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Ueiiry Fi'onch, dtl.^ 
 
 [T. Syarnons, Sc. 
 
 " Oh, my love ! my love ! she sobbed."— Page 335. 
 
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 ^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<lition on Itf)ugh Tor, 
 and then had to walk four or live miles in the rain before we 
 came to the inn wlic^e tho cnrriag(? was to wait for us. C-'lara and 
 I, who were alwiiys aliout in all weathers, were very little 
 Worse for the WeL walk and the; long drive home in damp clothes. 
 ]»ut CJeorge waa seriously ill for three weeks with cough and low 
 fever ; and it was at this time that our family doctor told my 
 father that he would not give much for his future son-in-law'a 
 life. There waa a marked tendency to lung complaint, he said ; 
 Cajitain ITandeigh had confessed that several members of his 
 family had died of consumption. My father told me this — urged 
 me to avoid a marriage which must end in misery to me, and waa 
 deeply grieved when 1 declared that no such consideration would 
 induce me to break my engagement, and to grieve the man I 
 loved. If it were needful that our marriage should be delayed, I 
 \s as contented to submit to any delay ; buc nothing could loosen 
 the tie between me and my dear love.' 
 
 Aunt and niece were both crying now. However familiar the 
 story might he, they always wept a little at this point. 
 
 ' George never knew one word of this conversation between 
 my father and me — he never suspected our l'eai*s — but from that 
 hour my happiness was gone. My life was one j)erpetual dread 
 — one ceaseless strugle to hide all anxieties and fears under a 
 smile. George rallied, and seemed to grow strong again— was 
 full of energy and high spirits, and I had to pretend to think him 
 as thoroughly recovered as he fancied himself. But by this time 
 I had grown sadly wise. I had questioned our doctor — had 
 looked into medical books — and I knew every sad si^ and teken 
 of decay. I knew what the Hushed cheek and the orilliant eye, 
 the damp cold hand, and the short cough meant I knew that 
 the hand of death was on him whom I loved more than all the 
 world besides. There was no need for the postponement of our 
 maniage. In the long bright days of August he seemed won- 
 derfully well— as well a.s he had been before the attack in May. 
 I waa almost happy ; for, in spite of what the doctor had told 
 
I 
 
 l!i; 
 
 8 
 
 Moimt Boyal. 
 
 me, I began to hope 1 but early in September, while the dress- 
 makers were in the house making my wedding clothes, the end 
 came Riuddenly, unexpectedly, witli only a few hours' warning. 
 Oh, Christabel ! I cannot apeak of that day !' 
 
 * No, darling, you shall not, you ninst not,' cried Christabel, 
 showering kisses on Iku- aunt's pale cheek. 
 
 * And yet you always lead her on to t.ilk about Cajitain Ham- 
 leigh,' said the sensible voic<^ out of the sliadow. * Isn't that just 
 a little inconsistent of our sweet Belle /' 
 
 ' Don't call me your * sweet Jielle' — a.-, if T were a baby,' ex- 
 claimed tlie girl. * I know I am incoTisislent — T was born 
 foolish, and no one ha.s e^er taken th(! tronlile to cure me of my 
 folly. Aiid now, Aunti<! dear, tell me about Ca]»tain Hiuideigh's 
 son — the boy who is coming here to-moirow.' 
 
 ' I have not seen him since he was at Eton. The Squire 
 drove me down on a Fourth of June to see him.' 
 
 'It was very good of Uncle Tregonell.' 
 
 * The Squife was always good,' replied Mrs. Tregonell, with a 
 dignified air. Christabel's only remembrance of her uncle was of 
 a large loud man, who blustered and scolded a good deal, and 
 frequently contrived, perhaps, without meaning it, to make 
 everybody in the house uncomf ortal )le ; so she reflected inwardly 
 tipon that blessed dispensation which, however poorly wives may 
 think of living husbands, provides that every widow should 
 consider her departed spouse completely admirable. 
 
 ' And was ho a nice a boy in those days ] ' asked Christabel, 
 keenly interested. 
 
 * He was a handsome gentleman -like lad — very intellectual 
 looking ; but I was grieved to see that he looked delicate, like 
 his father ; and his dame told me that he generally had a winter 
 cough,* 
 
 ' Who took care of him in those days V 
 
 * His maternal aunt — a baronet's wife, with a handsome house 
 in Eaton Square. All his mother's people were well placed in 
 life.' 
 
 * Poor boy ! hard to have neither f.nther nor mother. It was 
 twelve years ago when you spent that serusou in London with the 
 Souire,' said Christabel, calculating profoundly with the aid of 
 her finger tips ; and Angus Hamleigh was then sixteen, which 
 makes him now eight-and-twenty — dreadfully old. And sinoe 
 then he has been at Oxford — and he got the Newdigate — what m 
 the Newdigate ? — and he did not hunt, or drive tandem, or have 
 rats in his rooms, or paint the doors wrmillion — like — like the 
 general run of young men,' said Christabel, reddening, and hurry- 
 mg on confusedly ; * and he was altogether rather a superior sort 
 of person at the university.' 
 
 He had not your cousin Leonard's high spirits and powerful 
 
The Days that are No More, 
 
 1) 
 
 physique,' said Mrs. Tregonell, as if she were ever so slightly 
 offended. * Young men's tastes are so different.' 
 
 * Yes,' sighed Christabel, * it's lucky they are, is it not ? It 
 wouldn't do for them all to keep rats in their rooms, would it ' 
 The poor old colleges would smell so dreadful. Well,' with 
 another sigh, * it is just three weeks since Angus Tlamleigh 
 accepted your invitation to come here to stay, and I have been 
 expiring of curiosity ever since. If lie keeps me expving much 
 longer 1 shall be dead before he comes. And I have a dreadful 
 foreboding that, when he does appear, I shall detest him.' 
 
 * No fear of that,' said Miss Uiiilgeman, the owner of the 
 voice that issued now and again from the covert of a tleep arm- 
 chair on the other side of the fireplace. 
 
 * Why not, Mistress Oracle 1 ' asked Christabel. 
 
 'Because, as Mr. Hamleigh is accomplished and good-looking, 
 and as you see very few young men of any kind, and none that 
 are particularly attractive, the odds are fifty to one that you will 
 fall in love with him.' 
 
 * I am not that kind of person,' protested Christabel, drawing 
 up her long full throat, a perfect throat, and one of the girls 
 chief beauties. 
 
 ' I hope not,' said Mrs. Tregonell ; ' I trust that Belle has 
 better sense than to fall in love with a young man, just because 
 he happens to come to stay in the house.' 
 
 Christabel was on the point of exclaiming, ' Why, Auntie, you 
 did it ;' but caught herself up sharply, and cried outinstead, with 
 a)\ air of settling the question for ever, 
 
 * My dear Jessie, he is eight-and-twenty. Just ten years 
 older than I am.' 
 
 ' Of course — he's ever so much too old for her. A hlasd man 
 of the world,' said Mrs. Tregonell. ' I should be deeply sorry to 
 see my darling marry a man of that age — and with such ante- 
 cedents. I should like her to marry a young man not above two 
 or three years her senior.' 
 
 * And fond of rats,' said Jessie Bridgcman to herself, for she 
 had a shrewd idea that she knew the young man whose image 
 tilled Mrs. Tregonell's mind as she spoke. 
 
 All these words were spoken in a goodly oak panelled room in 
 the Manor House known as Mount Royal, on the slope of a bosky 
 hill about a mile and a half from the little town of Boscastle, on 
 the north coast of Cornwall. It was an easy matter, aceonling to 
 the Herald's Office, to show that Mount lloyal had belonged to 
 the Tregonells in the days of the Norman kings ; for the 
 Tregonelis traced their descent, by a female branch, from the 
 ancient baronial family of Botteiell or BoUereaux, who oncu 
 held a kind of Court in their castle on Mount lloyal, had their 
 dungeons and their prisoners, and, in the words of Carew, 
 
iiy 
 
 10 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
 * exercised some large jurisdiction.' Of the ancie^^ castle hardly 
 a stone remained ; but the house in whicli Mrs. Treg*. nell 
 lived was as old as the reign of James the First, and had all 
 the rich and quaint beauty of that delightful period in 
 architecture. Nor was there any prettier loom at Mount 
 Jloyal than this spacious oak-panelled parlour, with curious 
 nooks and cupboards, a recessed fireplace, or 'cosy-corner,' 
 with a small window on each ride of the chimney-breast, 
 and one particular alcove ])laced at an angle of the house, 
 overlooking one of the most glonous views in England. It 
 might be hyperbole perhaps to call those Cornish hills mountains., 
 yet assuredly it was a mountain landscape over which the eye 
 loved as it looked from the windows of Mount lloyal ; for those 
 wide swccp.s of hill side, those deep clefts un(i gorges, and 
 heathery slopes, on which the dark red cattle grazed in silent 
 peacefulness, and the rocky bed of the narrow river that went 
 rushing through the deep valley, had all the grandeur of the 
 Scottish Highlands, all the i)a.storal beauty of Switzer- 
 land. And away to the right, beyond the wild and 
 indented coast-line, that horned coast whicli is said to have 
 given its name to Cornwall — Cornu- Wales — stretchedjthe Atlantic. 
 
 The room had that quaint charm peculiar to rooms occupied by 
 many generations, and upon which each age as it went by has left 
 its mark. It was a room full of anachronisms. There was some of 
 the good old Jacobean furniture left in it, while spindle-legged 
 Chippendale tables and luxurious nineteenth- century chairs and 
 sofas agreeably contrasted with those heavy oak cabinets and 
 corner cupboards. Here an old Indian screen or a china monster 
 suggested a fashionable auction room, tilled with ladies who wore 
 ))atches and played ombre, and squabbled for ideal ugliness la 
 Oriental pottery ; there a delicately carved cherry-wood prie-dieu, 
 with claw feet, recalled the earlier beauties of the Stuart Court. 
 Time had faded the stamped velvet curtains to that neutral 
 withered-leaf hue which painters love in a background, and 
 against which bright yellow chrysanthemums and white asters in 
 dark red and blue Japanese bowls, seen dimly in the fitful fire- 
 glow, made patches of light and colour. 
 
 The girl kneeling by the matron's chair, looked dreamily into 
 the fire, was even fairer than her surroundings. She was 
 thoroughly English in her beauty, features not altogether perfect, 
 but complexion of that dazzling fairness and wild-rose bloom 
 which is in itself enough for loveliness ; a complexion so delicate 
 as to betray every feeling of the sensitive mind, and to vary with 
 every shade of emotion. Her eyes were blue, clear as summer 
 skies, and with an expression of childlike innocence — that look 
 which tells of a soul whose purity has never been tarnished by 
 the knowIediTc of evil. That frank clear outlook was natural in 
 
The Da/ys that a/re No More. 
 
 11 
 
 a girl brought up as Chriatabel Courtenay had beeii at a good 
 woman's knee, shut iu and sheltered from the rough world, reared 
 in the love and fear of God, shaping every thought of her life by 
 the teaching of the Gospel 
 
 She had been an orphan at nine years old, and had parted for 
 ever from mother and father before her fifth birthday, Mrs. 
 Courtenay leaving her only child in her sister's care, and going 
 out to India to join her husband, one of the Sudder Judges. 
 Husband and wife died of cholera in the fourth year of 
 Mi's. Courtenay's residence at Calcutta, leaving Christabel in her 
 aunt's care. 
 
 Mr. Courtenay was a man of ample means, and his wife, 
 (laughter ancJ co-heiress with Mrs. Tregonell of Balph Champer- 
 nowne, had p. handsome dowry, so Christabel might fairly rank 
 as an heiress. On her grandfather's death she inherited half of 
 the Champernowne estate, which was not entailed. But she had 
 liardly ever given a thought to her financial position. She knew 
 that she was a ward in Chancery, and that Mrs. Tregoricll was 
 her guardian and adopted mother, that she had always as much 
 money as she wanted, and never experienced the pain of seeing 
 poverty which she could not relieve in some metusuro from her 
 well-supplied purse. The general opinion in the neighbourhood of 
 Mount lioyal was that the Indian Judge liftd accumulated an 
 immense fortune during his twenty years' labour as a civil 
 servant ; but this notion was founded rather upon vague ideas 
 about Warren Hastings and the Padoga tree, and the supposed 
 inability of any Indian oflicial to refuse a bribe, than on plain facta 
 or personal knowledge. 
 
 Mi's. Tregonell had been left a widow at thirty-five years of 
 age, a widow with one son, whom she idolized, but who was 
 not a source of peace and happiness. He was open-handed, had 
 no petty vices, and was supposed to possess a noble heart — a fact 
 which Christabel was sometimes inclined to doubt when she saw 
 liis delight in the slaughter of birds and beasts, not having in 
 her own nature that sportsman's instinct which can excuse such 
 murder. He was not the kind of lad who would wilfully set his 
 fditt upon a worm, but he had no thrill of tenderness or re- 
 iiior;;eful pity as he looked at the glazing eye, or felt against his 
 hand the last feeble heart-beats of snipe or woodcock. He was 
 R troublesome boy — fond of inferior company, and loving rather 
 to be first fiddle in the saddle-room than to mind his manners in 
 his mother's pink-and-white panelled saloon — among the best 
 people in the neighbourhood. He was lavish to reckkosness iu 
 ihe use of money, and therefore was always furnished with fol- 
 lowers and flatterers. His Univei'sity career had been altogether 
 a failure and a disgrace. He had taken no degi ee — had made 
 himself notorious for those rough pranks whicli have not even 
 
12 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
 
 :'! * 
 
 HI 
 
 the merit of being original — the traditionary college misde* 
 raeanoura handed down from generation to generation of under- 
 graduates, and which by their blatant folly incline the outside 
 world to vote for the suppression of Univeraities and the extinc- 
 <aon of the undergraduate race. 
 
 His mother had known and suffered all this, yet still loved 
 her boy with a fond excusing love — ever ready to pardon — ever 
 eicrer to believe that these faults and follies were but the crop of 
 wild oats which must needs precede the ripe and rich harvest of 
 manhood. Such wild youths, she told herself, fatuously, gene- 
 rally make the best men. Leonard would mend his ways before 
 he wjis iive-and-twenty, and would become interested in his 
 estate, and develop into a model Squire, like his admirable 
 father. 
 
 That he had no love for scholarship mattered little — a 
 country gentleman, with half a dozen manors to look after, could 
 be but little advantaged by a familiar acquaintance with the 
 integral calculus, or a nice appreciation of the Greek tragedians. 
 When Leonard Tregonell and the college Dons were mutually 
 disgusted with each other to a point that made any further 
 residence at Oxford impossible, the young man graciously an- 
 nounced his intention of making a tour round the world, for 
 the benefit of his health, somewhat impaired by University 
 dissipations, and the widening of his exi)erience in the agricul- 
 tural line. 
 
 ' Farming has been reduced to a science,' he told his mother ; 
 ' I want to see how it works in our colonies. I mean to make a 
 good many reformations in the management of my farms and 
 the conduct of my tenants when I come home.' 
 
 At first loth to part with him, very fearful of letting him 
 so far out of her ken, Mrs. Tregonell ultimately allowed herself to 
 he persuaded that sea voyages and knocking about in strange 
 lands would be the making of Iier son ; and there was no sacri- 
 fice, no loss of comfort and delight, which she would not have 
 endured for his benefit. She spent many sail hours in prayer, 
 or on her knees before her open Bible ; and at last it seemed to 
 her that her friends and neighbours must be right, and that it 
 would be for Leonard's good to go. If he stayed in England, she 
 could not hope to keep him always in Cornwall. He could go to 
 London, and, no doubt, London vices would be worse than Oxford 
 vices. Yes, it was good for him to go ; she thought of Esau, 
 and how, after a foolish and ill-governed youth, the son, wlio had 
 bartered his father's blessing, yet became an estimable member 
 of society. Why should not her boy flourish as Esau had 
 flourished ? but never without the parental blessing. That would 
 be his to the end. He could not sin beyond her large capacity 
 for pardon : he could not exhaust an inexhaustible love. So 
 
 It 
 
The Days that are No More, 
 
 13 
 
 Ij€onard, who had suddenly found that wild Cornish coast, and 
 even the long rollers of the Atlantic contemptibly insignificant 
 as compared with the imagined magnitude of Australian downs, 
 and the grandeurs of Botany Bay, hurried on the preparations 
 for his digparture,, provided himself with everything expensive in 
 punnery, hshing-tackle, porpoise-hide thigh-boots, and waterproof 
 gear of every kind, and departed rejoicing in the most admirably 
 appointed Australian steamer. The family doctor, who was one 
 of the many friends in favour of this tour, had strongly recom- 
 mended the vough-and-tumble life of a sailing-vessel ; but 
 Leonard preferred the luxury and swiftness of a steamer, and, 
 suggesting to his mother that a sailing-vessel always took ont 
 emigi-ants, from whom it was more than likely he would catch 
 pcarlet fever or small-pox, instantly brought Mrs. Tregonell to 
 f)erceive that a steamer which carried no second-class passenger!* 
 was the only fitting conveyance for her son. 
 
 He was gone — and, while the widow grieved in submissive 
 silent ', telling herself that it was God's will that she and her son 
 should be parted, and that whatever was good for him should be 
 well for her, Christabel and the rest of the household inwardly 
 rejoiced at his absence. Nobody openly owuied to being happier 
 without him; but the knowledge that he was far away brought 
 a sense of i^elief to every one ; even to the old servants, who had 
 been so fond of him in his childhood, when the kitchen and ser- 
 vants' hall had ever been a happy hunting-ground for him in 
 [leiiods of banishment from the drawing-room. 
 
 ' It is no good for me to punish him,' Mrs. Tregonell had 
 remonstrated, with assumed displeasure ; ' you all make so 
 nuich of him.' 
 
 'Oh, ma'am, he is such a fine, high-spirited boy,' the c6ok 
 would reply on these occasions ; ' 'tesn't possible to he angry 
 with him. He has such a spirit.' 
 
 ' Such a spirit ' was only a euphuism for such a temper ; 
 and, as years went on, Mr. Tregonell's visits to the kitchen and 
 servants' hall came to be less appreciated by his retainers. He 
 no longer went there to be petted —to run riot in boyish liveli- 
 ness, upsetting the housemaids' work-boxes, or making toti'y 
 ui;der the cook's directions. As he became aware of his own 
 importance, he speedily developed into a juvenile tyrant ; he 
 became haughty and overbearing, hectored and swore, befouled 
 the snowy floors and flags with his muddy shooting-boots, made 
 havoc and work wherever he went. The household treated him 
 with unfailing respect, as their late master's son, and their own 
 master, possibly, in the future ; but their service was no longei 
 ti service of love. His loud strong voice, shouting in the 
 passages and lobbies, scared the maids at their tea. Grooms and 
 etftbie-boys liked him ; for with them he was always familiar, 
 
Iill!) 
 
 rlli' 
 
 hit 
 
 u 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
 and often friendly. He and they had tastes and occupations in 
 common ; but to the women servants and the giave middle-aged 
 butler his presence was a source of discomfort. 
 
 Next to her son in Mra Tregonell's affection stood her niece 
 ChristabeL Tha*^^ her love for the girl who had never given her 
 a moment's pain should be a lesser love than that which she bore 
 to the boy who had seldom given her an hour's unalloyed pleasure 
 was one of tlie anomalies common in the lives of good women. 
 To love blindly and unreasonably is as natural to a woman as it 
 is to love; and happy she whose passionate soul finds its idol in 
 husband or child, instead of being lured astray by stiange liglits 
 outside the safe harbour of home. Mrs. Tregonell loved lur 
 niece very dearly ; but it was with that calm, comfortable 
 aflfection which mothers are apt to feel for the child who has 
 never given them any trouble. Christjibel had been her puj)il : 
 all that the girl knew had been learned from Mrs. Tregonell ; 
 and, though her education fell far short of the requirements of 
 Girton or Harley Street, there were few girls whose intellectual 
 powers had been more fully awakened, without the taint of 
 pedantry. Christabel loved books, but they were the books her 
 aunt had chosen for her — old-fashioned books for the most part. 
 She loved music, but was no brilliant pianist, for when Mi-s. 
 Tregonell, who had taught her carefully u\> 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 <lescende(l 
 into the grave of the Queen, and though King Marc three several 
 times ordered this magical creeper to be cut oil" root and branch, 
 it was always found growing again next morning, as if it were 
 thn very spirit of the dead knight struggling to get free from the 
 grave, and to be with his lady-love iigain ! Show me those 
 tombs. Miss Courtenay.' 
 
 'You can take your choice,' said Jessie Bridgeman, pointing 
 to a green mound or two, overgrown with long rank grass, in 
 that part of the hill which was said to be the kingly burial-place. 
 ' But as for your magical tree, there is not so much as a bramble 
 to do duty for poor Tristan.' 
 
 ' If I were Duke of 'Cornwall and Lord of Tintagel Castle, 
 I would put up a granite cross in memory of the lovers ; thougjh 
 I fear there was very little Christianity in either of them,' said 
 Angus. 
 
 ' And I would come once a year and hang a garland on it,' 
 said Christabel, smiling at him with 
 
 ' xi^yes of deep, soft, lucent hue — 
 Eyes too expressive to bo blue. 
 Too lovely to be grey.' 
 
 He had recalled those lines more than once when he looked 
 into Christabel's eyes. 
 
 Mr. Hamleigh had read so much as to make him an interest- 
 mg talker upon any subject ; but Christ;ibel and Jessie noticed 
 that of his own life, his ways and amusements, his friends, his 
 surroundings, he spoke hardly at all. This fact Christabel 
 noticed with wonder, Jessie with suspicion. If a man led a 
 good wholesome life, he would surely be more frank and open — 
 he would surely have more to say about himself and hig 
 associates. 
 
 
so 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
 il'irt 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 They dawdled, and Uwdled, till past four o'clock, and to 
 none of the three did tl e hours so spent seem long ; but they 
 found that it would mak^ Ihem too late in their return to Mount 
 Itoyal were they to wait for sundown before they turned their 
 faces homewards ; so while the day was still bright, Mr. Hara- 
 leigh consented to be guided by steep and perilous paths to the 
 base of the rocky citadel, and then they strolled back to the 
 Wharncliffe Arms, where Felix had been enjoying himself in 
 the stable, and was now desperately anxious to get home, 
 rattling up and down hill at an alarming rate, and not hinting 
 at anybody's alighting to walk. 
 
 This was only one of many days spent in the same fashion. 
 They walked next day to Trebarwith sands, up and down hills, 
 which Mr. Ilamleigh declared were steeper than anything he had 
 ever seen in Switzerland ; but he survived the walk, and his 
 i<pirits seemed to rise with the exertion. This time Major Bree 
 went with them — a capital companion for a country ramble, 
 bei:;vg just enough of a botanist, arclueologist, and geologist, to 
 leaven the lump of other people's ignorance, without being 
 obnoxiously scientitic. Mr. ITamloigh was delighted with that 
 noble stretch of level sand, with the long rollers of the Atlantic 
 tumbling in across the low rocks, and the bold headlands behind — 
 spot beloved of marine pa; i)ters — spot where the gulls and the shags 
 liold their revels, and where man feels himself but a poor creature 
 face to face with the lonely grandeur of sea, and clitf, and sky. 
 
 So rarely is that long stretch of yellow sand vulgarized by 
 the feet of earth's multitudes, that one-half expects to see a 
 procession of frolicsome sea-nymphs come dancing out of yonder 
 cave, and wind in circling measures towards the crested wave- 
 lets, gliding in so softly under the calm clear day. 
 
 These were halcyon days — an Indian summer — balmy 
 western ze])hyrs — sunny noontides — splendid sunsets — altogether 
 the most beautiful autumn season that Angus Ilamleigh had 
 known, or at least, so it seemed to him — nay, even more than 
 this, surely the most beautiful season of his life. 
 
 As the days went on, and day after day was spent in Chris- 
 Uibel's company — almost as it were alone with her, for Miss 
 Uridgemau and Major Bree were but jis figures in the back- 
 ground — Angus felt ;is if he were at the begimiing of a new life 
 — a life filled with fresh interests, thoughts, hopes, desires, 
 unknown and undreimied of in the formei- stages of his being. 
 Never before had he lived a life so uneventful — never before 
 had he been so happy. It surprised him to discover how 
 simple are the elements of real content — how deep the charm of 
 ii placid existence among thoroughly loveable people ! Chris- 
 tabel Courtenay was not the loveliest woman he had ever 
 known, nor the most elegant, nor the most accomplished, 
 
 » nor 
 
 wk '^^^ ^ 
 
 9 her 
 
 % to'l 
 
 ':9 beei] 
 
 » shou 
 
 ^M ^^ ' 
 
 H ^''^'^^ 
 
 ^B kncA 
 
 ^1 nion 
 
 Wk and 
 
 :1 
 
• Tintagel, half in Sea, and half on Land, 41 
 
 nor the most fascinating ! but she was entirely different from 
 all other women with whom his lot had been cast. Her innocence, 
 her unsophisticated enjoyment of all earth's purest joys, 
 her transparent purity, her perfect trustfulness — these were 
 to him as a revelation of a new order of beings. If he had 
 been told of such a woman he would have shrugged his 
 shouklers misbelievingly, or would have declared that slie must 
 be an idiot. But Cliristabel wao quite as clever .-is those 
 brilliant creatures whose easy manners had enchanted him in 
 (lays gone by. She was better educated than many a woman he 
 knew who passed for a wit of the first order. She liad read 
 more, thought more, was more sympathetic, more comi)anionable, 
 and whe was delightfully free from self -consciousness or vanity. 
 
 lie found himself talking to Christabel aa he had never 
 talked to anyone else since those early days at the University, 
 the bright dawn of manhood, when he confided freely in that 
 second self, the chosen friend of the hour, and believed that all 
 men lived and moved according to his own 1 )oyish standard of 
 honour. He talked to her, not of the actualities of his life, but 
 of his thoughts- and feelings — his dreamy speculations upon ihe 
 gravest problems which hedge round the secret of man's final 
 destiny. He talked freely of his doubts and difficulti- s, and the 
 half-belief whidi came so near unbelief — the wide love of all 
 creation — the vague yet passionate yearning for inmiottality 
 which fell so far short of the Gospel's sublime certiiinty. He 
 revealed to her all the complexities of a many-sided mind, and 
 she never failed him in sympathy and understanding. This 
 was in their graver moodt, when by some accidental turn of the 
 conversation they fell into the discussion of those solemn 
 questions which are always at the bottom of every man and 
 ivonian's thoughts, like the unknown depths of a dark water- 
 pool. For the most part their talk was bri'^ht and light as 
 those sunny autumn days, varied as tlie glorious and ever- 
 'Vanging hues of sky and sea at sunset. Jessie was a delightful 
 ctv*:panii;n. She was so thoroughly easy herself that it was 
 iin]).)ssible to feel ill at ease with her. She played her part of 
 ct)nli(l;uite .so pleasantly, seeming to think it the most natuial 
 thing iu the world that those two should be absorbed in each 
 other, antl should occasionally lapse into complete forgetfulness 
 of lier existence. Major Bree when he joined in their rambles 
 Wiis obviously devoted to Jessie BridgeTu^u. It was her neatly 
 gloved little hand which he was eager to clasp at the crossing 
 of a stile, and where the steepness of the hill-side path gave 
 him an excuse for assisting her. It was her stout little boot 
 which he guided so tenderly, where the ways were ruggedest. 
 Xever had a plain woman a more respectful admirer — never 
 Wfvs beauty in her peerlsss zenith more devoutly worshipped I 
 
 
 ri 
 
 > 
 

 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 
 d<spartur<i. He might stay at Mount Koyal for months senti* 
 
4n 
 
 P! 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
 ' 
 
 vio 
 
 ti m 
 
 ^m 
 
 :fi' 
 
 .SHi 
 
 iiK'nt.'ilizirif,' witli Cliristabel, and ride o(T at iho lust uiicoin- 
 prorni.sod. 
 
 Tlu; fuuitli day was tlie fua.st of SL Tiiki'. Tlio woatlicr liad 
 l)ri.!:(liteiie(l coiisideraltly, but tlicre was a lii<;li wind— a soutli- 
 wcst wind, with occaHional showers, 
 
 'Of coiiise, you are going to church this morning,' said Jessie 
 to (Jliristabel, us they rose from the break fast-tabU'. 
 
 'Cliureh this morning?' repeated Christabel, vaguely. 
 
 For tile tirst time since she had been old enough to understand 
 the services of lier church, she had forgotten a Saint's Day. 
 
 ' It is St. Luke's Day.' 
 
 * Yes, I remember. And the service is at Minster. We cau 
 walk across the hills.' 
 
 * May I go with you ? ' asked Mr. ITamleigh. 
 
 * Do you like v/eek-day services]' inquired Jessie, with 
 rather a miscliievous sparkle in her keen grey eyes. 
 
 ' I adore them,' answered Angus, who had not been inside a 
 church on a week-day since he was best man at a friend's 
 wedding. 
 
 * Then we will all go together,' said Jessie. ' May IJrook 
 bring the pony-carriage to fetch us home, Mrs. Tregonell J T 
 have an idea that Mr. Uandeigh won't be equal to the walk 
 home.' 
 
 * More than equal to twenty such walks ! ' answered Angus, 
 g.'iily. 'You un(ler-estimate the severity of the training to 
 which I have submitted myself during the List three weeks.' 
 
 'The ]>ony-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 ; *ljut pi-ay f,'<> 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, 
 <leeming three services not too much for their devotion, but who 
 can hardly be persuaded to turn out of the beaten track of 
 week-day life to oifer homage to the memory of Evangelist or 
 Apostle. 
 
 The pony-carriage was waiting in the lane when Mr. Ham* 
 
 1| ■ 
 
 -IlK 
 
 <^ 
 
 i : 
 
48 
 
 Mount Ixoyal. 
 
 i'iii;! 
 
 will you Bcnd your 
 
 l('i;,'h iiinl tJui two •..uiics c.iino out of tho porch. (.'hii.sUibcl unU 
 the ^'t'litlt'iiiiiM looUidi at tho tM|uip;if.je duuhtfully. 
 
 ' You Hlaiuh'red inc, Miss lliiil^^'cnian, by your sncfLjcHtion tli.'it 
 T shouM ln» doMO up after a iiiiUi or so across tlio hills,' said Mr. 
 JIaiulei;,'h ; ' I never fell freshrr in my life. JJavt; you a hanker-^ 
 '\\\\I, for the ribbons T to CJluislabcl ; 'or 
 pony back tf) his stable and walk home ?* 
 
 * I would ever so nuich rather walk.' 
 
 * And so would 1.' 
 
 * In that ('.use, if you don't mind, i think I'll go home with 
 Felix,' [laid Je^isio JJrid^'eman, most unexpectedly. * 1 am not 
 feeling quite myself to-day, and the ^ralk h.us tired me. You 
 won't mind gt^ing home alone with Mr. llandeigh, will you, 
 Christabel « You might show him the seals in Pentargon Bay.' 
 
 What could Christabel do? If there had been anything in 
 the way of an e.arthquake handy, she would have felt deeply 
 grateful for a sudden rift in the surface of the soil, which would 
 have allowed her to slip into the boaom of the hills, among the 
 gnomes and the j)ixies. That Cornish co;ust was undermined 
 with caverns, yet there vfn& not one for her to drop into. Again, 
 Jessie Bridgeman spoke in such an easy otl'-hand manner, as if 
 it were the most natural thing in the world for Christabel and 
 Mr. Hamleigh to be allowed a l^^nely r«"»nble. To have refused, 
 or even hesitated, would have seemed r tation, mock-modesty, 
 self-consciousness. Yet Cluristabel al involuntary made a 
 
 step towards the carriage. 
 
 * I think I had better drive,' she said ; * Aunt Diana will be 
 wanting me.' 
 
 ' No, she won't,' replied Jessie, resolutely. ' And you sliall 
 not make a martyr of youi*self for my sake. I know you love 
 tliat walk over the hill, and Mr. Hamleigh is dying to sec 
 "pentargon Bay ' 
 
 * Positively expiring by inches ; only it is one of those easy 
 deaths that does not hurt one very much,' said Angns, helping 
 Miss Bridgeman into her seat, giving her the reins, and arrang- 
 ing the rug over her knees with absolute tenderness. 
 
 ' Take care of Felix,' pleaded Christabel ; ' and if you trot 
 down the hills trot fiist' 
 
 * I shall walk him every inch of the way. The responsibility 
 would be too terrible otherwise.' 
 
 But Felix had his own mind in, the matter, and had no inten- 
 tion of walking when the way he went carried him towards hia 
 stable. So he trotted briskiy up the lane, between tall, tangled 
 blackberry hedges, leaving Christabel and Angus standing at the 
 churchyard gate. The rest of the little congi'egation had dis- 
 persed ; the church door had been locked ; there was a grave 
 digger at work in the garden-like churchyard, amidst Jong 
 
* Love! Thou art lending Me from Wintry CoM.* 49 
 
 frr.nssoa and fallen loavos, and llio uiichunged forna and niossca 
 of tlie by^'oiH,' HiimnitT. 
 
 Mr. Il;iiiil<'i,i;h had scaircly rnnrcalrd lii's <lfHi,'lit at ^lisn 
 r.ii<iLr<'niaii'H (li'partiue, yet, now that .sht; wan {^'"ni-, he h)()ke(l 
 paHHing sad. Never a wonl did he speak, as tht-y two stood idly 
 at the jLfate, listening,' to the (hdl ihnd of the earth wldch tlm 
 !,'ravediLr^'«'r threw out of Ih'h sIio\('1 on to th(^ ^mmhs, and the 
 ■Iirill sweet son^ of a robin, pipin.Lf to himself on a raui,'<'d thoin- 
 li'.tsli near at hand, as if in an ecstasy of ^dadness about thin;.^H 
 in ^^'cneiah C)ne sound so fraufjht with nulancholy, the other so 
 full of joy ! The contrast struck sliarply on Christalid's nerves, 
 tn-chiy at their utmotst tension, and brought sudden ti-ars in her 
 t'ves. 
 
 Tlvey stood for perhaps five minutes in this dreamy silence, 
 the robin ])i|)inf^ all the while ; and tlicn Mr. Ifandeigh rouse(j 
 himself, seennn;j;Iy with an eihjrt. 
 
 ' Are you going to show nio the seals at rentai',t,'on 1 ' ho 
 asked, smilingly. 
 
 ' I don't kncnv about >*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>l<en about me <jn'te as plainly as ever tlio sea- 
 nymph foretcild llie doom of Iier s;;n. lie was given the ehoiee 
 tif length of days or glory, ami he deemed fame better than long 
 life. But my life has lieen as inglorious as it nuist be briif. 
 'I'hree months ago, one of the wisest of physicians jironounced 
 Tuy doom. The hereditary malady whieh for the last fifty year* 
 has been the curse of my family 8ho"^s iUself by the clearest iudi- 
 
 u 
 
» Love ! TJwu art leading Me from Wintry Cold.* 53 
 
 cations in my case. I could have told the doctor this just as well 
 as he told me ; but it is best to have otficial information. I may 
 die before I am a year older ; I may crawl on for the next ten 
 years — a fragile hot-house plant, seftt to winter under southern 
 Bkies.' 
 
 ' And you may recover, and be strong and well again! ' cried 
 Christabel, in a voice choked with sf)l)s. She made no pretence 
 of hiding her ])ity or her love. ' Who can tell 1 God is so jjood. 
 What prayer will lie not grant ua if we only believe in llim? 
 Faith will rouiove mountains.' 
 
 ' I have never seen it done,' said Angus. * I'm afraid that no 
 effort of faitli in this degenerate age will give a man a new lung. 
 No, ChristaljL'l, there is no chance of long life for me. If hope — 
 if love could give length of days, my new hopes, born of you — 
 my new love felt for you, might work that minicle. But I am 
 the child of my et-ntury : I only believe in the ]K)ssible. And 
 knowing that my years are so few, and that during that poor 
 remnant of life I miiy l)e a chronic invalid, how can I — how dare 
 1 be so selfish as to ask any girl — young, fresh, and bright, with 
 all the joys of life untasted — to be the companion of my decline I 
 The better she loved nic, tliu sadder would \k'. her life — the 
 keener would be the anguish of watching my decay ! ' 
 
 ' But it would be a life sj)ent with you, her days would be 
 devoted to you ; if she really loved you, she would not hesitate,' 
 pursued Christabel, her hands clasped piussionately, tears stream- 
 ing down her pale cheeks, for this moment to her was the 
 supreme crisis of fate. ' She would be unhappy, but there 
 would be sweetness even in her sorrow if she could believe that 
 she was a comfort to you ! ' 
 
 ' Christabel, don't tempt me ! Ah, my tlarling ! you don't 
 know how selfish a man's love is, how sweet it woul«l be to me to 
 snatch such bliss, even on the brink of the dark gulf— on the 
 threshold of the eternal night, tlie eternal silence ! Consider what 
 you would take u{)on yourself — you who perhajfs have never 
 known what sickness means — have never seen the horrors of 
 mortal disease.' 
 
 'Yes, I have aat with some of our poor people when they 
 were dying. I have seen how painful dist;a.se is, how cruel 
 Nature seems, and how hard it is for a poor creature racked with 
 pain to believe in God's benelicence ; but even then there han 
 been comfort in being able to help them and cheer them a littl.'. 
 I have thought more of that than of the actual misery of the 
 
 scene 
 
 ) 
 
 *But to give all your young life — all your days and thoughts and 
 hopes to a doomed man ! Think of that, Christabel ! When you 
 are happy with him to see Death grinning behind his shoulder — 
 to watch that spectiicle which is of all Nature's miseries the mobt 
 
 ,;t;n 
 
 ■' i 
 
 1 I 
 
 if.< 
 
 ! 
 
 m 
 
li I 
 
 I 
 
 i I 
 
 '! 1 i ' ^ 
 
 54 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
 awful— the slow decay of human life — a man dying by inches— 
 not death, but dissolution 1 If ray malady wore heart-disease, and 
 you knew that at some moment — undreamt of — unlooked for — 
 death would come, swift as an arrow from Hecate's bow, brief, 
 with no loathsome or revolting detiil — then I miglit say, " Let 
 us s])end my remnant of life together." But consumption, you 
 cannot tell what a painful ending that is ! Poets and novelists 
 have described it jus a kind of euthanasia ; but the poeticaJ 
 mind is rarely strong in scientitic knowledge. I want you to 
 understand all the horror of a life spent with a chronic sufferer, 
 about whom the cleverest physician in London has made up his 
 mind.' 
 
 ' Answer me one question,' said Christabel, drying lier tears, 
 and trying to steady her voice. * Would your life be any happier 
 if we were together — till the end ? ' 
 
 ' Happier ( It would be a life spent in Paradise. Pain and 
 sickness coidd hardly touch me with their sting.' 
 
 ' Then let me be your wife.' 
 
 * Christabel, are you in earnest ? have you considered V 
 
 ' I consider nothing, exce])t that it may be in my ])ower to 
 make your life a little liappier than it would be without me. 1 
 want only to be sure of that. If tlie doom were more dreadful 
 than it is — if there were but a few sliort months of life left for 
 you, I would ask you to let me share tliem ; I would ask to 
 imrse you and watch you in sickness. There would be no other 
 fate on earth so full of sweetness for me. Yes, even with death 
 and everlasting mourning waiting for mo at the end.' 
 
 ' My Christalxl, my beloved ! my angel, my comforter ! 1 
 begin to believe in miracles. I almost feel as if you could give 
 me length of years, as well as bliss beyond all thought or hope 
 of mine. Christabel, Christabel, God forgive me if I am asking 
 yt)a to wed sorrow ; but you have made this hour of my life an 
 unspeakable ecstasy. Yet I will not take you quite at your 
 word, love. You shall have time to consider what you are going 
 to do — time to talk to your aunt.' 
 
 ' I want no time for consideration. I will be guided by no 
 one. I think God meant me to love you — and cure you.' 
 
 ' I will believe anything you say ; yes, even if you ]M-oniisc 
 me a new lung. God bk-ss you, my beloved ! You belong to 
 those whom He does everlastingly bless, who are so angelic uj)on 
 this earth that they teach us to believe in heaven. !My Chris- 
 tabel, my own ! I ])romised to call you Miss Courtenay when we 
 left Pentargon, but I supi)ose now you are to be Cluiatabel for 
 the rest of my life ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, {ilways.' 
 
 ' And all this time we have not seen a single seiil I ' exclaimed 
 Aumia, gaily. 
 
 at 
 
• The Silver Answer rang^ — " Not Death, but Love.*' * 55 
 
 His delicate features were radiant with happiness. "Who could 
 at such a moment remeiiilxT death and doom ] All painfuJ 
 words which uev*"l be said had been spoken. 
 
 CHAPTELi V. 
 
 'the silver answer rang,— "not death, but love. 
 
 »» 
 
 Mrs. TRWtoNELL and her niece were alone together in the 
 library half-an-hour before afternoon tea, when the autumn li,<;ht 
 was just boi^iuning to faile, and the autumn mist to rise ghost- 
 like from the narrow little harlxtur of Boscjtstle. Miss Bridge- 
 man had contrived tiiat it should be so, just as she had contrived 
 the visit to the seals that morning. 
 
 So Cliristabel, kneeling by her aunt's chair in the tire-glow, 
 just as she had knelt upon the night before Mr. Hamleigh's 
 coming, with faltering lips confessed iier secret. 
 
 ' My dearest, I have known it for ever so long,' answered 
 Mi's. Tregonell, gravely, laying her slender hand, sj);iikling with 
 hereditary rings — never so gorgeous as tiie gems bought yester- 
 day—on the girl's sunny hair, ' I f.mnot say that I am glad. 
 No, Christabel, I am selfish enough to be .sorry, for Leonard's 
 sake, that this should have happened. It was the dream of my 
 life that you two should marry.' 
 
 ' Dear aunt, we could never have cared for each other — jia 
 lovers. We had been too much like brother and sister.' 
 
 ' Not too much for Leonard to love yon, as I know he does. 
 He was too confi ' nt — too secure of his power to win you. And 
 T, his mother, have brought a rival here — a rival wiio has titole/*. 
 your love from my son.' 
 
 'Don't spi.ik of him bitterly, dearest. Kemeinber he is the 
 8011 of the man you loved.' 
 
 ' But not my son ! Leonard mu.st always by llist in my mind. 
 I like Angus Hamli'igh. He is all that his father was — yi^s — it 
 is almost a painful likeness — painful to me, who loved and 
 mourned his father. But I cannot help being sorry for Leonard.* 
 
 * Leonai'd shall be my dear brother, always,' said Christabel ; 
 jet even while she spoke it occurred to her tliat Leonard was not 
 quite the kind of person to accept the fraternal jjositiou 
 pleasantly, or, indeed, any secondary character whatever in the 
 drama of life. 
 
 * Aiul when are you to be married '? ' asked Mrs. Tregonell, 
 looking at the lire. 
 
 * Oh, Auntie, do you suppose I have begun to thiak of that 
 yet awhile ? ' 
 
 0. \ 
 
 m' 
 
 \\ 
 I..,, 
 
 '•"1 
 ( III 
 
 III 
 
 .;; ' 
 
 •'Hi 
 
66 
 
 Mount Royal, 
 
 il* 
 
 *Be sure that he has, if you have not ! I hope he is not 
 going to bo in a hurry. You were only ninetcLMi last birthday. 
 
 ' I feoi trtMuondoiisly old,' said Christabcl. ' We — we were 
 talking a littlu about the future, this afternoon, in the billiard- 
 room, and Angus talked about the wedding being at the 
 beginning of the new year. But I told hiiu I w;is sure you 
 would not like that.' 
 
 ' No, indeed ! I must have time to get reconciled to my loss,' 
 answered the dowager, with her arm drawn caresf^ingly round 
 CiuMstabel's head, Jis the girl leaned "^(ainst her aunt's chair 
 ' What will this house seem to me without my daughter \ 
 Leonard far away, ])utting his life in peril for some foolish sport, 
 cand you living — Heaven knows whei^e ; for you would have to 
 study your husband's taste, not mine, in the matter.' 
 
 Why sliouldn't we live near you ? Mr. TIaudeigh nu'ght buy 
 a place. There is goneraUy something to be had if one watches 
 one's opjKjrtunity.' 
 
 ' Do you tliiiilc he would care to sink his fortune, or any part 
 of it, in ;i Coinish estate, or to live amidst these wild hills » ' 
 
 * He says he adores this place.' 
 
 * He is in love, and would swear as much of a worse place. 
 No, Belle, I am not foolish enough to suppose that you and Mr. 
 Hamleigh are to settle for life at the end of the world. This 
 house shall be your home whenever you choose to occupy it ; 
 anil I hope you will come and stay with me sometimes, for I 
 shall be very lonely without you.' 
 
 ' Dear Auntie, you know how I love you ; you know how 
 com}jletely haj)py I have been with you — how impo.ssible it is 
 that anything can ever lessen lav love.' 
 
 * I believe tliat, dear girl ; bat it is rarely nowadays that 
 Ruth follows Naomi. Our UK^dern llutlis go where their lovers 
 go, and woi'ship the same gods. But I don't want to be seltish 
 or ui' just, (h';u-. I will try to rejoice in your haijpiin'ss. And if 
 Angus Hamleigh will only be a little patient; if he will give 
 me time to grow used to the loss of you, he shall have you with 
 your a(loi)ted mother's blessing.' 
 
 * He shall not have me without it,' said Christabel, looking 
 up at her aunt with steadfast eyes. 
 
 She had said no word of that early doom of which Angus had 
 told her. For worlds she coulil not have revealed that fatal 
 truth. She had tried to put away every thought of it while slr.c 
 talked with her aunt. Angus had urged her beforehand to be 
 perfectly frank, to tell ]\Irs. Tregonell what a mere wreck of » 
 life it was which her lover otFered her : but she had refused. 
 
 * Let that be our secret,' she said, in her low, sweet voice. 
 * We want no one's inty. We will bear our sorrow together. 
 And, oh, Angus ! my faith is so strong. God, who haa mada 
 
• The Silver Answer rangy — " Not Death, hit Love.'* * 57 
 
 me 80 happy by the gift of your love, will not take you from 
 me. If — if your life is to bo brief, mine will not be lon*^.* 
 
 ' My dearest ! if the gods will it so, we will know no part- 
 ing, but be translated into some new kind of life together — a 
 modern Baucis and Philemon. I think it would be wiser — 
 better, to tell your aunt everything. But if you think otlier- 
 wise' 
 
 • I will tell her nothing, except that you love me. ;ui<] tli tt, 
 U'ith her consent, I am going to be your wife;' and with this 
 jetermination Christabel liad made her confession to her aunt. 
 
 The ice once broken, everybody reconciled lierself or himself 
 to the new asi)ect of all'airs at Mount Koyal. In less than a 
 week it seemed the most natural thing in life that Angus and 
 Christabel should be engaged. There was no marked cliange in 
 their mode of life. They rambled upon the liills, and went 
 l)oating on fine mornings, exploring that wonderful coast where 
 the sea-bird? congregate, on rocky isles and fortresses rising sheer 
 out of the sea — in mighty caves, the very traditi(jn wiiereof 
 sounds terrible — caves that seem to have no ending, but to burrow 
 into unknown, UL>explored 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 an<l her 
 lover had to reconcile their minds to the Idea of a long dreary 
 winter of severance. 
 
 Miss Oourtenay had grown curiously grave and thoughtful 
 since her engagement — a cliange which Jessie, wlio watched her 
 closely, observed with some surprise. It seemed as if she had 
 ]>assed 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<l of life is', 
 mid how littlo a man knows what i.s waiting for liim round 
 th(j corner I ' 
 
 Tho house in r.oltoii IJow was charming ; just larf,'o cnougli 
 to be convenient, ju.st small enough to be snurr. At the ])ack, 
 the windows looked into Lord 8f)mel»ody's jf^arden — not (piite 
 a tro]»ic;d pai.idise n;iy, even somewhat flavoured with bricks 
 and mortar Imt still a ;,^•ll•den, where, by sedulous art, the 
 j;'arileiiors kept alive ferns and flowers, and wliei-(! trees, 
 warrantcMJ to resist smoke, j)ut forth youni,' leaves in the s]irin,L,'- 
 time, and only l;in<xMished and sickened in untimely decay when 
 the I, undon season was oviir, and their function as fashionable 
 trees had been fultllie(l. 
 
 The house was furm'shed in a CJeor^dan style, pleasant to 
 niodi'in ta^te. 'I'lu' dra\vinu,-room was of tlu^ spindle-leif,t,'eil 
 ordci' satin-wood card tables ; i,M'oups of miniatuivs in oval 
 fi'auK's ; Japanese foldint; sci'eon, behiml which JJclinda niit^dil. 
 liave played l!(»-|)eep ; china jars, at whoso fall Naicissa mi^dit 
 hav(^ inly snll'cred, while outwardly serene. Tlu> diniu'^'-i'oom 
 Wius .sondire aii<l suhstantial. The bedrooms had l)een imj»roved 
 \)y luoilern upholstery , for the sU'cpiui,' ai)artments of our 
 ancestors leave a ti^Dod di-al to be desired. All the windows were 
 iidl of llowtirs — inside aJid out there w.ls tho ])erf(uue and 
 colour of many blos-oms. The three drawiti.i^-roams, f^aowin;,' 
 smaller to a dimiiii.^liiiii,' point, like a jdMcti'-al lesson iu ])erspec- 
 tive, were altoiietlicr ciliarmin'^. 
 
 .Major I'.reo had escorte(l the ladies to loiidon, and was tlieir 
 constant S'l'^'-'^t, campiuLj out in a baclu la- lodifiui,' in Jcrmyn 
 Street, and com" t acioss Piccadilly every day to eat hisluneheon 
 in liolton Jvow, ainl to discuss the eveiiintj's eufjarjfemonts. 
 
 Lout' a.s he had been awav from London, ho acelimati/ed 
 himself very (piiikly— found out eveiythin;,' about everybody — 
 M hat singers were lie-;' :vortti IieaviuL^ — what plays wen* best 
 Worth »ieeiii;.f -what ai'tors should l)c praised — which jtictures 
 should be looked at and talked al»out-\vhat horses were fikely to 
 win the notabli^ lai-es. lb' was a walking .uuido, a living hand- 
 book to fashionable London. 
 
 All Mi's. TrcgoneU'sold friends — all the Cornish people who 
 came to Londi»n — called in Dolton Kow ; and at every hou.ie 
 where th(> 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[)le<l with S.uM's Iiciocs and 
 heroines, or with suggestions of (loldsmitli. Jb'if l-'cnt'lla 
 danced before good-natined, loose-living ]{owley. llvrv Nigel 
 stood aside, antidst the crowd, to see ('h;iiles. Prince of \Valcs, 
 and his ill-faled favourite, Uuckingliam, go l)y. Ib-rt- thri 'i(i/i-n 
 of the World raet Beau Tibbs and the gentleman in black. For 
 CSiristfibel, the Park was like a scene in a stage play. 
 
 Then, after breakfast, thcie were long drives into fair 
 suburban iiaunts, where they escaped in sfime degree fntm 
 London smoke and London restnunts of ;i!l kinds, ui:erc tlicy 
 could chart+'i- a l)oat, and low ujt the rivcr to a still f.'ilrcr scene, 
 and picnic in some rushy creek, out of ken of society, and be 
 almr^*s recklessly gay as if they had been at Tintagol. 
 
 1 to,., 
 
 ^i: P 111 
 
 
 H 
 
I, 
 
 1 1 
 i ' 
 
 \ ' 
 
 64 
 
 Mount Boval. 
 
 Those wpro the floya Anf^fiif lovorl host. T/ie dnya n]>on 
 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 ou<fht to haunt 
 these shores, like that ghost of the 'Scholar (>ipsy,' 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, 
 instea<l of going down to Maidenhead on the coach, to lunch 
 somewhere up the rive)-. Not at Skindlc's, or at any other 
 h(.tel, but in the !a/v sultry quiet of sonu' sequestered nook 
 b'low the hanging woods of (.'lievedcn. ' I'm sure you can 
 Sjiare her ju.<t for to-day- su(;h a perfect spring day. It would 
 be a, crime to waste such sunlight and such balmy air in town 
 rirawiTig-rooms. Coidd not you strain a point, dear Miu Tre- 
 gonell, and come with us ?" 
 
 A'uit Diana shook l:?r head. No, the fatigue would be too 
 i'jmch— she had lived such a quiet life at Mount Royalj that m 
 
hi Society. 
 
 G5 
 
 1 
 r 
 
 s. 
 
 (I 
 n 
 
 ' 
 
 ^'cry little exertion tired her. Besides she had wme calls to 
 make ; and then there was a dinner at Lady Bulteel's, to which 
 she must take Christabel, and an evening party afterwards. 
 
 Christabel shrugged her shouldera impatiently. 
 
 *I am beginning to hate parties,' she said. 'They are 
 amusing enough when one is in them — but they are all alike — 
 and it would De so much nicer for us to live our own lives, and 
 go wherever Angus likes. Don't you think you might defer the 
 calls, and come with us to-day, Auntie dear?* 
 
 Auntie dear shook her head. 
 
 'Even if I were equal to tixe Irttigue, Belle, I couldn't dr hr 
 my visits. Thursday is Lady Onslow's day — and Mrs. Trs vjiIj- 
 niuu's day — and Mrs. Vansittart's day— and when people ^avo 
 been so wonderfully kind to us, it would be uncivil not ij 
 call.' 
 
 ' And you will sit in stifling drawing-rooms, with the curUiina 
 lowered to shut out the sunlight — and you will drink evei m 
 nmch more tea than is good for you — and hear a lot of peo])lo 
 prosing about the .<aino tilings over and over again — Epsom and 
 the Opera — and Mrs. This and INIissThat — and Mrs, Somebody's 
 nuw book, which everybody reads and talks about, just as 
 if there were not another Ijook in the world, or as if the old 
 book counted for nothing,' concluded Christaliel, contemptuously, 
 having by this time discovered the conventional (piality of 
 kettle-drum conversations, wherein people discourse authorita- 
 tively about books they have not read, plays they have not seen, 
 and people they do not know. 
 
 Mr. Hamleigh had his own way, and carried off Christabel 
 and Miss Briilgeman to the White Horse Cellar, with the 
 f.iithful Major in attendance. 
 
 ' You will bring ]Jelle homo in time to dress for L;idy 
 Lulteel's dinner,' said Mrs. Tregonell, iinpre.ssiv{>ly, 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<l Christabel, 
 pmiling at her friend's prom})t eapping (»f some bitter little speech 
 from ^Viigus. ' Vou alwavs seem to understand each other so 
 (jiiiekly — indeed, dessie si-euis U) know what Angus is going to 
 aay before the words ai>^ 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 coul<l talk without fear of 
 being heard ; for Jessie and the M;tjor followed at a most respect- 
 ful distance — just keeping the lovers in view, and nom<:)re. 
 
 ( 'hristaljel ran back presently to say they were going to look 
 for bluebells. 
 
 'You'll come, won't you?' .she pleaded ; 'Angus says the 
 dell is not f;ir off.' 
 
 ' I don't l)elieve a bit in his topography,' said th(i ^[ajor ; ' do 
 you happen to know that it is three o'clock, and that you are due 
 .it a State d'nner ]' 
 
 * At eiiiti . cried rhristabel, 'a2r«'s awav. An^us .s-ivs the 
 train goes jit six. We are to hav«' some tea .it Skindlc's, at Ave. 
 We have two hours in which to do what we like' 
 
 ' There is the row back to Skindle's.' 
 
 'Say half an hour lor that, which gives us ninety minutes for 
 tile bluebells.' 
 
 * Do you count life by minutes, child T asked the ^lajnr. 
 'Yes, Unc.li' Oliver, wheaii I am utteily happ\ ; for thtu every 
 
 tninute 's precituis.' 
 
 And til. 11 sh« *^'r lover went rambling on, talking, 
 
 laughing, poetising : the ibckerin;: shadows and glancing 
 
 lights . while the oUier two followed at a leisurely pace, like the 
 dull foot of reality following the wing«'d luei of romance. 
 J^tisie firidgemau waa only twenty-seven, yci iu her uwu miai 
 
 i « 
 
 in 
 
 'O 
 
68 
 
 Mount Eoyal. 
 
 it seemed jus if she weie the JNIajoi's coiitoiuporary — nay, 
 indeed, Ids .sciidor : for lie liad never known that grinding jtoverty 
 which ages the uldcsL daughter in a hirge shabby genteel fannly. 
 Jessie Bridgenian had been old in care before she left oif pina- 
 fores. Her childish pleasure in the shabbiest of dolls had been 
 poisoned by a precocious familiarity with poor-rates and water- 
 rates — a sickening dread of the shabby man in pej)per-and-salt 
 tweed, with the end of an oblong account-book protruding from 
 his breast-pocket, who came to collect money that was never 
 ready for him, and departed, leaving a printed notice, like the 
 trail of the serj)ent, bclnnd him. The first twenty years of Jessie 
 Bridgeman's life had been ;jteeped in jKtverty, every day, every 
 hour ilavoured with the bitter taste of dejtrivalion and the 
 worM's contempt, the want of common comforts, the Tiatui'al 
 lunging for fairer surroimdings, the ever-j)j'esent dread of a still 
 lower deep in which ])incliingslionld become starvation, and even 
 tlu! shabby home should be no longer tenable. With a father 
 whose mission uj)on this earth was to docket and tile a ceitain 
 class of aoeounts in Somerset House, for a salary of a hundre»l- 
 and-eighty jtounils a year, and a bi-.uinual rise of five, a harmless 
 man. whose only crime was to have married young and made 
 himself r(->ponsil)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-'_'<uti't-l frieutd gave her fathei' an order for ; onie theati'c, 
 wiaitdi was in tliat p;d[iable stage of I'uin when ordei'.^ are freely 
 given to the t:ivern loafer and the stage-door liai!ger-oii and 
 then, oil, wiiat rapture to triulge from Shepliei'd's iJusli to the 
 West Fji(l,.uiil to -pend a long hot eveinng in the gassy i)aradise 
 of thf l^pp'T li<ixesl Oiiee in a year or so Mr. J'rid^eman gave 
 ins wile and elde.-,t .-girl a dinner a1 an Italian lu'.-^laurant near 
 I.A'i(»'si«»- ;st|uare— a cheap little jtinehy (iinni'r, in whieli the 
 mtk'wivi' modicum of meat and poultrv was eked out In- mueh 
 
 r^ I > 
 
 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, Hvin<j; in a retired pai't of ( 'ornwall, rc([uircd the service* 
 of a yoiuiL; lady who could write a Ljood hand, keep iiccoiints, antl 
 liad some kno\vIed,L(e of luni.st.'ket'])iiiL( — who was willing, .-ictive, 
 theerfui, and good-tempered. Salary, thirty pounds per annum. 
 
 it was not the Hrst advertisement by many that Jessie hatl 
 answeriMl. indeed, slie seemed, to her own mind, to liave l)een 
 doing nothing but answering advertisements, luid ho)»ing against 
 hope for a favourable reply, since her <'ighteenth birtliday, when 
 it had been borne in upon hei-, as tlie Kvangelii-als say, that she 
 ought to go out into the world, and do something for iier living, 
 making one mouth less to bu tilled from the family bread-pan. 
 
 ' Tliere's no use talking, mother,' she said, v,'hen Mrs. Ihidgeman 
 tried to prove that tiieljright useful eldest daughter c-ost nothing ; 
 ' I eat, and f(jod costs money. 1 have a dreadfully healthy a|t|)etite, 
 and if I could get a decent situation \ should cost you iiothing, 
 and should be able to .send ycui half mv salarv. Ami now that 
 Milly is getting a big girl ' 
 
 'She iiasn't an idea of making hei-sclf useful,' sighed tlse 
 mother ; ' only yesterday she let the milkman ring three times 
 and then march away without leaving us a drop of milk, because 
 she was too proud or to lazy to open the door, while Sarah and I 
 were up to our eyes in the wash.' 
 
 ' Perhaps she didn't hear him,' suggested Jessie, charitably. 
 
 * She must have heard his pails if she didn't hear him' .said 
 Mrs. liridgeman ; ' besides he " yooped," for I heard him, and 
 relied upon that idle child for taking in the nnlk. liut i)ut not 
 your trust in princes,' concluded the overworked matron, rather 
 vaguely. 
 
 ' Salary, thirty ])ounds pel- annum,' repeated Jessie, readin;< 
 the Cornish lady's advertisement over and over again, as if it 
 had ])een a charm ; ' why that would be a perfect fortune ! think 
 what you could do with an extra tifteen pounds a year 1' 
 
 ' My dear, it would make my life heaven, iiut you would 
 want all the money for your dress : you would havi; to be alwavs 
 nice. There would be dinner ))arties, no doubt, and you wouM 
 be at^ked to come into the drawing-room of an evt-ning,' said Mrs. 
 Bri<lgeman, wliose ideas of the governess's .social status weiv 
 derived solely from 'Jane Eyre.'. 
 
 .Jessie's reply to the ailvertiscment was straightforward and 
 succinct, and she wrote a tine Ixdd hand. Tliese two facts 
 favourably impressed Mrs. Tregoneil, and <»f the three or four 
 dozen answers which lier advertisement brought forth, Jessie's 
 
 (>le;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 <K'tail — from the old 
 silver urn and Worcester china which greeted her eyes on tlu* 
 breakfast-table, to the quaint little Queen Anne e^'indlestick whiil. 
 she carried up to her bedroom at night — seemed like a revelation 
 of a hitherto unknown world. The face of Nature — the hills 
 and the moors — the sea and the clifts — w;us as new to her as 
 all that indoor luxury. An occasional week at Ramsgate or 
 Southend had been all her previous experience of this world's 
 loveliness. Ilappily, she was not a shy or awkward young 
 person. She acconmiodated herself with wonderful ease to her 
 altered surroundings — w;is not tempted to drink out of a finger- 
 ghiss, and did not waver for a moment as to the proper use 
 of her fish-knife and fork — took no wine — and ate moderately 
 of that luxurious and plentiful fare wliich was a.s new and 
 wonderful to her ;us if she had been transported from the 
 barren larder of Shepherd's Bush to that fabulous land where 
 the roasted piglings ran about with knives and forks in their 
 backs, squeaking, in pig language, * Come, eat me ; come eat me.' 
 
 Often in this paradise of [lasties and clotted cream, mountain 
 mutton and barn-door fowls, she thought with a bitter pang of 
 the hungry ciicle at home, with whom diinier was the exception 
 rather than the rule, and who made believe to think tea and 
 bloaters an ever so much cosier meal than a formal repast of 
 roast and boiled. 
 
 On the very day she drew her first quarter's salary — not 
 for worlds would she have anticipated it by an hour — Jessie 
 ran olf to a farm she knew of, and ordered a monster hamper 
 to be sent to Kosslyn Villa, Shepherd's Bush — a hamper full 
 of chickens, and goose, and cream, and butter, with a big 
 saffron-flavoured cake for its crownint; glory — such n cake im 
 
 would delight the yomiger members of the household ! 
 
 Nor did she forget her promise to send the over-tasked 
 house-mother half her earnings. ' You needn't mind taking 
 Ihe money, dearest,' she wrote in the letter which enclosed he 
 Poat-Oiiice order. * ^Irs. Tregonell has given me a lovely grey 
 
 T 
 
In Society, 
 
 71 
 
 |U'. 
 
 (in 
 
 of 
 
 on 
 
 ,iul 
 
 of 
 
 hot 
 ksie 
 
 lis 
 
 »i 
 
 silk gown ; and I have boiiglit a brown merino at Launceston, 
 and a new hat and jacket. You would stare to see how splen- 
 didly youi- liomely little Jessie is dressed ! Christiibel found 
 out the (lute of my birthday, and gave me a dc/en of the 
 loveliest gloves, my favouiite grey, with four buttons. A whole 
 dozen ! Did you ever see a do/en of gloves all at onre, n)other J 
 Yt)U have no idea how lovely they look. I <iuite shriid-c innn 
 breaking into the packet ; but I must wear a pair at chuich 
 next Sunday, in complinieut to the dear little giver. If it 
 were not for thoughts of you and the brood, dearest, I should 
 be intensely happy here ! The house is an ideal hous" — the 
 people are ideal people ; and they treat nie ever so much better 
 than I deserve. I think I have the knack of being useful to 
 them, which is a great comfort ; and I am able to gut on with 
 the servant.s — old servants who had a great deal too nnich of 
 their own way before I came — which t also a comfort. It in 
 not easy to introduce reform without making oneself detested. 
 Christabel, who has been steeping herself in French history 
 lately, calls me Turgot in ])ettieoats — by which you will siie 
 she ha.s a high opinion of my ministerial talents — if you can 
 remember Turgot, poor dear ! amidst all your worries,' adiled 
 Jessie, bethinking herself that her mother's book-learni;i^' iiad 
 gone to seed in an atmosphere of petty domestic cans — mending 
 — washing — pinching — contriving. 
 
 This and much moie had Jessie Bridgeman written .seven 
 years ago, while Mount Koyal w;us still n^'W to hei-. The 
 place and the ])eople — at least those two whom she tirst knew 
 there — had grov/n dearer as time went on. When Leonard 
 came home from the University, he and his mother's fa' totum 
 (lid not get on quite so well as Mr.s. Tregonell had hoped. 
 Je.ssie was ready to be kind and obliging to the heir of 
 the liouse ; but Leonard did not like her — in the language of 
 the servants' hall, he 'put his back up at her.' lie looked 
 u])on her as can interloper and a spy, e.specially suspecting her 
 in the latter capacity, perha])s from a lurking consciousness that 
 some of his actions would not bear the fierce light of im- 
 friendly observation. In vain did his mother plead for her 
 favourite. 
 
 ' You have no idea how good she is ! ' said Mr.s. Tregonell. 
 
 ' You're perfectly right there, mother ; I have not,' retorted 
 Leonard. 
 
 ' And so useful to me! I should be lost without her I ' 
 
 *()f course; that's exactly what she wants: creeping and 
 crawling — and pinching and saving — docking your tradesnu-n'a 
 accounts — grinding your servants — Inigering your income — till, 
 by-and-by, slie will contrive to linger a good deal of it into 
 her own pocket ! That's the way they all begin — that's the 
 
 I ! 
 
 'St 
 
 •■ 
 
 
 > 
 
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, an<i 
 death for the innocent sinner. It is a terrible story ! ' 
 
 'Fortunately, there is no tyrannical father in this case,' 
 replied the cheerful Major. ' Everybody is ]>lea.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 <nvn daughter. 
 I don't know whether all men love their daughtei-s, by the bye. 
 There ai*e daughters and daughters — I have seen sonie that it 
 would be tough work to love. But for Christjibel my afl'ei lion 
 Is really parental. I have seen her bud and blossom, a beautiful 
 living Hower, a rose in the garden of life.' 
 
 ' And you think Mr. llamleigh is worthy of herl' said Miss 
 Bridgeman, looking at him searchinL,'ly with her shrewd grey 
 eyes, ' in spite of what you heaul '^yt the clubs ?' 
 
 ' A fico for what I he;u"d at the clubs ! ' exclaimed the 
 Major, blowing the slander awav from tlu; tips o'' his lingers as 
 if it had been thistledown. ' livery nian has a i)ast, and eveiy 
 man outlives it. The present ;aid the future an; what we have 
 to consider. It is not a man's history, but the man liimself, 
 that concerns us; and I say that Angu.^ llamleigh is a good 
 man, a right-meaning man. a brave and generous man. If a 
 man is to be judged by his history, where would David Ix;, I 
 should like to know? and yet David was the chosen of the 
 Lord ! ' added the Major, conelusively. 
 
 ' I hope,' said Jessie, earnestly, with vague visions of intrigue 
 and murder conjured up in her mind, ' that Mr. llamleigh was 
 never jis bad as David.' 
 
 L 
 
u 
 
 Mount liuyal. 
 
 'No, no/ murmured the Major, ' thecirouinsUiiiccsof modem 
 times are 8o difl'ureut, don't you sow ?— an advanced civil izjition — 
 a ^Teater ri'spiTt for human life. Napoleon the I'irHt <lid a 
 ^ood nii'uiy «{m!er thing's ; hut you would not ^^et a ninuarch and 
 a eommandcr-in-chicf to act jus J)avid and JuaV) U':tt!il no\v-a- 
 days. Pvd)lic opinion would he too tilrong f«u" them. They 
 would he afraid of the newspapers.* 
 
 * Was it anythin,!:^ very dreadful that you heard at the clubs 
 three years aj,'o V asked Jessie, still lioverin;,' ab(*ut a foritidden 
 thein(», with a morbid curiosity 8traii;,'e in one whose act* and 
 th(iu<fhts Were for the most p.u't ruled Ity eonnnon sense. 
 
 Ti»e Major, who would not allow a woman to read 'Don 
 .7 nan,' had his own idejus of what ought and ou^ht not to be told 
 to a woman. 
 
 ' My dear Miss Bridgeman/ he said, ' I wouhl not for worlds 
 pollute your ears with the ribald trash men talk in a club 
 smoking-room. Let it sutlice f(»r you to know that I lielieve in 
 Angus Uamleigh, although I havo taken the troubk to make 
 myself accpiainted with the follies of his youth,' 
 
 They walked on in silence for a little while after this, and 
 then the JVIajor said, iri a voice full of kindness : 
 
 ' 1 think you went to see your own people yesterday, did you 
 not \ ' 
 
 ' Yes ; Mrs. Tregonell w;is kind enough to give me a morn- 
 ing, and I sj)ent it with my mother and sisters.' 
 
 The IMajor liad (piestiom-d Ikt more than once about hijr 
 home in a way which indit-ated s ) kindly aninterest that it could 
 not j)ossibly be mi.staken for idle curiosity. And she had tf»ld 
 him, with perfect frankness, what manner of peojtle her family 
 were — in no wise hesitating to admit their narrow means, and 
 the necessity that she should earn her own living. 
 
 * I hoj)e you found them well and happy.' 
 
 ' I thought my mother looked thin and weary. The girls 
 were wonderfidly well — great hearty, overgrown creatures 1 I 
 felt myself a wretched lit'le shrimp among them. As for ha|»pi- 
 ncss — well, they are as happy Jia })eupie can expect to be who 
 
 I ' 
 
 are very poor 
 
 ' Do you really think jjoverlyis incom|>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 <iislies— 
 liotliing (lut at elhoWH. \ our house is small, hut of its kind it 
 is perfection ; and your garden — well, if I had sueh a garden in 
 8ueh a situation 1 vould not envy i'^ve the Kilen she lost.' 
 
 ' Is that really vour opinion/' cried the enraptured .-oldior; 
 *or are you s<'iying tiiis just to plc;ise ine — to reconcile mo to my 
 jitj3 tr(jt life, my modest surr<>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'<l y<'ii 
 ;us yon ouLjIit to l»o htvcd I would answer promlly, Yes; ]uit \ 
 honour you too nnicli to i,'ivo yon half love.' 
 
 ' Perhaps vuu do nut know witji how little [ could he sjitis- 
 tied,' >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 fricn<ls, if vou will oidy 
 ii'niend)er that I have made up my mind irrtjvocanly — nevi-r to 
 marry.' 
 
 * r nuist needs obey you," said tlie Major, deeply disappointed, 
 Hit too unstiltish to l)e an^'ry. * I will not he impovtuiiHte. ^'et, 
 
 jne word I must say. Your future— if you do iKtt many — what 
 is that to be ? Of course, so lon^,' its Mrs. TreLfondl lives, your 
 home will he at ^Mount l\oyal--hut I fear that does not static 
 the question for lon^^ My dear friend docs not ajipear to me a 
 lon^'-lived woman. I have seen traces of prematun; decay. 
 When Christahel is married, and Mrs. Tre<fonell is dead, wheir 
 is your home to he * 
 
 ' Providence will find me one,' answered Jcs.sie, cheerfnliy. 
 'Providence is Wonderfully kind to plain little s»)inslcrs with a 
 knack of making' themselves useful. I have l)een doini.,' my hcst 
 to educate myself ever since [ have been at Mount lloyal. Jt i.^ 
 so ea-sy to improve one's mind when there are no daily woiiics 
 about the t;ix-gatherer and the milkman— and when I am called 
 upon to seek a new home, I can go out as a ,i,^»vernt!ss- and 
 drink the cup of lifi! as it is mixed for governesses- ;us Charlottes 
 lironte says. Perhaps I shall write a novel, jus she did, although 
 1 have not her genius.' 
 
 ' I would not be .sure of that,' said the Major. * I believe 
 there is some kind of internal tire burning you up, although you 
 are outwardly so (piiet, I think itwouhl have been your .siil vat ion 
 to acce^)t the jog-ti-ot life and peaceful home 1 have otl'ered you.' 
 
 * Very likely,' replied Jessie, with a shrug and a sigh. ' Uut 
 how many j)eo})le reject salvation. They wtndd rather be 
 miserable in their own way than happy in anybody else's way.' 
 
 
In SocieJii/. 
 
 77 
 
 Tho Major .'iiiswcred never a word. For liitn nil tlio i;Iorv of 
 t)io <lay Ii.-kI fuileil. Ho walkod kIowIv on l»y .Ifssioa sidf, 
 mcditutiii'^' upon lier wortls— wundcrini^ why hIi»' li.id ho r"so- 
 lutcly refused him. There }i;id hi'tii not the ha.-t waverini,'-- 
 ^he hful not even seemed to be taken hy aurpn'se her mind iiad 
 been m.'idf up h)n;^ a^o — not him, nor any other man, woidd 
 she wed. 
 
 'Some rally disajipointmeiit, p«'ihaps,' njustd the Majoi -'a 
 eiii'ate at Shejdieid's IJush — th'Hc yoiiii^ men have 4 j^reat deal 
 to answer for. 
 
 They earn*' to the hyacintji dell — an earthly ]»aradise to the 
 two happy lovers, wIjo wrre sittini; on a mossy bank, in a sheet 
 of a/.ui'e bloom, which, seen fiotn the distance, athwart youni^ 
 trees, looked like bliu', bri;,dit wat«'r. 
 
 To the Major the haxel coj)-ie and the lilueliells— the yonil'J 
 '»ak plantation —and all the I'A'eiy details of mosses and llowerio'^' 
 j,'i"asses, and starry anemones- -were odious. l\v felt in a huiry 
 to ;;et back to his elnb, and steej) himself in I^ondon pleasui-es. 
 
 All the beneV(tlenc(« seemeil to ha\'e been crushed out of him. 
 
 (,'hristabe! saw that her oiil friend was out of spirits, and con- 
 trived to 1»"' by ids side o?i their wav bai-k to the; boat, trying' to 
 cheer him with sweetest v.ords and loveliest snnles. 
 
 ' Jlave we tiled y«)u/' she asked. 'The afternoon is very 
 waini.' 
 
 'Tii-eil mo ! You forijet Ikjw I rand)le over the hills at home. 
 No; I aiu just a trilh' put out — but it is nolhiii<f, J iiad news 
 of a death this morning,' — a death that makes me rit-her l)y four 
 humli'eil a year, if it were not for respct for my dead cousin 
 who so kimlly niade me his heir, 1 think I shr)uld ^40 to-ni;fht to 
 the most rowdy theatre in fiondou, just to put myself in spirits 
 
 '^\'!lich .are the rowdy theatre , I'ncle ()li\-eir 
 
 * Well, ]»erhaps I out^ht not to use such a word. The theatri-s 
 •ire all Lroo(l in tlieii- way- liut there are theatres .and thealics, 
 1 should ihoosi' oiK! of those to which the youii'^' men i,'o niirlit 
 after ni,<,dit t<» sei; the same pieet"- a burles(pie, or an opera boutl'e 
 —plenty of small jokes ami pn ily uirls.' 
 
 • Wliv li.ivt' you not taken me to iho-*- tlieativ's ?' 
 
 'We ha\e not eouie tot hem Vet. \' n\\ Ii;; ve se -M Shakespeare 
 and mode ru cwniedy which is rather a weak m.it-'iial as com- 
 pared with Sheiidaiior even with ( 'olniau and .Nbjrtoii, vhosc 
 plays wt re our st.iple «'nteit;nniueiil when I was a boy. ^'olI 
 lia.ve heard all the ojiera siii'j:e!x '' 
 
 ' Yes, Vol I have iieru \ei\m.od. ]>ut 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?: 
 
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 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 
 fifrai<l that, all at once, you were goin;,' to be unkind ai>d 
 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 ha<l been discu^aiug the question t^io-a tite with Mr.*, 
 
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 * Iii<lcofl, Aiir,'i)a, I never said that. 1 told you that Chnstabel 
 would be twenty at Midsummer, and that 1 woidd not conaent 
 lo the inarria,tr<' until after then.' 
 
 'Preeist'lv, Imt surdv th;it meant soon after? I thou'dit we 
 Khould he married early in July — in time to start for the Tyiol 
 in golden weath M'.' 
 
 ' I never had any fixed date in my mind,' answered Mw. 
 Tregoneli, M'itii a pained look. Stru;,%de witli herself as she 
 lui^dit, this engaffement of Chri.stabers was a disapjiointnient .and 
 ii grief to her. ' I thotight my son would liave n^turned before 
 now. I shoidd not like the wedding to take jilace in hisab.-seneo,' 
 
 'And I shoidtl like him to be at th»' wt-dding,' said Angus; 
 'but I think it will be rather hard if we have to wait for the ca- 
 price of .•^ traveller wlio, from what 15elle tells me of his letters ' 
 
 'Has JJclle shown you any of his letters T a.sked Mi's. 
 Tri'gonell, with a vexed look. 
 
 ' No, 1 don't think lu; has written to her, l;as he J ' 
 
 * \o, of course not ; his letters are always addresscid to me. 
 lie is a wretched correspondent.' 
 
 * I was going to say, that, from wliat Belle tells me, your.son'.-^ 
 mov."ments appear iut>st 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<aii!s .after ( i.iinslmrough. ;ind p.ige-boys after Vandyke, 
 in art atmosphere heavy with the scent of h'-ss llouipiet. 
 
 Mr. Jlandei'.di had no ne.ir I'elaiions ;iud albeit a whole 
 bevy of cousins and a herd of men tmni the i lubs wouhl have 
 l^i.KJly attended lo witness his I'xcisinu from the lanks of gilded 
 \outh, and to liid him (ind-speed (Hi his voy.ige to the douiestic' 
 hiven — their presen( i' at the sacriti(t! would liave given him no 
 pl.a^me — wlfile, on the other han<U there was one j)erson resi- 
 dent in Fiondon whose pie.sence would have cause(i him .icute 
 p.iin. 'i'hus, each of the lovei-s j)leading for the same favour. 
 .Mrs. Tregonell had forgone her idea of a London wethling, and 
 
■■.1 ' 
 
 11 
 
 In Society. 
 
 81 
 
 ii- 
 
 h.-ul como to see lliiit it would lie very linnl upon all tlio kindly 
 iulial»itants ot Forrahuiy and Minster— Uoscasllc — TrixaluM — 
 iiussiney anil Trevena — to deprive tlit-ni of llie ple;usunible 
 excitement to be derived from Christabel's weddini,'. 
 
 Early in Septendter, in the (golden li,i,dit of that lovely time, 
 they were to be <juietly married in the dear old church, and then 
 away to Tyrolean woods and hills— scenes whii'h, for ('hristalid, 
 Kcemed to be the chosen background of ])oelrv, htjend, and 
 romame, rather than|an actual country, ])rovided with lioU'U, and 
 accessible by tourists. Once having,' consented to the namiii<,' of 
 an exact time, Mrs. TreL,'onell felt there couKl be no withdrawal 
 of her word. She telegraphed to I.eonard, who wad somewhere 
 in the Rocky Mountains, with a chosen friend, a couple of 
 Knglish servants and three or four Canadians, — and who, were 
 he so minded, could l)ehome in a month — and having despatclurd 
 this message she felt the last wi-eiich had been endured. No- 
 thing that could ever come afterwards — save death itself— could 
 give her sharjiei- pain. 
 
 ' Poor Leonard,' she i-eplied ; ' it will br(\d< hi > 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 .«<utVerid 
 with the patience of a Christian martyr, saying to herself, as 
 brave Dr. Arnold said in the auony of his sudilen fatal malady, 
 ' Wh.om He loveth He chasteiieth,' -but slu' e..nld not siniciider 
 the day-dream of her life witlKuU bitterest i-e)tining. In all her 
 love of C'hristabel, in all her careful education and moral 
 training of the niece to whom she had been as a mother, thinj 
 had been this leven of seltishne>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 
 
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 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 ha<l 
 softened and toned down his small social discourtesies, cheeked 
 his tendency to strong language — and, as it XvO'!;'^, expurgated, 
 edited, and amentled hint. 
 
 And having seen and rejoiced in this cV-CO of things, it w;ih 
 very hard to be told that ancjther h;id won the wife she h;itl 
 moulded, after her own fashion, to be the gladness and glory ot 
 luu" son's life ; all the harder because it was h«r own short-sighted 
 folly which hatl brought Angus llandeigh to JSlount Jloyal. 
 
 All through that gay London seiwon — for Christabel a time oi 
 unclouded gladness — carking caie had been at Mrs. Tregoi.ell's 
 heart. She tried to be just to the niece whom she dearly lo'.'ed, 
 and who had so temU-rly and fully rep.iid her aflection. Yet she 
 could not help feeling as if Chnstalters chniee was a {tersemd 
 injury — nay, almost treachery and ingratitude. ' She must have 
 known that 1 meant her to be my Hon's wif«,' she said to herself ; 
 
 * yet she takes advantage of my poor boy's absence, an<l gives 
 herself to the lirst comer.' 
 
 'Surely September is soon enou; she said, ])e(lishly, when 
 Angus pleaded for an earlier date. ' I'ou will not have known 
 Christabel for a year, even then. Some men love a girl for half 
 a '.if(!-time l)efore they win her.' 
 
 ' But it was not my privilege to kiKJW Christabel at the 
 bt'ginning of my life,' replied Angus. * I made the most of my 
 ojijx)rtunities by loving her the moment I saw her.' 
 
 ' It is imjjossible to be angry with you,' sighed Mrs. Tregonell. 
 
 * You are so like your father.' 
 
 That was one of the worst hardships of the cjise. ]\Irs. 
 rregonell could not help liking the man who had thwarted the 
 dearest desire of hur heart. She could not help admiring him, 
 and making comparisons between him and Leonard — nc^ to the 
 advantage of her son. Had not her tirst love been given to his 
 fjither— the girl's romantic love, ever so much more fervid and 
 intense than ixny later piwsion -the love that sees ideal perfection 
 in a lover 1 
 
1, 
 
 It* 
 is 
 .1 
 11 
 
 Cupid and Psyche. 83 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CUPID ANlJ rsvciiE. 
 
 Iv all the bricjht June weather, Chriatabel hnd liecn loo liii>v 
 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, an<l oU'ering me someof that extia- 
 Vdiniu-y boup wh' •• she uiwiyu l-idk« of in tlio plural "Do 
 
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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 
 <r fani}', ( .rist.iliid lomemborcfl 'Cupid and Psyche' 
 
 'riic th'cc Indies had just, conic uj)st;iirs after dinner. Mrs. 
 'I'iegoiu'll w.is enjoying forty wink.s in a low capacious chair, 
 i!.,'ar an opi-n window, in the first drawing-room, softly lit by 
 .•haded Cai'ccl lamps, scented witli Ic.i-ro.ses and steplianotis. 
 < 'hristabcl and .Jessie were in the tiny third room, wlu're 
 there w.is only the faint li,L;ht of a ])air of wa.\ candles on 
 l!ie mantcipiec.!. ITere the Major found them, when he 
 came creeping in fnmi the fnml, room, where he had refrained 
 I'rom disturlting Airs. Tngoncll. 
 
 'Auntie i.s asleep,' said ( 'hristabcl. 'We must talk in 
 subdued munnur.s. She looked sadly tind after Airs. ]3ulcimer's 
 garden party.' 
 
 I ought not to have come so early,' apologized the IM.ijor. 
 
 * Yes you onght ; we are very glad to have you. lit is 
 dreadfully dull without Ang'is.' 
 
 'What! you begin to miss him alic.^ly/' 
 
 'Already !' echoed Christabel. ' 1 missed him before the 
 .-uund of his cab wiii'ds was out of the street. 1 have been 
 missing hin) ever >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 <listraetions--dis>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<s. It is a meic 
 b;in<lbox of a theatre, an<l evi'rvl)o(ly in Lomlon w.int*» to see 
 this farrago of nonsense ilhistvattd by pretty wunien.' 
 
 ' You liave seen it, I suppose ^ 
 
 'Yes, 1 (Iropjietl in one night with an old naval friend 
 who ha(l taken a stall for his wife, whirh she w.is nut able to 
 occupy.' 
 
 'Major ]Jr»'e. you are a very sellish ])erson,' said C'hristabe!, 
 straightening her slim wai l.and diawing herself np with mock 
 dignity. ^'ou have seen this play yourself, and you arc; artl'ii" 
 ent)Ugli to tell us it is not worth seeing, just to save your.self 
 the trouble of hunting for a box. Uncle Olivi'r, tliat is not 
 chivalry. I used to think yon were a chivalroiis person.' 
 
 * Is there anything imiiroper in the j)lay T asked Jessie, 
 striking in with her usual blnntness — never afiaid to put her 
 thoughts into speech. ' Is that your rea.son for not wi.sliing 
 Uhri.stabel to see it i ' 
 
 ' No, the piece is perfectly correct,' stammered the Major 
 • there is not a word ' 
 
 'Then I think Belle's whim ought to l)e indulged,' said Jessie, 
 'esj)ecially as Mr. Haudeigh's absence makes her feel out ol 
 spirits.' 
 
 Tlu' Major murmured something vague about the difVicuKy 
 »f getting j)laces with less than six weeks' n(»tiee, whereupon 
 CJhristabel told him, with a dignilicd air, that he need nul 
 trouble him.s<df any further. 
 
 But a voung ladv who has plenty of monev, an<l who has been 
 accustomed, while dutiful and o!)edient to her elders, to havi' 
 her own way in all essentials, is not so easily satistit'(l ;is thr 
 guileless Major supposed As soon as the West-end shops were 
 open next morning, befoi-e the jewellers had set out their 
 tla/./.ling wares — those diamond jiarures and riviens, wliieji are 
 always inviting the casual lounger to step in and buy them — 
 those goodly chased claret jugs, and <,|ueen Anne tea-kettles, 
 and mighty venison dishes, whiih seemed to .say, this is an 
 age of hixury, and we are indispensalde to a gentleman's table 
 — before those still more attractive shops which deal in hundred- 
 ginnea dressing-ca.ses, jasper inkstands, ormolu jvjipi'r-weights, 
 lapis lazuli blotting-books, and coral powder-boxes— had laid 
 themselves nut for the tempter's work— Miss Courteiiay and 
 Miss Bridgman, irj their neat morning attire, were tiijijiing from 
 library to library, in (juest of a box at the Kaleidoscope for that 
 very evening. 
 
 They found what they wanted in Bond Street, bady Somfv 
 
 K> 
 
 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<l 
 Psyche ' for the second time,' she said, lightly, ' for he must be 
 our escort. You will go, of course, dearest, to please me ? ' 
 
 * My pet, you know how the heat of a theatre always exhausts 
 me ! ' pleaded ^Frs. Tregonell, whose health, long delicat<;, had 
 been considerablv damaged bv her duties as chai)eron. ' When 
 you are going anywhere with Angus, I like to be seen with you ; 
 but to-night, with the Major and Jesaie, I sL JI not be wanted. 
 T can enj(»y an evening's ri'st.' 
 
 ' Hut do you enjoy that long, blank even.ng. Auntie ?' asked 
 Christabel, looking anxiously at her aunt's somewhat careworn 
 
 )i.-. 
 

 Cupid and Psyche. 
 
 87 
 
 . « 
 
 face. lN«ii»io who luivo one KoliUry awe make so innrh of it, 
 iiur.se ;iiul f(»ii(lU' it, ;us if it were an only chilil. '(.Vice or twice 
 wlien we li;ne K-t xoii have your own way and st-.y at linnie 
 yon have looked supale and inelaneholy wlu'U wi; (-anie liat'k, as 
 if you had heen ^n'omlin;.,' n|)on s.nl ihouj^hts all the evening.' 
 
 ' Sad thoughts will n»nie, IJelle.' 
 
 ' 'rhi-y (»UL,dit not to eouu' to you, Aunlie. What cause have 
 you for sadness i ' 
 
 * I have a dtar sim far away, Belle — don't you think that i>} 
 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 
 Kalei<l()scoj)e this evening,' she said. 
 
 'What box?' 
 
 'A box which Jessie and I secured this morning, before yeu 
 had finished your breakfast.' 
 
 ' A box for this eveiiin'^ ?' 
 
 * For this evenijig.' 
 
 * i wonder you care to ^{o to a theatre without TlanJeigh.' 
 
 .' J 
 
 ! <■'■ 
 
 ii 
 
 t'. 
 
 
 cm 
 
88 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 \ 
 
 'Itia very cnu'l of yoii to say that!' exclaimed ClirlHtabel^ 
 lior eyes bri^'litpiiiiifj with Lciilish tears, winch her |>ri<le checked 
 l)«'f(»re they could fall. ' You oiiL,'ht to know that I am wretched 
 without him — and that T want to lose the sensf of niy misery in 
 <ltean)land. The theatre for me is whatoiiium was for Loleridgo 
 and I)(! C^ninci'v.' 
 
 ' I nnderstnnd,' s.iid M.-ijor llvee; ' "you are not merry, but 
 you d(» br;,fiiil(« the thiiiL,' you art; l)y seemiii-^ otherwise.'" 
 
 ' N'ou will ^n» wiili us / ' 
 
 'Of coui-se, if Mrs. 'J're^'onell docs not object.' 
 
 * 1 sh.iil be veiy ;,'raleful to you for taking,' care of thom,' 
 un.sw«!re<l the dowai^'er latiifuidly, as she leant back in her carria«,'o 
 — a iine example of handsome middle-aL,'** ; <:ri'''i''''>"'^) 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 JiOn<lon Society siiits you so well as the 
 monotony of Mount J'oyal,' s.iid Major Ihee. 
 
 ' No ; but I am j^dad Christabel has had her first season. 
 People have been extremely kind. X never thought we should 
 have so many invitations.' 
 
 * You ilid iKtt know that beauty is tlie ace of trumps in the 
 j,';imu of society.' 
 
 The ^ai'den party wa.s as other ])ai'ties of the .same .ijenus : 
 strawberry ices and iced coll'cc in a. tent under a H|)reading 
 Spanish chestmit — nnisii; :ind rcit.it/ioiis in adrawiii'4-room, with 
 niauy windows lookiu;^' upon the bright swift riser — and the 
 ;iicturcs(pu' rcjofs of Old Uidimond — just that one little 
 pictuie.s(|ue group of bridge and old tiled-gables which still 
 I'emaijis — tine gowns, tine talk ; a dash of the a'sthetic element; 
 slr.iu.i!:e cfilours, stivmge foiins and fashions ; pnLty girls in 
 gi'andmothcr boiniets ; elderly women in liiuj) Ophelia gowns, 
 witli luud>led 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\\<r ImFoic hiiuhron to tli*' «iuno 
 cllVct. Jiut, oh, I hope the di^.ir oKl lady will get well vi'ry 
 quickly ! ' 
 
 'If us(|ucl»aufrh can moud hor, no doubt the recovery will U' 
 ra|)id,' aiiswcn-d the Major, iauu'liini,'. ' I daresay that is why 
 you are so anxious for llamlfi^hs rt'tuiii, Vou think if he 
 Htays in the Noith he may become a < 'Utinned toddy-drinker. 
 ]5y the bye, when his retui'n is so tmci 1 1 tin, do vuu think it is 
 (|uit«; saf(! for you to <;o ti> 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 
 
 
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 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WEST MmIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
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90 
 
 Mount Royal, 
 
 * Yes ; it's a nice little place,' said the Major, feebly ; * but, 
 you see, they're been playing the same piece all the season — no 
 variety.' 
 
 ' What did that matter, when we had not seen t le piece ? 
 Besides, a young man I danced with told me he had beon to see 
 it fifteen times.' 
 
 * That young man was an ass ! ' grumbled the Major. 
 
 * Well, I can't help thinking so too,' assented Christabel. 
 And then the overture began — a dreamy, classicjil compound, 
 made up of reminiscences of Mozart, Beethoven, and Weber — 
 a melodious patchwork, dignified by scientific orchestration. 
 Christabel listened dreamily to the dreamy music, thinking of 
 Angus all the while — wondering what he was doing in the far- 
 away Scottish land, which she knew only from Sir Walter's 
 novels. 
 
 The dove-coloured curtains were drawn apart to a strain of 
 plaintive sweetness, and the play — half poem, half satire — began. 
 The scene was a palace garden, in some ' uuviuspected isle in far-off 
 seas.' The personages were Psyche, her sisters, and the jealous 
 goddess, whose rest had lieen disturbed by rumours of an 
 earthly beauty which surpjissed her own divine charms, and 
 who approached the palace disguised as a crone, dealing in 
 philters and simples, ribbons and perfumes, a kind of female 
 Autolycus. 
 
 first came a dialogue between Venus and the elder sisters 
 — handsome women both, but of a coarse type of beauty, looking 
 too large for the frame in which they aj)i)eared. Christabel and 
 .Jessie enjoyed the smartness of the dialogue, which sparkled with 
 Aristophanian hits at the follies of the hour, and yet had a 
 poetical grace which seemed the very flavour of the old Greek 
 world, 
 
 At last, after the interest of the fable had fairly begun, 
 there rose the faint melodious breathings of a strange music 
 within the palace — the quaint and primitive h; rmonies of a 
 three -stringed lyre — and Psyche came slowly down the marble 
 steps, a slender, gracious figure in classic drapery — Canova's 
 statue incarnate. 
 
 ' Very pretty face,' muttered the Major, looking at her 
 through his opera-glass ; ' but no figure.' 
 
 The slim, willowy form, delicately and lightly moulded as a 
 young fawn's, was assuredly of a type widely different from 
 the two young women of the fleshly school who represented 
 Psyche's jealous sisters. In their case there seemed just enougii 
 mind to keep those sleek, well-favoured bodies in motion. In 
 Stella Mayne the soul, or, at any rate, an ethereal essence, a 
 vivid beauty of expression, an electric brightness, which pjisses 
 for the soul, so predominated over the sensual, that it would 
 
Cupid and Psyche. 
 
 have scarcely surprised one if this fragile butterfly-creature 
 had verily spread a pair of filmy wings and floated away into 
 Hpace. The dark liquid eyes, the small chiselled features, 
 exquisitely Greek, were in most perfect harmony with the 
 character. Amongst the substantial sensuous forma of her 
 companions this Psyche moved like a being Trom the spirit 
 world. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' cried Christabel^ almost with a gasp, ' how perfectly 
 lovely ! ' 
 
 * Yes ; she's very pretty, isn't she?' muttered the Major, 
 tugging at his grey moustache, and glaring at the unconscioua 
 Psyche from his lurking place at the back of the box. 
 
 ' Pretty is not the word. She is the realization of a poem.' 
 
 Jessie IJridgeman said nothing. She had looked straight 
 from Psyche to the Major, as he grunted out his acqui- 
 escence, and the troubled expression of his face troubled h©r. 
 It was plain to her all in a moment that his objection to 
 the Kaleidoscope Theatre was really an objection to Psyche. 
 Yet what harm could that lovely being on the stage, even 
 were she the worst and vilest of her sex, do to any one so 
 ■••emote from her orbit as Clnistabel Courtenay 1 
 
 The play went on. Psyche snote iier giaceful lines with a 
 perfect intonation. Nature had in this c;ise not been guilty of 
 cruel inconsistency. The actress's voice was as sweet as her 
 face ; every movement was harmonious ; every look lovely. She 
 was not a startling actress ; nor was there any need of great 
 acting in the part that liad been written for her. She was 
 Psyche — the loved, the loving, pursued by jealousy, persecuted 
 by women's unwomanly hatred, afflicted, despairing — yet loving 
 always ; beautiful in every phase of her gentle life. 
 
 ' Do you like the play ? ' asked the Major, grimly, when the 
 eurtain had fallen on the tirst act. 
 
 ' I never enjoyed anything so much ! It is so different 
 from all other plays we have seen,' said Christabel ; * and Psyche 
 — Miss Stella Mayne, is she not ] — is the loveliest creature I 
 ever saw in my life.' 
 
 * You must allow a wide margin for stage make-up, paint 
 and powder, and darkened lasher,,' grumbled the Major. 
 
 ' But I have been studying her face through my glass. It 
 is hardly at all made up. Just compare it with the faces of 
 the two sisters, which are like china i)lates, badly fired. Jessie, 
 what are you dreaming about ? You haven't a particle of 
 enthusiasm ! Why don't you say something 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't want to be an echo,' said Miss Bridgeman, curtly. 
 ' I could only re]>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 
 
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 •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 
 
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 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 
 
 fortune to the management, is just one of the thin«;p} that T 
 don't care to talk about before young people. I look upon it 
 as the triumph of vi^e : and I wonder — yea, very much wonder 
 —that you were allowed to see it' 
 
 There was an awfulness about the dowai^er'a tone as she 
 uttered these final sentences, which out-Thurlowed Thurlow. 
 Christabel shiver*. d, hardly knowin^j why, but heartily wishing 
 there had been no such person as Lady Cumberbridge among 
 her aunt's London acquaintance. 
 
 * But, surely there is nothing improper in the play, dear 
 Lady Cumberbridge/ exclaimed the eldest gusher, too long in 
 society to shrink from sifting M\y question of tluit kind. 
 
 ' There is a great deal that is imi^roper,' replied the 
 dowager, sternly. 
 
 * Surely not in the languacjo : tlwit is too lovely ? ' urged thr 
 gusher. * I must be very dense, I'm afiviid, for I really did noi 
 see anything objectionable.' 
 
 'You must be very blind as well as dense, if you didn't 
 see Stella Mayne's diamonds,' retorted the dow iger. 
 
 * Oh, of course I saw the diamonds. One could not help 
 seeing them.' 
 
 'And do you think there is nothing improper in tlinso 
 diamonds, or their history?' demanded Lady Cumberbrid^^^e, 
 glaring at the damsel from under those terrific eyebrows, 
 * If so, you must be less experien;^ed in the ways of the world 
 than I gave you credit for being. But I think I said before 
 that this is a question which I do not care to dismiss before 
 young people— even advanced as young people are in their 
 ways and opinions now-a-days.' 
 
 The maiden blushed at this reproof ; and the conversation, 
 steered judiciously by Mrs. Tregonell, glided on to safer toj)ics. 
 Yet calmly as that lady bore herself, and carefully as she 
 managed to keep the talk among pleasant ways for the next 
 half -hour, her mind was troubled not a little by the things that 
 had been said about Stella Maj-ne. There had been a curious 
 significance in the dowager's tone when she expressed surpnise 
 at Christabel having been allowed to see this play. That 
 significant tone, in conjunction with Major Bree's marked 
 opposition to Belle's wish upon this one matter, argued that 
 there was some special reason why Belle should not see this 
 actress. Mrs. Tregonell, like all quiet people, very observant, 
 had seen the Somerset House young man's meaning smile <as the 
 play was mentioned. What was this peculiar something which 
 all these people had in their minds, and of which she, Chnatalnd'H 
 aunt, tc whJtti the girl's welfare and. happiness were vital, kna-a 
 
 nothing 1 
 
 She det«rmiuttd to take the most immediate and direct 
 
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88 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 1 1' 
 
 1 1 1 1 
 
 way of knowing all that was to be known, by questioning thai 
 peripatetic chronicle of fashionable scandal, Lady Cumberbridge. 
 This popular personage knew a great deal more than the Society 
 papers, and was not constrained like those prints to disguise her 
 knowledge in Delphic hints and dark sayings. Lady Cumber- 
 bridge, like John Knox, never feared the face of man, and could 
 be as plain-spoken and as coarse as she pleased. 
 
 * I should so like to have a few words with you by-and-by, 
 if you don't mind waiting till these girls are gone,* murmured 
 Mrs. Tregonell. 
 
 * Very well, my dear ; get rid of them as soon as you can, for 
 I've some people coming to dinner, and I want an hour's sleep 
 before I put on my gown.' 
 
 The little assembly dispersed within the next quarter of an 
 hour, and Christabel joined Jessie in the smaller drawing- 
 room. 
 
 * You can shut the folding-doors. Belle,* said Mrs. Tregonell, 
 carelessly. * You and Jessie are sure to be chattering ; and I 
 want a quiet talk with Lady Cumberbridge.' 
 
 Christabel obeyetl, wondering a little what the quiet talk 
 would be about, and whether by any chance it would touch 
 upon the play last night. She, too, had b«en struck by the 
 significance of the dowager's tone ; and then it waa so rarely 
 that she found herself excluded from any conversation in which 
 iier aunt had part. 
 
 * Now,' said Mrs. Tregonell, directly the doors were shut, * I 
 want to know why Christabel should not have been allowed to 
 «ee that play the other night ? ' 
 
 ' What ! ' cried Lady Cumberbridge, * don't you know why ? ' 
 
 * Indeed, no. I did not go with them, so I had no oppor- 
 tunity of judging as to the play.* 
 
 * My dear soul,' exclaimed tke deep voice of the dowager, 
 * it is not the play — the play is well enough — it is the woman 1 
 And do you really mean to tell me that you don't know 1 ' 
 
 'That I don't know what 1 ' 
 
 * Stella Mayne's history ? ' 
 
 * What should I know of her more than of any other actress 1 
 They are all the same to me, like pictures, which I admire or 
 not, from the outside. I am told that some are women of 
 fa.shion who go everywhere,''and that it is a privilege to know 
 them ; and that some one ought hardly to speak about, though 
 one may go to see them , while there are others ' 
 
 'Who hover like stars between two worlds,* said Lady 
 Cumberbridge. 'Yes, that's all true. And nobody has told 
 you anything about Stella Mayne ? ' 
 
 * No one ! * 
 
 * Theii I'm very aorxy I mentioned '*ifir name to yoij. J dare 
 
 *. 
 
II 
 
 Id 
 
 Lt Secret de Polichinelle. 
 
 00 
 
 flay you will hate me if I tell you the truth : people nlwa3r8 do ; 
 because, in point of fact, truth is generally Ijatetul. We can't 
 afford to live up to it.' 
 
 * I shall be grateful to you if you will tell me all that there 
 is to be told about this actress, who seems in some way to be 
 concerned ' 
 
 ' In your] niece's happiness ? Well, no, my dear, we will 
 hope not. It is all a thing of the past. Your friends have been 
 remarkably discreet. It is really extraordinary that you should 
 have heard nothing about it ; but, on reflection, I think it is 
 really better you should know the fai-t. Stella Mayne is the 
 young woman for whom Mr. Hamleigh nearly ruined himself 
 three years ago.' 
 
 Mrs. Tregonell turned white as death. 
 
 Her mind had not been educated to the acceptance of sin 
 and folly as a natural element in a young man's life. In her 
 view of mankind the good men were all Bayards — fearless, 
 stainless ; the bad were a race apart, to be shunned by all good 
 women. To be told that her niece's future husband — the man 
 for whose sake her whole scheme of life had been set aside, the 
 man whom Christabel and she had so implicitly trusted — was a 
 fashionable libertine — the lover of an actress — the ttilk of the 
 town — was a revelation that changed the whole colour of life. 
 
 ' Are you sure that this is true ? ' she asked falteringly. 
 
 * My dear creature, do I ever say anything that isn't true ? 
 There is no need to invent things. God knows the things people 
 do are bad enough, and wild enough, to supply conversation 
 for everybody. But this about Hamleigh and Stella Mayne is 
 as well known as the Albert Memorial. He was positively 
 infatuated about her ; took her off the stage : she was in the 
 back row of the ballet at ])rury Lane, salary seventeen and 
 isixpence a week. He lived with her in Italy for a year ; 
 then they came back to England, and he gave her a house in 
 St. John's Wood ; squandered his money upon her ; had her 
 educated ; worshipped her, in fact ; and, I am told, would have 
 married her, if she had only behaved herself. Fortunately, these 
 women never do behave themselves : they show the cloven -foot 
 too soon ; our people only go wrong after marriage. But I hope, 
 my dear, you will not allow yourself to be worried by this 
 business. It is all a thing of the past, and Hamleigh will make 
 just as good a husband as if it had never happened ; better, 
 perhaps, for he will be all the more able to appreciate a pure- 
 minded girl like your niece.' 
 
 !RIrs. Tregonell listened with a stony visage. She was 
 thinking of Leonard — Leonard who had never done wrong, in 
 this way, witKin his mother's knowledge — who had been cheated 
 out of his future wife by a flashy trickster— a man who talked 
 
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 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 
 
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 ■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 
 
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 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 <me word or tone of his disappointmont that day in the wood 
 abore Maidenhead. 
 
 The evening came to its quiet end at last. Christabei had 
 Bcarcely left her piano in the aim little third room — she had sat 
 there in the faint light, playing slow sleepy nocturnes and lieder, 
 and musing, musing siidly, with a faint sick dread of coming 
 i'orrow. She had seen it in her aunt's face. When the old buhl 
 clock chimed the half-hour after ten the Major got up and took 
 his leave, bending over Mrs. Tregonell as he pressed her liand at 
 parting to murmur : ' Remember,' with an accent as solemn aa 
 Charles the Martyr's when he .spoke to Juxon. 
 
 Mrs. Tregouell answered never a wond. She had been pon- 
 dering and wavering all the evening, but had come to no tixed 
 conclusion. 
 
 She bade the two girls good-night directly the Major wai 
 gone. She told herself that she had the long tranquil night 
 before her for the resolution of her doubts. She would sloep 
 upon this vexed question. But before she had been ten minutes 
 in her room there came a gentle knock at the door, and Christabei 
 stole softly to her side. 
 
 ' Auntie, deai*, I want to talk to you before you go to bed, if 
 you are not very tired. May Dormer go for a little while I ' 
 
 Dormer, gravest and most discreet of handmaids, whose 
 name seemed to have been made on puipose for her, looked at 
 her mistress, and receiving a little nod, took up her work and crept 
 away. Dormer was never seen without her needlework. Sne 
 complained that there was so little to do for Mrs. Tregonell that 
 unless she had plenty of plain sewing she must expire for want 
 i>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, y<iu may feel sure that I slmll bo quite 
 safe. Don't wait dinnei- foi- me.* 
 
 bf 
 
 ig- 
 
 
 
 CIIAPTER IX. 
 
 * LOVj? is love for KVEIIMORE.' 
 
 Thk Eosary, St, John's Wood : that was the address which 
 (Jhristabel had given the cabman. ITad any less distinguisiied 
 })erson than Stella Mayne livod at the Kosary it might b.ivo 
 taken the cabman all the evening to tind that ])avticjdar hou.se, 
 with no more detailed address as to road and nund)er. But a 
 brother whij) on a rank near Hamilton Terrace was able to tell 
 Christabel's cabman the way to the Ilosary, It was a house at 
 which hansoms were often wanted at uidioly hours betwe-en mid- 
 night and sunrise — a house whose chief ho.-pitality took the fonu 
 of chablis and oysters after the ])lay — a house which seldom 
 questioned poor cabby's claim or went closely into mile.ige — a 
 house which deserved and commanded respL*ctful mention on 
 the rank. 
 
 * The Rosary — yes, that's where Miss Mayne lives. Beech 
 Tree Road — a low 'ouse with veranders all round — yer can't 
 miss it.' 
 
 The cabman rattled away to Grove End Road, and thence to 
 the superior quietude and seclusion of Beech Ti'co Road, whore 
 he drew up at a house with a glazed entrance. He rang the bell, 
 and Cliristabel alighted before the sunnnons was answered. 
 
 * Is Miss Mayne at home ? ' she asked a servant in plain 
 oloViies — a servant of unquestionable respectability, 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am,' he replied, and preceded her along a corridot 
 glass-roofed, richly carpeted, and with a bank of hothouse floweri 
 on either side. 
 
 Only at^his ultimate moment did Christabel's courage begii. 
 to falter. She felt as if she were perhaps entering a den of vice 
 Innocent, guileless as she was, she had her own vague ideas about 
 vice — exaggerated as all ignorant ideas are apt to be. She began 
 
 i| 
 
 •a 
 
 
 I J"" 
 
. I 
 
 ■Wi 
 
 114 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 to sliivc* jiH Bhe walked over the (hirk Hubdued velvet pile of tliiit 
 Hli.vlowy corridor. If hIig liad found MIhh Mayrie eii*;a,i?ed in 
 j^fiviiisjf a m.isked ball — or last night's Hiipper j^ y only just 
 finislnn^f — or a iKuty of younfj men playing blind hookey, she 
 would hardly have been Hurprised — not that she knew anything 
 about masked balls — or lato suppers — or gambling — but that all 
 these would have come within ner vague notions of an evil life. 
 
 * J/e j«'ved her,' she said to herself, arguing against this new 
 terror, ' and he could not love a thoroughly wicked woman.' 
 
 No, the Gretchen idea — puritv fallen, simplicity led astray — 
 was more natural — but one could hardly imagine Gretchen in a 
 house of this kind — this sul^dued splendour — this all-pervading 
 air of wealth and luxury. 
 
 Misa Courtenay was shown into a small morning-room — a 
 room which on one side was all window — opening on to a garden, 
 where some fine old trees gave an idea of space — and where the 
 foreground showed a mass of flowers — roses — roses — roses every- 
 where — trailing over arches — clustering round tall iron rods — 
 bush roses — standard roses — dwarf roses — all shining in the 
 gold I 'H li^hi of a westering sun. 
 
 'llu' loom was ek'^'antiysiniplf — an escritoire in the Sherraton 
 St vie — two oi- iliree book-talHes crowded wllh small volumes in 
 ex<|Misiit' ItindiMj,^ vellum, oeaniy calf, brown Ilussia, red edges, 
 gold t'di^cs, painted edji^es, all the prettinesses of bookbinding — 
 half ;i (Inzeu low chairs — downy nests covered with soft tawny 
 Indian silk, wiih here and there a brighter patch of colour in the 
 sha])e of a j)luHh pillow or an old brocade antimacassar — 
 voluminous curtains of the same soft tawny silk, embroidered 
 with jM)ppies and cornflowers — a few choice flowers in old 
 "Venetian vases — a large peacock-feather fan thrown beside an 
 open book, npon a low pillow-sliaped ottoman. 
 
 Chrifltabel gazed round the room in blank surprise — nothing 
 gaudy — nothing vulgar — nothing that indicated sudden promo- 
 tion from the garret to the drawing-room — an air of elegant 
 luxury, of snprenie fashion in all things — but no glare of gildinpj, 
 no disoords in form or colour. 
 
 * Your same, if you please, madam ? ' said the servant, a 
 model of decorum in well-brushed black. 
 
 ' Perhaps you had better take my cord. I am not personally 
 known to Miss Mayne,' answered Christabel, opening her card- 
 caee. ' Oh ! ' she exclaimed suddenly, as with a cry of pain. 
 
 * I beg your pardon,' siiid tlie servant, alarmed. 
 
 * It's nothing. A picture startled me — that was all. Bo 
 f(OQd enough to tell Miss Mayne that I shall be very much 
 ©bligod to her if she wilLeee me.' 
 
 * Certainly, n?adam ! said the man, as he retired with the 
 card, wo»ndering hcrw » young lady of such distirlguished appear- 
 
'S 
 
 a 
 
 * Love is Love Jor Everwort;* 
 
 115 
 
 «nc(' hnpppiiod to call \\\)uu his uiistreutt, wlidsf ftiUiiiMiu.' visitors 
 w*.'ie usuiilly <»f a inoic marked tvpt'. 
 
 ' I dare say slin's coUcctiir funds for oiu' of tlu'ii' rveilastiii' 
 ilmrclu's,' tli(»u,L,'lit tlic l>u(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 e<iually keen after money. Hut 
 why did she ahnost sViik when she clapt her cyea on Mr. 
 'Andci,L,'h's portrait, I wondci-, just aa if she had seen a scorpiont.' 
 
 ('hristabel stood motionh>s« 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 <lespair — 
 in her iron resohvi. At last with a long-drawn sigh, she with- 
 drew her eyes from the jdcture, and bi'gaii to exploie the room. 
 No, there was no trace of vulgarity— no ugly indication of 
 a vicious mind. Christabel glanced at tht; o})cn book on 
 the ottoman, half expecting to find the trail of the .serpent 
 there — in some shameful French novel, the very name of which 
 she had not been allowed to hear. But the book was only the 
 last Contemporary licvieiv, open at an article of (Gladstone's. 
 Then, with faintly tremulous hand, she took one of the vellum- 
 bound duodecimos from a shelf of the revolving book-table— 
 ' Selections from Shelley ' — and on the title-j)age, ' Angus to 
 Stella, Rome,' and the date, just three years old, in the hand .she 
 knew so well. She looked in other books — all choicest flowers 
 of literature — and in each there was the same familiar penman- 
 ship, sometimes with a brief sentence that made the book a 
 souvenir — sometimes with a ]>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 
 
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 116 
 
 Mount 
 
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 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. 
 
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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 
 
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 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 
 
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 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 <lreaiii of grey 
 wintry beauty — it is no more to him than a picture in a ga.ll«ry — 
 he has rarely time to feel Nature's tranquil charms. Even when 
 he must needs stand still for a while, he is devoured by impatience 
 to be scampering oflf again, and to see the world in motion. But 
 the angler has leisure to steep himself in the atmosphere of hill 
 and streamlet — to take Nature's colours into his soul. Even; 
 angler ought to blossom into a landscai)e painter. But this 
 salmon fishing was not altogether a f'reamy and contempLativo 
 business. Quickness, presence of mind, and energetic action 
 were needed at some stages of the sjjort. The moment aimc 
 when Angus found his rod bending under the weight ©f a mag- 
 nificent salmon, and when it seemed a toss up between landing 
 his fish and being dragged under water by him. 
 
 ' Jump in,' cried Donald, excitedly, when the angler's line was 
 nearly expended, ' it's only up to your neck.' So Angus junipeil 
 in, and followed the lightning-swift rusl. of the sjdinon down 
 stream, and then, turning him after some difhculty, had to follow 
 his prey up stream again, back to the original pool, where h(5 
 captured him, and broke the top of his eighteen-foot rod. 
 
 Angus clad himself thinly, because the almanack told liini 
 It was summer — he walked far and fast — overheated himself — 
 waded for hours knee-deep in the river — his fishing-boots of 
 three seasons ago far from watertight — ate nothing all day — and 
 went back to Hillside at dusk, carrying the seeds of pneumonia 
 under his oilskin jacket Next day he contrived to crawl about 
 the gardens, reading ' Burton ' in an idle desultory way that 
 suited so desultory a book, longing for a letter from ChristaVxil, 
 and sorely tired of his Scottish seclusion. On the day after he 
 was laid up with a sharp atfcick of inflammation of tht^lungs, 
 attended by his aunt's experienced old doctor — a shrewd haid- 
 headed Scotchman, contemporary with Simpson, Sibson, Fergusson 
 —all the brightest lights in the Caledonian galaxy — and nursed 
 by one of his aunt's old servants. 
 
 Wliile he was in this condition there came a letter from 
 Christabel, a long letter, which he unfolded with eager trembling 
 hands, looking for joy and comfort in its pages. But, as he rean, 
 his pallid cheek flushed with angry feverish ojiniiine, and hia 
 short liard breatljiug grew shorter aud harii*i- 
 
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124 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
 S: 
 
 Yet the ietter expressed only tenderness. In tendereat wnrda 
 liis betrothed reminded him of past wrong-doing, and urged upon 
 him the duty of atonement. If thia girl whom he had so 
 \>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/ 
 
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 1 
 
 
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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 strug<j;le would be hard 
 Oh, how lon^ and dismal those summer hours seemed, which she 
 spent in her own room, trying to read, trying to comfort herself 
 with the siiddest strains of classic inelody, and always and through 
 all listening for the telegraph boy's knock at the hall door, or for 
 the sudden st()pf)ing of a hansom against the kerb, bringing home 
 her lover to remonstrate in person, in defiance of all calculatioiw 
 of time and space. 
 
 Then; was no telegrau). She had to wait nearly twenty-four 
 hours for the slow transit of the mails from the high latitude of 
 Inverness. And when she read Angus Hamleigh's letter — those 
 few placid words which so quietly left her free to take her own 
 way — her heart sank with a dull despair that was infinitely 
 worse than the keen agonies of the last few days. The finality 
 of that brief letter — the willingness to surrender her—the cold 
 indifference, as it seemed, to her future fate — was the hardest 
 blow of all. Too surely it confirmed aM those humiliating 
 doubts which had tortured her since her discovery of that 
 wretched past, lie had never really cared for her. It was she 
 who had forced him into an avowal of aflection by her uncon- 
 scious revelation of love — she who, unmaidenly in her ignorance 
 of life and mankind, had been the wooer rather than the wooed. 
 
 * Thank God that my pride and my duty helped me to decide,' 
 she said to herself : * what should I have done if I had married 
 him and found out afterwards how weak a hold I had upon his 
 heart — if he had told me one day that he had married me out of 
 pity.' 
 
 C'hristabel told Mrs. Ti-egonell she had written to Mr. 
 Handeigh— she spoke of him only as Mr. Handeigh now— and 
 had received his reply, and that all was now over between them. 
 
* Alas for Mc then, my Oood Days arc Done.* lUl) 
 
 'I want you to return his prcKonts for nn», Auntie/ she H.-iid. 
 'They are too valuable to be sent to his clianibera while ho >h 
 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 
 
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 Hi' Hi 
 
 
 
 wdda > 
 
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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<fi(rm vnd JJranff period in every man's life, depend upon it. 
 Vi\x better that the tempest should rage before maniage than 
 after.' 
 
 ' I can't accept your philosophy, nor could Christabel. She 
 took the business into her own hands, bravely, nobly. She has 
 
* Grief a fixed Star, and Joy a Vane that veers. 131 
 
 cancelled her engagement, and left Mr. Hamleigh free to make 
 some kind of reparation to this actress person.* 
 
 * Reparation ! — to Stella M;iyne ? Why don't you know 
 that she is the misitreas of Colonel Luscomb, who has ruined his 
 social and professional prospects for her sake. Do you mean to 
 say that old harpy who gave you your information about Angus 
 did not give you the epilogue to the play ? ' 
 
 ' Not a word.' said Mrs. Tregonell, considerably dashed by 
 this intelligence. ' But I don't see that this fact alters tlie case — 
 nmch. Christabel could never have been happy orat j)oace with 
 a man who had once been devoted to a creature of that class.' 
 
 ' Would you be surprised to hear that creatures of that class 
 are flesh and blood ; and that they love us and leave us, nnd 
 cleave to us and forsake us, just like tlio women in society ?' 
 asked the Major, surveying her with mild scorn. 
 
 She was a good woman, no doubt, and acted honestly accord- 
 ing to her lights : yet he was angry with her, believing that she 
 had spoiled two lives by her incapacity to take a wide and 
 liberal view of the human comedy. 
 
 ••NtM 
 
 
 
 Ui 
 
 
 CHAPTEB XII. 
 
 She 
 has 
 
 'grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that veerj.* 
 
 TuEY went back to the Cornish moors, and the good old manor- 
 house on the hill above the sea ; wont back to the old life, just 
 the same, in all outward seeming, as it had been before that 
 fatal visit which had brought love and sorrow to Christabel. 
 How lovely the hiils looked in the soft summer light ; how un- 
 speakably fair the sea in all its glory of sapphire and emerald, 
 and those deep garnet-coloured patches which show where the 
 red sea-weed lurks below, with its pinnacles of rock and colonies 
 of wild living creatures, gull and conuorant, basking in the sun. 
 Little Boscastle, too, gay with the coming and going of many 
 tourists, the merry music of the guard's horn, as the otuiiibus 
 came jolting down the hill from Bodmin, or the coach wound up 
 the hilt to Bude ; busy with the bustle of tremendous experi- 
 ments with rockets and life-saving apparatus in the soft July 
 dai'kness ; noisy with the lowing of cattle and plaintive tremolo 
 of sheep in the market-])lace, and all the rude pleasures of a 
 rural fai*' ; alive with all manner of sound and movement, and 
 having a ^ ..'leral air of making money too fast for the caj)ability 
 of investment. The whole place wa.s gorged with visitors — not 
 the ii^n onlj, but every available bed-chamber at post-oflice, shop, 
 and cottage was filled with humanity ; and the half-dozen or su 
 
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 & 
 
 \ 
 
 
I> 
 
 li.t 
 
 ,.•11. 
 
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 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 
 
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 •I'lj 5 
 
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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.' 
 
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 Mount Boyal. 
 
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 ' 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 
 
 
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138 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
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 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 
 
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 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 
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 ,.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 
 
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 Mount Royal. 
 
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 • 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^e<l for this hour. I have liad such fears. You 
 have been in such j)eril(>ns 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 <lon't mind a cun of tea presentlv, when I've 
 been and had a look round the stanlcs and kennels. 
 
 *()h, Leonard ! surely not yet V said Mrs. 'J'regonell. 
 
 * Not yet ! Why, I've heen in the house ten minutes, and 
 you may Huinxxse I want to know how my hunters have been 
 jLi;etting on in the last three yeai-s, and whether the colt Ni(;holla 
 bred is good for anything. I'll just take a hurried look round 
 and be back again slick.' 
 
 Mrs. Tregonell sighed and submitted. What could she do 
 but submit to a son who had had his own way and followed his 
 own pleiusure ever since he could run alone ; nay, had roared 
 and j)rotested loudly at every attJick upon his liberty when he 
 was still in the invertebrate jelly-tish stage of existence, carried 
 at full length in his nurse's arms, with his face turne<l to the 
 ceiling, perpetually contemjjlating that Hat white view of indoor 
 existence which must needs have a depressing intluence upon 
 the meditations of infancy. The mothers of spirited youths 
 have to fulfil their mission, wh h is for the most ])artsul)missioiL 
 
 ' How well he looks I ' she said, fondly, when the squire 
 liad hurried out of the room ; 'and how he has broadened and 
 tilled out*' 
 
 Jessie Bridgeman thought within herself that he wax* quite 
 broad enough before he went to America, and that this filling- 
 out process had hardly improved him, but she held her peace. 
 
 ' He looks very strong,' said Christabel. * I could fancy 
 Hercules just such a man. I wonder whether he has brought 
 home any lions' hides, and if he will have one made into a 
 shooting jacket. Dear, dearest Auntie,' she went on, kneeling 
 by the widow's chair, ' I hope you are quite happy now. 1 
 hope your cup of bliss is full.' 
 
 ' I am very happy, sweet one ; but the cup is not full yet. 
 1 hope it may be before I die — full to overilowing, and that I 
 shall be able to say, " Lord, let me tlcpai't ir peace," with a 
 glad and grateful heart.' 
 
 Leonard came back from the stables in a rather gloomy 
 mood. His hunters did not look as well as he exT)ectod, and 
 the new colt wjis weak and weedy. ' Nicholls ought to have 
 known better than to breed such a thing, but I suppose he'd 
 say, like the man in Tristram Shandy, that it wasn't his fault,' 
 grumbled Mr. Tregonell, as he seated himself in front of the 
 tire, with his feet on the brass fender. He wore clump-soled 
 boots and a rough heather-mixture shooting suit, with knicker- 
 bockers and coarse stockings, and his whole aspect was * sport- 
 
 
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 144 
 
 Mount Eoyal. 
 
 ing.* Christabel thought of some one else who had sat before 
 the same hearth in the peaceful twilight hour, and wondered 
 if the spiritual diflfereuces between these two men were as wide 
 as those of manner and outward seeming. She recalled the 
 exquisite refinement of that other nun, the refinement of the man 
 who is a born dandy, who, under the most adverse circumstances, 
 compelled to wear old clothes and to defy fashion, would yet be 
 always elegant and refined of aspect. She remembered that 
 outward grace which seemed the natural indication of a poetical 
 mind — a grace which never degenerated into eflfeminacy, a 
 refinement which never approached the feeble or the lacka- 
 daisical. 
 
 Mr. Tregoniell stretched his large limbs before the blaze, 
 and made himself comfortable in the spacious plush-covered 
 chair, throwing back his dark head upon a crewel anti-macass.ar, 
 which was a work of art almost as worthy of notice as a water- 
 colour painting, so exquisitely had the flowers been copied from 
 Nature by the patient needlewoman. 
 
 ' This is rather more comfortable than the Rockies,' he said, 
 as he stirred his tea, with big broad hands, scratched and scarred 
 with hard service. ' Mount Royal isn't half a bad place for two 
 or three months in the year. But I suppose you mean to go t(« 
 London after Easter? Now Belle has tasted blood she'll be .'dl 
 agog for a second plunge. Sandown will be uncommonly jolly 
 this year.' 
 
 ' No, we are not going to town this season.' 
 
 * Why not t Hard up — spent all the dollars ? * 
 
 * No, but I don't think Belle would care about it.' 
 
 ' That's bosh. Come, now, Belle, you want to go of course, 
 said Mr. Tregonell, turning to his cousin. 
 
 * No, Leonard, that kind of thing is all very well for once in 
 a lifetime. I suppose every woman wants to know what the 
 great world is like — but one season must resemble another, I 
 should think : just like Boscastle Fair, which I used to fancy so 
 lovely when I was a child, till I began to understand that it was 
 exactly tiie same every yeju', and that it was just possible for 
 one to outgrow the idea of its delightfulness.' 
 
 'That isn't true about London though. There is always 
 Bomelhing new — new clubs, new theatres, new actors, new race- 
 meetings, new liioi*ses, new jieople. I vote for May and June in 
 Eoitou Row.' 
 
 * I don't think your dear mother's health would be equal to 
 London, this year, Leonard,' said Christabel, gravely. 
 
 She was angry with this beloved and only son for not having 
 Been the change in his motlier's appearance — for talking so loudly 
 and so lightly, as if tlmre w«re nothing to be thought of in lifb 
 expect his own pKT^ure. 
 
 of 
 
Love loill have his day,* 
 
 145 
 
 'What, old lady, are you under the weather?' he asked, 
 turning to survey his mother with a critical air. 
 
 This was his American manner of inquiring after her health. 
 Mrs. Tregonell, when the meaning of the phrase had been 
 explained to her, confessed herself an invalid, for wliom the 
 placid monotony of rural life was much safer than the dissipation 
 of a London sea.«on. 
 
 'Oh, very well,' said Leonard with a shrug ; then you and 
 r.elle must stop at home and take care of each other — and I can 
 have six weeks iii London en garden. It won't be worth while 
 to open the house in Bolton liow — I'd rather stop at an hotel.' 
 
 * But you won't leave me directly after your[return, Leonard? ' 
 
 * No, no, of course not. Not till after Easter. Easter's three 
 weeks ahead of us. You'll be tired enough of me by that time.' 
 
 * Tired of you ! After three years' absence ? " 
 
 * Well, you must have got accustomed to doing without me, 
 don't you know,' said Leonard witli chaniung frankness. 
 ' When a man has been three years away he can't hurt liis friends' 
 feelings much if he dies abroad. They've learnt how easy it is 
 to get along without him.' 
 
 ' Leonard ! how can you say such cruel things ?' expostulated 
 his mother, with tears in her eyes. The very mention of death, 
 as among the possibilities of existence, scared her. 
 
 'There's nothing cruel in it, ma'am ; it's only common sense.' 
 answered Leonard. ' Three years. Well, it's a jolly long time, 
 isn't it ] and I dare say to you, in this sleepy hollow of a place, 
 it seemed precious long. But for fellows who are knocking 
 about the world — as I'uker Vandeleur and I were — time sj^na 
 by pretty fast, I can tell you. I'll hoist in some more saj) — 
 another cup of tea, if you please, Miss Brid'ieman,' added 
 Leonard, handing in his empty cup. 'It's uncommonly good 
 stuff. Oh ! here's old Randie — come here, Randie.' 
 
 Randie, clutched unceremoniously by the tail, and drawn ovet 
 the earthrug, like any inanimate chattel, remonstratetl with a 
 growl and a snap. He had never been over-fond of the master 
 of Mount Royal, and absence had not made his heai*t grow 
 fonder. 
 
 'His temper hasn't improved,' muttered Leonard, pushing 
 the dog away with his foot. 
 
 'His temper is always lovely when he's kindly treated,' said 
 ( 'hristabel, making room for the dog in her low arm chair, where- 
 upon Randie insinuated himself into that soft silkt-n ne^it, and 
 looked fondly up at his mistress with his honest brown eyes. 
 
 ' You should let me give you a Pomeranian instead of that 
 «ngaiuly beast,' said Leonard. 
 
 'No, thanks. Never any other dog while Randie lirea. 
 Randie is a person, and he and I havu a hundred ideas in 
 
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 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 an<l 
 coarse, his language larded with American slang, his conduct m as 
 unobjectionable. He was affectionate to his mother, attentive in 
 his free and easy way to Christabel, civil to the old servants, and 
 friendly to old friends. He made considerable alterations in the 
 Btables, bought and sold and swopped horses, engaged new under- 
 lings, acted in all out-of-door arrangements as if the place wrw 
 entirely his own, albeit his mothers life-interest in the estate 
 gave her the custody of everything. But his mother was too full 
 of gladness at his return to object to anything that he did. She 
 opened her purse-strings freely, although his tour hail been a 
 costly business. Her income had accumulated in the less ex- 
 pensive period of his l)oyhood, and she could aflford to indulge 
 Lis fancies. 
 
 He went about with Major Bree. looking up old acquaintances, 
 riding over every acre of the estate — lauds which stretched far 
 away towards Launceston on one side, towards iJ.xlmin on the 
 other. He h«ld forth lai-gely to the Major on the pettineas and 
 
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 narrowness of an English landscape as compared with that vast 
 continent in which the rivers are as seas and the forests rank 
 and gloomy wildernesses reaching to the trackless and unknown. 
 Sometimes Christabel was their companion in these long rides, 
 mounted on the thoronghhred which Mrs. Tregonell gave her or 
 that last too-happy birthday. The long rides in the sweet soft 
 April air brought health and brightness back to her pale cheeks. 
 She was so anxious to look well and happy for her aunt's sake, 
 to cheer the widow's fading life ; but, oh ! the unutterable sad- 
 ness of that ever-present thought of the after time, that un- 
 iuiswerable question as to what was to become of her own empty 
 (lays when this dear friend was gone. 
 
 Happy as Leonard seemed at Mount Eoyal in the society of 
 1 1 is mother and his cousin, he did not forego his idea of a month 
 or so in London. He went up to town soon after Easter, took 
 rooms at an hotel near the Haymarket, and gave himself up to 
 a round of metropolitan pleasures under the guidance of Captain 
 Vandeleur, vvho had made the initiation of provincial and inex- 
 perienced youth a kind of profession. He had a neat way of 
 finding out exactly how much money a young man had to dispose 
 of, present or contingent, and put him tlurough it in the quickest 
 possible time and at the pleasantest pace ; but he knew by ex- 
 perience that Leonard had his own ideas about money, and was 
 as keen as experience itself. He would pay the current rate for 
 his pleasures, and no more ; and he had a prudential horror of 
 Jews, post-obits, and all engagements likely to daniiige his future 
 enjoyment of his estate. He vas fond of play, but he did not go 
 in the way of losing large sums — ' ponies' not ' monkies' were his 
 favourite animals — and he did not care about playing against his 
 chosen friend. 
 
 ' I like to have you on my side, Poker,' he said amiably, when 
 the captain proposed a devilled bone and a hand at eearto after 
 the play. 'You're a good deal too clever for a conifortaVile 
 antagonist. You play ecarte with your other young friends, 
 Poker, and I'll be your partner at whist.' 
 
 Captain Vandeleur, who by this time was tolerably familiar 
 with the workings of his friead's mind, never again sucrorested 
 tliose quiet encounters of skill which must inevitiibly have 
 resulted to his advantage, had Leonard been weak enough to 
 accept the challenge. To have pressed the question would have 
 been to avow himself a sharper. He had won money from his 
 fiiend at blind hookey ; but then at blind hookey all men are 
 ^({ual — and Leonard had accepted the decree of fate ; but he was 
 aot the kind of man to let another man get the better of him in 
 a series of transactions. H'e was not brilliant, but he was shrewd 
 and keen, and had long ago made up his mind to get fair value 
 for his money. If he allowed Jack Yauduleur to travel at his 
 
 ^ 4,1 
 
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* Love will have Jm day.' 
 
 149 
 
 expense, or dine and drink daily at his hotel, it was not because 
 Leonard was weakly generous, but because Jack's company was 
 worth the money. He would not have paid for a pint of wine 
 for a man who was dull, or a bore. At Mount Royal, of course, 
 he was obliged now and then to entertain bores. It was an 
 incident in his position as a leading man in the county — but 
 here in London he was free to please himself, and to give the 
 cold shoulder to uncongenial acquaintance. 
 
 Gay as town was, Mr. Tregonell soon tired of it upon this 
 particular occasion. After Epsom and Ascot his enjoyment 
 began to wane. He had made a round ©f the theatres — he had 
 dined and supped, and played a good many nights at those clubs 
 which he and his friends most affected. He had spent tliree 
 evenings watching a great billiard match, and he found that his 
 thoughts went back to Mount Royal, and to those he had left 
 there — to Christabel, who had been very kind and sweet to him 
 since his home-coming ; who had done much to make home 
 delightful to him — riding with him, playing and singing to him, 
 playing billiards with him, listening to his stories of travel — 
 interested or seeming interested, \\\ every detail of that wild 
 free life. Leonard did not know that Christabel had done all 
 this for her aunt's sake, in the endeavour to keep the prodigal at 
 home, knowing how the mother's peace and gladness depended 
 on the conduct of her son. 
 
 And now, in the midst of London dissipations, Leonard 
 yearned for that girlish companionship. It was dull enough, no 
 doubt, that calm and domestic life under the old roof-tree ; but 
 it had been pleasant to ^' a, and he had lot wearied of it half so 
 quickly as of this fret and fume, and wear and tear of London 
 jimusements, Leonard began to think that his natural bent was 
 towards domesticity, .md that, as Belle's husband — there could 
 be no doubt that she would accept him when the time came for 
 asking her — he would shine as a very estimable character, just 
 as his father had shone before him. He had questioned hi- 
 mother searchingly as to Belle's engagement to Mr. Angus 
 Hamleigh, and was inclined to be retrosjjectively jealous, and to 
 hate that unknown rival with a tierce hatred ; nor did he fail to 
 blame his mother for her folly in bringing such a man to Mount 
 Royal. 
 
 * How could I surpose that Belle would fall in love witli 
 him 1 ' asked Mrs. Tregonell, meekly. ' I knew how attached 
 she was to you.' 
 
 * Attached 1 yes ; but that kind of attachment means so little. 
 She had known me all her life. I wtis nobody in her estimation 
 — no more than the chairs and tables — and this man was a 
 novelty ; and again, what has a j^rl to do in such an out-oi-the' 
 way place as this but fall in love with the hrst oomer ; it is 
 
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 150 
 
 Mount Roy ah 
 
 almopt the only amusement open to her. You ought to have 
 known better than to have invited that fellow here, mother ; 
 you knew what T meant to marry Belle. You ought to have 
 guarded her for me — kept oflf dangerous rivals. Instead of that 
 you must needs go out of your way to get that fellow here.' 
 
 * You ought to have come home sooner, Leonard.' 
 
 * That's nonsense. I was enjoying my life where I was. How 
 could I suppose you would be such a fool ? ' 
 
 * Don't iay such hard things, Leonard. Think how lonely my 
 life was. The invitation to Mr. Hamleigh. was not a new idea ; 
 I had asked him half a dozen times before. I wanted to see 
 him and know him for his father's sake.' 
 
 * His father's sake ! — a man whom you loved better than ever 
 you loved my father, I dare say.' 
 
 ' No, Leonard, that is not true.' 
 
 ' You think not, perhaps, now my father is dead ; but I dare 
 say while he was alive you were always regretting that other 
 man. Nothing exalts a man so much in a woman's mind as 
 his dying. Look at the alTection of widows as compared with 
 that of wives.' 
 
 Mrs. Tregonell strove her hardest to convince her son that 
 his cousin's aifections were now free — that it was his business to 
 win her heart ; but Leonard complained that his mother had 
 si)oiled his chances— that all the freshness of Christabel's feelings 
 must have been worn off in an engagement that had laited 
 nearly a year. 
 
 '►She'll have me fast enough, I daresay,' he said, with his 
 easy, confident air — that calm masculine consciousness of 
 superiority, as of one who talks of an altogether inferior 
 creature ; 'all the faster, perhaps, on account of having made 
 •A fiasco oi her first engagement. A girl doesn't like to be pointed 
 at as jilt or jilted. But I shall always feel uncomfortable about 
 this fellow, Hamleigh. I shall never be able quite to believe in 
 my wife.' 
 
 * Leonard, how can you talk like that, you who know 
 Christabel's high principles.' 
 
 * Yes, but 1 wanted to be sure that she had never cared for 
 any one but me ; and you have spoiled my chances of that' 
 
 He staved little more than a month in London, going back to 
 Mount R(./al soon after Ascot, and while the June roses were 
 still in their glory. Brief as his absence had been, even hi^ 
 careless eye could see that his mother had changed for the worse 
 since tlieir parting. The hollow cheek had grown hollo wer, the 
 languid eye more languid, the hand that clung so fondly to his 
 broad, brown palm, was thinner, and more waxen of hue. 
 
 His mother welcomed him with warmest love. 
 
 * My dearest one,' she said, tenderly, 'this is an unexpected 
 
 
 V' HI 
 
Love will Jtave his day.' 
 
 151 
 
 delight. It is so yood of you to eoiue back to me so soon. I 
 want to have you with me. (Kur, aa much as possiMe — now.' 
 
 'Why, mother]' he asktil, kindly, for a dull pain in his 
 breast seemed to answer to these words of hers. 
 
 ' Because I do not think it will be for long. I am very weak, 
 dear. Life seems to be slipping away from me ; but there is no 
 pain, no terror. I feel as if I were being gently carried along a 
 slow gliding stream to some sheltered haven, which I can picture 
 to myself, although I have never seen it, I have only one care, 
 Leonard, one anxiety, and that is for your future happiness. I 
 want your life to be full of joy, dearest, and I want it to be a 
 good life, like your fathei-'s.' 
 
 * Yes, h» was a good old buffer, wasn't he ] ' said Leonard. 
 'Everybody about here speaks well of him ; but, then, I daresay 
 that's because he had plenty of money, and wasn't afraid to spend 
 it, and was an easy master, and all that sort of thing, don't you 
 know. That's a kind of goodness which isn't very difficult for a 
 man to practise.' 
 
 ' Your father was a C'lristian, Leonard — a sound, practical, 
 Christian, and he did his duty in every phase of life,' answered 
 the widow, half proudly, half reproachfully. 
 
 ' No doubt. All I say is, that's it's uncommonly easj to be a 
 Christian under such circumstances.' 
 
 ' Your circumstances will be as ejisy, I tinist, Leonard, and 
 your surroundings no less happy, if you win your cousin for 
 your wife. And I feel sure you will win her. Ask her soon, 
 dear — ask her very soon — that I may see you married to her 
 before I die.' 
 
 ' You think she'll say yes, if I do ? I don't want to precipitate 
 matters, and get snubbed for my pains.' 
 
 ' I think she will say yes. iShe must know how my heart is 
 set upon this marriage. It has been the dream of my life.' 
 
 Despite his self-assurance — his fixed opinion as to his own 
 personal and social value — Leonard Tregonell hesitated a little at 
 asking that nuestion which must certainly be one of the most 
 solemn inqu ries of a man's life. His cousin had been all kind- 
 ness and sweetness to him since his return ; yet in his inmost 
 heart he knew that her regard for him wiis at best of a cali^i, 
 cousinly quality. He knew this, but he told himself that if sha 
 were only willing to accept him as her husband, th« lest nmst 
 follow. It would be his business to see that she was a good wife, 
 and in time she would grow fonder of him, no doubt. He meant 
 to be an indulgent husband. He would be very proud of her 
 beauty, grace, accomplishments. There was no man among hii 
 acquaintance who could boast of such a charmii;g wife. She 
 should have her own way in everything: <>f etnuse, so long as 
 her w.iy did not run counter to his. She would be mistress o* 
 
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 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' 
 
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 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 
 
 
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 I'm' 
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 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 <lidn't know 
 how fond I was of her till she refused me ; and now, I could 
 1 rawl at her feet, and sue to her as a palavering Irish beggar 
 .-lies for alma, cringing and fawning, and ihittering and lying — 
 ;i;id yet in my heart of hearts I should be savage with her all th« 
 time, knowing that she will never care for me jus she caix-d for 
 iliat other fellow.' 
 
 ' Leonard, if you knew how it pains me to hear you talk like 
 tliat,' said Mi-s. Tregonell. * It makes me fearful of your 
 inijietuous, self-willed nature.* 
 
 * Self-will be ! somethinged ! ' growled Leonard. * Did 
 
 vou ever know a man who cultivated anylxxly else's will } 
 NVould you have me pretend to be l)etter than 1 am — tell you 
 lliat I can feel all atlection for the girl who preferred the, first 
 -iianger who came in her way to the playfellow and companion 
 of her childhood i ' 
 
 ' If you had been a little less tormenting, a little less exacting 
 with her in those days, Leonard, I think she would have remem- 
 beied you more tenderly,' said Mrs. Tregonell. 
 
 ' If you are going to lecture me abca what I was as a boy 
 Mo'd better cut the convei-sation,' retorted Leonard. ' I'll go and 
 |iiactice the spot-stroke fur half an hour, while you take your 
 after-dinner nap.' 
 
 ' No, dear, aon't go away. I don't feel in the least inclined 
 for sleep. I had no idea of lecturing you, Leonard, believe me ; 
 only I cannot help regretting, as you do, that Christabel should 
 not be more attached to you. But I feel very sure that, if you 
 are patient, she will come,to think dififerently by-and-by.' 
 
 ' Didn't you tell me to ask her — and quickly ] ' 
 
 'Yes, that was because I was impatient. Life seemed 
 slipping away from me--4tnd I was so eager to be secure of my 
 dv'T boyV happiness. Let ua try diflferent tactics, Leo. Take 
 
 n\A 
 
 i 
 
 ■M 
 
156 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 „.. I ' 
 
 if • I 
 
 r ■'■■ 
 
 tilings quietly for a little — behave to your cousin jnst as if there 
 liad been nothing of this kind between you, and who kuowa 
 what may happen.' 
 
 ' I know of one thing that may and will happen next 
 October, unless the lady changes her tune,' answered Leonard, 
 Rulkily. 
 
 ' What is that ' ' _ 
 
 * I shall go to South America — do a little mountaineering in 
 the Equatorial Andes — enjoy a little life in Valparaiso, Tiuxillo 
 — Lord knows where ! I've done North America, from Canada 
 to Frisco, and dow 1 shall do the South.' 
 
 'Leonard, you would not be so cruel ;\s to leave me to die in 
 my loneliness ; for 1 think, dear, you must know that I have 
 not long to live.* 
 
 'Cunie, mother, I believe you fancy yourself ever so much 
 worse than you really are. This jog-trot, monotonous life of 
 yours would breed vapours in tin.' liveliest ptM'son. iJesidtvs, if 
 you sh(»uM be ill while I am away, you'll have your niece, whom 
 you love as a daughter — ami perliai)s yoiu' nicety's husband, this 
 dear Angus of yours — to take cart; of y<'>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 
 
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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-<lay : it can flo no good.* 
 
 After this car o nmch kissing and huiririnir, and a few tear's ; 
 and it wa.sagree<; .it Christabel should forego li>r i<lea of six 
 months' study of eiassical music at the famous coi.-ervatoire at 
 Leipsic. 
 
 tShe and Jessie liad madt* all their plans l>«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 <ralile ever afterwards.* 
 
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 Mo7inb Boyat 
 
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 1 wonder Uiat yt)u catt 
 
 »!'» r. :iUiiii<^ of the kind, 
 tliijik me no wc;ik.' 
 
 * If you are weak enough to stay, yoa will be weak elioo^n 
 to do the other thing,' retorted Jessie, 
 
 * Hf»w can I go wlien my aunt looks at me with those sad 
 ey&s, dying eycH — they are so changed since last year — and 
 fjjjplores me to stop ? I thought you loved her, Jessie 1 ' 
 
 ' I do love her, with a fond and grateful afiection. She was 
 wny first friend outside my own home ; she is my benefactre«A. 
 Lilt T have to think of your welfare, Christabel — your wxilfare 
 In this world and the world to come. Both will bo in danger 
 if you stay here and marry Leonard Ticgonell.' 
 
 ' I am going to stay here ; and I a^u not going to marry 
 Leonard. Will that assurance satisfy you ] One would think 
 I had no will of my own.' 
 
 * You have not the will to withstand your aunt. She parted 
 you 011(1 Mr, Hamleigh ; and she will marry you to her son.' 
 
 ' The parting was my act, ' said Christabel. 
 
 *It was yonr aunt who brought it al)uiit. Had she been 
 true and loyal tliere would have been no such parting. If you 
 had only trusted tn me in that crisis, I think I might have 
 saved you some sorrow ; but what's done cannot be undone.' 
 
 * There arc - lue cases in which a woman must judge for 
 herself,' Chri-t. ' ■ i replied, coldly. 
 
 'A woman. ^.'^ — a woman who has had some experience of 
 life ; but not a girl, who knows nothing of the hard real 
 world and its tfii- 'ations- ditliciilties, struggles. Don't let ua 
 talk of it -'.ny lut,'.-. I cannot trust myself to speak when I 
 remember i.ow shamefully he was treated.' 
 
 Christabel stared in amazement. The calm, practical Miss 
 Bridgrnian spoke with a passionate vehemence which took tho 
 girl's breath away , and yet, m her heart of hearts, Cliristabel 
 was grateful to h«-T for this siidden flash of anger. 
 
 * I did not knuw yon liked him so much — that you were so 
 sorry for him,' she faltt-ivd. 
 
 'Then you ought ti' liave known, if you ever took the trouble 
 to resnember how good ho always wjis to mo, how symjxithetic, 
 how tolerant of my eompany v.ien it was forced upon him day 
 after day. Iuav >«-.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 
 
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 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:l\V.- 
 
 * But here is .One who Ijoves you as of Old.' 165 
 
 lover by the c;ain of another, and was now engaged to her 
 cousin. 
 
 (.'lar.' St. Aubyn ventured to congratulate her upon this 
 hiij)j)V issue out of bygone griefs. 
 
 ' [ am so glad,' she said, squeezing Christabel's hand, during 
 an insj)wction of the hot-houses. *I like him so mucii.' 
 
 '1 don't quite understand,' replied Christabel, witlia freezing 
 look : * who is it whom you like '( The new Curate ?' 
 
 * No, dear, don't ])rotL'n(l to niisnudurstand mo. I am so 
 pleased to think that you and your cousin art! ^oing to make a 
 match of it. He is so handsome — such a tine, frank, open- 
 hearted m;inner — so altogether nice' 
 
 'lam ])l('ased to hear you ])raise hira,' said CM iristabel, still 
 supremely cold ; * but my cousin is my cousin, and will never 
 be anything more.' 
 
 * You don't mean that V 
 
 *I do — without the smallest reservation.' 
 
 Clara became thoughtful. Leonanl Tregonell was one of the 
 best matches in the county, and he had always been civil to 
 her. They had tastes in common, were both horsey and doggy, 
 and plain-spoken to brusqueness. Why should not she be 
 mistress of Mount lloyal, by-and-bye, if Christabel despised hei 
 opportunities ? 
 
 At half-past seven, the last carriage had driven away from 
 the porch ; and Mrs. Tregonell, thoroughly exhausted by the 
 exertions of the afternoon, reclined languidly in her favourite 
 chair, moved from its winter-i)laee by the hearth, to a deep 
 embayed window looking on to the rose-garden. Christabel sat 
 on a stool at her aunt's feet, her fair head resting against the 
 cushioned elbow of Mrs. Tregonells ciiair. 
 
 'Well, Auntie, the people are gone and the birthday is over. 
 Isn't that a blessing i ' she saitl, lightly. 
 
 ' Yes, dear, it is over, and you are of age — your own mistresv 
 My guardianship expires to-day. I wonder whether I shall tint! 
 any diUerence in my darling now she is out of leading-strings.' 
 
 ' I don't think you will. Auntie. I have not much inclina- 
 tion for desjjerate lliudits of any kind. What can freedom or 
 the unrestricted use of my fortune give me, which your indulg- 
 ence has not already given'^ What whim or fancy <jf nune have 
 you ever thwarted '{ No, aunt Di, I don't thiidc there is any 
 scope for rebellion on my j)a)t.' 
 
 ' And you will not leave me, dear, till the end (' ])leadod the 
 widow. ' Your bondage cannot be for very Itng.' 
 
 'Auntie! how can you speak like that, when you know — 
 when you must l:now tliat T have no one in the woi id but you 
 now — no one, (I irest,' said Christabel, on her knees at her aunt'.^ 
 feet, clasping and kissing the pale transparent handa. ' 1 have 
 
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 M 
 
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 H 
 
 ii>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. 
 
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 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,* answere<l 
 Leonai'd, seating himself in his mother's empty eliair. * I'm 
 afraid she won't last out the year that begins to-day. But she 
 has seemed brighter and happier lat(>ly, 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<tu owo iim notliiut,', Imt yoi? owo Iut sonit»« 
 tiling'. Tlijit is Hueini^ mformd panptri/*, isn't it^ lU-Uo / JJut I 
 liuvo no priile where you nro contenu'il.' 
 
 'You ask Tin- to Im! your wife ; vou don't even ask if I love 
 you,' wiitl Christabel, l)itteiiy. 'What if I were to say yes, and 
 then tell you afterwards that my heart still beloii^'s to Angus 
 llaiuleigh.' 
 
 'You had li !fer tell me that now, if it is so,' saitl Leonard, 
 his face <larkeiiinu' in the lirelight. 
 
 'Then I will tell you that it is .su. I <»ave hiui u|> 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- 
 
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 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. 
 
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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 bii<le was clini,dnfj 
 to her aunt's lifeless tiu'nre, half sustained in Leonard's arms, 
 half resting on the chair wliieh had been pushed forward to 
 support herns i^he sank uj>on 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<i Chri.slabel all her 
 jewj'ls and books ; and to her son eveiything elsi; of wideh she 
 died jiosses.scd. Jle was now by inherit.ince from his niothtr, 
 and in ri'^ht of his wif", mas'er of tlu- ( hampeiiiowne e.tate, 
 which, united to the Tre^oni'll property, n:;ide him o);«j of the 
 largest landowners in the Wi^at of J^n^land. ( 'hri^^labe^s 
 fortune had lu'cn strictly settled on hei-self befort) her marriage, 
 w ith I'eversion to Jjeon.n-d iu the failinc of chillren ; but the 
 laftt of thi-; settlement, to which lie had i ( adilv aLjreeij. did not 
 lev^cn I.eonai'ds siMise of impoi'taic'c as representative of the 
 Tregonells ;iim1 t 'hamperuowncs. 
 
 i'hri.-^tabcl and hei- iiu-b.and started f^r the C'oi.Jir.rtn! on 
 the day after the funeral, JiConard fervently hoping that change 
 of «cene and tonstuiit luovemiiiit. would hcij) his wifo Lo forget 
 
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 Moiuit Royal. 
 
 Ik-T grief. It w.is a thvary departure for a honeymoon tour — 
 the sombre dress of bride and bridegroom, the doleful visage of 
 l)f)rmer, the latt Mrs. Tregonell's faithful maid, whom the 
 /•resent Mrs. Tregonell retained for her own service, glad to 
 have a person about her who had so dearly loved the dead. 
 They travelled to Weymouth, crossed to Chcbourg, and thence 
 to Paris, and on without stopping to Bordeaux . then, following 
 tho line southward, they visited all the most interesting towns 
 of southern France — Albi, Montauban, Toulousj;, Carcassonne, 
 N.irbonne, Montpellier, Nisraes, and so to th(} fairy-like shores 
 of the Mediterranean, lingering on their way to look at mediaeval 
 cathedrals, Roman baths and amphitheatres, citadels, prisons, 
 palaces, aqueducts, all somewhat dry as dust and tiresome to 
 LeoiK rd, but full of interest to Christabel, who forgot her own 
 griefs as she pored over these relics of pagan and Christian history. 
 
 Nice was in all its glory of late spring when, after a lingering 
 progress, they arrived at that Brighton of the st)uth. It wns 
 nearly six weeks since that March sunset which had lighted the 
 funeral ])roces.sion in Minster Churchyard, and Christabel wiis 
 Viegiru'ng to grow accust<jnied to the idea of her aunt's death — 
 nay, had begun to look back with a dim si'une of wonder at the 
 ha;)py time ii' which they two had been together, their love 
 iniclouded by any fear of doom and parting. Tlia'i last year of 
 Mrs. Tregonell's life had l)een Christabel's apprenticeship to 
 grief. All the gladness and thoughtles.,ne3S of youth had been 
 blighted by the knowledge of an inevitable parting — a farewell 
 that must soon be spoken — a dear hand clas[)ed fondly to-day, 
 but which must be let go to-morrow. 
 
 Under ti'at soft southern nky a faint bloom came back ta 
 Christabel's cheeks, which had not until now lost the wan 
 whiteness they had worn on her wedding-djvy. She grew more 
 cheerful, talked 'n-ightly and pleasantly to her husband, and put 
 off the asj)0ct uf gloom with the heavy crape-shrouded gown 
 which marked the first period of her mourning. She came 
 down to dinner one evening in a gown of rich lustreh^ss black 
 silk, with a cluster of Cape jasmine among the folds of her 
 white crape liehu, whereat Leonard rejoiced exceedingly, his 
 Vieing ovgk of those philoso}»hic minds which believe that the too 
 brief days of the living should never be frittered away upon 
 lamentations for the (kad. 
 
 ' You're looking uncommonly jolly. Belle,' said fiOonard, as 
 his wife took her seat at the little tabte in front of an open 
 window overlooking the blue water and the amphitheatre of 
 hills, gloritied by the sunset. They were dining at a private 
 table in the public room of the hotel, Leonard having a fancy 
 for the life ami bustle of the tahhi d'hSte rather than tin* 
 Beclusion of his own apartments. Christabel hated sitting dowa 
 
 p'*" 
 
 i 
 
'Not the Gods can shake the Pist.^ 
 
 
 with a hold of straiiffers ; so, by way of ctniiproniiso, they dinp<i 
 at their own particular table, and lodkecl on at the public 
 banf|uet, .as at a statje-play enacted for their amusement. 
 
 lliere were others who preferred the exclusivene^ia of ti 
 Separate table ; amon^jf thesL- tsvo middlc-a'jfed men — oiie military, 
 both n^w arri\als— who sat witliin earshot of Mr. and Mlft. 
 iVegonell. 
 
 ' That's a fascinating get-up, Belle,* pursued Leonard, proud 
 of his wife's beauty, and not displerused at a few resi)ectful 
 glances from the men at the neighbouring table whicii that 
 beauty had elicited. 'Bv-the-by, why shouldn't we go to the 
 opera to-night? They cio "Traviata;" none of your Wagner 
 btufi", but one of the few operfi.s a fellow can understand. It will 
 cheer you up a bit.' 
 
 'Thank you, Leonard. You are very good to think of it; 
 but I had rather not go to any place of amusement — this year.' 
 
 'That's rank rul)bish, Ijclle, AVhat can it matter — here, 
 where nobody knows us i And do you supiwise it can make any 
 'lilierence to my poor mother ? ller slee}) will be none the less 
 tran(|uil.' 
 
 ' I know that ; but it pleases me to honour her memory. I 
 will go to the oi)era as often as you like next yiar, Lennaid.' 
 
 * You may go or stay away, so far as I'm concern<Ml,' answered 
 Leonard, with a sulky air. ' I cmly suggested the thing on your 
 account. I Imte their scpialling.' 
 
 This was not the first time that Mr. Tregonell had shown the 
 cloven foot during that prolonged honeymoon. Jfe w.is not 
 actually unkind to his wife. Uo indulged her fajicies for the 
 most j)art, even when they went counter to his ; lie wouM have 
 loaded her with gifts, had she bei'U willing to a,ccept them ; he 
 wa.s the kind of spouse who, in the estimation of the outside 
 world, passes as a perfect husljand — proud, f(jml, indulgi-nt, 
 lavish — just the kind of husband whom a sensuous, scllish woman 
 would consider absolutely adorable from a practical Htand{)oint ; 
 supplementing him, perhaps, with the iih-Jii, in the i)erson of a 
 lover. 
 
 So far, Christaljel's we<lded life had gone snjoothly ; for in 
 the measure of her .saoritice she had included obedienci* and duty 
 .ifter n)arriage. Yet there w;us not an horn- in which she did n<it 
 feel the utter war.o of sympathy lutwee»i Imt and the man she 
 had married iKit a day in wliich she did not discover his 
 inability to understand her, to think as she thought, to see as she 
 .■>;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.- 
 
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 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<indon pajn-rs, reiluced him almost to 
 dumbness. Just now In; was silent from temijcr, and went on 
 .sulkily with his dinner, piiieuiling to be absorbed by consider- 
 ation of the wines and dishes, most of which he pronounced 
 abominable. 
 
 When he had linished his dinn; i, he look out his cigarette 
 case, and went out on the balconv to smoke ' iving Christabd 
 sittiu'^f aloiic at her littU' table. 
 
 The two Mnglishmen at the table m ihe next window were 
 talking in a cond'ortable, genial kiml of way, and in voices quite 
 loud rnough to be ovei'heard by their imme<liate neighbouis. 
 The soldier-liki^ m.an sat liaek to baek with Chnsiabel, and she 
 could n(»t avoid heai iiig the greater \)AVt of his conversation. 
 
 She heard wiih listless ears, neither understanding iiic 
 interested in understanding the drift of his talk — her mind far 
 away in the home she had h ft, a desolate and ruitied home, a- it, 
 Hceuied to her, now that her aunt was dead, lint by-and-by the 
 wound of a too familiar nanirt rivetted her attention. 
 
 'Angus irandeigh, yes I f saw his name in the visitors 
 book. lie was here last month — gone on to Italy,' said the 
 Holdicr. 
 
 ' You knew him ? ' asked the othei-. 
 
 * JJatiK lo tcm})s. I saw a good deal of him when he was 
 about town.' 
 
 ' Went a muck<r, didn't he V 
 
 * I believe lie spent a good <leal of money — but he never 
 heloiiged to an out-and-out fast lot. ^V'e.ll iti ♦"er art and 
 
 and literature, and that kind of Ihiiif, d( 
 
 »!, * 
 
 1 krx w 
 
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 ri ick 
 
 (Jiub, behintl IIj« Keencs at the swell, theatre .--Ip.cIuuoIh" and 
 
* Not the Gods can shalic the Paul* 
 
 17 
 
 Greenwich diiinert*— ^[uideiiluad — Iloiiley — lived in a house- 
 boat one summer, men used to go down by the hist train to 
 moonlii suppers after the play, lie had some vi-ry good idea«, 
 and c<irried them out on a large scale — but he never (iropj)ed 
 money on cards, or racing — rather looked down up(;a the 
 amusements of the million. J3y-the-by, I was at a rather ciniouu 
 wedding just before I left Loudon.' 
 ' Whose ? ' 
 
 * Littlii Fisliky's. The Colonel came up to time at l;iat.' 
 *Fish'icy,' interrogated the civilian, vagui-ly. 
 
 'Don't you know Fi.shky, alias Tsyehe, the name by which 
 Stella Mayne condescended to be known by her intimate frit lulu 
 during the run of " Cupid and Psyche.' Colonel Luscond) 
 married her last week at St. George's, and I was at the 
 wedding.' 
 
 ' Jx'alher feeble of him, wann't it I ' asked the civilian. 
 
 * Well, you see, lie could iiardly sink himsolt l<jwer than lie 
 had done already by his infatuation for the lady. J It; knew 
 that all his chances at the Horse (jiuards were goiK' ; so if a plain 
 gold ring could gratify a young pei'son who ha<l been surfeited 
 with diamonds, why should our friend withhold that simple and 
 inexj)ensive ornament ? ^^'hetlu'r the lady and gcntlenian will 
 be any the liappier for tliis rehabilitation of tluir domestic 
 circumstances, is a question that cau only be answered in the 
 future. The wedding was decidedly queer.' 
 
 * In what way / ' 
 
 * It was a cjuse of vaulting aiiibitiou which o*er-lea])s itself. 
 The Colonel wanted a (piiet wedding. I think he wouM have 
 ])referred the registr;a''s ollice — no ehui'ch-goimf, or fuss of an}' 
 kind — but the lady, to whom niatriiuouy uas a new idea, 
 willed otherwise. So she decided that the nest in St. dohn's 
 Wood was not spacious enough to accommotlate the wedding 
 guests. She sent her invitations far and wide, and orderi'tl a 
 rcchercy breakfast at an liotel in Brook Street. Cf the sixty 
 people she ex])ected about iiftcen appeared, and thero was a 
 iowdy air about those select few, male and female, which was 
 by no means congenial to the broad glare of day. Night 
 birds, everyone — jiainted cheeks — dyed moustachios — trtniulous 
 hands — a foreshadowing of del. trem. in tlie very way some 
 of them swallowed their chanqiagne. I was jsorry for l''ishky, 
 who looked lovely in her white satin frock and oiange-blosHoms, 
 but who had a piteous droop aliout the corners ot her lips, 
 like a child whoso birthday fuust hjis gone wrong. I felt 
 still sorrier for the Colonel — a proud man debased by low 
 surroundings.' 
 
 'lie ii^Ul take her off tlit ''igo, I suppt'ii/ aug;;esU}d the 
 other. 
 
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 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<liH'erent. 
 
 MJod grant he may fall in lovt» with some gmul womati, wl"i 
 1i\{\ clu:ii.sh him jis I would have fllone,' was her unseltish praye'" 
 
 ¥> , 
 
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. 
 
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 180 
 
 Mount Uoyal. 
 
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 ••• 
 
 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 g<nng i:i 
 for that kind of thing. Yon and 1 must not otier Uie woiM 
 another example of the semi-attached couple ; or ek"^ people 
 might begin to s;iy you had mairied a man you did not care fo;.' 
 
 ' I will try and make your life as agi'eeable jia I can at liie 
 Manor, Leonard,' Christabel aiwwered, with supreme ecpianiniity 
 — it wjia an aggravation to her husband that she .so rarely li-t 
 her temper — 'ho long aa you do not ask me to lill the house wit I 
 visitors, or to do anything that might look like want of revereiici.' 
 for your mother's memory.' 
 
 Look!' ejaculated Leonard. Whr.t doca it matter how 
 things look ] We both know that we are sorry for having l">t 
 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 <lrew up to the 
 porch, and she saw the neat little figure in a black gown waitinj' 
 to receive her — thinking of that trd land noble form which should 
 have stood there — the welcoming arms which should have received 
 her, rewarding and blessing her for her self-sacrilice. The sacrifice 
 had been made, but dt-ath had swallowed up the blessing and 
 reward ; and in that intermediate land of slumber where the 
 widow lay there could be no knowledge of gain — no satisfaction 
 in the thought of her son's happiness : even granting that Leonard 
 w.is supremely happy in his marriage, a fact which Christabel 
 deemed open to doubt. No, there had been nothing gaintul, 
 except that Diana Tregonell's last days h;ul been full of peace — 
 Iter one cherished hope realized on the very threshold of the 
 tomb, Christabel tried to take; comfort from this knowledge. 
 
 ' If I had denied her to tin; last, if she had died with her 
 wish ungratilied, I think I should be still more sorry for her loss,' 
 BJie told herself. 
 
 There wius bitter pain in the return to a home where that one 
 familiar figure had been the central point, the very axi^ of life. 
 Jessie led the new Mrs. Tregonell into the j)anelled parlour, 
 where every ol)ject was arranged just as in the old days ; the 
 tea-tiible on the h^ft of the wiile tireplace, the large low arm-chair 
 and the book-table on the right. The room was bright with 
 white and crimson may, azalwis, tea-roses. 
 
 * I thought it was best for you to get accustomed to tho 
 rooms without her,' said Jessie, in a low voi(;e, jus she placed 
 < 'hristabel in the widow's old chair, and hel[)ed to take off her 
 hat and mantle, 'audi thought you would not like anything 
 changed.' 
 
 'Not for w(jrlds. The house is a part of her, in my mind. 
 It was she who planned everything as it now is — just adding 
 ius many new things ;us were needful to brighten the old. i will 
 never alter a detail unless I am absolutely obliged.' 
 
 
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 * 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 an<l white crap • 
 ;iliout her neck, 'i'lie Major's eheerfid jir •seiu-e did )nu(;h to 
 ht'lp Mr. Tregonell .uid his wife through that first dinner at 
 Mount Koyal. He had so many small local events to tell them 
 about, news too insigniiic.int to be i-ecorded in Je!»sie's letters, 
 liut not without interest for Ohrislabel, who lov(,'d place and 
 |»cople. Then after dinner he begged his hostess to play, 
 declaring that he had not heard any good music during hei 
 absence, and Christabel, who had cultivati'd her musical talent- 
 assiduously in every interval of loneliness and leisure which had 
 occurred in the course of lior bridal toui-, was delighted to play 
 to a listener who could understand and appreciate the loftiest 
 flights in harmony. 
 
 The Major was struck with the improvement in her style. 
 She had always played sweetly, but not with this breadth and 
 power. 
 
 ' You must have worked very hard in these last few months,' 
 he saAd. 
 
 % 
 
*J Jiavri Put my Daj/s and Dreams out of Ml/ki.' IS3 
 
 * Y»"^, I made tin* lu^st of every opioitunitv. T liad sojuci 
 !t>8.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<ls wIkii they many, . shut np llnir piano 
 alto^rether, or at most aspiri* to play a wait/, for their ciultiren'il 
 
 (l.incin;;. 
 
 ' I HJiall not 111' otn; of those. Music will be my chief pur- 
 suit — now.' 
 
 The Major felt that althoM.;h this w'\s a very pioper stato 
 of things from an artistic jioint of vii w, it ar.tjiu-d liardly so 
 WfU for the chances of matrinionial bliss. T\ it need of a 
 pursuit after mairia<^e irtlicated a certain eiii|.tines.s in the 
 existence of tlie wife. A life dosed and rounded in th(^ narrow 
 i'ircle of a wedding' ring hardly leaves rooia for the iissiduoua 
 study of art. 
 
 And now 1)eg.an for ( 'hristabel a lifi; whit h seeiii'-d to her to 
 lie in youie wise a piece of nu'chanism, an atitouiatic pcrtoi inaneo 
 of daily recurrini,' duties, an lioinjy submission to society which 
 had no charm for her — a life which would have hung as heavily 
 upon her spiiit as tiie joyless njoiiotony of a C(;nvict |»rison, had 
 it not been for the rit-lincss of her own mental re><»ui'(!es, and 
 her love of the country in whi' h she lived. She could not be 
 altoi^'etner uidiappy rijaiuing with her ol<l friend Jessie ovt^r 
 those wild romantic hills, or fa ingthe might o( that tremendou.s 
 oiean, grand and somewhat awful i-vru in its calmest nspect. 
 Nor was she unhappy, .seated in h(;r own snug morning-room 
 among the books she loved — books which were always opening 
 new Worlds of tliouglit and wonder, books of such ini'xhaustible 
 interest that >iie. 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 
 
 
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 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 
 
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 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- 
 
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 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,' sai<l ^Mvs. Fairfax Torrington, 
 waving the Society paper which she had been using as a screen 
 against the fire, after having read the raciest of its paragraplin' 
 aloud, and pretended to be sorry for the dear friends at whom 
 the censor's airy shafts were aimed. *I have stayed with 
 duchesses and with millionaires — but I never envied either. 
 The duchess is always dragged to death by the innumerable 
 claims upon her time, her niouey^ and her atttention. Her lite 
 is very little better than tiie fate of thac unfortunate person 
 who stabbed one of the French Kings — forty Mild horses pulling 
 forty different ways. It doesn't make it much better because 
 the horses are called by pretty names, don't you know. Court, 
 friends, flower-shows, balls, church, opera, Ascot, fancy fairs, 
 seat in Scotland, ])lace in Yorkshire, Baden, IVIonaco. It 
 is the pull that wears one out, the dreadful longing to be allowed 
 to sit in one's own room by one's own fire, and rest. I know 
 what it is in my small way, so I have always rather pitied 
 duchesses. At a millionaire's house one is inevitably bored. 
 Thero is an insufi'erable glare and glitter of money in everything, 
 unpleasantly accentuated by an occasional blot of absolute meaj'- 
 
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 iicri.3. No, Mrs. Trocjonoll,' pursued the af^reeable rattle, I don't 
 envy ducliosses or niillionnires' Avivas : but yum- existence seema 
 to me utterly enviable, sd lran<iuil anil eiisy a life, in such a per- 
 fer>t 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. 
 
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 * 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 ha<l no chic. N^ovs a^trcs. with ever so much less 
 money to spend on our toilettes, look more striking — stand out 
 better from the ruck. An artificial rose liere — a rag of old 
 lace — a fan — a vivid riT)bon in the nia/i; of our haii- — aud the 
 effect catches every eye — while ])Of)r ^Irs. Trcgonell, with lier 
 lovely complexion, and a gown that is obviously Parisian, is 
 comparatively nowhere. 
 
 This is what the IMiss Vandehnirs — old campaigners — 
 told each other as thev dressed for dinner, on the 
 second day after their arrival at Mount Eoyal. Captain 
 V.andeleur — otherwise Poker Vandeleur, from a supposed 
 natural genius for that intellectual game — was ISlr. Tregonell's 
 old friend and travelling companion. They had shared a 
 good deal of sport, and not a little hardship in the Rockies 
 — had tished, and shot, and toboggincd in Canada — had playetl 
 euchre in San Francisco, and monte in Mexico — and, in a 
 word, were bound together by memories and tastes in common. 
 Captain Vandeleur, like Byron's Corsair, had one virtue amidst 
 many shortcomings. He was an atlectionate brother, always 
 glad to do a good turn to his sisters— who lived with a shabby 
 eld half-])ay father, in one of the shabbiest stieets in the debat- 
 able land between Pindico and Clielse.i — by courtesy. South 
 r.elgravia. Captain Vandeleur rarely had it in his power to do 
 much for his sisters himself — a five-pound not(! at Cliristnias or a 
 bonnet at Midsummer was perhaps the furthest stretch of his 
 personal benevoleiioe — but 'he was j)iously fraternal m his readi- 
 ness to victimize his dearest friend for the benefit of ])<>psy 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 
 
 
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 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— 
 
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 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<jic, in the 
 siiddle-room, or the stable-yard, on the hills, or on the sea, wher- 
 ever the men would sutl'er tlieir presence, Dopsy an<l biopsy 
 were charmed to be. On tlioso laro occasioiLs when th.' outot'- 
 door party was made up without them they sat about the drawing- 
 loom in hopeless, helpless idleness — turning over yesterday's 
 London papers, or stumbling through (jerman waltzes on the 
 iron-framed Kirkman grand, which had been Leonard's birtliday 
 gift to his wife. At their worst the Miss Vandeleurs gave 
 Christabel very little trouble, for tiiey felt (furiously shy in her 
 society. She was not of their workl. They had not one thought 
 or one taste iu common. Mrs. Torrington, who insisted upon 
 taking her hostess under her wing, Wiis a much more troublesome 
 j)erson. The Vandeleur girls helped to amuse Leonard, who 
 Liughed at their slang antl their maunishness, and who liked the 
 sound of girlish voices in the house — albeit those voices were 
 loud and vulgar. They made themselves particularly agreeable 
 to Jessie Bridgeman, who dechired that she took the keenest 
 interest in them — as natural curiosities. 
 
 ' Why should we pore over moths and zoophytes, and puzzle 
 our brains with long Greek aud liatiii names,' dem;uuled Jeaaie, 
 
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 ' wlien our own species afToids an inexhaustible variety of crea* 
 tures, all infinitely interesting? These Vandeleur girls are as 
 new to me as if they had dropped from Mars or Saturn.' 
 
 Life, therefore, to all outward seeming, went very pleasantly 
 at Mount lloyal. A perfectly appointed house in which money 
 is spent lavishly can hardly fail to be agreeable to those casual 
 inmates who have nothing to do with its maintenance , To Dopsy 
 and ]\Iopsy Mount Royal was a terrestrial paradise. They had 
 never iniaginjd an existence so entirely blissful. This perfumed 
 atmosphere — this unfailing procession of luxurious meals — no 
 cold mutton to hang on hand — no beggarly mutation from bacon 
 to bloater and bloater to bacon at breakfast-time — no wolf at the 
 door. 
 
 ' To think that money can make all this difference,' exclaimed 
 Mopsy, as she sat with Dopsy on a heather-covered knoll waiting 
 for the shooters to join them at luncheon, while the servants 
 grouped themselves respectfully a little way off with the break 
 and horses. 'Won't it be too dreadful to have to go home 
 again ? ' 
 
 ' Loath«!ome !' said Dopsy, whose conversational strength con- 
 sisted in the liberal use of about half-a-dozen vigorous epithets. 
 
 ' I wish there were some rich young men staying here, that 
 one might get a chance of promotion.' 
 
 'Rich men never marry poor girls,' answered Mopsy, de- 
 jectedly, * unless the girl is a famous beauty or a favourite 
 actress. You and I are nothing. Heaven only knows what is t<f 
 become of us when the pater dies. Jack will never be able to 
 give us free quarters. We shall have to go out as shop girls. 
 We're ?. g^eat deal too ignorant for governesses.' 
 
 * I shall go on the stage,' said Dopsy, with decision. ' I may 
 not be handsome — but I can sing in tune, and my feet and ankles 
 have always been my strong point. All the rest i» leather and 
 prunella, as Shakespeare says.' 
 
 * I shall engage myself to Spiers and Pond,' said Mcpsy. * It 
 must be a more lively life, and doesn't require either voice w 
 ankles — which I ' — rather vindictively — ' do not possess. Of 
 course Jack won't like it — but I can't help that.' 
 
 Thus, in the face of all that is loveliest and most poetical i:i 
 Nature — the dreamy moorland — the distant sea — the Lion-rook 
 with the afternoon sunshijie on it — the blue boundless sky — and 
 one far-away sail, silvered with light, standing out against the 
 low dark line of Lundy Island — debated INIopsy and Dopsy, 
 waiting with keen appetites for the game pasty, and the welcome 
 bottle or two of Moiit, which they were to share with thj sports- 
 men. 
 
 While these damsela thus beguiled the autumn afternoon, 
 Christabel and <)'essie had sallied oiftt alone for one of their oW 
 
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de- 
 
 girls. 
 
 It 
 
 * And Pale from tJie Past we draw nigh TJice.* 197 
 
 rambles ; such a solitary walk as had been their delight in the 
 careless long ago, before ever passionate love, and sorrow, hia 
 handnaiden, came to Mount Royal. 
 
 Mrs. Torrington and three other guests had left that morning ; 
 the Vandeleurs, and Reginald Montagu, a free and easy little 
 War-ofl&ce clerk, were no*v the only visitors at Mount Rojal, 
 and Mrs. Tregonell was free to lead her own life — so with Jessie 
 and Handle for company, she started at noontide for Tintngel. 
 She could never weary of the walk by the cliffs — or even of the 
 quiet country road with its blossoming hedgerows and boundless 
 outlook. Hvery step of the way, every tint on field or meadow, 
 every change in sky and sea was familiar to her, but she loved 
 them all. 
 
 They had loitered in their ramble by the cliffs, tallcing a good 
 deal of the past, for Jessie was now the only listener to whom 
 Christabel could freely open her heart, and she loved to talk with 
 lier of the days that were gone, and of her first lover. Of their 
 love and of their parting she never spoke — to talk of those things 
 might have seemed treason in the wedded wife — but she love<l to 
 talk of the man himself — of his opinions, his ideas, tlie stories 
 lie had told them in their many rambles — his creed, his dreams 
 — speaking of him always as ' Mr. Hamleigh,' and just «'us she 
 might have spoken of any clever and intimate friend, lost to 
 her, through adverse circumstanee, for ever. It is hardly likely, 
 f^iiice they talked of him so often when they were alone ; that 
 they spoke of him more on this day than usual : but it seemed 
 to them afterwards Jis if they had done so — and as if their con- 
 versation in somewise forecast that which was to happen before 
 yonder sun had dipped behind the wave. 
 
 They climbed the castle hill, and seated themselves on a low 
 fragment of wall with their faces seaward. There was a lovely 
 licrht on the sea, scarcely a breath of wind to curl the edges of 
 the long waves v/hich rolled slowly in and slid over the dark 
 recks in shining slabs of emerald-tinted water. Here and there 
 (l.'e|) purple patches showed where the sea-weed grew thickest, 
 and here and there the dark outline of a convocation of shags 
 stood out shar})ly above the crest of a rock. 
 
 ' It wiis on just such a day that we first brought Mr. 
 Hamleigh to this place,' said Christabel. 
 
 'Yes, our Cornish autumns are almost always lo' <ly, and this 
 year the weather is particularly mild,' answered Jessie, in her 
 matter-of-fiict way. She always put on this air when she saw 
 Christabel drifting into dangerous feeling. ' I shouldn't wonder 
 if we were to have a second crop of strawberries this yeai\' 
 
 ' Bo you remember how we talked of Tristan and Isdult--^ 
 poor Iseult?' 
 
 * Poor Marc, I think.' 
 
 
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 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)lighte<l husband and wife, locked in each other's arms, promising 
 each other speedy reunion, ineffably happy in their assurance of 
 a future to be spent together : and now they met with pale 
 cheeks, and lips dressed in a society smile — eyes — to which tears 
 would have been a glad relief — jissiTming a careless astonishment. 
 
 ' You here, Mr. Hamleigh ! ' cried Jessie, seeing Christabel's 
 lips quiver dumbly, as if in the vain attempt at words, and 
 rushing to the rescue. ' We were told you were in Eussia.' 
 
 * I have been in Russia. I spent last winter at Petersburg 
 — the only place where caviare and Adelina Patti are to be 
 enjoyed in perfection — and I spent a good deal of this summer 
 that is just gone in the Caucasus.' 
 
 * How nice ! ' exclaimed Jessie, as 'if he had been talking of 
 Buxton or Malvern. ' And did you really enjoy it ? ' 
 
 * Immensely. All I ever saw in Switzerland is as nothing 
 compared with the gloomy grandeur of that mighty semicircle 
 of mountain peaks, of which Elburz, the shining mountain, the 
 throne of Ormuzd, occupies the centre.' 
 
 ' And how do you happen to be here— on this insignificant 
 mound ? ' asked Jessie. 
 
 ' Tintagel's surge-beat hill can never seem insignificant to 
 me. National poetry has peopled it — while the Caucasus is only 
 a desert.' 
 
 'Are you touring ? ' 
 
 * No, I am staving with the Vicar of Trevena. He is an old 
 friend of my fathb/s : they were college ch^ims ; and Mr. Carlyon 
 is alwavs kind to me.' 
 
* And Pale from tho Past we draw nigh Tliee* 199 
 
 Mr. Carlyon was a new vicar, who had come to Ti-erena 
 within the last two years. 
 
 ' Shall you stay long?' fisked Christabel, in tones whicli had 
 a curiously flat sound, ii.s of a voice produced by mechanism. 
 
 * I think not. It is a delicious place to stay at, but * 
 
 * A little of it goes a long way,' said Jessie. 
 
 ' You have not quite anticipated my sentiments, Miss Bridge- 
 man. I was going to say that unfortunately for me I have 
 engagements in London which will prevent my staying here 
 much longer.' 
 
 * You are not looking over robust,' said Jessie, touched with 
 
 f)ity by the sad forecast which she saw in liis faded eyes, hia 
 loilow cheeks, faintly tinged with liectic bloom. ' I'm afraid 
 the Caucasus was rather too severe a training for you.' 
 
 * A little harder than the ordeal to which you submitted my 
 locomotive powers some years ago,' answered Angns^ smiling ; 
 'but how can a man spend tho strength of his manhood better 
 than in beholding the wonders of creation 1 It is the best pre- 
 paration for those still grander scenes which one faintly hopes 
 to see by-and-by among the stars. According to the Platonic 
 theery a man must train himself for iramortality. He who goes 
 straight from earthly feasts and junkcttiugs will get a bad time 
 in the under world, or may have to work cut his purgation in 
 some debased brute form.' 
 
 'Poor fellow,' thouglit Jessie, with a sigh, *I suppose that 
 kind of feeling is his nearest ai)j)roach to religion.' 
 
 Christabel sat very still, looking steadily towards Lundy, as 
 if the only desire in her mind were to identify yonder vague 
 streak of purplish brown or brownish purple with the level strip 
 of land chiefly given over to rabbits. Yet her heart was aching" 
 and throbbing passionately all the while ; and the face at which 
 she dared scarce look was vividly before her mental sight — • 
 sorely altered from tho day she had last seen it smile upon her in 
 love and confidence. But mixed with the heartache there was 
 joy. To see him again, to hear his voice again — what could that 
 be but happiness? 
 
 She knew that there was delight in being with him, and she 
 told herself that she had no right to linger. She rose with an 
 automatic air. ' Come, Jessie,' she said : and then she turned 
 with an effort to the man wlujee love she had renounced, whose 
 heart she had broken. 
 
 'Good-bye !' she said, holding out her hand, and looking at 
 him with calm, grave eyes. ' I am very glad to have seen you 
 again. I hope you always think of me as your friend V 
 
 'Yes, Mrs. Tregonell, I can afford now to think of you as a 
 friend,' he answered, gravely, gently, holding her hand witli u 
 lingering grasp, and looking solemnly into the sweet pale facet 
 
 
 
 
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 Motmt Royal, 
 
 He shook hands cordially with Jessie Bridgeman, and they 
 \eft him standing amidst the low grass-hidden graves of the 
 tmknorwn dead — a lonely figure looking seaward. 
 
 ' Oh ! Jessie, do you remember the day we first came here 
 with him V cried Christabel, aa they went slowly down the steep 
 winding path. The exclamation sounded almost like a cry of pain. 
 
 * Am I ever likely to forget it — or anything connected with 
 him? You have given me no chance of that,' retorted Miss 
 Bridgeman, sharply. 
 
 ' How bitterly you say that !' 
 
 ' Can I help being bitter when I see you nursing morbid 
 feelings? Am I to encourage you to dwell upon (langerous 
 thoughts?' 
 
 * They are not dangerous. I have taught myself to think of 
 Angus as a friend — and a friend only. If I could see him now 
 and then — even as briefly as we saw him to-day — I think it 
 would make me quite happy.' 
 
 * You don't know what you are talking aboxit I ' said Jessie, 
 angrily. * Certainly, you are not much like other women. You 
 {. re a piece of icy propriety — your love is a kind of milk-and- 
 >ratery 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<l Mopsy, 
 adjusting tbo stalk of a suaflower ; * but its rather a pity that all 
 
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 Mount Royal, 
 
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 the men staying here hare been detrimentals — not one woi th 
 catohing.' 
 
 * What does it matter I ' ejaculated Dopsy. * If there had 
 been one worth catching, he wouldn't have consented to be 
 caught. He would have behaved like that big jack Mr. Tregonell 
 was trying for the other morning ; eaten up all our bait and gone 
 and sulked among the weeds.' 
 
 'Well, I'd have had a try for him, anyhow,' said Mopsy, 
 defiantly, leaning her elbow on the dressing-table, and contem- 
 plating herself deliberately in the glass. ' Oh, Dop, how old I'm 
 getting. I almost hate the daylight : it makes one look so 
 hideous.' 
 
 Yet neither Dopsy nor Mopsy thought herself hideous at 
 afternoon tea-time, when, with complexions improved by the 
 powder puff, eyebrows piquantly accentuated with Indian ink, 
 and loose flowing tea-gowns of old gold sateen, and older black 
 silk, they descended to the library, eager to do execution evi^n on 
 iletrimentals. The men's voices sounded loud in the hall, as the 
 two girls came downstairs. 
 
 * Hope you have had a good time 1 ' cried Mopsy, in cheerful 
 soprano tones. 
 
 ' Splendid. I'm afraid Tregonell has lamed a couple of his 
 horses,' said Captain Vandeleur. 
 
 'And I've a shrewd suspicion that you've lamed a third,' 
 interjected Leonard in his strident tones. ' You galloped Betsy 
 Baker at a murderous rate.' 
 
 'Nothing like taking them fast down hill,* retorted Jack. 
 * B. B. is as sound as a rouch — and quite as ugly.' 
 
 'Never saw such break-neck work in my life,' said Mr. 
 Montagu, a small dandified person who was always called ' little 
 Monty.' ' I'd rather ride a horse with the Quom for a week than 
 in this country for a day.' 
 
 ' Our country is as God made it,' answered Leonard. 
 
 ' I think Satan must have split it about a bit afterwards,' said 
 Mr. Montagu. 
 
 ' Well, Mop,' asked Leonard, ' how did you and Dop get rid 
 of your day without us ? ' 
 
 *0h, we were very happy. It was quite a relief to have a 
 nice homey day with dear Mrs. Tregonell,' answered Mopsy, 
 nothing offended by the free and easy curtailment of her pet 
 name. Leonard was her benefactor, and a privileged person. 
 
 ' I've got some glorious news for you two girls,' said Mr. 
 Tregonell, as they all swaimed into the library, where Christabel 
 was sitting in the widow's old place, while Jessie Bridgeman 
 filled her accustomed position before the tea-table, the red glow 
 of a liberal wood fire contending with the pale light of one low 
 moderator lamp, under a dark velvet shade. 
 
 i)i( 
 
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 *But it Su(Jlceih, that tJie Day will End.' 203 
 
 * Wh.'it is it 1 Please, ploase tell.' 
 
 ' 1 give it you in ten — a thousand — a million ! ' cried Leonard, 
 flinging himself into the chair next his wife, and with his ejen 
 u])on her face. * You'll never guess. I have found you an 
 eligible bachelor — a swell of the first w.ater. He's a gentleman 
 whom a good many girls have tried for in their time, I've no 
 doubt. Handsome, accomplished, plenty of coin. He has had 
 what the French call a stormy youth, I believe ; but that 
 doesn't matter. He's getting on in yeai-s, and no doubt he's 
 ready to sober down, and take to domesticity. I've asked him 
 here for fortnight to slioot woodcock, and to otFer his own luicon- 
 Kcious breast as a mark for the aiTows of Cupid ; and I shall 
 have a very poor opinion of you two girls if you can't bring him 
 to your feet in half the time.' 
 
 'At any rate I'll try my hand at it,' said Mopsy. 'Not that 
 I care a straw for the gentleman, but just to show you what I 
 can do,' she added, by way of maintaining her maidenly dignity. 
 
 *0f course you'll go in for the conquest as high art, without 
 any arrive pensife,'' said Jack Vandcleur. ' There never were 
 such audacious flirts as my sisters ; but there's no malice in 
 them.' 
 
 ' You haven't told us your friend's name,' said Dopsy. 
 
 ' Mr. Hamleigh,' answered Leonard, with his eyes still on his 
 wife's face. 
 
 Christabel gave a little start, and looked at him in undisguised 
 astonishment. 
 
 ' Surely you have not asked him — here 1 ' she exclaimed. 
 
 ' Why not ? He was out with us to-day. He is a jolly 
 fellow ; rides uncommonly straight, though he dosen't look as if 
 there were much life in him. He tailed otf early in the afternoon ; 
 hut while he did go, he went dooced well. He rode a dooced 
 fine horse, too.' 
 
 ' I thought yon were prejudiced against him,' said Christabel, 
 very slowly. 
 
 ' Why, so I was, till I saw him,' answered Leonard, with the 
 friendliest air. ' I fancied he was one of your sickly, sentimental 
 twaddlers, with long hair, and a taste for poetry ; but I find he 
 is a fine, manly fellow, with no nonsense about him. So I asked 
 liim here, and insisted upon his saying yes. He didn't seem to 
 '.'".ait to come, which is odd, for he made liiniself very much at 
 liome here in my mother's time, I've henrd. However, lio gave in 
 v/hen I pressed him; and he'll be here by dinner-time to-morrow.' 
 
 * By dinner-time,' thought Mojjsy, delighted. ' Then he'll see 
 us first by candlelight, and first impressions may do so much.' 
 
 ' Isn't it almost like a fairy tale ? ' said Do|)sy, as they were 
 dressing for dinner, with a vague recollection of ha ^ing cultivated 
 her imagination in childhood. She had never done so since that 
 
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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' 
 
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206 
 
 Mount lioyal. 
 
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 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 
 
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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 
 ■<vas a golden o])]X)rtunity lost. If it were only possible to sprain 
 an ankle on the instant. 
 
 .Tack Vandeleur was a good brother — so long as fraternal 
 Kindness did not cost money — and he saw that look of blank 
 despair in poor Dopsy 's eyes and lips. 
 
 ' I think Mr. Hamleigh is wise,' he said. ' This bright 
 morning will end in broken weather. Hadn't you two girls 
 better stay at home 1 The rain will epoil your gowns.' 
 
 ' Our gowns won't hurt,' said Mo])sy brightening. ' But do 
 you really think there will be rain ? We had so set our hearts on 
 going with you ; but it is rather miserable to be out on those 
 hillfi in a blinding rain. One might walk over the edge of a cliff.' 
 
 ' Keep on the safe side and stay at home,' said Leonard, with 
 that air of rough good nature which is such an excellent excuse 
 
e had 
 
 emed 
 iiicnt 
 iiioro 
 ■n lid 
 I the 
 
 flaid 
 
 *nut it Sufflccth, that the Day vill End' 200 
 
 for lad iii.innoi-s. 'C'oino Ponto, come Jiinn, hi Doli.i/ this to 
 Iho lovely Icinon and whi(<' f^p.niicls, fawniiii,' u|Mm iiim with 
 unite afh-ri lull. 
 
 ' E think we may as well fjivo it up,' siitl Dopsy, ' wo shall bo 
 a nuisance to the shootcr.s if it rains.' 
 
 So tliey stayed, and In-LrMiled Mr. TTandeJLdi to tlie billiard- 
 room, where they both pl.iyi'd a'^'.iinst him, and weie beaten — 
 after whieh Mopsy.enlreattid him to <,'ive ker a lesion in tha 
 art, derlarini^ that he played divinely — in siidi a (jiii .1 styl(> — 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 ha<i 
 once dreamed they two might be m;iiried. 
 
 'I was a foul to submit to delay,' he tliou^ht, nnnenibering 
 all the pain and madnessof the past. * Jf I had insisted dn i»eing 
 married here— and at once — how h.'ip))y— oh (ii>d ! — 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<l of girl.s 
 whom all gentlemen adndre,' she said to Jessie. 'I know I 
 thought it odd that Leonard should a<liaire them ; but you see 
 Mr. llandei'.;li is e<iually ])leased with them.' 
 
 'Mr. llamleigh is nothing of the kind,' answered Jessie, in 
 her usual decided way. 'But Dop is setting her cap at him iu a 
 jjositively disgraceful manner — even for Dop.' 
 
 'Pray don't call hei- l)y that honid name.' 
 
 ' Why not ; it is what her brother antl sister call her, and 
 it expresses her so exactly.' 
 
 Mr. Hamleigh and the two chimscis now appeared, summoned 
 by the g^ng, and they all went into the dining-room. It w;i8 
 quite a merry luncheon i)arty. Care seemed to have no jhirt iu 
 that cheery circle. Angus had made up his nu'nd to be happy, 
 and Christabel was as much at ease with idm as she had been 
 in those innocent unconscious days when he lirst came to Mount 
 Royal. Dop.sy was in high spirits, thinking that ."ihe was fa*it 
 advancing towards victory. Mr. llandeigh had been go kind, 
 m attentive, had done exactly wliat she had asked him to do, 
 
 -I 
 
 I 
 
 'I 
 I'? 
 
 i 
 
 i ■ 
 
 J .; J. 
 
 «ii-i? 
 
 ifi 
 
210 
 
 Mount Royal, 
 
 
 nnd how conld f^hc doubt that he had conanlted his own ploasnre 
 in 80 doing. IVjor Dopsy was accustomed to be treated with 
 scant ceremony by her brothei-'s acqiuiintance, and it did not 
 enter into Iier mind that a man might be bored by her aociety, 
 afld not betray his weariness. 
 
 After hmcheon Jessie, who was always energetic, suggested a 
 walk. 
 
 The t'hreatened bad weather had not come : it was a greyish 
 afternoon, sunless but mild. 
 
 ' If we walk towards St. Nectan'a Kievo, we may meet the 
 shooters,' said'Cln i.stabel. * Tliat is a great place for woodcock.' 
 
 ' That will l)e delicious !' exclaimed ]>)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 <i stock of rude health before I go to winter 
 in the South.' 
 
 'And you are really going to be abroad all the winter?' 
 siglied J>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 
 
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 lady, 
 
 Do]xsy giggled faintly, and looked modestly at tiie heather. 
 
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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 
 
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 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 <jive her a plai-o and statud 
 amoiif,' well-bred j)eo})le, and maktj lu-r life wortli liviiii,'. 
 
 This was dreadful. An,!:,Mis Ilamlei^di, in all th(i variety of 
 his experience of womankind, had never Ix-fore found himself 
 face to face with this kind of dilliculty. ]Io had not heen blind 
 to Miss Vandcleur's strenuous endi-avours to eliarm him. Iftj 
 had parried those light arrows lightly ; but he \va.s painfully 
 embarrassed by this ai)peal to his compassion. It was a new 
 tiling for him to sit beside; a weei)ing woman, whom ho could 
 neither love nor admire, but from whom he could not withhold 
 I'.is pity. 
 
 * I dai'esay her life is dismal enough,' he thought, ' with such 
 a brother as Poker Vandeleur — and a father to mat<h.* 
 
 While he sat in silent embarrassment, and wiiile Dopsy 
 slowly dried lier toiirs with a gaudy little coloured liandkerchieif. 
 taken from a smart little breast-pocket in the tailor-gown, Mr. 
 'j'regonell sauntered across the room to the window where they 
 s.it — a Tudor window, with a deej) embrasure. 
 
 'What are you two talking about in tho dark? 'ho asked, 
 as Dopsy confusedly shullled the handkerchief back into the 
 Ireast-pocket. 'Something very sentimental, I should think, 
 from the look of you. J/oetry, I sui)j)o.se.' 
 
 Dopsy sairl not a word. She believed that Leonard meant 
 well by her — that, if his influence could bring Mr. Hamleigh's 
 lose t ) till! grindstone, to the grindstone that nose would bo 
 brought. So she looked up at her brother's friend with a watery 
 smile, and remaineil mute. 
 
 ' We were talking about London and the theatres,' answered 
 Angus. 'Not a very sentimental topic;' and then he got up 
 and walked away with his teacup, to the table near whicli 
 C'lnistabel was sitting, in the flickering flre-light, and seated 
 liiiuseh" by her side, and ])egan to talk to her about a box of 
 books that had arrived fnmi London that day — books that 
 were familiar to him and new to her. Leonard lookeil after 
 liiiji with a scowl, safe in the shadow ; while J)opsy, feeling 
 that she had made a fool of herself, lapsed agi.in into tears. 
 
 'I am afraid he is behaving very badly to you,' said l.eonard. 
 
 'Oh, no, no. But he has such strange ways, lio blows hot 
 and cold.' 
 
 ' In ])lain words, he's a heartless flirt,' answered Leonard, 
 impatiently. ' He has Ikcu fooled by a jiaek of women — pre- 
 tends to be dying of 'jonsumption — gives himself no end of uira 
 Lie lias flirted outrageously with you. lias he proposed '\ ' 
 
 * No not exactly,' faltered Dopsy. 
 
 * Some one ought to bring him to the scratch. Y^ur brothel 
 must tackle him.' 
 
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 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 ha<l mis- 
 trusted exceedingly that the flirting was all on lier side : but 
 now Leonard most distinctly averred that Angus Ilandeigh liad 
 flirted, and in a manner obvious to every one. And if Mr. 
 Ilandeigh really admired her — if he were really blowing hot anil 
 cold — inclining one day to make her liis wife, and on another 
 day disposed to let her languish and fade in South I5elgra\'ia — 
 mi'^ht not a word or two from a judicious friend turn the scale, 
 and make her ha]>py 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 
 <lelicate dct;. Is uf her toilet—the drajjcry of her skirt, the adjust- 
 ment of the .-luiitlower on her shoulder. 
 
 ' How Hushed an<l shaky you are,' exclaimed INfopsy, pausincj 
 in tlu* ])eiicilHii'4 .if an eyebrow to look at her sister. 'la the 
 deed done? Has he popped V 
 
 'No, he has not jiopped. But I think ho will.' 
 
 *I wish I were of your opinion. I should like a rich sister. 
 It would be the next best thing to being well otF oneself.' 
 
 ' You only tliiidc of his money,' said Dopsy, who had really 
 fallen in love — for only about the fifteenth thue, so there was 
 itill freshness in the feeling — 'I should care for him just as much 
 if he were a ])auper.' 
 
 ' No, you would not,' .said Mopsy. ' I daresay you think you 
 woiikl, but you wouldn't. There is a glamour about money 
 
* WJio knows not Circc f ' 
 
 223 
 
 which nobocly in our circiiniHtancea can reai.st. A man who 
 rlrt'sstt.s perfectly — wlio hiw never been hard up — wlio hjus always 
 livt'd aiuoii"^ eh'gant j)eople — there ia a stylo about him that, j^'oen 
 Ur.iijLrht to oneH heart. Don't you retneiiiber how in " Peter 
 (V'ilkins" there are diileront orders of bcinL,'s — a HUjMrior cIjihs — 
 born HO, bretl ho — always apart and above the othem ? Mr. 
 Jlanilei^'h l)elon<j:s to that higher oider. If he wtnn poor and 
 Hhal)by iio would be a dillerent person. You wouldn't caro two- 
 ])ence for him.' 
 
 The Hector of Treval,!?a and Ins wife dined at ^Vfount TJoyal 
 that evenin,i,% so J)opHy fell to the lot of Mr. Ilatnleii^Mi, and had 
 plenty of opportunity of carryini; on the sici^e duiiiiL,' dinni-r, 
 while Mrs. Tre<,'onell and the Itector, who was an enthusiastic 
 anti(|n;irian, talked of tin; latest discoveries in J)ruidi(! remains. 
 
 After dinner came the usual adjournment to billi.ii'ds. 'JMie 
 Hector and his wife st;)y(!d in the diviwini^'-rnom with Christalx-l 
 and Jessie. Mr. JTamh'iL,di would have irmained with them, 
 but Leonard specially invited him to the billiaid-rooni. 
 
 * You must have had eiiont,f]i Mendelssohn and IJeethoven to 
 last you for the next six months,' he said. ' You had better come 
 and have a smoke with us.' 
 
 ' I could never have too much rjood music,' answered Ani,'ns. 
 
 * Well, I don't suppose you'd ;,'et much to-nii^ht. The Keet(»r 
 and my wife will talk about jiots and pans all the evening', now 
 they've once started. You may as well be sociable, for once-in-a- 
 way, and come with us.' 
 
 Such an invitation, ^ven in heartiest tones, and with aeemino; 
 frankness, could hardly be refused. So Ani^'us went across the 
 hall with the rest of the billiard ])layers, to the fine old room, 
 once a chapel, in which there; was pace enou<fh for settees, and 
 easy chairs, tea-tal)les, books, tlowers, and dogs, without the 
 eliyhtest inconvenience to the players. 
 
 ' You'll play, Ilandei'^h ] ' said liconard. 
 
 'No thanks ; I'd rather sit and smoke and w.vtch you.' 
 
 'Heally ! Then Monty an<l I will )>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 / 
 
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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 <he hearth, \vlie;e .'uigus v.-as -itling dreaJuily 
 uiressing Jvandic — her dog I How ni my a h ipi'V dog ha* 
 .'"eeeiveil caresses charued witli the love of his mist less, sueji 
 mournful kisses as iJido lavished on the young Ascanias in \.h» 
 dead watches of the weniy ni^dit. 
 
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 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<jt compic^tely 
 trust, whom he loved grudgingly, with a savage half-angry love, 
 
 Clu'istabel's face, dimly ligiited by the lamp ©n the low talii ; 
 near her, was tm-ned towards the speaker, the lips parted, the 
 large blue eyes bright with emotion. Her hands were clasped 
 upon the elbow of the chair, and her altitmle was of one who 
 listens to words of deepest, dearest meaning ; while Angus 
 namleigh sat a little way oil" with his eyes u])on her face, hi.i 
 whole air and expression charged with feeling. To Leonanl's 
 mind all such earnestness, all sentiment of any kind, came under 
 one category : it .all meant love-making, more or less audacious, 
 more or less hypocritical, dressed in modern phraseology, sophis- 
 ticated, disguised, super-refined, fantastical, called one day 
 a^stheticism and peacocks' feathers, another day positivism, 
 agnosticism, Swinburne-cum-Burne- Jones-ism, but always the 
 same thing au fond, and meaning war to dotue.^lic pi.'aco. Th«<re 
 pat Jessie Bridgeman, the dragon of prudery placed within call, 
 but was any woman safer for the presence of a duenna ? was it 
 not in the nature of such people to look on simperingly white 
 
 .1 ' 
 
 ¥ L 
 
 ; 
 
 
 n{ii' 
 
 m 
 
n 
 
 232 
 
 Moiint Royal. 
 
 Hi 
 
 the poison cup was being quaffed, and to declare afterwards that 
 they had sujiposed the mixture i)erfoctly harmless ? No doubt, 
 Tristan and Iseult had somebody standing by to play propriety 
 when they drank from the fatal goblet, and bound themselves 
 for life in the meshes of an unhappy love. No, the mere fact oi 
 Miss Bridgeman's presence was no pledge of safety. 
 
 There was no guilt in Mrs, Tregontll's countenance, assuredly, 
 when she looked up and saw her husband standing near the 
 door, watcliful, silent, with a pre-occupied air that was strange 
 to him. 
 
 'What is the matter, Leonard?* she asked, for his manner 
 iffiplied that something was amiss. 
 
 'Nothing — I — I was wondering to find you up so late — that's 
 all.' 
 
 * The Rector and his wife stayed till eleven, and we have 
 been sitting here talking. Mr. Hamleigh means to leave us to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know,' answered Leonard, curtly. * Oh, by the way,' 
 turning to Angus, 'there is something I want to say to you 
 before you go to bed ; something about your journey to-morrow.' 
 
 ' I am quite at your service.' 
 
 Instead of approaching the group by the fireplace, Leonard 
 turned and left the room, leaving Mr. Hamleigh under the 
 liecessity of following him. 
 
 ' Good-night,' he said, shaking hands with Christabel. * I 
 shall not say good-bye till to-morrow. I suppose I shall not 
 liave to leave Mount Eoyal till eleven o'clock.' 
 
 ' I think not.' 
 
 'Good-night, Misr. Bridgeman. I shall never forget how kind 
 you have been to me.' 
 
 She looked at him earnestly, but made no reply, and in the 
 next instant he was gone. 
 
 ' What can have happened ? ' asked Christabel, anxiously. * I 
 am sure there is something wrong. Leonai'd's manner was so 
 strange.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he and his dear friends have been quarrelling,' 
 Jessie answered, carelessly. * I believe Captain Vandeleur 
 breaks out into vindictive language, sometimes, after he hius 
 taken a little too much wine : Mop toUl me as much in her 
 amiable candour. And I know the Captain's glass was filled 
 very often at dinner, for I had the honoiu* of sitting next him.' 
 
 ' I hope there is nothing really wrong,' said Christabel ; but 
 she could not get rid of the sense of uneasiness to wLich Leonard's 
 Btrange manner had given rise. 
 
 She went to her boy's nursery, as she did every night, before 
 going to bed, and said her prayers beside his pillow. She had 
 begun tliia one night when the child was ill, and had never 
 
^Afid Time is Setting luV Me, 0.' 
 
 233 
 
 niisi;.tj(l a ni^'ht since. That quiet recos.s in which tho little one's 
 cot stood was her oratory. Here, in tiie silence, broken only by 
 the ticking of the clock or the fall of a cinder on the hearth, 
 while the nurse slept near at hand, the mother j)ra^v'e(l ; and her 
 prayers seemed to her sweeter and more etHcacioua here than in 
 any other place. So soon as those childish lips could apeak it 
 would be her delight to teach her son to pray ; and, in tlie mean- 
 time, her supplications went up to Heaven for Inm, from a heart 
 that overflowed with motherly love. There had been one dismal 
 interval of her life when she had loved no one — having raiUy 
 no one to love — secretly loathing her husband — not daring eveu 
 to remember that other, once so fondly loved — ami then, when 
 her desolate heart seemed walled round with an icy barrier that 
 divided it from all human feeling, God had given her this child, 
 and lo ! the ice had melted, and her re-awakened soul had 
 kindled and glowed with warmth and gladness. It was not in 
 Christabel's nature to love many things, or many ])eople : rather 
 was it natural to her to love one person intensely, as she had 
 loved her adopted mother in her girlhood, iw she had loved 
 Angus Hamleigh in the bloom of her womanhood, as she loved 
 her boy now. 
 
 She was leaving the child's room, after prayers and medi- 
 tations that had been somewhat longer than usual, when she 
 heard voices, and saw Mr. Tregonell and Mr. Hamleigh by the 
 door of the room occupied by the latter, whi h wu;3 at the further 
 end of the galleiy. 
 
 * You midei'stand my plan V said Leonard. 
 ' Perfectly.' 
 
 * It prevents all trouble, don't you see.' 
 
 * Yes, I believe it may,' answered Angus, and without any 
 word of good-night he opened his door luid went into his room, 
 while Leonai'd turned on his heel and strolled to his own 
 quarters. 
 
 ' Was there anything amiss between you and Mr. Hamleigh, 
 that you parted so coldly just nowV asked Christabel, presently, 
 when her husband came from his dressing-room into the bed- 
 room where she sat musing by the fire. 
 
 ' What, aren't you gone to bed yet ! ' he exclaimed, * You 
 seem to be possessed by a wakeful demon to-night.' 
 
 ' I have been in the boy's room. Was there juiything amiss, 
 Leonard ? ' 
 
 * You are monstrously anxious about 'it. No. What should 
 there be amiss ? You didn't expect to see us hugging each other 
 like a couple of Frenchmen, did you ? ' 
 
 * 
 
 'i' 
 
 •ill- 
 
 m 
 
 it! 
 
 M . 
 

 'it ^ 
 
 i 
 
 
 1r 
 
 1134 Mount Royal, 
 
 CTIAPTER XXTI. 
 
 *WlTn SUCU REMORSKLKSS SPEED STILL COME NEW WOES.' 
 
 Tub iwxt morning was damp, and grey, and mild, no autumn 
 wind stiring the long sweeping branches of the cedars on the 
 lawn, the dead leaves falling silently, the world all sad and 
 solemn, clad in universal greyness. (Jhristabel was up early, 
 with her boy, in the nursery — watching him as he splashed about, 
 his bath, and emerged rosy and joyous, like an infant river- 
 god sporting among the rushes ; early at family prayers in the 
 dining-room, a ceremony .at which Mr. Tregonell rarely assisteil, 
 and to which Dopsy and Mopsy came flushed .and breathless 
 with hurry, anxious to pay all due rasjject to a hostess whom they 
 hoped to visit ag.ain,but inw.ardly revolting against the unreason* 
 ableness of eight-o'clock pr.aycrs. 
 
 Angus, who was generally about the gardens before eight, did 
 not appear .at all this morning. The other men were habitually 
 late — breakfjisting together in a free-and-easy manner when the 
 ladies had loft the dining-room — so Cliristabi'l, Miss Bridgeman, 
 and the Miss Vandeleurs sat down to break f;ust alone, Dopsy 
 giving little furtive glances at the door every now and then, 
 expectant of Mr. Hamleigh's entrance. 
 
 That expectancy became too painful for the damsel's patience, 
 by-.and-by, as the meal advanced. 
 
 T: wonder what has become of Mr. Ifamlcigh,' she said. 
 * This is the first time he has been late .at breakfast.' 
 
 'Perlua])she is seeing to the packing of his i)()rtmantcau,' said 
 ]\Iis3 Bridgeman. ' Some valets are bad jxickers, and want 
 superintendence.' 
 
 ' Packing ! ' cried Dcpsy, aghast. ' P.ackiii<j:I What for?' 
 
 ' Ho is going to London this afternoon. iJidn't you know 1 ' 
 
 Dopsy grew pale as ashes. The shock was evidently terrible, 
 and even Jessie pitied her. 
 
 ' Poor silly Dop,' she thought. ' Could she actually suppose 
 that she stood the faintest chance of bringing down her bird'^' 
 
 'Going .aw\y ? For goodV murmured Miss V.andeleur, 
 faintly — all the flavour gone out of the dried salmon, the Cornish 
 butter, the sweet home-baked bread. 
 
 ' I hope so. He is going to the South of France for tlie 
 winter. Of course, you know that he is consumptive, and hai 
 not many years to live,' answered Miss Bridgeman. 
 
 * Poor fellow !' sighed Do2)sy, with tears glittering upon her 
 lowered evelids. 
 
 She had begun the chase moved chiefly by sordid instincts ; 
 
 I 
 
* With such Bcmonclcss Speed still come New Woes* 21)5 
 
 her tonderest emotions had been li.-icked and vuli^.iri/od by lonj» 
 experience in flirtation — but at this moment she believed that 
 never in her life had aho loved before, and that never in her life 
 could slie love af,'ain. 
 
 * And if ho dies unmarried what will become of his property ? * 
 inrjiiired Mopsy, whose feeliiij^'t^ were not en;,'a<fed. 
 
 ' I haven't the faintest idea,' answered Miss Bridgeman. 
 * He has no near relations. I hope he will leave his money to 
 some charitable institution.' 
 
 'What time does he go?' faltered Dopsy, swallowing Iut 
 tears. 
 
 * Mr. Hamleigh left an hour ago, Madam,' said the butler, 
 who had been carving at the side-board during this conversation. 
 *He has gone shooting. The dog-cart is to pick him up at the 
 gate leading to St. Nectau's Kieve at eleven o'clock.' 
 
 ' Gone shooting on his last morning at iSfount Hoyal ! ' ex- 
 claimed Jessie. 'Tlwit's a new (ifvelopmcnt of Mr. llamleigh's 
 character. I never knew he li.'id a ])assi()n for sport.' 
 
 ' I believe there is a note for you, ma'am,' said the butler to 
 hia mistress. 
 
 He went out into the hall, and returned in a minute or two 
 carrying [a letter upon his otHcial salver, and handing it with 
 ollicial solemnity to Mrs. Tregonell. 
 
 The letter was brief and commonplace enough — 
 
 *Dear Mrs. Tregonell, — 
 ' After all I am deprived of the opportunity of wishing you 
 good-bye this morning, by the temptation of two or tlire«; hours* 
 woodcock shooting about St. Nectan's Kieve. I shall drive 
 straight from there to Launceston in IVfr. Tregonell's dog-cart, for 
 the use of which I beg to thank him in advance. I have already 
 thanked you and Miss Bridgemau for your goodness to me 
 during my late visit to Mount Royal, and can oidy suy that my 
 gratitude lies much 'dee])er, and means a great deal more, th;»ii 
 such expressions of thankfulness are generally intended to convey. 
 
 ' Ever sincerely yours, 
 
 'Angus Hamlkigh.' 
 
 'Then this was what Leonard and he were settling List niulit, 
 thought Christabel. ' Your m:ister went out with ]Mr. llundeigli, 
 I suppose,' she said to the servant. 
 
 'No, ma'an^., my master is in his study. I took him hia 
 breakfast an hour ago. Ue is writing letters, I believe.' 
 
 ' And the other two gentlemen "i ' 
 
 'Started for Bodmin in the wagonette at six o'clock this 
 morning.' 
 
 ' They are going to see that unhappy man hanged,' said Miss 
 Bi'idgeman. ' Congenial occupation. Mr. M(.n(;iL:u told nie , -ill 
 about it at dinner yesterday, and asked me if I wasn't sorry that 
 
 Tff 
 
 f 
 
 'T 
 
 "I 
 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 I 
 
 )|;V* 
 
 U 
 
 ilii 
 
:i 
 I 
 I 
 
 111 
 
 I' 
 
 
 
 
 1i 
 
 230 
 
 MnliUt liojal. 
 
 my sex prevented my joininj,' tlie party. "ItwotiUl be a ne\f 
 Hi'iisution," lie Haid, "and to ;i woman of your inldli'^'tMice that 
 innst 1)() ail iiniiK-nso attraction." I told liini I had no liaiik(jring 
 a,ft(;r now HeiiHation.s of tliat kind.' 
 
 ' And 111! in r(;ally p»iie — without sayin'^'^ood-bye to any of ua,' 
 Biiid I)o|)sy, Htill har|)iii,i,'oii the d([tarli'<l <^qifst. 
 
 * Yes, ht! is really ^'ono,' t'choud Jessie, with .a si-^li. 
 
 Cliristaliel had lii'cn .silent and abseiit-n.inded tliioiiLdiout ilie 
 meal. Jfer niin<l was troubU^d — she scarcely knew why; dis- 
 turbed l»y the memory of her liusband's manner ;ts lie ])arted 
 with An,<^'us i;: the corridor ; disturbed by t)i(( stran^enes.s of this 
 lonely e.\])e(li(io,j after woodcock, ill .'I man who had always 
 shown liimscdf indiHereiit to .sport. As usual with her when she 
 Wiis out of spirits, she went slrain'ht to the nursery for comfort, 
 and tried to for^^et everything,' in life e.xci-pt that Ifeaveu hail 
 jL^iven her a son whom she adored. 
 
 Her boy upon this parlit.ular niornin.i,' w.as a little nion* fasci- 
 natiiii; and a shade nioit! I'xaetini,' than usual ; the rain, soft and 
 f^'entl«! as it was — rather an all-pervadinif moisture than ;i positi\e 
 rainfall — forl)ado any open-air exercise for this tenderly reared 
 youm,' person — so he had to be amusi'd indoors, lie was just of 
 an at^e to be played with, and to iindeiistaiid « 'aiii games which 
 called upon tli(> 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 <iecupation. It was not often that 
 iMr. Tri'^onell spent a nKU'iiini;' in liis study. When lie did, it 
 meant a ,t,'eneial settU-inent uf accounts, and usriaily resulted in a 
 surly frame of mind, whicli la.sted, more or less, for the rest of 
 the day. 
 
 'Did you know tliat ]\rr. Ilandei^li had j^'one woodcock 
 sliootinj^ ? ' 
 
 'Naturally, since it was I who su^^LTOstcd that he should lia\(' 
 a shy at the birds bi-fore he left,' answered J^'onard, willinut 
 looking up. 
 
 Jle was idling in a chef|U(>, 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<l iii'oii'lil. 
 Leonard's study looked into the stalile-vard, a spai'ious (piad- 
 rangle, with long ranges of iloors and windows, saddle ro.^ms, 
 harness rooms, loose? Ijoxes, coachni'Mis and vi<i' m s (jiiattei-s — a 
 little colony complete in ilsel;'. i'luni his oj)' n wiiaiow tin- 
 Squire could give his orders, interro^at.' his coachman as to hi.s 
 consum}»tiott of fmage, ha\e an ailing horse paraded l)cforp 
 liim, feully an umlwling, and Ijestow j)raiM3 or blame all roimd. «,> 
 
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 Mount Hoijal. 
 
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 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.-<ked Leonar \ savaxely. 'You've 
 been sitting hero for the last hour iKU'ing jver that book.' 
 
 'I think I slioulc! have heard — I think I should have known,' 
 faltered (Jhristabel, with her heart beating strangely. 
 
 There was a niysU'ry in the retina of the carriage which 
 eeemed like the beginnin;' of w< e and horror —like the ripem'ng 
 cf that stran;;e vague sense of trouble which had oppressed her 
 ft»r the Lost few hours. 
 
 'You would iiave heard — vou woidd have known,' echoed her 
 husband, with brutal mockery — 'by instinct, by second sigiit, 
 by animal magnetism, J siioj»ose. You are just th« Bort ol 
 V(niian to believe in that kiiicl of rot.' 
 
* With such Bcmorselcss Speed still come New Woes* 239 
 
 Tlio valet liad gone across the yard on his way round to the 
 oflices of the liouse. Christabel made no reply to her hiisband'a 
 Rneering speech, but went straight to the hall, and rang for the 
 butler. 
 
 ' Have you— has any one seen Mr. Hamleigh come back to 
 the house 1 ' she asked. 
 
 * No, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Inquire, if you please, of every one. Make quite sure that 
 lie has not returned, and then let three or four men, with Nicholls 
 at their head, go down to St. Nectan's Kieve and look for him. 
 I'm afraid there has been an accident.' 
 
 ' I hope not, ma'am,' answered the butler, who had known 
 Cliristabel from her babyhood, who had looked on, a pleased 
 spectator, at Mr. Hamleigh's wooing, and whose heart was melted 
 with tendercst compassion to-day at the sight of her pallid face, 
 and eyes made large with terror. ' It's a dangerous kind of placo 
 for a stranger to go clambering about with a gun, but not for 
 one that knows every stone of it, as Mr. Hamleigh do.' 
 
 ' Send, and at once, please. I do not think Mr. Ilamleigh, 
 having arranged for the dog-cart to meet him, would forget hia 
 appointment.' 
 
 'There's no knowing, ma'am. Some gentlemen are so wrapt 
 up in their sport.' 
 
 Chrisbibel sat down in the hall, and waited while Daniel, tho 
 butler, made his inquiries. No one had seen Mr. Jlamleigh como 
 in, and everybody was ready to aver on o;ith if necessary that he 
 had not returned. So Nicholls, the chit.'f coachiiian, a man of 
 gumption and of luueh renown in the houscliold, as a jx-i-sou 
 whose nalui-al sharpness 1' id been improved by tlie large nsiioii- 
 aibilities involved in a \\t il-lilled stal>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 
 
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 Mount Boy at. 
 
 
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 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 indulgin<j; herself witli the feminine iuxui-y 
 of a good cry. Disa])i)ointnicnt, wounded vanity, humiliation, 
 and a very real pemhavt. for the man who had desi)ised her 
 attractions were the mingled elements in lier cuj^ of woe. 
 
 The mu'se eanie down the broad oak staircase, bal)V Leonard 
 toddling 1)V her side, and makiie^ two laborious jumps at earli 
 sliallo'v stej) — one on — one oil'. Uinistabel met him, picked hitu 
 up in her arms, and carried him back to tlie nuiserv, ^\llere she 
 />rdert'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' 
 
 <i hihi 
 icurt, 
 • <i\\ II 
 I tliu 
 
 *' Willi sucli Bcuiorsclc-'^s Speed still come New Woes.' 2-tl 
 
 the lobby that oi^'Ued into Iho st;ible yard, and stoml in the dour- 
 way waiting for Nieholls to come to her ; but if he saw her, li>,' 
 ])retended not to see her, and ■went *itr;iiuht <o the house by 
 anotlier way, and asked to speak to ]\rr. Tre,i,n)nell. 
 
 Christabel saw him hurry aeruss the yjird to th.it other door, 
 and knew that her fears were reali/.e(b Evil of some kind hail 
 befallen. She went straight to her husband's study, certain that 
 the would meet Nieholls there. 
 
 Leonard w;ia standing by the fireplace, listcnin'::, wjiilo 
 Nieholls stood a little way from the door, relating the result 
 of his search, in a low agitati'd voice. 
 
 * Was lie ([uite dtiad wiien you found him V asked Leonard, 
 when the man paused in his narration. 
 
 Christabel stood just within the doorway, half hidden in tho 
 obscurity of the room, where there was no light but that of the 
 low fire. The door had been left ajar by Nichulls, and neither he 
 nor his master was aware of her presence. 
 
 *Yes, Sir. Dr. Blake said he must have been dead some 
 hours.' 
 
 * Had the gun burst ? ' 
 
 * No, sir. It nuist have gone ofT somehow. Perhaps tJie trigger 
 caught in the hand-rail when he was crossing the wooden bridge 
 — and yet that seemed hanWy ])ossible — for ho was lying on the 
 big stone at the other aide of the bridge, with his face downwards 
 close to the M-ater.' 
 
 ' A horrible accident,' said Leonard. * There'll be an inquest, 
 of course. "Will Blake give the Coroner notice — or must I i ' 
 
 * Dr. Blake said iie'd see to that, sir.' 
 *And he is lying at the farm — ' 
 
 * Yes, sir. "VVe thought it was best to trdce the lx)dy there — 
 rather than to bring it home. It would have l)een such a shock 
 for my mistress — and the other ladies. Dr. Blake said the intjucst 
 would be held at the inn at 'J'revena.' 
 
 'Well,' said Leonard, with a shrug and a sigh, 'it's an awful 
 iRisiness, that's all that can be said about it. Lucky lui has no 
 wife or children — no near relations to feel the blow. All we e.in 
 do is to show our res])ect for him, now he is gone. Tin; body 
 liad better be brought home here, after tlie intpiest. It will look 
 more respectful for him to be buried from this house. Mrs. 
 Tregonell's mind can }»e prepared by that time. 
 
 'It is prejiared already,' said a low voice out of the shadow. 
 * I have heard all.' 
 
 'Very sad, isn't it ? ' replied Leonard ; * one of those nrducky 
 accidents which occur every shooting sea.son, Tie was always a 
 little awkward with a gun — never handled one like * thorough- 
 bred sportsman.' 
 
 * Why did he go out shooting on the last Biorning of hv 
 
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 Mount Boydl, 
 
 viait ?' asked CIiiislfiLel. * It was you who urged liim to do it 
 — you who phtiinod tho whijlo thiii,^.' 
 
 * I ! "W'hiit nonsense you are talking. I told him there were 
 l^lenty of Linls ahout tlie Kieve — just as I told the other fellows. 
 That will do, Nicholls. You did all that could he done. Go 
 and get your dinner, but lirst send a mounted groom to Trevena 
 to ask Blake to come over here.' 
 
 Nicholls howed and retired, shutting the door behind him. 
 
 *IIe is dead, then,' said Chrlstabel, coming over to the hearth 
 where her liusband was standing. ' lie has been killed.' 
 
 'lie has li;id the bad luck to kill himself, as many a better 
 8j)orlHman than he htus done before now,' answered Leonard, 
 roughly. 
 
 ' If I could be sure of that Leonard, if I could be sure that 
 his death was the work of accident — I should hardly grieve for 
 him — knowing that he was reconciled to the idea of death — and 
 that if God had spared him this sudden end, the close of his life 
 must have been full of pain and weariness.' 
 
 Tears were streamiiig down her cheeks — tears which she 
 made no eH'ort to restrain — sueh tears as friendship and atl'ection 
 give to the dead — tears that had no taint of guilt. Hut 
 Leonard's jealuus soul was stung to fury l)y those innocent tears. 
 
 ' V.'liy do you stand there snivelling about him,' he 
 exclaimed ; *do you want to remind me how fond you were of 
 him — and liow little you ever eared fur me. Do you sup])ose 
 I am stone blind — do you suppose I don't know you to the core 
 of your heart I ' 
 
 ' If you know my heart you must know that it is as guiltless 
 of sin against y(ju, and as true to my duty as a wife, as you, my 
 husband, can desire. i>ut you must know that, or you would 
 not have bromrht Anirus llandeinh to this house.' 
 
 *Perhaj)s 1 wanted to try you — to watch you and him 
 together — to si'o if the old lire was quite burnt out.' 
 
 ' Yon could not be so base — so contemj)tible.' 
 
 * There is no knowing what a man may be when he is used 
 as I have been by you — looked down upon from the height of 
 a superior intellect, a loftier nature — told to keep his distance, 
 OS a piece of vulgar clay — hardly fit to exist beside that iiuo 
 poraolain vase, his wife. Do you think it was a pleasant si)ec- 
 tacle for me to sew you and Angus JJamleigh synnxithizing ami 
 twaddling about Browning's hist poem — or sighing over a sonata 
 of Beethoven's — I who w;ia outside all that kind of thimi? — a 
 boor — a dolt — to whom your fine sentiment^s and your fiumuieiy 
 were an unknown language. But I was only putting a case ju.st 
 imw. I liked Ilamleigh well enough — in his way — and I asked 
 him here because I thought it was giving a chance to tha 
 Vaudeleur girls. That was my motive — and xuy only motive.' 
 
 'H 
 
;o do it 
 
 re were 
 fellows, 
 lie. Go 
 Crevenu 
 
 him. 
 
 e hearth 
 
 \ hoXiev 
 jeouanl, 
 
 Lire that 
 ieve for 
 ,th — and 
 : his lifo 
 
 bich sho 
 
 atl'ectioii 
 
 t. But 
 
 !ut tears. 
 
 lim,' he 
 
 were ot 
 
 su})i)ose 
 
 the core 
 
 guiltless 
 you, iny 
 II would 
 
 and him 
 
 is used 
 leight of 
 distance, 
 that tino 
 ant spec- 
 ziug and 
 a sonat.i 
 hii)g ?— a 
 haiimery 
 case just 
 I askei] 
 to tlia 
 lotive.' 
 
 * Yours 071 Monday^ GocTs to-day* 
 
 — In 
 
 'And he came — and he is dead,' answered Clnistabel, in icy 
 tones. 'He went to that lonely place this morning- -at your 
 instigation — and he met his death there — no one knows how — 
 no one ever will know.' 
 
 ' At my instigation ? — confound it, Clnistabel — you have no 
 right to say such things. I told him it was a good place for 
 woodcock — and it pleased his fancy to try his luck there before 
 he loft. Lonely place, be hanged. It is a ])lace to which every 
 tourist goes — it is as well known as the road to this house.' 
 
 ' Yet ho was lying there for lioms and no one knew. If 
 Nicholls had not gone he might be lying tliere still. lie may 
 have lain there wounded — his life-blood ebbing away — dying by 
 inches — without help — with a creature to succour or comfort him. 
 It was a cruel place — a place where no help could come.' 
 
 * Fortune of war,' answered Leonanl, with a careless shrug. 
 * A sportsman must die where his shot iinds him. There's many 
 a day I miglit have fallen in the Rockies, and lain there for tho 
 lynxes and the polecats to ])i('k my bones ; and I have walked 
 shoulder to shoulder with death on monntain passes, when eveiy 
 step on the crumlding track might send mo sliding down to the 
 bottomless pit below. As for ])oor Hamleigh ; well, as you say 
 yourself, he was a doomed man — a little sooner or later could 
 not make much difference.' 
 
 * Perhajis not,' said Christabcl gloomily, going slowly to tho 
 door ; 'but I want to know how he died.' 
 
 'Let us liope that the coroner's in(|uest will make your mind 
 easy on that point,' retorted her husband as she left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL 
 
 'yours on MONDAY, GOlj's TO-DAY.* 
 
 The warning gong sounded at half-past seven as usual, and at 
 eight the butler ainiounced dinner. Ca])taiu Vandeleur and 
 Mr. INIontagu had returned from Bodmin, and they were 
 group: d in front of tho lire talking in undertones with Mr. 
 Tregonell, wliile Christal)el and the younger Miss Vandeleur sat 
 on a sofa, silent, after a few murmured expressions of grief ou 
 on the part of the latter lady. 
 
 'It is like a dream,' sighed Mopsy, this being the one 
 remark which a young person of her ealibic inevitably make.s 
 upon such an occasion. 'It is like a dreadful dream — playing 
 billiards last night, and now — dead ! It is too awful.' 
 
 ' Yes, it ia awful ; Death is always awful,' answered f !hriat- 
 abel, mechaniically. 
 
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 244) 
 
 Mount Eoyal, 
 
 Sfce had told hn-self that it was her duty to appear at th« 
 dinner-table— to fulfil all her responsibilities as wife and hostess 
 — not to give [any one tlui riji^ht to say that she was bemoaning 
 him who had once been her lover ; and she was here to do her 
 duty. She wanted all the inh.abitanis of her little world to see 
 that she mourned for him only as a fiiend grieves for the loss of 
 a friend — soberly, witli pious submission to the Divine AVill 
 that had taken him away. For twc .. >urs she had remained on 
 her knees beside her bed, drowned in tears, numbed by despair, 
 feeling na if life could not go on without him, as if this heavily 
 beating heart of hers nuist be slowly throbbing to extinction : 
 and then the light of reason had begun to glimmer through the 
 thick gloom of grief, and her lips had moved in prayer, and, as if 
 hi answer to her prayers, came the image of her child, to comfurt 
 and sustain her. 
 
 ' Let me not dishonour my darling,' she prayed. • Let me 
 remember that I am a mother as well as a wife. If I owe my 
 husband very little, I owe my son everything.' 
 
 Inspired by that sweet thought of her boy, unwilling, for his 
 sake, to give occasion for even the feeblest scandal, she had 
 washed the tears from her pale cheeks, and put on a dinner 
 gown, and had gone down to the drawiug-ioom just ten minutes 
 before the announcement of dinner. 
 
 She remembered how David, when his beloved was dead, 
 had risen and washed and gone back to the business of life. 
 ' What use are my tears to him, now he is gone V she said to her- 
 self, as she went downstaiis. 
 
 Miss Bridgeman was not iii tlie drawing-room ; but Mopsy 
 was there, dressed in black, and looking very miserable. 
 
 * I could not get poor Dop to come down,' she said, apolo- 
 getically. ' She has been lying on her bod crying ever since sho^ 
 heard the dreadful news. She is so sensitive, poor girl ; and she 
 liked him so much ; and he had been so attentive to her. I hope 
 you'll excuse her 1 ' 
 
 * Please don't a])ologize. I can quite imagine that this shock 
 has been drea»lful for her — for every one in the house. Perliai)S 
 you would rather dine ujjstaiis, so as to be with your sister ?' 
 
 * No!' answered Mopsy, taking Cliristabers hand, with a touch 
 of real feeling. ' I had rather be with vou. You nuist feel hid 
 loss more th;ui we can — you luul known him so much longer.' 
 
 * Yes, it is just five years since he came to Mount Koyal. 
 Five ywirs is not much in the lives of some people ; but it seems 
 the greater part of my life.' 
 
 * We will go away to-morrow,' said Mopsy. *I am sure you 
 will be glad to get rid of us : it will be a relief, I mean. Per- 
 haps at some future time you will let us come again for a lictlo 
 while. We hare been so intensely happy here.' 
 
■' I. 
 
 * Yours on Monday, GocVs to-day* 
 
 246 
 
 attKfi 
 
 losteas 
 oaning 
 do her 
 to see 
 loss of 
 5 AViU 
 rietl Oil 
 espair, 
 leavily 
 ictiou : 
 igli the 
 (1, as if 
 omfuit 
 
 Let nie 
 )we my 
 
 for his 
 he hail 
 , dimier 
 aiinutea 
 
 IS dead, 
 5 of life. 
 I to her- 
 
 ; Mopsy 
 
 I, apolo- 
 ince shc^ 
 and !^he 
 I hoi)e 
 
 is shock 
 Perhaps 
 ter?' 
 ). atoucli 
 , feel hid 
 iger.' 
 b Eoyal. 
 it seeiua 
 
 3ure you 
 n. Per- 
 r a littld 
 
 'Then I sliall be ha))]\v for you to come again — next summer, 
 if we are here,' answered Christabol, kindly, moved by Mopsy'a 
 nai'vetd, ' one can never tell. Next year seems so far off in the 
 hour of trouble.' 
 
 Dinner was announced, and they all went in, and made believe 
 to dine, in a gloomy silence, broken now and then by dismal 
 attempts at general conversation on the part of the men. Ojice 
 Mopsy took heart of grace and addressed her brother : 
 
 ' Did you like the hanging, Jackt' she asked, as if it were a 
 play. 
 
 * No, it was hideous, detestable. I will never put myself in 
 the way of being so tortured again. The guillotine is swifter 
 and more merciful. I saw a man blown from a gun in India 
 — there were bits of him on my boots when I got home — but it 
 was not so bad as the hanging to-day : the limp, helpless ligure, 
 swaying and trembling in the hangman's grip while they put 
 the noose on, the cap dragged roughly over the ghastly face, the 
 monotonous croak of the parson reading on like a machine, 
 while the poor v/retch was being made ready for his doom. It 
 was all horrible to the last degree. Why can't we poison our 
 criminals; let them die comfortably, as Socrates died, of a dose 
 of some strong nan^otic. The parson might have some chance — 
 sitting by the dying man's bed, in the (piiet of his cell.' 
 
 ' It would be mucli nicer,' said Mo])sy, 
 
 * Where's Miss Priilgeman? ' Leonard asked, suddenly, looking 
 round the table, as if only that moment perceiving her alis(>iice. 
 
 ' She is not ir: her rocjiu. Sir. Mary thinks she has gone out,' 
 answered the butler. 
 
 ' Gone out — after dark. What can have been her motive for 
 going out at such an hour?' asked Leonard of his wife, angrily. 
 
 ' I have no idea. She may have been sent for by some sick 
 person. You know how good ihe is.' 
 
 * I know what a humbug she is,' retorted Leonard. ' Daniel, 
 go and find out if any messenger came for Miss Pridgeman— or 
 U she left any message for your mistress.' 
 
 Daniel went out and came back again in five minutes. No 
 one had seen any messenger — no one had seen Miss Pridgeman 
 go out. 
 
 'That's always the case here when I want to ascertain a 
 fact,' growled Leonard : ' no one sees or knows anything. There 
 are twice too m;>,ny servants for one to be decently served. Well, 
 it doesn't matter much. JNliss Pridgeman is old enough to take 
 care of herself — and if she walks otf a cliff — it will be her losa 
 and nobody else's.' 
 
 ' I don't think you ought to speak like that of a person whom 
 your mother loved — and who is my most intimate friend,' said 
 Cbristabri, with grave reproach. 
 
 
 i i''' ■ 
 
 1! 
 
24G 
 
 Mount Boyal 
 
 mi 
 
 Leonard had drunk a good deal at dinner ; and indeed ther« 
 had oeen an inclination on the part of all three men to drown 
 their gloomy ideas in wine, while even Mopsy, who generally 
 took her fair share of champagne, allowed the butler to fill her 
 glass rather oftoner than usual — sighing as she sipped the sjjaik- 
 ling bright-coloured wine, and remembering, even in the midst 
 of lier regret for the newly dead, that she would very soon have 
 returned to a domicile where Moiit was not the daily beverage, 
 nay, where, at times, the very beer-barrel ran dry. 
 
 After dinner Christabel went to the rnirsery. It flashed 
 upon her with acutest pain as she entered the room, that when 
 last she had been there she had not known of Angus Ham- 
 leigh's death. He had been lying yonder by the waterfall, 
 dead, and she had not known. And now the fact of his death 
 ■was an old thing — part of the history of her life. 
 
 The time when he was alive and with her full of bright 
 thoughts and poetic fancies, seemed ever so long ago. Yet it 
 was only yesterday — yesterday, and gone from her life as utterly 
 as if it v/ere an episode in the records of dead and gone ages — as 
 old as the story of Tristan and Iseult. She sat with her boy till 
 he fell .asleep, and sat beside him as he slept, in the dim light of 
 the night-lamp, thinking of him who lay dead in the lonely 
 farmhouse among those green hills they two had loved so well 
 — hushed by the voice of the distant sea, sounding far inland 
 in the silence of night. 
 
 She remembered how he had talked last night of the undis- 
 covered country, and how, as he talked, with flushed cheeks, and 
 too brilliant eyes, she had seen the stamp of death on his face. 
 They had talked of 'The Gates Ajar,' a book which they had 
 read together in the days gone by, and which Christabel had 
 often returned to since that time — a book in which the secrets of 
 the future are touched lightly by a daring but a delicate hand 
 — a book which accej)ts every promise of the Gospel in its most 
 literal sense, and overflows with an exultant belief in just such a 
 Heaven as poor humanity wants. In this author's creed 
 transition from death to life is instant — death is the Lucina of 
 life. There is no long lethargy of the grave, there is no time of 
 darkness. Straight from the bed of death the spirit rushes to 
 the arms of the beloved ones who have gone before. Death, so 
 glorified, becomes only the reunion of love. 
 
 He had talked of Socrates, and the faithful few who waited 
 lit the prison dooi-s in the early morning, when the sacred ship 
 had returned, and the end was near ; and of that farewell 
 discourse in the upper chamber of the house at Jerusalem 
 which seems dimly foreshadowed by the philosopher's converse 
 with his disciples — at Athens, the struggle towards light — at 
 Jerusalem the light itself in fullest glory. 
 
■i 
 
 * Yimrs on Mnudayy God's to-dajj* 
 
 247 
 
 Cliristabel felt lior.solf bound by ii<i sot-iiil duty to return to 
 the drawin<^-rooni, more es|»t'ci;dly us iMis.s Vandeleur had ^'oik.' 
 upstairs to .sit witli tlie alllictcMl J)o|)sy — who wa.s bcwailiuL,' th(! 
 dead very .sincerely in her own fashion, with little bunsi.s of 
 hysterical tears ami fr;i'^'inentary remarks. 
 
 'I know ii(> didn't care a straw for nie' — she ,!;'aspe(l, dabbini^ 
 her temples with a handkerchief soak I in eau-de-(Jolo'^Mie — 'yet 
 it seemed sometimes ahnost as if he did : he was so attentive; — 
 but then he had such lovely n^anners — no doubt he was just a>i 
 attentive to all girls. Oh, Mop, if he had cared for me, and if I 
 had marrietl him — what a paradise this cailh would have been. 
 Mr. Tregonell told me th.at he had f[uit(? four thousand a year.' 
 
 And thus — ami thus, with numerous variations on the same 
 theme — poor Dopsy mourned for the de.ad man ; while the low 
 murmur of the distant .sea, beatim; for ever and for ever aLjainst 
 the horned clifTs, and dashiuLj silvery white about the base of 
 that !Mechard llock which looks like; a eoucliant lion loiepiuLj 
 guard over the shore, .sounded like a funeral clujrus in tlni i)auses 
 of lier talk. 
 
 It w.'is half-past ten when Christabcl left lier boy's l)ed-side, 
 and, on her way to her own room, suddenly remembered Jessie's 
 unexplained absence. 
 
 hjhe knocked at Miss Bridgeman's door twice, but there was 
 no answer, and then she opened the duorand looked in, expecting 
 to tind the room empty. 
 
 Jessie was sitting in front of tlie fire in her liat and jacket, 
 staring at the burning coals. There was no light in the room, 
 except the glow and tiame of the tin', but even in that cheerful 
 light Jessie looked deadly pale, '.bs^jc,' exclaiined ( 'hristabel, 
 going up to her and putting a gcnth' hand upmi iicr shoulder, for 
 she took no notice of the opeiiing of the dooi', ' where in heaven'd 
 name have you been ] ' 
 
 * Where should I have been ? Surely you can guess ! I have 
 been to see him.' 
 
 * To the farm — alone — at night ? ' 
 
 * Alone — at niglit — yes ? I would have walked through storra 
 
 and fire — I wouhl have walked tlu'ough ' she set lu-r lijxs like 
 
 iron, and mutteretl lhror,_,h h?r clenched teeth, ' Hell.' 
 
 'Jessie, Jessie, how foolish ! What good eouKl it do? ' 
 'None to him, I know, but perhaps a little to me. I think if 
 I had stayed hero I .should have g(^nc starlc, staring mad. 1 felt 
 my brain reding as I sat and thought of him in the twilight, and 
 then it seemed to me as if the <jnly comfort possible was in look- 
 ing at his dead face — holding his (.lead hand — and I hive done it, 
 and am comforted — a little,' she said, with a kiugh, which ende«l 
 in a convulsive sob. 
 
 * My good warm-hearted Jessie ! ' murmured Christabcl, 
 
 ^l' 
 
 i 
 
218 
 
 Muunt Boyal, 
 
 k 
 
 
 I 
 
 MU\,. 
 
 
 l)on(HniC f'vcr lior l)viiiL,'ly, teara raining down hor clicoka ; *1 
 know you ulwjiy.s liked liini.' 
 
 ' Always liked hitn ! ' echood the other, staring at the fire, in 
 blank teaik'ss grief ; * liked him ] yes, always.' 
 
 M'.ut you must not take his death so despairingly, dear. 
 Vou know that, under the fairest circumstances, he had not 
 wry long to live. We both kn(!W that.' 
 
 'Yes! we knew it. I knew — thought that I had realized 
 Iho fact — told myself every <i''iy that in a few months he would 
 lie hidden from us nude!" ground — gone to a life where we 
 <;innot follow him even witli our thoughts, tlumgh we pretend 
 to bo so sure about it, n^ those women do in "The Gates Ajar." 
 1 told myself this evei-y day. And yet, now that he is snatched 
 away suddeidy — cruelly — mysteriously — it is as hard to bear 
 .IS if I had believed that he w(juld live a hundred years. I 
 am not like you, a jiiece of statuesque j)erfection. I cannot 
 •Kay " Thy will be done," when my dearest — the only nan I ever 
 Joved upon this wide eaith is s-natehed from me. Does that 
 shock your chilly propri(!ty, you who only half loved liim, and 
 who broke his heart at another woman's bidding ] Yes! 1 loved 
 him from the first — loved him all the while he was your lover, 
 antl found it enough for hap])iness to be in Ids company — to 
 see and hear him, and answer every thought of his with sympa- 
 thetic thoughts <^»f mine — understanding him quicker and better 
 than you ccndd, bright as you are — happy to go about with you 
 two — to be the shadow in the sunshine of your glad young 
 lives, just as a dog who loved him would have been happy 
 following at his lieels. Yes, ]>elle, I loved him — I think ahuost 
 from the liour ho came here, in the sweet autumn twilight, 
 when I saw that ])oetic face, half in lire-glow and half in 
 darkness — loved him always, always, always, and admired him 
 as the most j)erfect among men ! ' 
 
 ' .fessie, my dearest, my bravest ! And you were so true 
 and loyal. You m-vcr by word or look detrayed ' 
 
 * AVhat do you think of me ] ' cried Jessie, indignantly. ' Do 
 you suppose that I would not lather hive cut out my tongue — 
 thrown myself oil" the nearest clitl' — than give him one lightest 
 occasion to .>-us])oct what a paltry-souled creature I wjis — .so 
 weak that I could not cure myself of loving another woman's 
 lover. AVhile he lived I hated myself for my folly ; now he 
 is dead, I glory in the thought of how I loved him — how I 
 gave him the most precious treasures of my soul — my reverence — 
 my regard — )ny tears and hopes and prayers. Those are the 
 oiily gold an;l iiankincense and 'myrrh wdiich the poor of thia 
 earth can oiler, and I gave them freely to my divinity 1 ' 
 
 Christabel laid her hand ujion the passionate lips ; and 
 kneeling by her friend's side, comforted lier with gentle caresse^'. 
 
* Yours on Mouilai/, GikTs to-day* 
 
 240 
 
 true 
 
 * Do yon suppose I am not sorry for him, Jesjiio ?' ahe *vkl 
 reproachfully, aftrr a long pause. 
 
 'Yea, no douht you are, in your way; but it is such an 
 icy way.' 
 
 * Would you have mo go raving al)out the house — T, Loonard's 
 wife, Leo's mother/ I try to rt'si^^'u myself to Govl's will : hut 
 I shall remember him till the end of my d;iys, with uiispcakahlo 
 sorrow, lie w;w like sunsliiiit! in my life ; so that life wiiliout him 
 pctnied all one dull grey, till tlu; halty eame, and I'lought me 
 back to the sunlight, and gave nif new iluties, new cares ! ' 
 
 'Yes! you c;in liml cuuifdit in a liahy's arms- -that is a 
 blessing. ^ly comfort was to see my beloved in his bloody 
 whroud — shot through the heart — shot|through the heart ! Wfll, 
 the inquest will tind out something to-morrow, 1 hope; but 1 
 want you to go with me to-morrow morning, aa aoon as it is 
 light to the Kieve.' 
 
 'What for?* 
 
 *To see the spot where he died.' 
 
 * What will be the good, Jessie ? I know the place too well ; 
 it hius been in my mind all this evening.' 
 
 'There will be some good, perhaps. At any late, I want 
 you to go with me ; and if there ever wa-s any rtalify in your 
 love, if you are not merely a beautiful piece of meehanism, with 
 a heart that beats by clockwork, you will go.' 
 
 ' If you wish it 1 will go.' 
 
 * As soon as it is light- say at seven o'elork.* 
 
 *I will not go till after breakfast, i want the business of 
 the housn to go on just as calndy as if tliis ealamity had never 
 happened. I don't want any one to be able to say, "Mrs. 
 'JVegouell is in despair at the loss of lier old lover." ' 
 
 ' In fact you want people to suppose that you never cared 
 for him! ' 
 
 'They cannot .su]i]iose that, when T was once so ])roud of my 
 love. All I wantisthat noonesliould think I loved him too well 
 after I was a wife and mother. I will give no occasion for .scandal.' 
 
 ' Didn't I say that you were a handsome automaton 1 ' 
 
 * I do not want any one t(- say hard thitigs of me when I am 
 dead — hard things that my son may hear.' 
 
 'When you are dead ! You talk as if vou thoncrht vou 
 were to die soon, i ou are of the .stutl" that wears to threescore- 
 and-tcn, and even beyond the l'>almist"s limit. There is no 
 friction for natures of your calibre. When Werther had shot 
 himself, Charlotte went on cuttinu bread and butter, don't you 
 know? It was her nature to be proper, and good, and useful, 
 fcud never to give offence — her nature to cut bread and butter,' 
 poncluded Jessie, laughing bitterly. 
 
 Christabel stayed with her for an hour, t.ilking to her, 
 
 :i> ■■ 
 
 I 
 
 r : 
 
 if 
 
:i i<' 
 
 2.-0 
 
 Mount Iloi/al, 
 
 »!onHoling her, spcaklnj,' hopefully of tli.it unknown world, bo 
 fondly lun_<,'(Ml for, ho jiiously beliovcd in l>y the woman wlio had 
 Ji'arnt her cn'cd at Mrs. 'J'n^^oncU'rt kiUH'S. Many tcais wci-o 
 8h('d by Cliiistabcl during that hour of mournful talk ; but not 
 ono by Jtssio Brid^^'^nian. Jl(>rs was a dry-eyed .^lief. 
 
 *Aft(!r breakfast then wo will walk to tho Kieve,' said 
 Jessie, ;ih Chriatabel left her. * Would it bo too luucli to uak 
 you to make it as early as you can I ' 
 
 ' I will go the moment £ .im f reo. Good-night, dear.' 
 
 .1 
 
 •r 
 
 •I 
 
 cnAnicii XXIV. 
 
 DUEL OR MURDKR? 
 
 All the houaohohl appeared at })reakfast next morning ; even 
 poor l^opsy, who felt that .she could not nur.s(! her grief in soli- 
 tude any longer. ' It's bidiaving too nuich .'is if you were his 
 widow,' Mopsy had told her, somewhat harshly ; and then there 
 was the task of packing, since they were to leave Blount lioyal 
 at eleven, in order to be at Launc»ston in time for the one 
 o'clock train. This morning's breakfast was leas silent than the 
 dinner of yesterday. Everybotly felt as if Mr. llamleigh had 
 been dead at least a week. 
 
 Cajitain Vandeleur and Mr. Montagu discussed the sod 
 event openly, as if the time for reticence were past ; speculated 
 and argued as to how the accident could have happened ; talked 
 IcariKMlly about guns ; wondered whether the country surgeon 
 w;is ecpial to the dilliculties of the case. 
 
 *I can't ! idei*stand,' said ^Mr. Montagu, * if he was found 
 lying in the hollow by the waterfall, how his gun came to go oil". 
 If lie had been going through a hedge, or among the brushwood 
 on the slope of tlio liill, it would be easy enough to see how the 
 thing might have happened ; but as it is, I'm all in the dark.' 
 
 ' You had better go and watch the imjueat, and make yourself 
 useful to tho coroner,' sneered Leonard, who had been drinking 
 his coffee in moody silence until now. ' You seem to think 
 yourself so uncommonly clever and far seeing.' 
 
 'Well, I Hatter myself I know :is much about sport as most 
 men , and I've handled a gun before to-tlay, and know that the 
 worst gun that was ever niaile won't go olF and shoot a fello'W 
 through the heart without provocation of some kind.' 
 
 ' Who said he was shot througli the heart ] ' 
 
 * Somebody did — one of your ])eoi)le, I think. 
 
 Mrs. Tregonell sat at the other end of the table, half hidden 
 by the large old-fashioned silver urn, and next her sat Jessie 
 Bridgeman, a spare small figure in a close-fitting black gown. 
 
 1 
 
Duel or Murder? 
 
 251 
 
 a palo drawn faco witli a look of bunit.out fiivs — palo ;va the 
 crater when tho volcanic fores havo exliaiistctl tlu'iini'lvt's. At 
 u look from ('hrlslaln'l she rose, and llicy two IctL tlif room 
 to;L,'('thpr. Five minutes Liter they liad left tlu! house, ami were 
 walking' towards tho dill', l>y followinj^ wlneh they oould reueh 
 th(! Kievo without jU'oini^ down into r.n.st'a.slle. Jt. was a wild 
 walk for a windy autumn day ; but these two loveil its wildnusH 
 — had walked here in ninny n hai>|)y hour, with soids full of 
 careless ^dee. Now tliey valke(l silently, swiftly, locikinij neither 
 to tlu! S' a nor the land, thou'^h hot h were at tlnii- loveliest in 
 the shiftinc; li^dits and shadows of an exi|uisite (Ji'tober mornin;,' 
 — sunshine enoui^di to make one heliovo it was sunnner — breezi'S 
 enouf,di to blow about the lleeoy clouds in tin; blue, clear sky, to 
 ripnlo the soft dun-coloured lieather on the hillocky common, 
 and to i^ive life and variety to the sea. 
 
 It was a lon^' walk ; but the lencfth of the way seeniod of 
 little account to these two. ( 'hiist;il)el Iiatl only thi! sense of 
 a dreary monotony of /'rief. Time and space had lost their 
 nieanin<,'. This dull ;ichin;:f siorrow w;us to last for ever — till the 
 ^rave — broken only by brief intervals of gladness and f(n<,'el- 
 t'ulness with her boy. 
 
 To-day she could hardly keep this one source of consolation 
 in her mind. All her thouL(hts were centered upon him who lay 
 yonder dead. 
 
 * Jessie,' she said, suddenly layinc^ her hand on her com- 
 panion's wrist, as they cros-n-d the connuon above the slate- 
 tpiarry, svaward of Treval;,'a villa'.^e, with its little oitl church 
 and low square tower. '.Ic»sie, I am not i;"iii;4 to see him.' 
 
 ' AVhat wt.'ak stulf you arc; made of,' muttered Jessie, (!on- 
 teraptuously, turnini^ to look into the wjiitc frii,dit«ned face. 
 *No, you are not ffoin*^ to look upon the dead. Vou would bo 
 afraid, and it niif^jht cause scandal. No, you are oiily ^^oiiiLj to 
 «ee the j)laco where he died ; and then perhaps you, or I will .see 
 a little further into the darkness that hides his fate. You heard 
 liow those men were pu/./liiL; their dull brains about it at break- 
 f;ist. Even they can see tiiat there is a my.stery.' 
 
 * What do you mean I' 
 
 *Only as much as 1 say. I know nothiiif,' — yet.' 
 
 * But you suspect ( ' 
 
 * Yes. My miiul is full of suspicion ; but it is all gueas-worl 
 — no shred of evitlence to go ui)on.' 
 
 They aime out of a meadow into the hiuh road presently— 
 the pleiisant rustic road which so many happy holiday-makiiif 
 people tread in the sweet summer time — the way to that wild 
 spot where Englaiul's first hero was born ; the Englishman'* 
 Troy, cradle of that fair tradition out of which grew the English- 
 man's Tiia4. 
 
'A I 
 
 253 Mount Uoyal. 
 
 Beside the gate through which they earino lay that mighty 
 slab of spar which has been christened King Arthur's Quoit, but 
 which the Hector of Trevalga declared to be the covering stone 
 I'f a Cromlech. Christabel remembered how facetious they liad 
 ill I boL'n about Arthur and his game of quoit.s, live years ago, in 
 llie bright uutumn weather, when the leaves were blown about 
 so lightly in the warm west wind. And now the leaves foil 
 with a D'.Hirnful heaviness, and every fulling leaf seemed an 
 em Idem of (hath. 
 
 They went to the door of the farm-house to get the key of 
 tlie gate wliich leads to the Kit:V(.'. ()hristal)el stood in the 
 httle (luadrangular garden, looking up at the liuuso, while Jessie 
 rang and Jisked for what sshe wanted. 
 
 ' .Did no one except j\Ir. Ilanilcigh go to the Kieve yesterday 
 uniil the men went to look for him < she jusked of the young 
 woman who brought her the key. 
 
 * No one else, Miss. No one but him had the key. They 
 f'nnid it in the pocket of his shooting jacket when ho was brought 
 here.' 
 
 Involuntarily, Jessie put the key to her lips. Ilis hand was 
 almost the last that had touched it. 
 
 Just as they were leaving the garden, where the last of the 
 yellow dahlias were fading, Christabel took Jessie by the arm, 
 and stopped her. 
 
 'In which room is lie lying ? ' slu' asked. 'Can weseotho 
 window fi'om h<'re V 
 
 ' Yes, it is that one.* 
 
 Jessie pointed to a low, latticed window in the old grey 
 house — a cjusement round which niyrtie and honeysuckle clunq 
 lovingly. The lattice stood open. The soft sweet air was 
 blowing into the room, just faintly stirring the white dimity 
 curtain. And ho was lying there in that last inelfable repose. 
 
 They went u]) tho steep lane, between tall tangled hedges, 
 where the ragged robin still showed his pinky blossoms, and 
 many a i)ale yellow hawksweed enlivened the failed foliage, 
 while the ferns uj)on ihe banks, wet from yesterday's rain, still 
 grew rankly green. 
 
 On the cn'st of the hill the breeze grew keener, and the dead 
 leaves were bi-ing ripped from the hedgerows, and whirled down, 
 into the hollow, where the autumn wiml seemed to follow 
 Christabel and Je^sio as they dest.'euded, with a long ])laintivo 
 minor cry, like the lument at an Irish funeral. All was dark 
 ;uid desolate in the green valley, as Jessie unlocked the gate, and 
 they ^n.>nt slowly down the steep slippery ]>ath, among moss-growii 
 rock and drooping fern — down and down, by shaiply winding 
 wayrt, so nairow that they co'ild only go one by one, till they 
 came within the sound of the rushing water, and then down into 
 
urin. 
 
 Duel or Murder f 
 
 on 
 
 53 
 
 the narrow cleft, where tlie waterfall tumbles into abroad shallow 
 bed, aim dribbles away ainoii.:,' <,'reen slimy roeks. 
 
 Ilere there i.s a tiny bridge — a luero plank — that spans the 
 water, with a hand-rail on one side. They crossed this, and stood 
 on the broad flat atone on the other side. This is the very heart 
 of St. Nectan's mystiry. llere, hij,di in air, the water piei'ces 
 the rock, and falls, a slender silvery cohunn, into the rocky bed 
 below. 
 
 ' Look ! ' said Jessie I'.riil^eman, pointini,' down at the stone. 
 
 Tli( re were marks of lilood npon it — the traces of stains 
 which had been roughly wi]i«d away by the men who four i •:! e 
 body. 
 
 ' This is where he stood,' said Jessie, lookiu'^ round, u A tin n 
 she ran suddenly across to the naiiow path on the other '■''. 
 'And some one else stood here— here — just at the end of the 
 bridge. There are marks of other feet here.' 
 
 * Thf)se of the men who came to look for him,' s.iid 
 Christabel.' 
 
 'Yes ; that makes it dillicult to tell. There are the traces of 
 many feet. Yet I know,' she muttered, with elendud teeth, 
 'that some one stood here — just here — and shot him. They 
 were standing face to face. See !' — she stepped the l)ri(ige with 
 light swift feet — ' so ! at ten paees. J )on't you see i ' 
 
 ( 'hiistabfd looked at ho- witli a white scared face, remend)eiin;' 
 her husband's strange iiiaii'iei' the eight before ia.-t, and thoso 
 parting words at ^Mr. Hamleigh's be<l-ro(jm door. ' You under- 
 stand my jilan/* ' IVrfectly.' * It saves all trouble, doa't you 
 see.' Those fi'W words had inii)ressed themselves upon her nieinory 
 — insignitieant as they were — because of something in tlie toiie in 
 which they were s])oken — something in the manner of the two 
 men. 
 
 'You mean,' she said slowly, with her hand clenching the 
 rail of the liridge, seeking unconsciously for support ; ' you mean 
 that Angus and my husband met here by appointment, ajid 
 fought a duul i' 
 
 'That is mv reading of the m\>teiv.' 
 
 *Here in this lonely place — without witnesses — my husband 
 murdered him ! ' 
 
 ' They would riOt count it murder. Fate mi'jht have been the 
 other way. Your hushaiid might have been killed.' 
 
 * No ! ' cri<>l Chrj.-fabel, jiassionately ; 'Au'^nis would not 
 have killed him. That would have been too deep a dishonour I' 
 She sto<id silent {or a fe-w moments, white ad death, looking 
 round her with wide, despairing eyes. 
 
 ' He has been raurder^^a ! ' .she said, in hoarse, faint toius. 
 "Hiat suspicion ha.s been in my miml — dark — shapeless — horrible 
 —from the tirjt. He haa been murdered ! And I am to spend 
 
 Ml 
 
 
 i 
 
 t, 
 
 • J 
 
 !if 
 
 III' 
 
Si! 
 
 I 
 
 254 Mount Boyal. 
 
 the rest of my life with his nnuxlerer !' Then, with a suddcr. 
 hy.st('rii-;il crv, she tuijicd anijjiily upon Jessie. 
 
 ' Ilowdare you ti'II lii's jiltoiit my husband ?' slio exclaimed. 
 Don't yon l\nc)\v that nohody eanu'liureyestfiday except Au^ais ; 
 no one else had the key. The ^i^irl at the faini told us so.' 
 
 'The key!' t'dioi'd Jessie, (■((ntemj)tu<>usly, 'Do you think 
 a pde, bie;ust hi^di, would kei'p out an athlete like your hushaml / 
 ]5e-;ides, there is another way <jf <^fettin,L,^ here, without ^^oinc; 
 near the ;j,ale, wlierc he mi,i,dit besuen, j)erha{)s, by some farm 
 labourei- in the held. The men were ]iluunhini,' there yesterday, 
 and heard a shut. They tuld me that last ni.Ljht at the farm. 
 Wait ! wait !' cried Jessie, excitedly. 
 
 She rushed away, li',dit us a lapwini,'', flyiu'^ across the 
 narrow brid^i' bdundiiif,^ from stone to stone — vanishing,' amidst 
 dark autumn fuli;i,m\ Christabcl Ik aid her slejis dviui,^ away 
 in the distance. Then there was an interval of some minutes, 
 duiin,f( which Christabel, hardly caiins.,' to wondei' what had 
 become of her companion, stood clinuini; to the handrail, and 
 stariuif down at stones and shin^de, feathery fern.^, soddenetl lo_i,'s, 
 logs, the watci- ripjilini,^ and lapijinL: round all things, crystal clear. 
 
 Then -lartled by a voice aljove her lu-.id, she looked U]» and 
 saw Jessies light ligure just as she dro])i)cd herself over the 
 sharp arch of rock, and scrandded through the cleft, hanging on 
 by her hand.-i, tinding a foothold iu tlio most perilous places — in 
 danger of instant death. 
 
 'My Crod!' murmured Christabel, with clasjx'd hands, not 
 •taring to crv aloud lest ahe should incre;ise Jessie's peril. ' She 
 will lie killed.' 
 
 With a nervous grij), and a muscular strength which no one 
 could have suj)p(»sed j^ssilile in so slender a frame, Jt.'ssii; 
 Bridgeman made good lier desctait, and stood on the shelf of 
 slippery roek, below the waterfall, mdniit save for a good many 
 scratches and cuts upon the hands that had clung so licrcely tC 
 root and brand)h', crag and boulder. 
 
 ' What 1 could do your husband could do,' she .sjiid. 'lie 
 did it often when he was a boy — you must remember his 
 bo.rsting of it. lie did it yesterday. Look at this.' 
 
 ' Tliis ' w.'is a ragged narrow shread of heather cloth, with a 
 brick-iilust red tinge in its dark warp, wduch Leonard had much 
 atlected this rear — 'Mr. TregoaeU'ii colour, i^ it not/' asked 
 Jessie. 
 
 ' Ye.s — it is like his coat.' 
 
 'Like? ]t is a part of In' s coat. T fomul it hanging on a 
 brandtle, at the top of the cleft. Try if you can hnd the coat 
 when you get home, and see if it is not torn. iJut most likely 
 he will ha\e hidden the clothes he wore yesterday. Murderers 
 generally do.' 
 
H ' • '. 
 
 Bud or Murder? 
 
 2').') 
 
 'ITow (l.'ire you call liiin a iminlt'iiT ? ' saiil ('liiis(alt(-l, 
 treDil)lin;;,aiKl cold to llit; heart. It sceiiied to Ikt as if tlii' mild 
 auluiiiiial air— hcio in tlii-i sliL'llcivd nook which wa.s always 
 warnicf than the iv.st of i.ic world — had suddeidy heconif an 
 icy blast that lilew f^ti'ainiit fioiii fai- away arctic seas. 'How 
 dare you call my hushand a murderer /' 
 
 ' Oh, I for;,^)t. It wjisa duel I su]>i)r»se : a fair f^,L,dit, planned 
 so skilfully that the result slujuld seem like an accident, and this 
 surviv(jr should run no risk. Still to my mind, it was muider 
 all the same — for 1 know who provoked the ((uarrel — yes — 
 and you know — you, wlu^ are his wife — and who for respecta- 
 bility's sake, will try to shield him — you know — for you must 
 have seen hatred antl murder in his facti that nin'ht when ho 
 cime into the drawing-room -and asked Mr, Ilandeinh fjr a 
 few words in private. It was then he ]»lanned this work,' 
 pointinif to the I iroad level stone against which tin; clear water 
 was rii)plin;,' with such a i)retty playful sound, while those two 
 women stood looking at each other with pale intent faces, tixtd 
 eyes, and trenuilous Hjjs ; 'and Angus llamleigh, who valued 
 his brief remnant of eaithly life so lightly, conseiiti-il — reluctantly 
 perha])s — but too proud to itfiise. And he Ihed in the air — yes, 
 Ikn(»sv he wmdd not have injured your husbaml ]>y so much as 
 a hair of his head — I know him well enough to be sure of that. 
 He came here like a victim to tliealtai-. ficonard Tregonell must 
 have known that. And 1 say that thn igh lie, with his JNK'xiian 
 freebooter's morality, may have called it a i'.iir tight, it was 
 murder, deliiierate, diabolical nuirder.' 
 
 'If this is tiue,' said Chrislabei in a low voice, * 1 will have 
 no mercy uiion him.' 
 
 'Uh, yes, you will. You will sacrillce feeling to proi)riety, 
 vou will put a ^ood face \\\<'in things, for the sake of your sou. 
 Von were born and swaddli;d in the purple of respectability. 
 You v. '' not stir a hngi-r to avenge th»* (h-ad.' 
 
 ' I will have no nieny upon hiia,' repeated Chndtabel, with a 
 strange look iu Lur eyes. 
 
 t' 
 
 V it 
 
 I L 
 
 f 
 
 :i 
 
 i i 
 
 n 
 
 CnAPTEK XXV. 
 
 ' DUST TO DUST.' 
 
 TiiR inquMt at ^y Wli, int'litr.' Arms was conducted in a 
 thnroughly rpspert;ible, unsiisjiit lous manner. No searching 
 fjuestions were asked, no iufeienceH drawn. To the farmers anil 
 tr.idespeoiile w ho constituted that rustic jury, the cas(! seemed too 
 Biniple to need any .sevoro intcirogativu. A gentlem.m stiiying 
 
Illii 
 
 256 
 
 Movnt Boyal. 
 
 ill a country liouse fioos out sliootiiiLT, and is so unlucky as ttJ 
 shoot himself instead of the birds uhnecjf he \\«iit in soarcli. 
 lie is found with an empty ba^% and a chaige of swan-shot 
 through liis licart. 
 
 *IJard lines/ aa Jack Vandeleur observed, sotfn voce, to a 
 ncif^hbouring squire, while the intjuest was pursuinrj its shu'py 
 coui'sc, 'and about the ({ueerest fluke I ever saw on any table.' 
 
 * Was it a fluke ? ' muttered little Montagu, lifting himself on 
 tiptoe to watch the proceedings. ITe and his companions were 
 standing among a little crowd at the door of the justice*-rooni. 
 * It looks to m(( uncommonly as if Mr. llamleigh iKuTshot him- 
 self. We all know he w;is deadly sweet on Mrs. T., altiiough 
 both of them behaved beautifully.' 
 
 * Men have died — and worms have eaten them — but not for 
 love,' quoted Captain VandeUuir, who had a liearsay knowledge 
 of Shal<esj)eare, though he had never i-ead a Shakespearian play in 
 his life. ' If Handeigh w;i.s so dead tired of life that he wanted 
 to kill himself he could have done it comfortably in his own 
 room.' 
 
 *ITe might wish to avoid the imputation of suicide.' 
 
 * Pshaw, how can any man care what comes afterwards ? 
 riury me where four roads meijt, with a stake through my body, 
 or in Westminster Abbey under a marble monument, and the 
 residt is just the same to me.' 
 
 * That's because you are an out-and-out Bohemian. But 
 TTamleijih was a dandy in all things. lie would be nice about 
 the details of his death.' 
 
 Mr. Ilandeiglrs valet waa now being (juestioned as to his 
 iTiriiiirter's conduct and manner on the morniufr he left Mount 
 Rt»yal. Tlie man replied that his master's manner had been 
 exactly the sam»' as u.^ual. He was always very quiet — saiil no 
 more than w.is necessary to be said. lie was a kind master but 
 •everfamili r. 'He never made a companion of me,' said the 
 man. ' thougn I'd been with him at home and abroad twelve 
 years ; but a better mastei never lived. He was always an 
 early riser — dier-r w;is nothing out of the way in his getting up 
 at nix, and going out at seven. There was only one thing at all 
 out of the eonuMoti and that was his attending to his gun him- 
 self, instead of tcUaig me to get it reatly for him.' 
 
 *PIad he m:iny ijuns with him T 
 
 * Only tW'». The one he took waa an old gun — a favourite.* 
 'Do you know why he took swan-shot to shoot woodcocks?' 
 
 ' No — unless he made a mistake in the charge. He took the 
 cartridges out of the case himself, and put them into his pocket. 
 He wiis an experienced sportsman, though he was nevar i\b fond 
 of iport as the generality of gentlemen.' 
 
 * Do you know if he had been troubled in mind of late 1 ' 
 
 
'^ 
 
 him- 
 
 *Dust to Dust.* 
 
 237 
 
 *No; I don't think he had any trouble on his mind. lie 
 was in very bad health, and knew that he had not long to live ; 
 but he seemed quite ha])py and contented. Indeed, judging by 
 what I saw of him, I bhould say that he was in a more easy, 
 contented frame of mind during the last few montlia than he had 
 ever been for the last four years.' 
 
 This closed the examination. There had been very few 
 witnesses called — only the medical man, the men who hail found 
 the body, the girl at the farm, who declared that she' had given 
 the key to Mr. Uamleigh a little before eight that mornim:, that 
 no one else had ;isked for the key till the men came from Alount 
 Royal — that to her knowledge, no one but the men at work on 
 the farm had gone up tiie lane that morning. A couple of farm 
 labourers gave the s;ime testimony — they had been at work in 
 the topmost field all the morning, and no one had gone to the 
 Kieve that way excej)t the gentleman that was killed. They 
 had heard a shot — or two shots — they were not certain which, 
 fired between eight and nine. They were not very clear as to 
 the hour, and they could not s;iy for certain whether they heard 
 one or two shots ; but they knew that the report was a very 
 loud one — unusually loud for a sportsman's shot. 
 
 Mr. Tregonell, although he was in the room ready to auswei 
 any questions, was not interrogated. The jury went in a 
 wagonette to see the body, which wtus still lying at the farm, 
 and returned after a brief inspection of that peaceful clay — the 
 countenance wejiring that beautiful calm which is said to be 
 characteristic of death from a gun-shot wound — to give thsir 
 eerdict. 
 
 ' Death by misadventure.* 
 
 The body was carried to Mount Royal after dark, and three 
 d;iys later there was a stately funeral, to which first cou.sins and 
 seeond cousins of the dead eanie as from the four corners of the 
 earth ; for Angus Ilamleigh, dying a bachelor, and leaviii'.^ ;i hand- 
 some estate behind Inn), was a person to be treated with ail thnso 
 last honours which atlectionate kindied can otl'er to j)oot hiiiiiaiiity. 
 
 lie was buried in the little ehurcliyarJ in the h<til..\v, wheie 
 rhristabel and he had heard th(.' robin sinking and th" tiiill thid 
 of the earth thrown out of an o]ien grave in thf (aim aut.in.i) 
 sunli'dit. Now in the autunin his nwn -jraM- w. .- dn^ in »!ie 
 same ])eaceful spot — in aeeoidance with a note v. hi< !i his \aLt, 
 who knew his haliits, found in a diary. 
 
 *Oct. 11. — If 1 should die iu Col nwall- anil llieivare times 
 when I feel as if death were nean-r than my diTtor told jri/> at 
 t'ur last interview — I should like to be buried in Miii-«tor 
 Churchyard. I have outlived all family association.-', and I 
 should like to lie in a spot which is dear to me for its own sake.' 
 
 A will !pkad been found in Mr. Haraleigh's d».'spatch box, 
 
 S 
 
 n 
 
 I 
 
 
 I*'- '■ 
 
 h 
 
 J'- 1 
 
 
r 
 
 258 
 
 Mount Boijal 
 
 |ji 
 
 I 
 
 which receptacle was oponed by his lawyer, who came from 
 London on purpose to take charcfo of any ])a])ors wliich his client 
 might have in his possession .at the time of his death. The bulk 
 of his papers were no doubt in his chambors in the Albany ; 
 chambers which he had tiiken on coniing of age ; and which ho 
 had occupied at intervals ever since. 
 
 Mr. Tregonell showed himself keenly anxious that every- 
 thing should be done in a strictly legal manner, and it wfia by 
 his own hand that the lawyer was informed of his client's death, 
 and invited to Mount Koyal. Mr. Lryanstone, the solicitor, a 
 thorough man of the world, and an altogether agTeeable ]»er- 
 Bon, appeared at the Manor House two days before the funeral, 
 and, being empowered by Mr. Treg(Miell to act a.s he ])leaaed, 
 Bent telegrams far and wide to tlie dead man's kindred, who 
 caine trooping like carrion crows to the funeral feast. 
 
 Angus Hamleigh was buried in the afternoon ; a mild, 
 peaceful afternoon at the end of October, with a yellow light in 
 the western sky, which dee])ene(l and brightent 1 as the funeral 
 train wound across the valUjy, cliniljed the streji street of Bos- 
 o.-ustle, and then wound slowly downwards into the green heart 
 of the hill, to tlie little rustic buiial place. Tliat orb of molten 
 gold was sinking behind the cdif(' of the moor just when the 
 Vicar read the I'lst words of the finiei-al service, (loldeu and 
 crimson gleams touclied the landsca{)e here and there, golden 
 lights still lingered on the sea, as the mourners, so thoroughly 
 formal and conventional for the most part — Jack Vandeleur and 
 little Monty amidst the train with carefully-composed features 
 — went back to their carriages. Aivl then the shades of evening 
 came slowly down, and sj»iea<l a dark pall over' hill-side, and 
 hedgerow, and ^ chiuvhyanl, where there was no sound but 
 the moiiotonniis fall of the earth, which the grave-digger was 
 shovelling into that new grave. 
 
 Tlii'ie had heen no women at the funeral. Those two who 
 each afttT her own ])eculiar fashion, hail loved the (h'ad man, 
 Were shut in til. ir own looms, thinking of him, jiieturing, with 
 too \ivi;l iuiagerv, the lowering of the i'ollin in the 7iew-made 
 grave- healing till' solemn monotony of the elei-gyman's voice, 
 sounding clear in the clear air- -the first shovelful of heart 
 on tke collin-lid — dust to dust ; dust to dust. 
 
 Iiam|)s were lighted in the drawing-room, whore the will 
 was t« be read. A large wood lire buined brightly — ])lea-5ant 
 afier the lowered atmosphei-e of evening. Wines and other 
 rkfreshments stood on a lahle near the hearth; another tjiblo 
 stood ready for the lawyer. So far as there could be, or ought 
 to be, comfort and cheeriness on so sad an occasion, comfort and 
 cheerineus were here. The cousins — first and second — warmed 
 themselvea before the fire, and di:TCour8ed in low murmurs of 
 
*Diisi to Dust: 
 
 259 
 
 the time and the trouble it had cost them to reach thia out-of- 
 the-way hole, and discussed the means of gettiuL,' away from 
 it. Mr. Tregonell stood on one side of the hcuth, loanini,' his 
 broad back heavily against the sculptured chiiinu>y-i)iece, ard 
 listening moodily to Captain Vandeleur's muttered discourse. 
 lie had insisted upon kiM])iiig his lienehnKin with him during 
 this gloomy periocl ; sending an old servant as far as Plymoutli 
 to see the Mls.s Vandelenrs into the London train, rather than 
 part with his familiar friend. Even Mr. Montagu, who luui 
 delicately hinted at departure, was roughly bidden to remain. 
 
 ' I shall be going away myself in a week or so,' said Mr. 
 Tregonell. ' I don't mean to s})end tlie winter at this fn'f- 
 end of creation. It will be time enougii for you to go when 
 
 I go.' 
 
 The friends, enjoying free quarters which wore excellent in 
 
 their way, and having no better bert)*, i in view, freely forgave 
 
 the bluntness of the invitation, anil sLivimI. p.ut they eoin- 
 
 inented brtween tlionisclves in tliu seclusion of the smoking 
 
 room upon the S(piiru"s dlsiuelination to be lel't without cheerful 
 
 comp;iny. 
 
 'lie's infernally nervou.-^, thit's what it all means,' said 
 little Monty, who hil all that eock-si);irr<>'vvish pin': •..hieh 
 HUiall men are wont to possess — the e.ilin st'ciii-ity of insigiiili- 
 canee. 'You wouldn't sujipose a great burly fellow li!;e 
 Tregonell, who hastr.ivelled all ovt;r the world, would be se;iied 
 by a death in his house, wouM yon ^ ' 
 
 'Death is awful, let it come when it will,' answered Jack 
 Vandeleur, dubiously. 'I've seen plenty of harddiitting in the 
 hill-country, but I'd go a long way to avoid seeing a straiige dog 
 die, let alone a dog 1 was fond of.' 
 
 ' Tregonell couldn't have been very fond of Ilamleigh, that's 
 certain,' said Monty. 
 
 ' They seemed good friends.' 
 
 'Seemed; yes. liut d) you sup])oso Tregonell ever forgot 
 that Mr. Ibmdeigh and his wife had onet" been engai^'cil to l»e 
 married? It isn't in linman nature to foiget that kind of thing, 
 and he made believe llial he asked llanihiLdi hert; t.> 'j,iv(' one 
 of your sisters a ehanee of getting a rii.h husband,' ^aid .Mouty, 
 rolling up a cig;u'ette, as Ik." s:it ;idroitly balaui-id on the urni of 
 » large chair, and shakivg his head gfutly, with lowereil eyelids, 
 and a cyiucal smile curling his thin lips. 'That was a liille ii>o 
 thin. He asked Ilandeigh here because he was savagcjly jealous, 
 and suspected his motive for tundng up in this part of the 
 country, and wanted to see how he and .Mrs. Tregonell W(ndd 
 carry on.' 
 
 ' Whatever he wanted, I'm sure he saw no harm in either of 
 them,' said Captain Vandeleur. 'I'm a.s <|uick m a'ly man at 
 
 m 
 
 H! 
 
1 
 
 \ 
 
 ill 
 
 A 
 
 260 
 
 Mount Boyat. 
 
 twigging that kind of tliiiiL', and I'll swear tliat it was all fair 
 and above board with those two ; they behaved beautifully. 
 
 * So they did, poor things,' answered Monty, in his little 
 purring way. * And yet Tregonell wasn't ha])i)y.' 
 
 'He'd have been better pleased if Ilandeigh had proposed to 
 my sister, ius he ought to have done,' said Vandeleur, trying to 
 look indignant at the memory of Dopsy's wrongs. 
 
 'Now drop that, old Van,' said Monty, laughing softly and 
 pleasantly, Jis iie iiL Iiis cigarette, and began to smoke, dreamily, 
 daintily, like a man to wliom smoking is a fine art. * Sink your 
 sister. As I said before, that's too thin. Dopsy is a dear 
 little girl — one of the live or six and twenty nice gi'.ls whom I 
 
 fassionately adore ; but she was never anywhere within range of 
 lamleigh. First and foremost she isn't his styl<j, and seccmdly 
 he has never got over the loss of Mrs. Tregonell. He behaved 
 beautifully while he was here ; but he was just as much in love 
 with her as he was four years ago, when I used to meet them at 
 dances — a regular pair of Arcadian lovers ; Daphne and Chloe, 
 and that kind of thing. She only wanted a crook to make the 
 picture perfect.' 
 
 And nov,^ Mr. Bryanstone had hummed and hawed a little, 
 and had put, on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, and cousins 
 near and distant ceased their conversational undertones, and 
 seated themselves conveniently to liste:i. 
 
 The will was brief. ' To Percy Eitherdon, Commander in 
 Her Majesty's Navy, my first cousin and old schoolfellow, in 
 memory of his dear mother's kindness to one who h;ul no mother, 
 I bequeath ten thousand pounds, and my sapphire ring, which 
 h IS been an heirloom, and which 1 hope he will leave to any son 
 of his whom he may call after me. 
 
 * To my servant, John Danby, live hundred pounds in consols. 
 ' To my housekeeper in the Albany, two hundred and lifty. 
 
 ' To James Bryanstone, my very kind friend and solicitor of 
 Lincoln's Inn, my collection of gold and silver snuli'-boxes, and 
 Roman intaglios. 
 
 'All the rest of my estate, real and personal, to be vested in 
 trustees, of whom the above-mentioned James Bryunstone shall 
 be one, and the Bev. John Carlyon, of Trevena, Cornwall, the 
 other, for the sole use and benetit of Leonard George Tregonell, 
 now an infant, who shall, with his father and mother's consent, 
 assume the name of Jlandeigh after that of Tregonell upon 
 coming of age, and I hope that his father and mother will 
 accejjt this legacy for their son in the spirit of pure friendship 
 for them, and attachment to the boy by which it is dictiited, 
 and that they will sutler their son so to perpetuate the name of 
 one who will die childless.' 
 
*Dust to Dust: 
 
 261 
 
 There was an awful silence — perfect collapse on the part of 
 the cousins, the one kinsman aelocted for benefaction being now 
 with his ship in the Mediterranean. 
 
 And then Leonard Tregonell rose from his seat by the fire, .and 
 came close up to the tiiblu jit which Mr. Bryanstone was sitting. 
 
 'Am I at liberty to reject that h'gacy on my son's part?' 
 he asked. 
 
 * Certainly not. The money is left in trust. Your son can 
 do what he likes when he comes of ago. But why should you 
 wish to decline such a legacy — left in such friendly terms t Mr. 
 Uamleigh was your friend.' 
 
 * lie w;is my mother's friend — for mo only a recent acquain- 
 tance. It soems to me that there is a sort of indirect insult in 
 such a beipiest, as if I were unal^lo to provide for my boy — as if 
 I were likely to run through everything, and make him a pauper 
 before he comes of age.' 
 
 ' Believe me there is no such imjilication,' said the lawyer, 
 siailing blandly at the look of trouljle and anger in the other 
 man's face. ' Did you never hear before of money being left to 
 a man vvlio already has ])lenty 'i That is the general bent of all 
 legacies. In this world it is the poor wlio are sent enij)ty away, 
 murmured Mr. Bryanstone, with a sly glance under his spectacles 
 at the seven blank faces of the seven cousins. ' I consider that 
 Mr. Uamleigh — who was my very dear friend — has paid you the 
 highest compliment in his power, and that you liave every reason 
 to honour his memory.' 
 
 'And legally I have no jiower to refuse his property'?' 
 
 * Certainly not. The estate is not left to you — you have no 
 power to touch a sixpence of it.' 
 
 ' And the will is dated r 
 
 * Just three weeks ago.' 
 
 'Within the first week of this visit here. lie must have 
 taken an inordinate fancy to my boy.' 
 
 Mr. Bryanstone smiled to himself softly with lowered eyelids, 
 as he folded up the will — a hologiaph will upon a single sheet of 
 Bath post — witnessed by two of (he Mount Koyal servants. The 
 family solicitor knew all about Angus llamleigh's engagement to 
 Miss Courtenay — had even received instructions for drawing the 
 marriage settlement — but he wjis too nuieh a man of the world 
 to refer to that fact. 
 
 ' Was not Mr. Hamleigh's father engaged to your mother ? ' 
 he asked, 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 * Then don't you think that respect for your mother may lusve 
 had some influence with Mr. Hamleigh when he made your son 
 his heir ? ' 
 
 * I am not going to speculate about his motives. I only wish 
 
 k. *, I ill 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 rJl 
 
 m 
 
 
 •!l 
 
202 
 
 Mount Eoyal. 
 
 ,'f I 
 
 ho li;ul left liis money to an asylum for idiotn— or to his cousins^ 
 — witli :i glance at tlie somewhat vacuous count tiiaiia's of tlio 
 (lead man's kindriMl, 'or that 1 wore at liberty to <ltcline his gift 
 — which I should do, llatly.' 
 
 ' This sounds as if you were prejudiced nji^ainat my lamented 
 friend. I tiutuf^ht you liked him.' 
 
 SSo I dill,' stammered Jiconard, *hut not well enouf-h to givo 
 him the rifjht to j»atronise me with his d — d lei^acy.' 
 
 * Mr. Tre'^onell,' s;iid the lawyer, fi i.\vninj,% ' I have to remind 
 you that my late client has left you, individually, nothin;^'— and 
 I must and that your language and manner are most unbetiting 
 this melancholy ocaision.' 
 
 Leonard grumbled an inaudible reply, and walked back to the 
 fire-place. The whole of this conversation had been carritnl on 
 in undertones — so that the cousins who hud gathered in a group 
 upon the hearth-nig, and who were for the most part absorbed 
 in pensive reflections upon the futility of » irthly hopes, heard 
 rery little of it. They belonged to that species of well-tlressed 
 nonentities, more or less impecunious, which sometimes constitute 
 the outer fringe upon a good old family. To each of them it 
 seemed a har(l iig that Angus llamhigh h.il not remembered 
 him individually, choosing him out of the ruck of cousinship as a 
 meet object lor bounty. 
 
 * He ought to have left moan odd thousand,' murmured a 
 beardless subaltern ; ' he knew how badly 1 wanted it, for I 
 borrowed a pony of him the last time he Jisked me to breakfast ; 
 and a man of good family must bi; very hard up when he comes 
 to borrowing ponies.' 
 
 * I dare say you would not have demurred to making it a 
 monkey, if Mr. Ifamleigh had proposed it,' said his interlocutor. 
 
 'Of course not: and if ho had been generous he would have 
 given me something handsome, instead of being so confoundedly 
 literal as to write his check for exactly the amount I jusked for. 
 A man of his means and ago ought to have had ^moro feeling for 
 a young fellow in his tirst season. And now I am out of pocket 
 for my exj)enses to this infernal hole.' 
 
 Thus, and with other wailings uf an a])proximate character, 
 did Angus ITamleigh's kindred make their lamentation : and tlKii 
 they all began to arrange amoung tlieniselves for getting away jw 
 early as possibh; next morning— and for travelling together, with 
 a dista '.t idea of a little 'Nap' to beguile the weariness of the 
 way between IMyniouthand Paddin^jfton. There was room enough 
 for them all at -Mount iioyal, and Mr. Tregonell wa.s not a mnn 
 to iHM'init any guests, Jiowevor assembled, to leave his house for 
 llie slielter of an inn ; so the ct)usiiis stayed, dined hoavil}, 
 snioki'd as furiously as tho* furnace chimneys which are supposed 
 not to smoke, all tl** .'\enin;,', and thought they were passing 
 
* Dust to Dust. 
 
 •J03 
 
 virtuous for refraining? from tlii^ relaxation of pool, or sliell-out — 
 oiiiiiln;,' that tlio click of the iiiill.siuiL,'ht have an niilmly Hiuind ko 
 Boon after a funeral. Deh.ured from this annisfujent, tUi'v 
 discussed the Ciireer ami character of the dead man, and wt-re all 
 af,'reed, in the friendliest npirit, that there had heeu very little in 
 him, and ihat he had made a poor tl;in<r of his lif.-, and obtained 
 a 11 st inade<iuate amount of pleasure out of his mont'y. 
 
 Mount Koyal was clear of them all by eleven o flock noxt 
 morniuij. Mr. Alontafjii went away with them, and only (*apt;(in 
 Vandtileur remained to hear Leonard company in a house which 
 now seemed given over to gloom. Clirist.ihcl kept her room, 
 with Jessie ]iridgeman in cc/ustant attt iidance upon her. She 
 liad not seen lier husband since her return fi'om tlu- Kieve, and 
 Jessie had toiil him in a few resolute words that it would not be 
 well for them to njeet, 
 
 * She is very ill,' said Jessie, standing on the threshold of th^ 
 room, while Leonard remained in tin? corridor outside. 'Dr. 
 llayle hius seen her, and he says that «he must have perfect quit^t 
 — no one is to worry her — no one is to talk to her — the shock she 
 hasRull'erod in this dreadful business has shattered her nerves.' 
 
 ' Why can't you say in plain words that she is grieving for the 
 only man she ever loved,' a«ke<| liconai'd. 
 
 'I am not going to say that which is not true ; Mid whicli you 
 better than any one else, know is not true. It is not Angus 
 llamlcigh's death, but the manner of his death, which she fcils. 
 Take that to your heart, Mr. Tregonell.' 
 
 *You are a viper I ' said Jiconard, * and you always were a 
 viper. Tell my wife — wlieii she is well enough to hear reason — 
 that I am not poing to be s;it upon Ity lur, or her toady ; and 
 that a.s she is going to spend her winter dissolved in tears for 
 ^Mr. Hamleigh's death, I shall spend mine in South Americii, with 
 Jack V'andeleur.' 
 
 Three days later liis arrangements were all made for leav i ^ 
 CornwaM. Captain Vandcleur was verj glad to go with him, 
 upon what he, Jack, ])leasantly called ' lecipnK'al terms,' Mr. 
 Tregonell paying all expenses as a set-oil' against his frieud'B 
 cheerful society. There was no false priile al'oiit I'oker Vau- 
 deleur ; no narrow-minded dislike to being paid for. He waj* 
 so thoroughly assured as to the perfect c'luitableness of the 
 transaction. 
 
 On the morning lie left Mount Royal, Mr. Tie.ronel| went 
 into the nursery to l)id his son good-bye. Jfe contrived, l^y some 
 mild artitice, to send the nurse on an errand ; and wliili; sh« wa.s 
 away, stiained the child to his breast, and hii^jf 1 and kissed 
 him with a rough fervour which he had never Itefore shown. 
 The boy ((uavered a little, and his lip droo))ed under tiiaL rough 
 caress — and then the cleat- blue eyes looked uj* and saw that this 
 
 ''\ 
 
 
 m| 
 
 ■ 
 ,1 
 
 i 
 
 ■V 
 
 I. 
 
 ■■1 
 
 
 <l*. 
 
2G4 
 
 Moimt Royal. 
 
 . 
 
 ▼ehemenoe meant love, and the chubby arms clung closely ronnd 
 the father's neck. 
 
 * Poor little beg<?ar ! ' muttered Leonard, his eyes clouded 
 *nth tears. ' I wonder whetiier I shall ever see him again. He 
 might (lie — or I — then; is no telling. Uard linos to leave hira 
 for six months on t'lid — but' — with a suppie.ssi'd sluulder — *I 
 Bhuiiltl go ni.ul if I stayiil hert'.' 
 
 Tho nuisf came back, and Loonard put the child on his 
 rockiiig-luiisc, which lu; had It'ft reluctantly at tlio father's 
 entrance, and left the nursery without another word. In the 
 corridor he lingered for some minutes — now staring absently at 
 the family ])orlr.'iits — now Idoking at the door of his wife's room. 
 lie had been occU| ying a bachelor room at the other end of the 
 house since! her illne.-s. 
 
 Should he force an entrance to that closed chamlier — defy 
 Jessie lii'idgeman, and take leave of his wife ? — the wife whom, 
 after the bent of his own nature, he had passionately loved. 
 What could ho say to her? Very little, in his present mood. 
 What would she say to him ? There was the rub. From that 
 pale face — from those uplifted eyes — almost ;us innocent as the 
 eyes that had looked at him just now — he shrank in absolute 
 fear. 
 
 At the last moment, after he had put on his overcoat, and 
 ^\Ilen tiie dw^c art stood waiting for him at the door, he sat down 
 and scribbled a few hasty lines of faiewell. 
 
 '1 am tolil you are too ill to see me, but cannot go without 
 one word of good-bye. If I thought you cared a rap for me, I 
 HJiould stay ; but I believe you have set ytmrself against mc 
 because of this man's death, and that you will get well all the 
 sooner for my being far away. Perhaps six months hence, when 
 I come back again — if I don't get killed out yonder, which is 
 always on the cards — you may have learnt to feel -more kindly 
 towards me. God knows I ha,vo loved you as well jus ever man 
 loved woman — too well for my own liappiness. Good-bye. Take 
 care of the boy ; and tU)n't let that little viper, Jessie Dridgeman, 
 l)oison your mind against me.* 
 
 * Leonard ! are you coming to-day or to-morrow?* cried Jack 
 Vandeleur's stentorian voice from the hall. * We shall lose the 
 ti'ain at Launceston, if you don't look sharp.' 
 
 Thus sunnnoued, Leonard thrust his letter into an envelope, 
 directed it to Ins wife, and gave it to Daniel, who was hovering 
 about to do due honour to his master's dt })arture — the m;ist<.'r 
 for whose infantine sports he had made his middle-aged back as 
 the back of a horse, and j)erambulated the passages on all-fours, 
 twenty years agg — the master who seemed but too likely to bring 
 his grey haira with sorrow to the grave, judging by the pace at 
 which he now appeared to be travelling along the road to ruin. 
 
tl 
 
 le 
 
 * Pain for thy Girdle, and Sorrow tipon thy Ucad.' 203 
 
 CrTAPTEIl XXVI. 
 
 •PAIIT FOR TIIY GIllOLK, AND SORROW UPON TRY HEAD.' 
 
 Now camo ;i poriixl of ltIooiii ;uitl soUtudi'.'it ^foiiiit l{<>y;il. INfra, 
 Trt'i,MiiL'll lived s«<clu(lc<l in Iht own rudms, laii'ly Ic.iviii;^' tli(!m 
 Kivc to visit Imt l)oy in liis nuiscry, or to ^'o for loii;.^ lonely 
 rambles with Miss Uiid'^cnian. TIk' hjwcr partof the houso wjw 
 j^'ivi'ii over to sik-ncc and ciniitincss. It w;us wintn-, and tho 
 road.s wci-e not invitint,' for vi>il(irs ; so, after a few ealls had 
 l)ueu made l)y nei'^hhuurs who lived within ten miles or so, and 
 those callers had iieen iiolitely informed Ity J),iniel that hii 
 mistress wasconliiied to her room hy a severe eoui^di, and was not 
 well enoULrh to «ee any one, no more earria'_je.s drove uj) the loiiij 
 avenue, and tho lodi:^'(!-keei)ei''s j)laoo hccamo a .sinecure, save fur 
 openini^ tho gate in the moinin;4, and shuttint,' it at dusk. 
 
 Mrs. Tri\L?on.'ll n(!ither rode nor drove, aiid the horses woro 
 only taken out of their stahles to he exeicised l»y Ljnionis and 
 \inderlini,'H. The servants fell into the way of living their own 
 lives, almost as if they had lieen on hoard wages in tlu; ahsinico 
 of the family. The gcjod old doctor, who had attended Christahcl 
 in all her childish illnesses, came twice a week, and stayed an 
 liour or so in the morniug-room upstairs, closeted with hia])atient 
 •md her companion, and then looked at little Leo in his nursery, 
 that young creature growing and thriving exceedingly amidst the 
 gloom and silence of the house, and awakening tho echoed 
 occasionally with bursts of baby mirth. 
 
 None of the servants kiu'W exactly what was amiss with Mrs. 
 Tregonell. Jessie guarded and fenced her in with such jealous 
 care, hardly letting any other mendicr of tho lu>usehold spend 
 live minutes in her company. They (july knew that she was 
 very white, very sad-lmiking ; that it w.is with tho utmost 
 dilliculty she was ])ersuaded t(j take sullicient nourishment to 
 sustain life ; and that her only recreation consisted in those long 
 walks with Jessie — walks which thoy took in all weathers, and 
 sometimes at tho straii'jest hours. The peojilo about Hoscastle 
 grew accustomed to the sight of those two solitaiy WdUien, clatl 
 in dark cloth ulsters, with cU)se-litting felt h.it =, that defied wind 
 and weather, armed with sturdy umbicllas, tr.impiiig over lields 
 and commons, by hilly paths, through the winding valley whei''.} 
 tho stream ran loud and det^p after tlie a\itunm rains, on the clitl's 
 above the wild grey sea — always avoiding us much as possible all 
 beaten tracks, and tho haunts of mankind. Those who did meet 
 the two reported that there was something strange in the looks 
 and ways of both. They did not talk to each other aa moat Lidiea 
 talked, to beguile tho way : they marclied on in silent'© -the 
 
 d 
 
 !l 
 
 ■\r . 
 
 
f 
 
 
 2CC 
 
 Mount EoyaL 
 
 youn^'er, fairer face pale as death and inexpressibly sad, and uqth 
 a look .13 of one who walks in her sleep, with wide-oj)eu, unseeing 
 eyes. 
 
 'She looks just like a person who niic,']it walk over the clifT, 
 if there was no one by to take care of her,' said ^Frs. Punny, the 
 butclicr'H wife, who liad met them one d:\y on her way hom(! 
 from CJiimelford Market ; * but Miss Brid.i^'enian, she do take such 
 care, and ehe do watch every step of younif Mrs. Tre^'onell's' — 
 Christabel was always spoken of a.s young Mrs. Tregoiiell by 
 those j)eoj)lo wlio had known her aunt. ' I'm afraid tiie poor 
 dear lady lia.s gone a little wrong in her liead sinre A'- 
 Handeigh shot himself ; and there are some a.s do think he sliot 
 himself for her sake, never having got over her marrying our 
 Squire.' 
 
 On many a winter evening, when the pea ran high and wild 
 at tlie foot of the rocky promontory, and overhead a wilder sky 
 Heemed like another tempestuous sea inverted, those two wonuju 
 ])ace<i the gra.«s-grown hill at Tintagel, above the nameless graves, 
 among the ruins of prehistorical sjilondour. 
 
 They were not always silent, as they v/alked slowly to and fro 
 among the rank gr;i.'-y^, or stood looking at those v/ild waves which 
 came rolling u) like solid walls of shining black water, to bui-st 
 into ruin with a thuudemus roar against tlie everlasting rocks 
 They tidked long and earnestly in this solitude, and in o^^licr 
 solitary spots along that wild and varied co;ust ; but none but 
 themselves ever knew what they t^ilked aViout, or what was the 
 delight and relief which they found in the dark grandeur of that 
 winter sky and sea. And so the months crej)t by, in a dreary 
 monotony, and it was spring once more ; all the orchards full of 
 bloom — those lovely little orchards of Alpine Boscjustle, here 
 ni'stling ia the deej) gorge, there hanging on the ex\'j;Q of the hill. 
 The g;u-dens were golden with datfodils, tulips, narcissus, 
 joncpiil — that rich variety of yellow blossoms which come in early 
 H]ning, like a llor;d sunrise — and the waves ran gently into the 
 narrow inlet between the tall clitls. But those two lonely women 
 Were no longer seen roaming over the hills, or sitting down to 
 rest in some sheltered corner of Pentargon iJay. 'i'hey had go'.io 
 ti» Switzerland, taking the nurse and li.iby with them, and were 
 not (>xpected to r(»turn to Mount Royal till the autumn. 
 
 i\Ir. 'I'lvgonell's South Amei-iean wanderings had lasted longer 
 than he had oiiginally contemplated. His latest letters — ])rief 
 HcrawLs, written at rough resting-places — antiounced a consider* 
 able extension of his travls. lie' and his friend were folhjwiiig 
 in the footsteps of ^Ir. AVhyiiij)er, on the Equatorial Amies, the 
 backbone of South America. Dopsy and Mopsy were mopini^ 
 iu the dusty South Iklgravian lodging-house, nui-sing their invalid 
 father, squabbling witli their kmdhidy, cutting, 0',nitrivi!ii:, 
 
'Pain fur thy Glnllc, and Sorroio upon thy UcacV 2G7 
 
 Btr.'vining every nei-ve to make sixpeucos r^o as far as sliillincfM, 
 and only ^'etting outwide gliiniK-^os of the world of jiU'aaure <ui(l 
 pait'ty, art and fashion, in their weary trampinga up and dowu 
 tlie dusty [)athway8 of JJyde I'ark and Kensington (iardena. 
 
 They liad written three or four times to Mrs. Tregonell, 
 letters running over with atft'ction, fon<ily hoping fur an invita- 
 tion to Mount Eoyal ; l»ut tlic answers had been in .JfSHio 
 Bridgem:in's hand, and the List had come from Zurich, whicli 
 seemed ahcgetht-r hopdoss. Tii«'y liad scut (Jhristmas cards and 
 New Year's cards, and had made every cH'ort, conipntiltle with 
 their limited means, to maintain the links of frieiidshij*. 
 
 *I wish we eottid atl'ord to send her a New Yeiir's gift, or a 
 toy for that baby,' said Afopsy, wiio wjus not fond of infants. 
 'But what c.jidd we send her that she would care for, when she 
 Ikis everything in this world that is worth having. And we 
 could not get a toy, which that jKunpered child would think 
 worth loolving at, under a sovereign,' concluded Mop, with a 
 profound .sigh. 
 
 And so the year wore on, dry, and dreary, and dusty for the 
 two girls, whose only friends were the chosen few wliom their 
 brother made known to them — friends who naturally dropped 
 out of their horizon in (/aptain Vandeleur's abstu'c 
 
 ' What, a miserable summer it has been,' .^aid Dopsy, yawm'ng 
 ai; I stretching in her tawdry morning gown — one of last years 
 high-art tea gowns — and siu'veying with despondent eye the 
 barren breakf;ust-table, where two London eggs, and the re- 
 mains of yesterday's loaf, llanked by a nearly empty marma- 
 lade pot, comi>rised all the tem{)tations of the tlesli. * W'liat a 
 wretched summer — hot, and sultry, and thundery, and dusty — 
 the cholera raging in Clielvea, and mejiales only divided from us 
 by I imbeth Bridge ! And we have not been to a single 
 theatre.' 
 
 ' Or tasted a single PVench dinner.' 
 
 * Or been given a single pair of gloves.' 
 
 'Hark ! ' cried ]Mopsy, 'it's tlu- pc^stnian,' and she rusl ud into 
 the jiassage, too eager to aw.ait the maid-of-all-work's slipshod 
 foot. 
 
 ' "Wluit's the good of exciting oneself?' murmured Doj)sy, 
 with another stretch of long thin arms above a towzled hiad. 
 'Of course it's oidy a bill, or a lawyi-r's letter for pa.' 
 
 IIap|)ily it was neither of thest; unplt asaiitm-scs wliich tlio 
 morning messenger hatl brougiit, but a largf vt-Uuni i nveiope, 
 with the address. Mount Ivoval, in Old Mnglwdi letters aiiovr tho 
 small neat si'al ; and the liaini which had directed the envelopo 
 w;us Chri^tabel Tregonell's. 
 
 ' At 'last she has con<lescen<led t() write to mo with lier own 
 hand,' siiid Dopsy, to whon), ;is Miss Vandelwur, the Ictte-r waa 
 
 i I 
 
 ■j: 
 
 M 
 
2C8 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 .1(1(1 rcflaed. 'But I dare say it's only a huml)Ufr;'ing not«. I 
 know alio didn't really like ua : we uro not heratyle.' 
 
 ' How should wo 1)0 ?' cxclaiinod M(>|)sy, whom the languid 
 innuonct'3 of a sultry August had niado ill-humourod and cynical. 
 
 * *S7ie was not brought up in the gutt(!r.' 
 
 * Mopsy,' cried her sister, with a gasp of surprise and delight, 
 'it's an invitatiou 1 * 
 
 'What?' 
 ' Listen — 
 
 * "DkAR INilSS VANDELEtm, — 
 
 * " Wc have just received a telegram from Buenoa Ayrea. 
 Mr. Tregonell and Captain Vundeleui- leave liiat port for LMyniouth 
 this afternoon, and will come straight from Plymouth here. I 
 thiuk you would both wish to meiit your brother on his arrival ; 
 and 1 know Mr. TregoMell is likely to want to keep him here for 
 some time. Will you, then-fore, come to us early next week, so 
 t'ls to be here to welcome the traveller^* ? 
 
 < « Very sincerely ytwra, 
 
 * "CllRISTAIlEL TrEOONELL." * 
 
 ' This) is too delicious,' exclaimed Dopsy. ' But however aro 
 we to iind the money for the journey 'i And our clothes — what 
 .1 lot we shall have to do to our clothes. If we only had credit 
 at a good draper's.' 
 
 'Suppose wo were to t^y our landlady's ])lan, for once in a 
 way,' suggested Mopsy, faintly, ' and gt;t a few things from that 
 man near Drury Tiane who takes weekly instalments.' 
 
 'What, the Tallyman T s(;ream<'(l I)(»psy. 'No, I would 
 k'lther be dressed like a South Sea Islander. It's r»ot only the 
 utter lowness of the thing ; but the man's goods are never like 
 anybody else's. The colours and materials seem invented on 
 purpise for him.' 
 
 ' iiiat might ])ass for high art.' 
 
 ' Well, theyn; ugly enough even for that ; but it's not the 
 right kind of uglint'.ss.' 
 
 'After all,' answered Moi)sy, 'we have no more chance of 
 paying weekly than we have of [)aying monthly or rpiarterly. 
 Nothing uiulej- three years' credit would be any use to 7is. Some- 
 thing might happen — Fortune's wheel might turn in tlu'ee 
 years.' 
 
 ' Whenever it does turn it will be the wrong way, and wo 
 jhall be under it,' said ])oj)sy, still giving over to gloom. 
 
 It w;is very delightful to be invited to a tine old country 
 house ; but it was lutter to know that oiw must go there but half 
 proviiled with those things which civilization have made a 
 necessity. 
 
 * How happy those South Sea Islanders must be,' sighed 
 
' I will have no Mercy on Ilim,' 
 
 o<t 
 
 09 
 
 \Iopey, pcnsivf.'ly raeditntinL,' upon the diii'erence bfltwecu wctuiug 
 nothing, and Laving nothing to weiir. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 *I WILL HAVE NO MKRCY ON IIIII.' 
 
 TiTK pjuonoa Ayii's .steamer wns williiii si!:;lit of hind — English 
 ];in(h Those? shining li-hta yonder ^^L'ro the twin lanteiiis ot' the 
 Liziird. Leon.ird and lii.s friend paced the Itridu'e smoking their 
 cigars, and h»oking towards that d()ul>le star wiiieh slione out as 
 one light in the distance, and thinking that they were going back 
 to civilization — conventional habits — a world wluch nnist seem 
 cramped and narrow — not much better than the scjuirrel's cage 
 seems to the s(iuirrel — after the vast width and margin of that 
 wilder, freer world they had just left — where men and women 
 were not much more civilized than the uid»roken horses that 
 were brought out struggling, and roped in anunig a tuatn of older 
 stagers, to be draggtul dong anyhow f(tr the first mile or so, 
 rebellious, and wondering, and to fall in with the necessities of 
 the c;ise somehow before tlie stage w.-us done. 
 
 Tliere was no thrill of ])atriotic rapture in the breast of either 
 traveller as lie watched yonder well-known light briu'litening on 
 the dark horizon. Leonard had left his country too often to feel 
 any deej) emotion at returning to it. He liad none (»f tlioso 
 strong feelings which mark a man a.s the son of the soil, and 
 make it seem to liini tliat ho belongs to one spot of earth, and 
 can neither live nor die liapj)ily anywlu.'re else. The (,'ntire globe 
 was }»is country, a world created for him to roam abt)Ut in. 
 clind)ing all its hills, shootLiig in all its forests, llshing in all its 
 river.s, exliausting all the sport and amusement that was to bo 
 had out of it — and with no anchor to chain hini down to any 
 given .spot. Vet, though he had nc^ne of the deep fL'u'ling of tin; 
 exile returning; to the countrv of his birth, hi; Mas not without 
 emotion as he saw the Li.^'-ad light broailening and yellowing 
 under the jiale beams of a y«>ung moon. He was thinking of his 
 wife — the wife whose face he had not seen since that gloomy 
 morning at .Mount Koyal, when she .sat pale and calm in her 
 I)lace at the head of his tal)le — maintaining her di/nity as tijo 
 mistress of his house, alheit he knew her heart was lireaking. 
 From the hour of her return from the J\.ie\e, tiiey liad heen 
 yarted. She had kept her room, guarded by .je.ssie ; and he had 
 been told, signilicantly, that it w.-is not well they should meet. " 
 
 How would she receive him now i What wi ri> her thoughts 
 and feeliiirf.s about tiiat dead man? Tlie man wiiom she hiid 
 
 
 ^4 
 
 ■Vi 
 
(' 
 
 ft . 
 
 !fj 
 
 ^ .1 
 
 ■ V, 
 i f 
 
 ii 
 
 I* ^i 
 
 270 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 loved and he had hated : not only because his wife loved him^-^ 
 though tliat rejison was strong enough for liatred — but because 
 the man w,'ia in every attribute so much his own superior. Never 
 h.'ul Leonard Tregonell felt such keen anxiety as he felt now, 
 when he speculated upon his wife's greeting — when he trie<l to 
 iiiiagiue how they two would feel and act standing face to fuco 
 aftisr nearly a year of severance. 
 
 The correHj)ondence between them had been of the slightest 
 For the lirst six months his only home-letters had been from 
 Miss Bridgeman — curt, business-like communications — telling 
 him of his boy's health and general jjrogress, and of any details 
 about the estate which it was his place to be told. Of Christibel 
 she wrote rus l)rielly as possible. * Mrs. Tregonell is a little 
 better.' '.Mrs. Treg(»nell is gradually regaining strength.' 'The 
 doctor considers Mrs. Tregonell much imj)roved,' and so on. 
 
 Later there had been letters from Christabel — letters written 
 in iSwitzerland — in which the writer contined herself almost 
 entirely to news of the boy's growth and improvement, and to the 
 partiinilars of their movements from one place to another — letters 
 which gave not the faintest indication of the writer's frame of 
 mind : as devoid of sentiment lu^ an ollieial communicati(jn fr<jm 
 one legation to another. 
 
 Jle was g'ling liaek to Mount Koyal therefore in ])rof(nn)d 
 ignorance of his wife's feelings — whether he would bo received 
 with smiles or frowns, with teai-a or sullen gloom. Albeit not of 
 a Bensitive nature, this uncertain ' "uadi^ him uncomfortable, 
 and he looked at yonder faint grey si — the peaks .ind pinnacles 
 of that wild western cojist — without any of those blissful 
 emotions which the returning wanderer always experiences — in 
 poetry. 
 
 riymouth, however, where they went a.><hore next morning, 
 seemed a very enjoyable ]ilace after the cities of Soutii Ameri(j.-i. 
 It was not so pictun'.s(iue a town, nor h.'nl it that rowdy air and 
 tlissipated flavour which Mi\ Ticgontjl .ipprcciated in the cities 
 of the South : but it had a teeming life and pcrpc^tual movement, 
 which were unknown on the shores of the Paeilic ; the press and 
 hurry of many industries— the steady fervoiu' of a town where 
 Wealth is made ])y honest labour — the iiiteiLsity of a place which 
 is in somewise the cradle of naval warfare. ^Ir. Tregoneil bri'ak- 
 fasted and lunched at the I)uke of Cornwall, strolled on the Jloe, 
 j)layed two or thiee games on the first Kng.ish bilIiard-ta)iK'|he had 
 seen for a year, and found a novel tlelight in winneri* and loiters. 
 
 An afternoon train took the travellers on to Launceston, 
 where the Mount Ixoyal wagonette, an<l a cart for the luggage, 
 were wjiiting for them at the st,'vtion. 
 
 ' Everything right at tlis Moun' i a^k^l Leonard, as NichoUu 
 tooched his hat. 
 
nriung, 
 
 ir ;in(l 
 cities 
 
 CIUlMlt, 
 
 s.s ami 
 where 
 which 
 brrak- 
 t; Hue, 
 hi'h.ul 
 
 l(.);->t.'lH. 
 Ct'f^toll, 
 
 */ will Imvc 710 Mercy on Uun.* 
 
 271 
 
 * Yea, Mr.' 
 
 He juskfd for no fUtails, Imt took tho roiiia from NJu'liolIs 
 without aiinthor word. C'aptaiw Vaiidcli'iir juiii)km1 up hy Iiis 
 sidt.', Nicholl.s .i,'ot in at thi- hack, with a h)tof ihc sin.illcr hi;,'i,'a|,'o 
 — guii-eaa(!H, (ln's.siiii,'-ha<^s, (l»'sjiatch-])()xe3 — and away they wont 
 up the Ciiatle hill, and then sharp round to tiio ri<fht, and oH' at a 
 (hushing pace along the road to the moor. It wad a two hours' 
 drive even for the best goers ; but Mr. Tregonell 8j)oke hardly a 
 dozen times during the journey, amoking all the way, and with 
 Ilia eyes always on hi.s horses. 
 
 At last they W(jund up tho hill to Mount Royal, and pa.saed 
 the lodge, land saw all the lights of the old wide-spreading Tudor 
 front shining upon them through the thickening grey of eai'ly 
 evening. 
 
 ' A good old place, isn't it V said Leonard, just a little moved 
 at sight of the hou.se in which he had been born. * A man might 
 come home to a iv'orse sheltei-.' 
 
 'This man might come home to lodgings in Chelsea,' sai«i 
 Jack Vandeleur, touching hi'.iiself lightly on the bre;ust. with a 
 grim laugh. 'It's a glorious old place, and you needn't apologi/e 
 for being j)roud of it. And now we've come back, 1 hope you 
 are going to bo jolly, for you've been uncommonly glum while 
 we've bei'U away. 'J'he lu.usi! looks cheerful, doesn't it < 1 should 
 think it must be full of c(»iii]tany.' 
 
 'Not likely,' answered lieon.ird. 'Christabel never cared 
 about having peoj)l«3. We should h;ive lived like hermits if she 
 had had her way.' 
 
 'Then if the house isn't full of |)eo|)lc, all I can say is there's 
 a good deal of candle-light going to w;usli',' said C-aptain Vande- 
 leur. 
 
 They wore driving uj) to the } m'h by this time ; the door 
 stood wide open ; servant.s were on lln' watch for lleiii. Tin- 
 hall was all aglow with light and lire ; i»co|»le wer*- nio\ iugaboiit 
 near the hrarlh. It, was a relief to I^'onai'd to sec this lifi- and 
 111 i'^htness. lit; had fcaicil to liiid a dark and silent hi'Usc a 
 iMelancholy welcome — all things still in mourning for tho 
 untimely dead. 
 
 A rip}ile of laughter lloateil from tlu' hall as Ti<'oriard drew 
 u|i his horses, and two tail slim liu'ures with thiU'v heads, shoit- 
 waisted gowns, and big saahcs, came skipping down the broail 
 shallow steps. 
 
 '.My sisters, by Jove,' cried Tai;k, delighted. ' i'low awfuily 
 jolly of Mi's. Tre"onell to invite them.' 
 
 Leonard's only salutation to the d;un.sel.s wa>s a friendly nod. 
 He bru.--h d by them as they grouped themselves about their 
 l>rother— like a new edition of li/v ' oon without the sn;iko,s, or 
 the thriic Giaces wi. ^ut the grAni* -and hiuiiod into the li.ili, 
 
 r 
 I. '> 
 
 
 ^U 
 
 vt 
 
 1- 
 
272 
 
 Mount Eoyal. 
 
 im' 
 
 I' ; i* 
 
 ■ / 
 * 
 
 » 
 
 earfor to be faro to fnco with li wifo. She camo forward t^ 
 meet him, lookiiii,' her loveliest, u. -^ed as he had never seen her 
 dressed before, witli a styU'. a r/tir, and a daiinf.' more appro- 
 ])riate to the 'rhefitre b'ranc^.'iis lh;iu to a Conii.sli .s(|uire'a house. 
 She who, even in the lifiirlit of llio London .suasoii, had liccn 
 sinjplicity itself, rec;.lliiii^ to tliosr^ who most admired her, the 
 picttire of th;it cli:»ste and tinworldly maiden who dwelt beside 
 the Dove, now wore an elaborate costume of brown velvet and 
 Batin, in which a Lnui.s Qiiinze velvet coat, with large cut-sted 
 buttons ;ind i\!echlinya/yo/, was the most htriking feature. Her 
 fair, soft liair n-.-is now tlully, and stood up in an infinity of 
 frizzy curls fvom the broad white foreiiead. JJiamond solitaires 
 flashed in her ears, her hands glittered with the rainbow light of 
 old family rings, whicii in days gone by she had been wont to 
 leave in the repose of an iron safe. Tiie whole woman was 
 changed. She came to meet her husband with n Society smile ; 
 shook hands witli him as if he had been a commonjtlace visitor — 
 lie wa.s too startled to note the death-like coldness of that slender 
 hand-^aml welcomed him with a conventional inquiry about his 
 passage from iJn nos Ayrea. 
 
 Ijestood traiistixed — overwhelmed by Kurj)rise. The roomwa.9 
 full of people, '''here was Mrs. Faiifax Torrington, liveliest and 
 most essentially modern of well-])rescrved widows, always c/a;2.s'/c' 
 mouvement^ as she s.-sid of herself ; and thiM-e, lolling against the 
 high oak chimney-j)iece, with an air of fatuous delight in his own 
 attractivisnoss, was that iiai-on de Cazalet — pseudo artist, poet, 
 and littt'ratcvr^ who, five se;usons ago, had been an object of 
 undisguised detestation with Cliristahi'l. He, too. was essentially 
 in the movement — lesthetic, cynical, agnostic, tliought-reading, 
 Bpiritualistic — always bli>wing the last fashionable bubble, and 
 making his l)ubbles bigger and brighter than other peo])le's — a 
 man who prided himself upon his 'intensity' in every pursuit — 
 from love-making to gourniandi/e. Then', again, marked out 
 from the rest by a thoroughly ])rosaic air, wliich, in these days of 
 artistic sensationalism is in itself a distinction — pal»>, ]»lacid, 
 taking his ease in a low basket chaii*, with his languid hand on 
 Ifandie's blai-k nniz/.le — sat Mr. Fitz.Tesse, the journalist, pi-o- 
 prietor and editc r of Tin' Slhvi, a fashionable weeidy — \\w man 
 who was always smiting the (Joliahs of pretence and dishonesty 
 with a pen that was sliar[>er than .any stone that ever David slung 
 against the fuc. He was such an amialile-htoking man — had such 
 a i>o\v<'r of oMilerating eveiy tnkeii of intellectual force and lire 
 Uxom the eaha smfacc; of his countenance, that people, seeing him 
 for the lirst time, were apt to stare at him in blank wonder at hid 
 innocent aspect. Was this the wielder of that scathing pen — 
 was this the man who wrote not with ink but with a<iua fortis? 
 fiven his placid matter-of-fact si)ecch wjis, at lii-at, a little ciia- 
 
•/ icill have no Mercy on Him. 
 
 273 
 
 Rppointing. It w.is only l»y f^outlcst (l('<,'ioos tluit the iron hand 
 of H.itiie niade itsi-lf fi-ll unih'i' the vflvit ^(lovo of conventional 
 j^ooti manners. Leonard had met ISlr. FitzJesao in London, at 
 the eluhs and oLst^where, and had ft'lt that va|,nu! awe which tho 
 provincial feels for the endtodied spirit of metro|)oliUin intellect 
 in the shafjc of a famous journalist. It was n(!edful io be civil 
 to such Uien, in order to lie let down ^'eiitly in lh"ir papers. 
 One never knew wht-n some rash unprtiiieditatt'd ad ndi,dit 
 furnish matter for a par,i;j;i.iph which would mean social unnilii- 
 latiou. 
 
 There were other l,mi('s(.^ grouped alutut tlie hre-plaee — littlo 
 Muuty, the useful .iiid i:uud -humoured country-hMuse liack ; 
 Colonel iJlathwayl, of the Kild.ire ('avalry, a nolecl amateur 
 aetoi-, recitei', wall/er, spirit-i';ip|»ei', invahialtle in a house full <)f 
 peiiple a t;ill, slim-waislcd man, who lode nine sti.jie, and 
 at folly eontlived to look seven-and (wciity ; the llev. St. 
 IJernard Kadilie, an Au'^dican curate, who carrifd Kitualism to 
 the extremest limit c(tn>isteut with the retention of his stipend 
 as a minister of the ('hurch of i'lMLjIand, and who was always at 
 loi^'Ljcrhcads with some of his parishioners. There were Mr. 
 and Mis. St.. Aultyn and their two daui:;hters — county peo|)Io, 
 wHh loud V(»icts, horsey, antl do^f<^'y, and horticultural always 
 talkini; ^'arden, when they weic not talkini; stahle or kennel. 
 These were nei'4hl»ours for who Christaltel had cared very littlo 
 in tlie i»Jist. liconard wjus consiilerahly justonwhed at findin;; 
 Uieni domiciled at Moiint Itoyal. 
 
 'And you had a nice pas.saL,'e,' said his wife, ymiliie^ at her 
 lord. ' ^Vill ycui have some tea I ' 
 
 It seemed a curious kiiul of wtlrumc to a husLand after a 
 year's absence; but iiconaid answncd feebly that he would 
 take a cup of tea. < Mie of the numerous tea-tabjes had Ik eii 
 established in a corner near the fire, and Miss l)iid,!4:emaii, in 
 neat ,i,'rey silk and linen cojlai, as of old, was ofticiatin;,', witl- 
 Mr. Kaddie in attendance to di^liiliule the cups. 
 
 ' No tea, thanks,' saiil .lack \ andel.'ur, <oinint,' in with hi>» 
 8ii;ters still entwine(l about him, still faintly sii^'.t^'estive of that 
 poor man and the sea-serpents. ' Would it bo too dreadful if I 
 w«'.."e to suu^'est S. ami IJ. /' 
 
 Jessie jjiidi^ft'iiiaii t(»ue|iei| ;i spiin<4 btll oii tin- tea-table, and 
 fiave the iv(iuired order. There was a joviality, A'/N.s.:-f//Av in 
 the air of the place, with which soda ami l»iaiiil\ seemed <|iiili< 
 in harmony. KverythiiiLr in the hou.^e M-enied cli;inued to 
 Leonards eye ; and yet the furniture, the armour, the family 
 |M»rtraits, brown and iiidistin;x"'shahle in this doubtful liijht, 
 were all the saiue. There were no tlowors ilinu! in tubs or ob 
 tables. That subth; grace- as (jf a lhoiii;litt'iil woman"-! lian(V 
 rulinj; ami anaM;.rin'4 everythinc:, artistic even where .seeniinjif 
 most careless — Wius missing. I'apers, b<ioks wen* thi<»\Mi 
 ftliyhow upon tt.,- tiibles ; whips, carriai,'i; riii'^i. wrajin, hat,s, 
 
 I 
 
 !l 
 
 'i i' 
 
 '» 
 
J>74 
 
 Mount lioijal. 
 
 ih 
 
 H • 
 
 encumhered tho cKnira no.ir tlio (](t(ir. Tr.ilf-a-dozcn dooN— 
 
 1)oiiiterH, setters, oollio — sprawled or prowlfcl about the rooiij, 
 i\ nowisft did lii.s liousi' now rosemblo tlio ordeily mansion 
 which hia mother ha<l ruled so lonj,', and which his wife had 
 maintained ui»on (^xuetly Iho same lines after her aunt's death. 
 lie liad grumbled at what he called a silly observance of hia 
 mother's fads. The air of the house was now much more in 
 accordancf^ with his own view of life, and yet the change 
 angered liim as much as it perjilexed him. 
 
 'Where's the boy?' he asked, exploring the hall and ita 
 OCCUpauls, with a blank stare. 
 
 ' lu his nui-sery. Where shoidd ho bo?' exclaimed Chris* 
 tabel, li;^'litly. 
 
 *1 th(»u<,dit ho would have been with you. I thou;]jht ho 
 might have been here to bid n»e welcome home.' 
 
 lie had made a ]>icture in his mind, abnost involuntarily, of 
 tlio mother and child —slie, calm and lovely as one of Murillo's 
 Madonnius, with the little one (»n her knee. There was no vein 
 of poetry in his nature, yet unconsciously the memory of such 
 pictures had associated itself with his wife's imago. And 
 instead of that holy embodiment of maternal love, there flashed 
 and sparkled })efore him this brilliant wr)man, with fair Huffy 
 hair, and Louis (^uinzo coat, all a glitter with cut-steel. 
 
 ' Home !' echoed Christabel, mockingly ; 'how sentimental 
 you have grown. I've no doubt the boy will be charmed to see 
 you, especially if you have brought him some South American 
 toys ; but 1 thought it would bore you to see him before you 
 had dined. He shall be on view in the drawing-room before 
 dinner, if you would I'l-ally like to see him so .soon.' 
 
 ' Don't tiouble,' said Leonard, curtly : ' I can lind my way to 
 the nursery.' 
 
 Jlewent upstairs without another word, h'aving his fi icnd 
 Jack seated in the miilst of the du-erful (ir :le, diiMking soda 
 water and brandy, and talking of their advenluies upon the 
 backbone of South America. 
 
 ' Delicious country ! ' said do Cazalet, who talked remarkably 
 good l']iiglish, with just the faintest IIi])ernian accent. 'I have 
 lidilcn over every inch of it. Ah, ^lis. Trcgonell, that is the 
 soil for i)ot'ti'y and adventure ; a land of extinct volcanoes. If 
 Byron had known^tlu; shores of the Amazon, he would have 
 Btrucic a deeper not6 of passion than any that was ever inspii-ed 
 by the D.irdanclles or the iJosphorus. Sad that so grand a spirit 
 tJiiould have jiined in the piisou-house of a worn-out woild.' 
 
 *1 have always imdei'stood that L>yron got some rather 
 •trong f)oetry out of Switzerland and Italy,' mui mured j^ir. 
 I'^tzJessc, meekly. 
 
 'Weak and thin to what he mi^ht have written had he 
 known the Pampas,' said the liaron. 
 
 * You have done the Paiiii^ab T ^..ud Mr. FitzJeAse. 
 
■ ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 tf such 
 And 
 
 flashftl 
 ■ lluiry 
 
 *1 will have no Mercy on II im.* 
 
 275 
 
 *I l»avc lived uinon^Lfst wild liur.>us, ami wiKlor humanity, for 
 months at a si retch.' 
 
 ' And you have pulth'shod a vohuno of — verses i* 
 
 * Another of niv voiitlit'ul follies. Hut I do not place nn'sclf 
 upon a level with iJyron.' 
 
 *I should if 1 were you,' »;iid Mr. Fitz.Tessi>. 'It would l.i» 
 sill original itlea — and in an at,'(! marked hy a total exhaustion of 
 brain-power, an ori'^iiial idr.i is a j)earl of price.' 
 
 'What kind of du.rs did you sec in your travels?' asked 
 Emily St. Auhyn, a wt-ll-Lfrown upstandin;^' younij woman, in .-i 
 Bovere tailor-i^nwn of undyed homespun. 
 
 *Two or three very line liVfcds of mom,'rels.' 
 
 * 1 adoi-e niom,'rels!' oxclainicd Mopsy. ' I think that kind 
 of dorr, whii'h lielon.':,'s to no particular lireed, which h.xs hei ii 
 ill-used by i-iondon boys, and which follows one to one's do(»r>tcp, 
 is the most faithful and intellii,'ent nf the whole canine race. 
 Huxley may exalt JUenheim spaidelsas the nearest thin.;^ to human 
 nature ; but my dof; Tim, which issomethini,' between a lurcher, 
 a collie, and a bidl, is ever so much better than htnnan natuic.' 
 
 ' The lileiiheim is jifreedy, hixurious, and lazy, and ,i;t'nerally 
 dies in middle life from thi; eonseipienci's (jf over-feediu'^,' 
 '■^T'awled Mr. Fitzdesse. *I don't think Huxley is vciy f;ii-out.' 
 
 'I wouKl back a Cornish sheep-doj^ ai;ainst any animal iu 
 creation,' said Chri.«<tabel, jjattiu'^^ Jiandie, who was st.indiiiL,' 
 amiably on end, with his fore-paws on the cushioned elbow of 
 her chair. ' Do you know that these do'^s smile when tli y are 
 pleased, and cry when they are "grieved— and they will luouru 
 for a master with a hdclity unkujwn in humanity.' 
 
 ' Which as a rule docs not mourn,' said Fit/.desse. ' It only 
 goes into mournim,'.' 
 
 And so the talk went on, always running' uj)on trivialities — 
 glanciiiL,' from theme to theme — a meie battledore and shuttle- 
 cock conversation — makini,' a mock (*f most thiuL's and most 
 j)eoi)le. ( 'iristabcl joined in it all; and some of tin,' bitterest 
 Hpei'ch that was spoken in that hour bcfort; the soundinif of ti.e 
 Beveii o'clock .!,'on„', fell from hei- jn-rfect lips. 
 
 'Did you ever see such a chau'^c in any one as in Mis. 
 Tregonell /' asked J)opsy (jf Mo]isy, as they ell)(jwed each oilier 
 l)efore the IookimT-gla>s, the first armed with a ])owder puii", the 
 second with a little box containing,' the implements re(piired fur 
 tlie production of piquant eyebrows. 
 
 'A wonderful improvement,' answ(.'ied M(>p>y. '.She's ever 
 so much easier to ^'et on with, i didn't think it was in her 
 to be so thoroughly <:/ii.<'.' 
 
 ' Do you know, I really liked her belter la^f year, wiien slio 
 was frumpy and dowdy,' faltered Dnj.sy. 'I wasn t able to uct 
 tm with her, but I eoiddn't helj* looking uj) to her, and feeling 
 tliat, after all, .-jlu! wa-- tli»j ri^'ht kind >>( WMurm. Anl now ' 
 
 ■ And now she coude.scends to be human — to t»e one of us — 
 
 f-i 
 
 "I 
 
270 
 
 Mount Eoyat. 
 
 aiitl llif (■()nsf)|urii('(' JH that her lioiisc in three tiiiuT^ its iilee an it 
 was last yc.ir,' said I\Io(tsy, tiirniiiLC Ihf cfMiit'i- (if an cy^'luow 
 with H lioltl l>ni ( ait'fiil hand, and siiidin,^ a shai]) clbuw into 
 DojKsy's face diiiin-^ the opi'iation. 
 
 ' i wish yituM In- a little more carcfid/ ejacidaled Ddpsy. 
 
 *I wish y(»iid contiiM' not to want the j^la.ss (wailly when 1 
 do,' relortt'd Mmji-v. 
 
 ' llow ilu ynii like the Krcnch I5ai<>nf' asked hopsy, when a 
 1)1 ief silenee li.id le>.t(»led lu'l' e(|lianiniil V, 
 
 ' I'retirji, indecij! lie is no niuie h'reni h than I am. Mr. 
 J'"it/.les.se told nie tli.it he was Imiim :tiid Iti'iMi'^lit ii|> in .leisey — 
 that his falliei' wa.- an Irish Major on halt'-|)ay, and his niollpi m 
 L'iicns rider.' 
 
 ' lint how dix s he ennie by hi.H titli' if it is a re.d title ?' 
 
 ' Fit/,Je.s.s»' .•-;i\s the title i.s ri'^ht enoii'^di. One nf his fatln-r'."* 
 aneest(trs came to the South of hi-hnnl after tie- r«'\oeation of 
 something,' a treaty at Nancy I tliiid< he said, lli* Iteli.nued 
 to an old Jltiiiiienot family- tho.M* pcoiili- who were ma-.--aered in 
 the opera, don't you know — and the litli" lia<l Imcii all"uid to -^o 
 dead- till this man married .i tremiiidoii^iy rich SliellH Id cutler.^ 
 <lau,ifhtei-, and IiouljIiI the old i-stale in 7'rovence, amlgot hini.self 
 enrolled in the h'reiich peerai^e. JJomantic, isn't it i' 
 
 * Very. Wliat became of the Sheilield cutler's dau'jhter '. ' 
 
 'She drank hei.Mlf (o death two years after her marriai^r. 
 Fit/.) e.ssie says they both lived upon brandy, but she liadn't bi'eu 
 educated up to it, and it killed hei.' 
 
 ' A euri(»us kind of man for Mrs. Tie^MMiell to invite here. 
 Not i|uile <.,'ood style.' 
 
 ' I'erhaps not but he's Very annjsim;.' 
 
 Jieonard spent half an hour with his son. The child had 
 e.seaped from babyhood in the yt ar that had fjone. He was now 
 a briijlit sentient creature, eauir to expre.ss his tliouuhts— to 
 gather kno\vled;.,fe— an active, \ivacious bein^, full (tf health and 
 enei-gy. Whativer duties Christabel had m\t,det!teil during; her 
 husband's ab.si-nce, the boy l.a<l, at least, suH'ercd no neglect 
 Never had childhood developed under happier conditions. The 
 father coidd lind no fault in the nursery, thouudi tlieie was a 
 , vai^'ue feellni; in his mind that every thimj; was wrom,' at Mount 
 Koyal. 
 
 ' Why the «leuce did she (ill the hou.se with people while I 
 was away,' lie muttered to himself, in thesolitude of hisdiessintj- 
 i-oom, where his clothes had been jmt ready ior him, and candles 
 li'jjhted by his Swiss valet. The dressinij-room was at that end 
 of the corridor most remote from ChrisUil^el's aj>.artiiients. It 
 communicated with the room Leonanl had slept in during his 
 boyhood and that opened again into his gnn-room. 
 
 The fact that these rcwms had been prepared for him toM 
 him plainly enough that he and his wife wero lienceforth to lead 
 divided livet. The event of la^t October, lijs year of absence, 
 
*7 iriil liffvc 110 McYCij (iTi f//;;i.' 
 
 277 
 
 liaii Itiiilt II]). i \v;ill 1m lut'i'ti tli>-iii uliicii iir, tor (|i(> time Im iii^ 
 ut \v;.\%i, ft'lt liiinsclf |)()W"i li'ss to knock down. 
 
 H-JiM Aw Hiispi'it — o.'in she know* — lie ;i.sk<'(l himself, |);iusiii!» 
 in liis (lie -itii^ to stjiiul sl;trin'4 '"'' ♦''«» tin*, witli moody brow and 
 trouMf'd TM's. ' No, flints li.inliy jMNsihU'. And yt't Iht Mholo 
 niaiincv Is clianv'iMi. SIm' IioMs m<' al a di>itan<v. Kvcrv I >k, 
 ♦•vt-rv toiir jii'-t now Was a dfliancc. Of > kiphc 1 know tii.it Ami 
 lov«'t| that, ::ian lovrd liim lirst- -l.'ust-- always ; ntVff caiin!,' a 
 straw for nil'. Slu' was too t;ircfnl of In't'sidf -had lM»'n liioii^ht 
 M|i loo Will to <_'o wioni/, likr oIIht WfiM'<'n — liiit she lovrd liini. 
 I Would ni'Ntr li.ivc l«r(iii;4lil him in-<iil< lies*' doors if I had not 
 known that she roiild take • inc (»f herself. I tested ami tried 
 lier to the nlternio-^t. — and — well — T took my chanL,'!' out <:f him.' 
 
 Mr. TrcL^'onel! dres-jed himself ;i lid ■moreearefnllylhan hewas 
 wont t(» dress- thiidJni,' for the most part that anythini; whiih 
 snit«'d him was ^'ood enough for his friemls — and went down to 
 tlie drawinL,'-room, frriini^' like .'i visitor in a stran'^'e house, half 
 inelined to wonder how he won. 1 he retx'ived l>y hi.s wife :ind 
 liis wife's ^.niesls. Jle who had alwavs I'uled sui>reme in that 
 house, chiMtsinLC his visitors for his own pleasure— suhjui^'atini.^ 
 all tastes and liahits of other p<'ople to Ids own convenience, now 
 ftdt as if he Were only there on ^ull'eiance. 
 
 It was early when he entered the <lrawin<.(-room, and the 
 I'aron de ('a/alel was the oidy occupant of that apailnient. Me 
 was slandiii!^ in a I'MuiLrin'^' altitude, with Ids hack a-^'ainst tlit? 
 mantelpiece, and Ins hand-ome pei-son set oil' hy evening? dres:4. 
 That re<;idatiiin costunn- does not allord nnndi scopo totlu* lati'nt 
 love of limiy whi<h still lurks in theeivili/ed man, as if to piovo 
 his ne.'M i. lal ioiiship to the head and fe.atlier-weaiini,' savatfc — 
 hut dc < 'a/alet had made himself as LjorLTeons .is he could with 
 jewelled stuih, endiroideicd shirt, satin iindei- waistcoat , andier 
 Bilk stockiuLfs, and tjucen .\nne >hoe<. Jje was a-^suicdly liand- 
 Honie— hill he hail just thai ^^\\' of heauty whirli to the f;i>!i. 
 \lious mind is more re\.i|lini.f than positive u^line-s. h.nk- 
 ^rown eyes, stroiiijly anlied eyehiNiws, an aipiiline nose, a si nsii.d 
 mouth, a heavy jaw, . a faiih less complexion of the I'leiich plum- 
 lio\ Older, lai!.fe reL;illa|- teelh of !.;l it I elilcj whiteness, a small 
 (lelic.itely trained moustache with waxed ends, .ind hair of oily 
 Bheeli, odorous of junitiDnih' il!riiu\ made up the ealalo'^iie of his 
 charms, lieonard stood lookini,'at hin» douhtfully, as if he were 
 a hitherto unknown animal. 
 
 ' \Vlier(! did my wife pick him up, and why V he asked hini- 
 Relf. ' I should have thou'dit he was iiisL the kind of man shi* 
 would dt'test.' 
 
 'How glad you must ho to got l)ack to your IaUcs and 
 Penates,' sai<l the Baron, smiling hlandly. 
 
 ' I'm uncommonly glad to get hack to my horses and dogs,' an- 
 swered Leonard, llinging himself int<» a large arm chair hy the tire, 
 and tiiking tip a newspaper. * Have you been long in the Wont'? 
 
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 Hiotographic 
 
 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, I l.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
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278 
 
 Mount Boydl. 
 
 * About a fortniglit, but I have been only three days at 
 Mount Iloyal. I had the honour to renew my acquaintance 
 with Mrs. Tregonell lust August at Zermatt, and she was gcjod 
 enough to say that if I ever found myself in this part of the 
 country she would be ])leased to receive nie in her house. I 
 needn't tell you that with .^uch a temptation in view I was very 
 glad to bend my steps westward. I spent ten days on board a 
 friend's yacht, between Dartmouth and the Lizard, landed at 
 Penzance last Tuesday, and posted here, where I received a more 
 than hospitable welcome.' 
 
 * You are a gi'eat traveller, I understand ? ' 
 
 ' I doubt if 1 have done as much as you have in that way. I 
 have seldom travelled for the sake of travelling. T have lived 
 in the tents of the Arabs. I have bivouacked on the Pami)as— 
 and enjoyed life in all the cities of the South, from Yalparaiso 
 to Carthagena ; but I can boast no mountaineering exploits or 
 scientific discoveries — and I never read a paper at the 
 Geographical.' 
 
 ' You look a little too fond of yourself for mountaineering,' 
 said Leonard, smiling grimly at the Baron's portly figure, and 
 all-pervading sleekness. 
 
 ' Well — yes — I like a wild life — but I have no relish for 
 absolute hardship — the thermometer below zero, a doubtful 
 supply of provisions, pemmican, roasted skunk for supper, with- 
 out any currant jelly — no, T love mine ease at mine Inn.' 
 
 He threw out his fine expanse of padiled chest and shoulders, 
 and surveyed the ^spacious lamp-lit room with an approving 
 smile. This no doubt was the kind of Inn at which he loved to 
 take his ease — a house full of silly women, ready to be subju- 
 gated by his florid good looks and shallow accomplishments. 
 
 The ladies now came straggling in — first Emily St. Aubyn, 
 and then Dopsy, whose attempts at conversation were coldly 
 received by the county maiden. Dopsy's and Mopsy's home- 
 made gowns, cheap laces and frillirgs, and easy flippancy were 
 not agreeable to the St. Aubyn sisters. It was not that the 
 St. Aubyn manners, which always savoured of the stable and 
 farmyard, were more refined or elegant ; but the St. Aubyns 
 arrogated to themselves the right to be vulgar, and resented 
 free-and-easy manners in two young persons who were obviously 
 poor and obviously obscure as to their surroundings. If their 
 gowns had been made by a West End tailor, and they had been 
 able to boast of intimate pcquaintance with a duchess and two 
 or three countessses, their flippancy miglit have been tolerable, 
 nay, even amusing, to the two Miss St. Aubyns ; but girls who 
 Went nowhere and knew nobody, haa no right to attempt smart- 
 ness of speech, and deserved to be sat upon. 
 
 To Dopsy succeeded Mopsy, then some men, then Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn and her younger daughter Clara, then Mrs. Tregonell in 
 a red gown draped with old Spanish lace, and with diamon d 
 
•/ will have no Mercy on Illm.' 
 
 27» 
 
 
 
 •^lars in her hair, a style curiously different from those quiet 
 dinner dresses she had been wont to wear a year ago. Leonard 
 [ooked .at her in blank amazement — just as he had looked at 
 their first meeting. She, who had been like the violet, shelter- 
 ing itself among its leaves, now obviously dressed for eilect, 
 and as obviously courted admiration. 
 
 The dinner was cheerful to riotousness. Everybody had 
 something to say ; anecdotes were told, and laugh ^'r was frequent 
 and loud. The St. Aubyn girls, who had deliberately anub1)e(l 
 the sisters Vandeleur, were not above conversing with tiie 
 l>rother, and, finding him a kindred spirit in horseyness and 
 doggyness, took him at once into their confidence, and were on 
 the friendliest terms before dinner was finished. j)e Cazalet sat 
 next his hostess, and talked exclusively to her. Mr. Fitzdesse 
 liad Miss Bridgeman on his left hand, and conversed with her in 
 gentle murmurs, save when in his quiet voice, and with his 
 seeming-innocent smile, he told some irresistibly funny story — 
 some touch of character seen with a i»hilos(jpliic eye — for the 
 general joy of tlie whole table. Very diilerent was the baiujuet 
 of to-day from that quiet dinner on the iirst night of Mr. Jlam- 
 leigh's visit to Mount Royal, that dinner at which Leonard 
 watched his wife so intensely, eager to discover to what degree 
 she was affected by the presence of her first lover. ITf watched 
 her to-night, at the head of her brilliantly Hglited dinnei'-table 
 — no longer the old subdued \\A\i of low shaded lamps, but th? 
 radiance of innumerable candles in loJty silver candelabra, 
 shining over a striking decoration of vivid o'imsun asters and 
 spreading palm-leaves — he watched her heli)lessly, hopelessly, 
 knowing that he and she were ever so much farther apart than 
 they had l)een in the days before he brought Angus lliindeigh 
 to Mount Eoyal, those miseral)le discontented days wL "> he had 
 fretted himself into a fever of jealousy and vague suf picn. •, and 
 had thought to find a cure by bringing the man he fear* i.. and 
 hated into his home, so that he might know for certain how deep 
 the wrong was which this man's very existence Geemed to inflict 
 upon him. To bring those two who had loved and parted face 
 to face, to watch and listen, to fathom the thoughts of each — 
 that had been the process natiual and coi.genial to his jealous 
 temper ; but the result had been an unconifortaljle one. And 
 now he saw his wife, whose heart he had trie<l to break — hating 
 her because he had failed to make her love him — just as remote 
 and unapproachable jus of old. 
 
 'AVhat a fool I was to many her,' he thought, after r(^plying 
 somewhat at random to Mrs. St. Aubyn's lust ntiiark upon the 
 superiority of Dorkings to S[>aniard3 from a culinary point of 
 view. ' It was my determination to have my own way thiit 
 wrecked me. I couldn't submit to be conquered l.ty a girl — to 
 .have the wife I had set my heart upon when I was a l)oy, stolen 
 from me by the first etfymiuate foplin^ my silly mother invited 
 
 ti- 
 
 I '. 
 
 ijl 
 
h 
 
 280 
 
 f fount Vi<if/(il. 
 
 to Mount Hoyal. T lia<l never imamint'd niysflf with any other 
 woman for my wife — never really eared for any other woman.' 
 
 This was the bent of Mr. TrecfonelTs retlections as he sat \a 
 his place at that animated assembly, adding nothing to its mirth, 
 or even to its noise ; albeit in the past his voi le had ever been 
 loudest, his langh most resonant, lie felt more at his ease after 
 dinner, when the women had left — the hrilliant de Cazalct 
 Blipping away soon after them, althongh not until he had finished 
 his host's La Rose — and when Mr. St. Aubyn expanded himself 
 m county talk, enlightening the wanderer .'vs to the ])rogress of 
 events during liis absence — while Mr. Fitz.Tesse sat blandly 
 putting liis cigarette, a silent observer of the speech and gestures 
 of the county magnate, speculating, from a soientitic point of 
 view, as to how much of this talk were purely automatic — an 
 inane drivel which would go on just the same if half the Squire's 
 brain had been scooped out. Jack Vandeleur smoked and drank 
 brandy and wjiter, while little Monty discoui'sed to him, in 
 confidential tones, upon the racing year which wjis now expiring 
 at Newmarket — the men who had made pots of money, and the 
 men who had been beggared for life. There seemed to be no 
 medium between those extremes. 
 
 When the host rose, Caj)tain Vandeleur was for an inmie- 
 diate adjournment to billiards, but, to his surprise, Leonard 
 walked off" to the drawing-room. 
 
 * Aren't you coming? ' asked Jack, dejectedly. 
 
 * Not to-night. I have been too long away from feminine 
 society not to appreciate the novelty of an evening with ladies. 
 You and Monty can have the table to yourselves, unless Mr. 
 Fitz Jesse ' 
 
 'I never play,' replied the gentle jour alist ; ' but I rather 
 like sitting in a billiard-room and listening to the conversation 
 of the players. It is always so full of ideas.' 
 
 Captain Vandeleur and Mr. Montagu went their way, and 
 the other men lepaired to the <lrawing-room, whence came the 
 sound of the piano, and the music of a lieh baritone, trolling out 
 a popular air from the most fashionable opera-bfmtfe — that one 
 piece which all Paris was bent upon hearing at the same moment, 
 wherel)y seats in the little I^oulevard theatre were selling at a 
 ridiculous premium. 
 
 De Cazalet was singing to Mrs. Tvegonell's accompaniment — 
 a. patois song, with a refrain which would have been distinctly 
 indecent, if the tails of all the words had not been clipped otf, 
 so as to reduce the language to mild idiocy. 
 
 ' The kind of song one could fancy being fjishionable in the 
 decline of the 'Roman Empire,' said MtzJesse, ' when Apuleius 
 "Was writing his "Golden Ass," don't you know.' 
 
 After the song came a duet from 'Traviata,' in which 
 Christabel sang with a dramatic power which Leonard never 
 remembered to have heard from her before. The two voices 
 
2citl hare no Mercii on Him' 
 
 281 
 
 
 harmonized a<hnii;i1»ly, and tline wt'ie wjuiu expressions oi 
 dc'liylit from tlie lisU'nei'H. 
 
 ' Very aceomplisliedmiin, do C'a/^i let,* said Colonel Blathwayt; 
 'uncommonly useful in a country house — sings, and plays, and 
 recites, and acts — rather pully and short-winded in his elocution 
 — if he were a horse one would <;dl him a roarer — but always 
 ready to amuse. Quite an ac<|uisiti(in.' 
 
 'Who is he?' asked licouaifl, looking glum. ' i^fy wife 
 pick(!d him up in Switzerland, I hi-ar — that is to say, he seems 
 to have made hiiy^elf agreeable — or useful — to JSli's. Tregom-il 
 and Miss JJridgeman ; and in a moment of ill-advised hosj)itality, 
 my wife asked Jiim here. Js he received anywhere \ Doea any- 
 body know anything about him I ' 
 
 'He is received in a few houses — rich houses where the 
 hostess goes in for amateur acting and Uihlcaux vicants, don't 
 you know ; and pe(,])le know a good deal about him — nothing 
 actually to his detriv sent. The man was a fidl-l)Iown adventurer 
 when he had the good luck to get hold of a ritdi wife. Jle ]>ays 
 his way now, I believe ; but the air of the adventurer hangs 
 round him still. A man of Irish ])arentage — brought up in 
 Jers(iy. What can you ex[)eet of him V 
 
 ' Does he drink ! ' 
 
 * Like a lish — but his caj>acity to drink isonly tol)e estimated 
 by cubic sj)ace — the amount he can hold. His brain and con- 
 stitution have been educated up to alcohol. Nothing can touch 
 him further.' 
 
 ' Colonel ]>lathwayt, we want you to give us the " Wonderful 
 One-llorse Shay," and after that, the iJaron is going to recite 
 " James Lee's Wife," said jSlrs. Tregonell, while her guests 
 ranged thenjselves into an irregidar semicircle, and the useful 
 Miss Uridgeman placed a prie-dieu chair in a commajuling 
 position for the reciter to lean ui>oti gracefully, oi' hug con- 
 vulsively iu the more «-neigetic passages of his recitation. 
 
 'Everybody seems to have gone mad,' thought Mr. Tiegonell, 
 as he seated himself and surveyed the assembly, all irjtent and 
 expectant. 
 
 TFis wife sat near the piano with de Cazalet bending over her, 
 talking in just that slightly lowered voice which gives an idea of 
 contidential lelation, y(>t may mean no more; than a. vain man's 
 desire to apju'ar the acce[)ted worshii)j»er of a beautiful woman. 
 Never had Leonard seen Angus Ilandeigh's manner so <lis- 
 tinctively attentive ;is was the air of this IJibernian adventurer. 
 
 * Just the last man whose attentions I should havt; supposed 
 she would tolerate,' thought Leonard ; ' but any garl)age is food 
 for a woman's vanity.' 
 
 The ' AVonderful Oue-llorse Shay ' was received with laughter 
 and deliglit. Doi)sy and Mojwy were in raptures. * How could 
 a horri(l America ti have written anything so clever ? But then 
 it was Colonel Blathwayt's inimitable elocution which g^ve a 
 
 1:^ 
 
282 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
 charm to tlie whole thing. The poejn was poor enough, no donl^t; 
 if cue read it to oneself. Colonel Blathwayt was adorably funny.' 
 
 'It's a tremendous joke, as you do it,' said JSIopsy, twirling 
 her sunflower fan — a great yellow flower, like the sign of the 
 Sun Inn, on a black satin ground. * How delightful to be so 
 gifted.' 
 
 'Now, for "James Lee's Wife,"' said the Colonel, who accepted 
 the damsel's compliments for what they were worth. ' You'll 
 have to be very attentive if you want to find out what the poem 
 means ; for the Baron's delivery is a trifle spasmodic' 
 
 And row de Cazalet ste])ped forward with a vellum-bound 
 volume in his hand, dashed back his long sleek hair with a large 
 white hand, glanced at the page, coughed faintly, and then 
 began in thick hurried accents, which kept getting thicker and 
 more hurried as the poem advanced. It was given, not in lines, 
 but is spasms, panted out, till at the close the Baron sank 
 exhausted, breathless, like the hunted deer when the hounds 
 close round him. 
 
 * Beautiful ! exquisite 1 too pathetic ! ' exclaimed a chorus of 
 feminine voices. 
 
 ' I only wish the Browning Society could hear that : they 
 would be delighted,' said Mr. Faddie, who pi(iued himself upon 
 being in the literary world. 
 
 * It makes Browning so much easier to understand,' remarked 
 Mr. FitzJesse, with his habitual i)lacidity. 
 
 ' Brings the whole thing home to you — makes it ever so 
 m.uch more real, don't you know,' said Mrs. Torrington. 
 
 * Poor James Lee ! ' sighed Mopsy. 
 'Poor Mrs, Lee !' ejaculated Dopsy. 
 
 ' Did he die ? ' asked Miss St. Aubyn. 
 
 •Did she run away from him?' inquired her sister, the 
 railroad pace at which the Baron fired off the verses having left 
 all those among his liearers who did not know the text in a state 
 of agreeable uncertainty. 
 
 So the night wore on, with more songs and duets from opera 
 and opera-bouffe. No more of Beethoven's grand bursts of 
 melody — now touched with the solemnity of religious feeling — 
 now melting in human pathos — now light and airy, changeful 
 and capricious as the skylark's song — a very fountain of joyous 
 fancies. Mr. Tregonell had never ai)preciated Beethoven, being 
 indeed, as i;nmusical a soul as God ever created ; but he thought 
 it a more respectable thing that his wife should sit at her pianc 
 playing an order of music which only the |)rivileged few could 
 understand, than that she should delight the common herd by 
 singing which savoured of music-hall and burles(|ue. 
 
 ' Is she not absolutely delicious % ' said Mrs. Torrington, 
 beating time with her fan. ' How proud I should be of myself 
 if I could sing like that. How proud you must be of your wife 
 —such verve — such dlan — sc thoroughly in the spirit of tha 
 
•J luill have no Mercy on Uim? 
 
 2S3 
 
 thing, 'riiat is the only kind of sincfinc; .anybody really carea 
 for now. One ftoes to thi> opi'ia to iu'ur them scroani throu<,'h 
 " Lohengrin" — o; "Tarnihauser" — and then one goes into society 
 and talks about Wagner — but it is music like this one enjoys.' 
 
 'Yes, it's rather jolly,' said Leonard, starim: mocMlJly at his 
 wife, in the act of singing a refrain of iJe-be-be, wjiieh was 
 BUp})osed to represent the bleating of an innocent land). 
 
 And the Baron's voice gees so admirably with Mrs, 
 Tregonell's.' 
 
 ' Yes, lu's voice goes — admirably,' said Leonard, soi'cly 
 tempted to blaspheme. 
 
 'Weren't you charmed to find us all so gay and bright here — 
 nothing to suggest the sad break-up you had la-st year. I felt so 
 intensely sorry for you all — yet I was seliish enough to be glad 
 I had left before it happened. Did they — don't think me morbid 
 for asking — did they bring him home liere 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, they brought him home.' 
 
 'And in which room did they put him? One always wants 
 to know these things, though it can do one no good.' 
 
 ' In the Blue Boom.' 
 
 * The second from the end of the corridor, next but one to 
 mine ; that's rather awfully near. Do you believe in spiritual 
 influences? Have you ever liad a revelation? Good gracious] 
 is it really so late ? Everybody seems to be going.' 
 
 'Let me got your candle,' said Leonard, eagtn-ly,, making a 
 dash for the hall. And so ended his first evening at home with 
 that imbecile refrain — Be-bu-be, repeating itself in his ears. 
 
 w 
 
 the 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIL 
 
 * GAI DONC, LA VOYAGEUSK, AU COUP DU PELERIN 1 ' 
 
 When Mr. Tregonell came to the breakfast room next morning 
 he found everybody alert with the stir and expectation of an 
 agreeable day. The Trevena harriers were to meet for the first 
 time this season, and everybody was full of that event. Chris- 
 tabel, Mrs. Torrington, and the St. Aubyn girls were l)reakfrusting 
 in their habits and hats : whips and gloves were lying about on 
 chairs and side-tables — everybody was talking, and everybody 
 seemed in a hurry. ] )e Ca'^alet looked gorgeous in olive corduroy 
 rind Newmarket boots. Mr. St. Aubyn looked business-like in 
 a well-worn I'ed coat and mahogany to))s, while the other men 
 inclined to dark shooting jackets, buckskins, and Napoleons. 
 Mr. FitzJosse, in a morning suit that savoured of the study 
 raiher tlian the hunting field, contemjtlated these Nimrods with 
 an amused smile ; but the Beverend St. Bernard beheld them 
 not without pangs of envy. He, too, had been in Arcadia ; he, 
 
 Mt;F!i ;! 
 
2SI 
 
 Mnv.nt Uoya^. 
 
 Ill' 
 
 l:ii 
 
 t<K), li;i(l follo\v<Ml tli(! iMtiiiKls in his ifroi'ii Oxford d.'iyf^, Ix'foro 
 1k! joiiH'd that IkukI of yoniiijj Aniflir.ins \\\\o ho doubted not 
 ^vould 'ny-aud-by be as widely renowned as the herttes of the 
 IVaotiirian movcmont. 
 
 ' You are L^'oin'^f to the meet?' inquired |j<'(»navd, as Ids wife 
 ijanch'tl Idni his rdllce. 
 
 ' |)()you lhinl< I wonM take the Irouhh; to ]tut on my li;d)it 
 in oj(h'r to ride from \\rn\ to 'J'revena ? ' oxrl.iinied ( 'hrislalu-l. 
 * [ .'im i^'oin'^' with the rest of theiii, of course. JOiidl^ St. Aul)yn 
 will shuw me the Wiiy.' 
 
 ' I5ut you It.ive never liunted.' 
 
 'JiecauHi! yf»ur dear mother was too nervous to a1h)w me. 
 Ijut 1 have rid<hin over every incli of tlie iifround. J know my 
 horse, and my liorse knows me. You needn't be afraid.' 
 
 ' ]\Jrs. TreiL^'onell is oiu> of the thiest liorsewomen I ever saw,' 
 sai<l de ('a/ah'.. 'It i,s a ileliirht to ride by lier side. Are not 
 you comini,' with us?' he lusked. 
 
 * Yes, J '11 ride after you,' said Leonard. * I forgot all al»out 
 the liarrier.s. Nobody told me they were to bet,'in work this 
 morninijf.' 
 
 The horses were brought round to the ]iorch, the ladies put 
 on their gloves, and adjusted themselves in those skimpy lop- 
 sided petticoats wlii»;h have replaced tlm tlowing dra|iery of the 
 dark ages when a lujrse woman's legs and boots were in some- 
 wise a mystery to the outside world. 
 
 Leonard went out to look at the liorses. A strange hoi*se 
 would have interested him iwvw on his death bed, while one lay 
 of consciousness yet remained to recognize the degrees of equine 
 strength and (juality. Tie overhauled the mare which Major 
 Bree had choiien for ('hristabid a month ago — a magnilicent 
 three-quart(n' bred hunter, full of power. 
 
 ' Do you thiidc she can I'any me ? ' asked Christabel. 
 
 ' She could carry a house. Yes ; you ought to be safe upon 
 her. Is that big black Inute the F.aron's horse ? ' 
 
 * Yes.' 
 
 *I thought so — a coarse clumsy beast, all show,' muttered 
 Leonard : 'lik(^ master, like man.' 
 
 He turned away to examine Colonel Llathwayt's hunter, a 
 good looking chestnut, and in that monumt the liaron had taken 
 up his ground by CJhristabel's mare, and was ready to lift her 
 into the saddle. She went up as lightly as a shuttlecock fiom e 
 a battledore, scarcely touclnng the corduroy shoulder—but 
 Leonai'd felt angry with the Baron for usurping a function 
 which should liave been left for the husband. 
 
 *Is Betsy Baker in condition ?' he asked the liead groom, a^ 
 the piirty rode away, de Cazalet on Mrs, Tregonell's right hand, 
 
 ' Splendid, sir. Siie only wants work.' 
 
 ' (»et her ready as quick as you can I'll take it out of her.' 
 
 Mr. Tregouell kept his word. Wherever do Cazal,et and 
 
wife 
 
 ipon 
 
 * Gal Done, La Voyaijcusc, Au Coup Da Pclrin ! • 285 
 
 Chii.stiiliel rodo tluitday, Chn'stiilierH Imsbund went with tlisiu. 
 The Biiroii was u lioM, had rider — rcckh'ss of himself, })rutal to 
 his h(jrse. Chrislabel roiK; superbly, and was su[)erhly ii'oiiiited. 
 Those 'lills whieh seemed iimnh'rous to the straiii^'er, wen^ a* 
 iiothiiiL,' to her, wlio had galloped up and (h)wn (hem on her 
 Shftl.nid |»oiiy, ;;iid h;id seldom ri(hh'n over hetfer ground from 
 th(> tinu' when Aiiijor I5ree first took lier out with a lea(lini,'rein. 
 The day was lonu', and lliere was ]»h'nty of fast ^oin;^' hut lhes«! 
 three wer'o alw;iys iji thc^ front. V^et even the; husband's 
 imiiit'(!iale nei'^diboiirhood in no wise h'ssenod th(; l5aron's 
 niarkeil alien! ion (o the wife, ;nid LeoiLiid lode homeward at 
 dusk sorely tntubh'd in spirit. What did it mean ? Could it 
 l)e that she, whose eniiduit I.ist year had sremcd without 
 repi'oaeh ; who had boine lu-rstlf with matroidy di^jnity, with 
 virginal purity towaids the lover of her Lcirlhootl the refined 
 and aeeomplished Animus llandei^h — eould it be that sho had 
 idlowed herself to be inv(tlved iu a tlirlation with such a tinsel 
 dandy as this dc ( *az;iK't i 
 
 ' it wcndd be shi-er lunacy,' he said to himsoJf. ' Perhaps she 
 Ih carrying,' on like this to annoy nic; — punishin;^' me for ' 
 
 He rode home a little way beb.ind those other two, fidl of 
 vexation and hewildeiinent. Nothing' had happentd of which 
 he could reasonably complain, lie eould scarcely kick this man 
 out of his house because he indinetl hishead at a certain amjle — or 
 heoause he dropped his voice to a lower key when he spoke to 
 C'hristabel. Yet his very attitude in the saddle as he rcjde on 
 ahead — hi j hand on his horse's Hank, his ilLfuie turned towards 
 Chiistabel — wa< a ]n-ovocatir»n. 
 
 ( )pera boulTe duets — recitations — actin;.,' charades — hoi'ts riniia 
 — all the cataloL^ue of i^'rown-up ])layfidness — 1)^!;,^ln again after 
 dinner ; l)ut this evening Leonard did not stay in tlie drawing- 
 room, lie felt that he could not trust himself. His disgust 
 nuist needs explode into some rudeness of speech if he remained 
 to witness these vagaries. 
 
 ' I like the society of barmaids, and I can tolerate the com- 
 pany of ladies,' he said to his bosom friend Jack ; but a mixture 
 of (he two is unendural)le : so we'll have a good smoke and half- 
 crown pool, shilling lives.' 
 
 This was as much as to say, that Leonard and his other 
 fiiends were aiiont to render their half-crowns and shillings 
 as tiibute to Captain Vandeleurs s\iperior play ; that gentleman 
 having made pool his profession since he left the army. 
 
 They played till midnight, in an atmosj)here which grew 
 thick with tobacco smoke before the night was done. They 
 played till Jack Yandeleur's pockets were full of loose silver, and 
 till the other men had come to the conclusion that i)0ol waa a 
 slow game, with an clement of childishness in it, at the best — no 
 real skill, only a mere mechanicaJ knack, acquired by incessant 
 practice in fusty publifl rooms, reeking wi/^ alcohol. 
 
 r:i? 
 I, 
 
 1,1' 
 
 k 
 
 \l .. 
 
280 
 
 Moun* Ro^jat, 
 
 'Sliow me ft mnn who plays like tlitH, nnd 111 show you « 
 Bcaiiij),' inuttci'od little ^lonty in a friendly aside to Ijeoiiard, x. 
 Jack Vandeleur K\ve|)t up the last ])()ol. 
 
 * I know he's «'i Hcainj),' answered Leonard, 'hut he's a pleasant 
 »icanip, and a capital fellow to traveJ with — never ill — nt!ver out 
 uf temper — always ready for the day's woi'k, whatever it is, and 
 always alile to make the best of thiiii^'s. AV^hy don't you marry 
 one of his sisters? — they're both jolly ^f^ctod fellov/s.' 
 
 * No coin,' said ^Monty, shakint^ his neat little flaxen head. 
 * I can just contrive to keep myself — "still to be neat, still to be 
 drest." What in mercy's name should I do with a wife who 
 would want food and j^'owns, and stalls at the theatres? I have 
 been thinkin,!^ that if those St. Aubyniijirls have money — on the 
 nail, you kncnv, not in the form of expectations from that ])ain- 
 fully healthy father — I mi,L,dit think seriously of one of them. 
 They are horridly rustic — smell of clover and beans, and would 
 be likely to disf,a'ace one in London society — but they are not 
 hideous.' 
 
 * I don't think there's much ready money in that quarter* 
 Monty,' answered Leonard. 'St. Aubyn has a good deal of land.' 
 
 ' Land,' screamed IMonty. ' I wouldn't touch it with a p^iir 
 of tongs ! The workhouses of the next century will be j)eoph'd 
 by the offspring of the landed gentry. I shudder when I think 
 of the country squire and his prospects.' 
 
 'Hard lines,' said Jack, who had made that remark two or 
 three times before in the course of the evening. 
 
 They were sitting round the fire by this time — smoking and 
 drinking mulled Burgundy, and t\^ conversation had become 
 general. 
 
 This night was as many other nights. Sometimes Mr. 
 Tregonell tried to live through the evening in the drawing-room 
 — enduring the society games — the Boulevard music — the reci- 
 tations and tableaux and general frivolity — but he found tliese 
 amusements hang upon his spirits like a nightmare. He watched 
 his wife, but could discover nothing actually reprehensible in her 
 conduct — nothing upon which he could take his stand as an 
 outraged husband and say ' This shall not be.' If the Baron's 
 devotion to her was marked eno«gh for every one to see, and if 
 her acceptance of his attentions was gracious in the extreme, his 
 devotion and her graciousness were no more than he had seen 
 everywhere accepted as the small change of society, meaning 
 nothing, tending towards nothing but gradual satiety ; exf^ept in 
 those few exceptional cases which ended in open scandal and 
 took society by surprise. That which impressed Leonard was 
 the utter cliange in his wife's character. It seemed as if her 
 very nature were altered. Womanly tenderness, a gentle and 
 subdued manner, had given place to a hard brilliancy. It was, 
 as if he had lost a pearl, and found a diamond in its place — one 
 all softness a)id purity, the other all sparkle and light 
 
paning 
 
 ^Gai Done, La Voi/ageiifiC, Au Cmip Dit Pchnn!" 287 
 
 ITo wa? too ])i(iu«l to sue to hot- for any roiiowal of old confi- 
 dences — to claiiii from licr any of the diitics of a wife. If slio 
 could live and bo liai)i)y Nvitlioiit him — and ho knew Imt too 
 fiinrly that his ]n'c'.'-"nce, his allVotion, had ntsvor contrihutcd t(» 
 Irt ha])iiin('s,s — he woild let hir see that he could livt; withnut 
 her — that he was c<tntent to accept the position sin- liad chosen — 
 union which was no union — n\arria[,'e that had (-eased to bo 
 nianiac^e — a chain drawn out to its furthest len,i,'th, yet held fio 
 lightly that neither need feel the boii(l;ii,'e. 
 
 Everybody at Mount Ifoyal was Iniul in praise of Chriatabcl. 
 She was so brilliant, so versatile, she made lur house so utterly 
 charming. This was the veidict of her new friends — but her 
 old friends were less enthusiastic'. Major Dice ctnui to tlu; 
 Manor House very seldom now, and frankly owned himself u 
 lish out of water in Mrs. TregonoU's new circle. 
 
 'Everybody is so laboriously lively,' he said; 'there is an 
 air of forced hilarity. I sigh for the house as it was in your 
 mother's time, Leonard. " A haunt of ancient peace." ' 
 
 'There's not much peace about it now, by Jove,' said 
 Leonard. ' Why did you put it into my wife's head to ride to 
 hounds ? ' 
 
 ' I had nothing to do witli it. She asked me to choose lier a 
 hunter, and I chose her something good ami safe, that's all 
 Jiut I don't think you ought to object to her hunting, Leonard, 
 or to her doing anything else that may help to keep her in good 
 spirits. She was in a rery bad way all the winter.' 
 
 ' Do you mean that she was seriously ill ? Their letters to 
 
 me were so ci d short. I hardly knf)W anything that went on 
 
 while I was away.' 
 
 ' Yes. She was very ill — given over to melancholy. It w;w 
 only natural that she should be atlt'cted by Angus Uandeigh's 
 death, when you remember what they had been to each other 
 before you came home. A wonuui may break au engagement of 
 that kind, and may be very happy in her union with another 
 man, but she can't forget her first lover, if it were only because 
 he is the first. It was an unlucky thing your bringing him to 
 Mount Eoyal. One of your impulsive follies.' 
 
 ' Yes, one of my follies. So you say that Christabel was out 
 of health and spirits all the winter.' 
 
 ' Yes, she would see no one — not even me — or the Iiector. 
 No one but the doctor ever crossed the threshold. liut surely 
 Miss Bridgeman lui.s told you all about it. Miss Lridgenuin wiis 
 devoted to her.' 
 
 ' Miss Bridgeman is as close as the grave ; and I am not going 
 to demean myself by questioning her.' 
 
 'Well, there is no need to be unhaitpy about the past. 
 Chrisjabel is herself again, thank (Jod — brightei', prettier than 
 ever. That Swiss tour with Miss Bri<lgemau and the boy did 
 her worlds of good. I thought you made a misUike in leaving' 
 
 t 
 f 
 
 ! I 
 
 (■;, 
 
288 
 
 Mount Ttoydl. 
 
 her at Mount Royal aft«r that iiiulaiK holy event. You ahoiiKl 
 hiivo taken lu'»' with you.' 
 
 * Perhaps I on;,'iit to have doim so,' asMiMittd Li'oiianl, think- 
 ing iMttcrly how vciy iniprohablo it \va.s that kIio would have 
 coMsenteil to •,'() with him. 
 
 Jfo tried to iiiaUn the best of liis ]t(»Hition, j>aiiiful as it was. 
 Tlo ))lu.st(!red and heetonul aa of old — ;,'av(! his days to field 
 sports — his eveiiiii'^'s for the most ])art to billiards and tobacco. 
 lie drank more than he had bren acciistdincd to<li ink, sat up late 
 (tf ni.'^hts. 11 is nerves were notbcndiliMl by these latter habits. 
 
 ' Vour hand is as sli;d\y a.s an old woman's,' exclaimed .Jack, 
 upon his opponent nn'ssiiiL,' an easy camion. 'Why, you luii-ht 
 have done that, with a b(»ot-jack. If you're not cari'ful you'll be 
 in for an attack of del. trem., and that will chaw you uj) in a 
 Very short time. A man of vour stamina is the worst kind of 
 nid»ject for neivous disease.s. Wv shall hav«' y(»u eatchiu'^ flies, 
 and seein.Lf imai^inai-y snow-stoims bctore loie^f.' 
 
 Leonard received this friendly wainini^ with a .sc<»rnful hiugh. 
 
 * De Oa/alet driidvs more biandy in a day than I do in a 
 week,' he said. 
 
 *Ah, but look a hi.s advantages — brought up in Jersey, 
 where cognac is <lutv-free. None of us have had his tine training. 
 AVonderfid constitution he must have— hand as steady as a rock. 
 You saw him this morning knock oil' a particular acorn from the 
 oak in the stal>Ie yard with a bullet.' 
 
 ' Yes, the fellow can shoot ; he's less of an impostor than I 
 ex])«cted.' 
 
 ' Wonderful eye and hand. lie must have spent ywars of his 
 life in a shooting gallery. You're a dooced good shot, Tregonell ; 
 but, compared with him, you're not in it.' 
 
 * That's very likely, though 1 have had to live by my gun in 
 the Ilockies. FitzJesse told me that in South America de Cazalet 
 was known as a professed duellist.' 
 
 ' And you have only shot four-footed beasts — never gone for 
 a fellow creature,' answered Jack, lightly. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 'time tdrns the old days to derision.' 
 
 If Leonard Tregonell was troubled and perplexed by the change 
 in his wife's character, there was one other person {it Mount 
 Ivoyal, (Jhristabel's nearest .and dearest friend, to whom that 
 change was even a greater mystitication. Jessie Bridgeman4 
 who had been witii her in the dark hours of her grief — who had 
 scQn her sunk in the apathy of despair — who had comforted and 
 watched her, and symiiathized and wept with her, looked on 
 now in blank wonderment at a phase of character which was 
 altogeth er ejiigmatical. She had been with Mrs. Tregonell »^ 
 
*Tlinc Tm-m the Old Days to Dcriih, 
 
 
 slioiilA 
 
 of his 
 
 Zorniatt. wlicii <lf ("*;i/;ilt't liinl ((Ltrudcd liim«"lf on f li-'ir iiotice 
 bv liis olliciniis uL(('iitio!is (luriiiLj a ]Ml'4riiiia.Lr«* to lln' h'iU'ol, ftinl 
 Bfie liail lici'M lifwildd'cd ;it Clui-^t.'ilK'l "•< tivility to a man of sudi 
 obvioiiH Ijad sLylf. Jle li.id stayed at llii^ same lioti'l with thcni 
 for tlireo (jr four days, aiid had i;ivi'n them as much of Ids soci«'ty 
 an ho coidd without bciii.Lj ahso'iittdy intrusive, takiii<,' advanta'/o 
 of havint; nx't ('!iristaln'l tivt; seasons a,L,'o, at two or tliree ffi/nH 
 literary asstMnhlit's ; and at jiartini: C!»ristaltel liad invitcil Inm 
 to Mount Jioyah 'Mr. Tresfoiiell svill he at home in the autumn.' 
 phe said, 'and if you should find yourself in Cornwall '— lio had 
 talked of exploring' the West of England — *I know ho would bo 
 glad to see you at Motint Jvoyal.' 
 
 When Jessie hinted at the unwisdom of an invitation to a 
 man of whom they kiu-w sio little, C-hristahel answered carelessly 
 that 'Leonard liked to have his house full of lively j)eui)le, and 
 would no doulit be pleased with the iJaron do ('a/,alet.' 
 
 * You used to leave hira to choose his own visitors.' 
 
 * I know ; but 1 mean to take a more active part in tiio 
 arram^ement of things in future, I am tired of being a cipher.' 
 
 ' Did you Lear those people talking of the iJarou at (able d'hote 
 
 yesterday ] ' 
 
 ' I heard a little — I was not particularly attentive.' 
 
 'Then perhayis you did not hear that hi; is a thorough 
 
 Boliemian — that ho led a very wild life in South America, and 
 
 was a notorious (luellist.* 
 
 * What can that matter to ua, even if it is <rue?' 
 
 It seemed to Jessie that ('hri^luhd'H whole nature underwent 
 a change, and that the transformation dated from her accpiaint- 
 ance with this man. They W(!re at the end of tlicii* tour at tho 
 time of this meeting, and they came straight through to Parin, 
 where Mrs. Tregonell abandoned herself to fri^■oiil.y — going to 
 all the theatres — buying all the newest and lightest music — ■ 
 spending long mornings with, milliners and dressmakers— 
 Rquandering money upon fine clothes, which a year ago she 
 would liave scornotl to wear. Hitherto her taste had tended to 
 simplicity of attire — not without richness — for tshe was too niU(;h 
 of an artist not to value the artistic ellects of costly fabrics, the 
 beauty of warm colouring. But she now pursued that Will o' the 
 Wisp fashion from Worth to Pingat, and bought any number of 
 gowns, some of which, to Miss ]^ridgeman's sevjre taate, .seemed 
 simply odious. 
 
 *I)oyou intend spending next season in IMay I'air, and do 
 you expect to be asked to a good m;iny fancy balls ?' asked 
 Jessie, tus Mrs. Tregonell's maid exhibited the gowiis in the 
 Bpacious bed-room at the J^>ristol. 
 
 ' Nonsense, Jes^',ie. These are all dinner gowns. The infinikj 
 variety of modern fashion is its chief merit. The st^-le of to-day 
 ombnices three centui-ieis ©f th© past, from Cathwim* de M6di«is 
 to Madame E6camier.' 
 
 1 »> * 1 ! 
 
290 
 
 3Ioimt Royal. 
 
 At one of the Boulevard tlicatrcs Mrs. Tregoncll and MisJ 
 Brid<^'einan met INIr. TitzJesse, who was also returning from a 
 Buminer holiday. Jlc was Aii,i:fus Hamloiglr.s friend, and had 
 known Christalx'l during the happy days of her iirst London 
 eoason. It Kconied liardly strange that she shoulil be glad to 
 meet him, ajid that she should ask him to Mount Koyal. 
 
 /\'nd now I nnist have some women to meet these men,' she 
 eaiil, when she and Jessie were at home again, and the travelled 
 infant had gone back to his nursery, and had iur|Mired why the 
 hills he saw from liis windows were no longer wliite, and why 
 the sea v/ns so nnuh bigger than the lakes he had seen lately. 
 *I mijan to make; tlie house ;is pleiusjiiit as possible for Leonard 
 when lie o<»mes home.' 
 
 She aiid Jessie were alone in the oak-panelled parlour — the 
 room with the alcove overlooking the h"ils and the sea. They 
 were seated at a little table in this recess — Ohristabel's desk open 
 before her — Jessit; knitting. 
 
 ' llow gaily you speak. Have you ' 
 
 She was going to say, ' IJave you forgiven him for what was 
 done at St. Nectan's Kieve'^ but she checked herself when the 
 words were on her lips. What if Leonard's ciime was not for- 
 given, but forgetten 'I In that long dreary winter they had 
 never spoken of the manner of Angus Hamleigh's death, Clnis- 
 tabel's despair had been silent, Jessie had comforted her with 
 vague words which never touched upon the cruel details of her 
 grief. How if the mind had been affected by that long interval 
 of borrow and the memory of Leonard's deed l>lotted out? 
 Christabel'g new delight in frivolous things- -her sudden fancy 
 for filling her house with lively people — might be the awakening 
 of new life and vigour in a mind that had trembled on the con- 
 fines of madness. Was it for her to recall bitter facts — to reopen the 
 fountain of te.'ivs ^ She gave one little sigh for the untimely dead 
 "—and tlvcn addressed herself to the duty of pleasing Christabel, 
 just as in days gone by her every effort had been devoted to 
 making the elder Mrs. Tregonell ljapi)y. 
 
 ' I suppose you had better ask Mrs. Fairfax Torriagton,' she 
 suggested, 
 
 ' Yes, Leonard and she are great chums. We must have 
 Mrs. Torrington. And there are the St, Aubyns, nice lively 
 girls, and an inoffensive father and mother. I believe Leonard 
 rather likes them. And then it will be a charity to have Dopsy 
 and Mopsy.' 
 
 * I thought you detested them.' 
 
 'No, poor foolish things — I was once sorry for Dopsy,' 'J I.c 
 tears rushed to her eyes. She rose suddenly from her c^air. and 
 went to the window. 
 
 'Then she has not forgotten,' thought Jessie, 
 
 So it was that the autumn i>arty was planned. Mr, Faddie 
 *^a8 doing duty at the little church in the glen, akd thus 
 
koning 
 
 it have 
 
 lively 
 
 jednrord 
 
 Dopsy 
 
 TI. 
 
 Faddie 
 d thus 
 
 ' Time Turns the Old Days to Derision' 291 
 
 happened to be in the way of an invitation. ^Ir. JVlontagu m aai 
 asked as a person of general usefulness. The St. Aubyn party 
 brou;t;ht horses, and men and maids, and contributed much to 
 the liveliness of the cstablislimcnt, >so far ixa noise nu-aiis sjraiity. 
 They were all assembled when Karon iU^ (\i/alet tclt'tfraiiliedfruni 
 a yacht offtheJjizardtn ;isk if he mi<,'hteoiiio, and, recciviiitjf a favour- 
 able reply, landed atPenzance, and posted over with his valet ; his 
 horse and gun cases were brought fi'oni Lowchm by aiiotlierservant. 
 
 Leonard had been home nearly a fortnight, and had hegun 
 to accept this new mode of life witlutut further wonder, and to 
 fall into his old ways, and hnd some degree of pleasure in his old 
 occupations — hunting, shooting. 
 
 The Van<leleur girls were tlraining th<' cup of jdea.suio to 
 the dregs, Dopsy forgot her failuie and giief of last year. One 
 cannot waste all one's life in mourning for a lover who was 
 never in love with one. 
 
 ' I wore bugles for him all last vvinter, and if I had been able 
 to buy a new black gown i wouhi have kept in mourning for 
 six months,' she told her sister apol(j;^etically, as if asjianied of 
 her good spirits, 'but I can't hel[) enjoying niys,-!!' in such ji 
 house as this. Is not Mrs. Tregcjnell changetl for (he bttlcr ?' 
 
 'Everything is changed for the better,' as.seiiled Mopsy. 
 * If we had only horses and could hunt, like those istuck uj) St. 
 Aubyn girls, life would be perfect.' 
 
 'They ride well, I suppose,' said Dojtsy, 'but they are dread- 
 fully arricires. They haven't an .'esthetic idea. AVhen I told 
 thorn we had thoughts of belonging to the Urowning Society, that 
 eldest one asked me if it wa^ like the Jiirkbeek, an(l if we should 
 be able to buya house rentfiee by monthly instalments. And the 
 youngest said that sunllowers were only tit foi' cottage gardens.' 
 
 'And the narrow-minded mother declared she could see no 
 beauty in single d-dili;is,' added Dopsy, with inetlalile disgust. 
 
 The day was nopelessly wet, and tl»e visitors at Mtuint Jloyal 
 »vere spending the morning in that somewhat straggling mannc r 
 common to people who are in somebody else's house — imj)resst d 
 with a feeling that it is useless to settle oneself even to the 
 intoi'esting labour of art needlework when one is not by one'a 
 own iiresidc. The sportsmen were all out ; but de Cazalet, the 
 Rev. St. Bernard, and ISlr. Fit//.Tesse preferred the shelter of a 
 well-warmed Jacobean mansion to the wild sweep of the wind 
 across the moor, or the tlash of the billows. 
 
 ' I have had plenty of wild life on the sliores of the Pacific,' 
 Baid de Cazalet, luxuriating in a large green plush arm-chair, ono 
 of the anachronisms of the grave old library. ' At home I revel 
 in civilization — I cannot have too much (»f warmth and 
 comfort — velvety nests like this to lounge in, downy cushions to 
 lean against, hothou.se Howei's, and French cookery. Delicious to 
 heartherainbeating against the glass, and tin? wind howling in the 
 chimney. Put another log on Faddie. like the best of fellow^j.' 
 
 •i'": 
 
 Si 
 
s: j 
 
 292 
 
 li 
 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
 The Reverend St. Bernard, not much appreciating this 
 familiarity, daintily picked a log froti the big In-azen basket 
 and dropped it in a gingerly manner upon tlie heaiHi, carefully 
 dusting ilia lingers afterwards with a cambric handkerchief 
 Vvhich sent forth odours of ]\rarechale. 
 
 Mr. FitzJesse was sitting at a distant table, with a large 
 despatch box and a y)ile of open letters I. ^fore him, writing at 
 railway speed, in order to be in time for the one o'clock post. 
 
 * He is making up his paper,' said de Cazalet, lazily contem- 
 plating the worker's bowed shoulders. ' I wonder if he is saying 
 anything about us.' 
 
 * 1 am happy to say that he does not often discuss church 
 matters,' said Mr. P'addie. ' He shows his good sense by a 
 tareful avoidance of opinion upon our dilHculties and our 
 dill'erences.' 
 
 'Perhaps he doesn't think them worth discussing-«-of no more 
 consequence than the shades of difFcrence between tweedledum 
 and twedledee,' yawned de Cazalet, whereupon Mr, Faddie gave 
 him a look of contemptuous anger, and left the room. 
 
 Mr. FitzJesse went away soon afterwards will) his batch of 
 letters for the po.it-bag in the hall, and the Baron was left alone 
 in listless contemj)lation of the fii-e. He had been in the drawing 
 room, but had found that apartment uninteresting by reason of 
 Mrs. Tregonell's al>scnce. He did not care to sit and watch 
 the two ISliss St. Aubyns playing chess — nor to hear INIrs. Fairfax 
 Torrington driljbliiig out stray paragraphs from the 'society 
 journals ' for the lienetit of nobody in particular — nor to listen 
 to Mrs. St. Aubyn's disquisitions u})f»n the merits of Alderney 
 
 cows, with which Jessie 
 
 Bridgeman 
 
 made believe to bd 
 
 interested, while deep in the intricacies of a crewel- work daffodil. 
 For him the spacious pink and white panelled room without one 
 particular person was more desolate than the wili expanse of 
 the Pampas, with its low undlations, growing rougher towanls 
 the base of the mountains. He had come to the library — an 
 apartment chielly used by th(* men — to bask in tlie light of the 
 lire, and to brood iij)on agreeable tho\ights. The meditations of 
 a man who has a very high opinion of his own merits ar* 
 generally pleasant, and just now Oliver de Cazalet's idea about 
 himself were uiuisually t'xalted, for had he not obviouslv made 
 \he conquest of one of the niojst charming women he had 
 ever met. 
 
 ' A pity she has a husband,' he thought. ' It would have 
 suited nie remarkably well to droj) into such u luxurious nest aa 
 this. The boy is not throe years old — by the time he came of 
 age — well — I should have lived my life, I sup])ose, and could 
 atlbrd to subside into comfortable obscurity,' sighed de Cazalet, 
 conscious of his forty years. ' The husband looks uncommonly 
 tough ; but even Hercvdes was mortal. One never kntwa h«vf 
 or when a man of that atamp may oo off the hooka.' 
 
Timp- Turns tJic Old Days to Derision.' 
 
 293 
 
 ason o{ 
 watch 
 Fairfax 
 society 
 listen 
 lerncy 
 to "be 
 attodil. 
 3vit one 
 anse of 
 owanls 
 ry — an 
 of the 
 ions of 
 its ar» 
 about 
 made 
 le had 
 
 Id have 
 
 nest aa 
 
 janie of 
 
 ll could 
 
 I'azalet, 
 
 imonly 
 
 h«vr 
 
 These pleasing reflections were disturbed by the entrance of 
 Mopsy, who, after prowling all over the house in quest of mas- 
 culine society, came yawning into the library in search of any- 
 thing readable in the way of a ne\vs]>a])or — a readable paper 
 with Mopsy meaning tiieatres, fashions, or scandal. 
 
 She gave a little start at siglit of de Cazalet, whose stalwart 
 form and florid good looks were by no means obnoxious to her 
 taste. If ho had not been so evidently devote<l to Mrs. Tregonell, 
 Mopsy would have ])erchance essayed his subjugation ; but, re- 
 membering Dop.sy's bitter experience of last year, the sadder and 
 wiser Miss Vand'jieur had made up her niinil not to 'go for' any 
 marriageable man in too distinct a manner. She would ])lay 
 that fluking f^amo which she most aflcctcil at billiards — sentling 
 her ball spinning all over the table with the hope that some 
 successful result must come of a vigorous stroke. 
 
 She fluttered about the room, then stopped in a Fra Angelico 
 pose over a table strewed with papers. 
 
 'Baron, have you seen the Queen i' she asked presently. 
 
 * Often. I had the honour of making my bow to her last 
 April. She is one of the dearest women I know, and she was 
 good enough to feel interested in my somewhat romantic career.' 
 
 'How nice ! But I mean the Queen newspaper. I am dying 
 to know if it really is coming in. Now it baa been seen in Baiis, 
 I'm afraid it's inevitable,' 
 
 * May I ask what it is ? ' 
 
 * Perhaps I oughtn't to mention it— crinoline. There is a talk 
 about something called a crinolette.' 
 
 'And Crinolette, I su])])use, is own sister to Crinoline?* 
 
 * I'm afraid so — don't you hate them ? I do ; I love the early 
 Italian style — clinging cashmeres, soft flowing dra})eries.' 
 
 'And accentuated angles — well, yes. If one has to ride in 
 a hansom or a single brougham with a woman the hoop and 
 powder style is rather a burthen. But women are such lovely 
 beings — they are adorable in any coatume. Maduue Tallien 
 with bare feet, and no petticoats to sjieak of —Pompadour in 
 patches and wide-sj)reading brocade — IMargaret of Orleans in a 
 peaked head dress and i)utted sleeves — Mary Stuart in a black 
 velvet coif, and a ruli" — each and all adorable — on a i)retty 
 woman.' 
 
 ' On a pratty woman — j'es. The pretty women set the fashiuua 
 and the ugly women have to wear them — that's the dilUculty.' 
 
 'Ah, me,' sighed the Baron, 'did any one ever see an ugly 
 woman ? There are so many degrees of beauty that it talces a 
 long time to get from Venus to her opposite, A smile — a sparkle 
 — a kindly look — afresh complexion — a neat bonnet: — vivacious 
 conversation — such trifles will pass for bea\ity with a man who 
 worships the sex. For him every llower in the garden of woman- 
 hood, from the imperial rose to the lowly buttercup, has its own 
 Deculiar charm.' 
 
294 
 
 Mount Eoyal. 
 
 I 
 
 'And yet I should have thought you were awf uU v f aatidious, 
 Baid Mopsy, trifling with the newspapers, *^nd that nothing 
 short of ab.sohito perfection would ple.'ise you.' 
 
 * Absolute perfection is generally a bore. I have met famous 
 beauties who bad no more attraction than if they had been 
 famous statues.' 
 
 ' Y(is ; I know there is a cold kind of beauty — but there are 
 women who are as fascinating as they are lovely. Our hostess, 
 for instance — don't you think her utterly sweet ? * 
 
 ' She is very lovely. Do come and sit by the fire. It isr^ncli 
 a creepy morning. I'll hunt for any Jiewspapers you like 
 presently ; but in the meanwhile let us chat. I was getting 
 horribly tired of my own thoughts when you came in.' 
 
 M(»psy .siiu|)ere(l, and sat down in the easy chair opposite the 
 Baron's. SIio began to think that this delightful person ad niii'ed 
 lier more than she had hitherto sujiposed. His desire for her 
 2ompany looked jn'omising. What if, after all, slie, wlio had 
 striven so much less eagerly than poor Dopsy strove htst year, 
 should be on the high road to a conquest. Hero Wiis the 
 handsomest man slie had over nu»t, a man with title and money, 
 courting her society in a house full of people. 
 
 ' Yes, she is altogether charming,' said the Baron lazily, as if 
 he were tiilking merely for the sake of conversation. * Very 
 sweet, as you say, but not quite my style — there is a something 
 — an intangible something wanting. She has chic — she has 
 savoir-faire, but she has not — no, she lias not that electrical wit 
 which — [ have admired in others less conventionally beautiful.' 
 
 The Baron's half-veiled smile, a smile glancing from under 
 lowered eyelids, hinted that this vital spark which was wanting 
 in f'hristabel might be found in Mopsy. 
 
 The daujsel blushed, ajul looked ''.own conscious of eyelashes 
 artistically treated. 
 
 ' I don't think Mrs. Tiegnnell has been quite happy in her 
 married life,' said Mojisy. ' My brother and Mr. Tregonell are 
 very old friends, don't you know ; like brothers, in fact ; and 
 Mr. Tregonell tells Jack everything. I know his cousin didn't 
 want to maiiy him — she was ennaged to somebody else, don't 
 you know, and that engagement was broken otF. but he had set 
 his heart upon marrying her — and his mother had set her heart 
 upon the mateh — and between them they talked her into it, 
 she never real!;/ wanted to marry him — Leonard has owneil 
 that to Ja(tk in Ids savaj^e moods. But I ought not to run on s<j 
 — I am doing very wrong' — said Mopsy, hastily. 
 
 * You may say anything you ])lease to me. I am like tha 
 i^iave. I never give up a secret,' said the Baron, who had 
 settled himself comfortably in his chair, assured that Mopsy 
 once set going, would tell him all she cenld tell. 
 
 ' No, I don't believe — from what Jack says he says in hia 
 tempera — I don't believe she ever liked him,' pursued Mopsy. 
 
idiouB, 
 
 lothing 
 
 famous 
 L(l been 
 
 I ere are 
 
 hostess, 
 
 , isnncli 
 m like 
 getting 
 
 site the 
 1(1 mi red 
 
 fur her 
 vho had 
 ust year, 
 ViiH the 
 
 money, 
 
 ily, as if 
 * Very 
 [uething 
 she has 
 rical wit 
 utiful.' 
 
 II under 
 wanting 
 
 yelashes 
 
 y in her 
 5nell are 
 ct ; and 
 n di(hi't 
 ae, don't 
 
 had set 
 er heart 
 
 into it. 
 s owned 
 un on s<i 
 
 like tha 
 
 rho had 
 
 Mopay 
 
 VH in hia 
 Mopsy. 
 
 • Time Turns tJic Old Days to Dm.<iiOJt: 190 
 
 •And she w,ia desperately in love with the other one. But slie 
 gave him up at her aunt's instigation, because? of some early 
 intrig;«f' of Ids — which was absurd, as slie would have known, 
 poor thing, if she h.nd not been brought up in this out-of-the-way 
 corner of the world,' 
 
 * The other one. Who was the other one 1 ' asked t!;e llaron. 
 *The man who w;is shot at St. Nectan's Kievi? Inst yt'.-ir. 
 
 Von must jirive lioard the story.' 
 
 * Yes ; M'\ St. Aubyn told mo about it. And this Mr. 
 Hamleigh liad been eng.iged to i\frs. Tregom^U'^ U(jd that, ho 
 shoidd lie staying in this liouse ! ' 
 
 ' Wjusu't it. ] One of those odd things that Leonanl Tregonell 
 is fond of doing. He was always eccentric. 
 
 ' And during this visit was there anything — the best of women 
 are mortal — was there anything in the way of a flirtation going 
 on between ]\Irs. Tregonell and lier former sweetheart ? ' 
 
 * Not a shadow of impropriety,' answered ]\Iopsy heartily. 
 * She behaved perfectly. I knew the story from my brother, and 
 couldn't help watching them — there was nothing underhand — not 
 the faintest indication of a secret understanding between them.' 
 
 * And Mr. Tregonell was not jealous '? ' 
 
 * I cannot say ; but I am sure he had no oAUse.' 
 
 ' I sup{)oso Mrs. Tregonell was deeply alTected T»y !Mr. Ham- 
 leigh's death ? ' 
 
 * I iiardly know. She seemed wonderfully calm ; but as wo 
 left almost immediately after the accident I had not much 
 opportunity of judging.' 
 
 ' A sad business. A lovely woman married to a man she 
 does not care for — and really if I were not a visitor under his 
 roof I should be tempted to say that in my opinion no woman 
 in her senses could care for Mr. Tregonell. Jiut I suppose after 
 all practical considerations had something to do with the match. 
 Tregonell is lord of lialf-a-dozen manors — and the lady hadn't 
 a sixpence. Was that it ? ' 
 
 *Not at all. Mrs. Tregonell has money in her own right 
 She w;is the only child of an Indian judge, and her mother was 
 co-heiress with the late Mrs. Tregonell, wlio was a Miss Cham- 
 peniowne — I believe she has at least fifteen hundred a year, 
 u[)on which a single woman might live very com f«»rl;ably, don't 
 you know,' concluded INTIss Vandelcur, with a grand air. 
 
 'No doubt,' said the Caron. 'And the fortune was settled 
 on herself, I conclude r 
 
 ' Every shilling. ISIr. Tregonell's mother insisted upon that. 
 "^^ doubt she felt it her duty to ])rot(!ct her niece's interest. 
 Mr. Tregonell has comi)lained to Jack oi his wife being &o 
 independent. It lessens his hold upon her, don't you see.' 
 
 'Naturally. She is not under any obligation to him for her 
 millhier's bills.' 
 
 * No. And ber bills must be awfully heavy this year. I 
 
 ■u 
 
290 
 
 Mount Pioyal. 
 
 h^ 
 
 i 
 
 never saw such a change in any one. Last autumn vshe dressorl 
 so simply. A tailor-,i,'own in the luornini,' — black velvet or satin 
 in the evening. And now there is no oiul to the variety of her 
 gowns. It makes one feel awfully shabby.' 
 
 * Such artistic toilets as yours can never be shabby,' said the 
 Baron. * In looking at a picture by Greuze one does not think 
 how much a yard the pale indefinite drapery cost, one only sees 
 the grace and beauty of the draping.' 
 
 'True ; taste will go a long way,' assented Mopsy, who liad 
 been trying for the last ten years to make taste — that is to say 
 a careful study of the West-end shop windows — do duty for ciish 
 
 ' Then you find Mrs. Tregonell changed since your last visit ? 
 inquired de Cazalet, bent upon learning all he could. 
 
 * Remarkably. She is so much livelier — she seems so much 
 more anxious to please. It is a change altogether for the better. 
 She seems gayer — brighter — happier.' 
 
 * Yes,' thought the Baron, * she is in love. Only one 
 magician works such wonders, and he is the oldest of the gods 
 — the motive power of the universe.' 
 
 The gong sounded, and they went off to lunch. At the foot 
 of the stairs they met Christabel bringing down her boy. She 
 was not so devoted to him as she had been hist year, but there 
 were occasions — like this wet morning, for instance — when she 
 gave hereelf up to his society. 
 
 ' Leo is going to eat his dinner with us,' she said, smiling at 
 the Baron, ' if you will not think him a nuisance.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, I shall be charmed to improve his acquaint- 
 ance. I hope he will let me sit next him.' 
 
 * Thant,' lisped Leo,' decisively. ' Don't like oo.' 
 
 * Oh, Leo, how rude.' 
 
 * Don't reprove him,' said the Baron. * It is a comfort to be 
 reminded that for the first three or four years of our lives we all 
 tell the truth. But I mean you to like me, Leo, all the same.' 
 
 * I hate 'oo,' said Leo, frankly — he always expressed himself 
 in strong Saxon Englisli — * but 'oo love ray mamma.' 
 
 This, in a shrill childish treble, was awkward for the rest of 
 the party. Mrs. Fairfax Torrington gave an arch glance at Mr. 
 FitzTesse. Dopsy reddened, and exploded in a little spluttering 
 laugli behind her nai)kiu. Christabel looked divinely uncon- 
 scious, smiling down at her boy, whose chair had been placed at 
 the corner of the table close to his mother. 
 
 'It is a poet's privile^je to worship the beautiful, Leo,' said 
 the Baron, with a self-satisfied smirk. ' The old troubadom-'a 
 right of allegiance to the loveliest^ — as old as chivalry,' 
 
 * And as disreputable,' said FitzJesse. ' If I had been one 
 of the knights of old, and had found a troubadour sneaking 
 about my ]ironiises, that trouo;uh)ur's head should have be^'a 
 through iiis guitar before he knew wiiere he v. us — or he should 
 Lave discovered that my idea of a cunauou ehoixl w.is a h.ilter. 
 
said 
 dour'a 
 
 n one 
 aking 
 
 hould 
 
 i.iller. 
 
 * Time Turns the Old Days to Derision.* 297 
 
 But in our present n^o of ultra-refinement the social troubadour 
 is a j^'entlcnian, and the worship of beauty one of <he higher 
 forms of culture.' 
 
 The Baron looked at the journalist suspiciously. ])t)ld as he 
 was of speech and bearing, he never ventured to cross swords 
 with Mr. FitzJesse. He was too much afraid of seeing an 
 article upon his Jersey antecedents or his married life in leaded 
 type in the 8ling. 
 
 Happily IVIr. Tregonell was not at luncheon upon this par- 
 ticular occasion. He had gone out shooting with Jack Vamleleur 
 and little Monty. It was supposed to be a great year for wood- 
 cock, and the Squire and his friends had been after the birds in 
 every direction, except St. Nectan's Kieve. He had refused to go 
 there, although it wtis a tradition that the place was a favourite 
 resort of the birds. 
 
 * Why don't you shoot, Mrs. Tregonell ? ' asked Mi-s. Tor- 
 rington ; *it is just the one thing that makes life woith living in 
 a country like this, where there is no great sco{)e for hunting.' 
 
 ' I should like roaming about the hills, but I could never 
 hiing myself to hit a bird,' answered Clnistabel. *I am too 
 fond of the feathered race. I don't know why or what it is, but 
 there is something in a bird which appeals intensely to or.e's 
 pity. I have been more sorry than I can say for a dying 
 sparrow ; and I can never teach myself to remember that birds 
 are such wretchedly cruel and unprincipled creatures in their 
 dealings with one another that they really deserve very little 
 compassion from man.' 
 
 ' Except that man has the responsibility of knowing better, 
 said Mr, FitzJesse. * That infernal cruelty of the animal crea- 
 tion is one of the problems that must perplex the gentle optimist 
 who sums up his religion in a phrase of Pope's, and avows that 
 whatever is, is right. Who, looking at the meek meditative 
 countenance of a Jersey cow, those large stag-like eyes — Juno's 
 eyes — would believe that Mrs. Cow is capable of tram]»ling a 
 sick sister to death — nay, would look upon the operation as a 
 matter of course — a thing to be done for the good of society.' 
 
 'Is there not a little moral trampling done by stag-eyed 
 creatures of a higher grade,' asked Mrs. Toriiiigton. 'Let a 
 woman once fall down in the mud, and there are plenty of her 
 own sex ready to grind her into the mire. Cows have a coarser, 
 more practical way of treating their fallen sisters, but the prin- 
 ciple is the same, don't you know.' 
 
 *I have always found man the more malignant animal,' said 
 FitzJesse. 'At her worst a woman generally has a motive for 
 the evil she does — some wrong to avenge — .^ome petty slight to 
 retaliate. A man stabs for the mere jjleasure of stabbing. 
 With li'.in slander is one of the tine iwU. j).M)L'n(1 upon it your 
 Crab-tree is a moitj nialevoiont tr'.'ut'u-c llir.n \\\.-. T'aii lour — ;ti;d 
 the Candours \\~i ild not kill rcputauuiio ii" the Crabtrees did not 
 
 ^.!f 
 
r 
 
 Mi 
 
 ' ■' 
 
 if 
 
 I 
 
 21)8 
 
 Mount Hoynl. 
 
 admire and applaud the slaughter. For my own part I believe 
 that if there were no men iu the world, women would be almost 
 kind to each other.' 
 
 The Baron did not enter into thia discussion. lie had no 
 tast(> for any siibject out of liis own line, wliich was art and 
 lu'.uity. With character or inornl.s lio 1 .-d nothing to do. He 
 <lid not even |»reten(i to listen to the diRcoiirse of the others, but 
 amused himself with petting Leo, who sturdily repnlsed his 
 endearments. When bespoke it was to reply to (!hrist;ibel's last 
 remark. 
 
 *If you are fonder of roaming on the hills than of shooting, 
 Mrs. Tregonell, why should we not organize a rambling party ? 
 It is n(»t too late for a picnic. Lot us hold ourselves ready for 
 the first bright day — perhaps, after this deluge, wo shall have 
 fine weather to-morrow — anil organize a pilgrimage to Tintagel, 
 with all the freedom of pedestrians, who can choose their own 
 c()m|);uiy, and are not obliged to sit opposite the person they 
 least care about in the imprisonment of a barouche or a wagonette. 
 Walking ])icni(;s are the only ]>icnics worth having. You are a 
 good walker, I know, Mrs. Tregonell ; and you, Mrs. Torrington, 
 you can walk, I have no doubt.' 
 
 The widow smiled and nodded. * Oh, yes I am good for 
 half-a-dt)zen miles, or so,' she said, wondering whether she 
 [jossessed a ])air of boots iu which she could walk, n)ost of her 
 boob5 being made rather with a view to exhibition on a fender- 
 stool or on the step of a carriage than to locomotion. * But I 
 think as I am not (piite so young as I was twenty years ago, I 
 had better follow you in the pony-carriage.' 
 
 * Pony-carriage, me no pony-carriages,' exclaimed de Cazalet. 
 *Ours is to be a walking picnic and nothing else. If you like to 
 meet us .as we come home you can do so — but none but pedes- 
 triiuis shaii «lrink our champagiie or eat our salad — that salad 
 which I shall have the honour to make for you with my own 
 bands. Mrs. Tregonell.' 
 
 Jessie Jiridgeman looked at Christabel to see if any painful 
 memory — any thought of that other picnic at Tintagel when 
 Angus Ifandeigh w;is still a si i anger, and the world seemed made 
 for gladness and laughter, would disturb her smiling serenity. 
 But there was no trace of mournful recollection in that bright 
 beaming faoo which was turned in all graciousness towards 
 the] Baron, who sat can^ssing Lego's curls, while the boy wriggled 
 his plump shoulders half out of his black /el vet frock in palpable 
 disgust at the caress. 
 
 ' Oh ! it will bo too lovely — too utterly ouftish,' exclairaed 
 Dopsy, who had lately accpiired this last flower of speech — a 
 word which might be made to mean almost anything, from the 
 motive power which impels a billiai'd cue to the money that paya 
 the player's losses at pool — a word which ia ■» substantive or 
 adjective accoidin<: to the speaker's pleasure- 
 
Thou shonldst come like a Fuw* 
 
 299 
 
 I believe 
 te almost 
 
 5 liad no 
 art and 
 do. He 
 luTH, but 
 jlsed his 
 ibel's last 
 
 shooting, 
 ig pai ty ? 
 ready for 
 lall have 
 Tiutagel, 
 lieir own 
 rson they 
 agonette. 
 ''oil are a 
 •rrington, 
 
 good for 
 ither she 
 st of her 
 I, fcnder- 
 * But I 
 rs ago, I 
 
 Cnzalet. 
 )u like to 
 it pedt>s- 
 liat salad 
 
 my own 
 
 f paiijful 
 
 fcl when 
 
 lied made 
 
 .serenity. 
 
 at bright 
 
 towards 
 
 wrigglerl 
 
 pal pa bid 
 
 xclaiiued 
 peeeli — a 
 from the 
 that pays 
 mtive or 
 
 *I suppose we shall be allowed to join you,' said Mopsy, ' we 
 are splendid walkers.' 
 
 ' Of course — entry open to all weights and ages, with Mi's. 
 Tregonell's permissi(<n.' 
 
 'Let it be your pi(iii(% Riroii, siuoo it is your idea,' said 
 Cliristabel ; * my housekeeper shall take your orders about the 
 liinelieon, and W(^ will all consider otuvlves your guents.' 
 
 ' I shall expirci if 1 am left out ji the cold,' said Mis. 
 Torrington. ' Vou really nnist allow age the privilege of apony- 
 carriacre. That deliirlitful cob of Mrs. Ti-egoneH's understands 
 nie perf«'ctly.' 
 
 ' Well, on second thoughts, you shall have tlu^ carriage,' said 
 de Cazalct, graciousi , ' The ])vn\ isions can't walk. It shall be 
 your ])rivileg(; to bring them. We will have no servants!. Mr. 
 Faddie, Mr. Fit/.Tesse, and I will do all the fetching ami carry- 
 ing, cork-drawing, and salad-making.' 
 
 CIIAm^EU XXX. 
 
 'thou SlIOULDST COMK LIKK A FUllY CROWNED WITH SNAKES.'* 
 
 When the shooting party eanie home to afternoon tea, Dopsy 
 and Mopsy were both full of the picnic. The sun w.is sinking 
 in lurid splendour ; there was every chance of a fine day to- 
 morrow. De Cazidet had interviewed the housekeeper, and 
 ordered luncheon. Mopsy went about among the men like a 
 recruiting sergeant, telling them of the picnic, and begging them 
 to join in that festivity. 
 
 ' It will be wretched for Dopsy and I ' — her grammar was 
 weak, and .she had a iixed idea that ' I' was a gcnteelt r ])r(in()iiM 
 than ' me,' — ' if you don't .ill come,' she said to Colonel mathwayt. 
 ' Of course the B.iron will devote liimself exclusively to Mrs. 
 Tregouell. Fitz.res.se will go in the ])ony trap with Mrs. 
 Torrington, and they'll have vivisected everybody they know 
 before they gi.'t there. And I cm't get on a, little ])it with Mr. 
 Faddie, though he is awfully nice. I feel that if I were to let 
 him talk to me an hour at a stretch I should b(^ (»bliged to go 
 and join some Protestant sisterhood and wear thick boots and 
 too fearful 1)oiinets for the rest of my days.' 
 
 *And what would society do without Mopsy Vaiidelcur ? ' 
 asked the Colonel, smiling at her. ' I should enjoy a ramble 
 with you above all things, but a picnic is such a confoundedly 
 infantine business, t always fctel a hundred years old when I 
 attempt to be gay and frisky before dusk — feel as if I had been 
 dead and come back to life again, as .some of the .savage tribes 
 believe. However, if it will really i)lease you, I'll give up the 
 birds to-morrow, and join your sports.' 
 
 * How sweet of you,' exclaimed Mopsy, with a thrilling look 
 from under her y>ainted lashes. * The whole thing would be 
 ghastly without you.' 
 

 1 1 
 
 " ; 
 
 
 Skjo 
 
 Mount Boyai. 
 
 * What's tho riw?' asked Leonard, turning his head upon 
 the cushion of the easy chair in wliich ho lolled at full length, 
 to look up at the speakers as they stood a liltle way behind hira. 
 
 Tho master of Mount J^)yal Wivi sitLitig by one firc'])lace, 
 with a tjible and tea-tray all to hiiiisi.'lf ; while Mrs. Tregonell 
 and her circle were grouped about tlie hearth at the opposite end 
 of tlie hall. Jack Vaudi^liMir and little Monty stood in front of 
 the lire near their host, faithful ailherents to the friend who fed 
 thuni ; but all tho rest of the party chistereil round Christabel. 
 
 Moj)sy told IVIr. Tregonell all about the intended picnic. 
 
 * It is to be the Baron's allair,' she said, gaily. ' lie organized 
 it, and he is to play the host. Tliere are to be no carriages — 
 except the i)ony-trap for Mrs. Torriiigton, who pinches her feet 
 and her waist to a degree that makes locomotion impossible. 
 We are all to walk except her. And I believe we are to have tea at 
 the fann by St. Piran's well — a siiu])le farmhouse tt-a in some dear 
 old whitewashed room with a huge iirej)Iace, hams and onions 
 and things hanging from the rafters. Isn't it a lovely idea t ' 
 
 'Very,' grumbled Leonard; 'but I slujuld say you could 
 have your tea a great deal more comfortable here without being 
 under an obligation to the farm people.' 
 
 *0h, but we have our tea here every afternoon,' saiil Mopsy. 
 •^ Think of the novelty of tho thing.' 
 
 * No doubt. A)ut this ])icnic is the Karon's idea ! ' 
 
 ' His and Mrs. Tivgonell's, they planned it all between them. 
 AnJ tliey are going to get up private theatricals for your birth- 
 day.' 
 
 * How kind,' growled Leonard, scowling at his teacu]x 
 
 * Isn't it sweet of them i They are going to i)lay " Delicate 
 Ground." He is to be Citizen Sangfroid and she Taidine — the 
 husband and wife who quarrel and i)retend to separate and are 
 desperately fond of each other all the time, don't you know 1 It's 
 a powder piece.' 
 
 *Awhatr 
 
 * A play in which the people wear powdered wigs and patches, 
 and all that kind of thing. How dense you are.' 
 
 * I was born so, 1 believe. And in this powder piece Mrs. 
 Tregonell and Laron de Ca/.alet are to be husband and wife, and 
 quarrel and make frienils again — eh V 
 
 ' Yes. The reconciliation is awfully fetching. But you are 
 not jealous, are you V 
 
 ' Jealous ? Not the least bit.' 
 
 * That's so nice of you ; and you will come to our picnic to- 
 morrow ? ' 
 
 * I think not.' 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 * Because the woodcock season is a short one, and I want to 
 Cak:' tee best use of my time.' 
 
 ' What a barbarian, to prefer any sport to our society," ex* 
 
TJlou shouldst conic like a Fur;/. 
 
 301 
 
 clninicfl IMojv-iv, coqiu'ttislily. ' For niv jirirt f liato <lie very 
 iiaiiii' of WDoilcook.' 
 
 ' W'liy i' risked TiPoiiarr], lookin::;^ at lirr koonly, with lii's dark, 
 brii^lit eyes ; fycs wliicli liud that hard, ^las^^y l»riL,ditnfss that 
 lias always a riaicl look. 
 
 ' J^>(!caiis(! it ri'iiiiiids iii(> of tliat dn-adfid day last year when 
 poor Mr. llaTidriLjh was killed. Jf Jiu had not ^^)U0 out wood- 
 cock shooting; he would not have het'ii killed.' 
 
 * No ; a man's di'atli ^'enei-ally hiii^'es u])on F.omotliiii<.r, 
 answered Leonard, with a chillini,' sneer; 'no etlect without a 
 auise. But I don't think you need waste your lamentations 
 upon Mr, IIamk'if,di ; he did not treat vour sister particulaily 
 well.' 
 
 Mopsy sighed, and was thou^litful for a moment or two. 
 Captain Vandeleur and Mr. Montague had strolled oil" to ehan<,'e 
 their clothes. The master of the liouse and Miss Yandt^leur 
 were alone at their end of the old hall. Kipplea of silvery 
 laughter, and the sound of mirthful voices came from the group 
 about the other fireplace, where the blaze of ])iled-up logs went 
 roaring up the wide windy chimney, making the most magical 
 changeful light in which beauty or its opposite con ha seen. 
 
 'No, he hardly acted fairly to poor Dopsy : ha led heron, 
 don't you know, and we both thought ho meant to jjropose. It 
 would have been such a splendid match for her — and 1 could 
 have stayed with them sometimes.' 
 
 ' Of course you could. Sometimes in your case would have 
 meant all the year round.' 
 
 ' And he was so fascinating, so handsome, ill «as he looked, 
 poor darling,' sighed Mo}).sy. ' 1 know J )op hadn't one mercenary 
 feeling about him. It was a genuine case of spoons — she would 
 have died for him,' 
 
 * If lie had wished it ; but men have not yet gone in for 
 collecting corpses,' sneered Leonard. 'However poor the speci- 
 men of your sex may be, they prefer the living subject — even 
 the surgeons are all coming round to that.* 
 
 ' Don't be nasty,' ])rotested Mojjsv. ' I only meant to say 
 that Dopsy really adored Angus Ilandeigh for his own sake. I 
 know how kindly you Telt upon the subject — .uid that you 
 wanfed it to be a match.' 
 
 'Yes, I did my best,' answered Leonard. *I brought hira 
 here, ami gave you both your chance.' 
 
 'And Jack said tliatyou spoke very sharply to Mr. Ilamloiglj 
 that la.st night.' 
 
 ' Yes, I gave him a piece of my miml. I toll him that he 
 had no right to come into my house and i)lay fiist and loose with 
 my friend's sister.' 
 
 'How did he take it 1' 
 
 ' Pretty quietly.' 
 
 ' You did not (iUfwrrel with hira V 
 

 , 
 
 n02 
 
 Mount Eoyal, 
 
 *No, it could h.irdly Im; calKd a (jii.uirl. We were both too 
 ren8()uai)lt> — uiKlorstood each other too thorou'jhly,' answered 
 Ijeonard, .is he ^at npaiid went ofl" to his di(s.sin,L;-in(»nj, h'aviiii» 
 MopHy Hoiely |i( rplrxcd l;y an indcsciihahlr sonirlliin<^' in hi.i 
 tone an«l niannei'. Sincly there must be wonu; I'alal ineaniii;^ in 
 that dark evil HniiK', whii h ehani^ed to so Id.nk a frown, ami that 
 deep aij^h which seenietl wnuiL,' from the vei y heai t of (iu! man : 
 a man whom Mopsy had hitherto l)elie\ e«i to he .-^onu'whaf poorly 
 tiirnished with that orfjan, taken in its poetical siL;iiitieanec lus a 
 thinij that throlis with love and |»ity. 
 
 Alone in his (hessin^^-rooin the lord of the Maiioi- snt down 
 in front of the; lire with his hoots on the holt, to inu.si! upon the 
 incongruity of his present position in his own Ikjusc. A year 
 a,t;o he had ruled supreme, soverei'411 master of the iloinestio 
 circle, oheyed and ministered to in all huniility hy a lovely and 
 pure-mindetl wife. Is'ow he w;is a eiplur in his own house, the 
 husli.'ind of a wonj.'in who wfis almost jis stiaiii^'e to him as if he 
 had seen her faci* for the tirst lime (jii his retuiii from South 
 America. This beautiful brilliant creature, who held him at 
 arm'.s lenj^th, delii'd him openly with looks and tones in which 
 liis jjfuilty soul reco'^ni/ed a terrible meaning; — look« and tones 
 which he dare not challenife — this woman who lived oidv for 
 j)leasure, line dress, frivolity, who had yiven his liou.se the free- 
 and-easy air of a niess-r»)oni; or a club — could this be indeed the 
 woman he had loved in her ifirlhood, the fail- and simple-minded 
 wife whom his mother had trained for him, teaching her all good 
 thingR, withholding all knowledge of evil. 
 
 ' I'm not going to stand it much longer,' lie said to himself, 
 with an oath, as lie kicked the logs about upon his tire, and then 
 got up to dress for the feast .it which he always felt himself just 
 the one guest who was not wanted. 
 
 lie had been at home three weeks — it seemed an .nge — an age 
 of «lisillusion and discontent — and he had not. yet sought any 
 exj)lanation with Christabel. Nor yet had he dared to claim hiy 
 right to be obeyed as a husbaiul, to be treated as a friend 
 anil adviser. With a strange reluctance he put off the explana- 
 tion from day to day, and in the nu>anwhile the aspect of life at 
 Mount lloy.'il war, growing daily less agreeable to him. Could 
 it be that this wife of his, whose ]»urity and faith he had tried by 
 the hardest test — the test of daily C()ni])anionship with her first 
 and only lover — was inclined to waver now — 1» pkiy him false 
 for so shallow a coxcomb, so tawdry a line gentleman as Oliver 
 de Cazalet. Not once, but many times within the past week he 
 had asked himself that ipiestion. Could it be? Jit; had heard 
 strange stories — had known of ([ueer cises of the falling away of 
 good women from the ]iath of virtue. ICe had heard of sober 
 matrons — mothers of fair childi-en, wives of many years — the 
 Cornelias of their circle, staking home, husband, children, 
 honour, good name; and troops of friends against the wild 
 
' TJicu sJiouUht come like a Fury' 
 
 :jo3 
 
 delirium of i hhl; iicw-linni f.nirv, sinMt'ii, iIiMiinniac a?« (ln» daiii'.! 
 of <k'atli. 'V\\v woiiuMi who j,'<> wroii*^ are not always tlio most 
 likely wom»>ii. It is not tin' tram|)l«'(l slave, tlio iicj^'li , ted and 
 forlorn wif(M)f a bad linshaiid — hnt the peail and (ii-asiire of a 
 ha|)|iy cirele who takes the fatal plnni^'e into the niiiv. The 
 forlorn Hlav(!-wife stays in tho dri-ary hoint^ aiid nurses her 
 C'i>i1dren, battles with her hiisliand's <i<'ditoi"H, consoles herself 
 with church K"'".n 'i"'' niany |tiayers, fondly hopini,' foi' a future 
 day in which 'Wnw will timl out tiiat hIu; is fairer and dearer than 
 any of Ids false ;,'odesses, and c(tiue honn! re|)entant to the 
 donieslic hearth : while the urood husltand's idol, sateil with 
 le^jitiniate worship, ^dves herself up all at onci' to the in(n\ieat ion 
 of unholy incense, and topples oil" her shriiu'. Li'onard Trei^'oneil 
 knew that the woild w;us full of such psych(tloL,'ieal mysteries ; 
 and yet he could hardly hrini^ hiiu.-.elf to helieve that ( 'hristahel 
 was one of the stuff that iiiaUes false wives, oi- that sheeoidtl he 
 won hy such a third-iate J)ou Juan as the Daron de ( 'a/alet. 
 
 The dinner was a little noisii-i- and j^'ayer than usual to-nii^lit. 
 Everyone talked, lauLjhed, told anecdotes, let oil" puns, niori" or 
 Jess atrocious — except tin; host, who sat in his place an inia'^e of 
 gloom. Jla|)pily Mrs. St, Aubyn was one of those stout, healthy, 
 contented peo|)le "who enjoy their diniu'r, and only talk about as 
 much as is reipiired for tlu; assistance of diLfestion. She told 
 prosy stories about her pita's and poultry — which wcie altoi^fether 
 Huperior, intoUectually and physically, to other people's |)i!^^^ and 
 
 {)oultry — and only j>aused once or twie<; to exclaim, ' \'ou aie 
 ookinc; awfully tiretl, iMr. Trc;,^onell. You must have overdcMie 
 it to-day. Don't you take ciira(^*oaH I always do aflei- ice 
 puddiu<(. It's so comfortiiiif. ho you know at the last dinner 
 I w;i,s at/ l)efore T came heit^ the cura(;oa was ^^iuLTer-branily. 
 Wasn't tliat horrid \ reojile oui^dit not in do such thiiii^s.' 
 
 Leonard suggested in a burcil voice that this mi;;ht have 
 been the butler's mistake. 
 
 * I don't think so, 1 believe it was actual meanness— but I 
 shall never take liqueur at tk<il house again,' said Mrs. St. Aul»yn, 
 in an injured toiu'. 
 
 *Are you going to this picnic to-morrow ?' 
 
 * I think not. I'm afraid the walk windd be too much for me — 
 and I am not fond enough of ^M rs. Toiaington to enjoy twohoui's' 
 tcte-d'tcte in a pony-carriage. ^ly girls will go, of course. And I 
 sui)pose you will be there,' added Mrs. St. Aubyn, with intention. 
 
 ' No, Vandeleur, Monty and I are going shooting.' 
 
 'Well, if I were in your shoes and had such a ])retty wife, I 
 
 «hould not leave her to go picnicing about the world with such 
 
 an attractive man as the JJaron.' 
 
 Leonard gave an uneasy little laugh, meant to convey the 
 
 idea of supreme security. 
 
 * I'm not jealous of de Cazalet,' he .said. ' Surely you don't 
 eall him an attractive man.' 
 
 I III 
 
Er 
 
 It I n 
 
 304 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
 ' I)anG[ormisly attractive,' rr>])l id 1 Mrs. St. AnTtyn, irnzincf at 
 the (]i^■^•ult Daron, wIkksc florid good looks were nsscrtiiiu^ them- 
 selves at the further end of the table, on Christahel's hift hand 
 — she had Mr. St. Aubyn's grey, contented face, glistening with 
 dinner, on her right. 'lie is just the kind of man I should 
 have fallen in love with when I was your wife's age.' 
 
 * Really,' exclaimed Leonard, incredulously. ' But I suppose 
 after you married St. Aukyn, you left off falling in love.' 
 
 ' Of course. I did not put myself in the way of temptation. 
 I should never have encouraged such a man — handsome, 
 accomplished, unscrupulous — as Baron de Cazalet.' 
 
 * I don't think his good looks or his unscrupulousness will 
 make any ditference to my wife,' said Leonard. * She knows 
 how to take care of herself.' 
 
 * No doubt. But that does not release you from the duty 
 of taking care. You had better go to the picnic' 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. St. Aubyn, if I were to go now, after what 
 you liave just said to me, you might suppose I was jealous of de 
 Cazalet ; and that is just the one supposition I could not stand,' 
 answered Leonard. ' It would take a dozen such fascinating 
 men to shake ray confidence in my wife : she is not an acquaint- 
 ance of yesterday, remember : I have known her all my lif><.' 
 
 * Mrs. St. Aubyn sighed and shook her head. She was one 
 of those stupid well-meaning women whose mission in life is to 
 make other people uncomfortable— with the best intentions, 
 She kept a steady look-out for the approaching misfortunes of 
 her friends. She was the tirst to tell an anxious mother that her 
 youngest boy was sickening for scarlet fever, or that her eldest 
 girl looked consumptive. She prophesied rheumatics and 
 bronchitis to incautious ]ieople who went out in wet weather — 
 she held it .as a lixed belief that all her friends' houses were 
 damp. It was in vain that vexed householders protesteu against 
 such a 8US])icion, and held forth upon the superiority of their 
 drainage, the felt under their tiles, their air bricks, and ven- 
 tilators. ' My dear, your house is damp,' she would reply 
 conclusively. 'What it would be if you had not taken those 
 precautions I shiidder to imagine — but I only know that I get 
 Uie shivers every time I sit in your drawing-room. 
 
 To-niglit she was somewhat otrended with Mr. Tregonell that 
 he refused to take alarm at her friendly warning, She hatl 
 made up her mind that it was her duty to speak. She had tolii 
 the girls so in the course of their afternoon constitutional, a 
 private family walk. 
 
 * If things get any worse I shall take you away,' she said, as 
 they trudged along the lane in their water{)roofs, caring very 
 little for a soft drizzling rain, which was suj)posed to be good 
 for their complexions. 
 
 ' Don't, mother,' said Emily. ' Clara and I are having such a 
 jolly time. Mrs. Trrgonell is straight enough, I'm sure. She 
 
irnzini? at 
 iiiu^ thcni- 
 Ifft hand 
 ii]i£? with 
 I should 
 
 I suppose 
 
 mptation. 
 landsome, 
 
 mess will 
 le knows 
 
 I the duty 
 
 iter what 
 ilous of de 
 lot stand,' 
 ascinating 
 acqiiaint- 
 ly lif^.' 
 3 was one 
 life is to 
 nteutious, 
 )rtunes of 
 :r that her 
 her eldest 
 itics and 
 iveather — 
 •uses were 
 eu against 
 of their 
 and ven- 
 iild reply 
 ken those 
 hat I get 
 
 [onell that 
 She had 
 3 had told 
 utional, a 
 
 le said, as 
 ring very 
 5 be good 
 
 Ing such a 
 lUre, She 
 
 *ni'j Lcuhj Smiles : Dd'njhl h in licr Face' S05 
 
 doe;^ flirt oii;rageoiis!y with (he JLJaron, 1 admit; Imt an open 
 flirtation of that kind stldi)m means mischief ; and Mr. Tre- 
 gonell is such a heavy cIod-hoj»i)ing fellow: his wife maybe forgiveo 
 for flirting a little.' 
 
 * Mrs. /frogonell flirts more 'than a little,' replied ^Frs. St. 
 Aubyn. All I ( an say is, I don't like it, and F don' think it's a 
 pn-per .cpectaole for girls.' 
 
 ' Then you'd better send us back fo the nnrscvy, mother, or 
 shut us up in a convent,' retoited the youn^^T of the damsels. 
 'If you don't want us to se(> young married women llirt, you 
 must keep us veiy close indi-ed.' 
 
 'If you feel uneasy about your Cochin ('hinas, mother, you 
 can go home, and leave us to follow with the ])ater,' said Mniily. 
 ' I've set my heart upon stopping till after Mr. TregonelTs birth- 
 jlay, the 1-lth of November, for the theatiicals will be line iiui. 
 They talk of "High Life ]5elow Stairs" for us girls, aft^^ 
 " Delicate Ground ;" and I think we shall be able to i)ersuade 
 Mrs. Tregonell to wind uj) Miih a dance. What is the use of 
 people having fine rooms if they don't know how to us(» thera?' 
 
 * Mrs. Tregonell seems ready for anything,' sighed the matron. 
 ' I never saw such a change in any one. Do you remember how 
 quiet she was the summer before last, when we were here for a 
 few days 1 ' 
 
 CHArTER XXXT. 
 
 'ITIS LADY smiles; I)F;LIGHT IS l.V UKR FACE.' 
 
 That benevolent advice of Mrs. St. Aubyn's was not without its 
 influence ujwn Leonard, lightly as he seemeil to )»ut aside the 
 insinuation of evil. The matron's speech helped to strengthen 
 his own doubts and fears. Other eyes than liis had noted O'hri.s- 
 laljel's manner of recei\ ing the 15arons attentions -other people 
 had been impressed l)y the change in her. The thing was not 
 an evil of his own imagining. She was niaLing herself the 
 talk of his fiiends and ac(|Mainlance.* 'J'herc! was scandal — foul 
 suspicion in the very atmos]>h('i-e she bicifhed. That mutual 
 understanding, that face to face arraignment, whirli he felt must 
 come sooner or later, could not be st.ived oil" nnu.-h loiyr. 'J'JKi 
 wife who defied him thus o))enly, making light of him under his 
 own roof, nuist be brought to book. 
 
 'To-morrow she and I must come to terms,' Leonard said to 
 himself. 
 
 No one had much leisure for thought that evciiiii'^'. The 
 drawing-room was a scene of babble and laughter, ninsic, flirta- 
 tion, frivolity, cverylxjdy s'ceniing to be XAvst with tliat hapj)y- 
 go-lucky tem])eraTncnt which can extract mirth fmni tlu; merest 
 trifles. Je.ssie Bridiri'nian and Mr. Treo-onel! were tln^ only 
 lookers-on — the only two people who in Jack Vandeleur'n 
 favourite] phrase were not 'in it.' Every one else was full of 
 the private theatricals. The idea had only been mooted after 
 luncheon, and now it seemed as if life could hardly have been 
 
 I 5 
 
 
!i 
 
 806 
 
 Mount Boy at. 
 
 bearable yesterday without this thrilling prospect. Colonel 
 Blathwayt, who had been out shooting all the afternoon, entered 
 vigorously into the discussion. Ho was an ex])enenced amateur 
 actor, had helped to swell the funds of half the charitable insti- 
 tutions of London and the provinces ; so he at once assumed the 
 function of stage manager,', 
 
 ' De Cazalet can act,' he said. ' I have seen him at South 
 Kensington ; but I don't think he knows the ropes as well as I 
 do. You must let me manage the whole business for you ; write 
 to the London people for stage and S' vinery, lamps, costumes, 
 wigs. And of course you will want me for Alphonse.' 
 
 Little Monty had been suggested for Alphonse. He was fair- 
 haired and effeminate, and had just that small namby-pamby air 
 which would suit Pauline's faint-hearted lover ; but nobody dared 
 to say anything about him when Colonel Blathwayt made this 
 generous offer, 
 
 * Will you really play Alphonse !' exclaimed Christabel, look- 
 ing up from a volume of engravings, illustrating the costumes of 
 the Directory and Empire, over which the young ladies of the 
 
 {)arty, notably Dopsy and Mopsy, had been giggling and evacu- 
 ating. ' We should not have ventured toofter you a secondary part.' 
 ' You'll find it won't be a secondary character as I shall play 
 it,' answered the Colonel, calmly. ' Alphonse Avill go better than 
 any part in the piece. And now as to the costumes. Do you 
 want to be picturesque, or do you want to be correct 1 ' 
 
 * Picturesque by all means,' cried Mopsy. ' Dear Mrs. Tre- 
 gonell would look too lovely in powder and patches.' 
 
 ' Like Boucher's Pompadour,' said the Colonel. * Do you 
 know I think, now fancy balls are the rage, the Louis Quinze 
 costume is rather played out. Every ponderous matron fancies 
 herself in powder and brocade. The powder is hired for the 
 evening, and the brocade is easily convertible into a dinner 
 gown,' added the Colonel, who spent the greater part of his life 
 among women, and prided himself upon knowing their ways. 
 * For my PJirt, I should like to see Mrs. Tregonell dressed like 
 Madame Tallien.' 
 
 ' Undressed like Madame Tallien, you mean,' said Captain 
 Vandel»iur ; and thereupon followed a lively discussion as to tlie 
 costume of the close of the last century as compared with the 
 C!0Ctume of to-day, which ended in somebody's assertion that the 
 last years of a century are apt to expire in social and political 
 convulsions, and that there was every promise of revolution as a 
 wind-up for the present age. 
 
 ' My idea of the close of the nineteenth century is that it will 
 be a period of dire poverty,' said the proprietor of the Sling ; * an 
 JVfe of pauperism already heralded by the sale of noble old mansions, 
 the breaJkiug-up of great estates, the destruction of famous col- 
 lectiona, gaJleries, libraries, the pious hoards of generations of 
 eotinoi^euxs and bnok-wormfi, scattered to t^e four winds by a 
 
mw 
 
 Colonel 
 
 entered 
 imateur 
 >le insti- 
 med the 
 
 it South 
 ivell as I 
 a ; write 
 ostumes, 
 
 was fair- 
 imby air 
 dy dared 
 lade this 
 
 3el, look- 
 itumes of 
 is of the 
 nd ejacu- 
 ary part.' 
 ;hall play 
 stter than 
 Do you 
 
 rlrs. Tre- 
 
 *Do you 
 s Quinze 
 n fancies 
 for the 
 a dinner 
 )f his life 
 eir ways, 
 issed like 
 
 Captain 
 as to tlie 
 with the 
 that the 
 political 
 ition as a 
 
 at it will 
 ing ; *an 
 nansions, 
 nous eol- 
 ations of 
 mds by a 
 
 • His Tjady Smiles ; Delight is in her Face.' 307 
 
 stroke of the auctioneer's hammer. The landed interest and the 
 commercial chisses are g<>in_^ (h)wn the hill toi^fetlit r. Suez has 
 ruined our shi])j)inf^ interests ; an iinreciprocattd lieo trade id 
 ruining our commerce. Cotl'ec, tea, cotton — our markets are 
 narrowing for all. After a periud of hivish expemliture, reckless 
 *ixtravagance, or at any rat j the ailectation of reckless extrava- 
 gance, there will come an era of dearth. Those are wisest who 
 will foresee and anticipate the change, simplify their habits, 
 reduce their luxuries, jnit on a Quakerish sobriety in dress anil 
 entertainments, which, if carried out nicely, may pass for high 
 art — train tliemselves to a kind of holy povei-ty otitsiJe the 
 cloister — and thus break their fall. Depend upon it, there will 
 be a fall, for every one of those men and women who at this 
 present day are living up to their incomes.' 
 
 ' The voice is the voice of FitzJesse, but the words are the 
 words of Cassandra,' said Colonel Blathwayt. ' For my part, I 
 am like the Greeks, and never listen to such gloomy vaticina- 
 tions. I dare say the deluge uill come — a deluge now and again 
 is inevitable ; but I think the dry land will last our time. And 
 in the meanwhile was there ever a i)leas;uiter world than that 
 we live in — an entirely rebuilt and revivitied Lomlon — clubs, 
 theatres, restaurants, without number — gaiety and Ijrightness 
 everywhere ? If our amusements are frivolous, at least tlu'y are 
 Iiearty. If our friendships are transient, they are very pleasant 
 while they last. We know people to-d;iy ami cut them to- 
 morrow ; that is one of the first conditions of good society. The 
 peoj)le who are cut understand the force of circumstances, and 
 are just as ready to take up the running a year or two hence, 
 when we ciin atl'ord to know them.' 
 
 ' Blesscid are the poor in spirit,' quoted little Monty, in a 
 meek voice. 
 
 ' Om* women are getting every day more like the women of 
 the Directory and the Consulate,' continued the Colonel. ' Wo 
 have come to short petticoats and gold anklets. All in good time 
 we sliall come to bare feet. We have abolished sleeves, and we have 
 brought bodices to a reductlo ad ahsurdum ; but, although ])ru(h'S 
 and puritans may disap])rove our present form, I must say tliat 
 women were never so intelligent or so delightful. We have 
 come back to the days of the salon and the petit soupcr. Our 
 daughters are sirens and our wives are wits.' 
 
 ' Charming for Colonel Llathwayt, whose only experience is of 
 other people's wives and daughters,' said little Alonty. * But 1 
 don't feel sure that the owners are cpiite so happy.' 
 
 ' When a man marries a pretty woman, he ))uts himself be- 
 yond the pale,' said Mr. FitzJesse; 'nobody .sympathizes with 
 him. I daresay there was not a member of the Grecian League 
 who did not long to kick Menelaus.' 
 
 ' There should be stringent laws for che repression of nice 
 gills' fathers,' said little Monty. ' Co aid there not be some kind 
 
 fii 
 
FT 
 
 808 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 I'm '■'; 
 
 N 
 
 of instil Mtion like the Irish Land Com t, to force p.ivents to cash 
 up, and hand over daughter and dowry to any spirited young 
 man who made a bid? Here am I, a (onspicuou3 martyr to 
 parental despotism. I might have married half a dozen heiresses, 
 but for the intervention of stony-hearted fathers. I have gontj 
 for them at all nges, from pinafores to false fronts ; but I have 
 never been so bicky as to rise an orjthan.' 
 
 ' Poor little Monty ! Bu2. xliat a liappy escape for the lady.' 
 
 * Ah, I should have been vwy kind to her, even if her youth 
 and beauty dated before the lieforni Bill,' said Mr. Montagu. 
 * I should not have gone into society with her — one must draw 
 the line somewhere. But I should have been forbearing.' 
 
 'Dear Mrs. Tregoncfll,' .said Mopsy, gushingly, * have you 
 made up your mind wliat to wear? ' 
 
 Christabel had been turning the leaves of a folio abstractedly 
 for the last ten minutes. 
 
 ' To wear V Oh, for the play \ Well, I suppose I must be as 
 true to the period as I can, without imitating Madame Tallien. 
 Baron, you draw lieautifnily. Will you make a sketch for my 
 costume ? I know a little woman in (jeorge Street, Hanover 
 Square, who will carry out your idea charmingly.' 
 
 'I should have thought that you could have imagined a ehort- 
 waistcd gown and a ])air of long mittens without the help of an 
 artist,' said Jessie, with some acidity. She had boon sitting close 
 to the lamp, poring over a ])iece of point-lace work, a quiet and 
 observant listener. Jt was a lixed idea among the servants at 
 Mount Koyal that INTiss Bridgcman's eyes were constructed on 
 the same ]>rinciplc as those of a hor>?e, an«l that she could see 
 behind her. ' There is nothing so very elaborate in the dress of 
 that j)eriod, is there 1 ' 
 
 * 1 will try to realize the poetry of the costume.' 
 
 * Oh, but the poetry means the bare fet*t and ankles, doesn't 
 it!' asked Miss Bridgcnian. 'When you talk abf)ut ])oetry in 
 costume, you generally mean something that sets a whole roomful 
 of lu'ople staring and tittering.' 
 
 'My Pauline will look a sylph!' said the Baron, with a 
 languishing glance at his hostess. 
 
 And thus, in the pursuit of the infinitely little, the evening 
 wore away. Songs and laughter, music of the lightest and most 
 evanescent character, games which touched the confines of idiocy, 
 and set Leonard wondering whether the evening amusements of 
 Colney Hatch and Hanwell could possibly savour of wilder 
 lunacy than these sports which his wife and Her ciiclo cultivated 
 in the grave old reception-room, where a council of Cavaliers, 
 with George Trevelyan of Nettlecombe, Royalist Colonel, at their 
 head, had met and sworn fealty to Chailes Stuart's cause, at 
 hazard of fortune and life. 
 
 Leonard stood with his back to the wide old fire-place, 
 watching these revellers, and speculatius:, in a troubled spirit, 
 
its to cash 
 ted young 
 martyr to 
 1 heiresses, 
 have gona 
 but I have 
 
 the lady.' 
 her youth 
 Montagu. 
 
 must draw 
 
 ing.' 
 
 * have you 
 
 bstractedlv 
 
 must be as 
 me Tallien. 
 ;tch for my 
 t, Hanover 
 
 ned a short- 
 help of an 
 sitting close 
 a quiet and 
 servants at 
 structed on 
 e could see 
 the dress of 
 
 ;los, doesn't 
 It ])oetry in 
 lole roomful 
 
 ron, with a 
 
 the evening 
 St and most 
 les of idiocy, 
 lusements of 
 r of wilder 
 cultivated 
 3f Cavaliers, 
 inel, at their 
 t's cause, at 
 
 d fire-place, 
 abled Bpirit, 
 
 'Bis Lady Smiles ; Delight is in her Face* 309 
 
 as to how EC ich of this juvenile f riskiness was real ; contem- 
 plating, with a cynical spirit, that nice sense of class distinction 
 which enabled the two 8t. Aubyn girls to keep Mopsy and Dopsy 
 at an impassable distance, even while engaged with them in these 
 familiar sports. Vain that in the Post Ollice game, Dopsy as 
 Montreal exchanged places with Emily St. Aubyn as New- 
 market. Montreal and Newmarket tlieinscdves are not farther 
 apart geographically th;in the two damsels were morally as they 
 skipped into each others chairs. Vain that in the Sj oiling gami", 
 the South Bclgravians caught up the landowner's daughters with 
 a surpassing sharpness, and sometimes tuiiied the laugh against 
 those tender scions of the landed aristocracy. The very attitude 
 of Clara St. Aubyn's chin — the way she talkcnl ai)art with Mrs. 
 Tregonell, seemingly unconscious of thn Vandeleur presence, 
 marked her inward .'^ense of the gulf between them. 
 
 It was midnight before any one thought of going to bed, yet 
 there was unwonted animation at nine o'clock next morning 
 in the dining-room, where every one was talking of the day's 
 expedition : always excepting the master of the house, who sat 
 at one end of the table, witli Termagant, his favourite Irish 
 setter, crouched at his feet, and his game-bag lying on a chair 
 near at hand. 
 
 'Are you really going to desert us I' asked Mopsy, with her 
 sweetest smile. 
 
 * I am not going to desert you, for I never had the faintest 
 intention of joining you,' answered Leonard bliuitly ; * whether 
 my wife and her friends made idiots of themselves by playing 
 nursery games in her drawing-room, or by skipping about a 
 windy height on the edge of the sea, is their own allair. I can 
 take in} pleasure elsewhere.' 
 
 'Yes; but you take your ])leasuie very sadly, as somebody 
 said of English people generally,' urged Mopsy, whose only 
 knowledge of polite literature was derived from the classical 
 quotations and allusions in the D(iU>/ Tdefjrnph ; 'you will be all 
 alone, for Jack and little Monty have [)romised to come with us.* 
 
 ' I gave them i)erfect freedom of choice. They may like that 
 kind of thing. I don't.' 
 
 Against so tirm a resolve argument would have been vain. 
 Mopsy gave a little .sigh, and went on with her breakfiist. She 
 was really sorry for Leonard, who had been a kind and useful 
 friend to Jack for the last six years — who had been indeed the 
 backbone of Jack's resources, without which that gentleman's 
 pecuniary position would have collapsed into hopeless limpness, 
 She was (|uite sharp-sighted enough to see that the ])resen{ 
 aspect of ati'airs was obnoxious to Mr. Tregonell — that ho waj 
 savagely jealous, yet dared not remonstrate with his wife. 
 
 ' 1 should have thought he was just the last man to pnt up 
 with anything of that kind,' she said to Dopsy, in theit bed- 
 chamber coutidences ; ' I mean her carrying on with the Barou,' 
 
810 
 
 Mov/nt I^oyat. 
 
 * You needn't explain yourself,' rctoited Dopsy, it's visible to 
 the naked eye. If you or I were to carry on like that in another 
 woman's house we should get turned out ; but Mrs. Tregonell is 
 in her own house, and so long as her husband doesn't see fit 
 to complain ' 
 
 ' But when will he see fit ? He stands by and watches his 
 wife's open flirtation with the Baron, and lets her go on from 
 bad to worse. He must see that her very nature is changed since 
 last year, and yet he makes no attempt to alt'^r her conduct. He 
 is an absolute worm.' 
 
 ' Even the worm will turn .at last. You may depend he will,' 
 said Dopsy sententiously. 
 
 This was last night's conversation, and now in the bright 
 fresh October morning, with a delicious cooin^ss in the clear air, 
 a , balmy warmth in the sunshine, Df)])sy and Mopsy were 
 smiling at their hosti.^ss, for whose kindness they could not help 
 feeling deeply grateful, wl)atever they might think of her con- 
 duct. They recognized a divided duty — loyalty to Leonard, as 
 their brother's patron, and the friend who had first introduced 
 them to this land of Beulah — gratitude to Mrs. Tregonell, without 
 whose good graces they could not longliave made their abode here. 
 
 'You are not going with u.s?' asked Christabel, carelessly 
 scanning Leonard's shooting gear, as she rose from the table and 
 drew on her long mousquctaire gloves. 
 
 * No — I'm going to shoot.' 
 
 * Shall you go to the Kieve ? That's a good place for wood- 
 cock, don't you know?' Jessie Bridgenian stared aghast at the 
 speaker , * If you go that way in the afternoon you may fall in 
 with us : we are to drink tea at the farm.' 
 
 ' Perhaps I may go that way,' 
 
 * And now, if every one is ready, we had better start,' said 
 Christabel, looking round at her party. 
 
 She wore a tight-fitting jacket, dark olive velvet, and a cloth 
 skirt, both heavily trimmed with sable, a beaver hat, with an 
 ostrich feather, which made a sweeping curve round the brim, 
 and caressed the coil of golden-brown hair at the back of the 
 vsmall head. The costume, which was faintly sugs:^estive of a 
 hunting ])arty at Fontaineblcau or St. Germains, became the tall, 
 finely-moulded figure to admiration. Nobody could doubt for 
 an instant that Mrs. Tregon< '11 was dressed for etFect, and was 
 determined to get full v;>.tie out of her beauty. The neat 
 tailor gown and simjile little cloth toque of the p;ist, had given 
 way to a costly ami elaborate costume, in which every detail 
 marked the careful study of the coquette wlio lives only to bt» 
 admired. Dopsy and Mopsy felt a natural pang of envy as the^ 
 scrutinized the quality of the cloth and calculated the cost of the 
 fur ; but they consoled themselves with the conviction that there 
 was a bewitching Kate Greenaway quaintness in their own 
 flimsy garments which made up for the poverty of the stuff, and 
 
sible to 
 
 xiiother 
 
 ;ouell is 
 
 see fit 
 
 ho3 his 
 Dn from 
 
 3(1 since 
 Lict. He 
 
 lie will,' 
 
 bri^^'lit 
 [ear air, 
 y were 
 ot help 
 ler coii- 
 iiard, as 
 roduced 
 without 
 dehcre. 
 irelessly 
 ible and 
 
 )r wood- 
 at the 
 fall in 
 
 ;t,' said 
 
 a clotli 
 
 ith an 
 
 le brim, 
 
 of the 
 
 e of ,a 
 
 he tall, 
 
 )ubt for 
 
 nd was 
 
 \e neat 
 
 1 given 
 
 detail 
 
 y to bt. 
 
 as the^ 
 
 t of the 
 
 it there 
 
 ir own 
 
 fT, and 
 
 * His Lady Smiles ; Delight is in her Face* 811 
 
 the doubtful finish of home dressmaking. A bunch of crimson 
 poppies on Mopsy's shoulder, a cornflower in Dopsy's hat, made 
 vivid gleams of colour upon their brown merino frocks, while the 
 freshness of their satfron-tinted Toby frills was undeniable. 
 Sleeves short and tight, and ten-buttoned Swedish gloves, made 
 up a toilet which Dopsy and Mopsy had believed to bo aestheti- 
 cally perfect, until they compared it with Christabel's rich and 
 picturesque attire. The St. Aubyn girls were not less conscious 
 of the superiority of Mrs. Tregonell's appearance, but they were 
 resigned to the inevitable. How could a meagre quarterly 
 allowance, doled out by an unwilling father, sfcand against a 
 wife's unlimited power of running up bills. And here was a 
 woman who had a fortune of her own to squander as she pleased, 
 without anybody's leave or license. Secure in the severity of slate- 
 coloured serges made by a West-end tailor, with hats to match, and 
 the best boots and gloves that money could buy the St. Aubyn's 
 girls afiected to despise Christabel's olive velvet and sable tails, 
 
 'It's the woi'st possil h form to dress like that for a country 
 ramble,' murmured Emily to CLara. 
 
 'Of course. But the country's about the only place where 
 she could venture to wear such clothes,' replied Clara : * she'd be 
 laughed at in London.' 
 
 ' Well, I don't know : there were some rather loud get-ups in 
 the Park last season,' said Emily. * It's really absurd the way 
 married women out-dress girls.' 
 
 Once clear of the avenue, Mis. Tregonell and her guests arranged 
 themselves upon the Darwinian principle of natural selection. 
 
 That brilliant bird the Baron, whose velvet coat and knicker- 
 bockers were the astonishment of Boscastlo, instinctively drew 
 near to Christabel, whose velvet and sable, plumed hat, and 
 point-lace necktie pointed her out as his proper mate — Little 
 Monty, Bohemian and dtfcousii, attached himself as naturally to 
 one of the Vandeleur birds, shunning the iron-grey respectability 
 of the St. Aubyn breed. 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn, who had made up her mind at the last to 
 join the party, fastened herself upon St. Bernard Faddie, in the 
 fond hope that he would be able to talk of parish matters, and 
 advise her about her duties as Lady Bountiful ; while he, on his 
 part, only cared for rubric and ritual, and looked upon parish 
 visitation as an inferior branch of duty, to be perfonned by 
 newly-fledged curates. Mr. FitzJesse took up with Dopsy, who 
 amused him as a marked specimen of nineteenth-century girl- 
 hood — a rare and wonderful bird of its kind, like a heavily wattled 
 barb pigeon [not beautiful, but infinitely curious. The two St. 
 Aubyn girls, in a paucity of the male sex, had to put up with 
 the escort 6f Captain Vandeleur, to whom they were extremely 
 civil, although they studiously ignored his sisters. And so, bv 
 lane and field-path, by hill and vale, they went up to the broad, 
 open heii^hta above the sea — a sea that was very fair to look 
 
f 
 
 I 
 
 !i 
 
 8iJ 
 
 Mount Eoyal. 
 
 upon on this sunshiny autumn day, luininoua with those trans< 
 hicent hues of amethyst and emerald, sapphire and garnet 
 which make the ever clianL,';iful fflory of that Cornish strand. 
 
 Miss Bridifeiuaii walked half the way with the St. Aubyn 
 girls and Captain Vanduleur. The St. Aubyns had al ./ays been 
 civil to her, not without a certain tone of patronage which 
 would have wounded a more self-con jcious person, but which 
 Jessie endured with poifcct good temper. 
 
 * What does it matter if thoy have the air of bending down 
 from a higher social level eveiy time they talk to me,' she said to 
 Major >>i('e, liglitiy, when he made some rude remark about these 
 young ladies. ' If it pleases them to fancy themselves on a 
 pinnacle, the fancy is a liannless one, and can't hurt me. I 
 shouldn't care to occupy that kuid of imaginary height myself. 
 There must be a disagreeable sense of chilliness and remoteness ; 
 and then there is always the fear of a sudden droj) ; like that 
 fall through infinite space which startles one yometimes on the 
 edge of sleep.' 
 
 Armed with that calm philosophy whicli takes all small 
 things lightly, Jessie was quite content that the Miss St. 
 Aubyns should converse with her as if she were a creature of an 
 inferior race — born with lesser hopes and narrower needs than 
 theirs, and with no rights worth mention. She wiis content 
 that they should be sometimes familiar and sometimes distant — 
 that they should talk to her freely when there was no one else 
 with whom they could talk — and that they should ignore lier 
 presence when the room was full. 
 
 To-day, Emily St. Aubyn was complaisant even to friendli- 
 ness. Her sister had completely appropriated Captain Vandelcur, 
 so Emi^y gave herself up to feminine gossij). There were some 
 subjects which she really wanted to discuss with Miss Bridgeman, 
 and this seemed a golden opportunity. 
 
 * Are wo really going to have tea at the farmhouse near St 
 Nectan's Kieve ?' she asked. 
 
 ' Didn't you hear IMrs.Tregonell say so V inquired Jessie, dryly. 
 
 ' I did ; but I coukl not help wondering a little. Was it not 
 at the Kieve that poor Mr. Handeigh was killed ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 'Don't you think it just a little heartless of M!rs. Tregonell 
 to choose that spot for a pleasure party 'i ' 
 
 ' The farmhouse is not the Kieve: they are at least a mile apart.* 
 
 'That's a mere quibble, Miss Bridgeman: the association is 
 just the same, and she ouglit to feel it.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Tregonell is my very dear friend,' answered Jessie. 
 * She and her aunt are the only friends 1 have made in this world. 
 You can't suppose that I shidl find fault with her conduct '\ ' 
 
 ' No, I suppose not. You would stand by her through thick 
 and thin ? ' 
 
 * Through thick and thin.' 
 
e tran8< 
 garnet 
 and. 
 Aubyn 
 lys been 
 which 
 t which 
 
 ig down 
 lu said ia 
 out these 
 rcA on a 
 me. I 
 myself. 
 lotene.sH ; 
 ike that 
 s on the 
 
 ill small 
 Miss St. 
 Lire of an 
 eda than 
 content 
 flistant — 
 one else 
 nore her 
 
 'riendli- 
 
 mdelcur, 
 
 re some 
 
 dgeman, 
 
 near St 
 
 ie, dryly. 
 :u< it not 
 
 Yegonell 
 
 e apart.' 
 iation is 
 
 i Jessie. 
 s world. 
 iV 
 :U thick 
 
 • His Lady Smiles ; Dclhjht is in her Face.* 313 
 
 * Even at the sacrifice of principle ? ' 
 
 ' I should consider gratitude and friendship the governing 
 principlijs of my life where slie is concerned.' 
 
 * If she w«re to go ever so wrong, you would stand by her?' 
 
 ' Stand Ity her, and cleave to her — walk by her side till death, 
 wherever the ])ath might lead. I should not I'ueuuiage her in 
 wrong-doing, I should lift up my V(»i(;o when there was need : 
 but I should never forsake her.' 
 
 ' That is your id(;a of frieiid.diip?' 
 
 ' IJnrpieslion.ibly. 'J't> my mind, fiiendship which iniplies 
 anything less than that is meaningless. However, then? is no need 
 for luM'oics : IMrs. Tregonell is not going to put me to the test.' 
 
 ' 1 hope ni»t She is very sweet. I should be deeply pained 
 if she were to g(j wrong. JJut do y.tu know that my motlur 
 does not at all lik(? her manner with the IJaiou. iMy sister and 
 I are nuich more libi-ral-minded, don't you know; and wo can 
 understand that all .she says and «loes is mei(? frivolity— high 
 spirits which nuist lind some outlet. IJut what surprises me 
 is that she should be so gay and light-hearted after the dreadful 
 events of her life. If such things had happened to me, I should 
 inevitably have gone over to liome, and burietl myself in the 
 severest conventual order that I could iiml.' 
 
 * Yes, there have been sad events in her life : but 1 think she 
 chose the wiser course in doing her duty by the aunt who 
 brought her up, than in self-innnolation of that kind, answered 
 Jessie, with her thin lips drawn to the firmest line they were 
 capable of assuming. 
 
 * But think what she must have sufTered last year when that 
 poor man was killed. I remend)cr meeting him at dinner when 
 they were first engaged. Such an interesting face— the counte- 
 nance of a poet. I could faiicy Shelley or Keats exactly like him.' 
 
 ' We have their portraits,' said Jessie, intolerant of gush. 
 * There is no sco})e for fancy.' 
 
 'But I think he really was a little like Keats— consumptive 
 looking, too, which carried out the idea. IIow utteily dreadful 
 it must have been for Mrs. Tregonell when he met his de;ith, so 
 suddetdy, so awfully, while ho was a guest under her ro(»f. 
 How did she bear it I ' 
 
 ' Very quietly. She had borne the pain of breaking her engage- 
 ment for a principle, a mistakoi one, as I think. His death 
 could hardly have given her worse pain.' 
 
 * But it was such an awful death.' 
 
 ' Awful in its sudilenness, that is all — not more awful than 
 the death of any one of our Enidish solditus who fell in Zulu- 
 land the other day. After all, the mode and manner of death is 
 only a detail, and, so long as the physical ])ain is not severe, an 
 insignificant detail. The one stuj)endous fact for the survivor 
 remains always the same. We had a friend and he i* gone—for 
 ever, for all we know.' 
 
814 
 
 Motmt Boyal, 
 
 There was the faint sound of a sob in her voice as she finished 
 Bpeakinrj. 
 
 * Well all I can say is that if I wore IVfis. Troi^'onell, I could 
 never have been hnjipy aijain,' pcrHistcd Miss St. Aubyn. 
 
 They canio to Trevena soon after this, and went down the 
 hill to the bas(; of that lofty crau; on which King Arthur's Castlo 
 stood. They found Mrs. Fairfax and the pony-carriage in the 
 Valley. The provisions had all been carried up the ascent. 
 Everything was ready for lunclieon. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later they were all seated on the long 
 js^ass and the crumbling stones, on which Christabcl and her 
 lover had sat so often in that happy season of her life when love 
 was a new thought, and faith in the beloved one ;us boundless as 
 that far-reaching ocean, on which they gazetl in dreamy content. 
 Now, instead of low talk about Arthur and Guinevere, Tristan 
 and Iseult, and all the legends of the dim poetic past, thero 
 were loud voices and laughter, execrable puns, much conversa- 
 tion of the order generally known as chafl', a great deal of mild 
 personality of that kind which, in the age of Miss Burney and 
 Miss Austin w;is described as (piizzing and roasting, and an all- 
 pervading flavour of lunacy. The Daron de Cazalet tried to 
 take advantage of the position, and to rise to poetry ; hut he 
 was laughed down by the majority, especially by Mr. FitzJesse, 
 who hadn't a good word for Arthur and his (Jourt. 
 
 ' Marc was a coward, and Tristan was a traitor and a knave,* 
 he said. * While as for Isoult, the less said of her the better. 
 The legends of Arthur's birth are cleverly contrived to rehabili- 
 tate his mother's character, ])ut the lady's re))utati()u still is ojjcn 
 to doubt. Jack the Giant Killer and Tom Thumb are quite the 
 most respectable heroes coimecred with this western world. You 
 have no occfision to be proud of the associations of the soil, Mra. 
 Tregonell.' 
 
 ' Jiut I am proud of my country, and of its legend^,' answered 
 Christabcl. 
 
 * And you believe in Tristan and Iseult, and the constancy 
 which was personified by a bramble, as in the famous ballad of 
 Lord Lovel.' 
 
 * The constancy which proved itself by marrying somebody 
 else, and remaining true to the old love all the same,' said Mrs. 
 Fairfax Torrington, in her society voice, trained to detonate 
 sharp sentences across the subdued buzz of a dinner-table. 
 
 * Poor Tristan,' sighed Dopsy. 
 *Poor Iseult,' murmured Mopsy. 
 
 They had never heard of either personage until this morning. 
 
 * Nothing in the life of either became them so well as the 
 leaving it,' said Mr. FitzJesse. ' The crowning toucii of poetry 
 in Iseult's death redeems her errors. You remember how slie 
 was led half senseless to Tristan's death-chamber — lors Vem,' 
 
'J 
 
 'His Lady Smiles ; Delvjht is in her Faoe* 815 
 
 hranse de set hra.t, taut comma el/c pent, ct gctto. nng aouapir^ ct sa 
 pasme sur la corps, ct h cv^vr Ivi part, ct l\imc x^ni r<t.^ 
 
 * If every woniaii wlio loses her lover could die like that/ said 
 Jessie, with a curious *;flanceatChrist,'il)el, who sat listening smil- 
 ingly to the conversation, with the iJaron prostrate at her feet. 
 
 ' Instead of making good her loss at the earliest opportunity, 
 what a dreary place this woril would be,' murmured littlo 
 Monty. , ' I think somebody in tne luetic line has observed that 
 nothing in Nature is constant, ao it would be hard lines upon 
 women if they were to be fettered for life by some early attach- 
 ment that came to a bad end.' 
 
 'L(X)k at Juliet's constancy,' said Miss St. Aubyn. 
 
 'Juliet was never put to the test,' answered FitzJesse. * The 
 whole course of her lovo atlair was something less than a week. 
 If that potion of hers had failed, and she had awakened safe 
 and sound in her own bedchamber next morning, who knows 
 that she wouhl not have siibmitted to the force of circumstances, 
 married County Paris, and lived happily with him ever after. 
 There is only one perfect exami)le of constancy in the whole 
 realm of poetry, and that is tiie love of I'aolo ;ind Francesca, the 
 love which even the pains of hell could not dissever.' 
 
 'They weren't married, don't wou know,' lisped Monty. 
 *They hadn't had the opportunity of getting tired of each other. 
 And then, in the under-world, a lady would be glad to take up 
 with somebody she had known on earth : just as in Australia 
 one is delighted to fall in with a fellow one would'nt caie two- 
 pence for in Bond Street.' 
 
 ' I believe you are right,' said Mr. FitzJesse, ' and that con- 
 stancy is only another name for convenience. ^Married people 
 are constant to each other, as a rule, because there is buch an in- 
 fernal row when they fall out,' 
 
 Lightly flew the moments in the balmy air, freshened by the 
 salt sea, warmed by the glory of a meridian sun — lightly and 
 ha])pily for that wise majority of the revellers, whose pliilosophy 
 is to get the most out of to-day's fair summer-time, and to leave 
 future winters and possible calamities to Jove's discretion. Jessie 
 watched the girl who had giown uj) by her side, whose every 
 thought she had once known, and wondered if this beautiful 
 artiticial impersonation of society tones and society graces could 
 be verily the same ilesh and blood. What had made this 
 wondrous transformation 1 Uad Christabel's very soul under- 
 gone a change during that dismal period of apathy last winter ? 
 bhe had awakened from that catalepsy of desj)air a new woman 
 — eager for frivolous i)letisures — courting admiiation — studious 
 of effect : the very opposite of that high-souled and pure-minded 
 girl whom Jessie had known and loved. 
 
 ' It is the most awful moral wreck that was ever seen,' 
 thought Jessie ; ' but if my love can save her fr^im deeper 
 desiradation she shall be saved.' 
 
m 
 lull 
 
 316 
 
 Mount lioyaU 
 
 Could *lio caro for that bliowy impostor posed at her feet| 
 gazing' np at lier with passioiiato eyes— han;^'iii',' on licr acoi'iits— 
 o(K!idy worsliippini^ her ? SIk^ sri'incd to .•icicpt his idul.itry, t< 
 Hiiiutiou liin iusolt'iice ; and all hor IViriid.s luokml on, half Hcorn« 
 ful, h.-df aiinisiMl. 
 
 *\Vh;itc;m Tn'i,'<)ii('ll ho Ihiiikini; ahoiit not to bo hero to* 
 day ? " said .lack Vandcli'iir, closi! to .lessiu's elbow. 
 
 * Why .slionld he he h«ie V she asked. 
 
 'iJerausu he's wanted, lle'tt ne;,'Iectin,if that silly* woman 
 rthamcfidly.' 
 
 'It is (»nly his way,' answercMl Jes.sio, scornfully. * Last year 
 h(! invited Air. Handci^li !<► JMount lioyal, who had been eni,'a^ed 
 to his wife a few years befoie. lie is not j,'iven to jealousy.' 
 
 'Evidently not,' said Captain Vandcliui-, waxing thoui;htful, 
 as h;^ lijL,diled a eii^Mictte, and stiolled slowly oil" to stare at the 
 Kca, the rocky ]»innacles, and yonder eornioiant skinnning away 
 from a Hharj) ])oint, to dip and vanish in tin; _i,Meen water. 
 
 The i)ilL,M'inia,'_,fe from Trevena to Tievithy farm was tjome- 
 what less strai,'nlin^' than the long walk by the elills. Tho way 
 way along a high road, which necessitated less meandering, but 
 the |)ar(y still divided itself into twos and threes, and Christabel 
 Ktill allowed do (-azalet the privilt'gi! of a /<;^c-<J-^t^;t'. She wiu* a 
 better walker than any of her friends, and the Baron was a 
 practised pedestrian ; so those two kept well ahead, leaving the 
 rest of the party to follow as they pleased. 
 
 ' I wondor they are not tired of each other by this lime,' said 
 Mopsy, whose Wnrtemburg heels were beginning to tell upon 
 her tem])er. * It has been such a long day — and such a long 
 walk. What can the IJaron find to talk al)out all this time ? ' 
 
 ' Jlimself,' answered FitzJesse, 'an inexhaustible subject 
 Men can always talk. Listening is the art in which they fail. 
 Are you a gttod listener. Miss Vandeleur?' 
 
 * I'm afiaid not. If any one is prosy I begin to think of my 
 frocks.' 
 
 ' Very bad. As a young woman, with the eompiest of society 
 before yoi;, I most earnestly reconnncnd you to cultivate the 
 listeners art. Talk just enough to develop your companion's 
 powers. Jf he has a hobl>y, let him lide it. Ijc interested, bo 
 sympathetic. Do not always agree, but dilier only to be con- 
 vinced, argue only to be converted. Never answer at random, 
 or stitle .a yawn. Be a perfect listener, and society is open to 
 you. People will talk of you as the most intelligent girl they know.' 
 
 Mopsy smiled a sickly smile. The agony of those ready-made 
 boots, just a quarter of a size too small, though they had seemed 
 so comfortable in the shoemaker's shop, wjia increasing momen- 
 tarily. Here was a hill like the side of a house to be descended. 
 Poor Mopsy felt as if she were balanjing herself on the points of 
 her toes. She leant feebly on her umbrella, while the editor of 
 the Sling trudjTed sturdily by her side, adniiriug the landscane— 
 
her fot't, 
 
 If Hcorij. 
 hero to* 
 
 wom;in 
 
 Misl year 
 
 •sy.' 
 
 ii.Ljlitfnl, 
 e at the 
 ii*,' uway 
 
 s soinc- 
 'he way 
 ill,!,', hut 
 nistabel 
 vviis a 
 was a 
 dug the 
 
 lie,* said 
 
 11 iii)on 
 
 a long 
 
 10?' 
 
 subject 
 oy fiiil. 
 
 : of niy 
 
 society 
 ite the 
 );uiion'a 
 ted, be 
 je cou- 
 iiudora, 
 pen to 
 know.' 
 ^-niade 
 seemed 
 lomen- 
 :ended. 
 ints of 
 itor of 
 caoe-- 
 
 
 * Tlis Ladij Siiiildfi ; Dt'.U'jht in in her Face,.* .TI7 
 
 utopping half-way down (he liill to point (Uit the ^'lamlcr fcatiin'!* 
 of the scene with hi.s bamboo. Slopping was ever ho nnieh worse 
 than goini^ on. It was as if the liren consuming the martyr at 
 the titake had suddenly gone out, and left him with an neuter 
 consciousness of his pain. 
 
 * Tor), too lovely,' iiinrnuired INTopsy, heartily wiMJiiiiLj herself 
 in th(^ l\iM',''s Hoail, ( 'ln'1-^ra, within hail of an omnilnis. 
 
 She hobblril on sonicliow, piciendinL; to listen to Mr. Filz- 
 Jesse's conversation, but t'eelini^ that she was momentarily th- 
 mr.nsl rating' her incompetence as a listener, till they came to lie- 
 fiwm, where she w;is just able to totter into the sitting,' room, 
 and sink into the nearest chair. 
 
 * J 'm afraid yon'n! tired,' said the journalist, a sturdy bloci> 
 of a man, who hardly knew the meaniii',' of fatiLjue. 
 
 * I am just .'I little tired,' she fallcrefl hy[)ocriticaIly, 'but it 
 las been a lovely walk.' 
 
 They wore the last to arrive. The teathinf,'s were ready upon 
 a table covered with snowy damask -a substantial tea, including,' 
 home'inade loaves, sailron-coloured cakes, jam, marmalade, and 
 cream. But there was no oiu? in the room except Mrs. L'airfax 
 Torrington, who had enthroned herself in the most comfortable 
 chair, l)y the side of the cheerful lire. 
 
 * All the rest of our p(!oplt! have gone stra^LfliuLT off to look at 
 things,' ahe said, 'some to the Kiev(! — and as that is a mile oil" we 
 shall have ever so long to wait for our tea.' 
 
 * Do you think we need wait very long?' asked Mopsy, whose 
 head was aching from the ellectsof mi<l-day champagne ; 'woidd 
 it be so very bad if wo W(>r(? to ask for a cuj) of tea.' 
 
 'T am ixxsitively longing for tea,' said Mrs. Torrington to 
 FitzJesse, ignoring Mojtsy. 
 
 'Then I'll ask llu; farm people to brew a special pot for you 
 two,' answere«l the journalist, ringing the bell. 'Here comes 
 Mr. Tregonell, game-bag, dogs, and all. This is more fr'endly 
 than I expected.' 
 
 Leonard strolled across the little quadrangular garden, and 
 came in at the low door, as Mr. FitzJesse spoke. 
 
 ' I thought I should tind some of you here,' he said ; 'where 
 are the others ? ' 
 
 Gone to the Kieve, most of them,* answered Mis. Torrington, 
 briskly. Her freshness contrasted cruelly with Afopsy's limp and 
 exhausted condition. ' At least I know your wife and de (^azalet 
 were bent on goingthere. She had promised how the waterfall. 
 We were just debating whether we ought to wait tea for them.' 
 
 * I wouldn't, if I were you,' said Leojuird. ' No doubt they'll 
 take their time.' 
 
 He flung down his game-bag, took up his hat, whistled to his 
 dogs, and went towards the door. ' 
 
 * Won't you stop and have some tea — juat to keo^ us in 
 oountenance ? ' asked Mrs. Torrine:toii. 
 
 li 
 lliji 
 
318 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 I'd rather have it later. 
 
 ni go and meet the 
 
 ' No, thanks, 
 othors.' 
 
 * If he ever intended to look after her it was certainly time 
 he should bei^in,' said the widow, when the door was shut u^wn 
 her host. * Plca.se ring again, Mr. Fitz.7es.se. How slow these 
 farm peoj)le are ! Do they suppose we have come here to stare 
 at cups and saucers ] ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 *LOVE BORE SUCn BITTER AND SUCH DEADLY FRUIT.' 
 
 ti I; 
 
 Leonard Treqonell went slowly up the steep narrow lane wici 
 his (logs at his heels. It was a year since he had been this way. 
 Good as the cover round about the waterfall was said to be for 
 woodcock, he had carefully avoided tlie spot this season, and his 
 friends had been constrained to defer to his su))erior wisdom as a 
 son of the soil. He had gone farther afield for his sport, and, as 
 there had been no lack of birds, his guests had no reason for 
 complaint. Yet Jack Vandeleur had said more than once, • I 
 wonder you don't try the Kieve. We shot a lot of birds there 
 last year.' 
 
 Now for the first time since that departed autumn ho went 
 up the hill to one of the ha])py huuting-grounds of his boyhood. 
 The jjlace where he had fished, and shot, and trapped birds, and 
 hunted water-rats, and climbed and torn his clotlies in the care- 
 less schoolboy days, when his conception of a perfectly blissful 
 existence came as near as possible to the life of a North American- 
 Indian. He had always detested polite society and book-learning ; 
 but he had been shrewd enougti and quick enough at learning 
 the arts he loved : — gunnery — angling — veteriniuy surgery. 
 
 He met a grouj:* of i)eople near the top of the hill — all the 
 party except Christabel and the Baron. One glance showed him 
 that these two were missing from the cluster of men and women 
 crowding through the gate that opened into the lane. 
 
 ' The waterfall is quite a shabby aflair,' said Miss St. Aubyn; 
 ' there has been so little rain lately, I felt ashamed to show Mr. 
 Faddie such a ])oor little dribble.' 
 
 ' We are all going back to tea,' explained her mother. ' I 
 don't know what has become of Mrs. Tregonell and the Baron, 
 but I sup])ose they are loitering about somewhere. Perhaps 
 you'll tell them we have all gone on to the farm.' 
 
 ' Yes, I'll send them Jiffcer you. I told my wife I'd meet her 
 at the Kieve, if I could.' 
 
 He passed them and ran across the ploughed field, while the 
 others went down the hill, till king and laugliing. He heard the 
 Bound of their voicuo and that light laughter dying away on tlio 
 
I mcL't the 
 
 ainly time 
 «liut UIX)11 
 slow these 
 VQ to sf;ire 
 
 JIT.' 
 
 Jane wici 
 this way. 
 
 to be for 
 1, and liis 
 itloni as a 
 t, and, as 
 iiison for 
 
 once, * I 
 :d3 there 
 
 ho went 
 )oyliood. 
 irds, and 
 ^ho care- 
 bh'ssful 
 uerican- 
 sarning; 
 earning 
 
 O 
 
 jry. 
 
 all the 
 ved him 
 
 women 
 
 Vubyn; 
 ow Mr. 
 
 er. 'I 
 
 Baron, 
 *crhaj)3 
 
 eet her 
 
 ile the 
 rd the 
 on the 
 
 *Love bore such Bitter and such Daadly Fruit.'' 319 
 
 still air as the distance widened between him and them ,- and he 
 wondered if they were talking of his wife, and of his seeming 
 indifference to her folly. The crisis had come. He had watched 
 her in blank amazement, hardly able to believe his own senses, 
 to realize the possiljility of guilt on the part of one whose very 
 perfection had galled him ; and now he told himself there was 
 no doubt of her folly, no doubt that this tinsel ly pretender 
 had fascinated her, and that she was on the verge of destruction. 
 No woman could outrage ])ropriety as she had been doing of late, 
 and yet escape danger. The business must be stopped somehow, 
 even if he were forced to kick the Baron out of doors, in order 
 to make an end of the entanglement. And then, what if she 
 were to lift up her voice, and accuse him — if she were to turn 
 that knowledge which he suspected her of iiossessing, against 
 him ? What then ? He must face the situation, and pay the 
 penalty of what he had done. That was all. 
 
 ' It can't much matter what becomes of me,' he said to himself 
 'I have never had an hoin-'s real hapj)iuess since 1 married her. 
 She warned me that it would be so- -warned me against my own 
 jealous temper — but I wouldn't listen to her. I had myown way. 
 
 Could she care for that man 1 (lo\\\(\ slie ? In sjiito of the 
 coarseness of his own nature, there was in Leonards mind a 
 deep-rooted conviction of his wife'« Durity, which was stronger 
 even than the evidence of actual facts. Even now, although the 
 time had come when he must act, he had a strange confused 
 feeling, like a man whose brain is under the inilueneo of some 
 narcotic, which makes him see things that are not. He felt as in 
 soime hideous dream — long-involved — a maze of delusion and 
 bedevilment, from which thi re was no escape. 
 
 He went down into the hollow. The high wooden gate stood 
 wide open — evidence that there was some one lingering below. 
 The leaves were still on the trees, the broad feathery ferns were 
 Btill green. There was a low yellow light gleaming behind the 
 ridge of rock and the steep earthy slope above. The rush of the 
 water sounded loud and clear in the silence. 
 
 Leonard crept cautiously down the winding moss-grown 
 track, holding his dogs behind him in a leash, and coiustraining 
 those well-mannered brutes to perfect quiet. He looked down 
 into the deep hollow, through which the water runs, and over 
 which there is that nanow foot bridge, whence tlie waterfall is 
 seen in all its beauty — an arc of silvery light cleaving the dai-k 
 rock above, and flashing down to the dark rock below. 
 
 Christabel was stanrling on the bridge, with de Caz.tlet at her 
 side. They were not looking up at the waterfall. Their faces 
 were turned the other way, to the rocky river bed, fringed with 
 fern and wi\d rank growth of briar and weed. The Baron w;uj 
 talking ear nestly, his head bent over Christabel, till it seemed to 
 those furious eyes staring between the leafage, as if his lips nmst l>e 
 touching her face. His hand clasped hers. That was plain enough. 
 
820 
 
 Mount Jloyal. 
 
 1 
 
 ■ :!■ 
 
 Just tliciv (Iii^ si»juii('l sLiired, and rustled tlie dai)k dead 
 leaves — Cliristabel started, and looked up towards the trees tLat 
 Rcreened licr husband's tigure. A guilty start, a guilty look, 
 Leonard tlK)u.i:5dit. But those eyes of hers could not pierce the 
 leafy screen, and they drooped aL^'iin, looking dowinvaid at the 
 water beneath her feet. She stood in a lisicning attitude, aa if 
 her whole being hung ujion i\i' ('.ixalet's woi-ds. 
 
 What was he ])leadii)g so intensely ? What was that honeyed 
 speech, to which the false wife listened, unresistingly, m(»tionk>ss 
 as the bird spell-bound by the snake. So might Eve have 
 listened to the lirst tempter. In jtist such a!i attitude, with just 
 such an expression, every nuiscle relaxed, the head gently 
 drooping, the eyelids loweied, a tender smile curving the lips — 
 the lirst tempted wife might have hearkened to the silver-sweet 
 tones of her seducer. 
 
 'Devil ! ' muttered Leonard between his clenclied teeth. 
 
 Even in the agony of his rage — rage at tinding that this open 
 folly which he had pretended not to see,had been but the lightand 
 airy prelude to the dark theme of sec vet guilt — that wrong 
 which he felt most deeply was his wife's f; i. tiiood to herself — her 
 wilful debasement of her own noble character. lie had known 
 her, and believed in her as perfect and pure among women, and 
 now he saw her deliberately renouncing all claim to man's 
 respect, lowering herself to the level of the women who can be 
 teni])ted. IFe hail believed her invulnerable. It was as if 
 Diana lu^-scilf had gone astray — as if the very ideal and arche- 
 type of ])urity among women had become perverted. 
 
 Ho stood, breathless almost, holding back his dogs, gazing, 
 listening with as much intensity as if only the senses of hearing 
 and si'dit lived in him — and all the rest were extinct. He saw 
 the Baion draw n<'arer and nearer as he urged his prayer —who 
 could doubt the nature of that prayer — until the two figures 
 were j)osed in one peifect harmonious whole, au'^ then his arm 
 stole gently roinid the slender waist. 
 
 Christa'.>el sprang away from him with a coy lin 'Ij, 
 
 * Not now,' she said, in a clear voice, so difitinc.. > to reach 
 that listener's ears. ' I can answer nothing now. To morrow.' 
 
 * But, my soul, why delay \ ' 
 
 * To-morrow,' she r(>peated ; and then slie cried suddenly, 
 hark ! there is some one close by. Did you not hear?' 
 
 There had been no sound but t!i'» >v;ivterfall — not even the 
 faintest rustle of a leaf. The two dogs crouched submissively at 
 their master's feet, while that master himself stood motionless 
 as a stone tigure. 
 
 * I must go,' cried Christabel. * Tliink how long we have 
 stayed behind the others. We shall set people wondering.' 
 
 She sprang lightly from the bridge to the bank, anil came 
 quickly up the rocky path, a narrow winding track, which closely 
 Blurted the spot where Leonard stood concealed by the broad 
 
lonk (lead 
 trees that 
 lilty look, 
 pierce the 
 ird at the 
 tude, aa if 
 
 it lioTioyed 
 motionless 
 Eve have 
 , Avith just 
 \(\ p'litly 
 the lips — 
 ilver-swcet 
 
 teeth. 
 t tills open 
 le lightand 
 hat wrong 
 erself — her 
 lad known 
 omen, and 
 L to man's 
 A\o can be 
 was as if 
 and arche- 
 
 )gs, gazing, 
 of hearing 
 He saw 
 ayer— who 
 wo Jigures 
 en his arm 
 
 -i to reach 
 morvow.' 
 
 suddenly, 
 
 V 
 
 it oven the 
 lissively at 
 motionless 
 
 g we have 
 !ring.' 
 
 , and came 
 lich closely 
 the broad 
 
 
 • Love bore such Bitter aiid stich Deadly Fntit.^ 321 
 
 leaves of a chestnut. Slio might almost have heanl his ImiTied 
 breathing, she luiglit alnicht luivc s'\'ii tlic hu'id oyes of his dogs, 
 gleaming atlnv;irt the rank under-gn-owth ; but she stejipcd 
 lightly jtast, and v.-niislietl from the watcher's sight. 
 
 ])e Cazalct followed. 
 
 'Chrislabel, stop,' he exclaimed ; ' I must have your answer 
 now. My fate hangs upon your words. You cannot mean to 
 throw me over. I have planned everything. In three days wo 
 ehall be at Pesth — secure from all pursuit.' 
 
 He was following in Christabel's track, but he was not 
 Rwift enough to overtake her, being at some disadvantage 
 upon that slippery way, where the moss-grown slabs of ruek 
 itllered a very insecure footing. As he spoke the hist words 
 Christabel's tigure disappeared among the trees upon the higher 
 ground above him, and a broad herculean hand shot out of the 
 ieafy background, and pinioned him. 
 
 ' Scoundrel — proHigate — impostor ! ' hissed a voice in his ear, 
 and Leonard Tregonell stood before him — white, ])anting, with 
 flecks of foam upon his livid lips. ' Devil ! y<ni have corrupted 
 and seduced the purest woman that ever lived. You shall 
 answer to me — her husband — for your infamy.' 
 
 'Oh! is that your tune?' exclaimed the Baron, wrenching 
 his arm from that iron grip. They were both powerful men — 
 fairly matched in physical force, cool, hardened by rough living. 
 ' Is that your game ? I thought you didn't mind.' 
 
 * You dastardly villain, what did you take nie for?' 
 
 * A conmion product of nineteenth-century civilization,' 
 answered the other, coolly. ' One of those liberal-minded 
 husbands who allow their wives as wide a license .'is they claim 
 for themselves.' 
 
 ' Liar,' cried Leonard, rushing at him with his clenched list 
 raised to strike. 
 
 The Baron caught him by the wrist — held him with fingers 
 of iron. 
 
 'Takr care,' he said. 'Two can play at that game. If it 
 comes to knocking a man's front teeth down his throat I may as 
 well tell you that I have given the 'Frisco dentists a good bit of 
 work in my time. You forget that there's no experience of a 
 rough-and-ready life that you have had which I have not g(Jipe 
 through twice over. If I had you in Colorado we'd soon wipe 
 cfi' this little score with a brace of revolvers.' 
 
 'Let Cornwall be Colorailo for the nonce. We could meet 
 here as easily as we could meet in any ({uiet nook across the 
 Channel, or in the wilds of America. No time like the present 
 —110 spot better than this.' 
 
 'If we had only the barkers,' said de Cazalet, 'but 
 unluckily we haven't.' 
 
 ' I'll meet you here to-morrow at daybreak — say, sharp 
 seven. "We can arrange about the piatols to-night. Vandeleur 
 
 h 
 
i i 
 
 : i 
 
 M i 
 
 m 
 
 322 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 
 man killed here,' answered Leonard, 
 
 will come with me — he'd run any risk to serve me— and I dare- 
 >ay you could get little Monty to do aa much for you. He's a 
 good plucked one.' 
 
 'Do you mean it?' 
 
 ' Unquestionably.' 
 
 * Very well. Tell Vandeleur what you mean, and let him 
 settle the details. In the meantime we can take things quietly 
 before the ladies. There is no need to scare any of them. 
 
 ' I am not going to scare them. Down, Termagant,' said 
 Leonard to the Irish setter, as the low light brandies of a 
 neighbouring tree were suddenly stirred, and a few withered 
 leaves drifted down from the rugged bank above the spot where 
 the two men were standing. 
 
 ' Well, I suppose you're a pretty good shot,* said the Baron, 
 coolly, taking out his cigar-case, * so there'll be no disparity. 
 By-the-by there was a man killed here last year, I heard — a 
 former rival of yours.' 
 
 *Yes, there was a 
 walking slowly on. 
 
 * Perhaps you killed him ? ' 
 
 ' I did,' answered Leonard, turning upon him suddenly. ' I 
 killed him : as I hope to kill you : as I would kill any man 
 who tried to come between me and the woman I loved. He was 
 a gentleman, and I am sorry for him. He fired in the air, and 
 made me feel like a murderer. He knew how to make that last 
 score. I have never had a peaceful moment since I saw him 
 fall, face downward, on that broad slab of rock on the other side 
 of the bridge. You see I am not afraid of you, or I shouldn't 
 teU you this.' 
 
 * I suspected as much from the time I heard the story,' said 
 de Carzalet. * I rarely believe in those convenient accidents 
 which so often dispose of inconvenient people. But don't you 
 think it might be better for you if we were to choose a different spot 
 for to-morrow's meeting ? Two of your rivals settled in the same 
 ^lly might look suspicious — for I daresay you intend to kill me.' 
 
 ' I shall try,' answered Leonard. 
 
 ' Then suppose we were to meet on those sands — Trebarwilh 
 sands, I think you call the place. Not much fear of interrup- 
 tion there, I should think, al seven o'clock in the morning.' 
 
 ' You can settle that and everything else with Vandeleur,* 
 said Leonard, striding off with his dogs, and leaving the Baron 
 to follow at his leisure.' 
 
 De Cazalet walked slowly back to the farm, meditating deeply. 
 
 * It's devilish unlucky that this should have happenetl,' he 
 «aid to himself. An hour ago everything was going on velvet. 
 We might have got quietly away to-morrow — ?or I know she 
 meant to go, cleveily as she fenced with me just now — and left 
 iny fleot^onen to his legal remedy, which would have secured 
 the hiij and her fortune to me, as soon as the Divorce Court 
 
*Love bore siich Bitter and auch Deadly Fruit' 323 
 
 buuiness was over. He would have followed us with the idea 
 of fighting, no doubt, but I should have known how to give 
 him the slip. And then we should have started in life with a 
 clean slate. Now there must be no end of a row. If I kill him 
 it will be difficult to get away — and if I bolt, how am I to be 
 sure of the lady ? Will she come to my lure when I call her 1 
 Will she go away with me, to-morrow'? Yes, that will be my 
 only chance. I must get her to promise to meet me at Bodmin 
 Boad Station in time for the Plymouth train — there's one starts 
 at eleven. I can drive from Trebarwith to Bodmin with a good 
 horse, take her straight through to London, and from London by 
 the first available express to Edinburgh. She shall know nothing 
 of what has happened till we are in Scotland, and then I can tell 
 her that she is a free woman, and my wife by the Scottish law, 
 — a bond which .she can make as secure as she likes by legal and 
 religious ceremonies.' 
 
 The Baron had enough insight into the feminine character to 
 know that a woman who has leisure for deliberation upon the 
 verge of ruin is not very likely to make the fatal plunge. The 
 boldly, deliberately bad are the rare exceptions among woman- 
 kind. The women who err are for the most part hustled and 
 hurried into wrong-doing — hemmed round and beset by con- 
 flicting interests — bewildered and confused by false reasoning — 
 whirled in the Maelstrom of passion, helpless as the hunted hare. 
 
 The Baron had pleaded his cause eloquently, as he thought — 
 had won Christabel almost to consent to elope with him — but not 
 quite. She had seemed so near yielding, yet had not yielded. 
 She had asked for time — time to reflect upon the fatal step — and 
 reflection was just that one privilege whicli must not be allowed 
 to her. Strange, he thought, that not once had she spoken of her 
 son, the wrong she must inflict upon him, her agony at having 
 to part with him. Beautiful, fascinating although he deemed 
 her — proud as he felt at having suljjugated so lovely a victim, it 
 seemed to de Cazalet that there was something hard and 
 desperate about her — jis of a womiui who went wTong deliberately 
 and of set purpose. Yet on the brink of ruin she drew back, 
 and was not to be moved l)y any special pleading of his to consent 
 to an immediate elopement. Vainly had he argued that the time 
 had come — that people were beginning to look askance — that 
 her husb.and's suspicions might be aroused at any moment. She 
 had been rock in her resistance of these arguments. But her 
 consent to an early flight must now be extorted from her. 
 Delay or hesitation now might be fatid. If he killed his man — 
 %nd he had little doubt in his own mind that he should kill him 
 — it was essential that his flight should be instant. The days 
 were past when juries were disposed to look leniently upon 
 gentlemanly homicide. If he were caught red-handed, the 
 penalty of his crime would be no light one. 
 
 * I was a fool to consent to such a wild plan/ ke told himself. 
 
 iiii 
 
 i> •>■ V 
 
824 
 
 Mount Eoyal. 
 
 * I ought to have insisted upon meeting him on the other side of 
 the Channel. But to draw Ixick now might look bad, and would 
 lessen uiy chance ^^ ith her. No ; there is no alternative course. I 
 must dispose of hiui,and get her away, without theloss of an hour.' 
 
 The whole business h;ui to be thought out carefully. Hia 
 intent was deadly, and he planned this duel with as much 
 wicked deliberation as if he had been planning a murder. He 
 had lived among men who held all human life, except their own, 
 lightly, and to whom dvielling and assassination were among the 
 possibilities of every-day existence. lie thought how if he and 
 the three other men could reach that lonely bend of the coast 
 unobserved, they might leave the maji who should fall lying on 
 the sand, with never an indication to point how he fell. 
 
 De Cazalet felt that in Vandeleur there was a m.ari to be 
 tn^sted. He would not betray, even though his friend were 
 lefti there, dead ujjon the low level sand-wjtste, for the tide to 
 roll ov^r him and hide him, and wrap the secret of his doom in 
 eternal silence. There Wiis something of the freebooter in Jack 
 Vandeleur — an honour-among-thieves kind of spirit — which the 
 soul of that other freebooter recof/iiized and understood. 
 
 'We don't want little Montagu, thought de Cazalet. *One 
 man will be second enough to see fair-play. The fuss and 
 formality of the thing c;in l)e dispensed with. That little 
 beggar's ideas are too insular — ho might round uj)on me.' 
 
 So meditating upon the details of to-morrow, the Baron went 
 down the liill to the farm, where he found the Mount Iloyal 
 party just setting oat on their howeward journey under the 
 shades of evening, stars shining faintly in the blue infinite above 
 them. Leonard was not among his wife's guests — nor had he 
 ^een seen by any of them since they met him at the field-^te, 
 an hour ago. 
 
 'He has made tracks for home, no doubt,' said Jack Vandeleur. 
 
 They went across the fields, and by the common beyond 
 Trevalga — walking briskly, tiilking merrily, in the cool evening 
 air ; all except Mopsy, from whose high-heeled boots there was 
 no surcease of pain, Alas ! those Wurtemburg heels, and the 
 boots just half a size too small for the wearer, for how many a 
 bitter hour of a woman's life have they to answer ! 
 
 De Cazalet tried in vain during that homeward walk to get 
 
 confidential speech with Christabel — he was eager to urge hia 
 
 new plan — the departure from Bodmin Road Station — but she 
 
 ^ was always surrounded. He fancied even that she made it her 
 
 ■ business to avoid him. 
 
 ' Coquette/ he muttered to himself savagely. * They are all 
 alike. I thought she was a little better than the rest ; but they 
 axe all ground in the same mill.' 
 
 He could scarcely get a glimpse of her face in the twilight. 
 She waa always a little way ahead, or a little way behind him — 
 now with Jessie Bridgeman now with Emily St. Aubyu— 
 
ler side of 
 md would 
 
 course. I 
 P an hour.' 
 jUy. Hia 
 
 as much 
 rder. He 
 :heir own, 
 imong tho 
 if he and 
 
 the coast 
 I lyin, 
 
 S on 
 
 lan to be 
 lend were 
 le tide to 
 3 doom in 
 r in Jack 
 which the 
 
 et. * One 
 fuss and 
 hat little 
 e.' 
 
 iron went 
 lit Koyal 
 mder the 
 lite above 
 ' had he 
 eld-^te, 
 
 andeleur. 
 beyond 
 
 |i evening 
 here was 
 and the 
 
 V many a 
 
 ilk to get 
 
 urge his 
 
 but she 
 
 de it her 
 
 y are all 
 but they 
 
 twilight, 
 id him — 
 SLubyn— 
 
 ■ Love bore such Bitter and such Deadly Fniit.' 325 
 
 skimming over the rough her.thy ground, flitting from group to 
 group. When they entered the house she disappeared alnio.st 
 instantly, leaving lier gue.st.< lin'^ering in the li.ill, too tired to 
 repair at once to their ;>\vii rooms, content to loiter in the glow 
 and warmth of the wooil tires. It was seven o'clock. Th-jy had 
 been out nearly nine liours. 
 
 'What a dreadfully long day it has been 1' exclaimed Emily 
 St. Aubyn, with a stitled yawn. 
 
 * Isn't that the usual remark after a pleasure party?' de- 
 manded Mr. FitzJesse. ' I have found the unfailing result of 
 any elaborate arrangement for human felicity to be an abnormal 
 lengthening of the hours ; just as every strenuous endeavour to 
 accomplish some good work for one's fellow-men infallibly 
 provoJces the enmity of the class to be benefited.' 
 
 'Oh, it has all been awfully enjo)'''ble, don't you know,' said 
 Miss St. Aubyn ; ' and it was very sweet of Mrs. Tregonell to 
 give us such a delightful day ; but I can't help feeling as if we 
 had been out a week. And now we have to dress for dinner, 
 which is rather a trial.' 
 
 ' Why not sit down as you are ? Let us have a tailor-gown 
 and sliooting-jucket dinner, as a variety upon a calico ball,' 
 suggested little Monty. 
 
 ' Impossible ! We should feel dirty and horrid,' said Miss St. 
 Aubyn. ' The freshness and ])urity of the dinner-table would 
 make us ashamed of our grubbiness. Besides, however could 
 we face the servants? No, the eti"ort must be made. Come, 
 mother, you really look as if you wanted to be carried upstairs.' 
 
 ' By voluntary contributions,' murmured FitzJesse, aside to 
 Miss Bridcreraan. ' Briareus himself could not do ic sin^jle- 
 handed, as one of our vivacious Uome Rulers might say.' 
 
 The Baron de Cazalet did not appear in the drawing-room an 
 hour later when the house-party assembled for dinner. Lie sent 
 his hostess a little note apologizing for his absence, on the groiuid 
 of important business letters, which must be answered that 
 night ; though why a man should sit down at eight o'clock in 
 tlis evening to write letters for a post which would not leave 
 Boscastle till the following af terTioou, was rather difficult for any 
 one to understand. 
 
 ' All humbug about those letters, you may depend,' said little 
 Monty, who looked as fresh as a daisy in his smooth expanse of 
 shirt-front, with a single diamond stud in the middle of it, like a 
 lighthouse in a calm sea. ' The Baron was fairly done — atkleto 
 as he pretends to be — hadn't a leg to stand upon — came in limp- 
 ing. I wouldn't mind giving long odds that he won't show till 
 to-morrow afternoon. It's a case of gruel and bandages for tho 
 next twent) -four hours.' 
 
 Leonard came into the drawing-room just in time to give hia 
 arm to Mrs. St. Aubyn. He made himself more agreeable tham 
 usual at dinner, aa it seemed to that worthy matron — talked 
 
I! (I 
 
 820 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
 more — laughed louder— and certainly drank more than his wont 
 The dinner was remarkably lively, in spite of the Baron's 
 absence ; indeed, the conversation took a new and livelier turn 
 upon that account, for everybody had something more or less 
 amusing to say about the absent one, stimulated and egged on 
 with quiet malice by Mr. FitzJesse. Anecdotes were told of his 
 self-assurance, his vanity, his pretentiousness. His pedigree was 
 discussed, and settled for — his antecedents — his married life, 
 were all submitted to the process of conversational vivisection. 
 
 * Eather rough on Mrs. Tiegonell, isn't it?' murmured little 
 Monty to the fair Dopsy. 
 
 * Do you think she really cares V Dopsy asked, incredulously. 
 'Don't you?' 
 
 * Not a straw. She could not care for such a man as that, 
 after being engaged to Mr. Hamleigh.* 
 
 * Hamleigh was better form, I admit — and I used to think 
 !Mr3. T. as straight as an arrow. But I confess I've been 
 staggered lately.' 
 
 * Did you see what a calm queenly look she had all the time 
 people were laughing at de Cazalet ? ' asked Dopsy. ' A woman 
 who cared one little bit for a ma a could not have tjik en it so quietly.' 
 
 ' You think she must have flamed out — said something in 
 defence of her admirer. You forget your Tennyson, and how 
 Guinevere " marred her friend's point with pale tranquility." 
 Women are so deuced deep.' 
 
 ' Dear Tennyson ! * murmured Dopsy,' whose knowledge of 
 the Laureate's works had not gone very far beyond ' The May 
 Queen,' and ' The Charge of the Six Hundred.' 
 
 It wasgi'owing late in the evening when de Cazalet showed 
 himself. The drawing-room party had been in very fair spirits 
 without him, but it was a smaller and a quieter party than 
 usual ; for Leonard had taken Captain Vandeleur off to his own 
 den after dinner, and Mr. Montagu had offered to play a fifty 
 game, left-handed, against the combined strength of Dopsy and 
 ]\Iopsy. Christabcl had been at the piano almost all the evening, 
 playing with a breadth and grandeur which seemed to rise 
 above her usual style. The ladies made a circle in front of the 
 tire, with Mr. Faddie and Mr. FitzJesse, talking and laughing 
 in a subdued tone, while those gi'and harmonies of Beethoven's 
 rose and fell upon their indifferent, half admiring ears. 
 
 Cliristabel played the closing chords of the Funeral March of 
 a Hero as de Cazalet entered the room. He went straight to * 
 the piano, and seated himself in the empty chair by her side. 
 She glided into the melancholy arpeggios of the Moonlight 
 Sonata, without looking up from the keys. They were a long 
 way from the group at the fire — all the length of the room lay in 
 deep shadow between the lamps on the mantelpiece and neigh* 
 liouring tables, and the candles upoa tke piano. Pianiasiiri) 
 nnisic seemed to invite conversation. 
 
Lis wont 
 e Baron's 
 elier turn 
 re or less 
 egged on 
 ^Idof his 
 [igree was 
 Tied life, 
 section, 
 ired little 
 
 iduloufily. 
 
 1 as that, 
 
 to think 
 've been 
 
 the time 
 L woman 
 < quietly.* 
 thing in 
 md how 
 iquility." 
 
 'ledge of 
 'he May 
 
 showed 
 r spirits 
 ty than 
 his own 
 y a fifty 
 psy and 
 ivening, 
 
 to rise 
 ;of the 
 lughing 
 hoven's 
 
 arch of 
 ight to * 
 er side. 
 Dnlight 
 a long 
 I lay in 
 neigh- 
 lissiir/) 
 
 
 • Love hare such Bitter and S7ich Deadly Fruit* 827 
 
 * You have written your letters? ' she asked, lightly. 
 
 'My letters were a fiction — I did not w.int to sit fnoe to face 
 with your husband at dinner, after our conversation tliis after- 
 noon at the waterfall ; you can understand that, can't you, 
 Christabel. Don't — don't do that.' 
 
 * What 7' she asked, still looking down at the keys. 
 
 * Don't shudder when I call you by your Cliristiau name — a« 
 you did juat now. Christiibel, I want your answer to my (juen- 
 tion of to-day. I lold you then that the crisis of our fate had 
 come. I tell you so again to-niglit — more parncstly, if it is pos- 
 sible to be more in earnest than I wa.s to-day. I am obli^'iil to 
 speak to you here — almost witliin earshot of those peopU; — 
 because time is short, and I must take the first chaneu tiiat 
 offers. It has been my accursed luck never to be with you 
 alone — I think this afternoon was tlie fii-st time that you and 
 I have been together alone since I came here. You don't 
 know how hard it Ikis been for me to keep every word and look 
 within check — always to remember that we were before an 
 andience.* 
 
 ' Yes, there has been a good deal of acting,' she answered, quietly. 
 
 * But there must be no more acting — no more falsehood. We 
 have both made up our minds, have we not, my beloved ? I 
 think you love me — yes, Christabel, I feel secure of your love. 
 You did not deny it to-day, when I asked that thrilling question 
 — those hidden eyes, the conscious droop of that proud head, 
 were more eloquent than words. And for my love, Christabel — 
 no words can speak that. It shall be tohi hy-and-by in language 
 that all the world can undei*stand — told by my deeds. The time 
 h;us come for decision ; I have had news to-day that renders 
 instant action necessary. If you and I do not leave Cornwall 
 together to-inon'ow, we may be parted for ever. Have you made 
 up your mind 1 ' 
 
 ' Hardly,' she answered, her fingers still slowly moving over 
 the keys in those plaintive arpeggios. 
 
 * What is your difiiculty, dearest ? Do you fear to face the 
 future with me ? ' 
 
 * I have not thought of the future.' 
 
 * Is it the idea of leaving your child that distresses you ? ' 
 
 * I have not tliought of him.' 
 
 * Then it is my truth — my devotion which you doubt ? ' 
 
 ' Give me a little more time for thought,' she said, still play- 
 ing the same sotto voce accompaniment to their speech. 
 
 * I dare not ; everything must be planned to-night. I must 
 leave this house early to-morrow mommg. There are imperative 
 reasons which oblige me to do so. You must meet me at Bodmin 
 £oad Station at eleven — yo u must, Christabel, if our lives are to 
 be free and happy and spent together. Vacillation on your part 
 will ruin all my plans. Trust yourself to me, dearest — trust my 
 power to secure a bright and happy future. If you do not want 
 
328 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 to \)Q mrtod from your boy tako him witli yoa Ho shall bo my 
 son. I will hold hiia for you ajrainst all the worUl.' 
 
 'You lu'ist leave lliis hotu'i' carlv tt>iii(ii row moruinc',' slie 
 Haiil, lookiii,!,' up at him for th<j IJrst tiiue. * Why ?' 
 
 ' for a rl^•l^<•Il which I cannot lell you. It in a buainesa in 
 whicli Home one else is involved, and 1 am not free to disclose 
 it yet. You sliall know all later.' 
 
 'You will tell me, when we meet at Bcxlmin Tload.' 
 
 *Yes. Ah, then you have made up yoiu* mind — you will be 
 there. My best and dearest, Heaven ble-:s you for that sweet 
 consent.' 
 
 ' Had we not better leave TTeaven out of the question 1 ' she 
 said with a mockini^ smile;and then slowly, i,'ravely, deliberately, 
 she said, * Yes, I will meet you at eleven o'clock to-morrow, at 
 Bodmin Road Station — and you will tell meall that has hnpp«ned.' 
 
 ' What secret can I withhold from you, love — my second self 
 — the fairer half of my soul ? ' 
 
 Urgently as he had pleaded his cause, certain as he had l)een 
 of ultimate success, he was almost overcome by her yielding. 
 It seemed as if a fortress Avhich a moment before had stood up 
 between him and the sky — massive — invincible — the vi-ry typo 
 of the impregnable and everlasting, had suddenly crumbled into 
 ruin at his feet. His belief in woman's ]pride and ])urity had 
 never been very strong : yet he had believeil that here and there, 
 in this sinful world, invincible purity was to be found. But 
 now he could never believe in any woman again. He had 
 believed in this one to the last, although he had set himself to 
 win her. Even when he had been breathing the poison of hia 
 florid eloquence into her ear — even when she liad smiled at him, 
 a willing list(>ner — there had been something in her look, some 
 sublime inexpressible air of stainless womanhood which had 
 made an impassable distance between them. And now she had 
 consented to run away with him : she had sunk in one moment 
 to the level of all disloyal wives. His breast thrilled with pride 
 and triumph at the thought of his conquest : and yet there was 
 a touch of shame, shame that she could so fall. 
 
 Emily St. Aubyn came over to the piano, and made an end 
 of all confidential talk. 
 
 * Now you are both here, do give us that delicious little duet 
 of Lecocq's,' she said : ' we want something cheerful before we 
 disperse. Good gracious Mrs. Tregonell, how bad you look,* 
 cried the young lady, suddenly, ' as white as a ghost.' 
 
 ' I am tired to death,' answered Christabel, ' I could not sing 
 a note for the world.' 
 
 ' Rejilly, then we mustn't worry you. Thanks so much for 
 that lovely Beethoven music — tlie " Andante" — or the" Pastorale" 
 — or the " Pathetique," was it not ? So sweet.' 
 
 * Good night,' said CliristabeL * You won't think me rude 
 if I am the first to go ? ' 
 
ch for 
 oralu" 
 
 'Love hore stick Bitter and such Deadly Fruit.' 329 
 
 ' Not at all. Wo aro all Efoini:;. P.ick up your wools, mother. 
 I know you liave only been pretcndincj to knit. We aro all li.'ilf 
 xslcop. [ believe wo liavL' liaidly stiviiL'th to crawl npstaii*s.' 
 
 L'andK's wiTc lii^'lited, ami Mi.-i. Trei^^Diioll and ''or lmu'sIs dis- 
 persed, the party from the Ijilliard-rooninioetinrrtliom in the hall. 
 
 These li<;hter-mindod peojlo, the drama of whoso oxi»tenco 
 was just now in the comedy slaijo, went noisily up ti» thi.'ir rooms ; 
 l)ut the JJaron, who was usually the most loipiacious, retirotl 
 almost in silence. Nor diil Christabel tlo more than bid her 
 guesta a brief good-ni<,dit. Neither Let)nard nor his friend Jack 
 Vandeleur had sliown themselves since dinner. Whether they 
 wore still in the Squire's den, or whether they had retired to 
 their own rooms, no one knew. 
 
 The IJaron's servai\t wjus waitinrf to attend his master. TIo 
 was a man who had been with de Caz;det in ( 'alifornia, Mexico, 
 and South America — who had lived with him in his bachelorhood 
 and in his married life — knew all the details of his domestic 
 career, and had been faithful to him in wealth and in poverty, 
 knew all that there was to be known about him — the best and 
 the worst — and had made up his mind to hold by an emj)loyment 
 which had been adventurous, ])rt)lUaMe, and toliMably easy, not 
 entirely free from dani^or, or from the ])rospi?et of ailvcrsity — 
 yet always hopeful. ISo thorough a scamp as the Jiaron nuist 
 always lind some chanco open to him — thus, at loiust, argued 
 Henri le Mescam, his unscruj)ulous ally. The man was quick, 
 clever — able to turn his hand to anything — valet, groom, cook, 
 courier — as necessity demanded. 
 
 ' Is Salathiel pretty fresh f ' ;vsked the Baron. 
 
 • Fit as a liddle : he hasnl been out since you hunted him 
 four days ago.' 
 
 'That's lucky. ITe will be able to go the pace to-morrow 
 morning. Ilave him harnessed to that American buggy of Mr. 
 Tregonell's at six o'clock.' 
 
 ' I suppose you know that it's hardly light at six.' 
 
 * There will bo quite enough light for nie. Pack my smallest 
 portmanteau with linen for a week, and a second suit — no dress- 
 clothes—and have the trap ready in the stable-yard when tlie 
 clock strikes six. I have to catch a train at Launeeston at lAo. 
 You will follow in the afternoon with the luifgu'e.' 
 
 To your London rooms, Sir I ' 
 
 'Yes. If you don't find me there you will wait for further 
 instructions. You may have to join me on the other sid(? of the 
 channel.' 
 
 ' I hope so, Sir.' 
 
 ' Sick of England, already 1 ' 
 
 'Never cared much for it, Sir. 
 die of the dulness of this place.' 
 
 'Eather more luxurious than our old quarters at St. Ileliers 
 ten years ago, when you were marker at Jewsou's, while I wa? 
 
 began to think 
 
 I should 
 
330 
 
 Mount Royal, 
 
 teaching drawing and French at the fashionable academies of the 
 island.' 
 
 *That was bad, Sir ; but luxury isn't everything in life. A 
 man's mind goes to rust in a place of this kind.' 
 
 • Well, there will not hn much rust for you in future, I 
 Itolicve. How would you like it if I were to t;ike you back to 
 ihc shores of the Vacilic'?' 
 
 'That's just what I shouhl like, Sir. You were a king there, 
 
 .1 I was your prime minister.' 
 
 and 
 
 * And I may be a king again — perhaps this time with a queen 
 — a proud and beautiful (jucen.' 
 
 * Le Mescam smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 'The v^;ueenly element was not<|uit.^ wanting in the past, Sir,' 
 he said . 
 
 * i'shaw, Henri, the ephemeral fancy of the hour. Such 
 chance entanglements as those do not rule a man's life.' 
 
 * Perhaps not, Sir ; but I know one of those chance entangle- 
 ments made Lima un])leasantly warm for us ; and if, after you 
 winged Don Silvio, there hadn't been a pair of good horaea 
 waiting for us, you might never have seen the outside of Peru.' 
 
 * And if a duel was dangerous in Lima, it would bo ten times 
 more dangerous in Cornwall, would it not, Henri V 
 
 ' Of course it would, Sir. But you n' not thinking of any- 
 thing like a duel here — you can't be so ^ as to think of it.' 
 
 ' Certainly not. A ad now you ca jk that small port- 
 manteau, while I take a stretch . I sha'n't take off my clothes : 
 a man wlio has to be up before six should never trifle with his 
 feelings by making believe to go to bed.' 
 
 CHAPTEPv XXXIIL 
 
 *SnR STOOD UP IN BITTER CASE, WITH A PALE YET 
 STEADY FACE.' 
 
 The silence of night and slumber came down upon the world, 
 shadow and darkness were folded round and about it. The 
 ticking of the old eight-day clock in the hall, of the bracket 
 clock in the corridor, and of half a dozen other time-pieces, con- 
 scientiously performing in empty rooms, took that solemn and 
 sepulchral sound which all clocks, down to the humblest Dutch- 
 man, assume after midnight. Sleep, peace, and silence seemed to 
 brood over all human and brute life at Mount Royal. Yet there 
 were some who had no thought of sleep that night. 
 
 In Mr. Tregonell's dressing-room there was the light of lamp 
 and fire, deep into the small hours. The master of the house 
 lolled, half -dressed, in an arm-chair by the hearth ; while his 
 friend, Captain Vandeleur, in smoking-jacket and slippers 
 \ounged with his back to the chimney-piece, and a cigarette 
 between his lips. A whisky bottle and a couple of siphons stood 
 
 
* She stood up in Bitiffr Case.* 
 
 831 
 
 on a tniy on the Squire's writing-table, an open pistol-caBO neai 
 at hand. 
 
 * You'd better He down for a few hours,' said Captain 
 Vandeleur. * I'll call you at half-p.'wt live.' 
 
 * I'd rather sit here. I may j^ct a nap by-and-by perhaps. 
 "You can go to bed if you are tireil : I shan't oviMHh'en myself.' 
 
 ' I wish you'd give up this busiiu'ss, Trcgonell,' said his friend 
 with unaccustomed seriousness. 'This man is a dead shot. We 
 heard of liim in Bolivia, don't y(»u rcmend»er '^ A man who h.'w 
 spent half liis life in shooting-galleries, and who h.us lived wlurc 
 hfe counts for very little. Why should you slake your life 
 against his? It isn't even betting: you're good enough at big 
 game, but you've had very little j)istol practice. Even if you 
 were to kill him, which isn't on the cards, you'd be tried for 
 murder ; and where 'a the advantage of that I ' 
 
 * I'll risk it,' answered Leonard, doggedly, * I saw liim with 
 my wife's hand clasped in his — siiw liim with his lips close to her 
 face — close enough for kisses — heard her promise him an answer 
 — to-morrow. By Heaven there shall be no such to-morrow for 
 him and forme. For one of us Ihere shall be an end of all things.' 
 
 'I don't believe Mi-s. Tregonell is capable' — began Jack, 
 thoughtfully nniT'ibling his cigarette. 
 
 ' You've sjiid Ihat once before, and you needn't say it again 
 Capable ! Why, man alive, I smv them together. Nothing less 
 than the evidence of my own eyes would have convinced me. I 
 have been slow enotigh to believe. There is not a man or woman 
 in this house, ^urself included, who luus not, in his secret soul, 
 despised me for my slowness. And yet, now, because there is a (jues- 
 tion of a pistol-siiot or two you fence round, and try lo pei*suade 
 me that my wife's good name is immactdate, that all which you 
 have seen and wondered at for the last three weeks means nolhing.' 
 
 * Those open llirtations seldom do mean anything,' siud Jack, 
 persuasively. 
 
 A man may belong to the hawk tribe and yet not be without 
 certain latent instincts of compassion and gootl feeling. 
 
 ' Perhaps not — but secret meetings do : what I saw at the 
 Kieve to-day was conclusive. Besides, the allair is all settled — 
 you and de Cazalet have arranged it between you. He is willing 
 that there should be no witness but you. The whole business 
 will rest a secret between us three ; and if we get quietly down 
 to the sands before any one is jistir to see us no one else need 
 ever know what happened there.' 
 
 * If there is bloodshed the thing must be known.' 
 
 * It will seem like accident ? ' 
 
 * True,' answered Vandeleur, looking at him searchingly ; 
 Mike that accident last year at the Kieve — poor Hamleigh'a 
 death. Isn't to-morrow the anniversary, by-the-by?' 
 
 * Yes — the date has come round again.' 
 
 ' Dates have an awkward knack of doing that There ia a 
 
 1. 
 
332 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 
 % 
 
 cursed mechanicnl rcgnlarity in life which makes a man wish 
 himself in some savage island where there is uo such thing as an 
 almanack,* said VaiK lei eur, taking out another cigarette. * If I 
 had been Crusoe, I should never have stuck up that post. I 
 should have been to glad to get rid of quarter-day.' 
 
 In Christabel's room at the other end of the long corridor 
 there was only the dim light of the night-Iauip, nor was there 
 any sound, save the ticking of the clock and the crackling of tlie 
 cinders in the dying lire. Yet here there was no more sleep nor 
 peace than in the chamber of the man who was to wager his life 
 against the life of his fellow-man in the pure fight of the dawn- 
 ing day. Christabel stood at her window, dressed just as she 
 had left the drawing-room, looking out at the sky and the sea, 
 and thinking of him who, at this hour last year, was still a part 
 of her life — perchance a watcher then jis she wm watching now, 
 gazing with vaguely questioning eyes into the I'limitable pano- 
 rama of the heavens, worlds beyond worlds, suns and planetary 
 syt^tems, scattered like grains of sand over the awful desert of 
 infinite space, innumerable, immea-surable, the infinitesimals of 
 the .'istronomer, the despair of faith. Yes, a year ago and he was 
 beneath tiiat roof, her friend, her counsellor, if need were ; for 
 she had never trusted him so completely, never so iinderstood and 
 realized all the nobler (pialities ul his nature, as in tlvose last days, 
 after she had set an eternal Ijanier between herself and him. 
 
 She stood at the open lattice, the cold lught air blowing upon 
 her fever-heated face ; her wliole being absorbed not in deliberate 
 tliought, but in a kind of waking trance. Strange pictures came 
 out of the darkness, and spread themselves before her eyes. She 
 saw her first lover lying on the broad flat rock at St. Nectan's 
 Kieve, face downward, shot through the heart, the water stained 
 with the life-blood slowly oozin^,^ from his breast. And then, 
 when that picture faded into the bhiekness of night, she saw her 
 husbPiUd and Oliver de Cazalet standing opposite to eacli other 
 on the broad level sands at Trebar%vith, the long waves rising up 
 behind them like a low wall of translucent green, crested with 
 silvery whiteness. So they would stand face to face a few hours 
 hence. From her lui'king-place behind the trees and brushwood 
 at the entran(;e to the Kieve she had heard the appointment 
 made — and she knew that at seven o'clock those two weie to 
 meet, v/ith deadliest intent. She had ra planned it — a life for a life. 
 
 She h;.\d no shadow of doubt n.s to which of these two would 
 fall. Three months ago on the liillel she had seen the Baron's 
 skill as a marksman tested — she had seen him the wonder of the 
 crowd at those rustic sj>orts — seen him perform feats which onlj 
 a man who has reduced pistol-shooting to a science would 
 aliempt. Against this man Leonard Tregonell — good all-round 
 sportsman as he was — could have very little chance. Leonard 
 had always been satisfied with that moderate skilfulnesa which 
 
She stood up in Bitter Case* 
 
 333 
 
 n wish 
 
 Lj tos an 
 
 'If I 
 
 ost. I 
 
 8 came 
 She 
 ectan's 
 stained 
 .1 then, 
 aw lier 
 I otht'.r 
 ing up 
 d with 
 ' hours 
 hwood 
 atment 
 ireie to 
 r a life, 
 would 
 aron'a 
 of the 
 :h onlj 
 would 
 i-round 
 leonard 
 which 
 
 comes easily and unconsciously. lie had never ^ven time and 
 labour to any of the arts he ])ursued — content to be al)Ie to hold 
 his own among parasites and ilatterers. 
 
 * A life for a life,' repeated Christabel, her lips moving duflibly, 
 her heart throbbing heavily. a.=; if it were beating out thorfe awful 
 words. ' A life for a life — tlie old law — the law of justice — God'd 
 own sentence against murder. The law coidd not tourh this 
 nuu'derer — but tliere was one way by which that cruel deed 
 might be j)uiiislie(l, and I found it.' 
 
 The slow sibnt hours wore on. Christabel left the window 
 shivering with cold, though cheeks, brow, and lips were burning. 
 She walked up and down the ruoni for a long while, till the very 
 atmosphere of the room, nay, of the house itself, seemed unen- 
 durable. She felt as if she were being sutlbcated, and this sense 
 of oppression became so strong that she was sorely tempted to 
 shriek aloud, to call upon some one for rescue from that stitiing 
 vault. The feeling grew to such intensity that she flung on her 
 hat and cloak, and went quickly down stairs to a lobby-door 
 that ojjened into the garden, a little door which she had unbolted 
 many a night after the servants had locked up the house, in order 
 to steal out in the moonliLjlit and aniong the dewy tlowew, and 
 across the dewy turf to those shrubbery walks which had such a 
 mysterious look — half in light and h;df in shadow. 
 
 She closed the door behind her, and stood with the night 
 wind blowing round her, looking up at the sky ; clouds were 
 drifting across the starry dome, and the moon, like a storm- 
 beaten boat, seemed to be hurrying through them. The cold 
 wind revived her, and she began to breathe more freely. 
 
 ' I think I was going mad just now,' she said to herself. 
 
 And then she thoi'rht she would go out upon the hills, and 
 down to the churclnard in the valley. On this night, of all 
 nights, she would visit Angus Ilamleigh's grave. It was hmg 
 since she had seen the spot where he lay — since her return from 
 Switzerland she had not once entered a church. Jessie had re- 
 monstrated with her gravely and m'gcntly — but without eliciting 
 any e,xplanation of this falling oli" in one who had been hitherto 
 so steadfastly devout. 
 
 ' I don't feel incHned to go to church, Jessie,' she said, 
 coolly ; 'there is no use in discussing my feelings. I don't feel fit 
 for church ; and I am not going in order to gratify your idea of 
 what is conventional and correct.' 
 
 * I am not thinking of this in its conventional aspect — I have 
 always made light of conventionalities — but things must be in a 
 bad way with you, Christabel, when you do not feel fit for church.' 
 
 * Things are in a bad way with me,' answered Christabel, with 
 a dogged moodiness which was insurmountable. ' I never siiid 
 they were good.' 
 
 This fci'rreiider of old ])iou3 habits had givea Jessie more 
 oueaAiness than any other fact ia Christabel's life. Her flirtation 
 
i f 
 
 :i; 
 
 334 
 
 Mount Royal, 
 
 with the Baron luu^t needs be meaningless frivolity, Jessie had 
 thought ; since it seemed hardly within the limits of possibility 
 that a refined and pure-minded woman could have any real pen- 
 chant for that showy adventurer ; but this persistent avoidance 
 of church meant mischief. 
 
 And now, in the deep dead-of -night silence, Christabel went 
 on her lonely pilgrimage to her first lover's grave. Oh, happy 
 summer day when, sitting by her side outside the Maidenhead 
 coach, all her own thVough life, as it seemed, he told her how, if 
 she had the ordering of his grave, she was to bury him in that 
 romantic churchyard, hidden in a cleft of the hill. She had not 
 forgotten this even amidst the horror of his fate, and had told 
 the vicar that Mr. Hamleigh's grave must be at Minster and no 
 otherwhere. Then had come his relations, suggesting burial- 
 placee with family associations — vaults, mausoleums, the pomp 
 and circumstance of sepulture. But Christabel had been tirm ; 
 and while the others hesitated a paper was found in the dead 
 man's desk requesting that he might be buried at Minster. 
 
 How lonely the world seemed in this solemn pause between 
 night and morning. Never before had Christabel been out alone 
 at such an hour. She had travelled in the dead of the night, and 
 had seen the vague dim night-world from the window of a rail- 
 way carriage — but never until now had she walked across these 
 solitary hills after midnight. It seemed as if for the first time 
 in her life she were alone with the stars. 
 
 How difheult it was in lier present state of mind to realize 
 that those lights, tremulous in the deep blue vault, were worlds, 
 and combinations of worlds — almost all of them immeasurably 
 greater than this earth on which she trod. To her they seemed 
 living watchers of the night — solemn, mysterious beings, looking 
 down at her with all-understanding eye^. She had an awful 
 feeling of their comjjanionship as she looked up at them — a 
 mystic sense that all her thoughts — the worst and the best of 
 them — were being read by that galaxy of eyes. 
 
 Strangely beautiful did the hills and the sky — the indefinite 
 shapes of the trees against the edge of the horizon, the mysteri- 
 oi:s expanse of the dark sea — seem to her in the night silence. 
 She had no fear of any human presence, but there w;is an awful 
 feeling in being, as it were, for the first time in her life alone 
 with the immensities. Those hills and gorges, so familiar in all 
 phases of daylight, from sunrise to after set of sun, assumed 
 Titanic proportions in this depth of night, and were as strange to 
 her as if she had never trodden this path before. What was the 
 wind saying, as it came moaning and sobbing along the deep 
 gorge through which the river ran ] — what did the wind say as 
 she crossed the narrow bridge which trembled under her light 
 footfall ? Surely there was some human meaning in that long 
 minor wail, which burst suddenly into a wild unearthly shiiek, 
 «&d thoD diod away im a low sobbing tone, as of sorrow and paiu 
 
Slie stood U2> in Bitter Case.* 
 
 385 
 
 cross 
 , It 
 
 slate 
 
 S|)(»t 
 
 .hat grew dumb from sheer exhaustion, and not because there 
 jras any remissisn of pain or sorrow. 
 
 With that unearthly sound still following her, she wont tip 
 the winding hill-side path, and then slowly descended to th*i 
 darkness of the churchyard — so sunk and sheltered that it seemed 
 like going down into a vault. 
 
 Just then the moon leapt from behind an inky cloud, and, in 
 that ghostly light, Christabel saw the pale grey graiii 
 which had been erected in memory of Angus Haruloigh 
 stood up in the midst of nameless mounds, and humble 
 tablets, pale and glittering — an unmistakable sign of the 
 where her first lover lay. Once only before to-night had she 
 seen that monument. Absorbed in the pursuit of a Pagan schonm 
 of vengeance she had not dared to come within the precincts of 
 the church, where she had knelt and prayed through all the 
 sinless years of her girlhood. To-night some wild impulse had 
 brought her here — to-night, when that crime which she called 
 retribution was on the point of achievement. 
 
 She went with stumbling footsteps through the long grass, 
 across the low mounds, till she came to that beneath which 
 Angus Hamleigh lay. She fell like a lifeless thing at the foot of 
 the cross. Some loving hand ha<l covered the mouTid of earth 
 with primroses and violets, and there were low clambering roses 
 all round the grave. The scent of sweetbriar was mixed with 
 the smell of earth and grjiss. Some one had cared for that grave 
 although she, who so loved the dead, had never tended it. 
 
 ' Oh, my love ! my love ! ' she sobbed, with her face upon 
 the grass and the primrose leaves, and her arms clasping the 
 granite ; * my murdered love —my first, hist, only lover — before 
 to-morrow's sun is down your death will be revenged, ard my 
 life will be over ! I have lived only for that — ouly for that 
 Angus, my love, my love ! ' She kissed the cold wet grass more 
 passionately than she had ever kissed the dead face mouldering 
 underneath it. Only to the dead — to the utterly lost and gone— 
 is given this supreme passion — love sublimated to desj)air. From 
 the living there is always something kept back — something saved 
 and garnered for an after-gift — some reserve in the mind or the 
 heart of the giver ; but to the dead love gives all — with a wild 
 self-abandonment which knows not restraint or measure. The 
 wife who, while this man yet lived, had been so rigorously true to 
 honour and duty, now poured into the deaf dead eai-s a reckless 
 avowal of love — love that had never faltered, never changed — lovo 
 that had renounced the lover, and had yet gone on loving to the end. 
 
 The wind came moaning out of the valley again with that 
 sharp human cry, as of lamentation for the dead. 
 
 * Angus 1 ' murmured Christabel, piteously, * Angus, can you 
 hear me ? — do you know ? Oh, my God ! is there memory or 
 understanding in the world where he h.us gone, or is it all ^ 
 dead blank "i Help me, my Qod 1 I have lost all the old sweet 
 
33G 
 
 Mount EoyaT, 
 
 it 
 
 
 illusions of faith — I have left oflF praying, hoping, believing — I 
 have only thought of my dead — thought of death and of him till 
 all the living ^vol•ld grew unreal to lue — and (Jod and Heaven 
 were only like old half-furgotten dreams. Angus ! ' 
 
 For a long time she lay motionless, her cold hands clasping 
 the cold stone, her lips pressed upon the soft dewy turf, her face 
 buried in primrose leaves — then slowly, and with an etTort, she 
 raised herself upon her knees, and knelt with her arms encircling 
 the cross — that sacred emblem which had once meant so mucli for 
 her : but which, since that long blank interval last winter, seemed 
 to have lost allmeaning. One great overwhelming grief had made 
 her a Pagan — thirsting for revenge — vindictive — crafty — stealthy 
 as an iimerican Indian on the trail of his deadly foe — subtle aa 
 Greek o;* Oriental to ])h\n and to achieve a horrible retribution. 
 
 She looked at the inscription on the cross, legible in the 
 moonlight, deeply cut in large Gothic letters upon the grey stone, 
 filled in with dark crimson. 
 
 * Vengeance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord.' 
 Who had put that inscrij)tion upon the cross *? It was not there 
 when the monument w;us first put up. Christabel remembered 
 going with Jessie to see the grave in that dim luilf-blank time 
 before she went to Switzerland. Then there; was nothing btit a 
 name and a date. Ami now, in awful distinctness, there appeared 
 those terrible words — God's own promise of retribution — the 
 claim of the AlniiL;lity to be the sole avenger of human wrongs. 
 
 And she, reared by a religious woman, brought up in the 
 love and fe;ir of God, had ignored that sublime and awful 
 attribute of the Supreme. She had not been content to leave 
 her lover's death to the Great Avenger. She had brooded on 
 his dark fate, until out of tlie gloom of despair there had arisen 
 the image of a crafty and bloody retribution. * Whoso shedvleth 
 man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.' So runs the 
 dreadful sentence of an older law. The new, lovelier law, whicli 
 began in the after-glow of Philosophy, the dawn of Christianity, 
 bids man leave revenge to God. And she, who had once cjiUed 
 herself a Christian, had planned and plotted, making herself the 
 secret avenger of a criminal who had escaped the grip of the law. 
 
 * Must he lie in his jjrave, unavenged, until the Day of 
 
 Judgment 1 ' she asked hei-self. 
 
 ' God's vengeance is slow.' 
 
 An hour later, and Christabel, pale and exhausted, her gar- 
 ments heavy with dew, was kneeling by her boy's bed in the 
 faint light of the night-lamp ; kneeling by hun as she had knelt 
 a year ago, but never since her return from Switzerland- 
 praying as she had not prayed since Angus llamleigirs desith. 
 After those long, passionate prayers, she rose and looked at the 
 slumberer's face — her husband's face in little — but oh ! how pure 
 and fresh and radiant. Grod keep liim from boyhood's sins of 
 self-love aud sej^i^idulgence — from manhood'a evil paasioua. 
 
believing — 1 
 id of liim till 
 and Heaven 
 
 mils clasping 
 turf, her face 
 m effort, she 
 nis encircling 
 t so mucli for 
 inter, seemed 
 lief had made 
 fly — stealthy 
 oe — subtle aa 
 e retribution, 
 gible in the 
 le grey stone, 
 
 IE Lord.' 
 
 Nos not there 
 
 remembered 
 
 [f-blank time 
 
 othing but a 
 
 icre appeared 
 
 :'ibution — the 
 
 Qan wnongs. 
 
 it up in the 
 
 e and awful 
 
 ent to leave 
 
 brooded on 
 
 •e had arisen 
 
 oso shed»letk 
 
 So runs the 
 
 r law, which 
 
 Christianity, 
 
 once ciiUed 
 g herself the 
 
 of the law. 
 the Day of 
 slow.' 
 
 ed, lier gar- 
 bed in the 
 10 had knelt 
 vitzerland — 
 .'igli's de;ith. 
 okcd at the 
 ! how pure 
 )od'8 sins of 
 ii pussious, 
 
 ) 
 
 • SJic stood up in Bitter Case." 
 
 637 
 
 hatred and* jealousy. All her life to come seemed too little to 
 be devoted to watching and guarding this beloved from the 
 encircling snares and dangers of life. Pure and innocent now 
 in this fair dawn of infancy, he nestled in her arm*"- he clung to 
 Aer and believed in her. What business had she with anv otlier 
 fears, desires, or hopes — God havftig given her the sacred duties 
 of maternity — the master-passion of motherly love 1 
 
 * I have been mad ! ' she said to herself ; * I have been living in a 
 ghastlydream : but God has awakened me — God's word has cured m e.' 
 
 God's word had come to her at the crisis of her life. A month 
 ago, while her scheme of vengeance seemed still far from fulfil- ,' 
 ment, that awful sentence would hardly have struck so deeply. It * 
 wasonthe very vergeof the abyss that those familiar words caught 
 her ; justwhenthenaturalfalteringofherwomanhood, upon the eve 
 of a terrible crime, made her most sensitive toasublimeimpression. 
 
 The first faint streak of day glimmered in the east, a pale 
 cold light, livid and ghostly upon the edge of the sea yonder, 
 white and wan upon the eastward points of rock and headland, 
 when Jessie Bridgeman was startled from her light slumbers 
 by a voice at her bedside. She wa.s always an early riser, and 
 it cost her no etfort to sit up in bed, with her eyes wide open, 
 and all her senses oe the alert. 
 
 * Christabel, what is the matter ? Is Leo ill ? ' 
 
 * No, Leo is well enough. Get up and dress yourself quickly, 
 Jessie. I want you to come with me — on a strange errand ; but 
 it is something that must be done, and at once.' 
 
 ' Christabel, you are mad.' 
 
 * No. ■ I have been mad. I think you must know it — this is 
 the awakening. Come, Jessie.' 
 
 Jessie ha«^ sprung out of bed, and put on slippers and dressing 
 gown, without taking her eyes oflF Cliristabel. Presently she 
 felt her cloak and gown. 
 
 * Why, you are wet through. Where have you been ? ' 
 
 * To Angus Hamleigh's grave. Who put that inscription on 
 the cross?' 
 
 ' I did. Nobody seemed to care about his grave — no one 
 attended to it. I got to think the grave my own property, and 
 liiUt I might do as I liked with it.' 
 
 * But those awful words ! What made you put them there V 
 ' I wanted the man who killed him to be reminded that there 
 
 is an Avei:ger.' 
 
 ' Wash your face and put on your clothes as fast as you can. 
 Every moment is of consequence,' said Christabel. 
 
 She would explain nothing. Jessie urged her to take ofip 
 ber wet cloak, to go and change her gown and shoes ; but aha 
 refused' with angry impatience. 
 
 * There will be time enough for that afterwards,' she said ; 
 • what I have to do will not take long, but it mu«t be done at 
 once. Pray be quick.' 
 
83& 
 
 Mount Boyal. 
 
 J 
 'I 
 
 I 
 
 
 I' 
 
 i 
 
 jMBie Btmggled tbroug}i her hurried toilet, and followed 
 Christabel along the corridor, without question or exclamation. 
 They went to the door of Baron de Cazalet's room. A light 
 Bhone under the bottom of the door, and there was the sound 
 of someone stirring within. Christabel knocked, and the door 
 waa opened almost instantly by the Baron himself. 
 
 * Is it the trap ? ' he asked. ' It's an hour too soon.' 
 
 * No, it is I, Monsieur de Cazalet May I come in for a few 
 minutes ? I have something to tell you.' 
 
 * Christabel— my ' He s*^' ned in the midst of that eager 
 
 exclamation, at sight of the otlier figure in the back -ground. 
 
 He was dressed for the day— carefully dressed, like a man 
 who in a crisis of his iiiJe wishes 'to appear at no disadvantage. 
 His pistol-case stood ready on the liilile. A pair of candles, 
 burnt low in the sockets of the old silver candlesticks, and a 
 heap of charred and torn paper in the fender showed that the 
 Baron had been getting rid of snpcrllnous doeiinipnts. Christabel 
 went into the room, followed by Jessie, t?ie Baron staring at 
 them both, in blank amazement. He drew an arm-chair near 
 the expiring fire, and Christabel sank into it, exhausted and 
 half fainting. 
 
 'What does it all mean?' asked de Cazalet, looking at 
 Jessie, ' and why are you here with her ? ' 
 
 * Why is she here '} ' asked Jessie. * There can he no reason 
 except— — ' 
 
 She touched her forehead lightly with the tips of her fingers. 
 Christabel saw the action. 
 
 * No, I am not mad now,' she said ; * I believe I have been 
 mad, but that is all over. Monsieur de Cazalet, you and my 
 husband are to fight a duel iln's morning, on Trebarwith sand-^' 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Tregonell, what a strange notion ! ' 
 
 ' Don't take the trouble to deny anything. I ()\erheard your 
 
 conversation yesterday afternoon. I know everything.' 
 
 ' Would it not have been better to keep the knowledge to 
 
 yourself, and to remember your promise to me, last night ? ' 
 
 * Yes, 1 remember that promise. I said I would meet you at 
 Bodmin Kuad, after you had shot my husband.' 
 
 'There was not a word about sliootinfr vour husband.' 
 
 * No ; but the fact was in our minds, all the same — in yours 
 as well as in mine. Only there wa-s one difierence between us. 
 You thought that when you had killed Leonard I would run 
 away with you. That wa.s to be your recompense for murder. I 
 meant that you should kill him, but that you should never see 
 my face again. You would have served my purpose — you would 
 have been the instrument of my revenge ! ' 
 
 ' Christabel ! ' 
 
 ' Do not call me by that name — I am nothing to you — I never 
 could, under any possible phase of circumstance*, De any nearer 
 io yen than I am at this moment From f"^t to last I have been 
 
She stood up in Bitter Case* 
 
 8;]J) 
 
 no reason 
 
 acting a part "\Then I saw you at that shooting ninctch, on the 
 Eiffel, I said to myself, "Here is a man, who in any encounter 
 with my husband, must be fatal." My husband killed the only 
 man I ever loved, in a duel, without witnesst^s — a duel forr-ed 
 upon him by insane and causeless jealousy. Whether that meet- 
 ing wa.s fair or unfair in its actual details, I cannot tell ; but at 
 the best it was more like a murder than a duel. When, throus^di 
 Miss Bridgeman's acutcness, [ came to understand wh t that 
 meeting had been, I made up my Tiiind to aveni^o Mr. Handeigh'a 
 death. For a long time my brain was under a cloud — I could 
 think of nothing, plan notlring. Then came clearer thoughts, 
 and then I met you ; and the scheme of my revenge Hashed upon me 
 like a suggestion direct from Satan. I knew my husband's jealous 
 temper, and how easy it would bo to fire a train ^/kvv, and I made my 
 plans with that view. You lent yourself veryeasilyx,< my scheme.* 
 'Lent myself/' cried the liaron, imlignanlly ; and thiMi with 
 a savage oath he said: *l loved you, Mrs. Tregoiiell, and you 
 made me believe thv^t you loved me.' 
 
 I let you make tine speeches, and I pretended to be pleased 
 at them,' aaswered Christabel, with suj>renie scorn. *I think 
 that was alf.' 
 
 ' No, madam, it was not all. You t\)oled me to the top of my 
 bent. What, those lovely looks,those lowered acoent«» — all meant 
 nothing? It wasalladelusion — anactedlie/ You never cared for nv ?' 
 
 * No,' ajiswered Christabel. * My heart was buried with tiio 
 dead. I never loved but one man, and he was murdered, as I 
 believed — and T made up my mind to avenge his nnn-der. 
 '* Whoso sb'^ Ideth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed." 
 That sentence was in my mind always, when I thought of 
 Leonard Tregonell. I meant you to be the executioner. And 
 now — now — God knows how the light has come — but the God 
 I worshipped when I was a happy sinless girl, has called me out 
 of the deep pit of sin — Cidletl me to remorse and atonement. You 
 must not fight this duel. Yen must save me from this horrible 
 crime that I planned — save me and yourself from blood -guilti- 
 ness. You must not meet Leonaid at Trebarwith.' 
 
 'And stamp myself as a cur, to oblige you: after having 
 lent myself so simply t» your scheme of venireance, lend myself 
 as complacently to your repentance. No, Mrs. Tregonell, that is 
 too much to ask, I will be your luavo, if you like, since I took 
 the part unconsciously — but I will not brand myself with the 
 charge of cowardice — even for you.' 
 
 ' You fought a duel in South America, and killed your 
 adversary. Mr. FitzJesse told me so. Everybody knows that 
 you are a dead shot. Who can call you a coward for refusing to 
 fihoot the man whose roof has sheltered you — who never injured 
 you — against whom yon can have no ill-will.' 
 
 ' Don't be to* sure of that, lie is your husband. Wheo 1 
 came to Mount Eoyal, I came resolved to win you.* 
 
 I" 
 
840 
 
 Motmt Boyal. 
 
 * Only because I liad deceived you. Tlie woman you admired 
 'v.oaa living lie. Oh, if you could have looked into my heart only 
 yesterday, you must have shrunk from me with loathing. When 
 \ led you on to play the seducer's part, I was plottijig murder — 
 murder which I called justice. I knew that Leonard was 
 listening — I had so planned that ho should follow us to the 
 Kieve. I heard his stealthy footsteps, and the rustle of the 
 boughs — you were too much engrossed to listen ; but all my 
 senses were strained, and I knew the very moment of his coming. 
 
 * It was a pity you did not let your drama come to its natural 
 denondment,' sneered de Cazalet, furious with the first woman 
 who had ever completely fooled him. ' When your husband was 
 dead — for there is not much doubt as to my killing him — you 
 and I could have come to an understanding. You must have 
 had some gratitude. However, I am not bloodthirsty, and since 
 Mrs. Tregonell has cheated me out of my devotion, fooled me 
 with day-dreams of an impassible future, I don't see that I 
 should gain much by shooting Mr. Tregonell.' 
 
 ' No, there would be no g- <od to you in that profitless blood- 
 shed. It is I who have wr'>nged you — I who wilfully deceived 
 you — degrading myself in order to lure my husband into a fatal 
 quarrel — tenipting you to kill him. Forgive me, if you can — and 
 forget this wild wicked dream. Conscience and reason came 
 l)ack to me besiile that quiet grave to-night. What good could 
 it do him who lies there that blood should be spilt for his sake 1 
 Monsieur de Cazalet, if you will give up all idea of this duel I 
 will be grateful to you for the rest of my life.* 
 
 * You have treated me very cruelly,' said the Baron, taking 
 both her hands, and looking into her eyes, half in d 3spairiug love, 
 half in bitterest anger ; ' you have fooled me as never man was 
 fooled before, I think — tricked me — and trifled with me — and I 
 owe you very little allegiance. If you and I \*ere in South 
 America I would show you very little mercy. No, my sweet one, 
 I would make you play out the game — you should finish the 
 drama you began — finish it in my fashion. But in this world of 
 yours, hemmed round with conventionalities, I am obliged to let 
 you otf easily. As for your husband — well, I have exposed ray 
 life too often to the aim of a six-shooter to be called coward if I 
 let this one opportunity slip. He is nothing to me — or I to him — 
 since you are nothing to nie. He may go — and I may go. I 
 will leave a line to tell hiui that we have both been the dupes of 
 a pretty little acted charade, devised by his wife and her friends — 
 and instead of going to meet him at Trebarwith, I'll drive 
 straight to Launceston, and catch the early train. Will that 
 satisfy you, Mrs. Tregonell ? * 
 
 * I thank you witli all my heart and soul — you have saved me 
 from myself.' 
 
 * You are a much better man than I thought you, Baron,' 
 laid Jessie, speaking for the first timb 
 
adrairod 
 L'iirt only 
 [. When 
 iiurder — 
 ard was 
 3 to the 
 of the 
 b all my 
 i coming. 
 s natural 
 t woman 
 band was 
 lim — you 
 ust have 
 md since 
 )oIed me 
 i that I 
 
 ss blood- 
 deceived 
 o a fatal 
 3an — and 
 ion came 
 fod could 
 lis sake 1 
 is duel I 
 
 n, taking 
 ■iug love, 
 man was 
 c — and I 
 n South 
 veet one, 
 nish the 
 world of 
 ed to let 
 osed my 
 rard if I 
 ;o him — 
 
 go. I 
 dupes of 
 riends — 
 '11 drive 
 
 ill that 
 
 ived me 
 Baron,' 
 
 * S^fie stood np in Bitter Case.' 
 
 311 
 
 She had stood by, a quiet siK'otator of the scene, listening 
 intently, ready at any moment to come to Christabel'a rescue, if 
 need were — understanding, for the lirst time, the nioving spiin^a 
 of conduct which had been so long a mystery to her. 
 
 'Thank you, Miss Bridgeman. I suppose you were in the 
 plot— looked on and laughed in your sleeve, as you saw how a 
 man of the world may bu foolec' by s./cet wonls and lovely l(H)ks.' 
 
 * I knew nothing. I thou^nt Mrs. Trogonoll was possessed 
 by the devil. If she had let you go on — !f you had shot her 
 husband — I should not have been sorry fi»r him — for 1 know lie 
 killed a much better man than himself, and I am hard enough to 
 hug the stern old law — a life for a life. But I should have been 
 sorry for her. She is not made for such revenges.' 
 
 'And now you will be reconciled with your husband, I sup- 
 pose, Mrs. Tregonell. You two will agree to forget the past, and 
 to live happily everwards] * sneered de Cazalet, looking up from 
 the letter which he waa writing. 
 
 'No ! there can be no forgetfulness for either of us. I have 
 to do my duty to my son. I have to win God's pardon for the 
 guilty thoughts and plans which have filled my mind so l(jng. 
 But I owe no duty to Mr. Tregonell. He hjus forfeited every 
 claim. May I see yoi«" letter when it is finished ? ' 
 
 De Cazalet handed it to her without a word — a brief epistle, 
 written in the airiest tone, ascribing all that had happened at the 
 Kieve to a sportive plot of Mrs. Tregonell's, and taking a polite 
 leave of the master of the house. 
 
 'When he reads that, I shall be half-way to Launceston,' he 
 said, as Christabel gave him back the letter. 
 
 ' I am deeply grateful to you, and now good-bye,' she said, 
 gravely, offering him her hand. He pressed the cold slim hand 
 in his, and gently raised it to his lips. 
 
 ' You have used me very badly, but I shall love and honour 
 you to the end of my days,' he said, as Christabel left him. 
 
 Jessie was following, but de Cazalet stopjxMl her on the 
 threshold. 'Come,' he said, *you must give me the clue t" this 
 mystery. Surely you were in it — you, who know her so wtll, 
 must have known something of this ? ' 
 
 ' I knew nothin-^. I watched her with fear and wonder. 
 After — after Mr. Hamleigh's death — she was very ill— mentall}* 
 ill ; she sank into a kind of apathy — not madness — but terribly 
 •iear the confiness of madness. Then, suddenly, her spirits 
 isemed to revive — she became eager for movement, amusement 
 ^an utterly diflferent creature from her former self. She and 
 I, who had been like sisters, seemed ever so far apart. I could 
 not understand this new j)hase of her character. For a whole 
 year she hiis been unlike herself — a terrible year. Thank (jod 
 this morning I have seen the old Christabel again.' 
 
 Half an hour afterwards the Baron's dogcart drove out of 
 the yard, and half an hour after his depurtire the Bcuuu's 
 
342 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 letter waa d^ivered to Leonard Tregonell, who muttered an oath as 
 he finished reading it, and then handed it to hi.s faithful Jack. 
 
 * What do you say to that ? ' he aaked. 
 
 * By Jove, I knew Mrs. T was straight,' answered the 
 
 Captain, in his unsophisticated phraseology. 'But it was a 
 shabby trick to play you all the same. I daresay Mop and Dop 
 were in it. Those girls are always ready for larks.' 
 
 Leonard muttered something the reverse of polite about Dop 
 and Mop, and went straight to the stable-yard, where lio cancelled 
 hiaorderfor the trap which was to have conveyed him to Trobarwitli 
 8ands,and where he heard of the Baron's departure for Launceston. 
 
 Mystified and angry, he went straight upstairs to his wife's 
 room. All barriers v/ere broken down now. All reticence was 
 at an end. Plainest words, straightest measures, beiitted the pre- 
 sent state of things. 
 
 Christabel was on her knees in a recess near her bed — a receaa 
 which held a little table, with her devotional books and a prie- 
 dieu chair. A beautiful head of the Salvator Mundi, painted on 
 china at Munich, gave beauty and sanctity to this little oratory. 
 She was kneeling on the prie-dieu, her arms folded on the purple 
 velvet cushion, her head leaning forward on the folded arms, in 
 an attitude of prostration and self-abandonment, her hair falling 
 loosely over her white dressing-gown. She rose at Leonard's 
 entrance, and confronted him, a ghost-like figure, deadly pale. 
 
 * Yoiw lover has given me the slip,' he said, roughly ; * why 
 didn't you go with himi You mean to go, I ha*-" no doubt 
 You have both made your plans to that end — but you ^-ant to 
 sneak away — to get clear of this country, perhaps, before people 
 have found out what you are. Women of your stamp don't 
 mind what scandal they create, but they like to be out of the row.' 
 
 * You are mistaken,' his wife answered, coldly, unmoved by 
 his anger, as she had ever been untouched by his love. * The 
 man who left here this morning was never my lover— never 
 could have been, had he and I lived under the same roof for years. 
 But I intended him for the avenger of that one man whom I did 
 love, with all my heart and soul — the man you killed.* 
 
 * What do you mean ? ' faltered Leonard, with a dull grey 
 shade creeping over his face. 
 
 It had been in his mind for a long time that his secret waa 
 suspected by his wife — but this straight, sudden avowal of the 
 fact was not the less a shock to him. 
 
 'You know what I mean. Did you not know when you 
 came back to this house that I had fathomed your mystery— that 
 I knew wl'oae hand killed Angus Hamleigh. You did know it, 
 Leonard : you must have known : for you knew that I was not 
 a woman to fling a wife's duty to the winds, without some all- 
 8uflici«>jnt reason. You knew what kind of wife I had been for 
 four dull, peaceful years — how honestly I had endeavoured to 
 perform the duty which I took upon myself in loving gratitude 
 
1 oath OB 
 Jack. 
 
 ?red the 
 ; was a 
 iiul Dop 
 
 out Dop 
 ;ancclle(l 
 Libarwitli 
 iiiceston. 
 lis wife's 
 ence was 
 the pre- 
 
 -a recess 
 
 d a prie- 
 
 linted on 
 
 oratory. 
 
 18 purple 
 
 arms, in 
 
 ir falling 
 
 lieonard'a 
 
 i pale. 
 
 y i * why 
 
 10 doubt 
 
 want to 
 
 •e people 
 
 up don't 
 
 he row.' 
 
 oved by 
 
 Q. *The 
 
 r — never 
 
 or years. 
 
 3m I did 
 
 uU grey 
 
 cret was 
 1 of the 
 
 len you 
 ry— that 
 snow it, 
 was not 
 )me all- 
 been for 
 )ured to 
 ratitude 
 
 * Slie Jtood up in Bitter Case' 
 
 o\3 
 
 to your dear mother. Did you believe that I loul.l .Iiaii;;! all 
 at once — becuino a heartlesH, ein|»ty-lieadi'il Idvit of plo.usuiv — 
 hold you, my husband, at arm's Ien;,Mh — (mli;i;^t! propriety— tiefy 
 opinion — witiiout a motive ho j)owerful, a puiposu so deadly and 
 .so dear, that self-abasement, iosa of good name, counted for 
 nothing with me.' 
 
 * You are a tool,' said Leonard, dug^edly. * No one at the iudjuest 
 so much as hinted at foul play. Why should f/ou suspect any one ] * 
 
 ' L^'or more than one good reason. Fiist, your manner on the 
 night before Angus Ilamleigh's death the words you and ho 
 spoke to each other at the door of his room. 1 asked you then 
 if there were any (jnarrel between you, and you said no : but 
 even then I did not believe you.' 
 
 'There was not much lovo between us. You did not expect 
 that, did you ?' asked her husband, savagely. 
 
 ' You invited him to you house ; you treated iiim jus your 
 friend. You had no cause to distrust him or me. You must 
 have known that.' 
 
 * I knew that you loved him.' 
 
 * I had been your faithful and obedient wife.' 
 
 * Faithful and obedient ; yes — a man might buy faith and 
 obedience in any market. I knew that other man was nuuster of 
 your heart. Great Heaven, can I forget how I h;',\v you that 
 night, hanging upun his words, all your soul in your eyes.' 
 
 * We were talking of life and death. It was not his words 
 that thrilled me ; but the deep thoughts they stined within me 
 — thoughts of the great mystery— the life beyond the veil. Do 
 you know what it is to speculate upon the life beyond this life, 
 when you are talking to u man who bears the stamp of death 
 upon his brow, who is as surely devoted to the gnjve as Socrates 
 was when he talked to his fiiends in the prison. But why do I 
 talk to you of these things ? You cannot understand ' 
 
 VNo I I am outside the pale, am I not?' sneered Leonard; 
 *raade of a dilTerent clay from that sickly sentimental worshipped 
 of yours, who turned to you when ho had worn himself out i\ 
 the worship of ballet-girls. I -waa not half fine enough for you, 
 could not talk of Shakespeare and the musical glasses. Was it a 
 pleasant sensation for me, do you think, to see yoU'»two sentimen- 
 talizi;:^ and poetizing, day after day — Beethoven here and Byron 
 there, and all the train of maudlin modern versifiers wlio have 
 made it their chief business to sap the fcimdations of domestic life. 
 
 ' Why did you bring him into your house I ' 
 
 * Why ? Can't you guess i Because I wanted to know the 
 utmost and the worst ; to watch you two together ; to see what 
 venom was left in the old poison ; to make sure, if I could, that 
 you were staunch ; to put you to the test.' 
 
 'God knows I never falteicd throughout that ordeal,' said 
 Christabel, soleniidy. 'Anl yet you tnurdeied him. You ask 
 m*' how I know of iliat U'urUer Shall [ tell you I You were 
 
844 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 at the Kieve iliat day ; you did not go by iho beaten 4.iack 
 where the ploti^hincn must have hwu you. No ! you on-pt in 
 by stealth the other way — chiTubcrod over tho rocks — ah ! you 
 start. You wonder how I know that. You toie your coat in 
 the scramble acroHS the arch, and a fragment of tho cloth was 
 caught upon a bramble. I have that scrap of cloth, and I have 
 the shooting jacket from which it was torn, under lock and key 
 in yonder wardrobe. Now, will you deny that you were at the 
 Kieve that day V 
 
 * No. I wjia there. ITamleigh met me there by appointment. 
 You were right in yowr suspicion that night. We did quarrel — 
 not about you — but about hia treatment of that Vandeleur girl. 
 I thought he had led her on — flirted with her — fooled her ' 
 
 * You thought,' ejaculated Chriatabel, with ineffable scorn. 
 
 ' Well, I told him so, at any rate ; told him that he would 
 not have dared to treat any woman so scurvily, with her brothei* 
 and her brother's friend standing by, if the good old wholesome 
 code |of honour had not gone out of fashion. I told him that 
 forty years ago, in the duelling age, men had been shot for a 
 smaller offence against good feeling ; and then he rounded on 
 me, and asked me if I wanted to shoot him ; if I was trying to 
 provoke a quarrel ; and then — I hardly know how the thing 
 came about— it was agreed that we should meet at the Kieve at 
 nine o'clock next morning, both equipped as if for woodcock 
 shooting— game bags, dogs, and all, our guns loaded with swan- 
 shot, and that we should settle our differences face to face, in 
 that quiet hollow, without witnesses. If either of us dropped, 
 the thing would seem an accident, and would entail no evil 
 conseauences upon the survivor. If one of us were only 
 wounded, why * 
 
 * But yon did not mean that,' interrupted Christabel, with 
 flashing eyt./ ' you meant your shot to be fatal.' 
 
 * It was fatal,' muttered Leonard. ' Never mind what I 
 meant. God knows how I felt when it was over, and that man 
 was lying dead on the other side of the bridge. I had seen 
 many a noble beast, with something almost human in the look 
 of him, go] down before my gun ; but I had never shot a man 
 before. Who could have thought there would have been so 
 much difference V 
 
 Christabel clasped her hands over her face, and drew back 
 with an involuntary recoil, as if all the horror of that dreadful 
 Mcene were being at this moment enacted before her eyes. 
 Never had the thought of Angus Hamleigh's fate been out of 
 her mind in all the year that was ended to-day — this day — the 
 anniversary of his death. The image of that deed had been 
 ever before her mental vision, beckoning her and guiding her 
 along the pathway of revenge — a lurid light. 
 
 * You murdered him,' she said, in low, steadfast tones. ' You 
 brought him to this house with evil intent — yes, with your mind 
 
*Shc stood lip in Bitter Case* 
 
 ni5 
 
 iaten 4.tack 
 Ju crept in 
 — ah ! you 
 •ur ami in 
 
 cloth was 
 nd I have 
 
 k and key 
 vere at the 
 
 Dointment. 
 I niianel— 
 lek'ur girl. 
 
 her ' 
 
 B scorn, 
 he would 
 er l)rothe* 
 vlioleson)e 
 him that 
 ihot for a 
 unded on 
 trying to 
 the thing 
 Kieve at 
 woodcock 
 ith swan- 
 
 face, in 
 dropped, 
 
 no evil 
 ere only 
 
 )el, with 
 
 what I 
 hat man 
 lad seen 
 the look 
 )t a man 
 been so 
 
 5w back 
 ireadful 
 r eyes. 
 out of 
 ay—the 
 id been 
 ing her 
 
 'You 
 irmmd 
 
 I 
 
 (till of hatred nnd ni.ilice towards him. You acted the ti.iitnr'a 
 li;i.se, liypnci iticil j)irt,smiliii<4 at iii?nanil pruleiiding fi ii mlslnp, 
 while ill your iscml }(>ii meant muid'T. And then, nmlt'i' tins 
 i)itifid UKKkery of a duel — a duel with a man who had inner 
 injured you, who had no resentment ai^Miiist you — a <hiel u|i«im 
 the shallowest, most pn'posterous prcleiiee -you kill your finiid 
 and yo\ir guent — you kill him in a lonely place, with none of tlu' 
 Kifeguards of ordinary duelling ; and you have not the manhotid 
 to stand up before your fellow-men, and say, " I did it.''* 
 
 'Shall I go and tell them now i' a.ske«l Leonard, hi.s white 
 lips tremulous with impotent rage. * They would hang me, mo.Ht 
 likely. Perhaps that is what you want.' 
 
 *No, I never wanted that,' answered Christabol. * For our 
 boy's sake, for the honour of your dead mother's nanu\ I would 
 have saved you from a shamefid <leath. But 1 wanted your life 
 — a life for a life. That is why I tried to provoke your jealousy 
 — why I planned that scene with the liaron yesterday. I knew 
 that in a duel between you and him the chances were all in his 
 favour. I had seen and heard of hi.^ skill. You fell ejisily into 
 the trap I laid for you. I was behind the bushes when you 
 challenged de Cazalet.' 
 
 * It waa a plot, then. You had been plotting my death all 
 that time. Your songs and dances, your games and folly, all 
 meant the same thing.' 
 
 * Yes, I plotted your death as you did Angus Ilamleigh's, 
 answered Christabel, slowly, deliberately, with steady eyes ti.xt d 
 on her husband's face; 'only I relentud at the eleventh hour. 
 You did not.' 
 
 Leonard stared at her in dumb amazement. This new jispect 
 of his wife's character paralyzed his thinking ])ower.-?, which had 
 never been vigorous. He felt ,'is if, in the midst of a smooth 
 summer sea, he had found himself suddenly face to face with 
 that huge wave known on this wild noiLliern coast, which, 
 generated by some mysterious power in the wide Atlantic, tolls on 
 its deadly course in overwhelmingmight ; eiigulphing many a ciait 
 which but a minute before wius riding gaily on a summer sea 
 
 * Yes, you have cause to look at me with horror in your eyes.' 
 Biiid Christabel. 'I have steeped my soul in sin ; I have plotted 
 your death. In the'purpoae and j)ursuit of my life I have been a 
 murderer. It is God's mercy that held me back from that 
 black gulf. What gain would your death have been to your 
 victim? Would he have slept more peacefully in liLs grave, or 
 have awakened happier on the Judgment Day] If he IkhI 
 consciousness and knowledge in that dim mysterious world, ho 
 would have been sorry for the ruin of my soul — sorry fur Sal.iir>. 
 power ovei" the woman he once loved. I^ast night, kneeliim mi 
 his grave, these thoughts came into my mind for the tirst time. 
 I think it was the fact of being near him — almost as if there wa.s 
 some sympathy between the living and the dead. Leonard, I 
 
346 
 
 Mount RoydL 
 
 know how \vi('kc<l I have beer. God pity and pardon me, and 
 make me a worthy mother for my boy. For you and me there 
 can be nothing but life-long parting.' 
 
 * Well, yes, I suppose there would not be much chance of 
 comfort or union for us after what has happened,' eaid Leonard, 
 moodily; *ours is scarcely a case in which to kiss again with tears, 
 as your song says. I must be content to go my way, and 
 let you go yours. It is a pity we ever niarriod ; but that was 
 my fault, I suppose. Have you any particular views as to your 
 futujy] 1 shall not molest jou | but I should be glad to know 
 that the lady who bears ray name is leading a reputable life.' 
 
 * I shall live with my son — for my sou. You need have no 
 fear that I shall make myself a conspicuous person iu the world. 
 I have done with life, except for him. I care very little where 
 I live : if you want Mount lloyal for yourself, I can have the 
 old house at Penlee made comfi)rtable for Jessie Bridgeman and 
 me. I dare say I can be as happy at Penlee as here.' 
 
 * I don't want this house. 1 detest it. Do you suppose I am 
 going to waste my life iu England — or in Eurojjo ] Jack and I 
 can start on our travels again. The world is wide enough ; there 
 are two continents on which I have never set foot. I shall start 
 for Calcutta to-morrow, if I can, and explore the whole of India 
 before I turn my face westwards again. I think we understand 
 each other fully now. Stay, there is one thing : I am to see my 
 son when, and as often as I please, I suppose' 
 
 * I will not interfere with your rights as a fathtr.' 
 
 * I am glad of that. And now I sujjposc there is no more to 
 be said. I leave your life, my honour, in your own keeping.' 
 
 * God be with you,' she answered, solemnly, giving that part- 
 ing salutation its fullest meaning. 
 
 And so, without touch of lip or hand, they parted for a lifetime. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 WK HAVE DONE WITH TEARS AND TREASONS. 
 
 * I WONDER if there is any ancient crime in the Tregonell 
 family that makes the twenty-fifth of October a fatal date ; 
 Mopsy speculated, with a lachrymose air, on the afternoon 
 which followed the Baron's hasty departure. 'This very day 
 last year Mr. Hamleigh shot himself, and siDJlcd all our 
 pleasure ; and to-day, the Baron de Cazalet rushes away as 
 if the house was infected, Mrs. Tregonell koi'ps iicr own room 
 w^ith a nervous headache, and Mr. Tregonell isgoin'^' to cany 
 off Jack to bo broiled alive in .some sandy waste among 
 prowling tigei-s, or to aitch his death of cold upon more of 
 those honid mountains. One might just ad well have no brother. 
 ' If he ever sent us anything from abroad we shmildn't 
 feel his loss k(} keenly,' said Dopsy, in a plaintive voice, ' hut he 
 dot^sn't. If he were to travenie thev/hole of Africa we shouldn't be 
 tht? richer by a single ostrich feather— and those undyed natural 
 
We have done with Tears and Treasons. 
 
 347 
 
 me, and 
 
 rue there 
 
 hauce of 
 Leonard, 
 ith tears, 
 ■<»y, and 
 liat wa.s 
 
 to your 
 to know 
 
 life.' 
 have no 
 c world. 
 whero 
 lave the 
 nan and 
 
 )se I am 
 ;k and I 
 h ; there 
 all start 
 of India 
 lerstand 
 > see my 
 
 moi'* to 
 ing.' 
 it part- 
 
 ifetime. 
 
 'ogonell 
 I date ; 
 :ern()on 
 ry iUy 
 ill our 
 I way us 
 1 room 
 3 carry 
 anionic 
 lore (»/ 
 rot her. 
 "uldn't 
 I'ut lie 
 
 Idn'tbe 
 latural 
 
 ostriches are such good st3i4e. South America teems with gold 
 and jewels ; Peru is a proverb ; but what are iva the better otf 1' 
 
 ' It is rather bad form for the master of a house to start on 
 h's travels before his guests have cleared out,' renuu'ked Mojxsy. 
 
 ' And an uncommonly broad hint for the guests to hasten the 
 clearing- out process,' retorted Dopsy. ' I thought we were good 
 here for another month — till Christmas, perhaps. Christmjus at 
 an old Cornish manor-house would have been too lovely — like 
 one of the shilling annuals.' 
 
 * A great deal nicer,' said Mopay, * for you never met with a 
 country house in a Christmjis book that was not p'^Mded with 
 ghosts and all kind of ghastlincss. 
 
 Luncheon was lively enough, albeit de Cazalet • an .'X ne, and 
 Mrs. Tregonell was absent, and Mr. Tregonell pi.'aful'/ silent. 
 The chorus of the passionlcss,the people for whom life moans only 
 dreHsingandsleepingandfournv.:cd3aday,found plenty to talk about. 
 
 Jack Vandcleur was in high sfiirits. IFe rejoicf^d heartily at 
 the tuin which affairs had taken that morning, having from the 
 first moment looked upon the projected meeting on Trebarwith 
 Bands tis likely to be fatal to lua friend, and full of peril for all 
 concerned in the business. 
 
 He was too thorough a free-lance, prided himself too much on 
 his personal courage and his recklessness of consequences, to offer 
 strenuous opposition to any scheme of the kind ; but he had not 
 faced the situation without being fully aware of its danger, and 
 he was very glad tho thing hau blown over without bloodshed or 
 law-breaking. He was glail also on Mrs. Tregoncll's account, 
 very glad to now that this one woman in wlioso purity ami 
 honesty of purpose he had believed, had not })roved henself a 
 simulaciuni, a mere phantasmagoric image of goodness an<i 
 virtue. Still more did he exult at the idea of re-vi.-iiting the 
 happy hunting-grounds of his youth, that ancient romantic world 
 in which the youngest and most blameless yeais<jf iiislife hadbeen 
 spent. rie;isant to go back under such amy cireumstances, with 
 Jjponard's pun-e to draw upon, to be the rich man's guide, philo- 
 »f*pln'r, and friend, in a country which he knew thoroughly. 
 
 ' Fr.iy what is the cause of this abrupt (h'jiarture of de 
 Cazalet, and this sudden freak of our host's T iuipiired Mrs, 
 Torringtofi of her r»ext neigiibour, Mr. Fit/.Josse, who was 
 calmly dis^u^.i^ing a cutl(>t il hi Main^r/ion, uiiiuoved bv the slnill 
 chatter (A th« adjacent Dopsy. * 1 hope it is nothing wrong 
 with th^ drairw.' 
 
 *No f jtm tfM the drainage is simply petfei't.' 
 
 * People alw.t.ys declare ;is much, till typhoid fever breaks 
 out ; and then it is <lis<;overed that there is an abandoned cess- 
 pool in tlirect con«iuunication with one of the s[»arf; hed-iooma, 
 or a forgotten drain pipe under the <lrawing-rooni floor. I never 
 believe people when they fell me their houses are wholesome. 
 If I smell an unpleasant sfiiell f go,' said Mrs. Toiringtou. 
 
318 
 
 Mount Eoyat. 
 
 ' There is often wisdom in flight,' reph'ed the journalist ; 'but 
 I do not think this is a cjirfe of bad dra.in;i<,^t'.' 
 
 * No more do I,' returned Mi-a. Torrinfftoii, dropping her voice 
 and becoming confidential ; ' of coui-se we both perfectly understand 
 what it all means. There has been a row between JNlr. and Mrs. 
 Tregonell, and de Cazalet has got his co)tf/e' from the liu.sl)au(l. 
 
 *I shonhl have introduced him to tlio outside of my liouse 
 three weeks ago, had I been the Sipiire,' said FitzJesse. 'But 
 I.believe the flirtation was h;innless enough, and I hav<! a shnjwd 
 idea it was what the tliiev^'s call a " put up " thing — done on 
 purpose to provoke the husband.' 
 
 ' Why should she want to provoke him ?' 
 
 * Ah, why? That is the mystery. You know her better than 
 I do, and must be better able to understand her motives.' 
 
 * But I don't understand her in the least,' protested Mrs. 
 Torrington. * She is quite a diflerent person this year from the 
 woman I knew last year. I thought her the most devoted wife 
 and mother. The house was not half so nice to stay at ; but it 
 was ever so much more respectable. I had arrarged with my 
 next people — Lodway Court, near Bristol — to be with them at 
 the end of the week ; but I suppose the best tliiijg we can all do 
 is to go at once. There is an air of general break-up in Mr. 
 Tregonell's hasty arrangements for an Indian tour.' 
 
 'Rather like the supper-party in Macbeth, is it not?' said 
 FitzJease, 'except that her ladyship is not to the fore.' 
 
 ' 1 call it altogether uncomfortable,' exclaimed Mrs. Torring- 
 ton, nettishly. "How do 1 know that the Lodway Court jieopl" 
 will be able to receive me. I may be obliged to go to an hotel.' 
 
 * Heaven avert such a catastrophe.' 
 
 * It would be very inconvenient — with a maid, and no end of 
 luggage. One is not prepared for that kind of thing when one 
 stiirts oix a round of visits.' 
 
 For Dopsy ;uid Mopsy there was no such agreeable prospect 
 as a change of scene from one ' w».'ll-f(.niiid ' country-house to 
 another. To be tumbled out of this lap of luxury meant a fall 
 into thf dreariness of South Belgravia and the King's lload — 
 long, monotonous, arid streets, with all the dust that had been 
 ground under the feet of hap])y peojile in the London sea,-ion 
 V)lown about in dense clouds, for the disconifoiture of the out- 
 caafeii who must stay in town when the sf,(st)u ia over ; sparse 
 diiaters, coals nieiisured by the scuttle, smoky tires, worn 
 sarpets, flat beer, and the whole gamut of existence eijually lh*|,, 
 Btiile and unprofitable. 
 
 Dopsy and Mopsy listened with doleful coutjtenaneos to 
 Jack's talk about the big things he and his fiiciid \yvi<- gi>iug to 
 do in Bengal, the tigers, the wihl pig", and w ild pea«;»M'ks they 
 were going to slay. Wliy hail not Destiny made Iheui young 
 men, that they f'lo might prey upon tbeii* species, and enjoy life 
 at BomtbuUy alae'a axyvunb ? 
 
We have done with Tears and Treasons. 
 
 340 
 
 list ; 'but 
 
 her voice 
 iilerstand 
 iind Mrs. 
 
 sl>;ili(l. 
 iiy liouHe 
 IS. ' JJut 
 I sliicwd 
 -duiiu oil 
 
 iter than 
 
 id Mrs. 
 Torn the 
 ted wifo 
 
 ; but it 
 vith my 
 them at 
 m all do 
 
 in Mr. 
 
 : ? ' said 
 ^orriii"^- 
 
 t )H'()J»1<» 
 
 1 hotel.' 
 
 > end of 
 len one 
 
 iro.spect 
 (tiise to 
 
 i faU 
 icad — 
 I bcHii 
 .s«'a.-;(iii 
 le out- 
 .spais).' 
 
 worn 
 
 VH to 
 llli^ to 
 
 < (ht'v 
 
 o 
 
 y life 
 
 ' I'll tell you what,' said their brother, in the most cheerful 
 manner. *Of course you won't be staying here after I leave. 
 Mr.s. Tregonell will want to be alone when her husband goes. 
 You had better go with the Scjuire and me as far jvs Southamj)- 
 ton. He'll frank you. We can all stop at the " Duke of 
 Cornwall " to-morrow night, and start for Southampton by an 
 early train next morning. You can lunch with us at the 
 " Dolphin," see us ott'by steamer, and go on to London afterwards.* 
 
 ' That will be a ray of jollity to gild the la,st hom* of our 
 ha])piness,' said Mopsy. *0h how I loathe the idea of going 
 back to those lodgings— and pa ! ' 
 
 ' The governor is a trial, I must admit,' said Jack. * But 
 you see the Eur()[)ean idea is that an ancient parent can't hang 
 on hand too long. There's no wheeling him down to the Ganges, 
 and leaving him to settle his account with the birds and the 
 tislu's ; and even in India that kind (»f thing is getting out of date.' 
 
 ' [ wouldn't so much mind him,' said Di»i)sy, plaintively, 
 * if his habits were more human ; but there are so many traits 
 in his character — especially his winter cough — which remind 
 one of the lower animals,' 
 
 ' Poor old Pater,' sighed Jack, with a touch of feeling. 
 He was not often at home. * Would you believe it, that he 
 was once almost a gentleman ? Yes, I i-emember, an early 
 period in my life when I was not ashanu'd to own him. Jlut 
 when a fellow has been travelling steadily down hill for 
 fifteen years, his ultimate level must l)e unconnnouly low.' 
 
 '7'ruf,' sighed Mopsy, ' ?/•« have always tried to rise superior 
 to our surroundings ; but it has been a teiTil)le struggle.' 
 
 "There ha^'e been summer evenings, when tliat wretclied 
 slavey has been out with her young man, that I have been sorely 
 tempted to fetch the beer with my own hands — there is a jug 
 and bottle entrance at the place where we deal — but 1 have 
 suffered agonies of thii"st rather than so lower myself,' .said Dopsy, 
 "ith the cum[)lacence of conscious heroism. 
 
 Right you are,' said Jack, wh > would sooner have fetched 
 beer in the very eye iit" society than gone without it ; 'one must 
 draw the line somewhere.' 
 
 ' And tj go from a paradise likethistosuchaden.XMthat,' exclaim- 
 ed Dopsy. still harpini;on the unloveliness of the l'imlicf> lodging. 
 
 ' Cheer up, old girl. I daiesay Mrs. T. will ask you again. 
 She's very g^x)d-natnred.' 
 
 ' She has beaaved like an angel to us,' an^swered Dopsy, * but 
 I can't niak b^- There's a mystery somewhere.' 
 
 'Th«s-* keU'ton in the cu|)board. Don't you try 
 
 to haul «.l.i ijony out,' said the ]thilos()phical Captain. 
 
 This was after luncheon, when J;<< k and his listers had the 
 bil Hani -room to themselves. Mr. Tiegonell was in his study, 
 making things straight with his bailill, coachman, butler, in his 
 usual busiuoMs-Uke and decisive manner. Mr. Fit&lesee wu^ 
 
350 
 
 Mount Hoyal, 
 
 packing his portmanteau, meaning to sleep that night at Pen- 
 zance. He was quite shrewd enough to be conscious of the 
 tempest in the air, and was not disposed to inflict himself upon 
 his friends in the hour of trouble, or to be bored by having to 
 sympathize with them in their atiliction. 
 
 Ue had studied Mrs. Tregonell closely, and he had made up 
 his mind that conduct which was out of harmony with her 
 character must needs be inspired by some powerful motive. He 
 had heard the account of her first oiigagoment — know all about 
 little Fishky — and he had been told the particnlai-s of her first 
 lover's death. It was not difficult for so justute an observer of 
 human nature to make out the rest of the story. 
 
 Little Monty hud been invited to go as far as Southanii)ton 
 with the travellers. The »St. Aubyns tieclared that home-dutios 
 had long been demanding their attention, and that they must 
 positively leave next day. 
 
 Mr. Faildie accepted an invitation to accompany them, anil 
 spend a week at their fine old place on the other side of the 
 county — thus, without ai*y trouble on Christabel's part, her house 
 was cleared for her. When she came down to luncheon next 
 day, two or three hours after the departure of Leonard and his 
 piirty, who were to spend that night at Plymouth, with some idea 
 of an evening at the theatre on the part of Mop and Dop, siie 
 had only the St. Aubyns and Mr. Faddie to entertain. Even 
 thf ywere on the wing, as the carriage which wasto convey them to 
 JUtximin Road Station was ordered for threeo'clock intheafternoon. 
 Christabel's pale calm face showed no sign of the mental strain 
 of th«!la.st twenty-four horn's. There was such a relief in having 
 don- with the false life which she had been leading in the past 
 mouth ; such an infinite comfort in being able to fall back on her 
 old self ; such an unsi)eakable relief, too, in the sense i»f having 
 saved herself on the very brink of the black gulf of sin, that it 
 vva-s almost as if peace and gladness had returned to her soul. 
 Unce ivsiun she had sought for comfort at the one Divine source 
 of consolation ; once more she had dai'ed to pray ; and this 
 tiirdy resumption of the old sweet habit of girlhood seemed like 
 a return fo sf-tne dear home from which she h;is been long 
 banished. Eren those who knew so little of her real character 
 mere able t^) see the change ih her countenance. 
 
 ' What a lovt ' y expression Mrs. Tregonell has to-day !' raui- 
 murod Mr. Faddie to his neighbour, Mrs. St. Aubyn, tenderly 
 replonishiniT her hock glass, as a politie preliminary to filling his 
 own. ' So soft ; so Madonna-like ! ' 
 
 ' I suppose she is rather sorry for having driven away her 
 husband,' said Mrs. St. Aubyn, severely. ' That has sobered her.' 
 •There are de}>ths in the hiunan soul which only the con- 
 fessor can sound,' answered Mr. Faddie, who would not be 
 betrayed into saying anything uncivil about bis hostess. 
 
at Pen- 
 3 of the 
 elf upon 
 laving to 
 
 [nade up 
 ,vith lier 
 ivo. lie 
 ill a1>()ut 
 lier first 
 server of 
 
 luinii)tou 
 iie-dutios 
 ley must 
 
 lem, and 
 le of the 
 lier house 
 eon next 
 [ and Iiis 
 jome idea 
 Dop, siie 
 1. Even 
 y them to 
 fternoon. 
 al strain 
 n having 
 the past 
 k on her 
 liaving 
 1, that it 
 \Q\- soul, 
 le source 
 nd this 
 ed like 
 n loDg 
 Iharacter 
 
 I 
 
 ram- 
 
 Itenderly 
 llling his 
 
 ray her 
 red her.' 
 Ihe con- 
 not be 
 lliostess, 
 
 XVe have done with Tears and Treasons. 
 
 351 
 
 •Would that she might be led to pour her griefs into an ear 
 attuned to every note in the diapason of sorrow.' 
 
 • I don't approve of confession, and I never shall bring myself 
 to like it,' said Mrs. St. Aubyn, sturdily. * It is un-English !' 
 
 * But your Rubric, dear lady. Surely you stand by yourRubric?' 
 * If.'you mean the small print paragraphs in my prayer book, I 
 
 never read 'em,' .answered the Squire's wife, bluntly. 'I hope I know 
 my way through the Church Service without any help of that kind. 
 Mr. Faddie sighed at this Ba'otian ignorance, and went on 
 with his lunclicon. Jt might be long before he partook of so 
 gracious a meal. A woman whose Church views were so barbar- 
 ous as those of Mrs, St. Aubyn, might keep a table of primitive 
 cojirse^it'ss. A S(|uire Westernish kind of fare might await him 
 in the St. Aubyn niaitsion. 
 
 j\n hour later, he pressed Christabel's hand tenderly as he 
 l^iidn Ikt good-bye. *A thousand thanks for your sweet liospi- 
 tality,' he murmured, gently. "This visit has been most precious 
 to me. It hixs been a pi i\ ik'ge to be brought nearer the lives of 
 those blessed martyrs, Saint Sergius and Saint Bacchus ; ton^new 
 my acquaintance with dear Saint Mertheriana, whose life I only 
 dimly remembered ; to kneel at the rustic shrines of Saint 
 Ulette and Saint Piran. Tt has been ;i period of mentiU growth, 
 the memory of which I shall ever value.' 
 
 And then, with a grave uplifling of two fingers, and a bless- 
 ing on the hous«, Mr. Faddie went oft' to his ])lace beside; Clara 
 St. Aubyn, on the back seat of the landau which was to convey 
 the de])arting guests to the Bodmin Road Station, .a two hours' 
 drive through the brisk autumn air. 
 
 And thus, like the shadowy tlgures in a dissolving vi»>w, 
 Christabel's guests melted away, and .>-he and Jessie Bridgeman 
 stood alone in the grand old hall which had been of late so 
 perverted from its old sober air and quii't domestic uses. Ibr 
 tirst act as the carriage drove away was to fling one of the ease- 
 ments wide open. 
 
 ' Ojieii the other windows, Je.sie,' she said, impetuously ; 'all 
 of them.' 
 
 ' Do you know that the wind is in the east 1 ' 
 
 'I know that it is pure and sweet, the breath of heaven blow- 
 ing over hill and sea, and that it is sweeping away the tainltd 
 atmosphere of the last month, the poison of scai.ilal, an<l slang, 
 and cigarettes, and billiard-marker talk, arid all that is most un- 
 lovely in life. Oh, Jessie, thank Cod you and I are alone together, 
 and the play is played out.' 
 
 ' Did you see your hu.sband to-day before he left ? ' 
 
 * No Why should we meet any more ? What can we two 
 have to say to each other ? ' 
 
 ' Then he left his home without a word from you,' said Jessifl, 
 wi^Ji a shade of wonder. 
 
552 
 
 Mount Royal. 
 
 * Hfflhomo,' repeated Chriataliel ; * the home in which hia pool 
 mother thought it would be my lot to make his life good and 
 happy. If she could know — but no — thank God the dead are at 
 peace. No, Jessie, he did not go without one word from me. I 
 wrote a few lines of farewell. I told him I had prayed to my 
 God for power to pit^r and forgive him, and that pity and pf.rdon 
 had come to me. I implored him to make his future life one 
 long atonement for that fatal act last jear. I who had sinned 
 80 deeply had no right to take a high tone. I spoke to him as a 
 sinner to a sinner.' 
 
 * I hope ha does repent — that he will atone,' said Miss Bridge- 
 man, gloomily. ' His life is in his own keeping. Thank God that 
 you and I are rid of him, and can live th« rest of our days in peace. 
 
 Very quietly flows the stream of life at Mount Royal now that 
 these feveriish scenes have passed into the shadow of the days 
 that are no more. Christabel devotes herself to the rearing of 
 her boy, lives for him, thinks for him, finds joy in his boyish 
 
 Eleasures, grieves for his boyish griefs, teaches him, walks with 
 im, rides with him, watches and nurses him in every childish 
 illness, and wonders that her life is so full of peace and sunshine. 
 The memory of a sorrowful past can never cease to be a part of 
 her life. All those actmes she loves beat in this world, the familiar 
 places amidst which hor quiet days are spent, are haunted by one 
 mournful shadow ; but she loves the hills and sea-shore only 
 the dearer for that spiritual presence, which follows her in 
 the noontide and the gloaming, for ever reminding her, amidst 
 the simple joys of the life she knows, of that unknown life 
 where the veil shall be lifted, and the lost sliall be found. 
 
 Major Bree is her devoted friend and adviser, idolizes the 
 boy, and just manages to prevent his manliness deteriorating 
 under the pressure of womanly indulgence and womanly fears. 
 Jessie has refused that faithful admirer a second time, but 
 Christabel has an idea that he means to tempt his fate again, 
 and in the end must prevail, by alieer force of goodness and fidelity. 
 
 Kneeling by Angus Hamleigh's grave, little Leo hears from 
 his mother's lips how the dead man loved him, and be- 
 queathed his fortune to him. The mother endeavours to 
 explain in simplest, clearest worda how the wealth so entrusted 
 to him should be a sacred charge, never to be turned to evil 
 uses or squandered in self-indulgence.' 
 
 * You will try to do good when you are a man won't ■< u, 
 Leo ? ' she asks smiling down at the bright young face, wLich 
 shines like a sunbeam inits childish gladness. 
 
 •Yes,' he answers, confidently. * I'll give Uncle Jakes tobacc 
 
 This is his widest idea of benevolence at the present stage 
 devdopmeut. 
 
 LONDON : J. & R. MAXWELL, 35, 8T. BRIDE STBiJBT, B.C. 
 
 m 2.86 ^ 
 
ich hia pool 
 e good and 
 dead are at 
 rom me. I 
 ayed to my 
 and pi;,rdon 
 re life one 
 lad sinned 
 bo him as a 
 
 [iss Bridge- 
 k God that 
 5^8 in peace. 
 
 al now that 
 ►f the days 
 rearing of 
 his boyish 
 ^alks with 
 py childish 
 I sunshine. 
 3 a part of 
 lie familiar 
 ted by one 
 shore only 
 )ws her in 
 er, amidst 
 cnown life 
 be found, 
 iolizes the 
 teriorating 
 mly fears, 
 time, but 
 !ate again, 
 nd fidelity, 
 lears from 
 and be- 
 avours to 
 ' entrusted 
 sd to evil 
 
 won't ^ u, 
 ace, wLich 
 
 !3 tobacc 
 at stage 
 
 <j^ 
 
 .V. 
 
 to.