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Ueiiry Fi'onch, dtl.^

[T. Syarnons, Sc.

" Oh, my love ! my love ! she sobbed."— Page 335.

i A

i 4

i i . V I.

'Wl

'j^ji

^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.

674

o o o

.^ O ;»»

///^^

CONTENTS.

II.

III.

IV.
V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

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

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

l!i;

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,

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

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.

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

Mount Boyal.

:'! *

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

The Days that are No More,

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

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.

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

MoJint Eoyal.

y\\V

Hi'

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

p;i
fo

f//c Days that a^-c No More.

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:

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.

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

Mo7int Royal.

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

Mount Boyal.

'\ ■>•

i|tl::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 ? '

■■>*

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

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.'

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

,'V

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

:il

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

'4d

,Jfii

f'l

i
I

^.u

iii

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.'

■)|

)?l

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

But then came One, the Lovelace of his Day.

« 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

-..-,

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«

h •; |:

■i ?

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

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.

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.

Mount Boyal.

il'irt

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

• 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

1 !

l! I

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

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

■

si 'ii

M
Ik

i I

y^u

Mount Boyal.

i ii

ii! tl

f - 1

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*

Mount Boyal.

vio

ti 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;

*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 :

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;

Mount Royal.

I '.

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

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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-

» 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

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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.

• 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. \

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•'Hi

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

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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

Mount Boyai.

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

In Society.

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

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.

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

1 1
i '

\ '

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.

1
r

(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(

dehcate operation, in which she waij aiiuijilud by Mr. IIan)lcir,'h.

1. "I ' '■

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.

^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 «

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.

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 !

i* 1

p i

III

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

In Society,

|U'.

(in

,iul

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

•■

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.

'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.'

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.

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,

>"'

,■'«♦' 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/.

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?:

I'M

' I

i . i'

! »

i'i

> It!

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.

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.*,

:reg(

lUtill.

lli

» »**

mj)

'1'

1 .y

,4 •••

•I

Mount Royal.

* 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 '

In Society.

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

«i

i i

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"11

1(1 ■

U^H

! ,1m:

(

• Hi

< #

•i.

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

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

1.1

I'M! 1

III'

ft 'A

i>4

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.

*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

.! I

' 1

till*

til*

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.

. «

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

! <■'■

t'.

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.

'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.'

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Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MmIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

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

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.'

Cupid and Psyche.

'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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Mount Royal.

•A shaft of lime-light. And so the graceful mythic drama ends —
fanciful from the first line to the laat, gay and lightly touched aa
burlesque, yet with an element of poetry which burlesque for th«
most part lacks.

Christabel's interest had been maintained throughout the
performance.

' How extraordinarily silent you have been all the evening,
Jessie ! ' she said, as they were putting on their cloaks ; * surely,
you like the play ! '

' I like it jiretty well. It is rather thin, I think ; but then
perhaps, that is because I have ' Twelfth Night ' still in my
memory, as we heard Mr. Brandram recite it last week at
Willis's Rooms.'

' Nobody expects modern comedy to be as good as Shake-
speare,' retorted Christabel ; ' you might as well tind fault with
the electric light for not being quite equal to the moon. Don't
you admire that exquisite creature 1 '

' Which of them 1 ' asked Jessie, stolidly, buttoning her eloak.

' Which of them ! Oh, Jessie, you have generally such good
taste. NVhy, Miss Mayne, of course. It is almost painful to
look at the others. They are such common earthy creatures,
compared with her ! '

' I have no doubt she is very wonderful — and she is the
fashion, which goes for a great deal,' answered Miss Bridgeman;
but never a word in praise of Stella Mayne could Christabel
extort from her. She — who, educated by Shepherd's Bush and
poverty, was much more advanced in knowledge of evil than the
maiden from beyond Tamar — sus])ected that some sinister in-
fluence was to be feared in Stella Mayne. Why else had the
Major so doggedly opposed their visit to this particular theatre 1
Why else did he look so glum when Stella Mayne was spoken
about ?

CHAPTER VIII.

LE SECRET DE POLICHINELLE.

The next day but one was Thursday — an afternoon upon which
Mrs. Tregonell was in the habit of staying at home to receive
callers, and a day on which her small drawing-rooms were
generally fliUed with more or less pleasant j^eople — chiefly of the
fairer sex — from four to six. The three rooms — small by degrees
and beautifully less — the old-f;ishioned furniture and profusion
of choicest flowers — lent themselves admii'ably to gossip and
afternoon tea, and were even conducive to mild flirtation, for
there ^vas generally a sprinkling of young men of the ITitzPelhap*

Le Secret de Polichinelle.

-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.

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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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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

Lt Secret de Polichinelle.

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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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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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'

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.

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* 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

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.'^

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

;l S

¥%

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.*

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

•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-

* 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

'"'.'I

.•<

' 1,

',1' !"

l^'i

;

h- '

]

116

Mount

PiOyat.

had believed hersiilf her lover's first and only love, and finding,
that she was but the second volume in his life, abandoned
herself at once to despair.

She sank into one of the low luxurious chairs, just as the
door opened, and Miss Mayne came into the room.

If she had looked lovely as Psyche, in her classic drapery,
with the emerald butterfly on her shoulder, she looked no Icsm
beautiful in the costly-simplicity of her home toilet. She wore
a sacque-shaped tea-gown of soft French-grey silk, lined with
palest pink satin, over a petticoat that seemed a mass of cream-
coloured lace. Her only ornaments were throe half-hoop rings —
I ubies, diamonds, and sa})phires — too large for the slender third
linger of her left hand, and half concealing a thin wedding-ring —
and a star-shaped broach — one large cat's-eye with diamond
rays, which fastened the lace handkerchief at her throat.

Christabel, quick to observe the won)an whose existence had
ruined her life, noted everything, from the small perfectly-shaped
head — shaped for beauty rather than mental power — to the
little arched foot in its pearl-coloured silk stocking, and grey
satin slipper. For the first time in her life she beheld a woman
whose chief business in this world was to look her loveliest, at
all times and seasons, for friend or foe — for whom the perf ectioi '
of costume was the study and delight of life — who lived ana
reigned by the divine right of beauty.

' Pray sit down ! ' said Miss Mayne, with a careless wave of
her hand — so small — so delicate and fragile-looking under the
lace ruffle ; ' I am cpiite at a loss to guess to what I am indebted
for the honour of this visit '

She looked at her visitor scrutinizingly with those dark, too
lustrous eyes. A hectio flush burned in her hollow cheeks. She
had heard a good deal about this Miss Courtenay, of Mount
Royal and Mayfair, and she came prepared to do battle.

For some moments Chilstabel was dumb. It was one thinsr
to have come into this young lioness's den, and another thing to
know what to say to the lioness. But the straightness and
purity of the girl's purpose upheld her — and her courage hardly
faltered.

' I have come to you. Miss Mayne, because I will not consent
to be governed by common report. I want to know the truth —
the whole truth — however bitter it may be forme — in order that
\ may know how to act.'

Miss Mayne had expected a much sharper mode of attack.
She had been prepared to hear herself called scorpion — or viper
— the pest of society — a form of address to which she would
have been able to reply with a startling sharpness. But to be
3)»oken to thus — gi-avely, gently, pleadingly, and with that sweet
girlish face looking at her in unspeakable M>rrow — was somethinp;
for which she had uo^ Prepared hei-self.

* Love is Love for Evermore.'

117

' 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

' 1^ -■ ' it

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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

. I '- ,-t,

I Ik >

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•I)

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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.

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.

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

III

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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.

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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

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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

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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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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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.

}*'

* 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.

n'.

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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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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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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.

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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.'

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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.

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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148

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Mnmt BoyaZ.

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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

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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.'

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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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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

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Mount Royal.

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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.'

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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.*

't 1

•:!.

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Mo7inb Boyat

t.i.all

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.'

Ixl

til

tel

sll

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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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.

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'*"

'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(

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(Jiub, behintl IIj« Keencs at the swell, theatre .--Ip.cIuuoIh" and

* Not the Gods can shalic the Paul*

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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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'"

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'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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Mount Uoyal.

•••

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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Mount Boy at.

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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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(716) 673-4503

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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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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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girls.

* 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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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

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(

'•<!

*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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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 ■

*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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Mount lioyal.

I h

Mr. Ilamleigh, with hin head gently bent ovei his soup-plate,
had contriv(!d to watch Ohristabers face while politely rei)lying
to a good doal of gush on the part of the fair Dopay. lie saw
that expressive face light uj) with sniilcis, and then grow earnest.
She WiiH full of interest and animation, and her candid looV
showwi that the conversation was one which all the world might
have heard.

* She has forgotten nie. She is happy \\\ her married life,'
he said to himself, and then he looked to the other end of the
table where Leonard sat, burly, iloiid, black-haired, nuitton-chop
whiskered, the very essence of riiilistinism — 'ha])py — with him.'

'And I am sure you must adore Ellen Terry,' said Doi)sy,
whose society-con veraati on w£is not a many-stringed instrument,

* Who eould live and not worship her ? ' ejaculated Mr
Hamleigh.

' Irving as Shylock ! ' sighed Do])sy.

* Miss 'Terry as Portia,' retortetl Angus.

* Unutterably sweet, was she not ? '

'Iler movements were like a sonata by l>ec^thoven — her
gowns were the essence of all that Eubens and Vandyck ever
painted.'

'I knew you would rgree with me,' exclaimed Dopsy. 'And
do yon think her i)retty ? '

' Pretty is not the word. She is siiajjly divine. Greuze might
have painted her — there is no living painter whose palette holds
the tint of those blue eyes.'

Doi)sy began to giggle softly to herself, and to flutter her fan
with maiden modesty.

' I hardly like to mention it after what you have said,' she
murnmred, ' but '

'Pray be explicit.'

' I have been told that I am rather ' — another faint giggle
and another flutter — ' like JVIiss Terry.'

* I never met a fair-hairod girl yet who had not been told as
mucli,' answered Mr. Ilamleigh, coolly.

Dopsy turiieil crimson, and felt that this particular ai'row had
missed the gold. ]Mr. Hamleigh was not quite so easy to get on
with as her hopeful fancy had painted him.

After dinner there was some music, in which art neither of
the Miss Vandeleui-s excelled. Indeed, their time had been too
closely absorbed by the ever pressing necessity for cutting and
contriving to allow of the study of art and literature. They
knew the names of writers, and the outsides of books, and they
adored the opera, and enjoyed a ballad concert, if the singers
were popular, and the audience well dressed ; and this was the
limit of their artistic proclivities. They sat stifling their yawns,
•ad longing for an adjournment to the billiard-room — whither

• But it SvJJiceth, that tlic Day will End,' 207

Jack Vandeleur and Mr. Montagu had departed — while Ohrist-
ftbel played a capriccio by Mendelssohn. Mr. Hamluigh sat by
the piano listening to every note. Leonard and Major Bree
lounged by the fireplace, Jessie Bridgenian sitting near them,
absorbed in her crewel work.

It was what Mopsy and Dopay called a very * .ilow evening,
despite the new interest afforded by Mr. Ilanileigh's presence.
He waa very handsome, very elegant, with an inexpressible
something in his style and air which Mopsy thought poetical.
But it was weary work to sit and gaze at him as if he were a
statue, and that long capriccio, with a little Beethoven to follow,
and a good deal of Moziirt after that, occupied the best part of
the evening. To the eai-s of Mop and Dop it was all tweeleduni
and tweedledcc. They would have been refreshed by one of
those lively melodies in which Miss Farren so excels ; they
would have welcomed a familiar strain from Chilperic or Madame
Angot. Yet they gushed and said, ' too delioions — quite too
utterly lovely,' when Mrs. Trogonell rose from the piano.

* I only hope I have not wejiried everybody,' she said.

Leonard and Major Bree had been talking local politics all
the time, and both expressed themselves much gratiHed by the
music. Mr. Hamlcigh murmured his thanks.

Christabel went to her room wondering that the evening had
passed so calmly — that her heart — though it had jiched at the
change in Angus Hamleigh's looks, had been in no wise tumid-
tuously stirred by his presence. There had been a peaceful
feeling in her mind rather than agitation. She had been soothed
and made happy by his society. If love still lingered in her
breast it waa love purified of every earthly thought and hoix.'.
She told herself sorrowfully that for him the sjind ran low in the
glass of eartlily time, and it was swoet to have him near her f(ir
% little while towards the end ; to be able to talk to him of
serious things — to inspire hope in a soul whose natural bent was
despondency. It would be sadly, unutterably sweet to talk to
him of that spiritujil world whose unearthly light alreatly shone
in the too brilliant eye, and coloured the hollow cheel:. She had
found Mr. Hamleigh despondent and sceptical, but never in-
different to religion. He was not one of that emincnilly practical
school which, in the words of Matthew Arnold, thinks it more
important to learn how buttons and papier-mdche are made than
to search the depths of conscience, or fathom the mysteries of a
Divino Providence.

Christabel's first sentiment when Leonard announced Mr.
Hamleigh's intended visit had been horror. How could they two
who had loved so deeply, parted so sadly, live together under the
same roof as if they were every-day friends ? The thing seemed
fraught with danger, impossible for peace. But when sho

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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
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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,

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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.'

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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

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Mount Boyal.

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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

^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

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Mount Boy at.

their iovcinakincf, she was si ill ClH-i.stnltcl. To Jessie, and to
none other, could he speak of her with perfect fjeedom.

^i* i

CIIArTEU XX.

•who knows not ciuce?'

The atitumn days crept by, sonictimea f,'rey and sad of aspr'cr
sometimes railiant and suii.iy, as if sumuitT had risen from her
grave amidst fallen loaves and faded heather. It was altogether
a lovely autumn, like that beauteous season of live years ago,
and Christabel and Angr.s wandered about the hills, and lingered
by the trout stream in the warm green valley, almost as freely
as they had done in the ])ast. They were never alone — Jessie
Bridgeman was always with them — very often Dopsy and Mopsy
— anil sometimes ]\[r. Tregonell with Captain Vandeleur and half
a dozen dogs. One day they all went u]) the liill, and crossed
the ploughed field to the ])ath among the gorse and heather
above Pentargou JJay — and Dopsy and jNtopsy climbed ciags and
knolls, and screamed jiUVightedly, and made a large dis2)lay of
boots, and were gent«r;dly fascinating after their manner.

' If any place could tempt me to smoke it would be this,'
said Dopsy gazing se;iward. All the n.en excejtt Angus were
smoking, ' i think it must be nttei-]y lovely to sit dreaming
over a cigarette in such a place as tliis.'

* What would you dream about/ asked Angus. 'A now
bonnet 'I '

' J.)()n"t be cynical. You lliiuk I ;'.m awfully shallow, because
I am not a j)erambulating book-slulf like ]Mrs. Tregimcll, wlio
seems to have read all the books that ever were i)rinted.'

' There you are wrong. She })as read a few — 7io)i 'in}ilta scd
invltum — but they are tlie very best, and she lias read them well
enough to remember them,' answered Angus, ijuietly.

'Ami ]\Jop and I oft-n read three volumes in a day, and
seldom remember a line of what we read,' sighed Dopsy,
* Indeed, we are awfullv ignorant. Of course we learnt thimra
at school — French and German — Italian — natural history —
])hysical geography — geology — and all the onomies. Indeed, I
shudder when I remember what a lot of learning was poured
into our poor little heails, and how soon it all ran out again,'

Dopsy gave her ni^st fascinating giggle, and sat in .an
a'sthetic attitude idly plucking u]) faded heather blossoms with
a tightly gloved hand, and wondering whether Mr. IlaTnleigh
noticed how small the hard was. She thought she was going

nvd

Wlio knoivs not Circe f

217

strai/^ht to hia heart with llipso iiaK'o confessions; hIio bad
always heard that men Iwitod learned women, and no doubt Mi'.
Hainleigh's habit of prosing about books with Mrs. Tregonell
was merely the liomage he payed to his hostess.

* You and Mrs. Tregonell are so dreadfully grave when yon
get together,' pursued Dojisy, seeing tliat lier companion 1m id
his peace. She had contrived to be by Mr. llandeigh.-t sidi^
when he crossed the held, and had in a manner gut possessed of
him for the rest of the afternoon, l)arring some violent struggle
for emancij)ation on his part. ' I ;\l\vaya wonder what you can
find to say to each other.'

' I don't think there is mucli cause for wonder. Wo li;ivi>
many tastes in common. We are both fond of nuisic — of Nature
— and of books. There is a wide held for conversation.'

'Why won't you talk with me of books. There are some
books I adore. Let us talk about Dickens.'

* With all my heart. I udmire every line ho wrote — I think
liim the greatest genius of this age. We have had great writei s
— great thinkers — great masucrs of style — but Scott and Dickens
were tlie Creators — they made new worlds and peo])led them. I
am quite ready to talk about Dickens.'

' I don't think I could say a single word after that outburst
of yours,' said Dopsy ; * you go too fast for me.'

He had talked eagerly, willing to talk just now even to ^Fiss
Vaiidelcur, trying not too vividly to renicmlx'r that other day —
that unforgotten hour — iu whic)' on this spot, face to fac(^ with
ilvdt ever cliaiigiug, ever changeless soa, he had submitted his
fat(! to (^livistab-.'l, not daring to ask for her love, warning her
ratlier au^ainst tlio iiiisory that misj-lit come to her from loviuLT
him. And misery had con)e, but not as he presaged. It had
oonie from his youthful sin, that one fatal turn u))on the road of
life which he had taken so lightly, tripping with joyous com-
])anions along a path strewn with roses. He, like so many, had
gathered his rosus while he might, and had found that he had to
bear the sting of their thorns when Ik; nnist.

Leonard came up behind them as they talked, Mr. Ilamleigli
standing by Miss Vandeleur's side, digging his stick into the
heather and staring idly at the sea.

* What are you two talking about so earnestly?' he asked ;
*you are always together. I begin to understand why Ilamleigh
is so indifferent to sport.'

The remark struck Angus as strange, as well as underbred.
Dopsy had contrived to intlict a good deal of her society upon
liim at odd times ; but he had taken particular care that nothing
in his bearing or discourse should compromise either himself or

the v

ouncr

lady,

Do]xsy giggled faintly, and looked modestly at tiie heather.

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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',
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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 /

^■

' \. 4

M '

HI V.

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.

if!

I ' ;' ;

s:)K !

fhh 1

if)

llM

li>f

22G

Mount Boyal.

Jack Vi ];(]: liur and his liost liad l)f^gun another game,
deliijditcd at having the table to themselves.

' Yes, they're nice girls,' answered INIr. Vandeleur, without
looking off the table; * just the right kind of girls for a coimtry-
house : no starch, no prudishness, but a.s innocent as babies, and
as true-hearted — well, they are all lieart I shoukl be sorry to
i?ee anybody trifle with either of thoni. It would be a very
perious thing for her — and it should be my business to make
it serious for him.'

'Great advantage for a girl to have a brother who enjoys the
reputation of being a dead shot,' said Mr. Montagu, 'or it would
be if duelling were not an exploded institution — like trial for
witflicraft, and hanging for petty larceny.'

' Unfiling is never out of fashion, among gentlemen,' answered
Jack, making a cannon and going in off the red. ' That mak<'s
seventeen, IMonty. There are injuries which nothing but the
])i.stol can redress, and I'm not sorry that my lied liiver ex-
perience ha^ made me a pretty good shot. Hut I'm not half as
good as Leonard, lie could give me lif ty iii a hundred any
day.'

' When a man has to keep his party in butcher's meat by the
use of his rifle, he'd need be a decent marksman,' answered Mr.
Trogonell, carelessly. ' I never knew the right use of a gun till
1 cro.-sed the Jvoekies. Ly-the-way, who is fur woodcock shooting
to-iuuvrow ? ^'ou'il come, I su}ii»o.se, Jack ?'

'Not to-morrow, thanks. Monty and I are going over t»
llodmin to see a man hanged. AVe've got an order to view, as
the house-agents call it. Monty is sup})osed to be on the Times.
I go for the Wcsitirn Daily Mercury.^

'What a horrid ghoulish thing to do,' said Leonard.

*It's seeing life,'" answered Jack, shrngging his sjioulders.

* I should call it the other thing. However, as rri*ue is very
rare in Cornwall, you may as wi'U make the i ,..st of your
(>l)portunity. Lut it's a pity to neglect the birds, YV ^ is one
of tile best seasons we've hud since 18G0, when th'''! u'os a
vcnnarkable flight of birds in the second week in October, Lut
even that year wasn't tis good as '55, whe:Ki farmer at St. Buiyau
killed close u]wn sixty birds in a week. You'll go to-morrow,
1 hope, Mr. lEamleigh ? There's some very good gnnmd about
St. Ncctan's Ivieve, and it's a ijicturescjue sort of place, that will
just hit your fancy.'

'I have been to the Kieve, often — yes, it is a lovely spot,'
answered Angus, rememl)erin;; liis first visit to Mount Koyal,
and the golden afternoons which he had .-ipent with Christahel
amon({ tiio rocks nnd tJie fenis, their low voices half drowned by
the noire of the waterfall. ' But I shan't be able to shoot to-
'■'Tioj-rov:. I have just been n)aking up my mind to teai* myself

* WJio knoivs not Circe f *

227

away from ]\Ioimt Royal, and I was going to ask 3'ou to let ono
of your grooms drive me over to Launcostou in time for the
11 lid -day train. I Ciin get up from Plymouth by the Limited
3Iail.'

' Why are you in such a hurry?' askod Leonard. *I thought
you were rather enjoying yourself with us,'

' So much so that as far as my own inclination goes there m
no reason wliy I should not stay hero for the rest of my life —
only you would get tired of me— anil I have j)romised my doctor
to go southward before the frosty weatiier begins.'

' A day or two can't make much ditference,'

* Xot much — only when there is a disagreeable effort to be
made the sooner one gets it over the better.'

' I am sorry you are off so suddenly,' said Leonard, going on
with the game, and looking rather oddly across the table at
Ciij)tain Yandoleur.

' I am more than sorry,' said that g(^ntleman, * I am surprised.
Dut perhaps I am not altogether in the secret of your move-
nieiits.'

* There is no secret,' said Angus.

' Isn't there ? Then I'm considerably mistaken. It haa
looked very much lately as if there wi^re a i)articular miderstand-
i]i!X between von and mv elder sister ; and I think, as lier
bi'other, I have 'Some right to be let into the secret before you
leave Mount l\oyal.'

'I am sorry tliat either my manner, or Miss Yandeleur';^,
should have so far misled you,' answered Angus, with freezing
^'ravity He pitied the sister, but felt only cold contem])tfor the
hrother. 'The young lady and I have never interchanged a
word which might not have been heard by everybody at Mount
xioyal.'

'And you have had no serious intiiilions — you have never
pretended to an/ serious feeling about her?'

'Never. Charming as the young lady nmy be, I have been,
and am, adamant against all such fascinatinns. A man who liaH
lieen told that he may not iivi; a year is liai'djy in a position to
make an oiler of marriaL!;e. (iood-night, Treg<»nell. 1 shall rely
on your letting^^ne of your men drive me to the station.'

He nodded wod-ni'dit to the other two men, and left the room,
li.'indie, who loved him f'>r the sake of old times, followid at his
1 1 eels.

'There goes a cur wlio desoi'ves a df»se of c(-»Id lead,' said
.'.ick, looking vindictively towards the do(jr.

'What, Kandie, my wife's favourite ^'

' No, tile two-legged cur. Come, you two men know how
uuUiigeously that pnppy ha.s flirted with my sister.'

' 1 know there has been — some kind of flirtation,' answered

f'"

'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.'

'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'

232

Moiint Royal.

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-

it!

M .

'it ^

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 ;

* 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

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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

' 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.

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.

si
i1

for Ms work now. If it was Saniljo the ({o^ mnst have nin away
and ' ft liim, for ho was back about the yard before ten o'clock.
He' i been hurt somehow, for there was blood upon one of hia
feet. Master had the red setter with him this morning, when he
went for liis stroll, but I believe it must have been Sambo that
Mr. Hamleigh took. There w;is only one of the lads about the
yard when he left, for it was breakfast time, and the little guthn
didn't notice.'

'But if all the other dogs are in their kennels — '

' They aren't, ma'am, don't you see. The two gentlemen
took a coujile of 'em to Bodmin in the break — and I don't know
which. Sambo may have been with them — and may have got
tired of it and come home. He's not a dug to appreciate that
kind of thing.'

' Oo at once, if you please, Nicholls. You know what to do.'

* Yes, ma'am.'

Nicholls went his way, and the gong began to sound for
luncheon. Mr. Tn-goneli, who rarely honoiu'ed the family with
his pi'eHcnce at the mid-day meal, (•;iine out of his den to-day in
answer to the sunnnons, and found his wife in the hall.

' I sujipose you are coming in to luncheon,' he said to her, in
an angry aside. 'You need not look so scared. Your old lover
is safe enough, I daresay.'

' I am not coining to luncheon,' she answered, looking at liiin
with pale contempt, ' If you are not a little more careful of your
Words I may never break bread with you again.'

The gong went on with its discordant clamour, and Jessie
Bridgemau came out of the diawing-room with the younger Miss
Vandeleur. Boor ])oiisy was sinit in her own room, with ahead-
ache. She had be(Mi 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.'

;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.

.1. \k

]'-^':

'!'

'iM

»l I

14 i

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''' ■

24G

Mount Boyal

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'

218

Muunt Boyal,

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> ■■

r :

: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.'

•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.

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

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

• J

!if

III'

Si!

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.

V it

I L

i i

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,

I*'- '■

J'- 1

258

Mount Boijal

|ji

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

ill

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

rJl

•!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

''\

■
,1

■V

■■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.

* 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

■\r .

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:

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

\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

■Vi

ft .

!fj

^ .1

■ V,
i f

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. '>

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 i'

'»

J>74

Mount lioijal.

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

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'?

< t

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IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET {MT-3)

K^ J'ii.

1.0

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iU|2j8 |2.5
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2.2

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I I4£ mil 2.0

1.8

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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

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.

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'

\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'":

s: j

292

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.

'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.

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

' ■'

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

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

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

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

808

Mount Royal.

I'm '■';

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

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,'

'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

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.

■ :!■

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,

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

i i

: i

M i

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

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,

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

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.*

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

(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

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

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.