, ightful wyself. When he de- y into )ox of " Tommy is a more learned person than one would have supposed. Is this the sort of thing he likes?" pointing to Nydia's exquisite song. "I am afraid not, though he would insist upon' my reading it. The earwig was evidently far more engross- ing as a subject than either the wind or the rose." " And yet — " he has his arm round her now, and is reading the poem over her shoulder. " You are my Rose," says he, softly. '* And you — do you love but one ? " She makes a little mute gesture that might signify anything or nothing to the uninitiated, but to him is instinct with a most happy meaning. " Am I that one, darling ? " She makes the same little silent movement again, but this time she adds to it by casting a swift glance upward at him from under her lowered lids. "Make me sure of it," entreated he almost in a whisper. He leans over her, lower, lower still. With a little tremulous laugh, dangerously akin to tears, she raises her soft palm to his cheek and tries to press him from her. But he holds her fast. " Make me sure ! " he says again. There is a last faint hesitation on her part, and then — their lips meet. " I have doubted always — always a little — ever since that night down by the river," says he, "but now " " Oh, no ! You must not doubt me again ! " says she with tears in her eyes. royce, ^with THE END. s her ijgiLii^^^ THE GREAT SMI Giver .0^ ^;MA^^•/s•^, A.n Itvealuable Tood vos ■ oo *eo'' «'' >--' Invalids & Convalescents . BECAUSE ; Easily Digested bjr the WEAKEST STOMACH. Useful in domestic eoonomy for makingdeliciousBeefTea , •nriohing Gravi'>8 and Soups. THE KEY TO HEAI/TH unlocks all the clogged secretions of the Stomach, Liver, Bowels and Blood, carrying off all humors and impurities from the entire s7Stem,correcting Acid* ity, and curing Biliousness, Dyspepsia, Sick Head- ache, Constipation, Rheumatism, Dropsy, Dry Skin, Dizziness, Jaundice, Heartburn, Nervous >nd General Debility, Salt Rheum, Erysipelas, 'Scrofula, etc. It purifies and eradicates from the Blood all poisonous humors, from a common Pimple to the worst Scrofulous Sore. «^ 1.* Uk ') , »; / f