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"i^, „^ • "»'! -.»' ^Jifn-.,' SW, , ric. i v W'i* *.ir ^^-fe'. -*'"-• jS.-f.^k-'"' IS-, A P F t .E f O M : A N J> O M F A »t T, ■f ■'Vlffl l|Al^tt,# ^ M e® h %i Oj.i;;:-'''*^^ %^^ •^r^^-'-'^S^-m^i' •*K ■■*#< Ci;, "( %-■ Hi '&!".•■ •X"!''' "^T^' W m «<:««„.■•.<»*•■ «» ,iU \\ 6 'fi "NO INTENTIONS." A NOVEL, BY FLOREK-CE MAERTAT, ACTuon OF "the poison of asps," etc., etc. AKu"-*" NEW YORK: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 549 & 651 BROADWAY. 1875. Halifax X. S. M. A. nr. KLKV & CO ^111 mil** \ \\ \\ ilr / ' P takel "NO INTENTIONvS." CIIAPTKH I. It is toward the close of a long, bright day in June, that a young collegian enters, somcwhut luwtil.v, the court-yard of an inn on the outskirts i^Onc of our university towns. '■•r'^ " Holloa thiTO ! " he calls sharply to a skulk- tM ostler, who rec 'gnizos him with a touch of (ilii forelock ; " b-ing my hor.'-c round, will you, tad be quick about it ! " As the ostler disappears to obey his orders, the young man loans lazily against the stable wall, and the traces of some secret care or annoyance are very visible upon his countenance, lie ought to possess neither; for he is young, good- looking, affluent, and of high birth, being the I second son of the Earl of Norham: but what I charm is there to make even earls' sons invulner- ' able against the effects of the woes which they create for themselves ? A few months back Eric Koir almost believed that the world was made for him and men in the same position as himself; to-day, he would give the world, were it his own, bo able to retrace his steps and undo that hich is irremediable. And yet he has not com- ileted his two-and-twenticth year I As the ostler brings his horse — a fine bay nimal of some value — up to his side, Eric Kcir tarts as though he had been dreaming, and, seiz- g the reins abruptly, is about to spring into the ddle. His foot, however, has but reached the Itirrup, when he is accosted from the other side. " Why, Keir, old fellow I what an age it is incc we met! Where have you been hiding ourself? I seem to have seen scarcely uny / Jhing of you during the whole term." And the and of Saville Moxon, a fellow-student, though V|\ot at the Oitme college, is thrust forward eagerly take his own. At which Eric Kcir doscpiids to earth again, witli an ap|)carance of being loss pleased than embarrassed at this encounter with his friend, who is, moreover, intimately acqtiaintcd with nil the members of his family. " If you have not seen mo, Moxon, it is your own fault," he replies, moodily ; " for you know where to find me when I am at home." " Ah ! exactly so, my dear fellow — when you t, Moxon; on the contrary, I think I ha\<' ln'i-n kicpiii)^' better hours thin term than usual. One conns so Hoof. to the I'onvktlon that all that kind of thing is not only degrading, but w rong. Yul one may have troubles, nevcrlhcless. How are all your pcoi)le at home ? " " Very well indeed, thank you ; and that brings me to the subject of my business with you. It i.s odd that I should have met you this after- noon, considering how much separati'd we have been of late ; for, if I had not done go, I slioidd have been obliged to write." " What about V " "I had a letter from your brother Muiraven this morning." "Ah! — more than I had; it's seldom either of them honors me." "I'erhaps they despair of finding you — as I almost began to do. Any way, Lord Muiraven's letter concerns you ns much as myself. He wants lis to join him in a walking-tour.'' " When ? " "During the vacation, of course." " Where to V " " Brittany, I believe." "I can't go." " Why not ? it will be a jolly chance for you. And my brother Alick is most anxious to be of the party. Fancy what fun we four should have ! — it would seem like the old schooldays coming over again." " When we were always together, and always in scrapes," Keir interrupts, eagerly. " I s/iould like to go." " What is there to prevent you? " His face falls immediately. " Oh, I don't know — nothing in particular — only, I don't fancy it will be such fun as yoti imagine ; these tours turn out such awful fail- ures sometimes ; besides — " ' " Besides— what ? " " It will be a great expense ; and I'm rather out of pocket this term." " That is no obstacle, for you are to go as Muiraven's guest. He says especially — let me see, where is the letter? " — producing it from his pocket as he speaks. "Ah! here it is: 'Tell Eric he is to be my guest, and so are you ' — though, for the matter of that," continues Moxon, as he refolds the letter and puts it in the enve- lope, " my accepting his offer, and your accepting it, arc two very different things." " I can't go, nevertheless ; and you may write and tell him so." I EIIIC KKIU \Sl) Ills FUIENU. •iiig fui^t, Moxon ; If l)('in ktepiiii^ ■ ii.il. (l:j(' coiui's ull that kind of wrori;;. Yd one IS. lltiw lilt nil you ; mill that iu>iiit's^ HJlh you. t you tliiH after- jj)iirati'd wo have iloiii.' no, I siiould >rotlicr Mulrnvcn I'.s si'liloiu titht'i' niliii}; you — as I Lord Muiravon's as niyseir. Ilo g-touv.'' irse." f chance for you. iixious to bo of bur should have ! ooldays coming thcr, and always gerly. " I ghould 3U?" in particular — luch fun as you such awful fail- ; and I'm rather )u are to go as pecially — let me ucing it from his lere it is: 'Tell so are you' — ontinues Moxor, 9 it in the enve- d your accepting id you may write "Vo'i hid lii'dor write yoiM'.-cIf, Ki'ir ; yc lij.iy hi! alili' t'> give your brntluT llic na-ou, whkh you rofuMO to mo." AftiT llii-i, they pai'O up ami down fir a few niinutos in silonoe ; iiuiiiil-.'S wiiioli ii|)|Mur lung to Kric Ki-ir, for he pulls out his watili iiumii- whilo ti) H-c'crliiiu the hoii!'. " Kill- ! an- ymi in diht ? " nays Moxon. " Not II penny — or, at all evont.s, nut a penny that I sli.ill 1)0 iinaMi! to pay up on deiniind. Has any n— I hope there is no truth in the rumor that has reaehed nie, that you find more charms in a certain lilile village, not twenty niilos from Ox- ford, than in any thing the old town eonfains!" Saville Mnxon is hardly prepareil f ipf feiniiiine ciekle wliiili houu' of the fellow- nf the college' have taken up ; and I »ay again, that they are a srt of cniilouiided meddteis; and. If I caleli any one of tluni prving into my emueii'..^, I won't leave him a whole bone in his body !" " You are ehiMi-h I " exclainis Moxoii. " .V- I repeated the re|ii)rf, Keir, I sujipose I urn one ol the ' confounded meddlers ' you allude to, and it may not be safe for mo to remain longer in your eonipany. .Vnd so, go(nl-ilay to you, and u bet- ter siiirit when we meet ag.iin." And, turning abruptly fiiim him, he commences to walk in the direction of the town. Hut slowly, and somewhat sadly ; for he has known Eric Keii fruin lioyhood, and, imiieiioiis as he is with strangers, it is not often he exhih.ts the worst side of his character to his friends. For a moment — while jiride and ju>tiee arc struggling for the mastery within him — Eric looks at the retreating figure, and then, wiili sudden impulse, he strides hastily after Moxoii, and ten- ders him his hand. " Forgive m,', Saville! I was wrung — I li.ird- ly knew what I was saying.'' " I was sure you would confess it, sooner or later, Erie ; your faults are all upon the surface." And then they shake hands heartily, and feel themselves again. " But about this Fretterley bu-^incss," says Erie, after a slight hesitation — "stop the gossip as much as lies in your [lower, there's a good fel- low! For I svear to you I have no more inten- tion of making love to thi- vii'ar's daiiglitcrs, than I have to the vicar himself." "I never supposed you h.id. But when young and fashionable men persist in freipienting one locality, the lookers-ou will draw their inferences. We are not all carls' sous, remember, Eric ; and you dwell in the light of an unenviable notoriety.'' "Unenviable indeed, if even one's footsteps are to be dogged ! And fancy what my father would say, if such a rumor reached his oars !" " lie would think nothing of it, Keir. lie knows that you love him too well to dream of making a nustlliamc." "Who t.ilks of a minallianci- i " interposes the other, hurriedly. " Myself alone. The vicar's daughters, though exceedingly handsome, and, no doubt, very ami- able girls, arc not in the position of life from which Lord Xorliam expects you to chose a wife, lie thinks a great deal of you, Eric." " More'a the pity ; he had much better build his hopes on Muiraven or Cjcil." a " NO INTKNTIONS." ? ■ i "<»lil ('(•.■il will invcf iimiry. Voimi,' ns lie l-i, lio 1b inurkfd out for a butliilor. And as fur Muiiavi'ii, lie will, ill all inolmMlity, Iiiivi- to t>uc- liliii.' Ii'h inlvutu iii.sliin.'l.s to iPiiMii; iiiti'i-c.xtM. Jk'nlik'.s" — in a loworoJ volcu — "you nhoiild iiivir foii^it timt, well! any thin;; to liiipiicn to Miilravcii, till' Ikijus of tlic family wduUI I(L' Hot upon you." "Don't talk siii.'li noiirfi'ii.-i>, Moxim, Jliiir- avon'M lik' is worth tun ot tiiinc, thank (ioJ ! and ("ceil and I mean to iiff.Jcrvo our lihi'ily intact, and k'uvo inarriatjc for the youiij; and the fray; yoiiiHclf, jiiir cini}]ili'," " Call a poor devil who has nc-tliiii;; but his own Inains to look to for a subsistence, youiif^ :ind t'ay ? JFy dear boy, you'll be a <;randratlier before I have succeeded in induiiiij; any woman to accept my nana; and nothin;,' a year." " Ugh ! " — with a shudder — " what an aw I'ul luospeet! I'd as soon han;; myself." " \Vcll it needn't worry you just yet," says Moxon, with a hingh. " Hut I must not keep you liny lunj;er from your ride. Shall you be in your rooms to-morrow evening, Keir ? " " Prol>ably — that Is, I will make o point of 1)eing there, if you will come and take supper with me. ^\nd brinj^over Summers and Charlton with you. And look here, Moxon — step this con- founded rumor about me, at all ha/.ard;f, for Ifcav- eu's sake ! " " If there is no truth in it, wliy should you object to its circulation ? " iiiijuires Jfoxon, ))lnntly, " There is no truth in it. I liardly know the man by sight, or his daughters ; but y-^u are aware of my father's peculiarities, and how the kast idea of such a thing would worry him."' " AVc should have Lord Xorham down here in no time, to find out the truth for himself. Fo it's lucky for you, old fellow" — ol)Scrving Keir's knitted brows — " that there's nothing for him to find out." "Yes — of course ; but I hate every thing in the shape of town-talk, true or otherwise." "There shall be no more, if I can jn-event it, Keir. Good-by!" " Good-by, till to-morrow evening ; and don't be later than ten." lie remains on the spot wliere SaviUc Moxon left him for a moment, and then turns, musingly, toward the court-yard of the inn again. " What on earth can have put Frettcrley into thoir lieads," he ponders, " when I h.ive been so scrupulously careful, that oven the ostler at the . village inn doesn't know me by my right name ? It's an awful nuisance, and will entail a move at the very tlino w hen I i iin Kaxt aflord it. My ucu- al luck ! " And, with a shrug of the tihouldir!<, Kiic Keir I'ei'iilers the ctablc-yard. The miin is still wailing then; with his li , and, when the gentletiian is mounted, he touehc* h\i cap and asks when he may be cxpt'cted to return. "Impossible to siiy," is the iiiisati.-fai lory ro« joinder ; and in unotiier miniito Keir lias driven his spurs into the animal's sides and i.-; giilloping, to make up for lost time, rdong tlie road which leads — to Frettcrley. As he rides liurriedly and carelessly along, hifl thoiiL'lits are eoiillietiiig and uneasy. His impul- sive and uiilhinking nature has led him into the commission of an act whieli is more than rash — which is unpariloiialile, and of which he alreiidy bitterly repeiit.s; and he sees the cd'eet of tidu youthful folly dosing about him and lu'dglng h'i.\ In, and the trouble it will probiiMy entiil, slrctch- iiig out over a long visla of coming years, to end perhaps oi\Iy with his life. He knows that his father (a most loving and afl'ectionatc father, of whom he has no fear be- yond that begotten by the dread of wounding his affection) cherishes high hopes for him and ex- pects great things — greater things than Kric thiiika he has the power of performing. For Lord Muir- aven, though a young man of sterling merit — " the dearest fellow in the world," as his brothers will inform you — is not clever : he knows it himself, and all his friends know it, and that Eric has the advantage over him, not only in personal appear- ance, but in brains. And, though it would be too much to aflirm that Lord Xorham has ever wished his sons could change jdaces, there is no doubt that, while ho looks on Jluiravcn as the one who shall carry on his titles to a future ganer- ation, his pride is fixed on Erie ; and the ease with which the young fellow has disposed of his uni- versity examinations, and the passport into society his agreeable manners have gained .""or him, are topics of unfailing interest to the earl. And it is this knowledge, added to the remem- brance of a motherless childhood sheltered by paternal care from every sorrow, that makes his own conduct smite so bitterly on the heart of Eric Keir. How could he have done it ? Oh ! what a fool — what an ungrateful, unpardonable fool ho has made of himself I And there is no way out of the evil : he has destroyed that which ■will not bear patching — his Bclf-respcct ! As the conviction presses home to him, tears, wliich do him no dishonor, rise to his eyes, yet arc forced back again, as though to weep had been a sin. m^ MVRA'S SUSncIONS. It. My ii«u. no uliduMt ri", Tho rimn in nil, wlicu tlio Ih.s ('iii> iin. " Is old Jl.irgarit at home, Myra ':' " " I believe s..." " Tell her to tuing me some claret. 1 seem to have swallowed all the dust between this and Oxford." She does his biilding, bringing the wine with her ownh mds, and, when she has served him, she sits down by tho window. " Come here, child," ho says presently, in a patronizing, yet authoritative voice that accords strangely with his l)oyi3h exterior. " What's tli« nuitter with you to-day ? why won't you speak to me » " " llreause you don't care to hear me speak," she answers in a low touc, full of emotion, as she kneels beside his chair. Hho has large, lustrous, dark eyes, and soft brown hair that flows and curls about her ueek, and a pair of passionate red lips that aro on a dangerous level with his own. What man could resist them 1 liut Erie Keir's mustached mouth bonds down to press her up- turned forehead only. It is evident that she ' s lost her power to charu. him. Yet his i . ia uut only patient but kind. " What has put that nonsense into } . i head ? Don't make more worries than you nnd, Myra; we have enough already, Ileaven knows ! " "Ihit why haven't you boon to .see me for so many days, then ? You don't know how long the time seems without you! Are you getting tired of mo, Eric ?" " Tired!" — with a smile that is sadder than a sigh. " It is early davs for you and me to talk of getting tired of each other, Myra, Haven't wo made all kinds of vows to pass our lives togeth- er s" " Then why have you been such a time away ? " " I have had business to detain me ; it was impossible to come before." " What sort of business ? " " Engagements — at college and among my friends." " Friends whom you love more than me ! " she retorts quickly, her jealous disposition imme- diately on the qui vive, " It is not fair for you to say so, Myra. I can give you no greater proof of my attachment than I have already given." " Ah ! but I want more, Eric. I want to be 8 'NO INTENTIOrS." Vi u'i r with you always : to leave you neither day nor night : to have the right to share in your pleas- ures and your pains." Ho frowns visibly. "More pains than pleasures, as you would find, Myra. But it is impossible ; I have told you so already ; tho circumstanees of the case forbid it." " How can I teH, when you arc rbscnt, if you arc always thinking of me? — if some other woman does not take my place in your heart ? " " You must trust me, Myra, I am a gentle- man, and I tell you that it is not the case— and it never will be." " Ah ! but you cannot tell — you cannot tell ! " And here she falls to weeping, and buries her face upon the arm of his chair. " My poor girl ! " says Keir, compassionate- ly. He does not love her — that is to say, he docs not love as he thought ho did three month. s ago, when ho believed that he was doing a generous a'id chivalrous thing in raising her from her low estate to the position she now occupies, and swearing unalterable fidelity at her feet — but he feels tho deepest pity, both for her and for him- self — and he would wipe out the past with his blood, if it were possible. " My poor girl — my poor Myra ! " stroking the luxuriant, hair which is flung across his knee — " wo have much to forgive each other ! Did ever mu'.i and woman drag each other more irrepa- rably down than we have done ? " " You have ceased to love me — I know you have ! " she continues, through her tears. " Why should you torture me with such an accusation," he says, impatiently, as he shaken himself free of the clinging arms, and, rising, walks to tho window, " when I have already as- sured you that it is not true ? \VTiat have I done to make you imagine I am changed ? " " You do not come to see me — you do not caress me — you do not even look at me as you used to do." " Good Heavens ! for how long do you expect me to go on • looking ' — whatever th^t operation may consist of?" " Eric ! you cannot deceive me : you know you are sorry that we ever met." Sorry — ay, Cod knows that he is sorry ; but he will not tell her so. Yet neither will he fly to h<)t cmbra ce, as three months back he would have done, to assure her that she dons his love a cruel wrong by the suspicion. He only stands quietly by the open window, and, taking a cigar from his case, lights it and commences smoking; while she contmues to sob, in an angry, injured manner by tho arm-chair where he left her. " Myra ! I have but a short time to stay hero to-day ; why shouldn't we pass it pleasantly to- gether ? Upon my word, it' you go on like this every time wo meet, you will make the place too hot to hold me. Come — dry your eyes, like a good girl, and tell me what you have been doing since I saw you last." She dashes away her tears, and rises from her kneeling posture ; but there is still a tone of sul- Icnncss or pride in'the voice with which she an- swers him. " What should I have been doing, but waiting for your arrival ? I should have gone to Oxford, most probably, and tried to find your rooms, if you had not appeared this evening." " You had better not attempt that," he says, decisively. " But you neglect me, Eric : even old Margaret remarks it ; and the vicar said — " " The vicar ! " — stt rting. " When did you see the vicar ? " " The day before yesterday, when he called here." "Who let him in?" " / did ! "—rather defiantly. " Old Margaret was out." "And what communication passed between you ? " " He asked if my name was Mrs. Hamilton ? — and I said ' Yes.' " " What on earth made you say so ? " "Well — haven't you always called me Mrs. Hamilton 7 Isn't it the Lame I go by in the vil- lage ? " " Not through my means, Myra. I have- never mentioned you to anybody, in Fretterlcy or out of it. And pray, what had the vicar to say to • Mrs. Hamilton ? ' " " He asked if you were Mr. Hamilton ; he ht».i seen you riding through the village, and — " " Don't tell me that you connected our names together before him!" interrupts Keir, with a look of anger. " Well !— what was I to say ? " " niiat were yo» to tay t You knew well enough what to say to get yourself or me out of a scrape, a few months back. But I see through your design, Myra — you want to force me to do that agains* which you know I am determined." "I cannot bear this continual separation," she replies ; " it is killing me. I cannot live without you." .1 '1 "■^-\. LOVE AND PRIDE. moking; while injured manner to to stay hero t pleasantly to- p on like this ; the place too ir eyes, like a ivo been doing i rises from her 11 a tone of sul- which sho an- ing, but waiting gone to Oxford, your rooms, if that," he says, rcn old Margaret When did you when ho called "Old Margaret passed between Mrs. Hamilton? lyso?" called me Mrs, go by in the vil- Myra. I have dy, in Fretterlcy ad the vicar to lamilton ; he hun ige, and — " lected our names pts Kelp, with a You knew well self or me out of lutlsee through force me to do determined." lual separation," I cannot live " Listen to me, Myra," he says, approaching closer to entorco his argument. " Vou say you cannot b^ar this separation; but if you attempt to elude it by any dcvit-cs of your own, you shall never sec me again. You cannot say that I have deceived you ; you threw in your lot with mine jf your free consent ; more than that — you urged mc to the step which has brought, God knows, its retribution with it. But if you make our po- sition public, you will do mc an irremediable wrong, and injury your own cause. .So I warn you ! " " Of what ? " " That 3uspicion has already fiiUcn upnn nic for being foolish enough to visit you so openly : 80 much so, that I had decided, before coniin>; here to-day, to move you as soon as possible from Fretterley ; and, if the rumor is not stopped by that means, I shall go away till it is for- gotten." " Where ? " sho inquires, breathlessly. " In the countrj', or abroad ; anywhere to balk the gossips." " And without me, Erie ? " " Without you ? Of course. What good would it do if I took you with me ? Why, if the least hint of such a thing were to reach my father's ears, ho would ask me all about it, and I should tell him the truth. I have never told him any thing but the truth," adds the young fellow, simply; "and I believe it would kill him." " And you would give me up for your father ? " she says, quickly. " A thousand times over ! My father is every thing in the world to me ; and I can't think how I ever could have permitted myself to do that which would so much grieve him." A dark flush overspreads her handsome feat- ures as she hears the unpalatable truth, and her full breast heaves and her lips tremble with the deep pain it causes her. She is passing through the greatest agony a woman is capable of feeling . coming gradually, but surely, to the conviction that her reign is over, her empire overthrown — that she has lost her place in her lover's heart. And she loves him so passionately ; she has always cared for him far more than he has done lor her, and his increasing coldness drives her mad. " You said that I was every thing in the world to you, three months ago," she answers, with set teeth. " I know I did ; and at tb" time I believed it io bo true. But I have told you, Myra, what a proud, high family mine is, and how sokloin their cscutcluon has been tarnished with dishonor. And — forfrive me for saying so — I know it is my own fault, but I cannot help being conscious of tlie fact that I have tarnished it now. And my poor father thinks so much — too mudi of me ; I feel as though I should never be able to look him in the face again." And with that, Eric Keir buries his own face in his hands. Slio taps the floor impatiently with her foot. " You arc ashamed of me, Eric." " I am bitterly ashamed of mysdf, and of all that lia> passed bet'"ocn us." " It would have been better if \vc iiad never met." "Far bettor — both for you and for myself. Who could think otherwise ? " " It would be better, perhaps, if I were dead." " It would be better if we were both dead," ho exclaims, bitterly ; " or had died before we saw each other. Myra — Myra ! why will you wring such cruel truths from my mouth ? you have been the death of all good things in mc." lie lifts his face to hers, and she is shocked to see the pain portrayed there. She is an illiter- ate, low-born woman, with nothing to recommend her beyond her beauty and her fierce love for him, which, yet, is like t'lc love of an unreasoning animal, overpowering when encouraged, and apt to turn the first time it is thwarted. But she has one indomitable passion — pride, and it is stirring and working in her now. " Would you be 1 appy if you could undo the past?" she says in a low voice; "if there had been no such person as me in the world, and you had never fancied that you loved me ? " " Happy I " he answers, with a sad laugh. " I should be happy if I could wipe out the re- membrance with my blood ; if I could go about the world with a free conscience at the expense of every thing that I possess. But come, Myra, let us talk no more of impossibilities. The past is past, my child, and nothing you or I can say will ever undo it. Let us think of the present. It is necessary you should leave Fretterley — where would you like to go ? " " I don't care. You may choose for mc." " Very well, then ; I will think the matter over, and let you know. I sha'n't bo able to come here to-morrow, as I have an engagement in the town ; but the day after you may depend on see- ing me. Do you want any money ? " taking out his purse. But she shrinks from the note he offers he.* as though it bad been a serpent- 10 "NO INTENTIONS." "No — no! lam not in want of it ; I have plenty to serve nay need." "All the better for me," lie Sfiya, laughing. He htti recovered hia spiiita again ; clouds arc not long in passing yi'nh the young. " Well — good-by," Lo continues, as ho takes the gill in his arms and kisses her, in a fraternal manner, on tlie cheek. " It's a shame of me to have made those pretty eyes so red I Don't think twice of what I have said, Myra ; you urged nic on to it with your cross-questioning, and you know I lament this business for both our sakes ; but the dark mood will be gone to-morro\v. It's nothing unusual after three months of honey- moon, my dear." She clings to him frantically close, but she says nothing. " Why, won't you say good-by ? Then I must go without it, for I have no more time to lose." He is moving toward the door, when she flies after him, and almost stifles him iu her embrace. " Oh, good-by, my love ! — my darling ! — my own, own. dearest love ! " She showers kisses, almost roughly, on his mouth, his eyes, his brow — kisses which lie ac- cepts rather philosophically than otherwise, and from which he frees himself with a sigh of relief. Alas I for the love of one-and-twcnty, when it begins to temper its enthusiasm with philosophy ! As, with a cheerful nod, he turns out of the wicket-gate, the woman stands gazing after him 08 though she had been turned to stone ; and, when hu has finally disappeared, she gropes her way back to the sitting-room, and casts herself headlong on the floor. " Gone — gone ! " she moans ; " all gone, and my life gone with it ! Oh, I wish that I was dead — I wish that I was hurried — I wish that I could neither feel nor think — I am nothing to him now — " She lies there for, perhaps, an hour, sobbing and moaning to herself; and is only roused by the entrance of the old woman she calls Margaret, with the preparations for her tea, and whose grunt at perceiving her attitude is half of com- passion and half of contempt. " Lord ha' mussy ! " she exclaims, " and what- ever are you a lying on the boards for ? " This woman, who is c'othed and kept like one of gentle birth, and by v lom she is fed and paid her wages, is yet not : Iressed by llargaret in terms befitting a servani to use toward her mis- tress. The poor are ever keenest at detecting a would be lady from a real one. The familiar tone afifi-onts Myra ; she reads in it, not sympathy, but rebellion against her new- born dignity, and she rises and sweeps out of the room, without deigning to notice the presencf of her factotum. But the bedroom is solitary and full of sad remembruicc, and in a few miimtes she emerges from it, dressed for walking, and saunters in the garden. It is a queer little nest that Eric Eeir has chuo^u for her ; being originally intended for the game-koeper'a cottage on an estate which has long since been parted with, acre by acre, and its ■very name sunk in the obscurity of three or four small farms ; so that the cottage stands alone in the niidst of wheat and barley fields ; and it is through rue of these, where the grain, young, and green, and tender, and not higher than a two years' child, springs up on each side of her, that Myra, still burning as under the sense of a deep outrage, takes her way. A resolution has been growing up in her heart during the last hour which, betwixt its pride and stubbornness, it will not easi- ly relinquish—the resolutiofa to part with Eric Kcir. It wrenches her very soul even to think of such a thing, and as she resolves impossible ways and means for its accomplishment, her breath is hardly drawn ; but she has a will of iron, and he has wounded her in her most vulnerable part. As she paces slowly up and down the narrow field-path, the jealous, angry tears scarce dried upon her checks, she hears a rustle in the com behind her, and the next moment some one touches her upon the shoulder. Myra is not chicken-hearted, but she is quick to resent an insult. "Uow dare you?" she commences, angrily; but, as she turns and faces the intruder, her tone is changed to one of consternation. " Lord above 1 " she continues, faintly. " How did you ever find me, Joel ? " She is so taken by surprise that she has turned quite pale, and the hand she olTors him is fluttering like a bird. "Find you 1 " exclaims the new-comer (who, it may be as well at once to state, stands in the relationship of cousin to her), " I would have found you, Myra, if you had been at the farthest end of the whole world." " Aunt's not here, is she ? " inquires Myra, with the quick fear that a woman in her equivo-' cal position has of encountering the reproaches of one of her own sex ; " you're sure you're alone, Joel ? " " I'm all alone, Myra. Mother has enough to v<^«lic I t fc-s i ; she reads in ;ain9t her ncw- ceps out of tlie lie presence: ol" ind full of Eud ;c9 sbe cnicrgoa saunters in the Eric Keir Las atended for the ;ato which has by acre, and its of three or four stands alone in elds ; and it is rain, young, and ler than a two side of her, that sense of a deep lution has been last hour which, 3, it will not easi- ■t with Eric Keir. rcn to think of impossible ways it, her breath is [ of iron, and he vulnerable part. )wn the narrow irs scarce dried itle in the com incnt some one but she is quick nonces, angrily ; trader, her tone D. faintly. "How that she has she offers him is xw-comcr (who, c, stands in the " I would have at the farthest inquires Myra, n in her cquivo-' the reproaches ire you're alone. JOEL CRAY. 11 r has enough to do to get her living, without coming all tlie way iruMi Leict'.stcr.-iliiie to look after yau. But I I toulJu't rest till I'd seen you : I couldn't believe H what I've heard, except from your owsi lips. You've most broke my heart, Myra." lie is an uncouth, countrified -looking fellow, [without any beauty, except sucli as Ia conveyed ■ by Lis love and his sorrow ; but as he stands there, shcepislily enough, looking down upon the hand he still holds between his own, he coni- nianils all the respect due to the man who has done nothing for which he need blusli. His earnestness seems to touch the girl, for Bhe is silent and hangs down her liead. " When we heard that you had left the situa- tion in tlie hotel where father placed you, and without a word of warning, we cuukln't credit it. But some words as the master wrote to mother, made us tiiink as all wasn't right Avith you; and when weeks aud months wont by, and we didn't hear nothing, I began to four it was true. So 1 fruvoled up from homo, little by little, doing a job ^orc, aud a job there, till I got to Oxford, and could speak with the master myself; and, though te couldn't satisfy me as to your whereabouts, I fcuine to it by cnnstaut inquiry, and reached Fret- t>'iloy last night. And now, Myra, come home Willi me. I don't want to make no words about it : I don't want to hear nothing of what you've been doing — 't'.vould only cut mo up — but .say JfOu'U come back to the old place in Leicester- Aire, and then I sha'n't think my journey's been took in vain." lie looks her in the eyes as he concludes, and ^e, unable to stand his scrutiny, drops her head j>on his rough velveteen .shoulder, and begins to rv. " Joel ! i' I could only tell you." '• Tell me, my poor lass ! where's the use of Bur telling me ; can't I read the signs you carry l)out you ? What's the meaning of a purple silk Dwn with lace fripperies upon your back, and a air of gold drops in your ears, if it don't mean lame ? " " No ! no ! not that ! " she cries, recoiling om him. " I shall think less of you, Myra, if you call it % any other name. But the old home's open to rou, my dear, all the same — open to receive and aolter you, whenever you choose to come back it ; though you can't never bring the joy to it IV, that I once thought you would." The old home ! how little she has thought of of late ! yet she can see it in her mind's eye, she stands pondering his words. It is not a particularly hippy home to her : the homes of the poor seldom are. She had known hunger, and thirst, and cold, and occasionally the sound of har-ih words within its liniitii. yet the memory of the dull life she led there seems very peace- ful now, compared to the excited and stormy scouos through which she has passed since Icav. ing it. The old home I It was not a jiaradise, but it was more like home to the low-i>orn girl, than daily association with a companion who is as far above he:.' in birth as in intellect, and has grown but too conscious of the gulf that lies between then). Joel Cray takes her lit of musing for hesita- tion, and recommences his persuasion. " I dare say he, whoever he may be — for I know there's a man at the bottom of all this, Myra (curse him I)," he adds pur parenthisc — " I dare say he does all that he can to persuade you that he loves you better th.in himself, and will be constant to you till death, but — " '' He does not," she interrupts eagerly, in de- fense of the absent. "What!" replies Joel, lost in astonishment, " he's sick of you already ! lie steals you away from an honest family and an honest employment to make a — '' " Stop ! " cries Myra, in a voice of authority. " What am I to stop for ? " " You shall not call me by that name : it is a lie." "I wish to God you could prove it, Myra, what are you, then — his icife? " " Of whom are you t.ilking ? " witli passionate confusion. " IIow do you know that there is any one ? What right have you to come and bully me in this manner ? " " Myra ! we were brought up together from little children ; my mother was like your mother, and my home was your home; and long before you saw this chap, you knew that I loved you and looked to wed you when the proper tii. e came — that's my right ! And now, as wo stand in God's sight together, tell me the truth. Are you mar- ried to the man, or arc you not 5 " At this point-blank question, she trembles, and grows red and white by turns, shrinking from the stern glance he fixes on her. "Joel! don't look at me after that fashion, for I can't bear it ! Joel ! you used to love me. Take me back to aunt, and the old place, and the children, for there's no one wants me here." " My poor lass ! is it really as bad as that — only three months, and tired of you already f ^. 12 "NO INTENTIONS." V I 1 ., i1 Well, veil ! vou''l bettor liavc taken me, perhaps, after all — you've made a sorry bargain, Myra." " Joel t I love him — I love him bcyon 1 every thing in tlie world. He is so clever, and 80 handsome, and so good to me. liut I ain't fit for sueli as he is : I feel it at every turn. I can't talk, nor behave, nor look as he would wish mo to do, and " — in a lower voice — " he is ashamed of me, Joel." Poor Joel has been silently writhing under the mention of his rival's attributes, but the last clause is too much for him. " Ashamed of you ! the d — d villain ! he ain't worthy to touch you. Oh, how I wish I had my fingers this moment at his wizen ! " " Hush, Joel I don't say such awful things, but — but — " with a choking sob, " I'm nothing but a worry to him now ; he wishes we had nev- er met : he wishes I ^.as dead, and he was rid of ne." " Will you come home with me, or will you not 1 " shouts Joel, whose patience is thoroughly exhausted. " If you stand there, Myra, a-telling me any more of his insults, I swear I'll hunt him down like a dog, and set fire to every stick and stone that he possesses. Ah I you think, perhaps, that I don't know his name, and so he's safe from me ; but its ^Amilton — there's for you — and if you disappoint me, I'll soon be upon his track." " Joel ! don't be hard on mo : you can't tell how I feel the parting with him.'' She turns her streaming eyes upon the cot- tage, while he, unable to bear the sight of her distress, paces up and down uneasil}'. "Then you mean to come back with me. Myra?" " Yes — yes — to-morrow." " To-morrow you'll have changed your mind." " What will there be to change it ? " she an- swers, passionately. " IIow can any thing undo his words ? Ho says I have been the death of all good things in him ; that if it was possible he would wipe out even the memory of me with his blood ; with his blood, Joel, think of that ! " "Well, them's insults, whatever they may mean, that you've no right to look over, Myra ; and if you won't settle 'em, I shall." " You would not harm him, Joel ! " fearfully. "I'd break every bone in his body, if I'd the chance to, and grateful for it. But if you'll prom- ise to give him up without any more to-do, and come back home with me, I'll K ive him to Provi- dence. He'll catch it in the next world, if not in this." " I have promised — I will do it — only give me one more night in the place where I have been oo happy." lie is not very willing to grant her this indul- gcnce, but she exacts it from him, so that he is obliged to let her have her way, and pas-^cs the next twelve hours in a state of uninterrupted fear, les-t he should appear to interpose his authority, or, after a night's reflection, she should play hitn false, and decide to remain wliere she is. But Joel Cray need not have been afraid. Myra spends the time indeed no less perplex- edly than he docs ; but those who knew her in- nate pride and self-will would have had no diiri- culty in guessing that it would come off conquer- or at last. " He would give me up a thousand times over for his/aZ/jcr," she keeps on repeating, when she finds her strength is on the point to fail; "he said so, and he means it, and sooner or later it would be my fate. And I will not stay to be given up : I will go before he lias the chance to desert me. I will not be to'l again tliat I tar- nish his honor, and that we had better both be dead than I live to disgrace him. " I cannot bear it. I love him too much to be able to boar it. Perhaps, when he hears that I am gone, and comes to miss me (I am sure that he will miss me), he may be sorry for the cruel things he said, and travel England over till lie finds me, and asks me to come back to him again." The soft gleam which her dark eyes assume as the thought strikes her, is soon chased away by the old sore memory. " But he will never come : he only longs to be quit of me that he may walk with a free con- science tjirough the world, and I am the stum- bling-block in bis way. Oh ! he shall never say so again : he shall ^now what it is to be free : he shall never have the opportunity to say such bit- ter truths to me again.' And so, with the morning light, the impetu- ous, unreasoning crea'nre, without leaving sijin or trace behind her to mark which way she goes, resigns herself into the hands of Joel Cray, anJ flies from Fretterley. When, according to promise, Eric Keir pays another visit to the game-keeper's cottage, llur ■ is only old Margaret to open the door and stare at him as though she had been bewitched. "Where is your mistress? "he says, curtly: I the expression of old women's faces not possess- ing much interest for him. " Lor, sir ! she's gone." OLD MARGARET'S REPORT. 13 re I have licen do lilt her this indul- liin, BO that he id id pas.'^cs the next srruptcd fear, l(•^t his authority, or, iild play him false, is. I been afraid. I no less perplex- rlio knew her in- avc had no dilfi- comc off conqucr- Dusand times over leatinp, when fhu r>int to fuil;_ "he 1 sooner or later ill not stay to be as the chance to again that 1 tar- d better both be 1. him too much to hen he hears that le (I am sure that Drry for the cruel ;land over till he me back to him lark eyes assume loon chased away he only longs to with a free con- I am the stum- shall never say fo to be free: he ;y to say such bit- light, the impetii- hout leaving sijrn ich way she goes, )f Joel Cray, and c, Eric Kcir pay? cr's cottage, tlun;' le door and staic [ bewitched. >; " he says, curtly; t . faces not possess- ] " Gone ! where— into the village ? " " Oh, deary me 1 I knows nothing about it ; she I never spoke to me. IIow could I tell but what I bhe'd left by your orders ? " "What do you mean? Has Mrs. Ilainllton I left Fr-tterlcy ? " " Yes, sir — I suppose so. I haven't seen ; nothing of her since yesterday moruiiig." " Impossible ! — without leaving a note or any cxiilanation ? " " I don't know if you'll find a note among ■ ilior things, sir ! they're just as she left 'em ; I Jiaven't touched nothing; I knows my place bet- iter ; and I'd rather you'd find out the truth for yourself, though I has my suspizzions, of course, whiih we're all liable to, rich and poor alike. But I haven't worried neither, kno.fing there's no call to fear but what my wages will bo all right with an honorable gentleman like your- |felf." He makes no citbrt to restrain her cackle, but •asses through ♦'ae door she has thrown open in tilence, and enters the deserted sitting-room. He does not know if he is awake or asleep ; he feels fs if he were moving in a dream. Gone ! Left him ! without the intention of returning ! It is impossible ; she must mean to ■^oine back again ; she is playing a foolish trick, In hopes of frightcnuig him into compliance with that which she has so often asked, and he refused, tout neither in bed nor sitting-room can Eric Eeir mseover the least indication that Myra's absence ^ to be a temporary one ; nor a written line of ircatening or farewell. On the contrary, she us taken all the simplest articles of her attire ith her, and left behind, strewed on the floor in roud neglect, the richer things with which he kas provided her. AVeary and utterly at a loss i account for this freak on the part of one who kas appeared so entirely devoted to himself, Eric Jetums to the lower room, and summons old largarct to his side. I can find nothing co account for Mrs. lamilton's departure. What do you mean by jiaving your suspicions V " he inquires, in a deter- lined voice. " Well, sir — deary me 1 don't take offense at %hat I say ; but truth is truth, and your lady didn't leave this house alone, as my own eyes is jTitncss to." His face flushes, and as he puts the next ques- j tion he shades it with his hand. " Whom did she leave it with, then ? Speak I out, woman, and don't keep me waiting here for- ever I " " lor, sir ! don't take on so, there's a dear gentleman. I can't rightly tell you, sir, never having seen the young man before ; but he was hanging about here the evening you left, and talk- ing with your lady in the field, and he fetched away her box with his own 'ands, yesterday morning, as I watched 'ira from the kitchen- winder. A country-looking young man he was, but not ill-favored ; and, as they walked off to- gether, I see him kiss the mistress's cheek, that I did, if my tongue was to be cut out, for saying so, the very next minute." " There — there ! that will do ; go to your work, and hold your tongue, if such a thing is possible to you. You will remain on here, and, when I have decided what is to bo done with these things, I will let you know." And, so saying, J]ric Keir strides from the house again, mounts his horse, and retakes his way to Oxford. " A young man, country-looking but not ill- favored ; some one of the friends from whom ho has alienated her, perhaps. Certainly a person of her own class, and to whom she returns in preference to himself. " lIow could he have ever been such a fool as to suppose that a woman taken from her station in life, accustomed to, and probably flattered by, the attentions of clodhoppers and tradesmen, could appreciate the niceties of such a sacred thing as honor, or the affection of an elevated and intellectual mind ? " So he says, in his first frenzy of wrath and jealousy and shame, but so does he not entirely believe. The old woman's gossip has left a mis- erable doubt to rankle in his heart ; but has not accomplished the death of his trust in the girl who has left him, and whom, though he has ceased love, he f^.^ls bound to search after, and succor and protect. lie makes all the investigations that are possible without betraying his secret to the world; but private inquiries and carefully- worded newspaper advertisements prove alike futile, and from the day on which she fled from Frctterley the fate of Myra to Eric Keir is wrapped in dark uncertainty. CHAPTER II. This abrupt and mysterious termination to a love-dream which he had once believed to be the key-stone of his life has a groat effect upon the bodily and mental health of Eric Eeir. He becomes morose, absorbed, and melancholy ; re- ♦ .: 14 "NO INTENTIONS." linquiahcs the pursuits of which lie liaJ been most fond, and avoids the socifty of his friundn. His altered behavior excites nuich college-talk, and aJl hi8 former companions, save one, are full of conjecture as to the cause of it. That one is Savillo Mo.\on, who alone believes he knows the reason of the chanf^o, lie thinks that Eric Keir (notwithstanding his protestations to the con- trary) has really been smitten, or at least on the high-road to being smitten, by the charms of one or the other of the pretty datightcrs of the Vic- ar of Fretterley ; has given up the pursuit at the expostulation of his friend, and is suffering, l)y a very natural reaction, for his voluntary sac- rifice, Savillo Moxon knows as much about it as any of the others. After a month of silence and suspense, dur- ing which, strange to say, Eric Keir, in all his misery, finds a sense of relief at not being obliged to pay those secret visits to Fretterly, old Margaret ia dismissed, the cottage given up, and its contents scattered by the hammer, but the memory of the days he has spent there does not pass 60 easily from the young man's mind. Rather it takes root and poisons his existence, like an unextracted barb, so that he looks five years older in as many months, and loses all the effervescence and hilarity of youth. His brother and his friends persuade him, after all, to join their walking-tour in Brittany, and, when it is accomplished. Lord Muiravcn and the Moxons return to England by themselves, having left Eric on the Continent. " The boy has grown too fast and studied too hard," says Lord Norham, in answer to the in- quiries of anxious relatives ; " and a little re- laxation will do him all tlic good in the world. I expect great things of Eric — great things — but I cannot permit his health to be sacrificed to my ambition." In consequence oi which, the Hon- orable Eric Hamilton Keir is lost to his mother- country for two eventful years. Could he but have guessed how eventful ! At the expiration of that period we meet him again at a private ball in London. It if the height of the season ; the weather is warm, the room crowded, and every one not oc- cupied in dancing attempts to find a refuge on the landing, or the stairs. At the sides of the open door lean two young men, gazing into the ballroom, and passing their remarks on those they see there. " Who is the girl that Keir's dancing with ? " "Keir! Where is he?" " Coming down the left-hand side ; the girl in black and gold." " Why, Miss St. John, of course ! " " And wiiy of com-if ? Who niay Mi.-s St. John be ? " ' " My dear Ornio, if you're so lamentably i;.'- norant, pvay speak a little lower. Not to kno v Miss .St. John argues yourself '.'iiknown." " Indeed ! Well, slic's uncommonly han'!. some, I should have no objection to number her among my acquaintances." " I should think not ; she's the belle of the season, and only daughter of old St. John tin; banker, deceased." " Got any money ? " " Lots, I believe — anyway, her face is a for- tune in itself. It ought to command a coronet, as faces go nowadays." " And Keir, I suppose, is first in the field ': Well ! I am of a self-sacrificing disposition, anil wish him good luck." " He would not thank you for it : he is sub- limely indifferent to every thing of the sort." " It does not look like it : I have seen thcin dancing together several times this evening." "Ah ! that they always do ; and I believe ho is ". ""'.istanl visitor at the house. But if the St, John cherishes any fond hopes in consequence, 1 should advise her to relinquish them. Keir 'm not a marrying man." " It's early in the day to arrive at that con- clusion." " My dear felbw ! ho makes no secret of his opinions — nor of his flirtations, for the matter of that. If he has one affair on hand, he has a dozen, and, should Miss St. John discard him to- morrow morning, he would replace her in the afternoon." " You are not giving your friend a very en- viable character," remarks Mr. Orme, who is :i young man of a moral and sententious turn of mind, and takes every thing au grand sirkiix, " Can't possibly give him what he hasn't got, " replies the ether, laughing; "and he would bo the first to tell you so. Keir's an excellent fol- low with men, and a general favorite ; but he i- ccrtainly heartless where women are concerned. or callous. I hardly know which to call it. II'-' has been terribly spoiled, you see, both at hoii.' and abroad ; he will view life and its resposi-i bilities with clearer eyes ten years hence." There is a general crush round the door-wav, and the conversation of the young men has been overheard by many, but to one listener only has it proved of engrossing interest. *rhat one i= n^ftiK. .^'M:: • MRS. ST. JOnX AND HER DAUGHTER. IS ind side ; the girl Vlio uiav Mi- < St 80 lamentably i;:- vvr. Not to kno '. ■,'iikiiown." iiicoinmonly liari'!- tion to nuiubcr her e's the belle of tlio f old St. Jollll tin; , her face is a fur- oinmaad a coronet, 1 first in the field '/ ing disposition, ami m for it : ho is sub- ng of the sort." : I have seen them IS this evcninjr." ,0 ; and I believe ho )usc. But if the St, ps in consequence, I lish them. Keir is arrive at that con- kc3 no secret of his ions, for the matter on hand, he has a bhn discard him to- replace her in the ur friend a very en- Mr. Orrce, who in s sententious turn of 2U grand serieux. what he hasn't got," " and he would be ir's an excellent fcl- favorite ; but he i; imen are concerned. hich to call it. H' u see, both at hem.. fe and its responri- years hence." round the door-wnv, young men has been me listener only lias rest. That one i= Irs. St John, the widowed mother of the girl so Ifrcely »pokcn of. Wedged in upon the landing, and forced to kutca to the discussion against her will, she has Irunk in with burning cheeks the truths so likely affect her daughter's happiness ; and, as soon its she finds it practicable, she creeps to a cor- ner of the ballroom whence she can watch the conduct of Irene and Mr. Keir, and feverishly de- termine what course of action she is boun;I, in er capacity of guardian, to pursue respecting hem. Meanwhile the galop has ended, and Eric Keir -leads his partner into an adjoining conservatory, Vrhieh has been kept dim and cool, and provided vith couches for the rest and refreshment of the dancers. There, while Irene St. John, flushed and ex- cited, throws herself upon a sofa, he leans against the back of a chair oppo.«ite and steadfastly re- gards her. " I am afrnid I have quite tired you. Miss St. John ; that last galup was a very long one." !► Eric Keir is greatly altered since the days • vhen he paid those secret visits to Fretterlcy. Travel and time, and something more powerful than either, have traced lines across bis forehead and made his face sharper than it should be at four-and-twenty. But ho is very handsome — handsome with the hereditary beauty of the fam. ^ lly ; the large, sleepy, violet eyes and dark hair, ; and well-cut, noblo features which the Norharas have possessed for centuries— of which the pres- ent Lord Norhara is so proud ; and the more so bccauso they seem, in this instance, to have skipped over the heir to bestow themselves upon tis younger brother. And this handsome hcid is not set, as is too flea the case, on an indificrcnt figure, but is car- ried upright and statel'ly, as such a noblo head ' ihould be. At least so thinks Irene St. John, if other. " I am not so tired of dancing, as of attempt- ig to dance," she says, in answer to his remark. How cool and refreshing this little nook seems, ier the crush and heat of the ballroom ! Rest id quiet ore worth all the glare and tumult of iciety, if one could believe it." " That is just what I was going to observe ; u have taken the sentence out of my mouth," ys Eric Keir. " The pleasure of a few words ixchanged with you alone, outweighs all the at- actions of an evening's dancing." " I did not expect to hear you say so," mur- lUrs Miss St. John, with downcast eyes. "Why not? Is the Hentimont too high to come from a worldling's lips ? " " It is most likely to proceed from the lips of those who have encountered something to distrust them with the world, I jiopcd thiit your life liad been all brightness, Mr. Keir." " It is too good of you even to have hoped. But why should I be exempt from that of which, I)y your own ar;;umont, you must hiive had expe- rience ? " "Ah! women arc more liiihlo to sulTering, or they feel it more acutely — don't you think so? My poor father ! it seems so short a time since ho was here. Did I follow my own inclinations, I should not be mixing with the world, even now ; and I often wish I had been firmer in standing out against the wishes of others." " Don't ,^ay that," is the low-voiced rejoinder; " had you refused to enter society, we might not have met ! and I was just beginning to be pre- sumptuous enough to hope that our friendship possessed some interest for you." "And so it does, Mr, Keir; pray don't thiuk otherwise," with a hot, bright blush ; " a few words of common-sense are the only things which make such a scene tolerable to me." " Or to myself," he answers, as he takes a seat beside her ; " the quickness with which we think and feel together. Miss St. John ; the sympathy, in fact, which appears to animate us, is a source of unceasing gratification to me." She does not answer him ; but the strains of the " Blue Danube " waltz come floating in from the adjacent ballroom, and mingle with his words. " I suppose the world considers me a happy man," he continues, presently. "I dare say that even my own people think the same, and will con- tinue to do so to the end — what then ? it makes no difierencc to me." How quickly a woman's sympathy catches light when it is appealed to on behalf of a man's suffering ! She seems to think it so much harder that the rougher sex ihould encounter trouble than her patient self! Irene's eyes are full of tender, silent questioning. " And you arc not, then, hajiny ? " they in- quire. " Can you ask the question ? " his reply. " You must have guessed my secret," his tongue says ; " you arc not an ordinary woman ; you look below the surface." " I confess that I have sometimes thought — '• "Of course you have," he interrupts her, eagerly. "I have had trouble enough, Qod knows, and it will end only with my life." i 16 "NO INTENTIONS. m "0 Mr. Krirl yoii arc too young to »:iy that." " I iim tuu ul'l to think utliurwiic," hu rcjuuis, moodily; "your trouble waa not of your own seeking, Miss St. John — mine is; that niukes nil the diirerenci'.'' " It nmitc.H it Iiarder to forgot, pcrlmi).-'," slio answcra, " but not iniitos.-ible. And you liave so much to nialiu lil'o plubsuut to you — so many frlendu— " "Friends ! wliat do I care for tlicni, cxcc'iiting ODo? Misd St. Jolml if you will not tliinlv mo too bold in saying so, it is oidy since I nut you that I have felt as if I really had a friend. The few mouths we hare known each other seem like years in retrospection, though tliey have flown like days in making your acquaintance." " Wo have seen so much of one another in the time," she murmurs, softly. "Yesl and learned more. Sometimes I can scarcely believe but that I have known you all my life. To feel you really were my friend would be to experience the greatest pleasure that this world still holds for me." " Why should you not feel so? " The sweet strains of the " Blue Danube " are being repeated again and again, but above the loudest of them she hears the fluttering of her own heai-t as slie puts the question. " May I ? " laying his hand upon the one which licij upon her lap : " is it possible that you can take suSScient interest m such an insignificant person aa myself as to promise to befriend him ? Do you know all that is implicated in that promise — the long account of follies and shortcomings you will have to listen to, the many occasions on which you will be asked for counsel or advice, the numerous times that you will feel utterly tired of or impa- tient with me ? " " I am not afraid of that, Mr. Keir." " Why do you call rae Mr. Keir ? Can we be real friends while we address each other so for- mally ? Surely you arc above all such prudery, or I am much mistaken in your character." " I am not a prude, or I think so ; yet the name by which I call you can make no ditferencc in my friendship." " But cannot you guess that I am longing to hare the right to speak to you familiarly ? Irene — it fits you perfectly. I never knew an Irene in my life before, yet I could not fancy you by any other name, for I learned to love its sound long before I had the hardihood to hope that its pos- sessor would admit me to her intimacy. I shall be very jealous of our friendship, Irene." " But why should you be jealous ? " she de- mands, in a low voice, ller Fpenking cyca are cast uiHin the gro\ind. He can only see the long, dark lashes that lie upon her cheeks, and the golden glory of her head, while the sweet, soft notes of tlie nmsic still steal in to fill up the broken pauses of the conversation. "Because it is a sacred bond between us which no third person must intrude upon ; and if it is a secret, so much the better ; it will be so sweet to feel that we have any thing in common. But if you admit another to your friendship, Irene — if I hear any man daring to call you by your Christian name, if I sec that you have other con- fidants whom you trust as much or more than myself, I — 1" — waxing fierce over the supposition — " I don't know what I should do ! " His violence amuses her. "You need not be afraid — indeed, you. need not ; no one of my acquaintance would presume to act in the manner you describe." " Then I am the first, Irene ? " " Quite the first." " So much the happier for me I But I wonder — I wonder — " "What?" " Whether you can bo content with such a friendship as I ofifer you ; whether it will be suffi- cient for your happiness." " How tziffcante you must consider me 1 " " Not so ; it is I that deserve the name. Yet if — if, when wc have grown necessary to each other— or, rather, when you have grown necessary to me — you should see some one whom you pre- fer — some one more attractive — moro desirable than myself, and desert mo in consequence, marry him, in fact, what shall I do ? " Slic is about indignantly to disclaim the possi. bility of such a thing, when she is interrupted by the entrance of her mother. "Irene! what are you thinking of ? Captain Clevedon has been looking for you the last half- hour. You know you were engaged to him for this waltz." The voice of Mrs. St. John, usually so sweet and low, especially when she is speaking to her daughter, has become too highly pitched in her anxiety, and sounds discordant. As she hears it, Irene, blushing all over, rises quickly fromhfer seat. "Have I been here long, mother? I have been talking, and did not think of it." " Then you should think of it," retorts Mrs. St. John ; "or Mr. Keir" — with a dart of indig- nation in his direction — " should think of it for you. It is not customary with you to oflend your partners, Irene." i MR. KEIR'S VISIT. 11 LftkliiR fycB arc Illy Kue tlic long, uht'L'kM, and the thu tiwci't, soft fillupthubiokcn ond between us idc upon ; and if 2r ; it will be so ling in common, fiicndtfbip, Irene ;all you by your u bavo otbcr con- ib or more than er tlie supposition do!" ■indeed, you -need !C would presume be." ?" lO I But I wonder stent witb sucb a lier it will be Bufli- Usidcr mc 1 " tbo name. Yet icccssary to each grown necessary wbom you pre- I — more desirable onscquenco, marry disclaim tbe possi- is interrupted by iing of? Captain you tbe last half- igaged to bim for usually 60 sweet speaking to bcr lily pitcbcd in her As she hears it, icklyfromhferseat, mother? I have of it." it," retorts Mrs. th a dart of indig- Id think of it for you to offend your f "Iij Captain Clcvcdon oUV'iidoJ ? I am so loiTV ! Take me to liiin, mollur, and I will make Ihe aincntU /lonorahlc." foi " I don't tliink you will liavc liie opportunity. ^ believe ho 1ms gone home, whew, indeed, it is kigh time wo went also. CoMie, Irene ! " •* I am ready, mother! Mr. Keir olferg you ht< arm. No! "—as Erie Keir extends the other tar her benellt — " tuko eare of mamma, and I w ill fbliow ; tliank you ! " J So they pass through tho ballroom and de- fcond the staircase, Mrs. St. Jolm in dignified si- lence, and tlie young people with some amount of ^epidalion. Yet, as ho puts Irene into the car- llago, Erie Keir summons up sullieient courage to •■y- " Shall I find you at homo to-morrow after- noon. Miss St. John ? " Slie is about to answer timidly that she is n^t sure, when she is again interrupted by her B|other. " Yes, we shall bo at home, and glad to sec |0u, Mr. Keir ; " at which uncspeeted rejoinder, J|r. Keir expresses his grateful thanks, and Irene, dasping Mrs. St. John's hand between both her 0trn, lies back upon the cushions, and indulges in a rose-colored dream of coming happiness. At an early hour on tho following afternoon, 9ric Kcir's horse stands at the door of Mrs. St. Jinn's houso in lirook Street. lie enters hur- ritdly, with a bright look of expectation on his OQlintenance, and, without ceremony, turns into a a^ng-room on the ground-floor. 4^' Tho servant who admitted hi'u had scarcely e to close the hall-door again, before tho vis- had vanished from his ^fiew, and left him nding there, with tho message that was evi- lly fluttering on his lips, still cndelivered. t it is Irene's sitting-room, and Eriis Keir is ti^t disappointed in his hope of finding her in it — ipd alone. " What will you say to me for so abnipt an ranee ? " he exclaims, as she rises to welcome " Does it come within tho privileges of a nd to introduce himself, or must I wait, like other man, uutil your flunky formally an- Iftunces mc ? Irene ! I have scarcely slept a llink all night." " What a lamentable confession ! " she an- ers, gayly. " If this is the effects of too much ncing, I must begin to assert my prerogative chief counselor, and order you to be more dis- eet in future." " Of too much danciTiff t " indignantly ; " you ^-4i know, witliout my telling you, if my rcstlessncsg was due to that. Irene! I feel bo happy! " " Antl la.st night you felt so miserable." A cloud passes over the brightness of his face. " I did. I felt wretched in looking back upon my past life: the remembrance of thu trouble it has caused me, and the follies to which it has been witness, unnerves mo. And my happiness to-day (if it can be culled such), my light-hearted- ncss, ratlier, proceeds only from tho knowledge that you promised to help me to forget it." She has reseated herself by this time, and be takes a chair beside her. " As far as it lies in my nower," she answers ; " but is it always necessary to foiyel in order to be happy " " In my case it is so : there is nothing left for me but forgetfulness — and your affection." " Was it a very great trouble, tlien ? " sho says, softly, " So great, that it has destroyed all tho pleas- ure of my youth, and threatens to do tho same by tho comfort of my age." " And a woman was the cause of it, I sup- pose." " Is not a woman at the bottom of all our troub- les ? Women are the ulterior causes of all pain and pleasure in this world — at least, for us. You have not lived nineteen years in it without dis- covering that, Irene ? " " No ! " " And so I look to a woman to cure mc of tho wound that a woman's hand inflicted ; to restore to me, as far as possible, through the treasure of her friendship and hef sympathy, tho happiness which, except for my own mad folly, I might have aspired to — " " If you please, sir, Mrs. St. John is in the library, and will be glad to speak to you as soon as you can make it convenient to see her." " Say I will come at once." On the entrance of the servant they have sprung apart as guiltily as though they had been lovers, instead of only friends, and, as be disap- pears again, they look at one another consciously and laugh, "What a mysterious message!" exclaims Irene; "is this leap-year? Can mamma have any designs on you ? " " In the shape of commissions — what ladies have not ? I am a perfect martyr to the cause. Whether owing to the respectability of my con- nections, or myself, I cannot say; but the num- ber of notes I am asked to deliver, and Berlin wools to match, is perfectly incredible. But is i !'! 18 "NO INTENTIONS." f:^ii k tlii.1 (Icfir iiildPvlcw rnded? flinll I not find yon here on my return ? " " Pfrlmps you itifiy ; but pcrlmpf«, aluo, my mother will l)o with you, So you liud hctter consider it lit nil end, Ifj^t you Hhould be didiip- pointed." " If it is nt an end, you must bid mo fare- well." "Farewell," f>ho echoes, sndlingly, an she ex- tends her hand. " Is tliat the best way you know how to do it?" ho demands, ns ho retains her hand be- tween his own. " What a thorough EnRlish- woman you are, Irene ; you would not relinquish one of the cold forms of society, even where youv feelings arc most interested. Custom first, and friendnhip afterward. Ah, you do not rc- s^ard our compact In the sacred light that I do ! " lie has drawn her closer to him as he speaks, and their faces are nearly on a level " Eric ! how little you know me ! " The liquid eyes upraised to his, the parted lips, the trembling hand — which he still holds — iippoal to him until he loses sight of self and the bitter consequences of indulgence, and remem- bers only that they arc man and woman, and they stand alone. "Darling!" he whispers, as he bends down and kisses her. By the crimson flush that mounts to her fore- head, and the abrupt manner in which she disen- gages herself from him and turns away, so that he cannot see her face, he fears that he has seri- ously offended her. "Forgive mo! I know that it was wrong, but I could not help it. Irene, say that you are not angry ! " " Oh, pray go to mamma ! she will think it so strange — she has been waiting for you all this time." " I cannot go until you have said that } ou forgive me." " I do forgive you then ; but — but — it must never be again" " Is that your heart speaking to mine, Irene ? Well, I will not press you for an anp^er now ; but grant me one favor— one token that you arc not really angry with me: be here when I re- turn." And with these words he leaves her. He finds Mrs. St. John restlessly pacing up and down the library, and appearing even more nervous than usual. She is a frail, timid-looking woman, the very opposite of her high-spirited daughter ; and, as nho turns at \\\% approach, her very lips art trembling. " How do you do, Mrs. St. John ? I bellcvi; you wish to ^peak to me. A cotnird^'sion, ol course. Well, I am quite at your service, from barley-8\tgnr up to bank-notes, What a lovely morning we have had ! I hope you are not much fatigued after last night's di-ssipation." Ilis frank and unrestrained address makes the task which she has set herself more difllcult; but Kho takes u chair, and waves him to another, while she is vainly trying to find words In which to open the conversation naturally. " I am quite well, thank you, Mr, Ktir. I'lay be seated. Yes, I nsked to speak to you ; it is rather a delicate business, anliort, i'7«i< niuiiler is out, and [loor Mrs. St. .lohn links back in her ehair, pale and exhausted, as thou;{li her own fate depended on his answer. " Intentions ! my int'ntions I " cilis Kile Xeif, starling from his seat. ^ The tone of surprise and iiiereilulity in whieh Tie utti'is the words seems to put new courage Into his li.stener; it arouses her maternal fears, *%\\\ with her fears her Indignation, and she an- iwei'S, (luii'kly : " You cannot pretend to misunderstand my meaning, Mr. Kfir; yoiui,' as you are, you arc (Oo much a man of the world for that, and must know tliat if you are so constantly seen in the OOmpany of a young laily, people will begin to tofiuire if you arc engaged to be married to her ^^-fir not." "I— I— know that I have trespassed very fcueh upon your hospitality," ho commences, , jitainmering, " and taken the greatest pleasure in "joining here, hut I have never addressed Miss !t. John excel it in the character of a friend, and suppo.^ed th:it you entirely understood the foot- ig on whieh I visited her." " And you mean to tell me," exclaims the poor mother, who is shaking from head to foot irtth nervous excitement — "you intend mo to understand, Mr. Keir, that all your attentions llkve meant nothing, and that my daughter is no ore to you than any other girl ? " The whole truth (lashes ou him now ; he sees be fraud of which he has been guilty, both to Is own heart and to hers ; ho knoll's that ho Ives Irene St. John as his soul ; and yet he is breed to stammer on : " I never said that, Mrs. St. John. I hold »ur daughter too highly — much too higldy, in jiy admiration and — and — esteem, and value her riendship too much, to bo guilty of so false a entimcnt. But, as to marriage: deeply as I |»ay — as I do regret the necessity for saying so, must tell you that it is not in my power, at kresent, to marry any one ! " ^ " Not in your power ! what do you mean ? " '''$. "I mean that, being but a younger son, I am ^ot, unfortunately, in a position to take such a responsibility upon myself so early. If you knew ay circumstances, Mrs. St. John, you would be Mie first person to refuse your daughter's hand to DC." " What ! as tlie younger kuu of the Karl of N'orhamy Mr. Kclr, you are having rrcour-^c to .1 ini-< Table subti.'ifuge ; you havf lieen tiitliiig Willi my child — yi>u wouM not have dared to make hO paltry an excuse to Irene's father." " O Mrs, St. John ! you do me wi(Uig. I sliould have spoken just the sani(! (I could have spoken in no other way) even to your husban I, Yet h.id I pleaded a di^inelination for marriage, you would have been no belter pleased." " I have been fooli-"!!," e\claims Mrs. St. John, trying hard to keep liaek the tears which she would consider it beneath her dignity to shed; "I have been Idind to allow your iiiiiuiaey to go on BO long — but I could not believe you would act so imworthy a part. My poor Irene ! " " (iood '!od ! Mrs. St. John "—with terrible emphasis — "you do not mean to tell me that Irene shares your suspicions — that she has learned to regard me with ony feeling wanner than the frieiulship we have pleilged each other 'i " "What right have you to ask, sir? What right have yoti to call he ' liy her Christian name ? I have not been accustomed to hear my daughter spoken of so familiarly by the gentlemen of her nerpiaintanee." " O Mrs. St. John I don't be hard ujion me. Helicve me when I say that in seeking the friend- ship of .Mi.ss St. John I had no intention beyond that of deriving great plea.sure and prolit from our intercourse. I never dreamed that my actions would be misconstrued citlier Ity the world or yourself. I have never breathed a word to her concerning love or marriage — I conH not have done it, knowing how impossible it is lor me to redeem such a pledge, at present.'' " I hear your words, Mr. Keir, but I do not un- derstand them. I only feel that you have been acting a very thoughtless, if not a di.-honorable part, and that it becomes my duty to see an im- mediate stop put to it. And, therefore, from the moment you quit this room, you must consider that otir intimacy is at an end." At this intimation Eric Keir becomes visibly agitated. " At an end ! Do you mean to say that I am to see her no more — that my visits here ore to cease once and forever ? " " Of course they are ! Would you go on de- ceiving my poor girl, only to break her heart at the last?" cries Mrs. St. John, thrown off her guard by the vehemence of his manner. " You little guess my love for her, Mr. Keir, if you think I would permit the happiness of her life to be wrecked in this manner." ^i m In'' : 111 m 20 NO INTENTIONS," Tho tliiiiil, Hhi Inking; woinnti, wlio liiiidly rpoiikH iihi)vc II ^vlli.^|lt'r in Hodoty, bct'ouicH (jultu Hiuiiil and truglo in (Jcft'nm' of her chill. Hliu rt-- inln(U one of a dovcoyod, Iniioci'iit uwi', udvoncinK to lliu front of tliu (lock to .sliuku itM lioridci^H liciid and Htiinip itn inipolvnt k'nl bi'CuuMo nonic pax.sinf; siianf^ir Ims diucd to uaitt a gluiico In tlio diruu* tion of itM litiiili. " Then Bho loves hip, and you know It," ex- cluimn the young niiin, hU eyes rouaed fi'oni their iiBual lunKUor liy tho excitement of tho sus- picion ; " Mrs. St, John, tell nio tho truth ; docH Irene lovo mo ? " " Do you intend to marry her ? " demandn tho mother, fixedly. Ilia eyes droop ; silence Ih hid only answer. "O Mr. Keir! I could hardly h.ivo believed it of you." " I ouj^ht not to have jiut the question. I have only tortured you and myself. IJut if jou have any pity loft for mo, try to pity tho necessi- ty which forbids my answering you." "I think that our interview should end hero, Mr. Keir. No good can bo gained by my detain- ing you longer, and a further discussion of this very painful subject is only likely to lead to fur- ther estrangement. I must beg you, therefore, to leave this house, and without seeing my daugh- ter again." " But who then will tell her of tho proposed alteration in our intercourse ? " " I take that upon myself, and you may rest assured that Irene will be quite satisfied to abide by my decision. Meanwhile, Mr. Keir, if you have any gentlemanly feeling left, you will quit London, or take means to prevent our mooting you again." " Is it to be a total separation, then, between us ? Must I have not/iiii(/, because I cannot take all ? " " I have already given you my opinion. Do nqt compel mo to repeat it in stronger terms." Her voice and manner have become so cold that they arouse his pride. " There is nothing, then, left for mo to do but to bow to your decision. Mrs. St. John, I wish you a very good-morning." He ia going then, but his heartstrings pull him backward. " Oh I make the best of it to her, for God's sake ! Tell her that — that — But no ! there is nothing to tell her ; I have no excuse — I can only go/" He suits the action to the word as he speaks, and she follows him into the hall, and sees him i<»fcly out of the liouvc biTore shi' turns the door* liandic of lior dau^^litti's luoni. Iiene is Killing in an ultiludu of expectation, hiT hands idly folded on her laj), and fltrul IduNliiH chasing cacli oilier ovrr lior lact? ^\•^ tho lijlt'iid to tho footsteps in tliu hull. AVhin her mothtr enters, [-111.' starts up suddenly, and then sits down ogain, as though she scarcely knew what she was doing. " Is he gone? " she says, in a tone of disap. poiutnu'iit, us Mrs. St. John advaiu'es to take livr tenderly in her orms. " And who may he be ? " in(|uirt's tlio molhor, with a ghastly attempt at playfulness, not know- ing how to broach the intelligence she bears. " Mr. Keir — Erie ! — has he not been speaking to you? O mother!" hiding htr face with a sudden burst of ."hamo on Mis. Ht, John's I'losoni ; " I am not quite sure, but I think — I think hv loves me I " Mrs. St. John docs not know what to answer, For a minute she holds her daughter in her uriiiii and says nothing. Then Irene feels the trembling of her mother's figure, and looks up alarmed. "Mother! is there any thing tho matter! Arc you not well ? " " There is nothing the matter, my diirling — nt leaat, not much. But you were speaking of Mr. Keir — he is gone ! " "Gone— why?" " Because he is not a gentleman, Irene." " Mother ! " " He is not worthy of you, child ; he has been playing with your feelings, omusing himself nt your expense. Irene, my darling, you arc so brave, so good. You will bear this like a woman, and despise him as he deserves." " Bear this 1 bear what? " says the girl, stand- ing suddenly upright ; " I do not comprehend you, mother — I do not know what you are talking of." " I am talking of Mr. Keir, Irene ; I am telling you that he is utterly unworthy of another thougbt from you — that he has dangled about you until the world has connected your names together, and that he has no intentions concerning you ; ho has just told me so." " No intentions I " repeats her daughter, va- cantly ; " no intentions ! " " He has no intention of proposing to you, Irene — of marrying you ; he has meant nothing by it all." "Nothing!" repeats Irene, in the same dreamy way. EIUC'S DISMhSSAL. 21 hIiu tiii-nii the (luor- idi' of cxiii'i'liitloii, p, and litl'ul l)lushr..i uc'is «;* tlu) li^'trii/i When her iiiothtr anil then siU.-i down knew whixl nhu was in u lonu of dUap. ilvaiicfH to tako hir n(Hilii>s tlio mother, yriihic!'!*, not know. I'noc she lK'arj<. B not been Hpeakhig ^ her face with u ». St. John'H 1)080111 ; tlihik— I think he low what to answer. uightcr in her urma 10 fculs the trfmbUng loka up alarmed, thing the matter? liter, my dialing— nt ere speaking of Mr. tlcman, Iienc." ehilJ ; he has been amuBing himeclf at darling, you arc so this like a woman, says the girl, Btnnd- not comprehonJ hat you are talkinj; ir es, Irene ; I am telling of another thought ed about you until lur name3 together, s concerning you; 8 her daughter, va- proposing to you, has meant nothing •ene, in the same Tho l.ici'Khroudcd window.^ of the room nro jpcn, ond the faint, rleh odor from tho boxes of »toel%i' and ndj,Mionette that ailorn Iti* nills thmlH Into the cliiinilter, briuKln^ with it u iiieniory of bothouKc planli*, wlille band miihIc from nn ad- jfiliilnj; xiiiiare coninienee't to iiiiike It-ielf indi^- tiurtl.v heard. " Yes, »^)M/ll/^" continued MrH. Pt. John, ren- dered l)oMer by her daiiKhter's paHHivenesi and ller own Indignation. " I have jiis-t put the - !on to him— it was* my duty to do »o, Heel:i hat marked attention lio has paid you lately, id— I couldn't have believed it of Mr. Keir; I iboii;:ht M much innrc hi^;hly of him— he told me fcniy face that ho had never even thouj;ht of you M any thing but a friend. A friend. Indeed! Ob, my dearei-t girl ! that any man uliould daro tocpeak of you in such terms of indilTereneo — it #Qi break my heart ! " and Mrs. St. John at- tttnpts to ea.st herself into her daughter'^ orms •lain. Hut Irene i)uts her from her— reimlses lifcr— almost roughly." •' " Mother ! Iiow (hired you do it ? " The wonls are such as she ha^f never pre- jUimcd to use to her mother before; tho tone tren is not her own. Mrs. St. John looks up MTrightedly. •'■ " Irentt ! " ^' "llow dared you subject mc to such an insult • -expose mc in so cruel a manner; make mo (fcepieablo to myself?" " My child, what do you mean? " ' " Cannot a man be friendly and agreeable w ith- HitL being called upon to undergo so humiUating an dlaniination ? Is a girl never to speak to one of Mpe other sex without being suspected of a desire i marry him ? Is there to be no friendship, no Irdiality, no confidence in this world, but the Irtics are immediately required to bind them- Ives down to a union which would be repug- |int to both ? It is this stylo of thing which ikes rae hate society and all its shams — liich will go far now to make me hate my- llf!" "Irene! my dear!" cries Mrs, St. John, embling all over ; " you do not consider that I your guardian, and this precaution, which ap- jiears so unnecessary to you, became a duty for Hie to take. Would you have had mc receive his ^sits here until he had entangled your affections bore inextricably, perhaps, than he has done at fcrcscnt ? " "Who says he has done so — who Jarca to ly it ? " . The girl's pride is raging and warring within h<>r. She hat been roiined from her tender love- dream by a Htern reality, nlie \* e costs me." The girl hesitates for a moment, turns to sec tho IVall ligurc before her, the thin cla.-'ped hands, the an.\ious, sorrow-laileti eyes waiting her ver- diet, and hesitates no longer. " I would not marry Kric Keir, motlier, to- morrow for all this worlil could give me." " Oil ! thank Goil ! tliank Ood ! " cries Mrs. St. John, liy.sterically, ns she sinks upon a sofa. In anotiier moment Irene is kneeling by her side. " Di'ure.-'t mother! iliil I speak unkindly to you? (Ml! forgive me ! You know how proud I am, and it hurts me, just for the time lieing. Hut it is over now. Forget it, dear motlier — we will both forget it, and every thing concerning it — and go on as before. Oh ! what a wretch I am to have made you weep ! " " I did it for the best, Irene. I only did what I considered my duty — it is a very common thing : it takes place every day. But so long as his conduct docs not affect your happiness, there is no harm done." "There is no harm done," echoes tho girl, with parched lips, and eyes that are determined not to cr5', " It will put a Ptop to his coming here, and I dare say you will miss him at fir.^t, Irene. Yoi'iig people like to be together ; but you must remem- ber how detrimental such an intimacy would bo to your future prospects ; no one else would pre- sume to come forward while a man like Erie Keir is hanging about the house; and I slu.uld never forgive myself if I permitted him to amuse himself at the expense of your settlement in life. Ho ought to know better than to wish such a thing." " He knows better now,'' replied her daughter, soothingly. " Yes — yes ! if only ho has not wounded you, Irene ! " with a sudden burst of passion most foreign to her disposition, " you arc my only hopo H If ■ I h V hi 22 " NO INTEiNTIOXS; filCC, 1:1 — my only consolution. Look mo in the aud tell rau that you du not lore liiin." " Mother, darling, you are ill and agitated ; this wretched business has been too much for you. Go and lie down, dear mothor, and try to bleep ; and when we meet again wo will agree to drop the subject altogether." " We will — wc will. Ilcaven knows I am only anxious that it should bo forgotten — only tell me, Irene, that j-ou do not love him." Pho clings to her daughter — she will not be gainsaid; her eyes arc fixed searchingly upon Irene's — the girl feels like a stag at bay; one moment she longs to pour out the trath — the next death would not tear it from her. " I Jo not love him ! " she answers, with clo.sed teeth. " Say it again ! " exclaims Mrs. St. John, with a feverish burst of joy. "7 do not love him! Mother, is not tl;at enough ? " Bhc goes on rapidly. " Why should you doubt my word ? Go, dear mother ; pray go and take the rest you need, and leave me to — to— myself!" She pushes Mrs. St. John gently but forcibly from the apartment, and locks the door. Then she staggers to the. table, blindly, grojiingly, and leans her back against it, grasping the edges with her hands. " The first lie that I have ever told her," she whispers to herself; " the first lie — and yet, is it a lie ? do I love him — or do I hate him ? " She stands for a minute hard as stone, her nervous hands grasping the table, her firm teeth pressed upon her lower lip, as though defying it to quiver, while all that Eric Keir has ever said to her comes rushing back upon her mind. The scent of the stocks and mignonette is wafted past her with every breath that stirs the curtains : the band in the adjacent square has al- iered its position ; it draws nearer— changes its air — the notes of the " Blue Danube " waltz come floating through the open window. It is the last memory — all her determination fades before it. " God help me 1 " she cries, as she sinks, sob- bing, on the sofa. Mrs. St. John is bound to believe what her daughter tells her ; but she is not satisfied about her daughter's health. The season goes on — Irene does not fail to fulfill one engagement — she dresses and dances and talks gayly as before, and yet there is a something — ^undistinguishable, per- haps, except to the eye of affection — that makes her unlike her former self. She is harder than .-^he used to be — more cyni. cal — less open to belief in truth and virtue. Added to which, her appetite is variable, aiil the drinks wine feverishly — almoso eagerly — anj at odd intervals of time. Mrs. St. John calls in her favorite doctor, Mr. Fcttingall. Mr. retthi. gall id not a fashionabie ph3sieian, he is an old family doctor; ho has known Irene since lur birth, and is as well acquainted with her consti- tution as with that of his own wife, lie settles the question on the first interview. " Depression of the vital powers, Mrs. St. John, caused by undue excitement and fatigue. Your young lady has been going a little too fast this season. She has been sitting up too late and dancing too much ; perhaps, also, flirting too much. Nothing the matter with the heart, I sup. pose, eh ? " " Oh, dear no, doctor I at least, Irene assures me it is not the case, though her spirits are cer- tainly very variable." " Xo sign at all ! A life of dissipation is sure to make the spirits variable. Take her away, aud she'll be well in a month." " Away, doctor ! what, before the season is over ? " " Certainly ; unless you wish her health to be over with the season. And a change will do you no harm either, Mrs. St. John. Why, you want twice as much doctoring as your daughter." " That's what I tell mamma," exclaims Irene, who has entered during the last sentence ; " but she will not believe me. Let us join cause against her, Mr. Fcttingall, and get her out of this hateful London." " Why, my dear ! would you really like to go ? " says Mrs. St. John." " I would like to go anywhere, to see you strong again, mother." " That's right ! a good daughter is the best medicine a mother can have. You hear what Miss St. John says, madam. She will go any- where to do you good — and her.self too ! " " Siic has always been my comfort ! " mur- murs Mrs. St. John. " And I, as your medical adviser, recommend a trip abroad." " Abroad ! " " Certainly. Three or four months' run in the Austrian Tyrol, for instance — or the Pyrenees. Please yourselves, however, and you'll please mc ^-only get out of London. It is quite as neces- sary for your health, Mrs. St. John, as for your daughter's." " Mother ! we will go at once. We will not CUAXGE OF AIR. 23 ;d to be — more cyni. ath uud virtue, .'titc is variable, ani almost eagerly — and va. Bt. John calls in ingall. Mr. rcttia- ':«ician, he is an old m\ Irene since Ir'v ;cd with her consli- tn wife, lie settled •view. I powers, Mrs. St. ;ement and fatijiue. )ing a little too fa. Take her away, icfore the season ia ish her health to be I change will do you n. AVhy, you want our daughter." na," exclaims Irene, ast sentence ; " but Let us join cause ind get her out of you I'cally like to .where, to see you aughter is the best You bear what She will go ani/- 2r.self too ! " y comfort ! " mur- idvlscr, recommend months' runiu the —OP the Pyrenees. nd you'll please me t is quite as neces- John, as for your )ncc. We will not m^ ilelny a day longer than is necessary. Thank *ou, Mr. I'ettingall, for speaking out your mind mo frankly. I have been blind not to see before ^hat my mother wanted change." 1 From that moment Irene comes out of her- Iclf, and takes all necessary cares and arrange- ments on her own hands. She forgets her trou- ble—her haunting regret ; her only wish is to see fcer mother's health restored. 4 " I have been selfish," she thinks, as she ijoves about from room to room, giving the final Jrdcrs for their departure. "I have been so Inxious to forget my own misery that I have fragged my poor mother out much more than is good for her — and this is the end of it. Oh ! if I should have really upset her health — if this change should even prove too late ! Good God ! how shall I ever forgive myself— or him ! " She has not seen him since the interview he had with Mrs. St. John : she has gone out each orening feverishly expectant of his presence ; Ipnging, yet dreading, to encounter him : and she ]^s dragged out the weary time with a heart of lead in her bosom, because he has never come — l^eing, in point of fact, hundreds of miles away it his father's seat in Scotland, thou;,'li no one 11.S her so " Afraid to meet me ! " she has thought bit- ne ! you cannot think what a comfort it is for rao to have stumbled on your cousin in this way — so weak and good-for- nothing as I am. You will never need to stay at home now for want of an escort — Colonel Mor- daunt says he will be charmed to take you any. where." "With your own kind perniission," interposes Colonel Mordaunt. "You are very good," replies Irene. "Arc yon, then, staying in Brussels? " " I am here for a few days, on my way back to England. I have been .^pending the summer at the Baths." " Not remedially, I trust ? " says Mrs. St., John, with a sudden, anxious glance of interest at the robust-looking man who stands before her. " Well, I cannot quite say no: though precau- tionary would be the better word. You remem- ber our family tendency to gout, Mrs. St. John? Poor Tom used to have a twinge of it occasion- ally, and it wos the complaint that carried off my grandfather. I have had one or two warnings during the last four years, and so I took advan- tage of the hot weather to put myself to rights for the season." " The season ! " echoes Mrs. St. John, to whom there is no season but one. " The hunting-season ! " It sounds very dread- ful, does it not ? but I fear there is no other sea- son that conveys any interest to my ears. 1 am master of the hounds down in my part of Leices- tershire, and spend my days between the stables and the kennel. It is a fine sport, Mrs. St. John, and a man must have something to do." " Then, I suppose you are very anxious to get home ogain," remarks Irene. " I was anxious to do so, I confess, but I have no intention of stirring now, so long as I can be of any use to you or to your mother." " How kind ! " murmurs Mrs. St. John ; and her daughter adds, " I am afraid you will find shopping and sight-seeing very tame work for which to exchange the pleasures of the field. Colo- nel Mordaunt." "Without their motive, perhaps — yes. With their motive, they can admit of no rivalry in my eycD ! " " What an extremely polite old gentleman ! " exclaims Irene, as soon as the colonel has disap- peared. However did you find him out, moth' er?" COLONEL MORDAUNT. 25 to have a look of I scarcely iamgincd ! you cannot think 9 huvc Btuniblcd on ivcak and good-fur- ever need to stay at cort — Colonel Mor. d to tnkc you any. mission," interposes plies Irene. "Arc ? " vs, on my way back lending the summer ' says Mrs. St., John, of interest at the la before her. no : though precaii- vord. You remem- ont, Mrs. St. John? ingc of it occasion- ; that carried off my le or two warnings d so I took advan- ut myself to rights Mrs. St. John, to one. sounds very dread- lerc is no other sea- to my ears. 1 am my part of Leice?- jetween the stables port, Mrs. St. John, iig to do." very anxious to get confess, but I have o long as I can bo lothcr." Mrs. St. John ; and "raid you will find ry tame work for js of the field, Colo- irhnps — yes. With if no rivalry in my i old gentleman I " colonel has disap- id him out, moth' " By the simplest accident in the world. He pencd the door of my sitting-room in inistako Dr his own. I never was so surprised in my life. § nearly screamed ! " •^ " Then you have met him before ? " It " Yes — oh yea ! — of course — many years igo." . " Hut why have /never seen him, then ? He Mys he lives in Leicestershire : why did he never «0>ne to my father's house ? " Mr.a. St. John looks uneasy. She shifts about tk her chair, and rolls up her satin cap-strings till :«cy are ruined, and talks rapidly with a faint, ■lilty color coming and going in her faded checks. M. " Well, to tell you the truth, dear, your fu- tfier and Colonei jlordaunt, although cousins, were not the best of friends ; that is to say, they once had a quarrel about something, and after " that they ceased to visit each other." " It must have been a serious quarrel to cause ■Itch a complete separation. Arc you sure that Colonel Mordannt was not the one in the wrong, mother ? Would my father have liked us to be- liinie intimate with him again ? " •;. Irene has a great reverence for the memory iif her father ; she is always questioning what he i|ould or would not have wished them to do, actimes to the ruffling of her mother's placid tm mi imper. % " Dear me, Irene ! I should think you might Oust me to judge of such matters ! Do you think liiwould have introduced him to you otherwise ? Cke disagreement had nothing to do with Colonel llordaunt's conduct. He behaved extremely well tljroughout the whole affair. Only yotir father 1 not choose that the intimacy should be rc- ved." " And yet ho was his nearest relative." " Quite the nearest. You know what a small nily ours is — ridiculously small, in fact. Your eat-grandfathcr was a Baddenall, and his two lughters, co-heiresses, became respectively Mrs. iordaunt and Mrs. St. John; and eadi lefl an hly son — your father and this cousin. You see bw absurdly it makes the family dwindle ! There ! females, of course, but they don't count — your rn married aunts, you know ; but Colonel Mor- lunt's sister is still single. So you see, if you i|e to have any family at all on your father's side, 1$ would be quite wrong not to make friends with bis man, now that we have so happily fallen in ^ith him again. And, indeed, the quarrel was Ibout nothing that need concern you, Irene ; noth- ag at all." " I will take your word for it, mother. Colo- |cl Mordaunt does not look like a man who would do a mean or dishonorable thing. And at all events, it is not necessary to quarrel forever." " It would be very wrong and senseless to do so. You w'il find him a most interesting compan- ion ; full of life and conversation, and witii that charming d jferencc in his manner toward women whicii one ao seldom meets with in young men nowadavi. They have not improved since the time when I was young." " I suppose not," says her daughter, with a sigh; and then she laughs, quite unnecessarily, except to hide that sigh. " I really like Colonel Mordaunt, mother, and should be sorry not to be able to take advantage of his overtures of friend- shin I think he is one of the handsomest old men I ever saw, and his manners are quite cour- tier-like." "You should have seen him when he was young ! " replies her mother, with an echo of the sigh that Irene was ke?n enough to check. Colonel Mordaunt fully bears out the promise of '.lis introduction. He is with them every day — almost every hour : he is at the beck and call of Irene St. John from morning until night. If she desires to attend the Marche aux Flours at five o'clock A. m., to lay in flowers and fruit for the day's consumption. Colonel Mordaunt, faultlessly attired for the occasion, is waiting to attend her footsteps, even though it has cost him half his night's rest in order to be up and dressed in time. Does she express a wish to visit the Quinconce, and push her way among a mob of Bruxellois at eight o'clock at night, or to attend opera or /cte, still is the faithful gentleman ready to accompany his young cousin wherever she may choose to go, only anxious to be made use of in any way, so long as the way accords with her own desires. And he is really no less desirable than pertina- cious a chaperon, this Colonel Mordaunt ; so highly respectable, as Irene laughingly declares ; so thorough a gentleman, as sighs her mother, who has to be content to hear of his gallantry and not to share in it. Set almost free by the companionship of Colonel Mordaunt, Irene St. John rushes about at this period far more than she desires. She is feverishly anxious to conceal from her mother the real pain that is gnawing at her heart, and poi- soning every enjoyment in which she attempts to take a share : and she is madly bent on destroy- ing for herself a remembrance that threatens to quench all that is worth calling life in her. So she makes plans, and Colonel Mordaunt backs 26 "NO INTENTIONS." >ii them, until tlic two are constant companions. In a few days he seems to have no aim or desire except to please her ; while she goes blindly on, expressing genuine surprise at each fresh token of his generosity. One day she buys a huge bouquet, whieh he has to carry home, and tells him that she dotes on flowers. The next, a basket of the rarest specimens that Brussels can produce lies on her table, with her cousin's kind regards. " What exquisite flowers ! " exclaims Mrs. St. John. " AVhat a lot he must have paid for them ! " remarks her daughter, quite iudill'erent as to the motive of the offering. But the next day the offering is repeated. " More flowers ! " says Irene : '' what am I lo do with them ? There arc no more vases, and the last arc too fresh to throw away." On the third day, a bouquet more beautiful than either of the others lies before her. " Oh ! this is too bad ! " she exclaims, vexed- ly. " This is sheer waste 1 I shall speak to Colonel Mordaunt. What does the speaking result in ? An adju- ration that no blossoms can be too fresh for one who ifl fresher herself than any blossom that ever grew in hot-house or in field, etc., etc., etc. " Stupid old fool ! " is Irene's grateful though, unexpressed rejoinder. " The id"" a of taking every thing I say as gospel ! I declare I will nev- er tell him I like any thing again." Yet she is pleased by the man's attention, though she hardly knows why. It soothes the pride which has been so sorely wounded : it makes her better satisfied, not with the wor'd, but with herself. Colonel Mordaunt is not a brill- iant conversationalist nor a deep iiiiiiker ; he is quite content to follow her lead, and to echo her sentiments ; but though he gives her no new ideas, he docs not disturb the old ones, and she is not in a mood to receive new impressions. He is thoughtful, and generous, ami anxious to please. He attends her, in fact, as a servant attends his mistress, a subject his queen : and all women, however broken-hearted they may be, dearly love to keep a retinue of slaves. Irene likes it : she is a woman born to govern, who takes submission to her as a right. It never strikes her that slaves may dare to adore. Mrs. St. John receives Colonel Mordaunt's at- tentions to her daughter and herself with very different feelings. She is more than gratified by them — she is flattered. And if she can secure his undivided attention for an hour or two, she makes the most of it by thanks and confidences, One day Irene is lying down upon her bed witli a headache, as she says — with a heartache, as 8l:c' might more correctly have expressed it — and Mrs. St. John has the colonel to herself. It is a wariu afternoon, and the heat and the agitation of tlic interview have brought a roseate hue into the oM lady's face whieh makes her look quite hanil- some. "Colonel Mordaunt — Philip — if I may siill call you so — I have a great anxiety upon niv mind." " A great anxiety, my dear Mrs. St. John 1 if it is any thing in whieh I can assist you — " " I was sure you would say so ! Yes : I think you can help nie, or, at all events, it will be a comfort to consult you on the matter. I have so few friends in whom I can confide." " Let me know what distresses you at once.'' " It is about money. Oh ! what a hateful subject it is. I believe money, either the want of it or the excess of it, to be at the bottom of almost every trouble in this world ; and, thougli poor dear Tom left me very comfortably oil', yet-" " You are in want of it ? My dear friend, every penny I have is at your disposal 1 " " How like you to say so I No ; that would not help me. The fact is I have been spending more than my income since my husband's death — intrenching largely on my principal — much more largely than I had any idea of till I received my banker's book a few weeks back." " But I thought my cousin left you so well oil'.' " Not nearly so well as the world imagines. He had indulged is several private speeulation.- of late, and the loss of them preyed on his mind — sometimes I think it hastened bis death; I know that at the last he was greatly troubled to think lie could not leave us in better circuin- stances." " But, my dear Mrs. St. John, excuse my say- ing so — considering it was the case, how could you be so foolish as to touch your principal, ihc only thing you and your daughter had to depend on?" " Ah ! it was foolish, wasn't it ? but don't re- proach me; you can't think Low bitterly I am repenting of it now." She lies back in her chair, quite overcome by the idea, while Colonel Mordaunt sits by her side, silent and absorbed. Suddenly Mrs. St. John starts up and clutchea his hand. MRS. ST. JOHN'S DEATH. 21 an hour or two, elic nks and conQdcnccs, upon hur bud with a I a Lcartacbc, as hlic xprcsscd it — .ind Mis, licrself. It is a wiini, tho agitation of tla scatc hue into the old icr loolc quite hand. Iiilip — if I may si ill rent anxiety upon luv ar Mrs. St. John I if n aBsist you — " ly so I Yes : I thinlc events, it will be a e matter. I have so onfide." tresses you at once.' [)h! what a hateful ley, either the want le at the bottom of I world ; and, though ery comfortably oil', t ? My dear friend, ir disposal ! " ! No ; that would have been spending my husband's death »y prineipal — much idea of till I received s back." left you so well off.'' the world imagine.*, private speculation? preyed on his mind Jtened his death; I greatly troubled to in better circum- >hn, excuse my say- the case, how could your principal, itic ghter had to depend I't it ? but don't re- how bitterly I am quite overcome by unt sits by her side, arts up and clutches " Philip ! Philip ! I am dyiug ; and ray girl ill bo left all but pennilesn." " Good God ! it cannot bo a.^ bad as that I |ou inu.st be niLstalicn, Mrs. St. John ! You arc Eak and ill, and uiatters look wor.so to you than ley really are. Put the mana^cnient of your irfTairs into my hands, and I v.ill see that they M« sot r'ght again." ' It is beyond your powor. You cannot think mad I have been. Whan Tom died, and I ind it would be impossible for us to live in the jrle to which we had been accustomed, I thought vould be better to give Irene a season or two in in — to let her bo seen, in fact. Slic is so l^tty she ought to have made a good marriage ; tad I never thought the money could run away aofast imtil I found it was nearly all gone." " Hut who arc your truovces ? What have dity been about to permit you to draw upon your prijpeipal in this manner? " " There arc no trustees. I am sole logatC(j •ll(d exoeutrix. The money was left absolutely '.o ntji. I wish now it had not been so." A. " And — and — Irene," says Colonel Mordauiit, MBsently, " she is not th;.a in a position to make we good match you speak of ? " §" Ah ! there's my worst trouble, Philip ! I s so sure she was going to bo married — such excellent connection, too. I looked upon tho Patter as settled, and then it came to nothing." ^-'(Colonel Mordaunt's brow lowers, and he com- IMPccs to play with the ornaments on the table. ? " And who may the gentleman have been ? " „: •' Well, I mustn't tell you, for my child's sake, Ifhe behaved in the most dishonorable mannrr bcr, Philip ; dangled after her all the sea. i, eting her everywhere, and paying her the most Jisguised attention, and then, when I felt imd to ask him what he intended by it all, led round and said he had never considered ' as any thing more than a friend." " The scoundrel ! " cries Colonel Mordaunt, imping up from his cha'r and pacing the room, jthe unmitigated scoundi el I Mrs. St. John, let I have his name and bring him to book, as he serves." " Ah ! not for worlds. Irene would never rgive me ! You cannot think how angry she IjiBs even at my asking him the question." " And I suppose she — she— felt the business Dry much ? " " I cannot tell you. She assured me at the Ime that she was utterly indifferent to him ; but 1 have had my suspicions since. Anyway, it has iroken i.iy heart ! To hear my child refused in marri.igc by a man who had caused her name to bo so openly connected with his own tliat it was quite unlikely any one else would come forward, an> 1 1> Qimost prophetic; at Icnst, the state of mind which induced it naturally predisposes lier to succumb to illness ; anil when, a few days after, she is seized with a low fever that is deeimntinj; the city, her weakness greatly aggravates the danger. A foreign doctor is called in ; he immediate- ly proposes to bleed the patient; Irene flics in her distress to Colonel Mordaunt. "He will kill my mother; what can I do to prevent it ? I'ray help me." She is so lovely in her distress, with all thought of self vanished, and the tears standing in her great gray eyes, that it is as much as he can do to answer her appeal rationally. " Be calm ; I will not allow this Uelgian ras- cal to touch her. I have already telegraphed to London. Mr. I'ettingall will bo here to-mor- row." " How can I ever thank you sufficiently ? " Mr. Pettingall arrives to time, and remains as long afi his professional duties will permit, but he can do nothing. Mrs. St. John becomes uncon- scious, and sinks rapidly. It takes but a few days to accomplit-h that in her which a robust body would have been fighting against for weeks. In a very short time Irene is awakened to a sense of her mother's danger, and in a very short time after that the danger is past — the illness is past — every thing is past, indeed, except the cold, still figure lying on the bed where she had watched life fade out of it, and which will be the last thing of all (save the memory of a most indul- gent mother) to pass away forever. Mr. Pettingall has returned to London by this time, and Irene and Colonel Mordaunt are alone. What would she have done without him. Mrs. St. John had left no near relatives who would care to incur the expense of attending her funeral or personally consoling her orphaned daughter ; two or three of them receive letters with an intimation of the event, to which they reply (after having made more than one copy of their answer) in stereotyped terms, interlarded with texts of Scripture and the places where they may be found and " made a note of." But not one pair of arms is held out across tbe British Channel (metaphorically speaking) to enfold Ireae ; not one pair of eyes weep with her ; pens go and tongues wag, yet the gir} remains, save for the knowledge of Colonel Mordaunt's help and pres- ence, alone in her sorrow. During the remainder of that sad week she sits almost entirely in her mother's room ; confi- dent, though he has not told her bo, that every thing that should be done is being done by tl,c man who has expres'scd himself po kindly towarj her ; and when, on the day of the funeral, s!ie meets him again, she feels as though he were litr only friend. When the interment is over and they hnv, returned to the hotel. Colonel Mordaunt remaik- how pale and worn the girl has liecome, and vin. tures to ask what care thv has been taking of her own health. "My health! oh, what docs that signify? says Irene, as the tears well up freshly to he; swollen eyelids. " There is nothing left for nu to live for now." She has borne up bravely until to-day, for slit is no weak creature to render herself sodden by tears that cannot undo the past ; she is a womni. made for action rather than regret ; but the hard- est moment in life for self-control is that in whid we return to an emptied home, having left all that remains of what we loved beneath the ground. The voice that made our hearts rejoice was silent ; the loving eyes beamed on us no longer; the warm, firm hand was cold and claspless ; yet, wc could see and touch them. God only know; what joy and strength there comes from contact — and how hard faith is without sight. AVe look on what we love, and though we have hod evidence of its estrangement, still delude ourselves witli the sweet falsehood that it is as it ever was : v: lose si^ht of it, and, though it be strong as death and faithful as the grave, cold doubts will rise be- tween it and ourselves to torture us until we meet again. It is well the dead are burled out of sight ; else would they never be forgotten. Human love cannot live forever, unless it sees and touches. So Irene feels for the nrst time that she has really lost her mother. But Colonel Mordaunt has lived longer in this world than she has, and his " all " still stands before him, more engaging than ever, in her deep mourning and distress. " You must not say so," he answers, gentlj, " You must let me take care of you now ; it was a promise made to your poor mother." " Ah I Mother, mother ! " " My dear girl, I feel for you more than I can express, but I entreat you not to give way. Think how distressed she would be to see you neglect- ing the health she was always so anxious to pre- serve. I hear that you have made no regular meals for a week past. This must continue co longer ; you must permit me to alter it." " I will permit you to do any thing that you TUE COLONEL'S PROPOSAL. 29 is being done by the iSflf FO kindly towarj y of tlic funeral, sht IS though ho were lior over nnd they liav, cl Mordaunt remaik- lias I)ec3me, and ven- has been taking of does that signify?' L'll up freshly to Lc; nothing left for nu y until today, for bIk er herself sodden by )ast ; she ia a womai. regret ; but the hard. iiitrol Is that in whid ne, having left all that beneath the ground, rts rejoice was silent ; I us no longer; tin id elaspless ; yet, we God only know; I comes from contact lout sight. We looli wc have had evidence jlude ourselves witli 3 as it ever was : wc it be strong as death doubts will rise be- lorture us until we buried out of sight ; ;ottcn. Human love t sees and touches, le that she has really i lived longer In this s " all " still standi an ever, in her deep be answers, gently, of you now ; it was , mother." ou more than I can to give way. Think to see you neglect- so anxious to prc- mado no regular must continue no o alter it." ny thing that you ink right, Colonel Mordaunt. I have no friend |rt but yourself." *' Tlieu I shall order dinner to bo .-erved for 1 in your sitting-room, and cxpi'Ct you to do the lors of the table." "Since you wish it, I will try to do so." " I do wish it, my dear cousin, for more sons than one. Mr. Wuliiisley, your mother's Solicitor, will be here to-moriow; and it is q-ite BMc.->sary that I should have a little converstitiou tijlh you before you meet him." ,^ " When the dinner is ready I shall be there." \i^" And in another hour Colonel Mordaunt and J^ine St. John arc seated oppos'te to one another tt table. Her eyes are still red, \ cr checks pale, and she neither cats nor talks muc'i ; but she is quiet and composed, and listens to all her couc!" bas to say with interest and attenti(-n. He docs not broach the subject of money, however, until tb^ dinner has been cleared away again, and they •!• safe from the waiters' supervision. Then Irene draws her chair nearer to the open fe, for November has set in bright and cold ; Colonel Mordaunt, still playing with his fruit wine, commences the unwelcome topic. ^ fj " I have something to say to you, my dear le, lo.-*3 pleasant than important; but money sidcrations are generally so. Have you any kjtia of the amount of your mother's income." " My mother's income ? Not the least. But it Ifas a largo one, was it not ? We always lived «0 '♦rell in London." •' Too well, I am afraid, my di;ar. Women are Mflly ignorant about the management of money." I" Yes ; I am sure I am," she replies, indiffer- Py. " In fact, it never entered my head to ke any inquiries on the subject. We had a |8c in Brook Street, you know, and our own riage, and every thing wo could desire. I irer remember poor mamma refusing me money |iny life, or expressing the slightest anxiety on ( subject." " It would have been better if she had done my dear. I had a long talk with her about affairs a week or two before her death ; and I was anxious that I should look into and ar- Bge them for her. Your father did not leave rif much behind him as the world thinks ; and tur poor mother was improvident of the little e received. I am afroid, from what she told «e, that a large portion of her principal was (ink during those two seasons in tov.n." " Was it ? Well, it will signify little now. iatever remains, there is sure to be enough for »e." " .My dear child, I am not .xo sure of that. You huvc been brought up in eviiy luxury ; you liuvc never known, as you said just now, what it ia to be dcnieil." " I can loam it. Others have done the same before mc." " Btt supposing the very wnr.st — that you liavo actually not enough to live on. Wliat then ? " " That is scarcely pro'juble, ia it ? llut if so, I can work." " Work, child ! Yon work to earn your liv- ing ? No, no ; it would ncvc- «omo to that ; you are far too beautiful. You must marry first." " What ! marry for a home ? Colonel Mor- daunt, you do not know me, if you think me ca- pable of doing such a thing." " Why not ? Hundreds of women do it." "Hundreds of women sell themselvea, you mean. Well, I am not for sale." " You call it by too harsh a term, Irene. I did not intend that you should marry ani/ one in order to obtain me.ins of support ; but that, if an eligible offer should present itself from some man whom you could respect, even if he doea not exactly come up to the standard you may have erected in your imagination — " She interrupts him quickly. " What standard ? What are you talking off — what do you mean ? " " I was only talking generally, my dear. Young ladies always have an ideal." " I am not a young lady, then ; I have none." " You have never yet known, perhaps, what it is to bo what is called ' in love,' " he continues, searchingly. She colors, and looks annoyed. " Colonel Mordaunt, I thought you too old and wise to care to discuss such nonsense. Anyway, I do not care to discuss it with you, especially to- day. Let me leave you for the present, and, when Mr. Walmsley arrives, you will send and let me know." She is going then, but he stops her. " Don't be offended with me, my dear Irene." " Offended ? Oh, no 1 " returning to place her hands in his. " How could I be, after all your great kindness to me and — to her ? I look upon you as a father, indeed I do, and could not feel of- fended at any thing which you might please to say to me," As she leaves him he sighs. There is some little delay in the solicitor's ap- pearance, during which time Colonel Morjdaunt's 30 "NO INTENTIONS." 'If • ^1 h <\ ■' 1 , .'I W ''i 4 1 4 t_. i.,fe 4' :>-■■ i'l 1:11 attenfion.-f to h'a y'\ V' Chnix-i'dii ! wliat do I want with acbapuron y Po you 8\i|)poHo I uiii );i)iiiK to run ubout to tliu- atrcS and partka bi't'oru I luivu cliun^i'd my Mist niouminK? Dcsidefl, I liuto London. I ohall not mind tho dull.u-ss of Norwood ; it will bo in uccordonco with my IVilingH." "Ah, my dcur ; you'ru vury younj?. Tun more ycnrs in this world will tcuch you to try idl you cun to dLspursc a griof, iuHtcnd of Hitting down to nurso it, But I Bupposo you must have your own way — at least for six months," with a ■ly glance that has no ))owcr to make Irene smile. "When will you start?" " As soon as possible. I want to get out of this miserable city as ({uickly as I can, Cun we go to-morrow? " " Well — with a little energy, I dure say we can. But you arc not fit for much exertion. I must pack your things for you." " Oh, DO I I could not let you do so. Bc- stdeK, you have your own." "I shall do my own, and yours too. If you persist in refusing, tlic only thing is — wo can't go." " But I thought you had a particidar rngngc- racnt this afternoon with your old friend Conito do Marigny ? " " My old friend must give way to my young friend." " IIow good you are to mo 1 I do not deserve it." " You deserve it all, and fur more if I could give it. But it is not all disinterestedness, you know, Irene. I want a heavy price for my devo- tion." She colors, sighs, and turns away. In anoth- er couple of days she is installed as temporary inmate of her aunt's house at Norwood. » How am I to describe Fen Court, in Leicester- shire ? And yet I must try to bring the place, which will bo the scene of so many of the events in this history, clearly before the mind's eye of my reader. The house itself, which stands in the village of Priestley, about ten miles from one of the prmcipal county towns, is neither old nor modem ; but may have been built in tho early part of the present century. It is a substantial white manor, not picturesque or romantic looking but eminently comfortable — at least, from the outside. It has a bold porch, and large windows, some of which open to the ground : a conserva- tory on one side, leading to a billiard-room, and a library upon the other. It is fronted by a thick shrubbery, a noble grass-plot, above which droop cedur-fcsi, and a broad drive, kept liurd asiroH' To tie left are the slubles, and the kennel, plant- ed cut by shrubs, but elu!to at hand; the right leui'.-t, by a dark, winding puth, to tho buck of the house, where a fine lawn, surrounded by (lower- beds, slopes down toward a lake with an artili- elul Island on it, which is reached by a rustle bridge ; beyond which lie the furm-buildings, and their ungainly accessories. Ho far. Fen Court appears to bo all that could be desired ; and had been |iur«'hused eagerly by Colonel Mordaunt on his coming into liis money, resigning tho service, and settling at home. But tho inside of tho court has one great fault — it is, notwithstanding tho sums which have been spent on its equipment, irremediably ugly and dull. Tho house contains cvo<-y comfort, having a long, well-stocked library, a vast diu- ing-room, cheerful breakfast-parlor, and marvel- ously • furnished drowlng • room. When I suy marvelously, I do not mean in marvelous good taste. Colonel Mordaunt has never indulged in personal hobbies (except in tlie stables and hunt- ing-field). There are pictures on tho wails of Fen Court, but he seldom looks at them, and hardly knows their painters' names. lie ridicules the idea of any one caring for old china and glass ; has never heard of bric-d-brac ; and calls a love for worm-eaten oak or ebony sheer folly. Give him a well-built house, free from draughts and smoky chinmeys ; let Druce or Maple furnish it according to his own taste, and the best of his ability, and bo could wish for nothing more. And up to a certain point Colonel Mordaunt is right. Homo comforts — good beds and lots of blankets, spotless table-linen, and very hot plates — are worth all the Venetian glass and marqiteltrie in the world, if wo cannot combine the two. But ho never tries, and never has tried to combine them ; and his sister Isabella takes no more trouble than he docs. The stables of Fen Court arc perfect in all their fittings and ar- rangements ; so are the kennels ; so are the sleeping, and eating, and sitting apartments of the human part of tho establishment ; only men and women (some men and women, that is to say) occasionally feel the want of more than bodily comfort. Yet no one in Fen Court seems to miss sweet sounds, and all tho pretty, graceful nothings that throw a nameless charm on the apartments pre- sided over by a woman of taste. Miss Mordaunt is decidedly not a woman of taste. She is only a poor, weak-spirited depend- ent on her brother's will and pleasure, and the MRS. QUEKETT. 33 tyranny of Un. Qiiukett, tho huu^tukocpur. Mr*. QiU'kvtt U an uwful wumun ; it U »\w that vluthei tliu:«(! unliiipp)' cliiiir^ iiiid muIua ia tliu ilrawIuK- room III bi'utvii-liolliwiJ vnvurri, .so lliut no onu lial uvor icon thtir blite-satiu gloriv« uxpoKcU to cluyli};lit, mill dnipoB thu vhuiiJulici'.'t in gauzy IM'tticoaU, liko Koiil-bfiitom' iikin, ami piii.H yol- liiw iiiiiiilin rouiul tlio i>lL'turu-rniiiib!i, until tliu loom louku liko tlio buckparlururapulilic-hoiMc, or ibu iitato apui'tiiii'Ut Hct asiJu fur tliu reception of now viistomera in a young ladien' Beliool. It U Kebecca Quekelt wlio dueideH how mucli butter Hhall bo con.sumcd per week at tho Court l>roakfast - tabic, and how much crciiiu in the eolTec after dinner ; which aervanta ahull bo re- tniiied, and which discharged; which bedrooms iiliall be used, and which left tcnantlcsH ; and it \i to Rebecca Quekctt, and not to Misa Mordaunt, tliiit every one refers for every thing that may bo reipiircd for tho household, from a clean duster up to a new Brussels carpet. Colonel Morduunt even, p-iramount among hi.4 ilog:4 and horses and hunting-friends, is nothing iiiiido Fen Court ; and his sister is L'ss than nothing— she is but an instrument in tho hands of tho mo.it despotic of mistresses. For what tyiMDny can exceed tho tyranny of an overfed and indulged menial ; of tho inferior who, for some reason best known to ourselves, wo have pciinitted to climb above us ; of tho servant who, being master of our futnily secrets, wo seem in greater than bodily fear, lest ho or she should take advantage of the situation, by wielding ille- gal inlluenco above our unhappy heado with a satisfaction that knows no remorse ? But let Mrs. Quekett speak for her.-fclf. It is January. Colonel Mordaunt has bc<>n home from his Continental trip for more than two inDnths, and tho hunting-season still engrosses most of his time and thought — at least, to all ap- pearannes. Ten o'clock in the morning; the breakfast, at which several gentlcmeu 'n pink have dropped in accidentally, is over ; and the master of the hounds, surrounded by hia pack of friends and dogs and retainers, has ridden away down the broad graveled drive, out into the open country, and Miss Mordaunt has Fen Court to herself. She is a woman of about five - and - forty ; not ill-favored, but with a contracted and attenu- ated figure, and a constant look of deprecatory fear upon her countenance, which go far to make I her so. Indeed, she is worse than ill-favored, for she is uninteresting. Some of the plainest I women in the world hare been the most fascinat- 8 iiig. Miss Mordaunt fusuinntes nu onu, exe^l with a desiru to know why alio should past lliruugh life with uii exprcsnion u!« lliongh ahu were bilently entreating every one »ilio inei'ls not tu kick hir. Thu world has not dealt harder with her than with inot^t, but wlienever she has been sinittL'n on the right cheek, she has so perti- naciously turned the lult, that her rellow-crealures have amitten her again out of sheer vice. Kvery- body knows what it is to wi^h to kick a dog who puts his tail between his legs bct'uru he Ima been spoken to. Humility is Christian ; but, in u world of business, it doesn't " pay.'' Miss .Mordaunt being left alone, looks anxious* ly about the room, locks up tho tea and sugar a> though slio were coiniuittiiig a theft, pulls the bell — with tho faintest of tinkles at first, but aftcrwanls, finding it is not answered, somewhat more boldly — and, as the aervant enters, saya, apologetically : " I think, James — as your master is gone, and the breakfast is over — I think perlia|)a you hud better clear away." " Very well, miss," replies James, with stolid indiflbrencc, as ho puts tho chairti buck against the wall, and proceeds to business. Miss Mordaunt glances abo'it her, once or twice, uncertainly, and then, with a nervous grin at James, who takes no notice ut liie proceeding, glides from tho room. In another second she is back again. " Is Quekett — do you know, James — in the kitchen, or the house-keeper's room ? " " I believe Mrs. Quekett is not down-stuirs at all yet, miss." "Oh, very wuU! it is no matter, James: it does not in tho least signify. Thank you, James!" and Miss Mordaunt revanishes. Siie does not pass into the garden nor enter her own apartment : she goes straight up-stairi and knocks at tho door of one of the best bed- rooms. " Come in ! " savs a voice that has been so used to lay down the law that it cannot speak except authoritatively; but, as Miss Mordaunt ap- pears, it attempts to modify its tone. " Oti ! is it you, miss ? Fray como in. Past ten o'clock ! Well, I'm sure I bad no idea it was so late." Mrs. Quekett, clothed in a stuff dressing-gown and laced nightcap, is seated by tho fire : her breakfast-tray is by her sido and a footstool under her feet ; nor does she make tho least pretence of riamg from her chair as her so-called miatresa advances toward her. fj, The room (as I have said before) is one of the < ! 34 "NO INTENTIONS" II m'/^[l ] : •if, •''■ll rnoft ooinfortiible In Vvn Coiir(, ami la fiirnl.ihpil wltli iimliof^niiy nml Fivncli , hut it 1:4 riirthcr dvi'nriiteil in a fiiHhion of wliieli tlioHO f^i'iitlcint'ti liiivt Ix-on lulto n'lllt'o^H; for pIftiiioH haiiR iiliout tlio walN ; carved oakin liriukct-), lioliliti^' Ht.itiicttcii ill cliinn, All up tliu rooc-iscs ; nml a French clock and canil('Ial)ra adorn tiio manlel-pleco. I'rcflcntH from her numer- ous enijiioyorg — Blight toatlmonloi^ of her worth from the Duchess of H , and my Laily C : HO MrH. Quckett la wont to deacribo these onm- menta : spoila from the various battlc-flclds through which ahc has fouj^ht her way In life — so an unprejudiced observer wouhl Kay. And on either aiilo the mirror are diaplaycd photoRraplis in frames ; young men and maidens ; old men and children : " Dear Lord X , and the Hon. Kich- ard A , and Lady Viola." To set Mrs. Quc- kett ctr on tlie subject of her photographs, la to hear her talk Court Circular for at least an hour, and finitih with tho intelligenoo that, with t!io exception of hia poor dear father, sho has never "bemcancd" herself by living in an un- title tti'rindmu'i' with llic pri'- Hiding Uilty of B HorvuntH' fi-ii^t. T«ll, well. )i(rnic'(l, rtu'l williIrcMiii'd, wltli n dice llmt lum In'iti li;itii|->.'< fitloil to hold II lil^'li |lll^iti()ll anions iiu>nliilH — iiml kIio IioMh It, a trilli) too lii^;lily. lliT ilomlnmit, ovi'ihciiriti;? tcinjier ni.ikc* her at onco fcitrc'l ami hiiteil In thu tier- vaiit.s' hull, ami each doiDcstiu U ready to ubime her bt'liinil hor bauk, and to rake up old dead scandals which nii^^'ht well lie permitted to lie for- gotten among the imIwh of tlic past. Am xhe enters hcrHanetiini, a dlnh of stewed kiilney»ond a (;':•»!• of Htotit are placed before her, with piinetiiality ; liiit it is well, as alio camo Uown-stairH, tliat bIuj did not hear tlio cook ordering the klteheii-niaid to t ike in the " cats' meat" without delay. Some- body el.-o in the kitehen hears the remark, how- ever, and laughs — not loudly but discordantly — and the !uir.Mi fioiH acomiiig home for their suppers, and tlie place to ruildle up, uiid all with one pair of hands, you ouliln't do it neither." "What's your iiieee nlioul, that she can't help you ? " Mis. day looks sulky directly. " \ hulking young Homaii like that !" conlln iic^i the housc-kec|)er, with her mouth full of toa^t and kidney, "idling about the village, nnd doing nothing to cam her living. I am i|nite suipriscd you should put np with it. Why don't nfir enme up for the money ? I suppose she cm read ninl wrl»e ? " "Oh, she can read and writi* fast enough — belter than many as thinks themselves above her — but she can't come up of Saturdays, for a very good reason — that she ain't here." " Not here! Where is she gone to f " " That's her business, mum, nnd not ouis. Not but what I'm put out about it, I must own ; but she was iilwnys a o\w to have her own way, she was, and I supiioso it will bo so to the end." " Ilcr own way. Indeed ; anil a nice way she's likely to make of it, tramping about the country by herself ! You (-hoiild take bet Ut care of her, Mrs. Cray." Now, Mrs. Cray, a virago at homo and abroad, has ono good quality — sin can stick np for her own relations ; and Mrs. Qiiekett's remark upon her niece's propensity for rambling raises all her feelings in defense of the absent. "She's as well able to look after herself, my niece is, as many that wear silken gowns upon their backs — ay, nnd better too. — Take more caro of her, indeed I It's all very well to give good advice, but them as preaches had better practise. That's wliot I say I " " I don't know what you mean," says Mrs. Quckett, who knows so well that the glass of por- ter she is lifting to her lips jingles against her false teeth. " Well, If you don't know, mum, I don't know who should. Anyways, I want my three weeks' money, and I stays here till I gets it." "You shall not have a sixpence until you learn to keep a civil tongue in your head." " Then I shall have to send my Joel up to talk to the colonel about it." " lie will not see the colonel unless I give hiro permission. You're a disgrace to the village— M >■•; 36 "NO INTENTIONS." ^ I . ' 'A-^' you and your family — aud the 8ooncr Priestley is quit of tlio lot of you the bettor." " Oh, it's no talliing of yours, ir.um, aa will turn us out, though you do think yourself so much above them as wouldn't stoop to cat with you. There's easy ways for some people to get riches in this w -Id ; but we're not thieves yet, thank God, nor sha'n't begin to be, even though there are some who would keep honest folks out of the money they've lawfully earned." Conceive Mrs. Quckett's indignation, " How dare you be so insolent ? " she exclaims, all the blood in her body rushh.g to her face. It requires something more than the assumption of superiority to enable one to bear an Inferior's in- sult with dignity. Mrs. Quckett grows as red as a turkey-cock. " Insolent I " cries Mrs. Cray. " Why, what do you call talking of my niece after that fashion, then? Do you think I've got no more feeling for my own flesh and blood than you have your- self? " " Mary ! " screams Mrs. Quokctt from the open door, " go up-stairs at once and fetch me the wash- ing-book that lies on the side-table in my bed- room." " Oh, yes, your bedroom, indeed ! " continues the infuriated laundress. " I suppose you think as v'c don't know why you've got the best one in the house, and not a word said to you about it. You couldn't tell no tales, you couldn't, about the old map as is dead and gone, nor the young 'un as wears his shoes ; only you durs'n't to, because you're all tarred witli the same brush. You thinks yourself a lady as may call poor folks bad names ; but the worst name as you ever give a body would be too good for yourself." All of which vituperation is bawled into the house-keeper's ears by Mrs. Cray's least dulcet tones, while Mrs. Cray's hard-working fists are placed defiantly upon her hipc. By the time Mary returns with the washing-book, Mrs. Que- kett is trembling all over. " Take your money, woman," she says, in a voice which fear has rendered wonderfully mild, compared to that of her opponent, " and never let mo see your face, nor the faic of any one that belongs to you, again." "That's as it may be," retorts Mrs. Cray; " and, anyway, we're not beholden to you, nor any such dirt, for our living." " You'll never get it here again. Not a bit of washing goes over the threshold to your house from this time forward, and I'll dismiss any ser- vant who dares to disobey me 1 " " Oh, you needn't fear, mum, as I'll ask 'em. There's other washing in Leicestershire, thank God ! besides the Court's ; and, as for your own rags, I wouldn't touch 'em if you were to pay me Ml gold. You'll come to want yourself before long, and be glad to wash other people's clothes to earn your bread ; and I wish I may live to see it ! " With which final shot, Mrs. Cray pockets her money, shoulders her basket, and marches out of Fen-Court kitchen. This interview has quite upset the house-keep- er, who leaves more than half her luncheon on the table, and goes up-stairs to her bedroom, in order to recover her equanimity. '•' Serve her right," is the verdict of the kiteli- cn, while Mary finishes the kidneys and porter, and repeats the laundress's compliments verba- tim. "I'd have given .sometliing to hear Mother Cray pitch into the old cat." " Only hope it'll spoil her dinner.'' " No fca.' nf that, Slio'd eat if she was dying." And so on, and so on ; the general feeling for the house-keeper being that of detestation. It takes longer than \isual for Mrs. Quckett to calm her ruffled dignity, for she is unaware how much the servants have overheard of the discu.-- sion between her and Mrs, Cray, nor how much they will believe of it. So she remains up-stairs for more than an hour; and when she descends again she has changed her dress ; for, in a black- satin gown, with a bio id lace cap ornamented with pink flowers, who among the lower menials would presume to question either her authority or her virtue ? She does not forget what has passed, however. It returns upon her every now and then during the afternoon, with an unpleasant iLcling of inse- curity ; and when — the Court dinner being eon- eluded — she makes her way up to Colonel Mor- daunt's private sitting-room, she is just in the mootl to make herself very disagreeaHe. The room in question is called the study, though it is very little study that is ever accomplished within its walls ; but it is here that the colonel usually sits in the evening, smoking his pipe, looking ovir the stable and farm accounts, and holding inter- views with his head groom, kennel-keeper, and bailiff. He docs not seem over and above pleased at the abrupt entrance of Mrs, Quckett ; but he glances up from his newspaper and nods. " Well, Quckett ! have you any thing to say to me ? Time to settle the house-keeping billi again, eh ? " it;''l THE COLONEL AND HIS HOUSEKEEPER. 87 s I'll ask 'em. er^hirc, thank i for your own verc to pay me rourself before eoplc's clothes nny live to see . Cray pockets , and marches the house-keep- er luncheon on icr bedroom, in iet of the kiteli- cys and porter, iplimcnts verba- to hear Mother ner." ' she was dyinj;." ncral feeling for testation. Mrs. Quekctt to is unaware how ■d of the discus- nor how much cniains up-stairs ;n she descends ; for, in a black- cap ornamented e lower menials T her authority assed, however, nd then during Kcling of inso- nner being eon- to Colonel Mor- just in the mood Me. The room liough it is very ished within its oncl usually sits looking over d holding inter- nnel-keeper, and bove pleased at uekett ; but he id nods, ny thing to say se-keeping billi " No, colonel. If I roracmbor riglitly, wo Ret- ried those only last week," replies Mrs. Quekett, as she quietly seats herself in the ch.iir opposite her master. " My business hero is something (luite difforont. I want to put a question to you, colonel. I want to know if it's true tliat you've asked Master Oliver down to Fen Court An* East- er this year?" Why, doesn't Colonel Mordaunt act as nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand would have acted under similar circumstances ? Why doesn't he resent ttio impertinence of tliis inquiry by the curt but emphatic remark, " What the d — 1 is that to you ? " lie is not a timid, shrinking creature like his sister : he could talk glibly enough, and plead his own cause bravely enough, when in the presence of Irene St. John ; what remembrance, what knowledge is it that comes over htm when con- fronted with this menial, that ho should twist his IMpcr about to hide his countenance, and answer, almost evasively : " Well, Quekett, I did think of asking him ! It would only be for a few days. There's no ob- joetiou, is there ? ' " I think there's a very great objection, colo- nel. Master Oliver's not a gentleman as I can get on with at all. The house is not like itself while he's hanging about it, with his bad man- ners, and his tobaccer, and his drink." " Come, come. Quekctt, I think you're a lit- tle hard upon the boy. Think how young he is, and under what disadvantages ha has labored ! He is fond of his pipe and his nonsense, I know ; but it doesn't go too far ; you'll allow that." " I don't allow nothing of the sort, colonel. I think Master Oliver's * nonsense,' as you call it, goes a great deal too far. He's an ill-mannered, impertinent, puny upstart — that's my opinion — as wants a deal of bringing down; and he'll have it one day, if he provokes me too far ; for, as sure as my name's Rebecca Quekett, I'll let him know that—" " Hush ! " says Colonel Mordaunt, in a pro- longed whisper, as he rises and examines the door to sec if it is fi?.st shut. "Quekett, my giod creature ! you forget how loud 3-ou are talking." " Oh ! I don't forget it, colonel. I've too pood a memory for that. And don't you set Oliver on to me, or I may raise my voice a little louder yet." " I set him on ! How can you think so ? I have never spoken to him of you but in terms of the greatest respect. If I thought Oliver really meant to be rude to you,' I should be exceedingly angry with him. Hut it is only his fun ! " " Well, whether it's fun or earnest, I don't mean to put up with it any more, colonel ; so, if Oliver is to come here next Easter, I shall turn out. Lady ISuldwin willbc only too glad to have me for the season ; I had a letter from her on the subject as late as last week." Colonel Mordaunt dreads the occasional visits which Mrs. Quekctt pays to her titled patronesses. She never leaves the Court, except in a bad tem- per. And when Mrs. Quekctt is in a bad temper, •she ii very apt to be communicative on the sub- ject of her fancied wrongs. And tittle-tattle, for many reasons. Colonel Mordaunt systematically discountenances. " You mustn't talk of that, Quekett. What s^hould we do without you ? You are my right hand '. " " I don't know about that, sir. I have had my suspicions lately tbtlMyou're looking out for another sort of a right hand, besides me." Colonel Mordaunt starts with surprise, and colors. The house-keeper's sharp eyes detect his agitation. " I'm not so far wrong, am I, colonel * The post-bag can tell tales, though it hasn't a tongue. And I shall be obliged if you'll let me have the truth, that I may know how I am expected to act." " What do you mean, Quekett ? I do not un- derstand you." "Oh, yes, you do, colonel, but I'll put it plainer, if you like. Are you thinking of marry- ing ? " " Really, Quekett, you are so — " " Lord alive, man 1 " exclaims the house- keeper, throwing off all restraint ; " you can't pretend not to understand me at your age. You must be thinking of it or not thinking of it. What do all those letters to Miss St. John mean, if you re not courting her ? There's as many as three a week, if there's one ; and when a man's come to your time of life, he don't write letters for mere pleasure — " "No, Quekett, no; but business, you know — business must be attended to. And I was left a sort of guardian to my young cousin, so — " " Fiddle-de-dee ! " is the sharp rejoinder. "You can't stuff me up with such nonsense, colonel. Are you going to marry this lady, or not?" " Going ! No, certainly not going, Quekett." "But do you want to marry her? Do you mean to ask her ? " " Well, the thought has crossed my mind, I •1 38 "NO INTENTIONS." !■'' I" I:,, iil. IV ;r!|'i :. m must say. Not but every thing is very uncertain, of course — very uncertain." " Oh ! " says the housekeeper, curtly ; and is silent. " Quckett," resumes her master, after a pause, " if it should be, you know, it coulJ make no JilTercnce to you ; could it? It would bo rather pleasanter, on tlic whole. Fen Court is a dull place at times, very dull ; and you and Isabella arc not the best of friends. A young lady would brighten up the house, and make it more cheer- full for U3 all. Don't you think so ? " "Oh, muc?' more cheerful, doubtless," is the sarcastic reply. "And, pray, colonel, may I ask, in case of this very djsirable event taking place, what you intend to do about Master Oliver ? " " About my — nephew ? " " About your — nephew ; yes. Is he to bo al- lowed to spend his holidays at the Court, as usual, upsetting our comfort, and turning the house topsy-turvy ? " " Well, I've hardly thought of that, Quckett. I suppose it would be as — as — she wished." " Oh ! very well, colonel. I understand you : and if Fen Court is to bo given over to a boy and girl like that, why, the sooner I'm out of it the better. It's hard enough that I should have to look for another home at my time of life ; but it would be harder to stay and have a young mis- tress and master put over my head. Fifteen years I lived with your poor dear father, colonel, and never a word with any of the family ; and when I consented to come here, it was on the express condition, as you may well remember, that — " " Stay, Quckett ; not so fast. I have only told you what I contemplated doing. Nothing is settled yet, nor likely to be ; and if I thought it would onnoy ;, ou, why, you know, Quckett, for my father's sake, and — and various other rea- sons, how highly we all esteem your services; and I should be most concerned if I thought any thing would part us. Even if I do marry, I shall take care that every thing with respect to your- self remains as it has ever done ; and as for Mas- ter Oliver, why, I'll write at once and tell him it is not convenient he should come here at Easter. He wished to visit us this year ; but nothing is of more importance to me than your comfort, nor should be, after the long period during which you have befriended my father and myself. Pray be eosy, Quckett. Since you desire it, Master OUver shrll not come to Fen Court." The house-keeper is pacified ; she rises from her seat with a smile. " Well, colonel, I am sure it will be for the best, both for Master Oliver and ourselves. And as for your marriage, all I can say is, I wish you good luck ! 'Tisn't just what I expected ; but I know you too well to believe you'd let any thing come between us after so many years to- gether." And more than ever certain of her power over the master of Fen Court, Mrs. Quckett bids him a gracious good-night, and retires to her own room. AVhcn the door has closed behind her, Colo- nel Mordaunt turns the key, and, leaning back in his chair, delivers himself over to thought. Painful thought, apparently ; for more than once he takes out his handkerchief, and passes it over his brow. He sits thus for more than an hour, and when he rises to seek his own apartment, his countenance is still uneasy and perturbed. " Poor Oliver ! " he thinks, as he docs so. " Poor, unhappy boy 1 what can I do to rectify the errors of his life, or put hope in the future for him ? Never have I so much felt my respon- sibility. If it were not for Irene, I could ahrost — but, no, I cannot give up that hojio yet, -,>•'. until she crushes it without a chance of revival ; and then, perhaps — well, then I shall feel unhap- py and desperate enough to defy Old Nick him- self." Colonel Mordaunt does not say all this rhodo- montade: he only thinls it; and if all our thoughts were written down, the world would be surprised to find how dramatically it talks to itself. It is only when we arc called upon to clothe our thoughts with language that vanity steps in to make us halt and stammer. If we thought less of what otheis think of us, and more of what we desire to say, we should all speak more elegantly, if not grammatically. vanity ! curse of mankind — extinguisher to bo many noble purposes ; how many really brilliant minds stop short of excellency, si-fled out of all desire for improvement, or idea of its possibility, by your suffocating breath ! Why, even here is a platitude into which my vanity has betrayed me ; but for the sake of its moral I will leave it. " But why choose Mrs. Cavendish, with her heap of children, in that dull suburban house ? You will be bored out of your life." How often have those words of Colonel Mor- daunt retuined, during the last six months, upon Irene St. John's mind I How intolerable have the children, the gov- erness, the suburban society (the very worst of .\.. IRE>(ES MENTAL COXDITIOX. 30 all society!) tlio squabbles, the tilllu-tattle, tliu eternal platitudes, become to her! Acijuaiiit- ances who " drop ia " whenever they feel so dis- posed, and hear nothing new between the ocou- sious of their " dropping in," uio the most ter- rible of all domestic scourges; tiie celebrated dropping of a drop of water ou the victim's head, or King Solomon's "droppings" on the window- pane, are metaphors which grow feeble in com- parison ! Irritating to a Strong mind, what do tliey not become to that which has been enfeebled by suffering ? And Irene's mind, at this junc- ture, is at its lowest ebb. From having gone as a visitor to her aunt's house, she has come to look upon it as her home ; for, after the first few weeks, Mrs. Cavendish, pleased with her niece's society, proposed she should take up her resi- dence at Norwood, paying her share of the house- hold expenses. What else had the girl to do? What better prospect was there in store for her ? Friendless, alone, and half heart-broken, it had seemed at first as though in this widowed house, where the most discordant sound that broke tlic air was the babble of the children's voices, she had found the refuge T.-om the outer world she longed for. Her father and mother were gone. Eiic Keir was gone ; every thing she cared for in this life was gone. She had but >. ne desire — to be left in peace with memory — so Irene believed on first returning from Brussels to England. But such a state of mind is unnatural to tho young, and cannot last forever. By the time wc meet her again, she is intolerant of the solitude and quiet. It does not soothe — it makes her restless and unhappy — that is because she has ceased to bewail the natural grief. Ilcaven takes care of its own, and with each poison sends an antidote ; and the unnatural pain — the pain that this world's injustice has forced upon her — is (>::ce more in the ascendant, crusliing wliat is .':■ ': y.vl softest in her nature. ' 'hore is no more difficult task for the pen than lU 'ic . libe, faithfully and credibly, the interior worii.jg of a fellow-creature's mind; for it is only those who have passed through the phase of feeling written of, that will believe in it. And yet it is not necessary to draw from one's own experience for life-pictures. An artist desirous to illustrate a scene of suffering and sorrow, need not have suffered and have sorrowed, but goes boldly among the haunts where such things are (it is not far to go) until he finds them ; so must the author, to be realistic, possess the power to read men's hearts and characters, to work out the mysterious problem of the lives and actions that often lie so wiJtly severed — to account for tlie strange union of smiling lips and aching hearts — of the light morning jest and the bitter midiiigiit sobbing. There is no more curious study tlian that of psychology. Oh the wonderful contradictions ; the painful inconsistencies ; tlie wide, wide gulf tiiat is fixed between our souls and the world ! It is enough to make one believe in M. JSowel's theory that hell consists in bL'ing made transpar- ent. One can scarcely determine which would bo worse — to have one's own thoughts laid bare, or to see through one's friends. Irene St. John's soul is a puzzle, even to her- self. Tho first dead weight of oppression that followed her mother's burial lifted from her mind, the blank sense of nothingness dispersed, bhe wakes to find the necessity for restraint with- drawn, and (as she told Colonel Mordaunt) the old grief pressing her down so hardly, that she has no strength to cope with it. Mistress of herself, free to think, and act, and look as her heart dictates, she has leisure to con- template and dissect and analyze the haunting query, " Why ? " Why did Erie Keir seek her company — why ask her friendship — why intimate, if not assert, that he loved her ? Was the fault on her side ? Ilad she given him too much encouragement — been too pleased to meet him — talk to him, answer the tender ques- tioning of his eyes ? Or had he a design against her ? Was he really so cold-hearted, so shallow, so deceitful, as to affect a part to insure the empty triumph of winning her — for nothing. In fancy, with glowing cheek and bright feverish eyes, 8.ho traces again and again each scene in that sad eiii- sode of her existence, until she reaches the (Cul- minating point, and hears once more her mother's words, " lie means nothing by it all ; " and the glow dies out to be replaced by pallor. And then comes the last question of the an- guished spirit — the question that rises to so many white lips every day, " Why does Heaven permit such unnecessary pain ? Is there really a Father- heart up there above, beating for and with our own ? " I have said that this woman is no weak creature, ready to sink to the earth beneath tho first blow from Fate's mallet. Docs this phase of her character belie the assertion ? I think net. Strong bodies fight and struggle with the disease imder which weak frames succumb, and muscular souls wrestle with and writhe under an affliction which feeble souls may suffer but not feel. When Irene St. John had her mother to sup- I r 10 NO intentions; III, III '■ Hi port as well as herself, she stood upright and smiled ; now that tho incentive for action is with- drawn, she bends before tho tempest. Then she suffered more acutely ; now she suffers more con. tinuously ; but Scute suffering, with intervals of numbness, is more tolerable than continuous pain borne in monotony. There is nothing now to stir Irene up — to deaden the echo of the question re- verberating against the walls of her empty heart ; to blind her eyes mercifully to the fact that she has delivered herself over to a love that is not mutual; and that, do all she will, she can- not stamp tho accursed remembrance from her mind. She knows all this ; it is in black and white upon her soul ; she is lowered, degraded, contempt- ible in her own eyes, and life becomes more Intol- erable with each rising sun. It is May before Colonel Mordaunt dares to revert to the proposal he made Irene St. John in Brussels. He has written frequently to her ; he has seen her more than once, but there has been a quiet dignity about the girl which forbids him to break the compact entered on. He felt, with- out being told, that to do so would be to mar all his chances of success ; so he has only paid Mrs. Cavendish two or three ordinary visits, of- fered Irene two or three ordinary presents (which she has quietly rejected), and tried to wait patiently until the six months' probation agreed upon should be completed. When it is. Colonel Mordaunt feels as free to speak as he had felt bound before to hold his tongue ; now he knows that he will be listened to and answered. For Irene, among many other virtues, has no young- lady mannerisms about her, but is, in the best sense of the word, a Woman. It is a warm, soft afternoon in the latter part of May ; the little garden at Norwood is full of syringa and laburnum and lilac blossoms ; and the voices of the children playing at hide-and-seek among the bushes come pleasantly in at the opened windows. Mrs. Cavendish has left the house to call upon some friend, and Irene and Colonel Mordaunt are alone. " I hope you received your dividends all right this quarter," he commenced by saying ; for since her orphanhood he has taken sole charge of her small income. " Oh, yes ! thank you. I sent your check to tho bank, and there was no difficulty about the matter. Tou arc most punctual in your payments." " Will yon be as punctual, Irene? You lave not forgotten, have you — what you promised to give me in May?" The color mounts to her pure pale face, but she does not turn it from him. " Your answer ! Oh, no 1 how could I forget it ? Only I wish — I wish you could have guessed it, Colonel Mordaunt, without giving me the nnin of repeating what I said liefore." His countenance falls. " Are your feelings, then, quite tmcharged ? Have you no kindlier thoughts of me than you had then ? " " How could any thoughts be kindlier than they have been, or more grateful ? But kindly thoughts and gratitude are — are not lore, Colonel Mordaunt." " Then you are not yet cured of the old wound, Irene ? " The girl leans her cheek against the window- sill, and gazes with languid, heavy eyes into the open space beyond. "For God's sake, don't speak of it ! " But he continues : " Six months' reflection has not had the power to convince you that the most mortifying of all enterprises is the attempt to regain our influence over an errant heart." " I have never attempted to regain it," she exclaims, indignantly. " I would not take it were it offered me. I have done with the name and the thought of the thing, /o>'«rcr/ " She looks so beautiful — so strangely as she did of old, with the hot, anp'-y color rising and falling in her face, that he is more than ever eager to win her for himself. "Then, Irene! what are you waiting for? My home is open to you : why not accept it ? I am sure you are not happy here." " Oh, I am well enough I The children bored me at first ; but I am getting used to them, as I am to every thing else," with a deep sigh. " I cannot believe yon, Irene. You who have been accustomed, both during your father's and mother's lifetime, to be feted and amused^ and carried hither and thither ; you cannot be content- ed to spend your days in this small, dull cottage, with no better company than your aunt and her governess, and her overgrown boys. It cannot go on, my child ; it will kill you ! " " I am tougher than you think. I wish that I were not." " You are bearing up wonderfully, but you wiil break down at last. Come, Irene ! let me reason with you ! You acknowledged just now that all you dtsire is to forget this disappointment. # "i:^^.'i'.Aiiii**.i''.\i,i,. ■.L-i>V?:iisi>.:ii-.-L». .^'V-^'- THE FINAL APPEAL. 41 f the old wound, :. I wish ihat Why not try to forget it in my house as well us in tiiis?" Siie shuildcra — sliglitly — but he sees it. " Colonel Mordaunt 1 it is impossible ! " " I eivnnot ace the impo.'i.sibility. I know that yo>i are not in love with me, but I am content to be in love with .vou. I am content to make you mistress of my fortune and ray house, and every thing I possess, in return for yourself. It is a fair bargain — if you will but subscribe to it." " Oh ! it is not fair. You do not know what you are agreeing to — how terribly you might feel it afterward," " I am willing to take the risk." She hesitates a moment ; it is very sweet to a woman to feel she is loved so entirely, and reck- lessly, and devotedly, that her possession is the only one thing in this world that her lover ac- knowledges worth living for. It is sweet to be loved, even when we can give nothing in return. A selfish satisfaction that has no part nor lot in the first requirement of the divine passion — self- aljnegation ; but still it falls soothingly upon the wounded'spirit that has been rudely thrust from its legitimate resting-place. It ia not so sweet as loving, but it is the next best thing, and Irene feels gratitude and hesitation. After all — can any change make her posliion worse than it is now ? Colonel Mordaunt sees the hesitation and — forgets the shudder which preceded it ! " Irene ! my dearest girl ! think of what I say. You imagine that life is over for you ; that it can never have any charm again ; that ii will be all the same if you pass the remainder of it here, or anywhere ! Then come to me ! Fen Court, at the least, is as comfortable a home as Laburnum Cottage ; here you arc but a guest, there you will be a mistress : and have — may I not say it ? — as devoted a friend as any you will find in Norwood ? Will you not come ? " He pleads with as much earnestness as though he had been young ; his fine face lighted up as only love can light up a man's countenance, and his firm hands closed upon her own. The day is nearly won. It is on her very lips to answer ' yes,' wiien, from behind the garden-gates, comes the sound of that most irrepressible of acclimatiza- tions, the Italian organ, and the air it murders is that of the " Blue Danube " waltzes. " No ! — ^no ! " cries Irene, as both hands wrench themselves away from his, and go up with startling energy to shut out the maddening Ftrains ; " you must not — you shall not ask me that again. I have told you that it is impossi- ble I " and with that she leaves him to himself. Colonel Mordaunt is bitterly di-'nppointed : ho had made so sure, he can hardly say why, that this final appeal would be crowned with success, that the girl's determinate refusal conu's on him like a great blow. lie can hardly believe that ho will really lose her — that she will not return and tell him it was a mistake ; and in that belief ho still lingers about the cottage — futilely. Mrs. Cavendish returns and begs him to re- main to tea, but he declines, with thanks. The opportunity for speaking to Irene by herself is over, and he is not likely to derive any further benefit from seeing her in the presence of the governess and children. So he returns to his hotel for the night, not having quite made up his mind whether he shall bid the inmates of the cot- tage a formal farewell upon the morrow, or slip back to Leicestershire as he had come from it — unnoticed. With the morning, however he finds his courage has evaporated, and that he cannot leave Norwood without at least looking in hep fair face again. So, after having made a pretence of eating breakfast, the poor old gentleman (all the poorer for being old, and feeling his age at this moment more acutely than any youngster can imagine for him) strolls up to Laburnum Cottage, and enters at the wicket-gatc. The lawn is covered with children, playing croquet with their governess and mother, who nods to hii'i as he enter.s, with an inclination of her head toward the open door. " Irene is in the school-rc ," she says, gayly. But Irene is not in the school-room ; she has seen him enter, and comes to meet him in the narrow passage, clad in a soft muslin robe of white and black : the shape and folds and general appear- ance of which he ever afterward remembers. " Colonel Mordaunt," she says, hurriedly, with heightened color, and trembling, parted lips, " were you sincere in what you told me yesterday, that you would take me for your wife, just as I am, without one particle of love in me, except for a shameful memory ? " " Irene, you know I was ! " " Then, take me ! " she answers, as she sub- mits to the arms that arc thrown about her, and _ the lips that are laid upon her own, Women arc prpblems : cda ra sans dire ; though why the problems should remain insoluble is, perhaps, less due to their intricacy than the muddle-heads who strive to fathom them by be- ginning at the wrong end. I don't know what reason Colonel Mordaunt may arsigi to this a^*- As^:^;' j\j;:^'. 12 "NO INTENTIONS." a ' ■ ''i ,;i 'i '' ' '.) ' i M ■' ' ''ff \ ;>: ■ 'll f I ' '; i' U ' 1 i 1 parently Buildcn change in Irene f?t. John's senti- ments ; perha|)s he attributes it to the cd'eet uf deliberution — more lilccly to the irresislibilitv of liis own pleading ; but anyway ho is quite satis- fied with the result. Mrs. Caveiulish is not in the least surprised, but thinks it the very best thing her niece could do; and the governess and children become quite excited at the prospect of a wedding. No one is surprised, indeed, after the lapse of half nn hour, unless it bo Irene herself; and even she, once reconciled to the idea, tells her own heart that it is fute, and she might have guessed that it would end so, all along. Perhaps I have even failed in surprising my reader ! Yet there had been an impetus, and u very strong one, given to Irene St. John's will that day. The impetus came in a letter bearing the the post-mark of Berwick, where Mrs. Cavendish's daughter Mary was staying with some friends, and which letter her mother had read aloud for the benefit of the breakfast-table : " AVe were at such a grand party last week " (so part of Mary's innocent communication ran) " at Lord Norham's. I wore my blue silk, with the pearl ornaments you lent me, tnd they were so much admired. lord Muiraven (Lord Nor- ham's eldest son) was there, and Mr. Keir. Lord M. danced twice with me, but his brother never even spoke to mc, which I thought rather rude. However, he is engaged to be married to a Miss Robertson, such a pretty girl, and had no eyes for any one else. They danced together all the evening. Mr. Keir is considered handsome, but I like Lord Muiraven best." "Very complimentary to Mary, I'm sure," remarked the gratified mother, us she refolded the letter. — "My dear Irene, I wis'n you would just reach mc down the 'Peerage.' What a thing it would be if Lord Muiraven took a fancy to the girl ! " Voild iotU. Irene St. John hav'.ng once made up her mind to accept Colonel Mordaunt's offer, puts no obstacle in the way of an early marriage; on the contrary, she appears almost feverishly anxious that the matter should be settled and done with as soon as possible ; and, as they have none to consult but themselves, and her will is law, the wedding is fi*^ ,J to take place during the suc- ceeding mor h. All that she stipulates for is that it shall be pcricctly private. She believes she has strength to go through all that is before her, but IJJ^L- she Avould prefer not testing that strength in public ; and her first consideration now is for the feelings of her future husband, that they mny never be hurt by some weak betroyal of her own. So all the necessary preparations arc expeditiou.s- ly but quietly made, and when the morning itself arrives (a lovely morning in June, just twelve months after poor Mrs. St, John held that trying interview with Eric Keir, in Brook Street), there are not above a dozen urchins, two nursery-maida with ptirambulators, and a stray baker-boy, hang, ing about the wicket of Laburnum Cottage to sec the bride step into her carriage. The paucity of Irene's male relations has made it rather difficult to find any one to stand in the position of a father to her on this occasion ; but her uncle, Mr. Camp- bell, takes that responsibility on himself, and has the honor of sharing her equipage. Mr. Campbell is accompanied to Norwood by his wife and two eldest daughters, who, with Mary and Emily Cavcuuish, form Irene's modest troupe of bridesmaids ; and Miss Mordaunt (to whom her brother, finding all persuasion unavailing, was forced to send a peremptory order to put in an appearance at the wedding) is also present. She arrived the day before, and up to the moment of going to church has resisted all Irenc'd endeavors to make acquaintance with her, by en- treaties that she will not trouble herself on her account — that she will take no notice of her — that she will leave her to do as best she can by herself, until the girl inclines to belief that her new sister-in-law is most antagonistic both to the marriage and herself; and little dreams that Isabella Mordaunt's eyes have opened on a ne\r world at the sight of her beauty, and are ready to shed tears at the slightest demonstration of in- terest on her part. Yet she is too miserably shy and reserved to show it. There is little time, however, for Irene to think of that just now, or of any thing except the matters in hand, through all o' which she con- ducts herself with great dignity and sweetness. Colonel Mordaunt naturally thinks there never was a lovelier or more graceful bride, and most of those who see her think the same ; but Irene's outward comportment is the least noble thing about her that day. It cannot but be a day of bitter recollection to her ; but she will not show it. She will not mar the value of the gift which she has freely given by letting the receiver see how little worth it is to herself. She goes through the religious ceremony in simple faith that she will be enabled to keep the promises she makes ; and then she mixes in the little fcs- LORD NORHAM AND UIS BOYS. 43 cr, for Irene to thing except the which she con- and sweetness, hinks there never bride, and most ame ; but Irene's .east noble thing but be a day of she will not show of the gift which the receiver see rself. She goes y in simple faith eep the promises in the little fca- llvity that follows with as much gnyety as is con- tistcnt with tlie occasion. Colonel Mordaunt is enchanted with her every look and word and action ; the old man hardly knows whether he is standing on his head or hia lieuls ; he is wr.nppcd up in the present, and 1ms ([iiito forgotten nil that went before it. Even whin he finds himself alone with his young wife in the railway-carriage, speeding fast to Wey- inoutli, where thoy/are to spend their honey-moon, the vision is not dispelled. It is true that he throws his arm rather awkwardly about her slcn- tlor figure, and kisses her for the first time as u liMs)>and, with more timidity than he would have sliown had he been twenty-five years younger, IJiit Irene's quiet, affectionate manners reassure him. She appears to take such an interest in all that is going on around them, and talks so nat- urally of what they shall do and sec at Weymouth, and of the pleasant autumn they shall spend to- gether at Fen Court, that his passing trepidation lust the girl should after all regret the decision sho had made is soon dispelled ; and, what is Ijctter, the days that follow bring no cloud with thiMn to lessen his tranquillity. For Irene is not a woman to marry a man and then worry him to the grave by her sentimental grief for another ; slif has chosen her present lot, and she intends to make it as happy a lot as lies in her power. Slic is of too honorable and upright a nature to make a fellow-creature pay the debt of her own iiiisCortune, and especially a fellow-creature who is doing every *hing in his power to make her happy. And, added to this, she is too wise to call in a doctor and not follow his prescriptions. She has married Colonel Mordaunt as a refuge from herself; she never denies the truth even to licr own heart ; and if she is still to sit down and pine to death for love of Eric Keir, where was the necessity for action which her strong will brought to bear upon her feebler nature ? She may break down hereafter ; but Irene Mordaunt commences her march upon the path of married life bravely. She not only strives to be pleased — she is pleased with all that her husband does for her — [ with the numerous presents he lays at her feet, the pleasant excursions he devises, the thought- j ful care he shows for her comfort. She repays it all with gratitude and affection. Tea — Colo- I nel Mordaunt has done well in confiding his hon- or and happiness to Irene's keeping ! About the same date, in that same month of I June, a jolly, genial-hearted old man, commonly known as tlie Karl of Xorliani, is seated in the library of Berwick Castle, in lier majesty's " loyal and worshipful borough of Berwick." Lord Norhiim does not carry out in the faintest degree the idea of a lord, as usually depicted by the liented imaginations of the young and the unini- tiated. His appearance alone would be sufliciont to put to flight all the dreuins of " sweet seven- teen," or th ambitious cravings of a niatunir age. lie is a tall, stout man, of about fiveand- sixty, with a smiling red face, a bushy head of <:ray hair, and "mutton-chop" wliiskers just one sliade darker; and ho is dressed in black-and- white checked trousers, of decidedly country make; a white waistcoat, with the old-fasliioued stock surmounting it ; and a brown hollaud cuat. the windows of the library are all open to the air, anil Lord Norham is not warndy nttirei!, yet ho sitnjs much oppressed by tlie weather ; and to sue liini lay down his pen every two minutes (he is writing letters for the mid-duy post) and mop Ids heated face round and r^und witli a yellow- and-red silk handkerchief until it shines again, you would be ready to swear he was a jolly, welU to-do farmer, who had every reason to be satisfied with his crops and his dinner-table. In effect, Lord Norham is all you would imagine him to be ; for agriculture is his hobby, aud ho allows no accidents to disturb his peace. But he i» something much better into the bargain — a true nobleman, and the fondest father in tlic United Kingdom. lie lost his wife at a very early stage of tlieir married life, and ho has never thought of marrying again, but devoted his life to the children she left behind her. There are only those three, Robert, Lord Muiraven, and his brothers Eric and Cecil ; and when their mother died the eldest was just four years old. Then it was that all the latent worth and nobility of Lord Norham's character came forth. His friends had rated him before at a very ordinary standard, knowing him to be an excellent landlord and an indulgent husband, and crediting him with as much good sense as his position in life required, and a strict belief in the Thirtj'-nine Articles. But from that date they saw the man as he really was — from that moment, when he knew himself to be Viidowed and desolate, and his unfoitunato little ones left without a mother at the very time they wanted her most, he took a solemn oath never to place the happiness of her children at the mercy of another woman's caprice, but to bo to them, as far as in him lay, father and mother both. The man must have had a heart as wide as a woman's to arrive at such a conclusion, and w .0!'(iilile. " Where, my dear boy, wlicre 1 " denmmls Lord Norliam, running his eyes up and down tlic page. " There, dad — the top marriage. ' At .'•I. •Tolin's Cliurcli, Norwood, I'liilip Mordaimt, Es(i„ of Fen Court, Leicestershire, lieutenant-culond in II. M. Regt, 155111 Hoyal Greens, to Irene, only child of tlie late Thomas St. .Tolin, Esq., of Broolj Street, W." Don't you know who that is? Erie's spoon, that he was so hot after last season. He'll be awfully cut up wlien he reads this, I know." "ii'r/c'» spoon, dear boy!" exeiaiius LoiJ Norliam, who is quite at a loss to understand iIjc mysterious allusion. " Yes ! — the woman he was spooney on, I mean. Why, every one thought it was a settled thing, for he was always at the house. But I suppose she wouldn't have him — which quite ai'- counts for the poor fellow's dumps all last au- tumn. Eric was awfully slow last autumn, you know, fother — he didn't seem to care for hunting or shooting, or doing any thing in company. I said at the time I was sure the girl had jilted him : and so she has, plain enough ! " " My dear boy, tliis is a perfect revelation to me ! " exclaims Lord Norliam, pushing liis glasses on to his forehead, and wheeling round his chair to confront his son. " Eric in love ! I had not the least idea of it." " Hadn't you ? He was close enough with us, of course : but I made sure he would have told you. Oh, these things must happen, you know, dad ; there's no help for them." " And this girl — this Miss St. John, or who- ever she is — refused your brother, you say ? " " No, I didn't say that, father. I know noth- ing for certain — it was only suppositivn on my part ; but, putting this and that together, it looks like it — doesn't it, now ? " Cecil is smiling with the carelessness of youth to pain ; but Lord Norham is looking grave — his heart wretched at the idea of one of his cherished " boys " having been so slighted. It is true tliat he had heard nothing of this little episode in Eric's life ; for when he goes up to town, a very rai t occurrence, ho seldom stays for more than a few weeks at a time, and never mixes in any lighter dissipation than an evening in the House to hear some of his old friends speak (Lord Norham v<-as for many years a member of Parliament himself)) THE MARRIAGE AXXOUN'CEMEXT. 45 or a heavy puliticul dinner whoio no luJics are ailniiUi'il. It ii all new.s to him, and very unploasunt iie««. It eniiblu!) Liiii to aueount for several tiling* ill Eric's behavior whieli have j)uzzled liiui before ; but it shoeku him to think that hia boy sliould have been sull'eriiit', and HuH'ering alone— hlioekH him almost as much as though ho liad been his motlicr instead of his father — and uU liis thoughts go out immediately to the best means of eouveying hiui eomfort. " Cecil, my dear ! " (the old man constantly makes strangers smile to hour him address these stalwart young men, with beards upon their chins, as ihougli they were still children), " don't say any tiling about this to your brother, will you ? He will hear it fast enough ; ill news travels iipace." " Oh ! he's seen it, father; at least, I suspect he's seen it, for he was studying the paper for an hour before I got it. I only took it up when he laid it down." " And where is he now ? " demands Lord Xurham, quickly. It would be exaggeration per- haps to assert that ho has immediate visions of liis beloved Eric sticking head downward in the muddiest part of the lake, but, had his imagina- tion thus run riot, he could scarcely have asked tiie question with more anxiety. " In his room, I think ; I haven't seen him since. By-the-way, dad, I shall run up to town again to-morrow. Eric says he has had enough of it ; but Muiraven and I have engagements three weeks deep. You can't bo up again this season, I suppose ? " '• I don't think so, dear boy, unless it should be for a week before the House breaks up. And so Eric is not going back again, though it nmst be very dull for him here, I am afraid." " Precious slow, isn't It, now the Robertsons are gone ? " " You'll stay with them, I suppose, Cecil ? '' " Well, I don't think so. They've asked me, but I'd rather put up with Bob, It's all very well being engaged, you know, father, when you are sitting on a sofa together in a room by your- selves ; but it takes all the gilt off the ginger- bread for me to be trotted out before a few friends as Harriet's ' young man.' Bliss is oidy procur- able in solitude or a crowd. Besides, a nine o'clock breakfast, and no latch-key, doesn't agree with my notions of the season." "It ought to agree with your notions of being engaged, you young rip ! " says his father, laugh- ing. " No, it doesn't I No woman shall ever keep me in leading-strings, married or single. I mean to have my liberty all my life. And if Harriet doesn't like it, why, she may lump it, or take up with some one else ; that's what I tell her ! " " The principles of the nineteenth ci-ntury ! " cries Lord Norham. " Well ! I think shi-'d be a fold to change you, Cecil, whatever conditions you may choose to make." "Of course yon think po, dad. However, if my lady wants to keep me in town this weather, she'll have to make herself very agreeable. Per- fect sin to leave this place for bricks and mortur, isn't it ? " " It seems a pity ; just as the hay is coming on, too. I shall persuade Eric to ride over to the moors with me, and see what the grouse pros- pects are looking like this year." " Yes ! do, father. That'll stir up the poor old boy. IIullo ! there's Muiraven beckoning to me across the lawn. We're going to blood the bay filly. Slie's been looking very queer the lust few days, Hope it's not glanders. — All right ! " with a shout ; " I'll come ! " and, leaping through the open window, Lord Norham's youngest hope joins his brother, while the old man gazes after his sons until they disappear, with eyes over- brimming with proud affection. Tlien he rises and goes in search of his stricken Eric, with much the same sort of feeling with which a woman rushes to the side of a beloved daughter as soon as she hears she is in trouble. Eric IS in his bedroom — a large, handsune apartment, flicing the park — and he is sitting at the toilet-table without any apparent design, .gaz- ing at the thick foliage below, and the fallow-deer that are clustered on the grass beneath it. He jumps up as soon as his father enters, however, and begins to whistle loudly, and to run his fingers through his hair before the glass, as though his sole object in going there had been to beautify himself. " Well, dad ! " he says, cheerfully. " Well, my dear boy !" replies Lord Norham, with a vain attempt to conceal his anxiety ; " what arc you going to do with yourself this fine morning ? " " I'm sure I don't know. Ride, I suppose, or read, or yawn the time away. Where arc the others ? " " Gone to the siablcs to physic the bay filly. Have you seen the papers, Eric ? " A slight change passes over his countenance — -just a quiver of the muscles, nothing more : but the father's eye detects it. E 40 "NO INTENTIONS." i it' H f 'if I! " Yf», tliankrtl — oh, jott! I'vo scon them! No ncwH, as* UHiial. There never U any news nown- daj!<." " Iliive you HC'-'H llic Tunn, my dear boy ? " " Y.'M." *' Wliiit ! tlio udvi'ili»uini.'nt slui-t — tlie inur- rloges V " " Ye.s ! why do you iisk inc ? " " Ilt'CuuHO I tliought — I imagined — tht'i'e was ail aiiiiouiiceiiient tlicro that would interest you — tliat wouhl bo news: in fuet, bad news." " Wlio said so ? " demands Erie Keir, turning round to eonfront his father. lie is very pule, and there id a Iiard loolc about tlio lines of liis face wliieli was not there yesterday; otherwise, lie Seems liimself and quite collected. But Lord Norhara will not betray Cecil: he never sets one child against the other by letting him suppose that his brothers speak of him be- hind his back ; that is one reason why the young men arc mutually so fond of one another and of him. " I imagined so, my dear boy, that's all. Your little pcHcfuxnt oi last season was no secret, you know, and, reading \"hat I do to-day, I naturally thought—" " You are speaking of Miss St. John's mar- riage, father, I suppose. But why should that cut mc up ? Wc were very good friends before her mother died, and all that sort of thing, but — " "But nothing more! You didn't care for her, Kric ? " " My dear old dad, you arc not going to advo- cate my caring for another man's wife, are you ? Of course I liked her — every one liked her: she was awfully pretty and jolly, and disliiijuecAook- ing ; and if she's only half as nice as Mrs. Mor- aunt as she was as Miss St. John, I shall say that — that — Mordaunt, whoever he may be, is a very lucky fellow." And hero Eric whistles more fero- ciously than before. " It is such a relief to hear you speak in tliis strain about it, my dear boy," replies Lord Nor- ham, who has seated himself in an arm-chair by the open window ; " do you know, Eric, from the rumors that have reached me, I was almost afraid — almost afraid, you know, my dear, that you might have been led on to propose in that quar- ter. You didn't propose to her, did you, Eric ? " "No, dad 1 I didn't propose to her !" replies the young man, stoutly. " Then why did you break off the intimacy so suddenly ? You used to be very intimate indeed with the St. Johns last season." " What a jolly old inquisitor you would have niailc, father, ami how you woulil have cnjovid jiutting the thumb-screw on a fi'llow 1 >Vhy diij 1 break ofTthe Infimacy so suddenly ? — well, I diiiiji break it otf. .MrH. Ht. John thought I was iIhk too often, and told me so, and 1 HhctTcil oil" ji; coiisequeneo. Al'terwurd they went abioad, ainl the poor old lady died, and I have not seen tli' young one since. That's the whole truth." " And you didn't like the giil well enoiigli tu marry her, then ? " A cloud, palpable to the dullest eye, ob.'*euri i for a moment all the forced gayety of his exprc . sion. " My dear father ! I don't want to marry any one." " That is what puzzles me, Eric. \Vhy shouldn't you want it ? " " There's a lot of time, i^n't there ? You don't expect a fellow to tie himself down for life at live- and-twenty ? " " No ; but it is unnatural for a young man to avoid female society as you do. It can't be bo- cause you dislike it, my dear boy." "I have no particular taste for it." " But why ? they don't snub you, do they ? I should think you could do pretty much as ynu like with the women, eh, Eric ? " with a glance ol pride that speaks volumes. "I never try, dad. I am very luij.py n^ I am." " My dear boy I that is what convincc-s n;e that there is something more the matter than yu choose to confess. If every thing was right, yoi; wouldn't bo happy as you arc. Look at your brothers I Here's Cecil engaged already." " Poor devil I " interpolates Eric. "And Muiravcn doing his best to be fo; although I don't think he's quite such a favoiite with the girls as his brother. I'm sure I don't know why, or what they can possibly want more, for you would scarcely meet a finer young mau from here to John O'Groat's than Muiravcn is." Eiic, recalling Muiraven's thick-set figure, round, rosy face (he takes after the carl), and red- dish hair, cannot forbear smiling. " lie's an out-and-out good fellow, dad, but he's no beauty." " He's a different style to yourself, I allow ; but he's a very good-looking young man. How- ever, that doesn't alter circum.stanees. If he doesn't marry, it is all the more incumbent on you to think of doing so." " I shall never marry, father," says Eric, un- easily ; " you must put that idea out of your head at once." THE HONEYMOON'. 47 lilt to luarry nnv WhvBhouldn'i eiy happy an I fellow, dad, but " There, again, that'* iiiinaturiil, anil thoro mint be a roiison for it. You arc graver, too, tliun vour yours, Eric, and you oftt-u Imvo lit* of (li'spondeiicy ; and I have tiiouglit, my dear (you'll for^jivo your old father for nieiitlonlnn It), that voii must have encountered some little disappoint- ineiit early in life, say in your collei,'«>.(, wliieh littM had a great elVuet upon your character. Am I risht ? " " How eloHcIy you must have watched me ! " replies the son, evasively. " Whom have I in tlic world t j interest me except you and your lirothers ? You are part of myself, ray dear hoy. Your pleasures nro my pleasures, and your griefs heeorao my griefs. I have passed many a restless nitrht thinking of you, Eric ! " " Dear old dad ! " says Erie, laying his hand on his father's shoulder, and looking him affec- tionately in the face, "I am not worth so much trouble on your part — indeed I am not." " Oil t now I feel inclined to (piarrel with you," say f Lord Norham ; " the iilea of your talking such nonsense! Why, child, if it were for no otlior reason, it would be for this, tliat every time you look at me as you did just now, your sweet mother seems to rise from her grave and gaze at me through your eyes. Ah ! my poor Grace 1 if fhc had liveil, her boys would have had some one to whom they felt they could open their heart, instead of closing them up and bearing their troubles by themselves." "Father don't say that!" exclaims Eric, ear- nestly. " If I had had twenty mothers, I couldn't have confided in them more than I do in you, nor loved them more. But you are too good for me, and expect too great things of mo, and I shall end by being a disappointment, after all. That is my fear." " I can never bo disappointed while you and your brothers are happy ; but how can I remedy an evil of which I must not hear ? " " You will harp on that idea of my having come to grief," says Eric, testily. " Because I believe it to be true. I would never try to force your confidence, dear boy ; but it would be a great comfort to know you had no secrets from me." The young man has a struggle with himself, flushes, and then runs on hurriedly. " Well, then, if it will give you any pleasure, I will tell you. I have had a trouble of the kind you mention, and I find it hard to throw it olT, and I should very much like to leave England again for a short time. Perhaps, after all, it is better you should know tlic truth, father, and then you will bo able to account for the restlessness of my dls- position." "My poor boy!" says Lord Norhanv, ob- straelcdly. Hut Eric doesn't care about being pitieil. "What about tlie traveling, dad? Charley Holmes is going In for his county next election, and wants me to run over to America with him for u spell first. It's nothing of a journey nowa- days, and I could come liaek whenever you wanted me. Sliall I say I'll go ? " " Go, my dear ? Yes, of course, if it'll givo you iiiiv pleasure ; only take care of yourself, and come back cured." "Xo fear of tliat," he replies, laughing; "in fact, it's half doni; already. We eau't go through life without any sc"atehes, fither." " No, my boy, no ! and they're necessary, too — they're necessary. Make what arrangements you like about Atnerica, Eric; fix your own time and your own destination, only make up your mind to enjoy yourself, and to come back cured, my boy — to come back cured." Lord Norham is about to leave tlie room as ho chuckles over the last words, but suddenly ho turns and comes back again. " I have suffered, my dear,"' ho says, gently ; " I know what it is." The young man grasps the hand extcnd-jd ; squeezes it as thougli it were in a vice, and wAka away to the open window. His father pats him softly on the back, passes his hiind once fondly over his hair, and leaves him to himself. And this is the parent from whom he has concealed the darkest secret of his life ! " " Oh, if I eoitlil but tell him ! " groans Eric ; " if I only could make up my mind to tell him, how much happier I should be. — Irene ! Irene ! you have doubled the gulf between us ! " He docs not weep ; he has grown too old for tears ; but he stands at the window, suffering tlic tortures of hell, until the loud clanging of the luncheon-bell draws him back unwillingly in- to the world again. i' i"- CU.VPTER v. It is on a glorious July afternoon that Colonel Mordaunt brings his wife to Fen Court. There is no railway-station within ten miles of Priestley, ■^:'i:.M. 48 "NO INTKNTI0N8." but an open cuniugc muutri tlii-tii un arrival at thu nuarcitt tu\YM, aus in wlilclt tliu hranihk'-flowcr iinil tlio woodliii.o liavu Joiiioil U.siic to piiil till! »ilil-roiv:i and thu |iiu'[ilc ni^lit- chadi' ti) tlic uniiinil, Iit'ne i.'X|>urii'ni.'i'it u M'n.si; ul' Hilcnt calm wliicli niukcH her believe that hIiu hits at last brousled Hia'Ci'ssfnlly tho blllowH of lil'o, ami i'niL'i');u(l thcni'i! with thu gruutust good tlii.s world atVordH \u in Iwv hand — t'ontcntinuiit ! Tlu-y have had a long and luiliou!) journey from Wcyiiiouth ; tliu 8un hii4 been inconveniently warm, and tho railwuy-cttrriugcH lilled with dust, and even good- natured people might bu excused from feeling a little pcevlHli or Impatient by the close of day ; but Irene and Colonel Mordaunt seem admirably fitted to get on together. Sh" Id all gentle ucquieseenee to any thing he may propoHo (gratitude and in- differeneu being the principal ingredientd in Biib- miasion), and ho U devoted to hid young wife, and has spent his tiiuo hitherto iu anticipating her wishes, but in a manner so unobtrusive as to have rendered even the honey-moon agreeable to her. Tor, whatever may bo the general opinion to tho contrary, tho honey-moon is not always the hap- piest part of married life ; indeed there are few instances of it in which both husband and wife are not secretly pleased when it is drawing to a close. Brides who aro worshiped as divinities during the first week are apt to become exigeanka during the lust three, and bridegrooms are some- times forced to confess tlie melancholy truth that " the full soul loatheth the honey-comb." I have known a seven days' wife cry uU the afternoon because her husband went to sleep on the sofa ; and a freshly-made Benedict plead law, sickness, business, ony thing, in order to procure a run up to town during tho fatal moon, and a few hours' cessation from thu continuous tax laid on his patience, gallantry, and temper. Mony a married life that has ended in misery might have flowed on evenly enough had it not been for the injury done to a woman's character during that month of blandishments and folly. It requires a strong mind to accept at their true worth all the non- sense a man talks and all the foolish actions of which he is guilty during those first rapturous moments of possession — and women, as a rule, ore not strong-minded. All the hyperbole of passion, which until then they have only heard in furtive lovers' whispers, is now poured out boldly at their feet, and the geese imagine it to be a epecimen or a promise of what their future life eholl be. A fortnight sees tho ardor cooled ; in « month it has evaporated, and thenceforth thev are Judged, not a« goddesdcK, but women. Ibiw fuw Fitand thu text and can Htep down gracefully from the pedestal oil which they have been uii. natuially exalted to thu level of their husbandt' hearts, let thu lives of our married ac(piuintani'i'< answer for us. Hut whether it would |iruvent tin final icsuu or not, it is nevertheless true that tlii; happiness of many a man and woman would iint come CO ipiiekly to a close, weru the latter trealiil with a littlu more discretion during the honey- moon, As husbands intend to go on, so shoiiM they begin. A woman is a Hus|iicluus animal; her expcriencu is small, her views are narrow, livr range of sight limited ; and more nun have been whined, and teased, and irritated out of their lovi than Btoriiied out of it. Tliere is no more miser nlile mlnlaku in lifu than to attempt to warm up;i fading passion: rii-hauffit are never worth mudi, but this Hlyle of fiximuffi pays the worst of uii. If wives would be reasonable, they will tako all that is olTcred them ; but iiever stoop to extract an unwilling avowal of alTeclion, which will burn none the brighter for being dragged to the light oi day. A little happy inditl'erence is the best possible medicine for a drooping love ; und the injunction to "leave them alone and they'll come home," holds as good with men as with the flock uf IJo-perp. Irene Morduiint bills fai" to keep hir husband's devotion in a healthy c 'm by this means. Her manner toward him voet and gentle as it can be, but it naturally possesses nu ardor ; and this want of passion on her part is just sutlleient to keep his middle-aged flame burning very brightly, without giving liim any anxiety on account of hers. He would have preferred, like other men, to make a fool of himself during the honey -moon (and the adage that " there is no fool like an old fool " 'i:old3 truer iu love than any other feeling), but something in Irene's quiet and sensible manner has forbidden it, and compelled him to treat her as if they had been married for several years. And yet she is not cold to him — she docs not repulse his attentions nor refuse to acknowledge them ; on the contrary, as they commence their drive to Priestley, and he wraps a shawl about her feet, and makes her put them upon tho oppo- site seat, the smile with which she thanks him would be sufTicient to put a younger man " off his head." " How beautiful the country is ! " she says, m they pass fields of clean-shorn sheep, and rosy children bobbing courtesies by the cottage-gates, and wagons of late-gathered hay breathing " odors of Araby" as they crawl by ; " how sweet ■Ml.. TUB COLOXEL AND IIH WIFE AT IIOMK. •10 t women. IIuw (liiwii KruvL'fiilljr liiivo bi'on un- thuir liusliuii'la' 1 nciiuaiutuiK'i't iiild (iruvcnt ilu ^A tiiiu that Ik' uimiii wuiiUl ii»i hu latter tnatxl I'illjj tlio hoiirv- {() on, Bu kIiouIiI 4piuluu!t nniiiiul; I urc narrow, hir > nun liavu bi'iii out uf thuir luvi. I no nioru uiii-ii' ipl to warm u|i ;i vcr wortli imirli, tliu worst of itil. \wy will tuko all Btoo|) to I'Xtna't wliifli will burn [;Hod to the Unlit unco id till! bt*t \^ love ; and the and they'll eonie with the lluek of ful" to keep litr <•■ ')n by this II voet anil i.\i) poascsdcs m on her part is iddle-aHed flanie giving him aii}' ;e other men, to honey-moon (and ke an old fool " her feeling), but sensible manner him to treat her )v several years. n — slio docs not to acknowledge commence their a shawl about upon the oppo- she thanks him ;cr man " off Lis s ! " she says, «» sheep, and rosy lie cottage-gates, hay breathing jy ; " liow sweet tnd clean cvory thing look* and NmelU I I'lillip, I lou;( to iteu I lie gLii'den ; I itiii no fond of llowur.'t. Do you reiiiembir tho lovely bou'iuetii yl I proinlHo that I won't turn up my node ut the tlrdt liouipiet you give mo from Fen Court." " Vou slmll have a beauty tho very first thing ill the morning. I liope the garden will be in good m-jur — I have given Hullleienl dir.'ctions on the subject." " Doesn't Isabella care for (lowers ? " " Not much, I think. She is a strange creat- ure in some of lier ways. I sometimes wonder, darling, how you and fhe will get on with one another." " Why, admirably, of course — I meuu to get on with her." Colonel Mordaunt turns round and gazes at his wife adoringly. " You are too good ! " he says ; " Irene t if I don't make you happy, may God's jndgmeni — " "Hush! hush!" she interrupts him quickly, "pray don't say that, you make mo feel so small." But see how much less than a woman she would have been not to care for him, who had I taken her to his arms, despite his knowledge of her outraged affections, and treated her as though I she had flown to them of her own accord. She does not love him, this gallant gentleman I who almost worships her, but she is very grateful and almost happy, and bids fair to make a model I wife and mistress. As the carriage reaches the I entrance to Fen Court, and rolls up the broad [drive through tho shrubbery, she becomes quite I excited in her admiration. " Is this ourt — really ? " slio exclaims, inquir- |ingly. " It is i/onrx, my own darling, every inch of |it!" replies her husband. " Philip ! " and in her delight and surprise Ishc turns and kisses him, for the first time of her I own accord. Colonel Mordaunt flushes up to his eyes with gratilleation, and IhU trilling episodo Iim tho power to dispel much of the nervousness with which he h:is looked forw.ird to iiitroilucing hiit wife to Fin t'ourt. " ileru wo are, at hint!" he rsil.iims, .is iho carriage Mtops lutore the bold porcli, and a couple of men-Nervants appear upon the door-step. " 'uiiip down, my ilurling ; Isabcll.i is sure to be waiting for you, and you iiiiiflt bo tired to death with this long drive." " I um not at all tir.'d," is h.T rejoinder ; "and I mean to see every bit of tlie garden beforo I go to bed to-night." Miss Mordaunt is wailing for thiin in the hall. " Oh, my dear Mrs. Mordaunt ! I came— I thought, perhaps — I didn't know — " " Did you not cipect us so soon y " replie.H Irene, stooping to kiss her sister-in-law. " I think wo fuu'c come rather quickly." " l^uickly ! " echoes Colonel Mordaunt, who is close upon her lieels ; " why, we have been hours on the road. What time Lave you oidered din- ner, Isabella ? " " At seven — at least I believo at seven — but if you would rather not — " " The sooner tho better,'' says her brother ; "seven will do admirably. And now if you will take IreiK' •[> to her bedroom and help her otf with her things, I think Jt\f,q will be obliged to you. — You wor 't dress to-night, darling f" "Oh, nol Philip; only take the dust off. What a wide staircase, and such pretty carpets ! Oh, is this my room ? it is beautiful. IIow nico and fresh it looks. And blue, too ! I wonder who chose blue ? it is my favorite color." " It was my brother who ordered it to bo re- furnished with this color. Can I help you off with your bonnet, Mrs. Mordaunt? or perhaps — if you had rather bo alone — if I had better go — " " Oh, no ! don't go! I shall bo ready directly. But why do you not call me by my Christian name ? Surely we are not to be ' Miss' and ' Mrs.' to one another ! " " If you wish it — of course — but I shouldn't have thought — " Miss Mordauiit's deprecating manner is already casting a chill over Irene's com- ing home. " Since we are to be sisters, I think it should bo so," she answers, with a glance of scrutiny at her companion ; but she is not so eager in her manner of addressing her again, and it is a relief to hear her husband's voice asking for admit- tanco. " Have you every thing you want — are you quite comfortable ? — Isabella, where is Mrs. Que- ■m f S"|] (m il !. if. or hand, would place the sexes, in this matti'i', on a level ; and while nuieh needless misery would be spared to the one, a large amount of comfort would accrue to the other; for, of all persons with whom to shun intercourse in this life, give me the flabby thing which calls itself a woman who has had "a disappointment''' — as though there were no disappointment in the world l)ut that which springs from love turned sour with adversity, like small-beer by thunder. Irene has never been a woman utterly without a purpose. In her early girlhood, and before she experienced any necessity to gamble with life for forgetfulness, she was accustomed to look ujjan each day in which she had done nothing as a day to be regretted. She used to read much at that time, not desultorily, but on a fixed plan ; and she would allow no pleasure, however tempting, to lure her from her self-imposed task until it was accomplished. She took a very uright interest in polities ; in the projects of improving the condi- tion of the nation at large, and all new discoveries whether in art, science, or Nature ; attempted, also, as most able minds do, to put down her thoughts on all these things in writing, but was quite satisfied with the ample variety of mental food which ancient and modern literature placed before her, and never had the least desire to cram her own ideas down the throiits of others. In fine, until the unfortunate moment arrived in which she met Erie Keir, Irene was a happy, help- ful, mattor-of-fact wonuin ; and though the two blows which she received so close together did for a wliile crush life's purpose out of her and blur her vision of a noble and elevated future, it is all coming back to her now as she finds herself mis- tress of Fen Court, and the mists that obscured her duty are clearing away from before her eyep. To make her husband's house what it should bo (and what Colonel Mordaunt has already deplored, in her hearing, that it is not), one of the best-ap- pointed and pleasantcst houses in the county ; to render herself an agreeable, favorite hostess ; to be the ruler of his household, thfl friend of liis tenants, and the benefactor of the poor who are dependent on him — this is the path which she has chalked out for herself, and in which she is reso- lute to walk. Some women think it beneath them to make their husband's homes comfortable. They want to deliver lectures like Emily Faith- ;^i^ »',.:»_. ..L-'i ^iiAvi'iikil.- ;v...^.Jfc. 52 "NO INTENTIONS." 'i h; ■ ^ ;U ^ar %<^' \M I'*^: full, or write books like Misi. Riddell, or compose songs like Eliziibcth Philip, or play Juliet like Mrs. Scott Siddons ; and if they are not permitted to labor through the medium of the stage, the platform, or the press, their mission is wrested from them : there is nothing m' to live for. Irene Mordau'it knows bi.ier. She knows that if genius is not required to keep the machin- ery of a large establishment in working order, good sense is ; and, however capable and far- seeing and practical her head may be, it is none too much so for the worthy employment of the large sums of money that must annually pass through her hands. She dees not think the work beneath her ; she feels like a queen entering up- on her territory ; and as her husband, when their dinner is ended, makes the tour with her of his possessions, she notes with a keen eye where im- provement is most needed, and registers inward vows to be faithful to the trust committed to her. The knowledge of her responsibility works on Irene like a charm : her spirits rise ; her eyes be- come brighter, her pulses beat more healthfully, and she retires to rest full of expectation for the coming morrow. Such arc some of the good ef- fects of realizing that there is work left in the world to do which no one can accomplish so well ns ourselves. Had Irene remained at Laburnum Cottage with Mrs. Cavendish, she might have continued to be a lovesick maiden to this day ; as it is, the task which she has undertaken with a sincere intention of fulfilling, will lift her, step by step, above the earth-stained troubles of this world, until she has reached the highest elevation her mortal nature is capable of attaining. She wakes in the morning, fresh as a flower, and active as a squirrel. She has not opened her eyes two seconds before she has thrown up the casement and is inhaling the sweetness of the noisette roses that cluster round it. The pure, cool country air is like a draught of life ; the scented flowers arc hanging, six and eight up- on one stem ; across the meadow comes the lowing of the cows as they return from the milk- ing-shcd, and the bleating of the calves, that wel- come them ; and underneath her are the garden- ers, sharpening their scythes to mow the dewy lawn. The freshness, the sweetness, the simplici- ty, the peace of all around her, wake the deepest gratitude in Irene's heart, and make the tears rise to her eyes. She is all anxiety to mingle agaiA in the scenes that lie before her; to re- trace her footsteps of last night, and, make sure that it was all reality ; and, before Colonel Mor- daunt has realized that she has left him, she ii up and dressed, and roiuning over the wet grass, and through the shvubberios and [burdens, whence, at sound of the brcakfuat-bcll, she ruappcarn, with rose-tinted cheeks, damp boots, a draggled muslin dress, and her hands full of flowers. Iler husband, now looking one way and then the oth- er, is on the door-step, anxiously awaiting her. " My darling ! " he commences, reproachfullv. "Now, rhilip, don't scold ! I know I'm a hor- rid object, but it won't take me a minute to change. I've been all through the hot-houses, and the kitchen-gardens, and down tJio wilder ness, and over the bridge by that piece of water; and then I got into a field and found lots of mushrooms. (Do you like mushrooms ? they're in my skirt, under the flowers.) And I caino back by the meadows you showed me last niglit, where the horses are, and — oh ! I am so tircil I and wet ; but I haven't enjoyed any thing like it for months past." Colonel Mordaunt looks as though he w ert | enjoying the recital as much as she has done tbt reality " I am so glad to hear it," he says, as U i kisses her ; " but you can come iu to brcakfati I as you are, can you not ? " "What! with my hair half-way down nivj back, and my dress clinging to rac like a wttj flag? I should scarcely look dignified at tliej head of your table, Philip. Give me ten minutes' grace, to set myself to rights. — Good-morning. Isabella. I have not a hand to offer you, but l| have had such a delightful ramble." Then she turns to the servant in attendance. " Take these flowers, James, and place theitj on the sideboard ; and bring up the breakfast.-j Have you been used to make the tea, Isabella! Will you be so good as to do so for one mominj more, in consideration of the novelty of the situ [ ation ? — I will be in good time to-morrow, Philip:] but I had no idea the place was half so lovek and I ran from one delight to another, and couio| not tear myself away." She is mounting the staircase now, still at-j tended by her husband ; and Miss Mordaur.;| looks after her with unfeigned surprise, young and strange — and yet so cool and at IicJ ease! The woman who has spent all her life i:l fear, lest she should be saying or doing somcthic: wrong, cannot understand the confidence whli: is engendered by the knowledge of our or.\ powers of pleasing. In another minute Irene i| down again, her hair rearranged, and her drcsl exchanged for a wrapper of pale blue, which i!| liie^i^i^AU^w^^^ -:^ IRENE AS MISTRESS OF FEN COURT. 53 If-way dovNTi my I ) lue like a wet dignified at the me ten minutes' ■Good-mominc. | offer you, but I le." it in attendance, and place tlieitl iLe breakfast.-! he tea, Isabella; for one inorniiie| vclty of the site- j-morrow, Pbilip: s half so lovely I lother, and coulil ase now, still at| Misa Mordaur.;! 1 surprise. ^A cool and at 1k:| mt all her life iJ r doing somethir.:! confidence whii-l dge of our or.l minute Irene i[ ;d, and her diciij le blue, which i-'l wonderfully becoming to lier; and as her sister- in-law Bees her smile, and lioiirs her talk, and watches her do all tlic iionors of the brcakfa.st- tiiblc ns though she had aut there for years, slie marvels how so briglit an apparition can ever have been persuaded to link her fortunes with tiiose of Pliilip, and take up her residence at Fen Court. " Wliat are you going to do to-daj-, Philip ? " says Irene, as the meal draws to a conclusion. Colonel Mord.aunt has already risen from ta- ble, and taken up his station on the hearth-rug. " Well, that depends mostly on yourself, my darling. I have a great deal to do, of course, after two months' absence, about the kennel and the farm ; but I should hardly like to leave you alone so soon." " But I shall have Isabella, and plenty of em- ployment. There arc all my things to bo un- packed; and the new m.aid seems stupid; so I shall go and supoiintend her ; and I have the dinner to order, and the kitchen to inspect, and to make the acquaintance of Mrs. What's-her- nainc." Colonel Mordaunt starts. " Mrs. Quekett ! Ah ! true ; I should like to introduce Mrs. Quekett to you before I go o>it, Irene. She is such a very old servant of the family." " All right, dear. Ring the bell, and tell her to come up now. I am quite ready to see her." Again does Isabella raise deprecating eyes to her brother's face. Something, which the unsus- pecting bride is sure to resent, must come to the surface before long, and, man-like. Colonel Mor- daunt tries to throw the responsibility of the ."''- closure on his sister's shoulders. " Oh ! — ah ! — yes : to bo sure ! I suppose Mrs. Quekett will be able to see Irene now, Isa- bella?" The mere question throws Miss Mordaunt in- to a state of extra flurry. "I don't know, Philip — I know so little, you see. I am sure I cannot say. Perhaps you had better— but if Mrs. Mordaunt could wait — it is no use to ask me." " Is the old woman ill ? " demands Irene. It is the only solution of the apparent mystery she can imagine. "Bless you, no! as well as you are," says her husband, forgetting the inexpediency of the con- fession ; " only used to rise late. She has had no mistress, you know, my darling, and you must take some excuses for her in consequence ; but —there, I hope to goodness you will get on well together, and have no quarrels or disagreements of any sort." " Quarrels, Philip, with the servants ! — you uced have no fear of that. If Mis. Quekett has not yet risen, I can easily give my orders for to- day to the cook : I suppose she is efficient and trust-worthy ? " " Oh, yes ; only, don't you think that it would be better, just at first, you know, to leave things us they are, and let Quekett manage the dinners for you ? " " No, Philip ; I don't. I think were I to do so, that I should be very likely never to gain any proper authority among ray servants ; and I should rather begin as I intend to go on. I see you have not much faith in my house-keeping," she continues, gayly ; " but you have never had an opportunity of judging my powers. Wait till this evening. M'hat time shall we dine? " " When you choose, my darling : but seven has been the usual hour. I think, Isabella," turn- ing to his sister, " that, as Irene says, it will be better for her to give her dinner orders this morning to the cook : what do you s.ay ? " " Oh, don't ask me, Philip ; it must be just as you please : only, what will Quekett think ? " " You can explain the matter to her, surely ; and by to-morrow she will be acquainted with Irene. Perhaps she had better not see her until I return. I will come back to lunch." " What a fuss about nothing ! " says Irene, laughing. " My dear Philip, one would think I had never had the management of any servants before. I see how it is — the old house-keeper is jealous of my coming, and you are afraid she may let mo see it. Well, then, have no fears : I will talk her out of her jealou.sy, and we shall be the best of friends by the time you return." " Who could resist you ? " replies the enam- ored colonel, as he embraces his wife, and leaves the room, " Now, the very first thing I want to see, Isabella," says Irene, rising from her chair, " is the drawing-room ; for people will be coming to call on me by-and-by, you know, and I never fancy a sitting-room till I have arranged it ac- cording to my own taste. Will you come with me ? You must let me be very exigeantc for the first few days, and keep you all to myself." For this expression of interest, to which she is so unaccustomed, Isabella Mordaunt feels very much inclined to cast her arms about the speak- er's neck and thank her ; but her natural ner- Tousness rises uppermost, and she only looks foolish^nd uneasy. m m ■% i.;VJ 04 "NO INTENTIONS." ■iii Li': ). commences liiisin}; the " The iliawlng-room ! — well, I hardly know — of course ii is no business of mine — but I think It is loclccd." " Locked ! — don't you use it, then ? " " Not often — that is to say, only m hen we have a dinner-party." " Oh, I mean to use it every day, and make it the pretlieat room in tlic house. Let ua go and Inspect it at once. Who has the key? — Quc- kett ? " " I believe so — I am not sure," Miss llordaunt. Irene answers by bell. " James, desire Mrs. Quekctt, or whoever has the key of the drawing-room, to send it down to me." There is a delay of several minutes, and then the footman reappears, with the key in his hand, and a comical expression in his face, half of pleasure, and half of fear, as though a battle had been found necessary in order to achieve his pur- pose, but that ho rather liked the warfare than otherwise. Irene thrusts her arm through that of her sister-in-law, and leads her off in triumph. " Shocking ! Horrible ! " is her verdict, as the glories of the Fen Court drawing-room come to view. " My dear Isabella, how could you al- low tilings to remain like this ? No flowers — no white curtains — and all the furniture done up in brown holland, as though wc had gone out of town ! The first thing we must do is to strip off those horrid covers. TVhere is the house-maid ? " " But, my dear Mrs. Mordaunt" — Isabella can- not yet pluck up courage to address her sister- in-law by any other name — " she thinks — that is, Mrs. Quekett thinks — they are quite necessary for the preservation of the damask." " And /think them quite unnecessary," retorts Irene, merrily. — " Here, Anne ; take off these covers ; strip the muslin off the chandeliers, and open all the windows. The room feels as though a corpse had been laid out in it ! What a fine piano ! — that must come out into the middle of the room." " It has always stood against the wall," says Isabella. " Then I am sure it is quite time it had a change. Oh I what a lovely thing for flowerij ! " seizing an old basin of embossed silver which stands on the floor ; " what is this rubbish in it ? — rose-Ioa^res ? — Turn them out, Anne, and put the bow^l on the sideboard in the dining-room. ^Vnd, f top ! — take all the vases away at the same time : I never keep a vase in sight unless it is filled with flowers." " Yes, ma'am ; but, please, what am I lo do with these dead leaves "/ " " Throw them away." " Yes, ma'am ; only," lnoking toward Miss Mordaunt, " Mrs. Quekett placed them here, you know, miss ! " " Yes ; to be sure ; so she did. ^ liardly know. Mis. Mordaunt, whether you ought — " " To throw away Quckett's rose-leaves 5 " with a hei'.rty laugh ; " well, perhaps not ; so you can return them to her, Anne, if you choose: only please to relieve my bowl of them as soon as possible." Then she flits away, altering tiie dispositiou of the chairs and tables ; discarding the orna- ments which she considers in bad taste ; scatter- ing music on tlie open piano, books and work upon the table, and flowers everywhere — doing all that a woman can, in fact, to turn a commonplace find dull-looking apartment into a temple of fanciful grace and beauty. " Come, that is a little better ! " she exclaims at last ; " but it will bear any amount of improve- ment yet. Flowers are the thing, Isabella ; you can make even an ugly room look nice with plenty of flov.'er3 ; and there arc really beautiful things here. It shall be a very picture of a room before the week is . out. And now to my diniar — I had nearly forgotten it. That old woman must be up by this time." " It is only just eleven," replies Miss Mor- daunt. "As much as that ! " with a look of dismay; "my dear Isabella, I shall be all behindhanil, and when I have been boasting to Philip ! I must see Quekett at once in the morning-room, and then we will arrange our plans for the day." She flies to the morning-room — a pleasant little apartment next the dining-room, which is to bo dedicated to her use — and pulls the bell rather vigorously in her haste. " James, desire Mrs. Quekett to come up to me at once." "Yes, ma'am," replies James, and retires, in- wardly chuckling. He reads the character of his new mistress, and views with unholy delight do- mestic differences looming in the distance. " Won't there be a row ! " he remarks, as tlie house-maid goes unwillingly to deliver the mes- sage at the door of Mrs. Quckett's room. Now, as it happens, Mrs. Quekett is up and stirring : for curiosity to see the bride has over- powered her natural indolence ; but she has npt quite completed her toilet, and the unwelcome information that she is to " go down-stairs at onco DOMESTIC DIFFICULT] ES. hat am I to dc ng lowiud Miss them here, yoii dill. ^ liurilly on ought — " j rose-loaves ? " haps not ; so you , if you choose : F them as soon as the di.spositiou rding the orna- d taste; scattcr- :a and work upon e — doing all that ;ommonplaee and imple of faneifu! I- 1 " she exclaims lount of improvc- ig, Isabella ; you look nice with ! really beautiful picture of a room low t,o my dinner riiat Old wojr.an Implies Miss Mor- look of dismay; all behindhand, g to Philip ! I e morning-room, ans for the day." )om — a pleasant room, which is pulls the bell , to come up to , and retires, in- character of his iholy delight do- distance, remarks, as tlie leliver the vats- "s room. 3kett is up and bride has over- >ut she has npt the unwelcome wn-stairs at on« and take her orders from the new missus iu the nioruin;^-room " does not tend to promote her alacrity. Another ten minutes have elapsed, when Irene rings the bell again. " llavc you delivered my message to the house- keeper ? " " Yes, ma'am ; and she's just coming down the stairs now." " She must be a little quicker another time," bis mistress murmurs. She feels, prophetically, that she is about to have trouble with this " old servant of the family," and she determines at once to assert her authority as head of her husband's household. Mrs. Quekett enters ; Irene looks up, meets her eye, and feels at once that they are enemies. There is something in the woman's glance and m.inncr, even in this first interview, that savors so much of insolent familiarity, that her indigna- tion is roused, and she can hardly speak to her without evincing it. " I hope I see you well, ma'am," says Mrs. Quekett, sinking into the nearest chair. " Quite well, thank you ! " replies Irene, choking down her wrath and trying to remember all her husband has told of the faithful services of the creature before her. " I have sent for you, Quekett, to take the orders for the dinner. We are rather late this morning " — glancing at her watch — " but, as it is the first time, it is perhaps excusable." "Ah! I manage all that, ma'am; you will have no trouble about the dinners. I've pleased the colonel and his father before him for over a matter of thirty years, and as I've begun so I shall go on. My cook gives me more trouble than she ought to do, but I shall get rid of her at Michaelmas, if not before, and try one from Lon- don instead. They're better taught than these country-women. You're from London yourself, arn't you ? " Under this address Irene sits for a moment stupefied. She can hardly believe she is, listen- ing to a servant speaking. She has never been used to hear the domestics in her parent'5 house address her but in the most deferential tones; and, as she realizes that it really is the house- keeper who sits before her, her blood boils with indignation, and the look she raises should have withered Mrs. Quekett in her chair. " I think we had better keep to the matter in hand," she answers, loftily. " I intend to Rive my own orders, Mrs. Quekett, and it will be your place to transmit them to the other servants. I shall very soon be able to judge what the cook can do, and to decide on the necessity of parting with her or not. Meanwhile, wo will speak about the dinner." She runs through the list of dishes rnpidly, names the hour at which she desires the meal to be served, and enjoins the strictest punctuality on the astonished house-keeper. "And to-morrow morning," says Irctie, as she rises from her chair, " I nuist request you will bo in this room by ten o'clock, to receive my orders — and, if I am not here, you can wait for me. I shall go over the kitchens and lower offices this afternoon. Let the servants be pre- pared to receive me. And — one woid, Mrs. Quekett ; I have not been accustomed to see servants sit down in my presence." With that she sails out of the room with the air of an oflfended queen. Mrs. Quekett is not subdued, but she is en- raged beyond measure. She turns purple and gasps in the chair where her new mistress has left her ; and it takes a great deal of bottled por- ter and a great many stewed kidneys that morn- ing to restore her to any thing like her usual equanimity. " Wait about here till it pleases her to come and give mo her orders ! Xot for the highest lady in Christendom would I do it, and I'm sure I sha'n't for her. She may give her orders to the cook, and welcome. I don't stir out of my bed for any one until I'm inclined to do it. And not sit down in her presence, indeed ! I must speak to the colonel about this. Matters must be settled between the colonel and nie before this day closes." And so, in truth, they must have been, to judge from the forlorn and h('ni)ecked appear- ance with which the colonel enters his wife's dressing-room that evening before retiring to bed. He has passed a very happy day, for Irene hao not confided the little domestic trouble of the morning to him; she has thought that she will fight tho ignoble battle by herself, and that no servant will presume to make a few quietly- spoken words of caution a pretext for appealing to her master's judgment; but she is mistaken. Colonel Mordaunt has been enduring a very stormy half-hour in that study of his before mak- ing his escape up-stairs, and the vision of a peace- ful married life has fled before it like a dream. He eomes up to Irene's side, looking quite fagged and worn out, and older by ten years than be did in the morning. She notices it at once. " My dear Philip, how tired you must be I If ,|y B6 "NO INTENTION'S.' i i, , ■. ■ - p',; 1 1 .-, 'r^^ ' L fri You have boon exerting yourself too much after our long jouracy yesterday." " I nm only worried, my darling. What is this row between you and Quckctt? I did so hope you would have been able to get on with the old woman," " Ilas she been complaining to you 1 " " She came into my study just now — i^ j:i-.i;.'JO AN UNWELCOME LETTER. 57 phomy her hiis- V what you nrc •ecu with us fur .in thirty more. cr shall." I am sure vou opportunity ytt r it. If I were ink that woman nts for me." ! I thought you . Why, if Quf. ihould think 'the lo down on our I of her, a'cnfor nost insinuating for you 1 " her 3W moments dc- realizing that he cart. But wlan ic cloud returns ietcd within him. Folcano which is feet, and may at ilice and revenge their train. His lan that of Eric Id with a heavy nearly all gatli- forward to Sep- t invitations for aunt, Mrs. C.iv- anothcr to Mr. to see his young a third to sorce lusband's, whom he will find de- to be full; and icct of entertain- bout from room iabella, and is#u- ist regard to the kett. Not that during the past loro fact of the ler orders serves to keep her memory alivo In hor mistress's bosom oud to make tho Intercourse between thorn purely nominal. Together they arc frigidly polite to one another ; and apart they arc doterminatcly ho.^tile. Irene has ceased to make any comment on the housc-kopper's behavior or to express any desire for hor dismissal ; she has scon and hoard enough during her residenco at Fon Court to convince lier that to pursue either course is futile, but she does what is far more galling to Mrs. Quckett's pride — she ignores her presence altogothor. She makes no calls upon her duty : she neither blames n.)r praidc.i her — she simply acts as though there were no such person in the house. So Rebecca Qiiekctt continues to lie abed until noon, and to feed off the best of tho land, and twist her master round her little flngor ; but the servants no longer tremble at her presence; she has lost tho abso- lute authority she held over thorn — she has been tran.sforraed from a captious tyrant into an in- jured but faithful servitor; and she takes good care to drum tho fact into the coloners ears, and to hate the one who has brought about the change. Yet little does Irene reck her annoyance or her hate; she con.sidcra tho presence of the housn-keoper at Fen Court as an intolerable nui- sance, and often wonders how her husband, who can be so firm in some things, should be so weak in this ; but consoles herself with tho idea that no lot in this world is entirely without its annoy- ances, and that she might have cacountorcd a worse skeleton in the closet tha'.i Mrs. Quckctt. Whether the colonel would have agreed with her it is impossible to say. And so we bring them up to the latter days of August. One morning Colonel Mordaunt receives a let- ter which seems greatly to disturb him. " What is the matter, Philip ? " demands Irene. " Nothing that concerns you, my darling ! — nothing, in fact, at all." Yet ho sits, with knitted brows, brooding over the contents of the epistle during the rest of breakfast, and reads it through three or four times before the meal is concluded. As Irene leaves the room, he calls his sister to his side. " Isabella, I am greatly annoyed. Here is a letter from Oliver. He has heard of an opening for a practice soraewhero in this neighborhood, and proposes coming down to speak to me about it." " He can't expect to stay here," says 5Iiss Mordaunt — " at least I should hardly think so — there will not be room for him, you know. The house will be full next week." " If he sleeps at tho inn it will bo all the same. I don't want Irene and him to nicet," " Have you never nienlionud Oliver to her then ? " (lemamls his sister, timidly. " Cursorily I may, tiiough I doubt if shu will renionibor it. IJut it is not that, Lsabelhi. You know woll enough that if I introduco young Rals- ton to Irene, it will be dillioult to ex[)lain why I don't ask him to tho court." " And you think ho miglit not fom>.>. It is nearly a year since he has boon hero." "Good God! You have not the blightost perception. If Oliver comes here, ho must sec Quokett ; and you know they never meet wllliout a disturbance of some sort ; and in her present state of fooling toward Irene I couldn't risk it. There is no knowing what she might not say." " Tlion, what do you propose to do ? " " Tut off Oliver till Quokett goes to town. If she wore away, I should have no fear. Doesn't she intend to pay her usual visit to Lady What's- hor-name this autumn ? " " I don't know — I am almost afraid sho doesn't. I was speaking to hor about it yester- day ; hut she has not been herself at all lately — she's quite — crotchety," says Miss Mordaunt ; as though crotchotiness were an entirely new phase in Mrs. Quekett's character. " Moans to stay hero on purpose, I suppose, because she knows we want tlie house to our- scles. Isabella, I often wish I had taken Ircno abroad again. I question whether it would not be worth my while to take up a residence there, even now. She likes Continental life, and I — well, any life almost would bo preferable to this. I live in constant dread of an exi)loslon." " Wouldn't it " — commences Miss Mordaunt, timidly — " wouldn't it be better, Philip — of course you know best — but still I can't help think- ing-" " What ? — what ? "' he interrupts, impatiently. "That if you were to tell her—" " Irene ! " — tho color fades out of Colonel Mordaunt's face at the bare idea — " to tell Irene ? Why, Isabella, you must be mad to think of it ! " They arc engaged out to a dinner-party that evening ; a very grand dinner-party given by Sir Samuel and Lady Grimstonc, who live at Calver- ley Park, about twelve miles from Priestley, and consider themselves of so much importance that they never even loft their cards at Fen Court until they heard that the owner had brought home a wife to do the honors there. For, al- ? - I 'in m as "NO INTENTIONS." i\' ■, 'i Ll 11 ; I r; li^ though Colonel Mordiuiiit, as roaster of the rries't- Icy foxhounds, holdd an iiuiiortuut position in the county, nnd is on visitinj{ tcniia with tliu best liouBL'S in the nei|jliborhood, his poor nicuk sister has hitliurto been coiiiplottly overloolieii. " A Binnle woiiinn, my dour 1" — an Ludy Grim- (stone rcnia'Ived, wlion giving lessons on tlic inex- pediency of forming useless ucquuintanecs, to lier newly-married daugliter, Mrs, Kustaeo Lennox Jones — " II single woman, in order to gain u pass- port to soeiety, should be either beautiful, aeeoni- plished, or eleven. If she can look handsome, or sing well, or talk smartly, she amuses your other guests ; if not, she only fills up the plaec of a belter person. Nothing is to bo had for nothing in this world ; and wc must work for our social as well as our diiily bread." " But, why then, mamma," demanded on that occasion, Mrs. Eustace Lennox Jones, " do you invite Lady Arabella Vane ? I am sure she is neither young, beautiful, nor witty ; and yet you made up a party expressly for her last time she was in Triestley." " Oh, my dear ! you forget how wealthy she Is, and how well connected. 'With three unmar- ried girls on my hands, I could never afford to give up the tntrie of her house in town. Besides, she has brothers! No, my dear Everilda, learn where to draw the line. The great secret of suc- cess in forming an agreeable circle of aequaint- nnccs is to exclude the useless of either sex." And so poor Miss Mordaunt has been excluded bitherto as utterly useless, as in good truth she is ; but my Lady Grimstone has been obliged to include her in the invitation to the bride and bride- groom. A young and pretty bride, fresh from the hands of the best society and a first-rate milliner, is no mean acquisition at a country dinner-table ; bet- ter than if she were unmarried, especially where there arc three daughters still to dispose of. And the useless single woman must needs come in her train. It is a great event to Isabella, though she is almost too shy to enjoy the pros- pect, and the kindness with which Irene has helped and advised her concerning her dress for the occasion has made her feel more inwardly in- dignant against Mrs. Quekett, and more afraid of that amiable creature's tongue than she has CTcr been before. Colonel Mordaunt, too, who expects to meet several influential supporters of his favorite pursuit, has been looking forward to the evening with unusual pleasure and with great pride, at the thought of introducing his young wife to his old friends ; he is all the more disap- point'J, therefore, when, after a long day spent in the harvest-fields, he returns homo to find Irene lying down with a face as white as chalk, and a pain in her head so acute that t>hc canu'jt open her eyes to the light, nor speak beyond u few words at a time. " It is so btupid of me," she murmurs, in ru. ply to his expressions of concern ; *' but I aui sure it will go off by-aud-by." Isabella brings her strong tea, and she sit^ up and forces herself to swallow it, and feels at though her head would burst before the feat were accomplished. " I think it must be the sun," she says, in c.t- planation to her husband. "I felt it very lioi upon my head this afternoon, and the pain canio on dirtctly afterward. Don't worry yourself about it, I'hilip ; we need not start till six. I have a full hour in which to rest myself, and 1 am sure to be better before it is time to dress." When that important moment arrives, .slio staggers to her feet, and attempts to go throu(;li ihe process of adornment; but her heart is stouter than her limbs ; before it is half com- pleted, she is seized with a deadly sickness and faintness, which prove beyond doubt that she is lic canii'jt Bpc'iik bcyuiid u iiiunnurs, in it- ni ; " but I am ca, and bIic slu ' it, and ft'citt a:i ji'C tlio feat were ' bLo says, in ix- felt it very hot 1 the pain came worry yourself Bturt till six. I jst myself, ond I time to dress." ent arrives, i^liu s to go tlu'ou);!: ut her heart is ! it is balf com- lly siekncFS and loubt that she is •tion that night; confess that she home. > ith you ! " says it of conceit with knowledge tliat 3ut I suppose i' defaulters." " You will en- I, and I shall do with Phabe to quite recovered is the annoying ou generally be- when it is too you as you are "for you look se it is time wc d dinners ! — Isa- take good care darling." And ge with his Bi=- erley Park. So ladyship's dis- c woman," after rene, tw^o houri after, OH she opons her cyoi at the entrance of lioi' maid. " Wh.it o'clDck is it, I'lin'be? have I liuen oslei'p V " " It's closu upon hull'-])ust seven, nia'uin ; and you've been aaleop for more than two hours. 1 was tliat pleased wiiun I heard you snore ; I was sure it would do you good." '• How romantic ! " lauglis her mistress ; " but I suppose one may bo excused for snoring, when one's head i:^ a mass of pain and buried under three i-ufa-cu.-ihions. What a tumbled heap I have Ijuen lying in : and I foel as confused as though I had been asleep, like Kip Van Winkle, for a Imndred years. What is that you have tliero, rh(ebe? ("olTec ! Give it mo without milk or I sugar. It is the very thing I wanted. And throw that window wide open. Ah ! what a heavenly coolness ! It is like breathing new I life." " Let me fetch your brush, ma'am, and brush I through your hair. You'll feel ever so much bet- ter after that I I know so well what these head- aches as come from the sun are. Your head is just bursting for an hour or two, and you feels as siok as sick; and then of a suddent it all goes o.Tand leaves you weak like ; but well — " " That is just it, I'ha'be," says Ireno, smiling I at tho graphic description ; "and all that I want to set me up again is a little fresh air. Make me I tidy, and give me my hat, and I will try what a I turn in the garden will do for mo. No ; don't at- I tempt to put it up; ray head is far too tender for I that; and I shall see no one." So, robed in a soft muslin dress, v/ith her fair I hair floating over her shoulders, and her garden I hat swinging in her hand, Irene goes down the Istaircasc, rather staggeringly at first, but feeling ■ less giddy with each step sho takes, and out into I the Fen Court garden. She turns toward the Ishrubbery, partly because it is sequestered, and [partly because there are benches there ou which I sho loves to sit and listen to the nightingales Isinging in the plantation beyond. It is a very still evening ; although the sun Ihas so long gone down. Scarcely the voice of Ibird or insect is to be heard, and the rich August Iflowers hang their heads as though the heat had Iburned all their sweetness out of them, and they I had no power left wherewith to scent the air. I But to Irene, risan from a feverish couch, the Istillness and tho calm seem doubly grateful; and las she saunters along, silently and slowly, for she I feels unequal to making much exertion, her foot- jeteps leave no sound behind them. Sho enters the shrubbery, which is thick and sitiialeil at sotno little di.stanco fiom the hounv, and walks toward her favorite tree, an a;;ed holly, which shelters a very comfortable modern bench of iron. What is her surprise, ou reaching the spot, to find it Is not at her di.-po.sal ? Tho fig- ure of a man, with the back of his heail toward her, is stretched very comfortably the length of tho seat, while he pours forth volumes of smoke from a meerschaiun in front. Irene's first thought is to biMt a retreat: is not her baek hair guiltless of ribJKjn, net, or comb? Hut the surprise oecanioned by encoun- tering a strange • where she least cxpeeted to do so has clieiteii a 'Hllo " Oh ! " from her, which has cauglit his ear. lie looks round, leaps oil his seat, and in another moment is standing before her, very red in the face, with his wide-awake in his han'rt wifr!" " Your utick- ! Is my liiiKlmnd yotir unolo V " In hor piirpi'lMo slu' ninvcM ii few ,»t('|is ncuri r hlni. " Hut wliat, tlicn, in yoiir lumic V " "Ollvor Ilnliitun ; at yourgorvlco, iimiliiin," lie angwerH, luti^'hltif^. " Kiilntoii ! oh, of course, I have hcaid Philip «ppok of you. I rcnicinlier It tli^itinrtly now ; but it wag some time a^o. I am vory jrlad to sec you. How do you do y " And then tlicy shako hands and say " How do you do SI" to i-ach otiicr in the absurd and aini- U'i-s manner wo are wont to u.«e on nicctin;:, al- thoujih we know quite well how eaeli one " does " before our mouths are opened. "But why did you not come to tho house, Mr. Ralston ? " continues Irene, presently. " I do !iot think Colonel Mordaunt had any idea of your arrival. lie has gone with his sister to dine at tho Grimstones. I should have gone too, cxce[)t for a racking headache." " It is evident you have not heard much about me, Mrs. Mordaunt, or you would bo aware that I have not tlic free run of Fen C(}urt that you seem to imagine." " Of your own uncle's house ? What iion- Bcnse ! I never could believe that. IJut why, then, are you in the shrubbery ? " " I will tell j'ou frankly, if you will permit me. I am an orphan, ond have been under the guardian- ship of my unele ever sinoo I was a baby, I am n medical student also, and have held the post of house-surgeon at one of tho London hospitals for some time. London doesn't agree ■with me, morally or physically, and I have a great desire to get some practice in the country. I heard of something that might suit mo near Priestley, yesterday, and wrote to my uncle concerning it. Afterward I was told, if I wished for success, I must lose no time in looking after the business myself. Ho I ran down this morning and put up at the ' Dog and Fox,' and, as I heard tho Fen Court people were all going out to Calvcrley Park to dinner (indeed, the carriage passed mo as I was loitering about the lanes, some two hours since), I thought I might venture to intrude so far as to smoke my pipe on one of the shrubbery benches. This is a true and particular confession, Mrs. Mordaunt, and I hope, after hearing it, that you will acquit the prisoner of malice prepense in intruding on your solitude." But she is not listening to him. " At the ' Dog and Fox ! ' " she answers ; " that horridly low little place in the middle of the village ! And for Colonel Mordaunt's neph- ew ! I never lu-ard of sueh a thinj:. I am mn; your uncle will be exceedingly vexed when ymi tell him. .\nd Fen Court «ilh a dozen Iml. rooms— why, It is enough to niake all Pric-il y talk." "Indeed, it was the best thing I eoulil di;— my uncle had not invitol me here; and, as 1 i< !! you before, I am not sunUiintly a favorite to In able to run in and out just as I ehoose." "Then / invite you, Mr. Ualston — I am tub- tress of Fen Couit; and in llio absence of tiiv husl)and I beg you will consider yourself os niy guest. We will jrn back to the house together." "Hut, Mrs. Mordaunt, you are too good — l/'i' you do not know — you do not understand — I inn afraid my unele will be vexed — " "lie will not be vexed with any thing I choose 10 do, Mr. Ilalston ; but if he is vexed at this, I am quite sure I shall be vexed with him. Come, at all events, and have some supper, ni;d wait up with me for his return. Come ! " She beckons him with an Inclination of her head ns she utters the last word, and he is fain in follow her. They pass thnnigh the f^hrubberii- and garden, and take a turn or two down IIk' drive, and hove grown quite friendly and familiar with one onother (as young people brought tn. gether, with any excuse to bo so, soon become) liy the time they reach the house again. " 0/ course I am your aunt ! " Irene is say. ing, as the porch comes in view ; " and you must coll me so. I feel quite proud of having such a big nephew. I shall degenerote into an old twaddler by-and-by, like poor Miss Higgiii);, who is olwoys talking of ' my nevvy the captain ' — ' my nevvy tho doctor ' will sound very well, won't it? particularly if you'll promise to be a real one, with M. D. after your name," " If any thing could induce mc to shake my. self free of tho natural indolence that cncumbfr? me," h(f is answering, and rather gravely, "it would be tho belief that some one like yourself wos good enough to toko on interest in my ca- reer — " when, etroight in the path before them, they encounter Mrs. Quekett, who, with a liirli: shawl cast over her cop, has come out to enjoy tlio evening air. Irene is passing on, without so much as a smile or on inclination of tho head by way of reeoeri- tion. She has received so much covert imptiti- nenco ot Mrs. Quekett's hands, that she is not dis- posed to place herself in tho way of more ; anil tho very sight of the house-keeper is obnoxiou- to her. But Mrs. Quekett has no intention if permitting herself to be so slighted. At the first OLIVER RALSTON. 01 er gravely, ''it light tit' Oliver Ralitlon »hi> Htaiteil, but liy tlio time tlioy inot't upon tlio (tiaveled puth »Uo ha« liiiil liiT jilunfi. " (jooil - I'vi'iiinjf, imruiii 1 " rho conuiifnci'*, wllh forced courteny to her Bociilleil inlutrcgst, and then til rii» to her iDiiipiniiiH. — "W'ldl, Mus- ter Oliver! wiio would liavu thought ■>(' xeeing vou here? I nm Hure tiio eohiticl has uo cxpec- taiions of your eoiniiift." "I dare my not, Mrs. Quckelt; ho cuuld liaiillv have, c-DUHidering I iia ! How could it do else but overcome me ? I have not been used to nee fer- vauts assume the jilaie of mistresses; and I feel, since I have come to Fen Court, as though the world were turned upside down. Mr. Ralston, do you know that that woman occupies one of the best rooms in the house ? " '"I know it Well ! I was sent back to school once, in the midst of my holidays, for having had the childish curiosity to walk round it." " That slie lies in bod till noon," continues Irene, " and bus her breakfast carried up to licr ; 1 that she does nothing here to earn her living, but speaks of the house and servants as tlxnigh they wore her own property — " I "lean well believe it." "And that she has ai-tuallv refused to receive any orders from me." " Hot realli/ / " exclaims Oliver Ralston, ear- nestly. " Really and truly ! " " And what did my uncle say to it ? " "That I had better give my orders to the cook instead ! " There is silence between tluiu for a few raiu- utes, till Irene goes on, passionately : " I could not bear it — I woidd not bear it — if it were not for Philip. But he is the very best and kindest man in the world, and I am sure ho would prevent it if he could. Sometiuies, Mr. Ralston, I have even fancied that be is more afraid of Quekett than any of us." "It is moat extraordinary," muses (diver, " and unaccountable. That there is a mystery attached to it I have always believed, for the most quixotic devotion to a fatbc. s memory could hardly justify a man in putting up with in- sult from his inferiors. Why, even as a child, I used to remark the difference in my uncle's be- ,''t ': 89 "NO INTENTIOXH." h -r\i hftvlor towniiJ mu whoii Qtiekctt wah nirny. IIlii niiiniicr woiiM lu'cotno (|uiti' uni'i'tiomite." " Doisn't hIi(! liLc .voii, tlicii f " "HhofiaUimi.', I bi'lli.ve." " Hut wliy y" " I Imvc not the Icnst iileii, unU'Hn it is tliut boyn arc not easily cowed into a dt-reicntiiil niiin- nor, nnd Mrn, yiicki'tt lias always ntood jriTaliy on litT dignity. Do yoii not si'c how frigliliiit'il Aunt Inabflla In of lior ? " " Indoi'd I do. I waylaid li«'r, only yc-itfrdny, goin^ up to (lie (dd wonian'H room witli the newH- papero, that had but Jiisit arrived by the morning's poHt, I took them till back nf,'aln. 'Not to- dayV, U" yon please, Inubellu,' I Haid. * I should tliink yosterday's news was quilo fresh enough for the Horvantrt' hall.' 'Ohl but Mr^. Quekctt has always been aceustomcd,' she bcf^an — you know her funny way — but I had ndiic in the end. And Phltii) said I was ri};ht. lie always does say to whenever I appeal to him. Hut why can't ho get rid of her?" " Why indeed ! Perhaps there is Honio clause attached to the conditions on whieli he holds the property, of which we know nothing. I sup- pose it will all eonie to light some day. Discus- sion is futile." " And I am not sure that it is right," repli(vi Irene, blushing. "Peiliaps I should not ha* e spoken so freely as I have, but I was much an- noyed. Whatever Colonel Mordaunt's reasons may be for keeping Mrs. Quckett, I am sure of one thing — that tliey are good and just, for he is of too upright and honorable a character to lend his hand to any thing that is wrong." " My unclo is a happy man to have «o stf )■ h a defender in his absence," says Oliver, adunr- Ingly. " If his wife does not defend him, who shall ? " she answers ; " but all this time I am forgetting that you have had no refreshment, Mr. Ralston. What a careless hostess you must think me ! Now confess that you have had no dinner." " Well, none tliat deserves that name, cer- tainly." " I thought BO ; but what can you expect, if you go and stay at a wretched hovel like the ' Dog and Fox ? ' Let us see what the Court- larder can produce," ringing the bell. " At all events, Mrs. Quekett shall not balk us of our sup- per." She orders the table to be spread, and in a very short time a substantial repast is placed be- fore them, to which they sit down together, ban- ishing the subject of Mrs, Quekctt by mutual con- liont, until the eolmitl nhall rrturn again, ni,! ehaltln^ on such topics n:t aie iiion? eonsis'lci,! | with tlu'ir youlli and relative ponitinnH. At eleven o'elnck the carriage - wheels ntr heard grating; "ii the graveled drive, ami Iiii,, starts to her feet joyfully. " Hero he Is," (die cries. " N'ow we w ill liiiv^ this matter net right for us." Oliver also rises, but does not oppenr so C(ir.. lident : on the contrary, ho remains in the buik. ground until tlu' (list salutations In twei n Mi^ Mordaunt and tlie returning party are ovir Then his uncle calehcH sight of him. "Holloa! who have we here? Why, Olivn — with tlie slightest shade of annoyance pas.-ii;: over his face — " I hail no idea you intended con.- ing down so soon. Why didn't you ^ay so ii, your letter ? When did you arrive 1 " But his wife gives him no t'ine to have lii- I questions answered. " Now, arc you not pleased ? " she exclaim*. " Have I not done right ? I met this gentleman ill (ho shrubbery, Philip, smoking — all by him- self; nnd, when I found he was your nephew, nml wos actually staying nt (hat diity little ' Dog aivl Fox' — fancy sleeping in that hole! — I gave hiiii an invitation to Fen Court on (he spot, and nindi him come back with me. Now, wasn't I right? — say so ! " — with her face in dangerous proxiii;- Ity to tlic colonel's. " Of course you were right, my darling — yuii always are," he replies, kiss-ing her ; " and I nni very glad to sec Oliver here. — Have you — havi^ you seen old Quekett?" he continues, in rather a dubious tone, turning to his nephew. But Irene again interferes. I " Seen her, Philip — I should think we find seen her, and heard her into the bargain. SLi' has been so horribly rude to us." Colonel Mordaunt's face flushes. " Rude ! I hope not ! Perhaps you misiii- tcrpreted what she said, Irene. You arc rather apt to take offense in that quarter, you know, young lady." "I could not possibly mistake her meaning; she spoke too plainly for that. Besides, Mr. Ralston was with mc, and hoard what she said. She ns good as told him he was not a gentle- man I " Colonel Mordaunt grows scarlet. " Oh ! come ! come ! don't let us think or tall; any more about an old womon's crotchety speeches." " But, Philip, we must talk, because the worst is to come I told her to have the Grcen-Room A KINDLY WAIlNINd. 83 Now \vu w ill liuv. propnrj'l for Mr. ItaUton, i\nil iho fl.itly n-fbu'd to ill "0 wltlioiit your ordur*." "Will, kIvo lii'\ "She liiis not known mo from a baby," says Ilia wife, bitterly ; " and yet she speaks to me as no menial has ever presumed to speak before. Philip! if it wore not for ycu, I couldn't stand itl" " Hush ! hush ! my darling, it shall not occur again, I promise you. I shall speak to Quekett, and tell her I will not have you annoyed in this manner. You saw that I upheld your authority this evening." " Yes, I did. Thank you for it, and I hope it will be a lesson Xj t!:^ old wretch, for I detest ber ! " " Strong word J jor a lady ! " laughs Colonel Mordaunt, simply bccau."> he does not echo the sentiment. He takes up his candlestick, aud moves a little way toward the door. Then he returns suddenly, bonds over his wife, and kisses her. " Thank you," ho says, softly, " for wishing to befriend poor Oliver, my dear ! " At these words, what Mr. Ralston told her concerning his uncle's affection being more de- monstrative at one time than another, rushes into her mind, and she says, abniptly : " Did you ii>vc his mother very much, Philip ? " "^(« mother!" Colonel Mordaunt appears quite upset by the remark. " Yes ; your sister ; you never bad a brother, had you ? " " No ! I never had a brother," he answers, vaguely. " Then Oliver is your sister's child, I suppose. Which sister ? Was she older than Isabella ? " " No ! she was two years younger." Colonel Mordaunt has recover: ' himself by this time, and Epeaks quite calmly. " I had three sisters, Anne, Isabella, and Mary. Poor Mary made a runaway match and her father never spoke to her after- ward." " Well ! " " When she was dying she wrote to me (she Lad always been my favorite sister, poor girl !) and asked me to go and see her. Of course I went (she had been a widow for more than a year then, ant. was living at Cannes), and stayed by her to the last. Then I returned home, and — and — brought Oliver with me." " Her only child, of course." " The only child — yes. My father woidd liave nothing to say to the boy ; he was a little chap of about two years old at the time, and so I kept him. What else could I do ? " "And have brought him up and educated him, and every thing since. Philip, how good of you — how very kind and good ! IIow I do love and admire you for it ! " And she seizes her husband's head between her hands and gives it a good squeeze. On being released, Colonel Mor. daunt appears very red and confused, "Don't, my darling, pray don't; I am \w\ worthy of your pure aU'cction ; I wish I were. I have only done what ccnunon justice deraaudcil of me." " And you will let me help you to Cni.sh tlie task," says Irene. " I dare say all these thing;!— the knowledge of his orphaidiood and that liis grandfather wouldn't acknowledge him — have weighed on his mind, poor boy, and driven him to the excesses of which you complain. Let U3 be his friends, Philip ; good, firm, honest friends; ready to praise him when he is right, but not afraid to blame him when he is wrong — and you will sec him a steady character yet. I am suro of it — there is something in the very expression of his faee that tells me so." Iler husband catches her enthusiasm ; thaiil;; her again for the interest she displays on behalt' of his nephew ; and leaves her just in the mood to confront Mrs. Quekett and defeat her with her own weapons. And on the landing, outside the bedroom-door, where she had probably been air- ing her ear at the keyhole, he intercepts her. " Quekett ! " he says, loftily, as she starts at his forthcoming, "I wish to say two words to you in my dressing-room. Re so good as to fol- low me." He stalks to the hall of judgment niajestieally with his candlestick in his hand, and she followj in his train, but she will not stoop so low as to close the dressing-room door upon their entrance ; and so the colonel has to return and do it him- self, which rather detracts from his assumption of dignity. " Well, sir ! " she commences from the chair in which she has, as usual, ensconced herself; " and what may your two words be ? I have rather more than two to say to you myself; and as it's usual for ladies to come first, perhaps I'd better be the one to begin." " You can do as )'ou like," replies Colonel Mordaunt, whose courage is all oozing out of his fingers' ends at being shut up alone with the old beldame. " My words won't take long to say, though they may be more than yours. It just comes to this, colonel ; you promised me Oliver shouldn't stay in this house again, and you've broke your promise, that's all." " I promised you that his staying here should MRS, QUEKETT'S DEPARTURE. 65 Wins here should never inconvenience you, and you have got to prove tliiil it will do so. liesiJea, it is almost cutirc'ly your own fault tliat it has occurred. If you had restrained your fuelinj,'3 a little this even- in" as any prud(!Ut peison would have done, von would not have excited Mrs. Mordaunt to try her influence against yours. You arc carrying iliL' game too far, Quekctt. You have spoken rudely to my wife, and that is a thing that I can- ; not countenance in you or any one." " Ob, yes ; of course, my wife. Every thing's i my wife now ; and let by-gones be by-goucs, and I all the past forgotten." 'I think by-goncs should be by-gones, Quek- I ett, when we can do no good by raking them up again." " Not for our own ill-convenience, colonel, cer- I tainly. But to such as me, who have held by one I family for a space of thirty years, and suffered I with it as the Lord alone knows how, to see a I place turned topsy-turvy and the servants all Iholtor-skeltcr to please the freaks of a young girl, Ino one can say but it's trying. Why, there's not la cliair or a table in that drawing-room that stands lin the same place as it used to do ; and as for the liilnnors, since she's been at what you call the llicad of your establishment, there's not been a Idinucr placed upon the table that I'd ask a work- Ihouso pauper to sit down and eat with me ! " " Well, well," says Colonel Mordaunt, inipa- Itiently, " these are my grievances surely, and not lyours. If you have no worse complaint to bring lagainst Mrs. Jlordaunt than this, I am satisfied. ■But what has it to do with your refusing to take |hcr orders ? " "Ilcr orders, indeed I " says the houso-kocpi>r, |with a sniff. " To follow her wishes, then, if you like tlie orra better, with respect to so simple a thing as Jiaving one room or another prepared for her Ruests." " The Green-Roora for Oliver," she interrupts, Sarcastically ; " I never heard of such a thing ! " " You, at all events," he answers, sternly 'should be the last to raise an objection to it." " But I do raise it, colonel, and I shall. I say It's absurd to treat that lad as though he was a bobleman (why, you haven't a better room to put Ihe Prince of Wales in, if he came to visit you) ; >nd then to think of that—" "Bo careful what you say, Quekett. Don't ^lake me too angry. I shall stand up for Oliver Ralston — " " Oliver Fiddlesticks ! " "Whatever the rest of the family may do; and yi)u, who talk so much of clinging to us and being faithful to our interests, should uphold, in- stead of lighting against inc in this matter. I cout'ess that I cannot understand it. You loved his mother, or I conelude you did — " " Loved his inot/ur ! " echoes the woman, shrilly, as she ri.ses from her chair; "it is be- cause 1 loved his mother, colonel, that I hate the sight of him ; it is because I remember her inuo. cent girlliood, and her blighted womanhood, and her broken-hearted death, that to hear iiim speak and sec him smile, in his bold way, makes me wish she had died before she had left bei.iind her such a mockery of herself. I can't think what she was after not to do it, for she hadn't much to live for at the last, as you know well." " I'oor Mary ! " sighs the eolocel. " Ah ! poor Mary ; that's the way the world always speaks of the lucky creatures that iiavo escaped from it. / don't call her poor Mary, and turn up the whites of my eyes after your fashion ; but I can't live in the same house with her son, and so I've told you before. Either Oliver goes or I go. You can take your choice." " But you are talking at random, Quekett. You have got a crotchet in your head about Oliver, just as you have a crotchet in your head about receiving Mrs. Mordaunt'a orders, and one is as absurd as the other. Just try to look at theaa things in a reasonable liglit, and all would go smoothly." But Mrs. Quekctt is not to be smoothed down so easily " You can do as you please, colonel, but my words stand. You hare choKen. i.o keep Master Oliver here." " I could not have done otherwise without ex- citing susjiicion; would you have me blab the story to all the world ? " he says, angrily. " Oh ! if you go on in this way, colonel, I shall blab it myself, and save j'ou the trouble. As if it wasn't enough to have the Court pulled to pieces before my eyes, and to be spoken to as if I was the scumiof the earth, without being crossed in this fa-shion. You told mo just now, coloucl, not to make you too angry— don't you do the same by me, or I may prove a tougher cus- tomer than I've done yet. Now, do you mean to let Oliver stay here, or no ? " " I shall let him remain as long as it seems proper to myself," replies her master, whose tem- per is now fairly roused. The house-keeper can hardly believe her ears. " You — will — let— him — remain ! " she gasps. h hi ir m M ' f ! . |, : ! ry h^,^ 66 "NO INTENTIONS." "And why don't you add, 'according to Mrs. Mordaunt's wishes ? ' " " I do odd it, Qucltott — ' according to Mrs, Mordaunt's wishes.' Mr.". Mordaunt is mistress here, and the length of her guests' visits will be determined by her desire. And while she is mistress here, remember that I will have her treated by you as a mistres?, and not as an equal." Quokett stares at him for a moment in silent surprise ; and then the angry blood pumps up in- to her face, filling her triple chins until they look like the wattles of an infuriated turkey, and making her voice shake with the excitement that ensues. "Very well, colonel. I understand you. You have said quite enough," .sjie replies, quiv- eringly. " It is as well you should understand me, Quekctt, and I ought to have said all this long before. You are angry now, but, when you have had time to think over it, you will see that I am right." "Very well, colonel — that is quite sufficient — you will have no more trouble on my account, I can assure you;" and with that Mrs. Quekctt sweeps out of the dressing-room. Colonel Mordaunt doesn't feel quite comfort- able after her departure : it has been too abrupt to leave a comfortable impression behind it : but he consoles himself with the reflection that he has done what is right (not always a reflection to bring happiness with it, by-thc-way, and often accompanied by much the same cold comfort presented by gruel, or any other nastiness that we swallow in order to do us good) ; and, seeking Irene's presence again, sleeps the sleep of the just, trusting to the morning's light to dispel much of his foreboding. The morning's light dispels it after this wise : Between six and seven Irene is wakened by a strange sound by her bedside, something be- tween the moaning of the wind and a cat's mew ; and jumps up to find her sister-in-law standing there, looking as melancholy as a mute at a fu- neral, and sniffing into a pocket-handkerchief. " Good gracious, Isabella ! what is the mat- ter? Is Philip— " But no; Philip is occupying his own place of honor, and has not yet opened his eyes upon this wicked world. " What is the matter ? Are you ill ? " " Oh, no, my dear Mrs. Mordaunt ; but Mrs. Quekett — I shouldn't have ventured in here, you may be quite sure — " and here Isabella's virgin eyes are modestly veiled — " except that Mrs. Quek- ctt is — oh ! what will Philip say ? " " Is she dead ? " demands Irene, with a live- ly interest not quite in accordance with the eol- cmn inquiry. " Dead ! My dear Mrs. Mordaunt, no ! " " What is the row ? " says her brother, now awake for the first time. "0 Philip, Mrs. Quekctt is ffoi.e." " Gone ! where to ? " "I don't know; but I think to London— to Lady Baldwin's — I tried to stop her, but I couldn't ; she would go." " Jubilate ! " cries Irene, clapping her hand j. " I am so glad. Is she really gone ? It's too good to be true." " Oh ! but, my dear Mrs. Mordaunt, she was so angry, and so unkind, she wouldn't even kiss mc," says Isabella, relapsing into a fresh scries of sniUV. "Faugh!" replies Irene. "What a misfor. tune! — But, Philip, had you any idea of this?" "None!" " Is it because of what occurred last night ? " " I am afraid so." "Why afraid? We shall do much better without her. — How did she go, Isabella ? " " In the carrioge. I knew nothing about it till I beard the carriage drive up to the door. There is a nine-o'clock train to London — I sup- pose she means to catch that ! " " III the carriage" repeats Irene. — " Philip, did you ever hear of such impertinence ? " " Well, never mind, my darling ; never mind it now," he replies, soothingly. You see she al- ways has been used to have the carriage to drive to the station in, on these occasions ; it is not as though she were an ordinary servant, but it won't occur again — or, at all events, for some time," he adds, as a proviso to himself. — " Did Quekett mention how long she is Ukely to be ab- sent, Isabella ? " " No ! she told me uothing — she would hard- ly speak to me — she was very, verji crotchety," replies his sister. " IIow I hope she may stay away forever ! '' says Irene. " Come, Isabella, you must let roe get up. It will be quite a new sensation to go down to breakfast and feel there is no chance of meeting that bird of evil omen on the stairs." So Miss Mordaunt leaves her brother and sister-in-law to their respective toilets, and re- tires, quite overcome by Irene's boldness, and almost shaken in her fiiith respecting the power held by Mrs. Quekett over the inhabitants of Fen Court. TUK VILLAGE OV TillESTLEY. 07 ;hat Mrs, Quck- ic, with a live- 2 witli the sol- mt, no ! " p brother, now London — to op her, but I )ing her hands. ? It's too good aunt, she was so t even kiss mo," i series of sniff:'. What a misfor. idea of this ? " ed last night ? " lo mucli better iabella ? " lothing about it up to the door. London — I sup- [rone.—" Philip, inenee ? " ng; never mind You see she al- arriage to drive )ns : it is not as servant, but il vents, for Bonie himself.— "Did liliely to be ab- she would hard- vcri/ crotchety," away forever!'' )U must let me sensation to go is no chance of the stairs." icr brother and toilets, and re- s boldness, anJ cting the power habitants of Fen As, some niiniito3 aftor, tlio coloufl is nuiet- ly enjoying h'n matutiuiil buth, ho id almost etartlcd out of his seven senses by a violent rap- ijin" against the partition whieh divides hi.s dross- iiK'-room fromhiri wife's bodioum. " My dear girl, what is the matter '? " lie ex- claims, as he foeld his inaljility to ni.sh to the res- cue. " Philip ! Philip ! " with a dozen more raps from the back of her hair-brush. " Look here, rbilip— may Oliver stay with uj now ? " " Ves ! yes ! " ho shouts, iu answer, " as long as ever you like ! — Tliank Heaven, it's nothing worse," he murmurs to himself, a.s he siidvS back into lii-s bath. " I really thoui,'ht the old witch liaJ repented of her piirpo.so, iinj was down on us again ! " As a v.'liole, the village of Priestley is not piuttirc-que in appearance, but it has wonderfully romantic-looking bits scattered about it here and tliore, as what country-village has not ? Tumble- down cottages, belonging to landlords more "no.ir" than thrifty, or rented by tenants whose weekly wages go to swell the income of the " Dog and Fox;" with untidy gardens attached to them, where the narrow paths have been almost washed away by the spring shower.^, until tlicy form mere gutters for the summer rain, into which the heavy blo.^soms of the neglected ro.-e- trces lie, sodden and polluted from the touch of earth. Or old-fashioned cottages, built half a century before, when bricks and mortar wore not so scarce as now, and laid together in a firmer union, and roofs were thatched instead of slated. Cottages with darker rooms, perhaps, than the more modern ones possess, because the case- ments arc latticed with snuil diamond-shaped panes, of which the glass is green iind dingy, but which can boast of wide fireplaces and a t ira- ncy-corner (that inestim -Mo comfort to the aged poor, who feel the winter's liaughts as keenly as their richer brethren, and ve been known to Eufl'er from rheumatics), an upboards to stow away provisions in, such as . ■ never thought necessary to build in newer leuements. Such cottages as these have usually a garden as old- fashioned as themselves, surrounded by a low .stone wall — not a stiff, straight wall, but a de- liciously -irregular erection, with a large block left every here and there, to serve as a stepping- j stone for such as prefer that mode of ingress to passing through the wicket, and of which ftict stone-crop and creeping jenny have seized base advantage, and, taking root, increased iu such pro- fu.-ion that it would lie u.-^iless now to give liicni notice of eviction. Over tlie wall a rcgiir.eiit of various-tinted hollyhocks rear their stately heads, i:iter,''persed here and there with a liright sun- liower ; while at their feet we fiiul dove-pinks and thyme and southern-wood and camomile (lowers, and all the old-world darlings which look so sweet, and, iu many cases, smell so nasty, but without which an old-world garden would not be comi)lete. All this is very nice, but it is not so wild and romantic as the other; indeed, as a rule, we may generally conclude that the most picturesque jdaccs to look at are the least comfortable to live in. Perhaps the cottage of all others in Priestley that an artist would select as a subject for his pencil would be that of Mrs. Cray, the laundress, and it is certainly as uncomfortable a homo as the village possesses. It is not situated in the principal tiioroughfiire — the " street," as Priest- ley proudly calls it, on account, jierhnps, of its owning the celebrated '' Dog and Fo.k " — Imt at the extremity of a long lane which divides tho little settlement i'.ito a cross. It is, indeed, the very last house before we pass into tlie open country, and chosen, doubtless, for its contiguity to the green fields which form the washerwoiu- an's drying-grounds. It is a long, low, sham- bling building, more like a barn than a cottage, with windows irregularly placed, some in the thatched roof and others on a level with one's knees. It has a wide space in front, wiiich once was garden, but is now only a tract of beaten- down earth, like a children's playground, us in- deed it is. In the centre stands an old-fa.shioned well, large and deep, encircled by a high brink of stone-work, over which ivy grows with such luxuriance that it endeavors to climb, and would climb and sufl'ocate, the very windlas.s, were Mrs. Cray's boys and girls not constantly em- [iloycd in tearing it ruthlessly away. At the side of the well is the pig-sty, but the pigs share the play-ground with the children, rout away among the ivy, snuff about the open door, try to drink out of Mrs. Cray's washing-tubs, and make themselves generally at homo. On a fine stretching from the cottage to the gate above tho heads of this strange company, llutter a variety of white and colored garments, like the Uags on a holiday - dressed frigate ; wliile the projecting wooden porch — a very Ijower of greenery — con- tains several evidences of the trade which is be- ing driven within. The old home! IIow little she has thought 'i I'^i^l ^H i 'if W:i ' L'H,I: .) ■ • , ■ .■»■■■■!•;' i ' i ^^ ; i ' J 68 "NO INTENTIONS." of it of late ! Yet she can seo it in her mind's eye, as she stands pondering his word.4. It was I'ot a particularly happy home to her — the homes of tlie poor seldom arc. Slie had known liunger and thirst and cold,. and occasionally the sound of liartih words within its limits, yet the memory of tne dull life .she led there seems very peaceful now, compared to the excited and stormy scenes tlirouyh which she has passed since leaving it. Yes ! it was of this old home that Myra had been thinking three years ago, when Joel Cray stood beside her in the fields of Fretterley, and urged her to return with him. It was to this old home she flew for refuge from the biiter knowl- edge of her lover's want of love for her, and it is in this old home that we now meet with her again. It is at the close of a long, hot September day, and she is sitting by the open window — not attired as we saw her last, in a robe of costly ma- terial, with her hair dressed in the prevailing fashion, and gold ornaments gleaming in her cars and on her breast. Myra is arrayed in cotton now ; the shawl, which is still pinned about her shoulders, is of black merino, and the hat, which she has just cast upon the table is of black straw, and ahnost without trunming. Yet there is a greater change in the woman than could be pro- duced by ary quality of dross — a change so vivid and startling, to such as have not Eccn her dur- ing this interval of three years, as to draw oft" the consideration from every thing except her- self. Iler face has fallen away to half its former size, so that the most prominent features in it are her cheek-bones, above which her large dark eyes gleam feverishly and hollow. Iler hair, which used to be so luxuriant, now poor and thin, is pushed pk.inly away behind her ears; while her lips are colorless, and the bloodless ap- pearance of her complexion is only relieved by two patches of crimson beneath her eyes, which make her look as though she had been rouged. Her shape, too, once so round and buxom, has lost all its comeliness ; her print go vn hangs in folds about her waist and bosom, and she has ac- quired a stoop which she never had before. Eight-and-twenty — only eight-and-twenty on her birthday passed, and brought to this ! But, as she gazes vacantly at the patch of ground in front of her aunt's cottage, she is not thinking of her health — people who are dangerously ill seldom do ; yet her thoughts arc bitter. The children are playing there — five children between the ages of eight and fourteen, belonging to Mrs. Cray, and a little nurse-child of which she has the charge. The latter — an infant who has not long learned to walk alone — escapes from his guardian, who U the youngest of the Crays, and attcn.pts to diinlj the ivy-covered brink of the well ; more, he man- ages to hoist his sturdy limbs up to the top, aiKJ to crawl toward the uncovered pit. His guardian attempts to gain hold of one of his mottled legs; he kicks resistance ; she screams, and the scream arouses Myra from her dream. She has just been thinking how little life is worth to any one ; she sees life in danger of being lost, and flics to preserve it. As she reaches the well, and seizes hold of the rebellious infant, her face is crimson with excitement. " Tommy would do it ! " cxplairs Jenny, be ginning to whimper wilh the fright. The infant doesn't whimper, but still kicks vigorously against the sides of his preserver. Myra throws down the wooden lid whicli ought at all times to keep tlie well covered; presses Tommy passionately against her breast; then putting him down, with a good cuff on tlie side of his head, to teach him better for the fu- ture, walks back into the cottage, panting. " Why did I do it ? " she thinks, as she leans her exhausted frame upon the table. " What's the good of life to him, or me, or any one ? AVe had much better bo all dead together ! " " Hollo, Myra ! " exclaims the voice of her cousin Joel, " what, you're back again, are you '! Well ! I'm right glad to see you, lass, though 1 can't say as you look any the better for youi going." lie has come in from his daily labor, through I the back-kitchen, and now stands before her, with his rough, kind hands placed upon her shoulders, " Let me look in your face, my dear, and read what it says ! .ZVo news. I thought as much. Didn't I tell you so before ever you went ? " "And if an angel had told me so," she says, I passionately, " do you think I should have listened to what he said ? What's health, or wealth, or peace, or any thing to me, compared to tlic chance of finding him again, and seeing myself righted ? And yet you blame me because I can't make up my mind to part with it — the only I thing the world has left me." " / blame you, my dear ? God forbid ! Only you can't expect me to see you wasting all your I life running aftcrashadder, without warning you| of the consequences. You'll wear yourself out, Myra." " There's a deal left to wear out," she answers. THE CRAY FAMILY. 60 "*Well, jou'rc not so strong i\3 you ouglit to be nnd you knows it ; nil the more reason you FhoulJ hearken to wliat your friemls tell you. This ra.ikes the sixth time you've been on the tramp after that 'Aniilton." " Don't speak hij" name ! " sliu fays, .. -_ k^. .. - --•i^-a.-ii-.-jajLa. IRENE'S \liilT. n L'l'O, Joi-l ! V, ll(j lady ! " do more tl>:iu oiiiidud on till' asking for lul. cc, stands bull- . Myra liastilj and turns lar ■ay advances to •ing nursc-tliilJ ids Irene, menibering lior and ignorant m 3 may now wish ind reserved at n do nic a favor, staying with niC ot lip in a hurry the Court liiun. J have tlicm by upon what tlicy ray ; wliereiipon [fri, and flounce?, ,lic well-doing of give you sati:-- 1 concluding sen- St time as I've | by a many." ur name till tliii ned it to me." I don't suppose but I worked I the same. Anil | ill my poor cliil- ae), when I got I Cray ? " Quekett, as was else should have anted my three lining her own a heavy loss to if talking, when the village has a nothing less! she ordered me d there, and for- ne their bits of ] or more pound: J quarter out of niy pocket, lot alone the otlier." Irene grows rather red during this harangue, and stands witli her eyes on tlio floor, trying to break the tip of her parasol by digging it into a dusty crevice between tlio flags, She does not relish hearing this common woman speak the truth, and as soon as there is a break in the eou- versation she resents it. " Well, tjuekett is not mistress of the Court now, Mrs. Cray, as I suppose I need not tell you ; and her likes and dislikes are nothing whatever to nie. We shall often have friends staying with us, and the washing is likely to be more than our I.mndress can do. At all events, I can promise YOU shall have back the servants' linen ; and, if I am satisfied with the way in which you get up the dresses I speak of, you shall have some of mine also." " Oh ! thank you, mum, kindly. I saw you was a real lady the minute I set eyes on you ; and as for my sou there, who's seen you a many times, 'Mother,' he says to me — " " Yes, yes ! " interrupts Irene, anxious to cut short so embarrassing an eulogiura ; " and I shall be sure to have tlie dresses by Wednesday, shall I not ? " " We can let the lady have thorn by Wednes- day, can't wo, Myra ? " says Mrs. Cray, appealing to her niece. " This is Monday, and you feels well enough to help, don't you ? " "Yes, I'll help," is the listless answer. "Is that your daughter? Is she ill?" de- mands Irene. "She's my niece, mum, and but a poor cree- tur just now — there's no denying of it." " Indeed, she does look very ill," says Irene, Bvrapathizingly, as she appoaches Myra's side, and gazes with sad interest at the girl's hollow checks and staring eyes, in which the traces of tears are still visible. " Do you sufler any pain ? " At first Myra is disposed to answer rudely, or not at all. She is sensitively alive to the fact of her altered appearance, and always ready to take umbrage at any allusion made to it ; but she looks up into the sweet, kind face that is bent over hers, and feels forced to be couiteous even against her will. "None now — sometimes I do." " Where is it? Y'ou do not mind my asking, do you ? Perhaps I might send you something that would do you good." "Here!" replied Myra, pressing her hand just below her collar-bones, " at night, when the cough's bad, and I can't sleep lor it. I some- times fuel as though I should go mad 'Aitli the pain here." " And what kind of a pain U it ? " " It's just a gnawing — nolliiug more; and I'm a little sore sometimes." " And gjie can't eat nothing, poor dear," in- terposes Mrs. Cray. " Slie turns against meat and pudding as thougli they was poison; but she drinks water by the gallon. I'm sure tlie buck- ets of water as that girl have dvnuk — " " And docs not washing ujake you worse ? " again inrjuires Irene. " Sometimes ; but I don't stand at it long — I can't." " And how do you employ your time, then, Myra ? " •' I'm just home from a job in London, ma'auj. I'm good at keeping accounts, and such like — it's what I've been brought up to ; but it tried me rather this hot weather, and I'm glad to be back in Priestley again." •' She ain't fit for nothing of that sort now," interpolates Mrs. Cray. " I dare say not. Sbo must take care of her- self till she gets stronger," says Irene, cheerfully, " I will send you some soup from the Court, Myra — perhaps that will tempt you to eat. And are you fond of reading ? Would you like to have some books ? " " Oh, she's a fine scholar, mum," again puts in Mrs. Cray, " Many and raany's the time I've thought we'd given her too much larning; but her poor uncle that's dead and gone used to say — '' Hero she interrupts herself to give her skirts a good shake, " Get out of that, do, you var- mint I What do you mean by hanging on to me al'tcr that fashion ? " — which adjuration is suc- ceeded by the appearance of Tommy's curly head and dirty face in the full light of day. " W/iose child is that i " cries Irene, suddenly. The question is so unexpected, that no one seems inclined to answer it. Joel changes feet awkwardly upon the hearth, which he has never quitted, and Myra turns round in her chair and looks full into Irene's face, whoso eyes are riveted upon the child, still clinging for protection to the skirts of his nurse. Mrs, Cray is the first to find her tongue. " What ! this boy, mum, as is hanging on my gownd in this ill-eonvenient fashion ? — but lor ! children will be children," she continues, as she puts her hand on Tommy's head and pushes him forward for Irene's better inspection. " Well, he's not mine, though I look on him most as my own. To tell truth, he's a nuss-child." Ill ^^'i « n "NO INTENTIONS." ii ,,, ,;■,) "A nurac-cliilil I You arc paid for keeping him ; hut who, tlicn, aio his parents ? " "Tliey'rc very rcspectablo people, mum — quite gentlefoHtH, ns you niny say. I thinit his pa's in the grocery line ; but I couldn't Hpe;ik for certain. My money is paid regular, and that's all I have to look after." "Oh, of course — of course. And — what Is his name ? " " Ik's called Tommy, mum. — Go and speak to tlio lady. Tommy." " But his surname?" " Well, wc haven't much call hero to use his other name, mum; and I'm sure it's almost slipped my memory. — What's the name as the gentleman writes as owns of Tommy, Joel ? " she continues, appealing, in rather a conscious man- ner, to her son. " I don't know. You'd better ask Myra," he replies, gruffly. "Urown," says Myra, quickly; "the child's name is Brown. You might go to remember as much as tlia* aunt." "Oh, it doesn't signify," interrupts Irene, who perceives she has stumbled on an unwel- come subject, " it is of no consequence ; " and then, in her fresh summer dress, she kneels down on the uncovered stone floor, that has been trampled by dusty feet all day long. " Come here, Tommy. Won't you come and speak to me? Look what pretty things I have here;" and she dangles her watch-chain, with its bunch of glittering charms, before his eyes. Tommy cannot resist the bait ; curiosity casts out fear ; and in another moment his deep blue eyes arc bent greedily upon the flashing baubles, while his dirty little fingers are leaving their dull impress upon pencil-case and locket and seal. " Oh dear ! mum, he ain't fit as you should touch him ; and his feet arc trampling the edge of your gownd. — Here, Jenny, make haste and put Tommy under the pump till the lady looks at him." " No, no ! pray don't ; he is doing no harm." So the dirty little brat is left in peace, while the lady takes stock of his eyes and mouth and hair. Once in his ecstasy at finding a gold fish among her treasures, he raises his eyes suddenly to hers, and she darts forward as suddenly and kisses him. Then, becoming awaro that she has done something rather out of the common, and that Mrs. Cray and Joel and Myra are looking at her with surprise, Irene rises to her feet, dragging the bunch of charms far out of disappointed Tommy's reach, ond, with a heightened color, stammers something very like an apology. "I like little children," she says, hin-ritHlly; " and — und — ho has very blue eyes. — Are you fond of lollipops. Tommy ? " " I want the fiss," says Tommy, from behind Mrs. Cray's gown again. " Oh, fie I then you can't have it. Now be'uvc yourself, or I'll give you a good hiding," is tlie gentle rejoinder. Irene feels Tcry much inclined to give him the " fiss," but has sufficient sense to know it would be a very fooli^ih thing to do ; so she takes a shilling out of her purse instead. " See, Tommy 1 a beautiful bright new shilling ! won't you go und buy some lollipops with it ? " Tommy advances his hand far enough to grab the coin, and then retreats in silence. " Say ' thankyc ' to the lady," suggests Mrs. Cray. L'ut Tommy is dumb. " Say ' thankyc ' at once ; d'ye hear ? " and a good shake is followed by an ctiually good cuff on the small delinquent's head. "Oh! don't strike him," cries Irene, earnest- ly — " pray don't strike him ; he is but a baby. Poor little Tommy ! I am sure he will say ' thank you,* when he knows me better." "You're too good to him, mum; you can't do nothing with children without hitting 'em now and then : which you will find when you have a young family of your own." " I must go now. My friends are waiting for me," says Irene, whose color has risen at the last allusion, " Good-evening, Mrs. Cray ! Send up for the dresses to-night ; and the cook shall give you some soup, at the same time, for your niece." B'lt she has not long stepped over the thresh- old, before Myra is after her ; and they meet by the ivy-covered well. "You'll — you'll — be coming this way again, won't you ? " says the girl, panting even with that slight effort. " If you wish it, certainly. Would you like me to come and see you, Myra ? " " Very much ! There are few faces here look at me as yours docs." " My poor girl ! then I will come, with the greatest pleasure." " Soon ? " "Very soon." And so they part ; and Irene joins Mary Cavendish and Oliver Ralston, who have been walking up and down the green lane outside the cottage, waiting for her. UYRA AND HER CHILD. »8 " What a time you've been ! " " Have I ? There's a poor yoiin^ woman there In a consumption, or sometliin;^ of tlio sort, wlio Interested me, Art.l sueii a dear little ehild: a nurse-eliild of Mrs. Cniy's. I staid to talk to them." " IIow long is It slneo you have developed a lore for children, Irene? " Bays Mury Cavendish, lauglilng. "I dill not think they were at all in your line." " I never di.sliked them ; nnd thla bahy has such beautiful, earnest eyes." " It is remarkable what lovely eyes some of the children of the poor have. I remember, when I was in Berwick — " " Let us get over tlic stile here ; it loads to the Court by a much shorter way," exelairas Irone, interrupting her cousin in the nidest man- ner in the world. Hut so is Miss Cavendish al- ways interrupted if nhe ventures to make the slightest reference to her visit of the summer. Siie has been dying, heaps of times, to relate all the glories of that period to Irene, but she has nev- er been able to advance farther than the fact that they took place. The mere name of Rerwiok is sulHcient to send Mrs. Mordaunt out of the room or — as in the present instance — over the stile. Irene cannot get the remembrance of poor Myra's hollow features and attenuated figure out of her head. It forms the staple subject of her conversation at the dinner-table, and sha talks of it all the evening, while her guests are ram- bling about the gardens and shrubbery ; and she is sitting on a bench with her husband in the dusk, and flirting with him in her little quiet way. "It is very sad," says Colonel Mordaunt, for .ibout the fiftieth time, " and I'm very glad that Tou should have fallen in with her, my dear. It I \i in such cases that the rich can do so much to help the poor. Sickness is bad enough to bear when wo are surrounded by every luxury ; it must be twice as hard when one is deprived of I tlie necessaries of life." And ho continues to pulT solemnly into the evening air, while his arm tightens round the waist of his wife. "Yes," says Irene, leaning up against him, " and you should see how thin and pale she is, I Philip. Her bones look as though they were coming through the skin. And she has no ap- petite, her aunt says. I have ordered cook to I Bend her down some soup and jelly." " Quito right. I am afraid you would find I Beveral more in the same condition if you were to look for them. Country poor are too proud to hi'ii." " I will make a point of looking. Hut I nrv- er saw any one so terribly tiiiii before. And her eyes are hollow, jioor thing ! " " You seem to have talccii a great fancy to this girl, Irene." "She has awakened a great interest in me, though I cannot till why. Slie seems more than ill — she looks unhappy." " And have you told C'llonel Mordaunt about the child you took such a funey to J ' laughs Mary Cavendish, who is loitering near enough to hear the last words. " It's a new thing for Irene to be running after babies — is^n't it. Colonel Mor- daunt ? " Irene flushes ; it is uot so dark but ho can see the change, and n new tenderness creeps over him. " What baby, darling? " be says, as he presses her closer to him. Irene is vexed at the turn in the conversation; she is not a bit sentimental, and she cannot affeet to be so. "It was not a bal)y,"' she replies, almost curtly ; " it was a big ehild two or three years old." " And you took a fancy to it — why ? " Colonel Mordaunt's " why " has a totally different bearing to the " why " that falls upon Irene's cars. She grows scarlet, and almost starts away from him. " Why ! — why ! For no particular reason- only — because — I don't care for children in gen- eral, I know — but — but — " While she is hammering out a reasonable an- swer, her husband supplies it. " But you thought," he whispers close into her ear, " that some day you might possess such a ehild of your own, Irene ! " " I — I thought — Good Heavens, no ! I nev- er thought any thing of the kind," she exclaims aloud ; and then, out of sheer nervousness, she laughs. The laugh grates on Colonel Mor- daunt's ear ; he draws himself away, not offended, but hurt, "If such a prospect holds no charms for you, Irene, you might keep the unpleas.mt truth to yourself. It is not necessary to laugh at me." " Laugh ! — did I laugh ? " she replies, still tittering. " I'm sure I didn't know it. I don't think I quite know what I did do." And with this, the incomprehensible creature falls to cry- ing, not heavily, but in a smart little shower of tears that savor strongly of the hysterical. Colo- nel Mordaunt does not know what to make of it; I I'm m u " NO INTENTION'S." i 'il ' ': ,«.' i m >■'; n H ho has been lltllo udcd to nomvn, iiml Ma ono bc'uniH to liiiii, lit tiiiioM, II invstoi'}' ; but lie uilopta thv aafo cuiiiiiu : hu tlirous h\i uiiuh about lior nock and begs bur nut to tbink a>iy moro about it. And, n|)|iiii'i;iilly, Iienu adoptH li'm udvice, for («hc ihit'S li T (')C'!«, und llil.i iiwiiy from liii sidi-, and tbo next uiuutu bo biurii litr li){bt luiigli rin;{iiij; uiit tbrou^h llio tihrubbcry at soiio Ji'st ol' Oliver J{lll^ton^^. They are i\ very happy parly ut Ten Court nuw ; even Itiubella Morduunl fiucnis to have cri'pl out of her shell, and to dare to enjoy her.soU'iirtiT a dennirely (piiet fashion ; and as for Colonel Mor- dauut, ho ha4 been a ditl'erent man since rid of the presence of the awful Mrs, Quekett. Not that ho was quiet himself for some days after the house- keeper's summary departure. A gloomy dread seemed hanj;iii|^ over him at that time, for whieh Irene was unable to account. Uut at the end of a fortnif^lit, Mrs. Quekett's teuipcr h.ivinf; evapo- rated with change of air, she thought fit to send her master a letter, written as though nothing un- pleasant had happened between them, whieh in- timated her whereabouts, and wound up with her compliments to bio " good lady." Colonel Mordaunt's mind was instantly re- lieved; and tbo next post took beck a length ^ epistle in reply. Irene faw neither of these let- ters, nor wished to do si< ; but she could not Ii' Ip observing how much moro at ease her husband appeared to lie after receiving und dispatching them. And with the fear of Mrs. Quekett's everlast- ing displeasure lifted off his mind, Colonel Mor- daunt became pleasanter and more lively than she had seen him since their marriage. Ho petted Irene all day long, chaffed Isabella, and appeared thoroughly to enjoy the companionsliip of Oliver, as though, in the affection of these three, he had all he desired in this life to make him happy. His wife had begun to wish that it could go on thus forever, and that they had no friends coming to break in upon their domestic felicity. But the guests have arrived, and the unrulUed itttcrcourse is continued, and Irene is being car- riertl quietly along the stream of life as though -lie had left all its storms behind her, and there were no black clouds gathering in the future. Colonel Mordaunt is of an exceedingly benevo- lent nature ; he takes great interest in the poor of the parish, and never neglects an opportunity of sympathizing with or relieving them ; but after a while he docs grow very sick of the name of Myra Cray. It appears as though his wife were always hat|)lug on it; every tuple, from nlmt. ever point Htaited, ve( r;< round, in some niyitto. rious manner, to the liltk glil at the luundio.V* cot'ugo; and, whenever ho mlssen Irene, he is sure to hear that the has "jiiitt run down " i.j the end of the village with a book or a puddl:,. At last be grows lldgety im the subject. "You are, surely, never going out in ilil. broiling sun 1 " he exclaims, one hot morning iii Uctuber, as bo meets bis wife arrayed fur wall.in^', a ba.-kct of fruit on fine arm, antl a bottle (jf wine under the oilier. ' I cannot allow it, Irelv. You will get fever or Bonieihing of the sort: yii., mim wait till the day Is conler." " Oh, I can't w.iit, I'hilip," Atv say«, coaxlti^'ly, " for poor ilyra is so very much wr)r.«e. i^h broke a blood-ve,-sel last night, and they lim\ just sent up to tell me so." " What good can you do by going down?" "I don't know: but I think »ilie will feel my j)re.-ience to be a comfort ; nhe has taken a gnut laiiey to me, you know, besides, I want to cam her a few j; tapes." " .Send tlieni by a servant. I cannot have you risk your health by encountering such fatigut for any one." " It will not fatigue ; and I want to see Myia | ■ iiyself." "Take the pony-chaise, then." " No, iudeed ! before your lazy grooms will I have put the harness together, I eball be by lict bedside." And, miming p.ist him, t^lie takes l.i.r way down to the village. Colonel Mordaunt i.^ vexed. lie likes !^ wife to be interested in the parishioner^, but \,i' visits of late have been confined to the Grays— I who are generally considered to be the least ik- Serving of them all. IJesides, he argues, ilk' house is full of guests, to whom she owes muiv attention than ■ eimsonant with absenting herscll from their company at all hours of the day. When they meet at luncheon, consecpiently, k is what is termed a Utile "put out;" but ti 1 hj ii | too full of her ^ro<('yt'(' to notice it. "I'oor Myra! "she sighs, as she takes hi; scat at the table. "1 am afraid there is littk I hope for her; she is so weak, she cannot speak above a whisper." " She oughtn't to be allowed to speak at all, I after having broken a blood-vessel," says her bus- 1 band, shortly. "AVill you take a cutlet, Irene?" "No — nothing, thank you. I couMu't eat;| my whole mind is absorbed by the thought of tlia: poor girl." " But you are not going to allow it to spoii I WORKS OK ClIAUirV. 73 )|ilo, from nlmt. in BOiuu iii}^t(. t tlic luundioVi ijiia Iicno, 111- i: t ruu Uowu" ti) ok ur 11 |iuddiii|: illlljOl't. ling out in thi- hot niotiiliit.' ill lived for wullviiig, iind a bottlu of jt allow it, Iiiiv, of lilt! r^oit: vi.. I.' sajB, coaxiii^-'Ij, iich wor.^e. f>ii. , iind llicy liavi going down?" ; Nlie w ill fill niy laa tuki'n a gnut s, I want to cairv [ cannot liave you ing such fatigiit want to s< (' Myra lazy proonis li! I i-hall be by lai ira, f'lic takes l;ir lie likes Ills i.shionor^, but lar to the Ciays- be the least tk- he argues, ilio D she owes luoit absenting herstll urs of the day. consequently, he out ; " but she u I it. 8 she takes licr lid thci is littk die cannot speak ] to speak at all, el," says her bus- 1 a cutlet, Irene! I couldn't eat; I thought of tlia; allow it to sjuiu V(;'ir hini'lii'iin, aio yoiif llunniiij; ulioul nil the iiioriiiii^:, aud etting nothing on llcj top of It, Tlio end of it will In', \oil will be ill " " Not while Iheie U W'Jili for nie to do— an there ever in." " NoiHi'iiHo! you tulk of it iii though it .vore tt dutv. It 'I* ^ nuiidi greater duty for you to eat whi'U your huHliitnd aski4 you to do so." " Don't ask uie then, dear I'liillp ; for I really C.lll'l." IF'- docs not pri'SS Ik r, but diroetH liis atten^ lion to tlie re.Ht of the eoiiipaiiy ; while ;io leans liii'k ill her ehiiir, [lale, |ieiisive, an 1 almost en- tirely hilent. ''You won't go out again?" he says to her, Hi the nieal is coneludcd mid they rise from tuble, "Oh, no! I don't think so." "(Jo, then, and lie do«n, my du.ir. You have hi'i'ii too mueh exeited. I never aiw you more overcome." '•I think I will lie down, jii.^t for im hour or two. My head I'.ehes terribly." Then his tiillinjr annoyance vaiii^lies, and he i.i all >ynipathy and tenderness, supporting her up-stairs with his arm around her waist, and coaxing and pelting her like a sick child, until •4|i(' li;is exelianged her dre.s8 for a cool wrapper, luiil Klin down on her bod: when he steps about tliu room, on tiptoe, like a woman, pulling down tlio blinds and putting every thing within her rcaeli that ho thinks she may lequirc. " I shall be back by six, my own darling," he whispers, in farewell ; " and I hope you will have had a good sleep by that time." '• I dare .say I shall," she murmurs, dreamily ; aad then ho leaves her. At the apiiointed hour he is back again, and enterin;.; thn room cau- tiously, for fear of startling her, finds all the blinds drawn up, and Phoobo sitting by the open window, stitching a rent in one of her mistress's dresses. ■'Mrs. Mordaunt gone down?" he says, inter- rogatively. " Yes, .sir. I believe she's gone out, sir.'' " Out 1 Not out-of-doors again ? " "I think so, sir. A mc.-suge came up fro. a Cray's for my missus, about four o'clock, and she |)ut on her things at once and went to them. I believe the young woman's sent for her, sir." " Too bad I too bad 1 " exclaims Colonel Mor- ilamir, angrily — though referring more to the Crays than to Irene. "But I suppose she will be back to dinner." "I supp'-j so, sir. My missus said she Would \vi ar u wiilte ni'isliu thl;i i veiling, and I WAitJuht stitching Ibis one together for her." Jliil inner time arrives, and tlu'v iire all a*. :le that I can come home just yet. " Yotirn, IttKSK." ".Serve tho dinner at onee!" ("icluims Colo, nel Mordafmt, in n voiio of real displeasure, as he tears up the note into a do/.en fragments and casts tliem into the empty grate behoi 1 him. CHAPTEU Vir. Mi:as\viiii-k Irene, unconscious how her work of charity will influence her future, is sitting with a trembling heart by the bedside of the laun- dress's niece. She is unused to sickness or to death, but she knows now that the one can only vanish hence before the presence of the other ; for tho parish doctor met iier, on her entrance to tho cottage, and answen 1 her ipiestions about Myra with the utmost frankness. "She Hirt// linger," he said, Njulitfuliy, "but it is more likely that she will nut. She has been breaking up for some time past, and has not suf- ficient strength to rally from this last alluek. I shall be here again in the morning; but, as I can do her no good, it would be useless my 8ta_\ lug now." Aiul tho doctor mounted his .--tout eob and trotted off in another direction. Irene stood watching him till he was out of sight, and then turned into the cottage with a sigh. When the doctor leaves the house in which a jia- tient lies irt extremis, it seems as if death had al- ready entered there. There is no cessation of business in Mrs. Cray's dwelling, though her niece doe- lie dying. Peo- ])le who work hard for stern daily bread canni.t alTord time for sentiment ; and the back-kitchen is full of steam and soap-suds, and the washer- women are clanking backward and forward over the wet stones in their pattens, to wring and hang out the linen ; and tho clatter of tongues and rat- ■ij. ■ ri?l 19 "NO INTENTIONS" ii- Nk' tlintf of tiibi* and tiolxe of the children nrc no coM' tiiitioiiH ihiit Irene liii'4 ditlliule)' ill flint in iiiiiiiiii;; lici'Hcll' li<':inl. Hut lli(> ciiild will) tooli tilt* iiii'-i- ■itKO up to tia* Court linit bcon on the loul!*Hii|^o to you ; hut xlio Iiiim liecn tliitt ri'Mtlc^H iind uiii'ii-'y nince von left lior tlii.s morn- ing, tlnit I li.ivni't liccn iildu to do nolhiiiK with licr, mill tliu first wordn iihi> ! ii|) to the bedside, and kiicils down mid lidn • the poor ilyii.g oreuture in lur iiriiis and presses her lips upon her lorcheiid, "Di'ar .Myra, don't cry— don't be frightciii'!, nctiicnibcr Who Is waiting on tlio other side tn w.'leome you I " The sweet syinpatlietie tones, the pressiiii;— above all the kiss, rouse Myra from tlie coiiteiu. plat ion of herself. " Did—did— i/ou do that ? " " Do what, dear '' — kiss you f ' "Yes. Did I l.iriiy it— or were your lips here y " touching her Ibrehend. " My lips were there — why not f I kisscil yo\i that you might know how truly I sympathi/t with your present trouble." " You mustn't do it again. Ah ! you don't press. You would not do it if you knew — My (jod ! my God I ond I am going ! " and bore Myra relapses into her former grief. For a moment Irene \3 silent. She Is as pure a woman as this Avorld has CTcr seen ; but she is not ignorant that impurity exists, and, like all honorable and high-minded creatures, is disposed to deal leniently with the fallen. She has sus- pected more than once, during licr intercourse with Myra, that the girl carries some unhappy secret about with her, nnd can well imagine how, in the prospect of death, the burden may become too heavy to bo borne alone. So she consider? for a little before .she answers, and then she takes the white, wasted hand in hers. "Myra ! I am sure you are not happy;,! iini sure you have had some great trouble in your life which you have shared with no one ; and now that you are so 111, the weight of it oppresses you. I don't want to force your confidence, but, if it would comfort you to speak to a frieml, remember that I am one. I will hear your secret (if you have a secret), and I will keep it (if you wish me to keep it) until my own life's end. Only, do now what will make you happier and more comfortable." " Oh ! I can't— 1 can't— I daren't " DIA:J-BKD rONKKSMIONrt. wore votir lip.'' " I Jiti-f mty it will Id! Iiiird to till ; but Mjru, poor t(ii'l ! >'u» uru toon Koltig wlioru nu ^cciotii c*ii l""tii'(?' '^* '''"^' I'll^t'i* hoisoir on onu i'll)OW and Mtiircji liiin^rily Into Irono'ii com- paii^luiiiitu fin'c — " liow I wiili I (liu'i'il to toll you tn.i V tl.lM« ! " At tliU junctuii', thoHouiiildf " tliw.uliinn" in aiiilililo fi'iin below, iiml iM\rii(.'ilittlely followed liy tliL' risiuj^ of Tommy's idi.intiiio voice in (lis- (iirilint cries. "Slic's at it Uizxlw !" excliiims Myra, middinly mill fuToi'ly, as ()iu din bruuks on tlieir I'ouvi'rsa- tion; tttul then, as lliou;;h vonsciou.s of lii'r im|io< tiiii'V to Interfcri', she I'all.s buck on lur pillows witli a fcoble wiiil of despair. Irene Hies down- Bt.iirs to the M!Scue — more for the sake of the sick (.'irl tli:m the child — unci lliuls Tommy liowliii}; 1 )iidly ill a comer of the kitchen, while .Mr*. Cray is just ri'i)!acinn a thick stick, wlikli nhe keeps for llio education of her family, on the ehiinncy-piece. " Has Tommy been nauj^hty V " demamls Irene, ilefiTi'iitially — for it is not always safe to interfeio iviili Mrs. Cray's discipline, " Lor ! yes, mum, ho always be. The most ti'iiublosome ehild as ever was — up evi'rywhercs mill over every think, quiet until I have told you all. When he said tint my blood got up, and I left him. My cousin Joel had been hanging about the jdace after mo, I and I left straiglit olf and came back home with liim." " Withoiit saying a word to — to — the person vou have been speaking of ? " " lie wanted to get rid of mo ; why should I ! sav a word to him? But I grieved afterward — I ■'rioved terribly ; and when the child was born, I would have given the world to find him again." " Did you ever try ? " " 7Vy / I've traveled miles and miles, and I walked myself off my feet to find him. I've been 1 to Oxford and Fretterley (that was the village we I lived at), and all over London, and I can hear nothing. I've taken situations in both those tonn<, and used his name right and loft, and got 110 news of him. There are plenty that bear the same name, I don't doubt, but I've never come upon any trace of him under it; and I've good I n-a^on to believe that it was not his right ono." " What is the name you know him by, tlien, Myra?" " Hamilton." " Hamilton ! " repeats Irene. " That is not a ( common name 1 " "But it's net his. I've found that out since, [ lor I know he belonged to the college, and there wasn't a gentleman with that name there all through the term. His love was false, and his name was false, and every thing that took place between us was false. lie deceived me from first to last, and I'm dying before I can bring him to I book for it ! " "You shouldn't think of 'hat now, Myra. I You should try to forgive him, as you hope that your own sins will be forgiven." " I eould have forgiven him if it hadn't been I for Tommy. But to think of that poor child left worse than alone in this wretched world — his mother dead and his father not owning him — is enough to turn me bitter, if I hadn't been so be- fore. Aunt will ill-use him ; she's barely decent to him now, when I pay for his keep, and what she'll do when he's thrown upon her for every : thing, I daren't think — and I shall never lie quiet ! in my grave ! " ' "Myra, don't let that thought distress you. ! I will look after Toiiimy whrn you are gone." " I know you're very good. You'll be down here every now niul then with a plaything or a copper for him — liut that won't prevent her beat- ing him betwecn-whlles. He's a high-spirited child, but she's nearly taken his siiirit out of him already, and he's dreadfully frightened of her, poor lamb ! He'll cry himself to sleep every night when I'm in the church-yard ! " and the tears steal meekly from beneath Myra's half. closed eyelids, and roll slowly down her hollow cheeks. " He shall not, Myra," says Irene energeti- cally. "Give the child into my charge, and I'll take him away from the cottage, and sec that he is prnporly provided for." " i'ou will take him up to the Court and keep him like your own child? He is the son of a gentleman!" says poor Myra, with a faint spark of pride. Irene liesitates. Has she been promis- ing more than she will be able to perform ? Yet she knows Colonel Mordaunt's easy nature, and can almost answer for his compliance witli any of her wishes. "Oh, if you could!" exclaims the dying mother, with clasped hand?!. "If I thought that my poor darling would live with you, I could die this moment and be thankful ! " " He (./(((Wlivc with me, or under my care," cries Irene. " I prondac yon.'''' " Will you swear it ? Oh ! forgive m j ! I am dying." " I swear it" " Oh ! thank God, who put it in your heart to say so ! Thank God 1 Thank God ! " She lies back on her pillows, exhausted by her own emotion, while her hands arc feebly clasped above those of her benefactress, and her pale lijis keep murmuring at intervals, " Thank God ! " "If you please, mum, the colonel's sent the pony-chaise to fetch you home, and he hopes as you'll go immediate." " The carriage ! " says Irene, starting, " then I must go." " Oh ! I had romething more to tell you," ex- claims Myra; " I was only waiting for the strength. You ought to know all ; I — I — " "I cannot wait to hear it noT, u'ea- Myra. I am afraid my husband will be angry ; but I will come again to-morrow morning." " To-morrow morning I may not be here ! " " No ! no !— don't think it. We shall meet m ■4 w r 'mmnmvf^n^mmmm^^mm^mihimn mm 80 "NO INTENTIONS." f ':!.5'.:-i again. Muanwhile, bo comforted, Rumcmber, I have ])ro)n!s(d ;" iiiul with a farewell proasure of the sick K''"''^ hand, Irene resiunes her walking- thin<;s, and driven iiaek to tiie Court as quickly aa her ponies will carry her. Her husband is waitinj; to receive her on the door-step. Colonel llordaunt is not in tlie best of tempers, at least/or /(i'/rt. The Httlo episode which took place between Irene and himself relative to her predilection for Mrs. Cray's nurse-chiid, has made him rather sensitive on the subject of every thing connected with the laundress's cottage, and ho is vexed to-night tlu^f. ^he s'iould have neglected her guests and her dinner-table, to attend tho death- bed of what, in his vexation, he calls a " consump- tive pauper." And so, when he puts out his hand to help Ilia wife down from her pony-chaise, he is most decidedly in that condition domestically known as " grumpy." " Take them round to tho stable at once," he says sharply, looking at the ponies and address- ing the groom; "why, they've scarcely a hair unturned ; they must have been driven home at a most unusual rate." " You sent word you wanted me at once, so I thought it was for something particular," inter- poses Irene, standing beside him in the porch. " Do you hi-.ir what I say to you ? " he re- peats to the servant, and not noticing her. " What are you .<;tanding dawdling there !"jr? " The groom touches his hat and drives av y. " What is tho matter, Philip ? " "There's nothing the matter, that I know of." " Why did you send the pony-chaise for me, then? Why didn't you come and fetch me yourself? I would much rather have walked home through the fields with you." " We cannot both neglect our guests, Irene. If you desert them, it becomes my duty to try and supply your place." " Why I Aunt Cavendish is not affronted, is she ? She must know th'it it's only once in a way. Did you get ray note, Philip V " " I received a dirty piece of paper with a notice that you would not be back to dinner." "I thought it would be sufficient," says Irene, sighing softly ; " and I really couldn't leave poor Jlyra, Philip. She is dying as fast as it is possi- ble, and she had something very jjartieular to tell me. You are not angry with me ? " " Angry ! oh, dear no ! why should I be an- gry ? Only, I think it would bo advisable, an- other time, If these paupers' confidences were got over in the morriing. And I certainly do not ap. prove of your being at the beck and call of evtrv sick person in the village, whether you are fit to attend to him or not ! You had a bad headaihc yourself when I left you this afternoon." "(»h, my poor head! I had forgotten all about it. Yes ; it was very painful at one tiiuo, but I suppose my excitement has driven the imin away. I'hilip, I have been listening to such a sad story. You know the child — the little boy that they said was at nurse with Mrs. Cray." "I have heard you mention it. I really did not know if 'twas a boy or a girl, or if you knew yourself," he replies, indifferently. " Xo, no ; of course not 1 " she says, colorin;:, " but you know what I mean. Well, what do you think — it's a secret though, mind " — lowcrin;; her voice — " he belongs to poor Myra, after all; isn'* 1. shocking ? " " A. id what is the use of their telling you sueli ta '^s as that ? " replies Colonel Mordaunt, angrily ; '" I ■"■'■.."i have them defiling your ear: with things that are not fit for you to hear. If it is the case, why can't they keep the disgrace to themselves ? You can do no good by knowing the truth." " Philip ! but you don't understand ; it was the poor girl told me, and it was such a comfort to her — she has no one else to confide in. And, besides, she is so unhappy, because Mrs. Cray beats her poor little boy, and she is afraid he will be ill-treated when she is gone." " And wants to extract a promise from you to go down there every morning and see that her precious offspring has slept and eaten well since the day before. No, thank you, Irene ! I think we've had quite enough of this sort of thing for the present, and when the laundress's niece i< dead, I hope that you will confine your charity more to home, and not carry it on ad infnitum to the third and fourth generation." He makes one step downward as though to leave her then, but she plucks him timidly by the sleeve and detains him. " But, Philip — I promised her ! " " Promised what ? " " That I would befriend her child when she is gone ; that I would take him away from Mrs, Cray. She was so miserable about him, poor girl, she said she couldn't die in peace ; and — anil (I do so hope you won't be vexed) — and bring him up under my own care." " HVta//" cries Colonel Mordaimt, roughly, startled out of all politeness. THE FIRST QUARREL. 81 "I promised bui' I would adopt hlin ; surely, it !:> iiothiiig so very much out of tlic way." ■'Adopt a bi'iigiir's tiriit out of the vilhij^e — ;i child not born in wedloek — a boy, of all tliiii;;s in the world ! Irene, you must be out of your senses ! " ' But it is done every day." ' It may bo done oeeasionally by people who I li;ive an interest in rajtged seliools, or the Eniijrra- I tiun Soeiety, or the Slioe-blaek IJrigade, or who bivc arrived at the meridian of life without any ncarei' ties of their own; but for a young lady, I just nii.rried, and with her hands full of oecupa- tiun, bot'i for the present and the future, it would I be absurd — unheard of — impossible ! " " But what oeeupation have I that need prc- I vent my looking after a little child, Philip ? If — lil-" ' ••If what y" " I don't know why I should be so silly as [not to like to mention it," she goes on hurriedly, I tiiongli with an ellbrt ; '' but supposing I — I — had a child of my own ; thnt would not interfere with [my duties as mi.stress here, would it? " "And would you like to have a child of your |o«n, darling?" he answers sweetl)-, but irrele- Ivantly, and relapsing into all his usual tenderness. I Were Irene politic, she might win him over at I tiiij moment to grant her anything. A smile, ;in answering look, a pressure of the hand, would I Jo it, and bring him to her feet a slave ! But, in lone sense of the word, she is not politic ; her ua- (tiire is too open. She cannot bring her heart to stoop to a deception, however plausible, for hci" lown advantage. And so she answers her hus- |ljand's qiiestion frankly. "No! not at all, rhilip. I've toM you that dozen times already! but I want to take this ].oor little boy away from Mrs. Cray, and bring bim up respectably in mind and body." Colonel Mordaunt's momentary softness van- lit?, and his " grumphicss " returns in full fijrcc. " Then I object altogether. I'm not so fond bibrais at any time as to care to have those of pilicT people sprawling ovfrr py house — and a pauper's brat of all things. VoK iiiast dismiss |ho idea at once." " But I have promised, Philip." '' You [itoinised more than you can perform." '• But I swore 11. Philip ! you will not hiake me go back from an oath made to the dy- |iiz! I shall bate myself forever if you do." ■' You had no right to take such an oath with- fcut consulting me." 6 " Perhaps not ; I acknowledge it ; but it is done, and I cannot recede from my given word." " I refuse to inilorse it. I will have no bus- tard brought up at my expense." The eoarseucss of the retort provokes her ; she colors crimson, and recoils from him. " How cruel ! hijw pitiless of you to use that term ! You have no charity ! >^onie day you m.iy need it for yourself!" At that he turns upon her, eiim.-on too, and panting. " What makes you say so ? What have you heard ? " " -More than I ever thought to hear from your lips. Philip, I did not think you could be so unkind to me ! " and she turns from him weep- ing, and goes up to her own room, leaving him conseience-strickeu in the porch. It is their first quarrel; the first time angry wuids have ever passed between them, and ho is afraid to follow her, lest he should meet with a rebufl', so he re- mains there, moody and miserable, and, before half an hour has elaiised, could bite out his tongue for every word it uttered. The idea of the adopted child is as unpala- table to him as ever ; it aj)|icars a most hare- brained and absurd idea to him ; but he cannot bear to think that he should have been cross with Irene, or that .she should have been betrayed into using hasty words to him, Oh, that first quarrel ! how infinitely wretched it makes humanity, and what a shock it is to hear hot and angry words pouring from the lips that have never opened yet for us except in bless- ing! Bettor thus, though — better, hot and angry words, than cold and calm. Tl\e direct death for love to die is « hen it is reasoned into silence by the voice of indilference and good sense. Othello's passion was rough and deadly, but while it lasted it must have been very sweet pain, was it not kinder to smother Desdemona while it was at white heat than to let her live to see the iron cool ? But Colonel Mordaunt is in no mood for rea- soning ; he is simply miserable ; and his mood ends — fls nil such moods do end for true lovers — by his creeping up to Irene's side in the twilight, and humbly bepging her forgiveness, which she grants him readily — n ving a little over her own shortcomings the while- and then thcv make it up, and kiss, as hu.sband and wife should do, and come down-stairs together, and are very cheerful for the remainder of the evening, and never once ifl u w 82 "NO INTENTIONS." 1-lirV mention tlio obnoxious Fiilijcct tint distiiibcd tlicir peace. Tlic next niorninq U bright aiul l)e!iutiful ; nil Xaturc appear.-) jubil.int, but between tliese two there is U a .sli;,'iit reserve. All trace of discom- fiture has passed — they are as loving and atten- tive to c.icli otlicr as before — but they are not quite .so easy. With her first awakening.', Irene's tlioughts have flown to poor Myra. She wonders liow she has passed tlic night, and vividly rcniem- liers that she promised to visit her in the morn- ing ; but Colonel Mordaunt says notlnng on tlie subject, and Irene dares not broaoli it. She is so afraid of disturbing his restored serenity, or of appearing ungrateful for the extra love he has bestowed on her in order to eifaec th'j remem- brance of their misunderstanding. Every one knows what it is to feel like this lifter a quarrel with one whom, we love. The ! torm was so terri!)le, and the succeeding peace is so precious to us, we arc not brave onougli to risk a repetition of our trouble by alluding to the sultject that provoked it. So Irene dresses in silence, thinking much of her interview with Myra of the day before, and wondering how it win all end, and longing that her husband would 1)0 tiio first to revert to it. But they meet at breakfast ; and nothing has been said. ^Ira. Cavendish is particularly lively this morning. Slic knows there was a slight dis- agreement between her host and hostess last evening, and she is anxious to dispel the notion that any one observed it but themselves. " What a beautiful day ! " she says, as she enters the room ; " bright, but not too warm. Ah, Colonel Mordaunt, who was it promised to take us all over to picnic at Walmslcy Castle on the first opportunity ? " " One who is quite ready to redeem his prom- ise, madam," replies the colonel, gallantly, " if his commander-in-chief will give him leave. But I am only under orders, you know — only under orders." '' Not very strict ones, I imagine. — What do you say, Irene? Is this not just the day for Walmslcy ? And Mary and I must leave you tlie beginning of the week." " Oh ! do let us go, Irene," interposes her cousin. " It will be awful fun," says Oliver Ralston. " Just what we were wishing for ; is it not. Miss Cavendish?" Irene thinks of Myra in a moment ; it is on the tip of her tongue to remonstrate, and say she cannot go to-day of all days in the week^ but she glances at her husband, and the expression of liij face makes her hesitate. " riiilip, what would you wish me to do?" ,shc says timidly. " I want you to please yourself, my dear ; but I see no reason why you stiould not go. Thu weather is beautiful, the distance nothing—;, matter of fourteen milc.i ; just a pleasant drivf, And I am sure it will do you good, besides i:iv. ing pleasure lo our guests. If you ask my opin. ion, I say, let's go." "That's right, uncle," shouts Oliver; "A. can have notliing to say after that. — Now, Irene'' (for it had been settled between these young pco- pl(! that, considering the equality of their age?, they should address each other by their Christiiiu names), " let's make an inroad on the lanitr (what a blessing it is old Quekett's not hereto prevent us !), pack up the hamper, order round tin carriage, put on our hats, and the thing is done." "Shall we be long away?" demands Irciip, anxiously, of her husband. He observes her indiU'crcnce to tlie proposed plan, guesses its cause, and frowns. " That depends entirely on our own will But if our fr!cnd.f" (with a slight stress on the I word) " enjoy themselves at the castle, I sec no reason why we should not remain as long as :: gives them pleasure." " Dear Irene, pray don't go against your in- clination," urges Miss Cavendish. Colonel Mor. daunt answers for her — with a laugh. " Don't indulge her. Miss Cavendish. She is I only lazy. She will enjoy herself as much as any | of us when she is once there. — Come, my darlin?, see after the commissariat department at once, I and I will order the carriage. The sooner we | start the better. — Oliver, will you ride, or take the box-seat ? " And so it is all settled witlioui | further intervention on her part. She goes up-stairs to prepare for the expe- dition, feeling very undecided and miserable. After all, does not her duty lie more toward [h fulfillment of her husband's wishes than ancngap- 1 ment with one who has no real claims upon her; Only, she is so sorry that she promised to visii I Myra this morning. Perhaps she is expecting litr I even at this moment — straining her cars to catch | the sound of her footstep — waiting in feverls!; anxiety to repose some further confidence in her, I The thought is too painful. Could she not riis I down to the cottage before they go, if it was only J for ten minutes ? She hears her husband in hi; dressing-room. "Philip," she Siys ii:.:-,i(."l!y, '■ i pji.nvscd to| ■ V ^ ■ . ■■,. ' VISIT TO WALMSLEY CASTLK. 83 rcssion of liia me to (1(1 ?" my iknr ; hw not go. Til, nothinj:— ;i ilcnsnnt tliivu, I, besides f;iv. ask my opin- Oliver; "hIl —Now, Irene'' [!Sc yoimg poo. of tlicir iifrcf, their Christian on the Inrdor :'s not hereto (reler round tin thine is done." lemands Ircue. o the proposed | i. our own will. ] it stress on tlie ;astle, I sec no n as long as i' iiinst your in- Colonel Moi- igh. f-ndish. She is | as much as anj me, my darlini;, I niont at once, The sooner w | ride, or take settled withom | for the expc- and luisevablo. I lore toward tlii) than an cn;-'a?f- laims upon her': I oniiscd to visit | is cxpcctins lif er cars to cttcb | ing in feveris'; nfldonce in licr. I lid she not rr. ro, if it was only | husband in bi; 1 r>it..fi' scd to f . ,■ poor Myra afiain this morning'. Is there no tluh! Ix'fore we start V " " TiiiK? ! " he echoes ; " why, the carriage is eoiiiii'." round now, and the ladies have tluii' tliiiiirs on. You've gone mad on the subject of th:it woman, Irene; but, if it's absolutely iiiipor- t int vnu should see her again to-day, you must go down in the evening. Come, my darling," he con- tinues, changing his manner to a caressing, eoax- iu" tone, which it i.s most dillleuU to combat, " we had quite enough fu.s3 over this subject yester- (liiv; let us have a peaceful, happy day all to our- felvcs, for once in a way ; there's a dear giil." And, after that, there is nothing more for Irene to do but to walk down-stair.s disconsolately, and drive off with her guests to AVahnsle/ Castle. They are a merry party ; for it is just one of thoHC glorious days when to live is to enjoy; and flie tries to be merry, too, for gloom and ill-humor have no part in her composition : but she cannot JKlp her thoughts reverting, every now and then, to JlyiM, with a tinge of self-reproaeh for not hav- ing been braver. Yet her husband sits opposite to her, his eye glowing with pride as it rests upon her countenance, and a quiet pressure of the hand or foot telling her at intervals that, with whom- soever he may appear to be occupied, his thoughts ,ire always hers ; and she cinnot decide whether she has done right or wrong. It is useless to ponder the question now, when she is already miles away from Priestley ; and so she tries to dis- miss it from her mind, with a resolution to pay licr promised visit the minute she returns. Wahnsley Castle is a ruin, situated in a very picturesque part of the county; and, allowing [ for a long drive there and a futigiiing exploration, followed by a lengthy luncheon and a lazy discus- I sion on the sward, it is not surprising that morn- ing merged into noon, and noon into evening, be- fore our party were aware of the fact, and that the first thing that calls Irene's attention to the hour is a cool breeze blowing across the hills, I which makes her shiver. " How cold it has turned ! " she says, suddenly, I as she changes her position. " Why, I'liilip, [what 'clock is it? " " Just five, dear," ho answers, quietly. " Five ! Five o'clock ! It never can be five." " Within a few minutes. I suppose we had I better bo thinking of going home, or we shall be I late for dinner." " I hardly think we shall have much appetite I for dinner after this," says Miss Cavendish, laugh- ling, as she regards the scanty remnants of their I meal. " Kii'c I It cannot be so l.iteas five," lepeata Irene, in a voice of distress. "0 I'hilip, (border the horsi'S to be put to at oiiee. — I'oor Myra I " Her expression is so pleailiiig that he rises to do her bidding without delay ; but he cannot re- sist a grumble as he does it. I!ut she does not heed him : she heeds nothing now but her own thoughts, which have flown back to her broken promise, with a dreailful fear that she may be too late to redoem it. She reiueinliers every thing that happened with sickening fidelity : how Myra longed to detain her, and only let her go ujion her given word that she woidd return. WInt right had she to break it — for any one, even for riiilip ? What must the dying woman think of her? She is so absorbed in this idea that she ea i- not speak to any tmc : her conduct seems (piito dianged from what it did in the morning. She is a pitiful coward in her own eyes now. And, as she drives back to riiestley, she sits alone, miser- able and silent, longing to roach home, and fancy- ing the road twice as long as when they last trav- ersed it, " Are you ill, my dear ? " says Miss Civeinii.-h. " Has the day fatigued you? " " You had better not speak to Irene," replies Colonel Mordaunt, in her stead. '" She is 'a one of her Lady Bountiful moods. You and I are not worth attending to in comparison." She is too low-spirite(' even to be sauey in n;- ply : and presently her husband's hand creeps into hers ; and she knnu s that her reticence has pleased him, and gives it a good squeze for re- ward. But as the carriage drives up to the Court her quick eye catches sight of a dirty little figure crouched by the door-steps, and all her vague fore- bodings return. " Oh, there is Jenny ! '' she exclaims, excitedly. " I felt sure there was something wrong. — Jenny, what is it ? " — as the carriage reaches the door — " is Myra worse ? " " Please, mum," says Jenny, with a boo, " she's as bad as ever she can be : and mother says, please, mum, could you come down and see her, for she's a-goin' fast, and she keeps on a-eallin' for you. And mother says — '' " Oh ! I will go at once," says Irene, leaping down from the carriage. " Pliilip, dearest, you won't be angry." Ami, with that, begins to run down the drive. " Stop, Irene, stop ! " cries her husband ; but she does not heed or hear him; and, having 1 handed the other ladies out, he drives after her, i 1 li i^>'^ n 84 "NO INTENTIONS." i.^^1 V i'« and catches her before alio liaa reached the out- f ido of Ihe t;''ouiKl.-i. " Stop, dcar'jst ! Get in. I will drive down with you," he exclaims, as ho overtakes her. " You, IMiilip?" " Yes, why not ? Am I to have no share in the troubles of this kind little heart ? " "O rii'lip! Thank you! You arc too good to nie ! It is such a comfort to me ! " And, with that, she seizes the great rough hand that has drawn her so tenderly to his side, and cries over it quietly. He smears her tears all over her face with his pocket-handkerchief in well-meant at- tempts to wipe them away, after the manner of men, but not another word is exelianged between them till they reach the cottage. There all is silent. The lower part of the house seems deserted. And Irene, leaving her husband pacing the garden in front, tinds her way quietly up-stairs. Myra's room seems full. Mrs. Cray is there with her .■^oiipy satellites, and all her children, ex- cept Joel and Jenny ; and at first Irene's en- traiu'C is unnoticed. But as the women nearest the door perceive her, they fall back. "Ah ! you've come too lute, mum,'' :-ays Mrs. Cray, reprouehfully. " I doubt if she'll recko- nize you. She's a'most gone, ])oor creetur." " I am so sorry," replies Irene, making her Way up to the bed on which the siek girl lies mo- tionless ; " but I could not come before. — Dear Myra, don't )'ou know nie '/ " And she lays her warm lips >ipon the clammy forehead. The dy- ing eyes cpiiver — open — recognize her; and a faint smile hovers over the lead-colored lips. " We were — we were — " she gasps, and then stops, still gasping, and unable to proceed. " Is it any thing you want to tell me ? '' says Irene gently, trying to help her. "We were — " commences Myra ftgaiii ; but Death will not let hor finish. "Tommy!" .^lie ejaculates, with a world of meaning in her eyes, but with an effort so painful to behold that Irene involuntarily closes her ivn; and when slie opens them again Myra's are glazed, her lips are parted, and two quick, sobbing breaths herald the exit of her soul. ■ She's a'going ! "' screams Mrs. Cray, rushing forward to assist in the great ehangp. " She Is f/ow," says Irene, ([uietly, a:^, awe- struck, she sinks down by the bedside and covers her face with her hands. " Poor dear I " quoths Mrs. Cray, in order to bettor the occasion, " how bad she's bin a want ing of you, mum, all to-day, to be here; and how she's bin a-asking every miuuto when I thought y(ni"d be here. It seemed to me as though tin. poor creetur couldn't ( 'ill she'd seen you agiiiii. I've seen 'cm lie lik(! i -, bless 'eui, for days a lighten for their breath, ,, 1 iiot able to go, wliia there's bin a pigeon-feather in the ticking, but never from trying to see u face as that jioor thing has longed to see yours. And I'm sure, if I've sent one message to the Court to-day, I've sent a dozen, and she a-watchiu' each time us though — " " Oh ! don't tell me ! i)leasc, don't tell me!" entreats Irene, as the whole mournful pniio. rania passes before her mental vi.-ion, and ovtr. whelms her with reproach, that ends in folj. I)ing. Colonel Morduunt hears the sound of lur tears through the open casement, and comes u the bottom of the stairs. " Irene — Irene ! " he says, remonstratingly. " Oh ! please do walk up, sir ; it is all over," says ^Irs. Cray, with her apron to her eyes, an i, for the sake of his wife, the colonel does walk up. When he reaches the little room, he i-; distre.s.itJ | beyond measure at the sight before him ; tli' ..oor dead, wasted body stretched upon the bii!, and his beautiful Irene crying beside it as tho'.i{rl) | her heart would break. "Come! my dearest," he says soothin;:!;, I " you can do no more good here. Let nie take | you home." But she turns fiiim him : she will not answal him ; she does not even seem to be aware that lie| is i)rescnt. '• I hate myself, I hate myself," she say-, vehemently ; " why did I ever consent to go tj that detestable picnic, when my place was hei\'| I proiuised her, poor dear girl, that I would ecin':' again this morning, and she has been waiting ana I watching for me, and thinking that I had forgo;- ten. And the last word was to remind me oftii.' oath I took to protect tier child — and even that I I must break. And she is about me now ; I fid [ it; despising me for my we ikness and my fal.-o- hood. Hut she cannot think me more degradn! than I think myself." Colonel Mordauiit is shocked at the exptv-- sion ; he cannot bear thac it should be connectt i even wrongfully, w ith any action of Irene's. "Degraded! my darling! what can make I you use such a term with reference to yoursell— I you who are every thing that is true and noble r " True, to break my promise to the dyini-'-l noble, to swear an ••ath and not fulfill it ! Oh, \:^\ true and very nobie ! I wish yo« could S' o conduct as it looks to ■e." rOOR MYRA'S DEATi[. 80 iicn I thought us tbough llif ii'cn you iijraiii. ■Ill, tor iliiy.s a jIc to go, W lull c tickinji, Ijui i as tlml iioor 11(1 I'm sui'f, if rt to-(liiy, I'v.; (.■iiL'b lime as loii't ti'U inc 1 " iiouriil'iil iiaiio^ i.sion, and over- t ends in s^olj- e sound of lut ;, nnd eonics to luonstratingly. it 13 ftll ovor," licr eyes, aii'i, | L'l do.'S walk u[>. he is diriti'c?si.'J jt'loio him ; tlu^ 1 upon the l)fi!, I side it as though says Hoothinf-'lj, Let nie t;iks will not ansmi be aware that he | ynelf," she say,-, onsent to go h | jilace was hvw': lat I would cciiio ocn waiting anil lat 1 had for|:o;- cniiud me of tiie -and even that I me MOW ; I fid s and my fal.-e] more degracln I at the ospri'! jld be connectci. | of Irene's, what can make ice to yourscl'.-l rue and noblu : to the dyini'-l Lilfill it ! Oh, \ -r^l (u euuld see m "If that is really tho light in whiih you viiw the matter, Ireiio, I will opiioso nofurthur ol)ntii- clo to the satisfaction of your conscience. You phall keep your promise, and adopt the child." At tiiat she lifts her lear-staiued face and re- cards him curiously. " Are you in earnest, Philip ? " "Quite in earnest! I could hardly jest on such n subject." " Oh, thank you ! thank you — you have made iiic feel so happy ; " and, regardless of spectators (tor though the room is nearly cleared by tliis time, the laundress and some of her children still remain in attendance), up comes her sweet mouth to meet his, ('(donel Mordautit is already repaid for bis generosity. And then Irene turns to the bed. "Myra!" she says, ns naturally us though the poor mother wore still alive, " I will bo true to my word. I will take your little one and bring liiin up for you ; and when we meet again you v.ill forgive mo for this last breach of faith." At this appeal, Mrs. Cray pricks up her ears ; phiMiiidiMStands it at once, and the idea of get- ting rid of Tommy is too weleomo to be passed over in silence; but, lieitig a cunning woman, •i of my wife's offer I to look after her little boy ? " says Colonel Mor- daimt, falling into the trap. " Oh, lor ! yes, sir ; a many times ; which I've I'Miked forward to her doing so, knowing that uo I lady could break her promise : and she's always liocn 80 fond of Tommy, too; I'm sure he'll take [to her jist as though she was his mother. And I it's a.fta* thing for the child; though it'll near Ihroak my heart to part with him." This last assertion is a little too much, c\ en for Colonel Mordaunl's softiiieil mood, and hi' rises to his feet hastily. " Come, dearest ! " he says to his wife, " it is time we were going." " .Villi Tommy '/ '' sh.' replies, inipiiringly. "You don't want to take him with you now, surely y " is the dubious rejoinder. "Xo! I suppose not! but — how will he come ? " " Lor, mum! I'll bring him up this evening — he .sha'n't be kep' from you, not half an hour more than's needful ; but I must reddle hini up a bit first, and give him a clean face." "Oh! never mind his face," begins Irene; but her hu.l, turns to Phd'be triumphantly. "And now, Pliu.'be, wluit shall we do wv; him ? " " I sliould wash him, ma'am," replies Pha'lif, following the advice of the great Mr. Dick, wiili respect to David Copperfield. "Of course! we'll give him a warm biitli IJun down-stairs and get the water, Pha-bc. At,'. I is this his night-gown'?" examining the bundle ci rags that Mrs. Cray has left behind her. "Oli'l what a wretched thing ; but, luckily, it is diai:. lie must have new night-gowns, Phirbc, at oikv, and—" " He must have cvrry thittfj new, nui'am, lilc;; I his heart!" exelaims Plnebe, enthusiastically, a- 1 sho disappears in (piest of the water. Winn I she is gone, Irene lifts the child uj'on her knc.l and gazes in his face. " Tommy," sho says, gently, " Tommy, \vi I you love me '? " " Iss," repli(3 Tommy, who has seen herdfti:.] enough to feel familiar with her. " You arc going to be my little boy iiov Tommy." " Iss," repeats Tommy, as he surveys tbt wonderful fairy-land in whieh lie finds himself. 1:1 must be rccoided of Tonnny that, with all ji faults, he is not shy. In another minute Phoebe is back with tl, water, and the bath is filled, and the two wou:-: undress the child together and plunge him ii;,| and sponge and lather him kneeling on each si : the bath the while, and laughing at their nwrl awkwardness at the unaccustomed task, icil then Tommy gets tne soap into his eyes, aii'l roars, whieh cheerful sound, attracting Culor.iil Mordaunt'a attention as ho mounts the stair;, [ causes him to peep into the open bedroom-dno: unseen. And there he watches his young wil;| and lier maid first kiss the naked cupid to cocf sole \m>. .md then return to the soaping anJj splashing until they have made him smile again. And when the washing is completed, and Phocbsl .-tretches out her arms to take the child and dryl him. Colonel Mordaunt sees with astonishincnil that her mistress will not allow it. " No, no, Phwbe ! give him to me," she savsj MRS. CRAY AND II KR SO.V. 87 nog the Bulijtci irli'S Huiiiiimiilv : > ii'tu tlio l.iiii.. voiiu ntt hIk! (Ii. ; lliu little cliil.i I'l m tliou^li li. miin who Ijimi- •. And then >ln nil wu do \>\\\. ' ri'i>lic!* riidlii', it Mr. Dick, Willi I n a wnna but': ^r.riuvbc. All! ing the bundle of lind her. "Oli' ;kily, it is fliw. rhtrbc, lit oiK\, icw, ma'am, Mcs- ilhusiiislieally, a- e water. 'Wli'il 1 upon her km r, "Tommy, vi' las seen her dfu:. r little boy im he Burvcys tli finds himself. I:| at, with ull I' s baek with tl. 1 the two woffii.. I iihingc him ic, ^liiig on each si: ng P.t their (>•■■- onicd task. Acil Xo hi.s eyes, at 'I ttracting Color.t'il cunts the st;>ir!,f en bcdrooni-'ifi his young ^il'l id eupid to coci the soaping anJl hira smile agaial •ted, and riiffibsj the child and dnl ■ith astonishiBentl it. [ to me," she says, authoritatively, as she prepaioa her la]! to reeulvo tlio dripping infunl ; and tiicn, as tlio servant laiigliingly obeys her orders, and curries tlic biitli into the next room, ho walehes Irene's lips pressed on the boy's undiied I'aee. " My little Tommy ! " slie say.s, us ."he does ."o. He sees and hears it, turns away with a high, and a heart heavy, he knows not wlienfore, and goes down-stairs, as lieaseended them, uiniotieed. A week has passed. Poor Myra's form has just l>een left to rest beneath a rough hillock of clay in the church-yard, and Joel Cray is seated in the sanded kitchen of his mother's cottage, his arras cast over the deal table, and his head bent down despairingly upon tlieni, Mrs. Cray, returning abruptly from having just " dropped in " to a neighbor's, to display her "black " and furnish all funereal details, (inds hira in this position. " Come, lad," she says, ronglily, but not un- kindly, " it's no use fretlin' ; it won't bring her baek agin." "There's no call for you to tell ine lliat, motlicr,'' ho answers, wearily, as he raises two liullow eyes from tlie ihelter of liis hands ; "it's writ too plainly hero " — striking his breast — " but you might have warned me slie was goin'." " Warned you ! when all the world could see it! ^Vhy, the poor creetur has had deatli marked in her faee lor tlu last sis months ; and Mrs. Jones has jest bin' a-sayin' it's a wonder as slio lasted so long," replies Mrs. Cray, as she liangs her new bonnet on a nail in the kitelien wall, and carefully folds up her bhawl. " All the world but mo, you mean. 'Twould have come a bit easier if I had seen it, perhaps. Why, 'twas only the other day I was begging of hiT to be my wife, and now, to think I've just come from burying her ! Oh, good Lord ! " and down sinks the poor fellow's head again, while the tears trickle through his earth-stained fingers. Mrs. Cray loves her son after her own fashion. It is, in a great measure, her love for him and fyiupathy with his disappointment tliat have made her hard upon Myra and Myra's child ; and she do. sires to give him comfort in his present trouble. So she draws a chair close beside him, and sits down deliberately to tear open all his worst wounds. But it is not entirely her want of edu- cation that beget.! this pecvdiarity, for tlio exam- ple has been set her, ever since the world began, by people as well-meaning and far less ignorant than herself. " Xow, where'a the good of thiukin' of that, lad '/ " sli.' says, as soothingly as her liarpli voico wiilperiiiit. "She'd never have bin yours hud .she '".vcd ever ho long; and nil the better, too, for no w(jman can niaku u good wife when her fancy's fixed upon another man." " And if hers were, you netnhi't remind a fel- ler of it," ho replies, uneasily. " Oh ! but I says it for your good. Not tliat I wants to speak a word against the poor thing as is gone; for when a fellow-crectur's under the groimd, let his faults bo bnrieil atop of him, say I; that's my ma\iu), and I keeps to it. Slill, there's no denying poor Myra were very flighty, and a deal of trouble to us all. I'm sure I thought tins afternoon, when I see the handsome grave Simmons had dug for her, and all the village looking on at the burial, and Tommy bronglit down from the Court by the coloiuTs lady her- self, in a brpnd-ncw suit of black, and with a crape bow and a feather in his hut, that no one would have thought as seed it that v. o was only burying a — " " Mother, what are you going to say V " de- mands Joel, as, witli a clinelied hand and gloomy eyes, he springs to his feet. "Lor! you ui-odn't fly out so. I w.sn't go- ing to say nothing but the truth." "The truth! 15ut Is it tlic tinihV 'Wlio knows that it's the truth ? " " Wiiy, you wouldn't be after ; tiying as she was an honest woman, Joel ? " "I don't know. I'd rather be saying nothin' of her at all. My poor girl, trodden down and sjiit on ! And she, wlio was tin,- bonniest lass for miles round I'liestley. — Mother, I liill^t leave this place." "Leave! when you've just got such a fine situation under Farmer Green I Have you lost your senses, lad ? " ''I don't know, and I don't care. I don't seem to have nothi'i' now ; but I can't 1/ide here any longer ; there's something in the air that chokes me." " But where would you be going ? " " I can't tell that either. Jest where chance may take me. Only be sure of one thing, mother — I don't come back to Priestley till I've cleared her name or killed the man who ruined her." "You're going in search u{ him, Joel '? " "It's bin growing on mccver since that even- ing I caino home and found her dead. — I won't believe that Myra was the girl to give herself over to destruction ; but if she were — well, then the man who destroyed her must answer for it to me." n ■'rl m m i'*-i 88 "KO INTEXTIONH. !■ I \^\} I -ll " lliit whafll I (Id without you ? " coinmciwei | MrM. Cr.xy, ih Iut n]ii'(iii f.'0('!< up to riTclvi' tin; inatiTniil (li'<)|)iiiii).'s nC (k'Hpair. " You'll do will onousli, mother. If I dlihi't (eel that, I wouldn't fro. Aiu\ the ohild (if it wasn't for fur, I could Hiiy, Cur."!' Iiim ! ' Hut I won't. No, Myrn, never you four ; he'll ollayH Imvc a fiji'iirl in nn'), he'.'* olT jDur ImikN, niid well provided for. So you've iiotliiii' liut your own little ones to look after. And you'll havo friends nt the Court, too. You ^on't rnisH ine." " Hut how nre you ever tolind iho f^etitleumfi, Jocir- " I luiow liin niinio wnH ' 'Anilllon,' mid I'll track that name tlu-ouj^li the world until I light on liini. And 1 saw hitn once, mother. 'Twus only for a few miuiito.^, but I marked him well- a tall, up-standing feller, with dark hair and Idiie eyes. The child's the very moral of him, curse him ! And I'll search till I come acrost that lace af;ain; and whci; I coir.cs acrosi it, we'll have our rcckoniiitf, or I'm much mistaken." "And how shall you live meanwhile ?" " Ab I always have lived, hy my hands And now, mother, put up my hundle, and let me be going." "To-night, lad? Oh, you c;in't be in ear- nest." " Yes, to-niglit. I tell you there's something in the air of this place that stops my breathing. I could no more lie down and sleep in my bed here, while sin; lies out yonder with the lumps of clay \ipon her tender breast, than I could eat while she was starvin'. Let me go, mother. If you don't want to sec mc mad, let mo go where I can still fancy she's a-living hero with you, and that cofllii and that shroi'd is all a horrid dream." And so, regardless of his mother's entreaties or his own well-doing, Joel Cray goes forth from Priestley. While the neighbors are preparing to retire to their couches, and the dead woman's cliild, alike unconscious of his motherless condi. tion and tlie stigma resting on his birth, is lying, flushed and rosy, in his first sleep in Pha'be's bed, the uncouth figure shambles slowly from the laundress's cottage, and takes the high-road to Fenton, which is on the way to the nearest town. But t)ofore he quits the village he passes a little Bhamefacedly, even though the dusk of the summer's eve has fallen and he is quite alone, through the wooden wicket that guards God's acre, and finds his way up to the new-made grave. But it looks so desoliMe and mournful, cov- ered ill with Its hillock of damp icd earth, that ho cannot stami the sight, anil, as he pazes at it, his honest luca^t begins to heave. " I can't abcar It," ho whispern, hourHcly, "ii, liiivo her iiere — the thought of It will haunt m, night and day." And then ho Ntnopa ami gathers up a mor.iil of thiMininvitiiig marl Htudded wiih rough 8tiiiii« "And lo think you .«hoiild be lying tinder lliii —you whoso head nhuuld be resting on mv bo^om — oh, my darlin', toy darliit' ! my heart'l! break ! " And for a few moments the poor wretch fluili relief in a gush of tears. " I'm glad no one saw 'em," he ponders quaint. ly, as the last of the low sobs breaks from hi- laboring liosom ; " btit I feels till the beltu. A)id I swear by 'em — by these here tears nliii!. till), thought of you has drawcd from me, Myr.i, that I don't look upon your grave again until I'v had salisfiietiiii for the wrong he's done yon, Oh, Tiiv lost darlin', I shall never love another woman ! (iood-by, till we meets in a hnpi>i('r world than this has l)een for bnlh of us ! " And when the morning breaks, he is tniks awav from I'riostlev. CnAPTER VIII. Mrs. Cavkndish and her daughter are gone; the sportsnien are gone; and, with the cxceptio;i of Oliver Halslon, whom Irene has come to look upon almost as one of the family. Fen Court i- 1 cleared of guests, ond sho is left once more to the society of her hii.-band and her sistcr-in-luw, | and the care of her little protft/f, Tommy Brown. The transformation wrought in this child by s few weeks' attention and a suit of new clothes is something marvelous. No one who had only .'Cin him grubbing in the front-yard of Mrs. Cray'^ domicile, or driving the truant jugs in from tlio lane, would recognize him now. His hair, cleansed j from its normal state of dirt, is several .shade; lighter than it was before, and lies in loose wav- ing curls about his head and neck. The tan i.* grodually wearing off his broad white brow, nmi | his plump neck and arms '\nd shoulders, now fully exposed by his low frocks, make him appear I what he really is — a very handsome child. Above | all, he possesses the violet eyes that first attraet- cd Irene's notice ; and beneath the dark lashes of which he has a. quaint, half-sby, half-sly manner m^ . : -.i.-J»L^..i.*l^Kii THOMAS ST. JOUX. •• IV wretch limli re loars wliii of lexikln? up at lierwlili-h nmki's Ikt lioart tliroli oiii'li tiii>« fill' .ncouiiti-r.M it, tliough hIus fan hiinl- Iv tell tho rcaaoii why. Itiit tin' nmiii' liv whiili till' boy li* Kt'iJiiiH) known united upon her uiir ; ntiil hor nniioynncfl on IhN sti>>Je<'t U a source of III vi\' fiilliiiK iiMiu.icmi'ipt to T'l'iifl Moviluunt. Ho con-iilt'fM it do llioroiiuMy IVininiiio. " Sii( li a ilrt'iiilful namo ! " she Hoji*, plaintively, n< tlii'V arc sitliliU out ofiloois one pvi'nili ', uiid wuttiiin;; tiift child plnv upon Ihr liiwn. " 'l\.inm>j llfoirii I It hu« not even pot tito virtue of Hin- ijMliirilv- to rci'oiiinicnd it. Could any thing lio iiKiri' t'oininoiiplao' ? " "Why don't you reohil.-ilfn him, my donr?" doniiinds the colonel, latif^hinfr. " I ,i"l him Auhrey lie Vt re, or Limecl' t Vane, or Percival Tji.-iii', or liy liny othef Hiinple and ni)i>retcnding title. He i< Riro ti) end hy l)t'i!if; a footman, or a diuinnu't', (ir 11 sliop-l)oy -nolliinf: eimld l>o nioie iijiin-njiri- nte." "IIo shall iiirir lie any tliini; of the sort," cries Ircno, lndi;.'naiilly ; "and it is not Itit.d of Toa to liiijrh at me, Philip, when you know 1 am fimil of the child. 1 ilon't mind Tommy so inueh. Tlioinas isn't a pretty name, but it was my dear father's, and there are plenty of Thomases in the pcoraije ; but I can't stand Urowii." "Sligo family,"' interpolate."! her husband, "ith mock 8crioii-ii. jii. " Philip, do bu quiet ' Of cour-e, if it were his rightful name, there would bo no help for it; but as he has no name at all, poor little fellow, I don't SCO why it should not be changed." " N'or I. AVhat do you propose to change it to?" "I suppose, Philip — Now, I know Pm going tosny a very stupid thing, so I give you fair warning ; but I suppose it wouldn't do to call him I'V my maiden name ? " " What, St. John ? " "Yes," confusedly, " Thomas St. John. After papa, you know." " My dear Irene, yon have gone clean out of your senses about that child. Pick a beggar's Iirat from the gutter, and dub him Avith your fitlior's name ! — with the name of my cousin. I couldn't hear of it, AVhat on earth would peo- ple say ? " "Let them say what they like. They must have something to talk about — " "They shall not talk about my wife. No, Irene. I have permitted you to follow your own inclinations in adopting this boy — whether wisely or not remains to be determined — but I will not hear of his being endowed with the name of anv one belonging to my fuiiil.\. Call him Mf,or any toinfooliry youmny fancy, but N't in havi- no trilling wiih what Is sacred." And, so saying, <'oloiiel Monlaiini rises fi'Oiu lih neat, nnd walk* back into the hou^'e. He is bcirintiing to feel ii little jealous of the In- terest evinei'd in Tommy itn n. Ii-cni- remains win-re he l.ft her, red mid si- lent. Hbe does not aiteiii|it to detain him, or to lall liim buck, for his words liaNclel't a sore itU' prcsslon on licr inlti'l, and she is afiaid to truiit lier:!elf to S|)eak. '. ( seems fio liird to her that every one should i ~eiit her di -iie to be a moth- er to this poor motherless baby, or to iorg' I that so wide a ,'ap exists between herself iiihIi lilm. And she watches tl.> litll ■ Mai k frock and white pinafore, as their own t toddles alpout the grafs, now nriking ineff'.'ctual nl tempts to irrali a inotli that till! evening breezes have avMikenod, then stooping to pick oil" the heads (d" the dai-iies tlii*t the mowing-ninehine has j)a,-ised over, until h( r thoughts wander to his poor d .id mr)!!!^-, and lur eyes (ill with tears. "I hojic — that is, I .-ui»po-e, that iiiV brother — but what do you think, Mrs. Mordaiinl?" re- marks the sapient Isabella, who, book in hand, has been silting at a respictful distance from the master and mistress of Fen Court, as tliougli she had no right to np[ir(i.ich them or juln in their conversation. " I beg your pardon — I wasn't listi iiing," re- joins Frene, as she (piiekl^ I'links away the drops that hang upon her la.sle ■ " I mean — he Is not angry, I ti ost, or ve.\cd, with what you said, as he has '^one indoors, you see." "Wliai, Philip? why should he be? Wo were only talking about Toimiiy. — Ah! you mustn't lio that, dear," as the child plunges over a (lower-bed in tiie ardor of the chase. " Como here. Tommy — come to me.'' Hut prompt obedience not lieing one of Tom- my's many virtues, Irene has to go in pursuit of him ; and, having captured, she brings liiiu back to the garden bench, and scats him on her knee. Miss Mordaunt immediately retreats to the farthest extremity. It is the funniest thing in the world to see these two women with tho child between them — the delight of the one, nnd the distaste and almost fear of the other, being so plainly depicted on their countenances. " Xow, Tommy, do sit still," says L-ene.— " What a weight the fellow grows ! I am sure he must be pounds heavier than when he came here. — See 1 here's my watch. Put it to your ear, and r.i tt*i % 1;.; #t> m ' ■.! i v'J' ''I '-r^.w. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I Hi 125 2.2 mm -1^ >U 13^ Ml m L25 i 1.4 III 1.6 RiolDgraphic Sciences Corporation «^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) fl72-4503 ■^^ P" .Mf < '4^ .^^^ %' wC\ ^■^^ 90 NO INTENTIONS.' mm tuu hear tlic tkk-litk. — Hasn't he got lovely hair, Isabella?" " It appears to be vciy fine," replies Mis.s Mordaunt. " It'.s as soft a3 silk, and curls quite naturally. — No, darling — not my ear-rinj^i. You hurt me ! — oh ! how he does pull. And now he wants that rose out of jour dress. What a child it is ! — No, Tommy mustn't take poor auntie's rose. (Ho may call you 'auntie,' mayn't he, Isa- bella ?) " " Well, if Philip has no objection ; but of course — '' " What possibh; objection could Philip make ? The child must call us something, lie's going to call me ' mamma,' I know that ! — Who am I, Tommy ? — now, tell me." " Mamma ! — you's ray mamma," replies Tom- my, as he makes another grab at the car-rings. " You darling ! But you will pull your mam- ma's cars out by the roots. And you positively make my knees ache with your weight. Just take him for a minute, Isabella. You can have no 'dea how heavy he is." And, without cere- mony, Irene places the boy in the arms of her sister-ia-law. Miss Mordaunt receives him on a Lard and bony lap, with a deep well in the centre of it, as though he were a wild animal, warranted to bite upon the first occasion ; and Tommy doesn't like the situation. lie is of a rebellious and dem- ocratic turn of mind, and has no courtly hesita- tion in calling a spade by its right name. And .some of Tommy's right names, acquired outside the Priestley public-house, arc very wrong names indeed. " Let mo go ! " he says wildly, as Miss Mor- daunt's arms, in deference to Irene's wishes, make a feeble barrier to retain him. " I don't like 00 " " Tommy, Tonmiv, that's naughty. You must love poor auntie," remonstrates Irene. But the child struggles on. " I don't like oo — I don't like oo — oo's ugly — go's a devil.' " he winds up with, triumphantly, as he escapes from her grasp, and rushes back up- on the flower-beds. " Really, Mrs. Mordaunt, I titist you will not ask me to feel his weight again," says poor Isa- bella, who is quite excited by the compliments she has so unexpectedly received. "It is very naughty of him," replies Irene, soothingly. "I must scold him well; in fact, I would slap his hands if I did not know that his language is entirely attributable to the horrible way in which he has been brought up. Poor lit- tle child ! Fancy how shocking it is that a buLj of his ago should even know such a word I " " I trust — that is, it would be very unpleasaw I for all parties, if he were to call my brother l; ma'am ? " " Your loss ?— no ! " " ily poor sou, ma'am — my Joel ! He's gor.e I away." " What ! left Priestley ? " " Yes, ma'am. He couldn't abide the pla« I now his cousin's buried, and his whole niin;htost coiiKlJerution Cor onr con- veiiit'iice. A pretty way for a t*ervant to go on in, truly ! " " Irene, I thouglit this Biibji'ct liad been dis- ciirMod mid done witli." •I shall never have done with it wliilo siio iL'iiiuiii.H here, and Is permitted to behave as she ,1,K'^. U is past all bearing." " Well, there is no ehanee of her leaving," lejilies the poor colonel, with a j^igli ; " .-50 the luDr-poet is cheerful." " If her presence here is a necessary evil, 1 limit bear ii ; but she shall not interfere in my iirlvato affairs. Pliilip, I have borne more from liiat woman than you know of; and I tell you, , .mdidly, were it not for your sake, I would not 1 reniaiu another moment under the same roof with her. But, 0-: she has really returned, for which I I iin infinitely sorry — " " Why, you did not imagine she was gone for L'ood, surely," intrrrupts the colonel. "This is I iior homo, and always has been." "But she might have died, or something, in I t'.io interim." " Irene, I am surprised to hear you sjieak in ;hat ftrain." " Don't be surprised at any thing I say of I tlut woman. Nothing could be too bad for her. ■ But of one thing I am determined. She shall not I strike this child. And of that I shall make her I aware on our first meeting." "I advise you not to quarrel with her." " I shall not condescend to quarrel. I shall ■imply give my orders ; and if slie doesn't choose I to obey them — " "What then?" " I shall appeal to you." " And if I am powerless ? " "Why, then — but it will be time enough i3 iJeeido what I shall do when the occasion for de- IciiioQ arrives. Meanwhile I shall speak my mind |vory plainly to Mrs. Quckctt." " I advise you to keep good friends with her," iropeats the colonel, who appears to his wife to Ihare assumed quite a depressed and craven air hiace the night b'>fore. "She is an estimable Iwoman in many respects : faithful, honest, and to jbe depended on ; but she makes a bitter f-nemy. lit will be far wiser to have her on your side." Irene's lip curls in proud contempt. " Thank you, Philip ; but I have been used to Ichoose my allies from a class superior to that of |lfr3. Quekett. I have borae with her patiently 1 hitherto, lint she has put me on my uiettle now ; and. If I die for it, she thuU wt »fri!:f thii r/iiltl aijuin ! " " Oh, hush ! " exclaims Colontl Moriiaunt, fiar- fully, as they issue on the landing together (the little boy still clinging round Irene's neik), and eommeiiee to descend the stairea^e, at the fool ol which ap|)ears the licusc-kceper, proceeding in state to her own npaitineiit, and followed by a louple of lueii-servants bearing lur boxes. '• I liopo I see you well. Mis. Monluunt," she siiys, with a smirk, as she eiieounters the couple alioiit hull-way down. (,'olonel Mordaunt, who is as nervous us a wom- an, nudges Irene upon the e''jo\v. " .Mr.f. Quekett speaks to you, my love." " 1 heard her. — I should think you might have given us some notice of your return, (juekett. It is rather unusual to take people by surprise in this way." The tone in which she is spoken to makes Quekett Hush up at once, and her voice changes with her mood. " I couldn't have let you know beforehand," she replies, rudely, " as Lady Baldwin didn't say till yesterday that she could dispense with me. And it's quite a new thing, into the bargain, for me to hear that I'm to account for all my comings and goings to a family where I've lived for — " "Of course — of course," interruptj the C(do- ncl, hurriedly. " You mistake Mrs. Mordaunt's meaning, Quekett, altogether. — Irene, my dear breakfast is waiting. Had we not better go down ? " lie is terribly afraid of what may he coming, and has but one wish : to separate the combat- ants. But Irene's cup of wrath is tilled to the brim, and she stands her ground. AVith Tommy clinging tightly to her from pure fear, she feels brave enough to say or do any thing. " One moment, Philip. — As you have returned, Mrs. Quekett, you and I had better understand each other. You struck this child this morning. Don't do it again ! " " Irene ! Irene ! " implores the hapless colonel. " LonH do it again t " pants Mrs. Quekett. "Don't do it again," repeats her mistress, calmly. " I have adopted him : he is under my protection ; and I will allow no one to correct him but myself." " A pretty pass things is come to I " ex- claims the house-keeper, whose rage at being re- buked before the footmen is beyond all descrip> tion. " I wonder you're not ashamed of yourself, colonel, to allow it. A dirty brat, belonging to ..g M--1 I " If : i W ■)8 "NO INTENTIONS." Il !■! .SI k\] i 'i I llic Lord knows wlio, nml comin;.' from tlic lowest lot in I'rit'^tli'V, tot)c l»roiiplit up liore ami prliikod out likf a yoiiii;^ ncntli'lolk, umi not ii finpT to 1)c liiid on liiin t Why, what'll llio uclKliborH Hay? Wliiit do you cxpci't the village is sayiiif? at this very nunncDt V Do you want a rcpctiuon of old times y " " Hush, Quekett ! Pray bo silent ! " "Oil, yes! it'fl very easy to bid mo hold my tontruc, when I eoine home to find the Court run over with liy-blows — " " IIow dare you speak of this child In my jircscnco by siuch a name?" cxelaims Irene. — " Philip, will you permit 8uch an insult to be of- foreil to your wife — and before your servants, too ?" " No, no, my dear, of corrso not. — Quekett, I mu.st entreat you to pass on to yourroom. Neither you nor Mrs. Mordaunt is in ii fit state to dis- cuss this matter now." " Ibit remember, Mrs. Quekett," adds Irene, " that whatever you may Ihhik; you shall not speak of Master Tommy in that way apain." " J faster Tommy, indeed ! " sneers the house- keeper. " Yes, Mdsler Tommy. 'Whouver he may be, wherever he has come from, I have adopted him US my own child, and I will have him treated as my own child." "Oh! very well, ma'am, just as you please." " I am frlad you see it in its proper light at last. Let me pa.^s." And with the boy still in her arms, Irene marches statelily to the breakfast- room, while the colonel, glad at any cost to see the interview come to an end, follows, though with his spirits down at zero. As they leave her, Piobecca Quekett turns round upon the landing to gaze at the retreating form of the mistress of Feu Court, with a look of unmistakable hatred. "Humph ! To be treated as her own child, is he ? " she says, maliciously aloud, so that the ser- vants in attendance can overhear her ; " and he a nurse-child of that creature Cray's, left unclaimed for any lady to adopt. That's a queer story, ain't it?" she continues, appealing to one of the men beside her ; " and perhaps she ain't so far wrong when she stands out for his being treated as her own. There's lots more things happen in this world than we've any notion of. — Well, you'd better get up with .he boxes now, James. They have kept us on the landing long enough. Lord knows ? " And so the worthy disappears into her own room, and is lost to the view, at all events of Irene, for the remainder of the day. Colonel and Mrs. Mordaunt have a fharp liitjc discussion on thi.s Hubject during breakfust-iinic — elf j;is- tided ill not dohi'^ all in my power to repay '.In,' delit I owe her," "And whii'h I slioiiM iinaginu .'-he had eaii- eeled 11 thousand tine -i over by her lii-oleiiee. Hut why should poijr < diver .jiillcr for your father's liabilities V " Colonel Mordaunt is -ile'ii. "I'euton is more than three miles from J''eii Court. Surely his presence at this distance can have no iiiilueiiee on Mrs. (^uekett's peace of mind," " Ho would always be ov.n- here, my dear." " And so, bee.iMse she objeets to it, your own nephew is to be banished frrjm your lion^e. () Philip! I couM hardly have believed it of you.'' " I'ray, don't make me more unhappy about it, Irene, than I am. !)■> you think I don't feel it also ? " " Is that possible ? " "I am sulVeiiuL', at liiis rii'iment, fer more than you, n.y elnld, or than Oliver •-■itliei', fm' that matter." '■ Poor Philip I I am so sorry foryoii I l!nt is it (piite, qiiitt: necessary that Oliver .should ;:o 'i " " It is ' ipiite, (jiil/c necessary.' If he did not go now, he would be compelled to do so in a few months, and perhaps iiiuler eiieumstaiiees most unpleasant to us all. And yet sometimes I think if I could trust you, Irene — " " You may trust me, Philip, and to any ex- tent." "I believe it, my darling— but no, no, it can- not bo. Don't ask uv again. Only go to poor Oliver, and tell him that I will hold myself rc- sponsil)le for any expenses he may incur, in the way of premium or outfit, in proeuring another appointment, on the condition that it is not in this county — anywhere, in fact, but near here." "And you won't trust me, then?" she says, with a reproaeliful air, as she prepares to leave him. " I cannot — I dare not. Yes, dearest, I will." And with that he rises suddenly, and stands be- fore her, and takes her two hands in his own. "Irene, when you gave your dear self to me at the altar, did you not promise to honor me ? " " And I have honored you, Philip." " I believe it ; and I trust you to honor me still, notwithstanding that I am unable to explain all that you wish to know." " But secrcta are so horrid between husbands and wives," she says, pouting, with true feminine curiosity ; " and it is so hard to forgive what one understands nothing about." JW'j # fwnm^fi^fmimii^fww "^flP^ loo "NO IMENTIOXS." " IIuvc }i)ii uivrr l.i'jtt II ci'crct IVoiii iiii', tliiii, Innc )l " Ho U iilliiilinn to lliu po.-dililc imiiu- of ]\vr fi>riiii.'r loviT, mill llif I'iiciinMiaiici'.s of tlicir liili- iiiiu'V, wliicli liuve iii'ViT lii'oii c'imlidi'il to liini. I!ul /i' r tlloll^J,llt^ tly liiiiiic'L'il to cxti'iiil to Ik liliii},' out till' rij,'Iit liaiul of llUowshlp to Mrt. Qiii'ki'lt.'' Hitt Colonil Monluuiit appoara to Imvc for- }:oltcn the loot of the Hulyoct in ipiefitloM. IIo \a s^till holiliiig lior liamlH, ami looking lixciily at litr ilowncn^t pyos nnd working fi'atuics. " My query sccins to liavu afl'o'jli il you, IicnoV" " It would afl'oct any ono, I should think, to bo stared at as you are Klaring at nic. Hut this is child's play, Thilip. ^\ hut is it you want me to do ? " " Only to believe in mc as I believe in yon." " That would bo easy if believing in you did not involve believing in Mrs. Quekctt also. IIow- I'vor, I will leave the woman to go her way, if she will leave mo to go mine. Is that a bar- gain V " " I suppose you are alluding to the thild ; she has not interfered in any thing else." " I am. You gave mc permission to adopt and bring him up. 'Will you make this fact clear to your house-keeper, nnd tell her, at the same time, that my forbearance depends entirely upon her own." " Then you sign a treaty of peace with her ? " " Under those conditions, and for your sake, yes. I feel myself degraded to enter upon any terms with a dependant ; but, since it is for your comfort, I concede. Only it must be kept as religiously on her side as mine. And now I trust wo have heard the last of so contemptible a busi- ness." Colonel Mordaunt sighs, and turns away. " You are not yet satisfied, Philip. AVhat, in Heaven's name, would you have me do more ? " " Nothing, my dear, nothing. Indeed, I do not see what else there is to be done. Only, pray remember what I said to you this morning, and do not irritate her more than you can help." "I shall never speak to — or notice her!" replies Irene ; and here, feeling that all that can lie said has been sold upon (he ."iibject, (the lenvij till' Htiidy Ineotntiiuniealc the up^thotof the iniir- view to Oliver. Coloiirl .Monl.kiinl, 1( It to hhui'elf, looki moii.' thoii(;htfiil than In lore. He has eoiirled Ihr In. formation that his wife has not laid her wlinj,' heart bare to him, and yet now he fi^'ls miricrulilc beeailM' hlie has put tiie si;;li-iiiaiiual of ^iltinf en a fiiet whieh he knew to be mieli. Mrs. (^iii I,. lit, Oliver Kalslon, the child, every thing wliidi has worrieil him hitherto, pa?isis from his iiiiinl, to give place to the eurioslly with wliieh he hji;;. to illseover how much of her former life Irene lin kept baek from him. He reiiii luliers vividly nil die said to him at IJrussels, iiinl {n the link Hitlitig-room at Norwood, on the hubject of lur di.-appoiiitiiieiit ; but ho v,a:i so lag"'' in ll..^ ehase nt that lime — so "iixioiis to seeure her I'r himself at any cost — that ho did not elioo.>c i > believe what she asserlud to be triu' — that il best part of her lit'o was over. "Vet had ii'; the secpicl |)roved him to be in the right y Vk the six months she has been his wife her s|iiri:- have gone on gradually iiiiproviiig day by ilav Indeed, a few weeks ago she was buoyant— i;i. I diant — running over with fun ; and, if they liuvr [ conimeneed to (lag again, it has only been sinee- " Since when ? " " Since the arrival of Tommy lirown amoi ; | them ! " As Colonel Mordaunt's thoughts, tnivii- iiig backward and taking notes by the way, lif;!,! on this fact, he rises from his seat, and wulb | aimlessly about the room. " D— n that child ! " he says, without tL. I least reserve, " I wish to God we had never sciil or heard of him !" And then he goes out to his stables and kc:.. ncl, and tries to forget all about it ; but the id« I haunts him nevertheless, and often after tluil day Irene, glancing up suddenly, finds him study- ing her face, with an earnestness not altogclh<;l born of affection, which puzzles while it wouu'i- her. Mrs. Mordaunt, in desiring her husband kI inform Mrs. Quekctt that peace between tluEJ can only be maintained at the cost of all coimiii; nication, has entered into the worst pact wit. I the house-keeper she could possibly have made I For Rebecca Quekctt is a woman to be coucilil ated, not to be dared. She has her good point-l (no htiman creature is without) and her wca'il points, and were Irene politic enough to dra'l out the one or trade upon the other, she migl::! turn what promises to be a formidable enemy in o| ^ TIIK (iLOTToNDCRV HAl-L 101 ilijoct, bIh' li'ftvij T'liotof tlic liilir. niu^lf, li.'okii nioio iMiurlcil 111!' in- L laltl liiT vlml.' U' foils liiirtiilllili iiituunl of hlliiii'. iiL'li. MiH. Huil. ■vefy lliinj; wliiih .'s from liirt iiiiiiJ, th wliiih liu ll'llr'- iiicr life IiC'iu' li,n Liiiljurs viviilly all mill in thu littk lid Mitiji'i't l lOut) and her wci'J tic enough to ilw'l the other, she mi?l I irmidable enemy io 'I i liarniledn if tint di^imliU! fii'nl. jtut »ho lit 1(1(1 iiliiritrd mid tno frank to plnd s.< to l>(« wliiit rlie i.-i not ; mid ho, In m lin; hour tliat Colonel Miirdauiit timidly aiinoiuici'i) lii.H wife's deter- iniimlioll to liirt hoiisi'ki'i'iK'r, tiiu futiiio of tin; foiliiiT i^ tllldcrinillL'd. >ll-i. tiUiki'tt dot's not lay ony plung for ottaek. She given vent to no fi'cliii}.M of aniiiioslty, nor iloi s hIu', iit Iriist open. U, lirc.ik tlu! true.' ; but nlie ii'iiieinbeii* and (.he waiti", and Mr-i. (Jiiekctl docs nol remember and wait foi' — notliin;,'. TliD riiontliH }?o by. Oliver Uul.-tton h^is pro- cured einployment wlt'.i anotlior eouiitry prarti- liinior, somewhere down in iJevon, and is working sti'adily. Tommy has pii.J^ed liis third birthilay, und, uiid'T the tuition of his ndopttd mother, is tK'Coining quite a civilized little beiii'r, who has learned the use of a iioeket-liiindkereliief, and "pualis Kiif,-lish aliuo.^t n.s well as sho docs. Colo- nel Mordiiunt, as kind as ever to his wife, thou;^li pciliaps a little more sober in disjdayin^ lii.s allee- lion for her — a fact which Irene never di.^eovci's — liiiils that tlie hunting -scu.-ion is over, and wonders how he shall aniu.-'e himself for the next hix niuntlis, Isabella is as rpiict anil timid ;ind ivjiervcd and melancholy as ever ; and .Mrs. (^tiek- I'tt still kec|is thu peace. Xot that she never meets her mistress face to face— that would be impossible in a place like Fen C'oart — but a (piiet " good-morning " or " good- iiiglit" in pas.siiig — a courtesy on her side, and an inclination of Irene's head upon the other — is all tbc communication that takes place between them ; and, as far as my heroine can discover, Mrs. Quckett has never again dared to correct Tommy, although the child's aversion for her, and terroi- of poing near any room which she occupies, seem m though she had taken some means of letting liiin understand what he has to expect if he ven- tures to presume on her forbearance. Yet, though outwardly there is peace, Irene has many an inward heartache. The subsidence of her husband's first adoration (which would have been ipiickly noticed by a woman in love with him) ^,'ivcs her no uneasiness. On the contrary, had she observed and questioned her own heart on the subject, she would have confessed the change was a relief to her. But there is something between them, beyond that — an undefinablc some- thing which can be felt, if not explained. It is the cold cloud of Reserve. There is that between the husband and wife which they dare not speak of, because they know they cannot agree upon the subject ; and Reserve feeds upon itself, and grows by what it feeds on. The heart hmt many little clianibers, iiml li in dillleiilt (oki'i'p one door clo-i' d iiiid throw 0|ie!l all till- others. And mi, Imperctptildy, they drilt a little farther and a lilllu farther apart fiotii cne aiiollirr every day. Irene has no object lii life apparently but the ediieation of the eliild — Colo- nel .Mordaniit none but the care of his kennd and his ^'tables. Irene is kinder to the liorHts and dogs than he is to Tommy. Sho ol'tm aecom|iaiiitfs him on his rounds to xtroke and fondle and ad- mire the noble animals, but Iw i-cldoni or ever throws a kind word to the boy. Indeed, Tommy is almost asafiaid ijf him u6 he i.i of Mrs. (Juekett, Cidonel Mordmint, at all events, comes second in hi.-; \Ul of " bogies : " nud sometimes Irene feels so disheartened. Aw almost wishes she had never seen the child, liiii the remcmlirance of her iiromi.^o to his mother (whom .■^lie has grown to pity ."ar more than her.selt) will !-oon recall her to a sense of pleasure in her duty. Ihit she is no lon^'cr so Irippy as she was at first. The gloss has worn olf the new life — change has ceased to be change — and .>.ometimes an awful sense of regret smites her, and makes her hate hen'clf for her ingratitude, lliit we cannot force ourselves to be happy; and the extrune dnl' .'ss of I'riestley d'jcs no', contribute to m:' iier sliake off a feeling of which she U ashm A. Meanwhile the bleak, cold spriii!.' itcps on, and loses Itself in April. One morning, as they aie all stated by the brcakfast-tttble, Colonel Mordaunt has a large and important-looking enveloiie jiut into his hand; and his correspoinlcnce in general being by no means important, its appearance attracts atten- tion. "An invitation, I should iaagine," remarks Irene, as she looks up from buttering Tommy's fourth round of bread. " Wait a moment, my dear, and we shall see. Yes, exactly so ; and a very proper attention for them to pay him. I shall have the greatest pleasure in complying with their wishes."' "What wishes, Philip?— (No, Tommy: no jam this morning)." "That I shall be one of the steward.--. It seems that our new member, Mr. Ilolmcs, Is about to visit Glottonbury, and the people are desirous to welcome him with a dinner and a ball, in the town-hall. And a very happy thought, too. The festivities will please all classes; give employ- ment to the poor, and amusement to the rich — and the ladles of Glottonbury that cannot ap- pear at the dinner, will grace the ball. An ex- m 102 "NO INTENTIONS." trcmely happy thought. I wondoi' \vhoori<;inatcil It?" '• A publii; Uinuer and ball, I suppose ? " " Oonerally so — but they will send us tickets. You will go, my dear, of couvse ? " "To the ball? Oh, indeed, I would rather not. I have not danced for ages." " Tliere'is no need to dance, if you will only put in an appearance. As the .vifo of a man holding so important a position in the county as myself, and one of the stewards of the dinner, I think it becomes your duty to be present, if you can." "Very well, I have no objection. I suppose one of the last year's dresses will do for Glotton- bury. But really I feel as though I should be ipiite out of my element. Who will bo there ? " " Most of the county people, I conclude — the Grimstoncs andBatcherleys, and Sir John Cootes's party, and Lord Dcuham and the Mowbrays. Sir John and Mr. Bateherley arc upon the list of stewards, I sec. I am gratified at their including my name. Then there will be a largo party of Mr. Holmes's friends from town, and among them Lord Muiravcn. Isn't that a member of the fai.iily your aunt, Mrs. Cavendish, was so fond of talking about?" But to this question Colonel Mordaunt receives no answer. Presently, he looks across the table to where his wife is tracing fancy patterns with a fork upon the cloth, and thinks that she looks very pale. " Do the Cavendishes know Lord Muiravcn ? " " I believe Mary met him once at a ball." " Do you know him ? " "No!" " Then what the deuce was your aunt always making such a row about him for? " " I don't know." "A:en'tyou well?" " Perfectly, thank you. When is this ball to take place ? " " Next Tuesday week. It is short notice ; but Mr. Holmes's visit is unexpected. He seems to have made bis way in the county wonderfully." " Is he a young man ? " " Thirty or thereabout. I saw him at the election. He has a pleas :\nt voice and manner, but is no beauty. He and Lord Muiravcn and a Mr. Norton are to be the guests of Sir John Cootes." " ire any other strangers coming with them ? " " I don't know. My lette;' is from Huddles- ton. He doesn't mention it." " I wish you would find out." " Why ? " " Because it will make a great difference in the evening's enjoyment. One doesn't care to U dependent on the tradesmen of Glottonbury fur partners." " I thought you didn't mean to dance." " No more I do — at present. But there n uo knowing what one might not be tempted to, Auv. way, find out for me, Philip." " What friends Mr. Holmes briug.'J wiih him ? " " Exactly so. Will you ? " " I cannot understand what interest the mat- ter can possibly have for you, my dear." "Oh, never mind it, then. — Have you quite finished. Tommy? Then come along and order the dinner with mamma." And, with the child Ic her hand, Irene leaves the room. Colonel Mor- daunt looks after her suspiciously. "Who cm earth can she be expecting to come down from London to this ball ? " He is beginning to be suspicious about very little things nowadays, anJ he alludes to the subject in an irritable sort of manner two or th.-ee times during the foreno&E, until lie puts Irene out. " Look here, Philip. I would rather lot go to this ball at all. I have no inclination for it, and the preparations will probably involve a great deal of trouble. Please let me stay at home." "Indeed, I cannot hear of it. You r»u8f go, and look your best. As my wife, it will be Ci- pected of you, Irene." " To be jostled by a crowd of tradespeople," she murmurs. " I hate a public ball at any time, but an election-ball must be the worst of all." " I don't see that. The rooms ai"e large, ami the arrangements will be conducted on the most liberal scale. All you will have to do will be to look pretty, and enjoy yourself; and the first la never difficult to you, my darling." " Well, I suppose I shall have to go, after that, Philip. Only I don't consent till I have seen a li.st of the expected guests from town." "Why this anxiety about a pack of stran- gers?" exclaims Colonel Mordaunt, pettishly. But he procures the list nevertheless. It contains but one name with which she is in the least familiar — that of Lord Muiravcn. " And these are really all ? " she says, as sbc peruses it. " Really all ! There are at least twenty. Are they sufficient to satisfy your ladyship ? " " Quite ! " Willi a deep-drawn sigh. " I will not worry you any more about it, Philip. I will go to the ball." AN UNEXPECTED MEETINCJ. 103 bi'iiiK''' ^^'-'' l''"!?'' Oil t'.:" evening in (inodtion, Iiowcvlt, .••lii; is not lookinj; licr beat ; and, us l'iiii;lio Hiraya lior in one of linr dressed of the past season, tdie is amazed to find liow niiicli her mistreid bas fallen away about llio neek and ^boulders, and how broad a tueker slie ia oblij^ed to insert in order to remedy the evil. But Irene appears blissfully iuiiill'erent as to what effeet she may produee, and is only anxious to go to the ball and to come back again, and to have it all over. Slio is terri- biy nervous of encountering Lord Muiravon (al- though, from tlie descriptions of Mary Cavendish, she knows ho cannot in any way resemble his vo anger brother), and yet she dares not forbid her husband to introduce him, for fear of provok- ing an in luiry on the reason of her request. fc>he arrives at the Olottonbury town-hall, in company with Isabella, at about ten o'clock ; and Colonel MorJauut, as one of the masters of the ceremonies, ineuts her at the entrance. " Are you still determined not to dance '? " he says, as he leads her to a seat. "Quite so. Pray don't introduce any one. I feel tired already." lie glances at her. " You do look both pale and tired. Well, here is a comfortable sofa for you. Perhaps yon will feel better by-and-by. I must go now and receive the rest of the company." "Yes: pray don't mind me. I shall amuse myself sitting here and watching the dancers. Philip," her eyes glistening with appreeia- tivc delight, " do look at that green head-dvess with the b'rd-of-paraJiso seated on a, nest of roses." " You wicked child ! you arc always making fun of some one. How I wish I could s(ay with you! but I must go. I shall look you up again j very soon." He disappears among the crowd as he I speaks, and Irene is left by herself, Isabella (to vrhoin any thing like a passing jest on the costume of a fellow-Christian appears quite in the light of a sin) having walked off to the other side of the room. For a while she la sufficiently amused by watching the company, and inwardly smiling at their little eccentricities of dress or manner, I their flirtations, and evident curiosity respecting herself. But this sort of entertainment soon palls, and then she begins to question why she cannot feel as happy as they appear to be; and her thoughts wander over her past life, and she sinks into a reverie, during whir^h the lights and flowers, the dancers and the music, are lost or disappear; I and virtually she is alone. How long she sits there, motionless and silent, she c.mnot afteiwurd aeeonnt for; but the sound that nmses her from her dream and brings her baek to earth again is the voice of Colonel Mordauiit, "My dear!" he is saying, "I have found a companion for you who is as la/y as yourself. Allow nio to introUuee to you Lord Muiraven ! " At that name she starts, (lushes, and look.s up. But, as her eyes are raised, ail the color dies out of her face, and leaves it ol a ghastly white. For the man whom Uwr husl)aud hay introduced to her as Lord Muiraven is — Emc Keik ! CHAPTER IX. " Loud Muirave^j, my love — friend of our new member, staying with Sir John Coole— de- sires an introduction to you," coutiiiucs Colonel Mordaunt, in explanation, as he perceives that his wife and her new acquaintance both look awkward, child : I only wish 1] de you happy." " Philip, you arc so gooJ ; you aiu so good ! " " I am not good, Irene. Wliut you ciill good- ness is pure love for you. But I liuow tlmt even love, liowover uuselfisli, is not aiwaj-s suDieiuiit to fill up 1 woman's life, and tliut I Lave labored under lieavy disadvantages, not only beeause I lam so mucli older than yourself, and so little cal- iilateJ to take your fancy, but also beeause you mo to mo with a heart not altogether free. lut Tou were frank with me, my darling, and I luvcd TOU so much, I hoped in time that the old ivound would be healed." She gives two or three gasping little sobs at his allusion, but there is no otiier answer t.) it. " But if I see you subject to these fits of mel- iticlioly," he continues, gravely, as he presses her itill closer in his arms, " I shall begin to fear that iiiv hopes were all in vain, and that I have no lowcr to fill up the void that — " You have — in(.eed you havj," she utt> is, (araestly. " Phil-p, I never want any one but ■ou." "I hope not, my dear. Then why those ;ear3 » " "Idoa't know. I felt depressed; and you ore away. Oh, don't leave me again. Always ;ep by my side — close, close to me ; and let us itop at homo together, and never go out anywhere. |t is all so hollow and unsatisfactory." " AVhat a picture, my darling ! Why, you arc lore upset than I thought for Fancy an old fel- m like rac marrying such a pretty girl as this, Ind keeping her all to himself, shut up in his lastle, like the ogres of old ! What would the orld say ? " "Ob, never mind the world. I love you, 'bilip, and I hate balls and parties. Promise le I shall never go to any of them again." " It would bo very silly of mc to give you ich a promise. But you shall not go if you lon't wish it, and particularly if the excitement 13 such an effect upon you." She clings to him and thanks him ; and he kiss- aad blesses her, and, imagining that the worst over, lays her down upon her pillow (not quite [willingly, be it said, for the poor old colonel very sleepy), and proceeds to occupy his own irtion of the bed. But he has not been asleep aj before he is aroused by something audible, 'hich in the confusion of his awakening sounds !ry like another sob, " Irene, is that you ? What w the matter ? " repeats, almost irritably. It is provoking to shaken out of slumber by the obstinacy of |)ei)i)le who will not sen the necessity of skvp in the same light as we do. " What is the matter y " reitiTatos tiie colonel : but all is silence. He stretches out his hanho was hemmed in 1 1 round, six feet deep, by a phalanx of downger- "I am so glad you failed, Thilip. I co. not have accompanied you. I am far too tiiei. i " Then it's all right, my darling ; and I » 1 leave you to recover yourself during my absence j lie comes back just half an hour bcfoil dinner-time, if possible more enthusiastic before. "Never met with n more amiable young nii:| than Mr. Holmes in the whole course of my exkl encc. And so sensible, too. Enters as clearF and readily into the question of the Glottonbur drainage as tl.orgh he had spent his life in a sene: We shall get on w^ith such an advocate as tliJ Having been settled for so many years in i-\ county, ho was pleased to ask my advice up : several evils he desires to see remedied ; and 1 gave him all the information I could in so limitel a time. I am vexed that, in consequence of Li being obliged to leave the day after to-morro'I he was unable to spare us a few days at Ft'l Court." " Did you ask him ? '' says Irene. Slie : lying on the couch in her bedroom while her htJ band talks to her, and as she puts the qucsti«| she raises herself to a sitting posture. " I did — urged it upon him, in fact ; but 1 was quite unable to accept the invitation. Jlti aven will, though." ■ " Who?" "Lord Muiraven. His time is his own, at! he seems very glad of an opportunity to sec i little more of the county." " You have asked him here / " " Where else could I ask him ? I am saH LORD MUIRAVEXS VISIT. 100 t ? lie saw I w.l time is his own, atl opportunity to see | sk him ? I nm 8Ui< foii "ill liivc him iniini'n.soly — you have no idea jiott- Hill ho can talk — anil his coiiii)nny will en- liven us. I invited him to stay as lung as he Ihiise; but he limitii his visit to a few days. Let liim have the best bedroom, Irene. I .should \\ih Iiim to bo made as comfortable as possible." Her brows are contracted — her breast is liciving — her eyes are staring at him nnL;rily. "And what on earth made you think of ask- In? him?" " My dear I " "Of asking a perfect stranger," she goes on Lpidly — "a man we care nothing for — whom kou never set eyes upon till yesterday — to become one of us — to share our home — to — to — I never lllioiight you could be sueh a fool I " Colonel Mordaunt is more than slioeked — lie i ariRry. "What do you moan by speaking to me in Jhat way, Irene ! " "Oh! I was wrong — I know I was wrong; tut yon have "n«Pt me with this news. Am I liut the mistress of this house? — have I not a ri"lit to be consulted in sueh matters ? — to have voice in the selection of who shall and who ^'iiil not enter our doors ? " "When you beliave as you are doing now, lou forfeit, in my estimation, all right to sueh tonsidcration." " I know I oughtn't to have used that word to lou, Philip — it was very disrespectful of me, and beg your pardon. But, if you love me, don't bk Lord Muiraven to come and stay at Fen pourt." "What possible objection can you have to the Iroceeding ? " "We know so little of him," ?hc murmurs Indistinctly. " Quite enough to author!: -> a casual visit, lach as ho intends to pi.y us. I do not suppose, from what he said, thai he will remain here more |han two or three days." " A man may make himself very disagreeable Ivcn in that time." "But what reason have you to suppose Muir- kven will do so ? I never met a fellow better cal- pulated to make his way at first sight. You are bcomprehonsible to me, Irene I No trouble ap- |)ear3 too great for you to take for a ' ne'cr-do- ireel ' like Oliver Ralston, or a child who has no llaim upon you, like Tommy Brown: and yet, poff when I wish to introduce into the house a bian unexceptionable in name, birth, character, knd position, you raise puerile objections, simply, h it appears to me, to give annoyance." " I havo not lieon in the habit of givinv; ynu annoyance, JMiilip." " No, darling ! of course not ; but in tliis in. stance you are most unreasonable. Do you not begin to see so? " " If it is tmrcasonable for a wife to wish to bo consulted before her husband takes any step of importance, it may be the case." "Step of importance! — stufT and nonsense 1 What do you call, then, bringing u beggar's brat into the house to be reared as yo\ir own son ? You didn't stop to consult me before you pledged yourself to that undertaking, Irene!" He turns away, puzzled and irritated by her conduct, and she sees that she has played a wrong card. If the evil that assails her is to bo averted, it is not by threatening or complaint. She tries the female remedy of coaxing. " rhilip, dear ! " putting her arnis about him, " don't ask Lord Muiraven to come here." " AVhy ? " " Because I — I don't like him." " For what reason ? " " IIow can I give a reason ? " impetuourily. " It is not always one can say why One does or does not like a person. I donU like him — that's sufficient ! " " For you, perhaps, my dear — but not for me. It is useless to say, 'don't ask Lord Muiraven,' because I have already asked him, and he has ac- cepted the invitation. Nothing remains but for you to play hostess as agreeably as you can to him; and I trust," adds the colonel, gravel.v, " that, for my sake, and for your own, you will do your utmost to make our guest's stay here as pleasant as may be." " You must do that," she returns, shortly, " lie is not my guest, and I have no wish he should be so. You must take the charge of him and of his pleasure yourself. I decline to share in it." "Very well, my dear — be it so," replies her husband coldly, as he rises to leave her. " I hope you will think better of your inhospitable resolu- tion ; but if not, I dare say I shall be equal to the occasion. However, the spirit it. which you re- ceive my caution confirms me in one thing — Lord Muiraven's visit to Fen Court shall sot be put oiT, if I can avoid it." • • • • • • In the evening she makes another attempt. " Philip ! pray do not bring Lord Muiraven tc our house : I ask it of you as a favor." Colonel Mordaunt wheels round on his chair (he has been writing letters at his study-table, ;ii M 110 "NO lyTENTIOXS." i: I tc S t! wlillo Hho hU« bL'siitle him reading one of MiiUiu's InHt inii)0! tatioiii*), and sfnrt'S nt lii.s wifu in wn- li'ij,'iie(l siiri)rlHO, "Tiii.-t is tlie most cxtraonliimry tiling' I over know in my lilc ! " lio cxoiaim.-'. " I'riiy wiicrc, and uiidiT wliiit firi'um.-'tancc'rt, liuvc you nii't willi Lord Miiinivcn btfore ? " At tliis i)oin(-biiinl{ (iiU'Stion, so suddon and BO '•.nc'X|)cetP(l, Irene naturiiliy loses somuwlmt of lier confldenee. "Mil him brforr ! AVlio says I liavo done 80 ? " " Xo one lays it ; but no one could help iufcr- riiij; it. Your evident aversion to his becoming our guest must have its root in something deeper tluiu a mere dislilie, spontaneously conceived, for a stranger who has not tal drawing-room, to be presented to a beautlK statue, who, with features pale as death and lip- tightly pressed together, acknowledges the honoi of his presence there in chilling tones, that wouli have induced an ordinary visitor to return in th: same vehicle in which he came. But Muiraven knows the cause — his hear acknowledges the justice of the sentence— an; he replies so humbly to her icy welcome ao h;ilf to deprecate the anger that induced it. Not so Colonel Mordaunt, who stands l]\ watching them, indignant that Irene should so palpably disregard the warning he administerei to her, and resolved to show their guest double the attention he otherwise should have done, in order to atone for his wife's impoliteness. He is almost fearful that her contrary mood may take the turn of not considering Lord Muir- aven's comfort as she should ; but here his veia- TOMMY AND THE STRANT.ER. Ill i(i.-ti'i»8 ns ri'inly ' liis imrt, t'liiiiiiii; ; 1 oil tniiic tli.it I., IS tilt' ColllllfliWill.. icrs. "Well, I IK: I (lidcu-'sion with y,.. Fen (-'ourt, my »;;; ml imin is very foi:;| the while, that ofj 1ms l.is way pei'naj- B that she (lores i:| being thrown in tshiive proved futili nt. Yet she is r>.| IV guest shall rocoi;!] barest courtesy, is Buflieicntly dcv!:} rorcc himself into lit:| I conscious that it : be his hostess, anl lin ehall the hand ! Myra and trifled wi;- 1 ship and good-fell«« Ivc (which pride anil ter pain alone coulil receives Lord 5Iui; il at Fen Court witliJ ;s8 she has never a^l met him at the hat- trepidation to tbi nted to a bcantit'ill ule as death and IIkI inowledges the homil ling tones, that wouli| sitor to return in tk T.e. he cause — his hear the sentence— anil icy welcome as hait| induced it. int, who stands by I hat Irene should sol ling he administerei] their guest double hould have done, i!i| impoliteness, t her contrary mocll isidering Lord Muit- but here his veia] lion docs her wrong. The diniup that follow.-t i:is been ordered wltli consiiininnto care— every Lrran"cment h perfect — too perfect, indeed, not lo intiiimte that hIio feels, and iiifeiiils to main- Inin great distance between ln'i'self and the nan who hns so suddenly been thrown among |hom. At tlio dinner-table, Muiraven and tlio colo- kel have the converj'ation all to themselves, for Libclla docs not daro to speak, and Irene will knly answer in monosylIai)lc3. They talk of holitios, and hunting, and agrieultiire, and travel ; ind then they veer round to the London season, low fast approaching. ' Do you go up to town this year? " demands lluiraven. "I tliiiik not. My wife cares nothing for rnvetv, and the love for it has mostly dietl out of lie; yet she used to bo very fashionable before \cv marriage — usedn't you, Irene ? " » Wonderfully so." " But you have discovered the superiority of i ([uiet life, I suppose, Mrs. Mordaunt." " I have not been out since my mother died," lie answers, coldly. 'But for you," continues the colonel, in order change an unpleasant topic, and addrcHsing kiiiraven, " the gay metropolis can hardly have [lit its charm. Are you looking forward to a [igorous campaign ? " "I shall not be in town this season." "Indeed! you surprise me. With your ad- iaiitage?, I should have thought it resolved itself |ito a very paradise of society." " It was so once." "And how long is it since you turned mis- pthrope, my lord ? " says the colonel, laughing [eirtily at what he supposes to be his guest's 'cctation, and never expecting to receive a se- |ou3 answer to his query. " Since two seasons ago." At this juncture Irene rises to leave the room, luiraven holds the door open and gazes enmest- ' at her as she passes through. She chooses I take his words as covert insult — his look as laliee — and answers both with n flash of in- Ignant scorn. lie interprets her glance rightly, nd returns to his seat at the dessert-table with I sigh. When the gentlemen rejoin the ladies in the tawing . room, Mrs. Mordaunt professes to be «py, but rouses herself nt their entrance, and Irects her attention for the remainder of the fcning to the columns of the Horning Post. Colonel Mordaunt is supremely vexed at her behavior, but ho will not mention it again to her ; even after he lias had a ei;,'ar with Lord Miiiravi ii in the sinokiiii^'-rooni, and parted with him at his bedroom-door, he meets his wife in silence, and still ill .Miji'iice betakes himself to rest. Only, her condiiet pu/./.les as well as vexes him, and his curiosity is all on the alert ; while Irene, lying Bleeples.<<, revii^ws again and again the geeiie she has passed through, and wonders if nho has been harsh or wrong — or could have met Muiraven dilfercntly luid she wished to do — and always ar- rives at the same conclusion, that while his past conduct remains unexplained, it is impossible siio can receive him as any tbiiij» '.'ut a cruel and de- ceitful foe. She c( 03 down the next morning with no kindlier feelings in her lireast toward him, but conscious that his presence is losing its lirst strange sting for licr, and that she shall be able to greet him with more ease than she had done the day before. As she passes licr morning -room she hears the sound of Tommy's voice within, and enters prepared to find him up to mischief among her ornaments or flowers, for, like most children, he is of an inquiring turn of mind, and apt on oc- casions to do great damage in his researches nftm- the origin of all he sees about him. But as she crosses the threshold she starts back amazed, for, at the farther end of the room, comfortably ensconced in an arm-chair, she per- ceives Lord Muiraven, and on his knee, playing with his watch and chain and b.ibbling of every thing that comes within the scope of his horizon, ii Master Tommy. They are so engrossed with one another that for the moment they do not perceive her. " My mamma got a tick-tick," the child is say- ing " a very little one, with white and green stones on his back. I like my mamma's tick-tick ; but he's too small for a man. When I'm hlg man, my mamma going to ("^ivo mo hig tick-tick — my mamma says so," he winds up with confidently. " And who is your mamma. Tommy ? " in- quires Muiraven. " Don't you know my mamma ? Good mam- ma, who loves Tommy I Why — why there she is ! " exclaims the child, in a burst of glee, as he discovers Irene standing in the door-way, and, wriggling off his new friend's lap, rushes noisily to greet her. " Mrs. Mordaunt ! " ejaculates Muiraven, as he leaps up from his position. " I beg a thousand pardons ; I did not perceive that you were there." " There is no need to apologize," she answers m !T '£iJ 118 'NO INTENTIONS.' M colill_v, t!iou;;h iiioro raliiilj', tlinn litfori,'. — "Toiiwiiy, Jim know ymi liiive no Imsinuds iu thin room ; I linvu fDrliiildun yuii to comu hcrv." "I'riiy tlon't liliinio tlio I'liild — it was my fault ; tliu room looked ho cool uiid ])lL'nsant, I turned in for luilf iin hour's reading; Ijcforc break- fast, nnd, healing; lii.s voii'c iu tlic liall, caliud hiui in, nnd wo liavu bcuii iimuHin); (iuri)t'lvi.'H udmi- ruldy Hincc." " You forgot to bring mnnuna her roHO tliin inorninfr, Tommy," cays Irene, fixing her atten- tion on tlic ehiid. "Won't you go nnd pick her one now ? " " Ye.^ I I go get a bootiful rose— a very big one!" lie answers', darting from her side. " Mind you put on your hat ! " she calld after hirn into tlic hall. I'oor JIuiravcn is standing by the windov nicannhile, looking sadly conscious of not being attended to. "A very intelligent little boy," he 8ay.-<, ijres- cntly, with o nervou.s smile ; " what age is he f " " Three and a half." "Only three and a half! why, he seems to understand every thing. But — ))ardoa nie — I don't quite comprehend the relationship between you — a nephew ? " " There is no relationship between U3, except that of a common need. Tommy is my adopted child." " And you permit him to call you mother ? " " No ! I never encourage him to call nic by that name. His mother," and here Irene Htops a moment to recover confidence, "his mother is gone from us ; but he must call mc by some name, ond ' mamma ' is most convenient." " And you have adopted him — how very good of you ! " returns Muiraven, musingly. " Well 1 1 should think the little fellow would repay your kindness. I don't think I ever saw a brighter child ; he interested mc strongly. And he ap- pears to have so thorough and affectionate a rev- erence for you — " "Breakfast is ready," says Irene, as she cuts short his eloquence by leading the way into the next apartment. Two or three days pass in thj same sort of manner ; outwardly all is well, though rather con- strained ; inwardly there is much heart-burning and unpleasantness. The stranger (owing probably to the hostess's evident avoidance of his company) has made more than one attempt to end his visit, but Colo- nel Mordaunt, determined to show his wife that she cannot have every thing her own way, refutes all hid arguments with rc.«pret to the advl.s:tl,i||t of leaving Fen Court ; and Muiraven, hoping' p, haps that time may bring tliu opportnniiv 1. 1 coverts lor an explanation ttith Irene, is notlii:. loath to linger on. And so they continue to meet nt bicaktii,;. and luneheon, and dinner, und lite is a blow tor tiiru to her. l'"or, since slic caught Muiruvtu ui.. I little Tommy in the morning-room together, a itr] dread has sprung up in her bosom: the wond : whether she will be uetiiig right iu keeping' tU I knowledge of the relationship between tinm i| secret from the father. The horror with win her soul recoils from the fhiime of making m^. a communication is almost swallowed up iu iL. I jiain with which she contemiilutcs a parting fr t| the child. Until she felt it, hlio could not liiu believed that in so short a time he would li.j. wound himself so closely round her heart. T | give up little Tommy ! — to miss his dear liii voice calling after her oil over the hou, Haying— .l,iiii your. Ifclf, yuekett!" " I'd rather not ; lea.st aaid, soonest mended ; Lintl if madam tells you h' 'j never met this gentle- |nmu beft)re, of course sh'! never did." "Of eour-io not! I would sooner doubt my |o«n word than Irene's." 'Just so, colonel ; and therefore it would be liuclejs to purs le the subject. But she haa cer- Itaiiily enjoyed very bad spirits lately." " What do you attribute them to 1 " " Who can tell what a young girl like that aay be thinking of? Perhaps she's getting tired |ol'tlie country — " "She was saying only yesterday that she loved It more than ever." Mrs. Quckett laughs incredulously. " Well, I'm wrong again, then, that's all. perhaps the care of the cliild's too niueh for kt." " T have implored her aguin and again to leave him more with Phoebe, but she will hardly |ct the boy out of her sight." "Ah ! — ^hum ! — it docs seem to come wonder- liljy natural to her to be fond of him, doesn't it ? iTisa't often that young women tliat have never «cn mothers take to a stranger's child like that : I hope it'll turn out for the best, colonel. Well, If it's neither one nor the other that worries Krs. Mordaunt, perhaps this new friend of yours tiuta fancies into her head." " How do you mean ? — do speak out ! " " Lord Muiravcn may remind her of some one |he has known in old times, or — " "Quckett! you are torturing me. Why on Jarth should a chance resemblance, even if it ex- 8 i.'^ts, make my wife iow-gphitcd f Her past is gone and done with, and i«he is fur too good and — " "Oh! very well, eohinrl — very well. I,et us change I iiu snbjcet ; it only eunu^ upon me fiom your la ing so certain they had ni'ver met before — which I'm sure I'm quite willing to lulieve. He's u handsome man, till' new lnnl, isn't he? (^lite the ladie.-i' style. Young and tali, and with such fine eyes; I dare say there are a good many after him." '■ I dare say there arc" " Quite a catch for the London ladies. I wonder wiiy he isn't married ? " "There's plenty of time for that, tiuekctl." " I don't know, colonel. They say ' better late than never,' but it doesn't ajjply to marriage; 'no foul like an old fool' is a more appropriate motto for that." At this home thrust the colonel becomes un- easy, and tries tosliift the subject. " Lord Muiri'.ven will rcnuiin here for some days longer, Quckett." " Ah ! will ho ? Hi. he ever been in thia part of the country before, colonel ? " " Not that I know of; why do you ask J " " There is an uneoinmou likeness between him and that little boy there. They're the very moral of each other: everybody's talking of it!" Colonel Mordaunt flushes angrily. " What absurd nonsense ! I do beg you'll do your best to put such gossip down. If there is any resemblance, it is a mere accident." " It generally is, colonel." " Quekctt, I thought you luid more sense. Do you think for a moment, tinU even supposing Lord Miuraven had been near I'riestley before (which I am sure he has not), a man of his posi- tion and standing would lower himself by — " " Making love to a pretty girl ! Yes ! I do, colonel [ and that's the long and the short of it. However, I don't wish to say any more about it ; I only mentioned they were very similar, which no one who looks at them can deny. Good-night, colonel. I hope your lady's spirits will get bet- ter; and don't you think too mucli about them — for thinking never mended heart nor home — and I dare say she'll come round again as natural as possible." With which piece of consolation, Mrs. Quekctt leaves her master in the very condition she aspired to create — torn asunder by doubts and suspicions, and racking his brain for a satia* factory solution of them. '■I '1 '1 114 "NO INTKNTIONH." Miaiiwliilc Miilrnvi'ii, who li nlwnyn on tlio lookout lorn I'l'W privitti! wunls with Irene, whlih tho appears iii (Itioi'iiiiiieil lie hIiiiII not (;iiiii, pro- fei4.<*i'8 to hiivu conceived an aliHoi'MM)^ hiteitNt in Toniiiiy, iiiiii Icii^i's lier for piirlioularn concornln}; bJK pnronfiij;e ami iintecedonfH. " I (lun't Icnuir when I met n cliiid tlint inter- p^teil tne HO nmeli ns tld« proli'r/i of jouih, Mrn. Mordiuint. lie do(>^n't lool< li|{L> a eoiniiioii eiiild, VVbiTO (lid you i)iek Idin up ? " " Vou Kpciik of liini junt ns tlioiigli lio woro a liorxo or a do;? ; wliy don't you siiy at onci', 'Where did you Ai/i/ Idtn V '" " Ik'CdUHu I know timt tho only coin tliat lOidd purcliu.-fi linn would be your beiievoioncc. Hut, seriously, does lie belong to this part of tlic country t " " Ho belongs nowhere, Lord Muiravcn. He is a wretelied little waif and stray wliosc mother WHS (liHt Ijetrnyed and then rleaerted. A con)nion Htory, liut none the less fad for l)eing common. I think tlic lieavieHt penalty for »in mu!*t be incurred by those who heartlessly bring sueh an irretricva))le ndsfortune tipon tho head.s of I lie un- wary and the innocent." " I quite agree wilii you," he answer.-', ab- ruptly. "How hardened he mu.st be to show no signs of fooling at the allusion I " Is her comment as she regards his face, half turned away. " But to return to Tommy," resumes Muiravcn, " do you really intend to bring him up in your own station of life — to rear him as a gcnilemnn ? " " I have not yet decided." " Hut if you do not decide siiortly, you will injure the child. Having once permitted him to assimilate himself with gentlemen and gentle- women, it will bo cruelty to tlirust liim into the company of a lower class." "You misunderstand me. I do not intend tliat Tommy shall over again descend to a class from which, at all events on one side, he sprang; but, at the same time, I am not sure that Colonel Mordaunt will permit roc to have him educated to enter a profession, or that it would be kindness in us to permit him to do so. He will most probably be brought up to some business." "Poor child! — not because ho Is going into business (I often wish I had been apprenticed to some good hard work myself), but because, wher- ever ho goes, the stigma of his biilh (s sure to rest on him." "Poor child, indeed!" she repeats, with an angry flash in his direction, which Muiravcn is totally at a loss to comprehend ; "but so long as ho U umUr m> protection, ho shall never feci iIk cruel Injury which has been | taken a fancv to this little boy of yours. Myonl life has been a gi'cat mistake — it would be ^'OEi• thing to guard another life, as fresh as nnnuTO| once, from tlie same errors." " You — you want to take Tommy from mo-l Lord Muiravcn! you don't know wliat ytl are asking for. I cannot part with him — I hav-T grown so fond ef him — pray don't take hiL| away ! " In her surprise and agitation, Irene is forgeil ting the manner in which tlie proposal of her cos panion has brought about; and, only remciulK: I ing the prior claim ho has upon the child, bclio»i;| for the moment that he is aware of and 'intm\ to urge it. " I will take every care of him," she goes a\ impulsively, "of course I will, loving him ajl| do — but leave him with me. He is all I have." " What have I said ? " exclaims Muiravcn, i:| astonishment. The question brings her to senses. "I — I — thought you — you — wanted to ndoft| the child ! " she says, in much confusion. " Only in case of his losing his present pro-l tcctress, which God forbid ! " ho answers, groveljl "Perhaps I have been impertinent, Mrs. Morj lUKNK AND iIKU KOUMKIl LOVLIt. 118 :c ToHimy from mc-l Inii't know what yul art with him— I havJ ray don't tako hiEJ tut ion, Irene is forg«- e proposal of her coir- and, only remember | pon the child, bcllcid aware of and intcn:* of him," she goes ct I will, loving him as 1 He is all I have." exclaims Muiraven, i;| jn brings her to hKj ou — wanted to ttdojil ich confusion. I ising his present pw-j he answers, gravtljl ipertinent, Mrs. Mor| Jiunf, in nayln'^i at much an I h.ivu don-' ; Iml I ' li.ivo nut iK'nuMi! to lulp iih^oiviii^;, whilo uii. Jor your r«)i>r, that yi>iir iiii'liaiid din-H nut lake (iiilti; Hi» kindly to tliis little lnntHii„' mi you ilo ; tttid I tliou;,'lit, porli.i|H, tli.it Mlioidd any diiriTcnoo eViT arJ!*!) conet'inin',' hiiii, you inij^lit Ix,- ^!lad to think llii»t I wa^ ready to I'.irry im what you have lpi,^ni,_tliat Touiiny, In fai't, had auotliiT frlt'inl IkM'Ii'H youisoir. Iliit il' it was pri'bUniptuou:t, |ili;i!<>' forgive me I" "Tlicrol.-i nothiu;; to forgive, " nho answer- ; ,,i,lly; "tlio thought wa^ kind, and ftomo day, |)iMii.ip!< — " '• IVrhip.H— what ? " "I wdl toll you — or wiiti' to you thi' partlou- l.iM— all that I know, I nioau, about the fud ea.su oftliU poor chlhl." "Soino day you will writo, or tell me, all the Mftioulars about the sad vaw of this poor child," bo repeats, slowly and musingly. "I wonder if, jiorao (l:>y, you will let >iic write, or tell you, all the particuluri about a case far sailder than his (•:m be — a case that has wrecked ray earthly hap- [line^f", and made mo careless of my future ? " There i.s no mistaking the tone in which he stys these words : there is a ring of despairing love in it which no laws of propriety can quell or cover over. "Lord Muiraven!" she cries, Indignantly, as she retreats a few paces from him. Hut he is ').)l'l to pursue her and to tako her hand. " Irene ! I can endure this misery no longer. It has been pent up In my breast for years, and now it will have its way. I know you have hard thoughts of me ; but, if I die for it, I will dispel them. Irene, the time is come, and I must speak to you 1 " CHAPTER X. "On ! why did you ever come here? " is the I first wailing reproach with which she receives I his words. "Because I could not help it! Much as I I have suffered since wo parted, I would not, know- in? how lame any explanation I can make to you I must be, have sought yon willfully : but when the I opportunity was pressed upon me, I could not I resist it, and I am here, and you must listen while I I speak." " I need no explanation ! " she says, proudly. " Then you are not the woman that I took you I for, Yoa are not the woman who once vowed to lie my IVieiicl and eoun-elor. rrlendH do not cuiideunt ihi'lr fiii nd.H unheard, Irene." " You mu.-t not call mc by that name, " -he falter.>i. "I nujtt, and will I for, a^ we stand fogithei now, I know you by no (iiber. Ilul do not be alVald tli.it I ith.dl nay oni; \i(n'il that you need blamo mu for. It is not a tmin wlio xprakn to you ! It is a fillow-. e of the blttck ilou.i aicc id cleared a\va\ 3 said, at kngtb. lu happier ? " hat followed by m;,. upon Muiravcn, anl lie understands tliai marriage to save ht: da despair, irles aloud. Iiciio! red not tell it to mj- shed nic with her in- lative but to preserve I leave the hous^e tlu! | dearest to nic in tii idness was to lingci I knew a barrier wa- 1 en time itself niig pull down. But I (liJ I far less could I gwa | ir, if you can. I was ' my life — so much is el — and the friendsiip I sweet, I was wickti isider what the consc- might be to both of again insult you l.} I but say that you ffi'i'; ■ong I did you, miiv a you do." armurs. Her voice i: lot trust herself to sj; I I will tell you m:< ny other human crcatl I was very yourg- Dt myself into a dread- 1 DC that I didnotdatil •to tell my father o:j ed consequences tba; cclude still— my cvc:| I heard — a runio:j that you were engagcJ Irene. Tour informi ant must have meant my brother Cecil, who is to marry Harriet Robertson next month. Rut to return to ourselves. I know my explanation is a very unsatisfactory one, and that I am pre- sumptuous to hope you may accept it. Hut I cannot help making it. Will you trust mo so far as to bellivc that I speak the trutli ? " " I do believe it ! " "Tiiank you, a thousand times. (l!i, if you knew the load your words have lifted off my breast ! Iliid I followed the dictates of prudonce, and of what the world calls propriety, I should have >neaked away whenever I heard your name men- tioned, and died, as I have lived, under the ban of your contempt. But I was determinod, ns soon as ever Fate sent mc tlic opportunity, to try and dear myself in your eyes. It is a very little I c^n say. I can only throw myself on your com- passion, and ask you to believe me, when I swear (hit I never loved any woman as I loved you ; and that had it been iu my power to marry you, J should have spared no pains to make you love inc in roturn." ''I do believe you," she repeats again. Hi stops, and she stops, and he confronts her on the shrubbery-path. "You believe — as surely as thoi'.gh I wer'i yourself — that there exists a fatal and insur- mountable obstacle to my marrying any one ? " " I do — since you assure me it is so I " " And that, had that obstacle not existed, I would have sought you, so long as you were sin- gle, through all the world, in order to persuade yott to become my wife ? " " Since you affirm it — yes ! " "And that, when I asked for your friendship and affection, it was with no base intention to ^Icceivc or trifle with your love, but because my o«Ti yearning to be associated with you was so deep that I gratefully gathered up the least crumb of consolation without considering \\ hat the issue might bring to us ? " " I do ! " "0 Irene, if I had but known all this bo- fore ! " "It WRS impoiis'ble that you could know it. It is an adverse Fate that has divided us. Ba content to learn it now." " I am content — and deeply grateful for your trust. But, with your trust, shall I regnin your friendship ? " She hardly knows what to answer to this question. She is glowing with the excitement of his revelations, but sober enough to be aware that such a friendship as they once promised one another, can ncvtr exi>t between iln.in in their new relations. " Lord Muiravcn ! " — she commences — " Oil ' do not call me by that name. Freshly as it brings back to mo my brother's death, it is hateful upon all occasions, and more than ever from your lifis." " I must not call you otherwise," she answeis, (luiekly. "You have tioon very iVank with mc, and I will be the same wiiii you. I will acknowl- edge that your conduct — your supposed indiBer- ence — " " )fy indill'erence — Tione ! " " — Has been the cause, at times, of groat pain to n!C, and that to hear you clear yourself is com- fort ; and, if I were still single, I might say let us renew the friendship which was so rudely broken : but I am married, Lord Muiravcn, and what we promised to be to one another in those old days we can never be now ! " Lord Muiravcn receives this announcement with a deep groan. " I am sure you will see the justice of my re- mark," she goes on, presently. " Tlie counsel and advice and sympathy which were to form that bond, and which, more often than not, involve fidelity, might not be pleasant lo my husbnnd, and — I promised to be frank with you — I love my husband, Lord Muiravcn." " You do ? " he says, incredulously. " I do indeed ! Not in the way, perhaps, you think of lovo, but, anywny, too much to engage in any thing that might distress or wrong him. And you know that a man of his age might well be unhappy and suspicious at his wife having a young and close friend like yourself. So that any thing more than good compmionship is utter- ly denied to us." " The devil ! " says Muiravcn, under his breath. "Hush! don't speak of it so lightly. You know well what I mean. My husband married me when most people would hardly have thought I should have made a pleasant wife, and — " " Oh ! say you love mc still," he interposes, eagerly, guessing at the reason of her doubt. She turns her calm sad eyes on him in silence, and the rebuke is sufficient ; he periiiits her to proceed. " Throuirh all my indifFerenco and depres- sion, and often, I am afraid, my ill-temper (for I have not been half grateful to him for his kind- ness), he has been so patient and attentive and affectionate, that I never could for'^ot it — if I would. And therefore it is that I cannot give you back my friendship. Lord Muiravcn. My I 118 "NO INTENTIONS.' '(; sympathy will be always vourH ; but friendishii) includes conDdcuce, and I mu .sure that conOdcncc between me and any other man would give my husband pain." " Is a mairied woman never to have any male friends, then ? " he says, discontentedly, " I am not called upon to decide for other women. Some, unfortunately, have no friends in tliuir husbands, and they must judge for them- selves ; but my husband was my best friend when — when I really seemed to be without one in the world, and I feel bound to return his goodness where I can." " All right, then ! I conclude every thing's over between us. I am sorry I spoke " — in a voice of the direst offense. "OEric! don't break my heart!" she cries involuntarily. ^'' Break your heart, v;hen I would lay down my life to save you from a moment's pain ! Irene ! I am the mosf miserable man on God's earth. By one fatal mistake I wrecked all my hopes of happi- ness ; and now you consider me unworthy even of the notice you accord to the commonest of your acquaintances." "I never said that. I sh.ill always think of you, and treat you as a friend ; but, under the cir- cumstances, don't you agree with mo that there might be danger in a closer intimacy ? " " Would there be danger ? " he says, joyfully. Alas for the weakness of human nature ! He has just declared he could lay down his life to save her from a moment's pain ; and yet it thrills him through with happiness to find that she fears lest nearer intercourse might bring wretchedness for bolb of them, and he would consent to the nearer intercourse, and the prospect of wretched- ness, with the greatest alacrity, and believe finnl^ that he loves her through it all ! Alas for human nature ! Blind, weak, waver- ing, and selfish. From the crown of its head to the sole of its foot, there is no whole part in it ! " I think I will go in now," says Irene, with- out taking any apparent notice of his last remark. " I have said all that I can say to you, Lord Muiraven ; and further conversation on the sub- ject would be useless. You have made me much happier by what you have told mo to-day, for I have had a hard battle sometimes since we parted to reconcile your conduct with the notion I had formed of you. I only wish you had spoken as frankly to my poor mother as you have done to me." " I should, had Mrs. St. John only given me the opportunity." " Never mind ! It is a thing of the past, and perhaps she sees the ;ason of it now more tkar. ly than I do. TImnl. you for telling me as niuih as you have. But we will not allude, please, t.i the sulycct again." " Must I never speak to you of Uiy trouble; '; " "It is better not; and you need not ftarl shall forget you or them. I have always pravid for you — I shall do so still." " God bless you, Irene ! " he says, beneath Lis breath ; and at the entrance of the shrubltciy they part, he to go toward the st-bles, slie tu». ard the house. But she has not left his side one minute In. fore a thought flashes across her mind — a thouglii which never once presented itself throughout the interview. " 7'hc chihl I Whut of (he child ! " What of the child, indeed ! Is she to restore him to the man who has reinstated himself in Lir good opinion ; or does not the mere fact of Lij existence render much that Lord Muiraven Ilos said to her in the shrubbery null and void ? L the word of the betrayer of MjTa Cray a word to be trusted ; or is it certain that Eric Keir was that betrayer ? Between excitement and exjuc- tation and doubt and uncertainty, Irene beeumcs quite confused, and the first thing she docs (jd reentering Fen Court is to take out the paclut of letters, the ivory-backed prayer-book, and tijo photograph, and to examine them carefully again. Somehow they do not seem so thoroughly con- vincing to her as they did before. Lord Muir- avcn's proper name is certainly " Eric HamiltoD," but the notes are only signed " E. H.," and tiie name of Hamilton is very common. The initials may stand for Edward Hamilton or Ernest Hamil- ton. It is rather poor evidence to condemn a j man upon a couple of initials. The handwriting she could never positively swear to, because she has never seen that of Lord Muiraven's except Id answer to invitations, and these notes have evi- dently been written hurriedly. They might bo I the letters of anybody ; she will think no more about them. But the photograph, faded as it ii, is a more startling witness to his identity. It is not flattering ; cartes -de- visite seldom are ; it is too dark, and he is frowning, and his nose and chin are out of focus. Still, as she twists it about in the clear morning light, she cannot dcnv that it is like him — or like what he may have been some years ago. Yet it seems hard to accuse a man of so serious a fault upon the evidence of a bit of cardboard ! Irene would have twisted that THE IVORY-BOUND PRAYKIUBOOK. 110 photograph up and down and round about until sUu l»-»d convinced lanself that it waa not the least like Lord Muiravcn, nor ever could have been ; but at thia moment the door opens to ad- mit Tommy. Here comes the liviuj; witness of IjIj father's frailty to put to shame all the inaui- uiite mementos by which she is trying to delude herielt' into the notion that Lord Muiravcn is an injured man. Ilerc como the dark, wavy locks, the deep -blue eyes, the pointed nose, already fihowiiig evidence of the possession of a bridge ; the deep chest and sturJy limbs that Tommy's progenitor must certainly have displayed when at the same age as himself. Irene is almost cross with the little fidlow for looking so abominably like his father. " Oh ! he must have been the man ! it is quite impossible I can be mistaken," she inwardly ejacu- lates as she throws herself into a chair. " Come here, Tommy I What on earth does Phajbe mean jy parting your hair in the middle, just as if you were a girl — it makes you look quite absurd." "Gentleman has got his hair parted in the middle ! " says Tommy, alluding to Lord Muiravcn. "That's no reason you should have it too," replies Irene, quite sharply, as she divides his curls with her fingers, and effects a general dis- turbance thereof, of which her protege disap- proves. " Sit still, can't you ? What a dread- ful fidget you are ! " " You hurt ! " says Tommy, at last, as the tears well up into his eyes at her roughness. At tliat sight her mood changes. " Oh, my blessed boy ! my own little darling ! do you want to go away from your poor mamma, who loves you so ? " " I v;orCt go, mamma," replies Tommy, stoutly. " I will always live with my mamma, and take great care of her, I will.'''' " My precious ! what should I do withoit you ? lie would never be so cruel as to take you i way. And yet, were he to know the truth, how could he do otherwise ? IIow could / keep you ? Oh, what shall I do ? " I will not give him up in a hurry," she rural- nates, presently, as Tommy, having had enough embraces, wriggles off her lap again and runs away to play. " If I am to part with the child, it shall only be upon the most convincing proofs of the relationship between them" — forgetting that only on the most convincing proofs would Muiravcn be likely to acknowledge the responsi- biUty. Brooding on this resolution, however, Irene grows cunning, and, bent on ascertaining the truth, lays little traps wherein to catch her guest, inwardly triumphing uvi'ry tiuie they fail. She has many 0|>p(>rtunitics of laying them, for her spirits are lighter and brighter after the shrub- bery tcu-d-lile, aud Muiravcn enters more freely into conversation with bur. But it puzzles him considi.rably at this period to discover what mo- tive 'dio can have for continually speaking in p?..ablcs to him ; or why she should drag in sub- jects irrelevant to the matter in hand, by the head and shoulders, as she is so fond of doing. " What a beautiful evening," he roniarks, cas- ually, as the whole party scat themselves after dinner on chairs upon the lawn. •' I consider the evening by far the most enjoyable part of the day at this season of the year." " If one has a clear conscience,'' says liiy hostess, pointedly ; " but I think, if I had wronged any one very much in my lifetime, I should nevir be able to enjoy a summer's evening again. Every thing seems tio pure and calm then — one feels so near heaven." " I am afraid, if every one felt the same as you do, Mrs. Mordaunt, wo should have to shut up summer at once. We have all wronged, or been wronged, I suppose, during our lifetime." "But I mean a real wrong I — such as ruining the happiness of another. Don't you think it is the very wickedest thing a person can do. Lord Muiravcn ? " " I am not competent to judge. I think I have wronged myself more than anybody else in the world ; at all events, intentionally, " he adds, with a sigh. " Ilave you had your photograph taken late- ly ? " she goes on in the wildest manner. " My photograph ! No ! My dear old father insisted upon my sitting for a portrait in oils last autumn. That was bad enough, but nothing to being photographed. AVhy do you ask ? " " Irene is ambitious to fill that pretentious- looking album that lies on the drawing-room table as quickly as possible," says Colonel Mordaunt, laughing. " Indeed I am not ! I call that album my menagerie. It contains such a set of gorillas. So few people take well. Do you ? " addressing Muiravcn again. "I can hardly tell you. It is so long since I was immortalized by the photographic art. Not siiico — let me see — " " Since when ? " she interposes, eagerly. " The year before last, I think. The London Stereoscopic Company had the honor of taking me just before I left town, and I never even asked for n proof of the photograph." It >,f ill! ,11 m- 120 "NO INTENTIONS." " You must have haraycr-bcok, please. L plenty like it be possible." -please forgive niy .unt — I really don't 3 like it again. It'a little book; it looks on water gruel, nnj 3hrivcled-up, sickly y upon my feelings." any," slfo answers, ' links she is in fun, in which Muiravoa Colonel Mordaunt if iew with his bailiff, sk, alone with tluir iway some time be- h to make anothir :uth. aoytd nt the disre- poke of your exceed ak," says Muiravcn, piswers, briefly; "it • I am keep'iig it t interesting. I3 it I have several o( )tograph among the I's father ? " :arc of it. It may day in tracing his lothcr had been so clew she could »' .e had discoverrJ to who betrayed hot ever meet that ni.iii, lether I should be to hira. What is ?" icult task, Mrs. Mor- s upon whether the me his guardianship )oy, of course, if he i; but the greater deny the relation If hip. Had he had any intention of acting the |ii.irt of a parent to his child, ho would never Ihavc abandoned the mother." "You think bo— it is your real opinion?" Ishe demands, eagerly. "I think every one must think so. Poor lit- Itle Tommy is most fortunate to have fallen into \our hands. You may depend upon it, you will iicvcr be troubled by a gratuitous application for Dmn?" " IIow hard-hearted soir.o men are ! " she biqhs. "They are brutes!" replies her companion, lliterminately ; and Irene is more puzzled than before. " Lord Muiravcn — " she commences again. " I am all attention, Mrs. Mordaunt." " If I were to arrive, accidentally, at the knowl- ilffO of who is the child's father, and found he )r.i« not aware of the fact of his existence, ought 1 to make it known to him ? " "Ccrta/n/i//" " You arc sure ? " " Qtti/e sure ! — unless you wish to injure both k.irent and child. Howe'. 3r kind and good you day be to him, no one can care for a boy, or ad- laiicc his interests in life, as a father can ; and Ife, under the most favorable circumstances, will |e a serious thing for poor little Tommy. If you Ire to keep him, I am sorry he is not a girl. I am P'raid you will find him troublesome by-and-by." " I have no fear of that — only of his being tkcn away from me. Still — if you consider it rould be right — " " Do you know who his father is, then ? " "I think I do; but, please, don't mention it ^ain : it is quite a secret." " Well, if I were in that man's place, I should kink that you were wronging me ; but it is a latter of opinion. Tommy's fiithcr may — and robably will — be only too glad to leave him in loui' hands." "But if it were you?" "If it were me, I shoula prefer to look after ly own child ; I should not feel justified in dcl- kating the duty to another. I should consider the only reparation that lay in my power to lake him : and any one who deprived me of it, lould rob me of the means of exhibiting my Icnitence." This burst of eloquence decides her. Sorely i she will mourn his loss, she dares not keep Tom- my's parentage a secret ony longer. If he be- ings to Lord Muiravcn, to Lord Muiravcn he must But she hardlv dares think what Fen Court will look like when both of tlieiii arc lo.-t to view again. " How you have been crying'!" remarks her husband the next day, as she issues from her morning-room, and unexpectedly confronts him. " It is no matter," she answers, evasively, iis she tries to pass him to go up-stairs. She is vexed that he has commented on her appearance, for the house-keeper is standing in the Imll at the same time. " Hut it does signify," ho continues, pertina- ciously. "Wh.'it is the reason of it? Are you ill?" " Not in the least ; but I have been turning over old letters and papers this morning — and it is never a pleasant task to undertake. I nhall be all right again by luncheon-time," and she es- capes to the shelter of her bedroom. " Lor, colonel ! how inconsiderate you arc, questioning madam about the whys and where- fores of every thing!" ejaculates Mis. Quekett. "As if a lady could turn over her stock of treas- ures — her little tokens and bits of hair and old love-letters, without bringing the tears to her eyes. You've no knowledge at all of women, colonel, and it seems to nic you've quite forgot- ten you ever were young yourself." " But to sec her eyes so red as that ! " ex- claims Colonel Mordaunt. " IJless you ! do you think when you marry a woman, you walk at once into all her troubles and secrets, past, present, and to come ? Colonel, you've the least discrimination of any man I ever knew. She might just as well expect you to turn out the bundle of your past life — and thcre'd bo a pretty kettle of fish if you did — that / know ! " " Y'ou have the most extraordinary habit, Quekett, of talking of one's private affairs in public places. I wisli you'd remember where you arc." " Very well, colonel : that's a hint for nic to go. But I couldn't help putting in a word for Mrs. Mordaunt. You mustn't expect too much ofher. She's yours — be content with tliit. Wiser men than you have found it best, before now, to keep their eyes half shut." And with that, Mrs. Quekett, picking up a thread here, and a scrap of paper there, disappears quite naturally into the morning-room. Irene, meanwhile, is bathing her eyes in cold water. She has really boon only occupied in turning over old papers — the papers that concern Tommy — and trying to write a letter to Lord Muiravcn on the subject, which shall tell all she wishes him to know, in lang^iagc not too plain. But she has found the m M »1 m i 1,3 m i r 122 "NO INTENTIONS." Ilil 1 iiiiil'' II ^ [ lloHii' J ii \i,, 'k4 P'ffiwfni 1 ■^^si ' "i H' .'' yKKr! ^ ' rh p f 1 '^nr 7 '-^^^A^l 1 1'j ^ ''Hl^ 9wl|; I iP|i|' 1 1 jmlMlM'SRf i 1 ygfCglMBjJti i 'M 1 1 n "IHi i t JH 1 task more ditncult than she unticipatt'd ; ugly thingii look so luucli more ugly wliun tlioy are written down iu black and wbitc. She has made five or ti'ix attciujitH, and they are all in Ihewayte- papcr ba.skct. A.s hIio comes down-stairs to lunehuon, looking ((uite hcrHclf again, and parses through the morning-room, iicr eyes calch sight of these same iVagmentary records Iving jigiitiy one upon tiic other, and i. for choice." " On the contrary, to go there for choiceii the only way to enjoy the country. I can rciiiJ whenever I like, you know. And as to tlie cl mate, it cannot be worse than that of New YoiJ where the hot weather sweeps off its sixty heaJ j day." "And you will return — when ? " " In about six months, I hope, that is nld the hot season recommences. I do not go uIoi)| A cousin of ray own, and a very jolly fellow ( the name of Stratford, go with me. I shall coaj back so brown, you won't know me. — What s I bring you home from India, Tommy ? A IJ elephant ? " " Yes, yes ! bring a lum - a - lum. — Mamiii gentleman going to bring Tommy a big lanj lum-a-lum ! " " And you will really be awoy six montlii she soys, dreamily. She is thinking that hero ll respite from divulging the secret of her adopt! LORD MUIRAVENS DEPARTURE. 123 -only I tore up li,; ;cvcr it was, wlijii;,, ,elf ; It wtts tuo liar;| iblc to do 90— wilt b, or Bcrwiok Cast,! )rvariled from ci'.K.f not going to Loiid^: 10. I leave Engkt; take you there ? " jman call you Rcnv: I folds of her dies.<. lura, " I am very ca:-| idia,Mr3. Mordaunt,! Last autumn I spval I hope to do pi};-stiii| jst will probably fe I ould you have mo d I stless, and in nccd.j nothing to keepiut:] liravcu ! " it I am never so liiiij m traveling, and sob IS my brother. Anil unhealthy climatt. for choice." go there for choiwii country. I can rcwi^ And as to the cIl ban that of New Yoi'J jeps off its sixty lioalj -when ? " !, I hope, that \i wt^ •es. I do not go alot a very jolly fellow with me. 1 shall con know me. — What M ndia. Tommy ? A l^ him - a - lum.— Manm g Tommy a big lai^ be away sis moniliil I thmking that here ii] secret of her adop« fhiU'i parentage, for, if Lord Muiraven's ar- i .aiigoiiieiits for leaving the country are ill com- (Ictuil, lie would iiardly thank her fv,r thrusting 10 oui'.Dii.s a charge upon him as the guardian- lip of a little child on the very eve of his depart. re, But ho niiiinterprets tlio subdued tone ; 10 reads in it, or thinks he reudtt, a tender regret i)r Ills contcmpliited absence, and U ready to re- iKiiiish every plan which he has made upon the Ipot. " I tliought of lieing so, Mrs. Mordaunt," ho plieti, quickly, " but if there were any chance — iiv hopo — if I believed that any one here — oh ! |i<\i know what I mean so much better than I can ;pro83 it ; if yon wish rue not to go, Irene, say lie word, and I will remain in England forever 1 " " Gentleman say Reny again," remarks Tom- ir, as he pulls his adopted mother's skirts and loks up in her face for an explanation of the ivelty. "Bother that child!"' exclaims JIuiraven, igrily. "Be quiet. Tommy! Go and play," replies :onc.— "Lord Muiraven, you quite mistake my leaning. X think it is a very good thing for you go about and travel ; and am glad that you loulJ be able to enjoy yonrself. I was oidy liuking of— my letter." Send it ma. Pray send it to my club. I lall be there to-morrow ! " "I do not think I shall. It was only about — it child" in a lover voice. " Do you remember lat yon said once about being a friend to him he lost rae ? " " Perfectly ; and I am ready to redeem my ird!" " Should any thing happen while you are ab- it, Lord Muiraven, will you take care of him your return? The letter I spoke of — and lich will contain every thing I know about his Irentage — I will leave behind me, sealed and [dressed to you. Will you promise me to ask it, and to follow up any clew it may give you faithfully as may be in your power ? " " I promise. But why speak of your death, [less you wish to torture me ? " " Is it so great a misfortune, then, to pass he- ld all the trouble of this world, and be safely ided on the other shore ? " "For you — no! — but for myself — I am too [fish to be able even to contemplate such a con- igency with composure. If I thought it prob- le, or even possible, nothing should take me im England I You are not ill ? " "Xot in the least! I only spoke of death coming to Hic lis it, might come to you, or any om; — I do nnt ilc^ire it — I am content to live, of —or—" Iler voice breaks. " Ov—iehdti For Heaven's sake, speak ! " " / wa» so hi'forc we uict tir/nin ! " " Good God ! " he utters ; " why did I not put a bullet through my brains l)erorc I was mad enough to come here ? " He walks up to the mantelpiece as though he could not bear to meet her gaze, and she catches up the child and sets him on the embrasured win- dow-sill before her, and looks into his eyes with her own brimming over with tears. Each has spoken to the other ; the pent-up cry of their burdened hearts has broken forth at length ; and they stand silent and ashamed and overwhelmed in the presence of Nature. Tommy is the first to recall them to a. sense of their ctiuiv- ocal position. " Mamma is crying," he observe.*, pointedly. " Naughty gentleman." His shrill little voice attraeis the attention of Mrs. Quekett, who is loitering in the hall (a favor- ite occupation of hers during that season of the year when the sitting-room doors stand open), and she immediately commence.^, noiselessly, to rearrange the pieces of old china that onuiment the shelves of a carved oak buffet outside the dining-room. At the sound of the child's words, Muiraven quits his place, and, advanchig to Irene, takes her hand. "Forgive me," he says, earnestly, "for alt that I have brought upon you. Say that you for- give me ! " Mrs. Quekett pricks up her cars like a hunter when the dogs give tongue. "You wrong me by the request," Irene an- swers. " I cannot think how I forgot myself so far as to say what I did ; but I trust you never to take advantage of my words." " Except in letting their memory lighten my existence, I never will. And I thank you so much for permitting me to feel we have a mutual inter- est in this child. I see that he is very dear to you." "He is indeed! I don't think any mother could love a child more than I do him." '' And you will let me love him too. He shall be the link between us ; the commoa ground on which we may meet — the memory left, to which- ever goes first, of the affection of the other. Henceforward Tommy shall have a father as well as a mother." I' ■II 4 ' I' :} > •• 124 "NO INTENTIONS. "I will 1)0 sine unci 1< iv(.« tho letter that I fipokc of." "Anil yon will not writf to iiif — not onu line to clu'cr me ill any wny ? " "I must not ; anil it would bu impoi'slble if I couK' Wluii you rftiirn — ..i-ihaps — " " Ii you any tliuf, I «luiU return to-nionow. ' At tliiti iiionient the carriugo-whculs ai'c heard gnitiiiR on the {^ravel-drive. " Here is the colonel, Mrs. Morduunt ! " Ii'i.'no ptiirts — Hii.sliL's — and withdraws her hand quiukly from that of Lord Muirnvcti. Mrs. Quekett, duster in iiand, is locdving in nt tlie open door. " The colonel ! " cries Muiravcn, looking at his watch to cover their confu.«lou; "how time flies! it is nearly eleven. — Well, good-by, Mrs. Mor- diumt. I shall have nhot a real Bengal tiger be- fore \vc meet again." " Tiger will cat you," interpolates Tommy, scntentiously. " Oh, take care of yourself," says Irene, w ith quick alarm. " I will — believe me ! .«incc you ask it ! — How big is tho lum-a-lum to be. Tommy ? Ten feet high ? " " As tall as the house," replies Tommy. "Are your traps brought down-stairs yet, Muiraven ? " demands Colonel Mordaunt, as he enters the room. " Wo haven't much time to spare, if you're to catch the one-o'clock train. — That fellow William, is shirking his work again, Irene ; I found the gray filly with her roller off. I declare there's no getting one's servants to do any thing unless one is ronstantly at their heels." " Look what gentleman given me ! " says Tom- my, who has been occupied with Lord Muiraven at the window, " Your watch and chain ! " exclaims Irene. " Oh, no, Lord Muiraven, indeed you must not. Think how young the child is. You are too gen- erous." " Generous ! " says the colonel ; " it's d — d foolish, Muiraven, if you'll excuse ray saying so. The boy will never be in a position to use it, and it will be smashed in an hour," " No ! that it shall not be, Philip. 7 will take care Lord Muiraven's kindness is not abused — only a toy would have been so much better." •' Pray let him keep it, Mrs. Mordaunt. It will be rather a relief to got rid of it, I so much pre- fer to wear dear old Bob's, that was sent home to me last autumn," " You certainly must have more watches than you know what to do with," grumbles the colo- nel. — "Put Lord Muiraven's poi-tmanteaiiK linij carriage, James. Wait a mir.ute. Let me ,«|i(ill to the coachman." Irene has taken tho wateh from tlio chiliii hand, and is holding it in her own. "It is so kind of you," she murmurs. " Not at all ; It is a pleasure to me. Ki([. as a pletlge of what I have promised in res|nct :| him. And if I thouglit you sometimos wore • Irene, in remembrance of our friendship, it wo, make me so happy." " I will." "Thanks — God bless you!" and, wjih ,. long look and pressure, he is gone. Irene takes an opportunity during the nX ceeding day to examine her behavior and ilji tivcs very searchingly, but she thinks that, on ;i I whole, she has acted right. What cotdd Mil avcn have done with a young child just as lioi.] starting for a place like India? He eoiiii have taken Tommy with him; he would la:| been compelled to leave him in England unil the care of strangers; who, in the evert oflJ father dying abroad, would have had him rcDr.( and educated without any reference to hem. Yes ! she believes she has done what is best f all parties. When Muiraven returns she nilltJ him the truth, and let him do as he thinks i\ but, until that event occurs, she shall kecpt! child to herself. And, as the blankness ofi knowledge of his departure returns upon 1 every now and then during that afternoon, (iJ catches up Tommy in her arms ariu oPiothcrs bi^ with kisses, as she reflects with secret joy ib she has something of Muiraven left her still, II(| surprised she would bo to compare her prcid feelings with those with which she first lean the news of the boy's paternity ! The sin and shame of that past folly are il less shocking to her than they were ; but the siaT has been withdrawn from them, Eric love JA He was not base and cruel and deceitful ; it rJ Fate that kept them separate ; and, on til strength of his own word, he is forgiven for CT,j thing — past, present, and to come ! Whnt is tli^ woman will not forgive to the man she loves? Irene almost believes this afternoon tliat.l she is but permitted to bring «p Tommy toi worthy of his father, so that when he is a iij and Eric is still lonely and unmarried, she cl present them to each other, and say, " Here i.<| son to bless and comfort your old age," she desire nothing more to make life happy, il feeling more light-hearted and content than A SECRET UXDERSTANDI\(}. 125 'g portmantcaiiH Inib. liiiiitc. Lit iiic C]ini| niKl, Willi l;. i,as (lone for many a day— although Muiruvoii La put tuiloi betwocn them — gocn Hinging about lln, ,f.ji(li u ill the evening, like u blitheiouio bird. IIerc.ii;illi"o rather disturbs Colonel Mordaunt, lio (wiili hU study-window open) i.s busy with \,\i farin-aeiounts ; and making small way as it : niib M>-i. Quekett standing ut his right liand, kiiJ putting in 1' •• oar at every seccmd figure. "Xot oat.'*, colonel; it was hurley Clayton Lrought in last week ; and if ua eye's any thing L .«() I)V| ti'ii sacks short, as I'm a living woman." • How can you tell, Quekctt ? " replies the Lionel, fretfully ; " did you see them counted ? " • Coimted 1 Is it my business to watch your Itablc-meu do their work? " " Of course not ; but I suppose names was llicre ; he is generally sharp enough upon Clay- Ion." " Well, there it is in the granary — easy enough I look at it. It seems short enough measure to lie. IVrlmps some has been taken since it was liilwded." "It's very unpleasant to have those doubt.-!, I hate suspecting any one, especially my own ser- lants. \Vhy should they rob me ? They have Ivery thing they want." " BleS'i you, colonel ! as if that made any dif- lireDcc. Of course, they have every thing they Jaat; and it's generally those who are closest to I who play us the dirtiest tricks. A man would ^'t through life easy enough if it weren't for his I'ionJs. That's a handsome watch bis lordship avo to that brat of Cray's (I hope your lady isn't ^ithin car-shot), isn't it now ? " " It must have cost fifty pounds if it cost five. I cau't imagine any one being so simple as to art nith his property in that lavish manner, laekett ! " "Xorl — if he don't know to whom he's part- |ig with it. But Lord Muiraven knows, as sure i my name's Rebecca. lie's not such a fool as : looks." "You are so mysterious, Quekett, with your lints and innuendoes," replies her master, peev- Jlily. " Why can't you speak out, if you have ny thing to say ? " " Would you be any the better pleased if I Jcre to speak out ? " " Muiravon'a private aflTiirs cannot affect me |iuch, either one way or the other." " I don't know that, colonel. You wouldn't lare to keep the child hanging about here if you pought it was his, I reckon." " Of course not ; but what proofs have you ht it belongs to him ? " " Well, he's stamped his si'.'naliire prcliy jilainly on the boy's l.iee. .Ml thf woild eaii ^te that ; and, whether the ehild is his own or not, Ik's safe to get the credit of him." "■A very uncertain proof, (^lU'ki tt. I slio'ild have tlioiight you had had too mueh exiierieiiee to accept it. Now, look at the matter Hi'n.>il)ly. Is it likely Lord .Miiiniviii could have been to I'liestley and com ted Mvia Cray without our hearing of it V " "Myra Cray has not alwuvs liv.d at I'riotb'y, colonel. Hut, putting that a-ide, how eaii we bo sure that the child did belong to Cray V " " Hut — I have always understood .~o," exclaiiiH Colonel Mordaunt, as he pushes his eliair away from the table and confronts the house keejier "Ay, perhaps you have; but that's no pi oof, either. Mrs. Cray always said the boy was a nurse-child of hers ; and it was not until 3I> ras death that Mrs. Mordaunt told you she was his mother." "Mrs. Mordaunt repeateil what the il\iiig woman confided to her." " Terlmps so," remarks Mrs. Quekctt, dryly ; " but the fact remains, colonel. And your lady took so kindly to the child from the very first, that I olways suspected she knew more of his history than we did." "Do you mean to insinuate that my wife took this boy under her protection, knowing him to be a son of Lord Xluiravcn ? '' " I don't wish to insinuate — I mean to say I be- lieve it ; and, if you'll take the trouble to put two and two together, colonel, you'll believe it too." " Good God ! it is impossible. I tell you Mrs. Mordaunt never saw Lord Muiraven till she met him nt the Glottonbury ball." " I think there must be a mistake somewhere, colonel ; for they've been seen together at Lady Baldwin's parties more than once ; I had it from her own lips." " I canU understand it. I am sure Irene told me she did not know him." " Some things are best kept to ourselves, colonel. Perhaps your lady did it to save you. But if they'd never met before, they got very in- timate with one another while he was here." " How do you mean ? " "In arranging plans for the child's future, and so forth. I heard Mrs. Mordaunt tell his lordship this very morning, just as ho was going away, that she should write to Lim concerning it. And his giving the child that watch looks very much, to my mind, as though he took a special in- terest in him." . --j:-^ , i ■.M I I If » ,,i 120 "NO INTENTIONS." i ; Colonel Monliuiut frowns and turns away f om her. " I cannot hrliovc it ; imd, If it's ti-iu>, I w'.-ili to (lod you had never told nic, (iuelictt ! (i ) on with tlic ui'counts ! — Wliero Ia the hakci-'n nii'iii- oranduni Cor (lour ? Didn't I order it to he Hent in every week t " " Tlicro it i,'*, eoloiicl, riglit on the top of the other?. One would tliink you had lost your head." " Lo-it tny head : and Isn't it enou'_'h to make a man lose hin he.id to hear all the sean il, (if It any liiii)f(i I iloY What lun ;! IllT >«llli lhi<4 lltlu . •X I'tilllO loo luillii Itli Kiy w'l/t— ami .. may — to bo lollodt. iiiuro hIii, iiiorv (.-ii — or by ikvowttl i.i. rtt of my days— t., vith his offsiiiiiii^ ; I — tllO Imppluoi r ,Cil Irt tloill'. Xil . int'Illl it — it UUbt ;.| ; uiul I — Ili'iivin li lot livo without '.. m\\ of uiicoiKiui'ial y ti'cuiiiii'o ; woiilil ! ing you hud kilkil :. I'ou never wcro n.i:. mil bo mine — no k -I— " und hcie ri; iiiniiti! in a burst • manhood to tho cv.' ver much he may *. , Bhall be locked wi. breast. r meeting Lord JlO imc, perhaps, elTic! .1 ;he child, but she eli. [ at he has arrived i| lie has sinned so d«; litic resolution ^^liiJ ■cgister. It is nln;i; lave a grudge ngait;] ICC on the fiubjcct, a icir grievanco ami j:| redress; and imi»'' fe, is little short (i daunt, at this jum; helmed her with i- irally feels, he wo- ull and free confissi : mind at rest forcTf lith in her to do s ion of himself and h too ready to bolit': nan's love, to think i hold his own agaisj even be able to dac ncnt. So, inhisprii ,t he will suffer in => onatralnt which he a tliii< I'urui'd to put upon hlnixi'lf, eatn llki' u can- L.r into hi* loving, honeiit luul, and kiilit It. The Lliun;(>' !'* u"' "" "' ""^''' appik>'>'»t ; but, from the huiir C'lliiiicl Murdaiiht Ictvci liij Mtudy on that ll'itul I'Vi'iiiiiKi li*> I'* uniitlier man fnini n li.it hi' hiiH I,,.,.)). Ireuf, imioeil, \» miieli iistoiiisliiMl, wlieii, ):i liii|iiiring later, why her husband iloei not liiiii hur lu the drawing-room, shi) hearit that, wlilioiita word of wainiiig, he liai retireil to rent ; 111 iiiuri) HO, wlicn, on Hi'i'king hJH lnilMicio tn ,ii.itr if he Is ill, c,r if hIiu cun do any tiling lor liiia, uliu ri'ceivt'.'i no sort of explanation of liiit iiiMiul (.'oiiduct, and thu very shortrst unswiTS iilii'ri'xpressloMS of Hurpiisi> and Hyiii|iatliy. Itut, il'ior tlx' Hist brii'f feeling of vexation, Am does ,it iliiiik muuli more about it ; for I'iiilip's temper 14 not always boi'u e'piablu of liite, and Iionu is jjianing to take Into consideration (In; fact that icr husband is much older than herself, and can- ')t bo expected to bo always ready to enter into 111' splr't of her younger moods niul fancies ; .>io, itii a lit;lu High, she goes down-stairs again, and, II tho absorbing interest of planning and cutting lilt master Tommy's llrst suit of knickerbockers, \ii goon forgiUtcn all about it. In a few weeks, iiwovcr, the alteration in her husband's demean- Irij palpalilo enough, and accompanied by such vUiblo falling-oir in outward appearance, that 'DC at llrst ascribes it entirely to want of health. I'iie caimot nuagino that she has done any thing olToDdhim; and so entreats hiin pathetically ;^ce a doctor. Diit Colonel Mordaunt is mighty Ojtinato whenever the suliject is mentioned, lid curtly informs his wife that she knows noth- i;'at all about it, and bids hi'r hold lii'r tongue, 1, he has an api)etito, and strangely variable ilritj. Irene sees his health is failing, and some- 103, from his un:i;'eoiint.ible manner towanl her- ilf|Sho almost fears his br.iin must be ulTected. he becomes thoroughly alarmed, and pAiys for Ic presence of Oliver Ualston at Fen Court, that 10 may have an opportunity of confiding her i.^pieions to hiin, and asking his advice about lem. Out Oliver is working valiantly at his pro- Isiion, as assistant to a surgeon in a country vil- ke miles away from Leicestershire ; and, thanks his own poverty and Mrs. Quckett's continued liiuonco over his uncle, there is little chance of |s visiting the Court again for some time to MHO. So Irene is reduced to confide in Isa- (lla ; but, though Miss Mordaunt sees the change, fe dares not acknowledge it. "Oh dear, Mrs. Mordaunt, is it really so? ^ell, perhaps — ^but yet I should hardly like to ly— and is it wise to notice it? — the toothache Is a ili^iri'Htini; complaint, you know — no ! I never hi'urd that riiilip hud lliu toolhuehu; but Hiill, I think it Ko inueh betlir lo have theia things ii> lilt lid ilo'iiisi'lvei*." So thecpiing and suiiiiner days drug liiein- Helves away, and ireiu' finds herself thrust farther and farthei' fiumlier husbaiid'M eonlldeiu'eand uf- fiCtidli, and growing almost uceiiHtoiiied to ils be- ing HO. His hive Inr her at this time is hliowii by strange lits and starts. .Sometimes he hardly opens his lips for d.iys togetlit r, either at mealy or when they are alone ; at others bo will lavish on her pa. uio- iiieiil, but seem to leave no warmth behind them. Hut one thing she sees always. However little her husliand cared for her adopted eliild in tho olden days, ho never notices liiia now, except it be to order him out of the way in the same lone of voice that he would use to a dog. For this reason Irene attributed his altered mood in a great measure to tho cflect of jealousy (which she has heard some men exhibit to thu verge of Insanity), and, with her usual tact, keep.-; Tommy as much out of his sight as possible. She insti- tutes a day nursery somewhere at the top of thu house, and a playground where the boy can nei- ther be seen nor heard ; and lets him take his meals and walks with I'lia'tie, and visits hiiu al- most by stealth, and as if she were committing some evil by the act. It Is a saeriliee on her part, but, although she faithfully adheres to it, it docs not bring the satisfaction which she hoped foi ; it makes no diirercnce in the distance which is kept up between her husband's heart and hers. She follows Colonel Mordaunt's form about the rooms with wistful, anxious eyes that implore hiin to break down the barriers between them, and be once more what he used to be; but the appeal is made in vain. Her health, too, then commences to give way. There is no such foe to bloom and beauty as a hopeless longing for sym- pathy which is nnatteniled to; and Irene grows p.ilu and thin, and miserable-looking. At last she feels that she can bear the solitude and the sus- pense no longer. June, July, and August, have passed away in weary expectation of relief. Muir- avcn is in India, Oliver at Lcamouth. She looks around her, and can find no friend to whom she can tell her distress. One night she has gone to bed in more than usually bad spirits, and laid awake thinking of the sad change that has come over her married life, and crying quietly as she speculates upon tho cause. She heard Isabella stealing up-stairs, as though at every step ahe were asking pardon of the ground for presuming in 11 I // 130 "NO INTENTIONS." 41 to trcaU (ipoii it ; and Mrs. Quekett (of whom the poor child can scarcely think witiiout a shudder so truly docs she in some occult manner connect her present unhnppiuess with the house-keeper'a malignant influence) clumping ponderov dy, as if the world itself were honored by her patronage > and the maids seeking the upper stories, and jok- ing about the mcn-scrvanta as they go ; and then all is silent and profoundly still, and the stable- clock strikes the hour of midnight, and yet her husband does not join her, Irene knows where he is ; she can picture to herself— sitting all alone in his study, poring over his accounts, and stop- ping every other minute to pass his hand wearily across his brow and heave a deep sigh that seems to tear his very heartstrings. Why is it so? Why has she let this all go on so long ? Why should she let it last one moment longer ? If she has done wrong she will ask his forgiveness-; if he has heard tales against her, she will explain them all away. There is nothing stands between tliem except her pride, and she will sacrifice it for his sake — for the sake of her dear old husband, who has always been so kind to her until this mis- erable, mysterious cloud rose up between them. Irene is a creature of impulse, and ro sooner has hor good angel thus spoken to hor than she is out of bed, and has thrown a wrapper round her figure and slipped her naked feet into a pair of shoes. She Avill not even stay to light a candle, for something tells her that, if she deliberates, the time for explanation will have passed away — per- haps forever; but quickly leaves her bedroom and gropes her way down the staircase to the door of her husband's room. A faint streak of light is visible through the key-hole, but all with- in is silent as the grave ; and as Irene grasps the handle she can hear nothing but the throbbing of her own impatient heart. Colonel Mordaunt ia sitting, as she imagined, in his study-chair, not occupied with his accounts, but leaning back, with his eyes closed, and his hands folded before him listlessly, inanimately, miserable. He used to be an unusually hale and young-looking man of his age. Irene thought, upon their first introduction, that he was the finest specimen of an old gentleman she had even seen; but all that is passed now. Life and energy eeera as completely to have departed from the shrunken figure and nerveless hand as the appearance of youth has f.om the wrinkled face. It is about the middle of September, and the next day is the opening of the cub-hunting eeaion — an anniversary which has been generally kept with many honors at Fen Couit. Colond Mordaunt, who before his marriage held no in. tcrest in life beyond the pleasures of the field, anj I who has reaped laurels far and wide in his capa- [ city as master of the Glottonbury fox-hounds, been in the habit of throwing open his house |., I the public, both gentle and simple, on the oceutf rence of the first meet of the season ; and, al. though the lack of energy which he has displaytj | of late is a general theme of conversation amoni' the sportsmen of the county, the hospitable cii;. tom will not be broken through on this occasion. | Preparations on a large scale for the festivitt have been arranged and carried out, without the I slightest reference to Irene, between himself ail Mrs. Quekett ; and to-morrow morning cverr I room on the lower floor of the Court will be laii I with breakfast for the benefit of the numeroiii gentlemen and their tenant-farmers who will con- 1 gregate on Colonel Mordaunt's lawn to celcbrait the recommeneeraent of their favorite amv-tl ment. At other times how excited and intercsu-il has been the master of fox-hounds about ever thing connected with the reception of his gucBtil To night he has permitted the house-keeper tofil to bed without making a single inquiry as v,\ whether she is prepared to meet the heavy do I mauds which will be made upon her with tli[ morning light ; and though, as a matter of dun. he has visited the kennel, it has been done wit;! such an air of languor as to call forth the remarJ from the whipper-in that he " shouldn't be in M least surprised if the colonel was breaking ufl and this was the last season they would ever liiit;| together." And then the poor, heart-broken man crcpl back, like a wouiided animal, to hide hiniselfiJ the privacy of his own room, where he now siiJ alone and miserable, brooding over what has \ik:\ and what may be, and longing for the time whenl all shall be over with him, and his sorrows hiddetf in the secret-keeping {^.ave. He is so absorbed i:| his own thoughts that he does not hear the souril of Irene's light footsteps, though she blundersl against several articles in the dark hall befciil she reaches him ; and the first thing which a;» prises him of any one's approach is her unccrtai handling of the door. "Who is there?" he demands sharply ;fe| he suspects it may be Mrs. Quekett come i(| torture him afresh with new tales and doubi;| against Irene's character. The only answer he receives ia conveyed b; I another hasty rattle at the handle of the doot| and then it is thrown open, and his wife, clad i CRUEL DOUBTS DISPELLED. 131 irst thing -wliicli a;. )ach is her unccrta':! •ivea is conveyed b; handle of the door. and his wife, clad a a long white dressing-gown, with her fair hair streaming down her buck, appears \ipon tlie threshold. lie shudders at the siglit, and dr.nvs a little backward ; but ho does not speak to her. " Philip ! Philip ! " she exclaims, impatiently, and trembling lest all her courage should evapo- rate before she has had time for explanation, "don't look like that. Speak to me. Tell mc what I have done wrong, and I will ask your forgive- ness for it." He does not speak to her even then ; but ho turns his weary, grief-laden face toward her with ■■ilont reproach that cuts her to the heart, and brings her sobbing to his feet. "What have I said? What have I done?" she questions through her tears, " that you should behave so coldly to me ? Philip, I cannot bear this misery any longer ! Only tell mc how I have ofTcnded you, and I will ask your pardon on my knees." "Don't kneel, then," he says, in a dry, husky oice, as he tries to edge away from contact with her, " I have not blamed you. I have kept si- lence, and I have done it for the best. By break- ing it I shall but make the matter worse." " I do not believe it," she says, energetically, 'Philip, what is this matter you are so desirous ;o conceal ? If it is shameful, it can be in no wise onnectcd with me.' "So young," he utters, dreamily ("were you inetcen or twenty on your last birthday, Irene ?), ind yet so full of deceit. Child, how can you look at me and say such things ? Do you wish to Towd my heart with still more bitter memories han it holds at present ? " "You are raving, Philip," she answers, "or I lave been shamefully traduced to you. Oh, I sure of it ! Why did I not speak before ? T/tat •Oman, who has sueh a hold over you that — " " Hush, hush ! " he says, faintly ; " it is not so. have had better evidence than that; but, for od's sake, don't let us speak of it ! I have tried shield you, Irene. I will shield you still ; but hile we live the matter must never more be dis- ussed between us, or I cannot answer for the onsequences." " And do you think," she replies, drawing erself up proudly, "that I will live under your )rotection, and cat your bread, and avail myself >f all the privileges which in the name of your wife iccrue to me, while there is a dead wall of sus- licion and unbelief and silence raised between us, md I am no more your wife, in the true meaning if the word, than that table is ? You mistake me, Philip. I have been open and true with you from the beginning, and I will take nntliing less at your hands now. I do not a«k it — I demand, t/.s a riijht, to be told what is the secret that sepa- rates us ; and, if you ref .se to tell me, I will leave your house, whatever it may cost nie, and live among strangers sooner than with so terrible an enemy." He raises his eyes, and lonks at her defiant figure with the utmost compassion. "Poor child! you think to biave it out, do you? But where would you go? What door would open to receive you ? " " I am not so friendless as you seem to think," she answers, growing angry under his continued pity. "There are some who love me still and believe in me, and would refuse to listen to accu- sations w'.iich they are ashamed to repeat." " Would you go to him ? " he cries, suddenly, as a sharp pang pierces his heart. As this insulting question strikes her ear, Irene might stand for a model of outraged woman- hood — so tall and stately and indignant does she appear. " To whom do you presume (o cdludv ? " Colonel Mordaunt shrinks before her angry eyes. There is something 'n them and in her voice which commands him to reply, and ho rises from his seat, and goes toward the escritoire. " I would have saved yoi. from tliis," he says, mournfully. " I wished to save you, but it has been in vain. Irene, I have borne it for more than three months by myself! Pity and forgive me that I could not bear it better. I would rath- er it had killed me tlian it had come to this." lie takes out the torn and crumpled sheet of note-paper that he has so often wept over in secret, and lays it on the desk before her. " Don't speak," he continues ; " don't try to e'^.euso yourself; it would be useless, for you sec that I know nil. Only remember that I — I — have forgiven you, Irene — and wish still to watch over and protect you." She takes the scribbled fragment in her hand and reads it, and colors painfully in the perusal. Then she says shortly. — " Who gave you this ? " " What signifies who gave it me ? You wrote, and I have seen it." " Very true ; but what then ? Was it a crime to write it ? " Colonel Mordaunt regards his wife as though she had been demented. " Was it a crime to write it?''^ he repeats. "It IS not the letter — it is of what it speaks. i ' ' 5 (••ill m 132 "NO INTENTIONS." Ii]l H'l '*! 'Alii Surely — surely you cannot bo so hardened as not to look upon that In the light of a crime ? " " I know it to be a crime, Pliilip, and a very grievous one ; but it has nothing to do with nic — except, perhaps, that I should have told you wlien I found that it was his." " When you found what was his ? Irene ! you iiro torturing me. You told me at the Glotton- I)iny ball that you had never met this man Mniravcn, with whom I find you correspond in tori'is of familiarity. What is the secret between you ? In God's name speak out now, and tell me the worst 1 Death would be preferable to the agony of suspense that I am sulfering," " There is no secret between us. I never told Lord Muiraven of what I now see I should have informed you— that I found out from Myra Cray's papers that he is the father of her child." " The child, then, is Myra Cray's ? " he says, with hungry eyes that starve for her reply. " Tl'Viose do you suppose it is ? " she demands, with an angry stamp of her foot. Her figure is shaking with excitement; she Las struck he; clinched hand upon her heart. Beneath her blazing looks he seems to shrink and shrivel into nothing. " Forgive ! oh ! forgive me, Irene," he mur- murs, OS he sinks down into liis chair again, and covers his Aice from view. "But look at the paper — read what it says, and judge what I must have thought of it." She seizes the letter again, and, running her eye rapidly up and down its characters, gives vent to a sort of groan. But suddenly her face lights up with renewed energy. " Stop ! " she says, comniandinglj", as she se'ies one of the candles off the table and leaves the room. In a few minutes — minutes which seem like ages to him — she is back again, with the corresponding fragment of Inr mutilated letter (which, it may be remembered, she thrust into her davenport) in her hand. She does not deign to offer any further explanation, but places thera side by side upon the desk before him, and stands there, silent and offended, until ho shall see how grossly he has wronged her. He reads the unfinished epistle in its entirety now. " Mt dear Lord Muiraven : " What you said this evening has decided me to write to you on iv subject which has given me much anxiety of late. It is very painful to me to have to allude to it before you ; but I believe it to be my duty. You have taken a great interest in the child called Tommy Brown, and you say that, should I discover who is his father, I !.boiuJ be bound to let him know of the boy's cxislunu, " What will you say if I tell you that I (iimlv believe Ac is your own child? Do you think 1 have condemned you without proof. The papw; I in my possession contain yojr letters to Mjrj Cray, his mother — your photograph, and a loik of your hair — so that I cannot believe that I an. mistaken. I love the dear child as my own ; !:.. deed, to all intents and purposes, he is niy own and it would break my heart now to part will, I him ; so that you may think how much it co^u me to make this known to you. But, since heW. longs to you, I feel you have the better right i„ him. In the old days I told—" lie arrives at the fiuisli, where Irene's mi!;; came to the conclusion that she could write soni... thing better, and induced her to break oircil tear her letter into the halves that lie, side by siJt, | before him now. He has read it all, and sees t!.i groundlessness of the suspicinu he has cnlc- tained against her fair faiiic, aii.; \.- v'.ady to tlul into the earth with shame, to tLiiiK he liasljKl base enough to suspect her at all. And he daiiJ not speak to her, even to entreat her pardon, kil lets the paper slip from beneath his trembling £:■ gers, and sits there, humiliated even to the du.-i, " When I told you that I had never met Lori I Muiraven before," rings out through the aivL stillness Irene's clear, cold voice, "I said wliatl believed to be the truth. I had met Eric Kiiii but I did not know at that time that he had fc| herited his brother's title. When I saw him : the ball, and learned my mistake, I tried all I coiil to dissuade you from asking him to Fen Court. did not wish to see or meet him again. But wki| he came, and I saw him and Myra's child topf'.'; ■ and heard his opinion on the subject, I tho .1 would be but just to let him know I had i - cred that he was Tommy's father ; anu 1 •, more than one letter to him, but destroyed tiivi j all. How that fragment came into your poj:c| sion I do not know ; but of one thing I am ci:r tain," continues Irene, with disdain, " that I LkI never deceived you wittingly ; and that when 1 kept back the knowledge I had gained respcciii.l the child's parentage, it was more from a wish tl spare your feelings and my own, than not to repoT confidence in you. And when I took the boy k[ dcr my protection, I had no idea whose child I'M was. I learned it from some letters which his nio.:l or left behind her, and which Mrs. Cray bro«£i| to me, weeks after he had come to the Court." She finishes her confession, as she began :| IRENES CONFEiSSIONS. 133 nith an nil' of lonscioiia virtue mixed witli pride; and then slie waits to lieur what liorlmsband may have to say in reply. Hut all the answer she obtains is from tli.- found of one or two quick, gaspiuj; sobs. The man is weeping. ' Oh, ray poor love ! " she cries, as she flies to I fold him in her arms. " How you must have suf- I fcred under this cruel doubt ! Forgive me for licing even tlie ulterior cause of it. But how could you have tho\ight it of nie, Philip — of your poor Irene, who has never been otherwise than 1 ;rue to you ? " " My angel ! " is all he can nuirmur, as thoy I mingle their tears and kisses together. " Why did you never tell nie ? " continues I Irene. " Why did you keep this miserable secret [to yourself for so many weary months ? " "Hum could I tell you, my child? — What! icorac boldly and accuse your innocence of that Iwhicli I blush njw to think I could associate with Ivou oven in thought ? Irene ! can you forgive ? " "yot the doubt — the silence — the want of Ifaith," she answers ; but then, perceiving how his Ipoor face falls again, quickly follows up the new Iwound with a remedy. " Oh, yes, my dearest, I lean forgive you all, for the sake of the love that Iprompted it." "Ihave loved yo\i" ho says, simply; and she lansnrcrs that she knows it well, and that slic had liio right to place herself in a position to raise his lin-[iiiry. And then they bury themselves anew pa one another's arras, and peace is forever ce- uontcd between them. " Let mo tell you every thing — from the very l)?!;inning," says Irene, as she dries her eyes and K'ats herself at her husband's knees. " Nothing that will give you pain, my darling. I am a brute to have mistrusted you for a mo- fciwnt. Henceforward you may do just as you "But I owe it to myself, Philip, and to — to — L)iJ Muiravcn. With respect, then, to having laot him before — it is the truth. AV'e knew each bthcr when my mother was alive." " And you loved each other, Irene," suggests [icr husband, impatient to be contradicted. "Yes, we loved each other," she answers, biiictly. After the excitement she has just gone Ihrough, even this avowal has not the power to |isturb her. Colonel ^ordaunt sighs deeply. " Philip ! do not sigh like that, or I shall Jot have the courage to be frank with you." " I.was wrong, Irene; for let me tell you that \ <■ - this portion of your stoiy I have ulicady hoard from your mother." "She told you all?" "She told me that sonic one (whom I now conclude to have been this man Muiravcn) paid his addresses to you ; and, on being asked what were his intentions, veered olT in the most scoun- drelly manner, and said he had none." She has not blushed for lierrxlC, but she blushes now, rosy red, fur hii/i. " Poor mamma was mistaken, Philip. She thought too much of nic and of my happiness. Slie could make no allowances for him. And then it was partly her own fault. I always had my own way with her, and she left us so much to- gether." " You want to excuse his conduct ? " " In .so far that I am sure he had no intention of injuring me. What he said at the time was true. It was out of his power to marry me — or any one. Had he been aide to adduce his rea- sons, it would have saved both my mother and myself much pain ; but he could not. He was thoughtless — so were we. I exonerate him from any greater crime." "lie lias made you licliove this since coming here, Irene." "Don't say 'made' me believe l.im, Pliilip. He only told me the truth ; and it was an expla- nation he owed both to me and himself. Had I thought my listening to it would impugn your honor, I would not have done so." He squeezes the hand he holds, and she goes on : " I had no idea that Tommy was his child un- til I read some papers that Myra Cray had left behind her, and wliich contained, among other things, his photograph. The discovery Ehockcd me greatly, and I had no wish tio meet him after- ward. You may remember how earnestly I begged you not to invite him to stay at the Court." Colonel Mordaunt nods his head, tiien stoops and kisses her. " Oil ! my dear husband, how could you so mistrust me ? When Lord Muiravcn came, ho seemed to take a great interest in Tonuny, and expressed himself so strongly on the subject of my not keeping the boy's birth a secret from his father, should I ever meet him, that it induced mo to write the letter you have before you. I love the child dearly; but I felt that, after what had hap- pened, it was a kind of fraud to keep you in igno- rance of his parentage, and therefore I had every intention of making him over to his rightful own- m ■,f| m ' i *i I gi'-' 134 "NO INTENTIONS." cr — and should have done bo before now, only that Lord Muiravcn is in India." " I wish you had told rnc from the first, Irene. I can trust you to tell nic the truth. Do you lovo this man still ? " f^hc grows crimson, but she docs not flinch. " Yes," she says, in a low voice. Colonel Mor- daiint groani«, and turns his face away. " Oh, my dear husband, why did you ask me such a question ? I love Muiravcn — yes ! It was the first romance of my life — and mine Is not a nature to forget easily. But I love you also. Have I not been a dutiful and affectionate wife to you ? Have I ever disregarded your wishes, or shown aversion to your company? You have been good and loving to me, and I have been faithful to you in thought, word, and deed. Philip, Philip— answer me. You married me, knowing that the old wound was unhealed ; you have made nic as happy as it was possible for me to be. I hope that I have not been ungrateful — that I have not left utterly unrequited your pa- tience and long-suffering." He opens his ar.ns, and takes her into his em- brace, and soothes her as one would soothe a weepi.ig child. " No ! — no, my darling ! You have been all that is dearest and truest and best to me. You aro right. I knew that the treasure of your heart was not mine. I said that I would accept the smallest crumbs of love you had to spare for me with gratitude ; and yet I have been base enough to consider myself wronged, because I find that I do not possess the whole. It is I who should ask your pardon, Irene — ^^a I do, my darling — with my whole heart I say, forgive me for all the pain I have caused you, and let us thank God together that we have fallen into each other's hands. It might have been worse, my dearest, might it not ? " " It might indeed, dear Philip ; and hence- forward, I trust, it may be much better than it has been. You know every thing now, and from this evening we will register a vow never to keep a secret from one another again. If you suspect me of any thing, you must come at once and tell me, and I will do the same to you. And, to show you I am in earnest, I will give up— for your sake, Philip — I will give up " — with a jhort sob — " Tommy 1 " He does not refuse to accept this sacrifice on her part, although he longs to do so. Manlike, he decides on nothing in a hurry. " I do not know what to say to your proposal, Irene. It is best left for future consideration. Meanwhile I am determined on one point — Mij, Quekett leaves my service as soon as ever I la, get rid of her." " Oh ! I am so glad ; every thing will go ri-ii i now. It is she, then, who brought you this lettti ;• " As she has brought me endless talcs and it. sinuations against yourself, which, while uiy ti-.. son and faith rejected, my memory could not lidp retaining. That woman is mixed up witli all tU I misery of my youth, and she would have poisonw the happiness of my later years. She grudgts [ me even to die in peace." " Slie can never harm us again," says Irew, | soothinglj'. "She has tried to harm you, poor (larlic . I more than you have any idea of. Her hints ac; repetitions, and shameful innuendoes so worktd I upon my evil nature that they corrupted all ht I sense of justice, and turned my blood to gall ft, I you remember my going up to town for a couf!t I of days in the beginning of August, Irene 5 " "Yes, Philip." " Do you know what I left home for ? " "I have not the least idea. Business, was;; | not ? " " The devil's business, dear. I went to eon-ul my lawyer about drawing up a new will, and hi-.- ing every thing I possess, away from you,!.| Oliver Ralston." " Did you ? " she said, a little startled. " I thought to myself," continues Coloni'l Mi.;| daunt, "that as soon as ever I was dead, vkI would go and marry Muiravcn on my money, a:;i install him here." " Philip I " " Don't interrupt me, darling, and don't cukI me ; remember I was mad with jealousy and hi\ of you ; so I did it. Yes, Irene ; had I died fore this explanation took place between us, yc:| would have been left (but for your own little pc: [ tion) penniless. My will, as it now stands, Icavdl you nothing but a dishonored name. Thank Cvir who has given me the opportunity to undo tLJ great wrong ! " " /should not have cursed you, dearest," s'Li| says, softly. "But He would. Yet not now — not noij There are two things for me to do to-morro'l One is to dismiss Quekett, and the other to go i:| to town and sec Sclwyn again." " You can't go to-morrow, Philip ; it is clj hunting day." " Bother the cub-hunting ! I must go ! sha^.l not rest until this matter is put right." "But what will every one say ? It will lo; ■II TUE CUB-IIUNT. 135 again," suys Ircut, ed you, dearest," i<.<\ so strange. The first meet of tlic season, au<, riuube; do not at- tempt to stop me. I bliould have been told of this at once." She hurries on — half fainting with fear, but so majestically grand in her right to know the worst, that the servants that line the hull make uoeilbrt to bar her progress, but draw back, awe-struck, and look after her with their aprons to their eyes. The morning-room seems full of people, and the first who make way for her upon the threshold arc the whipper-in and her own coachman. About the table arc gathered Sir John Cootc and several gentleman in hunting-costume, with Mrs. Quekett and a couple of mcdieul men whom Irene has never seen before. They arc all bending forward, but as the crowd divides to let her pass they turn nnd start. " Not here — not here — my dear lady," exclaims one of the strangers, as he attempts to intercept her view. " Now, let mc entreat you — " But she pushes past him, and walks up to the table. There lies her husband, dressed as when she parted with him on that morning, but dead — un- mistakably dead 1 Slie guessed it from the first — she knew what was awaiting her when she left the drawing-room : she had no hope when she entered this room ; yet now that all suspense is over, that she cannot foil to see her suspicious were correct, something will flicker up again before it is laid to rest for- ever, and cause her trembling lips to form the words — " Are — are you quite sure ? " " Quite sure, my dear Mrs. Mordaunt, I regret to say. But, indeed, you ought not to be here. Let mo conduct you back to your own room." She shakes him off impatiently (it is Sir John Cootc who has been speaking to her), and turns again to the doctor " How did it hapf ^n ? " " I am told — I bei'cve — " he stammers, " Sir John was good enoug.ito inform mc it was on the occasion of tho colonel taking the brouk do»n at Ulia|)pell's meadows — but all these Had detuili, my dear madam, would be better kept fnuii ^ou until—" " Take him up to my room," she says next in a tone which sounds more like weariness tiiut any thing else. " Carry the — I think we had best leavu i; where it is, Mrs. Mordaunt," renionstralcg Sir John. " My servants arc here. I do not wish to trouble any one else," she answei-s, quietly. " But, of course, if you wish it — " " I do wish it. I wish him to be carried u;. stairs and laid upon our — our — bed," hhc suv-, with a slight catching in her voice. Then half a dozen pairs of arms arc place: tenderly beneath the dead body, and it is tuku up-stairs and laid where she desired it to be. When the task is completed, the besuii: stand about the bed, not knowing what to do u say next. " I'lease leave me," says Irene, after a pau-i " I must be alone." " But is there nothing I can do for you, lu; | dear child ? " asks Sir John Cootc, losing A^ for a moment of deference in pity. " Yes ; please come back to-morrow and itli I me all about it. And perhaps this gentleniaii,' [ indicating one of tho doctors, " w ill stay here lo. night, in case — in case — " " My dear lady, there is no hope here." " I know — I know. It is because there ii | no hope that I must be alone. Good-night." She waves them to the door as she speak-, and they file out one after another, and leave lie; I with her dead. All this time Mrs. Quekett has not ventured I to speak to her mistress, or intrude herself upci I her notice in any way. She is awed by the sudJ den calamity that has fallen on them, and per- 1 haps — who knows ? — a trifle conscience-smittc for the mischief which she brought about, aci | will never now have the opportunity of u pairing. Ah 1 could we but foresee events l> I they will happen, how far more carefully sliou]^ I wc pick our way along the rocky path of life. 1 1 am not one who considers the curtam drawn \»\ twcen us and futurity as a special proof of provi- dential care. I would count it rather as one of tiii I losses brought upon ua by the fall of Adam, wbiclil rendered most of the faculties with which tbil Ahnighty gifted his first creatures too gross au J carnal to exert their original prerogatives. Then I was a second Adam, of whom the first was a prel IRENE AND HER DEAD Ill'SDAND. 130 to be carried ur- •(.•no, after a puun tig\iratiuD, who brought a perfect body into the wui IJ, the capiibililie.s of wliieh we have no reason to believe we flhould not also have enjoyed hud ours, like hi.'), remained as sinles. crated spirit. She knows it is not her husband that is there, nor ever has been ; and .'■ho will cry as much to-morrow at the sight of the 'ast suit he wore, as she has done over his rcmam:), and for the same reason, because it reminds her of wliat was, and still is, though not for her. All her sorrow lies in tho fact that tho communica^ tion which she loved is, for a while, concluded. When her grief is somewhat abated, she ring.'i the bell for Phabe. The girl answers it timidly, and, on being bidden to enter, stands shivering just within the threshold of the room, with cyea well averted from the bed. "Phoebe," said her mistress, wcaricdly, "I want you to tell me — to advise me — what ought I to do about this ? " " Oh, bless you, ma'am, I don't even like to think. Hadn't we better send for Mrs. Quckett ? " " Certainly not, Phoebe ! Don't mention Mrs. Quekett's name to me again. This is not her business, and I have no intention of permitting her to enter the room." " She seems to expect as she's to have the ordering of every thing," says Phoebe, as she blinks away a tear. " She is mistaken, then," replies Irene. Tho allusion to Mrs. Quckett has strengthened her. %\ i 'i A\ y -i 140 "NO INTENTIONS." Bii'«' She lm« no liiclinatiiiii to 117 now. Her tycn Bixirklo, fiii'l Ikt liri'ii.-'t licavfs. " lit tlmt gi.iitk'iniui — llio doctor— horc .-till 1 " kIio in(|uii'C!<. " YoM, iiia'iiiii. Mr. FcIIowh, Iim imna' i?. Wu'vo jiiit liiiii ill tilt' liliic-Hooiii." " Aslt iiliii to foine liciv." Tlie yoiini,' 111:111 — a Hiirircon from a iwi^'lilxir- iiig viliiigo — i^ooii lll!llil'^^ hi.-i niiiifiHiiiu'c, uihI to Ills hiind.s Irene eonfidos the tlinrgo of every tiling oonni't'ted wiili tlio last ofllecs to bo performed for her Iiusiiand, wliicli Mr. FellowH, bting niiali iinprc.M.ied witii her beauty and Iier grief, under- talvi'S without any he.sita(i>how vice. It hapiiened at the wiile Jiiinp |a ('happeH'H farm in Slotway. The brook's ver, much swollen, and wo mostly went round, — ' 1 1] take It out of my brute,' siys poor Mordiuim and put him at it like bla/e.^. The animal refu.^i.l the water twice, then took it with a rush— fdj short of the opposite bank, rolled over, and tlmv was an end of ii. And I wish to God, my dtar child, I had to tell the story to anyone but you," " Did he cpcak ? AVho saw him first ? " A.v asks, with white, trembling lips. " Not a word ; it must have been the work (jf ft second — dislocation of the sfdnal vertebriP, yii: know. I was ne.\t behind him, and ofV my lior- in a moment, but it was no use. I saw that (]:■ rectly. We shall never have such a master (,f the hounds again, Mis. Mordaunt. It's the fui!. dcst thing that's ever happened to me since 1 lod'' to my first meet." "Thank you fur telling me. I would ratkr know all. And you are suiv ho did not suflVr*" " Quite sure. You should ask Fellows, he Ic. longs to Stotwiiy, and was on the spot in five miii- utcs ; but it might as well have bei n an hour for all the good he could do. And then we carried hira to a farm-house close by, and I sent on Colville to break the news to you ; but the fool couldn't go through with it, and slunk home half-way, leaving us quite in the dark as to his ° roceedings ; else yon may be sure we would never have startled you in the manner we did by bringing tho poor fellow straight home without any previous warning." "Never mind; it was just as well, perhaps ; nothing could have softened it," she says, quietly. " You bear it like a — like a — like a Trojan,'' exclaims Sir John, unable to find any term more suited to the occasion by which to express his aJ miration. "I am obllffed to bear it," replies Irene; "bi:i it was very sudden, and I don't think I can talk ony more about it to-day, please," upon which her visitor tokes the hint, and leaves her to herself. The next day brings Oliver Ralston, full of concern and interest for Irene, as usual, and a!.-o not a little grieved at the loss they have twv\- ally sustained. " He was always so good to me," he say.-, as soon as the first ice is broken, and Irene has in part confided to him the last interview she hail with her husband, " particularly when that oU brute Quckett was out of the way." OMVEIl RALSTONS VISIT. in "Olivorl protiiiHi' iin' lliat I .••li.ill mvor Hfc lliiit woniaii to npi-iik to u>;uin. I fVi'l lut (IioiikIi It would Iti' impoi to nie, Miat I might have tried, in some measure, to atone for the sud'ering his suspicious eau^ed hint I " "Irene, you are an luigel," s.iys Oliver, impul- siv( ly ; '• but I can't nay I see this thing in the same light as }ou do. However, speculation is useless. \S\\ shall know every thing soon. Mean- while, I suppose It wouldn't be eonsiilered de. Cent to kiek old Quekett out-of-door-i ln'fore tin- funeral has taken plaei'.'' "You must do nothing, but be good iMid "piiet, and save me all thetroulile you can, Oliver, for the next few days; and after that, when it is all over, we will consult together as to the b -t course to pursue." lie sees her every day after this, but not for long at u time ; for, Btiange ami iinnattn'al as it niay appear to the romantic reader that any woii\- an who loves a man ns completely as I''ene loves Muiraven should feel almost inclined o despair at the death of a prosy old husband like Colonel Mordaunt, the young w Idow is, for a time, really overwhelmed with grief. Most of us know, either fronj experieiiee or observation, what it is to wake up, after many days and nights of fever, to the joys of convalescence — to feel that the burn- ing pain, the restlessness, tjie uiKpiiet dreams, the utter inability to take any interest in life, have passed away, and that instead we can sleep and taste und understand, breathe CJod's fresh air, drink in his sunshine, and recognize our friends. IIow grateful — how good we feel ! With what a consciousness of relief we remember the past horrors ; and should we relapse and dream of them again, how thankfully we wake to find our hand clasped by some kind, sympathizing nurse, who moistens our parched lips, and smooths our tumbled pillow, and bid- us have no fear, since wc arc watched and tended even when un- conscious ! Love for Muiraven was to Irene a fever of t!:c brain. It was so deep and burning that the disappointment of its lo^^s pervaded her whole be- ing, and almost worked its own cure by robbing her of interest in every thing that had preceded it. When she commenced life anew with Colone' Mordaunt she was in the convalescent stage »« I i li ii \ \ ■ ■ i ■ 149 "NO INTKNTI0N8." Sho wuH too wciik it.H yi't to nire to tiiko any troulilu for lit'i' own lioiu'llt or {iK'iiiuru; Ixit liu took it for licr. It wus from lil.<* Imnd tiliu flr.xt Iji'ciiint) mviiri! thiit »lio coiilil otill derlvu I'lijoy- iiiviit from llio l)K>sHlng8 which lloaven providcH 0(iunlly for itrt chihlri'ii ; hl.s protoi'tion iiiid tcn- UcriicsH Hlu'lturi'd uU her marriuJ lifu ; and if hiT love U Mulrttven'H, licr unitltudu Is alone duo to her hiiHhiind. The flr:t ehurcli. virJ of l'ri(>!4tloy. Irene in •nximiit to nttonil the lineril, but her wl^h U overnileil by Oliver, who i\ire4<'0!i that If she (loco !>o, hiit aunt Isabella, and iirobiibly Mri). Qiiekett, will follow her rxaiiiide, mid nuiko a scene durinj^ the ceremony. lie omiil trust Irene, but he cannot trust the others; m'l, like most youn^; men, he has a righteous hurriir of a scene. So ho persuades the youn^ KJilow to remain at home, and is liimsrlf chief I ino:irncr. It is not a firand funeral, but it is a viry Imposing one, followed by almost all the iiiiMuhprs of the hunt, with Sir John Coote at their hi'.id; and it gratifies Irene to see how much lier hii' Idioing-room on Oliver Ralston'a arm, ta'.tes the chair which ho wheels forward for her, and scats hiTi^elf in tho centre of the circle. She bows to ihi company generally as she enters, but she looks at no one but the lawyer, though she is conscious, Uithout seeing it, that Mrs. Quekctt is sitting I'early opposite to her, with her elbow resting I easily upon tho table, and a satisfied, malignant .;ly obll'.'cd fur your Montt- I nients, Mr. Carter, but Mrs. Moidaunt would pre- lor your proceeding to buslncHS. You must re- mcniber this Is tin; first litne kIu- has ventured down-stairs." " Ah! of course; I have to beg your pardon, in:idiini — and yet, under the eircuinstanci'S, pcr- hllp^ — Well, well, then " (with a more cheerful I air) — " to business, Not but what iriy remarks were made with a view in that direction. I have I a docunu'iit here, the contents o( which I think lire unknown to most present. It will in fact, I I fear" (with a glance at Irene over liis spectacles), I " prove to be one of those surprises to which I alluded on first taking my place auiong you — " j " It will not prove, perhaps, so great a sur- I prise as you anticipate," says Irene, iu a clear ' cold voice that makes Mrs. (Quekctt start. " At any r , we are assembled to hear it." " .Vs you will, madam — ns you will," returns Mr. Carter, somewhat nettled. " I only wi>hed to spare you an unpleasant shock." " A shock for Mrs. Mordaunt ! What can hn mean ? " exclaims Sir John Coote, quickly. The house-keeper smiles furtively, and ifniooths tho crape upon her dress-sleeve. " Sir John, I must entreat you to bo quiet and let Mr. Carter proceed," says Irene. " Whatever may be in store for mo, be assured that I am quite able to bear it." Sir John exchanges glances of astonishment with Oliver. " You arc to go on," says the latter roughly, to the lawyer. On which tlie reading of tho will is commenced and finished without further inter- ruption. It is very brief and very explicit. It com- mences with a bequest of five thousand pounds to his sister Isabella Mordaunt, and goes on to leave all tho remainder of his property, funded and personal — his house and lands, and plate and furniture — to his illegitimate son Oliver, generally known as Oliver Ralston, on condition of his tak- ing the name of Mordaunt. Of Irene, from be^ ginning to end, not a syllable is mentioned I 4r* How do they receive it ? As the words, one after another, drop mark- edly from tho lawyei's lips, the house-keeper may be observed to turn uneasily upon her seat — she i r-^. l; it t if li ''if i^f!f ''■Ft m m 11 I |l!;iti,.t»:« it 144 "NO INTENTIONS." is cvidi'iitly disnppoiiitid ; the cousins look mis- croble; Sir John Cootc grows crimson in tliu face, and liiilf rises from lii.H dmir. To Irene's ])(\le chctlis there mounts a llu.sli of pride, nnd hIic draws lier adojitcd child, .ilmo.-t defiantly, closer to lier side ; and Isabella, as her name is mentioned, weeps loud and openly. But Oliver Ual.-iton demands a pacaj^raph to himself. As the truth breaks in upon his mind, that Irene has been delVauilcd of her rights, his teeth set and his hand clinches itself furtively upon the arm of his chair. IJrit as the fatal termination of the will reveals who he is, and the reason why he inherits to her detriment, he loolis up quickly, the blood forsakes his face, and he rises tremblingly to his feet. " /('.I a lie / " he says, striking his hand upon the table. "Oliver — Oliver, for God's suite, forbear! Tliink 'vhat you arc saying ! " cries Irene, as she catches hold of liis arm. " Let me go, Irene ! I repeat it,"' ho says fu- riously, "I am not his sou. It's some infernal lie hatched up by that old harridan for my destruc- tion. Yes," he continues, addressing ]ilrs. Quck- etf, who has risen, as though to answer him, "I don't care >vhat you say, nor what you think, you have made the misery of this house for years past. You have held the secrets of my uncle and my uncle's father over their heads until they hardly dared to act without your assistance. But your reign is over. You'- last victim is in his grave ; and you shall not continue your work of infamy in my behalf." " But, my dear sir, what has this good lady to do with my late client's bequests ? '' interrupts the lawyer, soothingly. " Command yourscK, Ralston," urges Sir John. " Command mijirlf! Stand quietly by to see this poor girl robbed of her rights, and my own life branded with a stigma, for which no wealth can atone 1 I am not his son, I tell you — I am his nephew, the child of his sister Mary — " "Uis sister's child died before she did, young mail. You are the child of my daughter, Mary Quekett ; and, if the shame of hearing it kills you, it's no more than it did to my poor girl." It is the house-keeper that speaks to him. " I won't believe it," he mutters, as he stag- gers backward. But he Joes believe it, for all his bravado. " You can do as yon please about that," con- tinues Mrs. Quekett ; " but I can take my Biule- oath that it's the truth. And for what should the colonel go to leave you all his property, if it wasn't ? lie was mistaken enough in those tlmt lie thought worthy, and though he miglit Imv. found better llian yourself, maybe, to step im,, his shoes — " " Silence, woman ! " exclaims Oliver, in a voi; t of thunder. "If this most iniquiious will U a], lowed to stand, 1 am master in this house iiow- and I order you to leave the room." " You order me to leave the room ! slie \\\wV your nearest of kin — your own mother's motlar,' she says, breathless, in her surprise. " Don't mention the fact — dtin't remind mc of it, lest I should do you an injury. If you wc\ twenty times my motiicr's mother, I should liavj no compassion for you. Leave the room I tay, and rid us of a presence we detest." " But, my dear sir — " interposes the hiwvc. unwisely. " Who are you to dictate to me?" exiliiin.. Oliver, turning round on him ; " you have coi;; to the cud of your infernal parchment, I suppo.ii. and your business here is completed. If you hav. read it aright, this house is mine, and I shall isM; what orders in it I think fit. I command \\:.: woman to leave this room, and at once, or I i\\i:. put her out of it." " Oh ! you needn't be afraid that I shall fU] to be laid violent hands on by you, young mac, though you are my grandson," r^idics Mrs. Qutk- ctt, tossing her head. " I have my own iiieon;., thank lleaven, and no need to be beholden toyc^ or any one. — I think the old gentleman niiglr. have done better than choose you for his suciis- sor; but, as it is, he did it for my sake nior, than for your own, and as a recompense for wlia; I've suftcred at his hands, though there's few xk- ompenses would make up for it. He led away my poor daughter before she came to her sis- teenth year, and has had to pay pretty sharp for it ever since, for I don't believe he's had a qui ; home since he passed you off on tlie world as h;^ sister's sor , and the many minds he's been in about it since he married that young woman—" " Will you leave the room ? " cries Oliver, again ; and this time Mrs. Quekett thinks it mori' politic to acquiesce. " Well, as there's nothing more to stay for, I don't see why I shouldn't ; but it's not the la-' you'll hear of me, young man, by a good bii." And so saying, white with envy and malice, slie sails awav. " Irene, I cannot bear it," exclaims Oliver, ai he sinks into a chair and covers his face with bi> hands. " If it had been any thing but that—" " My poor boy, I feel it so much for ycur salse THE HEIR OF FEN COURT. 145 iiore to stay for, I it's not the la^! by a good bit." y and malice, sl:8 ^Sir John, \a there any thing more to do ? any reason why we should not be left alone ? " "None whatever, my dear. — Mr. Carter, Mrs. JiorJaunt wishes the room cloared. He good enough to retire with these gentlemen to the next." So the company, much disappointed at the i^sue of events, disappear, and Sir Jolm Cootc L'ues with them, and no one is left with the heir uf Fea Court but Irene and Isabella and the little child. Oliver remains where he has thrown himself — miserable, abashed, and silent. " Oliver," says Irene presently, in her sweet, f,iJ voice, " be comforted, lie did you a great injury, but he has tried to atone for it. Remem- ber how kind and loving he always proved him- jilf toward >.'>u, and forgive him for the want of courage that prevented his letting you know your real relationship from the first." " Forgive him I whjn ho has robbed you of erery thing ? When he has disgraced you in the (■yes of the world by passing over your name in liii will as though you were not worthy to be mentioned, instead of being the most careful, at- tentive, affectionate wife a man could have ! He iras not worthy of you. I never thought so little of liim as I do now." •' Oh, hush, Oliver ! Pray hush ! You cannot I l;now how you are wounding me. I do not pre- tend to be indifferent to the turn affairs have taiien. It is a great disappointment and raisfor- tuQC, and shame to me, but I feel that he is suffer- I ing for it now so much more than I am, that I for- I get my misery in the contemplation of his. And I cannot permit you to blame him before me. Wiien Philip made that will, he thought that he was doing right, and I am very thankful that, as I was not to have it, he should have left his prop- t erty to you instead of to some public institu- I lion." " I am not thankful at all. I hate the very I idea of surplanting you. I never will do it, Irene. I refuse to take advantage of my — my — uncWs iaibeeility, or to accept a trust which is rightfully yours, and which you have done nothing to for- feit. What! Do you think I will reign here while you are starving out in the cold ? I will [ cut my throat first." " I shall not starve, Oliver ; I have my own little income. Philip knew that I was provided I for." " Pshaw ! — a hundred a year. How can you live on that, who have been accustomed to every I luxury ? It is impossible." 10 " It is quite possible ; and I mean to do it." "My dear Mrs. Alordaunt," hero interrupts Isabella, for the first time — " but what — have I understood riglitly — why docs Oliver .^peak of your leaving the Court ? " " Did you not listen to your brother's will t " replies Irene, (luietiy. " Ho has left every ihing to — to his son — " " His son I Oil, dear '. and you know it, then ? And I always told Philip it would be so much bet- ter to tell at once. But why to his son ? I don't think I can have listened properly — these things upset nie so. You are not going away, my dear Mrs. Mordaunt ? " " I must go away, Isabella. Dear Philip (you must not blame him, for he thought that he waa committing an act of justice) has made Oliver his heir; therefore Fen Court is no longer mine. But I am not ambitious, and I shall do very well, and will not have any of my friends concern themselves on my account." " If you will not remain at Fen Court, neither will I," interposes Oliver. "But where will you go? " di. ands Isabella, excitedly; "and you have so little money." " Dear Isabella, don't worry yourself about that. I have plenty of places to go to, and kind friends to look after me, and I shall be very hap- py by-and-by," says Irene, witli a sob, as she re- members how little truth there is in what she says. " But we shall not see you," replies Miss Mor- daunt, as she rises and advances to the side of her sister-in-law ; " and — and — Irene ! " she goes on, becoming natural in her emotion, " don't go away, don't leave us again. You are the only creature I have loved for years." '• My dear Isabella ! " says the young widow, as the tears rise to her eyes at tliis unexpected proof of affection, " why did you not let me know it before ? It would have made me so happy." " Oh ! I couldn't— I didn't like— and then, you know, you had Philip. But now — and to think he could have wronged you so ! Oh ! my dear girl, da take my money — it's veiy little, but I don't want it. I have the legacy my father left me, and Oliver will let me stay on liere. It would make me so much more comfortable to think you had it, and I couldn't touch a halfpenny of it, while things remain as they are." " Bravo'. Aunt Isabella ! '' exclaims Oliver. " I didn't think you were half such a brick. Live here ? of course you shall 1 You must both live here, or I shall have the place abut up." " What have I done that you should be ao I 14G "NO IMTENTIONS." ill ill I i "m': '-ft. > :*■ :m N m kind to tnc?" says Irene, as she bursts into tcara of gratitiulo and surprise. Hut she has no in- tention of accepting either of their offers, never- theless. " You do not undcrs' id niy feelings on this Eulijcct," EJO says to Oliver, a few hours later, when they arc again discussing the advisability of her departure. " I have been suppccted of the grossest crime of which a woman can be guilty ; that of marrying an honest man under false pretenses ; and my husband's feelings con- cerning it have been made public property ; for you can have no doubt that the curiosity which the provisions of his will excited has been al- ready satisfied by Mrs. Quekctt's version of the story." "Can nothing be done to rectify the slan- der ? " "Nothing. Pray do not attempt it," she r-ays, shrinking from the idea of such an explana- tion being necessary. " I am conscious of my own integrity. Lot mo live the scandal down — only it cannot be at Fen Court." " Why not ? Had my uncle lived a few hours longer, this will would have been altered." "Perhaps so; but I must abide by it as it stands — and I have too much pride, Oliver, to let the world think I would accept a position he didn't think me worthy to maintain. It was a f'tal mistake on his part, but it is God's will, and I must suffer for it. I am quite determined to quit the Court." " Then I shall quit it too. I will not live here in your stead. It would make me wretched." "Oliver! you cannot mean it. You would never bo so foolish. What will become of all this fine property without a master ? " "I don't care a hang what becomes of it. If you will stay and look after it with rac, I will re- main." "That would be impossible, Oliver, in any case. You forget what you are talking about." " Then stay here by yourself." " Still more impossible. Pray do not torture mc by any more entreaties. In plain words, Oliver, this child is supposed to be mine. He is not mine, but I have no intention of parting with him, at all events, at present. Therefore we must go away and hang our humiliated heads some- where together." " I wish you had never seen the brat." " I don't," " What ! not after all he has brought upon you ?" "It is not his fault." " Poor little devil, /ought to feel for him. Irene! the bitterest part of it all is th? knowledge that I have any of that woman's blocii running in my veins. When I think of it I could — I could — " clinching his fist. " Hush ! yes, it is a bitter pill to swalW. But think of the misery it must have caused hitn. To have her threats of exposure constantly licH over his head. Poor Philip ! Ilad wc becc more confidential, how much unhappincBS nc might have saved each other. What do you in. tend to do about Mrs. Quekctt ? " " Turn her out of the house ! " "Oh, Oliver! however hard it may be, yoi should remember now that she is — i/our gruni mother I " But the words arc hardly out of her nioiiili before Irene is frightened at the cfTcet of them. " My grandmother ! " he exclaims, rising sud- 1 denly to his feet, " it is that fact alone, Irene, tlia; decides me. Had she not been my rirandmother, I might have made allowances for her infamoci I conduct. But that she — who brought my mother into the world, and professed to love her — shouli | have systematically tortured /i/« life, and doneali she could to set him against me, whom he bad >c fearfully wronged, completely steels my heaii | against her. Were she an ordinary scrvaw, grasping, authoritative, and contentious, I migli I have made allowances for her age and length of service, and fidelity ; but now I can make none 1 am only anxious to rid myself of a presence I have always hated, and now most thoroughly de- 1 spise. Mrs. Quekctt goes to-morrow." " Have you told her so ? " " I have ! We have just enjoyed a most I stormy interview ; but the old woman knows ej I mind, and that I am resolute. To-morroiv sefM her leave Fen Court, never to return, except in I my bitterest memory." " Try to forgive, Oliver." " Don't ask me that yet, Irene. At preset; I can neither forgive nor forget. The man vtlio I strangles his bastard in the birth is a kinder father than he who permits him to grow up to | maturity in ignorance of his misfortune." The next few days pass quietly enough. Tl;;| house-keeper is gone, and the Court is deserted Irene has received a letter from her aunt, Slri | Cavendish, and announces her intention of takii: Tommy to Sydenham with her on a short visit. "And afterward you will return here, dear I Irene," says Oliver ; " I can decide on notliinj I till I know your plans." MRS. IIORDAUNTS DEPARTURE. 147 enjoyed a Diost woman knows nj To-morrow sk; | return, except i: ietly enougli. Tb| Court is dcsertcl cm her aunt, Mrs intention of takiK I on a short Tisit. return here, dcstl decide on notliit! "I will writL' to you on tliesubjoct," is all licv answer, and tlioy an- obliged to let her go, uud trust to persuading her to take up her final abode with them inofo ellectually by letter than byword oi' mouth. But when she ha.'j been at Sy Jcuham for about a week, Irene writes to tell Oliver that lie must at once abandon all hope that she will ever return t)Fea Court. She has fixed on bcr future resi- dence, she affirms, but intends for the present to keep its destination a secret, even from her own relations, in order that he may Lave no excuse I lor attempting to seek her out. It is a long let- tor, full of explanation, but wrilteu so culndy aud resolutely that Oliver feels that there is nothing to be done but acquiesce ia her decision. She hop him, however, so earnestly, for her sake and the sake of her dear dead husband, tiot to abandon the property confided to his charge, tliat he feels bound to follow her wishes and re- I main where he Ij. lie makes several attempts, I nevertheless, to trace her whereabouts, by letters It) Mrs. Cavendish and Mr. Walmsley, the solici- I tor, but the lady appears as distressed at her Iciece's leaving her in ignorance as ho is, and the lawyer is deep and silent as the grave. And so ll'orthe nonce Oliver Ralston — or Mordaunt, as he linust now be called — tries to make himself eon- Itentcd by wielding the sceptre at Fen Court and Ijevising plans with the sapient Isabella for eir- Icumventing the young widow's resolution to Ireuiain undiscovered. But all in vain ; three Imonths pass, and they arc still ignorant of her WoJtination. It is close upon Christmps day, nhea one afternoon a card is brought in to Oliver ion which is inscribed the name of Lord Muiraven. Koff, before Irene's departure she had confided lo hira all the details of the torn letter, and her past interview with her husband, so that he hopes Lord Muiraven may have seen her or come from her, and goes in to meet him gladly. Two gen- lleinan await him in the library ; one clad in deep [iiourning, whom he concludes to be Muiraven; llie other, a shorter, fairer, less handsome, but uore cheerful-looking man, whom we have met biice before, but doubtless quite forgotten ; who p^as Muiraven's chum at college, and is now Saville lloxon, Esq., barrister-at-law, and owner of the jjoliicst set of chambers in the Toraplc. "Mr. Mordaunt, I believe," says Muiraven, lather stiffly; "the — the nephew of my late [iiend Colonel Mordaunt." "I am Mr. Mordaunt ; and I have often beard lour name from my uncle's wife. Won't you sit lown ? " His eonlial manner rather overcomes the other's hanhiir. " Let me introduce tiiy friend Mr. Moxon," he commences, and tlan, taking a chair, " We shall not detain you long, Mr. Mordamit. I was much surprised to harn that Mrs. Mordaunt is not living at the Court. I came here fully expect- ing to see her. I am anxious to ascertain her ad- dress. 'Will you kindly give it me 'i " " I wish I could. Lord Muiraven. I do not know it myself. I was in hopes you In-onght me news of her." " Brought you news ! IIow strange ! But why is she not IiereV Is theie any mystery about it ? " " Xo mystery — but much sadness. I am not a man to be envied. Lord Muiraven. I stand hero, by my uncle's will, the owner of Fen Court, to the wroiig and detriment of one of the noblest and most worthy women God ever made." " You arc right there," exclaims Muiraven, as he seizes the other's hand. "But, pray tell me every thing. My friend here is as my second self. You may speak with impunity before hiru. For God's sake, put mo out of suspense ! Where is Irene and the child ? " " If I may speak openly, my lord, tliat un- fortunate child has been the cause of all our misery ! "' " But— how— how ? " Thvu Oliver tells thetn how, in words that would be but repetition to write down again, lie conceals nothing, hoping that Lord Muir- aven may see the justice of following up Irene and relieving her of so onerous a charge as the protection of his illegitimate cliihl. But as he proceeds he can perceive no blush of shame upon Muiraven's face ; on the contrary, although he grows pale with excitement, his eyes never once flinch before those of his informant. When the story is concluded, he turns round to Moxon, and addresses him. " Saville, wo must leave this as quickly as pos- sible. I must begin the search again in London. I feci as though I could not let an hour pass over my head without doing something. Tlumks, Mr. Mordaunt, for your candid explanation. You have done me the greatest service possible. — If Irene is to be found, I will send you news of her." " But, my lord— excuse my curiosity — but will you be as candid as I have been, and let rac know if the suspicions Irene holds with respect to her adopted child are correct ? " " They are so, Mr. Mordaunt, and they are not. The time for concealment is at an end. The boy i 148 'NO intentions; r- i lJ^:il:ftl|i''|: • whom you liave known under the name of Tommy Brown is uu/ lawful S'jii — and the htir to my father's earldom." CHAPTEU XIII. In order to explain tlie foregoing statement to my readers it la necessary that I should take them Ijaek to the time when Joel Cray left Priestley. It seems a hard thing to say, but there is no doubt it is true, that the lower orders, ab a rule, do not feel the happiness of loving, nor the mis- ery of losing love, so keenly as their brethren of the upper class. The old-fashioned idea that vir- tue and simplicity arc oftener to be found in the country than the town, and among the poor than the rich, has long since exploded. Simple, the half-heathen villagers may still remain ; but it is oftener the hideous simplicity of open vice, so general that its followers have not even the grace left to be ashamed of it, than the innocence that thinks no evil, if the inhabitants of our great towns are vicious, they at least try to hide it. Even with the virtuous poor the idea of love (as we think of love) seldom enters into their cal- culations on marriage. They see a girl whom they admire, who seems " likely " in their eyes, and, after their rough fashion, they commence to court her, " keep company " with her for a few years, at the end of which time, perhaps, she falls in with a " likehcr " young man ; and then, if the first suitor has been really in eaniest, a few blows are exchanged between the rivals, separation en- sues, and he looks out for another partner. The women are even more phlegmatic than the men. They regard marriage simply as a settlement in life, and any one appears to bo eligible who can place them in a house of their own. If the first comer is faithless, tliey cry out about it lou'dly and publicly for a day or two, and then it is over; and they also arc free to choose again. I suppose this state of things has its advantages. They do not love so deeply or intellectually as we do, con- sequently they separate with greater case. Dis- appointment does not rebound on them with so crushing an effect, and I believe for that very rea- son they make the more faithful wives and hus- bands of the two. They expect little, and little satisfies them ; and they have to work and strug- gle to procure the necessaries of life. There is no time left to make the worst of their domestic troubles. Yet we cannot take up the daily papers, and read of the many crimes that are committed through jealousy, without feeling that some of the class alluded to must be more sensitive tlia; others. A geiitleninn will suspect his wife (if in. fidelity, and break his heart over it for ycuis,ir,. I ing to hoodwink himself and tread down ui.. worthy doubts, before he will d: ^ liis dinhoiionj I name into the light of day, and seek repaiati.j; at the hands of law ; but a husband of tlic loM^r | orders has no such delicate consideration. Jloa; of them think a good beating sufficient coiiiiien.-a. I tion for their wrongs ; but a few, under the swisi. | of outraged honor which they expericiico, bt; cannot define, feel that nothing short of blood wii: satisfy them, and quietly cut their wives' throat: | from car to ear. I have always had a sort v.' ; ' miration for these last-named criminuls, Tlii- must have valued what they destroy at tliu ri-i | of, and often in conjunction with, their m: Uvcfl. The act may be brutal, but it is maiih-. Beneath the list of ignorance and buttlnni. see the powers of mastery and justice, and t: hatred of deceit and vice, which in an eiliicaii: mind would have brought forth such difllut:! fruits. But, above all, we recognize the power ;:'| sentiment. Joel Cray was one of these men — a raro ti stance of sensibility in a cIjss whose whole liJ and nurture is against the possession of such J feeling. From a boy he had been taught to kil upon his cousin Myra as his future wife;ai;| when he believed that Muiravcn had betrayed ji; deserted her, his rage and indignation kucwil bounds. For a while he thought that he ir,t:;| see her righted ; that it was impossible that ar man who had loved Myra in ever so transicM ;| manner— Myra so delicate and pretty, and (lorl pared with the other girls of Priestley) so rcCneJ who in Joel's rough sight appeared almost as ak; — could be satisfied to live without searching!;; out again. But, as time went on, and no p'.:| tent seducer appeared upon the scone, his cJ feelings for her regained the ascendency, and i again began to look upon her as one who wirm be his wife. He did not mind the first rtk^ she gave him. lie had faith in the charm ulii:: being replaced in the position of respcclabiy must hold for every woman, and believed that, J soon as she had got the better of her illucsj, i^ advisability of his proposal would strike her ii its true light. He had not the least idea tii she was dying ; and her subsequent death secni to kill at one blow both his ambitions. IleM'J neither make her his wife, nor see her made iJ wife of the man who had deserted her. Atf there seemed to him but one thing lift to i done — to exchange the blows alluded to abti -t JOEL CRAY AS AN AVENGER. 140 ulth 'lie author of nil this niiafortunc, even iliough thoy wore to death. " If I can only sec that there 'Amilton," he ihiaks savagely, as he journey:! from Priestley, "and break his donned head for him, I shall bkle, perhaps, a bit quieter. Whenever I meets lilin, though, and wherever it may be, it will bo a niii(l-up tight between us And if he won't own Ills child and provide for it as a gentleman should, nhy there'll be another. And small satisfaction, tiio with ray poor girl a-lyiug cold in the church- v.ini." And here, hurried by retrospectioa be- vond all bounds of propriety, ho begins to call Jiwii the curse of the Almighty upon the luck- less head of his unknown enemy. lie quits Priestley at tho very time that Eric Koir is trying to drown his disappointment by run- ning over the United States with his friend Charley Ilolraef, until the fatal letter annoimcing his elder lirolher's death shall call him back to England. Ilad it not been so, there would have been small 1 ohanca of his being encountered in the streets of London during the shooting-season by our poor friend Joel. But what should a country lout know of such matters ? It is to London that he works his way, feeling assured that in that em- porium of wealth and fashion and luxury, sooner or later, he must meet his rival. So far he has reason, and by slow degrees he reaches it, jour- neying from farm to farm, with a day's job hero and a day's job there, until he has gained the site of a suburban railway, on which he gets cmploy- I ment as a porter. Here, seeing no means of bettering himself, I he rests quietly for several months, more resigned and disposed to take interest in life again, perhaps, but still with that one idea firmly fixed in his mind, and eagerly scanning the features or follow- ing the footsteps of any one whose face or figure reminds him, in ever so small a degree, of the hated '"Amilton." Perhaps ic is fortunate for I Joel's chances of retaining his situation that he I cannot read, else the times he would have been se- duced from his allegiance by seeing the mystic I name upon a hat-box, or a portmanteau, would have !:een without number. How many Ilamil- tons journeyed up and down that line, I wonder, land embarked or disembarked at that station I during the three months Joel Cray was porter I there ? But personal characteristics were all the I guides ha followed after, and these were often I sulRcient to insure him a reprimand. At last he I heard of a situation in the West End of Lon- Idoii, and resigned half his wages to incrcaso his I chance of meeting Muiraven. But Muir.aven spent his Christmas and his spring at Derwiek Castle, and diil not leave hon« again until ho went to Olottonbury and met the Mordaunts. Meanwhile poor Joel, much dishearteiiod at repeated failures, but with no intention of giving in, searched for him high and low, and kept his wrath boiling, all ready for him when they xhouhl meet, by a nightly recapitulation of his wrongs. Muiraven leaves Priestley, and embarks for India. The unfortunate avenger is again baflled. Tho season passes, and ho has ascertained nothing. Among tho " ' Amiltons " he has met or heard of he can trace no member answering to the description of Myra's betrayer. Many are tall and fair, and many tall and dark ; but the white skin, and the blue eyes, and tho dark hair, come not, and the poor, honest, faithful heart begins to show signs of weariness. " Who knows ? " so he argues — for two years and more Myra had hoard nothing of him — " perhaps he may have died in the interim. Oh, if he could only ascertain that ho had ! " But this search is as futile as tho first. By degrees Joel confides his sorrow and his design to others — it is so hard to suiTer all by one's self, and his acquaintances are eager to assist him, for there is something irresistibly exciting in a hue- and-cry : but their efforts, though well meant, fall to tho ground, and hope and courage begin to slink away together. During this year Joel passes through the various phases of pot-boy, bottle-cleaner, and warehouse porter, until he has worked his way down to tho Docks, where his fine -built, muscular frame and capabilities of endurance make him rather a valuable acquisition. Ho is still in this position when Lord Muiravon returns from tho East I . he is hankering after news of Irene again ; tht dead silence of the last sis months rcspectiK | her begins to oppress him like some hideou- nightmare ; the false excitement is over, and tht I ruling passion regains its ascendency. What if any thing should have happened to her in his al- sence ? Notwithstanding her prohibition to tb; I contrary, he sent her a note on his return to England, simply telling the fact, and expressing a hope that they might soon meet again; but to | this letter he has received no answer. Jlcbi- comes restlessly impatient to hear something- 1 any thing, and trusts to the dispatch of a cargo of Indian and Chinese toys, which he has brouglit I homo for Tommy, to break again the ice between them. It is this hope that brings him up to MEETINO OX THE DOCKS. 151 Lonilon, detcrmiiK'il to AC\i uftor ihu iinivul of thi'do keys to Iroiic'd lioart liiiiiself. They are all safo but one — the very ea^e wliieh he tliinkd moat of, which is craiuiiied to tlic lid with those wonderful sky-bluo elepliauts, aud cvimson horses, and spotted dogs, which the na- livei of Surat turn and color, generation after (generation, without entertaining, apparently, the slightest doubt of their fidelity to Nature. It was consigned, among many others, to the care of a C.iU cutta ogent for s'lipment and address ; and Muir- aven is at first almost afraid that it has been left liehiiid. His cousin Stratford suggests that they shall go down to the Docks aud inquire after it themselves, "Queer place the Docks, Muiraveu ! Have you ever been there ? It's quite a new sensation, I assure you, to sec the heaps of bales and casks aaJ cases, and to hear all the row that goes on among them. Let's go, if you've got nothing else to do, this morning. I know tliat it'll amuse you." And so they visit the Docks in company. There is no trouble about the missing case. It tu-ns up almosi as soon as they mention it, and [irovcs to have come to no worse grief than having its direction obliterated by the leakage of a barrel of tar. Ho, having had their minds set at rest with respect to Tommy's possessions, iluiraven and Stratford link arms and stroll through the Docks together, T/atching the busi- ness going on around them with keen interest. They look rather singular and out cf place, these two fashionably-dressed and aristocratic young men, among the rough sailors and porters, the warchouse-racn, negroes, and foreigners of all descriptions that crowd the Docks. Many looks arc directed after them as they pass by, and many remarks, not all complimentary to their [rank, are made as soon as they are considered lout of hearing. But as they reach a point which I seems devoted to the stowage of bales of cotton lor some such goods, a rough-looking young fel- lioff, a porter, apparently, who has a hugo bale I hoisted on to his shoulders by a companion, with laa exclamation of surprise lets it roll backward Ito the earth again, and stepping forward directly [blocks their pathway. " Xow, my good fellow ! " says Muiraven, carc- llessly, as though to warn him that he is intrud- ling. "What are ycr artcr?" remonstrates the lothcr workman, who has been knocked over by Ithe receding bale. " I beg your pardon," says Joel Cray, address- ing Muiraven (tor Joel, of cour.-c, it is), " but, if I don't mistake, you gofS by the name of ' 'Amiltim.' " Tills is by no moans the grandilixiucnt appeal by which he has often dreamed of, figuratively speaking, knocking his adver.saiy over befoie he goes in without any figure of speech at all, and " settles his hash for him." Hut how seldom are events which we have dreamed of fulfilled in their proper course ! That man (or woman) that jilted us! With what a torrent of fiery elo(iuence did we intend to overwhelm them for their perfidy when first we mot them, face to face ; and how weakly, in reality, do we accept their prolVered hand, aud express a hope we sec theiu well ! Our ravint,'s are mostly confined to our four-posters. This prosaic nineteenth century affords us so few op- portunities of showing oH' our rhetorieiil powers 1 On Joel's face, although it U January, and Uj is standing in the teeth of a cold north wind, the sweat has risen ; and the hand he Jares not raise hangs clinched by his side. Still he is a servant in a public place, surrounded by spectators — and he may be mistaken ! AVliich facts flash through his mind in a moment, and keep him quiescent in his rival's path, looking not nnieh more danger- ous than a:)y other impatient, half-doubting man might bo. " As sure as I live,'' he repeats, somewhat huskily, " you goes by the name of ' 'Amiltou,' sir ! " " Is he drunk ? " says Muiraven, appealing to the by-standers. " It's rather early in the day for it. Stand out of my way — will you ? " " What do you want with the gentleman ? " demands his fellow-workman. ^'■Satisfaction!'''' roars Joel, nettled by the manner of his adversary into showing something like the rage he feels. " You're the man, sir ! It's no use your denying of it, I've searched for you high and low, and now I've found you, you don't go without ansv/cring to mc for her ruin. You may be a gentleman, but you haven't acted like one ; and I'll have my revenge on you, or die foi- it!" A crowd has collected round them now, and things begin to look rather unpleasant. " We're going to have a row," says Stratford, gleefully, as he prepares to take ofl'his coat. " Nonsense, Stratford ! The fellow's drunk, or mad. I cannot have you mixed up with a crew like this. — If you don't move out of my way and stc^, your infernal insolence," he continues tc Joel Cray, " I'll hand you over to a policeman." {\ .i I 152 NO INTF.^JTIONS." ^i VL • i r I 1 f " I am not insolent — I only tell you the truth, ond the whole world mny know It. Vour name is "Amilton.' You ruined a poor girl, under a promise of marringp, nnd left her and her child to perish of grief and hunger ! And, as sure as there's a Ood in heaven, I'll make you answer for your wickedness toward 'cm I " " Ugh ! " groans the surrounding crowd of navvies, always ready, at the least excuse, to take part against tho " bloated haireatocracy." "I don't know what you're talking about. You must have mistaken me for some ono else," replies Muirarcn, who cannot resist refuting such an accusation. " Surely you arc not going to parley with the man ! " interposes Strafford. " You don't know of such a place as Hoxford, maybe ? " shouts Joel, vith an inflamed counte- nance, and a clinched fist, this time brought well to the front — " nor of such a Tillage as Frcttcr- ley ? — nor you've never heard tell of such a girl as Myra Cray ? — Ah ! I thought I'd moke you re- member!" as Muiraven, turning deadly white, takes a step backward. " Let go, mates — let me have at him, the d — d thief, who took the gal from mo first, and ruined her afterward ! " But they hold him back, three or four of them at a time, fearing the consequences of any thing like per.sonal violence, " Muiraven, speak to him ! — What is the mat- ter ? " says his cousin, impatiently, as he per- ceives his consternation. " I cannot," he replies at first ; and then, as though fighting with himself, he stands upiight and confronts Joel boldly. " What have you to tell me of Myra Cray ? — Where is she ? — What does she want of me ? — Why has she kept her hiding-place a secret for so long ? " " Why did you never take tho trouble to look after her ? " retorts Joel. " Why did you leave her to die of a broken heart ? Answer me that ! " " To die 1 Is she dead ? " he says, in a low voice. " Ay I she's out of your clutches — you needn't bo afraid of that, mister — nor will ever be in them again, poor lass ! And there's nothing re- mains to be done now, but to take my satisfaction out of you." " And how do you propose to take it ? Do you wish to fight me ? " demands Muiraven, calmly. " Better not, mate ! " says one of his comrades, in a whisper. " Bleed him ! " suggests another, in the same tone. As for Joel, the quiet question takes him n a disadvantage, lie doesn't know what to nmin of it. "When a fellow's bin wronged," he bcgin^ awkwardly — " IIo demands satisfaction," continues Miiir. aven. " I quite agree with you. That idea bolil* good in my class as much as in yours. Itut vr,i; seem to know very little more than the facta of this case. Suppose I can prove to you that the poor girl you speak of wos not wronged by me— what then?" " You've bin a deal too 'asty," whispers ont of his friends. "But your name's "Amilton' — ain't il>" says Joel, mistily. " It is one of my names. But that is nothirc to the purpose. Far from shirking inquiry, I oin very anxious to hear all you can tell mo about Myra Cray. When can you come home with n,c; Now ? " " Muiraven ! in Heaven's name — is this one of your infernal little scrapes? " says Stratford. " In Heaven's name, hold your tongue for ih present, and you shall know all. — Is there arij reason why this man should not accompany mc i my place of residence ? " continues Muiraven, aL dressing one of the by-standers. " lie can go well enough, if he likes to. IIi'- 1 only here by the job." " Will you come, then ? " to Joel. " I'm sure I don't know what to say," rclurr.- 1 Joel, sheepishly. " 'Tain't what I call satisfactio: | to be going 'ome with a gentleman." " Come with mc first, and then, if I don't givi | you entire satisfaction with respect to this bu;:- ncss, we will fight it out your own way al'toi- ward." " Gentleman can't say fairer than that," is tb verdict of the crowd. So Joel Cray, shamefacc!- ly enough, and feeling as though all his grar.i schemes for revenge had melted into thin air, f'- lows Muiraven and Stratford out of the Dock- 1 while his companions adjourn to drink the bcalii; | of his enemy in the nearest public-house. " Where are j'ou going to take him? " demanc- Stratford, as a couple of hansoms obey his cousic- whistle. "To Saville Moxon's. You must come viill •'.?, Ilal. I have been living under a mask fortl. I last five years; but it is time I should be true a; | last." " True at last ! As if all the world didn't know — " "Hush, Hal! — J'OU pain me. The wor!'-! What humbug, MuirftTCt!| EXPLANATION AND SETTLEMENT. 153 ngcd," he begins, ity," whiitpcrs ont llton'— ain't it»" ; he UkcB to. IK'i umbug, MuirftTcn. mo. The TvorV.I knon'8 as much about luo ns it docs of cvory one uiic." Saviile Moxon — now a barriKtor, wlio 1ii\h iHh- tiDgiiishod himself on more tlmn one occasion — lives in the Temple. Fifteen minutes bring tliem to \\\A chambers, where tlioy find him hard at worlt among hi.s papers. " I feel beastly awkward," says Muliavcn, with a con.sciou8 laugh, as Moxon U eager to learn the reason of their appearance in 8ueh strange com- pany ; " but I've got a confessicm to make, Mox- on, nnd the sooner it's over the better, — Now, my good follow, pass on." This last request is addressed to Joel, who, half doubting whether he shall make his cause ^'ood after all, recapitulates, in his rough manner, the wliole history of Myra's return to Priestley — the birth of her child — her aimless searches after her betrayer — and, lastly, her imexpeeted death. Muiravcn starts slightly, and changes color as the ciiild is mentioned ; but otherwise ho hears the sad story through unmoved. The other two men sit by iu silence, wailing his leave to express tlieir astonishment at the intelligence. "Poor Myra!" says Muiraven, thoughtfully, as Joel, whose voice has been rather shaljy tow- ard the end, brinp;8 his talc to a conclusion. "I don't wonder you thought badly of me, my friend ; but there is something to be said on both sides. I never wronged your cousin — " " You say that to my face ! " commences Joel, Ills wrath all ready to boil over again at such a supposition. " Stay 1 Yes — I repeat it. The pcr.son whom I most wronged in the transaction was myself. — Her name was not Myra Cray, but Myra Keir. Slic was mi/ wife." " Your wife ! " repeats Joel, staring vacantly. " Good God 1 " exclaims Saviile Moxon. " Muiraven I are you mad ? " says Stratford. " My dear fellows, do you think Pd say a tiling of this kind for the mere purpose of sneaking out of a scrape ? You know what our ideas are on the subject. What man of the world would blame, very deeply, a youthful liaison between a college freshman and a pretty bar-maid ? But this was no passing frailty of mine, I met this girl, formed an attachment for her, brought her up to London, married her privately in the old church of St. Sepulchre, and settled her at Fret- terley, whence she — she — left mey And Muiraven, leaning back against the man- tel-piece. Bets his teeth at that remembrance, and looks sternly down upon the hearth-rug, although It all happened so many years ago. " She left you — yes," cries Joel, " but not bo- foie you had near broke her jwor 'art with your uiikiiidiies.-i, m\ And nhe cuiue back, poor l.iiiib, to her own people and her own 'oiin-,\\,t from them as hu steps carefully down the stcip staircase, and ponders on the wonderful tiutli |;i; has been told. " A lord's son," he repeats, na lie gains the street, and proceeds to shufllu back to the Docks ogain. " That brat a lord's son! Now, I wonder if my jmor lass knew it all along; or, if not, if it makes her feel a bit easier to know it now ? " • • • • Muiraven and Moxon have a long conversation togethi r as they travel down to Glottonbury. " 1 conolude this early mariiagp of yours w,,- what people call a love-match, eh ? " icmaiks tlit latter Inquisitively. Muiraven colors. " Well, yes, I 8U])po8e so ; but love appcun to us in such a different light, you know, wlitii we come to a maturer age." " Never having had any experience in that r(s speet, can't say I do know." " You are lucky," with a sigh. " What I mean to say is, that at the time I certainly thmiy iii:tk(> roiiitilutiiiiM iiiqiilricg concciiiint; l'rU'.-itU'y uiui the MiinUiuiiN, i.ii'l ilu-ro our luTo K'ni'iifl, for tlio llrot tiino, of the ci'loniTrt death, niul the rtuliMO(|iient iU']>ai'tui'o t>r his wtiiotv. K» that it l.i no Hiirpr irtu to Moxon ntil hiiiiaelf to ho reoolvcd hy Olivi-r only whuii tlirv prosriit tlK>in.'ric hand- kerchief in lier hand — "so iiiiU'Uttl — so peculiar — so strange of Mrs. Mordaunt to leave us without tho slightest dew to her place of residence. And she might die, you know, my lord, or any thing else, and not a soul near her. I'm sure I feel quite ashamed if any one asks after her. And there was not the least occasion for concealment ; though, as I always say, we can expect no one to believe it." ''Mrs. Mordaunt has probably her own rea- sons for acting as she docs." " Oil, you are very good, to make exeu.ics for her, my lord. But she was always willfully in- clined. And tho colonel, whom wo thought s/i much of, has behaved so badly to her, leaving all his money away to his nephew ; and then, to make matters look worse, Irene will continue to keep a tjirty little boy whom she picked u[> in th(.' village, although — " " TIiui dirty little boy is my son, Mrs. Caven- dish." M.S. Cavendish turns pale — starts, and puts up her handkerchief to her eyes. It cannot be true ; and, if it is, that he should sta'id there and confess it ! What arc tho aristocracy coming to ,' Savillo Moxon is so afraid the lady is about to laiiit, that he lushes to the rescue, giving her the whole 8t> ry in about two words. Upon wliich she rcvivea, and becomes as enthusiastic as »- cr was. " Oh, my lord, I beg a thousand pardons ! I used tho word ' dirty ' most unadvisedly. Of course she has kept liirn scrupulously clean, and has treated him just like her own child. And 1 always said — it wc.s the remark of every one— tfiO NO INTCNTIONS." u n Xi what an ariHiocraticloukinK boy ho wan. How ■iirprlMod — how chiiriiu'il mIk: will ho! (Mi, yim luuMt flml her ; I ntu xuro It can not lii> ho (lllll- cult. Ami I IhIIcvo Hhu'it lu EnKliind, though that hoiilfl (iM Wiilm-dry will not toll." " Vou think III! knows Ikt iiiKlrcyH, thonf" " I am Hiiro of It ; but It \» no uio (t*iklii(( hlin, I'vt; h(')(|{(!il und iiii|iloriM| of him to tell nu>, but the nio»t ho will do Ih to lurwiird my k'ttci'i* ; und Iicnu always auswoi's thvm throu(;h hhn, und there's an end of it." "And nhc U well?" deniiindH .Miilriiven anx- iously. " Oh, the dour child's quite well, my lord," rcplieo Mrs. Cuvendi.Mli, nrL-tlakinf; the i^ronoun ; "you need have no fears of that. Her letters arc full of nothing; but Tommy, She little thinks who she htti pot the charge of. She trill be proud, I am sure." " I am afraid wo roust leave you now," says her fUitor, rising, " us wo must try and hco Mr. Wolm.-lcy to-doy." " Oil, can't you stay a few minutes lonf,'cr — just ton ? No ! Well, then, good-by, my lord, and I hope you will let me know us soon as you hove traced my niece." And Mrs. Cavendish, much to her chagrin, is left alone ; for Mary, who has been up-stairs all this time changing her dress, descends to the drawing-room in her new blue merino, all ready to captivate his lordship, just as his lordiihip's tall figure disappears outside the garden-gati.'. " Just a minute too late ! What a juty ! " thinks Hrs. Cavendish, as she puts u" her eye- glass to watch the departure of the o young men. " Well, he certainly is a fine-looking man. And fancy his being a widower ! Not but w hat I think my Mary would be too sensible to object to that. And if the child were in the way, why, I dare say Irene wouldn't mind continuing the charge, as she seems so fond of it. Well, all I hope is, he'll come again, and I'll take good care next time that Mary is ready dressed to receive him. Such a chance to throw away I If he'd only seen her as she looks now, the girl's fortune would have been made." Old Walmsley, the solicitor, is a tougher cus- tomer to deal with than cither of them anticipated, and even Saville Moxon finds it beyond Ids skill to worm out any thing from him that he doesn't choose to tell. "It's all very well, gentlemen," ho says, in answer to their combined entreaties, " but you're asking me to betray the confidence of one of my liientx, which Is a thing I've never done durin.' o practico of Hveandthli I y years, and which I ddn t Intend to begin doing now." " Hut, look here, Mr. Walmsley," iiuys Miiir. aven, " surely, under llio ciieum-tmu'eti, I Imvc % right to demand Mrn. Mordaiint's aiMress ; i>lii.' i- detaining my child from me." ' TIkmi you can write and deiii.inil tlic cliiM, my lord, and the letter kIiuII Ic- duly rorwuiili'l tur tulilu nv'itm. " Lt't'.i b'V'iii niid guiM.-* all the jtlacoH in Kn^hitid ul|o].'riii)hy," n-plie-t Moxon. "Oil, nonsense I it's ai ea.^y as can lie. Now foi-.V: AlderKj^fito (oh, no I tlut's In London). .Vylc^liuiy, Altoi'di'on, A — , .V — . Holhn' it! wliicli are the plaecn that Itcgin with A f " " .Vnimer.Mmith," »uj;'4('."(t.'» Moxon ; ill whloh (M Walinnloy Ian};li«. " If you're goiu}; to play the fool, I >r. It was I'rovidenee or inspiration that put it there. But it's all right now. I don't care for any thing else. I nhall go down to Coeklebury to-night." And leajiing up from his chair, Muiraven commences to button his great-coat and drow on his gloves again ju'c- paratory to a start. " Himi ! " says Moxon. " Vou promised to SCO that man Cray to-night." " You can see him for mc. You can tell him nil I ."hould have done. There is no personal feeling in the matter." '' Cocklespillbury, or what ever Its name is, being an oljscurc fishing handct, there is proba- bly not another train to it to-day." " Oh, nonsense ! there is a train — there must be a train — there »hall be a train." " All right ! And if not, you can have a special. Money's no object." " Moxon, I always thought you were rather a well-meaning fellow ; but it strikes mc that you've not got much feeling in this matter." " I always thought you were a man of sense ; but it strikes mc that you're going to make an U8» of yourself," "Do you Avant to quarrel with me?" says Muiraven, grandly, as he steps opposite to his friend. " \ot in the least, my dear fellow ; but if any thing could make us quarrel, it would bo to see you acting with so little forethought." " Ah, Moxon, you don't know what it is to — to—" " To be the father of 'a charming child,' no ; 158 "NO INTENTIONS." '! ' f ' m '■SI, H. ' ' !* i .' a but if I were, I am sure I sliniild defer seeing him till to-morrow." " Gentlemen, Imve you left off cayin^ your A IJ C ? " demands old Walm»ley, as he puts his head in again at the door. "My dear sir, I am so mwn oliliged to you," exclaimes Muiraven, seizing his hand with un- necessary warmth. "I'm rejoi'^cd to hear it, my lord ; btit whi\t for?" " For telli ig me Mrs. Mordaunt's address." " I'm sure I never told you that. It's against nil my prineiples t'. betray a client's confidenee." " Hut for slamming the door in that delightful manner. It comes to the same thing, you know. Coeklebury in Hampshire. There can't be two Coekleburys. And now I must be off to see if I ■,.in gel a train down there to-night." " I can satisfy you on that point, my lord. No truin stopping at the nearest station to Cockle- bury leaves town after two o'clock." " The devil ! " says Muiraven. "Come, Muiraven, be reasonable. Keep your appoluinieut with Cray this evening, and don't think of leaving London till to-morrow." "He can't do it," interposes the solicitor, dry- " He is equal to any thing : he will bestride a forty-horse power bicycle if I don't prevent him," replies Moxon, laughing. But Muiraven does not laugh. All the light seems to have faded out of his face. " You are right, Moxon," ho says, gloomily. "Take mo home and do what you will with me. I am worse than a child." Old Walmsley sees them go with a sly chuckle and a rub of the hands. " Hope I haven't departed from my principles," he thinks to himself ; " but I couldn't have sent him away without it. Poor young thing. How it will brighten up her dull life to see him ! And if it should come right at last — and it looks very much to me as if it tccre coming right — why — why, I hope they'll lot me draw up the settlements — that's all." Joel Cray's untutored mind is vastly astonished by the reception which he receives at Lord Muir- aven 's hands that evening. " I hope you understand perfectly," says his host, when, after considerable difficulty, he has induced the rough creature to take a chair, and Bit down beside him, " that I had no idea but that my wife had left me with another man, else I should have advertised openly for her, or set the detective officers to find out her ndihis.-. But I feared the discovery would only lead to an cxi)osuro of my own dishonor, and preferred \h,. silent, solitary life I have adhered to simv, Could I have known that Myra was still ti iie to me, I would have risked every thing to ]ilaee lur in the position slie hud a right to cluini." "She was true to you, sir, and no mistalio; for, I don't mind a-telling you now, that I trlKl hard to make her my wife ; but 'twern't o*' no good. She allays stuck to it that she couldn't forget you ; and till strength failed her, she wa- on her feet a-tramping after you." " While I was out of tlio country, tryin;; \n forget the iiisgraeo whieli I tliougiit attaelicd t.j me. Poor Myra! " "She's dead and done with, sir. It's no u-- our a-pipin' nor a-quarrelin' over her any more." " You speak very sensibly, Cray ; but at the same time I am anxious to show you that I regret th*^ past, and should like to make some anicml- for it, if possible. I cannot let any of Myra's re- lations want. You tell me you arc going back to Priestley. What do you do there ? " " I'm a day-laborer, sir — my lord, I mean," with a touch of his hair. " And your mother ? " " She takes in washin', ray lord, and has five little 'una to keep on it." " It is those five little ones I wish to lielpluT and you to maintain ; so I have placed with my friend here, Mr. Sloxon, who is a lawyer, two thousand pounds to be disposed of as you maj think best ; either placed in the bank to your credit, or laid out in the purchase of land, or in any way that may most conduce to your com- fort." "Two — thousand — pounds!" repeats Jout, v.'ith drawn-out, incredulous wonder, ns he rises from his chair. " Yes ! that will bring you in about sixty pounds a year ; or if you expend it in a little farni— " "Two — thousand — pounds/" reiterates tlic l.iborer slowly, " it ain't true, sir, surely ! " " I would not deceive you, Cray, I give it yon, not as compensation for your cousin's bliglitcii life, remember, but as a token that if I coulil I would have prevented her unhappiness. I lovoil her, Cray ; didn't marry her to desert her. Plic deserted me." Joel's dirty, horny hand comes forth, timidly, but steadily, to meet Muiraven's. "May I do it, sir? God bless you for them words ! They're better than all the money to me. ..?.,-.«,■, .^. ^■i^i^M-n.riiE* MRS. MOKDAUNTS LETTER. 159 lord, and has fivo ics forth, tiinWly. And If the poor giil can hoar them too, I ht'lk-vc heaven looks the brighter to lier. You're very good, sir. I asks your pardon, hiiml)ly, for all IBV bad tlioughts toward you, and I hope as you'll get ft good wife and a true wife yet. Tlmt'll he neither shame nor blame to you." " Timnk you, Cray. I hope before lonu; you'll Jo the same, and teach your ehildien that fi;entle- men have hearts sometimes as well as poorer men. I shall always take an interest in you and your doings ftiid my friend here will see that the mon- ov I spoke of is handed over to you as soon as you are ready to receive it." "I don't know about the raarryinjr, my lord,'' sava Joel, sheepishly, " for it seems a troublous business at the best to me; but there'll lie plenty of prayers going up for you from J'riostley, and the worst I wishes for you is that they may bring you all the luck you deserve." "And to think," he continues to himself as he returns to his own home, "that that there's the limp I swore by my poor gal's grave to bring to jud.iment for her wi'oiigs ! " The eleven-o'clock train next day takes Muir- I aren down to the nearest town to Cocklebury. .\!1 by himself: he has positively refused to travel any more in Moxon's company. Two hours bring iiim to the place, but there is no hotel there, only I an old-fashioned iim, with raftered ceilings and (H.imond-shaped windows, called " The Coach and I Horses," where our hero is compelled to put up land dine, while he sends a messenger over to I Cocklebury. lie has not come down-stairs, for Ihesatup late last night, writing a long detailed I account to Mrs. Mordaunt of his early luarrtaire land bis wife's identity, so that the worst may be lover before he and Irene meet again. And this lletter, which winds up with an entreaty that lie Iraay go over at once to Cocklebury to see and Idaim his child, he dispatches as soon as possible jto Irene's residence, striving meanwhile to be- Iguile his impatience by an attempt to miisticate jihe frcshlj--killcd beef which the landlady of the j" Coach and Horses" places before him, and Iwhich only results in his emptying the llask of pojnac he has brought with him, and walking up snd down the cold, musty-smelling, unused town, jimtil he has nearly worked himself into a fever »lth impatience and suspense. How he pictures Iter feelings on opening that important packet ! phc will shed a few tears, perhaps, at first, poor narling, to learn he has ever stood in so close a relationship to any other woman ; but they will roon dry up beneath the feverish delight with wliieh she will recogi)i. to— was .she to part with him? Ikr uamu liad been so cruelly associated with hi:", she coulj not keep him at Fen Court, nor even near ii ; nor sliould he be dependent on any one but ht.'rmlf or his own father for his maintenance ; wlmt alternative, then, remained to her (unless sliv separated from Tommy and meekly accepted (l,i stigma cast upon them both) but to go awuy V Irene was not a Immble-spirited, long-suITt,!. ing Uriselda, quietly to accept the indignity that had been offered her : tlie very fact that hei' luiv band's suspicions were unfounded made litr the more determined to sliow the world At snapped her fingers at tliem, and nothing sliouU induce her to part with the cliiid of her adopiioa except lluiraven's wishes. She did not feel iIks, tilings so keenly before the will was read. He heart had been softened by her last intervint with Philip. She had felt so much for his ui- tress, that her own had been, for the wliile, k-; sight- of. But when she heard herself deCamiii, and know that every servant in her employ «,i- 1 made aware that lie had suspected her, her pii.i rose uppermost : the firmness and decision wliiii had made her what she was came to the front, ai.i I had the retemion of Tommy Brown blasted tk | remainder of her life, she would have so bla.-K it. She had a right to keep the child — she liai | adopted him with her husband's full consent, im; no power on earth but one should part thin. | Slie went to Laburnum Cottage, intending tliti'. quietly to think over and settle her plans, lie: | when she came to consider, she felt that as loi; as Oliver knew where to find her, he would neur leave her in peace. He would follow, and aigui. I and plead, and pray, until perhaps he fairly w.j ried her into acting against her own conscicnci and to be left in peace was her most ardent il^ I sire. She wanted time, and repose, and quiet t. enable her to look 'aer future — her blank, i'liu:| less future — steadily in the face. For remenibi:, tliat for Irene still existed that mysterious, iius I plicable barrier that had risen up, three yciri ago, between Muiraven and herself, and she IbJ but one hope concerning him — that he would pc mit her to retain the guardianship of his, ns yal unknown child. To compass the end she Lad 1: view, Irene i'elt her destination must be kciitil secret. Her only chance of recovery lay in spocil ing a few quiet months, imtil the first bitternesj of her despair was over, and she had fixed upc: her future course of life. Mrs. Cavendish wl most anxious she should take lodgings at Sydetl ham, or remain with her at Laburnum Cottaal ._J V^-^'ii CITY AND COUNTRY LIFE CONTKASTEU. 161 m alio could cliti;; llor nsiinc liaJ hy, site could niii vcn iieiir il ; nor r one but liorsdf lintcnnnce ; wlmt her (unless sh. ckly accepted iht it to go away ? iritcd, long-suffii- the indignity tbai fact that her hn- undcd mndo btr w the world sIk lid nothing shouii Id of her adopiioii t did not feci tbtso 11 was read, lb: her last inlenii* much for his ui- for the while, W\ d herself delanuii, in her employ \U: !Ctcd her, her \nV.i: and decision wlmii me to the front, ati Brown blasted ihi iild have sohlarK ithc child — the bai 3 full consent, iici I should part thin. ige, intending tlitrt ,1c her plans. Ik. le felt that as loi; ler, he would ncv^: follow, and argm. haps he fairly wo: cr own conscienci ■r most ardent lit pose, and quiet i. -her blank, dm:' c. For rcmenibi: it mysterious, iius- icn up, three yi;.rij erself, and slic m -that he would pC' iship of his, ns yal the end she bad :: on must be kcpti| !COverylayinspeto the first bitternesl Bhe had fixed upc: Irs. Cavendish M lodgings at sM Laburnum Cotta? So close to Loiulon, she luij^Iit renew ac(iuaiut- anccsliip with all her old friends; and then the (jvst.il Palaco, sueh an. advantage ! Hut tb.e prospect of viuiiiicy to flower-shows and cut- -hows, concerts, puutoniinies, and conjurers, ieoiueJ to hold out no eliarins to our poor hero- ine. Siie remained, as her aunt her.-iell' expressed il, "as obstinate as a pig," and put iu her final i!;um to the charaeter by going up to town one ,'„iv with her child and her luggage, and thence ivriling to inform Mrs. Cavendish that she had :ixcd on, and was about to proceed to, a distant place, where she hoped and intended to remain I />•■/•(/«, and free from the innovations of all well- I meaning friends until slic should have somewhat recovered from the sudden shock of her late be- I r.avemcnt. But she did not refuse to conimuni- I iMte with her relations, and many letters on tiio I'ject passed between them through themedium- I .-hip of Mr, Walmsley. It was strange how Cocklebury happoneil to III •come Irene's destination. Slie had thouglit of I Winchester — indeed, bhe had gone down to Win- ■ k'ster, hearing it tci be a dull, behind-tlie-world Ijortof old place, but had found the town fuller laaJ more accessible than she anticipated, and IjiiisscJ on to a littlo village beyond. Tnere she ihai experienced much diilieulty in finding lodg- liii!;3, and a certain landlady, in accounting for the Iroatof her apartments, mentioned that they were jin great demand. "For only yesterday, mum, a llady, as might be yourself, came over from Coek- bbury, which is a good twenty-seven mile to the |l.ft|Athis, all in a flutter for rooms, and would lluvciook these directly, only t.vo wasn't enough jl'jr her." Cocklebury! the nainesei ncd familiar to her; riiere had she heard it before? Shu could not ::!1, and yet it reverberated on her heart as th igh Stliddaplace there. I'nubtless she had heard It la some desultory convei-ation with Lord Muir- .vei), but the remembrance 1 died away. Only from that cursory mention the fishing-village rew out her final settlement ti e. She returned lo Winchester, and began to n ike inquiries con- lerning Cocklebury, and, going to look at tlie Icjdate, retired littlo hole, found two tiny rooms |o suit a quarterly balance of five-and-twenty founds, and engaged them. It was a dull, lowering autumn day when the loiing widow removed her boxes and her little Iw to their new home. Who is it thinks the loimtry charming .all the year round ? 5Iany sai/ but they belong chiefly to the unfortunate psj whose health, business, or profit, renders n . such a residence compulsory to them ; and it is just as Well to make the best of an incurable ill. But t\)r tlu'S • who are not thus compelled to dwell there I No one denies its advantages in fine weather, and no one can appreciate them like the man wliose life is spent generally in the close atmosphere of town. There ar^r moment.-; when brain and body have been overworked, and speculations have failed, and the atmosphere re- minds one of that fabulous pandemonium where we should hke to consign all who have dis- appointed us ; when the thought only of cool. green fields, and waving boughs, and murmuring brooks, is enough to make us forswear I)rick walls, gas, hurry, dust, and lies, forever: but does it last ? \Vu rush to the green fields ; we lounge beneath the waving boughs ; we arc delieiously lazy and useless, and altogether demoralized for a few days of complete inertion ; and then the brain springs up again, the mind wants food, the fields pall, the trees pall, the waters pall ; we de- mand men and women, and conversation : we are again sharpening the mental scythe with which we mow down our adversaries ; and if it is beyond our power, or our princi()les, to rush back again pell- mell into tlie arena of business and of work, we be- gin to hate the monotony wc arc unaccustomed to ! But what of the country — that paiadise of city- men — iu autumn and in winter ; what of the leafless boughs, the filthy, muddy lanes, the barren gar- dens, the evenings spent, night after night, at home, with your next-door neighbor five nnies away, and no resource but to read the papers till you go to sleep ? A country-house always feels cold and damp in winter. If it is a large one, it has long corridors full of draughts ; and if it is small, it possesses lion id glass doors which open to the garden, through which one sees a panorama of sodden leaves that makes one shudder to look at. I'eoplu iu the country, too, get in the habit of leaving all the doors open in summer, and do not get out of it as completely as tiiey should do in the severer season. Generally speaking, also, their chimneys smoke, and tlitir passages are not lialf lighted or warmed : and, altogether, give me a house in town. A cozy house at the West End — not too large, for size implies grandeur, and grandeur entails care ^bu t well carpeted, well curtained, and sufiiciently^^liaental, not to ren- der it incommodious — a house where privacy and publicity are alike attainable — where each and every one is free to come or to go — where the only rules arc one's own inclinations, and the only rest a change of occupation. Lidit it well, warm it thorounhlv, maintain it :«■ 'Ik 102 "NO INTENTIONS." *■' I ,* ■ U\ «ts h ¥ '■ 'M with an income not large enough to render work unnceCHsary, fill it with the daily food required by the nineteenth-century intellect, i)lace in it the people you love best — but no! I won't go on. Could I conjure up sueh a lot as that, I should never want to ^'o to heaven ! Fancy such a house on a dark winter's even- ing ; bright, light, and warm, filled with tlie Bound of wit and laughter, the voice of music, the deeper tones of argument ; or, if sueh things are not forthcoming (and with continuity even their glory would depart), why, " Lcfs go to the theatre ! " A blessing upon blissful ignorance ! If every one knew and felt these things as we do, who would live in the country ? And it's quite impos- sible that wc can all live in town. I begin to wish I had not said any thing about it. Poor Irene felt it terribly when slie first went down to Cocklebury. Imagine turning out of a place like Fen Court, where she had been enjoy- ing au income of several thousands, to begin life anew on a hundred pounds a year, in two meagre little rooms in an ill-built cottage in the country ! She I'.ad no heart left, poor girl, with which to bear it br.avely, and she felt as downcast and humiliated as though she were really guilty of what slie had been accused. Master Tommy, too, did not ten^' to lighten her burden at this particular moment. Children, as a rule, do not take kindly to any violent changes ; and this young gentleman's character had developed in a marvelous way of late. He had no recollection left now of his mother nor the poverty in which he had been reared ; but quite thought — if ever ho thonght at all — that he was Irene's child, and the luxuries of Fen Court had always been his own. He liked to sleep in his mamma's bed, and was proud that she should wash and dress him instead of Phoebe ; but he grumbled dreadfully at the loss of his pleasures, and the inconveniences he was forced to undergo. " I don't like that ugly basin ! " ho would say, the first thing in the morning. " I won't be washed in it, mamma I It is like a servant's basin. 1 want the pretty one I used to have with the little roses on it. And why can't I have jam for breakfast now ? Where is the jam we had at Priestley ? why couldn't you bring it away with us, mamma? I don't like this new place. There is no garden here to run in, and no carriage, and the woman has no don- key — and when I asked her why she had no don- key, she said, if I wanted all those things, why did I come to Cocklebury ? " "0 Tommy! you mustn't talk like that. What did you say to her ? " " I told her not to speak to mc that I'm i gentleman and the master of the fox-hounds, ani I shall go back to the Couit and get my donkm, Let us go back to-day, mamma ! I don't like tliij nasty place ; there are only cabbages in the gar. den." " My darling ! " said Irene, as she took tin child upon her lap, " you wouldn't like to p away from your mamma — would you ? " " No ! You must come, too." " I can't go, Tommy. I am never goinjiljafl; to the Court again, and my little boy must tiv I to be happy here." " Don't cry, mamma ! I will be happy. 1 1 will get the little broom and sweep up all tU | crumbs. I like doing that much better than ti..; donkey. And I will get your boots, ami y,; them inside the fender, and then they will U I warm when you go out walking. And I— I— ; continued tiic child, looking all round the roon | to sec what ho could do, " and I will do hu if things, mamma, if you don't cry." And then fc I would bring his mite of a pocket-handkerchief, an; | scrub her eyes until he had made her laugh insp of herself, and think, while this affection wassraricl to her, she could never be entirely unhappy. Hut! I hundred pounds a year is very, very little on wlik: | to keep two people — it is hardly enough to fit; them. With clothing they were, of course, aiiifif stocked ; but Irene (who was any thing but igic-j rant of the value of money) found it hard cnou:! I to provide herself and the child with the comtii::! necessaries of life, even in sueh an out-of-the-ffay | place as Cocklebury. It was a wonderful little village, dedicate! apparently, to the nurture of old maids — wlio,o:i| and all, called upon Mrs. Mordaunt and ofrcreij their assistance to her; but, though she wasncil ungracious, she declined all advances. She t;-) not going to have it said afterward by these t:I tuous maidens that she came among them up::! false pretenses ; and if they had but known, clu| etc. She could imagine, if any rumors of hcruL-l fortunate story reached their ears, how t!i(;[ would turn up their virginal noses at her and i;| poor little Tommy, and declare they had suspccteil it from the very first. So she kept to hcrsclfi:! those miserable little lodgings, and made tliC'l all the duller and less pleasant for the fact. SIm was devoted to the child — to his baby-lcssctl and baby-pleasures, and waited on him liko;l faithful nurse from morning until night. Sil knew that it could not be long now before Loi- Muiravcn returned to England ; and then, if sli %^' THE HOPE OF A NOBLE HOUSE. 103 iidvunces. She ivi- crwavd bj' these vj- 1 e among thcra up(:| lad but known, etc. ^.pt ti) bor i'i.:4obition, she must iiifoim him of Ilia son's o>:istoiu'c: but she still chcri-lKHl tlie lione that h(.' would not doprivo her of liiui. She I iVli so desperate in her loiulincs:", that sin; meant ;o throw herself on his compassion, and entreat liim not to tako the boy away, but let her brinj; I hiin up, OS sho had de^iij^ncd to do, and feel that ill'} liii,, L! which has Ijnr. I ihich tflls Miiirj. to hiiu whin au.i 3 to iiitiiuato, hi covered from Lor | her receivhi^' vi... lat to make of In: ng iiifonncd hti:. !sult of an inipn;. iiul thclaunilrt-v lately eomc to a licieiit of it^c■ll' i | he obstaelc wlikl irward as a suiii:| iCl is, our heroin rtclo with the iJul 1 wa3 BO oecupiri| i letter, namely, Vi Id, that she r.cvt: 1 broken down tL| only reiiiembcri ircd her, six s1k::| of the imposslbili:; ,do him behaYC u iely to prove a brl r present conditici ircd a personal fc[ deprive her of k 3t grant it him. to face with Eiiil ys termed him), anil pirit with a snii'.r look upon his h\: inergetic sort olil ot rank among ii: I ;onccivc no rca.-i:| lat she has cea:t: never did care I.: r feelings all aloe: I T all, been given ic I ■daunt, the rcnia. i after four momlj sanctity as to l'::- )litencs3 to an ('.;| ar to SCO her. ir, too ! Added i:| ill the dfsiUn, the more you do for (hem tho more they want. When he was beyond her rcacli, she appeared all devotion to him ; now that she can have hiin any day, ho Kii|)posps she will keep him philandering after her for ten years lioforc she will make up her mind to lake him or to leave him ! Why on earth can't he forget her and have lioncwithit? Hasn't he had enough of women, iliat tho moment he finds ho has got out of one jcrape with the sex, he must do his liest to plunge into anotlier ? So he says, and iing ; she feels, with a shudder, that this may be the last time she shall ever hold her adopted darling in her arms, but the young tyrant's orders are imperative; in fact, he won't lie still any lon- ger. " Tiiere are beautiful little ice trees all over the windows, mamma, and I made a nice warm house t'or three of my snails under a cal)I)nge-leaf yesterday, and I want to see if they're happy and eoiiifortable. Dress nie rpiiek, mamma, and let me go into tho garden and look for my snails, ami if they feci cold I shall bring tlicm all in and warm them by the fire." She lises languidly and puts a match to her fire, and washes and dres.ses Mnii'aven's child as if she had been his nurse-maid, ^^lie, who was tho belle of the London season, who has been the en- vied mistress of Fen Court, kneels, shivering in her dressing-gown on that winter's morning, and waits as humbly as a hireling, as lovingly as a mother, on her lover's heir. She buttons up his boots, still muddy from the dirt of yesterday, and carefully wraps over the great-coat and the com- forter upon his little chest. And then she takes his chubby cheeks between her hands and kisses them fervently over and over again, and lets him out of the sitting-room door with a caution to Mrs. Wells to see him safe into tho garden, and goes back to her bedroom, and cries quietly to herself with her face buried in the pillow. God only knows what it is for a mother to part with a child, whether hers by right or by adoption. We talk a groat deal about the "di- vine passion," but there is no divinity in an aflec- tiou based on selfishness ; and love, in its ordi- nary sense (that is, passion), has but one desire — to secure the object for itself. Whereas a mother knows from the commencement that she brings up her child for another. And it is that reason, perhaps, that makes maternal love so generous and expansive that, where it is true, it can afford to extend itself even to those whom its child holds dear. It is tho only unselfish love tho world can boast of. It is, therefore, the only passion that can claim a title to divinity. 100 "NO INTENTIONS." I' Ircuo fcclit all tlii.^, cvoii a:* (*lic ciicH. Slio i.-i mlscrublo iit the tliougiit uf imitinn with tin- ihilil, but sho wouiU not lulvunto one artjiiiiioiit in her own favor that should deprive hU father or hiin- Bflf of the enjoyment of their natural rij^hts. She only hopes tiiat, as it ntiut he, it will be soon over, and heisulf put out of the misery of nntieipation. Sho lies on her bed for some time, loKt in thought, and tiien, heurin<^ the elattcr of eup.s and saucers io the adjoining room, starts up to And that it is niuo o'eloek, and she has not yet commenced to dress. There is no particular huiry, however, and she makes a dawdlin}?, untidy sort of toilet (women never care about their appearance when they are miserable), wondering the while how soon Mulra- ven's messenger will return with the answer to lior letter. 'When she enters the sitting-room the breakfast has been laid and the little black kctt!o is boiling over on the fire. f?he makes the tea, and glances indifferently at the time. A quarter to ten ! She Lad no idea it was so late. How oold and hungry her child will be ! She throws open the door at once, and, ed- vanclng to the head of the stair?, calls — "Tommy! — Tommy!" in a loud voice; but no one answers her. " Tommy, darling !" she repeats; "breakfast is ready. Make haste, and come in," Still there is no reply. lie must be digging at the bottom of the long slip of uncultivated ground he calls the garden. Irene walks down-stairs, and stands at the open back door, with the cold, frosty air playing about the long, rippling hair that lies upon her shoulders. "Tommy! I want you. Come and have your breakfast,'' she repeats ; but the chi! J is neither to be seen nor heard. "Mrs. Wells!" from the top of the kitchen- stairs, " is master Tommy with you ? " " Bless you, no, ma'am. Ain't ho a-gambol- ing at the back? " " I can't see him anywhere." " I'm sure he was there half an hour ago." " Ue must have run down the road. IIow naughty of him ! What shall I do ? " " I'll send my Charley after him, ma'am. He'll bring him 'ome in no time. — Here, Charley, jest you get up, and go after the young gentleman, and bring him back to his breakkast. Now, look sharp, will you ? " " All right I Which way be I to go ? " ■' Why, both ways, m course. Go down to the village first. I dare say he's run oflf to the sweet-shop. He said he'd a mind to yesterday." " How tiresome of him ! " says Irene, but w ui , out any alarm. (What harm could eonii; tn Btui'dy fellow like Toinniy on a broad cduiiir road 1) " I'm sorry to give you the tioublc, JI,., Wells ; but he really is iuch a child ! " "You'll have your poor hands full with lijn, before another twelvemonth's over, ma'am ; ai..^ that's the truth," replies the woman, f:ooilti;i,. l)eredly ; and Irene's face blanches as the wall. back to the sitting-room and remembers that V- fore twelve hours are over she will probably Lavi nothing more to do with her trouljlesoniu liii;. darling, * • • • * I Lord Muiraven finds the walk to Cockkljun [ileasanter than he anticipated. There is Bom.. thing so exhilarating in the air of a keen fn.-'v morning that our troubles are apt to appear mii;i1;. cr or more bearable beneath its influence ; ami,, he traverses the short distance that lies bi twi. [ | him and Irene, (ho probability of seeing her a);;i is of itself suflicient to make the world Ui\ blighter to him. He recalls their early aflWti'r, and the interviews they had at Fen Court, aii(l,L.. ing gifted with as much capability of selfaiiiii. elation as the generality of his sex, feels alnn-; confident of his power to overcome, by argunkt: I or persuasion, whatever 8cru])le8 may have lik. tated her last letter to him. The leafless heil;:t.-( i cither side the road are garnished with hoar-fri:' the ground beneath his feet springs cri?p an! cheerily ; and as Muiravcn, with his hands in Li- pockets and a cigar between his teeth, stiid.- quickly along, he is in Cocklebury before 1., knows it. On the outskirts of the village lie scv. oral farm-houses, with their surrounding moailiv — in one of which, close to the road, is a la:. pond, just frozen over with a two days' frost. " Halloa ! " ho thinks, as his eye falls upc it; "that looks well. Another coui)lc sucll nights as the last, and it will bear. By Jou. I though, that won't do ; " and, coming suddcnlviol a stand-still, he regards something over the lieJp, ( The object that has attracted his attention is tie figure of a child, none other, indeed, than tlicrtl creant Tommy, who, having escaped from tlil cabbage-garden and the snails, has betliouglil him of revisiting the pond which excited his ennj so much the day before. On ho plods Eturdilyl through the wet grass, with footsteps evidentijf bent on trying the treacherous ice. Muiravcn fori the first moment sees only a child in danger of jI ducking, and calls out a loud warning from where I he stands ; and his voice, although unheeded, bail the effect of making Tommy raise his head befortl A HAPPY ACCIDKNT, 107 lie itL'ps upon tho ice. A.s liu does so, ho U i\'C- ognizeJ. Tho foavloss, saucy littlj fact', tho wii'o-opon eves, tlio cui'liu); hair, no lu.-is than Iht; hi;;h-lirc'il .lir of the uhiUI, and tho iiiaiinor in which ho id ittircil, all combine to make Muiraveii ruco^'nizo Iiii Bon, and a.s he docs ao, and ic.ili/.u.s his prol)- iliie danger, an anxious dread whiidi hu3 never hiiil covert there before, risics up in hi.s heart and m\n'i him feel that ho is a father. ^Vi^hout a M'mn-'nt's liesitation, he leaps over the lield-;,Mte, iiiJ runs through tho grass to save the chiltl. Cut Tommy is not to be outdone, lie sees tiiat ho is pursued, guesses his sport is to be spoilt, and, «ith all the energy that has charactenzcd tho N'orham blood for so many generations past, de- termiuca that he will not ho punished for noth- iag. Ono slide ho will have first — ouo delicious, Jaiigerous slide, as ho has seen tho boys of tho villa;,'e take down tlic fro/en gutters ; so, running Joliantly on to the forbidden playground, he sets 'Mi darling liitlo legs as wide apart as possible, and goes gallantly do.vn tho pond — oidy for about a hundred yards, however, wlun, meeting with some obstacle, his cciuilibrium is disturbed ; ! tumbles head over heel.-' f another mo- :iieat is floundering among the broken ice. Muir- aven, arrived at tho brink of tho pond, with uU tk baste ho can walks straight in alter him, cruihing and dispersing the ice riglit and left as lie goes. The water is not deep, and tho child is easily recovered, but as Muiraven brings him to the hank he is frightened to perceive he docs not stir. His eyes are closed, his mouth is half open, and from a cut across his forehead tho blood is ti'ickling down his faco in a thin red stream. The father'! heart stands still. What is tho matter ? What on earth should liave occasioned this ? Can ho bo dead / lie folds the boy closer in his arms as the iiorrible thought strikes him, and hurries onward to the village. The dripping state of Tommy's clothes and his own nether garments, wet up to the thighs, excite the curiosity of tho Cockleburi- ans, and he is soon surrounded by a little crowd of men and women all ready and anxions to direct liiin to Irene's lodgings. " Is there a doctor here ? " he demands hur- riedly. "Bless you, no, sir. We've no parish doctor nearer than the town ; and he only comes over Mondays and Thursdays." " Run on, then — any of you — as quick as you cm to Mi.'i. Mdidauiil, and till h>j.' (<> bavc lidt water and blankets ready for tho cliild. " In his anxiety for Tommy's well-ddiii^:, Muir- iivon docs ndt consider tlie agony wiili wliicli his intelligenco will bo received by livne, and half a dozen villagers, ciiger for a rewaid, tuar helter- skelter into Mrs. Wells's presence, to tell her " the young gentleman's been drownded, and she's to get a hot bath ready to put him in." Iiene, who is gelling fidgety about the child's continued alisence, is islanding in the staircase wlien the message is delivered. It strikes upon her heart like a bolt of ice. " What ! " she says in a voiee of horror. " Oh, my dear lady, don't take on ! " exclaims Mis. Wells, wringing her hands and " taking on," herself as much as is possible on t-o thort a no- tice; "but the ])oor dear cliild has got hisself in the pond, they're a-bringing him 'oine to you. Lord a' mi.Tcy ! but hero they are !" Irene does not scream — sho does not even speak ; but all the color forsakes her face as she stands there for a moment, with her hand pressed on her heart, as though, till that chooses to go on again, she could neither think nor act. Tiien she makes one or two f'ceblo steps t'oiward to meet Muiraven, wlio comes (juickly up tiie narrow, creaking staircase witli the boy in his urms. "tiivc — give — "she says faintly, us .-he en- counters him, and, without a word of explatiation, she presses his unconscious burden to her breast. She carries it, slowly but firmly, to the light, and then sinks down upon the floor in a kneeling posture, with the child stretched across her knees, " Oh, my lamb ! — my own lamb ! " she cries, in a voice of anguish that might pierce the heav- ens, " 110 one has the jjowcr to liike i/mi from mc tiow ! " And Muiraven, standing by her, hears the words. " Mamma," says Tommy, languidly, us though in answer to her appeal — " don't cry, mamma." Irene stares at the child. His eyes are open — a faint color is returning to his lips — he is oiicc more conscious. She screams with joy. "lie is not dead!" with rapid utterance. " Who said he was drowned ? Look ! — he smiles — he speaks to me. — Oh ! my cliild — my baby — my own darling ! God could not have had the heart to take you away." And thereupon she rocks him backward and forward violently in her arms, and cries a plenti- ful shower of tears above him that relieves her excited brain. 108 "NO INTENTIONH." MM " L'lr' bIc'.-H voii, my )>ic(ty di'nr ! Let tnc tiiko him rroiii ynii, imt'iini. Ilo miixt bo a «lonl too lii'iivy for your luiiis." " Let mo place li'iiii in tin- licil," rhvh Miiir- Rven, pcntiy. " No ! no ! I iim quite ublo to crtrry lilm," Ircno nnswi-rn, st«;.').'('ring to lii'i' ti'ut. " >fr-'. Wcll^, let me have tiie hot bath at once, or ho niny take n chill. — Make up the fire, Su.-an, and boil his lircaJ-anil-milk. — And maniiua will undress you. Tommy," nhe continues, in Hoft, cooinp neccntH to the child. " Mamma will take all thc.«o wet clothes oil' her little Tommy-boy, and put him in a nice warm bed, and tell him stories all day loiifr. .)h, my love ! my baby ! — what should I have done if I had lost yon! " And HO, nmrmuring, she passes with her bur- den from Muiraven's view into the adjoininp apartment, whence he is made copiizant, witliout jmrtaking of the nursery mysteries that ensue, and result in Master Tommy being tucked up very dry and warm nnd comfortable in ln'' nd apparently without any more injury than i .m- veyed by a strip of diaehyhm-plaster aiross his forehead. It is nearly an hour before Irene appears again, and Muiraven cannot help thinking she has made her absence longer than was necessary. As she enters the sitting-room she looks pale, harassed, a'ul wcarj'. All her fire has departed, to bo replaced by a nervous tremor that will hardly permit her to look him in the face. He meets li"r, holding out his hand. "At last, I suppose I may say, Mrs. Mordaunt, that I hope I see you well." " I am afraid I must have appeared very rude," she stammers ; " but the shock — the fright of this accident — " " Pray don't think it necessary to apologize. I can make every allowance for your forgetfulno.ss. It IS fortunate I was on the spot." " Then it was you ! I have heard nothing, remember. I have had no time even to inquire." " Oh, it was undoubtedly uic. I was taking a constitutional along the Coeklebnry high-road this morning, when I came upon the young rebel about to make an experiment in sliding. I shout- ed to him to stop ; but it was no use. lie would have his own way, so I had to go after him. It's lucky the water was Hot very deep nor the ice very strong, or I might not have fished him out in time. As it was, breaking the ice head-fore- moKt Rtunned hhii; and lunl there not been help at hand, I don't supposo you would liare seen ilio young g< ntleman again." He speaks indill'erently, as lliough tlic nmttir were not of much eonsefpietice to either of llitm; but dhe Is trembling all over willi gnititudo. "Oh, how can I thank you sullictcnily I— lion can I say all I feel at the child's recovery I ] shall never forgo* it ns long as I live," Tin n sIk remembers that ti.'" boy is his, and not hers, anl blushes at what may seem presumption, "You nui''t be very thankful too," she ail ' , timiilly, "Oh, of course — of course," lie says, tumin- away. He Is so bitterly disappointed at her rception of him. It seems as though she had forgnCii, every thing tliat has ever taken filaee belwir:, them. Hut it is coming back upoti her now oiilv too vividly. " I — I — Imve not oll'cred you any thing, Lord Muiravi'n," she says, glancing at the teapot an'l the toast-rack. " Have yon breakfasted ? " " Y.'s— thanks." "Won't you take another v\i\- of tea or 3 glass of w ine ? " " I don't care fiu' wine so early ; but, if I might venture to ask — if you have such a thins in the house as a little brandy ? " His teeth chatter as he 8i)c;iks. She looks kv quickly. " Are you no» m ell ? " " I feel slightly chilled — rothcr damp about tbe extremities, iu fact." She glances at his habiliments, and sees wiili horror that bis trousers are soaked through up to the waist. " C(",mI Heavens! Lord Muiraven. How did that happen ? Did you — you — fall in too ? " "Not exactly; but you can hardly expect a man to fish a child out of four feet of icci water and keep warm and i^-y at the Fan.i time." "And I never thought to ask if you required any thing!" Iler face turns red with shame, and witli a deeper feeling, that is half self-reproach and hall anxiety lest ho shoeld come to harm through lior neglect. " Oh, never mind me," ho answers, laconic.ally. " I shall do well enough ; ami I didn't expcd tliat you would think about it." " Lord Muiraven, please don't say that. Vhat can I do for you now ? You ought not to remain in those wet clothes. I know it is very danger. nEViVAL OF FouMr;a luvi:. I(!U " lio sav.=, tiimiii- ks. She looks dii er damp nhout tlic i if you required .,ii<. Shall I xonil u dkiii ti> tho 'Cuach nml llorsi'S ' for a chaiipo * " "No, timuk Jim. I think I'll hcttor n.llk lack niynolf. If you will nivc mo u ;;liis.'j of l.Miiily — " Hut he U niilvci-inf^ as ho spoaks. Sho (Urn to tho bill all cxclti'mont and i'iij^lt- «s npiin, and orderu tho servant to bring wliut l.e Jc.iil't'8. "Hut thiit is not nufllcifiit ! " sdi ■ cxcliilniii as : . Jrinkd the hiiindy — "I am »iii, that U nut -jllii'icnt. And I om so helpK'ss to do more fur t(i;i. Lord Muirav(;n, do po homo I It sfom* in- l;o-pit.ibIc to sny so; but I am Huro it will bo ttw; j.ifoiit thing to do. (io and gi.t dry cl()thL'.4 on Ivouatonce — oh! how you aro trombling! — mid ;o to bed, or do niiy thin;? thnt '\* nciOHrsary, I Yo'i sii'iuld take care of yourself for — for — evtuy. iKxly'a sake." lie turn.l and look'* lU her. '■ If I go, may I come a;,'ain ? " "For tho chihl ? "— ncrvouidy. " Oli, yes, of lonrso; but ho had better wait until to-morrow I n IV, bad he not V " "I should not tliink of moving him to-il;\y. I Till to-morrow, certainly; and perhaps I shall .-co yo'i before then. (!ood-moruing." lie walks down-staira almost abruptly, and ! avcs her to hcrsilf. As soon as he is ;;ono she \>Xi down and drinks her tea, and feels as thou^'h .•ho had but just wakened from some fearful mid- |ni;;Iit dream to find that it was morning'. *••••■ Tommy sleeps quietly for half tho day, and is I miraculously good the other balf. Tho cut upon Ibis forehead has made his bead ache, and he is Uislnclincd for any thing but to lie still and hoar I Irene read to him; and when ho is wearied of hint, and closes his eyes in sleep, she sits beside lliiiu offering up thanks to Heaven for his prrser- Ivation, and thinking, not without some qualms I of self-reproach, of tlic man whose claims to sym- Ipatliy she had almost ignored in her alarm about lliis son, but who is nevertheless, though she will iMot acknowledge it, ten thousand times dearer to llier than Tommy can ever hope to be. As she ;it3 in the darkened room recalling his features land the sad air with which he greeted her, her llioart pleads for him and for herself; and ,-hc I'poaks hi^ name in a fond low whisper, while slie Icntrcats him not to think hardly of her for her [reecption of liim. " If \on only knew, Eric I — pf you 01, y kn> >v' ! " she keeps on repeating, until pier fancif 1 colloquy resolves itself into tears. In the evening, whi u Tommy has fitiLdied hi,; Itea, sitting wrapped up in a shawl upon her knee \>\ I '. drawing-room lire, and ban lici'ii tarried back to bed ag.iiii, h i heart lcai>s to hear Muir- aveii's step iiMoii tho re- cover In rself, " wli"n wo chall never, luter be any thing but friends. It Kric! (>, niy love!" And then »\w falls to kissing Tommy till »hc nearly wakes him uj) again, "-Mrs. Mordaunt ! " «ay< Muir-iven llirnugU the hulf-closril door. " I am ciiming, L'M'd Muiiavcnl " And in » minute sho appears bcforo him, "I hope \w\ have f!iki-n no harm from your Inmicrsion thi^ morning. 1 have bei n reproaching niy-elf for my carelessness ever sinca ; b>it I never thought that you were wet." " Pray don't think nliotit it again. I iim nil right, How is tho boy V " "Qniti! well, thank voii. He i- aileep. Would you like to see himV" Hlie leads tlie way into tho next room, and they stand beside tho bed t'>'-:ether looking at the -leeping cliiM. Presently Miiirav( n sloops down, and kisses hin> upon the forehead. " Pool' little chap ! " he ?ays, softly. " Lucky lit lie ch ip, you moan," replies Irene, speaking far more cheerfully than she feels. " To have ymi to love him and look after him. Ye-." "!!(! will not h:iv(> that long. By-the-waf, Lord Muiiaven," as iliey return to the sitting- room, "please tell nn— I would rather know at onee — are you going to t il.i'him away to-morrow or the next day ? " " I don't want to take him away at all." " Hut under the cireunistances, eonsldorinij; that he is—" " Do you love him very much, Irene ? " " O Lord Sluiraven, you need not ask mc that ! You know — you vimt know — " Tears prevent her finishing tho sentence. " Thcp keep tho child. I have no wi.sFi to part you." She looks up in astonishment with sweet, wet eyes that make him tremble with e.agemcss to fold her in his arms ; but h > only moves his chair a little nearer to her own. " K<'rp him ! But how can I, knowing he is your lawful son? It couM not be for long, you see; in a very few years his education, hia wel- fare, his station in life, every thing would com- bine to part tis ; and I — forgive me for saying so — but I have had so many partings, I feel as if I could not undergo another. No ; it is best it should be as you first intemled. He is your heir. 170 "NO INTKXTION'." Talic liim away, and rear him tu bo u roiiifoi't to }'uu, i liiiw.' no loiii^iT lot nor piirt iu liiiii." "Initio! Irtiiu! 1 ciiiiiiot Ijcar tlie.Ho Iimiih."' " I iiiii vi'i')' weak to l< t tlu'iu lIoH', 1 diiln't iiii'un it ; but you know how Imrd it i.'t for a \voni> itii to ri'.itraiu thciii. Don't h't uh (H.^vuHrf tho MMttcr uiiy iiioi'c. lli.'i cicitiiL'.'t aru nil inii'lviil iinil roady to jjo, uml I — I itiii micly to n'.ii;^a liim." '• Von lovo him (ilMinut no well us if yiiu wtic lii.s nioilirr." " I llilnlv almost as woll." " Vou have lw(>|)t uiid loolt a secret from the world aiid my own father, and dared not divulge even to youiself '/ And can you wonder, after what has passed between un, tiiat, finding myself once more free, you find me here? " lie has clasped botli arms around her waist, and flung himself upon the ground before her ; and bIio has placed her hands upon his hair, and, with blurred and misty siglit, is gazing blindly into the depths of the violet eyes that are fixed so passionately upon her own. " Irene, my darling, my angel, answer me. Are you to be mine J " " Yours ? " she says, dreamingly. •' Yes, mine — my wife — my very own forever ! Think of the years I have been waiting for tlii.s happiness, and don't keep me in suspense." But she startles him by suddenly leaping from her chair like one possessed. "Ob, I never thought! I never dreamed," she says rapidly, in a kind of feverish delirium, " that it was ilutt that separated us. — Tommy, Tommy, wo shall never part again ! " and thereupon the leaves her lover standing by himself, and, running to the next room, falls weeping on his child. Muiruvcn, with u cotiiicul look of dinappoin:. nient cm hi* face, follows and HiitmU betide Int. " I've not liad an amwer to my iiue-llon," L' nays, presinily. She turns in all luv fiank, glowing m. it appeared a very incomprehensible sort of Ihj.. ne>'s to you, and, until the work came to un in! and the sock appeared iu its proper person, y . would have been pii/.zled to decide how on c.ii: it was ever going to turn into a soek at all. TL first few rows, with the exception of a stitili ui!i ed here or decreased there, go smoothly nii)ii(;!i but whcnit comes to the toe and heel cii.-i-t it : a|iparently all inextricublo confusion, until t: last (titch is knitted and tho worker cai/i r Knitting a sock and unraveling the plot of a i ,:. Kutional novel, are two very bimilur lhing:<. i; has been dillicult at times, I dare say, to trace (t- reason of some of the actions iu this jiresi.!.; story, and tho "too and heel crisis" wu.«, I tliink, a "regular stumper;" but I trutit tin:] all has been explained to the satisfaction the reader. And now tho last stitch is kiiiit'.i.l and I am about to cast olT, I should like ! leave my tale just where it is, ond my hero a: heroine just where ihcy are; for, since antitip;- tion is invariably better than reality, I am (i:t they have reached their climax of happiiu." But there are other people connected with tix! story, in whom perhaps some interest may liav.l been awakened, and therefore I will throw n.;- Hclf into tho highest condition (all novelists ii clairvoyants), and tell you what I sec happeiii:;[ in a year to come. Oliver Mordaunt is living at Fen Court v'.tl his aunt Isabella, and they really get on wonJi | fully together. Hiuco Irene has lived at Bcrni.i Castle he has conquered his ontipathy to holili ; Colonel Mordaunt's property ; yet ho dwh'- that ho Bliall never marry, but leave it to I: eldest son. Koua verrona. Doubtless it is EiI the first vow that Fen Court has seen rcgistin- and broken. One thing is certain, however, 5l:i Quekctt's baneful presence will darken its wal no more. The house-keeper is still living u|":| her dear Lady Baldwin, and other fashiouali patronesses, of whose secrets she basbocome p^H sessed, and will not let them forget the circu::'| lUKNK AS LADV MIIKAVEX. 171 iiok of Mitifusioii, until r lu woiUlt cdiiU ■;■ 1J5 the i>Iot ulii 1 ■. • bimilur tUinj,':'. \: larc say, to tnni' ;:. ma in tliis iiiist:.: L'cl cris'w " " a^ i " but I trust tk;| lliu satisfaction n ubt stitch is kiiiil.;, r, I bIiouIU like ; s, and my lioro w , for, since nutiiii.] I reality, I am s iuiax of liiippiiit ■. onncctcd with tin: ! interest may liav. ro 1 will throw n'i on (;ill novelists a: lat I SCO happciii:: at Fen Court i^ ::j lally get on woni I has lived at licivi i] antipathy to hdliii : r; yet ho dccl;U' but leave it to I: Doubtless it 'a f baa seen rcgistin- irtain, however, M:'| •ill darken its vi- ■ is still living ui>: I other fashioual' she has become P' :■ forget the circus- it mcc. Painlul M lh>' revelatiiiu <»f IiIh liirlh )iruvi'il to him, Ulivvr woithl n^it lake back liU iiiicr l;,'noninc(', wiTo it In l>c coupled with n servant's tyranny, lie hat laivl that giio.^t, once iinJ fiircvor, for tho Lolue«t*?wliire M'udnunt.i. Ji)tl fiay i* inarrie.l, and tho po,<^o9sor of a vei'V ni'at littli- faruj on the out^kiit.i of I'riestley, nlicro liii mollier and her family live with hiiu. ||i!i love for hi.H comiii wm true cnou;,'h whiio it UstcJ; but, with tho disvovcry that sho had not It' I'll more wninj^ed than her husiiaiid, sonio of hii chivalry «Ued out, UoeH that fact lower him in the opinion of my n'ailers? He had u lar^u an'l (teiii'rou:) heau — why sliould itrt nll'ectioni* III' nil wasted on tlio dead, while the livini^ lived to benefit Sy them? It did not take long to secure Lord Norham's liri{ivene.-d for his son's delinqueney, and ho wel- comed Irene with all tho afl'ectioii of a father, Mil tho pride of a nobleman who rejoices in the |iiospect of secinj; his ancient lino carried on liy a woman who would adorn any station in life. Tho Ilonorablo Tommy, much Pjioilt, pas.ics hii life with his grandfather at Uerwick Castle; but Lord and Lady Mulraven spend much of their time in London, or iu visiting their friends and re- lution;4, niakin;; up iu f.ict, fur the lun;;and wear; widowhood during wiilch they were divided. .\re they iiappy ? .Ui ! my friends, i.i onvbody happy in this will id ? Don't try to peer too cloiely into Irene's second married life, lest yon should bo disap- liointi'il. You expect mo much fir your charactera of fiction— .xo little (if you nro reasonable) for yourselves. She loves lier lui-hand as devoleilly as it is possilile for one huni;in beinf? to love another — she would not have him in any particu- lar diirercnt from what he is — she could not hn- nj^'ino the horror of ha vin;,' her life separated from his own. And yet — And yet (if there have not already lieeii) I havo no doubt there often will be times when hhe will wonder how she could have made herself so ut- terly mlserablo without him. The fact U, no creature in tho world is worth the lui.^cry of anoth'T creature's life. We jiine for them, we rave after them, we strain every iiius(de — .'ome. times wo commit every sin to attain lliem — and when the <;old lies in our hand, it turns to asho and dead leaves. Ah ! mortals, take love when it comes to yon — thankfully — admiringly. If you will; but never sin to gras^p it. The only love which satisfies in the attain- ment is the love in whose presence sin must not be named. THE K X D .