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'Wl ff m 'j^ji 1 B i ^tmai.ijjcti lEijitloR unas i;ii; MOUNT ROYAL a BaM BY THE AUTTrOn OF "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRJ-rr," "VIXEN," " ISriMAEL," ETC. ETC. ETC. ^tereotsprlr miitian LONDON: JOHN AND ROBERT MAXWELL MILTON HOUSE. 14 k 15, SHOE LANE. FLEET STKEET AND 35, ST. BRIDE STREEl, LUDOATi; onjCTrs. E.G. [All rights reserved] 674 o o o .^ O ;»» ///^^ CONTENTS. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. SIII. XIV. XV. XVI. xvu. VAoa The Days that are No More .... 6 But then came One thi-: Lovelace of his Day 18 'TiNTAuiiL, Half in Sea, and Half on Land" •...,.. 30 ' Love ! Thou art Leading Me from Wintry Cold' 45 'The Silver Ansjver Eang,— "Not Death-' BUT Love"' 55 In Society ........ ei CuriD AND Psyche . . ... ,83 Le Secret de Polichinelle .... 94 'Love is Love for Evermore' . . . .113 'Let Me and My Passionate Love go by" . 122 'Alas for Me then, My Good Days are I^'^NE' J28 'Grief a Fixed Star, and Joy a Vane that V EKRS • , , 1 Ql 'Love will have His Day' . . . .140 'But Here is One who Loves You as of ^^^' •••••.... 155 ' That Lip and Voice are Mute for Ever ' . 166 'Not the Gods can Shake the Past' . .172. 'I HAVE PUT My Days AVn TIrvamo nrrm «™ iv ContenU. CHIP. PAOB xviii. 'And Talr from the Past we Draw Nian Tuek' 185 XIX. 'But it Sufficetii, that the Day will Eni>' 201 • XX. 'Who Knows Not Circe?' .... 216 XXI. 'And Time is Setting Wi' Me, O' . . 229 XXII. 'With such Remorseless Speed Still Come New Woes' 2.3-1 xxiii. 'Yours on Monday, God's to-dat' . . 243 XXIV. Duel or Murder? 250 XXV. * Dust to Dust ' 255 XXVI. 'Pain for Thy Girdle, and Sorf.ow upon TiiY Head' 265 XXVII. 'I Will have no Mercy on Him' . . 269 xxvin. ' Gai Donc, la Voyageusk, au Coup du Pelerin ! ' 283 XXIX. * Time Turns the Old Days to Derision ' . 288 XXX. ' Thou siiouldst come like a Fury Crowned with Snakes' 299 XXXI. ' His Lady Smiles ; Delight is in Her Face' 305 XXXII. * Love bore such Bitter and such Deadly Fruit' 318 xxxiii. 'She Stood up in Bitter Case, with a Pale yet Steady Face' .... 330 xxxiv. We havb Done with Tears and Treasons . 346 MOUNT ROYAL. CUMBER I. THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORB. • And he was a widower,' said Cliristabel. She was listening to an oft-told tale, kneelinp; in the firelight, at her aunt's knee, the ruddy ^dow tenderly toucliing her fair soft hair and fairer forehead, her big blue eyes lifted lovingly to Mrs. Tregonell's face. ' And he was a widower. Aunt Diana,* she repeated, with an expression of dist;iste, as if something had set her teeth on edge. * I cannot help wondering that you could care for a widower — a man who had begun life by caring for somebody elso.' ' Do you suppose any one desperately in love ever thinks of tlie past I ' asked another voice out of the twilight. ' Those in- fntiuiteil creatures called lovers are too happy and contented with the rapture of the present.' ' One would think you had tremendous experience, Jessie, by the way you lay down the law,' said Christabel, laughing. * But I want to know what Auntie has to say about falling in love with a widower.' ' If you had ever seen him and known him, I don't think you would wonder at my liking him,' answered Mrs. Tre^onell, lying back in her armchair, and talking of the story of her life in a placid way, as if it were the plot of a novel, so thoroughly does time smooth the rough edge of grief. ' When he came to my fatiier's house, his young wife had been dead just two years — she died three days after the birth of her first child — and Captain Hamleigh was very sad and grave, and seemed to take very little pleasure in life. It was in the shooting season, aad the other men were out upon the hills all day.' ' Murdering innocent birda,' interjected Christabel. * How I hate them for it ! ' 'Captain Hamleigh hung about the house, not seeming to know very well what to do with himself, so your mother ^ Mov/nt Royal. aiid 1 took i>hy upon him, imd tiietl to amuHo him, which (effort H'sulted in iuh auiiiHin^ us, for liu was cvrr ho much cleverer than wo were. lie was ho kind and sympathetic. We had just founded a Dorcas Society, and W(( wer(? nuiddlinj{ fiopeh'ssly in an endeavour to make ^'ood sensil tie rules, .so that SVC Hliouid do nothing to lessen tlu! indei)endent foelin;,' of our M'oj)le and h(! came to our nistnie, and took the whole thinj* in Kind, and siu'iiied to imderstand it all as thorou;^dily Jis if he had heen establishing Dorcas Societies all Ids life. My father said it wa.s because the Captain had been sixth wrangler, and that it 1 ■.vas the higher mathematics which made him so clever at making rules, liut CTuira and 1 said it was his kind heart that made liim so quick at understanding how to help the poor without humiliat- ing them.' ' It was very nice of him,' said Christalx^l, who had heard the story a hnndred times before, but who was never weary of it, and had a special reason for being inteiested this afternoon. ' And so he st.ayed a long time at my grandfather's, and you fell in Itive with him V ' I began by being sorry for him,' rei)lied Mrs. Ti-egonell. ' He told us all about his young wife — liow happy thev had been —how their ••.3 year of wedded life seemed to him like a lovely dream. They had only been engaged three months ; he had known her less than a year and a half altogether; had come home from India ; had seen her at a friend's Jiouse, fallen in love with her, married her, and lost her within those eighteen months. ' Everything smiled upon us,' he said. * I ought to have remembered Polycrates and his ring.* ' He must have been rather a doleful person,' said Christabel, who had all the exacting ideas of early youth in relation to love and lovers. ' A widower of that kind ought to perform suttee, and make an end of the business, rather than go about the world prosing to nice girls. I wonder more and more that you could have cared for him.' *Aiid then, seeing her aunt's eyes shining with unshed tears, the girl laid her sunny head upon the matronly shoulder, and murmured tenderly, * Forgive me for teasing you, dear, I am only pretending. I love to hear about Captain Ham- leigh ; and I am not very much surprised that you ended by loving him— or Hlat he soon forgot his brief dream of bliss with the other young lady, and fell desperately in love with you.' * It was not till after Christmas that we were engaged,' con- tinued Mrs. Tregonell, looking dreamily at the fire. ' My father was delighted — so was my sister Clara — your dear mother. Everything went pleasantly ; our lives seemed all sunshine. I ought to nave remembered Polycrates, for I knew Schiller'a ballad about him by heart. But I could think of nothing beyond that perfect all-sufficing happiness. We were not to be married m, which HO much jpathctic. iiiu(l(lliii<^ 's, H(» that i;,' of our '■ thiiifj ill if ho had icr Haiti it 1(1 thai it ,t making nadc him humiliat- lieard the ■iry of it, ftcrnoon. I you fell 'rofronell. had been a lovely he had ad come II in love months, to have iristabel, to love n suttee, le world 3U could shining latronJy ing you, n Ham- ided by iss with »u.' id,' con- r father mother, ine. 1 chiller's beyond narried ■■-m The Days that are No More. f till late in the autumn, when it wouKl be three yearn Hinco hm wife's death. It waH my father's wisti that 1 should not be III irried till after my nineteenth birthday, which would lUDt be till September. I w.i.s so hiippy in my i'nLr.it^ement, so oontident ill my Invev's fidelity, that 1 was more tli;iii content to wait. Sit all that spring he stayed'ilt J'enlwe. Our iniM climate had iiiijintved his health, which was not at nil good when ho cainr to us — iiwleed he had retired from the serviei- before his marrisige, cliietly on account of weak he.-ilth. JJutlie spok»^ so lightly ami coiititlently about himself in this mattei', that it had never entered into my head to feel any serious alarm about him, till ,aily in May, when he .ind Clara and I were caught in a drench- ing rainstorm during a mountaineering ex])e to a certain point, suggested a course of lessons from a German professor at Ply- mouth, the gill recoiled from the idea of being tfiught by a stranger. ' If you are satisfied with my playing, Auntie, I am content never to play any better,' she said ; " so the idea of six months' tuition and study at Plymouth, involving residence in that lively port, was abandoned. London was a far-away world, of which neither aunt nor niece ever thought. That wild northern coast is still two days' journey from the metropolis. Only by herculean .abour, in the way of posting across the moor in the grey dawn of morning, can the thing be done in one day ; and then scarcely between sunrise and sunset So Mrs. Tregonell, who loved a life of placid repose, had never been to London since her widowhood, and Christabel hswi never been there at all. There was an old house in Mayfair, which had belonged to the Tregonells for the last hundred years, and which had cost them a fortune in rejiairs, but it was either shut up and in the occupation of a c;\retaker, or let furnished for the season ; and no Tregonell had crossed its threshold since the Squire's death. Mrs. Tregonell talked of spending a sertson in London before Christabel was much older, in order that her niece might be duly presented at Court, and qualified for that place in society which a young lady df good family and ample means might fairly be entitled U< tiold. The Days that are No More. 15 ipations in liddle-aged h she bore ed pleasure 3d women. 3man as it its idol in mge liglit.s loved lur onifortable I who has her pupil : Tregonell ; rements of intellectual le taint of books her most part, when Mrs. tain point. - at Ply- Light by a m content months' lat lively of which n coast is lerculean rey dawn n scarcely )V6d a life dowhood, as an old Is for the in rq»airs, etaker, or ossed its talked of ch oldei, ,t Court, mg lad} [titled t« Christabel had no eai;or desire for the gaieties of a London season. She had spent six weeks in Bath, and had enjoyed an occasional fortnight at Plymouth. She Lad been taken to theatres and concerts, had seen some of the best actojcs and actresses, heard a good deal of the finest music, and had been duly delighted with all she saw and heard. But she so fondly loved Mount Royal and its surroundings, she wtis so completely happy in her home life, that she had no desire to change that tranquil existence. She had a vague idea that London balls and parties must be something very dazzling and brilliant, but she was content to abide her aunt's pleasure and convenience for the time in which she was to know more about metropolitiin revelries than was to be gathered from laudatory j)aragraphs in fjishionable newspapers. Youth, with its warm blood ancl active spiiit, is rarely so contented as Christiibel was : but then youth is not often placed amid such harmonious circumstiinces, so protected from the approach of evil. Christabel Courtenay may have thought and talked more about Mr. Ilamleigh durin;j the two or tltree days that preceded his arrival than was al)sohitely necessary, or strictly in accord- ance with that common-sense which characteiized most of her acts and thoughts. She was interested in him upon two grounds — first, because he was the only son of the man her aunt had loved and mourned ; secondly, because he was the lirst stranger who had ever come aa a guest to Mount Royal. Her aunt's visitors were mostly people whose faces she had known ever since she could remember : there were such wide potentialities in the idea of a perfect stranger, who was to be domiciled at the Mount for an indefinite period. * Suppose we don't like him ? ' she said, speculatively, to Jessie Bridgeman, Mrs. Tregonell's housekeeper, companion, and fac- totum, who had lived at Mount Royal for the last six years, coming there a girl of twenty, to make herself generally useful in small girlish ways, and proving herself such a clever manager, so blight, competent, and far-seeing, that she had been gradually entrusted with every household caie, from the largest to the most minute. Miss Bridgeman was noithei' brilliant nor accomplished, but she had a genius for homely things, and she was admirable as a companion. The two girls were out on the hills in the early ai^^uran morning — hills that were golden where the sun touched them, purple in the shadow. The heather was fadin;^', the patches of furze-Llossom were daily growing rarer. Yet the hill-sides were alive with light and colour, only less lovely than the translucent blues and gi-eens of yonder wide-stretching sea. 'Suppose we should all dislike him'?' repeated Christabel, digging the point of her walking-stick into a ferny hillock on the 16 MoJint Eoyal. y\\V in Hi' I topmost e(lf,'C of a deep c-lctt in tlie liill^, on \vhiili cnniniaiuHnff spot nho had just talu'ii liur stand, aft(>f lionndiiiL,' up llio nairow path from the littlo wooden bridge at the bottom of the glen, almost as quickly .and as lightly as if she had been one of the deeply ruddled sheep that sjjont their lives on those precipitious slopes ; * wouldn't it be too dreadful, Jessie ? ' *It would be inconvenient,' answered Miss Bridgeman, coolly, resting both hands on tlio horny crook of her sturdy nmbrella, and gazing placidly seaward ; ' but we could cut him. * Not without ort'ending Auntie. She is sure to like him, for the sake of Auld Lang Syne. Every look and tone of his will recall his father. But we may detest him. And if he should like Mount Royal very much, and go on staying there for ever ! Auntie asked him for an indefinite period. She showed me her letter. I thought it was rather too widely hospitable, but I did not like to say so.' ' I always say what I think,* said Jessie Bridgeman, dog- gedly. * Of course you do, and go very near being disagreeable in consequence.' Miss Bridgeman's assertion was perfectly correct. A sturdy truthfulness w;us one of her best qualiiications. She did not volun- teer unfavourable criticism ; but if you asked her opinion upon any subject you got it, without sophistication. It was her rare n)erit to have lived with Mi's. Tregonell and ChristaT)el Courtenay six years, dependent upon their liking or c.iprice for all the com- forts of her life, without having degenerated into a flatterer. * I haven't the slightest doubt as to your liking him,' said Miss Bridgeman, decisively. ' He has spent his life for the most pai t in cities — and in good society. That I gather from your aunt's account of him. He is sure to be much more interesting and agreeable than the young men who live near here, whose ideas are, for the most part, strictly local. But I very much doubt his liking Mount IJoyal, for more than one week.' 'Jessie,' cried Christabel, indignantly, Miow can he help likijig this?' She waved her stick across tlie autumn landscape, describ- ing a circle which included the gold and bronze hills, the shadowy gorges, the bold headlands curving away to Hartlaud on one side, to Tintage' on the other — Lundy Island a dim line of dun colour OQ the horizon. * No doubt he will think it beautiful — in the abstract. He will rave about it, compare it witli the Scottish Higlilands — with Wales — with Kerry, declare three Cornish hills the crowning glory of Britain. But in three days he will begin to detest a place where there is only one post out and in, and where he has to wait till next day for his morniiig paper' * What can he want with newspapers, if ho is enjoying his life >\i w| p;i fo IH f//c Days that a^-c No More. 17 luiiaiidinc the glen, lie of the •ecipitioua ridgeman, ler sturdy cut him. e him, for ^f his will he should for ever ! ed me her , but I did man, dog- Teeable in A sturdy not volun- iiiion upon i her rare Courtenay 1 the com- terer. said Miss most part our aunt's sting and lose ideas doubt his |elp likiiT^ ;, descrilj- shadowv one side, |un colon 1 -act. He Ids — with crowning detest a Ire he has [g his life with us] I am sure there are books enough at Mount Royal He need not expire for want of 8om(!thiiig to read.' *Do you suppose that books — the best and noblest that evei* were written — can make uj) to a man for the loss of his daily paper? If you do, otl'er a man Shakespeare when he is looking for the Daily Telefjraph, or C'liauccr wIkmi he wants his TimtSy and see what he will say to you. Men don't want to read now- adays, but to know — to be posted in the very latest movements of their fellow-men all over the universe, lleuter's cohimn is all anybody really cares for in the paper. The leaders and the criticism are only so much padding to fill the sheet. People would be better pleased if there were nothing but telegrams.' * A man who only reads newspapers must be a most vapid com- panion,' said Christabel. ' Hardly, for he Wiust be brim full of facts.' ' I abhor facts. Well, if Mr. Hamleigh is that kind of person, I hope he may be tired of the Mount in less than a week.' , She was silent and thoughtful as they went home l)y the monastic churchyard in the hollow, the winding lane and steep village street. Jessie had a Tregonell's pensioners, who lived in a to carry to one of Mrs. cottage in the lane ; but Christabel, who was generally pleased to show her fair young face ia such abodes, waited outside on this occasion, and stood in a profound reverie, digging the point of her stick into the loose oarth of the mossy bank in front of her, and seriously damaging the landscape. ' I hate a man who does not care for books, who does not love our dear English poets,' she said to herself. * But I must lint say that before Auntie. It would be almost like saying that I hated my cousin Leonard. I hope Mr Hamleigh ^viil be- just a little different from Leonard. Of course he will, if his life has been spent in cities ; but then he may be languid and su})er- cilious, looking upon Jessie and me as inferior creatures ; and that would be worse than Leonard's roughness. For we all know what a good heart Leonard has, and how warmly attached he is to us.* Somehow the idea of Leonard's excellent heart and affeC' tionate disposition was not altogether a pKasant one. Christabel shuddered ever so faintly as she stood in the lane thinking of her cousin, who had last been heard of in the Fijis. She banished his image with an effort, and returned to her coneideration of [that unknown quantity, Angus Hamleigh. * I am an idiot to be making fancy pictures of him, when at {seven o'clock this evening I shall know all about him for good or evil,' she said aloud, as Jessie came out of the cottag#, which I nestled low down in its little garden, with a slate for a doorstepb i/ll: 18 Mount Boyal. and ft slate standing on ond at each si Jo of the door, for boundary line, or ornament. 'All that in to loe known of the outside of him,' HJiid Jessie, answering the girl's outspoken thought. ' If ho is really worth knowing, his mind will need a longer study.' * I think I shall know at the first glance if he is likeable,* replied Christabel ; and then, with a tremendous eflfort, she contrived to talk about other things as they went down the High Street of Boscastle, which, to people accustomed to a level world, is rather trying. With Christabel the hills were enly an excuse for flourishing a Swiss walking-stick. The stick was altogether needless for support to that light well-balanced figure. J essie, who was very small and slim and sure-footed, always carried her stout little umbrella, winter or summer. It was her vade-mecum —good against rain, or sun, or mad bulls, or troublesome dogs. She would have scorned the affectation of cane or alpenstock ; but the sturdy umbrella was v^ry dear to her. m CHAPTER II. BUT THEN CAME ONE, THE LOVELACE OF HIS PAT. Although i.aigu» Hamleigh came of a good old west country family, he had never been in Cornwall, and he approached that remote part of the country with a curious feeling that he was turning his back upon England and English civilization, and entering a strange wild land where all things would be different; He would meet with a half-barbarous people, perhaps, rough, unkempt, ignorant, brutal, speaking to him in a strange language '—such men as inhabited Perthshire and Inverness before civili- zation travelled northward. He had accepted Mrs. Tregonell's invitati«n out of kindly feeling for the woman who had loved his father, and who, but for that father's untimely death, might have been to him as a second mother. There was a strong vein of sentiment in liis character, which responded to the sentiment betrayed unconsciously in every line of Mrs. Tregonell's letter. His only knowledge of the father he had lost ifi infancy had come to him from the lips of others, and it pleased him to think that here was one whose memory must be fresher than that of any other iri'f.vl in whose mind liis father's image murjt needs be as a living thing. He had all his life cherished a re>ji:etful fondneas for that unknown father, whose shadowy picture ho had vainly tried to recall among the first faint recollections of babyhood — the dim dreamland of half -awakened consciousness. lie had frankly aud promptly accepted Mxa. TregoneU's ih^n- )i > boundary Lid Jessie, illy worth 1 likeable,' jflFort, she L the High ivel world, an excuse altogether re. J essie, jarried her ade-mecum some dogs, dpenstock ; est country )ached that lat he was zation, and different aps, rough, e language "ore civili- Tregonell's had loved jath, might trong vein sentiment ell's letter, iifancy had ■a to think an that of ;t needs be re)jX*etful picture ho lections of liouaness. lell's ii,«*^* But then came One, the Lovelace of his Day. 19 tation ; yet he felt that in going to immure hitnsolf in an >Itl manor house for a fortniglit — anything less than a fort- fit^ht would have been uncivil — he .was dooming liimself to int'tfable boredom. Beyond that pious pleasure in parental reminiscences, there could be no possible gratitication for a man of the world, who wjw not an ardent sportsman, in such a place as Mount Royal. Mr. Ilamleigh s instincts were of the town, towny. His pleasures were all of an intellectual kind. He had never degraded himself by vulgar profligacy^ but he liked a life of excitement and variety ; he had always lived at high pressure, and among people posted up to the liiat moment of the world's history — people who drank the very latest plejisure cup which the Spirt of the Age — a Spirit of ))assiug frivolity — had invented, were it only the newest brand jf champagne ; and who, in their e<'igerneas to gather the roses o! life, out.itrij)ped old Time himself, and grew old in advance of their age. He had been contemplating a fortnight in Paris, ;ia the fii-st stage in his journey to Monaco, when Mrs. Tregonell's letter altered his plans. This was not the first time she had asked him to Mount Royal, but on previous occasions his engage- ments had seemed to him too imperative to be foregon j, and he had iegietfully declined her invitations. But now the flavour of life had grown somewhat Vt.pid for him, and he was giattsf ul to anyone who would turn his thoughts and fancies into a new direction. ' I shall inevitably be bored there,' he said to himself, when he had littered the railway carriage with newspapers accumulated ou the way, 'but I should be bored anywhere else. When a man begins to feel the pressure of the chain upon his leg, it cannot much matter where his walks lead him : the very act of walking is his punishment.' When a man comes to eight-and-twenty years of age — a mar who has had very little to do in this life, except take his ple;isur« — a great weariness and sense of exhaustion is apt to close round him like a pall. The same man will be ever so nruch fresher I in mind, will have ever so much more zest for life, when he comes to be forty — for then he will have entered upon those [calmer enjoyments of middle age which may last him till he is eighty. But at eight-and-twenty there is a death-like calmness lof feeling. Youth is gone. He has consumed all the first-fruits [of life — spring and summer, with their wealth of flowers, are [oyer ; only the quiet autumn remains for him, with her warm [browns and dull greys, and cool, moist breath. The fires upon [youth's altars have all died out — youth is dead, and the man who [was young only yesterday fancies that he might as well be dead '30. What is there left for him ? Can there be any charm in us life when the lo©ker-on has grey hair and wrinkles ? Having notkiiig in life to do except seek his own plsaaure i' 20 Mo7int Royal. a and Hj)enJ his ample income, Anf^ua Hamloi^Tli had imturall.y takd'ii the tinu^ of lifo's \\vay(i\\ prentisHmo. lie bad never paused m hi.s lo.se-gatliering to wonder whether thens might not be a few thorns amontj the flowers, and whether he might not find tliem — afterwards. And now the blosHoms were all withered, and he was beginning to discover the lasting (juality of the thorns. They were such thorns as inter- fered somewhat with the serenity of his days, and he was ghid to turn his face westward, away from everybody he knew, or who knew anything about him. * My character will present itself to Mrs. Tregonell as a blank page,' lie said to himself ; * I wonder what slio would think of me if one of my club gossips had enjoyed a (juiet evening's tidk with her beforehand. A dear friend's analysis of one's character and conduct is always so flattering to both ; and 1 have a plea- sant knack of oliending my dearest friends ! ' Mr. Hamleigh beg?^ . to look about him a little when the train had left Plymoutn. The landscape was wild and romantic, but had none of that stern ruggedness which he ex))ected to behold on the Cornish Border. i)eep glens, and wooded dells, with hill-sides steep and broken, but verdant to their topmost crest, and the most wonderful oak coppices that he ever remem- bered to have seen. Miles upon miles of oak, as it seemed to him, now sinking into the depth of a valley, now mounting to the distant sky line, while from that verdant undulating surface of young wood there stood forth the giants of the giove — wide- spreading oak and towering beech, the mighty growth of many centuries. Between Lidford and Launceston the scenery grew tamer. He had fancied those deep ravines and wooded heights the prelude to a vast and awful symphony, but Mary Tavy and Lifton showed him only a pastoral landscape, with just so much wood and water as would have served for a Creswick or a Con- stable, and with none of those grand Salvatoresque effects which he had admired in the country round Tavistock. At Launceston he found Mrs. Tregonell's landau waiting for him, with a pair of powerful chestnuts, and a couple of servants, whose sieat brown liveries had nothing of that unsophisticated semi- savagery which Mr. Hamleigh had expected in a place so remote. ' Do you drive that way 1 ' he asked, pointing to the almost perpendicular street, ' Yes, sir,' replied the coachman. ' Then I think I'll stroll to the top of the hill while you are putting in my portmanteaux;,' he said, and ascended the rustic Btreet at a leisurely pace, looking about him as he went. The thoroughface which leads from Launceston Station to th* ruined castle at the top of the hill is not an imposing pronienade. Its architectural features might perhaps be beet described lik« But then came One^ the Lovelace of his Day, 21 the BiiakeH of Ireland jis nil — but here and there aii old-fa.shioned lattice witlu a row of ilower-|)otH, an ancient gable, or a bit of cottage garden hints at the picture8({ue. Any late additions to the domestic architecture of Launcenton favour the unpretending HsefidnesH of ("aindeu Town rather than the aspiring iHstheticisni of Chelsea or Bedford I'urk ; but to Mr. ll.indeighs eye the rugged old ciiatle keep on tiie top of the hill made anu'iids. Ho wius not an ardent arc^hu'ologist, and he did nut turn out of hid way to see Launceston (Church, which might well have rewarded him for his trouble. He w;is content to have spared those good- looking chestnuts the labour of dragging him u[) the steep. Here they came springing up the hill He took his place in the (^irriage, pulled tlio fur rug over his knees, and ensconced liMU- self comfortably in the roomy back seat. ' This is a sybaritish luxury which I was not prepared for,' ho said to himselt. ' I'm afraid I shall be rather more bored than I ex|)ected. I thought J\Irs. Tregonell and her surroundings would at le.'ist have the merit of originality. Rut here is a carriage that must have been built by I'eters, and liveries that suggest the sartorial excellence of (.'onduit Street or Savile Row.' Ho watched the landscajfe with a critical eye, prepared for disappointment and disillusion. IMrst a country road between tall ragged hedges and steep banks, a road where every now and then the ))ranches of the trees hung low over the wvrriage, and threatened to knock the coachman's hat off. Then they came out Ml)ou the wide waste of moorland, a thousand feet above the sea level, and Mr. Hamleigh, acclimatized to the atmosphere of club- lious(!s, buttoned his overcoat, drew the black lur rug closer about him, and shivered a litth^ as the keen breath of the Atlantic, sweeping over far-reaching tracts of hill and heather, blew round him. Far and wide ;is his gaze could reach, ho saw uo sign of human kabitation. Was the land utterly forsaken 1 No ; a little farther on they p;issed a hamlet so insignificant, so isolated, that it seemed rather as if half a dozen cottages had dropped from the sky than that so lenely a settlement could be the result of deliberate liuman Inclmation Never in Scotland or Ireland had Mr. Handeigh seen a more barren landscape or a poorer soil ; yet those wild wastes of heath, those distant tors were passing beautiful, and the air he breathed was more in- spiring and exhilarating than the atmosphere of any vaunted health-resort which he had ever visited. ' I think I might live to middle age if I were to pitch my tent on this Cornish j:)lateau,' he thought ; * but, then, there are so many things in this life that are worth more than mere length of days.' He asked the names of the hamlets they passed. This lonely church, dedicated to St. David — whence, oh ! whence came the 22 Mount Boyal. '\ ■>• i|tl::i i congregation — belonged to the parish of Davidstowe ; and her© there was a holy well ; and here a Vicarage ; and there— oh ! crowning evidence of civilization — a post-office ; and there a farm-house ; and that was the enfl of Davidstowe. A little later they came to cross roads, and the coachman touched his hat, and saia, * This is Victoria,' as if he were naming a town or settlement of some kind. Mr. Hamleigh looked about him, and beheld a low-roofed cottage, which he assumed to be some kind of public- house, possibly capable of supplying beer and tobacco ; but other vestige of human habitation there was none. He leant back in the carriage, looking across the hills, and saying to himself, ' Why, Victoria ? ' Was that unpretentious and somewhat dilapidated hostelry the Victoria Hotel ? or the Victoria Arms 1 or was Royalty's honoured name given, in an arbitrary manner, to the cross roads and the granite finger-post ? He never knew. The coachman said shortly, * Victoria,' and as ' Victoria ' he ever after heard that spot described. And now the journey was all downhill. They drove downward and downward, until Mr. Hamleigh began to feel as if they were travelling towards the centre of the earth — as if they had got altogether below the outer crust of this globe, and must be gradually nearing the unknown gulfs beneath. Yet, by some geographical mystery, when they turned out of the high road and went in at a lodge gate, and drove gently upward along an avenue of elms, in wliose rugged tops the rooks were screaming, Mr. Hamleigh found that he was still high above the undulating edges of the cliffs that overtopped the Atlantic, while the great waste of waters lay far below golden with the hist rays of the setting sun. They drove, by a gentle ascent, to the stone porch of Mount Royal, and here Mrs, Tregonell stood, facing the sunset, with an Indiai? shawl wrapped round her, waiting for her guest. ' I heaid the carriage, Mr. Hamleigh,' she said, as Angus alighted : * I hope you do not think me too impatient to see what change twelve years have made in you ? ' * I'm afraid they have not been particularly advantageous to me,' he answered, lightly, as they shook hands. ' How good of you to receive me on the threshold ! and what a delightful place you have here ! Before 1 got to Launceston, I began to be afraid that Cornwall was commonplace — and now I'm enchanted with it. Your moors and hills are like fairy-land to me ! ' ' It is a world of our own, and we are very fond of it,' said the widow ; * I shall be sorry if ever a railway makes Boscastle open to everybody.' * And what a noble old house ! ' exclaimed Angus, as he followed hifl hostess across the oak-panelled hall, with its wide shallow staircase, curiously carved balustrades, and lantern root * Are you quite alone h«re ? ' ■■>* i i 1 !il snt to seo But then came One, the Lovelace of his Day. 23 * Oh, no ; I have my niece, and a young lady who is a com- panion to both of us.' Angus Hamleigh shuddered. Three women ! He was to exist for a fortnight in a house with three solitary females. A niece and a companion ! Tlie niece rustic and gawky ; the companion sour and fnmipish. He began, hurriedly, to cast about in his mind for a convonient friend, to whom he could telegraph to send him a telegram, smnraoning him back to London on urgent business. He was still medi- tating this, when the butler opened the door of a spacious room, lined from floor to ceiling with books, and he followed Mrs. Tregonell in, and found himself in the bosom of the family. The simple picture of home-comfort, of restfulness and domestic peace, which met his curious gaze .as he entered, plejised him better than anything he had seen of late. Club life — with its too studious "l indulgence of man's native selfishness and love of eaae — fashion- able life, with its insatiable craving for that latter-day form of display which calls itself Culture, Art, or Beauty — had afforded him no visionso enchanting asthewide hearth and high chimnevof this sober, book-lined room,with the fair and girlish form kneeling in front of the old dogstove, framed in the glaring light of the fira. The tea-table had been wheeled near the hearth, and Mra Bridgeman sat before the bright red tea-tray, and old brass kettle, ready to administer to the wants of the traveller, who would be hardly human if he did not thirst for a cup of tea after driving across the moor. Christabel knelt in front of the fire, worshipping, and being worshipped by, a sleek black-and-white sheep-dog, native to the soil, and of a rare intelligence — a creature by no means approaching the Scotch colley in ])hy8ical beauty, but of a fond and faithful nature, born to be the friend of maiu As Christabel rose and turned to greet the stranger, Mr. Ham- leigh was agreeably reminded of an old picture — a Lely or a Kneller, perhaps. This was not in any wise the rustic image which had flashed across his mind at the mention of Mrs. Tregonell's niece. He had exj)ccted to see a bouncing, countryfied maiden — rosy, buxom, the picture of conmionjilace health and vigour. The girl he saw was nearer akin to the lily than the rose — tall, slender, dazzlingly fair — not fragile or sickly in any- wise — for the erect figure was finely moulded, the swan-like throat was round and full. He was prepared for the florid beauty of a milkmaid,and he found himself face to face with the olognnce of an ideal duchess, the picturesque loveliness of an old Venetian portrait. Christabel's dark brown velvet gown and square point lace collar, the bright hair falling in shadowy curls over her forehead, and rolled into a loose knot at the back of her head, sinned in no wise against Mr. Handeigh's notions of good taste. Then ':; I I 24 Mount Boyar. was a picturesqueness about the style v/hich indicated that Misa Courtenay belonged to that advanced section of womankind which takes its ideas less from modern fashion-plates than from old pictures. So long as her archaism went no further back than Vandyke or Moroni he would admire and approve ; but he shuddered at the thought that to-morrow she might burst upon him in a mediaeval morning-gown, with high-shouldered sleeves, a ruff, and a satchel. The picturesque idea waa good, within limits ; but one never knew how far it might go. There was nothing picturesque about the lady sitting before the tea-tray, who looked up brightly, and gave him a gracious bend of her small neat head, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Tre- gonell's introduction — ' Mr. Hamleigh, Miss Bridgeman !' This was the companion — and the companion was plain : not un- pleasantly plain, not in any matter repulsive, but a lady about whose looks there could be hardly any compromise. Her com- plexion was of a sallow darkness, unrelieved by any glow of colour ; her eyes were grey, acute, honest, friendly, but not beautiful ; her nose was sharp and pointed — not at all a bad nose ; but there was a hardness about nose and mouth and chin, as of featui'es cut out of bone with a very sharp knife. Her teeljh were good, and in a lovelier mouth might have been the object of much admiration. Her hair was of that nondescript monotonous brown which has betm unkindly called bottle-green, but it was arranged with admirable neatness, and offended less than many a tangled pate, upon whose locks of spurious gold the owner ha,s wasted much time and money. There was nothing unpardonable in Miss Bridgeman's i)lainn«ss, as Angus Hamleigh said of her later. Her small figure was neatly made, and her dark-grey gown fitted to perfection. ' I hope you like the little bit of Cornwall that you have seen this afternoon, Mr. Hamleigh,' said Christabel, seating herself in a low chair in the shadow of the tidl chimney-piece, fenced in by her aunt's larger chair. ' I ain enraptured with it ! I came here with the desire to be intensely Coniislu I am prepared to believe in witches — war- locks ' ' We have no wai'locks,' said Christabel. * They belong to the North.' * Well, then, wi^e women — wicked young men who play foot- ball on Sunday, and get themselves turned into granite — rocking stones — magic wells — Druids — and King Arthur. I believe the principal pohit is to be ooen to conviction about Arthur. Now, I am prepared to swallow everything — his castle — the river where his crown was found after the fight — was it his crown, by- the-by, or somebody else's ? which he found — his hair-brushes'— his boots — auf thing you please to show me.' I 41 n that Mis» ^mankind ;han from l)ack than ; but he arst upon d sleeves, 1, within ng before gracious Mrs. Tre- n!' This not un- dy about EEer coni- glow of but not Ul a bad and chin, ife. Her been the ndescript lo-green, ided less ous gold nothing amleigh and her ive seen 3rself in id in by ro to be js — war- to the ly foot- rocking ;ve the Now, river m, by- ishea*— f.1 ■■•;!t 1 I ,'V 4i But then came One, the Lovelace of his Day. 25 * We will show you his quoit to-morrow, on the road to Tin- tagel/ said Miss Bridgeman. * I don't think you would like to Bwallow that actually. He hurled it from Tintagel to Trevalga in one of his sportive moods. We shall be able to give you plenty of amusement if you are a good walker, and are fond of hills.' ' I ador« them in the abstract, contemplated from one's windows, or in a picture ; t it there is an incompatibility between the human anatomy and a road set on end. like a ladder, which I have never yet overcome. Apart from the outside question of my legs — which are obvious failures wlien tested by an angle of forty-live degrees — I'm afraid my internal machinery is not quite so tough as it ought to be for a thorough enjoyment of mountaineering,' Mrs. Tregonell sighed, ever so faintly, in the twilight. She was thinking of her first lover, and how that fragility, which meant early death, had showed itself in his inability to enjoy the moorland walks which were the delight of her girl- hood. ' The natural result of bad habits,' said Miss Bridgeman, briskly. ' How can you expect to be strong or active, when I dare say you have spent the better part of your life in hansom ciibs and express trains ! I don't mean to be impertinent, but I know that is the general way with gentlemen out of the shooting and hunting season.' * And as I am no sportsman, I am a somewhat exaggerated example of the vice of laziness fostered by congenial circum- stances, acting on a lymphatic temperament. If you write books, as I believe most ladies do now-a-days, you shall put me in one of them, as an awful warning.' ' I don't write books, and, if I did, I would not flatter your vanity by making you my model sinner,' retorted Jessie ; * but I'll do something better for you, if Christabel will help me. I'd reform you.' ' A million thanks for the mere thought 1 I hope the process will be pleasant.' ' I hope so, too. We shall begin by walking you off your legs.' ' They are so indifferent as a means of locomotion that I could very well afford to lose them, if you could hold out any hope of ray getting a better pair.' ' A week hence, if you submit to my treatment, you will be as active as the chamoise hunter in '' Manfred." ' ' Enchanting — always provided that you and Miss Courtenay will follow the chase with me.' * Depend upon it, we nhall not trust you to take your walks alone, unless you have a pedoiuuter which will bear witness tu I* i m :il 26 Mount Boyal, hav« done, and which you will be content imspection on your return,' replied Jessie, the distance you to submit to our Bternly. * I am afraid you are a terribly severe high priestess of this new form of culture,* said Mr. Hamleigh, looking up from his tea- cup with a l.izy smile, 'almost as bad as the Dweller on the Threshold, in Bulwer's " Zanoni." ' 'There is a dweller on the threshold of every science and every admirable mode of life, and his name is Idleness," answered Miss Bridgeman. * The vis inertice, the force of letting things alone,' said Angus ; * yes, that is a tremendous power, nobly exemplified by vestries and boards of works — to say nothing of Cabinets, Bishops, and the High Coux o of Chancery ! I delight in that verse of Scriptiu-e, « Their strength is to sit still." ' ' There shall be very little sitting still for you if you submit yourself to Cliristabel and me,' replied Miss Bridgeman. * I have never tried the water-cure — the descriptions I hare heard from adepts have been too repellent ; but T liave an idea that this system of yours must be rather worse than hydropathy, said Angus, musingly — evidently very much entertained at the way in which Miss Bridgeman had taken him in hand, ' I was not going to let him pose after Lamartine's poete mouranz, just because his father died of lung disease,' said Jessie, ten minutes afterwards, when the warning gong had sounded, and Mr. Hamleigh had gone to his room to dress for dinner, and the two young women were whispering together before the fire, while Mrs. Tregonell indulged in a placid doze. ' Do you think he is consumptive, like his father ? * asked Chriytabel, with a compassionate look ; ' he has a very delicate appearance.' * Hollow-cheeked, and prematurely old, like a man who has lived on tobacco and brandy-and-soda, and has spent his nights in club-house card-rooms.' * We have no right to suppose that,' said Christabel, * since we know really notliing about him.' ' Major Bree told me he has lived a racketty life, and that if he were not to pull up very soon he would be ruined both in health and for^^une.' * What can the Major know about him ? ' exclaimed Christ* abel, contemptuously. This Major Bree was a great friend of Christabel's ; but there Are times when one's nearest and dearest are too provoking for endurances. * Major Bree has been buried alive in Cornwall for the last twenty years. He is at least a quarter of a century behind the age,' she said, impatiently. ■% But then came One, the Lovelace of his Day. 27 * He spent a fortnight in London the year before last,' said Jessie ; * it was then that he heard such a bad account of Mr. LUmleigh.' ' Did he go about to clubs and places making inquiries, like h private detective ? ' said Christabel, still contemptuous ; ' I hato !sii«h fetching and carrying !' ' Here he comes to answer for himself,' replied Jessie, as the door opened, and a servani, announced Major Bree. Mrs. Tregonell started from her slumbers at the opening of the door, and rose to greet her guest. He was a very frequent visitor, so frequent that he might be said to live at Mount Royal, iilthough his nominal abode was a cottage on the outskirts of Boacastle — a stone cottage on the crest of a steep hill-side, with a delightful little garden, perched, as it were, on the edge of a verdant abyss, lie was tall, stout, elderly, grey, and florid — altogether a comfortable-looking man, clean shaved, save for a thill grey moustache with the genuine cavalry droop, iron grey eyebrows, which looked like a repetition of the moustache on a somewhat smaller scale, keen grey eyes, a pleasant smile, and a well set-up figure. He dressed well, with a sobriety becoming his years, and was always the pink of neatness. A man welcome everywhere, on account of an inborn pleasantness, which prompted him always to say and do the right thing ; but most of all welcome at Mount Royal, as a first cousin of the late Squire's, and Mri. Tregonell's guide, philosopher, and friend in all matters relating to the outside world, of which, despite liia twenty years' hybernation at Boscastle, the widow supposed him to be an acute observer and an infallible judge. Was he not one of the few inhabitants of that western village who took in the Times newspaper 1 * Well ! ' exclaimed Major Bree, addressing himself generally to the three ladies, * he has come — what do you think of him ] ' ' He is painfully like his poor father,' said Mrs. Tregonell. * He has a most interesting face and wmning manner, and I'm afraid we shall all get ridiculously fond of him,' said Miss Bridgeman, decisively. Christabel said nothing. She knelt on the hearth-rug, play- ing with Randie, the black-and-white sheep-dog. * And what have you to say about him, Cliristabel ? ' asked the Major. ' Nothing. I have not had time to form an opinion,* replied the girl; and then lifting her clear blue eyes to the Major's friendly face, she said, graTely, " but I think, Uncle Oliver, it was very unkind and unfair of you to prejudice Jessie against him before he came here.* * Unkind ! — unfair i Here's a shower of abuse ! I prejudice ! Oh 1 I remember. Mrs. Tregonell asked me what people thought ^1 '4d i I i ,Jfii f'l i I m ml ^.u n iii 28 Mount BoyaU of him in London, and I was obliged to acknowledge that his reputation was — well— no better than that of the majority of young men who !iave more money than common sense. But that was two years ago — Nous avons chun^d tout cela!* 'If he was wicked then, he must be wicked now,* said Christabel. * Wicked is a 'monstrously strong word ! ' said the Major. 'Besides, that does not follow. A n^an may have a few wild oats to sow, and yet become a very estimable person afterwards. Miss Bridgeman is tremendously sharp — she'll be able to find out all about Mr. Hamleigh from personal observation before he has been here a week. I defy him to hide his weak points from her.' ' What is the use of being plain and insignificant if one has not some advantage over one's superior fellow-creatures '( * asked Jessie. ' Miss Bridgeman has too much expression to be plain, and she is far too clever to be insignificant,' said Major Bree, with a stately bow. He always i)ut on a stately manner when he addressed himself to Jessie Bridgeman, and treated her in all things with as much respect as if she had been a queen. He explained to Christabel that this was the homage which he paid to the royalty of intellect ; but Christabel had a shrewd suspicion that the Major cherished a secret passion for Miss Bridgeman, as exalted and as hopeless as the love that Chastelard bore for Mary Stuart. He had only a small pittance besides his half -pay, and he had a very poor opinion of his own merits ; eo it was but natural that, at fifty-five, he should hesitate to offer himself to a young lady of six-and-twenty, of whose sharp tongue he had a wholesome \iwe. Mr. Hamleigh came back before much more could be said about him, and a few minutes afterwards they all went in to dinner, and in the brighter lamplight of the dining-room Major Bree and the three ladies had a better opportunity of forming their opinion as to tho external graces of their guest. He waa good-looking — that 'fact oven malice could handy dispute. Not so handsome as the al)seMt Leonard, Mrs. Tre- gonell told herijelf complacently ; but she was constrained at the same time to acknowledge that her son's broadly moulded features and florid complexion lacked the charm and interest which a woman's eye found in the delicate chiselling and subdued tones of Angus Hamleigh's countenance. His eyes were darkest grey, his complexion was fair and somewhat pallid, his hair brown, with a natural curl whi( neither fashion nor the barber could altogether suppress. His cheeks were more sunken than they sliould have been at eight-and-twenty, and the large dark eyes were uunaturally bright. Ail this the three ladies and But then came One, the Lovelace of his Day. 29 Major Bree had aiujjle time for observing, during tlie leisurely course of dinner. There was no flagging in the conversation, from the beginning to the end of the repast. Mr. Hamleigh was ready to talk about anything and everything, and hia interest in the most trifling local subjects, whether real or issumed, m.'ido him a delightful companion. In the drawing- room, after dimier, he proved even more admirable ; for he dis- covered a taste for, and knowledge of, the best music, which delighted Jessie and Christabel, who were both enthusiasts. He had read every book they cared for — and a wide world of books besides — and was able to add to their stock of information upon all their favourite subjects, without the faintest touch of aiTOgance. * I don't think you can help liking him, Jessie,' said Christabel, as the two girls went upstairs to bed. The younger lingered a little in Miss Bridgeman's room for the discussion of their latest ideas. There was a cheerful fire burning in the large basket grate, for autumn nights were chill upon that wild coast, (.liristabel assumed her fai' urite attitude in front of the fire, with her faithful Randie winking and blinking at her and the fire alternately. He was a privileged dog — allowed to sleep on a sheepskin mat in the gallery outside his mistress's door, and to go into her room every morning, m company with the maid who carried her early cup of tea , when, after the exchange of a few remarks, in baby language on her part, and expressed on his by a series of curious grins and much wagging of his insignificant apology for a tail, he would das', out of the room, and out of the house, for his morning constitutional among the sheep upon some distant hill — coming home with an invigorated appetite, iii time for the family breakfast at nine o'clock. *I don't think you can help liking him — as — as a casual acquaintance ! ' repeated Christabel, finding that Jessie stood in a dreamy silence, twii'jting her one diamond ring — a birthday ^ift from Miss Courtenay — round and round upon her slender linger. ' I don't suppose any of us can help liking him,' Jessie answered at last, with her eyes on the tire All I hope is, that some of us will not like him too much. He has brought a new element into our lives — a new interest — which may end by being a painful one. I feel distrustful of him.' ' Why distrustful ? Why, Jessie, you who are generally the "erj'' essence of flippancy — who make light of almost everything in life — except religion — thank God, you have not come to that yet ! — you to be so serious about such a trifling matter as a visit from a man who will most likely be gone back to London in a fortnight — gone out of our lives altogether, perhaps : for I don't suppose he will care to repeat his experiences in a lonely Gountry- house.' 4 ■)| t )?l ^3 ii ii m so Mount Royal, ■"■; f. ! 'II ;^iii * He may be gone, perhaps — yes — and it is quite [iossible that he may never return — but shall we be quite the same after he ha.s left us ? Will nobody regret him — wish for his return — veani for it — sigh for it — die for it — feeling life wortlileas — a burthen, without him } ' ' Why, Jessie, you look like a Pythoness.' * Belle, Belle, my darling, my innocent one, you do not know what it is to care — for a bright particular stjir — and know how remote it is from your life — never to be brought any nearer ! I felt afraid to-night when I saw you and Mr. Hamleigh at the piano — yod playing, he leaning over you as you played — both seeming so happy, so united by the sympathy of the moment ! If he is not a good man — if ' * But we have no reason to think ill of him. You remember what Uncle Oliver said — he had only been — a — a little racketty, like other young men,' said Christabel, eagerly ; and then, with a sudden embarrassment, reddening and laughing shyly, she added, *and indeed, Jessie, if it is any idea of danger to me that is troubling your wise head, there is no need for alarm. I am not made of such inflammable stuff — I am not the kind of girl to fall in love with the first comer.' ' With the first comer, no ! But when the Prince comes in a fairy tale, it matters little whether he comes first or last. Fate has settled the whole story beforehand.' ' Fate has had nothing to say about me and Mr. Hamleigh. No, Jessie, believe me, there is no danger for 7ne — and I don't suppose that you are going to fall in love with him 1 ' ' Because I am so old ? ' said Miss Bridgeman, still looking at the fire ; ' no, it would be rather ridiculous in a person of my age, plain and pass^fe, to fall in love with your Alcibiades.' ' No, Jessie, but because you are too wise ever to be carried away by a sentimental fancy. But why do you speak of him so contemptuously ? One would think you had taken a dislike to him. We ought at least to remember that he is my aunt's friend, and the son of some one she once dearly loved.* ' Once,' repeated Jessie, softly ; ' does not once in that case mean always?' She was thinking of the Squire's commonplace good looks and portly figure, as represented in the big picture in the dining- room — the picture of a man in a red coat, leaning against the shoulder of a big bay horse, and with a pack of harriers fawning round him — and wondermg whether the image of that dead man, whose son was in the house to-night, had not sometimes obtruded itself upon the calm plenitude of Mrs. Tregonell's domestic joys. * Don't be afraid that I shall forget my duty to your aunt or your uunti'a guest, dear,' she said sv^deialy, as if awakened from i But then came One, the Lovelace of his Day. 31 « revorio. * You and I will do all in our power to nako him h.ii>})y, and to shake him out of lazy London ways*, ami tluui, when we have patched up his health, and the moorland air has blown a little colour into his hollow cheeks, we will send him back to his clubs and his theatres, and forget all about him. And now, good-night, my Christabel,' she said, looking at her watch ; see ! it is close upon midnight — dreadful dissipation for Mount Royal, where half -past ten is the usual hour.* Christabel kissed her and departed, Randie following to the door of her chamber — such a pretty room, with old panelled walls painted pink and grey, old furniture, old china, snowy draperies, and Dooks — a girl's daintily bound books, selected and purchased by herself — in every available corner ; a neat cottage piano in a recess, a )ow eajsy-ohair by the iire, with a five o'clock tea-table in front of it ; desks, portfolios, work-baskets — all the frivolities of a girl's life ; but everything arranged with a womanly neatness which indicated industrious habits and a well-ordered mind. No scattered sheets of music — no ftmcy-work pitch-and- tossed about the room — no slovenliness ckiming to be excused as artistic disorder. Christabel said her prayers, and read her accustomed portion of Scripture, but not without some faint wrestlings with Satan, who on this occasion took the shape of Angus Hamleigh. Her mind was overcharged with wonder at this new phenomenon in daily life, a man so entirely diflFerent from any of the men she had ever met hitherto — so accomplished, so highly cultured ; yet taking his accomplishments and culture as a thing of course, as if all men were so. She thought of him as she lay awake for the fii*st hour of the still night, watching the fire fade and die, and listening to the long roll of the waves, hardly audible at Mount Boyal amidst all the common-place noises of day, but heard in the solemn silence of night. She let her fancies shape a vision of her aunt's vanished youth — that one brief bright dream of happiness, bo miserably broken ! — and wondered and wondered how it was* possible for any one to outlive such a grief. Still more incredible did it seem that any one who haJ so loved and so lost could ever listen to another lover ; and yet the thing had been done, and Mrs. Tregonell's married life had been called happy. She always spoke of the Squire as tke best of men — was never weary of praising him — loved to look up at his portrait on the wall — f)reserved every unpicturesque memorial of his unpicturesque ife — heavy gold and silver snuff boxes, clumsy hunting cropn, spurs, guns, fishing-rods. The relics of his murderous pursuits would have filled an arsenal. And how fondly she loved her aon who resembled that departed father — save in lacking some of his best qualitlMl How she doated on Leonard, the most -ml * is r i ( ili -..-, 32 Mount Bi)ijal. '•A )nimonpl;ioe and unattractive of yoiiiir^ men ! The thought of her couain set Christabcl on a new tiuiu of Hpccuhition. If Leonard had been at home when Mr. Ilanileigh came to Mount Uoyal, how wouhl they two luive suited each other '{ Like fire and water, like oil and vinegar, like the wolf and the lamb, like any two creatures most antagonistic by nature. It was a happy accident that Leonard was away. She was still thinking when she fell asleep, with that uneasy sense of pain and trouble in the future which was always suggested to her by Leonard's image — a dim unsluipen difficulty waiting for her somewhere ah^ig the untrodden road of her life — a lion in the path. ;-'lN ' i! CHAPTER in. * TINTAGEL, HALF IN SI^A, AND HALF ON LAND.' There was no sense of fear or trouble of any kind in the mind of anybody the next morning after breakfast, when Christabel, Miss Bridgeman, and Mr. Hamleigh started, in the young lady's own particular pony carriage, for an exploring day, attended by Kandie, who was intensely excited, and furnished with a pic-nic basket which made them independent of the inn at Trevena, and afforded tlie opportunity of taking one's luncheon under difficulties u})on a windy height, rather than with the common- phice comforts of an hotel parlour, guarded against wind and weather They were going to do an immense deal upon this first (lay. Christabel, in her eagerness, wanted to exhibit all ber lions at once. ' Of course, you must see Tintagel,' she said ; ' everybody who comes to this part of the world is in a tremendous huriy to see King Arthur's castle. I have known people to set out in the middle of th-j night.* ' And have you ever known any one of them who was not just a little disappointed with that stupendous monument of traditional royalty i ' asked Miss Bridgeman, with her most prosaic air. ' They expect so much — halls, and towers, and keep, and chapel — and find only ruined walls, and the faint indication of a grave-yard . King Arthur is a name to conjure with, and Tintagel is like Mont Blanc or the Pryramids. It can never be so grand as the vision its very name has evoked.' ' I blush to say that I have thought very little about Tintagel hitherto,' said Mr. Hamleigh ; ' it has not been an integral part •f my existence ; so my expectations are more reasonable than those ai the enthusiastic tourist. I promise to be delighted with your ruiiis.' ' Tintagcl, fuxlf in Sea, and half on Land.' * Oh, but you will protchd,' said Christabel, * niul tli.-it will be hateful I I would r.ithur have to deal with one of lliose ju-o- yoking people who look about them blankly, ajul exclaim, '' Is this ain" and who stand in the very centre of Arthur's Hall, and a«k, " And, pray, where is Tintagel 1 — when are we to see the cantleV " No ! give me the man who can take in the grandeur of that wild height at a glance, and whose fancy can build up those ruinec] walls, re-create those vanished towers, till the halls with knight;? in shining armour, and lovelyladies— see Guinevere herself upon her throne — clothed in white samite — mystic, wonderful ! ' ' And with Lancelot in the background,' said ^Mr. Ilaraleigh. ' I think the less we say about Guinevere the better, and your snaky Vivien, and your senile Merlin, your prying Modrcd. What a disreputable set these Round Table people seem to have been altogether — they need have been dead thirteen hundred years for us to admire them ! ' They were driving along the avenue by this time, the stout chestnut cob going gaily in the fresh morning air — Mr. Ilamleigh sitting face to face with Christabel as she drove. What a fair face it was in the clear light of day I How pure and delicate every tone, from the whiteness of the lily to the bloom of the wild rose 1 How innocent the expressi(m of the large liquid eyes, which seemed to smile at him as he talked ! lie had known so many pretty women — his memory was like a gallery of beau- tiful faces ; but he could recall no face so completely innocent, 80 divinely young. * It is the youthfulness of an unsullied mind,' he said to himself; *I have known plenty of girls as young in years, but not one perfectly pure from the taint of worldliness and vanity. The trail of the serpent vas over them all ! ' They drove down hill into Eoscastle, and then straightway began to ascend still steeper hills upon the other side of the harl)our. ' You ought to throw a viaduct across tlie valley,' said Mr. Ilanileigh — ' something like Ih'unel's bridge at Saltash ; but perhaps you have hardly traflic enongli to make it l)ay.' They went winding up the new road to Trevena, avoiding the village street, and leaving the Church of the SiU'iit Tower on its windy height on their right hand. The wide Atlantic lay far below them on the other side of those green fields whicl) bordered the road ; the air they breathed was keen with the ioft breath of the sea. But autumn had hardly ])lucked a leaf from the low storm-beaten trees, or a Hower from the tall hedgerows, where the red blossom of the Kagged Itol)iu mixed with the pale gold of the ha,wk-weed, and the fainter yellow <>f the wild cistus. The ferns had hardly begun to wither, and Angus Hamleigh, whose last experiences had been among th« 'i m I I h •; |: ■i ? 84 Mount Boyal. Htono walls of AberdecHHhire, wondered at tlu; hixuriance ol this western world, where the l>anl:H were biiilt'Up and fortitied with boulders of marl tie- veined spar. They drove throntjh tiie village of Treval|,'a, in whieh tliere is never an inn or [)ul»lie-houHe of any kind — not even a cottage licensed for the sale of beer. There wjus the wheelwright, car- penter, buihler, Jack-of-all-trades, with his shed and his yard — the blacksmith, with his forgo going merrily — village school — steam threshing-machine at work — church — chapel ; but never a drop of l)eer — and yet the jieoplo at Trevalga are healthy, and industrious, and decently chid, and altogether comfortable looking. ' Some day we will take you to call at the Rectory,' said Christabel, j)ointing skywards with her wliip. * Do you mean tliat the Kector has gone to Heaven?' asked j\ngus, looking up into the distant blue; *or is there any t'Wlhly habitation higher than the road on which we are driving. 'Didn't you see the end of the lane, just now?' asked Christal)el, hiughing ; ' it is rather steep — an uphill walk all the way ; but the views are lovely.' * We will walk to the Rectory to-morrow,' said Miss Bridge- man ; * this lazy mode of transit must not be tolerated after to-day.' Even the drive to Trevena was not all idleness ; for after they had passed the entrance to the i)ath leading to the beauti- ful waterfall of St. Nectan's Kiove, hard by St. Piran'a chapel and well — the former degraded to a barn, and the latter, once of holy repute, now chiefly useful as a cool repository for butter from the neighljouring dairy of Trethevy Farm — they came to a hill, which had to bo walked down ; to the lowest depth of the Rocky Valley, where astone bridge spans the rapid brawling stream that leaps as a waterfall into the gorge at St. Nectan'a Kieve, abf)ut a mile higher up the valley. And then they came tt) a (Htrresj^ondiiig hill, which had to be walked up — because in either case it was had for the cob to have a weight behind him. Indeed, tie; cob w;is so accustomed to consideration in this matter, that he niiele a point of stopping ])olitely for his people •xj alight at eitlicr end of anything exceoLional in the wa}' of a Aili. \ ' I'm afraid you s|)oil your pony,' said Mr. Hamleigh, throw- ^ig the reins over liis arm, and resigning himself to a duty, which made him feel very much like a sea-side flyman earning \is day's wages toilsomely, and saving his horse with a view to future fares. ' Retter that than to spoil you,' answered Miss Bridgeman, as ahe and Christabel walked briskly beside him. ' But if you fasten the reins to the dashboard, you may trust Felix.* '> never 'I! »noug ligure, 'I • Tintagelf half in Sea, and half nn Land.' 36 ' Won't 1m! run away I ' ' Not he,' aiiHwert-'d (Jhristalx^l. * He knows tli.it ho wouM never be ho happy with anybody else as lie is with us.' ' Hut nii;,'ht.n't he take a fancy for a short run ; just far »nou<,'h to allow of liis reducin;^' that dainty little earriauje to match-wood I A wt-U-fod uniler-worked pony ho thorou^i^hly enjoys that kiml of thiiiL,'.' ' Felix has no such di.d)()lic.i.l suLfi^'cstions I[e is a conm'ien- t ions person, and knows his ibity. HesiiU's, ho is not unch'r- worked. Thero is hartUy a (hiy that ho does not carry ua somewliere.' Mr. llainhu^'h Hurrendered the reins, and Felix showed him- self worthy of his mistress's confidence, following at her heels like u dog, with his honest brown eyes tixed on the slim tall ligure, as if it had been Ids guiding star. *I want you to admire the landsca|)e.' said Christabel, when they were on the crest of the last hill ; ' is not that a lovely valley?' Mr. Hamleigh willingly admitted the fact. The beauty of a pastoral landscape, with just enough of rugged wildness for the i)icturesque, could go no further. ' Creawick has immortalized yonder valley by his famous l)icture of the mill,' said Miss Bridgeman, ' but the romantic old mill of the picture lias lately been re|)laced by that large ungainly building, quite out of keeping with its sin-roundings.' ' Have you ever been in Switzerland ? ' asked Angus of (-'hristabol, when they had stood for some moments in silenl contemplation of the landscape. ' Never.' * Nor i)i Italy ] ' ' No. I have never been out of England. Since I was live years old I have hardly S})ent a year of my life out of Cornwall.' ' Happy Cornwall, which can show so fair a product of its soil ! Well, Miss Courtenay, I know Italy and Switzerland by heart, and I like this Cornish landscaj)e better than ei'her. It is not so beautiful — it would not do as well for a painter or a j)oet ; but it comes nearer an Engl i.-sh man's heart. What can one have better than the hills and the sea ? Switzerland can show you bigger hills, ghostly snow-shrouded pinnacles that mock the eye, following each other like a line of phantoms, losing ihemselves in the indnite ; but Switzerland cannot show you that.' He pointed to the Atlantic : the long undulating line of the coast, rocky," rugged, yet verdant, with many a curve and pro- montory, many a dip and rise. ' It is the most everlasting kind of beauty, is it not ? ' asked Christabel, delighted at this little gush of warm feeling in one , ' ' i> !»»!?l 86 Mount Boyal. whose usual manner was so equable. ' One could never tire of the sea. And I am always proud to remember that our sea is so big — stretching ^vr^.y and away to the New World. I should have liked it still better before the dfgrs of Columbus, when it led to tlie unknown ! ' ' Ah ! ' sighed Angus, * youth always yearns for the un- discovered. Middle age knows that there is nothing worth dis- covering ! ' On the top of the hill they paused for a minute or so to con- template the ancient Borough of Bossiney, which, until dis- franchised in 1832, returned two members to Parliament, with a constituency of little more than a dozeii, and which once had Sir Francis Drake for its representative. Here Mr. Hamleigh beheld that modest mound called the Castle Hill, on the top of which it was customary to read the writs before the elections. An hour later they were eating their luncheon on that windy height where once stood the castle of the great king. To Christabel the whole story of Arthur and his knights was as real as if it had been a part of her own life. She had Tennys')n'a Arthur and Tennyson's Lancelot in her heart of hearts, and knew just enough of Sir Thomas Mallory's prose to give sub- stance to the Laureate's poetic shadows. Angus amused himself a little at her expense, as they ate their chicken and salad on the grassy mounds which were supposed to be the graves of heroes who died before Athelstane drove the Cornish across the Tamar, and made his victorious progress through the country, even to the Scilly Isles, after defeating Howel, the last King of Cornwall. * Do you really think that gentlemanly creature in the Laureate's 3pic — that most polished and perfect and most intensely modern English gentleman, self-contained, considerate of others, always the right man in the right place — is one whit like that half-naked sixth century savage — the real Arthur — whose Court costume was a coat of blue paint, and whose war-shriek was the yell of a Red Indian? What can be more futile than our setting up any one Arthur, and bowing the knee before him, in tlie face uf the fact that Great Britain teems with monuments of Arthurs — Arthur's Seat in Scotland, Arthur's Castle in Wales, Artbur'^ Round Table here, there, and everywhere ? Be sure that Arthur — Ardheer — the highest chief — was a generic name for the princes of those days, and that there were more Arthurs tban ever there were Cresars.' ' I don't believe one word you say,' exclaimed Christabei, indignantly ; ' there was only one Arthur, the son of Uther arid Ygerne, who was born in the castle that stood on this very clitf, on the first night of the year, and carried away in secret by Merlin, and reared in secret by Sir Anton's wife — the brave good Arthur — the Christiaa kiug — who was killed at the battle of • Tintagel, half in Sea^ end half on Land.* 37 Camlan, near Slaughter Bridge, and was buried at Glaston* bury.' 'And embalmed by Tennyson. The Laureate invented Arthur — he took out a patent for the Eound Table, and hia indention is only a little less popular than that other product of the age, the sewing-machine. How many among modern tourists would care about Tintagel if Tennyson had not revived the old legend 1 ' The butler had put up a bottle of champagne for Mr. Hamleigh — the two ladies drinking nothing but sparkling water — and in this beverage he drank hail to the spirit of the legendary prince. ' I am ready to believe anything now you have me up here,' he said, ' for I have a shrewd idea that without your hcl|i I should never be able to get down again. I should live and die on the top of this rocky promontory — sweltering in the summer sun — buiieted by the winter winds — an unwilling Simeon Stylites.' ' Do you know that the very finest sheep in Cornwall are said to be grown on that island,' saitl Miss Bridgeman gravely, point- ing to the grassy top of the isolated crag in the foreground, whoroii once stood the donjon deep. ' I don't know why it should be so, but it is a tradition.' * Among butchers ] ' said Angus. ' I suppose even butchers have their traditions. And the poor sheep who are condemned to exile on that lonely rock — the St. Helena of their 'voolly race — do they know that they are achieving a posthumous perfection — that they are straining towards thi ideal in butcher's meat 1 There is room for much thought in the question.' ' The tide is out,' said Christabel, look seaward ; ' I think we ought to do Trebarwith sands to-day.' ' Is Trebarwith another of your lions 1 ' asked Angus, placidly. ' Yes.' ' Then, pletise save him for to-morrow. Let me drink the cup of pleasure to the dregs where we are. This ch;impagnc ha.s a magical taste, like the philter which Tristan and Jseult were so foolish a.s to drink while they saihnl across from Ireland to this Cornish shore. Don't be alarmed. Miss Bridgeman, I am not going to emi)ty the bottle. I am not an educated tourist — have read neither Black nor Murray , and I am very slow about taking in ideas. Even after all you have told me, I am not clear in my mind as to which is the castle and which the chapel, and which the burial-ground. Let us finish the afternoon dawdling about TiuiMij^'Cl. Let us see the sun set from this spot, where Aithurmust so ofte.i have watihed it, if the men of thirteen hundred years ago ever cared to ^atch the sun settini?, which I doubt. They i :kn : '(. ' ' 1 ,1. im M 38 Mount Boyal. %\ . I belong to the iiij,flit-time of the world, when civilization was dead in Southern Europe, and was yet unborn in the West. I^et us: dawdle about till it is time to drive back to Mount Royal, and then I shall carry away an impression. I am very slow at taking impressions.' ' I think you want us to believe that you are stupid,' said Christabel, laughing at the earnestness with which he pleaded. ' Believe nie, no. I should like you to think me ever so much better than I am. Please let us dawdle.' They dawdled accordingly. Strolling about upon the short sea- beaten gi'ass, so treacherous and sli])[)ery a surface in suramei time, when fierce Sol has been baking it. They stumbled against the foundations of long-vanished walls, they speculated upon fragments of cyclopean masonry, and t^ilked a gi-eat deal about the traditions of the spot. Christabel, who had all the old authorities — Leland, Carew, and Norden — at her lingers' ends, was delighted to expound the departed glories of this British fortress. She showed where the ancient dungeon keep had reared its stony '\"Us upon that * high terrible crag, environed with the sea ; and how there had once been a drawbridge uniting yonder elitf with the buildings on the mainland ' — how divorced, as Carew says, * by the downfallen steep cliffs, on the farther side, which, though it shut out the sea from his wonted recourse, hath yet more strengthened the island ; for in passing thither you must first descend with a dangerous declining, and then make a worse ascent by a path, through his stickleness occasioning, and through his steepness threatening, the ruin of your life, with the falling of your foot.' She told Mr. Hamleigh how, after tlie Conquest, the castle was the occasional lesidence of some of our Princes, and how Richard King of the Romans, Earl of Cornwall, son of King John, entertained here his nephew David, Prince of Wales, how, in Richard the Second's t'jiie, this stronghold was made a State prison, and '<^ iw a certain Lord Mayor of London was, for his unruly m'/; ;>ity, con- demned thither as a perpetual penitentiary; whicli 3^\s very hard upon the chief magistrate of the city, who thus di'^ icarious penance for the riot of his brief reign. And then they talked of Tristan and Iseult, and the tender old love-story, which lends the glamour of old-world fancies to those bare ruins of a traditional past. Christabel knew the old chronicle through Matthew Arnold's poetical version, which gives only the purer and better side of the character of the Knight and Chatelaine, at the expense of some of the strongest f eatiu'es of the story. Who, that knew that romantic legend, could linger on that spot without thinking of King Marc's faith- less queen I Assuredly not Mr. Hamleigh, who was a staunch believer in the inventor of * sweetness and light,' and who knew Arnold's verses by heart. 'Tintagelf half in Sea, and half on Land.' 39 'What have they done with the flowers and the terrace walks ? ' he said, — ' the garden where Tristan and his Queen basked in the sunshine of their days ; and where they parted for ever ? — • " All the spring time of their love Is already gone and past, And instead thereof is seen Its winter, which endureth still — Tyntagel, on its surgo-beat hill, The pieasaunce walks, the weeping queen, The flying leaves, the stra'ning blast, And that long wild kiss — their last." And where — oh, where — are those graves in the Kin;,^s chapel in which the tyrant Marc, touched with pity, cndered the fated lovei-a to be buried ? And, behold ! out of the grave of Tristnn there sprung a plant which went along the walls, and 1 ! it l! I 42 Mount Boyal. And 80 the autumn days sped by, pleasantly for all : with deepest joy — joy ever waxing, never waning — for those two who had found the secret of perfect sympathy in thought and feeling. It was not for Angus Hamleigh the first passion of a spotless manhood ; and yet the glamour and the delight were as new if he had never loved before. He had never so purely, sc as reverently loved. The passion was of a new quality. It seemed to him as if he had ascended into a higher sjihere in the universe, and had given his he.art to a creature of a loftier race. 'Perhaps it is the good old lineage which makes the dilfer- ence,' he said to himself once, while his feelings were still suffi- ciently novel and so far under his control as to be subject to analysis. ' The women I have cared for in days gone by have hardly got over their early affinity with the gutter ; or when I hav(- admired a woman of good family she has been steeped to the lips in worldliness and vanity.' Mr. Hamleigh, who had told himself that he was going to be intensely bored at Mount Royal, had been Mrs. Tregonell's guest for three weeks, and it seemed to him as if the time were brief and beautiful as one of those rare dreams of impossible bliss which haunt our waking memories, and make actual life dull and joyless by contrast with the glory of shadowland. No word had yet been spoken — nay, at the very thought of those words which most lovers in his position would have been eager to speak, his soul sickened and his cheek paled ; for there would be no joyful- ness in the revelation of his love — indeed, he doubted whether he liad the right to reveal it — wliether duty and honour did not alike constrain him to keep liis converse within the strict limits of friendship, to bid Cliristabcl good-bye, and turn his back iipon !Moant lloyal, without having said one word more than a friend might speak. Happy as Christabel had been with him — tenderly as she loved him — she w;is far too innocent to have considered herself ill-treated in such a case. She would have blamed herself alone for the weakness of mind which had been unable to resist the fascination of his society— she would have blushed and wept in secret for her folly in having loved unwooed. ' Has the eventful question been asked ? ' Jessie inquired one night, a.s (Jhrista))el lingered, after her wont, by tlie fire in Miss Bridgemau's bedroom. ' You two were so intensely earnest to- day jus you walked ahciul of the xMajor and me, that I said to my- self, " now is the time — the crisis luis arrived ? " ' ' There was no crisis,' answered Christabel, crimsoning ; ' he has never said one word to me that can imply that I am any more to him than the most indifferent acquaintance.' ' What need of words when every look and tone cries ' I lov9 you 1 ' Why he idolizes you, and he lets all the world see it. I hope it may be well for you — both.' 18 OU.- fori oth tioi tha * Tintagel, half in Sea, and half on Land,* 43 CTiristabel was on hor knees by the fire. She laid her cheok against Jessie's waistband, and drew Jessis's arm round her neck, holding her hand lovingly. •" Do you really think he — cares for me?' she faltered, witV her face hidden. ' Do I really think that I have two eyes, and something which is at least an apology for a nose ! ' ejaculated Jessie, contemptu- ously. ' Why, it has been patent to everybody for the last fciitnight that you two are over head and ears in love with each other. There never was a more obvious case of mutual infatua- tion.' ' Oh, Jessie ! surely I have not betrayed myself. 1 know that I have been very weak — but I have tried so hai'd to hiilo ' And have been about as successful .qs the ostrich. "While those drooping lashes have been lowered to hide the love-light in your eyes, your whole countenance lias been an illuminated calendar of your folly. Poor Belle ! to think that she has not betrayed herself, while all Boscastle is on tiptoe to know when the wedding is to take place. Why the parson could not see you two sitting in the same pew without knowing that he would be reading your banns before he was many Sundays older.' ' And you — really — like him 1 ' faltered Chiistabel, more shyly than before. * Yes,' answered Jessie, with a provoking lack of enthusi.usm. ' I really like him. I can't help feeling sorry for Mrs. Tregonell, for I know she wanted you to marry Leonard.' Oluistiibel gave a little sigh, and a faint shiver. ' Poor dear Leonard ! I wonder what traveller's hardships he is enduring while we are so snug and happy at Mount Eoyal 1 ' «he said, kindly. ' lie has an excellent heart ' 'Troublesome people always have, I believe,' interjected Jessie. * It is their redeeming feature, the existence of which no one can absolutely disprove.' ' Ajid I am very much attached to him — as a cousin — or as an adopted brother ; but as to our ever being married— that is quite out of the question. There never were two people less suited to eacii other,' ' Those are the people who usually c(jme together,' said Jessie ; ' the Divorce Court could hardly be kept going if it were not so.' ' Jessie, if you are going to be cynical I shall say good-night. [ hope there is no foundation for what you said just now. I hope that Auntie has no foolish idea about Leonard and me.' ' She has — or had — one prevailing idea, and I fear it will go hard with her when she has to relinquish it,' answered Jessie, leriously. *I know that it has been her dearest hope to see b* MM ■ \ si 'ii M Ik i I I y^u : . Y 44 Mount Boyal. i ii m ii! tl ' f - 1 mi .\ I you .and Leonard married, and I Rliould be a wretch if I were not sorry for her disappointment, when she has been so good to me. But she never ouglit to liave invited Mr. Hamleigh to Mount Ik>yal. That is one of those mistakes, the consequences of which last for a lifetime.' * I hope lie likes me — just a little,' pursued Chrintabel, with dreamy eyes fixed on the low wood fire ; * but sometimes I fancy there must be some mistiike — that he does not really care a straw for me. More than once, when he has began to say some- thing that sounded ' ' Business-like,' suggested Jessie, as the girl hesitated. * He has drawn back — seeming almost anxious to recall his words. Once he told me — quite seriously — that he had made up his mind never to marry. Now, that doesn't sound as if he meant to marry mc.'' ' Tliat is not an uncommon way of breaking ground,' answered Jessie, with her matter-of-fact air. ' A man tells a girl that he is going to die a bachelor — which makes it seem quite a favour on his part when he proposes. All women sigh for the unattain- able ; and a man who distinctly states that he is not iii the market, is likely to make a better bargain when he suri venders.' ' I sbould be sorry to think Mr. Hamleigh capable of such petty id ' . said Christabel. ' He told me once that he was like Achilles. Why should he be like Achilles ? He is not a soldier.' * Perhaps, it is because he has a Grecian nose,' suggested Miss Bridgeman. 'How can you imagine him so vain and foolish,' cried Christabel, deeply offended. ' I begin to think you detest him!' * No,|Belle, I think him charming, only too charming, and I had rather the man you loved were made of sterner metal — not such a man as Leonard, whose loftiest desires are centred in stable and gun-room ; but a man of an altogether difierent type from Mr. Hamleigh. He has too much of the artistic temperament, without being an artist — he is too versatile, too soft-hearted and im- pressionable. I am afraid for you, Christabel, I am afraid ; and if it were not too late — if your heart were not wholly given to him ' * It is,' answered Christabel, tearfully, with her face hidden ; ' I hate myself for being so foolish, but I have let myself love him. I know that I may never be his wife — I do not even think that he has any idea of marrying me — but I shall never marry any other man. Oh, Jessie ! for pity's sak . don't betray me ; never let my aunt, or any one else in this world, learn what I have told you. I can't help trusting you — you wind yourself into my heart somehow, and find out all that is hidden there 1 ' ■I Jes Ua bet * Love ! Thou art leading Mc from Wintry Cold.* 45 * Because I love you truly and hwiestly, my dear,' answered Jessie, tenderly ; ' and now, ^cod-night ; I feel wure that Mr. llarnleigh will ask you to be his wife, and I only wish ho were « better man.' CITAPTER IV. •love ! THOU ART LEADING MR FROM WINTRY COLD.' After this came two or three dull and showery days, which afforded no opportunity for long excursions or raniblings of any kind. It was only during such rambles that Mr. Hamleigh and Miss Courtenay ever found themselves alone. Mr.-i. Tregonell's ideas of propriety were of the old-fashioned school, and when her niece w;i* not under her owm wing, she exi)ecte(l Miss Bridgeman to perform all the duties of a duenna — in no wise suspecting how very loosely her instructions upon this point were being carried out. At IMount Royal there was no possibility of confidential talk between Angus and Christabel. If they were in the drawing-room or library, Mrs. Tregonell was witli them ; if they played billiards, Miss Bridgenjan was told off to mark for tliem ; if they went for a constitutional walk between the showers, or wasted half-an-hour in the stables looking at horses and dogs. Miss Bridgeman was bidden to accompany 'hem; and though they had arrived at the point of minding L r very little, and being sentimental and sympathetic under her %'ery nose, still there are limits to the love-making that can be carried on before a third person, and a man would hardly care \g pro}>o8e in tlio presence of a witness. So for three days Christabel still remained in doubt as to Mr. Ilamleigh's real feelings. That manner of making tender little speeches, and then, as it were, recalling them, was noticeable many times during those three days of domesticity. There was a hesitancy — an uncertainty in his attentions to Christabel which Jessie interpreted ill. 'There is some entanglement, I daresay,' she told herself ; 'it is the evil of his past life which holds him in the toils. How do we know that he has not a wife hidden away somewhere 1 He ought to declare himself, or he ought to go away ! If thie kind of shilly- shallying goes on much longer he will break Christabel's heart.' Miss Bridgeman was determined that, if it were in her power to hasten the crisis, the crisis should be hastened. The proprie- ties, as observed by Mrs. Tregonell, might keep matters in abeyance till Christmas. Mr. Hamleigh gave no hint of his dony-carriage may as well meet you iu any case,' said Mrs. Tregonell. And the order was straightway t,'iven. They started at ten o'clock, giving themselves ample leisure for a walk of something over two miles — a walk by hill and valley, and rushing stream, and picturesque wooden bridge — through a deep gorge where the dai-k-red cattle were grouped against a background of gorse and heather — a walk of which one could never grow weai'v — so lonely, so beautiful, so perfect a blending of all that is wildest and all that is most gracious in Nature — an Alpine ramble on a STuall scale. Minster Church lies in a hollow of the hill, so shut in by the woodeil ridge which shelters its grey walls, that the stranger comes upon it as an architectural surprise. ' How is it you have never managed to finish your tower ? ' asked Mr. Hamleigh, surveying the rustic fane with a critical air, as he descended to the churchyard by some rugged stone steps on the m\e of the grassy hill. ' Yon cannot be a particularly devout people, or you would hardly have allowed your parisli thurch to remain in this stunted and stinted condition.' * There was a tower once,' said Christabel, naively ; * the fi'ionds nre still in the churchyard ; but the monks used to burn rf; 1 *Love/ Thou art leading Mc from Wintry Cold.* 47 a light ill the tower window — a lif^lit that shone tlironfjh a ileft in tlie hillrt, and was seen far out at sea.' * I l)L'lieve tliat is gooffiaphically— urgi'oniiitrically iinpo>'Mil)U»,' rfaid Aiij^iiH lan,t,'hiii f'"-' 'The li.Ljht was often mistaken for a beacon, an . tht ships came ashore and were wrecked on tlie roek.s.' ' Natiii'ally— and no doubt the inonks improved the occasion. Why shoukl a Corniah monk be better than his countrymen ? "One and all " is your motto.' ' They were not Cornish monks,' answered Christabel, ' but a hrotlu'rhood of I'rench monks from the monastery of St. Serfjius, ;it Angers. They were established in a Triory here by William tie Bottreaux, in the reign of Richard, Cteur de Lion ; and, according to tradition, the townspeople resented tlieir having built the church so far from the town. I feel sure the monks could have had no evil intention in burning a light ; but .one night a crew of wild sailors attacked the tower, and pulled the greater part of it down.' ' And nobody in Boscastle has had public spirit enough to get it set up again. Where is your respect for those early Christian martyrs, St. Sergius and St. Bacchus, to whose memory your tenii)le is dedicated ] ' ' I don't suppose it was so much want of respect for the martyrs as want of money,' suggested Misa Bridgeman. * We have too many chapel people in Boscastle for our churches to be enriched or beautified. But Minster is not a bad little church after all.' ' It is the dearest, sweetest, most innocent little church I ever knelt in,' answered Angus; and if I could but assist at one pai'ticular service there ' He checked himself with a sigh ; but this unfinished speech amounteii in Miss Bridgeman's mind to a declaration. She stole a look at Christabel, whose fair face crimsoned for a iiionient or so, only to grow more purely jiale afterwards. They went into the church, and joined devoutly in the brief Saint's Dav service. The congresration was not numerous. Two or tin-ee village goodies— the school children — a tourist, uiio had come to see the church, and found himself, as it were, entangled ill saintly meshes — the lady who played the harmonium, and I he incumlxnit who read prayers. These were all, besides the party from Mount Koyal. There are ])h?nty of peo[)le in country parishes who will be as pious as you ])lease on Sunday, *eals — tlu're is a local idea that seals are to he seen jslaying about in the bay ; l)ut one is not often so lucky as to find them there. I'cople have bei'U very cruel in kiUing them, and I'm afraid there re very few seals left on our coast now.' 'At any rati', you can show me Tentargon, if you are not tired.\ ' Tired ! ' cried Christabel, laughing at such a ridiculous idea, being a damsel to whom ten miles were less than three to a towii-bred young lady. End)arrassed though she felt by being left alone with Mr. Ilamleigh, she could not even pretend that the proposed walk was too much for lier. * I sliall be very glad to take you to Pcntargon,' she said, ' it is hardly a mile out of our way ; but I fear yoti'll be dis* appointed ; there is really nothing ])articular to see.' ' I shall not be disappointed — 1 shall be deeply grateful.* They walked along the narrow hill-side paths, where it was ;ilmost impo.ssible for two to walk abreast ; yet Angus contrived somehow to be at Christabel's side, guiding and guarding her by ways which were so much more familiar to her than to him, that there was a touch of liumour in this pretence of jjrotection. B«t Christabel did not see things in their humorous aspect to-day Ib'r little hand trembled as it touched Angu;- Hamleigh's, when he led her across a craggy bit of path, or over a tiny water-pool. At the stiles in the valley on the other side of the bridge, wlach are civilized stiles, and by no means ditlicult, Christabel was too quick and light of foot to give any oj)i)ortunity for that assist- ance which her companion was so eager to afford. And now they were in the depths cf the valley, and had to mouni anothw hill, on the road to Bude, till they came to a field-gat«« above ««m; i) h w 60 Mount Royal. I '. r: i: . ..J'i which appeared a sign-board, and the niyj-tic words, ' To Pen- ttrgon.' ' What is Pentargon, that they put up its name in such hig letters'?' asked Mr. Haniieigh, staring at the board. ' Ih it a borough town — or a cattle market — or a cathedral city — or what \ Them seem tremendously proud of it.' * It is nothing — or only a shallow bay, with a waterfall and a wonderful cave, which I am always longing to explore. I believe it is nearly as beautiful as the cavern ni Shelley's " Alastor." But you will see what Pentargon is like in less than live minutes.' They crossed a ploughed held, and then, by a big live-barred gate, entered the magic region which was said to be the paradise of seals. A narrow walk cut in a steep and rocky bank, where the gorse and heather grew luxuriantly above slate and spai', described a shallow semicircle round v)nt' of the loveliest l>nys in tilt! world — a spot so exquisitely tranquil in this c;ilm autumn weather, so guarded and fenced in by the massive 1 "adiaiids that jutted out towards the main — a jieaceful haven, seemingly so re- mote from that outer world to which beloiiiied vonder white- winged ship on the verge of the blue — that Angus ilamleigh exclaimed involuntarily, — 'Here is peace ! Surely this must be a bay in th; t Lotus land which Tennyson has painted for us I' Hitherto their conversation had been desult<^iry — mere frag- mentary talk about the landscape and the loveliness of the autumn day, witli its clear bright sky and soft west wind. They had been always in motion, and there had been a ct itain adven- turousness in the way that seemed to give ocenpation to their thoughts. But now Mr. Haraleigli came to a dead stop, and stood looking at the rugged am])hitheatre, and the low weedy rocks washed smooth by the sea. * Would you mind sitting down for a few minutes V he asketl ; ' this Pentargon of yours is a lovely spot, and I don't want to leave it instantly. I have a wry slow appreciation of Nature. It takes me a longtime to grasp her beauties.' Christabel seated herself on the bank which he had selected for her accommodation, and Mr. Hamleigh placed himself a little lower, almost at her feet, her face turiunl seawai-d, his half towards her, as if that lily face, with its wild rose bloom, weie even lovelier than the sunlit ocean in all its variety of colour. ' It is a delicious spot,' said Angus, ' I wonder whether Tristan and Iseult ever came here ! I can fancy the queen stealing away from the Court and Court foolery, aiul walking across the sunlit hills with her lover. It would be rather a long walk, and there iright be a dilHculty about getting back in time for supper ; but one can picture them wandering by Howery helds, or by the clifl-^ Abov« tliat everlasting sea, and coming here to v«*jt and tai"" of ' Love ! Thmi art leading Me from Wintry Cold.' 51 thc'r sorrow and their love. Can you not fancy her as Matthew ^ijaold paints her 1 — • •• Let her have her youth again — Let her be as she was then ! Let her have lier proud dark eyes, And her petulant, quick repUes : Let her sweep her dazzling hand, With its gesture of command, And shake back her raven hair With the old imperious air." I have an idea that the Hibernian Iseult must liave heon a tartar, tlioiiLjli Matthew Arnold glosses over her peccadilloes so pleasantly. I wonder whether she had a strong brogue, anil a sneaking fondness for usquebaugh.' ' Please, don't make a joke of her,' pleaded Christabel ; 'she is very real to me. I see her as a lovely lady — tall and royal- looking, dressed in long robes of flowered silk, fringed with gold. And Tristan ' ' What of Tristan 1 Is liis image as clear in your mind ? How do you depict the doomed knight, born to suffer and to sin, destined to sorrow from the time of his forest-ljirth—motherless- beset with enemies, consumed by hopeless passion. I hope you feel sorry for Tristan V ' Who could help being sorry for him ]' * Albeit he was a sinner ? I assure you, in the old romance which you have not read — which you would hardly care to read — neither Tristan nor Iseidt are spotless.' ' I have never thought of their wrong-doing. Their fate was so sad, and they lovetl each otlier so truly.' 'And, again, you can b* lieve, ])oi'haps — you who are so innocent and confiding — that a mnn who has sinned juay forsako the old evil ways and lead a good life, until every stain of that bygone sin is purified. Yon can believe, as the Greeks believed, in atonement and ])urification.' ' I believe, a.s I hope all Christians do, thnt )epentance win wash away sin.' 'Even the accusing memory of wrong-doiiig, .md make a man's soul white and fair again ? That is a beautiful creed.' •I think the Gospel gives us warrant for believing as much — not as some of the Dissenters teach, that one effoi't of faith, an hour of prayer and ejaculation, can transform a murderer into a saint; but that earnest, sustained regret for wrong-doing, and a steady determination to live a better life ' 'Yes — that is real repentance,' exelaimed Angus, interrupting her. ' Common sense, even without Gosj)el light, tells one that it must be good. Christabel — may I call you ChristabeU — \uA s ii i\W i s T ' \{ ,,/ 63 Mount Boyal. I J '( for tl is one isolated half -hour of life — here in Pentaro;on Bayl Yoi shall be Miss Courtenay directly we leave this spot.' ' Call me what you please. I don't think it matters ver^ much,' faltered Christahel, blushing deeply. * But it makes all the difference to me. Christabel, I can't tell you how sweet it is to me just to pronounce your name. If — if — I could call you by that name always, or by a name still nearer and (hvirer. But you must judge. Give me half-an-hour — Iialf-an-hour of heartfelt earnest truth on my side, and pitying jtatience on yours. Christabel, my past life has not tjeen v\ liat a stainless Christian would call a good life. I have not been so bad as Tristan. I have violated no sacred charge — betrayed Jio kinsman. I suppose I have been hardly worse than the common run of young men, who have the means of leading an utterly usele'^s life. I have lived selfishly, unthinkingly — raring for my ct]L /Measure — with little tliought of anything that was to come afterwards, either on earth or in heaven. But all that is past and done with. j\Ty wild oats are sown ; I have had enough of youth and folly. When I came to Cornwall the other dav I thought that I was on the threshold of middle age, and that middle age could give me nothing but a few years of pain and weariness. But — behold a miracle ! — you have given me oa«k my youth — youth and hope, and a desire for length of days, and a })assionate yearning to lead a new, bright, stainless life. You have done all this, Christabel. I love you as I never thought it possible to love ! I believe in you as 1 never before believed in woman — and yet — and yet ' He j)aused, with a long heart-broken sigh, clasped the girl's hand, which had been straying idly among the faded heather, and juessed it to his lips. * And yet I dare not ask you to be my wife. Shall I tell you why 1 ' 'Yes, tell me,' she faltered, her cheeks deadly pale, her lowered eyelids heavy witfi tears, ' I told you I was like Achilles, doomed to an early deatlu You remember with what pathetic tendreness Thetis speaks of her son, * " Few years am thino, and not a lonc^thonod terra ; At once to early death iiiul sorrows doomed ]]eyond tlio lot of man ! " The Fates have s))i>lexplored regions, towards! the earth's centre. With Major Bree for their skipper, and a brace of sturdy boatmen, Angus, Christabel, and Jessie Bridgeman spent several mild October mornings on the sea — now towards Cambeak, anon towards Trebarwith. Tintagel from the beach waa infinitely grander than Tintagel in its landward aspect. ' Here,' as Norden says, was ' that rocky and winding way up the steej) sea-cliM", inider which the sea-waves wallow, and so assail the foundation of the isle, as may astonish an unstable brain to consider the peril, for the least slip of the foot leads the whole body into the devouring sea.' To climb these perilous paths, to spring from rock to rock uj)on the sli])pery beach, landing on some long green slimy slab over which the sea washes, was Christabel's delight — and Mr. Hamleigh showed no lack of agility or daring. His health had im|>roved marvellously in that invigorating air. Christabel, noteful of every change of hue in tlie belovetl face, saw how nincl' more healthy a tinge cheek and brow had taken since Mr. J I amleigh came to Mount Royal. He had no longer the exhausted look or the languid air of a man who had untimely stpiandered his stock of life and health. His eye had brightened — with no hectic light, but with the clear sunshine of a mind at ease. He Wits altered in every way for the better. iVnd now the autumn evenings were putting on a wintry air — the lights were twinkling early in the Alpine street of Bos- castle. The little harbour was dark at tive o'tlock. Mr. Hamleigh had been nearly two months at Mount Royal, and he told himself that it Wiw time for leave-taking. Fain would ha 'S'l (: i i-fci- D <#•: m 88 Mouni Boyai. liavo stayed on — stayod until that blissful morning' when (/'hris^•lbei and he nii,<,'ht kneel, side by sick', before the altar in Minster Church, and be made one forever — one in life ;uid death , — in a union as perfect as that which was symbolized by the pl.uit that grew out of Tristan's tomb and went down into the grave of his mistress. Unhappily, ISIrs. Tregonell had made up her mind that her niece should not be married until she wjus twenty yeai's of age — and Christabel's twentieth birthday woidd not arrive till the following iMidsnmmer. To a lover's imj)atieii(;e so long an interval seemed an eternity ; but ^Mrs. Tregt)nell had been very gracious in her ^consent to his betrothal, so he could not disobey her. 'Christabel has seen so little of the world,' said the dowager. * I should like to give her one season in Loudon before she marries — just to rub oil" a little of tlu; rusticity.' ' She is jjerfect — I would not have her clianged for worlds,' protested Angus. ' Nor I, But she ought to know a little more of society l)etore she has to enter it as your wife. I don't think a London sejison will spoil her — and it will please me to chaperon her — though I have no doubt I shall seem rather an old-fashioned chai)eron.' 'That is just ])0ssible,' said Angus, smiling, as he thought how closely his divinity was guarded: ' The chaperons of the present day are very easy-going people — or, i>erhaps I ought to say, that the young ladies of the present day have a certain "^'ankee go-a-headishness which very much lightens the chaperon's 1 csponsiljility. In point of fact, the London chapjron has (iwindled into a formula, and no doubt she will soon be improved otf the face of society.' * So much the worse for S09iety,' answered the lady of the old school. And then she continued, with a friendly air, — ' I dare say you know that I have a house in Bolton How. I have not lived in it since my husband's death — but it is mine, and I can have it made comfortable between this and the early fjpring. I have been thinking that it would be better for you and Christabel to be married in London. The law business would be easier settled— and you may have relations and friends who would like to be at your wedding, yet who would hardly cai*e to come to Boscastle.' ' It ?!s a long way,' admitted Angus. ' And people are stf inconsistent. They think nothing of going to the Engadine, yei grumble consumedly at a joui'ney of a dozen hours in their native land — Jis if England were not worth the exertion.' * Then I think we are agreed that London is the best place for the wedding,' said Mrs. Tregonell. • The Silver Ansiver rang, — ** Not Death, but Love" ' 5l> ' T am perfectly content. 13iit if you suggested Tinibuctoo I should be just as hapj^v.* This being settled, Mi-s. Tregonell wrote at once to her agent, with iistructions to set the old house in Bolton Row in ordtT for the season immediately after Rjister, and ('hristalxd anassed from girlhood into womanhood in the hour in which she pKfdged hei-self to Angus Ilamleigh. She had for ever done with the thoughtless gaiety of youtii that knows not cave. She had taken upon herself the burden of an anxious, self-sacrificing /ove. To no oiui had she spoki'U of her lover's ])recarioua hold upon life , but the thought of by how frail a tenure she held her happiness was ever present with her. 'How can f be good enough to him i — how c;in I do enough to make his life ha])i)y ?' she thought, * when it may be for so shoit a time.' With this ever-pr(!sent consciousness of a fatal future, went the desire to make her lover forget liis doiMu, and the ardent hope that the sentence might be revoked — that the doom ])ro- nounced by human judgment might yet l»e reversed. Indeed, Angus had liimself begun to make light of his malady. Who could tell that the famous physician was not ;i false prophet, after all ] The same dire announcement of untimely death hail been made to Leigh Hunt, who contriveil .sonu'how — not always in the smoothest waters — to steer his frail bark into the haven of old age. Angus spoke of this, ho]H'fully, to Christabel, :us they loitered within the rootless crumbling walls of the ancient oratory above St. Nectan's Kieve, one sunny November morn- ing, Miss Bridgeman rambling on the crest of the hill, with the blaak sheep-dog, Kandie, under the polite fiction of blackberry hunting, among hedges which had long been slio) n of tlieir last berry, though the freshness of the lichens and feiii-* still lingered in this sheltered nook. Yes, I know that cruel doctor was mistalceii said Christabel, her lips quiveri' g a little, her eyes wide ami grave, but tearless, as they gazed at her lover. ' I know it, I know it!' ' I know that I am twice its strong and well ;us T was when he saw me,' anjswered Angus: 'you have worked ;vs great a miracle for me as ever was wrou'dit at the grare of St. Mertheriana in Minster Churchyard. You have luiidf uie happy ; and what can cure a man better than perfect bliss 1 But, oh, my darling ! what is to become of me when I leave you, when I retorn to the beatou ways of London life, and, looking back at '0 60 Mount Boyai. iU m tliese delicious days, ask myself if this sweet life with you is not some dreaiu which I have dreamed, and which can never come iif^ain ? ' ' You will not think anythinf? of the kind,' said Christabel, with a pretty little air of authority which charmed him — as all her looka and ways ch;>vmed him. * Vou know tiiat 1 am mAter reality, and that our lives are to be spent toi^'ether. And you re not going back to London — at le;ist not to .stop there. You areg'.'ing to the South of b'rance.* ' indeed ? this is the lirst 1 have heard of any such intention.' * Did not that doctor say you wore to winter in the South T ' He did. liut 1 tliuught wo had agreed to despise that doctor ? ' ' We will despise him, yet be warned l)y him Why should any one, who has lil)erty and plenty of money, spend his winter in a smoky city, where the fog blinds and stilles him, and the f»-ost ])inches him, and the damp makes him miserable, when he can have blue skies, ami sunsliine and llowers, and ever so much brighter stars, a few imndreil miles away l We are bound to obey each other, are we not, Angus ? Is not that among oui mai'riage vows I ' ' I believe there is something about obedience — on the lady's side — but I waive that technicality. I am pre[)ared to become an awful example of a henpecked liusbarul. If you say I am to go southwards, with the swallows, I will go — yea, verily, to Algeria or Tunis, if you insist ; though I would rather be on the Riviera, whence a telegram, with the sin^fie word 'Come' would bring me to your siile in forty-eight iiours.' * Yes, you will go to that lovely land on the shores of the Mediterranean, and there you will be very careful of your healtii, so that when we meet in London, after E.uster, yo;'.r every look will gainsay that pitiless doctor. Will you do this, for my sake, Angus i ' she pleaded, lovingly, nestling at his side, jis they stood together on a narrow ])ath that wound down to the entrance of the Kieve. They could hear the rush of the waterfall in the deep green hollow below tliem, and the faint flutter of loosely hanging leaves, stirred lightly by the light wind, and far away the joyous bark of a sheep-dog. No human Voices, save their own, disturbed the autumnal stillness. ' This, and much more, would I do to please you, love. Indeeil, if I am not to be here, I might just as well be in the South ; nay, much better than iu London, or Paris, both of which cities I know by heart. But don't you think we couhl make a comp'-^^Tise, and that I might spend the winter at Tor- quay, ruiming over to Mount Royal for a few days occasionally?' ' No ; Torquay will not do, delightfid as it would be to have you so near. I have been reading about the climate in tlie South I In Society. m of Franco, nnd I nm sure, if you are careful, a winter there will do you worlds of ponrl. Next year ' ' Next year W( cau f,'() then; together, and you will take care of nie. Was tliat wli.it you were going to say, Belle i ' 'Something lik»' that.' ' Yes,' he said, slowly, after a thoughtful pause, * I shall he glad to be away from London, and all old associations. My past life is a worthless husk that I have done with for ever.' CI[.\ PTEH VI. IN SOCtKTY, Thk Faster recess w:\s over. Roc^Cfy had returnod from \i.\ hrief lioliday — its glimi>se of budding hedges ;nid pi'imrose- d(»tted banks, blue skies and blue violins, the snowy bloom of orchards, the tender green of young corntields, Society had come )»ack again, and w.is hard at the London treadmill — yawn- ing at old operas, and damning new plays— sniggering at ci'owded soirees — laying down the law, each man his p.iviii idar lu-anch thereof, at earefuily jilanned dinner ])arties — quarrelling and making friends again — eating and drinking — sjjending and wasting, and pretending to care very little aliout anything ; foi" society is as salt that haa lost its savour if it is not cynical and affected. Jiut there was one dc'hvtante at least that season for whom town pleasures had lost none of their freshness, for whom the old operas were all melody, and the new j»lays all wit — wIk* admired everything w ith fiankest wonder and enthusiasm, and without a thought of Horace, or Pope, or Creech, or anybody, except the lover who was always at her side, and who shiil tlit> rose-coloured light of hapi)iness upon the commonest things. To sit in the Green Park on a mild April morning, to see the guard turn out by St. James's l*;il;ice after breakfast, to loiter away an hour or tw(* at a picture; gallery — was to be infinitely hap|)v. ^'m ither ojjera nor jilay, dinner nr)r dance, racc-course nor tlower-show, was needed to complete the sum of Christabela bliss when Angus Ifamlei^h was with lier. He had returned from Jlyei'es, cpiietest among the southern towns, wondertnlly improvecl in hcilth and strength. Even Mrs. Tregonell and Mi.ss Bridgeman perceived the change iu him. ' r think you must have been very ill when you came U Mount Royal, Mr. Hanileigh,' said Jessie, one day. ' You took so much better now.' ^ f illi M i \\ \> ^n I I. , , I Mount Royal. *My lifo wa.^ rm|)ty thou — it ia full now, lie answorod ' Tt is hope that kci'ps a nuin alivt>, and I had very little? to hope for when I wmt westward. Jfow stran;,'o tho i(»a diniu'^'-i'oom Wius .sondire aii la ly and her niece visited there were now intro(luctif»ns, whereby tli.' widow's visiting list Midened like a circle in the water— and cards for dances and evening [)arties. afternoons and dinners were supwr-abnndant. (.'hiMst;ibel wanted to see every- thing. She had quite a country girl's taste, and cared much for the theatre and the opera than to 1)6 drensed in a new gown, In SocictJf. 63 and to bo cruslicd in a crowd of otlior youncf womon in now gowns — or to sit still .iml be iulniircd at a statt'ly dinner. Nor w.us sho partiiul.'irly intercstoil in tiie leaders of fashion, their ways and niannei-s — the newest professed or professional heauty— the last social scandal. She wanteil to s<'(( the greateity of which nhe had read in history — the Tower, tlu^ Savoy, Westminster Hall, th(^ Abl)ey, St. Paul's, the Tenijjle — the London of Kliz<'iheth, the still older London of the Ldwards and Henries, the h(»use in which Milton wa:* horn, the or^an on which he played, the place where Shak(\speare's Tht^atre i>\\i'o storxl, the (»ld Inn whence (Jhaucer's Pil<,'rinis startisd on tln'ir journey. Even Dickens 8 TiOndon — the London of Tick wick and Winkle — the Sarawn'a Head at which Mr. Scpieers put up — had charms for her. ' Is evcrylhin* '^one i' sIk^ asked, pitcously, after heiuLf t(»ld liow improvement liad ellaced the brick and niortir back^^round of English History. Yet there still lemaiiH'd enongh to fill her mind with solemn thoughta of the past. She spent long liours in the Abbey, with Angus and Jessii', looking at tlu' monuments, and recalling the lives and dei'ds of long vanishetl heroes and statesmen. The Tower, and the old Inns of Court, were fidl of interest. Her curiosity about old houses and streets was insatiable. ' No one less than Macaulay could satisfy you,' said Angns, one day, wIk'ii his memory was at fault. 'A man of inlinite .•ading, and infallible memory.' 'But you have read so muili,and you remember a great deal.' They had been prowling al)out the Whitehall end of the town in the bright early morning, before Fashion had lM>gun to stir herself faintly among her down pillows. ( 'hristabel loved the parks and streets while the fn-shness of sunrise was still upoi them — and these early walks were an institution. 'Where is the Decoy T she asked Angus, one day, in St, Jannes's Park ; and on being interrogated, it appeared that slu? meant a certain jiicceof water, drscribi'd in ' JN-vrril of tlu' IVak.' All this part of I^ondon was peo[)leon which he and liis betrothed turned their hacks upon London society, and seeniG-'''. as far away from the outsi(h' world as ever tlipy had hoen upcii the wild western coast. J>ike most men educated at Jiton and Oxford, and brouG[ht up in the nei^lihour- lK)od of the metropolis, Angus loved the Thames with a love that was almost a passion. * It is my native country,' he said ; * I hnvc no other. All the pleaisantest a.ssociations of my boyhood atid youth are inter- woven with the river. When I die, my spirit ouipsy,' which you have read about in Arnold's poem.' He knew eveiy bend and reach of the river — every tribu- tary, creek, and eyot — almost every row of pollard willows, .^fnnding stunted and grim along the bank, like a line of ruLffjed old men. lie knew where the lilies grt-w, and where tin i« wore chances of trout. The haunts of monster pike were familiar to him — ind<'ed, he declared that he knew many of tliese gentle- men personally — that they were as old jus the Fontainebleau carp, and bore a charmed life. * When I was at Kton I knew theni all l)v sight,' h(» said. 'There was oiu' which I set my heart upon landing, but he was ever so much strcnger and i^leverer than I, If Iliad caught him I should have worn his skin ever after, '\\\ tln^ pride of my heart, like Ifercules with his lion. ]»ut he still inhabits the same creek, stiil sidks among the same rushes, and devours the gt'iitler members of the linny race by .^Imals. We christened him Dr. Parr, for we knew lie was preternnturall}' old, and we t houghs he must, from mere force of association, be a pro- found scholar.' Mr. Jlamleigh was always finding reasons for these country excursions, whith he declared were the one sovereign antidote f(ir the poisoned atmosphere of crowded rooir.s, and the evil I'tlecls of late hiturs. 'You wouldn't like to see Christabel fade and languish like (he ilowt'i's in your drawing-room/ he urg(>d, when Mrs. Tre- ^'onell waiitcil her niec- to make a round of London visits, instealy, as they wero departing. ' iVIind, Major, I hold you responsible for her return. ^'(>u ar«; the only sober pin'son in the party. I believe .lessio Bridgenian is jts wild as a hawk, when she gets out of my sight.' Jessie'u xhrewd giey eyes twinkled ;it the re])i<»of. *I am ntit v<'ry .s(»n-y to get away finm Bulton Jvow, and the tine ladies who come to see voii — and who alw.ivs look at nie as much as to .say, " Who is slu^ I — what is she / — how did .^he come her*'<" — aiwJ who are obviously surprised if I say anything intelligent — tirst, at my audacity in speaking bt»foi'o company, and next that such a thing ;us i should lia\(' ;iny brains.' * Nonsense, Jessie, how thin-skinned you ai'e ; everybody 'ou,' said Mrs. Tregonell, while they jjl wailed on the I for Christabel to fa^sten her eifjht-buttc ])raise tl ir( gU nl ^ dehcate operation, in which she waij aiiuijilud by Mr. IIan)lcir,'h. 1. "I ' '■ I ' 66 Mount Boyal. *JIow clever yon .ne at buttonlnj:^ gloves/ exclaimed Christiibel ; 'one would think you had served an a|»j)renticeship.' 'That's not the iirst pair he has buttoned, I'll wa<:fer,' cried the Major, in liis loud, hearty voice ; and then, seeing Angus redden evor so slii;li(ly, and remembering certain rumours which he had heard at his club, the kindly bachelor regretted his Kpeech. Happily, Chrisiabel was engaged at this moment in kissing licr aunt, and did not observe Mr. Hiimleigh's heightened colour. Ten miinites later they were all seated outside the coach, bowling down Piccadilly Hill on their way westward. ' In the good old days this is how you would have started for CornwiilL' said Angus. ' I wish, we were going to Cornwall now.' 'So do I, if your aunt woidd let us be married at that de;ir little clnu'ch in the glen. Christabel, when I die, if you liave the ordering of my funeral, be sure that I am buried in ^iinster Churehyard.' ' Angus, don't,' murmured Christabel, piteously. ' J )earest, " we must all die — 'tis an inevitable cliance — the first Statute in Magna Charta — it is an everla.stmg Act of Par- liament" — that's what he says of death, dear, who jested at all things, .-ind laid his cap and bells down one day in a lod'_ring in 1!ond Street — tlu^ end of which we j)assed just now — sad and lonely, and ])erliaps longing for the kindred whom he had forsaken.' ' You mean Sterne,' said Clni>l;ibel for that hoM>^, yesterday. I think we thain for many a better man.' In the early afternoon they had reaehed their destination — a lovely creek shaded by chestnut and alder — a s])ot kun a n to few, and larely visiied. Here, under green leaves, they UKJured their boat, and lunehed on the contents of a b;\.sket which had been got ready for them at Skindle's — dawdling over the meal — biking their ease — full of talk and laughter. Never had Angus looked better, or t^dkcd more gaily. Jessie, too, w;w at her brigiitest, and had a fjreat deal to say. 'It is wonderful now well you two get on,' sai^ spoken. F can see it in htr face.' * Perhaps, tiiat is because we are both cynics,' said Mr. Hamleigh. ' YsB, that is no doubt the reason.' said Jessie, reddening a little ; *the bond of sympathy between us is fotuided on our very poor opinion v( our fellow-creatureb.' * Jessie and I huntt'il dl feel sorrier for him Jus thei eoun flow( In Society. 67 ^1, •h But after this Miss Bridgeman became more silent, and p;i\ e way much less than usual to those sudden impulses of slurp Hpeecli which Christabel had noticed. Tliey landed presently, and went wandering away into the inland — a strange world to Christiibel, albeit very familiar to iier lover. ' Not far from here there is a dell which is the most won- derful place in the world for bluebells,' said Angus, looking at his watch. ' I wonder whether we should have time to walk there.' ' Let us try, if it is not very, very far,' urged Christabel. * I adore bluebells, and skylarks, and the cuckoo, and all the dear country Howors and birds. I have l)een surfeited with hot-house flowers and caged canaries since I came to London.' A skylark was singing in the deep blue, far aloft, over the liti-le wood in which tliev were wandering. It was the loneliest, loveliest sjiut ; and Christabel felt as if it would be agony to leave it. She and her luvei- seemed ever so much nearer, dearer, more entirely united here than in London drawing-rooms, where she hardly dared to be civil to him lest society should be amused or i'ontemj)tnous. Here she could cling to his arm — it seemed a .strong and helpful arm now — and look up at his face with love irradiating her own count-^nam'e, and feel no more a.shrmied than l']ve in the (faiilen. Here they coulponsil)le for an unantici[)ated family— ' How could a young f-'Uow of two-and-twenty know that (Jod was going to atHict liijii with ten children?' Mr. Jli'idgeman usi-d to observe }>laintr.r-|y — with a mother whose life was one lung domestic drudufi-v, who s]«t'!!t more of hei- days in a l)ack kilfhen than ia con.^isteui with the maintenance of personal dignity, and whose o ily «ha«fe of an airing was that stern necessity which impelled lierHi!) go and interview the tax-gatherer, in the hope of obtaiidnii 'time' — .les>ie's upportunities of tasting the pleasures of youtl; had liecii of the rarest. Once in si.\ months oi- so, perhaps, ♦ sjiabby-'_' Kauee. ledoh-,: of garlic, by (.lelii-ioiis foreign luead, and too- odorous foreign cheese. ]t was a tradition in tlie family that Mr. lii-idgemau had been a gicaL diniur-giver in iiis bachelor days, aii'l knew evety restaurant in London, 'They don't forget me here, you see,' he said, when the .sleek Italian waiter l)roULHit him e.vtra kn've*«i and forks for the duitl jxirtion which wius to .serve for three. Ill Society. 69 1 1< I- Such liad been the utiiiosL limit of Jessie's iiUiumres befoi'e she iuiswered an advertisement in the Times, which stated that a lady, Hvinle;used her the most. The young laily's references to her father's andlord and the incvmibent of the nearest church, were satis- factory. So one bleak wintry morning Miss Jlridgeman left . i ! P If i* 1 p i III 70 Mount Royal. Paddington in one of the Great Western's almost luxnrioua third-class can-iages, and travelled straight to Launcestoij,wluMice a carriage — the very lirat private carriage she had ever s:ii in, and every detail of which was a wonder iuid a delight to her — conveyed her to Mount Royal. That fine old Tudor manor-house, after the shabby ten-ro»mr>d villa at 8hc|)hord's iJush — badly built, badly drained, badly situated, badly furnished, always smelling of yesterday's dinm-r, always damj) and oozy with yesterday's rain — wjus almost too beautiful to be real. For days after her arrival Jessie felt as if she must be walking about in a dream. The elegancies and hixuries of life were all new to her. The perfect quiet and order of this country liomu ; the beauty in every 72 MuuiU Boy ill. way the rnan in tlie play, Sir Cililo.s Ovoiroach'a man, began, yon niav be sure — till l)y-antl-l)y lie f'ot Sir (iiles under hi.s thumb. And tiiat's th(^ way Miss JiridLjenian will nerve you. I wonder you are so short-siiflitcd.' Weak a.s Mrs. Trci^onell was in her love for her son, she waa too staunch to be set a,i,^'iinst a ])ers()n she liked by any such assertions as tlufse. She was cjuite able to form her own opinion about Miss IJridu^cman's rli iracter, and she found the girl strai^fht Jis .iv ni row — '.andid almost to insolence, yet pleasant withal ; industrious, clever — sharjj as a needle in all domestic details — able to manage pounds a.s carefully as slie had managed l)ence and sixp<;nces. ' Mother used to give nie the hoiisekeeping purse,' she said, * and I did what I liked. I was always ( iiamelloi- of the Ex- checpier. It was a very small exchecpier ; but 1 learnt the habit of spending and managing, and keeping accoiuits.' While active and busy about domestic allairs, verifying accounts, settling suj^plies and expenditures with the cook- hous'L-k(H'})er, makiiig hei'self a veritable clerk of the kitchen and overlooking the housemaids in the liner details of their work, JNliss Britlgeman still found ample leisure for the improve- nient of her mind. In a quiet country house, where family prayers are read at eight o'clock every morning, the days are long enough for all things. Jessie had no active share in Christabels education, whii-h was Mrs. Tregonell's delight and care ; but she contrived to learn what Christabel learnt — to study with her .-ind read with her, and often to outrun her in the ])ursuit of a favourite subject. They learnt German togethev, they read good Frem.'h books togetlier, and v/ere com- jKinious in the best sense of the word. It was a hap]>y life — ni )no((iiious, uneventful, but a placid, busy, all-satisfying life, which dessie Jhidgeman led during those six years and a half which went befoie the advent of Angus Handeigh at Mount Ivoyal. The comi)anion's salary had long ago been doubled, and Jessie, who had no cajiriees, and whose wants were modest, was alile to send forty pounds a year to Shepherd's Bush, and found a rich reward in tlie increased cheerfulness of the lettera from liome. Just so nnich for Jessie Bridgeman's history as slie walks by ^lajor Bree's wide in the sunlight, with a sharply cut face, imj)res.sed with a gravity beyond her years, and marked with ])recocious lines that were drawn tln^re by the iron hand of poverty bef(;re slui had emerged from gii'lhood. Of late, even amidst tlu; elegant, luxuries of jNFay Fair, in a life given over to amusement, among flowers and bright scenery, and nnisic ;uid pictures, those lines had been growing deeper — lines that hinted «4t a secret ciu'e. In Society. 73 'Isn't it delightful to see tluui together!' 8;iitl tlie Miijur, looking aftw those happy lovers with a henevolent smile. ' Yes ; I suppose it is very beautiful to soe sucli pi-rfect happiness, like Juan andlfiudre before Lambro swcjopt-d down upon them,' returned Miss nridgcman, who was too outspoken to be ashamed of having read liyrou's epic. Major Dree had old-fashioned notions about the books women shwuhl and should not read, and liyron, ex(H'pt for elegant extracts, was in his Itidcr expurodtorins. If a woman was allowed to read the '(Jiaour,' she would incivitabjy read 'Don Juan,' he argued ; there would be no restraining iier, after she had tasted blood — no use in otlering her ancttiier jioet, and saying, Now you can read ' Thalaba,' or ' Peter Jiell.' 'They were so happy I' .said Jessie, dreamily,* .so young, and one so innocent ; and then came fear, .severance, (lesj)air, anlea.sed with the engagement — everything smiles upon the lovers,' ' No, it is all sunshine,' said Jessie ; 'there is no shadow, if Mr. llamleigh is .as worthy of her ;us we all think him. Yet there w;us a time when you spoke rather disparagingly of him.' ' My gossiping old tongue shall be cut out for lepeating club '"candals ! llamleigh is a generou.s-hearted, noble-natiired fellow, and I am not afraid to trust him with the fate of a girl whom I love almost Jis well as if she were my atiblo with hapj)iness?' asked the i\lajoi-, with a philosophical air ; ' 1 have had a jKirti- cularly happy life, and 1 have ne\er been rich.' 'Ah, that makes all the diHeience ! ' exclaimed Jessie. ' You have never been rich, but they have always bfcn poor. You can't conceive what a gulf lies between those two positions. You have been obliged to deny yourself a great many of the mere idle luxuries of life, I dare say — hunters, the latest inrjjrovements in guns, valuable dogs, continental travelling ; but you have had enough for all the needful things — for neat- his In Society. 75 nesM, cieaiilliu , an orderly housiliold ; a woll-kepi flower- giinli'ii, everything spotless and bri^'ht about you ; no slipshoil in;ii.l-of-all-work printing her ^Teiuy thiinil* upon voiir undin<3's T ' f moan every word 1 say.' ' Then it is in your power to make me rirlier in happlno^!> th;in Kothschild or Baring. Dearest Miss liriilgenian, dearest Jessie, I think you nnist know how tlevotedly I love you ! 'J'ill lo-day I have not dared to speak, for my linutc(l means would not have allowed nie to maintain a wife as the woman 1 love ought to he maintained; but this morning's po^t brought mo the Dews of the death of an old Admiral of the lUue, wiio w.i.-* my father's iirst cousin. Jle w;is a bachelor like mysidf left the Navy > un\ after the signing of Sir Henry I'ottinger's trenty ut Nankii.. in '42 — never considered himself well eiiou'^h oil' to marry, but lived in a lodging at Devonport, and hoarded auil hoard«;d and hoarded for the mere abstract pleasur<; of ac- cunndating his surplus Heonie ; and the result of his hoardiii'^ — condjined with a little dodging of his investments instocksand shares — is, that he leaves me a solid four hundred a vejir in(jireat Westerns. Jt is not mu(;h from some ])eople's ])oint of view, but, added to my existing income, it makes me vury comfortable. I could afford to indulge all your simple wishes, my dearest ! J could aflFord to help your family I ' lie took lier hand. She did not draw it away, but ])ressed Ins gently, with the grasp of friendship. ' Don't say one word more — you are too good — you are the best and kindest man I have evei" known ! ' slies.iid, ' and I sh;' love and honour you all my life; but I shall never marry! made up Juy mind about that, oh ! ever so \i)\>f ago. Imleed, J never expected to be Jiaked, if the truth nmst be told.' ' I understand,' said the INlajor terribly d;i->hed. ' I am too old. Don't suppose that I liave not thought alxnit that. 1 havi-. ihit I fancied the dilliculty might be got over. Vou aiie so ditVerent from the common run of girls — st) staid, ao sensible, of such a contented disposition. I5\it 1 was a fool to sujtpose thai ajiy girl of ' ' Seven-and -twenty,' interrupted Jessie ; * it is a long way up the hill of girlhood. I shall soon be going down on the otiier side.' ' At any rate, you are more than twenty years my junior. 1 was a fool to forget that.' ' Dear Major Bree,' said Jessie, very earnestly, ' believe me, I I I >"' ,■'«♦' H L I' ' .vn •*!»«• 7(? "MounL llojial. \ -M it JH not for tli.il n'Hxoii, '. Hiiy No. If yoii wnc a.s yoiniff — aa vuiiii^' jn Mr. ll;iMili,'i^'li -tlio uuswci- woiiM !)»• just tlif s.uiuw r hIi.-iII lu'vor iii.irry. Tlioro is no one, ]»i Iik^o or piMsaiit, wlioin I ('.'iri! t(» marry. V<»u arc iiiiK'h too ltoihI a man to \n\ niai linl fur the sake of a liappy lioiiu', for sLatiis in tlic woiM, kindly (•onipani(»nslii|) -all of wliidi yoii cioiild ^'ive inc. If I lovt'n\i,'ed the M.ijor, opp(»>in<,' what he i?nau'iin;d to he a romantic .scinple with tlie shiewd oomnion-seiMcof his fifty ycirs' experience. ' I w.int a friend, a companion, a hel|»niate, and J am sui'c you could hi' all those to nie. If 1 ctiuld only make you hap|)y I ' ' Vou coidd not I intcrrujtt^d Jessie, with cruel decisiveness. ' Pray, never speak (tf this a«;ain. dear .Maj(»r Ihve. N'oiir fiiendshij) h;us hcen very j>leasant to nn^ ; it lias hoen one «»f the many charms of my life at Mount Hoyal. I woidd nut lose it for the world. .And W(> can always he fricnut I Want to ec "('upid and l\vche "' two of my jiartneis l.ist nin'ht talked to me of "Cupid aud I'.^vche/' and were astounded that 1 had not seen it. I felt quite ashamed of my ignorance. 1 a.-.ked one of my partners, who w;us partiL-ularly enthusiastic, to tell me all abou?: 5 I'M ' I Hi i . i' ! » i'i \ in > It! :> n I t: it 7S Mount Hoy at. the play- -and he did— to tlie hest of hia ahi)itv, whirh (rai ii"i ,i,'rt*at — .".nd lie said that a Miss ^fayne — HtcHa M.iyno — - Who phiys Psyche, is 8inii)ly adorable. She ia the htvelieHl woman in Tiondon, he saya — and was p-eatly surprised that shw *iftd not been f)ointe(l out to nie in the Park, Now really, ^Jncle Oliver, this ia very remiss in you — you who are so clever ill showing ine famous peo))le when we are driviiii^ in the Park.' 'My deaf, -vte have not happened to see her — that is all/ replied the Afajm-, Trithout any resjionsive smile at the bright young face siuiliug \\\) at him. ' ^'f»u hav(! scdi her, I suppose ?' ' Yes, I saw her when I wa« last in London.' •XiYt this time?' *Kot this time.' * Vo(i mf'st nnenthusiastic pei-son. But, T understnnd your motive. Vou Jiate Iwen waiting an o|)po)tutiily to take Jessie and nu! to see this divine Psyche. Is she alisolutcly lovely T * Loveliness is a matter of opinion. She is generally accepted H.S a p.irticul.iily pretty woman.' ' \Vhi!n will you take me to see her ?' 'I have no ide.i. Vou have so many engagements — yotir aunt is alwavs niaking new ones. I can do nothing without her j)ei'missi(in. ourely you like dancing ))('tt"r than sitting in a theatre \ ' ' No, I do not. Diincing is delightful enough — biit to be in a theatre is to be in fairy-land. It is like going into a new world. 1 leave myself, and my own life, at the (Uxtrs — and go to live and love and sutler and be glad with the pco].|»' in the play. 'i'o see a ]iowerful play — really well acted -such acting as we have seen — is to live a ni'W life from enil tf» end in a few Jioui-s. It is like getting the essence of a lifetime witlicuL any of the at'tual |)ain — for when the situation is too t- riiMe, ono ran iiincli oneself and sav — it is oidv a dream— an acted dreaji!.' 'If you like powerful ]>lays— plays that make you iremble *tiil cry— you would not care twojience for "Cupid and Psyche,"' ^.iitl Major JJree. ' It is sonu'thing between a burles(|Ue and a fairv comeily — a most frivolous kinil of entertainment, 1 believe.' ' I dont care li(»w frivolous it is. I have set my heart upon wHMUg it. 1 ('on't want to be out of the fiushiou. If you won't eet ]ne a box at the — where is it I ' i ' Die K.Ueidoseope I'heatre.' * At the Kaleidoscope I 1 shall a.^k Angus.' 'Please don't. I — 1 shall be seriously olVended if you do. Let me arrange the business with your aunt. If you really want to see the piece, I 8Uj)pase you mu.st see it — but not unless your aunt likes.' 'Dear, dearest. kind(>fit uncV '^^I'verl' cried Christabel, In Society. 79 nqucc^irig Iiis arm. 'Fit in my chiltlhood npwnrda yon liave always fostered iiiy self-will l)y the bliinlcst iii(lul,i,'fiiii'. I w.is fifraid thwart nie.' Major T>ee was tlinu^htful and silent for the rest of the aftcrnnoii, and althou;;li .Irssie tried to be ;is sIiarp-siKiken and vivacious as nsu.d, the eliort would have })een olivious to nny two people proj)erly([ualiti«d to observe the actions and expressions of others. But Ani,'us and (Jhristabel, being completely absorbed in each other, saw nothing amiss in tlieir companions. The river and the lanckscape were divine — a river for gods •- a wood for nymplis — altogether too lovely for mortals. Tea, served on a little round table in the hotel garden, was peifect. * How much nicer than the dinner to-night!' excl.iimmj Christ'ibel. 'J wish we were not going. And yet, it will be very pleasant, T daresay — a tal)l(> (h-coiated with the loveliest flowers — well-dressed women, clever men, all talking as if there w;ia not a care in life — and perhaps we sh.dl he next each other,' added the happy giil, looking at Angus. *What a comf(»rt for me that I am out of it,' said Jessie. *How nice to be an insignificant young woman whom nobody ever dreams of asking to dinner. A powdered old dowager did actually hint at my going to her musical (\enin.,' the other day when she called in Holton J\ow. " lie sure you come early," she said guslu'nirly, to Mrs. I'regonell and (hri.-tahel ; and then, in quite another key, glancing at me, she ailded, and "if Miss — er — er would like to hear my singers, I should he — er — delighted,"' no doubt mentally adding, " I hope she won't have the impertineiice to take me at my word."' 'Jessie, you are the most e\il-thinkiiig person I ever knew,* cried Christabel. 'I'm sure l«idy Millaniont meant to lie eivil.' ' Yes, but she did not mean nie to go to her party,' retorted Jessie. The happy days — the society evenings — slippecl by — dining — music — (lancing. And now came tl'.e brief bright season of rustic entertainments — more dancing — more music — lawn-tennis —archery — water ])arties — every device l>y whieh the sumnn i- houi-snmy chime in tune with [Measure. It was. Inly- ("hristabd's birthday h.ad come and gone, bring a necklace of single diamonds and a ])asket of .Tune roses from Angus, .and the most jierfect tln'ng in Park liarks tVom ]\lrs. TrcL^oncH but ( luistaberM wedding-da\' — more fateful thiv.i any biithday except th(! lirst — had not yet been tixed — albeit Mr. Ilamleigh pressed for a decision upon this vital point. ' It waa to have been at Midsummer,' he said, one flay, when he hast uncertain, and it really does not seem worth while to wait.' ' When the wed(iiug-(lay is lixed, 1 will send himi a message by the Atlantic cable. \Vv must have him at the Mcdding.' Mr. ILunleigh did not see the necessity ; but lie wastookind to .say .so. ile pre.s.sed for .a v^ttlenient as to the day — or week — or at lea.stthe month in which his niarriag(^ was to takis ])lace — and at h'st Mrs. Tregonell coii.'sented to the beginning of tSeptemljer. 'I'hey Were all agi'ei'tl now that the tittest marriage temj)le for t!«is particular bride and bridegiooin was the little old church in the heart »»f tin- hills -the church in which Christabel h.id worsliipped every Smiday, morning oi' afternoon, ever since she could reinend>er. It was I'lnistabels own d(>sire to kneel befoi that '.miliarallar on her wedilinix-dav - in thesolemi ni)cace ful e ness of that ItiN'ed hill-side, with frieiully lionest country faces round li-T — rather than in the midst of a fashional>le crowd, attended by i>ridesn heart.' In the years that were gone she hail so ideutilied herself with lier .son's hopes and scheii'es, had so jirojected her thnughts into his future — seeing him in her waking dreams as he would be in the day--^ to come, a model scpiire, posses.sed of all his father's old- fashionecl vii'tues, with a great deal of mndern cleverness superadded, a ])roud and happy husband, the fathei* of a noitle race — she had ke|)t this vision of the future in her mind so long, had dwelt upon it so fondly, had coloured it so brightly, that to forego it now, to say to herself 'This thing was but a dream which I dreamed, and it can never be realized,' was like lelin- ([uishing a part of her own life. She was a dcejily relivimis woman, and if called upon t(t bear phvsical jLiiii— to siillei ihe aiionii's of a slow, incurable illness -she would have .«s. She had been rearing a wife lor her son — .siuli a wife as would be a man s Itetter angel- a guiding, restraining, elevating jirineiple. m» interwoven with his life that he should never kiiuw him-elf in le.iding-strings an inrtuence so gently exercised that he should never su.-.peet that he was inthienced. ' Leonard has a noble heart and a line manly char.ictei/ the mother had often told herself ; 'but he wants the usso( iatinri of a milder nature than his own. He is just the kind of man to «i i i I'm If; "11 1(1 ■ U^H ! ,1m: ( • Hi < # •i. 82 Mount }{oi/n(. hv. guidi'd and governed l)y a ^'ood wife! — a wift* wlio would obey his li^liU'st wish, and yet ndo liini always for good.' She had seen how, whun Leonard had heen disposed to act unkindly or illiberally by a tenant, Cliris«^bel had been able to {lersuade him to kindness or generosity — how, when he had set lis face itgainst going to church, being minded to devote Sunday morning to the agreeable duty of cleaninj^ a favourite gun, or physicking a favourite spaniel, or greasing a cherished pair of fishing-boot.s, Christabel had taken him there — how she hav Hiiti too ha^))y to remember her euprice about ('ii|)i(lan(l I'svrhe. But just after the Henley week — whieh to some thousjiuds, ami to tiiese two lovers, had been aH a dream of Miss— ;i niaojii.tl mixture of sunlight and balmy airs and flowery meads, line gowns and lin<; luneheons, nigger singei's, stone-breaking athletes, gipsy sorceresses, eager to read high fortunes on any hand for half-a-erown, rowing men, racing men, artists, actors, pons, critics, swells — just after the wild excitement of that wateiv saturnalia, Mr. Jlandeigh had occasion to go to the North of Scotland to see m ancient kinswoman of his father— an eccentric' maiden aunt — who had stood for him, by proxy, at theb.iittismaJ font, and at the same tin)e announced her intenli(tn of leaving liini her comfortable fortune, togi'ther with all those snuir-nniMs, 3uaighs, knives and forks, spoons, and other curiosities of C'ale- onia, which had been in tlie family for centuries — provided always that he grew up with a high oj)inioa of Mary Stuart, and religiously b.dieved the casket letters to be 1 lie vile forgerits (.f George P>uchanan. The old lady, who was a kindly >^oid, with a broad Scotch tongue, had an inconvenient habit of sending fm her nei)hew at odd tinu's and seasons, when she imagined her- self on the ])oint of death— and he was t(K> kind to turn a de.. i' ear to this oft-repeat''d cry of ' wolf — lest, after making light i f her summons, he should hear that the real wolf had come and devoured the harniK'ss, affectionate old kuly. So now, just whenLonilon life was at its gayest and brightot, when the moonlit city after midnight looked like fairydand, ami the Thames Embankment, with its long chain of glitteiin^ lamps, gleaming golden above tno sapphire river, was a .scene v. dre.am about, Mr. Ilandeigh had to order his portmanteau and a hansom, and drive from the A4hany to one of the great rail\\.: y stations in the Eustou Eoad, ami to curl himsef up in his (onici of the limited mail, scarcely to budge till he was landed at Inver- ness. It was hard to leave Christabel, though it were only foi- a week. He swore to her that his absence should not outhust a week, unless the grisly wolf called Death did indeed claim hi;i victim. *1 know T shall tind the denr old soul up andliearty,' he said, lightly, 'devouring vSi^otch ■ ollops, or haggis, or cock-adecky, oi- something *'(pially loathsome, an4 84 Mount Ttoyal. Ii.ive a fev/ more hiuth, An''u.s liey're very pfoofl the day." But .she i.s ;i .swoet old woman, (lespi • lier barbaritios, and one of the haf)i)ie.'4, (lay.s of my life will be that on which I take you to see her.' ' And if — if she i.s not V('ry ill, you will como back soon, won't you, Angu.s,' jtleadi-d Ciiiistiibel. * A.s .soon as ever I can tcir niy.self aw.'.y from the collops and llic few liioth. If I find the dear old imixtstor in rude health, ,: < 1 (jiiite e.\|)e(;t, 1 will hob and nob willi her over one glas.s of t 'ddy, slccj) one night under her roof, and then acro.ss tlie Border i.s f.ist ;is the e.^))re.s.s will carry me.' tSo Ihcy parted ; and Angu.s had scaiccly loft Bctlton Row an Mdur, when M:ijor Bree came in, and, l)y .some random flight iiice.' 'Poor little Belle !' 'And he is not half-way to S^'otland yet,' she si'_fhed. ' !low long and sIdw the hours will be I You nnist do all ;. ou c«n to anuise nic. I shall want i|)ation r\en. If wc were at lionu' I should go and wander u|» by V. illapark, .ind talk to th*^ gulls. Here there is nothing to i; ). Another stu|)id garden party at Twickenham to-moiiow, exactly oj)posite the one to-day at Ivichniond — the only variety b'ing that we .shall be on the north bank of the rivei- instcid of the south bank- a pro.sy dinner in Regent's I'.ark the liay after, bet me .see,' said ( liri.^tabel, suddenly animated. We are (]uite free for to-morrow evening. A\'e can go and .>re ■<'uj)i(l and i'.syche,' and I can tell Angus all ab(»ut it when he •ornes back. Ple;ise get us a nice .see-able box, hke a deft'" 'Miging Uncle Oliver, as you are.' Cupid and Psyche. 85 *0f course I am obliging,' groaned tho Major, ' but the most obliging person that ever was can't perform impoHsibilities. il you want a box at the Kaleidoscope you nnust engage one for to-morrow month — or to-morrow six w«h'1 il ;n .! I ' 1 till* til* \\ so Moiinf Tioi/nl. II If I l)0(ly had sent b.ack her box by a footman, just ten rainntet) ii^o, on account of Lord Somebody's attack of gout. The librarian could have Hold it were it fifty boxes, and at a fabuloud price, but ho virtuously accepted four guineas, which gave him a prennum of only one guinea for his trouble— and Clnistabel 'vent home rejoi(Miig. *It will be such fun to show the Major that we are cleverer than h(!,' she said to Jessie. Miss Bridgoman was thoughtful, and made no reply to this remark. She was ])(>iid('ring the Major's conduct in tliis small matter, and it scciiicd lo hco* that he must have sonje hidden I'cason for wishing (-hristabel not to see 'Cupid and Psyche.* That he, who had so faithfully wailed upon all their fan(nes, *aking infinite trouble to give them pleasure, could in this matter be disobliging or indiHerent seemed hardly possible. There nmst be a re.xson ; and yet what reason i;ould there be to taboo a piece which the Major distinctly declared to be correct, and which all the fashionable world went to see ] ' Perhaps there is something wrong with the drainaije of tlu^ theatre,' Jessie thought, speculating vaguely — a sus|)icion of typlu/id fever, which the INEajor had shrunk from mentioning, out of respect for leminine nerves. * Did you ever tell Mr. Hamleigh you wanted to see ' Cupid and Psyche ' I .'isked Miss I'ridgeman at last, H(»rely exercised in spirit — fearful lest Christabel was incurring some kind of peril by her persistence. ' Yes, T told him ; but it was at a time when we had a good many engagements, aiul I think he forgot all about it. Hardly like Angus, was it, to foi-get one's wishes, when he is generally yo eager to anticijiate them i * * A strange cointadence ! ' thought Jessie. Mr. Ilandeigh and the Major had been unanimous in their neglect of this particndar fancy of ('hri^stabe^s. At luncheon Miss C^jurtenay told her aunt the whole story — how Major Bree had been most disobliging, and how she had circumvented him. 'And my revenge will be to make him sit out 'Cupid an} cause enou^^h / ' ' A son who enjoys the wild sports of the West ever so njuch better than hi» luijnys his Imnn' ; hut who will settle ilowu by-and-l»y into a model country S(|uire,' ' I douhL that, Christabol. I don't tliink ho will ever settle )wn— now. There was an emphasis — an almost am,ny empluusis — upon the last word which told Chnstabel only too plainly what her atmt meant. She couhl guess what disuppointment it w-.m that her aunt sighed over in the long, lonely evenings ; and, albeit tho latent resentfulness in Mrs. Tregnnell's mind was an injustice, her nieoe could not help being sorry for her. 'Yes, dearest, he will — he will,' she said, resolutely. 'He will have his till of shooting bisons, and all manner of big and small game, out younder ; and he will come home, and marry some good swei't gill, who will love you only just a little less than I do, and he will be the last grand example of ilie i»ld- fashioiied country Sipiire — a race fast dying out ; and he will bo as much resj)ected as if tJie power of tlu^ Norman lloltc'ri'ls still ruled in tlu^ land, and he had the right i»f dealing out high-handed juHtiee, juid immuring his fellow-cn;atures in a dungeon under his ilrawing-room.' 'I would rather you would not talk about him,' .'inswcu'eil the widow, gloomily ; ' you turn everything into a joke \<\\\ forgrt that in my unrertainty about his fate, i-veiy thought of him h fraught with pain.' lielle hung her head, and th(> meal ended in silence'. After lunduMUi came dressing, and then the drive to '1\\ ickenh.'iin, \s ith Major Bree in attendance. C'hristabel tdid him of her suctess ad they drove through the Park to Kensington. ' I have the pleasure to invite you to a seat in my box at tho Kaleiri"'^) elcLrant, bt'ai'iu'^ eveiT niai'k of j^'ooii birth, yet with a wniii look,asot >)\n\ for whom fadiiiLT beauty and decline of 5trcnL;th would come too swiftly. I know I shall be tired to death when wc^'et bat-k t(j town.' * 1 don't think JiOnled frills and lank hair, ('hristaiiel and the Major walkeil about the pretty garden, and ci'itici/ed all the eccen* tricities, she t,dad to keep aloof from her many admirei's — .safe inider the wing of a familiar fiieml. ' Five o'eloek,' she said ; 'that makes twenty-four liours. Do you think he will be bai;k to-nioiiow { ' 'lie I Miirht I ask whom you mean by that jn'onoun?* 'AuLfus. II is telegiam this morning said that his aunt was really ill— not in any danifer — but still (piite an invalid, and that he W"idd be obliged to slay a litth' longer than he had hoped might b' needful, in order to cheer her. Do you think he will be able to come l)ack to-mctrrow V ' Haidly, I fear. Twenty-four hours would be a very shoi-t time tor the cheei ini,' proce.s.s. I think you ought to allow hiiu a week. Did you answer his telegram \ ' Cupid and PsycJie. 89 'Why, of course! I told him how luist'iabh' 1 was without him ; hut th.-it he must «h) wh.'it«»v«'r was ii.L(ht niul kind for his aunt. 1 wiitte Iiim a loni,' \v\\ tl '"theatre to-niLjht i JlemiL,dit come to Jjolton Ivow durim,' your alwence.' ' That is hardly jiosnible,' aaid ('In istabfl. * I'.ut even if such a happy thui^ whoiild occur, he would come and join ua at the KaUndoscope.' This was the Major's last fet Me and futile etTort to prevent a wilful wonian having her ow. way. They rejoined Mrs. Ti'egonell, ;ind wtjut back to their carria,!;'e almost ininiediately — were in Bolton Kow in time for a .seven o'clock dinner, and were seated in the box at the Kaleidosco|K) a few minutes after oi<,dit. Ihe Kaleidoscope wius «.ne of the new theatres width have been added to the attractions of liondon durinj,' the la-st twenty years. Tt was a small house, and of exieedinjj eleeance ; the in.spiration of tlie architect thereof seennn;^dy derix ed rather from the honhoi^nitrn of Siraudin and iJoissier than from tin* severer exemplars of hi^di art Sonmbody .said it was a tluatn' which looked as if it oui,dit to be filled with ^laco chestiuits, or crystallize i violets, rather than with substantial tlesh and blood. The ilraperies thereof were of palest dove-colouretl poplin and oream-white satin , the fautnuils were uphol.->tered in velvet ot the .same dove colour, with a mono(ri;im in dead gold ; the pilasters and mouldings were of t! e slenderest and most delicate order — no heavy masses of gold or colour — all aiiy, light, grace- ful ; the sweeping curve of the auditorium w;us in itself a thing of be.iuty ; every fold of the voluminous dove-coloured curtain, lined with crimson satin — whieh Hashed among the dove tints lieic and there, like a gleam of vivid colour in the Ineast of a tioj)ical bird — was a study. The front of the house was lighted with old-fa.shioned wax candles, a i-ecurrence to ol>solete fashion which reminded the few survivors of th" D'Orsay p(ii(jd of ller Majesty's in the splendid days of Pasta and Malibran, and which delighted the Court and Livery of the Tallow ( 'handlein' Comf)any. ' What a loveJy theatre ! ' cried Christabel, looking round the house, which Wiis crowded with a brilliant audience ; 'and hew cruel of you not to bring us here ! It is the prettiest thuatrn we have seen yet.' P IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) A 1.0 ^i2S I I ^ I.I 2.5 I^IS 2.0 1.8 1.25 U |,.6 ^ 6" ► <^ eat what you are saying. I can't be original enough to say that Miss Mayne is ugly.' * She is simply the loveliest creature we have seen on the 92 Mount Royal. stage or off it,' exclaimed Christabel, who was xdd rustic to want to know who Miss Mayne was, and where the manager had discovered such a pearl, as a London playgoer might have done. * Hark ! ' said Jessie ; * there's a knock at the door,' Christabel's heart began to beat violently. Could it be Angus? No, it was more likely to be some officious person, ofiaring ices. It was neither ; but a young man of the languid-elegant type — one of (christabel's devoted admirers, the very youth who had told her of his having seen * (Aipid and Psyche,' fifteen times, * Why this makes the sixteenth time,' she said, smiling at him ii3 they shook hands. 'I think it is nearer the twentieth,' he replied ; ' it is quilp the jolliest piece in London ? Don't you agree with me ? ' * I think it is — remarkably — jolly ! ' answered Christabel, laughing. ' What odd words you have in London for the expression of your ideas — and so few of them ! ' ' A kind of short-hand,' said the Major, * arbitrary characters. Jolly means anytlung you like — awful means anything you like. That kind of language gives the widest scope for the exercise of the imagination.' * How is Mrs. Tregonell ? ' asked the youth, not being giv(:n to the dit-cussion of abstract questions, frivolous or, solenm. He had a mind which could only grasp life in the concrete — an intellect that required to deal with actualities — people, coats, hats, boots, dinner, park-hack — just as little children require actual counters to calculate with. He subsided into a chair behind l\Iiss Courtenaj, and the box being a large one, remained there for the rest of the play — to the despair of a companion youth in the stalls, who looked up ever and anon, vacuous and wondering, and who resembled his friend as closely as a well-matched carriage-horse resembles his fellow — grooming and action prscisely similar. ' What brilliant diamonds ! ' said Christabel, noticing a collet necklace which Psvehe wore in the second act, and which was a good deal out of harmony with her Greek drapery — not by any means resembling those simple golden ornaments which patient Dr. Schliemajin and his wife dug out of the hill at Hissarlik. ' But, of course, they are only stage jewels,' continued'Christabel ; ' yet they spaikle as brilliantly as diamonds of the tirst water.' ' Very odd, but so they do,' muttered young FitzPelham, behind her shoulder ; and then, sotto vooi to the Major, he said — ' that's the worst of giving these women jewels, they ivill wear them.' ' And that emerald butterfly on her shoulder,' pursued Christabel ; ' one would suppose it were real.' ii Cupid and Psyche. 93 'A real butterfly?' 'No, real emeralcis.' * It belonged to the Empress of the French, and was sold for three hundred and eighty guineas at Christie's,' said Fitz- Pelhara ; whereupon Major Bree's substantial boot came down heavily on the youth's Queen Anne shoe. ' At least, the Empress had one like it,' stammered ITitzPelham, saying to him- self, in his own vernacular, that he had ' hoofed it.' ' How do you like Stella Mayne V he asked by-and-by, when the act wtis over. ' I am charmed with her. She is the sweetest actress I ever saw ; not the greatest— there are two or three who far siirp;i>> her in genius ; but there is a sweetness — a fascination. I don t wonder she is the rago. I only wonder Majoi- Bree could have (k'])rivcd me of the pleasure of seeing her all this time.' ' You could stand the piece a second time, eouldn't you 1 ' * Certainly— or a third time. It '" " so poetical— it carries one into a new world !' ' Pretty foot and ankle, hasn't she ? ' murmui'ed FitzPelham— to which frivolous comment Miss Courtenay made no reply. Her soul was rapt in the scene before her — the mystic wood w hither Psyche had now wandered with her divine lover. The darkness of a summer night in the Greek Archipelago — iire-tlies Hitting athwart ilex and olive bushes— a glimpse of the distant btarlit sea. Here — goaded by her jealous sisters to a fatal curiosity — Psyche stole with her lamp to the couch of her sleeping lover, gazing spell-bound upon that godlike countenance — represented in actual flesh by a chubby round face and round brown eyes — and in her glad surprise letting fall a (b'op of oil from her lamp on Cupid's winged shoulder — whereon the god loaves her, wounded by her want of laith. Had ho not told her they nnist meet only in the darkness, and that she nuist never seek to know his name ? So ends the second act of the fairy drama. Tn the third, poor Psyche is in ignoble bondage — a slave to Vonus, in the goddess's P;ilace at Cythera — a fashionable, flne- lady Venus, who leads her gentle handmaiden a soiry life, till the god of love comes to lier rescue. And here, in the tiring chamber of the goddess, the playwright makes sport of all tl:e ;iits by which modern beauty is manufactured. Here poor Psyche — tearful, despairing — has to toil at the creation of the Queen of Beauty, whose charms of face and figure are discoven d to be all falsehood, from the topmost curl of her toupet to the arched instep under her jewelled buskin. Throughout this scene Psyche alternates between smiles and tears ; and then at tlie last Cupid appears — claims his mistress, defies his mother, and the happy lovers, linlred in each other's arms, float sky-ward on D )(i#. .< i[< IK m % xf 94 ! * ll( k.i. ■ f s -I , Mount Royal. •A shaft of lime-light. And so the graceful mythic drama ends — fanciful from the first line to the laat, gay and lightly touched aa burlesque, yet with an element of poetry which burlesque for th« most part lacks. Christabel's interest had been maintained throughout the performance. ' How extraordinarily silent you have been all the evening, Jessie ! ' she said, as they were putting on their cloaks ; * surely, you like the play ! ' ' I like it jiretty well. It is rather thin, I think ; but then perhaps, that is because I have ' Twelfth Night ' still in my memory, as we heard Mr. Brandram recite it last week at Willis's Rooms.' ' Nobody expects modern comedy to be as good as Shake- speare,' retorted Christabel ; ' you might as well tind fault with the electric light for not being quite equal to the moon. Don't you admire that exquisite creature 1 ' ' Which of them 1 ' asked Jessie, stolidly, buttoning her eloak. ' Which of them ! Oh, Jessie, you have generally such good taste. NVhy, Miss Mayne, of course. It is almost painful to look at the others. They are such common earthy creatures, compared with her ! ' ' I have no doubt she is very wonderful — and she is the fashion, which goes for a great deal,' answered Miss Bridgeman; but never a word in praise of Stella Mayne could Christabel extort from her. She — who, educated by Shepherd's Bush and poverty, was much more advanced in knowledge of evil than the maiden from beyond Tamar — sus])ected that some sinister in- fluence was to be feared in Stella Mayne. Why else had the Major so doggedly opposed their visit to this particular theatre 1 Why else did he look so glum when Stella Mayne was spoken about ? CHAPTER VIII. LE SECRET DE POLICHINELLE. The next day but one was Thursday — an afternoon upon which Mrs. Tregonell was in the habit of staying at home to receive callers, and a day on which her small drawing-rooms were generally fliUed with more or less pleasant j^eople — chiefly of the fairer sex — from four to six. The three rooms — small by degrees and beautifully less — the old-f;ishioned furniture and profusion of choicest flowers — lent themselves admii'ably to gossip and afternoon tea, and were even conducive to mild flirtation, for there ^vas generally a sprinkling of young men of the ITitzPelhap* Le Secret de Polichinelle. 95 -to see it — and smell answered Christabel. type— having nothing particnlar to say, but alwaya faultless in their dress, and well-meaning as to their manners. On this afternoon— which to Christabel seemed a day of i duller hue and colder atmosphere than all previous Thursdays, Dn account of Angus Hamleigh's absence— there were rather more callers than usual. The season whs ripening towards its close. Some few came to pay their la.s*t vkit, and to inform Mrs. Tregonell and her niece about their holiday movements— generally towards the Engadine or some German Spa — the one spot of earth to which their constitution could accommodate itself at this time of year. ' I am obliged to go to Pontresina before the end of July,' said a ponderous middle-aged matron to Miss Courtenay. ' 1 can't breathe anywhere else in August and September.' 'I think you would find plenty of air at Boscastle,' said Christabel, smiling at her earnestness ; ' but I dare say the Engadine is very nice ! ' ' Five thousand feet above the level of the sea,' said the matron, proudly. ' I like to be a little nearer the sea- it — and feel its spray upon my face,' * Do you take your children with you I ' ' Oh, no, they all go to llamsgate with the governess and a maid.' * Poor little things ! And how sad for you to know that there are all those mountain ji.isses — a three days' journey — between you and your children ' ' ' Yes, it is are so fond of that suits me.' * You have never been to Chagford ? ' 'Chagford ! No ; what is Chagford V * A village upon the edge of Dartmoor — all among the Devonshire hills. People go there for the fine bracing air. I can't help thinking it must do them almost as much good as the Engadine.' * Indeed ! I have heard that Devonshire is quite too lovely,' said the matron, who would have despised hereelf had she been familiar with her native land. * But what have you done with Mr. Hamleigh ] I am quite disappointed at not seeing him this afternoon.' ' He is in Scotland,' said Christabel, and then went on to tell as much as was necessary about her lover's journey to the North. * How dreadfully dull you must be without him ! ' said the lady, sympathetically, and several other ladies — iiotal)ly a baronet's widow, who had been a friend of Mrs. TregonelPs girlhood — a woman who never said a kind word of anybody, yet was kiviied e>ery where, and who bad the reputation of very trying ! ' sighed the mother ; ' but they Ramsgate ; and the Engadine is the only place &i w i ( 3 1 •t.;i 1 1 .# iri ft I'M. r; s: !ii! s ^ 06 Mount Boyal. giving a better dinner, on a small scale, than any other lonely women in Londo.i. The rest wore young women, mostly of the gushing type, who were prepared to worship Christabel because she was pretty, an heiress, and engaged to a man of some distinction in their particular world. They had all clustered round Mrs. Tregonell and her niece, in the airy front drawing-room, while Miss Bridgeman poured out tea at a Japanese table in the middle room, waited upon sedulously by Major Bree, Mr. FitzPelham and another youth, a Somerset House young m;in, who wrote for the Society papers — or believed that he did, on the strength of having had an essay on * Tame Cats ' accepted in the big gooseberry season— and gave himself to the world as a person familiar with the undercurrents of literary and dramatic life. The ladies made a circle round Mrs. Tregonell, and these three gentlemen, circulating with tea-cups, sugar-basins, and cream- pots, joined spasmodically in the conversation. Christabel owned to finding a certain emptiness in life without her lover. She did not parade her devotion tc him, but was much too unaffected to pretend inditlerenee. * We went to the theatre on Tutsday ni'^ht,' she said. ' Oh, how could you ! ' cried the oldest and most gushing of the three young ladies. * Without Mr. Ilamleigh ? ' * That was our chief rejison for going. We knew we should be dull without him. We went to the Kaleidoscope, and were delighted with Psyche.' All three young ladies gushed in chorus. Stel'a Mayne w;u5 quite too lovely — a poem, a revelation, and so on, and so on ]jady Cumberbridge, the baronet's widow, pursed her lips and elevated her eyebrows, which, on a somewhat modified form, resembled Lord Thurlow's, but said nothing. The Someiiict House young man stole a glance at Fitz-Pelham, and smiled meaningly ; but the amiable Fitz-Peliiam was only vacuous. * Of course you have seen this play,' said Mrs. Tregonell turning to Lady Cumberbridge. ' You see everything, I know]'} ' ' Yes ; I make it my business to see everything — good, bad, and indiHerent,' answered the strong-minded dowager, in a V oice which would hardly have shamed the Lord Chancellor's wig, which those Thurlow-like eyebrows so curiously suggested, ' It is the sole condition upon which London life is worth living. If one only saw the good things, one would spend most of one's evening at home, and we don't leave our country places for tliat. I see a good deal that bores me, an immense deal that disgusts me, and a little — a very little — that I can honestly admire.' 'Then I am sure you must admire " Cupid and Psyche,"* said Christabel. *My dear, that piece, which I am told has brought (» Le Secret de Polichinellc. 97 l;i! t I II I mi^_ 100 Mount Roi/al like a poet, and who yt»t had ^ven hm lii-Ht passionate love, and the boHt and brif,'htL'st years of his life to a stage-dancer. ' How long in it since Mr. Hamloigli has ceased to l)e devoted to Miss Mayne ? * she asked, in a cold, dull voice. *I cannot say exactly: one hoars so many different stories; there were paragraphs in the Society papers last season : * A I ertain young sprig of fashion, a general favourite, whose infatua- tion for a well-known actress has been a matter of regret among the haute voUe, is said to have broken his bonds. The lady keeps her diamonds, and threatens to publish his letters,' and so on, und so forth. You know the kind of thing?' * I do not,' said INl is. Tregonell. ' 1 have never tak«n any intorest in such })aragraphs.' ' Ah ! that is the coiisiMiucnce of vegetating at the fag-end of England : all the pungency is taken out of life for you.' Mrs. Tregonell asked no further (pui.stions. She had made up her mind that ;iny more det.'iilod infoi-mation, which she might require, must be obtained from anotli«r channel. She did not want thus battered woman of the w . -Id to know how hard sho was hit. Yes — albeit there was a far-off gleam of light amidst this darkness — she was jjrofoundly hurt by the knowledge of Angiis Hamleigh's wrong-doing. He had made himself ^•ery dear to her — dear from the tender association of th(» ])ast — dear for his own sake. She had believed him a man of scrupulou;* honour, of pure and spotless life. Perhaps she had taken all this for granted, in her rustic simplicity, seeing that all his ideas and instincts were those of a gentleman. She had made no allowance for the fact that the will-o'-the-wisp, passionate love, may lure even a gentleman into swampy ground ; and that his solo superiority over profligates of coarser clay will be to behave himself like a gentleman in those morasses whither an errant fancy has beguiled him. 'I hope you will not let this influence your feelings towards Ml". Hamleigh,' said Lady Cumberbridge ; ' if you did so, I should leaJly feel sorry for having told you. But you must inevitably have heard the story from somebody else before long.' ' No doubt. I suppose everybody knows it.' * "Why yes, it was tolerably notorious. They used to be seen everywhere together. Mr. Hamleigh seemed proud of his in- fatuation, and there were plenty of men in his own set to inoourage him. Modern society has adopted Danton's motto, don't you know ] — de Vaudacc, encore de I audace et tnvjovrK dc Vandacc! And now I must go and get my siesta, or I shall be as fltupid as an owl all the evening. Good-bye.' Mrs. Tregonell sat like a statue, absorbed in thought, for a considerable time after Lady Cumberbridge's departure.. A\']iat was she to do ? This horrid story was true, no «U)ubt, M ajor Le Secret de PolichviclU. 101 Bree would bo able to confirm it prustutiy, when Ijc came back to dinner, as lu; had promised to t-oiiu'. What was she to dot Allow the ergagemeut to go on <— allow un innocent and puro- minded girl to marry a man whose infatuation for an actress had been town talk ; who had come to Mount lloyal fresh from that evil aasoci«atiou — wounded to the core, lu'rhaps, by the base creature's intidelity— and seeking c»)US()lation wherever it might oti'er ; bringing his second-hand feelings, with all thi^ bloom worn oil" them, to tlie shrine of innocent young l)eanty !— dedicating the mere aahes of burned-out lircs to the vvt)man who was to be his wife ; perhaps even making scornful comparisons between her simple rustic charms and the educated fjiscinations of the actress ; bringing her the leavings of a life — the mere dregs of youth's wine-cup ! Was Christabel to be permitted to continue under this shameful delusion — to believe that she was lecciving all when she was getting nothing? No! — ten thousand times, no ! It was woniiuihood's stern duty to come to the rescue of guileless, too-trusting girlhood. liittta* as the ordeal must needs be for both, Christabel must be told tlu' whole cruel truth. Then it would be for her own heart to decide. She would still be a free agent. But surely her own j)urity of feeling would teach her to decide rightly — to renounce the lover who had so fooled and cheated her — and, perhaps, later to reward the devotion of that other adorer who had loved her from boyhood upwards with a steady unwavering affection — chielly demonstrated by the valm self-assured manner in which he had wi'itten of ChrisUibel — in liis letters to his mother — fis his future wife, the possibility of lier rejection of that honour never having occun'ed to his rustic intelligence. Christabel peeped in through the half-ojiened door. 'Well, j^unt Di, is your conference over \ Has her ladyship gone ? ' * Yes, dear ; I am trying to coax myself to sleep,' answered Mrs. Tregonell from the depths of her arm-chair. ' Then I'll go and dress for dinner. Ah, how I only wish tiiere were a chance of Angus coming back to-night ! ' sighed Christabel, softly closing the door. Major Bree came in ten minutes afterwards. ' Come here, and sit by my side,' said Mi-s. TregonelL ' 1 want to talk to you seriously.' The Major complied, feeling far from easy in his mind. * How pale you look 1 ' he said ; ' is there anything wrong ? ' ' Yes — everything is wrong ! Yon have treated me very badly. You have been false to me and to Cliristabel ! * ' That is rather a wide accusation,' said the Major, calmly He knew perfectly well what was coming, and that he should require all his patience — all that sweetness of temper which had 'HI 'U '. i'. 'y \^ i ; r^ tin ' ■0 102 Mount Royal, been Lis distinction through life — in order to leaven the widow's wrath agaiiist the absent. * Perhaps, you won't think it too much trouble to explain the exact nature of my offence ? ' Mrs. Tregonell told him Lady Cumberbridge's story. * Did you, or did you not, know this last October ? * she asked. * I had heard something about it when I was in London two years before.' * And you did not consider it your duty to tell me 1 ' * Certainly not. I told you at the time, when I came back from town, that your young protege's life had been a trifle wild. Miss Bridgeman remembered the fact, and gjK)ke of it the night Hamleigh came to Mount Royal. When I saw how matters were going with Belle and Hamleigh, 1 made it my business to question him, considering myself Belle's next friend ; and he fissured me, as between man and man, that the afiair with Stella Mayne was over — that he had broken with her formally and Hnally. From first to last I believe he acted wonderfully well in the business.' ' Acted well ? — acted well, to be the avowed lover of such a woman ! — to advertise his devotion to her — associate his name with hers irrevocably — for you know that the world never for- gets these alliances — and then to come to Mount Royal, and practise upon our provincial ignorance, and ofi'er his battered life to my niece 1 Was that well ? ' You could hardly wish him to have told your niece the whole story. Besides, it is a thing of the past. No man can go through life with the burden of his youthful follies hanging round his neck, and strangling him.' * The past is as much a part of a man's life as the present. I want my niece's husband to be a man of an imstained past.' ' Then you will have to wait a long time for him. My dear Mrs. Trego nell, pray be reasonable, just commonly reasonable ! There is not a family in England into which Angus Hamleigh would not be received with open arms, if he offered himself aa a suitor. Why should you draw a hard-and-fast line, sacrifice Belle's happiness to a chimerical idea of manly virtue? You canf have King Arthur for your niece's husband, and if you could, perhaps you wouldn't care about him. Why not be content with Lancelot, who has sinned, and is sorry for his sin ; and of whom may be spoken praise almost as noble aa those famous words Sir Bohort spoke over his friend's dead body.' *I shall not sacrifice Belle's happiness. If she were my daughter I should take upon myself to judge for her, and while I lived she should never see Angus Hamleigh's face again. But she is my sister's child, and I shall give her the liberty of judgment' I Le Secret de Folichinelle. 103 'Yon don't mean that you wttl tell her this story ? * Most decidedly.* * For God's sake, don't ! — you will spoil her happiness for e\er. To you and me, who must have some knowledge of the world, it ought to be a small thing that a man has made a fool of himself about an actre-^i. We ought to know for how little that kind of folly counts in a lifetime. But for a girl brought up like Christabel it will mean disenchantment — doubt —perhaps a lifetime of jealousy and self -torment. For mercy's sake, be reasonable in this matter ! I am talking to you a'3 if I were Christabel's father, remember. I suppose that old harridan, Lady Cumberbridge, told you this precious stoiy. Such women ought to be put down by Act of Parliament. Yes, there should be a law restricting every unattached female over five-and-forty to a twenty-mile radius of her country-house. After that age their tongues are dangerous.' *My friend Lady Cumberbridge told me facts which seem to be within everybody's knowledge ; and she told them at my partioulai request. Your rudeness about her does not make the case any better for Mr. Hamleigh, or for you.' ' I think I had better go and dine at my club,' said the Major, perfectly placid. 'No, stay, please. You have proved yourself a broken reed to lean upon ; but still you are a reed.' ' If I stay it will be to persuade you to spare Belle the knowledge of this wretched story.' 'I suppose he has almost ruined himself for the creature,' said Mrs. Tregonell, glancing at the subject for the lirst time from a practical point of view. 'He spent a good many thousands, but as he had no other vices — did not race or gamble— his fortune survived the shock. His long majority allowed for considerable accumulations, you see. He began life with a handsome capital in hand. I dare say Miss Mayne sweated that down for him ! ' ' I don't want to go into details — I only want to know how far he deceived us ? * ' There was no deception as to his means — which are ample — nor as to the fact that he is entirely free from the entanglement we have been talking about. Every one in London knows that the atfair was over and done with more than a year ago.' The two girls came down to the drawing-room, and dinner wa« announced. It was a very dismal dinner — the dreariest that had ever been eaten in that house, Christabel thought. Mrs. T"regonell was absorbed in her own thoughts, absent, automatic in all she said and did. The Major maintained a forced hilarity, which was more painful than silence. Jessie looked anxious. ' I'll tell you what, girls,' said Major Bree, as the mournful "11 * ^'1 i 'i '. m ih ..\'m I It:-!*' , E? 1.!' I I ' 104. Mount Boyal. meal languished towards its melancholy close, ' we seem all very doleful without Hamleigh. I'll run round to Bond Street directly ;if ter dinner, and see if I can get three stalls for " Lohengrin.'' They are often to be had at the L'lst moment.' * Please don't,' said Christabel, earnestly ; ' I would not r^o to a theatre again without Angus. I am sorry I went the other night. It was obstinate and foolish of me to insist upon seeing that play, and I was punished for it by that horrid old woman this afternoon.' ' But you liked the play ? ' * Yes — while I was seeing it ; but now I have taken a dislike to Miss Mayne. I feel as if I had seen a snake — all grace and Icn'ely colour — and had caught hold of it, only to find that it was u snake.' The Major stared and looked alarmed. Was this an example of instinct superior to reason ? * Let me try for the opera,' he said. * I'm sure it would do you good to go. Yon will sit in the front drawing-room listening lor hansoms all the evening, fancying that every pair of wheels you hear is bringing Angus back to you.' ' I would rather be doing that than be sitting at the opera, thinking of him. But I'm afraid there's no chance of his coming to-night. His letter to-day told me that his aunt insists upon his staying two or tliree days longer, and that she is ill enough to make him anxious to oblige her. The evening passed in placid dreariness. Mrs. Tregonell sat brooding in her arm-chair — pondering whether she should or ylionld not tell Christabel everything — knowing but too well how tiie girl's happiness \wis dependent upon her undisturbed belief in her lover, yet repeating to herself again and again that it was right and fair that Christabel should know the truth — nay, ever Ko much better that she should be told it now, when she was still free to shape her own future, th;ui that she should make the dis- covery later, when she was Angus Hamleigh's wife. This last consideration — the thought, that a secret which was everybody's secret must inevitably, sooner or later, become known to Christabel — weighed heavily with Mrs. Tregonell ; and through all her meditations there \vas interwoven the thought of her .ibsent son, and how his future welfare might depend upon the course to be taken now. Christabel played and sang, while the Major and Jessie Bridgeman sr/. at bezique, Tlie friendship of these two had been in no v se disturbed by the Major's offer, and the lady's rejection. 1 ^ was the habit of both to take life pleasantly. Jessie took pains to show the Major how sincerely she valued his evsteem — how completely she appreciated the line points of Uis character ; and he was too much a gentleman to remind her Le Secret de Polichinelle. 105 by f occupation, having long outlived such frivolity as sweethearta and afternoons out. "When Dormer was gone, Christabei came to her aunt's chair, and knelt down beside it, just as she had done at Mount Royal, when she told her of Angus Hamleigh's offer. ' Aunt Diana, what has hajjpened, what is wrong ? ' she asked, coming at the heart of the question at once. There was no shadow of doubt in her mind that something was sorely amiss. ' How do you know that there is an)i;hing wrong 1 ' 'I have known it ever since that horrible old woman — Medusa in a bonnet all over flowers — pansies instead of snakes — talked about Cupid and Psyche. And you knew it, and made her stop to tell you all about it. There is some cruel mystery — something that involves my fate with that of the actress I saw the other night.' Mrs. Tregonell sat with her hands tightly clasped, her brow* bent. She felt herself taken by storm, as it were, surprised intt decision before she had time to make up her mind. il -■ i '' U' , r ( 106 I'i il' m, Mount MoytU. * Since jou know so much, perhaps you had better know all/ she said, gloomily ; and then she told the story, shaping it aa delicately as she could for a girl's ear. Christabel covered her face with her clasped hands, and listened without a sigh or a tear. The pain she felt was too dull and vague as yet for the relief of tears. The horrible surprise, the sudden darkening of the dream of her young life, the clouding over of every hope, these were shapeless horrors which she could hardly realize at first. Little by little this serpent would unfold its coils ; drop by drop this poison would steal through her veins, until its venom filled her neart. He, whom she had supposed all her own, with whose every thought she had fancied herself familiar, he, of whose heart she had believed herself the sole and sovereign mistress, had been one little year ago the slave of another — ^loving with so passionate a love that he had not shrunk from letting all the world know his idolatry. Yes, all those people who had smiled at her, and said sweet things to her, and congratulated her on her engagement, had known all the while that this lover, of whom she was so proud, was only the cast-off idolator of an actress ; had come to her only when life's master-passion was worn threadbare, and had become ^i. stale and common thing for him. At the first, womanly pride felt the blow as keenly as womanly love. To be made a mock of by the man she had so loved ! Kneeling there in dumb misery at her aunt's feet, answering never a word to that wretched record of her lover's folly, Cliristabel's thoughts flew back to that still grey autumn noontide at Pentargon Bay, and the words then spoken. Words, which then had only vaguest meaning, now rose out of the dimness of the past, and stood up in her mind as if they had been living creatures. He had compared himself to Tristran— to one who had sinned and repented — he had spoken of himself as a man whose life had been more than half-lived aheady. He had offered himself to her with no fervid passion— with no assured belief in her power to make him happy. Nay, he had rather foiced from her the confession of her love by his piteous repre- sentation of himself as a man doomed to early death. He had wrung from her the offer of a life's devotion. She had given lierself to him almost unwooed. Never before had her betrothal appeared to her in this humiliating aspect ; but now, enlightened by the knowledge of that former love, a love so reckless and self-sacrificing, it seemed to her that the homage offered her had been of the coldest— that her affection had been placidly accepted, r^ither than passionately demanded of her. * Fool, fool, fool,' she said within herself, bowed to the dust by this deep humiliation. * My darling, why don't you speak to me ? ' said Mrs. Tregonell, Le Secret de Polichinelle. 107 tenderly, with her arm round the girl's neck, her face leaning down to touch that drooping head. * What can I aay ? I feel as if my life had suddenly come to an end, and there were nothing left for me to do, except just to sit i^till and remember what has been.' ' You mean to break with hiin ? ' ' Break with him ! Why he has never been mine. There is nothing to be broken. It was all a delusion and a dream. I thought he loved me — lovbd me exactly as I loved him — with the one great and perfect love of a lifetime — and now I know that he never loved me — how could he after having only just left oflf loving this other woman ? — if he had left olf loving her. And how could he when she is so perfectly lovely ? Why should he have ever ceased to care for her ? She had been like his wife, you say — his wife in all but the name — and all the world knew it. What must people have thought of me for stealing away another woman's hjisband ? * * My dear, the world does not see it in that light. She never was really his wife.' 'She ought to have been,' answered Christabel, resolutely, yet with quivering lips. * If he cared for her so mueh as to make himself the world's wonder for her sake he should havt* married her : a man should not play fast and loose with love.' * It is difficult for us to judge,' said Mrs. Tregonell, believing herself moved by the very spirit of justice, * we are not wonieu of the world — we cannot see this matter as the world sees it.' * God forbid that I should judge as the world judges ! ' exclaimed Christabel, lifting her head for the first time since that story had been told her. ' That would be a sorry end of your teaching. What ought I to do ? ' * Your own heart must be the arbiter, Christabel. I made up my mind this afternoon that I would not seek to influence you one way or the other. Your own heart must decide.' * My own heart ? No ; my heart is too entirely his — too weakly, fondly, foolishly, devoted to him. No, I must think or something beyond my foolish love for him. His honour and mine are at stake. We must be true to ourselves, he and I. But I want to know what you think, Auntie. I want to know what you would have done in such a case. If, when you were engaged to his father, you had discovered that he had been within only a little while ' — these last words were spoken with inexpressible I)athos, as if here the heart- wound were deepest—' the lover of another woman --bound to her by ties which a man of honour should hold sacrtd — what would you have done 1 Would you have shut your eyes resolutely upon that past history 1 Would vou have made up your mind to forget everything, and to try to be happy with him 1 * I , Litfti \M 108 Mount Boyai. * I don't Know, Belle,' Mrs. Tregonell answered, helplessly, very anxious to be true and conscientious, and if she must needs be guide, to guide the girl aright through this perilous passage in her life, * It is so diilicult at my agt- to know what one would have done in one's girlhood. The tires are all burnt out ; the springs that moved one then are all broken. Judging now, with the dull deliberation of middle age, I should say it would be a dangerous thing for any girl to marry a man who had beeb notoriously devoted to another woman — that woman still living still having power to charm him. How can you ever be securt of his love ? how be sure that he would not be lured back to the old madness 1 These women are so full of craft — it is theii profession to tempt men to destruction. You remember what tlie Bible saysjof such ? " They are more bitter than death : their feet go down to death : their steps take hold on hell." ' ' Don't, Auntie,' faltered Christabel. ' Yes, I imderstand. Yes, he would tire of me, and go back to her very likely. I ani not half so lovely, nor half so fascinating. Or, if he were true to honour and duty, he would regret her all his life. He would be always repenting that he had not broken down all bari'iers and married her. He would see her sometimes on the stage, or in the Park, and just the sight of her face flashing past him would spoil his happiness. Happiness,' she repeated, bitterly, ' what happiness ] what peace could there be for either of us, knowing of that fatal love. I have decided. Auntie, I shall love Angus all the days of my life, but I will never marry him.' Mrs. Tregonell clasped the girl in her arms, and they wept together, one with the slow silent tears of life that was well- nigh worn out, the other with youth's passionate sobs — sobs that shook the slender frame. * My beloved, you have chosen wisely, and well,' said the widow, her heart throbbing with new hopes — it was not of Angus Hamleigh's certain loss she thought, but of her son liconard's probable gain— 'you have chosen wisely. I do not Delieve that you could ever have been really happy with him. Your heart woiiid have been consumed with jealous fears — ■ suspicion would have haunted your life — that evil woman'i influence would have darkened all your days.' * Don't say another word,' pleaded Christabel, in low hoarst tones ; ' I have quite made up my mind. Nothing can change it. She did not want to be encouraged or praised ; she did not want comfort or consolation. Even her aunt's sympathy jarred upon her fretted nerves. She felt that she must stand alone in lier misery, aloof from all human succour. 'Good-night,' she said, bending down to touch her aunt'a forehead, with tremulous lips. ' Won't you stay, dear ? Sleep with me to-night.' Le Secret de PolichineUe. lOfl * Sleep V echoed the girl. * No, Auntie dear ; I would rather ho. ill my own room !' She went awaj without another word, and went slowly back to her own room, the pretty little London bedchamber, bright with new satin-wood furniture and pale blue cretonne hangings, jlouded with creamy Indian muslin, a bower-like room, with Howera and books, and a miniature piano in a convenient recess by the fire-place. Here she sat gravely down before her davenport and unlocked one particular drawer, a so-callerl secret drawer, but as obvious as a secret panel in a melodrama — and took out Angus Hamleigh's letters. The long animated letters written on thin paper, letters which were a journal of his thoughts and feelings, almost Jts fully recorded as in thoc;e volumnious epistles which Werther despatched to his friend — lettei^s which had bridged over the distance between Cornwall and Southern France, and had been the chief delight of Cliristabel'a life through the long slow winter, making her lover her daily companion. Slowly, slowly, with teai-s dropping unnoticed every now and then, she turned over the letters, one by one — now pausing to read a few lines — now a whole letter. There is no loving folly of which she had not been guilty with regard to these cheriished ietters : she had slept with them under her pillow, she had read them over and over again, had garnered them in a perfumed vlesk, and gone back to them after the lapse erf time, had com- pared them in her own mind with all the cleverest letters that ever were given to the world — with "Walpole, with Beckford, with Byron, with Delfand, and Espinasse, Sevignd, Carter— nnd found in them a grace and a charm that surpassed all these. She had read elegant extracts to her aunt, who confessed that Mr. Hamleigh wrote cleverly, wittily, picturesquely, poetically, but did not perceive that immeasurable superiority to all previous letter- writers. Then came briefer letters, dated from the Albany — notes dashed off hastily in those happy days when ,heir lives were spent for the most pai*t together. Notes con- taining suggestions for some newpleasure— appointments— sweet nothings, hardly worth setting down except as an excuse for writing — with here and there a longer letter, written after midnight ; a letter in which the writer poured out his soul to his beloved, enlarging on their conversation of the day — that happy talk about themselves and love. ' Who would think, reading these, that he never really cared for me, that I was only an after- thought in his life,' she s;iid to herself, bitterly. ' Did he write just such letters to St^illa Mayne, I wonder ? No ; there was no need for writing — they were always together.' The candles on her desk had burnt low by the time her t.i.'^ II I no Mount Jtioyal. i ! was dont. Faint gleams of morning stole through the striped blinds, as she sealed the packet in which she had folded that lengthy history of Angus Hamleigh's courtship— a large square packet, tied with stout red tape, and sealed in several places Tier hand hardly faltered as she sot her seal upon the wax ; her purpose was so strong. ' Yes,' she said to herself, ' I will do what is best and safest for his honour and for mine.' And then she knelt by her bed and prayed long and fervently ; and remained upon her knees reading the Gospel as the night melted away and the morning sun flooded her room with light. She did not even attempt to sleep, trusting to her cold bath for strength against the day's ordeal. She thought all the time she was dressing of the task that lay before her — the calm deliberate cancelment of her engagement, with the least possible pain for the man she I«ved, and for his ultimate gain in this world and the next. "Was it not for the welfare of a man's soul that he should do his duty and repair the wrong that he had done ; rather than that he should conform to the world's idea of the fitness of things and make an eminently respectable marriage 1 Christabel contemplated herself critically in the glass as she brushed her hair. Her eyelids were swollen with weeping— her cheeks pallid, her eyes lustreless, and at this disadvantage she compared herself with that vivid and sylph-like beauty she had seen at the Kaleidoscope. * How could he ever forget her for my sake 1 ' she thought, looking at that sad colourless face, »nd falling into the common error that only the most beautiful womeu are loved with perfect love, that perfection of feeling answers to perfection of form— forgetting how the history of life shows that upon the unlovely also there have been poured treasures of deepest, purest love — that, while beauty charms and wins all, there is often one, best worth the winning, who is to be vanquished by some subtler charm, held by some less obvious chain than Aphrodite's rosy garlands. Perhaps, if Miss Courtenay had been a plain woman, skilled in the art of making the most of small advantages, she would have had more faith in her own power ; but being a lovely woman who had been so trained and taught as to think very little of her own beauty, she was all the more ready to •icknowledge the superior loveliness of a rival. * Having worshipped that other fairer face, how could he care for me '? ' she asked hei-self ; and then, brooding upon evei j detail of their betrothal, she came to the bitter conclusion that Angus had offered himself to her out o? pity — touched by her too obvious affection for him— low^e which she had hardly tried to hid« from him, when onc« he had told her of his earl^ doom. Le Secret de PoUchdnelte. Ill That storm of pity and regret which had swept ovet her heart had annihilated her womanly pride : she forgot all that was due to her own dignity, and was only too eager to offer herself aa the companion and consoler of hia brief days. She looked back and remembered her folly — thinking of herself as a creature caught in a trap. No, assuredly, there was but one remedy. One doubt — one frail straw of hope to which she might cling — yet remained. That tried, all was decided. Was this story true— completely and positivelv a fact ? She had heard so much in society about baseless scandals— she had been told so many versions of the same story — as unlike as black to white or false to true— and she was not going to take this oiie bitter faot for granted upon the strength of any fashionable Medusa who might try to turn her warm beating heart to stone. Before she accepted Medusa's sentence she would discover for herself how far thia story was true. * I will give no one any trouble,' she thought : * I will act for myself, and judge for myself. It will be the making or marring •f three lives.' In her wide charity, in that power to think and feel for others, which was the highest gift of her rich sweet soul, Stella Mayne seemed to Christabel as important a factor in this life- problem as herself or Angus. She thought of her tenderly, picturing her aa a modern Gretchen, tempted by an early and intense love, much more than by the devil's lure of splendour and jewels — a poor little Gretchen at seventeen and sixpence a week, living ir a London garret, with no mother to watch and warn, and with wicked old Marthas in|plenty to whisper bad advice. Christabel went down to breakfast as usual. Her quiet face and manner astonished Mrs. Tregonell, who had slept very little better than her niece ; but when the servant came in to ask if she would ride she refused. * Do, dear,' pleaded her aunt ; * a nice long country ride by Finchley and Hendon would do you good.' * No, Aunt Di — I would rather be at home this morning,' answered Christabel ; so the man departed, with an order for the carriage at the usual hour in the afternoon. There was a letter from Angus — Christabel only glanced at the opening lines, which told her that he was to stay at Hillside a few days longer, and then put the letter in her pocket. Jessie Bridgeman looked at her curiously — knowing very well that there was something sorely amiss — but waiting to be told what thiB sudden dond of sorvow meant. Christabel went back to her own rooii4 directly after break- fast. Her aaai forebore any attempt at consolation, knowing ii wiA boot to let the girl b^Eur her gnei in her own way f% .C ;l S ¥% CI 112 Mount Eoyal. * You will go with me for a drive after lancheon, dear 7 ' nhe aaked. * Yes, Auntie — but I would rather we went a little way in the country, if you don't mind, instead of to the Park ] ' * With all ray heart : I have had quite enough of the Park.' * The " booing, and booing, and booing," ' said Jessie, * and the straining one's every nerve to see the Princess drive by — only to discover the humiliating fact that she is one of the very few respectable-looking women in the Park — perhaps the only one who can look absolutely respectable without being a dowdy.' ' Shall I go to her room and try if I can be of any comfort to her 1 ' mused Jessie, as she went up to her own snug little dvn nn the third tloor. * Better not, perliaps. I like to hug my sor- rows. 1 should hate any one who thought their prattle could lessen my pain. She will bear hers l)est alone, I d.are say. But what can it be? Not any quarrel with him. They could hardly quarrel by telegraph or jwst—they who are all honey when they are together. It is some scandal — something that old demon with the eyebrows said yesterday. I am sure of it — a talk between two elderly womfiu with closed doors always means Satan's own mischief.' All three ladit^ went out in the carriage .after luncheon — a dreary, dusty drive, towards Edgware — past everlasting bricks and mortar, as it seemed to Christabel's tired eyes, which gazed at the houses as if they had been phantoms, so little human meaning had they for her — so little tlid she realize that in each of those brick and plaster packing-cases human beings lived, and. m their turn, suffered some such heart-agony as this which she was enduring to-day. * That is St. John's Wood up yonder, isn't it ? * she asked, as they passed Carlton Hill, speaking for almost the first time since they left Mayfair. *Yes.' * Isn't it somewhere about there Miss Stella Mayne lives, tl»e actress we saw the other night l ' asked Christabel, carelessly. Her aunt looked at her with intense surprise, — how could she pronounce that name, and to ask a frivolous question ? ' Yes ; she has a lovely house called the Rosary. Mr. Fitz- Pelham told me about it,' answered Jessie. Christabel said never a word more as the carriage rolled on by Cricklewood and the two Welsh Harps, and turned into th« quiet lanes about Hendon, and so home by the Finchley Road. She had found out what she wanted to know. When afternoon tea was served in the little third drawing- room, where Mrs. Tregonell sat resting herself after the dust and weariness of the drive, Christabel was missing. Dormei brought a little note for her mistress. *Love is Love for Evcrmoro.^ 113 * Miss Couitun;iy gave me this ju.st bef(rro she went out, ma'am.' •Out ! Has Miss CouiU'tiay gone out?' * Yes, ma'am ; JMniel got her a cah five minutes ago.' 'To her dnssraaker, I suppose,' said Mrs. Tregoneil, tiying to look inililferent. * Don't bo uneasy about me, Auntie,' wrote Christabel : * I am going on an errand about width I made up my nnnd last night, i may be a little late for dinner, but jus 1 sliall go and r«'turn in the same cab, yu(l(>r, "i^di, low, or .Jack, us 1 call 'till — 'igh cliurt'li, low church, or .lohn W'csU^y — ever bo luauy |irc(h)iuinatioiis, and all of 'cm es« where the man h'ft lier, h)okiii;^ at a pliotof^Maph on a bnis»* easel upon an old ebony table in the middle of the loom. A cluster of stephanotis in a low Venetian vase stood in front of that portrait, like flowers befoie a shrine. Jt, waj3 an ex([uisitely jiainted photo^*aph of An,t,'us llandeigh — Augws at his best and brightest, befon; the Hush and glory of youth had faded from eves and brow— An<'us with a viviicitv of expression which she had never seen in his face — she who had known liim oidy since the fatal hereditary disease had set its mark u])on him. 'Ah!' she sighed, *he wius happier when he loved her than he ever wjih with me.' She stood gazing at tliat ])ictured face, her hands clasped, her heart beating heavily. Evei-ything contii nied her inhcr assionate line from Shakespeare or Dante, Heine or l)e INiusset. Christabel remend)ered, with a .sharp pang of jealousy, that her lover had never .so written in any book he had given her. She ignored the change which a year or two may make in a man's character, when he has reached one of the turning points of life ; and how a gi'aver deeper phase of feeling, less eager to express itself in other people's flowery language, succeeds youth's fervid sentiment. Had Werther lived and loved a second Charlotte, assuredly he would have loved her after a wiser and graver fashion. Rut Christabel '"'.'I .•< ' 1, ',1' !" t I l^'i it '0 I \^ \ ; h- ' ] m[ 116 Mount PiOyat. had believed hersiilf her lover's first and only love, and finding, that she was but the second volume in his life, abandoned herself at once to despair. She sank into one of the low luxurious chairs, just as the door opened, and Miss Mayne came into the room. If she had looked lovely as Psyche, in her classic drapery, with the emerald butterfly on her shoulder, she looked no Icsm beautiful in the costly-simplicity of her home toilet. She wore a sacque-shaped tea-gown of soft French-grey silk, lined with palest pink satin, over a petticoat that seemed a mass of cream- coloured lace. Her only ornaments were throe half-hoop rings — I ubies, diamonds, and sa})phires — too large for the slender third linger of her left hand, and half concealing a thin wedding-ring — and a star-shaped broach — one large cat's-eye with diamond rays, which fastened the lace handkerchief at her throat. Christabel, quick to observe the won)an whose existence had ruined her life, noted everything, from the small perfectly-shaped head — shaped for beauty rather than mental power — to the little arched foot in its pearl-coloured silk stocking, and grey satin slipper. For the first time in her life she beheld a woman whose chief business in this world was to look her loveliest, at all times and seasons, for friend or foe — for whom the perf ectioi ' of costume was the study and delight of life — who lived ana reigned by the divine right of beauty. ' Pray sit down ! ' said Miss Mayne, with a careless wave of her hand — so small — so delicate and fragile-looking under the lace ruffle ; ' I am cpiite at a loss to guess to what I am indebted for the honour of this visit ' She looked at her visitor scrutinizingly with those dark, too lustrous eyes. A hectio flush burned in her hollow cheeks. She had heard a good deal about this Miss Courtenay, of Mount Royal and Mayfair, and she came prepared to do battle. For some moments Chilstabel was dumb. It was one thinsr to have come into this young lioness's den, and another thing to know what to say to the lioness. But the straightness and purity of the girl's purpose upheld her — and her courage hardly faltered. ' I have come to you. Miss Mayne, because I will not consent to be governed by common report. I want to know the truth — the whole truth — however bitter it may be forme — in order that \ may know how to act.' Miss Mayne had expected a much sharper mode of attack. She had been prepared to hear herself called scorpion — or viper — the pest of society — a form of address to which she would have been able to reply with a startling sharpness. But to be 3)»oken to thus — gi-avely, gently, pleadingly, and with that sweet girlish face looking at her in unspeakable M>rrow — was somethinp; for which she had uo^ Prepared hei-self. J I * Love is Love for Evermore.' 117 to f ' You speak to me like a lady — like a good woman,' she said, falteringly. * What is it you want to know ? ' * I have been told that Mr. Hamleigh — Angus Hamleigh — was once your lover. Is that true ? ' ' True as the stars in heaven — the stars by which we swore to love each other to the end of our lives — looking up at them, with our hands clasped, as ve stood on the deck of the steamer between Dover and Calais. That was our marriage. I used to think that God saw it, and accepted it — just as if we had been in church : only it did not hold water, you see,' she added, with a cynical laugh, which ended in a hard little cough. •'lie loved you dearly. I c;in see that by the lines that Ik; wrote in your books. I ventured to look at them while I waited for you. Why did lie not marry you ? ' Stella Mayne shrugged her shoulders, and played with thd soft lace of her Jichic. ' It is not the f.oshion to marry a girl who dances in short petticoats, and lives in an a.ttic," she answered. ' Perhafps such a girl might make a good wife, if a man had the courage to try the experiment. Such things have been done, I believe ; but most men prefer the safer (bourse. If I had been clever, I dare- say Mr. Hamleigh would have married me ; but I was an ignorant little foul — and when he came across my path he seemed like an angel of light. I simply worshipped him. You've no idea how innocent I was in those days. Not a care- fully educated, lady-like innocence, like yours, don't you know, but absolute ignorance. I didn't know any wrong ; but then I didn't know any right. You see I am quite candid with you.' * I thank you with all my heart for your truthfulness. Every- thing — for you, for me, for Angus — depends upon oiu* perfect truthfulness. I want to do what is best— what is wisest — what is right — not for myself only, but for Angus, for you.' Those lovety liquid eyes looked at her incredulously. * What,' cried Stella Mayne, with her mocking little laugh — a musical little laugh trained for comedy, and unconsciously artificial — 'do you mean to tell me that you care a straw what becomes of me — that it matters to you whether I die in the gutter where I was born, or pitch myself into the Regents Canal some night when 1 have a lit of the blue devils i' ' I care very much what becomes of you. I should not be here if I did not wish to do what is best for you.' ' Then you come as my friend, and not as my enemy ? ' said Stella. 'Yes, I am here as your friend,' answered Christabel, will) an effort. The actress — a creature all impulst and emotion — fell on lur knees at Miss Courtenays feet, and pressed her lips upon tlu* l.-tdy's gloved hand. E3I .* M^ m \m i»¥^\ V.i ,4M 118 Mount Hoyal. * How good you are,' she exclaimed — ' how good— how goocL I have read of such womwi — they swarm in the novels I gei from Mudie— they and fiends. There's no middle distance. But I never believed in them. When the man brought me your card I thought you had come to blackguard me.' Christabel shuddered at the coarse word, so out of harmon,- with that vellum-bound Shelley, and all the graciousness Ox Miss Mayne's surroundings. ' Forgive me,' said Stella, seeing her disgust. ' I am horribly vulgar. I never was like that while — while Angus cared for me.' ' Why did he leave oflF caring for you V asked Christabel, looking gravely down at the lovely upturned face, so exquisite in its fragile sensitive beauty. Now Stella Mayne was one of those complex creatures, quite out of the range of a truthful woman's understanding — a crea- ture who could be candour itself — could gush and prattle with the innocent expansiveness of a child, so long as there was nothing she particularly desired to conceal — yet who could lie with tlie same sweet air of child-like simplicity when it served her purpose— lie with the calm stolidity, the invincible assurance, of an untruthful child. She did not answer Christabel's question immediately, but looked at li£r thoughfully for a few seconds, wondering how much of her history this young lady knew, and to what extent lying might serve. She had slipped from her knees to a sitting position on the Persian hearthrug, her thin, semi-transparent hands clasped upon her knee, the triple circlet of gems flashing in the low sunlight. ' Why did we part ? ' she asked, shrugging her shoulders. 'I hardly know. Temper, I suppose. He has not too good a temper, and I — well, I am a demon when I am ill— and I am often ill.' * You keep his portrait on your table,' said Christabel. ' Keep it 1 Yes — and round my neck,' answered Stella, jerking a gold locket out of her loose gown, and opening it to show the miniature inside. ' I have worn his picture against my heart ever since he gave it me — during our first Italian tour. I shall wear it so when I am dead. Yes— when he is married, and happy with you, and I am lying in my grave in Hendon Churchyard. Do you know I have bought and paid for my grave V ' Why did you do that V * Because I wanted to make sure of not being buried in a cemetery — a city of the dead — streets and squares and alleys of giavestones. 1 have chosen a spot under a great sureading ce«lar, in a churchyard that luiiJjht be a hundred miles from London — ami yci it is cjuite near here, and handy for those who * Love is Love for Evermore* lis will have to take me. I shall not give any one too much ti'oublo. Perhaps, if you will let him, Angus may come to my funeral, and drop a bunch of violets on my coffin.' ' Why do you talk like that I ' ' Because the end cannot be very far off. Do you think I look as if I should live to be a grandmother ! ' The hectic bloom, the unnatural light in those lovely eyes, the transparent hands, and purple-tinted nails, did not, indeed, point to such a conclusion. *If you are really ill why do you go on acting?' asked Christabel, gently. ' Surely the fatigue and excitement must be very bad for you.' ' I hardly know. The fatigue may be killing me, but the excitement is the only thing that keeps me alive. Besides, I must live — thirty pounds a week is a consideration.' ' But — you are not in want of money ? ' exclaimed Christabel. * Mr. Hamleigh would never- * Leave me to starve,' interrupted Stella, hurriedly ; * no I liave plenty of money. While — while we were happy — Mr. Hamleigh lavished his money upon me — he was always absurdly generous — and if I wanted money now I should have but to hold out my hand. I have never known the want of money since I left my attic — four and sixpence a week, with the use of the kitchen fire, to boil a kettle, or cook a chop — when my resources rose to a chop — it was oftener a bloater. Do you know, the other day, when I was dreadfully ill and they had been worrying me with invalid turtle, jellies, oysters, caviare, all kinds of loathsome daintinesses — and the doctor said I .should die if I didn't eat — I thought perhaps I might get back the old appetite for bloater and bread and butter — I used to enjoy a bloater tea so in those old days — but it was no use— the very smell of the thing almost killed me — the whole house wsls poisoned with it.' She prattled on, looking up at Christabel with a confiding smile. The visit had taken quite a pleasant turn. She had no idea that anjrthing serious was to come of it. Her quondam lover's affianced wife had taken it into her head to come and see what kind of stuff Mr. Hamleigh's former idol Wiia made of — that was all — and the lady's amiability was making the interview altogether agreeable. Yet, in another moment, the pain and sorrow in ChristabeVa face showed her that there was something^ stronger than frivolous Guriosity in the lady's mind. ' Pray be serious with me,' said Christabel. ' Remember that the welfare of three people depends upon my resolution in this matter. It would be ea«y for me Vo say — I will shut mv eyes to the past : he has told me that he loves me — and I will believo i 'M I IP ' 1^ -■ ' it M ml m m 'a i \ !( \h VHW ! i\ i 1 1 ' 11 '" !! ,* I i; i r , III 120 Mount Royal. him. But I will not do that. I will not live a lifo of suspicion and unie«t, just for the sweet privilege of bearing him conii)any, and being called by his name — dear as that thought is to me. No, it shall be all or nothing. If I cannot have his whole heart I will have none of it. You confess that you wear his picture next your heart. Do you still love him V 'Yes — always — always — always,' answered the actress, fer- vently. This at least was no bold-faced lie — there was truth's divine accent here. * There is no man like him on this earth.' And then in low impassioned tones she quoted those passionate lines of Mrs. Browning's : — ' There is no one bcTiJo thee, and no one above thee ; Tliou stanclcst alono as the nightingale sings ; And my words, that would praise tlieo, are impotent things.' * And do you believe that he has quite left off loving you ? ' ' No,' answered the actress, looking up at her with riashing eyes. ' I don't believe it. I don't believe he could after all we have been to each other. It isn't in human nature to forget such love as ours.' ' And you believe — if he were free — if he had not engaged himself to me — perhaps hardly intending it — he would come back to you V ' Yes, if he know how ill I am — if he knew what the doctor eays about me — I believe he would come back.' * And marry you I ' asked Christabel, deadly pale. ' That's as may be,' retorted the other, with her Parisian shrug. Christabel stood up, and laid her clenched hand on the low draperied mantelpiece, almost as if she were laying it on an altar to give emphasis to an oath. ' Then he shall come back — then he shall marry you,' she said in a grave, earnest voice. ' I will rob no woman of her husband. I will doom no fellow-creature to life-long shame !' ' What,' cried Stella INIayne, with almost a shriek, * you will give him up — for mo !' *Yes. He has never belonged to me as he has belonged to you — it is no shame for me to ren'^unce him — grief and pain — yes, grief and pain uns])eakable — but no disgrace. He has sinned, and he must atone for his sin. I will not be the impedi- ment to your marriage.' ' But if you were to give him up he might not marry me : men are so difficult to manage,' faltered the actress, aghast at the idea of such a sacrilice, seeing the whole business in the light of circumstances unknown to Miss Courtenay. * Not men with conscience and honour,' answered Christabel, with unshaken firmness. ' I feel very sure that if Mr. Hamleigh were free he would do what is right. It is only his engagement uovc li, Love for Evermore.' 121 to niifi tha« hinders his making atonement to yoi' He has lived vimoug worldly people who have never reminded liini of his duty .—who have blunted his finer feelings with their hideous word- liness— oh, I know how worldly women talk— as if there were neither hell nor heaven, only Belgravia and Mayfair— and no doubt worldly men are still worse. But he — he whom I have so loved and honoured— cannot be without honour and conscience. Ho shall do what is just and right.' She looked almost inspired as slie stood there with ])ale cheeks and kindling eyes, thinking far more of that broad ]nin- ciple of justice tliau of the fragile emotional creature trembling before hor. Tiiis comes of feeding a girl's mind with Sliake- sj)eare and ]iacon. Ccirlyle and Plato, to say nothing of that still broader and safer guide, the Gospel. Just then there was the sound of footsteps approaching the door — a measured masculine footfall. The emotional creature f^ew to the door, opened it, murmured a few words to some person without, and closed it, but not before a whiff of Latakia had been wafted into the flower-scented room. The footsteps moved away in another direction, and Christabel was much too absorbed to notice that faint breath of tobacco. * There's not the least use in your giving him up,' said Stella, resolutely : * he would never marry me. You don't know him aa well as 1 do.' * Do I not ] I have lived only to study his character for the best part of a year. I know he will do what is just.* Stella Mayne suddenly clasped her hands before her face and sobbed aloud. ' Oh, if I were only good and innocent like you ! ' she cried, niteously ; ' how I detest myself as I stand here before you ! — now loathsome — how hateful 1 am !' ' No, no,' murmured Christabel, soothingly, ' you are not hateful : it is only impenitent sin that is hateful. You were led into wrong-doing beciiuse you were ignorant of right— there was no one to teach you — no one to uphold you. And he who tempted you is in duty bound to make amends. Trusfj me — trust me — it is better for my peace as well as for yours that he ahould do his duty. And now good-bye — I have stayed too long already.' Again Stella Mayne fell on her knees and clasped this divine visitant's hand. It seemed to this weak yet fervid soul almost as if some angel guest had crossed her threshold. Christabel stooped and would have kissed the actress's forehead. ' No,' she cried, histerically, ' don't kiss me — don't — you don't know. I should feel like Judas.' * Good-bye, then. Trust me.' And so they parted. A tali man, with an iron-grey moustache and a soldier-Hkfl . I '- ,-t, I Ik > m i it'T •I) ■I 'I i i 122 Moitnt BoTjdl. bearing, came ont of a little study, cipjarette in hand, as the outer door closed on Christabel. ' Who the deuce is that thoroughbred -looking girl ? ' asked this gentleman. ' Have you got some of the neighbouring swells to call upon you, at last % Why, what's the row, Fishky, you've been cy flg ? ' Fishky was the stage-carpenters', dressers', and super- numeraries' pronunciation of the character which Miss jMayne acted nightly, and had been sportively adopted by her inti- mates as a pet name for herself. ' That lady is Miss Courtenay.' ' The lady Hamleigh is going to marry ? What the devil is she doing in this gaUre f I hope she hasn't been making nerself unpleasant ? ' * She is an angel.' ' With all my heart. Hamleigh is very welcome to her, so long as he leaves me my dear little demon,' answered the soldier, smiling down from his altitude of six feet two at the sylph-like form in the Watteau gown. ' Oh, how I wish I had never seen your face,' said Stella : * I should be almost a good woman, if there were no such person as you in the world.* CHAPTER X. *LBT MB AND MY PASSIONATE LOVE GO BY.' That second week of July was not altogether peerless weather. It contained within the brief span of its seven days one of those sudden and withering changes which try humanity more than the hardest winter, with which every Transatlantic weather- prophet threatened our island. The sultry heat of a tropical TiLesday was followed by the blighting east wind of a chilly Wednesday ; and in the teeth of that keen east wind, blowing across the German Ocean, and gathering force among the Pent- lands, Angus Hamleigh set forth froi i the cosy shelter of Hillside, upon a long day's salmon fishing. His old kinswoman's health had considerably improved since his arrivjil ; but she was not yet so entirely restored to her normal condition as to be 'villing that he should go back to London. She pleaded with him for a few days more, and in order that the days Bhould not hang heavily on his hands, she urged him to make tha most of his Scottish holiday by enjoying a day or two's salmon fishing. The first floods, which did not usually iDegin till August, had ah-eady swollen the river, and the grilse and early autumn salmon were ruiming up ; according to Donald, the handy man who helped in the gardens, and who was a first-rate fisherman. 1 jct Mc and my Passionate Love go by* 123 •There's all yourain tackle upstairs in one o' the prei«e0,' said the old lady ; 'ye'll just find it ready to your hand.' The offer was tempting — Angws had found the long summer days pass but slowly in iiouse and garden — aHjeit there was a library of good old ohissics. He so longed to be hiustening back to Christabel — found the houraso eni])tyand joyless without her. He was an ardent fisberman — loving that leisurely face-to-face contemplation of Nature which goes with rod and line. The huntsman sees the landscape flash pjist him like a assionately lovo^l a little while ago was from society's standpoint luworthy to bo his wife — it w;is ho who had made her unworthi- Aess — he who alone could redeem her from absolute ihame and lisgrace. ' All the world knows that you wronged her, let all the world know that you are glad to make such poor amends Jis may be made for that wrong,' wrote Christabel. ' I forgive you all the sorrow you have brought upon nio : it was in a great measure my own fault. I w;us too eager to link my life with yours. I almost thrust myself upon you. I will revere and honour you all the (lays of my life, if you will do right in this hard crisis of our fate. Knowing what I know I could never be ha])py as your wife : my soul would be wrung with jealous fears ; I should never feel secure of your love ; my life would be one long self-torment. It is with this conviction that I tell you our engagement is ended, Angus, loving you with all my heart. I have not come hurriedly to this resolution. It is not of anybody's prompting. I have prayed to my God for guidance. I have questioned my own heart, and I believe that 1 have decided wisely and well. And 80 farewell, dear love. May God and your conscience inspire you to do right. * Your ever constant friend, 'CimiSlAUEL COURTENAY.' Angus Hamleigh's first impulse was anger. Then came a softer feeling, and he saw all the nobleness of the womanly instinct that had prompted this letter: a good woman's profound pity for a fallen sister ; an innocent woman's readiness to see only the poetical aspect of a guilty love ; an unselfish woman's desire that right shouhl be done, at any cost to herself. 'God bless her!' he murmured, and kissed the letter before ho laid it under his pillow. His next thought was to telegraph immediately to Christabel. He asked his nvuse to bring him a telegraph form and a pencil, and with a shaking hand began to write : — ' No 1 a thousand times no. I owe no allegiance to any one but to you. There can be no (piestion of broken faith with the person of whom you write. I hold you to your promise.' Scarcely had his feeble fingers scrawled the lines than ho tore up the paper. ' I will see the doctor first,' he thought. * Am I a man to claim the fulfilment of a bright girl's promise of marriage 1 No, I'll get the doctor's verdict before I send her a word.' When the old family practitioner had finished his soundings and questionings, Angus asked him to stop for a few minutes longer. 'jjet Me and my Passionate Love tp hy* 125 * You say I'm better this iiftornoon, and that you'll get me dver tliis bout,' he said, * and I believe you. B\it 1 want you If ijo a little further and tell me what you think of my case from a jteneral point of view.' * Humph,' muttered the doctor, * it isn't easy to say what proportion of your seeraptonis may^be temporary, and wnat pairmei>ent ; but ye've a vairy shaljby paii; of lungs at this praisent writing. What's your family heestory V ' My father died of consumption at thirty.' 'Humph ! ainy other relative?' * My aunt, a girl of nineteen ; my father's mother, at seven- And-twenty.' 'Dear, (lear, that's no vairy lively retrospaict. Is this your fairst attack of lieemorrageT * Not by three or four.' The good old doctor shook his head. ' Ye'll need to take extreme care of yourself,' he said : ' and ye'll no be for spending nuich of your life in thees country. Ye might do vairy weel in September and October at Rothsay or in the Isle of Arran, but I'd recommaiud ye to winter in the South.' ' Do you think I shall be a long-lived man V ' My dear sir, that'll depend o-i care and circumstances beyond human foresight. I couldn't conscientiously recommaind your life to an Insurance Office.' ' Do you think that a man in my condition is justified in marrying?' * Do ye want a plain answer ? ' ' The plainest that you can give me.' ' Then I tell you frankly that I think the marriage of a man with a marked consumptive tendency, like yours, is a crime — a crying sin, which is inexcusable in the face of modern science and modern enlightenment, and our advanced knowledge of the mainsprings of lijfe and death. What, sir, can it be less than a crime to bring into this world children burdened with an heredi:;ary curse, destined to a heritage of weakness and pain — ■ bright young minds fettered by diseased Ijc lies — born to perish untimely? Mr. Hanileigh, did ye ever read a book called "EcceHomo?"' ' Yes, it is a book of books. I know it by heart.' * Then ye'll may be remaimber the writer's summing up of practical Clireestianity as a seestem of ethics which in its ultimate perfection will result in the happiness of the human race — even that last enemy, Death, if not subdued, may be made to keep hia distance, seemply by a due observance of natural laws — by an unselfish forethought and regard in each member of the human species for the welfare of the multitude. The man who becomes the father of a ^lace of puny children, can Ixi no friend to il a I II K III II ■J f !! 126 Mount Royal. hiriiianity. His pivdooins future suM'eriii}^ to the innocent by a rocklcss in(hil;,'ence oi his own inclination in tho present.* ' Yes, 1 believe you are right,' said An«,Mis, with a despairing si<,'h. ' it seems a hard thing for a man who loves, and is be- loved by, the sweetest among woman, to forego even for a few brief years of jxirfect bliss, and go down lonely to the grave — to aecrrpt this doeta'ine of renunciation, and count himself as one dead ill lite. Yet a year ago 1 told myself pretty much what you have t(»ld me to-day. I was tempted from my resolve by a woman's loving devotion — and now — a crucial point hius come — luid I must decide whether to marry or not.' ' If you love humanity better than you love yourself, ye'll die a bachelor,' said the Scotchman, gravely, but with infinite ]>ity in his shrewd old face ; ' ye've asked me for the truth, and I've geeven it ye. Tiuth is often hard.' Angus gave his thin hot hand to the doctor in token of friendly feeliwg, and then silently turned his face to the wall, whereuj)on the doctor gently patted him ujwn the shoulder and left him. Yes, it was hard. In the bright sjuing time, his health won- drously restored by that quiet restful winter on the shores of the JVI «'di terra n can, Angus had almost beliiived that he had given his enemy the slip — that Death's dominion over him was henceforth to be no more than over the common ruck of humanity, who, knowing not wlien or how the fatal lot may fall from the urn, diop into a hal)it of considering themselves imnioit;d, and death a calamity of which one reads in the newsjjapers with only a kindly interest in other people's mortality. All through the gay London season he had been so utterly happy, so wonderfully well, that the insidious disease, which had declared itself in the pjist by so many unmistakable symptoms, seemed to have relaxed its grip upon him. He began to have faith in an advanced medical science — the power to cure maladies hithei'to considered inowable. That long interval of languid empty days and nights of ])lacid sleep — the heavy sweetness of soutliern air breathing over the fields of orange flowers and violets, Febru.ary roses anil carnations, had brought strength and healing. The foe had been baliled by the new care which his victim had t-'iken of an exist- ence that had suddenly become precious. This was the hope that had buoyed up Angus Hamleigh's spirits all through the happy spring-time mid summer which he bjid spent in the company of his betrothed. He had seen the physician who less than a year before had pronounced his sentence of doom, and the famous physician, taking the thing in the light- hearted way of a man for whom humanity is a collection of 'cases,' was jocose and congratulatory, full of wonder at his patient's restoration, and taking credit to himself for having recommended Hy^es. And now the ©*on»?. bad him by the • Let Me and my Passionate Love go by.' 127 throat. The foe, no longer insidiously hinting at hi.s deadly meaning, held him in the tierce grip of pain and fever. Such an Mttack as thia, following npon one summer day'« imj)nidont'e, HJiovved but too plainly by how frail a tie he clung to life — how brief and how prone to malady must be the remnant of his days. Before the post went out he re-read Christabel's letter, smiling mournfully as he read. 'Poor child!' he murnnired to himself, *God bless her for her innocence — God bless her for her unselfish desire to do right. Jf she only knew the truth — but, better that she should heHj)iU'ed the knowledge of evil. What good end would it servtt if 1 were to enter upon painful explanations ? ' He had himself propped up with pillows, and wrote, in a fhand which he strove to keep from shiiking, the following lines : — ' Dearest ! I accept your decree : not for the reasons which jou allege, which are no reasons ; but for other motives which it would pain me too much to explain. I have loved you, I do love you, better than my own joy or comfort, better than my own life : and it is simply jwid wholly on that account I can roeign myself to say, let us in the future be friends — and friends oidy. ' Your ever afFectionate ' Angus IIamlekhi.' He was so much better next day as to be able to sit up for an hour or two in the afternoon ; and during that time he wrote at length to Mrs. Tregonell, telling her of his illness, and of his conversiition with the Scotch doctor, and the decision at which lie had arrived on the strength of that medical opinion, and le.iving her at liberty to tell Christabel as much, or as little of this, as she thoiight fit. ' I know you will do what is best for my darling's happiness,' he said, * If I did not believe this renunciation a sacred duty, and the only means of stiving her from infinite pain in the future, nothing that she or even you could siiy about my past frolics would induce me to renounce her. I would fight that question to the uttermost. But the other fatal fact is not to be faced, except by a blind and cowardly selfishness which I dare not practise.' After this day, the invalid mended slowly, and old Miss MacPherson, his aunt, being soon quite restored, Mr. Hamleigh telegraphed to his valet to bring books and other necess«aries from his cliambers in the Albany, and to meet him in the Isle of Arran, where he meant to vegetate for the next month or two, chartering a yacht of some kind, and living half on land and half on sea. '•111/ : ::i I] 1 1 1 ■i !•» ift lii« lOl i«t !.» m h!; !l 128 Mount Royal, CnATTERXI. •alas for MK IIIKN, MY GOOD DAYS ARE DONB, AnoUs IlAMr.KKiii's It'ttiT cjime upon ( 'Inist.'ilHil liko a torreni oF cold wiiter, as if that bii^^lit silvi^ry arn wliich piercoa thurock at iTit. Nuotan's Kiuvi; had wtruck upon her heart with its ic^ »*lream, and chilled it into stone. Allthrou^di that lon^ suninief day upon whi(;h her letter must arrive at Jlillside, slu; had lived i.i nervous (!.\|)('etation of a lele.i^rani expressiiiif indi^^natinn, I "monstrance, ]il<'adin,L,f, an^^er a .savai^e denial of her ji;,dit to niiounce her liver— to hreak her eiii^-ai^'t'nient. Hhe hail made ii|t her mind in all f^ood faith. Sht^ meant to <:;oon to the bitter I'lid, in the teeth of her lover's opposition, to coinplet)! herrenuii* r'atiun in favour of that frail creature wIkj had so solemn a ilaiiu upon Animus I fandiM^i^h's honour. She meant to li<,dit.thi3 i,'ood fijL^ht — but she expected that the strugh away — the diamond necklace which he gave nie on my birUiday — juwt like that one I saw on the .'fta^e — 1 auppose he thinks ail Women liave exactly the same ideas and fancies — the books too — I will put thorn all to^'cther for you to return.' *He liJiM given you a small library,* said Mrs. Tregonell. * 1 will take the things in the carriage, and seo that they are properlv delivered. Don't be afraid, darling. You shall have n© trouble about them. My own dear girl— how brave and good you are — how wise too. Yes, Belle, I am convinced that you have chosen wisely,' ao.id the widow, with the glow of honest conviction, for the woof of self-interest is so cunningly inter- woven with the wjirp of righteous feeling that very few of us can tell where the threads cross. She drew her niece to her heart, and kissed her, and cried with her a little ; and then siiid cheeringly, * And now tdl me, darling, what you would like to do ? Wc have ever so many engagements for this week and the next fortnight — but you know that they have been made only for your sake, and if yon don't care about them ' 'Care about them ! Oh, Auntie, do you think I could go into society wiih this dull aching pain at my heart ; I feel as if I should never care to see my fellow-creatm-es again — except vou and Jessie.' And Leonard,' said the mother. 'Poor Leonard, vflw could go through fire and water for you.' Clu'istabel winced, feeling fretfully that she did not want an v ©ne to go through fire and water ; a kind of acrobatic perform- ance contiimally being volunteered by people who would hesitate at the loan of five pounds. * Were shall we go, dear ? Would you not like to go abroad for the Autumn — Switzerland, or Italy, for instance f suggest d Mrs. Tregonell, with an idea that three months on the Coniinent was a specitic in such cases. ' No,' said Christabel, shudderingly, remembering how Angus and his frail first love had V)eeu happy together in Italy — (;ji, those books, those books, with their passionate record of p;ust joys, those burning lines from Byron and Heine, wliicli expressed such a world of feeling in ten syllables — ' No, 1 would ever so touch rather go back to Mount lloyal.' * My poor child, the place is so associated with Mr. Hamleigh. Fou would be thinking" of him every hour of the day.' * I shall do that anywhere.' ' Change of scene would be so much better for you — travelling —variety.' * Auutie, you are not strong enough to travel with comfort in K •••Ml* ' m ~.i' Hi' Hi wdda > niB^I^ II i^ ■■:> ;t:i 1 :1: w 180 Mount Eoyal. yoiiTHolf, I am not feoing to clif\g you about for a fanciful allevia- tion of ray sorrow. The landscape may change but not the mind — I should think of — the past— just as much on Mont Blanc as on Willapark. No, dearest, let is go home ; let me go back to the old, old life, as it was before I saw Mr. HamleigTi. Oh, what a child I was in those dear days, how happy, how happy.* She burst into tears, melted by the memory of those placid days, the first tears she had shed since she received her lover's answer. ' And you will be happy again, dear. Don't you remember that passage I read to you in " The Caxtons " a few days ago, in which the wise tender-hearted father tells his son how small a s[)ace one great sorrow takes in a life, and how triumphantly the life soarM on beyond it ? ' ' Yes, I remember ; but I didn't believe him then, and I be- lieve him still less now,' answered Christabel, doggedly. Major Bree called that afternoon, and found JNlrs. Tregonell alone in the drawing-room. ' Where is Belle l ' he asked. * She has gone for a long country ride — I insisted upon it.' 'You were quite right. She was looking as white as a ghost yesterday when I just caught a glimpse of her in the n(!xt room. She ran away like a guilty thing when she saw me. Well, has this cloud blown over ? Is Hamleigh buck ? ' ' No ; Christabel's engagement is broken otf". It has been a great blow, a severe trial ; but now it is over 1 am glad ; she never could have been happy with him.' * How do you know that ? ' asked the Major, sharply. * I judge him by his antecedents. What could be expected from a man who had led that kind of life — a man who so grossly deceived her ? ' ' Deceived her ? Did she ask him if he had ever been in love with an actress ? Did she or you ever interrogate him as to hia past life ? Why you did not even question me, or I should have been obliged to tell you all I knew of his relations with Misg Mayno.' ' Vou ought to have told me of your o^vn accord. You should not have waited to be questioned,' said Mrs. Tregonell, indig' uantly. ' Why should I stir dirty water 1 Do you suppose that every nan who makes a good husband and lives happily with his wife iias b(>en spotless u}) to the hour of his marriage ? There is a i li.t ,.•11. i m ^li' 132 JIfoMWC Boyal. available pony-carriages weie making the journey to Tintagel and back three times a day ; while the patient investigators who tramped to St, Nectan's Kieve, without the faintest idea of who St. Nectan was, or what a kieve was, or what manner of local curiosity they were goir)g to see, were legion; all coming back ravenous to the aame cozy inn to elbow one another in friendly contiguity at the homely table dlwte, in the yellow light of many candles. Christabel avoided the village as much as possible during this gay season. She would have avoided it just as much had it been the dull season : the people she shrank from meeting were not the strange tourists, but the old gaflfers and goodies who had known her all their lives — the ' uncles ' an(1 ' aunts ' — (in Cornwall uncle and aunt are a kind of patriarchal title given to honoured age) — and who might consider themselves privileged to ask why her wedding was deferred, and when it was to be. She went with Jessie on long lonely expeditions by sea and land. She had half a dozen old sailors who were her s'-^ves, always ready to take her out in good weather, deeming it their highest privilege to obey so fair a captain, and one who always })aid them handsomely for their labour. They went often to Trebarwith Sands, and sat there in some sheltered nook, working and reading at peace, resigned to a life that had lost all its brightness and colour. ' Do you know, Jessie, that I feel like an old maid of fifty 1 ' said Belle on one of those rare occasions when she spoke of her own feelings. * It seems to me as if it were ages since I made up my mind to live and die immarried, and to make life, some- how or other, self-sufficing — as if Randie and I were both getting old and grey together. For he is ever so much greyer, the dear thing,' she said, laying her hand lovingly on the honest black head and grey muzzle. * What a pity that dogs should grow old so soon, when we are so dependent on their love. Why are they not like elephants, in whose lives a decade hardly counts ? ' * Oh, Belle, Belle, as if a beautiful woman of twenty could be dependent on a sheep-dog's affection — when she has a,ll her life before her and all the world to choose from.' * Perhaps you think 1 could change my lover as some people change their dogs,' said Belle, bitterly, ' be deeply attached to a •olley this year and next year be just as devoted to a spaniel. My affections are not so easily transferable.' Mrs, Tregonell had told her niece nothing of Angus Hamleigh's final letter to herself. He had given her freedom to communicate as much or as little of that letter as she liked to Cliristabel— and she had taken the utmost license, and had been altogether sileut about it What good could it do fo;* Christabel ; ' Grief a Fia,ed Star, and Joy a Vane that ve&rs.' 133 to hear of his illness. The knowledge might inspire her to some wild quixotic act ; she might insist upon devoting herself to him — to be his wife in order that she might be his nurse — and surely this would be to ruin her life without helping him to prolong his. The blow had fallen — the sharpest pain of this sudden sorrow had been suflPered. Time and youth, and Leonard's faithful love would bring swift healing. ' How I loved and grieved for his father,' thought Mrs. Tregonell, * Yet I sui'V'ived his loss, and had a peaceful happy lifte with the best and kindest of men.' A peaceful happy life, yes — the English matron's calm content in a handsome house and a well organized iiouschold — a good stable — velvet gowns — family diamonds — the world's respect. But that first passionate love of yeuth — the love that is eager for self-sacrifice, that would welcome beggary — the love which sees a lover independent of all surrounding circumstances, worship- ping and deifying the man himself — that sacred fiame had been for ever extinguished in Diana Champernowne's heart before she met burly broad-shouldered Squire Tregonell at the county ball. She wrote to Leonard telling him what had happened, and that he might now count on the fulfilment of th.at hope which they both had cherished years ago. She asked him to come home at once, but to be careful that he approached Christabel only in a friendly and cousinly character, until there had been ample time for these new wounds to heal. ' She bears her trouble beautifully, and is all goodness and devotion to me — for I have been weak and ailing ever since i came from London — but I know the trial is very hard for her. The house would be more cheerf il if you were at home. You might ask one or two of your Oxford friends. No one goes into the billiard-room now. Monnt Eoyal is as quiet as a prison. If you do not come soon, dear boy, I think we shall die of melancholy.' Mr. Tregonell did not put himself out of the way to comply with his loving mothe/s request. By th« time the widow's letter reached him he had made his plans for the winter, and was not disposed to set them a.side in order to oblige a lady who was only a necessary detail in his life. A man must needs have a mother ; and, as mothers go, Mrs. Tregonell had been harmless and inoffensive ; but she was not the kind of person for whom Leonard would throw over elaborate sporting arrangements, hired guides, horses, carts, and all the paraphernalia needful for Red River explorations. As for Clnistabel, Mr. Tregonell had not forgiven her for having set another man in the j)lace which he, her cousin and boyish loyish lover in a I'ough tryannical way, had long made up his mind to occupy. The fact that she had broken with the man was a redeeming feature in the case ; but he was not going ioto raptures about it ; nor was ho disposed to ,,j»HW-j •I'lj 5 :f^ > ■ > '■■ n it0 184 Mount Royal. return to Mount Iloyal while she was at 111 moping and regretting the discarded lover. * Let her get over the doldrums, and then she and I may be friends again,' said Leonard to his boon companion, Jack Vandeleur, not a friend of his University days, but an acquain- tance picked up on board a Cunard steamer — son of a half -pay naval captain, a man who had begun life in a line regiment, fought in Afghanistan, sold out, and lived by his wits and upon his friends for the last live years. He had made himself so use- ful to Mr. Trcgonell by his superior experience as a traveller, his piuck and knowledge of all kinds of s])ort, that he had been able to live at free (luarters with that gentleman from an early stage of their acquaintance. Thus it was that Christabel was allowed to end the year in quietness and peace. Every one was tender and gentle with her, knowing how keenly she must have suffered. There was much disai)pointment among her country friends at the sorry ending of her engagement ; more especially among those who had been in London during the season, and had seen the lovely Cornish debutante in her brief day of gladness. No one hinted a question to Christabel herself. The subject of marrying and giving in marriage was judiciously avoided in her presence. But Mrs. Tregonell had been questioned, and had explained briefly that certain jjainf ul revelations concerning Mr. Hamleigh's antecedents had constrained Christabel to give him up. Every one said it was a pity. Poor Miss Courtenay looked ill and unhappy. Surely it would have been wiser to waive all question of ante- cedents, and to trust to that swecit girl's influence for keeping, Mr. Hamleigh straight in • the future. * Antecedents, indeed,' exclaimed a strong-minded matron, with live marriageable daughters. 'It is all very well for a young woman like Miss Courtenay — an only child, with flfteen hundred a year in her own light — to make a fuss about a young man's antecedents. But whau would become of my five girls if I were to look at things so closely.' Christabel looked at the first column of the Timen suj)plement daily to see if there were the advertisement of Angus Uandeigh's marriage with Stella Mayne. She was quite prej)ared to read such an announcement. Surely, now that she had set him free, he would make this act of atonement, he, in all whose sentiments she had perceived so nice a sense of honour. But no such advertisement appeared. It was possible, however, that the marriage had taken place without any public notification. Mr. Hamleigh might not care to call the world to witness his repara- tion. She prayed for him daily and nightlj'^, praying that he might be led to do that which, was best for his soul's welfare — for his peace here and hereafter — praying that his days, whetUftr few or many, should ba made happy. }*' r * Grief a Fixed Star, and Joy a Vane thai veers.' 130 Tliere were times when that delicate reticence which made Angus Hamleigh's name a forbidden sound upon the lij)s of ber friends, was a source of keenest pain to Christabel. It would have been painful to her to hear that name lightly s{>nken, no doubt ; but this dull dead silence was worse. One day ft Hashed upon her that if he were to die nobody would tell her of his death. Kindred and friends would cons))ire to keep her un- informed. After this she read the li.st of deaths in the Timoit as eagerly as she read the marriages, but with an agony of fear lest that name, if written in tire, should lea}) out upon the page. At last this painful sense of uncertainty as to the fate of one who, a few months ago, had been a part of her life, became unendurable. Pride withheld her from questioning her aunt or Jessie. She shrank from seeming small and mean in the sight of her own sex. She had made her sacrftice of her own accord, and there was a poverty of character in not being able to maintain the same Spartan courage to the end. But from Major Bree, the friend and playfellow of her childhood, the indulgent companion of her youth, she could better bear to accept i)ity — so, one mild afternoon in the beginning of October, when the Major dropped in at his usual hour for tea and gossi]), she took him to see the chrysanthemums, in a house on the further side of the lawn ; and here, having assured herself there was no gardener within hearing, she took courage to question him. '■ Uncle Oliver,' she began, falteringly, trifling with the fringed petals of a snowy blossom, ' I want to ask you some- thing.' ' My dear, I think you must know that there is nothing in the world I would not do for you.' * I am sure of that ; but this is not very difficult. It is only to answer one or two questions. Every one here Ls very good to me — but they make one mistake: they think becaase'I have broken for ever — with — Mr. Hamleigh, that it can do me no good to know .•my thing about him — that I can go on living and being happy, while I am as ignorant of his fate as if we were iidiabitants of ditierent planets. But they forget that after having been all the world to me he cannot all at once become nothing. I have still some faint interest in his fate. It hurts me like an actual pain not to know whether he is alive or dead,' she said, with a sudden sob. ' My poor pet ! * murmured the Major, taking her hand in Loth his own. ' Have you heard nothing about him since you left London?* ' Not one word. People make believe tliat there was never any such person in this world.' ' Tliey think it wiser to do so, in the hope you will forijet him.' M \ •i "Iff \\ ru '. i > [' i i.' H 1 :»»» 'U\\ i 4 '•111 136 Mount Boyal. n'. 'M . ' They might as well hope that I shall become a blackamoor,* said Christabel, scornfully. * You have more knowledge of the human heart, Uncle Oliver — and you must know that I shall always remember him. Tell me the truth about him just this once, and I will not mention his name again for a long, long time. He is not dead, is he ? ' ' Dead ! no, Belle. What put such a notion into your head 1 * ' Silence always seems like death ; and every one has kept silence about him.' ' He was ill while he was in Scotland — a touch of the old complaint. I heard of him at Plymouth the other day, from a yachting man who met him in the Isle of Arrau, after his illiieas — he was all right then, I believe.' ' 111 — and I never knew of it — dangerously ill, perhaps.' * I don't snpposi^ it was anything very bad. He had been yachting when my Plymouth acquaintance met him.' ' He h;us not nianieu — that person,' faltered ChristabeL * What pers(jn V ' Vli.ss Vlayne.' ' ♦ iood heavens, no, my dear — nor ever will.' * But ^»e ought — it is his duty.' * My dear child, that is a question which I can hardly discuss with you. But I may tell you, at least, that there is an all- sufficient reason why Angus Hamleigh would never make such an idiot of himself,' ' Do you mean that she could never be worthy of him— that she is irredeemably wicked ? ' asked Christabel. * She is not good enough to be any honest man's wife.' * And yet she -iid not seem wicked ; she spoke of him with such intense feeling.' ' She seemed — she spoke ! ' repeated the Major aghast. ' Do }ou mean to tell me that you have seen — that you have conversed with her ? ' ' Yes : when my aunt [told me the story which she heard from Lady Cumberbridge I could not bring myself to believe it until it was confirmed by Miss Mayne's own lips. I made up, my mind that I would go and see her— and I went. Was that wrong ' Very wrong. You ought not to have gone near her. If you wioited to know more than common rumour could tell you, you should have sent me — your friend. It was ft most unwise act.' ' I thought I was doing my duty. I think so still,' said Christabel, looking at him with frank steadfast eyes. ' We are l)oth women. If we stand far apart it is because Providence has given me many blessings irf^ich were withheld from her. It is Mr. Hamleigh's duty to repair the wrong he has done. If ('if * Grief a Fixed Star^ and Joy a Vane that veers.' 137 he does not he must be answerable to his Maker for the eternal ruin of a soul.' * I tell you again, my dear, that you do not understand the circumstances, and cannot fairly judge the case. You would have done better to take an old soldier's advice before you let the venomous gossip of that malevolent harridan spoil two lives.' * I did n©t allow myself to be governed by Lady Cumbor- bridge's gossip, Uncle Oliver. I took nothing for granted. It was not till I had heard the truth from Miss JVIayne's lips that I took any decisive step. Mr. Hamleigh accepted my resolve so readily that I can but think it was a welcome release.' ' My dear, you went to a queer shop for truth. If you had only known your way about town a little better y(*u would have thought twice before you sacrificed your own haj-'Mness in the hope of making Miss Mayne a respectable member of society. But what's done cannot be undone. There's no use in crying over spilt milk. I daresay you and Mr. Hamleigh will meet again and make up your quarrel before wc are a year older. In the meantime don't fret, Belle — and don't be afraid that he will ever marry any one but you. I'll be answerable for his constancy.' The anniversary of Christabel's betrothal came round, St. Luke's Day — a grey October day — with a drizzling West-country rain. She went to church alone, for her aunt was far from well, and Miss Bridgeman stayed at home to keep the invalid com- pany—to read to her and cheer her through the long dull morning. Perhaps they both felt that Christabel would rather be alone on this day. She put on her waterproof coat, took her dog with her, and started upon that wild lonely walk to the church in the hollow of the hills. Handle was a beast of perfect manners, and would lie quietly in the porch all through the service, waiting for his mistress. She knelt alone just where thoy two had knelt together. There was the humble altar before which they were to have oeen married ; the rustic shrine of which they had so often spoken as the fittest place for a loving union — fuller of tender meaning than splendid St. George's, with its fine oaken panel- ling, painted windows, pnd Hogarthian architecture. Never at that altar nor at any other were they two to kneel. A little year had held all — her hopes and fears — her triumphant love- joy beyond expression — and sadness too deep for tears. She went over the record as she knelt in the familiar pew — her lips moving automatically, repeating the responses — her eyes fixed and tearless. Then when the service was over she went slowly wandering in and out among the graves, looking at the grey slate tablets, with the names of those whom she had known in life, all at 'S'l ^ ■ f ) ^••♦•"t r^r u'j^^ 138 Mount Boyal. m\ iJil]; h! I 1.1' V'' rest now— old j^eople who had auflfered long and patiently before they died — a fair young girl who had died of consumption, and whose sufferings had been sharper than those of age — a sailor who had gone out to a ship with a rope ojie desperate night, and had given his life to save others — all at rest now. There was no grave being dug to-day. She remembered how, as she and Angus lingered at the gate, the dull sound of the earth thrown from the gravedigger's spude had mixed with the joyous song of the robin perched on the gate. To-day tliere wjis neither giavedigger nor robin — only the soft drip, drip of the rain on dock and thistle, fern and briony. She had the churchyard all to herself, the dog following her about meekly, crawling over grassy mounds, winding in and out among the long wet grass. ' When i die, if you have the ordering of my funeral, be sure I am buried in Minster Churchyard.' That is what Angus had said to her one summer morning, when they were sitting on the IMaidenhead coach ; and even West-End London, aiid a London Park, looked lovely in the clear June light. Little chance now that she would be called upon to choose his resting-place — that her hands would fold his in their last meek ititude of submission to the universal conqueror. ' Perhaps he will spend his life in Italy, where no one will know his wife's history,' thought Christabel, always believing, in spite of Major Bree's protest, that her old lover would sooner or later make the one possible atonement for an old sin Nobody except the Major had told her how little the ladj' deserved that such atonement should be made. It was Mrs. Trcgonell's theory that a weil-brcught up young woman should be left in darkest ignorance of the darker problems of life. Christabel walked across the hill, and down by narrow winding ways into the valley, where the river, swollen and turbid after the late rains, tumbled noisily over rock and root and bent the long reeds upon its margin. She crossed the narrow footbridge, and went slowly through the level fields between two long lines of hills — a gorge through which, in bleak weather, the winds blew liercely. There was another hill to a.scend before she reached the Held that led to Pentargon Bay — half a mile or so of high road between steep banks and tall unkempt hedges. How short and easy to climb that hill had seemed to her in Angus Hamleigh's company ! Now she walked wearily and slowly under the softly falling rain, won- dering where he was, and whether he remembered this day. She could recall every word that he had spoken, and the memory was full of pain ; for in the light of her new knowledge it seemed to her that all he had said about his early doom had * Grief a Fixed Star, and Joy a Vane tfiat veers.' 139 been an argument intended to demonstrate to her why he dared not and must not ask her to be hia wife — an apology and an explanation as it were — and this apology, this explanation had been made necessary by her own foolishness — by that fatal for- getfuhiess of self-respect which had allowed her love to reveal itself. And yet, surtjly that look of rapture which had shone in his eyes as he clasped her to his heart, as he accepted the dedica- tion of her young life, those tender tones, and all the love that had come afterwards could not have been entirely falsehood. • I cannot believe that he was a hypocrite,* she said, standing where they two had sat side by side in the sunlight of that lovely day, gazing at the grey sea, smooth as a lake under the low grey sky. * I think he must have loved me — unwillingly, perhaps — but it was true love while it Lasted. He gave his first and best love to that other — but he hned me too. If I had dared to believe him — to trust in my power to keep him. But no ; that would have been to confirm him in wrong-doing. It was his duty to marry the girl he wronged.' The thought that her sacrifice had booH made to principle rather than to feeling sustained her in this hour as nothing else could have done. If she could only know where he was, and how he fared, and what he meant to do with his future life, she could be hap[)ier, she thuught. Luncheon v/as over when Christabel went back to Mount Royal ; but as Mrs. Tregonell was too ill to take anything beyond a cup of beef tea in her own room, this fact was of no consequence. The mistress of Mount Royal had beei. declining visibly since her return to Cornwall ; Mr Treherne, the family doctor, told Christabel there was no cause for alarm, but he hinted also that her aunt was not likely to be a long-lived woman * I'm afraid she worries herself,' he said ; * she is too anxious about that scajiegrace son of hers.' 'Leonard is very cruel,' answered Christabel ; 'he lets weeks and even months go by without writing, and that makes his poor mother miserable. She is perpetuiilly worrying herself about imaginary evils — storm and shipwreck, runaway horses, ex- plosions on steamboats.' *If .she would but leiueniber a vulgar adage, that " Nought is never in danger," muttered the ductor, with wliom Leonard had been no favourite. 'And then she has frightful dreams about him,' said Christabel. ' My dear Miss Courtenay, I know all about it,' answered Mr. Treherne ; 'your dear aunt is just in that comfortable position of life in which a woman must worry herself about something or other. '* Man was born to trouble," don't you know, my dear ? The people who haven't real cares are constrained to invent sham 3( •rt«f m '"Mil ? m ,.f ! I'k m ', M - --♦ft ■tt I' ! 11 i II ; I li tfji>^ I ] 11 I r( 111! ill ('• 140 Mount Royal. ones. Look at Kinj^ Solomon — did jrou ever read any book that breathes such intense melancholy in every lin« ob that little work of his called Ecclesiastes ? Solomon was livinjir in ti;e lap of luxury when he wrote that little book, and very likely hadn't a trouble in this world. However, imaginary cares can kill as well as the hardest realities, so you must try to keep up your aunt's spirits, and at the same time be sure that she doesn't over- exert herself. She has a weak heart — what we call a tired heart.' * Does that mean heart-disease ?' faltered Christabel, with a despairing look. ' Well, my dear, it doesn't mean a healthy heart. It is not organic disease — nothing wrong with the valves — no fear of excruciating pains — but it's a rather risky condition of life, and needs care.' * I will be careful,' murmured the girl, with white lips, as the awful shadow of a grief, hardly thought of till this moment, fell darkly across her joyless horizon. Her aunt, her ado[)ted mother — mother in all sweetest care and love and thoughtful culture — might too soon be taken from her. Then indeed, and then only, could she know what it was to be alone. Keenly, bitterly, she thought how little during the last dismal months slie had valued that love — almost ;us old as her life — and how the loss of a newer love had made the world desolate for her, life without meaning or purpose. She re- membered how little more than a year ago — before the coming of Angus Hamleigh — her aunt and she had been all the world to each other, that tender mother-love all sufficing to fill her life with interest and delight. In the face of this new fear that sacred love resumed its old place in her mind. Not for an hour, not for a moment of the days to come, should her care or her affection slacken. Not for a moment should the image of him whom she had loved and renounced come between her and her duty to her aunt. m ill iwf' !i' ,.j»' CHAPTER XIII. *LOVB WILL HAVE HIS DAT.' From this time Christabel brightened and more like the sharp girl with on being grew her old self. Mrs. Tregonell told herself that sorrow was gradually wearing itself out. No iuch happy surroundings as Christabel's could go unhappy for ever. Her own spirits improved with Christabel's increasing brightness, and the old house began to lose its dismal air. Until now the widow's conscience had been ill at ease — she had been perpetually arguing with herself that she had done right — trying to stifle (ik>ubts that continually renewed them- Love will have his dai/.' 141 twelves. But now she told herself tliut the time of sorrow was East, and th;it her wisdom would bo justified by its fruita. She ad no suspicion that her niece was striving of set purpose to be cheerful — that those smiles and this britrht girlish UilU. were t' u result of painful etlbrt, duty triumphii)g over sorrow. Mount Royal that wint<'v seemed one ot the Ijrigkteat, most hospitable houses in the neigl.liourhood. ThereVere ho parties ; Mrs. Tregonell's delicate heallh was a reason against that, lint there wius generally sonie one staying in the house — some nice girl, whose vivacious talk and whose newnnisic helpetl to beguile the mother from sad thoughts about her absent son — from wearying doubts as to the fultilraent of her ])lans for the future. There were people coming and going ; old friends driving twenty miles to luncheon, and sometimes persuaded to stay to dinner ; nearer neighbours walking three miles or so to afternoon tea. The cheery rector of Trevalga and liis family, friendg of twenty years' standing, were frequent guests. Mrs. Tregonell was not allowed to excits herself, but she was never allowed to be dull. Christabe! and Jessie watched her with unwavering attention — anticipating every wish, j)reventing every fatigue. A weak and tired heart might hold out for a long time under such tender treatment. But early in March there came an unexpected trial, in the shap'j of a sudden and great joy. Leonard, who had never learnt the rudiments of forethought and consideration for others, drove up to the house one afternoon in an hired chaise from Launceston, just as twilight was creeping over the hills, and dashed unannounced into the room where his mother and the two girls were sitting at tea. 'Who is this?' gasped Mrs. Tregonell, starting up from her low easy \hair, as the tall broad-shouldered man, bearded, bronzed, clad in a thick grey coat and big white rnutHer, stood before her ; and then with a shriek she cried, ' My son ! My son ! ' and fell upon his breast. When he placed her in a chair a minute later she was almost fainting, and it was some moments before she recovered speecli. Cliristabel and Jessie thought the shock would have killed her. 'Oh, Leonard! how could you]' murmured Christabel, reproachfully. ' How could I do what ? ' * Come home without one word of notice, knowing your mother's delicate health.' * I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for her. Besides I hadn't made up my mind to come straight home till two o'clock to day. I had half a mind to take a week in town first, before I came to this God-forsaken hole. You stare at me as if I had no right to be here at all, Belle.' I'l i Jiy 5. ■! ;::J ■■11 ' ''I -n tk ;■( J !'1 . 1 If Sj wm HS Mount Royal. II • Li'onanl, my l>oy, my boy,' f.-iIU'rwl the niotlicr, witli pale liik*:, IfMjkin^ \i], {uioiiiii^ly at thu l)eiinltMl face, so woather-be.itcii, so hardened and altered from the fresh lines of youth. ' If you knew liow I have lonj^ens place.s — among sava^'es — in all kinds of daiifjer. Often and often I have dreamt that [ saw you dead.' ' Upon my soul, this is a lively wi'Icome,' saiil Leonard. * My dearest, I don't want to be dismal,* said Mrs . Tregonell, with a faint hysterical laugh. Her heart was beatitig tumul- tuously, the hands that clasped her son's were cold and damp. * My soul is full of jov. How ch.inged you are dear! You look ;vH if y(>u had gone tl.nnigh great liardshijtH.' 'Life in the Kockies iani -dl child's play, mother, but we've had a jolly time of it, on the whole. America is a magnificent country. I feel deuced Borry to come home — except for the pleasure of seeing you and lielle. Let's have a look at you Belle, and see if you are as much changed as I am. Step into r,he light, young lady.' He drew her into the full broad light of a heaped-up wood and coal fire. There wjia very little daylight in the room. The tapestry curtains fell low over the heavily mullioned Tudor win- dows, and inside the ta[)estry there was a screen of soft Mslin. 'I have not been shooting moose and skunk, or 1 » in a tent,' said (^hristabel, with a forced laugh. She wau ^ tO be amiable to her cousin — wished even to like him, but it went against the grain. She wondered if he had always been aa hateful aa this. 'You can't expect to find much difference in me .after three years' vegetation in Cornwall.* ' But you've not been vegetating all the time, said Leonard, looking her over as coolly as if she had been a horse. * You have had a season in London. I saw your name in some of the gossiping journals, when I was last at Montreal, You wore a pink gown at Sandown. You were one of the prettiest girls at tlie Royal Fancy fair. You wore white and tea roses at the Marlborough House garden j^arty. You have been shining in high places, JNlistress Belle. I hope it has not spoiled you for a country life.' ' I love the country better than ever. I can vouch for that.' 'And you have grown ever so much handsomer since I satt you last. I can vouch for that,' answered her cousin with hia free and easy air. ' How d'ye do. Miss Bridgeman ? ' he said, holding out two fingers to his mother's companion, whoso presence he had until this moment ignored. Jessie remembered Thackeray's advice, and gave the squire one finger in return for his two. * You're not altered ,' he said, looking at her with a steady stare. 'You're the hard-wearing sort, warranted fast colour.' Lov6 will havb Jiis day* 113 'Give Leonard sonie ton, Jessie,' said Mi-h. Ti'<'!7onell. ' I'm rturo you would like Boiue teal' looking lovingly at the tall ligure, the liard handsome face. * I'd rather have a l))an(lyaiid-soda/ answered Tjeonard, oarelcHMly, * hut 1 I ''I i-|ii I IH ill fj!; ;,,ii ■l( i.i' 111' lin^ til ■li-< 146 ' Mount Boyal. common. I don't want a toy dog — a dog that is only meant foi show.' * Pomeranians are clever enough for anybody, and they are wortk looking at. I wouldn't wjvste my affection upon an uglj dog any more than I would on an ugly womnn.' * Randie is handsome in my eyes,' said Christabel, caressing the sheep-dog's grey muzzle. ' I'm through,' said Mr. Tregonell, putting down his cup. He affected Yankee phrases, and spoke with a Yankee twang. America and the Americans had suited him, * down to the ground,' as he called it. Their decisive rapidity, that go-a-head spirit which charged life with a kind of mental electricity — made life ever so much better worth living than in the dull sleepy old world wliere everv one was content with the existing condition of things, and only desired to i-etain present advantages. Leonard loved sport and adventure, action, variety. He was a tyrant, and yet a democrat. He was quite willing to live on familiar term with grooms and gamekeepers — but not on equal terms. He must ahvays be master. As much good fellowship as they pleased — but they must all knuckle under to him. He had been the noisy young autocrat of the stable-yard and the ■addle-room when he was still in Eton jackets. He lived on the easiest terms with the guides and assistants of his American travels, but he took care to make them feel that he was their employer, and, in his own language, ' tlie bigge.'-t boss they were ever likely to have to deal with.' He paid them lavishly, and gave himself the airs of a Prince — Prince Henry in the wild Falstaffian days, before the charge of a kingdom taught him to be grave, yet with but too little of Henry's gallant spirit and generous instincts. Three yeaic' travel, in Australia and America, had not exercised a refining influence upon Leonard Tregonell s character or manners. Blind as the mother's love might be, she had insight enough to perceive this, and she acknowledged the fact to herself sadly. There are travellers and travellers : some in whom a wild free life awakens the very spirit of poetry itself — whom unrestrained intercourse with Nature elevates to Nature's grander level — some whose mental power deepens and widens iw the solitude of forest or mountain, whose noblest instincts are awakened by loneliness that seems to bring them nearer Go(i But Leoimrd Tregonell was not a traveller of this type. Away from the restraints of civilization — the conventional refinements liml smoothings down of a rough character — his nature coarsened and liaiiloned. His love of killing wild and beautiful things grew into a passion. He lived chiefly to hunt and to slay, and had no touch of pity for those gracious creatures which looked at their slaughterer reproachfully, with dim p;iithetic eyes — wido ,.;' HI * Love will have his day.* 147 with a wild surprise at man's cruelty, ('onstant intercourse with men coarser and more ignorant than himself drajrged him down little by little to a lower grade than he had been born to occupy. In all the time that he had been away he had hardly ever opened a book. Great books had been written. Poets, historians, philosophers, theologians had given the fruits of their medita- tions and their researches to the world, but never an hour had Mr. Tregonell devoted to the study of human progress, to the onward march of human thought. When he was within reach of newspapers he read them industriously, and learnt from a stray paragraph how some great scientific discovery in science, some brilliant success in art, had been the talk of the hour ; but neither art nor science interested him. The only papers which he cared about were the sporting papers. His travels for the most part had been in wild lonely regions, but even in the short intervals that he had spent in cities he had shunned all intellectual amusements. He had heard neither concerts nor lectures, and had only atFecled the lowest forms of dramatic art. Most of his nights had been .s|)ent in bar-roon»s or groceries, playing faro, monte, pokor, euchre, and falling in pleasantly with whatever might be the most popular form of gambling in that particular city. And now he had come back to Mount Royal, having sown his wild oats, and improved himself mentally and pliysically, as it was supposed by the outside world, ])y extensive travel ; and he was henceforward to reign in his father's place, a popular country gentleman, honourable and honoured, useful in his generation, a friend to rich and poor. Nobody had any cause for com{)laint against him during the tirst few weeks after his return. If his manners were rough anf etnuse, so long as her w.iy did not run counter to his. She would be mistress o* o,. H f i ::ln Mil i» III! ■(»' \ ft; t i - f'i i ii'lM • I (l. !l ii;i 1 !i I |i 102 Mount HoT/al. •ne of the finest places in Cornwall, the house in which she had Jieen reared, and which she loved with that foolish affection which cats, women, and other inferior animals feel for familiar habitations. Altogether, as Mr. Trcfjonell told himself, in his cimple and expressive language, she would have a very good time, and it would be hard lines if she were not grateful, and did not take kindly to him. Yet he hesitated consideral)ly liefore putting the crucial question ; and at last took the leap hurriedly, and not too judiciously, one lovely June morning, when he and Christabel had gone for a long ride alone. They were not in the habit of riding alone, and Major Bree was to have been theii companion upon this particular morning, but he had sent at the last moment to excuse himself, on account of a touch of sciatica. They rode early, leaving Moimt Royal soon after eight, so as to escape the meridian sun. The workl was still fresh and dewy as they rode slowly up the hill, and then down again into the lanes leading towards Camclford ; and there was that exquisite feeling of purity in the atmosphere which wears oil' as the day grows older. * My mother is looking rather seedy, Belle, don't you think,' he began ' She is looking very ill, Leonard. She has been ill for a long time. God grant we may keep her with us a few years yet, but I am full of fear about her. I go to her room every morning with an aching heart, dreading wiiat the night may have brought. Thank God, you came home when you did. It would have been cruel to stay away longer.' * That's very good in you. Belle — uncommonly good — to talk about cruelty, when you must know that it was your fault I stayed away so long.' * My fault ? What had I do do with it ? * * Everything. 1 should have been home a year and a half ago — home last Christmas twelvemonth. I had made all my plans with that intention, for I was slightly home-sick in those days — didn't relish the idea of three thousand miles of ever- lasting wet between me and those I loved— and I was coming across the Big Drink as fast as a Cun;u-d could bring me, when I got mother's letter telling me of your engagement. Then I coiled up, .'ind made up my mind to stay in America till I'd done some big licks in the sporting line.' 'Why should that have intiuenced you?' Christabel asked, coldly. * Why ? Confound it ! Belle, you know that without asking. You must know that it wouldn't be over-pleasant for me to be living at Mount lioval while you and your lover were spooning about the place. You don't suppose I could quite have stomached foaA, do you — to see another man making love to the giH T Love will have his day.* 153 always meant to marry? For you know, Belle, I always did mean it. When you were in pinafores I made up my mind that you wore tho future Mrs. Tregoncll.' ' You did me a great lionour,' said Belle, with an icy smile, and I suppose I ought to be very proud to hear it — now. Per- h.*^, if you had told me your intentions while I was ' i pinafores I might have grown up with a due appreciation oi your goodness. But you see, as you never said anything about it, my life took another bent.' * Don't chaff, Belle,' exclaimed Leonard. ' I'm in earnest. I was hideously savage when I heard that you had got yourself engaged to a man whom you'd only known a week or two— a man who had led a racketty life in London and Paris— ^' 'Stop, cried Christabel, turning upon him with Hashing eyes, * I forbid you to speak of him. What right h.aveyou to mention his name to mo ? I have suffered enough, but that is an im- pertinence I will not endure. If you ai-e going to say another word about him I'll ride back to Mount Koyal aa fiust as my horse can carry me.' * And get spilt on the way. Why, what a spitfire you are Belle. I had no idea there was such a spice of the devil in you,' said Leonard, somewhat abashed by this rebutf. Well, I'll hohl my tongue about him in future. I'd much rather talk about you and me, and our prospects. What is to become of yeu, Belle, when the poor mother goes 1 You and the doctor have both made up your minds that she's; not long for this world. For my own part, I'm not such a croaker, and I've known many a creaking door hanging a precious long time on its hinges. Still, it's well to ])e prepared for the worst. Where is your life to be spent, Belle, when the mater has sent in her checks ? ' * Heaven knows ! ' answered Christabel, tears welling up in her eyes, as she turned her head from the questioner. * My life will be little worth living when she is gone — but I daresay I shnll go on living all the same. Sorrow takes such a long time to kill any one. I suppose Jessie and I will go on the Continent, and travel from phice to place, trying to forget the old dear life among new scenes and new peopie.' 'And nicely you will get yourselves talked about,' said Leonard, with that unhesitating brutality which his friends called frankness — ' a young and handsome woman without any male relative, wandering about the Continent.' ' I shall have Jessie.' * A paid companion — a vast protection she would be to you — about as much as a Pomeranian dog, or a poll parrot.' * Then I can stay in England,* answered Christabel, indif- ferently. ' It will matter very little where I live.' •4mp Ml, I' 'I . '::) '<:;: Ki i^ \ 1 i . f««! i !l liiia I ♦ I 3 A U'\]d Itmlil- '' ,11*11'' ,ii»ilijt:! 154) Mount Boyal. *Come, Belle,* said Leanard, in a friendly, comfortable tone, laying his broad strong hand on her horse's neck, as they rode slowly side by side up the narrow road, between heilyea filled with honeysuckle and eglantine, * this is flying in the face of Providence, which has niaile you young and handsome, and an heiress, in order that you might get the most out of life, la a young woman's life to come to an end all at once because an elderly woman dies ? That's rank nonsense. That's the kind of way widows tulk in their lirst edition of crape and caps. But they don't mean it, my dear ; or, say they think they mean it, they never hold by it. That kind of widow is always a wife again before the second year of her widowhood is over. A.ntl to hear you — not quite one-and-twenty, and as lit iia a fid — in the very zenith of your beauty,' said Leonard, hastily correcting the horsey turn of his compliment, — ' to hear you talk in that despairing way is too provoking. Came, Belle, be rational. Why should you go wandering about Switzerland and Italy with a shrewish little old maid like Jessie Bridgeman — when — when you can stay at Mount lloyal and be its mistress. I always meaiit^ you to be my wife. Belle, and I still mean it — in spite of bygones.' You are very good — very forgiving,' said Christabel, with most irritating placidity, ' but unfortunately I never, meant to be your wife then — and I don't mean it now.' ' In plain words, you reject me ? ' * If you intend this for an offer, most decidedly,' answered Christabel, as firm as a rock. ' Come, Leonard, don't look so angry ; let us be friends and cousins — almost brother and sister — as we have been in all the years that are gone. Let us unite in the endeavour to make your dear mether's life happy — so happy, that she may grow strong and well again — restored by perfect freedom from care. If you and I were to quarrel she would be miserable. We nmst be good friends always — if it were only for her sake.' 'That's all very well, Christabel, but a man's feelings are not so entirely within his control as you seem to suppose. Do you think I shall ever forget how you threw me over for a fellow you had only known a week or so — and now, when I tell you how, from my boyhood, I have relied upon your being my wife — always kept you in my mind as the one only woman who was to bear my name, and sit at the head of my table, you coolly inform me that it can never be? You would rather go wandering .,bout the world with a hired com- panion * * Jessie is not a hired companion — she is my very deiu friend.' ' Y' u choose to call her so — but she came to Mount Royal ,«* * But here ts One who Loves you as of Old.' 156 ill answer to an advertisenieiit. .uid my mother |«y.s Iier wageii, just like the housenuiids. \i n would rather roam about with .Jessie BridL,'emau, getting you i self talkeil about at every table d'hote in Europe — a piey fi.r every Captain Deuceace, or Loosefish, on the Contimnt — tlian you would be my wife, and mistrfss of Mount lioyal.' ' Bt'cautie nearly a year a;j;o I made up my mind never t« be any null's wife, Ijeonaid,' answered Christabel, gravely. ' 1 uliould hate my«elf if I were to dej)art from that resolve.' 'You mean that when you broke with Mr. llandeigh you did not think there wad any one in the world good enough lo stand in \\\a shoes,' said Leonard, savagely. ' And for the sake of a man who turned out so badly that you were obliged to chuck him up, you refu.se a fi'llow who has loved you all his life.' Christabel turned her horse's hejwi, and went homewards at a sharp trot, leaving Leonard, discomfited, in the middle of the lane. He had nothing to do but to trot meekly after her, afraid to go too fast, lest he should urge her horse to a bolt, and managing at last to overtake her at the bottom of a hill. ' Do find some grass somewhere, so that we may get a canter/ she said ; and her cousin knew that there was to be no more conversation that morning. CHAPTER XIV. •but here is one who loves you as op old.' After this Leonard sulked, and the aspect of home life at Mount Ptoyal became cloudy and troubled. He waa not abso- lute ly uncivil to his cousin, but he was deeply resentful, and he showed his resentment in various petty ways — descending so low as to give an occasional sly kick to Handle. He was grumpy in his intercourse with his mother ; he took every opportunity of being rude to Miss IJridgenian ; he sneered at all their womanly occupatiojisi, iheir ehayities, their church-going. That domestic sunshine which had so gladdened the widow's heart, was gone for ever, as it seemed, ller son now snatehed at every occasion for getting away from home. He dined at JJodmin one night — at Launceston, another. He had friends to meet at Plymouth, and dined and sle]>t at the ' Duke of Cornwall.' He Ciime home bringing wor.se devils — in the way of ill-temper and rudeness — than those which he had taken away with him. He no longer pretended the faintest interest in Christabel's ])laying — confessing frankly that all chussical composition.s, especially those of Beethoven, suggested to him that far-famed melody which was •♦•Ml* I'm' '•' J) t 'i 1 ?! Hi (in ^1. im i \l. 1 I"-' nil' I5G ITotmt lioyal fatal to tlwe traditional oow. He no l(»nj,'t!r offered to rnriko licr ft tine billi.ird player. 'No woman ever could jiiay hillianl^' he Haid, conteniptuouHly ' they have neither eye nor wnisl ; they know nothing about strengths ; and alwaya handle their cue aa if it wjis Moses's rod, and wjis going to turn into a snake and bite 'em.' Mrs. Tregonell was not slow to gness the cause of )ier son's changed humour. She wjus too intensely anxious for the fuUil- ment of this chief desire of her sold not to be })ainfully conscious of failure. She had urged Leonard to speak soon — and he had spoken — with disastroi»H result. She luul seen the angry cloud upon her son's brow when he came home from that tete-a-lclrt ride with Christabel. She feared to question liim, for it wmh her ncsh counsel, perhaps, which had brought this evil result to pass. Yet she could not hold her peace for ever. So one evening, when Jessie and CJhristabel were dining at Trevalga Rectory, and Mrs. Tregonell was enjoying the sole privilege of her son's company, she ventured to approach the subject. * How altered you have been lately' — lately, meaning for at /ejist a month — * in your manner to your cousin, Leonard,' she said, with a feeble attempt to speak lightly, her voice tremulous with 8U|)pressed emotion. 'Has she oti'ended you in any way 1 You and she used to be so very sweet to each other.' * Yes, she was all honey when I tii-st came home, wasn't she, mother ? ' returned Leonard, nursing his boot, and fro^vning at the lamp on the low table by Mrs. Tregonell's chair. 'All hypo- crisy—rank humbug— that's what it was. She is still bewailing that fellow whom you brought here— and, mark my words, she II marry him sooner or ' > er. She threw him over in a tit of temper, .and pride, and jealousy ; and when she finds she can't live without him she'll take some means of bringing him back to her. It was all your doing mother. You spoiled my chances when you brought your old sweetheart's son into this house. I don't think you could have had much respect for my dead father when you invited that man to Mount Royal.' Mr^. Tregonell's mild look of reproach might have touched the hardest heart ; but it was lost on Leonard, who sat scowling at the lamp, and did not once meet his mother's eyes. ' It is not kind of you to say that Leonard,' she said, gently ; 'you ought to know that I was a true and loving wife to your father, and that I have always honoured his memory, as a true wife should He knew that I was interested in Angus Hamleigh's career, and he never resented that feeling. I am sorry your cousin has rejected you — more sorry than even you yourself can be, I believe, for your marriage has been the dream of my life. But we cannot control fate. Are you really fond of her, dear ? * *' •''■ I But here is One who Lovts yon as of Old.* 157 I Fond of her? A great deal too fond — foolishly — if^o. ■ miniouHly fond of her — 8o fond that I am beginniiii,' to detest n her.' 'Don't despair then, Leonard. Let this first refusal <'ount ' * for notiiing. Only bo patient, and gentle with her — not told and rude, JUS you have been latelv.' ' It's easy to talk,' said Leonard, conteniyitnously. * Rut do you suppose I can feel very kindly towards a girl who refused me as coolly as if I had been asking her to dance, and who let me see at the same time that she is still jtassionately in love with Angus Ifamleigh. You should have seen liow she blazed out at nie when I mentioned his name — her eyes tlamitig — her ( lieeks tirst crimson and then deadly pale. That's what love ni<';in><. And, even if she were willing to be my wife to-morrow, ,-lie would never give me suili love as lliat. Curse her,' nuittered the lover between his clenched teeth ; ' I u.' 'You are very hard ujxui nn', Tjconard — and yet, I went against my conscience for youi- sake. I ift C!lnistabel break with her lover. I said never one word in his favour, .iltliough I must have known in my heart that they would iioth be miserable. I had your intert^st at lieart more tlian theirs — I thought, " here is a chance for my boy." ' ' ^''ou were very considerate — a day after the fair. Don't you think it woultl have been better to l)e wise before the event, and not to have invited that coxcomb to Mount lioyal V He came again and again to the charge, always with fresh bitterness. He could not forgive his mother for this involuntary wrong which she had done to him. After this he went off to the solitude of the billiard-room, and a leisurely series of cxjierimeuts upon the spot-stroke. It was his only idt^a of a contemplative evening lie was no les^3 sullen and gloomy in his manner to Christabel next morning ao breakfast, for all his mother had said to him overnight. He answered his cousin in monosyllables, and was rude to Handle — wondered that his mother should allow dogs in lier dining-room — albeit Randie's manners were far superior to his own. Later *n the morning, when Christabel and her aunt were alone, the girl ('rej)t to her favourite place besi(ie Mrs. Tregonell's chair, «n(l with her folded arms resting on the cusliioncd elbow, looked lip lovingly at the widow's grave, sad face. • Auntie, dearest, you know so well how fondly I love you, that 1 aui imre you won't tlM»k mc any less loving and true, if 1 die in hiivc * But here it One tvho Loves you as of Old.* ^ 59 ask you to let me leave you for a little while. Let lue go away somewliere with Jossie, to some quiet German town, where I can improve myself in music, and where she and 1 can lead a /lard-working, stmlious life, just like a couple of Girton girls. You remember, last year you suggested that we should travel, and I refused your offer, thinking that I should be happier at home ; but now I feel the need of a change.' ' And you would leave me, now that my health is broken, and that I am so dt'|)ondent on your love?' said Mrs. Tregonell, with mild reproaclifulnesa. I 'liristabel bent down to kiss the thin, white haiul that lay on the cushion near her — anxious to hide the tears that s))rang quickly to her eyes. * You have Leonard,' she faltered. ' You are happy, hv^ you not, dearest, now Leonard is at home again.' * At home — yes, I thank God that my soji f^ under my roof once more. ]>ut how Imig may he stay at home? How much do I have of his company — in and out all day — anywhere but at my si(h; — making every ])ossiblo excuse for leaving me? He lias begun, already, to talk of going to South Ameriea in the autumn. Poor boy, he is restless and unhappy ; and I know the reason. You must know it too, Lelle. It is your fault. You have sj)oiled the dream of my life.' 'Auntie, is this generous, is this fair?' pleaded Christabel, with her head still hont over the ])ale wasted 1 and. * It is natural at least,' answered the widiw, impetuously. * Whv cannot you care for niv l)ov, whv eannot vou undei'stand and value his devotion \ It is not imi idle fancy — born of a few Weeks ac(j\iaintaiicc — not the last new eaju'ice of a battered r<>>'r', who otFers his worn-out heart to you v.hen other women have doi>« with it. LeonaitTs is the love of long years — the love of a fi'esh unspoiled nature, I know that he has not Angus llanilrji^di's relinement of mruiner — he is not so clever — so imaginati\e — hut of what value is such surface refinement when the man's inner jiature is coar'.-.i and |)i'olligate. A man who has lived an)ong impure women nunt hive become coarse ; there must be deteri- oration, ruin, for a man m nature in such a life as that,' continued Mi"s. Tregonell, pa-ssionat/'ly, her resentment against Angus Hamleigh kindling aa she thought how he had ousted her son. 'Why should you not value my boy's love T she asked again. 'What is there wantii^/ in hiui that you should treat him so contemptuously? lie is y/ung, handsome, brave — owner of this jilace of wlii' h you art' so foijd. Youi' nuiirii^ge willi him v.i^dd I'lini' the ( lianipel'nowne (-state to(/(.|li,i- ;r.'iin. K\er\bo(lv was sorry to see it divided, it woo!.' hrijig together two of the oldest and best names in the county. You might call youi eldest son Champernowne Tregenell.' !K*NF '{M "* 1 f V i : r i 1 > 1,1 f 160 Mount Boyal. . a- . III 'Don't, Auntie, don't go on like that,' entreated Chris tabel, piteously : if you only knew how little such arguments intiuence me : * the glories of our rank and state are shadows, not substan- tial things.' What difference do names and lands make in the happiness of a life ? If Angus Hamleigh had been a ploughman's son, like Bums — nameless — penniless — only just himself, I should have loved him exactly the same. Dearest, these are the things in which we cannot be governed by other people's wisdom. Our heiirts choose for us ; in spite of U3. I have been obliged to think seriously of life since Leonard and I had that unlucky con* versation the other day. He told you about it, perhaps ] ' * He told me that you refused him.' * As I would have refused any other man, A\mtie. I hare made up my mind to live and die unmarried. It is the only tribute I can offer to one I loved so well.' 'And who jiroved so unworthy of your love,' said Mrs. Tregonell, moodily. ' Do not speak of him, if you cjinnot speak kindly. You once loved his father, but you seem to have forgotten that. Let me go away for a littlr wliile, Auntie — a few months only, ir you like. My presence in this house only does harm. Leonard ia angry with me — and you are angiy for his sake. We are all unha})py now — noboiiy talks freely — or laughs — or tiikes life ]>leiisantly. We all feel constrained and miserable. Let me go, tlear. When I am gone you and Leonard can be happy together.' ' No, Belle, we camnot. You have spoiled his life. You have broken his heart.' C'hristabel smiled a little contemptuously at the mother's wailing. ' Heaits are not so easily broken,' she said, * Leonard's least of all, lie is angry because for the tirst time in his life he finds himself thwarted. He wants to marry me, and I don't want to marry him. Do you remember how angry he was when he wanted to go out shooting, at eleven years of age, and you refused him a gun. He moped and fretted for a week, and vou were quite as unhappy as he was. It is almost the tirst thing I remember about him. When he found you were quite tirm in your refusal, he left off sulking, and reconciled him- •lelf to the inevitable. He will do just the siime about this refusal of mine — when I am out of his sight. But my pre- sence here irritat*^ him.' * Christiibei, if you leave me I shall know that you have never loved me,' said Mrs. Tregonell, with sudden vehemence.* ' You must know that I am dying — very slowly, perhaps — a wearisome decay for those who can only watch and wait, and bear witii me till I am dead. But 1 know and feel that I am dying. This trouble will hasten my end, and *B!'t here is One wJio Lovns you as of Old.' 161 instead of dying in peace, with the a.s.surauce of my boy's happy future — with the knowledge tiiat he will have a virtuous and loving wife, a wife of my own training, to guide him and influence him for good — I shall die miserable, fearing that he may fall into evil hands, and that evil days may come upon him. I know how impetuous, how impulsive l;- is; how easily governed throu-^h his feelings, how little able to rule himself by hard common-sense. Anil you, who have known him all your life — who know the best and worst of him — you can be so inditlerent to his happiness, Christabel. How L-an I believe, in the face of this, that you ev^'r loved me, iii;^ mother? ' I have loved you as my mother,' replied the girl, v.ith her aims 1' ' d her aunt's neck, her iij)S i)re.-.sed agaiiist liiat ])ale ihin cliei . 'I love you lictter than any one in this world. If (j}od wouid spare you for years to come, and we could live always together, and be all and all to eaeh other as we have been, I think I could be (|uite liapiiv. "S'es, 1 coiiM feel as if there were nothing wanting in this life. lUit I cannot marry a man I do not love, whom I never can love.' 'He would take you on trust, Belle,' murnnin-il the mother, imploringly; 'he would be content with duty and good faith. I know how true and loyal you are, dearest, and that you would be a perfect wife. Love wuuld come aftej'waivU.* 'Will it make you happier if I don't go away. Auntie 1' asked Christabel, gently. ' Much happier.' ' Then I will stay ; and Leonard m.ay be a.«i rude to me aa ho likes: he may do anything disa^ieeable, excei)t kick Kandie ; and I will not murmur. But you and I must ne\er talk of him aft we have t^dked to-r i«fore she spoke to her aimt ; and when sho utt-riued Miss iJndgeman tliat >Hi'* had given way to ]M?>i, Ti- ^wnell's wish, and had ahandoned all idea of Germany, that str >iii:-minded y ung woman «x(>ressf;d heraelf most unreservedly. 'You are a tool!' she ex ai ;>'d. " \o doubt that's an outrageous remark frori' ;«^rs«»fi in inv position to r»n h"ire -s like you ; bui I <:tn't 't» \<>n an' a |. ul a \u \ ling, ^''If* abnegating fool! If yo.. ..; . here you will nr.iry tiiat nirui. Theieis nv» escape po-«sil'!i> for you. Your auiit li:j*made up her mind about it. She will worry you till you give your ooxL?ent, :iud then you will be nn «-.nungly unconscious of my plainness and dow- diuMH. \\ t liere was not a present he gave mo which did not bIiow the most thoughtftil study of my tastes and fancies. I li^ver lonk at one of his gifts— I was not obliged to iling his ollVrings back in his face ;is you w<:'re — without wondering that u line gentleman wjuld be so full of small cliarities and delicate courtesy. He was like one of those wits and courtiers one readf* of in J:}urntl — not sj)otli'ss, like Tennyson's Arthur — but the vory easeneo of rftinemeiit and ^oud feeling. Cod bleashim 1 where- tt^vr he is.' ar Ixl til be tel sll T for *But here it One who Loves you as of Old.' 163 * You are very odd sometimes, Jessie,' said Christabel, kissing her friend, ' but you have a noble heart.' There was a marked change in Leonard's conduct when he and his cousin m^t in the drawing-room before dinner. He had been absent at luncheon, on a trout-fishing expedition ; but there had been time since his return for a lon^ conversation between him and his mother. She had told him now his sullen temper had almost driven Christabel from the house, and how she had been only induced to stay by an appeal to her affection. This evening he was all amiability, and tried to make his peace with Randie, who received his caresses with a stolid forbearance rather than with gratification. It was easier to make friends with Christabel than with the dog, for she wished to be kind to her cousin on his mother's account. That evening the reign of domestic peace seemed to bf renewed. There were no thunder-clouds in the atmosphere Leonard strolled about the lawn with his mother and Christabel, looking at the roses, and planning where a few more choice trees might yet be added to the collection. Mrs. Tregonell's walks now rarely went beyond this broad velvet lawn, or the shrubberies that bordered it. She drove to church on Sundays, but she had left off visiting that involved long drives, though she professed herself delighted to see her friends. She did not want the house to become dull and gloomy for Leonard. She even insisted that there should be a g.arden party on Christabel's twenty-first birth- day ; and she was delighted when some of the old friends who came to Mount Royal that day insinuated their congi'atulationa, in a tentative manner, upon Miss Courtenay's impending engage- ment to her cousin. ' There is nothing definitely settled,' she told Mrs. St. Aubyn, 'but I have every hope that it will be so. Leonard adores her.* * And it would be a much more suitable match for her than the other,' said Mrs. St. Aubyn, a commonjilace matron of irre- proachable lineage : * it would be so nice for you to have her settled near you. "Would they live at Mount Royal?' ' Of course. Where else should my son live but in his father's house 1 ' ' But it is your house.' * Do you think I should allow my life-interest in the place to stand in the way of Leonard's enjoyment of it ? ' exclaimed Mrs. Tregonell. * I should be proud to take the second place in his house — proud to see his young wife at the head of his table.' ' That is all very well in theory, but I have never strn it work out well in fact,' said the Rector of Trevalga, who made a third in the little g roup seated on the edge of the wide lawn, where sportive youth was playing tennis, in half a dorcn courtau lo the enlivening strains of a military band from Bodmin i i m A f 'U| .Ml I ', iUKll ,. ^ . M l|M . i.,... ■ .1' A IGi Mount Ttoyal. 'How thoroughly h;i])i)y Christabol looks,' observed another friendl}" matron to 5lrs. Tregonell, a little later in the afternoon : *she seems to have quite got over her trouble about Mr. Hamleigh.' * Yes, I hope that is forgotten,' answered Mrs. Tregonell. This garden party was an occasion of unspeakable pain to Ohristabel. Her aunt had insisted upon sending out the in- vitations. There must be some kind of festival u|)on her adopted daughter's coming of age. The inheritor of lauils and money was a person whose twenty-tirst birtiiday could not be ]iermitted to shp by unmarked, like any other day in the calendar. "If we were to have no garden party this sunnuer people would say you wore broken-heailed at the .sad end of last years engagement, darling,' .siiid Mrs. Ticgonell, when Cliristabel had pleaded against the contemplated assembly, 'and I know your pride would revolt at that.' ' Dear Auntie, my pride has been levelled to the dust, if I ever had any ; it will not raise its head on account of a garden party.' Mi-s. Tregonell insisted, albeit even her small share of the preparations, the mere revision of the list of guests — the dis- cussion and acceptance of Jessie T>riJgenian"s arraiigenient <— was a fatimie to the iaded mind and euft rblcd ImmIv. AViieii the day came the mistress of Mount Kcjyal qirried herself with the old air of (piiet dignity which her friefids knew so well. People saw that she was aged, that she had grown pale and thin and wan ; and they ascribed this change in her to anxiety about her niece's engagement. There were vague itleas as to the cause of Mr. llandeigh's dismissal — dim notions of tcu^i'ible iniquities, startling re\eIations, occurring on the veiy biink (u" marriage. That section of county .sociely which did nr»t go to London knew a great deal more about the details of the story than the j)e()i)le wiio had been in town at thi' time and had s,-en Miss Courtenay and her lover almost daily. For tiio-ie daughtei's of the soil who but rarely crossed the 'J'amar the story of ^li.-s (/Ourtenay's engagement was a social mystery of so dark a enm- plexion that it afforded inexhaustible material for tea-tabK- gossip. A story, of which no one .seemed to know tlie exai t details, gave wide ground for speculation, and could always W looked at from new points of view. 'And now here was the same Miss Courtenay smiling u]K'!i her friends, fair and radiant, showing no tia^es of last yiai;' tragedy in her looks or manners; being, indeed, one of llios- women who do not wear their hearts upon their .-lee\ cs for daw- to peck at. The lo«d mind, therefore, arrived at the eonelusi'i:. that Miss Courtenay had consoled heiself for the lusj of ou*- I'AV ;' III).-' i 166 Moimt Boyal. not tlie knack of loving many people. Jessie is very good to ran, and I am fmd of her aa my friend and companion. Uncle Oliver is all goodness, and I am fond of hira in just the sanio way. But I never loved any one but you and Angus. Angus i.s gone from me, and if God takes you, Auntie, my prayer is that I may speedily follow you.' ' My love, that is a blasphemous pra^'er : it implies doubt in God's goodness. He mt-.p'* the young and innocent to be happy in this world — happy and a source of happiness to others. You will form new ties ; a hus])and and children will console you for all you have lost in the past.' * No, aunt, I shall never marry. Put that idea out of your mind. You will think I'jss badly of me for refusing Leonard if you understand that I have made up my mind to live and die unmarried.' * But I cannot and will not believe that, Belle : whatever you may think now, a year hence your ideas will have entirely altered. IJemeniber my own history. Wiien George Hamleigh died I thought the woi Id — so far as it concerned me — had come to an end, that I had only to wait for death. My fondest hope was that I should die within the ye.ar, and be buried in a grave near his — yet five years afterwards 1 was a happy wife and mother.* * God was good to you,' said Ohristabel, quietly, thinking all the while that her aunt must have been made of a different clay from herself. There was a degradation in being able to forget : it implied a lower kind of organism than that tinoiy strung nature whiuli loves once and once only. CHAPTER XV. 'that lip and voicb are mute for ever.* Havimq pledged hei-self to remain with her aunt to the end., Ohristabel was fain to make the best of her life at Mount Royal, and in order to do this she must needs keep on good terms with her cousin. Leonard's conduct of late had been irreproachable : he was attentive to his mother, all amiability to Ohristabel, and almost civil to Miss Bridgeman. He contrived to make his peace with Randie, and he made such a good impression upon Major Bree that he won the warm praises of that gentleman. The cross country rides were resumed, the Major always in attendance ; and Leonard and his cousin were seen so often together, riding, driving, or walking, that the idea of an engage- ment between them became a ^xture iu the local mind, which and * That Lip and Voice are Mute for Ever.* 167 held that when one was olF with Ihf old lovo it w.is well to Ix? on with the new. And so the summer ripened and waned. Mrs. Tie^ajiicUa health seemed to improve in the calm h.ippiness of a doini'stic life in which there was no iiulicatiun of disiuiiun. She had never surrendered lu-r hope of ('hrist-ahtd's relenting. Leonard's fiank and generous ciiaraoter — his good looks — his local j)oj)ul;uity — must ultimately prevail over the memory of another — that other having so completely given up his chances. Mrs. Tregonell was , half inclined to recognize the nobleness of that renunciation ; half disposed to accejtt it as a proof that Angus llandeigh'a heart still hankered after the actress who had been his tirst infatuation. In either case no one could doubt that it was well for Christabel to be released from such an engagement. To wed Angus would have been to tie herself to sickness and death — tr take upon herself the burden of early widowhood, to put on sack- cloth and ashes as a weddin'f garment. It waii winter, and there were ))atchcs of snow upon the hills, and sea and sky were of one chill slatey hue, l)ef(jre Leonanl ventured to repeat that question wjiidi he had asked with such ill eti'ect in the sweet summer morning, between hedgerows Hushed with roses. ]>ut through all the changes of the waning year there had been one purpose in liis luiml, and every acb of his life had tended to one result. He had sworn to himself that his cousin should be his wife. Whatever barriers of tlitvinclina- tion, direct antagonism even, there might be on I er side must bo broken down by dogged patience, unyiekling determination on his side. He had the spirit of the hunter, to wIkjui that prey ia most precious which costs the longest chase. Ht; loved his cousin more passionately to-day, after keei)ing his feelings in check for six months, than he had loved her when he asked her to be his wife. Every day of delay had increased his ardour and strength- ened his resolve. It waa New Year's day. Christabel and Miss Bridgeman had been to church in the morning, and had taken a long walk with Leonard, who contrived to waylay them at the cliurch door after church. Thijn had come a rather la*^e lancheon, after whieli Christabel spent an hour in her aunt's room reading to her, and talking a little in a subdued way. It was one of Mrs. Tregonell's bad days, a day upon 'vjiich she could hardly leave her sofa, and Christabel came away fi nm the invalid's room fidl of sadness. She was sitting by the tiro in the library, alone in tiic dusk, sjive for JElandie's company, when her cousin came in and found her. ' Why, Belle, what are you doing all alono in the dark?' he exclaimed. 'I almost thought the room wasi^^Mupty.' ' I have been thinking,' yhe said, with a sigh. •HI I Ml vi V: t -1 ^m^ .•«L f T^' I ■' ' I i w I' J!' It. ' 1) ,1 iii*» i ' rs'i:. «•. IW I ' ■ m , . \. ■!!■' 168 Mount Royal. * Your thoughts could not have been over-fdoftsant, I should think, \)y that .si.Lcli,' said Looniird, coniinf,' over to the hearth and drawing the logn together. * There 'h achetirful hia/e for y(»u Don't give way to sad thoughts on the tirtit day of the year Belle : it's a bad beginning.' *I have been thinking of your dear mother, Leonard: mj/ mother, for she has bem m(jro to nx' than one mother in u hundred is to her daughter. She is m ith us to-day — a part of our lives — very frail and feebh', but still our own. Where will she be next New Year's day V *Ah, Belle, lliat'sa bad look out for both of us,* answerely, hasn't shu?' * Yes, 1 think she has been happier,' said Christabel. * ])o you know why i ' His cousin did not answer him. She sat with her f.e , bent over her dog, hiding her tears on Kandie's sleek black head. ' I think I know why the mother has been so tran(|uil in her mind lately, JJelle,' said T.,eonard, with unuHual earnestness, 'and I think you know ji as well as I do. JShe has seen you and me more friendly together — more cousiidy — and she has looked forward to the t'ullilment of an old wish and ilreani of hers. She has looked for the bpeedy realization of that wish, l^elle, although six months ago it seemed liopeless. She wanta to see the two j)eople she loves best on earth united, befor.; she is taken away. It would make the close of her life haj>py, if she ooiUd see my hapi>iness secure. I believe you know tbil. Belle.' * Yes, I know that it is so. But that can never be.' * That is a hard saying, Christabel. Half a year ago I asked you a ciuestion, and you said no. iMany a man in my position would iiav(! been (oo proud to run the lisk of a second rofusal. Tie would have gone away in a hull", and found comfort some- Avhere else. But 1 knew that there was only one woman in the the world who could make me happy, and I wailed for her. You must own that I have been patient, have I not, llellel' * You have been very devoted to your dear mother — very good to me. I cannot deny that, Leonard,' Christabel anawereii, gi'avely. She had dried her tears, and lifted her liead from the dog's neck, and sat looking straight at the tire, self-]K).ssessed and sad. It seemed to her as if all possibility of happiness had gone out of her life. 'Am I to have no reward?' asked Leonard. 'You know with what hope T h.-nc waited — yim know that our niarriag(» would make my mother hap])y, that it Would make the end of ' That Lip and Voice arc Mute for Ever. 169 h«'r life a fintivul. V 1)ecauso I thought it my duty to give him uj). T believetl that in honour he belonged to another woman, i believe wo 8till. But I have never left off loving iiim. That is" why I have made up my mind never to marry.' ' You are wise,' retoi tt'd Leonard, 'aueh a confession as that would settle for most men. Lul it doe.s not setth* for me, LJelle. I am too far gone. If you are a fool about Ifandeigli, I am a fool about you. Only say you will marry me, and 1 will take my ehanee of all the rest. I know ytni will be a good wife ; and I will be a good husband to you. And I snppose in the end yoH will get to eare for me a little. One thing in certain, that I can't be happy without yuu ; so I would gladly run the risk of an occasional tjiHte of misery with you. Conn;, lielle, is it a bargain,' he pleaded, taking her unresisting hands. 'i^av that it is, dearest. Let me kiss the future mistress of Mount Royal.' Pie bent over her and kissed her — kissed those lips which liad once been sacred to Angus Hiimleigh, which she had sworn in her heart should be kissed by no other man upon earth. She recoiled from him with a sliiver of disgust — no good omen for their wedded bliss. * Thi^' will make our mother very happy,' said Leonard. Tome icr now, Belle, and Irt us tefl her.' _ iri .abel went with slow, reluctant steps, ashamed of tlie Weakness which had yielded to jiersuasion and not to duty. Hut when ]\lrs. Tregonell heard the news from the triumphant lover, i\w light of hap])in('s.-> that shone upon the wan face was ahnost an all-sulli ing reward for this last sacrifice. 'My love, my love,' cried the widow, clasping her niece to her breast. 'You have mado my last earthly days happy. I have thought you cc^ld and Mard." I feared that I should di(J before you relented ; but now you have made me glad and ^fmtt'ful. T reared you for this, I taught you for this, T have prayed for this ever since you were a child. I have prayed that tny son might have a pure and perfect wife, and God him granted my prayer.' After this came a period of such perfect content and tran- .Mt, '? Ill t*"»i»i 1;.! i'< Ullii 4**, Mill ;-• ,t M»il ll ' l« ;«j f i«1 , < im*. ll i» rfm^'C' 170 Mount Royal. qnility for the invalid, that Christabel forgot her own lorrowa. She hvud in an atmonphere of gladn(js.s ; congratulations, gifts. were pouring in upon ht^r every day ; her aunt petteil ami cherisned her, was never weary of praising and cares.sing her. fjeonard Wius all Hubrnission as a lover. Major Bree waa delighted at the security which this engagement proruist.'d for the carrying on of the lino of Chanipernownes and Tregonells — the union of two lino estates. JIo had looked forward to a dismal period when tho widow would bo laid in her grave, her Hoti a wanderer, and (.'hristabol a resident at Plymouth or Bath ; while .spiders wove their webs in shadowy corners of the good old Manor house, and mice, to all appearance self-sustaining, Bcampcrcd and scurried behind tho panelling. Jessie Bridgeman was the only member of Cliristabel's circle who refrained from any expression of approval. 'Did I not tell you that you must end by marrying him?' she exclaimed. *JJid I not say that if you stayed here the thing was inevitable? Continual dropping will wear nway a stone ; the stone is a fixture and can't help being dropped upon; but if you had stuck to your colours and gono to Leipsic to atud^ tho ])iano, you would have escaped the dropping.' As thei-e was no possible reason for delay, while there was a powerful motive for a speedy marriage, in the fact of ^Mrs. Tregonell's precarious hoaltli, and her ardent desire to see her son attd her niece united before her fading eyes closed for ever upon earth and earthly cares, Christabel was fain to consent to the early date which her aunt and her lover proposed, and to allow all arrangements to be hurried on with that view. So in the dawning of the year, when Proserpine's returning footsteps were only faintly indicated l>y ])ale snowdrops and early violets lurking in sheltered heilges, and by the gold and {)urple of crocuses in all the cottage gardens, Christabel put on ler wedding gown, and whiter than the pale ivory tint of the soft sheeny satin, took her seat in the caiTiage beside her adopted mother, to be driven down into the valley, and up the hilly street, where all the inhabitants of Boscastle — save those who had gone on before to congregate by the lich-gate — were on the alert to see tho bride go by. Mrs. Tregonell wjis paler than her niece, the fine regular features blanched with that awful pallor which tells of disease — but her eyes were shining with tho light of gladness. *My darling,' she murmured, as they drove dowa to the harbour bridge, ' I have loved you all your life, but never as I love you to-day. My dearest, you have filled my soul with content' * I thank God that it should be so,' faltered Christabel. * If I could only see you smile, dear,' said her aunt. * Youi expression is too sad for a bride.' ^That Lip and Voice are Mute for Ever.' 171 * Is it, Auntie? But marriage ia a serious thing, dear. It tticanH the dedication of a life to duty.' * Duty which affection will make very light, I hope,* said MrM. Tregonell, chillt'd by the cold statuesque face, wrapped in iU cloudy veil. 'C'hri8i;>l)»'l, my love, tell me that you are not titihappy — tliat this mari'iiicje ia not against your inclination. It is of your own free will that you give younielf to my boy { ' ' Yen, of my own free will,' answered Christabel, lirmly. As she Hpoke, it fljujhed upon her that Iphigonia would have given the same answer before they led her to the altar of otl'endt tl Artemis. There are sacrifices oftered with the victim's free ciui- sent, which are not the leas sacrifices. 'Look, dear,' cried her aunt, as the children, clustering at the Bchcol-house gate — dismissed from school an hour before tlit-ir time — waved their sturdy arms, and broke inio a shrill treble cheer, * everybody is pleased at this marriage.' * If you are glad, dearest, I am content,' murmurcil lior lUi'Ch It was a very quiet wedding — or a wedding which raiil-> among quiet weddings now-a-days, when nuptial ceremonies are for the most part splendid. No train of bridesmaids in lesthetic colours, Duchess of Devonshire hats, and long mittens — no page- boys, staggering under gigantic biuskets of fiowers — no fuss or fashion, to make that solemn ceremony a raree-show for the gaping crowd. The Rector of Trevalga's two little girls were the only bridesmaids — dresstsd after Sir Joshua, in sliort-waisted dove-coloured frocks and pink sashc^s, moV> caps and mittens, with big bunches of primroses and violets in their chubby hands. Mrs. Tregonell looked superb in a dark ruby velvet gown, and long mantle of the same rich stuff, bordered with darkest sable. It was she who gave her niece away, while Major Bree acted as best man for Leonard. There were no guests at this winter wedding. Mrs. Tregonell's frail health was a sufficient reason for the avoidance of all pomp and sliow ; and Christabel had pleaded earnestly for a very quiet wetlding. So before that altar where she had hoped to pledge herself for life and till death to Angus rianileigh, Oliristabel gave her submissive hand to Leonard Tregonell, while the fatal words were spoken which have changed and blighted some few lives, to set against the many they have blessed and glorified. Still deadly pale, the bride went with the bridegroom to the vestry, to sign that book of fate, the register, Mrs. Tregonell following on Major Bree's arm. Miss Bridgeman — a neat little figure in silver grey poplin — and the child bride-maids crowding in after them, until the small vestry was filled with a gracious group, all glow of colour and sheen of silk and satin, in the glad spring Buushine. .:i •?ii > 1 1 il.l tit \ • *M .♦,11 172 Blount Royal. 'Now, Mrs. Trefjoncll,' s.iid the Major, clieotily, when the l-ride ami bridcj^rooni h.td siirued, Met us l:;ivo your name next, if you ]>least' ; for I don't tliink there ia uny of u.s who more rejdiceH in (hi« nnidii than you do.* Tiie widow took the jx-n, and wrote her name below that of ( 'lii-istabel, with a hand th;it never faltcrc^d. The incumbent of Minstc-T used to Hay aftdwards that this auti)L,fr;iph was the grandest in the; re'jfister. i'.ut the pen dn)i»j)i'd siuldt'idy from i!ie hand tliat had jjuided it so lirndy. ]\l is. Tre.Ljont'U looked nuMid at the ••irc-k* of faces with a strani,'c wild look in her own. Sli(! \j:\.\{}: a fa:. it lialf-slilicd cry, and fell upon lier son's breast, her arms gropiiii,' aliout liis shoulders feebly, as if they would fain have wound themselves round his neck, but could not, encumbered by the ln-avy mantle. Leonard put his arm round her, and held her lirmly to hii^ breast. 'Dear mother, are you ill?' he asked, alarmed by that stra]i[r(! look in th(> lia'j!jjavd face. ' It is the end,' slue I'altereil. * Don't be sorry, dear, I am so happy.' And thus, witli a shivering sii^di, the weary heart throbbed its last dull beat, the faded eyes .i^iew dim, the limbs were *lumb for ever. The Iiector tried to iret Christabtd out of th(» vestry before she could know what had hai)|)ened— but th-i biion her son's breast. Vain to seek to delay the knowledL;e of sorrow. All was known to (Jhristabel already, as she l)ent over that niarl)le face which was sciircely whiter than her owu. f CHAPTER XVL *NOT TIIK Ouns CAN SIIAIvK TFIK PAST. TiiKRE Wiifl a ead silent week of waiting before the bride set torth upon her bridal toui-, rolied in deepest mourning. For six days the windows of >rount Koyal were darkened, and Leonard and his newly wcilded wife kept within the shadow of that house of deatli, almoso as strictly as if they had been Jewish mourners, bound by ancient ceicunonial laws, thereof the clo.se observance ia a kiiui of jtaLriotism among a people who have no fatherland. AH the iiot-houses at Mount Roval gave out tiieir tivasures— white hyacinths, and ruse-llusiied cyclamen, gardenia, waxen Ilia Not the Gods can shnlr tJin Fa 'it* 173 caniollias, f.iiiit I 'ijoii rosos — for the adonimt'iit of the (Ifalli chamber. The; corri«lor outside that darkeiied room had an odour of hot-house tlowers. 'J'iio liouse, ftjlded in silence and darkness, felt like some splendid sejudehn'. J^e(»nard was deeply \lepressed by his mother's death ; m(tre sliorked by its sudden- ness, by this discordant note in his triumphant niarriaf,'e son;,', than by the actual fact ; this loss haviiiL,' been long discounted in liis own mind amouLT the evils of the future. Christaljel's grief was terrible, albeit she had lived for tho last year in constant fear of this alUif^tion. Its bitU-rnesa was in no wise lessened l)eeause it hail bet'U long exi)ected. Never evrn in her sadde?;t moments had she ri-.ili/ed the aguny of tliat part in'j", the cold dtdl sense of loneliness, of dismal ab.uidonment, in a IovcUms, joyless world, when that one bchtved friend was takt'ii from hei". Leonaril tried his Ite.-^i, to console her, putting aside his own soi-row, in the endeavour to comfort his biide ; but his elhirta at consoiai ion were n(»t happy, for tiuf mo-^t jiart taking lli(! form of phijo ujihieal trui.-^ms which may lie very good in an ainianaek. or as padding for a country newsjKqu'r, l»ut wliieh sound dull anil nieaningi.'.-s to the ear of the mourner who ^ay^^ in Ids heart, tiierc; was never any sonov/ like unto my sori'ow. In the low sunlight of the .March atternoou they laid Mrs. Tregoneirs eollin in the family vault. In -iiie (he niche, where her failhfid husband or ten y<'ars' wedded lite look his last long rest. There, in the darkness, the perfume of many llowcrs ndxing with the cold eaitldy odouis of the tiMub, they Jel'i her who had for so long been the desporic mistress of Mount Jioyal ; and then they drove back to the emjtty house, where \.\w afternoon light that Ktreatned in through nev/ly opened windows had a garish look, as if it hail no right to be there. The w idow's will was »>f the simplest. She left legacies to the old servants ; her wardrobe, with the e\(;eption of laces and fur. , to I'ormer ; memi-ntoes to ;i few old friends ; two thousatid poiindM intrust for «erlain small local charities; t;iw, ]\eligion, oonsrience, honour — for all thtsi* luisliand and wife had a dillerent standard. That which w;is right to one waa wrong to the other. Thrir sense of the beautiful, their estimation of art, were as wide apait a.s earth and heaven. How could any ,'iiiion prove ha};|)y — l.'ow could there be even thnt smooth peacr.- Si! up I < .< I# i I ? || )■ '• f * " 170 Mount linytiJ. fulness wliirli lilos.seasomoiinssioiilc.-'s unions — when tho huaband Mid wife wore of so diflVient a clay / Long as Leonard had known and loved his cousin, ho was no more at home with her than he would have been with Undine, or with th.-it ivory ima<,fo which j\i>hro(lite warmed into life at tlu^ prayer of Pygmalictn the Hcul|»li»r. More than once during these six weeks (tf matrimony Leonard had l)elrayed a jealous temper, whieh 1hreat(Micd evil in the future. llis e(iurt.ship had heen one long struggle at si'U- ii'pir. sion. ^larriagi! gave him l)ack his liberty, and Ik; used it on more than one occasion to sneer at his wife's former lovei\ "V at her lidi'lity to a cancelled vow. riiri>label had understood his meaning oidy loi- well ; but, she had li.aiil him in a scornful hilence which was more humili.iting than any other form of rijd-oof. After that oirei- of the ojiera, Mr. Tregonell lapsed into silence. J lis subjects for convei>ation wt-re not widely varied, and his present position, aloof finm all sporting ])ur.suits, and pooily jirovided with the L' I 'nil > k i * . 'f •I "^ •* » ' ll I* ,»•< I I >■■ »«» i' 178 Mount Boy at. 'Naturally, he will try to do so. Uti) make a Lfood figlil for it, I dare say ; but wlu'lhor he can keep i'ishky from tho footlights is ;iii o|)i'n (|ue.sti()ii. 1 know he'a in debt, and I don't very dearly see how they are to live.' ' She is very fond of him, isn't she i ' *Yes, I lulieve so. She jilted Hamleigh, a man who wor- shipped her, t(» take np with Luacomb, so I 8upi>oHe it wa« a ciise of real all'ccdon.' ' I was told that she was in very bad health — consnmptive V 'That sort of 111 tie person is- always dying,' answered the other carelessly. It is a part of the miUirr — the ^Marguoiiti; (Javithier, drooping hiy kind of young woman. But I believo this one u fiickly.' * Christabcl heard (;very word of this conversation, he;ivd and understood for the lirst time that her renunciation of her lover had lieeu useli'ss — that the r<;|)aiiitioii she had deemeil it his duty to make, was ])ast making — that the wonian to whose wounded ('li.iriieter slu; had sacriliced Ikt own li;i))piii«'.>s ■was false and unworthy, She had been fooled— betrayed by her own g^-nerous InsliMuls — her own iinotional impulses. It Would have been better i'^r her and for Ajigus if she had been inoic woi-Mly-mindi'd — Irss innocent of the knowledge of evil. Sill' had lili-litfd her own life, and perhajis his, for an imaginary good. JSothing had been gained to any one living by her Bacritice. *1 thought \ was doing my duty,' she told herself helplessly, as she sal joolcing out at the dark wat.T, above which the mfton was rising in the cloudless puq)le of a southern night. *0h ! how wicked that woman was to hide the truth from me — to let nie .sacrilice my love and my lover — knowing her own falsehocxl all the time. And now she is the wife of another man ! J low she must have laughed at my folly 1 I thought it was Angun who hrul deserted her, and that if I gave him up, his own lionouraltle feeling would lead him to atone for that j)ast wroni. And now I know that no good has been done — only inliniie evil.' She thought of Angi.s, a lonely wanderer on i\\v. face of lli' earth ; jilted by the liist. woman he had loved, n-nounecd b'' the second, with no chtse ties of kindred — uncared for anJ alone. It was hard foi- liei* to think of this, whose dean'st h 'N- had once Ix cm to devote her life to caring t'oi' him and (^heiisliii!'; him — prolonging that frail existence by th.- teiidi-r ministiati. i ■« of a, boundless love. She jtictured him in his loneliness, cavi'^i of \\\^ health, wasting his brief remnant of life — reckless, ho; ■■• ]e,v, in , moon 'Oh! 'Not fhc Gvil.i can sJiaJce the Pdst.' 170 for she knew tliat dornestii; utloction ia the only H})ell that can proloiiLT a frai^'ile life. It was a \v««k thiiiL,' ik> ilouht next iiioniiiiLj, whon sho was passiiiij tliroiiLcii tli(^ liall of {lie hotel, to stop ;it the tlcsk on which the visiloi's' l)o()k \v;is kept, and to look hack throii<^h the si'MiatuivH of tiie hust tliirr wci'k.s for that one f.iiniliar auto- i:ia])h which slu; liad such taint chance of tsvcr sccini,' af^ain in the future. ]Iow boldly that one name Heemed to .sl;ind out from the page; and even ruuiiny; ujion it after a deliberate search, what a thrill it sent throuL^di her veins ! The si^'nature was as firm as of old. SIk; tried to think that this was an indi- cation of health and strens^fth — but latei- in the same day, when slie w.'us alone in her .sitting-room, and her tea w;us brought to her by a (ierman waiter — one of those superior men whom it is hard to think of as a meidal — .she ventured to ask a question. 'There was an Kn^lisli g<'ntlenian staying here about three weeks ago: a Mr. Ilamleigli. Do you remember him?' she asked. The waiter interrogated himself silently for half a minute, and then replied in the alllrniative. 'Was he an invalid '( ' 'Not quite an invalid, Madame. He went out a little — but he did not seem robust. He never went to the oi)era — or to any public entertainment, lie rode a little — ;ind diovc; a little — and lead a gi'cat deal. He was much fonder of books than moat ICnglish gentlemen.' 'Do you know where he went when he left here?' * lie was going to the Italian lake.s.' Chrislabel asked no fuither (piestion. It .'^eeined to her a great ])rivilege to have heard even so nnnh as this. Ther*! was very little hone that in her ro.ad of life she would often come so nearly on her lost lovers footsteps. She was too wise to desire that they should ever meet face to face — that she, Leonard's wife, sliould ever again be moved by the magic of that voice, thrilled by the ]>;iihos of those dreamy eyes ; but it wa.s a privilege 1o he.ir something about him she had hi.;t, to know what spot of earth held him, what skies looked down upon hiiu. •«M t „ ,11 'M m ' ,.^ ■ .:> M '■•1. ^' 1. Sitli M 4 il \\ it 180 Mount Uoyal. n ••• CHAPl'ER XVII. •l HAVR PUT MV DAYS AND DKKAMS OUT OF MIND.* It was the end of Mjiv, when Chiistiihcl and her husband went back to Enf,djiud and to Mount iloyal. Jjeonurd wanted to hI.i . in London for the aetuson, and to particiiKite in the amudemenis and diaaipation of that golden time; but this hia wife nmsi steadfastly refused. She would be guilty of no act which could imply want of respect for her beloved dead. She would not make her curtsey to her sovereign in her new character of a matron, or go into aociety, within the year of her aunt's deatli. 'You wdl be horribly moped in Cornwall,' remonstratt'd Leonard- * Everything .'il)out the ])lace will remind you of my poor mother. We shall be in the dolefuls all the year.' * I would rather grieve for her than forget her,' answered Christabel. ' It^s too easy to forget.' * Well, you must have your own way, I suppose. Y(« i generally do,' retorted Leonard, churlishly ; 'and, after haviii„' dragged me alxjut a lot of mouldy t)ld French towns, and mad.- me look at churches, and IJoman baths, and the sites (»f anci«iii circuses, until I hated the very name of antit^uity, you will expect me to vt.'getate at Mount Koyal f(;r the next six months.' 'I don't see any reason why a quiet life should be niert' vegetation,' siiid Christabel ; ' but if you would prefer to spend l)art of the year in London I am stay at Mount Ivoyal.' 'And get on uncommonly well without me,' cried Leonard. * I perfectly comprehend your meaning. iJut I am not gt her — that we shall miss her more or lesa every day of our li\t-'d — visitors or no visitoiu However, you needn't invite any j)eople. I can rub on with a little fishin' and boatin' ' They went back to Mount Iloyal, where all things had goil as if L^ clockwork during their absence, under Miss liridgcman'.i fuuj;e administration. To relieve her loneliness, Chiihtabel LuJ *I have Put my Days and Dreams out of Mind.* 181 invited two of the younger siaters from Sheph^tl'a Bush to spend the spring momthft at tlie Manor House — and these damsels — tall, vigorous, active — had revelled exceedingly in all the luxuries and ple.'isures of a rural life under the most advantageous cir- cumstances. They had scoured the hills — had rifled the hedges of their abundant wild flowers — had made friends with all Chriutabel's chosen families in the surrounding cotU'iges — had fallen in love with the curate who wa.s doing duty at Minster and Forrabury — had been bufl'eted by tlit? winds and tossed by the waves in many a delight fni l)oating excursion — had climbed the rocky steeps of Tintagel so often tliat they seemed to know every stone of that ruined eitadel — and now had gone home to Shepherd'^ liiieh, their cheeks bri<^ht with country bloom, and their nu'agre trunks overshadowed by a gigantic hamper of country produce. Christabel felt a bitter pang as the carriage '.) I i\ lili '"■:'p!^i 11l,l n " !«•• ' .( ,.-." " ,'11 ,. • i» iiiai ' 1 Ml >«l 1 f 1 1 ,Ml i 1 »-, . »«1 " IWr „ ^1 t. t:: f 182 Mount Boy at. ^11 I*. * I am HO thankful to hoar yon nay that. Major Bree ia coming to rlinncr. He waiitt'd to !)»' ainoTii,' tho fii-st to welcome you. I hopo you don't mind my having' tolii him ho mifjfht come.' ' I shall he vory c'lad to sec him : ho U a part of my old life here. 1 hopo he is very wi-ll.* 'Splendid — the soul <>f activity and i,'ood tompcr. I rau't toll you how ^ood he w;is to my sisters — takiiiif th<^m about ovorvwhere. 1 bcliove ihcv both went ;i\v;iv dccplv in Invo with biiii : or at lt';i.^t, with their allections dividrd ItoLwc-n him iind Mr. Ponsonby. JMr. Tunsonby was the curate, a bachelor, and of ple.'ising appearance. Leonard had submitted reluctantly to the continued r«>si- dence of ^Mi^s Jiridifeman at Mount IJoy.d. lie had been for dismissing iier, as a natural coiisffiucnct' of his mother's death ; but here again Christabcl had been tinii. 'Jessie is my only intimate fiiend,' sIk^ said, 'and she is associated with (ivery year of my giilhood. She will be no trouble to you, Leonard, and slie will hdj) me to save your money.' This l.'ust argument had a softening effect, ^fr. Ticgonell knew that Jessie Bridgeman was a good manager. He had aflected to despise her economies while it was his niolher's pinsi which was spared ; but now that the supplies were drawn from his own resources he was less disposed to he contemptuous of care in the administrator of l.is houseliold. Major Bree was in the drawing-room when Christabel came down (Ircssed for dinner, looking delicately I i\ely in her llowin:^ gown of soft dull blark, with white flowers an8.s'»u.s from a very clcvor (jIitimjiu piofcssor jit Xicf. Mii.siu U» pt me from broo'liiiL' on my los.-/ whc addtd, in u K»\v voire. 'I hope yuu will not mow Icsm indu.stt' i<\< now you liavn conn* home,' tauA tlio Major. 'Most uofM ii ;^'ivr JNlozuil and III rthoven to the win<»ui'(!es, and her love of the country in whi' h she lived. She could not be altoi^'etner uidiappy rijaiuing with her oliie. was ofieii inclineil to give way to aixsolute despair at the idea of how much of this woild's wisdom mu^t remain unexploreil even at the end of a long lifi;. Do Quineev has shown by iigures that no( the hardest r.'ader can n-ad half the good old books that aie worth reading ; to say nothing of those new books daily dainn'ng to be read. No, for a thorougldy intellectual woman, loving nuisic, loving the country, tender and }jenevoient to the poor, such a life aji Christabel was called upon to lead in this liv^t year of marriage could not be altogether uuhap|ty. Hero were two people joined by the .strongest of all htnnan ties, and yt't uti'ily unsym« pathetic ; but they wen* not alwaya in each othi : s comp mvi :ilid wlien t!l(!y Were together the wifo did her be-^t to ap|icat contented with lier lot, and to make life agi\eable to her hus- band. She was more punctilious in the ])erfonnance of every duty she owed him than she would have been had «he loved him better. She never forgot that Ivh welfare was a charge ::i. '>; ♦ ». u tHP !it^ i 1 I; .I«r :! Pf; I IP I IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // ^^ . 4»^ \\ % % V '1>. o'^ w ,^4. y I Mir I Ht .i> 184 Motmt Boyal, which slie had taken upon herself to please the kinswoman to wliom she owed so much. The debt was all the more sacred f^ince she to whom it was due had passed away to the land «.vhore tlu'ie is no knowledge of earthly conduct. The L,'loi y of summer grew and faded, the everlasting hills changed with all the varying lights and shadows of autumn .111(1 winter ; and in the tender early spring, when all the trees were budding, and the hawthorn hedges were unfolding crinkly green leaves among the brown, Christabel's heart melted with the new strange emotion of maternal love. A son was born to the lord of the manor ; and while all Boscastle rejoiced at this imi)ortant addition to the population, Christabel's pale face shone with a new radiance, as the baby-face looked up at her from the pillow by her side — eyes clear and star-like, with a dreamy, far-aw.ay gaze, which was almost more lovely than the recognizing looks of older eyes — a being hardly sentient of the things of earth, but liright with memories of the spirit world. The advent of this baby-boy gave .a new impulse to Chris- tabel's life. Slie gave herself up to these new cares and duties with intense devotion ; and for the next six months of her life w;is so entirely engi'ossed by her child that Leonard considered liimself neglected. She deferred her presentation at Court till the next season, and Jjconard was compelled to be satisfied with an occasional brief holiday in London, during whicli he naturally relapsed into the habits of his bachelor days — dined and gamed at the old clubs, .anil went about everywhere with his friend and ally, Jack Vandeleui*,, Ciiri^iabel had been manicd two years, and her boy w.as a year old, when she went back to the old house in Bolton Row with her husUind, to enjoy her second season of fashionable ])leasures. How hard it was to return, under such altered circumstaTicos, to the rooms in which she had been so happy — to see everything unchanged except her own life. The very chairs and tables seemed to l)e associated vvith old joys, old griefs. All the sharp agony of that bitter day on which she had made up her nn'nd to renounce Angus Hamleigh came back to her as she looked round the room in which the ])ain had been suffered. The llavour of old memories was mixed with all the enjoyments of the present. The music she heard this year was the same music thevtwo had heaid togethei'. .And liere w;is this smiling P;irk, all green leaves and sunlight, tilled with this seeming frivolous crowd ; in almost every iletail the scene they two had contemplated, amused and philosophical, four years ago. The friends who called on her and invited her now, were the same peojile among whom she had visited during her first season. l'eo])le who had been enraptured at her engagement to Mr. Hamleigh werg equally deli;ihted at her marrijige with her and * And Pale from the Past we draw nigh Thee* 185 cousin, or at least said so ; albeit, more than one astute natron drove away from Bolton Eow sighing over the folly of marriage between first cousins, and marvelling that Christabel's baby was not deaf, blind, or idiotic. Among other old acquaintances, young Mrs. Tregonell met the Dowager Lady Cumberbridge, at a great dinner, uiore Medusa- like than ever, in a curly auburn wig after Madame do Mon- tespan, and a diamond coronet. Christabel shrank from the too- well-remembored figure with a faint shudder ; but Lady Cum- berbridge swooped upon her like an elderly hawk, when the ladies were on their way back to the drawing-room, and insisted upon being friendly. * My dear child, where have you been hiding yourself all thiee years T she exclaimed, in her fine baritone. ' I saw your marriage in the papers, and your poor aunt's death ; and I was expecting to meet you and your husband in society b^t season. You didn't come to town ? A baby, I suppose ? Just so ! Those horrid babies ! In the coming century there will be some better arrangement for carrying on the species. How well you are looking, and your husband is positively charming. He sat next me at dinner, and we were friends in a moment. How proud he is of you ! It is quite touching to see a man so devoted to his wife ; and now' — they were in the subdued light of the drawing- room by this time, light judiciously tempered by ruby-coloured Venetian glass — 'now tell me all about my poor friend. "Waa she long ill?' And, with a ghoulish interest in horrors, the dowager pre- pared herself for a detailed narration of Mrs, Tregonell's last illness; but Christabel could only falter out a few brief sentences. Even now she could hardly speak of her aunt without tears ; and it was painful to talk of her to this worldly dowager, witi Voen eyes glittering under penthouse brows, and a hard, eager mou '.. In all that London season, Christabel only once heard her old lover's name, carelessly mentioned at a dinner party. He was talked of as a guest at some diplomatic dinner at St. Petei'sburg, "iarly in the year. CHAPTER XVIil. 'and pale from the past we draw Nian thee.' It was October, and the chestnut leaves were f;illing slowly and heavily in the park at Mount lloyal, the oak« upon the hill side ^y^']•e faiitly tinged with bronze and gold, while the purple bloom * • . • \ 1 ■! u til 11 it f ■' . I . n 1 ■ ", S ■ "'•'^ ' f •"»' , i '"H*'] 'V ,!>':' ^ t 1 •■ I * ! ■ !^ •. '■ L • i Hi jt »' 141 ISO 3Iount Boyal. of the heather and the yellow flower of the gorze were seen 'n rarer patches amidst the sober tints of autumn. It waa the tia.e at which to some eyes this Cornish coast was most Icely, 'vi'.h a subdued poetic loveliness — a dreamy beauty touched with tender melancholy. Mount Royal was delightful at this season. Liberal tires in all the rooms filled the old oak-panelled house \rit\i a 2I0W of colour, and a sense of ever-prosont wMviuth that was V(!ry com- f(ji-table attcr the sharpness of October bree/.es. Tho.se green- hou.ses and hothouses, wliich had been for so many years Mrs, Tregonell's perpetual care, now disgorged their choicest contents. Fragile white and yellow asters, fairy-like ferns, Dijon roses, lilies of the valley, stephanotis, mignonette, and Cape jasmine tilled the rooms with perfume. Modern blinds of diajvered crimson and grey subdued the light of those heavily mullioned windows which had been originally designed with a view to strength and architectual effect, rather than to the admission of the greatest possible amount of daylight. The house at this .season of the year seemed made for warmth, so thick the walls, so heavily curtained the windows ; just as in the height of summer it seemed made for coolness. Cliristabel had respected all her aunt's ideas and prejudices : nothing had been changetl since Mrs. Tregonell's death — save for that ore sad fact that she was gone. The noble matronly figure, the handsome face, the kindly smile were missing from the house where the widow had so long reigned, an imperious but a beneficent mistress — having her own way in all things, but always considerate of other ])eople's happiness and comfort. Mr. Tregonell was inclined to be angry with his wife some- times for her religious adherence to her aunt's principles and opinions in things great and small. ' You are given over body and soul to my poor mother's fads, h(! said. ' If it had not been for you I should have turned the liDUse out of windows when she was gone — got rid of all the wonu-eal^n furniture, broken out new windows, and let in more light. On feels half asleep in a house where there is nothing but shadow and the scent of hothouse Hovers. I should have given carte hlanche to some London man — the fellow who vrrites verses and v/ho invented the storks and sunliower style of decoration — and hare let him refurnish the saloon and music- room, pitch out a library which nobody reads, and substitute half a dozen dwarf book-cases in gold and ebony, filled with brightly bound books, and with Japanese jais ;tnd bottlos on the top of them to give life and coloui* to the oak panelling. 1 hate a gloomy house.' ' Oh, Leonard, you surely would not call Mount Royal gloomy.' * And Pale from the Past lue draxo nigh Thee* 1S7 ' But I do : I hate a house that smells of one's ancestors.* 'Just now you objected to the scent of the tiowcrs.' * You are always catchiuif nie up — there was never such n woman to argue — but 1 mean what I say. The sniell is a com- bination of ste)»hanotis and old bones. 1 wish you would let me build you a villa at Torquay or Dartmouth. I think I should prefer J.^irtmouth : it's .-i better ])l;u'e for yachting,' ' You are verv kind, l)nt I would rather live at Mount Roval than anywhere else. JU'iiiember [ was ijumght v.\) lunv,' ' A reason for your being hejirtily sick of tin; house — as I ar-. But I suppose in your case there are associations — sentimental associations.' ' The house is filled with memories of my second mother ! ' 'Yes — and there ar(^ other memories — assoeintions which you love to nurse and brood upon. 1 think I know all about it — can read up your feelings to .j nicety.' 'You can think and say what you please, Leonard,' she answered, looking at him with unaltered calnmess, 'but you will never make me disown my love of this place and its sur- roundings. You will never make rte ashamed of being fond of the home in which 1 have s])ent my life.' ' 1 begin to think there is very little shame in you,' Leonard muttered to himself, as he walked away. He had said many bitter words to ins wife — had aimed many a venomed arrow at her breast — but he had never made hei blush, and he had never raade her cry. There were times when dull hopeless anger consumed him — anger against her — against nature — against Fate — and when his only relief was to be fouixl in harsh and bitter speech, in dark and sullen looks. It would htive been a greater relief to him if his shots had gone home — it his brutality had elicited any sign of distress. But in this respect Christal)el was heroic. She who had never harboureil an ungenerous thought was moved only to a cold calm scorn by the unjust and ungenerous conduct of her husband. Her con- tempt was too thorough for the possibility of resentment. Once, and once oirfy,she attempted to reason with a fool in his folly. *\Vhy do you make these unkind speeches, Leonard?' she asked, looking at him with those calm eyes before which his were apt to waver and look downward, hardly able to endure that steady gaze. 'Why are you always harping upon the ])ast — .'IS if it were an oileiKMi agitinst you. Is there anything that you have to complain of in my conduct — have I given you any cause for anger ? ' 'Oh, no, none. You are simply perfect as a wife — everybod ' says so — and in the multitude of counsellors, you know. But it is just possible for perfection to be a trifle cold and unapproach- able — to keep a man at arm's length — and to have an ever- ii «« , . , '' • • « *« '...( :i 1 .' " 1 , ' \ u rill :| f» m > I ! ::'i) i^ •Ml 1 t \, Wl\ H 188 Uount Boyal, i' I' mi-. preFieut air of living in the past which is galling to a husband who would like — well — a little less amiability, and a little more afFection. By Heaven, I wouldn't mind my wife being a devil, \f I knew she was fond of me. A spitfire, who would kiss me fine minute and claw me the next, would be better than the calm sujjeriority which is always looking over my head.' * Leonard, I don't think I have been wanting in affection. You ha,ve done a great deal to repel my liking — yes — since you force me to speak plainly — you have made my duty as a wife more difficult than it need have been. But, have I ever for- ;^()tten that you are my husband, and the father of my child? Is there any act of my life which h;ia denied or made light of your authority ? Wlien you asked me to marry you I kept no secrets from you : I was perfectly frank.* * Devilish frank,' muttered Leonard. * You knew that I could not feel for you as I had felt for another. These things can come only once in a lifetime. You were content to accept my affection — my obedience — knowing this. Why do you make what I told you then a reproach against me now ! ' He could not dispute the justice of this reproof. * Well, Christabel, I was wrong, I suppose. It would have been more gentlemanlike to hold my tongue. I ought to know that your first girlish fancy is a thing of the past — altogether gone and done with. It was idiotic to harp upon that worn-out string, wasn't it?' he asked, laughing awkwardly: but when a man feels savage he must hit out at some one.' This was the only occasion on which husband and wife had ever spoken plainly ot'tliej)ast ; but Leonard let fly those venomed arrows of his on the smallest provocation. He could not forget that his wife had loved another man better than she had ever loved or even pretended to love him. It was her candour which he felt most keenly. Had she been willing to play the hjqiocrite, to pretend a little, he would have been ever so much better pleased. To the outside world, even to that narrow world which encircles an old family seat in the depths of the country, Mr. and Mrs, Tregonell appeared a happy couple, whose union was tliQ most natural thing in the world, yet not without a touch of that romance which elevates and idealizes a marriage. Were they not brought up under the same roof, boy and girl together, like, and yet not like, brother and sister. How inevit- able that they must become devotedly attached. That little q)isode of Christabel's engagement to another man counted fot nothing. She was so young — had never questioned her own heart. Her true love was away — and she was flattered by the attention of a man of the world like Angus Hamleigh — and so, and so — almost unawares, perhaps, she allowed herself to be engaged tor- * And Pale from the Past we draw nigh ThccJ 180 to him, little knowing the real bent of lii.s character and the gulf into which she was about to plunge : for in the neighbour- hood of Mount Royal it was believed that a man who had once lived as Mr. Hamleigh had lived was a soul lost for evor, a creature given over to ruin in tliis world and the next. There wjvs no hojjefulness iu the local mind for the after career of such an otfender. At this autumn season, when Mount Royal was filled with visitors, all intent upon taking life pleasantly, it would have been impossibh for a life to seem more prosperous and happy to the outward eye than that of Christal'el Tregonell. Thi; centre of a friendly circle, the ornanient of a picturesque and perfectly appointed house, the mother of a lovely lioy whom she worship- pod, with the overweening love of a young mother for her firstborn, admired, beloved by all her little workl, with a husband who was proud of her and indulgent to her — who could deny that Mrs. Tregonell was a person to be envied. Mrs. Fairfax Torrington, a widow, with a troublesome son, and a limited income — an income whose narrow boundary she wa3 continually overstepping — told her hostess as much one morning when the men were all out on the hills in the rain, and the women made a wide circle round the library tire, some of them intent upon crewel work, others not even pretemling to be industrious, the faithful Randie lying at his mistress's feet, assli.^ sat in her favourite chair by the old carved chimney-})ie(e — the chair which had been her aunt Diana's for so many peaceful years. ' There is a calmness — an assured tranquility about your life which makes me hi*leous?y envious,' sait howse, with the ability to take a ))lunf,'e into the London vortex whenever you like, or to stay at liouie if you ])refer it, a charnjinf^ husl)and, and an ideal baby, and above all that sweet equable temperament of yours, which would make life easy under much harder circumstances. JJon t you agree with me, now, MisH Bridi^^'Uian ?' ' I always a^ree with clever peo))lt',' answered Jes.^ie, calndy. Chriatabei weut ou with her work, a ({uiet smile uj'ou her beautiful lips. Mrs. Toi-rin Lofton wa? one of those ;jjushin,Lr persons to whom there was no hii^her bliss, after eatiiii; and drinkiiisif, tlian the indulgence in that lively monologue which she called conver- Ration, and a lia]ij)v facility for which rendered her, in her own opinion, an acquisition in any country-house. ' The general run of people are so didl,' she would remark in her confidential moments ; 'there are so few v/ho can talk, without being disgustingly egotistical. Most people's idea of conversation is autobiogra])liy in instalments. I have always been liked for my high sj)irits and llow of (;onversation.' High sjurits at forty-live are apt to pall, unless accompanied by the rare gift of wit. Mrs. Torrington was not witty, but she had read a good deal of light literature, kept a common- place book, and had gone through life believing herself a Sheridan or a Sidney Smith, in petticoats. *A woman's wit is like dancing in fetters,' she complained sometimes : * there are so many things one nnist not say ! ' Christabel was more than content that her acquaintance should envy her. She wished to be thought ha])py. She had never for a moment posed as victim or martyr. In good faith, and with steady purpose or well-doing, she had taken upon herself the duties of a wife, ana she meant to fulfil them to the uttermost. * There shall be no shortcoming on my side,' she said tc herself. 'If we cannot live peae(\'ibly and ha])] )ily together it shall i>ot be my fault. If Leonard will not let me respect him as a husband, I can still honour him as my boy's father.' In these days of fashionable agnosticism and hysterical devo- tion — when there is haidly any middle path between life spent in church and church-work and the open avowal of unbelief — something must be said in favour of that old-fashioned sober religious feeling which enabled Christabel Tregonell to walk steadfastly along the difhcult way, her minj ]u)ssessed with the ever-jnesent belief in a Bifjhteous Judge who saw all hoi* acta and knew all her thougUts. hi h< th B h. It, * A)i(J Pale from the Past tvc draw nigh Thcc* 191 -vit'Ming to Til.' Slio studiiil licr husband's ])loaaure in all thin<,'s- hirii upon rvci y jxiint in wliich principle was not at stake, jiouse was full of friends of his ehoosin,L( — not one anions; those pjuests, in spite of their surface pleasantness, beiuir congenial to a mind so sini{)Ie and unworldly, so straight ami thorough, as that of Christahel Tregf)nell. Without JeHsi(i Bridgeuian, Mrs. Tregonell would have been conipanionless in a house full of peo[)le. The vivacious widow, the slangy yoiu)g ladies, with a niarkcil taste for billiards and shootnig ])ai'ties, and an undisguised ])reference for masculine society, thought their hostess behind the age. It was obvious that she was better informed than they, had been more carefully educated, played better, sang bettei, was more elegant and refined in (jvcry tliought, and look, and gesture ; but in spite of |all these advan- tages, or perhaps on account of them, she was 'slow:' not an easy person to get on with. Her gowns were aynply jierfeci — but she hapsy and ISfopsy — these being the poetic ])et names devised to mitigifc tlie dignity of the baptismal Adolphine and Margaret. AVIn-u Jack Vandeleur had a jiigeon to pluck, he always contrived tjiat ^psy and. Mopsy should get a few ai ^]n* feathers. He did not ;.^i t '?, r J. ''. '•"KM '■•'Hi. ■Ml,. J J > i ''\ i- (i 192 JMount lioyal. !l>i i !' .)' Uike his friends home to the shabby little teTi-rooiiied house ih South Belgravia — such a luist woulU have too obviously indicatfil his affinity to the hawk tribe — but he devised some means of bringing Mopsy and Dopsy and hia raairied t'jiends together A box at the Opera — stalls for the last burl('s(iu(! — a drag fot Epsom or Ascot — or even afternoon tea at Uurlingham — and the thing was done. The Miss Vandelours never failtMl to improve the occasion. They had a genius for making their little wants known, and getting them supphed. The number of their gloves — the only sh(jp in London at which wearable gloves could be bought— how naively these favourite themes for girlish converse dropped from their cherry lips. Sunshades, fans, lace, flowers, perfumery — all these luxuries of the toilet were for the most part HU])plie(l to Doj)sy and Mopsy from this fortuitous source. Some pigeons lent themselves more kindly to the plucking than others^ Ji.id the Miss Vandeleurs had long ago discovered that it was not the wealthiest men who were most lavish. Given a gentleman with a settled estate of fourteen thousand a year, and the probabilities were that he would not rise above a do?^en gloves or a couple of bouquets. It was the simple youth who hud just come into five or ten thousand, and had nothing but the workhouse ahead of him when that was gone, who spent his money most freely. It is only the man who is steadfastly intent upon ruining himself, who ever quite comes uj) to the feminine idea of generosity. The spendthrift, during his brief season of fortune, leads a charmed life. For him it is hardly a question whether gloves cost five or ten shillings a pair — whether stepha- notis is in or out of season. He offers his tribute to beauty without any base scruples of economy. What does it matter to liim whether ruin comes a few months earlier by reason of this lavish liberality, seeing that the ultimate result is inevitable. With the Miss Vandeleurs Leonard Tregonell ranked as an old friend. They had met him at theatres and races ; they had been invited to little dinners at which he was host. Jack Van - deleur had a special genius for ordering a dinner, and for acting as guide to a man who liked dining in the highways and byways of London ; it being an understood thing that Captain Vande- leur's professional position as counsellor exempted him for any share in the i-eckoning. Under his fraternal protection, Dopsy and Mopsy had dined snugly in all manner of foreign restaurants, and had eaten and drunk their fill at Mr. Tregonell's expense. They were both gourmands, and they were not ashamed ot enjoying the pleasures of the table. It seemed to them that the class of men who could not endure to see a woman eat had de- parted with Byron, and Bulwer, and D'Orsay, and De Musset. A new race had arisen, which likes a ' jolly ' girl who can appreciate a recherchd dinner, and knows tix« '^tVurence between good and bad wine. *Jnd Pale jrom tJui Past we draw nigh Thee' 193 Atr. Tregoiiell did not yield himself up a victim to tlu^ fasci- nations of either Dopsy or biopsy. IIo h.id seen too much of tliat chiss of beauty durin;; his London experiences, to l)e cauji^ht by the auricomous tanfjUis of one or the flaxen fringe of the other. He talked of them to their brother as nice girls, with no nonsense about tliem ; he gave them gloves, and dinners, ami stalls for * Madame Angot ; ' but his appreciation took no higlier form. * It would have been a fine thing for one of you if you could have hooked him,' said their brother, {is he smoked a final pipe, between midnight and morning, in the untidy little dwiwing* room in South Belgravia, afti;r an evening with Chaumont. ile's a heavy swell in ('t)rnwall, I can tell you. Plenty of mcjiiey — fine old place. ]5ut there's a girl down there he's sweet upon — a cousin. lie's very close ; but 1 caught him kissing and ciying over her photogra])h one night in the Kockics— when our rations had run short, and two of our horses gone dead, and our best guide was down with ague, and there was an idea that we'd lost our track, and should never sec England again. That's the only time I ever saw Tregonell sentimentxil. " I'm not afraid of death," he said, " but I should like tolive to see home again, for her sake ;" and he showed me the j)hoto — a sweet, fresh, young face, smiling at us with a look of home and home-alTection, and wo poor beggars not knowing if we she should ever see a woman's face again. ' If you knew he was in love with his cousin, what's the use of tidking about his marrying us ?' asked Mopsy jietulantly, speaking of herself and her sister as if they w ere a firm. ' Oh, there's no knowing, answered Jack, coolly as he puffed at his meerschaum. * A man may change his mind. Girls with your experience ought to be able to twist a fellow round jour little finger. But though you're deuced keen at getting things out of men, you're uncommonly slow at bringing down your bird.' ' Look at oin* surroundings,' said Do])sy bitterly. 'Couhl we ever dare to bring a man hero ; and it is in her ov^n home that a man gets fond of a girl.' ' Well, a fellow would have to be very far gone to sliiui t-iii^,' C'n))tain Vandeleur admitted, with a sliiun' of his >-liuul(!' rs, as Ik? ulanced round the room, with its blotchy paper, and siunky ceiling, its tawdry chandelier, and dilapidated furnitin-e, flabby faded covers to chairs and sofa, side-table piled with shabby books and accumulated newspapers, the half-pay father's canes and umbrellas in the corner, his ancient sli})pers by the fender, his ejusy-chair, with its morocco cove indented with the greasy imprint of hia venerable shoulders, and over all the rank odours of yesterday's dinner and stale tobacco-smoke • A man in the last stage of spoonincss will stand anything— o » < I I vM i I ( ^11 1 J '\ Hi III* "V ;:>^ , i^ ii'«ii !■«( M:Hl; J|ii I '.! !• ■I « If iH^' .' 1 ,,■■»« SI: : ini Mount Boy at. youjremember the opening chanter of " Willielra Meiater?" said Captain Jack, meditatively — ' but he'd need be very far gone to fitand t/dSf' he repeated, with conviction. yix months after thin conversation, Mopsy rofid to Dopiy tho announcementof Mr. TregoneU'smaniaLjewith tlie Cornish cousin. *We shall never see any more of him, you may de[)end,' said Dopsj, with the air of j)r()nounciii;,' an elegy on the ingratitude of man. l-Jut she was wrong, for two years later Leonard Tregonell was knocking about town again, in the height of tlin season, with Poker Vandeieur, and tiio course of liis diversions included a Httle dinner given to Dopsy and Mopsy at a choice Italian restaurateur's not very far from South Belgravia. They both made thianselvea Jis agreeable as in them lay. lie was married. All matrimonial hopes in that quarter were blighted. IJut marriage need not prevent his givhig them dinners and stalls for the play, or being a serviceable friend to their brother. ' Poor Jack's friend? are his only reliable income,' said Mopsy. * He had need hold theu. fast.' Mopsy put on her lively Madame Chaumont manner, and tried to amuse the Benedict. Dopsy was graver, and talked to him about his wife. * She must be very sweet,' she said, ' from Jack's account of her.' * Why, he's never seen her,' exclaimed Mr. Tregonell, looking puzzled. ' No ; but you showed him her j)hotogi'aph once in the Rockies. Jack never forgot it.' Leonard was jileased at this tribute to his good taste. ' She's the loveliest woman I ever saw, though she is my wife, he said ; 'and I'm not ashamed to say I think so.' 'How I should like to know her,' sighed Dopsy; 'butl'.n afraid she seldom comes to London.' * That makes no ditlerence,' answered Leonard, warmed into exct^ptional good humour bv the soft intluences of Italian cookorv and Itahan wines. 'Why should not you both come to Mount Royal ? I want Jack to come for the shooting. He can brin;^ you, and you'll be able to amuse my wife, while he and I are out on the hills.' ' It wouhl be quite too lovely, and we should like it of ail tkings ; but do you think Mrs. Tregonell would be to get on with us ? ' asked Dopsy, diffidently. It was not often she and her sister were asked to country houses. They were both fluttered at the idea, and turned iheir thoughts inwaid for a mental leview of their wardrobi-s ' We could do it,' decided Mopsy, * with a little help from Jack.' Nothing more was sr.id about the visit that niirht. but a * And Pale from the Past wc draw n'ujh TIlcc' 105 month liter, wliuii LeoiKirtl had gone buck to Mount lloyal, a courteous lottur from Mra. Trei^oiiuU to Mi.sa Vandoleur con- firmed th(3 Squire's invitation, ami the two set out for the West of England under their brother's wing, rejoitnng at this stroke i»f good hick. Chi-istabel had been told tii;it they were nice girls, iiist the kind of girls to be useful in a country-house — girls who liad very few onportunities of enjoying life, and to whom any kindness would bo charity — and she had done lier hu-iband's bidding without an objection of any kind. Jiut wlu'ii the two damsels ap])eared at Mount Jloyal tightly sheathe(l in sage-green merino, with linii) little cajnison tlieir shoulilers,and j)ielurfs(iue hats upon piduri'Siiue heads of hair, Mrs. Tregonell's heart failed her at the idea of a month spent in such company. With- out caring a straw for art, without knowing m«*re of modern poetry than the names of the poets and tin; covers of their books, Mopsy and Dojtsy hatllx'en shrewd enough to di.-;co\i'r tliat for young women with narrow means the aesthetic style of dress w;uh by far the safest fashion. Stufl" might do duty ior silk — a sun- llower, if it were only big enough, might mak(( as startling an etl'ect as a bla/e of diamonds — a rag of limp tulle or muslin servo instead of costly lace — hair wcjrn after the ideal snllice instead of exi)ensive headgear, and homo dressmaking pass current for originality. Christabel speedily found, however, that these damsels were not exacting in the matter of attention from her- self. tSo long as tlu^y wero allowed to be with the men they wert; happy. In the billiard-room, (»r the tenni- -court, in the old Tudor hall, which was Leonard's favourite t(d>a r /111 !' ' .} f .-#] "H- > ^ ^! { ■ 1 I It! t 4, l\ I 11! r? '^1 ]f f f !Vi»| 198 Monnt Boyal. 'Marc? One ain't pity him. He was an ingratf^ and a coward.' * He was a man and a husband,' retorted Jessie ; * and he seems to have been badly treated all round.' ' Whither does he wander now ? * said Christabel, softly repeating lines leamt long ago. ♦ Haply in his dreams the wind Wafts him here and lets him find The lovely orphan child again, In her castle by the coast ; The yoimgest fairest chatelaine, That this realm of France can boast, Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea, Iscult of Brittany.' * Poor Iseult of the White Hand,' said a voice at Christabel's shoulder, ' after all was not her lot the saddest — had not she the best claim to our pity ? ' Christabel started, turned, and she and Angus Hamleigh looked in each other's f.aces in the clear bright light. It was over four years since they had parted, tenderly, fondly, as l)lighteratery sentiment, which would never lead 3'^ou very far astray. I can fiiiicy you behaving sonujwhat in the style of Werther's Charlotte — wliO i.^, to iiiy mind, one of the most detestable women in fiction. Yes ! (Joethe h.is created two women who are the opposite poles of feeling — (iretchen and Lottie — and I would stake my faith that GrettluMi the fallen has a higlier i)lace in heaven than Lottie the impeccable. I hate such dull purity, which is always lined with sellishness. The lover may slay himself in his anguish — but she — yes — Thackeray has said it — she goes on cutting bv :ul ;ani butter ! ' Jessie gave a Lale hysterical laugh, which she iccentvated by a letip from the narrow path where she had been walking to a boulder four or five feet below. *Kow madly you talk, Jessie. You remind me '^f Scott's Fenella — and I believe yon are almost a? wild a creature,^ said (Jhristabel. ' Yes ! I suspect thare is a spice of gipsy blood in my veins. I am subject to these occasional outbreaks — these revolts against Philistinism. Life is so steeped in respectability — the dull level morality which prompts every man to do what his neighbour thinks he ought to do, rather than to be set in motion by the fire that burn*- within him. This dread of one's neighbour — this fllavish respect for public opinion — reduces life to mere mechanism — society to a stage play.' 'tK ^But it Sufficethf that the Day will End.* 201 "hi I' CHAPTER XIX. *BtJT IT SUFFICETIT, THAT THE DAY WILL END.' Christabel said no word to her husband about that unexpected meethig with Aug) s Hamleigh. She knew that the name wag obnoxious to Leonard, and she shrank from a statement which might provoke un})leasant speech on his part. ^Mr. Hamleigh would doubtless have left Trevena in a few d^ys — there was no likelihood of any further meeting. The next day was a blank day for the Miss Vandeleurs, who found themselves reduced to the joyless society of their own sex. The harriers met at Trevena at ten o'clock, and thither, after an early 1 ireakfast, rode Mr. Tregonell, Captain Vandeleur, and three or four other kindred spirits. The morning was -howery and blustery, and it was in vain that Dopsy and Mopsy hinted their desire to be driven to the meet. They wore not horse- women — from no want of pluck or ardour for the chase — but simply from the lack of that material part of the business, horses. Many and many a weary summer day had they paced the path beside Kotten Row, wistfully regarding the riders, and thinking what a seat and what hands they would have had, if Providence had only given them a mount. The people who do not ride are the keenest critics of horsemanshij). Compelled to hnd their amusements within doors, Dopsy and Mopsy sat in the morning-room for half an hour, as a sacritice to good manners, paid a duty visit to the nurseries to admire Chris- tabel's baby- boy, and then straggled otT to the billiard-room, to play each other, and improve their skill at that delightfully masculine game. Then came luncheon — at which meal, the gentlemen being all away, and the party reduced to four, the baby-boy was allowed to sit on his mother's lap, and make occasional raids upon the table furniture, while the Miss Vandf- leurs made believe to worship him. He was a lovely boy, with big blue eyes, wide with wonder at a world which wjus still full of delight and novelty. After luncheon, Mopsy and Dopsy retired to their chamber, to concoct, by an ingenious process of re-organization of the s;inie atoms, a new costume for the evening ; and as they sat at their work twisting and undoing bows and lace, and 8trai<,ditening the leaves of artificial tiowers, they again discoursed somewhat dejectedly of their return to South Belgravia, which could hardly be staved oflF much longer. * We have had a quite too delicious time,' 8ighe' \ "Mi' :f I'M I nil ili Ml 204 Mount Boyal juvenile ago. * Just as we were sighing for the prince ho comes.* * True,' said Mopsy ; * and ho will go, just as all the other fairy princes have gone, leaving us alone upon the dreary high road, and riding off to the fairy princesses who have good homes, anj good clothes, and plenty of money.' The high-art toileis were postponed for the following evening, eo that the panoply of woman's war might be fresh ; and on that evening Mopsy and Dopsy, their long limbs sheathed in sea-green velveteen, Toby-frills round their neck.s, and sunflowers on their shoulders, were gracefully grouped near the fireplace in the pink ;ind white panelled drawing-room, waiting for Mr. Ilamlcigli's arrival. * I wonder why all the girls make themselves walking adver- tisements of the Sun Fire Office,' speculated Mr. Montagu, taking a prosaic view of the Vandeleur sunflowers, as he sat by Miss Bridgeman's work-basket. ' Don't you know that sunflowers are so beautifully Greek V asked Jessie. 'They have been the only flower in fasiiion since Alma Tadema took to painting them — fountains, and marble balustrades, and Italian skies, and beautiful women, and sunflowers.' * Yes ; but we get only the sunflowers.' * Mr. Hnnileigh !' said the butler at the open door, ard Angus came in, and went straight to Christabel, who was sitting opposite the group of soa-green Vandelcurs, slowly fanning herself with a big black fan. Nothing could be calmer than their meeting. This tiaie there was no surprise, no sudden shock, no dear familiar scene, no solemn grandeur of Nature to make all effort at simulation unnatural. The atmosphere to-night was as conventional as the men's swallowed-tailed coats and white ties. Yet in Angus Hamleigh's mind there was the picture of his first arrival at Mount lloyal — the firelitroom, Christabel's girlish figure kneeling on the hearth. The figure was a shade more matronly now, the carriage and manner were more dignified ; but the face had lost none of its beauty, or of its divine candour. *I am very glad my husband j^ersnaded you to alter your plans, and to stay a little longer in the West,' she said, with an unfaltering voice ; and then, seeing Mopsy and Dopsy looking at Mr. Hamleigh with admiring expectant eyes, she added, 'Let me introduce you to these young ladies who are staying with us — Mr. Hamleigh, Miss Vandeleur, Miss IMargaret Vandeleiu'.' Dopsy and Mopsy smiled their sweetest smiles, and gave just the most aesthetic inclination of each towzled head, * I suppose jrou have not long come from London V murmured Dopsy, determined not to lose a moment. * Have you seen all the new things at the theatres ? I hope yoa are an Irvingite ]' »W i. « i ■ at *Bat it Suficcth, that the Day will End.* 205 * I regret to say that my re]i,Lfiou.s nitiiiious havo not yet taken that bent. It is a spiritual lieiglit wliich 1 feel myself too weak to climb. I have never been able to believe in the unknown tongues.' 'Ah, now you are going to criticize his pronunciation, instead of admiring his genius,' said Dopsy, who had never heard of Edward Irving and the Latter Day Saints. * If you mean Henry Irving the tragedian, I admire him immensely,' said Mr. Ilamleigli. ' Then we are sure to get on. I felt tliat you must be shnpaticay replied Dopsy, not })articular as to a gender in a language which slie only knew by sight, as Bannister knew Greek. Dinner was announ d at this moment, and Mrs. Tregonell won Dopsy's gratitude by asking Mr. Ilamlcigh to take her into dinner. Mr. IMoutague gave his arm to Miss Bridgeraaii, Leonard took Mopsy, and Christabel followed with Majoi Bree, who felt for her keenly, wondering how she managed to bear herself so bravely, reproaching the dead woman in his mind for liaving parted two faithful hearts. He was shocked by the change in Angus, obvious even to- night, albeit the soft lami)light and evening dress wereflattering to his appearance ; but he said no word of that change to Christabel. ' I have been having a romp with my godson,' he said when they were seated, knowing that this was the one topic likely to cheer and interest his hostess. * I am so glad,' she answered, lighting up at once, and uncon- 8ci'"Ms that Angus was trying to see her face under the low lamj)- light, which made it necessary to bend one's head a little to see one's opposite neighbour. ' And do you think he is grown 'i It is nearly ten days since you saw him, and he grows so fast.' ' He is a young Hercules. If there were any snakes in Cornwall he would be cai)able of strangling a brace of them. I suppose Leonard is tremendously proud of him.' ' Yes,' she answered with a faint sigh. ' I think Leonard is proud of him.' 'But not quite so fond of him as you are,' replied ^Major Bree, interpreting her emj»ha.sis. 'That is only natural. Infant- olatry is a feminine attribute. "Wait till the boy is old enough to go out fishin' and shootui' — ' the INIajor was too much a gentle- man to pronounce a final g — 'and then see if his father don't dot3 upon him.' ' I dare say he will be very fond of him then. Eut I shall be miserable every hour he is out.' ' Of course. Women ought to have only girls for children. There should be a race of man-mothers to rear the boys. I wonder Plato didn't sugg^it that in hia Eepublic' ■iW if^ !"♦ .* I i i; > I "•** \ I '• i ** :f.| :>:h '■;!■ tin. it i |f till ii ' 11 . Ill I;! 206 Mount lioyal. I h Mr. Ilamleigh, with hin head gently bent ovei his soup-plate, had contriv(!d to watch Ohristabers face while politely rei)lying to a good doal of gush on the part of the fair Dopay. lie saw that expressive face light uj) with sniilcis, and then grow earnest. She WiiH full of interest and animation, and her candid looV showwi that the conversation was one which all the world might have heard. * She has forgotten nie. She is happy \\\ her married life,' he said to himself, and then he looked to the other end of the table where Leonard sat, burly, iloiid, black-haired, nuitton-chop whiskered, the very essence of riiilistinism — 'ha])py — with him.' 'And I am sure you must adore Ellen Terry,' said Doi)sy, whose society-con veraati on w£is not a many-stringed instrument, * Who eould live and not worship her ? ' ejaculated Mr Hamleigh. ' Irving as Shylock ! ' sighed Do])sy. * Miss 'Terry as Portia,' retortetl Angus. * Unutterably sweet, was she not ? ' 'Iler movements were like a sonata by l>ec^thoven — her gowns were the essence of all that Eubens and Vandyck ever painted.' 'I knew you would rgree with me,' exclaimed Dopsy. 'And do yon think her i)retty ? ' ' Pretty is not the word. She is siiajjly divine. Greuze might have painted her — there is no living painter whose palette holds the tint of those blue eyes.' Doi)sy began to giggle softly to herself, and to flutter her fan with maiden modesty. ' I hardly like to mention it after what you have said,' she murnmred, ' but ' 'Pray be explicit.' ' I have been told that I am rather ' — another faint giggle and another flutter — ' like JVIiss Terry.' * I never met a fair-hairod girl yet who had not been told as mucli,' answered Mr. Ilamleigh, coolly. Dopsy turiieil crimson, and felt that this particular ai'row had missed the gold. ]Mr. Hamleigh was not quite so easy to get on with as her hopeful fancy had painted him. After dinner there was some music, in which art neither of the Miss Vandeleui-s excelled. Indeed, their time had been too closely absorbed by the ever pressing necessity for cutting and contriving to allow of the study of art and literature. They knew the names of writers, and the outsides of books, and they adored the opera, and enjoyed a ballad concert, if the singers were popular, and the audience well dressed ; and this was the limit of their artistic proclivities. They sat stifling their yawns, •ad longing for an adjournment to the billiard-room — whither • But it SvJJiceth, that tlic Day will End,' 207 Jack Vandeleur and Mr. Montagu had departed — while Ohrist- ftbel played a capriccio by Mendelssohn. Mr. Hamluigh sat by the piano listening to every note. Leonard and Major Bree lounged by the fireplace, Jessie Bridgenian sitting near them, absorbed in her crewel work. It was what Mopsy and Dopay called a very * .ilow evening, despite the new interest afforded by Mr. Ilanileigh's presence. He waa very handsome, very elegant, with an inexpressible something in his style and air which Mopsy thought poetical. But it was weary work to sit and gaze at him as if he were a statue, and that long capriccio, with a little Beethoven to follow, and a good deal of Moziirt after that, occupied the best part of the evening. To the eai-s of Mop and Dop it was all tweeleduni and tweedledcc. They would have been refreshed by one of those lively melodies in which Miss Farren so excels ; they would have welcomed a familiar strain from Chilperic or Madame Angot. Yet they gushed and said, ' too delioions — quite too utterly lovely,' when Mrs. Trogonell rose from the piano. * I only hope I have not wejiried everybody,' she said. Leonard and Major Bree had been talking local politics all the time, and both expressed themselves much gratiHed by the music. Mr. Hamlcigh murmured his thanks. Christabel went to her room wondering that the evening had passed so calmly — that her heart — though it had jiched at the change in Angus Hamleigh's looks, had been in no wise tumid- tuously stirred by his presence. There had been a peaceful feeling in her mind rather than agitation. She had been soothed and made happy by his society. If love still lingered in her breast it waa love purified of every earthly thought and hoix.'. She told herself sorrowfully that for him the sjind ran low in the glass of eartlily time, and it was swoet to have him near her f(ir % little while towards the end ; to be able to talk to him of serious things — to inspire hope in a soul whose natural bent was despondency. It would be sadly, unutterably sweet to talk to him of that spiritujil world whose unearthly light alreatly shone in the too brilliant eye, and coloured the hollow cheel:. She had found Mr. Hamleigh despondent and sceptical, but never in- different to religion. He was not one of that emincnilly practical school which, in the words of Matthew Arnold, thinks it more important to learn how buttons and papier-mdche are made than to search the depths of conscience, or fathom the mysteries of a Divino Providence. Christabel's first sentiment when Leonard announced Mr. Hamleigh's intended visit had been horror. How could they two who had loved so deeply, parted so sadly, live together under the same roof as if they were every-day friends ? The thing seemed fraught with danger, impossible for peace. But when sho I. r" • » t- . ■ k !iil! in'.- *!;. Ill** t iiii> I it; iill :!M tiM ! '^11 ■ ■? Iifl :;|'. liti ,11 . li I ri 'Ml 208 Mount Boy at. remembered tlmt calm, almost soli-iim look with wliich he had Bhaken hands with her amoiif? the ^aav t Tnxin^vA^ it seemed to hurthat fiieiidshii) — calmest, ])Uiv.st, most UDst'lliHh uttiichmcnt — was Htill jjossiblo hetwceii thorn. She; llioiitfkt so even more hopefully on the iiioiiiiii;,' itftcr !Mr. liHJiiK'i;;h's arrival, when ho took her boy in his arms, and i)ressed his lij)s lovingly \\\)on the oright baby brow. ' You are fond of children,' exclaimed ^Nlojisy, prepared to gush. * Very fond of some children,' he answiacd gravi'ly. * 1 shall be very fond of this boy, if he will let, me.' *Leo is such a darling— and ho tikes to you already,' said Mopsy, seeing that the child graciously accepted Mr. llamleigh's attentions, and even murmured an approving ' gur ' — folhiwetl by a simple one-part melody of gmgling noises — but whether in approval of the gentleman himself or of his watch-chain, about ■which the ])ink tlexible lingers iiad wound themselves, waa an open (fuestion. This was in the hall after breakfast, on a bright sunshiny morning — doors and windows o])en, and the gardens outside all abloom^^ith chrysanthemums and scarlet geraniums ; the gentle- men of the party standing about with their guns ready to .^tart. Mopsy and Dopsy were dressed in home-made gowns of dark brown serge which simulated the masculine simplicity of tailor- made garments. They wore coquettish littk; to(pies of the same dark brown stuff, also honie-macle — and surely, if a virtuous man contending with calamity is a spectacle meet for the gods to admire a needy young woman making her own raiment is at lejist worthy of human apju'oval. ' You are coming with us, aren't you, Handeigh ? ' asked Leonard, seeing Angus still occupied with the child. ' No, thanks ; I don't feel in good form for woodcock shooting. My cough was rather troublesome last night.' Mopsy and Dopsy looked at each other despairingly. Here ■ — so very superior to Jack's or Mr. Trei^'onell's, thou'^h both those ^jentlomen were ^'ood players. Animus consented, kindly enou^^di, and gave both ladies the most ";irefnl instruction in the art of making pockets and cannons ; but he w;us wondering all the wlule how Chri^taliel wius spending her morning, and thinking liow sweet it would h;ive been to liave strolled with her aero.ss the hills to the (piiet little church in the dingle whiTe he had ! — how haji^ty we might have been. Well, it matters little, now that the roful is so near the end. I suitpose the dismal dose would have como jubt as soon if my way of life had been strewed with llowers.' It was lunchi'on-time before the Miss Vandeieurs consented to release him. Once having got him in their clutch le; was iu» tirndy held as if he had been cau!4ht by an octopus. Christalxil woiKh-red a little that Angus llandeigh should lind am»isemeut for his morning in the billiaid-room, and in such society. 'rerha[is, alter all, the Miss Vandeieurs are the kin)j)sy. 'I worship St. Nectan's Kieve. Such a lovely ferny, rocky, wild, watery spot.* And away she and her sister ski))ped, to put on the brown to(|ues, and to i-efresh themselves with a powder puff. ■J^hey started for their raml)le with llandie, and a favourite Clumber spaniel, degraded from his proud position as a sporting dog, to the ignoble luxury of a house pet, on account of an incorrigible desultoriness in liis conduct with birds. Th(>se affectionate creatures frisked round Christabel, while INliss Vandeleur and her sister seemed almost as friskily to 8\uronnd Mr. Ilamleigh with their South Belgravian blandish- menls. ' You look as if you were not very strong,' hazarded Dopsy, sym)),'\thetically. 'Are you not afraid of a long walk V ' Not at all ; I never feel better than when walking on these liills,' answered Angus. ' It is almost ray native air, you see. I came here to get npsv, as if she would have said, ' IIow shall I bear my life in your absence.' ' Yes, it is live years since I spent a winter in England. I hold my life on that condition. I am never to know the luxury of a London fog, or see a Drury Lane Pantomime, or skate upon the Ser})entine. A case of real distress, is it not "i; " ' Very sad — for your fiiends,' said Dopsy ; ' but I can quite imagine that you love the sunny south. How I long to see the Alediterranean — the mountains — the pine-trees — the border- land of Italy.' ' ^o doubt you will go there some day — and be disappointed. People generally are when tliey indulge in day-dreams about a place.' >rv d reams wi Hal wnvs be d reams,' nnswerei 1 D opsy. with a prnfouiid 5-'iuh : 'we nre not I'lch enoiifrh to tr;ni'l. Christabel walked on in front with Jesaieand the dogs, Mr. Kanileigh w»b longing \a W by her side — to talk as they had m-^Ll *But it Siifficethf that tJie Day will End.' 211 talked of old — of a thousand tliinaa which coidd be pnfely di.s- ciissed without any personal feeling. They had so many sympathies, so many ideas in common. All the world of sense and .sentiment was theirs wherein to range at will.. JJnt l)(i|)sy and Mopssy stuck to Inm like burs ; i)lying liim w^'h idle <|nes- tions, and stereotyped remarks, looking at him withlangiii^hiiig eyes. He was too much a gentleman, had too much good feeling to be rude to them — but he was bored excessively. They went by the cliffs — a wild grand walk. The wide Atlantic spread its dull leaden-coloured waves before them under the grey sky — touched with none of those transluce'at azures and carmines which so often beautify that western se;\. They crossed a bit of hillocky common, and then went down to look at a slate quarry under the cliff — a scene of uncanny grandeur — grey and wild and desolate. Dopsy and Mopsy gushed and laughed, and declared Miat it was just the scene for a murder, or a duel, or something dreadful and dramatic. The dog;'? ran into all manner of perilous places, and had to be called away from the verge of instant death. 'Are you fond of aristocratic society, Miss Vandeleur]' asked Angus. Mopsy pleaded guilty to a prejudice in favour of the Upper Ten. * Then allow me to tell you that you were never in the company of so many duchesses and countesses in your life as you are at this moment.' Mopsy looked mystified, until Miss Bridgeman explained that these were the names given to slates of particular sizes, great Btacks of which stood on eithei- side of them ready for shipment. ' How absurd ! ' exclaimed Mopsy. * Everything must have a name, even the slate that roofs your scullery.' From the quarry they strolled across the fii'lds to the high road, and the gate of the farm which contains within its boundary the wonderful waterfall called St. Neetan's J\ieve. They met the sportsmen coming out of the hollow with well- filled game-bags. Leonard was in high sjiirits. ' So you've all come to meet us,' he said, looking at his wif'^, and from his wife to Angus llandeigli, with a keen, quick glance, too swift to be remarkable. ' Uncommonly good of you. \\\i are going to have a grand year for woodcock, 1 believe — like the season of 1H55, when a farmer of St. Buryau shot lifty-fourin(jue week.' 'Poor dear little birds." sighed Mopsy; *I feel so sorry for them.' }i ■' i \ t M 1 ", , ■i.. • i "♦*,) * HL |.*»,V i . ILHII 1 ■ ) >: 1^ 1 1 ■ 1 \ i 1, II 212 Ilotmt Boyal. * Eiit tliat (loosn't prevent your eating them, will; breadcrumbs and gravy,' said Leonard, laughing. 'When they are once roasted, it can make no dilTcrence who rata then,' replied Mopsy ; 'but I am intensely sorry for them all the same.' They all went home together, a cheery procession, with the (logii at their heels. Mr. Hamleigh's elinrts to escape from the i wo damsels who had marked him for thei' own, were futile : 1 1' -thing less than slieor brutality would have set him free. They 1 1 ndged along gaily, one on each side of him ! they flattered him, they made much of him — a man must have been stony-hearted <() remain untouched by such attentions. Angus was marble, i ut he could not be uncivil. It was his nature to be gentle to women. Mop and Dop were the kind of girls he most detested indeed, it seemed to him that no other form cf girlhood could iio so detestable. They had all the pertness of Bohemia without :>ny of its wit — they had all the audacity of the demi-monde, with far inferior attractions. Everything about them was spurious ;md aecond-hand — every air and look and tone was ])ut on, like a ribbon or a flower, to attract attention. And could it be that one of these meretricious creatures was angling for him — for him, the Lauzun, the d'Eckmlihl, the Prince' de Belgioso, of his (lay — the born dandy, with whom fastidiousness was a sixth t;ens8 ? Intolerable as the idea of l)eing so pursued was to him, Angus Ilamleigli could not bring himself to l)e rude to a woman It ha])pened, therefore, that from the beginning to the end of that long ramble, he was never in Mrs. Tregonell's society. .She and Jessie walked steadily ahead with their dogs, while the !-portsmen tramped slowly behind Mr, Ilamleighandthe two girls * Our friend seems to be very much taken by your sisters,' sjiid Leonard to Captain Vandeleur. ^My sisters are deuced taking girls,' answered Jack, ])uirnig at his seventeenth cigarette; 'though I suj)pose it isn't my business to say so. There's nothing of the professional beauty about either of 'em.' 'Distinctly not !' said Leonard. 'But they've i)lenty of chie — plenty of go — mvoir fairc — and :.'.l that kind of thing, don't you know. They're the most com- panionable girls I ever met witli ! ' 'They're uncommonly jolly little bulTers ! ' said Leonard, kindly moaning it for the higliest pi'aise. 'They've no fool's llesh al)out them,' said Jack ; 'and tin y can make a fiver go fuitlM'i- titan any one I know. A man niicht do worse than marry one of tlicm.' 'Hardly !' thought Leonard, ' unless ho married ])oth.' * It would be a tine thing for Dop if Mr. Handeigh were to r.me to the iscratch,' mused Jack. Tfl lurn. said *But it Snfficath, that the Day will End* 213 * I wonder what w;us Leonard's motive in askin*,' Mr. Hani- leigh to stay at Mount Royal V said Cliristabcl, suddenly, after she and Jessie h;id been talkini^ of diflfereir subjects. ' I liope he had not any motive, but that the invitation wjia the in)]iulse of the moment, without rhyme or reason,' answered Miss Bridgeman. 'WhyV ' Because if he had a motive, I don't think it could be a good one.' * Might he not think it just ])ossible that he was finding a husband for one of his friend's sisters ? ' specuhited Christabel. ' Nonsense, my dear ! Leonard is not ([uite a fool. If he h.id a motive, it was si»mething very dilFerent from any concern for the interests of Dop or Mop — I will call them Uop and Mop : they are so like it.' In spite of Mopsy and Dopsy, there were hours in which Angus llamleigh was able to enjoy the society which had once been so sweet to him, almost as freely as in the happy days that were gone. Brazen as the two damsels were the feeling of self- respect was not altogether extinct in their natures. Their minds were like grass-plots which had been trodden into mere clay, but where a lingi-ring green blade here and there shows that the soil had once been verdant. Before Mr. llamleigh came to Mount Royal, it had been their habit to sj)end their evenings in the billiard-room with the gentlemen, albeit Mrs. Tregonell very rarely left the drawing-room after dinner, preferring tlie pcn-fect tranquillity of that almost deserted apartment, the inexhaustibl(,' delight of her piano or her books, with Jessie for her sole coiu- j)anion — nay, sometimes, <(uite alone, while Jessie joined the revellers at pool or shell-out. Dopsy and ^Mopsy could not al- together alter their habits because ]\Ir. Uainleigh spent liis evenings in the drawing-room : the motive for such a change would have been too obvious. The boldest huntress would scarce thus openly pursue her ])rey. So tlie Miss Vandeleurs went regretfully with their brother and his host, and marked, or played an occasional four-game, and made themselves conver- sationally agi-eeable aH the evening ; while Angus Handeigh sat by the piano, and gave himself up to dreamy tliought, soothed by the music of the great composers, played with a level per- fection which only years of ciu'eful study can achieve. Jessie Bridgeman never left the drawing-room now of an evening. Faithful and devoted to her duty of companion and friend, she seemed almost Christabel's second self. There was no restraint, no embarrassment, caused by her presence. What she had been to these two in their day of joy, she was to them in their day of sorrow, wholly and completely one of thcnistdves. She was no stony guardian of the proprieties; no bar between their souls I i» « -1 h V \\\ ■\\ - m 'If- i ' .fill 214 Mount Boyal. 'I ; I .1 :: ¥> ■m and dangerous memories or allusions. She was their friend, reading and understanding the minds of both. It has been finely said by Matthew Arnold that there are times when a man feels, in this life, the sense of immortality ; and that feeling nmst surely be strongest with him who knows that his race is nearly run — who feels the rosy light of life's sun- set warm upon his face — who knows himself near the lifting of the veil — the awful, fateful experiment called death. Angus Hamleigh knew that for him the end was not far oif — it might be less than a year — more than a year — but he felt very sure that this time there would be no reprieve. Not again would the physician's sentence be reversed — the physician's tlieories gain- Rayed by facts. For the last four years he had lived as a man lives who has ceased to value his life. He has exposed himself to the hardships of mountain climbing — he had sat late in gaming saloons — not gambling himself, but interested in a cynical way, as Balzac might have been, in the hopes and fear.s of others — seeking amusement wherever and however it was to be found. At his worst he had never been a man utterly with- out religion ; not a man who could willingly forego the hope in a future life — but that hope, until of late, had been clouded and dim, Rabelais' great perhaps, rather than the Christian's assured belief. As the cold shade of death drew nearer, the horizon cleared, and he was able to rest his hopes in a fair future beyond the grave — an existence in which a man's happiness should not be dependent on the condition of his lungs, nor his career marred by an hereditary taint in the blood — an existence in which spirit should be divorced from clay, yet not become so entirely abstract as to be incapable of such pleasures as are sweetest and purest among the joys of humanity — a life in which friendship and love might still be known in fullest measure. And now, with tlie knowledge that for him there remained but a brief remnant of this earthly existence, that were the circumstances of his life ever so full of joy, that life itself could not be lengthened, it was vci y sweet to him to spend a few quiet hours with her who, for the last five years, had l)een the pole-star of his thoughts. For him there could be no arriere penstfe — no tending towards for- bidden hopes, forbidden dreams. Death had ])urified life. It was almost as if he were an immortal spirit, already belonging to another world, yet permitted to revisit the old dead-and-goue love below. For such a man, and perhaps for such a man only, was such a super-mundane love as poets and idealists have imagined, all satisfying and all sweet. He was not even jealous of his happier rival ; his only regret was the too evident un- worthiness of that rival. ' If I had seen her married to a man I could respect ; if I could know that she was completely happy ; that the life before in ^Bat it Sujjkctli, that the Day will End.' 215 her were securo from ull pain and evil, I aliould have nothiii,;^ to re,i,'ret,' he told himself; hut tlu' thought of Leoiiaid's (•(•,ir*f nature was a perpetual grief. ' When 1 am \\\U'.: in lli ' l)eaceful sleep, she will he miserable with tliai man,' lie ili(»u_,iii. One day wh^i Jessie and he were aiuuc together, he isj[ioke freely of Leonard. ' I don't want to malign a man who has treated ini> with excei)tioual kindness and eordiality,' he said, 'above all a man whose motht!r I once loved, and always n ^jieetod — yes, althdugh slie was haul and cruel to me — but 1 cannot help wishing that Cliristabel's husband had a more sympathetic nature. Now that my own future is reduced to a very short span I find myself given to forecjisting the future of those I love — aiul it grieves me to think of Christabel in the years to come — linked with a man who has no jwwer to appreciate or undersUmd her — tied to the mill-wheel of domestic duty.' * Yes, it is a hard case,' answered Jessie, bitterly, * one of those hard cases that so often come out of people acting for the best, as they call it. No doubt Mrs. Treg(jn«ll thought she acted for the l>est with regard to you and Christabel. She did not know how mucli selfishness — a selfish idolatry of her own cub — was at the bottom of her over-righteousness. She was a good woman — generous, benevolent — a true friend to me — yet there are limes when I feel angry with her — even in her grave — for lier treatment of you and Cliristabel. Yet she died happy in the belief in her own wisdom. She thought Christabel'a marriage with Leonard ought to mean bliss for both. Uecauso she adored her Cornish gladiator, forsooth, she must needs think everybody else ought to dote upon him.' ' You don't seem >varnily attached to Mr. Tregonell,' said Angus. ' I am not — and he knows that I am not. I never liked him, and he never liked me, and neither of us have (!ver i)retended to like each other. We are quits, I assure you. Perhaps yoa think it ratlier horrid of me to live in a man's liouse — cat his bread and drink his wine — one gkiss of claret every day at dinner — and dislike him openly all the time. Ihit I am here because Christabel is here — just as I would be with her in the dominions of Orcus. She is — well — almost the only creature I lov(» in this world, and it would take a good deal more than my dislilc(» of her husband to part us. If she had married a galU'y-slave I would have taken my turn at the oar.' ' You are as tru(» as steel,' said Angus: 'ami I am glad to think Christabel has such a friend.' To all the rest of the world he spok« of her as Mrs. Tregonell, nor did he ever address her by any other name, iiut to Jt-ssie Bridgeman, who had been with them in the halcyon days of ' .. 'I J: t fc -I '4 f. 1 \ 'fa 1 1 216 Mount Boy at. their iovcinakincf, she was si ill ClH-i.stnltcl. To Jessie, and to none other, could he speak of her with perfect fjeedom. ^i* i CIIArTEU XX. •who knows not ciuce?' The atitumn days crept by, sonictimea f,'rey and sad of aspr'cr sometimes railiant and suii.iy, as if sumuitT had risen from her grave amidst fallen loaves and faded heather. It was altogether a lovely autumn, like that beauteous season of live years ago, and Christabel and Angr.s wandered about the hills, and lingered by the trout stream in the warm green valley, almost as freely as they had done in the ])ast. They were never alone — Jessie Bridgeman was always with them — very often Dopsy and Mopsy — anil sometimes ]\[r. Tregonell with Captain Vandeleur and half a dozen dogs. One day they all went u]) the liill, and crossed the ploughed field to the ])ath among the gorse and heather above Pentargou JJay — and Dopsy and jNtopsy climbed ciags and knolls, and screamed jiUVightedly, and made a large dis2)lay of boots, and were gent«r;dly fascinating after their manner. ' If any place could tempt me to smoke it would be this,' said Dopsy gazing se;iward. All the n.en excejtt Angus were smoking, ' i think it must be nttei-]y lovely to sit dreaming over a cigarette in such a place as tliis.' * What would you dream about/ asked Angus. 'A now bonnet 'I ' ' J.)()n"t be cynical. You lliiuk I ;'.m awfully shallow, because I am not a j)erambulating book-slulf like ]Mrs. Tregimcll, wlio seems to have read all the books that ever were i)rinted.' ' There you are wrong. She })as read a few — 7io)i 'in}ilta scd invltum — but they are tlie very best, and she lias read them well enough to remember them,' answered Angus, ijuietly. 'Ami ]\Jop and I oft-n read three volumes in a day, and seldom remember a line of what we read,' sighed Dopsy, * Indeed, we are awfullv ignorant. Of course we learnt thimra at school — French and German — Italian — natural history — ])hysical geography — geology — and all the onomies. Indeed, I shudder when I remember what a lot of learning was poured into our poor little heails, and how soon it all ran out again,' Dopsy gave her ni^st fascinating giggle, and sat in .an a'sthetic attitude idly plucking u]) faded heather blossoms with a tightly gloved hand, and wondering whether Mr. IlaTnleigh noticed how small the hard was. She thought she was going nvd Wlio knoivs not Circe f 217 strai/^ht to hia heart with llipso iiaK'o confessions; hIio bad always heard that men Iwitod learned women, and no doubt Mi'. Hainleigh's habit of prosing about books with Mrs. Tregonell was merely the liomage he payed to his hostess. * You and Mrs. Tregonell are so dreadfully grave when yon get together,' pursued Dojisy, seeing tliat lier companion 1m id his peace. She had contrived to be by Mr. llandeigh.-t sidi^ when he crossed the held, and had in a manner gut possessed of him for the rest of the afternoon, l)arring some violent struggle for emancij)ation on his part. ' I ;\l\vaya wonder what you can find to say to each other.' ' I don't think there is mucli cause for wonder. Wo li;ivi> many tastes in common. We are both fond of nuisic — of Nature — and of books. There is a wide held for conversation.' 'Why won't you talk with me of books. There are some books I adore. Let us talk about Dickens.' * With all my heart. I udmire every line ho wrote — I think liim the greatest genius of this age. We have had great writei s — great thinkers — great masucrs of style — but Scott and Dickens were tlie Creators — they made new worlds and peo])led them. I am quite ready to talk about Dickens.' ' I don't think I could say a single word after that outburst of yours,' said Dopsy ; * you go too fast for me.' He had talked eagerly, willing to talk just now even to ^Fiss Vaiidelcur, trying not too vividly to renicmlx'r that other day — that unforgotten hour — iu whic)' on this spot, face to fac(^ with ilvdt ever cliaiigiug, ever changeless soa, he had submitted his fat(! to (^livistab-.'l, not daring to ask for her love, warning her ratlier au^ainst tlio iiiisory that misj-lit come to her from loviuLT him. And misery had con)e, but not as he presaged. It had oonie from his youthful sin, that one fatal turn u))on the road of life which he had taken so lightly, tripping with joyous com- ])anions along a path strewn with roses. He, like so many, had gathered his rosus while he might, and had found that he had to bear the sting of their thorns when Ik; nnist. Leonard came up behind them as they talked, Mr. Ilamleigli standing by Miss Vandeleur's side, digging his stick into the heather and staring idly at the sea. * What are you two talking about so earnestly?' he asked ; *you are always together. I begin to understand why Ilamleigh is so indifferent to sport.' The remark struck Angus as strange, as well as underbred. Dopsy had contrived to intlict a good deal of her society upon liim at odd times ; but he had taken particular care that nothing in his bearing or discourse should compromise either himself or the v ouncr lady, Do]xsy giggled faintly, and looked modestly at tiie heather. 1 '1: i':u n\ . 1 [' ■i'[ ! $ ! Ilh m 'I 1 ?v i' I'M ii! 218 Mount Boyal. It was still early in the afternoon, and the western lltjht shono full uj)()n a face; which n»i,L;lit have l)een pretty if Nalure'.s bloom hail not lon,L( f,'iven ])laee to the ]>oetic pallor of the p()\V(le"-iuitt'. *\Vo were talkinj,' about Dickens,' .sjiid Dop.sy, with an elabo- rate air of Hirii^fglinif with the tumult of her feclin^^d. ' Don't you adore him {' * If you mean the man who wrote books, I never lead 'em,' answered Leonard ; 'life isn't long enough for books that don't teach you anything. I've read ])retty nearly every book that was ever written upon horses and dogs and guns, and a good many on mechanics ; that's enough for me. I don't care for books that only titillate one's imagination. Why should om; read books to make oneself cry and to make oneself laugh. It'a as idiotic a habit as taking snuff to make oneself sneeze.' * That's rather a severe way of looking at the subject,' said Angus. ' It's a practical way, that's all. My wife surfeits herself with poetry. She is stuffed with Tennyson and Browning, loaded to the very muzzle with Byron and Shelley. She reads Sliakespeare as devoutly as she reads her Bible. But I don't see that it hel])s to make her pleasant company for her husband or her friends. She is never so happy as when she has her nose in a book ; gi\e lier a bundle of books and a candle and she would be hapj)y in the little house on the top of Willapark.' * Not without you and her boy,' said Dopsy, gushingly. * She could never exist without you two.' Mr. Tregonell lit himself another cigar, and strolled oflf with- out a word. ' He has not lovable manners has he ? ' inquired Dopsy, with her childish air ; ' but he is so good-hearted.' ' No doubt. You have known him some time, haven't you 1 ' inquired Angus, who had been struggling with an uncomfortable yearning to kick the Squire into the Bay. The scene offered such temptations. They were standing on the edge of the amphitheatre, the ground shelving steeply down- ward in front of them, rocks and water below. And to think that she — his dearest, she, all gentleness and refinement, was mated to this coarse clay ! Was King Marc such an one as this 1.0 wondered, and if he were, who could be angry with Tristan — Tristan who died longing to see his lost love — struck to death by his wife's cruel lie — Tristan whose passionate soul passed by metempsychosis into briar and leaf, and crept across the arid rock to meet and mingle with the beloved dead. Oh, how sweet and sad the old legend seemed to Angus to-day, standing above the melancholy sea, where he and she had stootl folded in each other's arms iu the sweet triumphant moment of love's lii-st avowal. Wlio knows not Circe f* 219 Dopsy did not allow him much leisure for mournful medita- tion. She jnattled on in that sweetly gii-lish manner which waa nioant to be all H|)irit and sparkle — glancing fr»m theme to theme, like the butterfly among the flowers, and showing a level ignorance on all. Mr. llandeigh listened with Christian resigna- tion, anil even allowed himself to be her escort home — and to seem especially attentive to her at afternoon tea : for although it may take two to make a quarrel, assuredly one, if she be but brazen enough, may make a flirtation. Dopsy felt that time was short, and that strong m?a.sures were necessary. Mr. Ifamleigh had been very polite — attentive even. Dopsy, accus- tomed to the free and e;usy manners of her brother's friends, mistook Mr. Hamle'gh's natural courtsey to the sex for ])articu- lar homage to the individual. But he had ' said nothing,' and she waa no nearer the assurance of beioming Mrs. llandeigh than she had been on the evening of his arrival. Dopsy uad been fain to confess this to Mopsy in the contidence of sisterly discourse. ' It seems as if I might just as well have had a try for him myself, instead of standing out to give you a better chance,' retorted, Mopsy, somewhat scornfully. * Go in and win, if you can,' said Dopsy. * It won't be the first time you've tried to cut me out.' Dopsy, embittered by the sense of failure, determined on new tactics. Hitherto she had been all sparkle — now she melted into a touching satlnusa. * What a delicious old room this is,' she murmured, glancing round at the bookshelves and dark panelling, the iiigh wide chimney-piece with its coat-of-arms, in heraldic colours, flash- ing and gleaming against a background of brown oak. ' I cannot help feeling wretched at the idea that next week I shall be far away from this dear place — in dingy dreary London. Oh, Mr. Handeigh,' — detaining him while she se- lected one particular })iece of sugar from the baisin he was handing her — 'don't you detest Loudon?' ' Not absolutely. I have sometimes found it endurable.' *Ah, you have your clubs — just the one pleasant street in all the great overgrown city — and that street lined with palaces, whose doors are always standing open for you. Libraries, smoking rooms, billiard-tables, perfect dinners, and all that is freshest and brightest in the way of society. I don't wonder men like London. But for women it has only two attraction* — Mudie, and the sho])- windows ! ' ' And the park — the theatres — the churches — the delight of looking at other women's gowns and bonnets. I thought that could never pall 1 ' *It does though. There comea a time when one feels ■■ I E 1 r^i ■li, '♦ . ^ii ■(I ^ I'll ' t • '!' J^ ■ '?20 Mount Boyal. woary of everything',' Hiiid Doj)sv, ppiiHiveJy Rtinin;^ hor t<»a, and HO fixinc^ Mr. ir.imlci;(h with lier oouvcr.sjitiuii tluit It", w.'is obliffod to linger — yea, t;v(!ii to sot dowti liis own ti';i-('ii|j on an adjacent table, and to Hcat himself hy the charmer's sidi*. *I tliou^fht you 80 delighted in the theatres,' he saiil. * You were full of enthusiasm about the drama the nigiit I first dined here.' * W.xs I ? ' demanded Dopsy, naively, * Ami now I feel as if I did not caro a straw about all the ]ilays that were ever acted — all the actors who ever lived. Strange, is it not, that ojio can change so, in one little fortnight?' * "J'he change is an hallucination. You are fascinated by the charms of a rural life, which you liave not known long enough for satiety. You will be just as fond of plays and players when you get back to London.' 'Never,' exclaimed Dopsy. * It is not only my taste tliat is changed. It is myself. I feel as if I were a new creature.' ' What a blessing lor yourself and society if the change were radical,' said Mr. Hamleigh, within himself ; and then he answered, lightly, * Perhaps you have been attending the little chapel at Boa- castle, secretly imbibing the doctrines of advanced Metliodisni, and this is a spiritual awakening.' * No,' sighed Dopsy, shaking her head, i)ensively, as she gazed at her teacup. ' It is an utter change. I cannot make it out. I don't think I shall ever care for gaiety — parties — theatres — dress — again.' ' Oh, this must be the influence of the Methodists.' * I hate Methodists ! I never spoke to one in my life. I should like to go into a convent. 1 should like to belong to a I'rotestant sisterhood, and to nurse the poor in their own houses. It would be nasty ; I should catch some dreadful com[>laint, and die, I daresay ; but it would be better than what I feel now.' And Dopsy, taking advantage of the twilight, and the fact that she and Angus were at some distance from the rest of the ])arty, burst into tears. They were very real tears — tears of vexation, disa])i)ointment, despair ; and they made Angus very uncomfortable. *My dear Miss Vandeleur, I am so sorry to see you dis- tressed. Is there anything on your mind ? Is there anything that I can do ? Shall I fetch your sister ? ' * No, no,' gasped Dopsy, in a choked voi»3e. * Please don't go away. I like you to be near rae.' She put out her hand — a chilly, tremulous hanc^ with no passion in it save the passionate pain of despair, and touched his timidly, eutreatingly, as if she were calling upon him for pity and help. She wjis, indeed, in her inmost heart, asking him to si(U', You lir.st Who knows not Circe T 221 rescue lior from tho rrreat dismal swamp of p >vorty nful i\U- repute ; to take her to himself, ami if m ( <»» ! i 1 t;|. ' I I ; J Vi ! ii '■'I k m 222 Mount Royal, * Don't you tliiiik if — if — J;ick wore to nay .anything— were iust to liint thiit 1 was F)ciii<;( made very iinnappy — that such tnark«'(l attentionn before all tlie world put nie in a false positiuu — ddi't yon tiiink it nii^'lit do harm T 'C^iite the ('(intrarv. It would do pood. No man onpfht to triHo with a j^drl's ft'elint,'(4 in that way. No man shall he allowed to do it in my house. If Jack won't speak to him, 1 will.' 'Oh, Mr. Tref,'onell, what a nohle heart you have — what a true friend you have always been to ual ' * You are my friend's sister — my wife's guest. I won't see you trilled with.' ' And you really thitdc his attentions liave been marked? ' * Very much marked, lie shall not be ])onuitted to amuso himself aT, your expense. There he sits, talking sentiment to my Nvifi! — just as he hius talked sentiment to you. Why doesn't lie keep on the safe side, and coniine his attentions to married women V * You are not jealous of him ?' asked Do])sy, with some alarm. 'Jealous! I! It would take a very extraordinary kind of wife, and a very extraordinary kind of admirer of that wife, to make ovo jealous.' Dopsy felt her hopes in somewise revived l)v Mr. Tregonell's manner of looking at things. Up to this point she hapy for life. She went up to her room to dress in a flutter of hope and fe:ir ; so aLfil.iteil, that she could scarcely manage the more lay Jack and one of the girls. Billiards is the tnily ijame at which one can aH'oi'd to play against rehitions — they can't t;heat. iMopsy, will you play J Doj)sy can mark.' ' What a thorough good fellow he is,' thought Dop.sy, charmed with an arrangement which left her comparativt;Iy free for flirtation with Mr. Hamleigh, who had taken ])()sscssion of Christabel'a favourite seat — a low capacious basket-chair — by the wide wood fire, and had Christabel's table near him, loaded with her books, and work-l)asket — those books whicji wen; nil lli^ favourites as well as liers, and which iii;ele an indissolulije link between them. What is mere blood relationship compared wilH the £(r^l«#ler ti^^ of nuit^ial likings and diilikings / n ^■ r f; k ' \. 4 M ' 4. HI V. *f 224 Mount Boyal. The muii all lighted their cigarettes, and the game progressed with tolerably C([\m\ fortunes, Jack Vandelcur playing well enough to make amends for any lack of skill on the part of Mopsy, whose want of the scientific purpose and certainty which come from long experience, was as striking as her da«liing and self -assured method of handling her cue, and her free use of all slang terms peculiar to the game. Dojjsy oscillated between the marking-board and the fireplace — sometimes kneeling on the Persian rug to play with Ilandie and the other dogs, sometimes standing in a pensive attitude by the chimney-piece, talldng to Angus. All traces of tears were gone. Her cheeks were Hushed, her eyes brightened by an artful touch of Indian ink under the lashes, her eyebrows accentuated by the same artistic treatment, her large fan held with the true Grosvenor Gallery air. * Do you believe that peacocks' feathers are unlucky ? ' she asked, looking pensively at the fringe of green and azure plumage on her fan. ' I am not altogether free from superstition, but my idea of the Fates has never taken that particular form. "Why should ilm peacock be a bird of evil omen 1 I can believe anything bad of the screech-owl or the raven — but the harmless ornamental jjf.'acock — surely he is innocent of our woes.' 'I have known the most direful calamities follow the intro- duction of peacocks' feathers into a drawing-room — yet tlioy are so teni;»tiiig, one can hardly live without tluin.' ' lieally ! Do you know that I have found existence endurable without so much as a tuft of down from that unmelodious bird 'i ' ' Have you never longed for its plumage to give life and colour to your rooms ? — such exquisite colour — such delicious harmony — I wonder that you, who have such artistic taste, can resist tliu f;uscination.' ' I hope you have not found that pretty fan the cause of many woes ? ' said Mr. Hamleigh, smilingly, as the damsel posed herself in the early Itiilian manner, and slowly waved the bright-hued plumage. ' I cannot say that I have been altogether happy since I pos- sessed it,' answered Do})sy, with a shy downward glance, and a smothered sigh ; 'and yet I don't know — I have been only tcio ha])py sometimes, perhaps, and at other times deeply wi'etched.' ' Is not that kind of variableness common to our poor human nature — independent of peacocks' feathers V ' Not to me. I used to be the most thoughtless happy-go- lucky creature.' ' Until when?' *Till [ came to Cornwall,' with a faint sigh, and a sudiiiu upward glance of a jiair of blue eyes which would have bcuii pretty, hud they been only innocent of all scheming. Who knows not Circe ? ' 225 *Thon I'm afraid tliis mixture r»f sea and moimtaiii air dooa not ai^ree with you. Too exciting for your nerves porliaps.* ' 1 don't think it is that,' with a still fainter sijfh. 'Then the peacocks' feathers must be to blame. Why don't you throw your fan into the lire V ' Not for worlds,' said Dopsy. 'Why not?' ' First, because it cost a guinea,' naively, ' and then because it is associated with quite the happiest period of my life.' ' You said just nov you had been unhappy since you owned it.* ' Only by tits and starts. Two utterly hap}»y at other times.' 'If I say another word she will dissolve into tears again,' tliought Angus.] * I shall have to leave Mount l-oyal : a man in weak health is no match for a young woman of this iy\ni. She will get me into a corner and declare I have ])ropose(l to her.' lie got up and wxMit over to the tal)le, where Mr. Montagu was just linishing the game, with a bi'eak wliicli had left I>v'i>sy free for llirtation during the la.st ten minutes. Mr. Handeigh ])layed in the next game, but this hardly bettered his contlition, for Dojisy now took her sister's place with the cue, and rei(uired to be instructed as to every stroke, and even to have her lingers placed in po.i.ion, now and then by Angus, when the ball was luider the cushion, and the stroke iu any way dillicult. This lengthened the game, and bored Angus exceedingly, besides making him ridiculous in the eyes of the other three men. ' I hate playing with lovers,' mutt«Ted Leonard, under his breath, when Dopsy was especially worryiiig Alx)ut the exact point at which she was to hit the ball for a parti'Udar i;annon. 'Decidedly I must got away to-morrow,' relleeted Angus. The game went on merrily enough, and was only just over when the stable clock struck eleven, at which hour the servants brought in a tray with a tankard of mulled claret for vice, and a siphon for virtue. The Miss \\'indeleurs, after jyretending to say good-night, were ])ei"suaded to sij) a little of the hot sj):eed wine, and were half inclined to ae('e|)t the cigarettes [xM'sii.iJiiveiy ottered by ]\Ir. Montagu ; till, warned by a wiidc fi'oru Jaek, Ihey drew u]) suddeidy. declartMl they had been »|uile too av.f';il!y di->si|);ited, that they f^hould be too i*te to wi.-li .Mrs. Tre^.^nuelJ gooil-night, and ski|)pod away. ' Awfully jolly givls, those sist(>rs of yours,' sai'l Monta^,ni, as he elosed (lii! dnor \\hi<'h he hail opetieil for the (iaiii-^ejs' exil, ;oi(l ?*li(>lled liaek to f m- mm 22G Mount Boyal. Jack Vi ];(]: liur and his liost liad l)f^gun another game, deliijditcd at having the table to themselves. ' Yes, they're nice girls,' answered INIr. Vandeleur, without looking off the table; * just the right kind of girls for a coimtry- house : no starch, no prudishness, but a.s innocent as babies, and as true-hearted — well, they are all lieart I shoukl be sorry to i?ee anybody trifle with either of thoni. It would be a very perious thing for her — and it should be my business to make it serious for him.' 'Great advantage for a girl to have a brother who enjoys the reputation of being a dead shot,' said Mr. Montagu, 'or it would be if duelling were not an exploded institution — like trial for witflicraft, and hanging for petty larceny.' ' Unfiling is never out of fashion, among gentlemen,' answered Jack, making a cannon and going in off the red. ' That mak<'s seventeen, IMonty. There are injuries which nothing but the ])i.stol can redress, and I'm not sorry that my lied liiver ex- perience ha^ made me a pretty good shot. Hut I'm not half as good as Leonard, lie could give me lif ty iii a hundred any day.' ' When a man has to keep his party in butcher's meat by the use of his rifle, he'd need be a decent marksman,' answered Mr. Trogonell, carelessly. ' I never knew the right use of a gun till 1 cro.-sed the Jvoekies. Ly-the-way, who is fur woodcock shooting to-iuuvrow ? ^'ou'il come, I su}ii»o.se, Jack ?' 'Not to-morrow, thanks. Monty and I are going over t» llodmin to see a man hanged. AVe've got an order to view, as the house-agents call it. Monty is sup})osed to be on the Times. I go for the Wcsitirn Daily Mercury.^ 'What a horrid ghoulish thing to do,' said Leonard. *It's seeing life,'" answered Jack, shrngging his sjioulders. * I should call it the other thing. However, as rri*ue is very rare in Cornwall, you may as wi'U make the i ,..st of your (>l)portunity. Lut it's a pity to neglect the birds, YV ^ is one of tile best seasons we've hud since 18G0, when th'''! u'os a vcnnarkable flight of birds in the second week in October, Lut even that year wasn't tis good as '55, whe:Ki farmer at St. Buiyau killed close u]wn sixty birds in a week. You'll go to-morrow, 1 hope, Mr. lEamleigh ? There's some very good gnnmd about St. Ncctan's Ivieve, and it's a ijicturescjue sort of place, that will just hit your fancy.' 'I have been to the Kieve, often — yes, it is a lovely spot,' answered Angus, rememl)erin;; liis first visit to Mount Koyal, and the golden afternoons which he had .-ipent with Christahel amon({ tiio rocks nnd tJie fenis, their low voices half drowned by the noire of the waterfall. ' But I shan't be able to shoot to- '■'Tioj-rov:. I have just been n)aking up my mind to teai* myself * WJio knoivs not Circe f * 227 away from ]\Ioimt Royal, and I was going to ask 3'ou to let ono of your grooms drive me over to Launcostou in time for the 11 lid -day train. I Ciin get up from Plymouth by the Limited 3Iail.' ' Why are you in such a hurry?' askod Leonard. *I thought you were rather enjoying yourself with us,' ' So much so that as far as my own inclination goes there m no reason wliy I should not stay hero for the rest of my life — only you would get tired of me— anil I have j)romised my doctor to go southward before the frosty weatiier begins.' ' A day or two can't make much ditference,' * Xot much — only when there is a disagreeable effort to be made the sooner one gets it over the better.' ' I am sorry you are off so suddenly,' said Leonard, going on with the game, and looking rather oddly across the table at Ciij)tain Yandoleur. ' I am more than sorry,' said that g(^ntleman, * I am surprised. Dut perhaps I am not altogether in the secret of your move- nieiits.' * There is no secret,' said Angus. ' Isn't there ? Then I'm considerably mistaken. It haa looked very much lately as if there wi^re a i)articular miderstand- i]i!X between von and mv elder sister ; and I think, as lier bi'other, I have 'Some right to be let into the secret before you leave Mount l\oyal.' 'I am sorry tliat either my manner, or Miss Yandeleur';^, should have so far misled you,' answered Angus, with freezing ^'ravity He pitied the sister, but felt only cold contem])tfor the hrother. 'The young lady and I have never interchanged a word which might not have been heard by everybody at Mount xioyal.' 'And you have had no serious intiiilions — you have never pretended to an/ serious feeling about her?' 'Never. Charming as the young lady nmy be, I have been, and am, adamant against all such fascinatinns. A man who liaH lieen told that he may not iivi; a year is liai'djy in a position to make an oiler of marriaL!;e. (iood-night, Treg<»nell. 1 shall rely on your letting^^ne of your men drive me to the station.' He nodded wod-ni'dit to the other two men, and left the room, li.'indie, who loved him f'>r the sake of old times, followid at his 1 1 eels. 'There goes a cur wlio desoi'ves a df»se of c(-»Id lead,' said .'.ick, looking vindictively towards the do(jr. 'What, Kandie, my wife's favourite ^' ' No, tile two-legged cur. Come, you two men know how uuUiigeously that pnppy ha.s flirted with my sister.' ' 1 know there has been — some kind of flirtation,' answered f'" M I 'l ' 228 B/nnnt JRojjal. Mr. MontajDjn, luxuriously ':uri('d in a hw^e arm-cliair, with li!.^. legs haiigiui,' over the arm, 'and I .siip])use it's the man who's t(j bhinie. Of course ^t always is the man.' ' ])id you ever hear such a sneaking evasion'?' demande(^ Jack, 'Not a year to live forsooth. Why if lie cin't make her his wife he is Ixnnid as a gentleman to make her his widow.' ' He has plenty of coin, hasn't he V asked Alontagu. 'Your sister has never gone for me — and I'm dreadfully soft under such treatment. WIkmi I think of the minilx'r of girls I've jjropostd to, and how gracefully I've always backed out of it afterwards, 1 really wonder at my own audacity. 1 never refuse to marry the lady — pan si hcte : " I adore you, and we'll be married to-morrow if you like," I say. " 15ut you'll have to live with your jjapa and mamma for the first ten years. I'erlinps by tliat time I. might be al)le to take second-tloor lodgings in Bloomsbury, and wo could begin housekee])ing." ' * You're a ])rivileged pauper,' said Captain Vandeleur ; *!Mr. llamleigh is quite another kind of individual — anil I say that lie has liehaved in a dastardly manner to my elder sister. Everybody in this house thought tliat he was in love with her.' 'You have told us so several times,' answereil jMontagu, coolly, 'and we're bound to believe you, tlon't you know.' 'I should have tliought you'd havo liad too nnudi spunk to see an old friend's sister jilted in such a barefaced way, Tregoneli,' said Jack Vandeleur, who had dniuk just enough to make him ([Uanelsome. 'You don't mean to say that 1 am accountalde for his actions, do you r retorted Leonard. 'That's rather a large order.' ' I mean to say that you asked liini here — and you ])nfb'(l liim oil" as a great catch — and half tui'iied poor little Jjop'.s head by your talk about him. If you knew what an ariaut llirt he was you oughtn't to have brought him inside youj doors.' 'l*erlia])s I didn't know anything about it,' answered Leonanl, with his most exasperating air. 'Then I can only say that if half I've lieard is true you ought to have known all about it.' 'As how?' 'iJecause it is common club-talk that he flirted with your wife — was engaged to her — ami was thrown oil" by Jier > n .'iicoiint of his extremely disreputalilc antecfdeuts. Youinn-ilhrr has the sole credit of the throwing oil', by-tlie-by.' ' You had better leave my motlar's name and my wife'* ranie out of your conversation. That's twt nty-eight to ni' . J\l(tnty. Poker has 8j.K)iled a capital break by his d u personality.' th 'And Time is Settiny wV Me, 0.* 220 *I beg your pardon — ^Nlrs. Troi-onell is simply perfect, and there is no woman T more deeply iionour. Hut still you n\ust allow me to wonder that you e/er let that man cross your threshold.' * You are welcome to go on wondering. It's a wholesome exercise for a sluggish brain.' ' Game,' exclaimed Mr. Montague ; and Leonard put his cue in the rack, and walked away, without another word to cither of his guusts. 'He's a dreadful boar,' said little ]VIonty, emptying the tankard; 'but you oughtn't to have talked about the wife, Toker — that was bad form.' 'Does he ever study good form when he talks of my people? He had no business to bring that line gentleman here to llirt with my sister.' ' IJut really now, don't you think your sister did her share of the llirting, and lliat she's rather an old hand at that kind of thing? I adore Do]) and Mop, as I'm sui'o you know, and I only wish I were rich enough to back my o])inion by marrying one of them — but I d(jn t think our dear litlli; Dojisy is the kind of girl to break her heart about any man — more esj)ecially a sentimental duller with hollow cheeks and a hollow cough.' CnAPTER XXI. *AlfD TIME IS SETTING Wl' ME, O.* Angus Hamleigii left the billiard players with the intention of going straight to his own room ; but in the hall he encountered the Rector of Trevalga, who was just going away, wry apologetic at having stayinl so late, beguiled by the fascination of antiquarian talk. Cliristabcl ami Jessie had come out to the hall, to bid their old friends good-night, and thus it ha])pened that Mr. Ilanileigh went back to the drawing-room, and sat there talking till nearly inidnight. They sat in front of the dying lire, talking as they had talked in days gone by — and their conversation grew sad and solenni as the hour wore on. Angus announced his intended departure, and Chriatabel nad no word to say against his decisicn. ' We shall be very sorry to lose y^ni,' she said, shelteiing her personality beliind the i>lural pronoun, 'but 1 think it is wise of you to waste no more time.' 'I have not wasted an hour. It has been unspeakable happiness for me to be here — and I am more grateful than I 11 Wf! \ iii 230 Mount Boyal. I < can say to your husband for having brought me kere — forhavin(! treated me with such frank cordiality. The time has come when I may speak very freely — yes — a man wlioso race is so nearly run need have no reserves of thought or feeling. I think, Mrs. Tregonell, that you and Miss Bridgeman, who knows me almost aa well as you do ' 'Better, perhaps,' murmured Jessie, in a scarcely audible voice. 'Must both know tliat my life for the past four years has been one long regret — that all my days and hours have been steeped in the bitterness of remorse. I am not going now to dispute the justice of the sentence which spoiled my life and broke my heart. I submitted without question, because I knew tliat the decree was wise. I had no right to offer you the ruin of a life ' * Do not speak of that,' cried Christabel, with a stifled sob, *for pity's sake don't speak of the past : I cannot bear it.' * Then I will not say another word, except to tell you that your goodness to me in these latter days — your friendship, so frankly, so freely given — has steeped my soul in peace — has filled my mind with sweet memories which will soothe my houi"s of decline, when I am far from this dear house where I was once so happy. I wish I could leave some pleasant memory here when I am gone — I wish your boy had been old enough to remember me in the days to come, as one who loved him better than any one on earth could love him, after his father and mother,' Christabel answered no word. She sat with her hand before hci eyes — tears streaming slowly down her cheeks — tears l^iat were happily invisible in the faint light of the shaded lamps and the fading tire. And then they went on to talk of life in the abstract — it? difficulties — its ])roblems — its consolations — and of death — and the dim world beyond — the unknown land of universal recom- pense, where the deep joys striven after here, and never attained, are to be oura in a purer and more spiritual form — wheie love shall no longer walk hand in hand with pain and sorrow, dogged by the dark spectre Death. Illness and solitude had done much to exalt and spiritualize Angus Hamleigh's mind. The religion of dogma, the strict liard-and-fiist creed which was the breath of life to Leonard's mother, had never been grappled with o ■ accepted by him — but it was in his nature to be religious. Never at his worst had he sheltered his errors under the brazen front of paganism — never had he denied the beauty of a pure and perfect life, a simple childlike faith, heroic self-abnegating love of God and man. lie had admired and honoured sucli virtue in others, and had been iorry that Nature had cast him in a lower mould. Then had ■.fn * And Time is Setting wi' il/c, 0.' 231 come the sentence which told him that his cl.iya were to be of the fewest, and, without conscious effort, his thout^hts h;ul t.ikeu a more serious cast. The <:freat })roblem had come nearer lioino to him — and he had found its only solution to bo hoi)e — hojw more or less vague and dim — more or less secure and steadfast — according to the temperament of the thinker. All metaphysical argument for or against — all theological teaching could push the thing no further. It seemed to him that it was the univeisal instinct of mankind to desire and hope for an imperishable life, purer, better, fairer tlum the life we know here — and that innate in every human breast there dwells capacity for immortality, and disbelief in extinction — and to this universal instinct ho sur- rendered himself unreservedly, content to demand no stronger argument than that grand chapter of (..'orinthians which haa consoled so many generations of mourner^. So now, speaking with these two women of the life to come — the fair, sweet, all-satisfying life after death — he breathed no word which the most orthodox charclunan might not have approved, lie spoke in the fulness of a fuith which, based ou instinct, and not on dogma, had ri|)L'ued with the decline of all delight and interest in this lower life. lie spoke as a man for whom earth's last moorings had buju loo.sent.'d, wlmse only hopes pointed skyward. It was while he was talking thus, with an almost passionate earnestness, and yet wholly free from all earthly ]);ussion, that Mr. Tregonell entered the room and stood by the door, contcm- jilating the group by the hearth. The spectacle was not pleasant to a man of intensely jealous temperament, a man who had l)een testing and proving the wife whom he could n exercise of a dawning imagi n : so it was his mother's di'liglit to ramble with him in an ii..,i-inary wood, and to ily from imaginary wolves, lurking in dark caverns, n-jire- sented by the obscure n^gioiid undi'rneatli a table-cover — or to repose with him on imaginary mountain-tops on the .S(jfa — or be engulfed with him iu .sofa jjillows, which .stood for whelming waves. Then there were })icturcs to be looked at, and little Leo had to be lovingly instructed in the art of turning over a leaf without tearing it from end to end — and the necessity for re- straining an inclination to thrust all his lingers into his mouth between whiles, and sprawl them admiringly on the page after- wards. Time so beguiled, even on the dullest morning, and with a larking, indetinite sense of trouble in her mind all the while, went rapiilly with Christabt'l. She looked up with .surprise when the stable clock struck eleven. 'So late'i Do you know if the dog-cart has started yet, Carson ? ' ' Ye.'', ma'am, I heard it drive out of the yard half-an-liour ago,' answered the nurse, looking u]) from her needle-work. ' Well, I must go. Good-bye, Baby, I think, if you are very good, you might have your dinner witii mamnuu Din-din — with — mum — mum — mum' — a kiss between i T ^y ' You Ciin bring him down, nurse. I shall have only the ladies with me at luncheon.' There were still further leave-taking, o-^i •li UlS- ith a vhile, ' With such Jlcmorsclcss Sprcd .4ill coma New IT/^.v.' 2*^7 nui\ thrti ('In is(;il»c"l wont (l(>wns(;iii's. On Imt w.iy |i;ust lu-i lui.sliainl'ti study sIk' saw tlic (Incir standing aj;ir. ' Aro you there, Leonard, and alunu'r 'Yes.' She went in. IIo was sittinij at Iuh drsk — liis elicntie-hook open, tradrsiueii's account/ spread out before Iiiiu-all the sii^ns and tokens of business-lf.e , with his liead bent over tlu' taMe. ' How strange for him lo go alone, in his wi'alc health, and with a fatiguing journey lufore him.' 'What's the fatigue of hjlliii:: in a railway carriage? Confound it, you've made me t-poil the cheinicl' nuittered Leonard, tearing the obluug slip of coloured paper across and across, impatiently. 'liuw your hand shakes! Ilavo you been writing all the morning?' ' Yes — all tho morning,' absently, turning over tlie leaved of his ehe(iuo-book. ' JUit von Ikuc been out — voin* boots are nil over nnid.' 'Yes, I meant to have an hour or so at tin; biivls. T Lfot ns far as "NVillajiark, and then leniembered that Clavton Mauled lie money for the tradesmen to-day. One must stick to onc'a pay-day, tlon't you know, wlu'U one has made a rule.' 'Of course. Oh, there are the new (^)uarterlies ! ' said ( 'liristabel, seeing a package on the tabic. ' L)i^ you mind my ol)ening them here 'i ' 'No; as long JUS you h(jl(l your toii'^ue, and don't disLurl> nu; when I'm at ligui'cs.' This was not a V( ry gra'-ious pirniission to remain, but t 'l;ri.-,labcl seated herself t|uielly by the iire, and be;;,;n (o explore the two treasuries of ^\is(iom which the .lays po>t iia -1 f f ■.f" « ; (Mi f i I- H ■' , I )4- *>1 13 Mount Hoijal. ii it suited his liuni<»ur. Here, too, were the kennels of the dogs, whose conii)any Mr. Tregonell liked a little better than thiit of his fellow-raen. Leonard sat with hia head bent over the table, writing, Christabel in her chair by the fire turning the leaves of her liook in the rapture of a first skimming. They sat thus for about an hour, and then both looked up with a startled air, at the sound of wheels. It war. the dog-cart that was being driven into the yard, Mr. Ilamleigh's servant sitting behind, walled in by a portmanteau and a Gladstone bag. Leonard opened the window, and looked out. ' What's up V he asked. * Has your master changed his mind ? * The valet alighted, and came across the yard to the window. ' We haven't seen Mr. Hamleigh, sir. There must have been Home mistake, I think. We waited at the gate foi nearly an hour, and then Baker said we'd better come back, as we must liave missed ]\Ir. Hamleigh, somehow, and he might be hero waiting for us to take him to Launcesl jx..' ' Bakei''s a fool. How could you miss him if he went to the Kieve i There's only one way out of that pl.ice — or only one way that Mr. Hamleigh could find. Did you inquire if he went to the Kieve?' 'Yes, sir. Baker went into tlie farmhouse, and they told him that a gentleman had come with his gun and a dog, and had asked for the key, and had gone to the Kieve alont'. They were not certitiu as to whether he'd come back or not, but he hadn't taken the key back to the house. He might have put it into his pocket, and forg(jtten all about it, don't you see, sir, after he'd let himself out of the gate. That's what Baker said ; and he niiu;lit have come back here.' ' iVrliaps he has come back,' answered Leonard, carelessJy. ' You'd better inquire.' 'I don't think ho can have returned,' said Cliristabel, standing near tl^ window, very [mle. 'How do you know r a.-le, was liroiight to receive his orders from Mrs. Tregt)nell. Daniel admired the calm gravity with which she gave tlie man his instrui;tions, (iesj)it(! her colour- less cheek and tiie look of pain in every feature of her face. 'You will take two or three of tin; stablemen with you, and go as fast as you can to the Kieve. You had better go in ijie light cart, ami it would be as- well to take a mattress, and some pillows. If — if there should have been an accident those luiglit be useful. Mr. Ifamleigh left the house early this nun-ning with his gun to go to the Kiove, and he was to have met the dog-cart at eleven. I5aker waited at the gate till twelve— but pfihapa you have heard.' * Yes, ma'am, Baker told mc It's strange — but Mr. Ham- leigh may have (rverlookcd the time if he li.ul good sport. J)(> you kiutw which of the do^^s he took with hitii ?' •No. Why doyoii a.sk^' 'Because 1 rather thought it w;is Saiubo. Sandx> w.-vs alwav.i •ifo.vourite «.'f Mr. iia.uleigh's, though he's gettrng rather too old m m ! : 1 f . ! 'ii 1, i f ,f I ♦ 1 vl III w 210 Mount Boy at. si i1 for Ms work now. If it was Saniljo the ({o^ mnst have nin away and ' ft liim, for ho was back about the yard before ten o'clock. He' i been hurt somehow, for there was blood upon one of hia feet. Master had the red setter with him this morning, when he went for liis stroll, but I believe it must have been Sambo that Mr. Hamleigh took. There w;is only one of the lads about the yard when he left, for it was breakfast time, and the little guthn didn't notice.' 'But if all the other dogs are in their kennels — ' ' They aren't, ma'am, don't you see. The two gentlemen took a coujile of 'em to Bodmin in the break — and I don't know which. Sambo may have been with them — and may have got tired of it and come home. He's not a dug to appreciate that kind of thing.' ' Oo at once, if you please, Nicholls. You know what to do.' * Yes, ma'am.' Nicholls went his way, and the gong began to sound for luncheon. Mr. Tn-goneli, who rarely honoiu'ed the family with his pi'eHcnce at the mid-day meal, (•;iine out of his den to-day in answer to the sunnnons, and found his wife in the hall. ' I sujipose you are coming in to luncheon,' he said to her, in an angry aside. 'You need not look so scared. Your old lover is safe enough, I daresay.' ' I am not coining to luncheon,' she answered, looking at liiin with pale contempt, ' If you are not a little more careful of your Words I may never break bread with you again.' The gong went on with its discordant clamour, and Jessie Bridgemau came out of the diawing-room with the younger Miss Vandeleur. Boor ])oiisy was sinit in her own room, with ahead- ache. She had be(Mi indulginrdert'd his dinner to Ite biduuht. lb; was a little inclined to ri*ist this change of ]iian at the tirst, but was soon kissed into pic asaiilptss, and then the nurse \\;is dopatehed to th-' serv?>nt.s' hall, and Cliiisialiel had hev Im.v to lier^'lf, and ministered toliiui and amused him for the spn-e of an hour, despite an aching heart. Tiien, when t!ie nurse (inne li;-A:k, Mis. Tregonell \\ent to h^r o\\ n room, and sat at th(^ window watching the avenue by which the men nuist d''ive back to the house. '\.\\<-y did not come back till just when the gloom of thesunh^ss (\\\)j was dttuponing ivito stnrles-s night. Cliriutab^i ran down tt» oiKirtl him imI to into lllt.s' ,' ])retended not to see her, and ■went *itr;iiuht